That place of fire and brimstone awaits you, Robert
My dear Robert. As much a shock as this appears, it isn’t all about you. Despite the fact that you took voluntary leave of your senses many years ago, with this coup, (sorry, “correction”) I also wanted to liven up that innumerate jester located to the south of your border and poke his and his useful idiots’ rampaging paranoia (I can’t wait for the “it’s the foreign forces” squeal — never gets old that one!).
Back to business: I’m afraid there’s bad news, then there’s worse news, and then there’s the worst news. The bad news is that this is the last time you’ll ever hear from me. I think you know what this means (more about it later). Given these unfortunate circumstances, I feel compelled to answer something I know has always made you extremely cross.
All your life you aspired to be an English gentleman. I know you hate black peasants, but hating black peasants and naming your youngest child “Bellarmine” was really taking liberties. I mean, what kind of a name is that for the son of a freedom-fighting nationalist? When I heard that I was like: “why didn’t the old bastard just call him ‘Mountbatten’ ”!
To cast you as the Englishman you desired to be, I would have had to have given you a hysterical running style, rotting teeth and eventually, make you fall in love with a man. Now, you made your feelings clear about this kind of a thing on more than one occasion, so the only other alternative was to make you English but place you in a council flat in Tottenham and give you the job title of painter decorator. Do you now see my predicament, how your ambitions defied reality?
As I said, the news doesn’t get better. You are all too well aware that your wife is going to outlive you (in spite of those extensive efforts by the Malaysians). Standard protocol for dead dictators’ wives is to immediately procure a younger lover (now, now, Robert, I think you always knew this might happen). I’m not sure if you’re aware, but the licence of the drug Cialis (eight times more potent than Viagra) has expired, and generics priced at £2 each are now set to flood the market. Sadly, you can’t do anything to that man she’s going to exhaust, but knowing this will save you having to seek explanations the moment she joins you.
And exactly where that is and what happens there, well, this is the worst news. My spies have confirmed that Jimmy Savile is your roommate in hell and that peripatetic lunatic has been dancing around wildly in anticipation of your arrival.
It’s been rather messy down there of late — Idi Amin was sharing with him before he got completely weirded out and requested a transfer to an empty cell that is rumoured to be reserved for Mark Zuckerberg, the founders of Twitter, Air-BnB, the Kardashian family and pretty much anyone who has ever had anything to do with the construction of pseudo-Tuscan villas on the West Rand of Johannesburg.
Furthermore, Brett Kebble has taken a fancy to the ukulele; quite the impresario, he has started writing a musical to welcome Bill Clinton, who will be sharing with the respective boards of Eskom, Transnet and South African Airways (obviously you’ll be aware that there’s no such thing as suicide watch down there).
Not that I care, but I’m intrigued by the suggestion that Lucifer is running out of space; remember, he’s going to have to accommodate three-quarters of the current South African Cabinet one day too. With people like David Mahlobo, it might get a little steamy.
Yours sincerely, God.