So, the man – who can only be described as the physical embodiment of how badly it can all go wrong when we collectively watch too much reality television – has done it again.
With just one Tweet, Donald ‘Naartjie’ Trump has divided the globe along those familiar racist lines.
What was this Tweet you ask?
Well, in what is now ‘business as usual’ for Naartjie, he told four women, Congresswomen at that, to ‘go back where you came from’.
For Donald N Trump, it’s just another day at the office.
At the very least, he can be praised for hitting the trifecta – not only was the Tweet racist and sexist, but grammatically incorrect as well (it’s ‘from whence you came’ – come on, Donald! We’ve been over this).
It seems somewhat bowel-releasing that a man with direct access to the nuclear codes can be so small-minded and volatile, but America is a vast and wondrous land made up of many different folk.
I know. I went there once. And it was like going down the rabbit hole while tripping on a bad batch of shrooms.
It’s divided in a way that not even South Africa could achieve at Clifton Beach in the 1950s. Or earlier this year.
Starting my journey on the west coast, I found myself immersed in the wonderful coastal city of San Diego.
I sipped on mojitos while watching a kaleidoscope of races discuss music over beers and burritos. Every person of every colour was engaged, happy and productive.
To put it so that Donald N Trump would understand it, every shade of colour – from the biggest Neil Diamond and Willie Nelson fans to the Mexicans (*South Americans or Asians) to those from the sh*thole countries of our beloved continent – were living together harmoniously.
Fantastic, I thought, as I whistled Kumbaya to myself and headed to another pub.
Then it was onto New Orleans – the home of jazz. A vibrant, southern city that is as imbued with cultural history as it is with alcohol. My Mecca. What could go wrong?
A freak snow storm, that’s what.
So, instead of sipping Sazeracs at Mardi Gras, I found myself sitting on a tarmac, in below freezing weather with nothing but a jersey suited to Zululand winters, in Dallas, Fort Worth. The breeding ground of the red neck.
Emerging into the airport during this apocalyptic snowstorm made me long for home and the bribe-ready men and women in the service industry.
After spending a night in a hotel that cost 10 times my daily budget and made Fawlty Towers deserving of at least four stars, I headed back to the airport to find chaos.
Every single flight was cancelled. People were stranded. Cowboy hats, bandanas and fringe jackets were thrown asunder.
An old man skulked past me on what can only be described as a non-stop ‘fart walk’. It was hell.
I was a foreigner and treated as such.
But just before I was frogmarched into a detention centre to live out my days learning the Spanish version of Star-Spangled Banner while beating a cup with a spoon, I managed to find a bribe-worthy new friend, Brenda, with a love of foreigners as big as her love of money.
So, skipping past the sign that said I must empty my handgun of all ammunition before boarding the plane, I plonked myself between two confederate-loving hicks, waved goodbye to the Naartjie’s own Orania, and decided that I should probably ‘go back from whence I came’.
