Old Helen wins a ****-measuring contest


Old Helen wins a ****-measuring contest

Nqaba Bhanga calls Helen Zille a racist. She calls him a drunkard. He is suspended. Please just get Grandma an ice cream, writes TINUS HORN.


I WAS determined never to utter another word about the tragic figure that is Helen Zille, but there she goes and berates me with her statistics.

This column was supposed to illustrate that men never outgrow their toddler phase. I don't mean to generalise. Wait, I'm lying again. I want to, and I'm going to.

I write this out of despair for fellow men. What else are Vladimir Putin's madness and Elon Musk's back-and-forth antics but outdated ****-measuring contests?

Your average man is pathetically laughable, one could say if inclined towards prejudice.

From the moment a little boy realises he exists separately from his mother, he must prove that his nappy is smellier than those of the other little boys at daycare.

Step two in a boy's life cycle is this: my toy car is faster, shinier and flatter than yours, and if that's not the case I must rectify it by forcefully taking yours or resorting to a cunning trick.

This also applies to boys who prefer My Little Pony. Just to prove a point, they will claim their friend's Ferrari as their own because My Little Pony needs a lift between point A and point B.

When the opponent tries to reclaim his rightful property, our little scoundrel must fall to the ground, kicking and screaming, pretending he is fatally wounded, in the style of an English Premier League hero.

By that time, he already knows that adults primarily crave a moment of silence, and the only defence against the nagging is to give in to his demands and indulge his anger.

Hot tip: ear plugs and to hell with the neighbours. But no. The parents engage in a trade-off with the little villain and promise him an identical toy car if he behaves. Or at least an ice cream.

These parents sell their souls, and that's how a little Satan is born — just like in the case of the DA and the Devil.

If that sounds to you like the title of the latest Afrikaans romantic comedy, you're mistaken. There's no happy ending on the horizon. This is a horror movie. Evil will triumph.

It happened again this week. The DA leader in the Eastern Cape provincial legislature, Nqaba Bhanga, called old Helen a racist. He was suspended. She called him a drunkard. Please just bring Grandma an ice cream!

The party will be richly rewarded, I'm guessing, by losing votes and seats in the general election next year.

I heard Queen Lear's madness was learned. She was apparently a fearless champion of freedom and equality years ago. But power can lead to decay, a wise chatbot once said.

Back to little boys. At some point, around four or five years old, they will challenge their friend's dad to a fistfight on behalf of their own dad. “My dad," the saying goes, “is stronger than your dad."

In all the decades since I was no longer a child, this strange behaviour hasn't diminished one bit, even though you rarely hear of one dad going toe to toe with another on the sidewalk outside the preschool to prove his nasty little creation's worth.

The boys grow older. Now the long and tedious clown phase kicks in, during which they compete for the attention of a friend whose hand they can hold. They ride bikes without training wheels. They play rugby. They throw punches. They wield knives. They wage war.

Those who start with an advantage climb the corporate ladder, amass money and possessions, and if they're ruthless enough, the feigned admiration of a much younger life partner who secretly longs for the days when sex wasn't the nadir of their existence.

The cycle is completed when the man returns to the toy car phase — faster, shinier and flatter.

Meanwhile, he remains fat and bald.

Credits roll.

If anyone wondered: my dad, may his soul rest in peace, would have defeated your dad, one time. Oh, and I also want to mention that Helen and I have withdrawn from the next measuring contest. We want to give you men a chance too.

♦ VWB ♦

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