An open letter to the president of Egypt #LegsMustFall

Dear President Abdel Fattah el-Sisi,

Well done on your impeccable taste in chief prosecutors. When your top man decided to put that brazen hussy Rania Youssef on trial, I threw a spontaneous Egyptian-themed party in your country’s honour. It got a bit untidy around midnight when a pyramid we’d built out of beer bottles collapsed and one of my guests lost an eye while trying to mummify the cat. This probably happens all the time at your house, right?

I, along with every other decent God-fearing man in the civilized world, was shocked to see what Youssef wore at the closing ceremony of the Cairo International Film Festival. I have studied that photograph many times and each time I grow a little bit more aroused … I beg your pardon, shocked.

That dress was so revealing that I could see her legs. Her legs! Egypt cannot afford to allow harlotry on this scale. It starts with legs and ends with the fall of Rome. History is littered with civilisations that have fallen because women were allowed to reveal their legs in public places.

Quite frankly, the idea that women even have legs does not bear thinking about. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is the legs themselves that are at fault. If these shameless limbs did not exist in the first place, we would not be experiencing this crisis. Even if women wear dresses that reach the floor, we are still painfully aware that legs are being concealed.

The solution is obvious. When a girl reaches a certain age, she must have her legs removed. She could keep them during her school years because we need our children to bring us beer and hash pipes. After that, though, it’s off with the legs.

Where do you stand on arms and hands? They, too, can be very provocative. Especially when they are not being used in the service of men. Idle arms are the devil’s handiwork. I say cover them up or lose them.

Of course, having a population of women with no arms or legs presents its own set of problems. They are going to have go out on trolleys when they do the shopping. Who will pull these trolleys? Not us men, that’s for sure. Perhaps they could have little engines mounted on the back. No, that would be tantamount to allowing them to drive. Next thing you know, you’re following in the footsteps of that liberal, backsliding nation Saudi Arabia.

So the charge against the Youssef strumpet is one of “inciting debauchery”. Are you sure this goes far enough? What is the sentence for a crime of that nature? Probably little more than a light stoning. You might want to consider adding a charge of treason. Maybe even murder. Sure, she hasn’t killed anyone yet, but with all that wanton flashing of legs it’s only a matter of time before someone dies.

Besides, men are very easily incited to debauchery and it is not our fault. As the famous faith healer Lady Gaga said, we were born that way. I personally can’t even look at a table leg without my loins stirring. I assume people in Egypt are expected to cover up their table legs. It seems the right thing to do.

Flowers should also be banned. I suffer the most embarrassing reaction if I happen to catch sight of an orchid with its soft petals and dewy inner … excuse me, I have to go and lie down for a bit.

Okay, that’s better. So this nymphomaniac is an actor? That is no excuse. Thank goodness the Egyptian Actors Guild has said it will discipline anyone who wore attire that clashed with the “traditions, values and ethics of society”. The last thing you want is an organisation that represents artists to start defending the creative and personal freedom of artists.

I am sure your chief prosecutor is a competent man. Unlike our former chief, who was known as Shaun the Sheep although his mother called him Little Penguin, but the less said about him the better.

Fortunately there are legal precedents for a tough sentence. As you know, Laila Amer was sent to jail for two years for appearing in a risqué music video while Sherine Abdel-Wahab got six months for telling a joke about the Nile River. This latest Jezebel should get fifty years at least. Failing which, send her to me. I’ll show her a thing or two.

Anyway, best of luck with your efforts to return Egypt to the glory days of the 7th century. Those were the days, my friend.

Yours in the fight against legs,

Mustafa Ben Trovato

 

Here's to Pope Gregory

New Year’s Eve.
My liver huddles up against my spleen and whimpers at the mere mention of it. Come out, you lily-livered coward. I need you now more than ever.
To be honest, and I think honesty is important at times like these, I have felt uncomfortable about making a big deal out of December 31 ever since discovering that the Gregorian calendar was introduced by Pope Gregory XIII in 1582. The Catholics have done some truly appalling things over the ages and for all I know the calendar is one of them.
The Anno Domini system, which counts years from the death of Jesus, spread throughout Europe during the Middle Ages. Big deal. A lot of things spread through Europe during the Middle Ages. The Black Death, for one, yet you hardly ever see anyone walking around with a long face moaning about the good old days when the plague was all the rage, so why should we continue using a calendar wielded by organised religion as a propaganda tool in the name of … ah, forget it. Let’s stick with the liver, shall we?
The Liver
There is a school of thought that says the liver is the human body’s largest and most complex organ. This is generally the opinion of everyone who hasn’t seen me naked. Yes, Mrs Worthington of Margate, I’m talking about you.
An unsightly and consequently rather shy organ, the liver is one of the few parts of the body that is prepared to suffer in relative silence. The poor could learn a thing or two from the liver. It must be said, however, that the liver is not as perfect as it likes to think. For starters, it takes its job way too seriously. The heart, on the other hand, knows how to have a bit of fun. It speeds up, slows down, murmurs to itself, does an Irish jig, stops altogether and then, just when you think you’re dead, starts up again. It is an impish organ that understands the art of comedic timing.
Simply put, the liver does not know how to have a good time. I find this odd, considering the amount of drugs, alcohol and nicotine that pass through it on an average Friday night.
Perhaps it’s not so strange. If we were to be really unkind, we’d be honest and say the liver is little more than the body’s policeman. It’s a sullen cop manning a permanent roadblock. What’s this? Tetrahydrocannibanol, eh? You’re coming with me. I’m going to detoxify and neutralise all the goodness out of you.
But there is more to surviving New Year’s Eve than merely letting your liver know that it’s not the boss of you.
When Pope Gregory established December 31 as the night upon which the faithful and the faithless join hands in drunken revelry, he probably never had roadblocks in mind.
Roadblocks
When I am president, and I will be one day, I shall give every police officer the night off on New Year’s Eve. Why shouldn’t they be allowed to party with the rest of us? After all, cops are people, too. Well, most of them are. Sort of.
All I ask for is one night of the year in which we can go out without worrying about getting slammed up against a van full of snarling dogs, cavity searched and tossed into a stinking cell to be remorselessly ravaged by a diseased convict. Is it too much to ask that we be allowed one night free of fear?
We are all adults, apart from those who aren’t, and if we are prepared to take our chances with motherless drivers, desperate divorcees and psychos on tik, then that is our choice. If you prefer to spend your New Year’s Eve clutching a glass of warm rosé and getting all misty eyed over ridiculous songs like Auld Lang Syne, then stay at home. By going out and expecting Mr Plod to keep you safe, you are ruining it for the rest of us.
Since I am not yet president, we have to face the reality that state-appointed arbiters of appropriate behaviour will be out there tonight looking to ruin our lives and reputations. As if we can’t do that all by ourselves.
Roadblocks can be dealt with in several ways. One is to slip into the passenger seat and tell the officer that your driver ran away. The officer may wish to attach electrodes to your testicles to determine the veracity of your story, but, unless you enjoy that sort of thing, you should remind him that the constitution frowns on torture.
Do not attempt this if there are two of you in the car. Police are trained to spot suspicious behaviour and there is nothing more suspicious than an empty driver’s seat and someone sitting on your lap in the passenger seat.
Also what you can do is pretend to have a speech impediment. Most cops treat the disabled marginally better than they do the rest of us. But don’t lean out of the window and say, “Good afterble consternoon.” That is a speech impeded by vodka shooters as opposed to, say, blunt trauma to the head.
I used to get stopped a lot before I became a master of disguise and the cops would always ask me why my eyes were so red. “I have pterygiums, officer,” I would say, opening my eyes as big as they would go without me passing out. Cops don’t want to take your statement if they know they are going to have to ask you to spell whatever the hell it was you said you had.
You may be asked to provide a urine sample. “But I just went,” is not a valid excuse. What you need to do is invest in a fake penis. Adult World is full of them. Or so I have heard. Drill a hole down the middle of it and fill it with your dog’s urine. The cop will be so impressed by the size of your willy that he will shake you by the hand and send you on your way.
Medical Treatment
A basic knowledge of First Aid is essential for anyone who plans on celebrating New Year’s Eve properly. There will be injuries and you need to be prepared. Under no circumstances do you want to have anything to do with state hospitals. The doctors have been working for nine straight days and the nurses earn R2.50 an hour. They will not share your sense of humour no matter how much you laugh and poke your finger into your gaping head wound.
Stitches are piece of cake if you have a fish hook and a length of gut. If you don’t at least have that in the boot of your car, you’re not a real South African and you deserve to be deported.
Carry a roll of bubble wrap in your car. The moment your girlfriend gets the wobblies, wrap it around her. That way, she won’t hurt herself when she plummets off the north face of her bar stool and the rest of the bar will happily join you in a game of Popping The Drunk.
If someone loses an eye, ask the barman for a glass of ice and stick it in there. It will be good for 24 hours. Make sure nobody drinks it.
Avoid amputations because they can be messy if you don’t have access to serviettes. A lot of people complain of severed arms or legs, but if you look closely you will often find the missing limb bent behind their head.
Open-heart surgery is easily conducted with a bottle of whisky and a steak knife. If you don’t have a knife, go to the nearest restaurant and order a steak. Take your time with it. Saving someone’s life is not worth risking indigestion.
Right, that’s it. In the immortal words of Pope Gregory, “Te audire non possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure.”