The irony is not lost on me. But you actually don’t need me. You don’t need me to interpret reality for you. You’ve got this. But humour me, if you will? The coronavirus claimed another casualty today: the fourth estate. Our watchdog. The brave. Journalists. But nobody needs a watchdog. We are at home, minding our own. By way of explanation, journalists love to tell stories. And love an audience.
But with our audience locked up in their homes, we rush to declare ourselves “essential services“. So we can tell you about what is happening on the deserted streets of the Johannesburg city centre. Dude, bra, chomi… There’s a deadly virus out there. It wants to kill you. But it doesn’t know it wants to kill you because it is dead. But it still wants to kill you.
I was watching one of the news channels today. They humour my parents. But really, you’ve got this. You don’t have to get a stunt double to test the waters in order to know that there is an inanimate object, unidentified possibly flying, but an object none the less (GASPS for AIR) that wants to kill you. But it doesn’t know it wants to kill you because it is dead. But it still wants to kill you.
One of the journalists eyes were popping out her head. Literally. She does not have a face for tv. Her voice is telling me about some new mothers sleeping on the floor, but her eyes were telling me to run for the hills. I could have gone through life without ever seeing that face. It was disturbing. But hey, let sleeping dogs lie.
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