“I am gonna save the world folks!” screams John no Dough to no one in particular. “Get a fucking job, loser!” the trailer park warden yells back as he hurls a baseball through the polythene make believe window of the battered Winnebago. John no Dough’s partner who is squatting outside peeing- at one with nature or the debris strewn simulacrum of it- flips the warden a birdie and lights herself a king size joint.
John no Dough opens the trailer’s door with much screaming of aged hinges and pauses at the threshold to squint into the wintry day. He sees her, now standing her hair in sexy dishevel and her eyes mascaraed with that ethereal glaze that was his waterloo the first time he saw her. The look she wore as she held her ground against a truncheon wielding foot soldier of Global Capital in some long forgotten battle ground: New York, Davos or fucking Oshkosh, who cares? Her photo had made the front pages in her mid-western home county and though it wasn’t exactly the fucking New York Times; the photo still looked good pasted above the decrepit washbasin, of the Winnebago, in lieu of a mirror.
He clambers down the makeshift stairs still baffled by their continuing ability to hold his weight. The next moment he is looming ten inches above her and fondling her multiple-gang bangs-survivor-titties with one hand and plying the joint off her stained paws with the other. He puts the joint to his mouth holding it without a roach clip because, as he is often heard saying, “roach clips are for sissies… what the fuck do I look like, Bill Clinton?”
“Aurora!” He mouths.
Aurora-Woodstock Flint. That’s the girl’s name; her mother brought the ovules and her daddy brought the acid. “Too bad he was gone when the trip was over… the other one too… and the other... damn, what a summer it was!” was her mother’s mantra until Aurora shipped her off to a mental home and made her way to New York mainly on her back.
“We are gonna save the world, Aurora!” John no Dough says. ”Yeah”, Aurora responds. “We are going to Africa.”
“Yeah, Yeah,” John no Dough muses as he blows plumes of smoke in the general direction of Africa. Then he grins at her and all the while scratching the perpetual itch in his groin and nodding at her as though in admiration. “What will I catch from her this time?” he wonders. In New Delhi it was gonorrhoea; herpes in Cancun, maybe in Africa it will be the big one: AIDS!
AIDS, now that would be a badge of honour; bigger than a bleeding Purple Heart from Iraq. It would make John and Aurora feel better than all those mercenaries and looters in Africa; fucked up common thieves from the geo-political North flying under Globalisation, AGOA and WTO flags of convenience and returning home with blood diamonds.
John no Dough hates the new face of colonialism: Multi-Nationals, IMF, Pfizer and the motherfucking Republicans. (By the way, how come every one of these bleeding heart Americans crawling all over Africa are adamant that they didn’t vote for Bush? Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten re-elected if all of you stayed home and voted. Unless you all needed him and his non policy on Africa to keep you donor funded!)
Anyway the world is full of all these farts with Messianic Complexes always forgetting that all Messiahs end up dead anyway. I mean look at Jesus. Kwanza him, despite a cruel and unnecessary death and 2000 years of post-humous infamy, the fellow cannot sell more t-shirts than Harry Potter.
I think there are three kinds of Messiahs and the smart, Pop Idol, ones have side gigs: Bono sells records, Oprah sells self esteem to fat American women and now thanks to Madonna & Brangelina Messiahs Inc, you can order an African baby from a Gap store near you. (Conditions Apply. The RED thingum is a registered trademark of Poverty is Their History LLC)
The other type is those who went to college and realised some where along the way that it takes more than a degree and foppishness to hack it on Wall Street. But they went to school be to some sort of card carrying executive or other- so they joined Save Africa Plc where all you needed to do to balance the cash book was write a funding proposal.
For instance there is this guy that works for a subsidiary of Save Africa called UNEP whose mandate is to organise talking shops on environment, climate and whatever. For reasons more ridiculous than the weather forecast, UNEP headquarters is in a hardship station called Nairobi, Africa (Africa is a country, duh!) So in order to fulfill his mandate, our guy and his colleagues live in a clearing in the middle of Karura forest. Of course there is no conflict of interest there because all the trees were used to make paper for them to push. As for the luxurious hard wood fittings in their living rooms…
The final type of messiah is that of the lowlife John and Aurora- latter day hippies- variety. These ones join the world’s largest travelling circus- The World Social Scrotum. The World Social Scrotum is an eclectic mix of crackers and varicoloured crack heads from the North who purport to be its conscience which is really sweet of them until they decide to air that dirty laundry in our (re)public.
Ah… but now I have chokad and I need to get this post done away with and get on with today's booze quota… so I will interrupt this garbage to bring you all a public service message from the General Caucus of Nairobi’s Finest.
Nairobi’s Finest a collective of Pimps, Pushers, Hustlers and gangland executives are purveyors of shit to sixteen diplomatic missions and the fucking Peace Corps. We are also suppliers of willing (the court records prove it) Samburu women to Her Royal Majesty’s Armed Forces. Tight arsed young Native lads, mountain Gorillas and other beasts are also available for those of an exotic palate.
The General Caucus of Nairobi’s finest would like to inform all the delegates to the World Social Scrotum that we are the official Shit suppliers to the conference. We do not welcome you to our city but you are gonna come anyway, so what the fuck- to jack you will be our pleasure! We are aware that you are used to crappy greenhouse marijuana and are pleased to inform you that sixteen forty foot containers of Export Grade Busia Gold are currently in transit to Nairobi under the armed escort of our legendary corrupt police department.
In other news and in the spirit of fighting Globalisation; the inequitable distribution of capital and in working towards an Open Society, I relinquish my Intellectual Property Rights to the following t-shirt slogan:
World Social Scrotum: Don’t Come to Africa, Send Money.*
*Fine Print: Only Applicable if Merchandise is clearly marked “Not for Sale”