The ‘unseen’ habits of motorists and politicians

Watching other people in the traffic can be fascinating. Motorists seem to forget that, while being in the driver’s seat can feel as if you are in your own private space, absolutely everyone can see what you are up to even when it feels as if nobody is watching.

Digging for diamonds or gold, as my granny used to call a nose pick, is not an uncommon sight in peak traffic congestion. Sampling the goods, as most drivers do, is a sight enough to bring a breakfast bun’s chickens home to roost in your lap.

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It’s a bit like when corrupt officials, politicians and other nasties dig for gold but believe their secret is safe; and while everyone can see them mining for riches that they shouldn’t be, nobody can stop them because their windows are wound up in the traffic, and they’re giving us all a snotty middle finger.

Citizens are left to choke on yesterday’s cheeseburger. Coupling up with a lover can lead to a relationship that lasts a lifetime, or it can be a one-night stand where your toothbrush never makes it into someone else’s bathroom.

Sometimes we marry for love, other times for money. Sometimes both. Sometimes toxic relationships can last what feels like a lifetime before someone bails out. And one in three relationships end up in divorce. After 30 years, it’s time for an amicable settlement.

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Problem is that if SA separates from the current government, there may not be much left in the joint bank account. It’s been a three-decade relationship that saw people seduced for all the right reasons, but cheated on with all the wrong excuses.

All this amid whispers of sweet nothings every five years, always when it was time to renew our vows. This time, perhaps, the adultery cannot be brushed off so easily, because the cookiejar is empty and, 30 years on, no amount of Botox can smooth out the wrinkles of dissent.

Wokery is taking over the world. Or is it? Because while aspects of it are important, like acceptance, understanding, empathy and other positive social constructs, there are some pretty stupid and frightening prospective outcomes.

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Several countries are rolling back ridiculous notions that young kids are selfaware and mature enough to decide what they to identify with.

In Joburg, it seems we’re only getting started in the opposite direction. But no matter how liberal I am, I will never enrol my kids in a school that allows a child to identify as a “furry”. Last time I checked, a furry was the family pet, an animal that dines on chunks and gets taken for walks, barks at strangers or miaows when its on heat.

There is no way that I’ll pack a lunch box of last night’s rib bones for school. My kid’s not called Fido. Even if he, she, identified as a plush teddy bear furry. My child was not assembled in a factory and didn’t arrive with a price tag. He, she, they came via a stork, I believe, though that allows him, her, them to possibly identify as a pigeon.

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My son was potty trained, he didn’t poop in a sand box. When he cried, I didn’t put him outside, he was comforted. He was not born as part of a litter and his first words were not “woof woof”. They were “dad and mom” and unfortunately a four-letter word he picked up in traffic.

Would employers hire someone that identifies as a rock or the family pet? Imagine what application forms for almost anything could look like. What language do you speak, or do you just bark? What is your home or kennel address? If someone identifies as a furry, would he she they head to the veterinary clinic instead of the GP?

Life suddenly becomes far more complicated and what then happens when a furry eventually realises that they are human? Will medical science eventually accommodate people transitioning not only between sexes, but also between species?

There might be one place where extreme wokery fits. And that is politics, where nearly every player could identify as a Pinocchio. But to keep their long noses in check, they spew half-truths while their long fingers reach for citizens’ pockets.

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Then again, a furry doesn’t have a pocket. And it can’t draw a cross on a ballot. Wokery is just like a secret nose pick, a pot-luck where sensibility is overridden in many cases because sometimes it feels as if it cannot be stopped.

Just like the slowest driver on the highway or the he, she, they in the luxury car, it’s permeating slowly and quickly at the same time.