DINO DINCO : THAT RARE OCCASION WHEN YOU OPEN AN EMAIL FROM AN UNKNOWN SOURCE AND A TRUE TREASURE POPS OUT

Hi, all. Just in.  Bourbon-crosseyed and thrilled to receive permission from the original author, Jennifer Matsui (jenmatsui@hotmail.com) to re-publish this excellent text. The original title: MADONNA’S GREAT AFRICAN SAFARI: THE GREAT WHITE BABY HUNTER

As Alien Sex Fiend sings: "Ignore the machine…." and enjoy. 


Angelina can eat my ashes

Dear Madonna,

You
are undoubtedly dismayed by the public outrage that has greeted your
decision to adopt a baby boy from Malawi – a country that most people
in the West probably only know from the ad campaigns of charitable
organizations showing bloated, fly-infested babies being mauled by your
former wedding guests, now sockless and compassionately unshaven. I
imagine that you are quite shocked that anyone would question your
decision to remove a child from such unimaginable suffering as having
Bono and Bob Geldof breathing down his crib. And what kind of person
would condemn someone so young to a life of grinding poverty,
especially someone with millions at her disposal; a loving "mammy" who
will tote her little ‘mchanga’ around in a 1,200 thread count batik
Snuggly specially designed for him by Tom Ford himself. No doubt you
will provide little David Banda with every consumer item under the less
skin-damaging sun, and see to it that he develops the posh manners and
accent that were so tragically denied to you in your infancy.

The
child formerly known as David Banda is the luckiest boy in the world,
you repeat to yourself 666 times a day while fiddling with the little
red thread around your wrist, because that’s how every self-serving
mantra eventually becomes truth. It’s written in the Khabible. One
minute little whats-his-name is languishing in a overcrowded, under
funded orphanage in one of the poorest nations on earth, and the next
minute he’s soaring over the ocean in a private jet to make his new
home on a palatial English estate, where he will be tended to by a
complete staff of servants and diapered in monogrammed Pampers. You
have even sweetened the deal with a complete DVD box set of ‘The Lion
King’ so that he can immerse himself in African culture. You would
think that would shut up those annoying people who think removing a
child from his own people and culture is somehow a bad thing, even if
said culture hasn’t yet invented pots to piss in.

No stranger
to criticism, you probably think the public backlash over your latest
publicity stunt is just more sour grapes from the usual suspects, this
time disguising themselves as human rights campaigners. And what
exactly are they complaining about, anyway, you gripe at your husband,
who is no stranger himself to your sudden fancies, whether its a
decision to fire your pillow plumper or take up the cause of
philanthropy several decades after it’s become fashionable. "Angelina
can eat my ashes!" you snap when Guy reminds you that the Jolie-Pitts
have already claimed the title of ‘Cookie’ magazine’s most beautiful
baby shoppers – an honor you have coveted almost as much as an Oscar
and a duet with the late Pope on his death bed.

"A girl just
can’t get a break", you fume. "I mean, what IS the problem?" First, NBC
edits out the part of your concert tour where you stand crucified on a
‘lite brite’ cross to prove you haven’t quite "nailed" the cause of
your dimming celebrity, and adding insult to injury, you’ve got the
entire planet up your ass about your latest Missoni (oops, I mean
MISSION) to Africa. I can’t imagine it’s much fun being a misunderstood
genius.

Here’s the problem, Madonna. You swoop into Malawi
with a yet to be signed cheque for $3 million, hoping that by pledging
the money to an orphanage, the authorities will re-write the laws in
your favor. "What laws"? you sneer under your breath when someone
points out to you that your actions amount to kidnapping, even if a
bribed official has given your crime the government stamp of approval.
Someone in your entourage points out to you that under Malawi law,
people hoping to adopt children must live in the country for at least
eighteen months. "This dump doesn’t even have flush toilets, what makes
them think their laws mean shit", you scream at him as he peers off
into the distance hopefully, all the while praying that a pack of
jackals comes along and tears you apart limb by limb, and drags your
still squawking head into the dense foliage encircling the camp to be
gnawed at and batted around by hungry hyena pups.

Undaunted,
you return to your tent and check yourself in the full length mirror
you brought along for the occasion and make the final adjustments to
your outfit. You told your stylist you wanted your look to be
reminiscent of Africa’s "glamorous" colonial era. "Think Marlene
Dietrich meets King Kong at the opening of the Stork Club inside a
smoking volcano". This is why you’ve chosen to dress like the trophy
whore of a wealthy plantation owner. Your African hosts should really
get a kick out of that. Even though you ended up being more Norma
Desmond than Desmond Tutu, your low-cut jungle green Versace wrap
around dress and safari hat complimented your caked on alabaster
complexion quite nicely. You managed to achieve the look of a former
"blimey" spewing pub wench, plucked from obscurity by a visiting
adventurer from the "Dark Continent" looking for a piece of tail to
compliment his collection of rhino heads. Your new look evokes the
by-gone sophistication of the ‘Bwana Missus", who spends her days in
the shade, reading romance novels and shooting the occasional elephant
before heading out for cocktails at the club. But I guess we should be
grateful that you left the rollerskates and ghetto blaster at home.

After
a hard day at the orphanage, choosing a baby that will compliment that
wonderful hand woven bag you picked up in the market earlier, you
decide it’s time to celebrate. With the entire International press
corps surrounding you, you seize the chance to make a video for your
next dance hit. A word of advice: You should probably edit out the part
where your unpaid African back up dancers look on in bewilderment and
embarrassment as your frantic, praying mantis pogo-ing recounts the age
old story about the evil sorceress with fire ants in her crotch.

In
the clamor and excitement of the festivities no one noticed as you
discreetly handed over the little "orphan" to your assistant, who
boarded him into your private jet and spirited him away before the ink
was dried on the adoption papers. You insist on calling him an orphan,
even though is father is very much alive, but temporarily, at least,
unable to raise his son, owing to the tragically, all too familiar
circumstances of his life. The death of his wife has left him a bereft
and impoverished widower with no other choice but to relinquish custody
of his son until he is able to get back on his feet. For considerably
less than what you paid for David, you could have given him at least
that opportunity. Maybe if you had read something more relevant to the
topic of global poverty than ‘Baby Fortune’ magazine’s top ten list of
lucky celebrity orphans, you might have discovered that the wealth you
endlessly accumulate, and the system that makes it possible for you to
lavish such bounty upon your latest self-improvement project is largely
responsible for Mr Banda’s inability to feed a child on his
non-existent earnings as a farmer. Not surprisingly, you have chosen to
overlook that particular aspect of your new child’s life and legacy,
wilfully ignoring the bigger picture here in order to clutch a small
black child at your breast in a homage to your own brand name. So now
Mr Banda is left to deal with his most recent loss, cast aside like
last season’s Prada bag, and realizing only too late that he has signed
away his past and future to a new colonial master, using the same
tactics as the previous ones to seize another nation’s assets under the
guise of "legality" and "consent".

Having being told that the
"nice" American lady would provide his son with an education and raise
him until he was ready to return to his homeland, Mr Banda signed on
the dotted line. Since Mr Banda can neither read or write, there was no
way his consent should be considered legal or binding. Clearly, he was
misled by orphanage officials in order to speed up the process of your
fly-by "adoption". But naturally, you blame all the negative publicity
on the media, whom you accuse of "terrorizing" him to give false and
conflicting accounts of the abduction of his son.

Acting on
your publicist’s advice, you brought your case to the American public
on ‘Oprah’, hoping the African American billionaire talk show host
would give you her own official stamp of approval, and a sob sistah
shoulder to cry on. Unfortunately, your appearance on Oprah’s giant
closed circuit satellite screen didn’t quite project your intended
persona of a sadly misunderstood earth mother on a mission to save the
world. Instead, you ended up looking like Xergadon, unblinking Empress
Alien of the Planet Botoxia announcing her latest earthling abduction.

No
stranger to disastrous shopping expeditions, your new friend, Oprah

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