Sacred cows on the spit

Sigh. The lot of the writer is a difficult one.

The comments on my previous offering have prompted me to write a follow-up post to another piece I wrote about six months ago. For the record, I receive at least three emails from irate readers chastising me for my callous disregard for sensitivity around most subjects I tackle (read: poke fun at). Examples that jump to mind are:

1. A Cape Town housewife recently took time off her busy cupcake-manufacturing schedule to email me an 800-word tirade and hallucinate that I said pouring acid on rodents is cool, punctuating her rant with “How would YOU like it if someone poured acid all over you?” (Watch how quickly someone is bound to say that I said housewives are dumb.)
2. A former Silwane Files fan who sent me a wordy essay explaining to me what I presumably did not know; that is, how polygamy has ruined the lives of many African women over the centuries. I call her an ex-fan because she swore never to read anything I write ever again.

I will resist the temptation to follow the biblical model by using three examples.

If you’re thinking how much of a bummer it must be to have insults hurled at me all the time, you would be incorrect. Being regularly told that I’m an insensitive and immature moron is one of my last remaining pleasures since they cancelled Seinfeld. I’m in good company, by the way. That cantankerous Sarah Britten of The South African Insult notoriety wears the “Hitler with tits” tag bestowed upon her by Barry Ronge like a badge of honour. As a matter of fact, I have a confession to make. I think I derive way too much pleasure from successfully whipping people up into a frenzy of frothing-at-the-mouth self-righteousness. I might or might not even sit there pleasuring myself when I read some of these comments/emails.

That’s my long-winded way leading up to my point. Who or what is fair game when it comes to humour, satire and parody? I think I can predict what the smart, knowledgeable readers (read: backbone-less, weaselly fence-sitters) will say to this question. It depends on the taste of the individual, they’ll say smugly as they admire their Mensa certificates. On the face of it (and judging by the evidence) it would seem that this is indeed the case. The fact that this needs to be specifically stated saddens me.

While one reader might think that it is quite OK to find humour in the chilli seasoning of a poor, naked mole rat, the same reader might think that finding humour in a male hitchhiker being forced to perform vile acts on an ostensibly insatiable trio of criminal perverts is just not on. And let’s ignore that the point of that entire blog was that the story seemed to me to be of the Sun “Tokoloshe holds woman captive and shags her silly” variety. But I cannot hold anyone else responsible for my shabby writing that ensured that this point disappeared like flatulence inside Hurricane Katrina in some readers’ minds.

I admittedly have exceptionally low standards and bad taste. I am not gleefully admitting this, but hanging my head in shame at the admission. As a result, almost anything goes with me. A good example is a recent incident where You magazine published an extract from my book, Some of My Best Friends Are White, entitled “Crazy-ass white people”, in which I take the Mickey out of the behaviour of white people in the corporate world. (We’ll tackle generalisations later). This was in December.

As recently as a week or two ago, I am told, some readers were still at each other’s throats after one reader registered his or her disapproval at the piece. He or she apparently wrote something along the lines of “I think all black people are stinky, Aids-infested yadah yadah … but I’m saying this with my tongue firmly against my cheek just like Ndumiso Ngcobo” (sic). Sarcastic little prick indeed. This has predictably prompted other outraged readers to respond in defence of the quintessential Spear Chugger and so forth. This is, of course, all anecdotal — I haven’t had the time to catch up on my You reading in recent times.

The reason I’m sharing this story (other than to brag about my You credentials) is to point out what it is that amuses me about our “all-darkies-have-Aids” You magazine reader — and, by proxy, all people who are so offended by what they deem to be distasteful in humour that they get on the soap box to protest.

When I imagine the Aids-obsessed dude or dudette writing that letter, I have a really good chuckle. Let’s imagine he’s a guy. I imagine him in his car with his recently purchased copy of You magazine neatly stuck to the inside of the CNA plastic bag. I always imagine that he’s driving a good, reliable family car. I’m thinking Toyota Corolla here; white in colour. He just seems like the type. I think the brooms in his house are colour coded; red for the kitchen and green for the rest of the house.

Then I imagine him sitting in his garden to devour his favourite magazine with a cup of tea in his best Sunday china. He probably completes the crossword puzzle first before flipping through the rest of the magazine. And then I imagine him frowning as he comes across the page with the Spear Chugger picture in particularly ball-hugging jeans (thanks, dear) and my hallucinations about my white peeps. And then I try to imagine that the good stuff grips him and spreads all over his body like Agent Smith’s victims in The Matrix. You know the good stuff, surely? Correctomundo! That’s right: righteous indignation.

I don’t imagine that my irate reader even gets to finish the article. That’s how much the good stuff has got him by the testosterone-producers at this point. The part where I actually giggle out loud is when I imagine him putting the letter inside a white envelope with “The editor” written on the front, licking the stamp and driving to the post office for dispatch. If I try to imagine the satisfied “I sure told him” look on his face, I usually end up on the floor. (Hey, one’s gotta enjoy the major and little pleasures in life.) Now that I have successfully committed professional suicide by mocking my readers, let me make my point.

I really enjoy the instantaneous and direct feedback I get from readers. That’s why my email address is splashed all over anything I write. Now and then I write a few pieces for magazines and I get paid in cases of beer. One of the editors of these magazines recently asked me why it is that I waste my time writing for Thought Leader for no pay. Yes, we don’t get paid to do this unless of course Matt, Riaan and Vince and all those other white racists are shafting the black guy again. (I have always wondered why that Trapido writes at such a frenetic pace for what is apparently a free service.)

My response to the sanctimonious thingamaeditor prick was to point out that he personally only got to know about my hallucinatory pieces through Thought Leader, innit? This is if one ignores the obvious — that is, punting my book(s). But I also explained that blogging gives me something that is invaluable to a young writer: the feedback. I love writing and my dream is to get to a point where I can afford to write full-time (if you have an editor cousin who needs a columnist, holler at this darkie), and what better way to hone one’s skills than to check one’s timing on a live platform such as this one?

I have poked fun at almost everything and everybody under the sun on these pages and I think I’m getting a good sense of what works and what doesn’t. And I have been asked many times before why it is that I call myself the Spear Chugger and at whom my spear is aimed. You’re about to find out. I have only enemy:

Political correctness.

That’s it. If my pieces sometimes take on a rambling, hallucinatory tone that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, it’s because they have no point except to tackle political correctness (a good example of this is this dog crap masquerading as Thought Leader material that you’re reading right now, for instance). My primary aim is that the sulphuric stench of my politically incorrect musings will one day rise up to the clouds and come back down with the rain to choke the whole world — otherwise known as pissing people off. And this is the reason I am so interested in who or what the sacred cows are so I can hurl my spear in that direction. Our nation, in particular, is in dire need of this service, me-arrogantly-thinks.

Political correctness may just be the singular worst enemy of the truth. And, boy, does our country need more of that. Especially since we’re nutsack deep in green, politically correct lies. And you know I’m right. Otherwise we wouldn’t go around talking about “load-shedding” when we actually mean f*&$king blackouts. Or “Comrade, you’ve been redeployed” when we really mean: “You’re a freaking idiot who couldn’t organise an orgy inside a brothel, so scram!” The worst tragedy is when we can’t even allow our minds to engage in thought experiments because we’ve become so accustomed to cowering away in dark corners away from the truth. This is why I personally enjoy reading Jarred Cinman, who is not shy to even ask whether Jesus was just a figment of some bearded oke’s imagination.

Allow me to quote a Shangaan friend of mine who had read a chapter in my book where I inserted the line: “Shangaans are still big-dicked buffoons with a penchant for red socks.” What he had to say about that was: “I am so happy you wrote that because it provided me with just the platform I needed to tell some tribalist nitwit I know where to get off. Oh, and that Shangaan anaconda thing is no unfounded stereotype.” I know, I know. The nation is collectively and eternally grateful for that moment of inspiration. You’re most welcome.

So what other sacred cows do we have? Just skimming off the top, is it:

1. Violence against children?
2. Homosexuals?
3. Racism?
4. Politicians?
5. Religious intolerance?

Regular readers of this blog will recognise the sacred cows I have mentioned above. That’s because we’ve all congregated around the spitfire of The Silwane Files and had a jolly ol’ braai with the holy cows hovering above the fire. We’ve spoken about them without the false reverence associated with these subjects. Of course some people were right royally gripped around the groin area by — you guessed it — the good stuff. I call these people the Dof Brigade. That’s what I call anyone who doesn’t agree with me, for the record. And then I have a good private chuckle and move on.

I’m weird in the sense that I have an unnatural affinity for people who disagree with me. I have a personality disorder that makes me fail to see the point of talking to people who already agree with me, you see. I’ve never quite seen the point of that. This is why I’m forever inviting people to tell me why my ideas are retarded and why I might ~~might not~~ have had a piss-up with David Bullard, that rabid racist, this past week after his ill-advised “my culture is better than yours” column.

So are these matters to laugh at? Is it OK to find the humour in a story with a “violence against kids” theme, for instance? Could the Spear Chugger possibly be a closet roundhouse kicker of kids? But, more importantly, is it possible that one of the unintended consequences of my writing might be to embolden horny women everywhere to skulk around hiking spots so they can pin down unsuspecting and (dare I say?) unwilling men? I am not being sarcastic when I ask these questions. And I’m being as serious as a wave of nausea in a teenaged girl who’s just missed her periods when I ask whether jokes that start with “So Madiba dies and goes to heaven …” are callous and in bad taste.

Part of the reason I’m here is to learn. So I look forward, with great anticipation, to hearing all about the gaping holes in my rationale here. I also look forward to hearing how I should stop being so sensitive to readers’ feedback. I even look forward to hearing how I’m a dangerous enemy of the national democratic revolution.

Be gentle.

COMPETITION TIME: I am offering a prize (a once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated opportunity to buy the Spear Chugger a beer) to the reader who will accurately predict how long it will take before someone hallucinates that the whole point to this rant is to point out that my readers are wrong to tell me how offended they are by my idiotic writing. My own guess is that it’ll be comment number three.

Shoot.

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