Meet Cyril’s arch-frenemy

OUR president's relationship with Benjamir Putinyahu is complicated. He can't decide whether to kick or lick his rear end.

Interestingly, the American president, Joe Biden, has the same problem. Except: he wants to lick where Cyril wants to kick, and vice versa.

I don't want to pretend to be an expert on international relations, but maybe Joe and Cyril should bypass the middleman and lick and kick each other.

Wait a minute. Wait. Rather not. I now think of the different ways in which they address troubling questions. America: “Uh, um… A! Bombs!” Cyril: “Uh, um... Uh."

Both have noble intentions, namely to look less useless than they are and thus cling to their power.

I guess it's liberating when you realise you have no dignity left to lose. Imagine you are the leader of the ANC or you are behind in a power struggle against a psycho. Oops! They are all psychos. But you know which psycho I mean — the sicko loco wacko psycho.

I firmly believe the pen is mightier than the sword, but only if we're talking about those plastic swords marked down to R23 at the Crazy Store last week. I have two. The other one broke.

No one will bring peace on earth with a Bic Orange Fine Point; I want to prophesy here.

Enough! Enough sleepwalking presidents! Enough of war and other criminals! Enough of terrorist gangs like Hamas, Israel and America! We still have a whole year, a lifetime, to imagine that there is an ointment to be applied to humanity.

From now on, I will focus on everything beautiful, like Sam Cane's tears after the Rugby World Cup final.

I want to dwell for a moment on the dangers of unbridled power.

It's a drug. I speak from experience. In my kitchen, my word is law. No one will tell me I can't eat Rice Krispies three times a day — four times if you include the midnight feast. It was a jolly affair. I lived alone and was the only guest. I behaved impeccably at short intervals.

Of course, some naysayers will now say they are not surprised that I party alone. Least of all, free choice, they will mutter, recommending that I cultivate a sunnier disposition.

Hoo-ha! I just gained a friend the other week. My girlfriend said, “Let's be friends." So.

The real thing is I struggle with the practicalities of life, and it's my mother's fault.

People always say you shouldn't slander the dead. Why not? How are they going to know and what can they do?

Some believe your ancestors can watch you from heaven, but one thing I can say about my mother is that she was not a perv.

Let's say our upbringing was unconventional. “Chaotic" sounds too unflattering.

My mother was loving and taught us to read, write and add sums before we went to school, but she failed to show us how to tie our shoes and now it is too late.

At school, I never untied my shoelaces out of shame. It was a struggle to get my shoes on. After physical education, I was always late for the next class, which explains my matric grades.

Also, she did not teach us the finer art of brushing our teeth. All my baby teeth fell out on the same day.

There were only vague signs of rules and structure. We ate sandwiches after school like everyone else. On a sports afternoon, it was four o'clock or later. Dinner was at six o'clock. My brothers and I were rarely hungry. You had to eat what you scooped in, but scooping in was optional.

So at around ten at night, we unofficially gathered in the kitchen and made sandwiches with leftover meat and tomato sauce or — here it comes — ate Rice Krispies and milk from a glass rather than a soup plate, like a weirdo.

So organising a party with more than one guest is beyond me.

I shudder just thinking about the questionnaire I must send the invitees in advance. Do you intend to sleep in your car or the bathtub? And: Do you prefer your Rice Krispies with brandy or tequila?

♦ VWB ♦

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