You’ll walk into them on the streets of the world. Some might even be friends of yours. But they are out there. Everywhere. And they lie each and every day. You ask them a question. And they lie. Lie through their teeth. Oh, they’ll tell you it’s the truth. And you’ll believe them. Because it sounds so convincing. But I know their little secret. And I am telling.

Make no mistake. This isn’t about politics. This isn’t about race. This isn’t about the old South Africa or the new South Africa. It’s not about the flag. The anthem. Or even Madiba. This is something much more fundamental than that. It goes to the core of who we are. All of us. It’s what makes us South African. Oh, we will tell you it’s about being so proud of being South African. How we are one. Or not. How great we are. How unique we are. But that’s not it. Not even close.

Ask them what do they miss. What do they miss from South Africa. What do they really miss about home. No wait. That’s too wide and open. Too many things for them to lie about. Be a bit more specific. Here’s a few questions you can ask and the answers they will give you. I’ll give you the real answer behind the answer. Our little dirty secret.

Ask them what do they miss about South African sport. You’ll get a few answers. The men will narrow their eyes and go into a trance. The memories. You can see the memories in their expression. A little smile will develop. Maybe even a little chuckle. And then they’ll say, “Cricket”.

But it isn’t cricket. That’s just a game lasting five days and still no result guaranteed. Baseball minus the Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens steroid specials. Real men swing the willow. At Newlands. But that’s not it. That’s not what they miss. Not really.

They miss the boerewors rolls fresh of the skottel. Sitting under the Oaks and the boys having a boerie braai. The smell and smoke hanging thick in the air. You can hardly see the guys playing out on the field. But who cares. You don’t watch them in any case. It’s not as if Gary Kisten will all of a sudden become Kuiper and start hitting the ball all over the park. No. Gary is a boerie man and knows that the best way to get it right is take your time and stick to the basics. Oh, you might get some fancy dude with chipolatas or pure beef sausages. But that’s as unorthodox as Gogga bowling – like a frog in a blender. No. what they miss isn’t the cricket. What they miss is a boerie with Mrs Ball’s chutney. That’s what they really miss.

They might say they miss, “Rugby“. And they’ll say it with a deep voice and fire in their eyes. They’ll straighten up and tell you that rugby is a man’s game. A real man’s game. Not this American football made for wusses – part wimp and part pussy. With the pads and the protective gear. Haha. Silly boys. Can’t handle the punishment hey? No. That’s not what they really miss though. Not even a nice day at Newlands with the boytjies. Not even close.

What they really want is biltong and vodka injected oranges. Biltong. That nice prime beef dried to perfection with a bit of spicing. Just a little. And you slice it with your pocketknife. Into thin little slices while watching the manne play with the oval ball in the park. Jumping up and pointing your piece of biltong at the stupid ref who always favours the other side. The ref. Always on the side of the Blou Bulle – and us Province guys always suffer. But the biltong will only last for the first half. Because the second half needs something stronger. Some nice juicy cold vodka injected oranges. Lots of vodka. And you go through your bag of oranges as quickly as possible. Because the last few is meant for the ref. They make nice projectiles to chuck at the dude in yellow out there. Only problem is that by the time you decide to start chucking the oranges you struggle to focus on the dude on the field. And it’s much easier to hit the guy in light blue jersey just a few rows in front of you. The Blou Bulle dude. It makes a nice little splashing sound as it hits him just behind his bak ore. A scuffle ensue…

Or maybe the guy will say he really misses watching soccer. Most likely Kaizer Chiefs or Orlando Pirates. Yes, being an Amakhosi or The Happy People supporter is like having piles in South Africa. Every second asshole has got one. The mighty ones taking on one another. Families divided. But play they must. Of course it has to be at the FNB. 80,000 packed shoulder to shoulder on plastic bucket seats. But no. That’s not where they sit and watch. They are in the townships. All over the country. Back in Khayamandi in my hometown. The fires are burning and the televisions and radios blaring – all tuned in on the soccer. The big game. But that’s not really what they miss.

No. What they miss is the Castle Lager. Back in the shebeen with the boys. Drinking a quart. It slides down your throat. The nectar of God. The gift from Charles Glass. Man. Genius. Castle Lager. Not the wimpy water they call Bud over in the US. Or XXXX in Australia. No. Real beer. Real lager. Somewhat dry. Somewhat bitter. Never sweet. Aaah. Castle Lager. That’s what they miss.

But it’s not just sport. Ask them about the people. Ask them about their home. Ask them about the sea. And the mountain. And summer. And winter. Their family. They’ll just tell you more lies.

Oh, they miss the smell of the sea. The smell of the Indian Ocean or the Atlantic when they wake up. The rolling of the waves. The golden beaches of Durban. Or the white sands of Cape Town. But it’s all bull. They don’t really like the sticky, salty water. Or the sand always getting in your clothes – places where you really don’t want them to be. That’s not what they miss.

They miss the fish. Especially snoek. The debates that go on about the best way to braai a snoek – with some appelkoos jam or just a bit of lemon juice and butter. But always brushes regularly. And slice it open and braai the skin side first. Oh, the taste and smell of snoek on the braai. And then the snoek sammies the next day. That’s what they miss. Not the sea and the waves and the smells. It’s the snoek.

And it’s not the people. The smiling faces and loud talking. The fun-in-the-sun people. The moaning and the bitching. The languages and accents. The stories and jokes. The Rainbow Nation. A bit of everything. Land of plenty. Land of diversity. Land of people. Real people. And the bear hugs and waving in the streets. The firm handshakes and kisses hello. The greeting of people you don’t know but see on the streets. The wit and jokes. No. That’s not what they miss.

They miss the Simbachips and Coke and Sparletta flavours. You can find it in any store. Our streets food. Not made on the streets. Just made for the streets. Simba with the variety to match our people. Simba. Mmmm. Simba flavours. Chakalaka. Chutney. Smoked Beef. Mexican Chilli. Salt and Vinegar. And don’t forget the Nik Naks. Mmm. Simba. It Roarrswith flavour. So true. And they want their Coke made with cane sugar. Real coke. And Iron Brew. And Sparletta Sparberry and Creme Soda and Pine-Nut. The flavours of our nation. Something for everyone. And don’t forget the Stoney. Never forget the Stoney. That’s what they miss.

And it’s not the mountains they miss. Our beautiful Table Mountain. They’ll tell you they miss the mountain. Our mother mountain. And the tablecloth that goes with that. The little cloud hanging over the mountain. Ready for us to admire and stare at. The long walks on the slopes of the mountain. Walking along her beautiful curves and drinking from her stream. The picknicks on the slopes. But that’s not what we miss. No. Not at all.

What we miss is eating our Marmite sammies when we sit at our picnics. Nice thick slices of homemade bread with a thick layer of Flora or Rama. And an even thicker layer of Marmite. Good gooey Marmite. The real black gold. And not that stuff the Aussies use – Vegemite. That’s for vegetables. We want our Marmite to go with our picnic. Maybe one with Pecks– but that is really for a toastie breakfast or late night snack. And we want our Safari dried fruits when we walk the slopes. But not just any Safari dried fruits. No. It must be the squares. The sugar covered squares. I like the red ones. That’s what we really miss.

And we’ll tell you it’s all about our family. How we miss our family. Our family in our homes. Our blood. And our sisters and brothers. Mothers and fathers. And cousins and nephews. And neighbours and friends. Our family. The big family. The loud family. Getting together and sharing stories. Kids running around and climbing trees. And the laughing and hugging. An ou boethere and naai man there. The voices of our family. The love of our family. Bah! That’s not what we miss. No.

What we miss is the fire burning and the tjops on the braai. Not the family. They will eat our tjops. We’ll give them the putu and the potjie. Because we can make lots of that. Lots and lots. But the tjops. Those dear, dear tjops. With a splash of Marina braai salt. That we can’t share. Too valuable. It was made with love just for our arteries.

And we want our bobotie in winter and cheap ice-lollies in summer. And our Top Deck and Flake when we watch television. Our beskuit with crap coffee. Our koe(k)sisters with tea. Our LiquiFruit juice with breakfast. Next to our vetkoeke. Or pannekoeke.

See the lies we tell? We act all respectable. We make as if we are so sharp. With our cute, foreign accents. But we are shallow people. For us home is all about our food.

We are easy to seduce. Show us a piece of biltong and we will sell our souls. Give us a boerie and we’ll be loyal to the end. Promise us a packet of Simba and we are yours forever. But be warned. Never threaten our food. Take away our braai and the world will burn. Threaten our snoek and you will drown in your own pain. Dip our biskuit and we will unleash hell.

We are shallow people. We live for our food. And survive on the memories of smells and taste. We love our food. More than we love life itself. We are silly, silly people. Food makes us who we are. And we love our food.

And everything that goes with it.

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It irritates the living hell out of me when politicians (or anyone for that matter) uses the “I have been there” line. You know, that line when a country comes up in a conversation and they say “I have been there”. I was listening Bill Maher (yeah, yeah) on my iPod when some or other politician was using this argument that things are soooo much better in Iraq. You know – he’s “been there”. Like he knows something we don’t know. Sorry buddy. You haven’t been there. Going on an escorted trip to some holiday camp isn’t “been there”. It’s just a package deal holiday trip. It’s buying that Disney trip off the travel agent. Not planning your own trip to Florida. Disney isn’t Florida. You haven’t been to Florida just because you have been to Disney World. Mickey Mouse isn’t Governor Charlie Crist – and Goofy isn’t Jeb Bush either. They just act like them. I know – it’s a shocker. But that’s the truth.

Dick Cheney has been to Iraq. Hillary has been all over the place. All escorted trips. Talking to people and seeing people that other people controlled. Not a moment of meeting the people in the streets. No. They met the people those in power wanted them to meet. Those “good little soldiers”. Those on the side of the winners or warlords or occupiers – not those who suffer in their homes without water or electricity or food or jobs. Or walls for that matter. Those have been bombed as well. So what you have are just very big windows as the Republicans would like you to believe. You see what they want you to see. And not what you should see. You don’t see the families caring for the wounded ones or crying for the lost ones.

It brings me to McCain. (No, I am still not writing about the election – just the topic of “I have been there”). McCain went to Iraq last week. Made a few “misspokes” by confusing a few issues. Wouldn’t you with Lieberman standing next to you? You just don’t know which way Lieberman might go – Independent today, Republican tomorrow, Democrat yesterday. Anyway – I digress. Again. So McCain went to the marketplace. Bought a few goods there I hope. You know. A bucket of water (just a few minor shrapnel holes in it). Some oil (imported from Saudi Arabia because you can’t find Iraqi oil). An AK47 (seen some action). But no food and no freedom fries. But why didn’t he go to the market he went to the last time? Because it wasn’t safe. Not even with those Blackwater guards, marines, armoured vehicles and helicopters. He hasn’t “been there”. He could only say “I haven’t been there”.

They don’t know those places. They don’t live in those places. They fly in and they fly out. Just so they can say “I have been there”. Just so they can spin it in a way that you like it – with a bit of cream on top thank you. It makes it soooo much easier to swallow. It’s just the way I used to feed my dog his medicine – hide it in a piece of ham. But even my dog got it in the end. He started spitting out the pills (but still ate the ham). Americans aren’t stupid. No. Let me rephrase that. Americans aren’t dumb for long. You start smelling something rotten and starts spitting out the pill of stupidity. And the approval rating of those “who have been there” starts dropping faster than the bombs in Iraq. You can fool some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time…

“I have been there”. I should be a politician really. No – I should be the ruler of the world by now. Hear me people of the world – your leader is here. The wait is over. Get the roses and the wine ready, because here I come. The people of Cameroon – I am your main-man. I have been there once. For almost a day. A stopover on my flight to Bamako, Mali. Actually, I have been there twice – on my return flight as well. I am the most knowledgeable foreign policy person I know. Why? Because “I have been there”. Zambia – vote me in. I spend time in Lusaka – many times. “I have been there”. I’ve eaten your nsima and drank your Mosi. Ivory Coast – your saviour and warlord is here. “I have been there”. Twice. Stuck at the airport.  Hungary – anoint me in the Danube. “I have been there”. For 3 long days in a luxury hotel that included a massage from a big hairy Hungarian – male. Mexico – ola, make me your main revolutionary piñata. “I have been there”. Mexico City, Chihuahua, Monterrey and many Tequila’s. France – c‘est la vie, your monsieur of la resistance has arrived. “I have been there”. Four long days in Paris – baguettes, wine, cheese, insults and all. Germany – your über prince of the united country is here. “I have been there”. In Trier to shop for toys, in Berlin to do nothing really, and in Nuremberg for a job interview. “I have been there”. I have been everywhere. Almost. Never mind South Africa where I was born and raised. Or the UK where I spend four long years watching footie, drinking pints and eating crap “fish and chips” like a real Englishman. Or the US where I have lived for the last 18 months shouting for the Red Sox and hating the Yankees like all good Americans should. Yes, I have been there. But I know nothing. Because I don’t live their lives. I am just a guy from South Africa. An Umlungu who knows too little and says too much.

Really, if “I have been there” qualifies you as a foreign policy expert then every pilot on the Delta international route is Boutros Boutros-Ghali. And sorry my friend, you ain’t from Egypt or his world. I sometimes even doubt if you are even from this world. Even if you “have been there”. You still haven’t “been there” or “got it”.

So. Stop it please. Stop trying to sound all travelled and wise because you “have been there”. You haven’t. You haven’t even “been there” when it comes to the US. You can’t use a daft and brainless line just to justify and spin your stupid, warped and pathetic policies. It isn’t an answer. It isn’t an analysis. It isn’t even SNL or Real Time. It’s just you being stupid. Like my dog was in the beginning. But even he got over it. He roams and knows his territory. He even marks it by lifting his leg on everything. Instead of telling me “I have been there”, tell me how you are going to “be here”. Just don’t leave a mark like my dog. Just don’t take the piss.

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A was talking to a friend of mine this morning about a book she was reading – What is the What by Dave Eggers. It’s all about the journey of a Sudanese refugee fleeing the war and ending up living in America. In all honesty, it is not my kind of book. It’s too tough to read. Too much suffering for me to handle. I am a coward in that way. It will drive me crazy if I know anything more than what I already know. I am too consumed by it and it will take over my life more than what it has already. But that’s not the point of this blog.

She was telling me this story of how this young guy walked from Sudan to safety. And it took him a bit longer because he had to do it without a GPS system. Surprisingly enough GPS systems do not come standard with your refugee vehicle – your feet. But he made it to safety eventually. And he landed up in the US – safety at last. Or was it?

He managed to find a place to stay in the US – Atlanta. Not a posh area – just your run of the mill tough US district. But he had a home. And he was sure he was safer in this “mildly” tough area compared to Sudan. And then, one night, he heard banging on his door. And with it came a shout for help. It was a female voice crying out for him to please open the door and help her. Of course he was going to help her. I mean really – he was alive because there were people out there who helped him. And he owed society at least a little bit of humanity to help when others are in need. So he opened the door to help. And hell came with it.

He was robbed. And then he was beaten and held captive in his Atlanta apartment. Welcome to the world. Welcome to the world where you are never safe. But this isn’t about his story. This isn’t about finding a place where one can just have an opportunity to make your own way. That’s what the book is for – feel free to go and read it. This is about the difference between knowing your enemies in Africa and not knowing in America. This is about how a different culture makes it more difficult to survive in a safe place than in a place of war and genocide.

You see, the problem is that in Africa you can see your enemy. You can see those who want to hurt you or kill you. It is in their eyes. It is in their voices. It is in their faces. It is in the panga in their hands. You see it straight away. The hatred is there for you to see and for you to run away from. They don’t try and be your friend first. They don’t try to make as if they need something from you. No. They come for you and you flee or you die. No hidden agenda. Just hate and murder. And you see it from a mile away.

But in the US, and most “western” countries, those who want to kill you will hide behind a veneer of decency. They will try to be your friend or try to get you to relax by “selling” you a story. “Help! Please help me!” And you open the door and they come for you. But by then it is too late. And the hate is hidden as well. Even when they rob you and beat you up you don’t always see the hate in their eyes or hear the hatred in their voices. No. Many times you will hear laughter in their voice as they beat you up and kick you and spit on you. Or call you names.

I am not saying that the one is right and the other one is wrong. All I am saying is that hate comes in different forms. For us from Africa we can see it immediately. And we can run. We can survive on gut instinct because it is easy to read the other person like an open book. But it makes it so much more difficult when you are then transplanted into a new country. Where the hatred is hidden. And the intent is hidden. You will get beaten up because your gut is so out of tune.

Maybe it is because Africans are so “honest” to the bone. We hate you? No problem. We’ll show you we hate you. We’ll beat you up or kill you. No problem. We like you? No problem. We’ll show you we like you. We’ll invite you into our homes and share a few beers and laughter. No problem. In Africa you know when you are in sh*t and you get that chance to run because you can see it coming from miles away.

But it is also the reason why we are so easy to get along with. Love comes just as easily as hatred. We love you or we hate you. No problem. We will give you everything and trust you completely when we love you. And we love more than we hate – no matter how much you see the bad side of the story. You need 10% of a population to live in hate to cause anarchy and genocide for the other 90%. But what you see is what you get.

When I first started traveling across the world I had a problem in countries outside of Africa. I never felt safe in NY, London, Paris or anywhere. Give me the streets of Lusaka, Bamako, Johannesburg or any African city any time. Okay, maybe not Johannesburg. But you know what I mean. I feel safer in the streets of Africa than in the West. I just knew how to fit in when I get to the African destinations. It is in my blood and I can subconsciously make an assessment about my safety. Never had to think about it. I just got into the city and knew whether I was safe or not. I felt safe in Nigeria and Zimbabwe. Because I just felt safe. Can’t explain it. But not outside Africa. I couldn’t read these new places. It wasn’t in my DNA. It isn’t that bad anymore. I have been living in the UK and now the US for almost 6 years. And I have a better “feel” of where I am than before. But I still “relax” more when I feel the African soil under my feet.

This principle goes for doing business in Africa too. In Africa you will never be taken for a ride if you know how to see the person on the other side. We know when they are trying to take us for a ride. And they know we know as well. Why do you think they are so open about that “facilitation fee” at immigration in so many African countries? Because it is no secret that they take money from people. So why keep it a “secret” when everyone knows? Even our corruption is open and transparent!

But in a good business deal everything evolves around the shake of a hand and a look in the eye. If someone gives you their word and look you in the eye you are halfway there. What you should do to make it impossible for them to take you for a ride is meet their family, share a beer and a meal, and tell them about your family and life. Now they know you. And if they shake your hand and look you in the eyes and tell you that you have a deal they mean it. You have a deal and they will do everything to make that deal stand. (Of course you still have to overcome the principle of “African time”. But that is for another day).

In short. Business is done on the word between people. My word is worth more than anything else you can offer. If I give you my word I can do nothing but stick to that word. Yes, there is honor amongst thieves in this way. Tomorrow I might rip someone else off because I never gave them my word. But it is a new day and a new person. It has no relation to the deal between us today. See – even hypocrisy has a different meaning in Africa…

But if you do business in the US you expect a different set of business rules. Get that contract signed and read the fine print. That’s the deal between people. Not your spoken word. But your written words. And signature. Nothing wrong with that – this isn’t a judgement. It’s just a different way of doing business.

But in Africa that contract will mean nothing. It is just a piece of paper with a few (or many) words on it that I don’t even understand. It is legal talk – just another way of saying I nailed you on paper. But that piece of paper is useless if you didn’t first got to know the person signing the contract. You still have to meet the family, have a few beers and a meal, and shake their hand and look them in the eyes. If you haven’t? Then go and use that piece of paper in the more traditional way behind the bush over there.

As I said, this isn’t a judgement call on either of these cultures. It’s just a reminder that we are wired differently. We carry our emotions on our sleeves a  bit more. Maybe because we don’t have too many options. Because just as easily as what we can read other people – they can read us. They know us within a second. And they know whether they need to run or hug. With me? I live on two principles. One, I am a hugger and a lover not a fighter. Two, it is difficult to hit me on the nose if I run away with my back turned towards you.

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It’s been a busy week. Lots of news. Duh. Stating the obvious. Okay, lots of interesting news. So let’s get going.

1. Olympic meat fit for an athlete… on steroids

The US Olympic team don’t just want to eat any meat when competing. Noway, sir. They want prime cut for prime athletes. They want their fresh American meat. Okay, maybe not that fresh. They are flying it to Beijing all the way from the US of A. So it will be stuck in the airport for a little while. Hope they don’t lose the luggage. But yes, the US Olympic team is flying their meat in because, you know, those third world countries like China just doesn’t have the good stuff. BIG steaks. They are scared that the meat might make them ill or something much worse. Might be contaminated. Because one of the caterers said that the chicken in China is full of steroids. Even more than Marion Jones. So full of steroids that the athletes might actually fail a test. Shock, horror. Imagine that. An American athlete failing a drug test. It can’t be. Not an American athlete. So they take some fresh Tyson meat with just in case – to play it safe. Hum, excuse me for just a moment while I choke on my ribs. But you think American meat is safe? How about some steroids in there baby? And growth hormones? Oh. Sorry. You will at least know that the steroids and growth hormones are undetected because of you have the technology behind it to make it untraceable. I get it. It would be like taking steroids from a stranger. I agree. Not good. Or maybe you want to take the American beef because you are scared of getting Asian flu? American beef is full of antibiotics to fight that off right? You think the USDA inspects the meat in the US? Think again. Only after the meat is in the market and then they hope to God that someone blows a whistle because there ain’t no way they will do it. So you better cook those steaks extra well done. But at least you will have an excuse if you get caught with steroids at the Olympics. It must have been the meat it couldn’t have been you, the honorable piece of meat. I mean athlete. At least you balance out your carbon footprint. Flying the meat in might be bad, but you are taking our enough methane gas outlets out the system to offset that. And stop for a minute to think while you take a bite of that meat over there. Think of those other pieces of meat. Those pieces of meat lying dead in the streets in Tibet.

2. Gadgets for Africa                                                                                African gadets

You know I have talked about Africa and innovation many, many times. Here is another example. And some pictures for the first time on my blog! Have a closer look at that picture. On the left is a mobile phone booth! Taking the business to the people. Genius. If we can’t get landlines or afford cellphones – no problem. We will take phones to people. In the streets and in the townships and out there in the veld. And on the right? A small step in solving the plastic bags problem (plastic bags is also known as the national flower of South Africa – you see them everywhere along the roads). So this guy took the plastic bags and made himself a paraglider. We have another lesson here apart from the obvious lesson that Africans are resourceful and innovative. Lesson: don’t think we are stupid and don’t know or want things you have. A paraglider? You would think that the guy has more pressing problems if you look at the background right? Not exactly prime property – but not that bad either. But the point is that we wear Nike’s and we drink Coke and we paraglide. We do things the “Westerners” do because we want to and have our “small things in life” as well. And they are similar so many times it is just not funny. So what’s this got to do with news? Well, AfriGadget just launched their new site and it is full of diamonds. From solar powered gadgets for mobile phones to making wire art. Have a look – it is great.

3. “Problem” solved – just export gays

Yep, the right wingers have come up with a perfect plan to solve the “gay” problem. Export them. Peter Sprigg from the Family Research Council said in his opposition to the Uniting American Families Act that “I would much prefer to export homosexuals from the United States than to import them into the United States because we believe homosexuality is destructive to society.” (Bloody bigot bastard. Sorry. That slipped out.) A society that exports people. Mm, I wonder what that means? Some of the people who did that include Apartheid South Africa, Zimbabwe as we now have it, Rwanda, the Nazi’s and China. All different forms of “exporting” people they don’t like. (Stupid pathetic hatemonger. Sorry. That just slipped out.) But maybe it will address the trade imbalance that the US suffer from. You know. The US imports way too much and get into heavier debt each year. it’s gonna be a tough one to monetize. But hey. Bush managed to start a war from nothing so I won’t be too surprised. And of course, these “Christian” groups will then have enough money to participate in their other favourite hate pastime – war. A whole new meaning to “make war, not love”.

4. The Mac in Iran, I mean Iraq

The Mac is back. Yes, Mr Flip-Flop is taking it to a whole new level. First he had to change his story when Joe “I’ll-sell-my soul-for-DC” Lieberman whispered in his ear that Iran is NOT training Al-Qaeda. So Mac-say-cheese corrected himself and said that he meant extremist and not Al-Qaeda. You know. There are so many of these extremist groups that it is hard to keep up with the Sonny’s and Cher’s. And he decided to leave his “misspoke” out of his “factsheet” of his tour. And now? And now his team back home says that he was actually right the first time. That the Iranians are training both Sonny and Cher since they broke up. Yes. Iran is dancing to the Osama samba. And while you are at it. Why don’t you tell the American listeners the reason why you aren’t at that market you were at last time. You know, when you told the world that it is so safe out there – look. “I am in the market. How bad can it be?” You know why he wasn’t there? Because the US military advisers wouldn’t let him go there this time because it wasn’t safe enough… Not even with 100 troops, 3 helicopters and armored vehicles. Straight talk express my… hum… backside. Huh, Mac? Just stick with(out) the straight-bullsh*t-expressions please.

5. There’s more to those Obama passport stories you know…

You should know it by now. The story of the “state employees” who hacked into Obama’s passport file. They are trying to play as if this is nothing. Just a minor thing that they caught before anything happens. Nothing really. Really? Let’s have a closer look, shall we? You think those two who got fired were state employees hey? Sure sounded like that when the “authorities” talked about it. Let’s hear them say it, “Two State Department employees were fired and a third has been disciplined for improperly accessing Senator Barack Obama’s passport file”, the State Department announced. But they are not state employees. Oh no they are not employed by the state department. They worked for two companies that were contracted to the state department. A bit of a difference there isn’t it? And you think the companies got disciplined? Who knows. The department isn’t willing to let us know who these people or the companies are. Or why the third person was only “disciplined” (what the hell does that mean in any case?) But nothing on what they did to the companies. Maybe Dick ha a hand in that one as well. Halliburton anyone? And were they ever going to tell us about it? They only came out with the news after a journalist raised a question. And then they had to rush out and arrange a press conference. Before they even spoke to Obama. Remember the last time a candidate’s details were looked into? Bill Clinton in 1992. Another Democrat. Do I see a pattern of behaviour here? Oh, wait. There is more. Guess the dates that these people violated Obama’s privacy right? January 9th, February 21st and March 14th. What’s the relevancy? That’s the day after the New Hampshire primary, the day of the Democrat Texas debate and the day the Wright story hit. Mr Stone – you have a movie to make.

That’s all folks. More news out there. But no more views. I mean. No more space. I limit it to 5 or else we will never get out of here! Have a great weekend all. Stay angry. But have fun.

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