Fresh Out Of Complaints

Meaning, I can’t hear sh!t. Meaning, my comprehension of whatever you have to say about me is f@*#ed up. Meaning, I don’t give a f@*#. So, don’t try to say anything. I won’t hear sh!t.

Meaning, don’t try to make sense. Because I am just here to make cents. Under messed-up conditions. Which puts me on the opposite side of Godfrey.

I wanted to be like him when I grow up. But now I grew up to hate him. Why? Because of rent. Can’t be paying rent all my life. Stuff is expensive. And then Job came out here with his premature ejaculations. Kamma rent regulatory, whati whati. Waarso? Nothing happened. All lies. Tsek!

But that’s nothing when compared to the overall cost of living. Try buying a loaf of bread for fifteen bucks a piece and you’ll hate the old buck too.

And I am not going to frustrate you with reports about the repo rate and things like the Bank of Namibia’s bonds. I am not Tirivangani.

You know what you go through every day. But government’s priorities are somewhere else.

So at what point are we allowed to complain and about what? Miniskirts? Believe me, after being sex-starved and frustrated by the wifey because I didn’t be meat on time, a miniskirt is my next favourite thing to look at. Down Ndeitunga, down!

And no. I don’t want to talk about old age. Because we still get leadership advice from tate Sam. Godfrey won’t like it.

Can I complain about the lack of a national airline? Nope. Ask Hishoono about that.

So, what can we ramble about? Nobody cares about domestic violence. If anybody cared, something would have happened. And don’t say anything about alcohol abuse.

But someone needs to do something about something. How about we amend the laws just a little bit. Can we protect our females just for a minute and learn how it feels. How do you rape a two-year-old and call yourself a man? What kind of sick fetish goes for a 90-year-old?

When Richard Kamwi came out with his foreskins crusade Namibian men were in a state of paranoia and uncertainty. And no, it wasn’t because their abuse victims have decided to hit back with a vengeance.

Kamwi needed 190 000 foreskins freshly delivered by 2012. So the knives were out and there was no place to hide. But the same pricks that were hiding from responsibly getting rid of the gown are out here committing crimes against their mothers.

Now here’s what we do. If you’re not man enough to love women, go play for the other team. Show us how you can beat up another man because of his body part. Otherwise, just be you.

And speaking of circumcision, exporting skins to Madagascar can blow up your bank account. Being the capitalist I am, I did a bit of research and it emerged that there is a certain tribe in Madagascar where foreskins are a delicacy. Yes, served with banana … don’t ask me why.

The foreskin of a five-year-old boy is apparently eaten by the child’s grandfather at a ceremony of some sort and he can share it with anybody who happens to be a special guest at this ceremony.

Now, grandfathers can only have so many grandchildren, meaning these madalas only get to indulge in foreskin once or twice a year. That’s where we come in with a fresh, nutritious consignment of skins from the Land of the Brave to keep these old-timers’ minds off the political shenanigans in their land and money in the bank for us.

And before you go around mumbling about Africans and their bizarre taste in food, let me tell you. Foreskin is an elitist cuisine eaten only on special occasions – even in the West.

Three years ago a Canadian governor reportedly landed in hot water after she participated in an ancient Hasidic Judaism circumcision ritual which saw her munching some freshly cropped foreskin of an infant boy in a special ceremonial lentil soup because she was one of the chosen godparents. When she was asked what she thought of the foreskin soup she reportedly said: “You know, it’s kinda like chicken, but more tender.”

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