I am not sorry you are dead


From a young age I planned my eulogy. Everyone would be seated, near a large waterfall for dramatic poignancy; a light electronic remix of the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack sweetly lamenting the airwaves, bitches crying everywhere, with skirts above the knee. My minister would be Reverend Kanye West and my body elevated to the point where the spray from the waterfall, and the beams from the massive laser show meet, and form a magnificent rave rainbow. As the Reverend West begins to speak, the entire crowd tips their glasses of aged Patron, my little sister doing a body shot off Channing Tatum’s nips, and a slow melodic recital of the words to Jay Z’s “Big Pimpin” begins. We spend about an hour generally rattling on about my awesomeness, before a huge pyrotechnic explosion engulfs my corpse rendering it into ash, which is later shot out of a cannon into the Nile River. “Boom mother fuckers, I’m outtie”. Yet this occurrence is only validated by my exuberance and zest for life; giving to others, saving babies from fires and ultimately drowning after rescuing a litter of puppies from a flash flood. But what if, during your tenure on this fine earth, you were, for lack of a better term, a right cunt? Should you be celebrated in high esteem because heaven forbid we speak ill of the deceased? If a public servant passes, and he helped decimate a functional bureaucratic institution, do we rave about him?

Former Minister  Sicelo Shiceka was truly the Judas of cabinet. Using the public purse to visit incarcerated girlfriends in Switzerland, having sex orgies in the One and Only, and perusing the globe with first class tickets for him and his entourage. He was a poes, but his life ruled. The only problem was his mortal illness and his inability to keep the pesky media from meddling in his accounts. But during the 80’s this dude struggled. He was bitch slapping whiteys, toyi-toying like an ecstasy addict at a Serbian speedcore party, all while studying to be a future leader of the now Rainbow Nation. Of course the promise of two 7-series BMW’s totalling 2.1 million rand didn’t inspire all of this, but it did help him get out of bed in the cold winter. However, without being able to clear his name, the poor chap pegged (officially it wasn’t from AIDS, but when you have more concubines than I have Rice Crispies in my cereal bowl, chances are your sperm is tainted). The ANC, in all their honourable glory, eulogised this man as if he were Jesus at a wine festival. Never speaking about one of their own with distain, this cretin was buried a hero and a martyr.

Now African culture preaches respect for the dead. And I agree. An ethical man, deserves a principled send off. But someone who loots the country’s wealth, breaks laws and effectively steals from the poor? I wouldn’t even throw a diseased cat into his grave, let alone flowers. He was a blemish on the already pimply face of the ANC, yet he gets a presidential speech at his funeral? But somehow gay marriage is morally depraved? Overwhelming logic at work here. Scarily this is not the first time our government heaped praise on tainted members: Manto Tshablala Msimang not only killed hundreds of thousands of people with her archaic approach to AIDS treatment, but also circumvented hospital regulations to obtain a new liver, after she drank her old one into a representation of exactly what John Cleese’s scrotum looks like. She was a disgrace, but was cheered as a hero. The mind boggles.

If you didn’t deserve any respect during your life, I fail to see why I am now forced to respect you in death. You want the bells, the whistles and the trumpeting minions ululating at your funeral? Don’t be a prick. Its easy. You aren’t some magical being because now Jacob Zuma and his cronies had a circle jerk over your coffin. I realise I come across as harsh, but sometimes in death, you do your country a service. I’d stand loud and proud and say “Here lies Sicelo Shiceka, doing his country profound deed for the first time in years by forcibly kicking the bucket.” And then slaughter some sheep to his passing, not to his life. But no laser show for you, cause I’m saving that one for me, or Kader Asmal. He can even have Kanye, and Channing Tatum body shots.

~Stroob~

*Follow @Stroobz as he takes nude pics of himself stroking a tiger and firing off Isralei weaponary for his funeral photographic montage.

Comments 5

  1. “My minister would be Reverend Kanye West and my body elevated to the point where the spray from the waterfall, and the beams from the massive laser show meet, and form a magnificent rave rainbow.”

    hahaha can i please have an invite to your funeral??

  2. Stroobz… i hope to be raving under those lazers in the far distant future at ur funeral brotha! Great read as always! BooM

  3. I actually agree with this fully. When i was in high school, a real bitch passed away and suddenly the entire school sat next to her in english/shared her lunch/cried over what a beautiful and special human she was. I mean, obviously it is sad that someone passed away, especially so young, but there is no need to make a martyr of them or completely rewrite their life and personality just because they are no longer around. i actually find it a bit disrespectful to their memory. unfortunately, the guidance counselor and majority of my class felt differently, hence my strong presence at Saturday detention that term.

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