Open letter the media gone mad on the Mandela situation

This open letter appeared in the The Daily Maverick. 
It is a take that is kind of crazy but in many respects true the foreign media are probably onto the biggest media story of the 21st century and nothing will stop them. Anyway read it but i must reiterate that it is in no way the opinion of this blog, it is however interesting. The contents provide a fine primer on what to expect in the next few days

By Richard Poplak

Dear South Africa,

Please get the fuck out of the way.
Wait, that probably came out wrong. Let us explain.

As you may have noted, we’re back! It’s been four long months since the Oscar Pistorious bail hearing thing, and just as we were forgetting just how crappy the Internet connections are in Johannestoria, the Mandela story breaks.

We feel that it is vital locals understand just how big a deal this is for us. In the real world—far away from your sleepy backwater—news works on a 24-hour cycle. That single shot of a hospital with people occasionally going into and out of the front door, while a reporter describes exactly what is happening—at length and in detail? That’s our bread and butter. It’s what we do.

And you need to get out of the way while we do it.

It’s nothing personal. In fact, we couldn’t do this successfully without you. In many cases, our footage is made more compelling by your presence. Specifically, we are fond of small black children praying and/or singing in unison. Equally telegenic are the Aryan ubermensch blonde kids also praying/singing, who help underscore the theme that Mandela united people of all races under a Rainbow umbrella.

Also very important, thematically speaking, are Mandela’s successors. We very much like the idea that your ex-president was “one of a kind”, and that despite his best efforts, the current batch of idiots prove that he was an exceptional presence, sui generis, and we don’t have to worry about someone else like him coming along in Africa ever again. We enjoy your leaders’ bumbling ways, their daft non-sequiturs, the glint of their Beijing-bought Breitlings. That “Vote ANC” truck parked outside the hospital? If that doesn’t speak to moral degeneration of the first order, what does? In other words, this story would lack a tragic arc without Jacob Zuma. May he keep on keeping on.

Then there’s the Mandela’s family. Really, where would we derive our soap operatic undertones if it weren’t for the infighting and the blinged-up brashness of that clan? We love subtly implying that a saint sired a generation of professional shoppers and no-goodnicks. In our biz, we call that “irony”. Makes for great copy.

In fact, we love everything about the country that doesn’t live up to Mandela’s legacy. We will take every opportunity to mention how everything you do flies in the face of everything Mandela would’ve wanted from his people—how you’re basically a nation of under-achieving screw-ups. All of this is fantastic, we thank you profusely for your individual and collective contributions to this essential storyline, and urge you to keep squandering your potential.

But like we said, we’re busy.

We need to be fed, constantly and without respite, big juicy mouthfuls of new information regarding every aspect of the story. Each piece of data, no matter how seemingly trivial or inane, is to us the rich, fatty gravy that we will slather over this one essential fact: the father of your nation is gravely ill, and we’re banking—literally, banking—on his not making it. The geraniums in the hospital planter, beating the chill of winter? Metaphor. Again—no detail too small.

Indeed, you need to brace yourselves. We’re about to engage in the single greatest orgy of industrial-grade mourning porn the world has ever known. Your little country will forever be honoured as the site that made the Princess Diana thing look like a restrained wake for a loathed spinster who perished alone on a desert island. Oh man, this is going to be big.

But that’s then. For the meantime, we need you to behave yourselves. We’re going to be pushy, and we make no apologies for it. This is the news—and news, after all, is the concrete foundation of democracy, a principle Mandela was willing to die for long before he was dying.

Note the solemn tone of our television reports. Ken the funereal passages published in our great papers. At times, the scramble for information may seem like a pursuit entirely free of dignity. But remember that watching a sausage get made can be a grisly process.

We would like to respect the fact that you’re going through a period of great sadness and protracted grieving. But we all need to be grown-ups about this.

So, we ask again, and this time with feeling:

Please. Get the fuck out of the way.

The winds of time and old age

Two medical students were walking along the street when they saw an old man walking with his legs spread apart. He was stiff-legged and walking slowly.

One student said to his friend: "I'm sure that poor old man has Peltry Syndrome. Those people walk just like that."

The other student says: "No, I don't think so. The old man surely has Zovitzki Syndrome.He walks slowly and his legs are apart, just as we learned in class."

Since they couldn't agree, they decided to ask the old man.

They approached him and one of the students said to him, "We're medical students and couldn't help but notice the way you walk. But we couldn't agree on the syndrome you might have. Could you tell us what it is?"

The old man said, "I'll tell you. But first you tell me what you two fine medical students think."

The first student said, "I think it's Peltry Syndrome."

The old man said, "You thought - but you are wrong."

The other student said, "I think you have Zovitzki Syndrome."

The old man said, "You thought - but you are wrong."

So they asked him, "Well, old-timer, what do you have?"

The old man said,

"I thought it was WIND - but I was wrong, too!"

Cookie Thumper "Die Antwords" latest offering!

SA's zef rap-rave crew have released their latest music video, a love story with an ending that is sure to shock. As always these guys are way south of everybody else..


Strange as always...

Why Entitlement Mentality is destroying us

A piece written in News 24 Voices by a thinking gentleman who calls it as is Original link http://voices.news24.com/phorane

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Entitlement mentality – our black nation crippler

Phorane 

JHB based Production PLanning & Logistics manager.

So, for almost a century, dark-skinned South African citizens (blacks, Indians and coloureds) were disenfranchised by previous regimes, through policies that were designed to segregate along race lines. Then democracy dawned and the shoe is now on the other foot..

First we got equal rights, through our national constitution (one of the best in the world I hear); later in the day we received Affirmative Action in the workplace, followed by BEE (later B-BB EE). Then we came back and received a variety of grants to a whole bunch of deserving citizens. To top it all up, we started enjoying government tenders which were given to deserving previously disadvantaged groups, with the view to re-distribute the country’s wealth and equalise the economic wealth floating around.

As if on cue, a certain mentality started to appear within the black communities: the entitlement mentality. The ideology that black people are entitled to a host of benefits and some misbehaviour, just because in the past benefits were given to non-blacks; for example:

Public servants are entitled to hold on to positions in government (even if they are unable or willing to do the actual job), people are entitled to get grants, people are entitled to act above the law; just because they were oppressed during the apartheid years. In my opinion this is a nation destroyer of note.

Police are entitled to bribes, because they earn ‘low salaries’. Nurses are entitled to strike, at the expense of patients, even though this should actually be an essential service. Teachers are entitled to abscond from their teaching positions even while present at work just because they can and the government is powerless to put them in their place.

People are entitled to be in positions in the public sector (cadre deployment) because they are of the colour skin that was previously segregated against, but also because they belong to the party that fought for the liberation of the people. As a result, we ended up with a public service that is a dismal failure in action. Education has gone to the dogs, I mean we can’t even deliver a textbook; health service is on the verge of crippled, social services are almost non-existent. But no one is taken to task for this absolute chaos; just because they are entitled to be in government.

Because people feel that they are entitled to better, no matter their education and skills level, in the township, some economic activities in the informal employment sector are looked down upon. Jobs like hairdressers, hawking, shoe repairs (etc.) are not pursued because apparently they don’t hold the standard to which people feel they are entitled to. This is one of the reasons why foreigners come into this country, get immersed in these activities and end up making a better living than the locals. The next thing, the locals get jealous and go after the foreigners under the guise of xenophobia.

In the workplace, some people feel that they are entitled to equal pay, no matter their level of skills, education or experience and no matter what their performance is in those positions. Hence productivity is so low in our businesses and labour costs are so high relative to skill and experience and relative to productivity. And we wonder why businesses find it better to import goods from places like China, where pay for performance is a standard and people don’t feel entitled to anything other than that which they worked for and deserve.

Enter the ruling party and entitlement takes a different dimension altogether; one would think that the ruling party was the only party that fought the liberation war. Just because they fought for the liberation of the masses, they are entitled to be in power; it doesn’t matter that they are doing a shoddy job of public service delivery; the public must just tolerate them because as struggle veterans, they are entitled to govern. God forbid that one points to their weaknesses and the impact of their lack of commitment to service delivery; then one is labelled a demagogue or a counter-revolutionary.

Then enter the president and his umpteen wives. The man, who is entitled to marry as many wives as he wants, at a cost to the tax payer; because first he was in jail for fighting for “the liberation of the people”. Secondly, he belongs to a party that is entitled to govern because they fought for the liberation of the people. The man that is entitled to live in a mansion on the hill, while a stone throw away from his house, people are suffering and living in unacceptable conditions.

One could easily blame this mentality on the lack of education; I blame it on the lack of directive leadership from our political leaders. Over time, I came to the conclusion that the political leaders of the ruling party are only in it for the money, not because they are committed to improving the lives of ordinary citizens of this country. To think that after 20 years of democracy, the country’s wealth is still distributed unevenly; we are one of the most unequal societies in the world; for an economy as developed as ours that is shocking. Someone once said ‘the rich are getting richer while the poor are getting poorer’. It’s sad but this is the reality of life in South Africa.

Black people need to find a way to channel their energies into the positive moulding of our society. People must be accountable for their actions, or lack thereof. Respect for the law is the starting point; if we do not respect the same laws we voted into being when we voted for democracy, we are cutting our own noses to spite our faces.

For me, come election year, I will vote with my head like I usually do. I am not voting for people that do nothing for me and yet feel entitled to my vote.

“Oh hell no, this madness must come to an end now!!!!”.

An old farmer and a clever lawyer do battle

One lawyer who should have ducked

A big-city, Johanesburg lawyer went duck hunting in the bush near the small rural Natal town of Vryheid.  He shot  and dropped a bird, but it fell into a farmer's field on the other  side of a  fence.  As the lawyer climbed over the fence, an elderly farmer drove up in his pickup and asked him what he was doing. The lawyer responded, "I shot a duck and it fell in this field, and now I'm going to retrieve it."  

The old farmer replied. "This is my property, and you are not coming over here." The indignant lawyer said, "I am one of the biggest and best trial attorneys in South Africa and, if you don't let me get that duck, I'll sue you and take everything you own." The old farmer smiled and said, Apparently, you don't know how we do things in the Natal bush. We settle small disagreements like this with the

Natal Three-Kick Rule."

The lawyer asked, "What is the Natal three-Kick Rule?" The Farmer replied. "Well, first I kick you three times and then you kick me three times, and so on, back and forth, until someone gives up."

The attorney quickly thought about the proposed contest and decided that he could easily take the old farmer. He agreed to abide by the local custom.

The old farmer slowly climbed out of the pickup and walked up to the city feller. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy work boot into the lawyer's groin and dropped him to his knees. His second kick nearly wiped the man's nose off his face. The poor lawyer was flat on his belly when the

farmer's third kick to a kidney nearly caused him to give up.

The lawyer summoned every bit of his will and managed to get to his feet and said, "Okay, you old coot now it's my turn."

The farmer smiled and said, "Naw, I give up...... You can have the duck."

A funny story on the plight of our Rhino

 "Artificial Insemination" : Black Rhino chuckle

from Wilbur Smith

A factual account from Wilbur Smith

The plight of the Black Rhinoceros is, of course, due mostly to the value ofits horn and the ferocious poaching that this engenders. However, a contributory factor to the declining rhino population is the animals disorganized mating habits. It seems that the female rhino only becomes receptive to the male's attentions every three years or so, while the male only becomes interested in her at the same intervals. A condition known quite appropriately as "Must".

The problem is one of synchronization, for their amorous inclinations do not always coincide.

In the early Sixties, I was invited, along with a host of journalists and other luminaries, to be present at an attempt by the Rhodesian Game and Tsetse Department to solve this problem of poor timing. The idea was to capture a male rhino and induce him to deliver up that which could be stored until that day in the distant future when his mate's fancy turned lightly to thoughts of love. We departed from the Zambezi Valley in an impressive convoy of trucks and Land Rovers, counting in our midst none other than the Director of the game department in person, together with his minions, a veterinary surgeon, an electrician and sundry other technicians, all deemed necessary to make the harvest.

The local game scouts had been sent out to scout the bush for the largest, most virile rhino they could find. They had done their job to perfection and led us to a beast at least the size of a small granite koppie with a horn on his nose considerably longer than my arm. The trick was to get this monster into a robust mobile pen, which had been constructed to accommodate him.

With the Director of the Game Department shouting frantic orders from the safety of the largest truck, the pursuit was on. The tumult and the shouting were apocalyptic. Clouds of dust flew in all directions, trees, and vegetation were destroyed, game scouts scattered like chaff, but finally the Rhino had about a litre of narcotics shot into his rump and his mood became dreamy and benign. With forty black game guards heaving and shoving, and  the Director still shouting orders from the truck, the rhino was wedged into his cage, and stood there with a happy grin on his face.

At this stage, the Director deemed it safe to emerge from the cab of histruck and he came amongst us resplendent in starched and immaculately ironed bush jacket with a colourful silk scarf at this throat. With an imperial gesture, he ordered the portable electric generator to be brought forward and positioned behind the captured animal. This was a machine, which was capable of lighting up a small city, and it was equipped with two wheels that made it resemble a roman chariot.

The Director climbed up on the generator to better address us. We gathered around attentively while he explained what was to happen next. It seemed that the only way to get what we had come for was to introduce an electrode into the rhino's rear end, and to deliver a mild electric shock,no more than a few volts, which would be enough to pull his trigger for him.

The Director gave another order and the veterinary surgeon greased something that looked like an acoustic torpedo and which was attached to the generator with sturdy insulated wires. He then went up behind the somnolent beast and thrust it up him to a full arm’s length, at which the Rhino opened his eyes very wide indeed.

The veterinary and his two black assistants now moved into position with a large bucket and assumed expectant expressions. We, the audience, crowded closer so as not to miss a single detail of the drama. The Director still mounted on the generator trailer, nodded to the electrician who threw the switch and chaos reigned. In the subsequent departmental enquiry the blame was placed squarely on the shoulders of the electrician. It seems that in the heat of the moment his wits had deserted him and instead of connecting up his apparatus to deliver a gentle 5 volts, he had crossed his wires and the Rhino received a full 500 volts up his rear end.

His reaction was spectacular. Four tons of rhinoceros shot six feet straight up in the air. The cage, made of great timber baulks, exploded into its separate pieces and the rhinoceros now very much awake, took off at a gallop.

We, the audience, were no less spritely. We took to the trees with alacrity. This was the only occasion on which I have ever been passed by two journalists half way up a Mopani tree.

From the top branches we beheld an amazing sight, for the chariot was still connected to the Rhinoceros per rectum, and the director of the game department was still mounted upon it, very much like Ben Hur, the charioteer.

As they disappeared from view, the rhinoceros was snorting and blowing like a steam locomotive and the Director was clinging to the front rail of his chariot and howling like the north wind, which only encouraged the beast to greater speed.

The story has a happy ending for the following day after the director had returned hurriedly to his office in Salisbury, another male Rhinoceros was captured and caged and this time the electrician got his wiring right.

I can still see the Rhinoceros's expression of surprised gratification as the switch was thrown. You could almost hear him think to himself. "Oh Boy!I didn't think this was going to happen to me for at least another three years".