Pushing the satanist agenda just coz I can

Thought Leader is a Mail & Guardian-hosted blogging forum. Because of the content of the newspaper, an unsuspecting reader should be forgiven for going into Thought Leader expecting to read mostly political content.

It therefore seems reasonable that if our hypothetical reader came upon a blog entitled The Silwane Files, Ndumiso Ngcobo with a picture of a black guy on the header, he or she would expect serious political discourse. It is reasonable to expect that this black man should be in the midst of debate about BEE, AA, EE and all manner of -isms. Some may even argue convincingly that it would be the black blogger’s duty to write about white racists and how they were trying to keep us all down. It is expected of any black person with a writing platform. It might even be the right thing to do. I may even really believe that the white bastards are really dragging us back.

I imagine that it would be with a fair amount of incredulity, irritation and finally a lot of anger that our hypothetical reader would click on the Silwane Files link only to be greeted by pieces rambling on about diddling hookers and then chewing gum afterwards. If I had the same list of expectations as my hypothetical reader, I would be bloody irritated too. Being the author of these blogs I would only ask that the reader allow me the self-indulgence to explain why I choose to write about cheerleaders prancing about chanting my name.

The reason I’m going down this path is because the volume of emails from well-meaning TL readers requesting me to explain my delinquency in advancing this or that revolution has reached a critical mass. I have shared my many personality disorders in my previous articles and I’m afraid there’s more. (It is in the selfish nature of the self-indulgent.) You see, I have pathologically little invested in being liked by people. Oh, yes, it’s a disease alright. I believe that human beings are social beings and that we have a natural propensity towards gregarious behaviour. But I don’t. That’s a form of pathology — maybe even sociopathic behaviour?

As a result, when I receive these emails, my knee-jerk reaction is to reply with a one-liner: “I write about smelly goat gonads because that’s what I think of your cause.” But that wouldn’t be the most prudent course of action — and not very nice. People with dogmatic causes tend to be quite resilient and then I would have to expend much more energy fending them off. Ignoring them is not an option either because people with agendas and causes tend to be very sensitive and might misunderstand my silence as arrogance. So I have a standard response for them: “Thank you for your email. I sincerely appreciate all the feedback I receive.” If you’ve ever sent me an email and received this response from me, then you’re one of them. Despair not; you’re in good company. And just so you know, that response means: “Piss off, maggot puke.”

Still, I think I owe these guys an explanation. If you’re thinking, “Here we go again, he’s about to share another one of his personality disorders,” pat yourself on the back. You, my friend, have advanced pattern recognition because the answer does indeed lie in another personality disorder I have. It’s called compulsive arguing disorder (CAD). Really. You can look it up.

I argue compulsively, with anyone, over anything. And for no reason too. And don’t confuse me with these people we’ve all come across who think they know it all or they’re smarter than everyone else because they’re trying to mould the world into their image. Nah. All of these reasons for arguing have one thing in common: an end goal. Not my brand of arguing. I argue for the sake of arguing. I believe that an argument’s purpose is to create more arguments so that the arguing should never, ever stop. I am a purveyor of the self-perpetuating brand of arguing. Anyone who claims to have heard me utter the following words is a filthy, rotten, dirty liar:

“Let’s leave it at that then.”

“Can we agree to disagree?”

“This argument is going nowhere, let’s squash it.”

Do not confuse these words with some of my favourite words, especially in recent times;

“Let’s not go down this road; it leads nowhere.”

“Do you mind if we don’t start this argument? There’s no point to it.”

Can you spot the difference? The difference is the same as the difference between “OK, let’s snuff this joint out, I’ve had enough cannabis,” and “No thanks, I’d rather not light up dis bong.”

I am a recovering CAD sufferer. No, that does not mean I’m cured — it just means I’m like an alcoholic who hasn’t had a drink in a few months. Oh, I still have CAD — I’m just not practising at the moment. I am completely, utterly hopeless when it comes to arguments. These days I try very hard to avoid social situations where there is a likelihood of arguments starting. Once I’m in that environment, it’s too late. As soon as someone makes a statement, I’m like a turtle on its back that cannot get back up. It’s like lighting up a crack joint in front of an addict. If I’m in the company of other CAD sufferers, I feel like an arsonist with a box of matches and a barn full of dry grass. Add alcohol and you have an inferno.

Two days before New Year’s Eve, I spent the evening with a bunch of old friends I hadn’t seen in ages. One of them actually lives in the Far East these days. She’s one of those passionate people with actual causes. Add to this mix another chap who also has causes that just so happen to be in conflict with the other friend’s causes, and you have all the ingredients for an explosive Molotov cocktail. When my wife saw me down three beers in about 15 minutes, my face getting glossy and my eyes start to get that glint, she panicked. She started steering the conversation towards “safe” subjects that normally calm me down; subjects such as babies, baby poop and Stevie Wonder’s harmonica.

It was too little, too late. Before long, Friend with a Cause I uttered the Pavlovian word “Zuma” to Friend with a Cause II (in retrospect, she might have just been talking about the zoom in her lens). Two hours later, the rest of the company we were with that day were dazed, confused and beginning to pray for a bolt of lightning to strike someone (otherwise known as me) down. The debate had started with Zuma, the Polokwane conference, how the media are Satan’s spawn — and somehow ended up being about what constitutes poor service in a restaurant and what the appropriate response is and what not …

By this time the non-participants in this retarded waltz would have gladly pulled the pins out of grenades and swallowed them to end it all rather than listen to more of my dreadful droning. Here’s the punchline: I was having a ball! I admit it. Here I was in a restaurant with pleasant, polite company, being an insufferable bore — and I was having the time of my life. My right thigh was numb where my wife had stabbed me several times to get me to stop, but I had argued right through the pain barrier — the intensity of the pleasure far outweighed the pain. And if the other people hadn’t decided to stand up and leave, I would have continued until 3am. As a matter of fact, if my wife hadn’t stood up dangling the keys to my ride home, I might even stayed behind all alone arguing with the couches. No, I’m not exaggerating — it really is that bad.

So what does this have to do with my writing? I have made a conscious choice not to write articles or blogs where I make serious points that will, in all likelihood, spark debate. There simply is no point. I made a promise to myself that I would always write blogs that I would enjoy reading myself. I would never be able to read any of my serious arguments to the end. Trust me; neither would you. It’s a Jekyll and Hyde situation and when I’m being serious, I become an insufferable bore of galactic proportions. Take this particular blog, for instance. I’d much rather watch termites construct a colony than read this dog crap.

I am writing this from my room on Carey Island, Malaysia. I have just left three chaps (one from Malaysia, one from Thailand and another from South Africa) dizzy after arguing with them about religion for about an hour. As usual, I wasn’t going anywhere with the argument. The argument was a means unto itself. But I think that by the time they finally decided to go sleep, I was skilfully elucidating on the finer points of the legitimacy of satanism as an acceptable religion. No alcohol was involved, in case anyone was wondering.

I apologise for this post. I will think up something more interesting for my next one. “The joys of making wee-wee in the shower” sounds like fun.

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