Jabu
Once again I find myself having to address you without the normal endearment. To put it mildly; I am explosive with rage.
How different it all was the other morning when that delightful young woman from your office called to say I had made the shortlist of two to replace you as editor of SenseOnline as you were assuming the mighty mantle of publisher, whatever that might mean. When she informed me the other candidate was
I was in such high spirits that I telephoned my old friend Msholozi, who you might recall holds a fairly high position in the VIP Protection Unit. He shared my joy because he truly loves the media and we celebrated late into the night. The following morning, while he was showering, a sound gradually rendered a wedge in my sweet dreams of dancing the kanga. I can tell you now, the postman never knocks once.
When I opened the door I was presented with an envelope bearing your seal. Excitement knew no bounds as I tore it open, only to crash into catatonic despair when I read the opening line: ‘I regret to inform you…’
When the first wave of shock dissipated my immediate thought was that you had suffered one snakebite too many. Then anger set in as I began asking myself how you could overlook my impeccable credentials for this other woman. I can hardly spit out her name: TONI BECKER. I have known of this person for a few years and she is utter poison.
Did a bell not ring when you saw she had once worked for Cosmo? Did you not read the book of her time as editor of Elle titled Satan Wears Chanel? And as if her megalomania knew no bounds she later disappeared into the military-industrial complex. I only found out this snippet because when Msholozi appeared with another bottle of baby oil it was to encounter me prostate with grief on the floor.
When he heard what happened he immediately summoned one of his peers who arrived shortly afterwards with a fat file marked ‘Top Secret – Agent Becker’. Apparently, she made an impression on her new masters right from the start. Not only is she an accomplished pyrotechnic, but it appears that on the final day of basic training she was taken into a room with two other candidates. The instructor loaded two rounds into a pistol, handed it to one of the other women and said, ‘There is a man in the next room. Imagine he is your husband of one year. Go and kill him.’
She took the weapon, but returned a minute later and said, ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Then you fail – get out.’
The instructor handed the pistol to the second woman and said, ‘There is a man in the next room. Imagine he is your husband of ten years. Go and kill him.’
The trainee took the weapon, but returned three minutes later and said, ‘I can’t do it.’
‘Then you fail – get out.’
Finally, the instructor handed the pistol to your anointed editor and said, ‘There is a man in the next room. Imagine he is your husband of fifteen years. Go and kill him.’
She took the weapon and went into the next room, where all hell broke loose. Five minutes later she emerged, sweating profusely and screaming, ‘Jerk! You gave me blanks – I had to choke him to death!’
I do not wish to make it appear as if the nuclear winter that has beset my soul has made me bitter, because I am above that sort of bitchiness. But I do wonder what sort of features you will be running now that you have a blend of Jane Bond, Anna Wintour and Cosmo Girl at the helm. I can only imagine something like this:
o Ten positions with a rocket launcher,
o Gun in the oven,
o How to make him feel his popgun is a bazooka,
o Fatigues in the bedroom,
o When he fires blanks,
o Raising the flag,
o The bedroom as battlefield,
o Turn your orgasm into an atomic explosion, or
o Manoeuvres between sheets.
I urge you to reconsider,
Trinity Crimp
