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Ben Trovato

@ Sunday Times Books LIVE

Archive for the ‘Misc’ Category

Application for the Position of CEO of the National Prosecuting Authority

Dear Sir, I couldn’t help noticing your advertisement while trawling the Careers section for government jobs that involve tremendous amounts of money and very little work. To be honest – and I think honesty is important if one is to work for the NPA – it was the salary you are offering that caught my eye. The idea of earning R107 1264 a year speaks to me on many different levels.

Although I have no formal legal training, I do have a fair amount of experience in matters involving the law. For example, I was once charged under the Police Act. This afforded me considerable insight into the way prosecutors operate, and I can assure you that when it comes to attending expensive lunches and finagling squid-pro-quo incentives, whether they be in the form of rough diamonds or unpolished Cambodian whores, I am more than capable of following due process.

You may also rest assured that, unlike certain former NPA employees, I will not leave myself exposed to covert surveillance when dealing with sensitive matters involving high-ranking members of the ruling party. In fact, assuming that your building has more bugs in it than a Chinese casserole, it is probably best that I not come into the office at all.

Apparently applications must be submitted on form Z83. I always thought the Z83 was a car. No wonder I am unemployed. If you like, I can print this out, write Z83 at the top and fax it to you. That’s another of my strong points: always looking for a loophole. And free beer. But mainly loopholes.

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Open Letter to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad

Dear Mahmoud,

I think you’re one cool Persian cat and I want to pledge my support in your war against the axis of evil (America, Israel, Homer Simpson).

I was pleased when I heard some time ago that your government had banned Barbie from being sold in toy shops, and I was doubly pleased when I read this week that the Simpsons had joined that immoral she-devil on the blacklist.

I won’t allow the slut Barbie in my home, either. She represents a terrible sickness that pervades Western society today. I hate her so much, flashing her long, smooth legs at us and shoving her sexuality in our faces. It’s wrong and shameful and her entire family should be stoned to death.

As for those degenerate Simpsons, the less said the better. Well done to your Institute for the Intellectual Development of Children and Young Adults for banning this dangerous filth.

I used to watch the programme and began spending less time at home and more time in the pub. I started abusing the pets and frequently tried to strangle my own son.

Before I knew it, my skin had turned yellow and my hair fell out. I put on weight and lay around the house dreaming of junk food, deviant sex and how to make piles of money without having to work for it.

Apparently Iran has not banned Superman and Spider-Man on the grounds that they help the “oppressed”. That’s what they want you to believe. These so-called superheroes are CIA agents. Worse than that, word on the street is that they are gay. Take my advice and add them to the blacklist. Your country will be safer for it.

If you have to give your children gifts, give them chemistry sets so they may learn how to enrich uranium from a young age. Israel and America would like nothing more than to destroy the nuclear family in Iran. They must be thwarted.

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Taking my wife out on Valentine’s Day – Kebble-style!

Brenda said she wants me to take her out on Valentine’s Day.

This puts me in a bit of a dilemma. Should I pay someone to do it, or do it myself?

Purists might say it would be more romantic to take care of something like this personally. But then what do I use? Poison would take too long. A gun is too vulgar. Perhaps a tastefully arranged accident might be best.

Living an increasingly isolated life, I have taken to musing aloud. I find it helps lull my existential crises into a false sense of reality while entertaining the dogs at the same time.

“Accident?” said Brenda. “What on earth are you on about?”

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Popping a pill and strapping into the seat of the damned – Here’s hoping it ends well

Kulula is generally my airline of choice because the staff who do their in-flight announcements make light of the fact that everyone on board could die in a giant fireball at any moment.

And also because SAA has committed unspeakable atrocities against me and my luggage over the years, and I have sworn never to set foot in one of their loathsome aircraft ever again.

On my way to Durban, I tried checking in online, but cocked it up when I lashed out at a fly and knocked over my beer. Once mopping-up operations were over, I saw I had inadvertently booked a middle seat in the middle of the plane. Nobody in this section ever survives a crash. Nobody ever really survives a middle seat unscathed either. There is always a certain amount of brain or nerve damage inflicted on those who are given the seat of the damned.

We claustrophobic misanthropes suffer worse than most.

Brenda has an impressive collection of pharmaceuticals, not all of which are required as a consequence of being married to me. When I mentioned my middle-seat dilemma, she asked if I wanted a tranquilliser or something stronger. Did she mean cyanide? Probably. I said a trank would be fine, and she tossed me a half-eaten blister pack of something called Zopax. It’s the kind of name Angelina Jolie might give to her next orphan.

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Lying on your curriculum vitae shows initiative and creativity

I am loath to help you little bastards who have just busted out of school, because eventually one of you will stab me in the back.

That’s okay, though. I am prepared to die for the sins of the white man on condition that I am venerated as a latter-day messiah, albeit without the beard and no real disciples to speak of. And maybe a small drinking problem.

So listen up, kids. This could save your life. Or preferably mine. If you’re not going to study at a tertiary institution (and, let’s be honest, why would you want to, after 12 years of hell?) you have a number of options.

You could, I suppose, join the army or the police. Since you’re not going to university and your life is already in the toilet, you may as well take as many down with you as you can. Shooting evildoers is also a great confidence-booster and can do wonders for your popularity. Almost every head of state in the world has either killed people or had people killed.

Before you embark on your quest for employment, you are going to have to stop drinking and take a shower. Some people have a problem hiring reeking drunks. I don’t. Then again, I don’t run a business. It’s just me and this here bottle of … what the hell is this stuff? It’s made my lips turn blue. Maybe I’m dead.

After sobering up, you will need to get your curriculum vitae in order. Curriculum vitae is Latin for “little white lies”. This is not a colour thing. Black people should tell white lies without feeling they have betrayed the brotherhood. Or sisterhood.

My advice is that you avoid telling little white lies on your CV. It is far better to tell huge, steaming whoppers. This will indicate that you think creatively and are not afraid to take risks. Most companies these days are reluctant to hire anyone who is obsessed with the truth. Capitalism is a filthy business, and nobody wants an employee who runs to the police every time there’s a bit of tender-fiddling or a homicide in the boardroom.

Right from the start, lie about who you are. This will work in your favour when the company lays charges against you after you’ve been there long enough for disillusionment to coalesce into criminality. It is an enormous advantage to be able to say, “There’s nobody here by that name,” then saunter past the cops and run like hell.

Make up a name that people are unlikely to forget. Here are a few suggestions: Adolf Hitler, Saint Francis of Assisi, Attila de Hun, Elizabeth Regina, Mary Magdalene, Cleopatra van der Spuy.

A lot of so-called experts will tell you to keep your CV to a single page. This is ridiculous. A proper CV should be at least 140 pages long. You are going to need every one of them to list your achievements and experience.

Your groundbreaking work in stem-cell research alone could easily run to several dozen pages. And that July holiday you walked from Benoni to the North Pole is worth a few thousand words. Don’t forget to mention your Nobel prize for physics and the seven gold medals you won at the Beijing Olympics.

A CV is your marketing document. From selling us sea monkeys in circus suits to telling us Coke is life, marketing had a monumental falling-out with the truth a long time ago, and relations remain frosty. It is not up to you to get them together again.

Don’t confuse “marketing” with “maak-a-ting”, which is something marijuana fiends say when they wish to get high.

Some suggest that you make your CV easier to read by including bullet points. I have always found it works better to include actual bullets. That way there is no mistaking the message you are trying to get across.

The drones who work in human resources aren’t always the brightest, and you might need to spell it out for them. If they look at the bullets in a puzzled fashion, lower your head and paw the ground. Snort loudly and launch two or three mock charges. They will get the message soon enough.

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Be reassured that most murders occur between people who know each other

‘MURDER is a social contact crime that often occurs between people who know one another such as relatives, friends, acquaintances, colleagues and neighbours.” This reassuring nugget of information emerged in a study released this week.

It makes murder sound like such jolly good fun. Like something you might want to do around the braai while waiting for the rugby to start.

I’m surprised there’s not a Castle Lager advert out already. A multi-racial group is gathered around the Weber, one guy blowing the coals, another basting the chops, a third starting to sing Shosholoza … a heart-warming scene that takes place in back gardens everywhere on any given Saturday.

But wait! What’s this? A white guy in a Blue Bulls jersey has just rammed a braai fork into a black guy’s jugular. Their girlfriends giggle at the impish horseplay. The black guy, gurgling happily in blood, lifts his Castle and takes a swig. The beer leaks from the holes in his throat.

Everyone cheers and raises their bottles. Stimela si qhamuka e South Africa!

I am delighted to report that the study found Cape Town to have the highest murder rate of any city in the country. Yay for us! Not only will this boost tourism in the lucrative yet untapped Spanish-speaking psychopath market, but it goes a long way towards disproving allegations that we are hostile towards outsiders.

People who move to Cape Town frequently complain that it is “cliquey” and almost impossible to break into the different coteries that exist on the right and wrong sides of the mountain.

The reason we split into factions and camps is that we like to keep social contact crimes between friends and family. If you force your way into our clique, we may be forced to kill you.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t try, but just be aware that gaining access to the inner circle in many of Cape Town’s communities does come with its own set of risks.

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Open letter to Julius Malema

Dear Juju,

LIKE a true pioneer, albeit one who has been dipping into the emergency supply of moonflowers, you continue to burn your bridges as you forge blindly ahead. I’m not sure if hitching your wagon to a dead horse will get you very far, but perhaps Thabo Mbeki really can be resurrected. Death or Glory – who would have thought that you and the Queen’s Royal Lancers would one day share a motto?

Your dream of seeing white domestic workers slaving away in township homes within the next 10 years is right up there with Martin Luther King’s dream of achieving freedom and equality in a non-racial America. In fact, your dream is better than his. King’s dream remains just that. You, on the other hand, will one day walk through the streets of Polokwane shouting, “White servants at last! White servants at last! Thank God almighty, white servants at last!”

However, old buddy, and I hate to be the one to tell you this, your dream has the potential to cripple this great country. As appealing as you find the image of white women scrubbing your floors, it will, in fact, be the menfolk down on their knees. They will be begging for a return to a time when domestic workers took nothing more than 30 minutes for lunch and asked for nothing but cleaning products.

White women would make appalling domestic workers.

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Open letter to ‘Reverend’ Kemo Waters

Dear Comrade Kemo,

The moment I heard about your message on Twitter suggesting that white people ought to be snuffed out like the vermin they are, I thought it important to write to you without delay. Please, sir, may I be spared? I know what you are thinking. Spare Trovato and, by the end of the day, the other five million white people will also want to be spared. Yes, mercy has a tendency to snowball out of control, I agree, but I deserve special treatment because I am not a bona-fide white. I don’t, for example, understand the rules of rugby. Also, I have had my DNA tested and doctors aren’t altogether certain that I am entirely human. They say I have tiger blood. Like Charlie Sheen.

I understand you own a business called the KemoTherapy Institute of Truth. Well done. This country needs religious entrepreneurs with a sense of humour. If someone joins your institute under false pretences, does their hair fall out?

Waters. That’s an interesting name for an African. What is it – Scottish? The only Waters I’ve ever come across was my old tennis coach, and he was whiter than Prince William. You’ll be happy to know that I had him killed. My coach, not Prince William.

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Leaders will stay in expensive hotels and drink champagne “on your behalf”

With the podium awash in cake and catharsis, deputy president Kgalema Motlanthe raised his glass and proposed a toast. “The leaders will now enjoy the champagne, and of course they do so on your behalf through their lips.” Later, the leadership drove off in luxury cars on behalf of those who had no transport and stayed in expensive hotels on behalf of those who lived in shacks. Welcome to the year of living vicariously.

The new year has set off at such a blistering pace that it already feels old. Maybe it’s just me. I knew I shouldn’t have sat through the president’s entire speech in Bloemangafonteinung. Even though I took pharmaceutical precautions to offset any negative side-effects, I still feel like tearing my face off and stuffing it up my bottom. Brenda says I might have taken the wrong medication.

I don’t even know where to begin. Education, perhaps. Did you see the kiddies on their first day of school this week? Brenda said they looked cute. I thought they looked angry and disillusioned. Perhaps they had been watching cartoons the night before and daddy switched to the news and they saw mobs of semi-literate matric exemptionistas storming the universities and realised they were about to board a runaway train on a 12-year journey to nowhere.

If our best and brightest are prepared to trample people to death in the hope of staving off unemployment for another three years, can you imagine what the others are capable of?

Education Minister Blade Nzimande must shoulder the blame for this fiasco, but only because he is a communist. There’s a reason the bull’s-eye on a dartboard is red. Wait. That makes no sense. A bull is the highest scoring … well, apart from a triple 20. Forget the analogy. This is the year in which nothing makes sense and I don’t see why I should be the exception.

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Hysterical mobs of crazy teenagers clamour to wish the ANC happy birthday

A no-flies zone has been declared around Bloemfontein this weekend. President Zuma believes flies were brought over by the missionaries and used as weapons of mass distraction. While the Africans were waving the flies away, the religious robber barons moved in and took their land, their cattle and their more agreeable-looking daughters.

I shouldn’t even call it Bloemfontein. The Dutch were responsible for that nonsense. Who calls their city the “Fountain of flowers” and then allows it to fall into the hands of white supremacists who turn it into the “Fountain of blood” where church services, torturing darkies and watching a traffic circle were the main attractions on any given Sunday?

I thought Mangaung was the name of Bloemfontein’s township until I discovered a few minutes ago that it’s actually the Sesotho name for Bloemfontein. Not for the Sotho people this girly business with flowers. Hell, no. Mangaung means “Place of cheetahs”. If I were a cynical counter-revolutionary schweinhund, I would make a joke about it being the place of cheaters, but I’m not, so I won’t. To be honest, it doesn’t really matter what you call it, the fact remains that this abysmal city in the godforsaken Free State … hang on, I’ve just read that Mangaung in fact means “Place of leopards”. I suppose one could make a crack about spots and their resistance to change, but one will resist. This is, after all, an auspicious occasion. It is not every day that Africa’s sexiest song and dance liberation troupe turns a hundred.

I see Julius Malema has been left off the programme. Not surprising, given that he’s more of a leper than a leopard these days. Politically speaking, of course.

I wish I could say I was there to help blow the candles out, but, inexplicably, my invitation failed to arrive. Equally unfortunately, my early deadline precludes me from commenting more accurately on events. Right now, all I have to go on are early reports.

The police and army have been called in to help control hysterical mobs of democracy-crazed teenagers clamouring to wish the ANC a happy birthday. When I turn 100, I would also like to have the authorities at my party. In fact, it will be a dress-up party. The theme will be cops ‘n soldiers. There will be teargas, ruptured spleens and enough red-hot monkey sex for everyone. I can hardly wait.

The programme I have before me speaks of intercultural events at the Mangaung outdoor sports grounds. My flesh turned to goose when I read those words. In this country, “intercultural events” can range from the Polokwane palace coup to the butchering of Eugene Terre ‘Blanche.

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