Dear Hazel -
So you got in again. Satisfied, now? I realise this is a losing battle. You are way ahead of me in the computer game, having owned one since the day the government purchased that first batch of PCs for the primary school computerisation programme (I’ll never forget how long it took us to scrub off the “Biche Government Primary School” that was stencilled on the case). So I’m not going to do anything further to keep you out. But you should know that this is a place where I’ll be expressing some of my deepest, darkest thoughts, and it’s not going to be pretty. Hope you have the belly to deal with it.
You’ve never been able to see old Patos with anything, have you? This takes me right back to 2001, when you were hounding me down for that ministerial post. “His and her ministries,” you used to say, “to match the towels!” No, I said, no way. You’re not qualified to be a government minister. Then you pointed at the lineup of proposed cabinet members and I had to agree that being qualified for the post didn’t seem to be one of the selection criteria. But I stood my ground. Nobody was going to accuse Patos of being a nepotist.
You tried everything. You bought me presents. You cooked my favourite meals. You withheld sex (though I only realised this after you pointed out that this was what you were doing. The basic rule of withholding is that you have to have given some in the first place). The day you were out and I happened to intercept the delivery package from Frederick’s of Hollywood, I thought, Hallelujah, the Lord is truly on my side! (You wondered what happened to all that sexy lingerie, eh?). But you had saved the best for last. “Make me a Minister, Patos,” you said, “or I’ll reveal to the world that you wet your bed.”
Your appointment as Minister of Education was announced the next day.
Since that moment I’ve faced nothing but humiliation over that decision. I’ve been accused of nepotism, feathering my own nest, endangering the lives of the country’s young people and of being married to a woman who can’t pronounce the word “breakfasts”. As schools install metal detectors, as our teachers live in fear of being stabbed or shot by by godless little bandits who can’t even read or write and as you stand nightly in front of the mirror practising that “tsuh” sound that you can never seem to master, I’ve become less and less able to deny any of these accusations.
And now here you are trying to hijack my blog. And lying in the worse way! I do not catch vapses! All my decisions are clearly thought out, with the help of the Lord Jesus. I’ll admit that the smelter thing was due to a biblical misreading on my part. I could have sworn that line from Mark 14:27 said “I will smelt the shepherd, and the sheep shall be scattered” (who ever uses the word “smite” anymore?), which to me was a sign that the Lord wanted me to build an aluminium smelter or two in the middle of a rural area and cause the local population and fauna to be displaced. By the time I discovered the mistake, the government officials who had been paid off by Alcoa had already squandered most of their their kickback money and were refusing to give it back, so my hands were tied.
And can’t you tell the difference between a Cessna and a Gulfstream? You should know as well that I’ve had the immigration status of “Fabio, Gianni, Giovanni and Paolo” checked. As it turns out, they’re not Italian designers - they’re Venezuelan gigolos who used to sell their wares on the Sabana Grande before Chavéz nationalised the Caracas gigolo trade. Have fun!
And now I have a bone to pick with you. I hope you’re happy with the position you put me in at that meeting on Saturday, having to announce that our September 1 convention was taking place at a “secret location” at a primary school in the East West Corridor. You think people don’t realise that was only because none of the primary schools in the East West Corridor is currently fit for human habitation? You better have one of them ready for us by September 1. Or else.
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