Carol’s Column

A dose of reverse-Viagra might go down well

Today's the day. Thank heavens because if I have to see another grinning politician kissing a dog, toyi-toying, or going topless on a bus, I'll plats (pronounced plutz - a well-known Yiddish word meaning burst with frustration).

An election is a serious affair which is why I spent a greater part of the weekend pondering upon today's happenings.

Naturally, as happens when the mind is intellectually challenged, I put myself in Thabo Mbeki's veldskoens because he will be the main lion in the chicken house, so to speak. And looking at all the country's problems, he has chickens he hasn't yet seen, let alone used.

As I removed the lint blocking the filter of the tumbledrier, I decided that if a genie popped out of the elongated spout of my ceramic olive oil can, shook his fly whisk, said: "Foosh", and turned me into President Thabitha Mbeki - ruler of the nation, I'd become a single-gear bulldozer in an attempt to get fetid waters gushing.

The first thing upon which I'd cast my swivelling eyes would be education, starting with the instant redeployment of schools and teachers. Every school throughout the land would have three daily sessions. Mornings for children, the afternoon session for young people, and the evening one would be for adults.

Picking up the dog droppings with a newly purchased full-bellied pooper scoop prior to mowing the lawn, I solved the gun menace. With ingenious reverse alchemy and creative motivation in the form of financial reward, guns could be sold as scrap metal, melted down and reformed into something useful.

While mowing the lawn, I inadvertently cut down my crop of baby marrows. No, I thought to myself, although castration for rapists is momentarily attractive and gets directly to the point, it's barbaric and counterproductive. I'd encourage reverse-Viagra research.

Robbers and muggers would be sent to prisons where they would have to learn survival skills such as food production, (no peas, no dinner), carpentry (no furniture, sit and sleep on the floor), sewing (no stitching, no clothes).

I'd banish continuity announcers on TV and suppress talk-show hosts who laugh at their own jokes. Banished too would be bureaucratic bumblers, the entire Department of Home Affairs, consensus committees and all commissions investigating commissions conducting enquiries on other commissions. I'd rationalise libraries instituting two-day lending facilities where libraries exist and establish two-day libraries in areas where they don't.

Just then, the phone trilled. It was my good friend Betty. "Howzit?" she said in the vernacular. "Exhausting, governing South Africa is no joke." I explained my President Thabitha Mbeki fantasy.

Her enthusiasm was boundless. "Green is the answer," she responded. "Each subsidised house built must have a tree, bush and vegetable patch and we'll litter the country with green-lung parks."

"You'll be Deputy President," I proclaimed. "Together we'll address the issue of state spending. All parliamentarians will drive small, economical, fuel-saving cars."

"It's more logical to minimise small-car travel and rather use large minibuses," retorted the Deputy President categorically. "It will cut down on pollution and make the roads less congested."

"I cannot agree," I snapped.

"You're a despot," said Betty.

"You're out of my Cabinet," I replied.

Yesterday, in the spirit of reconciliation, I phoned her.

"When are you voting?"

"I'm not voting for you or sitting in your Cabinet!" she exclaimed. "You can kiss my dog, my husband and my hamster, you can toyi-toyi on the table and ride your bike topless through Sandton and Soweto. I've made my decision and Thabitha Mbeki's not it."

I was devastated.

On reflection, Thabo, you keep the country and I'll stick to planting baby marrows.

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