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In an election, would people vote for Robert Mugabe’s corpse?
No sooner had I written last week about having a degree of sympathy for President Donald Trump than I saw that Zimbabwean despot Robert Mugabe had said something similar. Nothing prompts me to repent as fast or as fully as finding myself in agreement with Mugabe. That is not my happy place.
His opinion on Trump came shortly after Mugabe’s wife, Grace, predicted that even if her 93-year-old husband died and his corpse was fielded for election, he would still win. She could be right. After all, it is not inconceivable that many Zimbabweans would take considerable delight in voting for Mugabe’s corpse. Many of them have probably been hoping for exactly that opportunity for quite some time.
Regardless of how they voted, they would likely do so in the hope and expectation that the end of his regime would provide an opportunity to improve their standard of living after the misery they have endured for so long. Mugabe embodies the lesson of the modern era, namely that it is scarily easy to destroy a country, but hellishly difficult to rebuild one.
In the best traditions of a surprise plot twist, surely no one foresaw that an accountant would upstage Hollywood’s biggest stars on their night of the year, the Oscars. One day, someone will make a film out of the incident, “based on a true story”. To think that all those women had spent weeks visiting tanning clinics, spas, salons, gyms, couture houses, publicists, therapists and jewellers and had forgone food since Christmas in preparation for this fabulous night, only to be blown out of the park by a high-ranking bean counter. Quite a feat.
This was most unfortunate, because until those alternative facts about the Best Picture Oscarwinner were presented, it had been an enjoyable show for those of us watching on TV. A degree of decorum had returned to the red carpet, with some of the gowns making their wearers look beautiful. It was an improvement on the preponderance of vulgar outfits that are too common, in both senses of the word, in celebrity land.
Charitably, it has sometimes seemed that excessive breast enhancements are Hollywood’s way of including people with disabilities because, to me, those women with large, round breasts that resemble spotlights on the front of a bullbar look disfigured.
Plainly, I am not the target audience to appreciate this
procedure, but who is? Perhaps some men find it attractive. Perhaps some women do, too. It is not the size of the breasts that is disconcerting. After all, an ample bosom is a fine asset in a wellcut evening gown.
No, it is the artificial shape that makes breast enhancements so unattractive. It is entirely understandable that someone born with one leg, or who unfortunately misplaces one on life’s journey, might want a prosthetic replacement for balance, aesthetics or both. I get that. But those large false boobs remind me of little kids walking around in their dad’s shoes.
Moving on down, it is also a shame that owing, I presume, to the price of beautiful fabrics, there is sometimes insufficient material available to prevent some female celebrities, not to mention young women on the street, offering themselves up for a gynaecological examination by anyone unfortunate enough to walk up stairs behind them.
Such a pity. The hint at what is hidden is far more alluring than full exposure. I once found quite cool an Instagram post by one of my daughters of an X-ray of her full skeleton, but it did not involve exposing any skin.
Large false boobs remind me of little kids walking around in their dad’s shoes.