If I win the Powerball, I'm never peeling my own orange again

Everyone has the potential to become a victim of temporary insanity. This is why I did not judge the Powerball winner from Goodwood, Cape Town, when he started speaking gibberish during that eNCA interview. I think a windfall of R232m entitles one to brain farts such as wanting to continue working.

I estimate there have been at least 100-million conversations across the nation about what people would do with that money, including a radio call-in that Skhumba and I started last Friday on our breakfast show.

My greatest takeout from these conversations is that my maturity levels are way lower than the average person's. For instance, Juliet Josephs, the traffic lady on the show, says the biggest change in her life would be never having to drive a car again. Meh. Forty million South Africans achieve that feat throughout their lifetimes with nothing in their pockets.

My list of things I'd never do again is far more comprehensive. It is also significantly more juvenile. For starters, I would never peel an orange again. I'm as serious as a modern-day resurrection about this.

The peel juice squirting out, going straight into your eye, sending you scurrying into the bathroom half-blind to wash your eyes out … the rind going under your nails, necessitating an out-of-turn visit to Dream Nails .. hell no; not when I have R200m in my account.

The same goes for the delicate task of peeling a soft-boiled egg. I'm hiring a human orange peeler and a separate egg peeler because, eeuw, the hands that peel my oranges can't be the same hands that peel my eggs.

The great Zulu emperor Shaka kaSenzangakhona is reputed to have been taunted by his boyhood peers about the size of his prepubescent wiener. By the time he ascended to the throne, his manly bits had apparently caught up and then some, and he created quite a spectacle to broadcast this development: he would have a bevy of maidens from his Bulawayo palace give him a very public daily bath.

I have never been taunted about the size of any of my body parts except my cranium, but this got me thinking. With that much loot, I wouldn't use my filthy rich hands to scrub the scum off my own body ever again. I'd take out a full-page ad in this newspaper, inviting aspiring body scrubbers (bodbers for short) to audition for a spot. I think I'd settle on eight bodbers because eight is a nice, round number that just happens to be a factor of 232, which would by then be my lucky number. And then I'd insist that my Magnificent Eight bodbers wear Vaseline-filled latex gloves like Curley from Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men 24/7, to keep their hands soft and supple.

Speaking of the number 232, everything I did would have to have the number somewhere in it. If I asked my personal chef to warm up some food and he/she warmed it up to 2:00 on the microwave, I'd fire them on the spot for not warming it up to 2:32. Don't let it be said that I'm not petty.

One of my favourite quotes from the 1997 flick Devil's Advocate is by John Milton, the character played by Al Pacino: "Freedom, Baby, is never having to say you're sorry." With that much moolah in the bank, apologies from me would come few and far between. If I inadvertently stepped on someone's toe, I'd expect them to apologise to me for placing their foot under mine.

If I'd overindulged on broccoli, chilli and bean soup and voided my intestines of sulphuric fumes, I'd expect present company to apologise for interrupting the natural osmotic flow of my gases with their noses. And then I'd send each of them R232.00 e-wallets as reparation. Yes, I'd be that obnoxious.

Mundane, menial tasks such as putting on my own socks would be a thing of the past. Have you ever tried to put your socks on after a shower, in 38°C, 100%-humidity January heat in Durban? You perspire so much you require another shower afterwards.

Oscar Wilde quipped, "America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilisation in between." I'd merge barbarism and decadence into one immature, giant baby.

I'm not much of a meat eater but on the rare occasion I felt like a sirloin steak, I'd sit my rapidly expanding rump down at a restaurant and insist on them walking three live oxen to my table. And then I'd select one of them and eat only sirloin from it.

I'm obviously being outlandish to illustrate a point. In a nation with a progressively widening gap between the uber wealthy and desperately poor, it is tragic to behold the wanton crass materialism on display. There is much that one sees that may as well be a deliberate big, fat "eff the poor" middle finger.

I hope that if I were ever to become that wealthy, I would have the decency and good sense to do the right things. But if you think I'd ever peel an orange ever again, you're out of your mind.