Orgy on the road to Barberton?

So, did anyone else see the story of the Mpumalanga hitchhiker who was gang-raped by three women? Rape is a very serious matter — a gangrene that is eating away at the fabric of our society. There is nothing even remotely funny about it.

Still, it is not too often that I read a story that makes my coffee spurt out of my nose. People are always telling me how funny they think my pieces are. And then they always say stupid things like: “Your friends and family are lucky to have someone in their midst every day who is so funny.” I always get a good chuckle out of that one because everybody who knows me personally will confirm that I’m anything but funny in “real” life. I don’t think fast enough to have the kind of timing necessary to be funny. But the worst thing about always having to think up funny things to write is that it erodes one’s enjoyment of jokes. That pretty much makes me a humourless zombie. So I have to find humour in strange places such as church, the DA and Orlando Pirates websites.

This is my way of leading up to the fact that I found humour in a tragic story about a guy who was raped by three women. I’m quite ashamed about it, actually. Still, I’m not too convinced that Given Mahlalela, the journalist who wrote the article, did so with a straight face. (By the way, “Mahlalela” means “one who doesn’t have a job and spends his day loafing about”. Really.) There are subtle hints that suggest that The Loafer’s coffee was streaming out of his own nostrils as he wrote that article. This sentence is a dead giveaway:

“The victim claims he was ‘raped’ for the whole night inside the car.”

I find Mahlalela’s choice of words and use of quotation marks around the word “raped” quite revealing. That sentence screams “coffee spurting out of nostrils” to me. I hope the man has a good lawyer who can take Mahlalela and the Sowetan on for casting aspersions on the veracity of the story about his ordeal, although I have to say that I was also a little sceptical and even checked the date to see if it wasn’t April 1. Allow me to explain my Doubting Thomas ways.

A man would not ordinarily go to the police station to complain that he had had sex. Yeah, yeah — I know this was apparently not consensual. I’m coming to that. But I think that there are only three plausible explanations for why this particular man broke this rule:

1. The women were extraordinarily grim. (Not likely since men will sleep with a woman of any level of grimness as long as nobody finds out.)
2. One of the women spanked his butt when she was done with him. Don’t you just hate that?
3. The man went to the police station to brag about his experience.

I personally think that the most likely reason this guy went to the police was not to complain but to brag. Women, stop shaking your heads incredulously — guys, stop nodding vigorously. We’ve all heard this rubbish about men having sexual thoughts every six seconds, right? I call it rubbish because men do not have sexual thoughts every six seconds — it’s every second. You might be thinking: “That’s impossible, men do think about their jobs, cars and beer now and then.” If you did have that retarded thought, hit the back of you head with an open palm and say: “Stupid!” You clearly do not appreciate the concept of a process:

1. Men get jobs so that they can afford to take women on dates and to pay rent just in case the date is successful.
2. The same reason goes with cars. How else is he going to transport her to the date? Duh!
3. Men drink beer because beer improves their confidence and give them delusions of great sexual prowess. Beer is very useful during a date.

You’re most welcome.

And no, I’m no exception. From about age 13, when I first got a visit from an old woman in my dreams and puberty struck, the only thought I have ever had is: “Get poontang. Get poontang. Get poontang,” about, oh, 1 440 times a day. If you’re thinking: “A-ha! What about the eight hours or so that you’re sleeping?”, perform that palm-to-back-of-head trick I taught you up there. You obviously have no idea what men dream about at night. That’s why they have those holes in the front of men’s pyjamas. Also, why do you think men piss everywhere else except in the bowl in the morning?

Every morning my wife spends at least 10 minutes describing her dreams to me. Each time she asks me what I dreamt about, I grunt something inaudible and feign a sneezing attack.

And when a man gets some, the pleasure is not complete without the Sniff My Finger routine. That’s right; when a man scores, he is genetically duty-bound tell someone. It’s the genes, the hormones or a combination of both. We’ve all heard the story of the man shipwrecked off the coast of on an island with Cindy Crawford/Halle Berry/Beyoncé (depending on what’s your pleasure), surely? The one about how, after being stranded with the guy for weeks, Beyoncé (I guess we now all know which way I swing) finally decides to give it up to the guy.

A few weeks of blissful paradise later, she notices that the guy seems a tad unhappy and asks if there’s anything she can do to make him happy again. The story goes on to describe how the guy makes her wear his masculine clothes, paints a moustache on her and asks her to walk around the perimeter of the island while he walks in the opposite direction. And then, when they meet halfway around the island, the man sticks out his hand at “him” and says: “Hi, I’m Ndumiso. You will not believe who I’m humping.”

So you have to consider the fact that our hero victim possibly went to the police station to brag about his ménage à quatre. You take away the fact that guns were trained on him and you have a standard porn-movie scene. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall of that Mpumalanga charge office.

Victim: “… and then they dropped me off on the Barberton Road after I had finished with all three.”
Investigating officer: “My lips are sealed. If they press charges, this conversation never took place.”
Victim: “You don’t understand. They violated me!”
Investigating officer: “Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time. Now tell me the whole story from the beginning again and don’t leave any detail out this time.”

[Officer leans back in his chair and a loud thumping sound emanates from underneath his desk as the victim retells the story of his ordeal.]

Another dead giveaway that this story is the work of a hopeless braggart is found in this quote in the article: “I was feeling pain in my manhood, but I was forced to continue with their evil work. I will not forget this day in my lifetime.” To me, this line screams: “This was an incredible experience.”

Let me quit while I’m hopelessly behind before I’m lynched for poking fun at a victim of a heinous crime. I look forward to all the comments/emails telling me what an idiot I am for being so heartless.

My upfront apologies.