After resigning from my position as Quality Inspector in Motherwell Cardboard Manufacturing Corp., I have become almost as bored as when I had a job. I always envied those guys in the Mandela Bay Municipality who make a ridiculous living while doing absolutely nothing so I thought – why not appeal to the big cheese himself for a position?
As you can see from above picture, his deputy mayor is not giving him much support – see how he tirelessly drives busses while she snores away…
Mayor Wayile, if you’ll let me be your bodyguard, I can also be your long lost pal.
Dear Mr. President,
Allow me to cut to the chase. I want a job. Why do I want a job? Because I have no money and I’m bored. Why do I want a job with you? Because you seem like a pretty cool guy who does pretty cool stuff. Plus, my mum also says you look tasty in all those posey photos with your posey spectacles. “Yum!”, she is often heard to announce. I daren’t disagree.
The quandary, Monsignor, is this: my CV looks like week-old roadkill. After writing my name, describing how I enjoy watching TV, I then get to the tricky part: references. Unfortunately the only references I have are prison governors, victims of my numerous petty crimes and a prostitute from Central whom I frequent when I collect enough change from the pavement. The difficulty I have is even the prostitute only has bad things to say about me. I have therefore opted to appeal to you directly, your Holiness. Rather than focus on all the negatives and minor details, I thought I might highlight my skills and practical uses that I believe would be of great use to you. I understand you have about a million receptionists, paper pushers and guys wearing suits who earn too much and do too little, but they can’t do the practical stuff that I can.
Allow me to embellish on my repertoire of skills;
Knots. I can tie really good ones. Once I tied two metal dustbins to my Dad’s old Volvo estate, then dug a hole in the garden and buried all the knives and scissors in the house. I knew he was under serious pressure at work and so when he came rushing out, he could only spend 15 minutes fruitlessly trying to untie them. Later, he informed me that driving in rush hour with metal dustbins tied to your car is not wholly unlike partaking in the holocaust – you become very unpopular and get in a lot of trouble. His insurance company had received news of the carnage being wrought and very quickly put a price on his head. “On the plus side”, I soothed, “I presume of the 200 people who asked for your details, at least 100 of them must have been women!” Strangely enough, he never got a date out of it. Statistics, Mr. President. They often lie.
Fixing Stuff. Fixing stuff, your Honour, is what I do. Things in life, not just material stuff, often break down. Relationships, computers, general stuff; they all break. Once a wheel on my Datsun 1000 broke off and rolled off the freeway. I was in a real fix until I remembered I had a spare motorbike wheel in my boot. After two hours of soldering, knot tying and praying, my car was up and running like a bad dream again. “Huzzah!”, I exclaimed in jubilation. I was not shouting for joy in a colonial manner for long, however. 50kms up the road, my motorbike wheel fell off and I ploughed through half a dozen pedestrians, tossing bodies all over the show. I was very upset. That windscreen had been brand new. I wrote a very strongly worded letter of complaint from my cell to the manufacturer of that motorbike wheel. I know a bad workman blames his tools, but that’s what happens when the world economy forces us to rely on Asians to manufacture our car parts.
Making Hard Decisions. People like you and I, my Lord, need to make hard decisions day in, day out. They may not always be popular, they may nearly always be to our personal benefit and they may result in eventual forensic auditing, but someone needs to make decisions and they sure as hell won’t make themselves.
One hard decision that comes to mind was only a few months ago. I had been enjoying a couple of six-packs in a paddling pool in the back garden when I heard the squeal of breaks in the street, followed by a keening, piteous wail. I put a pair of pants on and went to investigate. A car had hit my neighbour’s dog – the animal looked like someone had dangled its hind legs into a liquidizer. I returned to my garden and fetched a shovel, before striding purposefully back through the gathering crowd and dispatching the pathetic creature. People were upset at being sprayed with blood, but commended me on making the hard decision. I kept it to myself that I’d always wanted to smack a dog with a garden tool.
Things didn’t go so well for me the next time I tried to make a hard decision. A number of weeks later, the same neighbour’s child had fallen in their driveway and scuffed her knee. Crying ensued. Very irritating crying. When I approached, once again brandishing my still bloody shovel with intent, people called the police. Double standards if you ask me.
Hiding. I’ve always been proud of this one. I can hide anywhere, mainly as a result of the fact that all of my limbs are double-jointed. In the past I have hidden in safes, toilet cisterns, changing rooms, confession boxes. You name it, I’ve hidden there. I try to keep sharp by hiding regularly. Last week I climbed into a taxi on Strand Street, paid my fare and commenced hiding. As the taxi filled up and pulled off, the test began in earnest. I proceeded to announce, in no uncertain terms, all of the most racist comments I could think of. The taxi erupted in chaos. First the passengers lynched the white man at the back of the vehicle. When that didn’t help, they reversed over the coloured oke sat in the passenger seat. Still, the racist comments flew thick and fast. Nobody ever thought to check the glove box, though unfortunately I had to remain hidden for over 24 hours before I could safely make good my escape.
I bet I could hide up Elizabeth Trent’s skirt and she wouldn’t even know about it…
Though I would describe this list of skills as being non-exhaustive, it pretty much is. I urge you to apply your mind to where I may be of most use to you and Mandela Bay’s municipality. I’ve heard you need a real municipal manager. At least I wouldn’t need you to pay for a plane ticket to visit my dog every weekend…
I remain, your Lordship, your most humble of servants.
R. Dagless (MD)
Alan Straton
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you have too much experience to work for the “big guy” TRY THE MAYORS OFFICE.