In another twist involving the public protector’s office‚ the Minister of Co-operative Governance an.
There are men and there are - what? - some accidents of physiology who, largely because of the poverty of human language, end up being called men too.
The truth is that they bring the species into disrepute and it's about time beasts from the Amazon to the Serengeti took umbrage at the scum also being labelled as beasts.
Men, real men, that is, are those who watch their children grow up and take immense delight in monitoring their growing vocabulary.
Men worry about little things, the latter the description from their partners - in the eyes of the men the outcome of a soccer match is a matter of life and death.
The roar of the latest offerings from the assembly lines at Bavaria and some such places is music to the ears of men. Their torque becomes the talk.
Men want a fast car though not necessarily two from the same marque, and definitely not in the same colour, like one millionaire would.
Men look at Barack Obama and agree he embodies the very change they'd love to see happen. Men look at Patrice Motsepe and dream of making it onto the cover of Forbes Magazine too. When the green man gets the better of them, they talk about how, with his boodle, Motsepe should be wearing better suits.
Men crave the power of Irvin Khoza and the good looks of Pepsy Pokane.
Men are pissed off at Tito Mboweni, Peter de Villiers, Moss Mashishi, Tommy Hilfiger, Mark Scott-Crossley and the troika of Thami ka Plaatjie, Letlapa Mphahlele and Motsoko Pheko for undoing the sterling work of Sobukwe, may his revolutionary spirit rest in peace.
Men ask of Trevor Manuel, while it is all good and well to save, what is it we save?
Men, real men, are busy. Way too busy.
They use their time to seek the perspicacity of genius as in the wisdom of Nelson Mandela, the words of JM Coetzee, the sounds of Abdullah Ibrahim and the athleticism of Usain Bolt.
They do not use their time to prey on little children.
Men use their excess cash on the horses or to play the Lotto, not to hoodwink a helpless girl into their salacious web.
Men are busy and when they stare, they are looking for the allure only the booty of Jennifer Lopez can inspire, for a poor child in over-sized boots cannot satisfy this urge.
Men flirt, at work with colleagues and in the streets with consenting adults. Behind the backs of their partners men take academic interest in the bodies of other women and go giggle in a corner about their fantasies.
When they stray, it is into the welcoming arms of the likes of Monica Lewinsky and Rebecca Loos, not the limbs of a child, that should be hugging a teddy bear or another plaything.
When their crotches get too heavy, they call on the likes of Divine Brown, not a prepubescent girl child.
On behalf of all good men - and there are many - like Mbuyiselo Botha and Bongani Khumalo, I object at this unfair generalisation that any creature that is endowed with THE tool is a man.
In due course, the beasts will make their displeasure known too.