A case of brain in mouth

Or why I should never be invited to address Parliament

When I was younger I dated a girl who - I believed - I loved very much. In retrospect, I think I loved the envious looks I attracted when I walked with her. At some point she turned on me, told me that she had been brought up a Jehovah's Witness and that dating me was amoral and against the will of the Almighty. It was a traumatic experience for all concerned.

To prove that my love was real, I invoked the wrath of the Vatican and followed her to her services. Fortunately, none of my fellow Catholics discovered my act of ultimate betrayal, because the Witnesses don't worship on Sundays.

And this is how it came about that I found myself on Davenport Road, Durban, on a random Saturday morning, dressed in a white Ackermans shirt and appropriately disgusting brown pants with a wad of "Awake" pamphlets in hand, ready to pounce on errant souls.

Do not judge me. Love makes us do funny things. Ask Mark Anthony about that whole baffling Cleopatra situation. So, I approached the first unsuspecting victim and discovered that I couldn't go through with it. Let me explain.

I am not a shy person. I don't even know what that means. However, I have discovered that having a conversation with someone who doesn't already know me well is very stressful for me. And that is because I suffer from a serious condition that I call brain-in-mouth disease, or BIM. That's correct - the filters between my brain and my mouth have been misfiring since I can remember. And as we all know, telling people exactly what you're thinking is not necessarily a desirable thing. Ask Julius.

So when it was my time to prove my love for my sweetheart by selling the whole Watchtower scene, I bailed. My fear was that it was only a matter of time before I blabbed: "Just pretend to take one pamphlet. See that pretty one with the ponytail? I'm trying to keep her."

I think we can all agree that it'll be a tragic day when scientists invent mind-reading technology. I mean, just a few months ago Hillary Clinton desperately wanted to be president of the US. I recently saw footage of her standing in a file with some randoms behind President Obama, who was addressing the nation. She had the weirdest expression on her face. I don't have a mind-reading machine, but I'm 90% certain she was thinking: "Keel over and die of a rare, unforeseen condition, you smooth-talking bastard!"

Okay, maybe I'm projecting. But I think you catch my drift. Now, if you think that the idea of people being able to read your thoughts is scary, spare a thought for me and people like myself. At least you're a completely sane individual with lucid, rational thoughts.

What about me? I suffer from the dreaded BIM condition and 90% of what goes on in my brain is stupid, irrational and erratic garbage. I cannot count the number of times I've been in one of those tense meetings where the board of directors wanted answers as to why our project team had botched a project, flushing R5-million down the toilet, and I've had to struggle to contain myself.

Most of the time I'd be sitting there oblivious to the fact that my corporate career was in imminent danger. Instead, random lines from movies would be popping into my brain and I'd have to bite down hard on my bottom lip to stop myself from jumping up and yelling, in my best Jack Nicholson voice: "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" - with an appropriately accusatory finger pointed at the chairman of the board.

Do not snigger. This is serious. A friend of mine, Bayanda, has a mild case of this disease. He says he's had to restrain himself at the security checkpoint at the airport from turning to the guy behind him and remarking:"Did you know that we're apparently not allowed to say 'bomb' around here?"

Yet another lifelong friend, Sandiso, was actually detained for a few hours at Port Elizabeth airport because he failed to contain himself and asked the security guy if he could say "bomb". It's a truly terrible problem, this BIM. But at least my friends had rational thoughts.

I've found myself participating in a serious debate on live television, physically restraining myself from yelling: "THIS IS SPARTA!!!" for no logical reason.

The last time I visited Luthuli House was 17 years ago and it was still Shell House. I dread the day someone invites me to Luthuli House. My fear is that we'll be walking around and a line from The Hangover will randomly pop into my head and I'll end up saying: "Did Luthuli really live here? No? I didn't think so."

And heaven forbid I should run into Juju. I doubt I'd be able to let the moment go without blurting out an unprovoked: "Ratanang Trust!"

Where was I? I just lost my train of thought for a second. Oh, I guess the point I'm making is that Max Sisulu, the Speaker, should never consider asking me to address Parliament. Ever.