Porky pies. In spite of my predilection for porcine products, I am not thinking of pastries and pig giblets. Far from it. Porky pies is cockney rhyming slang for lies. The cockneys have nothing to do with the subject at hand. Forget them. The British government certainly has.
Let us talk of lies. There are more words for lies than Eskimos have for cocaine.
Fibs. Falsehoods. Fabrication. Falsification. Equivocation. Shaggy dog stories. Whoppers, hogwash and bullsh*t.
Lying is now the default position among many of those who infest this great nation. If you disagree with me, you're lying to yourself. Or you're delusional. Much like postmarital fellatio, the truth is an increasingly rare thing these days.
When I returned from Durban recently, I noticed that Brenda's car had a scratch down the side. I asked her what happened.
Quick as a flash, she said: "I accidentally reversed into the gate ... no, wait. I was parked at the mall and there was a ... no? OK, how about this ..."
There must be a manufacturer's error, because so many people revert to the default position when asked anything more complicated than: "Do you have the time?" And even then, there are those who will instinctively reply: "I might. Depends on what you have in mind."
And when I say "manufacturer", I don't mean God or even a reasonable facsimile thereof. This is not a fairytale. I mean there is a toxic red tide bleeding into the human gene pool, and it will take a force more powerful than Travis Bickle (of Taxi Driver fame) to wash this scum off the streets.
Where the f**k is my beer? Oh, there it is. Emptying itself into the plugs on the extension cord. Brenda! Bring me another beer. Maybe put on a pair of rubber shoes before you come in here. Fine. I'll get it myself.
All you have to do is read the papers and watch the news to get an idea of the depths to which we have sunk. We have Pinocchio for president and professional prevaricators running banks and businesses.
Here's Kgalema Motlanthe denying he has designs on the presidency. There he is on a stage raising his glass to Julius Malema.
Here's Shrien Dewani tearfully denying that he had his wife killed. There he is slipping his taxi driver a bag of cash.
Here's Dick van Damn, or whatever his name is, telling us it will be great beach weather in Cape Town tomorrow. There I am getting blown across Camps Bay with my Speedo around my ankles. This is not the same as getting blown on Clifton.
Here's Malema saying he will kill for Zuma. There he is saying he will kill Zuma. Here he is saying he will kill whites. There he is saying he will die for whites.
But these aren't really lies. These are merely Malemarisms to be recounted around the braai once the racist jokes have dried up and everyone realises they don't have a hope in hell of being accepted into Australia.
You may be asking what brought this on. You may, on the other hand, have lost interest and wandered off to tell lies to a passing stranger. However. It all began when my car blew up 20 minutes after having a R6000 service.
It's no secret that the auto-repair industry and the truth have not been on speaking terms for a long time. The lies begin the moment the car rolls off the assembly line. It starts with a salesman and ends with a mechanic. In between, all manner of red-faced men in ill-fitting suits put on their straight faces and speak with forked tongues.
Many of us have mourned the death of a car so beloved that we gave it a name. According to the autopsy report, my car - the Electric Eel - was murdered through acts of omission rather than commission.
Negligence and lies are members of the same family. Distant cousins at best. At worst, they are Angelina Jolie and her peculiar brother who slip one another half an inch of tongue whenever they say hello.
If you bump into negligence and spill its drink, don't look for truth to get you out of trouble. There won't be nothin' but a pack of stinking lies blocking the exits.
Having your car serviced by people who specialise in tyres is like going to a doctor who diagnoses your pink eye but fails to notice that a shark has taken your leg off.
Right. The metaphors are begging me to stop the torture.
Brenda! More beer!
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