I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m not convinced that illegal tenders, ministerial overspending, and where Zuma sticks his salami should be considered top secret information.
Sensitive, yes – if by ‘sensitive’ you mean embarrassing and emotional.
One can only assume that the ANC, upon noticing the steady decline in support, has decided not to get their act together but instead to stop potential voters knowing about it.
The proposed Protection of Information Bill would allow ANY government institution to deem ANY information as ‘classified’ and impose a minimum 15 year prison sentence on reporters and whistleblowers.
So if you, as a concerned government employee, happened to notice another, more important employee taking baked beans from pensioners or sticking fingers in schoolboys’ bums – and you decided to tell a journalist about it – and said journalist took a picture and wrote a story – you and said journalist could face anything from 15 to 25 years in chookie.
There is no ‘public interest’ defence, meaning that no matter how much it might rightly concern you and me – taxpayers and citizens – won’t make a difference.
They want us to believe it’s all for our own good, and as far back as 2008 they’ve been trying to trick us into eating this steaming turd. But now they’re happy to aggressively force it through our clenched teeth and down our convulsing gullets.
If you’re unclear on the meaning of this all, check out ‘The Dummies Guide to the Secrecy Bill’ here. And if it’s still unclear, read this.
And if this upsets you, please sign the Right2Know petition here.
This bill will effectively murder investigative journalism. We will never again hear about our tax Rands being raped, our ministers’ wives as druglords, or even the next extramarital presidential impregnation.
Aside from not knowing what is happening in our country, the papers will be downright boring.
Sign the petition here.
Showing posts with label Prison. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prison. Show all posts
A Cock In The Arse Really Gets Me Down
They used to say, “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time!”
Nowadays it’s probably something like, “If you do the crime and the time starts you cryin’, then it’s fine.”
When Shabir Shaik gets off a fifteen year jail sentence due to depression you can’t help losing faith in our system of justice. It’s as if the authorities completely lack any form of bullshit radar.
Of course he’s gonna be a bit blue… fifteen years without a decent curry will do that!
When I was a kid, my mum told me that in prison all you got was stale bread and water – kind of like a long-haul flight on SAA cattle class except with more legroom – but she never mentioned the bumsex with a guy lacking his front teeth, which would have made me a lot less likely to step out of line.
Unlike my mum, the booze pushers last year released that ad totally focused on the unromantic interludes you can expect in a South African jail. Like speed-dating with the Numbers gang, the commercial told you that with more than two beers in your system you ran the risk of a brutal bumfucking from a grizzly gangster.
The irony is that the very same arse-rapers are probably prone to calling you a moffie and beating the crap out of you on any other day.
But the high-flyers don’t have to bunk with the plebs and degenerates, the politically connected surely get their own room with a telly and tea every hour.
And now that Shabir is walking free, drinking and playing golf, with a parole officer who more than likely wears shades at night and sends a seeing-eye dog under the table for a fat envelope of cash every month, you’d think he would have cheered up a mite.
But still the man punches reporters who dare to take his photo, and doesn’t seem appreciate his butt-cheeks’ escape from the clutches of a tattoo’d tsotsi.
This English Dewani fellow, whom South Africans seem more upset with over the bad press our tourism industry received than the death of his beautiful young wife, has been pulling the same “ooh, I’m depressed” shite. I’d like to meet the guy who’s the prime suspect in a murder case cracking a bottle of bubbly and popping an Abba disc in the karaoke machine.
I’d bet the reason these guys are so bummed is because they’re imagining the literal bumming they’re likely to get in Pollsmoor.
And if that’s enough to get you off, then I don’t understand why we have such a problem with overcrowding in our prisons.
Nowadays it’s probably something like, “If you do the crime and the time starts you cryin’, then it’s fine.”
When Shabir Shaik gets off a fifteen year jail sentence due to depression you can’t help losing faith in our system of justice. It’s as if the authorities completely lack any form of bullshit radar.
Of course he’s gonna be a bit blue… fifteen years without a decent curry will do that!
When I was a kid, my mum told me that in prison all you got was stale bread and water – kind of like a long-haul flight on SAA cattle class except with more legroom – but she never mentioned the bumsex with a guy lacking his front teeth, which would have made me a lot less likely to step out of line.
Unlike my mum, the booze pushers last year released that ad totally focused on the unromantic interludes you can expect in a South African jail. Like speed-dating with the Numbers gang, the commercial told you that with more than two beers in your system you ran the risk of a brutal bumfucking from a grizzly gangster.
The irony is that the very same arse-rapers are probably prone to calling you a moffie and beating the crap out of you on any other day.
But the high-flyers don’t have to bunk with the plebs and degenerates, the politically connected surely get their own room with a telly and tea every hour.
And now that Shabir is walking free, drinking and playing golf, with a parole officer who more than likely wears shades at night and sends a seeing-eye dog under the table for a fat envelope of cash every month, you’d think he would have cheered up a mite.
But still the man punches reporters who dare to take his photo, and doesn’t seem appreciate his butt-cheeks’ escape from the clutches of a tattoo’d tsotsi.
This English Dewani fellow, whom South Africans seem more upset with over the bad press our tourism industry received than the death of his beautiful young wife, has been pulling the same “ooh, I’m depressed” shite. I’d like to meet the guy who’s the prime suspect in a murder case cracking a bottle of bubbly and popping an Abba disc in the karaoke machine.
I’d bet the reason these guys are so bummed is because they’re imagining the literal bumming they’re likely to get in Pollsmoor.
And if that’s enough to get you off, then I don’t understand why we have such a problem with overcrowding in our prisons.
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