WARNING: This is Version 1 of my old archive, so Photos will NOT work and many links will NOT work. But you can find articles by searching on the Titles. There is a lot of information in this archive. Use the SEARCH BAR at the top right. Prior to December 2012; I was a pro-Christian type of Conservative. I was unaware of the mass of Jewish lies in history, especially the lies regarding WW2 and Hitler. So in here you will find pro-Jewish and pro-Israel material. I was definitely WRONG about the Boeremag and Janusz Walus. They were for real.
Original Post Date: 2008-01-09 Time: 00:00:00 Posted By: Jan
[I’m actually not impressed by this. I saw Zuma’s wedding or bits of it on TV, and his new wife seemed like a little Sumo wrestler of the female kind. However, once more, we have a case of one of these “Liberal” types wanting blacks to behave and to be like whites.
These Zulus and these blacks have their own attitude to life. Their own traditions, their own concepts of beauty, etc. I am not a believer in taking blacks and forcing them to be like us at gunpoint.
This is why I am in favour of blacks ruling themselves and running their own lives. I don’t care what they do and I don’t care if they live or die, succeed or fail. I just want them to LEAVE ME ALONE! And if they leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone.
I do not believe in running around telling everyone what they should do. Let the blacks be blacks. But accept that their madness may not be the madness we want.
I’m not a believer in returning to Apartheid or Colonialism. I think its time to part company. Let the blacks elect Zuma. Let them vote for communism. Let them practise communism – and let them kill themselves. Do I care? Not a damn. But… what I don’t want, is blacks wanting to make a communist out of me, and forcing me into communism and for me to then die alongside them. NO!! That is where I draw the line.
I don’t care who Zuma marries, how many times he marries or whatever he does. What I don’t want, is Jacob Zuma forcing communism on me, and telling me communism is good and right and I must go along with it. Sorry. That’s where I draw the line.
The Liberals, the purveyors and sellers of “Freedom” run around telling everyone to be “free”, but then they want everyone to become like them! I am sorry, but Planet Earth does not function that way.
The first thing Liberals and Globalists need to learn, is that all men, clever or dumb, HAVE FREE WILL, and they WANT THEIR CHANCE TO USE IT – even if it kills them.
As long as their stupidity does not harm or kill me, I am quite happy for them to do what they want to do. But when it affects me… then its a whole different ball game because I too have a free will, and I too will use it. I’m not going to let anyone oppress me and mould me and shape me as they see fit. Let them try it. They might be in for a surprise. Jan]
Some time ago, when Jacob Zuma was wriggling about all slippery-like in his rape trial, he was interviewed by a television reporter while participating in one of the many traditional blood-letting festivals which take place in that rotting mosquito-infested swamp they call KwaZulu-Natal.
He was half-naked and draped in leopard skins accessorised with springbok offcuts and a splash of lion. Speaking of his trial, he told the reporter: “People must not think I’m an animal.” I laughed so much that I fell off the couch and had a small accident in my broeks, and had to tell Brenda that I accidentally spilled beer in my lap.
Zuma was on television news on Saturday evening. He was getting married. Again. And, again, he was dressed as a leopard. Animal tails dangling from his waist like a terrible carnal kilt covered his legendary manhood. He looked magnificent. Like some sort of rare animorph hybrid. Which, of course, he is. But instead of falling under the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species, Jakobus Zumaensis is protected by the ANC national executive committee.
This time, Zuma didn’t speak to any reporters. He didn’t have to, because something far funnier happened. He was crouched on the ground sniffing the air and intently studying the movements of his prey. His long tail swished flaccidly in the grass.
He appeared uninterested in the weaker ones in the herd, the ones who were swaying their skinny little hips to the sound of an unseen drum. The one he had his eye on looked fit and healthy. Plenty of meat on those bones. She smiled coyly and waved her traditional umbrella in the air, setting up a tsunami of flesh that undulated up and down her well-fed body.
Zuma’s eyes narrowed. His tail stiffened. In a flash he was up on his padded Reeboks, flailing his fighting stick and moving with an agility befitting the spirit of the animal that rested lightly on his shoulders. Clearly a graduate of the Johnny Clegg School of Dancing, Zuma raised one leg and slammed it to the ground.
Then he raised the other leg and slammed it to the ground. Then he lost his balance and fell over. Yes! That’s the kind of president I want. The kind who can topple over, legs in the air, belly unfurling like a miniature mudslide, and still laugh like a madman.
I was disappointed to see that nobody had bothered to give him a machine gun as a wedding gift. Instead, our future leader had to make do with a stick. I’ve got a stick, for heaven’s sake, and that’s the reason people don’t take me seriously. A man of Zuma’s stature deserves more than a stick.
After eating a cow, his delicate bride made a start at shedding the extra 250kg by dancing with her new husband. Photographs in the anti-revolutionary Sunday press made it appear as if Zuma were about to use his stick on the future first lady.
Like most men who dabble in domestic abuse, my first thought was: “She must have done something wrong.” I studied the pictures closely. In MaNtuli’s mouth was one of those whistles that women carry in their handbags should they come across a rapist who would rather turn himself over to the police than listen to the sound of a cheap plastic whistle. At least, I think it was a whistle. For all I know, it was a marrow bone she was sucking on.
Then I saw it. Number One Wife had forgotten her top! She remembered to bring her shield and panga along, then pitched up wearing nothing but a skirt, a family of meerkats and her 44E bra.
Zuma’s relatively modest 44B chest wobbled in outrage. MaNtuli blew her whistle. Wobble. Whistle. Wobble. Whistle.
Outside the kraal, security men in sheepskin suits wrestled with a naked woman who kept shouting: “It takes 40 dumb animals to make a fur coat, but only one to wear it! Get your hands off me! I’m Stella McCartney!”
The guards thought she was an escaped mental patient, which she is, and offered to give her a goat if she left quietly. Stella took the goat back to England and gave it a new home in a verdant pasture where, three hours later, it was crushed by Prince Charles’s horse in the Royal Beaufort Hunt. The little red fox laughed to see such sport. Then the German short-haired pointers found the fox and things weren’t so funny any more.
Meanwhile, back at the wedding, MaNtuli was draping white beads around her beloved’s neck as a symbol of her acceptance of him as her husband. Beads? Who does she think she’s marrying – John Lennon? Beads are for hippies and queers. Comrade Jacob, if you’re reading this, make sure your next wife drapes a string of Great White Shark’s teeth around your neck. On second thought, you probably want to avoid anything associated with the colour white. Get the locals to string you a necklace of black mamba teeth. It’s the least they can do. After all, you’ve been stringing them along for years. Husbands throughout the Nkandla district must be sick and tired of hearing how wonderful you are.
“Zweli, why can’t you be more like Jacob? He pays his children’s school fees, he gives them pocket money, he flies his family to Cuba for holidays, he buys groceries and nice clothes. And he’s always got petrol in his car!”
Zweli shrugs his shoulders. He knows the old Zulu truism: never fear when Schabir is near. He also knows what happens when a tick bird gets greedy and eats the cow. Zweli takes another hit from the paint tin and smiles.