Archive for September, 2011

Texas Chainsaw Massacre and other Murderers be Advised! They’ve changed your last breakfast options.

September 30, 2011

This Hugh Paxton Blog post goes out to anybody in Texas who is contemplating a hideous murder that will (after decades of appeals) get you executed.

Think twice, guys!

Your final choice of breakfast is no longer an option.

If you are already on Death Row in Texas you have two people to blame.

1. Lawrence Russell Brewer. His last breakfast order was

a) two chicken fried steaks

b) a triple meat bacon cheeseburger

c) fried okra

d) a pound of barbeque (I’m assuming that’s pork ribs)

e) three fajitas

f) a  “meat lovers Pizza”

g) a pint of ice cream

h) peanut butter fudge with crushed peanuts on it.

Brewer (who was executed last week) didn’t eat any of it.

This brings us to the second person who has had second thoughts about condemned people and hearty breakfasts.

Texas Senator John Whitmire heard that Brewer had ordered an extravagant breakfast, hadn’t eaten it, and had then been exterminated by the state of Texas. The Sen. decided it was time to take a stand. Wasting all that tax payers money on chicken fried steaks and fried okra…And then he didn’t even eat it!

So, if you are on Death Row in Texas, sorry. You’ll have to eat the same slop that they give everybody else.

The Senator’s banned last breakfast requests.    

Hugh Paxton’s blog advice? Stay off Death Row. Be nice. Skip Texas. It’s really boring.

 And a farewell to the soul of Brewer. He was presumably a scumbag a long time ago otherwise he wouldn’t have ben sentenced to death. But his breakfast order did exactly what he wanted it to do. It made a Texas Senator look like a complete jerk. I’m raising a glass to you right now, Brewer!          


Rodel’s Bit: l Love my attorney

September 29, 2011

Whether you chose the ‘he’ or ‘she’ version, the final verdict is the same!!!!! Thank you Lord….

l Love my attorney
After living what I felt was a ‘decent’ life, my time on earth came to the end.

The first thing I remember is sitting on a bench in the waiting room of what I thought to be a court house.

The doors opened and I was instructed to come in and have a seat by the defense table.

As I looked around I saw the ‘prosecutor.’

He was a villainous looking gent who snarled as he stared at me. He definitely was the most evil person I have ever seen.

I sat down and looked to my left and there sat My Attorney, a kind and gentle looking man whose appearance seemed so familiar to me, I felt I knew Him.

The corner door flew open and there appeared the Judge in full flowing robes.

He commanded an awesome presence as He moved across the room I couldn’t take my eyes off of Him.

As He took His seat behind the bench, He said, “Let us begin.”

The prosecutor rose and said,
“My name is Satan and I am here to show you why this woman belongs in hell…”

He proceeded to tell of lies that I told, things that I stole, and in the past when I cheated others. Satan told of other horrible perversions that were once in my life and the more he spoke, the further down in my seat I sank.

I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t look at anyone, even my own Attorney, as the Devil told of sins that even I had completely forgotten about.

As upset as I was at Satan for telling all these things about me, I was equally upset at My Attorney who sat there silently not offering any form of defense at all.

I know I had been guilty of those things, but I had done some good in my life – couldn’t that at least equal out part of the harm I’d done?

Satan finished with a fury and said, “This woman belongs in hell, she is guilty of all that I have charged and there is not a person who can prove otherwise.”

When it was His turn, My Attorney first asked if He might approach the bench. The Judge allowed this over the strong objection of Satan, and beckoned Him to come forward.

As He got up and started walking, I was able to see Him in His full splendor and majesty.

I realized why He seemed so familiar; this was Jesus representing me, my Lord and my Savior.

He stopped at the bench and softly said to the Judge, “Hi, Dad,” and then He turned to address the court.

“Satan was correct in saying that this woman had sinned, I won’t deny any of these allegations. And, yes, the wage of sin is death, and this woman deserves to be punished.”

Jesus took a deep breath and turned to His Father with outstretched arms and proclaimed, “However, I died on the cross so that this person might have eternal life and she has accepted Me as her Savior, so she is Mine.”

My Lord continued with, “Her name is written in the Book of Life, and no one can snatch her from Me.”

“Satan still does not understand yet. This woman is not to be given justice, but rather mercy.”

As Jesus sat down, He quietly paused, looked at His Father and said, “There is nothing else that needs to be done.”

“I’ve done it all.”

The Judge lifted His mighty hand and slammed the gavel down. The following words bellowed from His lips..

“This woman is free.”

“The penalty for her has already been paid in full.”

“Case dismissed.”

As my Lord led me away, I could hear Satan ranting and raving, “I won’t give up, I will win the next one.” I asked Jesus as He gave me my instructions where to go next, “Have you ever lost a case?”

Christ lovingly smiled and said,
“Everyone that has come to Me and asked Me to represent them has received the same verdict as you.”
~”Paid In Full”~
If you do not pass this along to 15 people immediately, absolutely nothing will happen.

Passing this on to anyone you consider a friend, (as I have done here), it will bless you both. “Stop telling God how big your storm is.
Instead, tell the storm how big your God is!”

Brigitte’s Pick: Woman gives birth to 14 kids. True or False?

September 28, 2011

Cape Argus of August 26 2011. “Woman gives birth to 14 kids”. Mrs Patricia De Klerk from Springbok, gave birth to healthy 8 boys and 6 girls

14 babies wanting to be fed…14 cry at the same time…imagine the nappies…the washing!

Cape Argus Friday, 26 August 2011 Page 8

Thai Days: the beginners guide to bribing Bangkok traffic cops

September 25, 2011

The only honest traffic cop in Bangkok is made of plastic. Or so the saying goes.

BLOG ED NOTE: The authorities have installed a large number of fake, life sized police patrol men at busy intersections and accident black spots to deter would-be traffic offenders. I remember seeing similarly unconvincing cops in Japan. They didn’t work there. And they don’t work here. Anybody short sighted enough not to spot them as total dummies isn’t on the road – he or she’s still at home looking for the car keys.  Or the car.

But these plasti-cops do at least have one advantage over their flesh and blood colleagues. They may be extremely shiny and may have spray paint on their faces – but they don’t break the law.

Fairly recently,  Rodel, a good friend of mine, gave me a lift and made two serious mistakes. The first was failing to see an invisible sign prohibiting U-turns. I call that criminally negligent!

I mean really, Rodel!

Just because something doesn’t visually exist doesn’t mean you can break the law by looking straight through it!  

Rodel’s second blunder was taking his car out just before lunch;  a time when the police, having spent their previous day’s earnings on bar girls,  now have their minds on noodle money.Their wives have refused to cook them breakfast and (if they’ve been smoking the ‘sticky stuff’) they’ve got the munchies.

We were pulled over very promptly by a tiny, wasp-waisted cop wearing a very large motorbike helmet, reflective shades and a face mask (ostensibly for purposes of preventing pollution related lung injury). Yeah, right!

“Super!” thought I, “We are about to be busted for reasons unknown by a very camp edition of the Invisible Man!”

I hadn’t witnessed bribery and corruption first-hand in Thailand before. Indeed I’d blathered away to Mary, a guest from Namibia, just the previous evening, about how honest Thai people were.

Rather unfortunately, Mary was also in the car. 

Rodel knew the ‘one minute rent-a-cop’ routine; there was even some falsely good humoured haggling, and after the fun was over the police ‘road block’ mounted his bike and shot off at a speed clearly exceeding legal limits. A good bust! He now had a 100 Baht noodle voucher in his wallet. Hope he got food poisoning!

Rodel took the incident in his stride. He gave a bit of advice of the ‘don’t argue or get angry’ variety. Mary, who has spent decades in Africa, wasn’t traumatized. She’s seen a great deal worse. So that was OK.

I pretty much forgot about the incident. I don’t drive in Bangkok. The taxis are cheap and know where they’re going. It might not always be exactly where you want them to go. But taxis are 99% great! They spare you the misery of finding parking space and when you’ve finished doing whatever you are doing you can hail a new one in less than a minute in my experience.

HUGH PAXTON BLOG BANGKOK TAXI TRAVEL TIP:  It sometimes happens that a taxi stops for you, you tell him your destination, and he becomes agitated and says ‘no’ or wags his head in an alarmingly deranged fashion. This isn’t anything personal. He just doesn’t need your ride. Your destination may be in the wrong direction for him. He may be about to finish his shift or he’s coming down after a 48 hour shift fuelled by crystal meth, or is worried about getting lost because you can’t pronounce it correctly. Don’t feel downcast. You’ll get another. Check he sets his meter. If he won’t, get out. Or better still conduct your negotiations through an opened front passenger seat door. That saves you the bother of getting in before you get out. 

 BLOG EDNOTE: Perhaps Hugh Paxton’s blog can stop giving, no doubt, helpful advice on taxi procedure and get back to bribing cops?

HUGH PAXTON: Yes, OK. A fair point. I’ll do a proper taxi post that will tell you all, in the near future. Back to police corruption!  Advice1

1. Take a taxi rather than self drive in Bangkok. The drivers know the police situation. 

2. If you are pulled over don’t start scrabbling in your pockets and thrusting coins at the officer.  Coins are insulting. They also fall all over the place and somebody’s got to pick them up making every passing car slow to watch the spectacle. This is a paper money transaction.

3. He won’t ask you for a bribe because that would be illegal. So don’t  verbally suggest it. Suggesting it could get you into subverting the cause of justice territory. In the extremely unlikely event that he is honest he might arrest you. I use the words extremely and unlikely because both apply. And only when they are co-joined.  

4. Call the puss bag ‘sir’ and look daunted, apologetic and humble.

5. Try and guage the officer’s mood. Does he look very hungry? Is he waving his driving tickets in a part of the road that might get him killed by speeding drivers or scooter riders skimming past mere inches from his spine? If so do not immediately hand over anything. With a bit of luck a car driven by the spaced out daughter of a Red Shirt politician will knock him out of his boots and send him 300 meters away from you.     

6. Does he want another 100 Baht? If he does, and you can’t afford it, show him an empty wallet, grovel a bit. 

7. The bribe hand over. It needs to be disguised. You curl your 100 baht note into a fist, he gives you his fist and cunningly extricates the note. Passersby are assumed to be watching a friendly cop/public exchange of knuckle touching.

Executive Summary: Use your instincts. But follow my instructions. Bear in mind that if one of these germs books you for your traffic offence his move will also involve one shit load of paperwork for your arresting officer. And if it’s rush hour time it will take him hours to get anything done. And his fellow traffic cops will regard him as a dangerous subversive.           

Hugh Paxton’s Blog regards corruption and bribery as fundamental maggots in any system. My blog also suggests that some of Pornchai Sereemongkonpol’s suggestions in Friday’s Guru magazine’s “Skills at the City” feature should not be attempted by the beginner.

1: Caught using a cell phone? Claim your Mummy’s dying and this could be the last chance to talk.

2: No seat belt? (this one only applies to women). Claim recent breast augmentation may be impaired by seat belt pressure and provoke disfigurement. 

Pornchai Sereemongkonpol concludes his various suggestions with the words ” Although it’s not the most ethical skill, you save time and trouble in the end.”

Judge for yourself! And take a taxi!



Thai Days: Mozzie problems? Bring on the buffalo dung!

September 24, 2011

Eek! Two more of my neighbours have gone down with Dengue fever! It’s a non-fatal strain (so far) but no fun. This is real vector environment at the moment – it’s been raining daily for what feels like three months and although we’ve been advised to drain standing water that’s a lot easier said than done; the whole Thai Village compound is one large expanse of standing water. And the mozzies are out in force. We’ve got nets and screens and those blue electrically heated tablets that don’t work but which are expensive, and yesterday I burned locally made resin coils that filled the house with reeking smoke and made me feel nauseous and forced us to open all the windows to let some fresh air in. Duh!  But despite more sensible countermeasures still the mozzies make it through our defences.

It is time for lateral thinking! When we were in the bush in malarial areas in northern Namibia we used elephant turds. Slow burning, gently smoking, actually quite aromatic ( a bit like pipe smoke) , they worked a treat.

The Thai bush recipe runs along similar lines. But you know what Thais are like when it comes to cooking and mixing ingredients – enthusiasts!

The recipe obtained by Hugh Paxton’s Blog doesn’t just rely on fresh water buffalo manure but also requires finely chopped orange peel, lemon grass and saw dust.

If you can’t lay your hands on an incontinent water buffalo you can substitute the input with the sort of sticky paste scrapbookers use.

Method: Mix three parts orange peel, one part lemongrass with one part finely crushed sawdust then add your dung or paste as a combining agent. Knead it into a cake, place a layer of plastic in a bowl to stop the cake sticking and then sun dry it for two days before igniting it. Sun drying at the moment looks about as possible as sun bathing. I’ll be using a fan.

I’ll pick up the indgredients tomorrow and get mixing! With luck I won’t be infected by a dengue carrier over the next two days and then testing shall commence! I’ll keep you posted!

Hugh Paxton Short Ghost Story: A January Sound

September 23, 2011

Hugh Paxton’s Blog is pleased to present another short ghost story I found in my forgotten file folder. It had been typed on heat sensitive paper and was very faded but I managed to make out the words. Another few months languishing in the cobwebs the text would have completely vanished. Another story, written at about the same time, was, with the exception of the title, totally gone. A bit sad.    


When summer comes to Cumbria it does it very well. The fells and moors shine with warm colour. Dry stone walls, the brooding miseries of a wet winter, throw off their greys and dress instead in lichens. The lakes glint, the skies are huge and the long evenings last forever. Same then that summer is so shy.

Winter has its moments ; becks in cold snow, icicles on old gnarled apple trees, the comfortable glow of log fires…yes, winter has its moments, especially if it still holds the promise of Christmas, but in the January of this story, Christmas is done and the summer seems a year away.

In the village of Skalton two children are preparing to go out. It is a long sprawling village that follows a sloping valley road that leads down to the sea. The houses are neat and made of local stone with slate roofs  and small but lovely gardens. In the cold months smoke rises wistfully from the chimneys and warm lights shine from windows and porches. The road to the sea is narrow, winding and makes many dips and rises and crosses several small and mysterious bridges before finally spilling out of hazel wood and into the clear flat lowland of the estuary. For a short distance the road continues indecisively , meandering uncertainly out into the tussocks of marsh grass looping through the pools and channels of a sea bound stream before finally stopping at a gate. The gate is brown with rust and will not open.

Beside it are the bones of an impossibly ancient engine; heavy and dead, with grass in its gears and the white streaked signatures of gulls splashed on its cowling. Lumped cogs and flaking wheels peer out of the ground around it like dismal, timid satellites and from the main hulk rises a peculiar, jointed funnel. The children have talked and talked about this engine. They have wondered what it did, and how it came to die by the gate. On nights when the air is still, and the thick sea mist has crept in, they have even heard it working –humming and clanking and throbbing, faint in the distance. They plan to stalk it and catch it, and see it shuddering and firing sparks from its stack up into the darkness but they have been too timid to try so far.

Beyond the gate and its guardian engine is the estuary proper; a broad, barren, muddy place, cold as the cry of gulls.

The estuary is dangerous, too. Channels change overnight and in places there is quicksand. There have been too many warnings for the children to take it lightly, though the summer tourists always do and each year a life is lost. It is has many stories. The night of the war when the drone of an engine faltered and ended and a man, big and strange, wearing flying goggles, came wading to shore to be caught by farmer Harold with a pitchfork, jailed in a barn and in the morning gone. And the plane gone, too.  Taken by the sand or tide perhaps, or were they both ghosts?  The last wolf in England died nearby, jumping from a cliff and the hounds. There was the night of the great storm and when it cleared there were whales, two of them, huge and dead on the sand and the sea was so far away that nobody could even see it, just smell it, salt heavy in the air. Those whales! Shiny back islands, white spotted with gulls and the village children went in groups to wonder and stare while the teacher watched and said “Not too close!”

When the tide turns, the moan of the bore siren rises and falls from Arnside over the water. The bore, where incoming tide meets out-flowing river, is a single wave floating up the estuary. From a distance it seems to move slowly but that is illusion. The bore wave is fast and, during high tides, deadly.

Now though the tide is out and this suits the children. Today they are going to fish. They will fish with their naked feet, tread the soft sand feeling for the squirm of flounders beneath their toes. They won’t fish for long – it’s too cold – and strictly speaking they should not be fishing at all. Their mother forbids floundering till summer. But perhaps by fishing they can hurry summer on its way and after they’ve done they’ll look for driftwood and whales.

As they make their way along the beach they can see the grey sheen of water channeled in the mud. Two oyster catchers scurry and duck, scurry and duck. As always there is a profound sense of loneliness; too much mud and too much sky and there is a flatness to them both. For as far as they can see there is emptiness. A great distance away they see the Arnside viaduct and the spike of a signal box but there is no train. From up close the viaduct is huge, bricked and awesome, as it rises on its shell crusted pillars above the sand but from where the children stand it might be a toy or a painting, it is so insubstantial.

The children have walked a mile and have found no flounders when they reach the bay. It is an inlet really, flanked by two spurs of land and is less than a quarter of a mile across, but to their eyes it is a bay. The solid weight of Skalton Fell throws complex shadow patterns over the sand making it appear to ripple and shift.  

They have just begun to skirt it when they hear the noise. For a moment they do not even know they hear it, and stand uncertain, dwarfs in a winter landscape. Their smiles fade and they move closer together, instinctively linking their hands. The noise continues – a soft, bitter sobbing. Though they’ve both cried before, they know they’ve never wept like this. The sound is without hope; it is loss and loneliness and terrible sorrow and it will not stop. The mud, elsewhere gently shelved and sculpted by the twice daily tide, patterned and rippled by wind, changes here. It sinks in on itself, flat as still water, smooth as glue. There are no birds, no pools or channels, no smears of drying kelp; there is only the slick, still mud and, in the centre, a small dark crumpled shape. The sobbing continues. It is strangely muffled and bleak as wind. The children stand in silence, faces pale, eyes restless and searching.

“Who is crying?” the girl asks.

“Where are they?” says her brother.

The spurs of rock hide no-one. The black thing is teased by a breeze and it flutters a little.

“What is it?”

“A scarf?”

They make guesses but it’s too far, too small for them.  They talk about walking out to it, over the mud, but their voices are thin and unsteady. The wind strengthens and becomes cold. It hurts their eyes and noses. The mud suddenly wobbles as if alive. The children turn and hurry away. They do not look back and the sounds fall away and are swallowed in the silence.

Later in the warmth of their kitchen they eat toast and tell their mother.

“There was someone crying under the mud…a woman…a child…crying and crying…”

Their mother half listens and tells them that it might be a good idea if they didn’t go back to that place. Not if it upsets them.

Brigitte’s Pick: Look at the dots on the dam wall – Italy

September 21, 2011

Brigitte's pic

This is truly amazing!

This is the Diga del Cingino dam in Italy –
But look closer… See spots on the dam wall?

They are European Ibex and they like to lick the salt off the dam wall.

Thai Days: A village of the gut-sucking ghost

September 21, 2011

Hugh Paxton’s blog loves boat and train journeys but staying on a bus for longer then ten minutes gives me the horrors. I put this down to several ghastly 12 hour ordeals in Mexico, a serious crash in Costa Rica on the rim of a cliff, and some of the stupidest “in bus” entertainment imaginable on a trip to Chiang Rai (Thailand). This post concerns the Thailand trip.

There was a TV screen several inches from my face and it was loud. A movie began and for the first two or three minutes it was so odd that it was actually enthralling. It didn’t start with a beginning. It just cut in, half-way through a scene involving a woman screaming and running up a fire escape. Hard on her heels was a one-legged figure wrapped in bandages and with a bag on its head. There was irritating music. The camera waved about and at times pointed at nothing in particular.

Nobody wandered in front of it slurping noodles but I sensed they might at any moment. The woman made it to the top of the fire escape but it didn’t do her much good. When she reappeared she was at the bottom of another fire escape and lo and behold! Hard on her heels (again) was a bandaged hopping thing with a bag on its head. Adding zest was an additional man who was running with the woman and screaming. 15 minutes later and the chase was still on. More people were running and screaming and there were two hopping things. Thirty minutes later the chase was still on. An hour later the chase was still on. There was a bit of dialogue now and again – the woman and the man would run into a room, slam the door, jabber a bit, and if I understood Thai, perhaps things might have become clearer. But they never talked for long. Every time they found sanctuary in a room they opened the door and there they were again! The two hopping things with bags on their heads. This extraordinarily badly filmed imbecility seemed to last an eternity. Then it stopped. Mid-scene. Just like that. No credits. Nada.

The views through the window were dull. Rice paddy. Flat. Nothing happening. I fell asleep. I was awoken by screaming. And Christ on a bike! There they were again! The woman! The hopping things! I wondered if this was a sequel. Or a replay? Or was I hallucinating?

That was the only Thai ghost film I’ve ever seen. And I’m planning never to see another. But I may be in a minority. 

The Ban Phi Phob series of movies has run for 24 years (making it the longest running movie franchise in Thai history according to Bangkok Post’s Life supplement). And tomorrow sees the premier of another one.

“A valliant attempt to translate its name [Ban Phi Phob] results in something like “a village of the gut-sucking ghost” explains Kong Rithdee, author of the Life article.

Almost all of the movies involve city slickers who visit a village and are told that there is a gut-sucking ghost. They dismiss this as rural ignorance and then spend the rest of the movie running around screaming being chased by a – yup, you’re ahead of me on this one – a gut-sucking ghost. In one innovative deviation from this theme, the gut-sucking ghost comes to town and chases people up and down escalators.

What’s in it for the ghost? Intestines. Can’t get enough of them.

What’s in it for Natanee Sittisaman (now in her 60s)? A career. She is synonymous with the gut-sucking ghost. This time around she’ll be doing her gut-sucking on a flying skate board and, for reasons obscure, with what look like two thin shower head fixtures jutting out of both sides of her head.

Sophon Nim, the director of this latest gut-sucking ghost treat (Phob Reformation) suggests that people come to the cinema with an open mind.     

Never give up: Japanese soldiers still on the march

September 21, 2011

Probably hysteria, but two girls collapsed after seeing an Imperial Japanese army unit marching through a derelict Hong Kong (New Territories) school.  It took a long time for some Japanese to admit they’d lost the war. I can’t remember when the last soldier surrendered – the 1970s ? Steve Hollier will know. And Japan’s still technically having World War II with Russia (nobody’s got around to signing a peace treaty because they’re still arguing about some disputed islands). But if these Hong Kong occupation Japanese guys are still doing their duty for greater Asian prosperity spheres and genocide and think they’re a bit special – they’re not. Roman soldiers still march through a cellar in York (knee deep in the floor). Allegedly. Hugh Paxton’s blog organised a ghost hunt (there’s a post somewhere on this site about haunted York) but didn’t actually witness them doing it. I didn’t see any ghosts at all actually which was a bit disappointing as York is purported to be the most haunted city in the world.  

When I’m next in Hong Kong, I’ll check out the school. See if I can do better!

Killers, murderers, Burundi starting again

September 21, 2011

HUGH PAXTON: Most of us haven’t met many murderers. And I say keep it that way!

My life, however,  has brought me into intimate contact with many men who have killed others. Several worked for me doing  this and that while I was in Africa (painting, odd jobs, helping with safari catering, driving etc.) Some I still count as friends.

They killed people during the Namibian bush war because that was their job (and in every case they wanted to), or in the instance of Ali our painter and a couple of others, they killed people in stupid, brutal bar fights. Employing people with blood on their hands might strike you as a bit silly, particularly given that I have a young daughter. But none of them ever let me down (apart from one guy who shot himself – although he didn’t exactly work for me) and I’d say that none of them were living comfortably with their pasts.

They enjoyed working at the “Hugh Paxton”. Playing with the kids, building a Wendy House for Annabel (complete with electrics), drinking beer on the stoep after jobs were done and feeling part of a warm, careless but caring family. All, regardless of colour, or tribal origin, were (and are) very right wing. If they all got together they’d be a frightening thing and being a commie or a SWAPO anywhere near them would be unwise.

But they won’t.

Their fires burned brightly in the past but now they are just getting on with the day to day. My daughter is the best judge of character I know. If she doesn’t like somebody she makes it obvious. And she’s always right. The guys we know aren’t angels. And yes, they’ve killed a lot of people. But they aren’t planning to do it again. I hope!

BLOG ED NOTE: So far this has had nothing to do with Burundi. Are we getting warmer?


Indeed. I was explaining that being a killer doesn’t mean that a person is inherently bad. The ones I know are fine. Blimey, my daughter was taught by the wife of a sniper at a Montessori school in Windhoek.  

BLOG ED: Your Montessori school hired a sniper?

HUGH PAXTON: No. But it might have been a good idea. The teacher’s husband was a sniper. He was also a first rate DJ and was used by police to talk down suicide cases from high buildings.

BLOG ED: And Burundi?


Gunmen visited a bar, some dressed in police uniforms armed with choppers and guns and killed 36 people. Everybody in the bar was ordered to lie down and then was shot  in the head. I’ve seen these Hutus (my wife ran a refugee camp for 80,000 of them) and they were all killers. All of them. None showed remorse. most were stupid. A few crackled with dangerous charm.  My guys in Namibia pose no threat to anybody but themselves.

These people in Burundi mean genocide. 


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