An open letter to Pastor Steven L Anderson

Dear Pastor
On behalf of all red-blooded, right-thinking heterosexual South African men, I would like to apologise for the appalling treatment meted out to you by the limp-wristed, cocktail-sucking pillow-biters in our government.
You were meant to arrive today – a day declared holy by God after he spent six days working his all-powerful arse off making the universe. And this is the thanks you get? How very dare they ban you from entering our country? You are a man of the cloth. You should be allowed to enter anything you like. Well, when I say anything, I obviously exclude certain categories. Just so there is no misunderstanding, I’m talking about leather-pantsed, Latex-rubbered men with lisps and whips.
Quite frankly, I was surprised our government even had time to get involved in this matter. As you may know, the entire executive has been tasked with the full-time job of protecting our president from prosecution and bankruptcy. Between you and me, I don’t give a damn how corrupt or dysfunctional he is. The important thing is that when he goes home at the end of the day, it’s not to a man wearing nothing but fishnet stockings and Manolo Blahnik stilettos, swivelling his girly hips to Born This Way, an anthem of blasphemy performed by a fallen Jezebel by the name of Lady Gaga.
When Jacob goes home, he has to put on gumboots to wade through raging torrents of oestrogen being secreted by his multitude of wives. What I’m saying is that you shouldn’t write us off just because of one man with a predilection for gold braid and pilot caps. Trust me when I say you won’t find a more butch president than ours. I thought maybe Vladimir Putin could give him a run for his money, but the Russian has a disturbing penchant for whipping off his shirt and mounting the nearest animal. I think it’s fair to say that our President Zuma loves women more than he loves … I was going to say money, but that would be a lie. More than he loves governing, let’s say.
In 2006, when he was deputy president, Big Z told a crowd attending Heritage Day celebrations in KwaZulu-Natal, “When I was growing up, unqingili (homosexuals) could not stand in front of me.” This was followed by an outbreak of stamping and flouncing and demands for a retraction. Well, not really an outbreak. There were complaints. As you’re undoubtedly aware, “retraction” is a term frequently bandied about in the homosexual community. I don’t know what it means. Nor does our president. It’s probably part of the secret code gays use to fool us normals.
Our so-called Home Affairs Minister, Malusi Gigaba, is obviously a closet homo. Why else would he ban you from visiting South Africa? Just because you believe homosexuality should be punished by death, that women who use contraception are whores, that abortion is a sin, that the Holocaust is a scam, that Islam is evil, that the Jewish Messiah is the Antichrist, that the unsaved will be consigned to eternal torment in hell, that Barack Obama deserves to die, that … I’m running out of space. Just because of this? Please. You’ve never even said that second-born girl children should be slaughtered. Or that people with disabilities should be drowned. You’re almost a liberal where I come from.
You said Gigaba was “damned” for standing with the “sodomites”. To be clear, it’s not so much the standing with them that unleashes the wild beast in these perverts. It’s the shirtless dancing and, later, the trouserless lying down. And sometimes the being roughly taken from behind on the balcony by a man wearing a nun’s habit, a titanium dog collar and a studded cock ring. Or so I’ve heard.
Gigaba said you were an undesirable person for “practising racial hatred”. That’s ridiculous. God-fearing folk like us don’t need to practice racial hatred. It comes naturally. I’m sure your 150-strong congregation at the Faithful Word Baptist Church in Tempe, Arizona, have had all kinds of hatred down pat for generations. That’s the beauty of in-breeding.
Our government, by the way, also considers the Dalai Lama to be an undesirable person, but that’s because he wears a dress and preaches peace and love and other hippy filth.
After you were grounded by our government, you called South Africa “a den of iniquity” and a “demonic stronghold”. I have to correct you here. You’re describing Cape Town. The rest of the country is filled with brethren smiting the scoffers and mockers with an abundance of righteous violence. O yea. Huzzah to the highest.
As you pointed out, there has been much wickedness in South Africa during its history. “It’s like the devil has a hold on that place. And don’t try to make it about this race or that race or this nation or that nation.” Nicely put, sir. This places the blame for colonialism, apartheid and overgrazing squarely on the shoulders of the devil himself. Or, dare I say, herself. There’s a reason devil worshipping and wooing women are so very similar in methods and outcomes. And yet women are not devils. We love women and hate the devil. Do I have this right? But what if the devil really is female? This could explain and, I hesitate to say, justify why so many men are becoming homosexuals. I’m very confused. I do hope this doesn’t signal the early onset of gayness.
I need clarity on something so that my hatred may be fully focused. You say that all GTBQLI people are “sodomites”. Are you certain about this? I can’t be sure, but I don’t think lesbians, for instance, are all that crazy about action in the botty area. As for intersex people, I’m not sure they even have botties. Either that or they have several. Can you send me some pictures? You must have a few lying around at home for research purposes.
You issued an angry message on Tuesday informing the free world that you’d been banned from not only South Africa, but the United Kingdom too. What irony. Britain is the original home of the deviant. Cabinet ministers are regularly found late at night in the parks and commons on hands and knees dressed as fairies and elves, snorting magic mushrooms and having their prostates checked by hirsute men with tattoos and bad attitudes. The nation is ruled by a queen, for heaven’s sake. Can you get more bent than that?
The quote you fired at the two aberrant countries was well chosen. “And when they opposed themselves, and blasphemed, he shook his raiment, and said unto them, Your blood be upon your own heads; I am clean; from henceforth I will go unto the Gentiles.”
I know what you mean. I have shaken my raiment many times, and even sometimes had it shaken for me, and have almost always gone unto the Gentiles, usually just for a wee but sometimes a shower, depending on the state of my raiment.
You also complained that the Christians in South Africa did not defend you and that you wouldn’t be surprised if you were unable to win any souls here. That’s our Christians for you. Bunch of backsliders who would rather get drunk and watch rugby than spread the word of King James. I’m not talking about King James the advertising agency. People who work in advertising serve the Dark Lord and should be set alight and thrown into a burning pit full of burning vipers along with the homosexuals, bisexuals, transsexuals, sodomites, catamites, chilibites, Muslims, abortionists and the French.
Your message ended, “I feel sorry for people who live in South Africa, but thank God we still have a wide open door in Botswana. Stand by for reports of multitudes saved in Botswana, where religious freedom still exists.” I’m not altogether convinced that the multitudes in Botswana want to be saved. But if they do, my advice is to give them a bit of the old dimethyltryptamine before the sermon. You’ll have them eating out of the palm of your hand. Some of them may even try to eat the palm of your hand. Don’t worry. It’s an African thing.
See you at the Rapture.
crossdonesmall

Licence of the lambs

I had a friend stay with me for a few days last week. I hadn’t seen him in years. He hasn’t aged much and weighs the same as he did when he was 21. I told him he probably had that weird disease where you suddenly get old and fat overnight, which made me feel better about myself.
He said he was seriously considering dropping out. He lives in Maun, a fragmented boondock in Botswana where amphibians outnumber people. It lurks on the fetid fringe of the delta, a dystopian swamp infested with wild beasts that want you dead.
To most people, that would constitute dropping out. But not him. He means right out. Down the rabbit hole and off the radar. No more queuing for permission to drive this, own that, live here, go there. No more filling in forms or sending off applications. No more requesting permission to exist. A subsistence existence beyond the law.
He strongly recommended I do the same. Later, after a few beers, he strongly recommended that I try something called dimethyltryptamine. Surprisingly, I’d never heard of DMT. Or maybe I had. Maybe I’d taken it a bunch of times but couldn’t remember. Tricky things, drugs. I’m sure I’d remember, though.
After first smoking DMT, American psychonaut Terrence McKenna said he entered “a magical place inhabited by self-transforming machine elves made of light and language, where the totality of phenomenal existence was experienced in a terrifying transpersonal flash”. Not your average Friday night at the club, then.
Dropping out has never appealed to me more than it has this week. Allow me to introduce to you the Verulam vehicle licensing department, the Fifth Circle of Hell where sullen members of the law abiding citizenry are punished for their sins.
Verulam was here before any of us, but that doesn’t give it the right to behave badly. The town, incidentally, was named after the Earl of Verulam, patron of the British Methodists who settled there in 1850, and not, as I always thought, after the legendary shad fisherman Bobby “Crusher” Verulam.
Who knows why the eThekwini municipality chose to put this particular office in the epicenter of a never-ending tropical storm of people, traffic and general pavement-based mayhem. Perhaps it wasn’t always like that. Perhaps government departments simply become catalysts for chaos over time.
The home affairs office in Pinetown, for instance, is the place to go if you want a passport and a screwdriver in your ribs. A few days ago, well-known ANC suck-up Visvin Reddy was stabbed not far from home affairs. The last time his wife visited the office, she was also mugged. Maybe it’s a Reddy thing, but it doesn’t look like it. Last year a man set himself and his wife on fire outside the same office. By all accounts, it’s like Aleppo without the benefit of UN-supervised safe passage back to your car.
I’ve been to Verulam six times in the past fortnight to transfer a new car into my name and deregister my stolen Corolla. It’s making me physically ill. I want to vomit when I wake up and realise that I have to go to Verulam again.
This is how it should work. You buy a new car and want to put it in your name. The first scenario is that you drive to an aesthetically pleasing complex near your home, get waved to a shaded parking bay, then ushered into a spacious air-conditioned hall where you are dealt with efficiently and pleasantly. You’re out of there in minutes. You are rewarded for doing the right thing.
The second scenario is that you drive deep into the hinterland on a heavily potholed road where you risk being set upon by homicidal maniacs armed with rusty pangas at every stop street, negotiate with jumpy yellow-eyed drug addicts for a place to park outside a building located in the worst part of a bad town, find your way to a room with no ventilation and take your place in a queue of fifty grim-faced desperadoes, each with his own unique olfactory imprint, shout through thick bombproof glass at a gormless, gum-chewing, clock-watching sloth who communicates through grunts, sighs and eye-rolls, fill in reams of forms, find somewhere in town to make photocopies and get instructed to return in three weeks, upon which you are told your forms have gone astray and you will need to start the process all over again. At the end, as a reward for your tenacity, you are given a special licence to drive as fast as you want and park wherever you like.
But there is no first scenario. There is only the second, and it doesn’t end with permission to be Mad Max, either. The punishment we suffer to comply with the law is often more severe than not complying.
Turning into Wick Street, my heart literally sinks. I can feel it pounding against my liver. Maybe that is my liver. Things are tolerable up until Phoenix Funerals. Then cars and taxis begin converging like rats on a baby dove. They come from all angles and directions. Your feet tap dance on the brake and accelerator pedals and there’s a squirt of adrenalin as you swerve to miss the bag of rags stumbling from the Greencat Bar. From there it’s all downhill.
Parking in central Verulam is an existential concept. It exists but it doesn’t. This is the home of Schrodinger’s parking bay. Stop and shop seems to be the rule. Double park, triple park, leave your car in the middle of the road – it’s all good. You drive on whichever side of the road happens to be unobstructed. Don’t worry about the solid white line. It’s there to help drunks find their way home.
Wick Street becomes the Congo River and the Verulam Regional Centre my personal heart of darkness. Through a miasma of exhaust fumes, I see it up ahead. It squats sullenly above Mia’s Pick ‘a Bite and Habib’s Fast Foods. The horror.
The municipal sign says, “Sizakala”. This is Zulu for, “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” No, that can’t be right. It’s too long. Although if “Gedleyihlekisa” means “He who laughs while grinding his enemies, stealing taxpayer’s money, sleeping with your daughter and causing his party to lose votes”, then I suppose anything is possible.
I spot a near empty parking lot behind an open gate on the opposite side of the road and pull in. The Congo can only be crossed by a carefully choreographed sequence involving three pirouettes, two bunny hops, an arabesque and that thing bullfighters do.
The portals to hell are flanked by Zulu clothes sellers. The sellers are Zulu, not the clothes. I have seen Zulu clothes. They don’t involve much more than bits of leopard and monkey and beaded loincloth. That’s fine for the Reed Dance but this is a peri-urban purgatorial paradise and people want to look as if they’re meeting the Earl of Verulam himself for tea and a white pipe later in the day. Fair enough.
The sign at the entrance to the hideous face brick building prohibits guns, animals and smoking. I walk in, expecting to find the place awash in gambling, drinking and fornicating. If you don’t expressly forbid South Africans from doing something, they will do it.
“But, officer, the sign doesn’t say human sacrifices aren’t allowed.”
“Okay, fine. Just clean up the blood afterwards. But the dog must wait outside.”
There’s one window marked Metro Police Fines Processing. It looks abandoned. Then there are two windows for Enquiries Motor Licensing. I have been to both. Repeatedly. See previous reference to useless, clock-watching sloth. These are the Harry Potter counters, where paperwork disappears into thin air. Where one hands over ones documents with the same feeling one gets when one goes to insert a USB, instinctively sensing you’re doing it wrong and will have to try again.
Last week you had to have duplicates – this week it’s triplicates. Last week a thumbprint was enough – this week it’s a DNA sample.
Then there’s a line of four cashier windows. This is the Holy Grail for those who seek something stamped. The Lourdes Grotto for the sick-to-death of queuing. The Wailing Wall for those who have given up wailing and are now sitting with their heads in their hands. The head-holders are the ones on the wooden bench right at the back. It takes an hour to progress to the plastic chairs. Of the four windows, one is heavily boarded up as if a tornado warning were in effect, another is devoid of life and the third is on early lunch or late breakfast. Everyone on the deck of HMS Doomed watches the fourth window like hungry people watch fat people eat. It’s a mixture of envy and disgust, if you were wondering.
Every fifteen minutes, everyone crouch-shuffles one seat closer to nirvana. Obviously I don’t because I’m busy taking notes. The security guard taps me on the shoulder and indicates that I need to move 30cm to my right. So this is how queues work? It happens more than once. He clearly thinks I’m retarded. I’m the only white person here. I must be retarded. Where are the others? Perth?
I don’t make it to the plastic chairs. I turn to the Indian fellow next to me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t do this.” He smiles and nods, sad that I’m giving up but glad that he is one place closer to window four, the kingdom of heaven where unicorns romp and prance in the Elysian Fields of Bureaucracy.
A bag of DMT and a shack on the outskirts of Maun might be the way to go. Bring on the elves.
Sign