I really wish there existed a legal, safe, readily available truth serum. The reason: I hate doing my tax returns.
Not because I wish to schnaai the taxman, but because I am terrible at keeping an orderly file of my expenses or anything that Big Brother may be interested in.
My idea of a financial system is chucking all my potential tax deductible slips in various available drawers all over the house.
Come the taxman's annual pay day, I don't know where to start. So, unlike my colleagues who always get something back, I end up giving more - all because I absolutely abhor a logbook and a file.
Imagine just going to the taxman, taking the truth drug and spilling your beans. No paperwork.
"Mr Gupta, what would you like to deduct?"
"My generous sponsorship of JZ."
"Aah... unfortunately non-deductible. But you owe me some gift tax!"
The Gupta brothers would soon tell their presidential buddy to look their gift horse in the mouth.
To those of us lucky enough to eke out a living to the extent where the state feels that we should sponsor fixing a pothole or two, it hurts no end when we see how our money is being misspent.
But that doesn't mean that you have the right to shortchange the taxman.
He's still one of the few in the money chain who seems to be doing his job well. Blaming the guy who deducts your tax for the way another guy decides to use it, is akin to blaming Theresa May for Brexit. She's not the one who chose it, but like it or not, she still has to implement it.
Truth serum may come in handy during Nkandla and Guptagate investigations, but it's a very good thing man has the ability to lie. Imagine you had to be honest about every little thing 24/7?
For one thing, the racist rants on Facebook would keep the police and the courts so busy, they'd have to decriminalise online racism in order to pay some attention to the latest hijacking or murder.
If you were honest all of the time, you would have far fewer friends, if any, and the divorce rate would rocket.
"Yes, you look fat from behind; I hate your mother; You look much older than 40; I don't like the colour of your new double cab; how could you have married such an ugly chick?..."
No, please spare us too much truth.
I'd much rather you tell me sweet, harmless little lies.
There will be more than enough time for transparency in the afterlife when, horror of horrors, all will seemingly be revealed.
Imagine the moment when Jacob Zuma and Atul Gupta get to know what they really think of each other.
It won't be pretty.
But, if you've been a good taxpaying girl or boy, and a loyal, if somewhat dishonest friend, you will hopefully be somewhere 'cool' and be spared that awful sight.
BY ILSE SCHOONRAAD
