SMOKE: Were I A Politician...
Originally published: 23 September 2004
I read an article yesterday about a Dutch politician who keeps an Internet blog of his activities in office, and I thought it was a pretty cool idea.
His intention is to allow people some insight into what the life of a minister is like and although I'm sure most of us couldn't give a toss what a finance minister has planned in a day it's nice to know that if we do need such information we can get it.
The only disappointing part of it is that he doesn't update his blog himself - he spends around 20 minutes every day with old fashioned pen and paper, and gives it to someone to update his blog for him.
The beauty of delegation.
It got me thinking about what I would be like as a politician. I got lost for some time in wonderful visions of ordering compulsory marijuana smoking for children older than three and free helicopters for all citizens, but the harsh reality of politics set in and I realised I would be far more likely to spend my time siphoning off funds intended for pensioners, and missing parliament in favour of brothels.
So I decided to split myself into two parts - the Ideal Politician and the Real Politician.
The Ideal Politician
Wake up and switch off the alarm, which is a midi version of the national anthem.
Make a hearty meal of pap and wors - a symbolic breakfast which serves to remind me of the fact that anything is possible in this great land of ours.
Begin the commute to my offices in town. Leaving my modest sedan in the garage I walk two kilometres to the bus stop and wait for the first taxi I can squeeze into. I sit on the lap of a fat woman as the minibus is too cramped to accommodate my ass, and that's the way I like it - getting down and dirty with the people I represent.
The taxi takes me to Claremont Station where I catch a ride on Metrorail to town, and using my third class season ticket I hang on for dear life to the pole in the middle of the open doors, to prevent myself from falling out and being crushed to death under the tracks.
Upon arrival in town I stop at a vendor and purchase a copy of the two major daily newspapers, in order to keep my finger on the pulse of the people. I walk briskly up Adderley Street, hang a right into Wale and am at my offices at 07h15.
An hour and a quarter it takes me to commute - I make a mental note to speak to my good friends over at City Planning to ask how my proposal for a Cape Town Underground is coming along.
Check my email and respond first to complaints from the public - personally.
Start my first meeting of the day - a think tank with some of the brightest minds in the country to try and come up with solutions to some of our gravest social issues (it's all about The People).
We begin with a round table on crime, a gathering which includes specialists who have been successful in curbing crime in their respective countries, to help add some new and creative ideas.
My special guest is Rudi Giuliani - I want results. Not memos and minutes and committees and action plans - I want results, and Rudi is a man who can deliver them.
Meetings end for the day, and I feel good. I haven't solved all the problems of the world in 10 hours, but I sure as hell have lit some serious fires under some serious ass.
My high profile guests ensure that I get plenty of media coverage for my causes and although I know it irritates the hell out of some of my colleagues the unfortunate truth for them is that I'm not in this for them - I'm in it for the people of the country I have been charged with bettering.
I pop down to my favourite deli for a quick roti (no supper for me until much later tonight - hell - supper can wait), and I spend 10 pleasant minutes chatting with Fatima and Ameena about this and that. Fatima tells me I should pass a law that forces people to smile. I tell her to consider it done, and give her one of my best smiles.
She laughs heartily.
Back in my offices I loosen my tie, roll up my sleeves, grab a cup of decaf and start working my way through a pile of proposals and requests, and get so lost in my work I am startled when I look up and it is almost midnight.
I almost panic, but relax when I remember that my law forcing Metrorail trains to run 24 hours a day was passed just a week ago and I have no need to call a taxi.
Catch a train out of Cape Town and have a pleasant discussion with an old gentleman opposite me. He hasn't recognised me and thus doesn't censor his opinions on how my government is screwing up. I discard some of the information but make mental notes of some good points he has.
I ask him what he would do to improve the various departments and he has some surprisingly good ideas. Raw - but with potential.
Little do the people realise that their voice is actually heard.
Arrive home and have a shower, heat up the macaroni and reward myself for a good day's work with a pitcher of sorghum beer. Hops from the Earth.
While I eat I watch CNN World News and try to assimilate as much of the world around me as possible.
I'm dog tired, but I find the time to write a little note for my wife to find in the morning before she goes to work at the volunteer crisis centre. It says simply: "Here I am trying to build a better world, when my whole world is sleeping right there like an angel."
I slide in next to my soft, filmy wife, and drift off to sleep dreaming of world peace.
The Real Politician
Wake up, take a handful of aspirin for the headache, squint at the brightness, decide "screw this", get up, slash, fart, belch, get back into bed, go to sleep.
Wake up with headache gone but a dreadful hangover - hair of the dog for me. Down half a bottle of vodka and refreshed I yell down the phone for a pair of escorts.
Escorts arrive (one blonde, one brunette) and we bury our faces in a bathtub of cocaine. Gotta get started early.
Get into the limo and leave before the wife gets home, and order the escorts to have sex with each other while I watch and masturbate and drink and schnarf. Before we get out of the car I have a final four lines - one off each breast - and we hurry inside to a darkened VIP room.
By now I am suspended from the ceiling by my penis, and a very angry lady wearing leather nipple caps and nothing else is flaying the skin from my back with a cat 'o nine tails, and calling me her "filthy ho". I orgasm in pleasure, while she scorns me for being a wimp.
Thrashing over it's time for a bowl of caviar and a bottle of finest French champagne. Eat oysters off the breasts of my personal waitress and slobber obscenely at her, forcing her to suck my fat, wet tongue, and lick the perspiration of my sweaty forehead as I gurgle filthy words at her.
Waddle into a room full of people having sex with animals, and join in.
Waddle into a room where people are defecating and get defecated upon.
Pass out from the enormous physical exertions of the evening, and someone takes me home in the limo.
Get home to find a dark house and a cold bed. In a drunken stupor I wind a pair of stockings around my neck and hang myself in the closet for a little bit.
Collapse in a filthy heap on my bed, wrap myself in a duvet of money stolen from some stupid fund for retards, and fall asleep, smelling like a hog.
Let them eat cake.
All Smoked Out,