Of failed reality stars and unexposed fornicators

Please tell us what we have to do to get this minister off his Humpty Dumpty wall so he can get rid of Cuthbert.

Please tell us what we have to do to get this minister off his Humpty Dumpty wall so he can get rid of Cuthbert.

Who am I?

Just a few years after I flew the flag high and got a bag of money for my pains, I am ashamed to have to admit that life is not proving to be a bed of roses and the only person I can blame is me.

Honestly I think some of these goblins we read about in the gutter press must have eaten my money. Otherwise can you explain to me why I failed to use my fame, goodwill and the hefty starting capital generously donated to me to really get off the ground?

Some of my detractors will say something about how the chasing after dresses while I had the money was my undoing. If you are bothered to recall my rather unimportant personal history you will remember that when I returned from the continental show from which I got my fame I came home and got that sack load of cash which I previously mentioned.

At that time for some weird reason my relationship with the expecting baby mama went downhill and my plans to use some of the cash to pay lobola evaporated. It was those goblins at work, I assure you. For as soon as they were cleansed I returned to the true love of my life and we made up, well, sort of.

I even tried to capitalise on my fame and was not too proud to be a vendor as I tried to get something out of my non-existent acting abilities. But nothing much came out of that or I would be in Hollywood with Tongai Chirisa right now and making more of my fame than that brother, I assure you.

By now I would be dining and wining with Jay Z and George Clooney while dating both Rihhana and Selena Gomez and maybe even Miley Cyrus.

Instead I am known for knocking on doors of corporate entities demanding, no, begging to be made a brand ambassador so I can make something out of my face and they all seem to be turning me down. Seriously how can people pass over a handsome national hero like me in preference of ugly little dancehall chanters?

Cuthbert must go

We are thinking of inviting the no-sex and more-sex female MPs to join our campaign to get Cuthbert to go, seeing as the wishes of the whole country do not matter to that gentleman and he will continue to defiantly only hear the voices of his paid stooges like dear Jona.

So we will start by asking the no-sex politicians to go first and ask all women to comply with the call until Cuthbert leaves our soccer offices. If that fails then the more-sex one can come in and we explore that route. If it should fail, we are sure she could always convince some unruly fans to strip her in Parliament while wearing her spotless white lacey lingerie to shock that minister off his Humpty —Dumpty wall into some action.

Don’t get caught

By all means let us talk about the not so beautiful one who may soon be proved to be a sure fire contestant for Big Bore Africa in the tradition of the one and only Miss Piggy.

We really do not care about whether she was caught on camera putting her lips in places where the sun will never shine or anything like that.

In fact we will put our drinks on the line and firmly declare that the images that have been shared so far show that the whole story is pure fabrication engendered by that little green eyed monster and scores that needed settling or something like that.

And we also refuse to be caught up in a supposed frenzy of condemnation by people who do worse themselves. Which is why we are more interested in pertinent matters like why the identity of the self-confessed male whore who claims to have taken the scalps of many models remains a secret.

As far as we are concerned that is the real face that needs to be exposed, not protected while he plays with gullible minds. We will bet our year’s drink supply that this despicable kiss and lie character is married and may not be able to substantiate his claims in broad daylight.

Not that we are saying that the lady in question is as pure as the driven snow and that there have never existed images of her that would shock our poor grannies.

The verbal and written oaths repeatedly taken are not even worth a mention as we would expect no one to admit to the existence of such material until they no longer have a choice.

In this day and age when the virtue of pre-school kids is not a given we are not that naïve.

Especially after our learned medical experts have told us that humans start experiencing sexual pleasure while still in the womb.

The whole world knows that many of our models are well, not innocent maids, we will say.

Remember how a past queen moved out of a house where the girls were supposed to be living under the hawk eye of a chaperone?

One school of thought said that the young woman could not stand the restrictive regime and opted to return to the freedom that she had been used to she was dumped as a toddler by parents who had gone to look for greener pastures abroad.

But another group — and the one towards which we are inclined, said that she got tired of the wolves who had penned her in and would ravish her whenever they wished while the chaperone dared not say a word as she relied on those self-same wolves for her daily bread.

Anyway we think this whole idea of the world pageant organisers sticking to some old-fashioned guides about good girls is a hypocritical as you can get. Because it seems to be just a case of ‘do but don’t get caught’.

In fact, we wonder what we would find out if we went beyond the models and looked at those who run the show including those behind the scenes and scrutinised their presents and pasts. Drink for thought?

Last Call: Indigenisation reloaded

The story doing the rounds is that indigenisation has gone a gear up. We no longer need those of Caucasian descent to create our multi-racial society. Skin lighteners are working wonders for the nation and soon we will be able to produce some perfectly genuine home-grown whites.

Till next week, bottoms up!

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