Get Stupid.mp3

NRM Corporations releases new Presidential operating system.

Software giant, NRM has today released Fourth Term 3.0, the latest software in the Presidential OS series. This comes a few months after several complaints were logged by users of the previous OS, Third Term 2.2.4.

Early users have lauded the new OS saying that it is a much lighter and easier-to-use version. “It comes with several bug fixes. Corrupt files can now self-destruct instead of clogging the system and crashing it,” said software engineer and earliest user, Kagoo Musay.

We should try it: Software users at the unvailing.

Among its new features is Auto-upgrade which enables the hard disk to automatically upgrade to newer versions without requesting for the motherboard’s permission. The Auto-upgrade (A-U) feature replaces the much slower and inefficient feature called Democratic-Electoral (or Demo-Elect) seen in previous versions.

“We thought Demo-Elect was the prime cause of crashing and system lag. It needed the input of every element in the machine for it to operate which A-U doesn’t,” explained NRM Corp. Vice Chairman, Gilby Bookayn.

Wait, mpozi I said all posts will be dedicated to Mr. Valentine. Okay, here’s a deleted scene from Diaries Of Vice City.

Lucifer is in another shrink session with Stpdstdmnsss. He’s still trying to come to terms with the fact that he is the devil.

Stpdstdmnsss: How are you today?

Lucifer: I have another joke about your name.

S: Oh.

I wish she knew how much I love her.

Ten second silence.

L: You think am a bad person, don’t you?

S: Why?

L: Can’t put a finger on it. Probably that wicked look on your face.

S: I see.

L: Do you have a man?

S: Excuse me?

L: When’s the last time you had sex?

S: That’s personal, don’t you think?

L: Ok.

Ten second silence

S: Why?

L: What?

S: Why do you ask about my sex life?

L: Sweetheart, you fucking look tense all the time. What, are you waiting for the right guy?

S: Yeah. Someone who can like me for me. They are all cheating bastards. But we’re here to talk about you. How do you feel?

L: Like talking about you.

S: Hey, I’m hooked, okay?

L: Don’t blame a dude for trying.

 

Press Refresh

Out of respect for Saint Valentine (Cupid bless the idiot), I dedicate all posts hereafter to love and all its variable ingredients. I’m now proud to report that finally, the much awaited answer to all marriage problems has been unearthed:

Insurance.

So a priest and a wife walk into a bar, right? Right? I forgot the rest of the joke but you laugh in the end.

My Facebook friend, Internet Search Engine (He prefers to go by his last name, Google) defines marriage thus: “the state of being a married couple voluntarily joined for life (or until divorce)”.

Same dude defines insurance thus: “indemnity: protection against future loss”.

Are you smart enough to piece the puzzle? Wait, don’t answer that. See, marriage is a liability. Chances are you’ll lose your partner unless you lock them in the house, swallow the keys and crash at a friend’s for the duration of the marriage.

Do you have the balls to be an island?

So insure the bastard (studies indicate the word applies to both sexes). Here’s how it works: in case of loss, the insurance company, by law, is supposed to find an exact replacement (read bastard replica) and give it to you.

Since there’s really no big difference between bastard and bastard replica, the insurance company will get the same bastard and give it to you thinking it’s bastard replica. See? You end up with the bastard again. I’d hate to see people break up (me and my warm persona) so before you propose, please ensure to insure.

Again out of very high esteem for Saint Valentine (whose deed of goodness (including the redness and blackness) still surpasses the logical realm of all mortal and saintly understanding), I’ll double the fun with two posts in one.

Them niggas be hatin' on me, dog. You dig?

Men too have feelings.

My antennae tell me there are many dudes who require my help this Val’s day. Well, help-requiring dude, here’s what you should do. Get off the fucking computer and let your woman read this post.

Now ladies, listen. Men too, as I’m sure the title up there has expressly articulated, have feelings. We want to be cuddled after a passionate round of lovemaking, we want flowers every day, we even want to be taken out on dates and listened to as we whine about which shoes to wear.

Here’s a foolproof way to make your man love you more this Val’s day:

...speak now or forever hold your piece.

• Take him out on a date. This requires utmost caution. For example, you don’t use a boda. He’ll throw a tantrum. You have to pick him up using a personal car or, if you can’t afford the means, a special hire taxi; a cab, in fact coz calling it a “special” or more eloquently, “speso” is another story.

• Take him to an expensive restaurant. He’ll feel special and be sufficiently loaded with rich gossip for the boys: “For us we went to a posh restaurant.”

• Do not share the bill. Men love responsible girls who don’t let them lift a penny from their wallets. It makes them feel protected.

• It’s best to end the date with a precious gift. Normally, jewellery works best: a bracelet, a ring, even lingerie. Anything cute.

• When you get down to the sex, try to go soft on him. Men love foreplay even more than the penetration itself. You need to gently kiss every pore on his skin as you whisper something sweet in his ears. Take your time; get him extremely wet before you even think of penetration.

• Remember, it’s the small things that matter the most. Open the door for him, give him a kiss every morning and give him your shoulder to cry on. We are sensitive, you know?

 

Hey, Look! Another Post From That Idiot.

Sigh. Life is such a painful journey. There are two big things about life that have hit me hard. One, I’m hungry and, two, there are too many wigs on the loose. Is there any woman left with real hair? By the way, is it true those things are made out of hair from dead people?

I pictured Sevo passing a law that banned the use of wigs and this is what my brain computed as the consequences:

• There would be major friction between Buganda and the central government. There would be strikes all around the city till the President restored the unquestioned sanctity of the wig.
• CBS would be closed.
• BLU3 would stop making videos.
• The National Organizational Federation Wig Union would appeal to the international community and James Cameron for wig donations.
• The government would levy less tax on locally made wigs so as to expand the market for raw materials like sisal, papyrus, elephant grass and dead people.
• Consequently, the production and exportation of dead bodies would increase.
• Same sex couples would be impossible to tell.
• Straka would stay the same.
• All wigs would be disappointed (My shot at white humour).
• All wigs would be like “What!” and pick up guns and shoot errbady (My shot at black humour).

Fuck wigs. Wig. Wag. Hump. Bird. Chick. Ride. Do. Meat. Blow. Suck. Ball. Pot. Rod. Bebe Cool. Almost all English words now have an insinuation of sex or female genitalia. What the fuck happened to English?

And what the hell’s wrong with my interwebs? They keep going off after every 17 minutes, 22 seconds (blame Facebook). This is an official appeal to the US, UN and Mark Mununuzi Zuckerberg: Please donate the internet to every household in Africa. Look at what we are without you people:

Bambi: No Facebook, forced to become a child soldier.

Bambi again: No Facebook, forced to become a president.

 

Make Someone Smile

I am a pessimist and a darned proud one. Friends, colleagues and family members (I know. Just feels good to say the whole thing) wonder why I’m always on the negative side of things.

See, people fail to realize that everything in life changes-everything except misery. That motherfucker will never disappoint so it’s only fair to return such a steadfast and lifelong relationship with equal dedication.

Take me for example. I am one wretched bugger but instead of rubbing it in people’s faces, I bask in the glory of being an asshole. I mean it’s best to be hated for the right reasons, right? Last year, I was hated for all the wrong reasons.

This year, I’ll give friends, colleagues and family members the right reasons to hate me. At this point you might be like “Whoa! That’s deep, Erique. You’ve gone soft, mayte.” Hold your guns, prickren. I’m only going from good guy to bad guy (depending upon the way you define the two). Let’s just say I’ve gone legit.

Starting with:

I like cow meat; no, not in that sense. In the same sense that I’d stare at a girl’s ass and tell you I like girl meat. Not that I want to eat eat it. I want to devour it-as in fuck it, dumbass. Why do you have to be slow?

I picture asking cow out to dinner, picking her up at her kraal, taking her to a vegetarian restaurant, then getting down to chatting, laughing, talking about past relationships, and finally popping the big question: will you fuck me?

Just kidding. I have this (Irish I think) girlfriend whose sister nicknamed her Cow apparently because she loves those Texan cow rides. I just like making fun of her till she cries. Oh, and if you’re thinking of fucking a cow, you dimwit, moo means moo.

Seriously:

Each new year brings with it new goals and challenges. It’s time for a major change this year. All other aspects of my mundane life will stay the same except for this one thing. From now on I plan to spell “change” differently in messages. Instead of texting the whole word, I’ll spell it chng. Intense, huh?

Merry 2010. Kola bulungi omwaka guno. That’s Luganda for “have sex well this year”. Akqrwahu umna lfdiu. And that’s gibberish for “fnniid mmujhani pfghin”.

 

Jesus! Happy Birthday.

Nine months ago, an angel appeared to Virgin Mary and delivered good news about the birth of a baby boy. In a few days, Mary will head to labour. This is the story of Joseph, her boyfriend.

Joseph, Jonas, Peter and Dorene are out grazing their cows.

Peter: Is it just me or is there something weird about her?

Jonas: I knew I wasn’t the only one thinking it! It’s supposed to be guys only, right?

Peter: No, the name. Here. It’s spelt D.O.R.E.E.N. Look.

Jonas: Jesus Christ! Dude, where did you get a dic?

Peter: What?

Jonas: The dictionary. Where did you get it?

Peter: No. “Jesus Christ”. What’s that?

Jonas: How the hell should I know? I heard Joseph use it. Probably some expression used somewhere.

Peter: Where?

Jonas: What do you mean where? In the modern times or something.

Peter: No. I mean where did Joseph use it? Where’s he anyway?

Jonas: Over there with misspelt Dorene.

Peter: What…are they doing?

Jonas: Oy, speaking of doing, did you hear about his girl?

Peter: Yeah yeah. She’s pregnant or something, right?

Jonas: No. She’s just pregnant. And get this. He didn’t do nata to her.

Peter: Nata?

Jonas: Nata.

Peter: Nata nata nata…nope, it’s not in here.

Jonas: Dude, quit with that thing. Hey, let’s go check on those two.

A few metres later.

Jonas: What the…

Peter: What?

Jonas: Come look at this.

Peter: No. I mean ‘the what’? You said ‘what the…’ Whoa! Joe’s crying?

Duuude!

Joseph: [Sob sob] I mean, what kind of woman cheats on her man and then claims it’s God’s baby? We were saving ourselves for marriage, for Gods sake.

Happy one, y’all. It’s a time to forgive so forgive your opposite sex enemies and love them immensely this season.

 

The T-Shirt Act

I was seated somewhere lost in a realm of thought about nothing in particular (and what scientific principle explained why exactly the poor cup of coffee in my hand wasn’t putting up any sort of resistance) when the back of a t-shirt attacked me.

Ordinarily, I’d simply sneer and look away but the damn thing couldn’t have enough. It stared me so straight and so hard in the eye and shouted: “Youth-choose abstinence. It costs nothing.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for the right to speak but you have to speak sense for me to sustain that right. That way, it won’t feel like I’m giving it to you for free.

It irks me enough to have t-shirts walk around unsupervised but having a t-shirt speaking nonsense is another thing altogether. It’s not funny.

Abstinence costs nothing? Do these t-shirts think anything through before deciding to insult mankind and me?

Abstinence means keeping off sex. But just like all males, the urge will always kick in at some point and because you’ve decided to abstain, you will have to self-medicate. Hands come into play and then the shopping begins.

Let’s do the math:

Porn magazine/movie – 10.000

If x= movie, then y=TV and z=DVD player

x = y + z

TV – 250.000

DVD player – 160.000

Then:

Lotion – 6.000

Toilet paper – 300

Total    = 10.000 + 250.000 + 160.000 + 6.000 + 300

= Ushs.426.300/-

Therefore: Abstinence = 426.300/-

Abstinence costs nothing, huh? Naturally, I would get pissed and scream “fucking t-shirt” but it wouldn’t be a fucking t-shirt now, would it?

Here’s a thought: You could simply get 10.000 off the 426.300, fuck a whore from Kisenyi and save 416.300. Now, is it unsafe to assume that having lots of sex helps you save?

Then another one sauntered by: “I respect children’s rights. Do you?”

No. How about those little scalawags respect adults’ rights first. Know what? I say we deny all Ugandan t-shirts their freedom of speech. What say you?

 

Not Boney M Again!

Complicated. A word that earthlings use to cover the bigger picture: bullshit. See, the world is full of bullshit. Even literally. Ask the ministry of agriculture about how many bulls are in Uganda alone. Those things could fill the Chinese sewage system in a space of 24 hours pakalast.

Anyway back to the word: complicated. I’ll give you an example. Did you know that on average a human being will adorn more empathy to “evil gone good” than “good stayed good”? But that’s not what this post is about. This post is about jokes. It’s solely inspired, not by Taylor Swift’s unusual shot at being gangsta, but by the anguish that comes from cracking a joke and getting wtf stares.

So for those of you who act gallingly ignorant about the badness of someone’s joke and just show nugu after hearing a legitimately funny joke, first, bangladesh, and second, just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it’s not funny. Kirabe!

I’m here to give you lessons on how to know what’s funny so that my jokes don’t elude you next time. There are five types of jokes. Well, actually they are four but c’mon, who’ll take you serious if you start a lesson with “there are four types of things”?

Clean jokes:

This is the type you crack and people laugh only because:

1. You’re 10 years old and they are younger,
2. You’re their boss, and
3. There is an inexplicably pesky urge to laugh but there’s nothing around to laugh about.

If someone starts: “Have you heard the one about a mango? Haha you’ll laugh. There’s this mango that liked being eaten…” they’re about to crack a clean joke. It’s best to shut your ears and switch to self-crack or auto-joke mode so that when you laugh, it’s only because you found yourself funny.

Vulgar jokes:

Most blacks thrive on these. Some don’t even find anything funny without even a pinch of crudity. For example: “Your mama is so stupid that she puts lipstick on her head just to make-up her mind” is not black-ly funny unless tweaked to:

Your mathafuckin’ mama so goddamn stupid she fuckin’ puts fuckin’ lipstick on her mathafuckin’ head just to fuckin’ make-up her goddamn mind. Bitch!”

Lil Wizzy, Weasal and, am sure, most of you pervs would find it funny whereas Bill Cosby would look at you with dreary eyes and ask: “Have you heard the one about a mango?”

Eugh jokes:

Probably the most confusing batch. They are not exactly clean and not exactly vulgar either. Simply put, they are sentences rightly articulated to a wrong crowd. For instance, if a modest guy walked up to a fine lady and stated: “You talk too much. Someone should screw your mouth”, they’d never know the actual reason they deserved the sudden aggression.

Ugandan jokes:

These are plain sentences/statements that would ordinarily mean nothing more than what they literally refer to but you just find people laughing. Here’s a random list.

1. You look at this one!
2. Me, I’ll beat you!
3. Eh eh!
4. Ayaaa!
5. This is stupid.

No, I mean this is stupid. Really. I don’t fuckin’ know what got me to write this shit.

 

I Abused You. See For Yourself.

Disclaimer: Everything written here is my opinion. I disclaim anything stated otherwise.

All guys are stupid! By the end of this post, you’ll know why. If you don’t want to know why I spent a multibillion Zimbabwean dollar minute of my time disparaging you, move on to other blogs. Many of me have been complaining about my irritatingly long posts so I’ll make this one a little longer.

Are you talking to me?!

The reason

There are three types of guys: the first type, the second type and the third type. The first type bitch all the time and are essentially stupid, the second type bitch all the time and are essentially stupid and the third type are just there to make this post look informed.

Every dude belongs to either the first or the second category; never both. Now, at this point, you must be like “Hey, isn’t this dude saying shit about himself?” Yes and no. Well, fundamentally, it’s a yes but I just wanted to sound like those learned space scientists on Discovery Channel.

Aha? Go on

I figured if I started with “All chics are stupid!” you’d label me a chauvinist. So now that I satisfied your consciences by starting with the dudes, I can safely move to the actual reason I wrote this post in the first place: chics. All chics are stupid. Why? You’ll know by the end of this post.

Now, this is the point where you ask yourself, “Whose side is this nigga on exactly?” Kakkana. We’ll get there. And the next question would be: “Why does he keep saying we’re stupid and half way the post he still hasn’t given a reason.”

Actually, if you weren’t really stupid, you’d see that I have already proven your stupidity. But of course stupid people can’t deduce anything sensible from a sharp guy like me, right? For that, you’re excused. If you were sure you weren’t what this post claimed you were in the beginning, you wouldn’t be reading all this bullshit.

But the fact that you could actually endure it this far means you’re afraid I’m right and all you wanted to do was find out how the hell I found out about your stupidity. Confusing, huh? Well, that’s just because you’re stupid.

Okay okay. Here’s the actual reason.

I’m kidding. You’re all smart. In your own special ways. Anyone heading with me for the Nkozi thing? There will be lots of chickens…

Don't you just love a setting sun?

 

What Kazini’s Death Means To The Constitution Of Uganda

First…

Kale I am pissed!

 

That shit ain’t cool. It’s my weekend, not yours. Stop acting like it’s any of your business and start minding your own business. Oh, here we go again. What do you mean what am I talking about? I had one of the shittiest weekends this year. See? See? You’re wondering what happened to me. Now go back and read from the start. You’ll know why I’m quarreling.

 

The one supposed to come after this one

There’s this place in Africa called Bugolobi. I passed by on Sunday and found god. No, that wasn’t a typo. He was all dressed in white and driving a Pajero. I asked around and they said it was some new cult. Did any of you see that shit? There was a huge following of about fifty dudes and dudesses all dressed in kanzus.

The holy one had about five bodyguards to protect him from the evil of this world, the poor messiah. I wasn’t there for the service but could sure have used the chance to ask him the gazillion questions running through my mind. Like: “Father, how come you have a Pajero and not something more out of this world, so to speak, like a Range Rover? Are you saying Pajeros are holier?”

Unholy cars...

And: “Oh great one, why did you choose Bugos for your second coming? Lugogo looks divine to me. It has the cricket oval that housed the original world cup and the Game store where we get to buy lots of church wine. And take it home on Saturday night. For church purposes.”

And: “Oh almighty, why is the Uganda Police protecting you? Are you sometimes afraid of the dark? Do you read the Bible?”

And: “Oh alpha, what’s the greater sin; getting high on Alvaro or saying something good about Walker G. Bush?”

And: “Oh oh, is it true angels are ranked from Seraphim to Cherubim to Beyonce?”

The one about fuckin’ cults

It’s stupid when you do something and don’t remember why you did it. Like if you slapped a random dude and the next second forgot why you did it or if you had sex with your girlfriend and can’t recall why exactly you did it. Okay, maybe you should ignore the second example.

Thing is I typed some stuff just before I left work yesterday. I open the doc this morning and lo and behold:

Unedited/Don’t laugh: “She’s the queen of hearts. The choices we make I think I just saw a tortoise. Game crappy card and…woah! Go go go who’s to blame? Lol I fell for the trap again. Dude! Shit! What the..who put it here? Hihihi they saw me”

This is not funny!

To make sense of it, I tried to put the pieces together so I started with “escipe”, then “ipecse”, then “seepic”….nothing made sense. Who in their right freakin’ mind writes this crap? Wait, did I just diss myself? You should learn to respect myself, Erique.

The one with the right title

I don’t know how to laugh in a chat room. Is it “hahaha”, “hehehe”, “hihihi” or do you just type “lol” and back off? This is a matter of life and death. We need to brainstorm and come up with a standard laugh. I once used the common “rotflmfao” and this is how it went:

Eh! This thing can talk! Hello?

EQ: rotflmfao

Chatner: ??

EQ: ??

Chatner: ??

EQ: What?

Chatner: What do you mean rotf…

EQ: I was laughing.

Chatner: ??

EQ: It stands for laughing

Chatner: Can’t you just type ‘laughing’ or haha? There’s even a laughter sign (read emoticon) in the corner.

EQ: *Logged out due to mysterious computer problem.

 

Love Thesis: A Book By Rented

I never gave a shit about heartbreaks till now. I am a big victim. So I wrote a How-To book to help the emotionally emaciated and suffering women and children in Africa.

Book One

There’s something evil about having a big fan who reads your page every single day and you like that fan so much that you’d seize the tiniest chance to date her. It clouds all you want to write about. I’ll give you an example. See this picture down here? I can’t upload it, then drool over it and say: “OMG! SHOHOAGB!”

Makes you speak in tongues backwards

If you didn’t understand that up there, blame facebook, twitter and your phone’s SMS function. My source tells me it means “Oh My God! She Has One Hell Of A Glorious Body!” WTF! ROTFLMAO. Someone should write a dictionary for this stuff. HFFTOO. Have fun figuring that one out.

Book Two

Where were we? The girl. It’s heartbreak warfare out there. You know when you’d do anything for someone but the person who actually possesses her heart treats her like a freakin’ Unilever product? I don’t care what the fuck makes you happy. You do what I want, when I want, period. Makes you question whether you have to be mean to get into someone’s heart. Someone’s heart?

The heart pumping oxygenated emotion through your body

You know, right from Emin Pasture or Louis Pasha or whatever that bacteria worshipping scientist’s name, there’s nowhere it says that emotions are found in the heart. Google it. So when you say “there’s so much L for you in my heart”, you kinda freak me out. Are there arteries and veins that transport oxygenated and deoxygenated love to and from the heart?

Book Three

Strong positive emotion (that’s me trying to avoid saying the L word) blinds you from what’s right for you. It’s true. And that’s exactly why, gentlemen, a girl will fall so hard for the wrong person and still like him no matter how much she’s treated like shit. Only when they actually break up does she see how stupid she was. It’s simple physics, really. If X & Y are constant, proportionate gradients steadily alternate at right angles.

If X=Y, find Z

Try to experiment it by falling in L with someone. Walk up to someone random and tell them “Hey. Erique told me to experiment falling for someone. I’m experimenting liking you. Do you experimentally like me back? We can date. It’s experimental, you know?”

Book Four

The heart will never learn. See, much as you people say I’m emotionally unattached, I actually am. I have an ex to show for it. We went through our share of bitter days: lemon, chili sauce, pili pili, even Mountain Dew. We fought and fought and fought till the referee decided, “Guys, I have mouths to feed at home. Can I go now?”

I remained an emotional celibate which adorned me a few years of a happy I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. Then I found her. Somehow, I let my guard down and then the hurting started again. Funny thing is she did nothing wrong. She’s always had a dude and all I did was be there for her when the dude acted like pupu. Some call it bee (or is it bbi), while the more learned (a.k.a I) call it excrement. In primo, I used to go, “Teacher, I want to excremate.” Cool, huh?

Book Five

The trouble with tears is that they dry. And when they dry, you forget they were ever there. Kleenex does that to you. Or if you use an expensive cotton hankie like the one I have in my pocket right one. Gucci? Please! It’s from Nytil, thank you.

So what’s my point? No, that’s not me asking something rhetorical before going ahead and giving you the answer. That’s me actually forgetting what point I’m trying to make. Oh, it came back. My point is let’s all join hands in helping the destitute and heartbroken. They have no food to eat, no clothes to wear, no place to call home, nothing. See for yourself.

Africa: No food, no clothes, no shelter

 

Relationships!

Dear Doctor,

I’m in dire need of help. There’s this chicken that keeps pooping on my part of the verandah. I’m on the fourth floor but I don’t get how it somehow manages to trot up and pick on my door every time. I’ve tried all sorts of remedies from putting ‘welcome’ signs on my neighbours’ doors to hanging the Zimbabwean flag on mine. Damn it, I even tried painting the Nazi symbol and hanging Bush’s face below it but that didn’t work either. Today I painted ‘NSSF’ just above my lock and pasted beautiful pics of several wetlands on my neighbours’ doors. That should work ’cause me doctor if it doesn’t, me our relationship is going to the dogs. Literally. Please help.

E.M

 

In Search Of Sanity.

Timecheck: 7:30P.M. I missed work today ’cause I was stoned silly. Someone lied to me it’s a public holiday. Mbu I hear it’s temangalo day-a day to remember all our martyrs like Jamwa and Kagonyera. I woke up early this morning to go shop a few dozen tuskers and on my way there was this taxi conductor. He didn’t seem to mind that I was seated on a heated old chair in an old taxi coming from the old taxi park moving behind a miserably old beetle under the pissed off sweating sun. He kept picking his nose and carefully scrutinizing every inch of every pick as if to wonder which of his nostrils was better behaved. Each time, he brushed his fingers against his light brown shirt that had all kinds of greases, except for the last time. He grossly lifted out the last gu-thing, subjected it to the same analysis before sliding it across his index nail and pushing it across using his thumb for perfect rocket lift off. It must have landed behind somewhere on one of the unnoticing passengers. He’s lucky no one saw him do it except for the one dude seated next to him (oh, no need for the ovation boys and girls).

There was no way in hell I was going to accept any change from this son of Eve. I quickly pulled out my wallet in search of coins but couldn’t help noticing his suddenly unwavering gaze fixed down on my wallet. It took him a whole ten seconds to realise I had stopped what I was doing to look at him. He was so intent on looking at the contents, I had to look out the window to make sure it was still daylight and there were enough people to guarantee a merciless death with mob burnt tyres and stuff.

He looked me straight in the eye with his bloodshot eyes for a full fifteen or so seconds before remembering what mummy had taught him-it’s impolite to look one straight in the face without reason. I kept staring at him hoping he would get the point.

He did. He returned the gaze to the wallet, and figuring this wasn’t the kind to reason with I kept on with my business. 20k, 5k, 1k, 50k…”Siyina change,” he shouted loud enough for my drooling neighbour to shoot out of slumber. I hadn’t pulled out anything but this bangladesh (it was as big as bastard back then) was screaming and adding, “kozi ng’ozeenoonyekeza” Offspring of a female dog!

 

Rise Of Victor

What's that on your neck, lemme see...

I woke up from my one thousand years of slumber yesterday and found someone had maliciously edited my people’s speech (and who trimmed my fucking teeth?!). Now all speech in my vampdom is fuckin’ wasted. People curse every goddamn second these days. Can you freakin’ believe that? And what’s this Chameleon everyone keeps whining about? Then there’s the 105-year old virgin (no fuckin’ morals). And whoever said this country is hot is a fucking lying whore (thank you DeTamble). It’s ain’t. It’s just some filthy piece of Sevoacious garbage…wait, I thought I instructed Yoweri to sleep after his five hundred years of rule. First thing I gotta do is change the meanings of words to their original context.

• Fuck: To insert a perfectly straight thing into a consenting hole and repeating this ritual until the two objects get so irritated to the point of throwing up.
Viva la Vida: Previously stood for anything positive from greeting to appreciation to awe. Consult DeTamble on more of its usage.

• Virgin: A being that engages in above ritual but says nothing about it to anyone.
Violet Hill: Previously used to refer to a being that had clocked 100 years of age or above. See, I’m a virgin.

• Evil: The act of listening to a 50Cent track.
Lovers In Japan: Previously stood for the act of listening to a 50Cent track.

• Good: Sucking the blood out of Obama and McCain (those werewolves).
Reign Of Love: Cheers Bob Barr, Chuck Baldwin, Cynthia McKinney and Ralph Nader. You guys rule big time.

• Hilarious: Inserting a One Tree Hill Season 4 DVD into your player.
Lost!: Actually watching it.

• Asshole: The local disk that carries all the (normally) brown vista out of the other physical partitions. It can withstand many viruses and bacteria.
Cemeteries Of London: The word here is out, boys and boys of the Kiwewesi clan.

• Player: You’re grown up, you kiss your kids goodbye and leave for work. At work you put on shorts, fight so hard to get the ball and when you finally get it you kick it away. What’s wrong with you?
Life In Technicolor: You have a girlfriend, a wife, a mistress, and a MUK chic.

• Confessions: I juju’d Chameleon.
Death And All His Friends: I don’t want the media or anyone else to be around for the next one. Only the elite – parliamentarians.

• High: Board a plane to Uganda and then call it a fascinating country.
The Escapist: Stay wherever you are and support a green environment.

• American: Africans are so corrupt. They don’t know how to handle money.
Yes: Africa is a country deep within the Zimbabwean jungles.

• Pussy: I think every guy should have a pet.
Strawberry Swing: I think every girl should be innovative with their guys’ birthday gifts.

• Baby: An irritatingly whining infant.
Chinese Sleep Chant: An adorably sweet adult.

• One: She told me I was the only one.
42: That she cheated on.

 

For Shizzie

“I’am sending ma shawtz out 2 ma palz from shule, ma mam, ‘nd oll ma brathaz. I request 4 da song Kiwaani bye bebe wine. Du u hav also distubia bye rihanna. piss out”

This isn’t a TV show so quit reaching for your phone. This is a text I saw on NBS yesterday (I swear) and it got me wondering why texting has to be harder than Newton’s law. (And what the hell was a genius doing under an apple tree at a time he was supposed to be doing one of those genius things?) Clearly, this bonafide amateur was apparently shortening his text while trying to sound learned (as defined in Nigadom).

Let’s analyse this message:

Frown:
At first glance it meant this dude was sending his shawty… (of course I tried to auto-correct just to make sense out of it)… was sending his shawty to his friends and she was coming from school, probably with a message or whatever from him. It was meant to be delivered to his mother and brothers. Somehow the sendees (I’ve been assimilated) were supposed to play him a song, “Kiwaani bye bebe wine”. Either that or he was bidding farewell to the Bebe Kool/Bobi Wine beef. Then another song, “Disturbia bye rihanna” (Google has still failed me on this one). I don’t know about the issues at home but he told the family to piss outside (maybe they have latrines). Was it a sudden burst of rage?

Gnash teeth:
Then I looked at the message again. It kind of sort of, umm, made sense but my hand was still up. “Teacher me, teacher me…”. “Yes, Erique?”
This homie’s brain figured he was sending a text so it sent electric signals through his spine to his fingers. It employed the best intellect this brother possessed and instructed his fingers to shorten words into text format. So this quick-witted, intelligent, sharp brainy (Morris set precedence here) shortened words as seen below:
Word              Shorter version
I’m                      I’am
Shouts                Shawtz
My                      Ma
And                    ‘nd
All                      Oll
By                       Bye
Do                      Du

Pick dagger:
It’s ‘by’ you schizophrenic prick. And every Tom, (I don’t need to repeat myself), and Harry knows Bebe Kool and Bobi Wine are two different things. Let me guess. You’re a big fan of Rihanna’s Disturbia, right? Oh, no reason. It’s just apparent. Later dawg. Peace out. Wait, let’s do that again: Peace out. Once more, once more… PEACE OUT.

Stab the mathafucker:
Why the hell would you use nigga, request for Disturbia and then send greetings to your mum? Seriously, what’s this guy smoking? Then he tells her to piss. At some point it ceases to be funny. Reminds me of this time Kazoora (R.I.P) ISO satisfied (yes, satisfied) Rwenzori mineral water on KFM. I think it’s the station that should have been fired for airing this bullshit. You still haven’t got the gist, have you? It’s ISO certified. Try to catch up.

 

How To Be A Bad Hip Hop Star

Every one of us has dreamt of him or herself in the Madison Square Garden or, for those passionate about staying local, in the Lugogo Cricket Oval singing to an enormous crowd amidst deafening applause. Unfortunately, we always wake up. Want to be a hip hop star? Here are five simple steps on how to.
1. First, you have to change your dress code to suit the likes of your forefathers. Something close to Kunta Kinte will do. Just put on some faded jeans and tear them at various spots especially the knees. Sag them so that the belt is tightened mid-butt and not at the waist. This way a reasonably big part of your underpants will be advertised. Never put on a shirt. It’s really uncivilized. Let all your burn marks and the spots that you labeled with a black marker show. If the worst requires you to cover the upper part of your body, a vest and a cap worn askew will do. Then, put some shiny shackles around your neck. They can be readily acquired from the Luzira prison guards or from any bored policeman in town. The point is dress like a pre-colonial African slave.
2. Speaking English will certainly not get you a record deal. Speak Nigga. Do not say, “Good morning Steve Jean, please sign me onto your label. Here’s my demo.” He will have to hire an interpreter. Simply bounce up to him awkwardly like a lame zombie and after bonga-ring you can go, “Yo yo ma nigga wadup. I gats me a cool joint up in this b@!*% (hand him the CD). You gotta check it out and drop me onto your label, dog. Feel me?” Now smile proudly. In the Hip-hop advanced learner’s dictionary the word “friend” does not exist. The closest terms are homie, player, dog (dawg for other sects), and nigga.
3. OK, now you have been given a record deal. Try as hard as you can to sensor the words people call clean. It’s good to be vulgar. Forget what mummy taught you about good language and what the church will say. They are the bad guys. In fact, why don’t you pick up some beef along the way? It is perfectly healthy to engage in brawls every once in a very short while. More fights mean more respect which interpretes to more cash. Get angry. You don’t have to have a reason. The name of another artiste is reason enough. Tell everyone you are the best, the biggest boss, the baddest, number one in the game and all that crap. It doesn’t matter that you don’t own the world. Just let everyone know you are better than them anyway. Club Silk is a cool place to start a fight. A hotel in Tanzania is just perfect.
4. Now it’s time to make the video. Collect a few green bills to throw around during the shooting. They don’t have to be actual currency. Manila paper will do just fine. It’s meant to give the idea you are the bestest, baddest, and every other –est. Waste some champagne onto the ground (you can shop mob tuskers and pour into champagne bottles), collect a few girls, strip them to their knickers and (yes, loose the bras too. It’s for the good of mankind) instruct them to shake any part of their body outrageously. Again, do not break the ‘no shirt’ rule. Glue a few pieces of broken glass onto your incisors and canines and keep pretending to smile. Never mind that you are supposed to be throwing hate words at someone. Just smile. The broken glass is good for your image.

Just Chillin'

5. Now you are a superstar and have to tour the region promoting your new album. This is the easiest part. You don’t have to actually sing. You are the master and the crowds are your slaves. Just let them pay their money and instruct them to put their hands up in the air like they just don’t care, wave them to the left, right, left, right, say eeh, say ooh, when I say this, you say that, this, that, this, that. Now you can throw yourself into the crowd. Don’t mind the cuts and bruises when you get back onto the stage. Just keep instructing them to pump it up, pump it up…

 

How To Get Rid Of That B*&^%

Many of us have like encountered a stalker at a point in our lives. If you have, sorry but if you haven’t, well, sorry. There comes a point in life when you have had one too many sweethearts that it inevitably narrows down to salthearts. You kind of love it at first (Who wouldn’t. Duh), but little by little you drift towards falling in love with hating them. Guys, here is a chance to redeem yourself with 5 magical ways to make sure you lose her. I guarantee you they will work because if they don’t the only other alternative is she’ll kill you.

1. Love her back.
You probably think I am insane but just let me plead my case your honor. This doesn’t mean you should easily give in to her. It means do exactly what she is doing, only to a bigger degree. So she has refused to leave you. So she is stalking you. What’s the big deal? Return the favor. You could start by kneeling in public and crying uncontrollably in front of her about how much you love her and while at it you could tear your shirt to show utmost dedication just like the Old Testament prophets did. When she pays you a visit do not let her leave. Tell her you love her so much that you never want her to leave you. Literally. When you need to leave, say for work, lock her in the house with the explanation that you love her so much and don’t want any other man laying eyes on her. You will easily pass for insanity. Another good thing about the ‘love her back’ theory is they never expect it so they will pull back questioning your motives. It’s like stopping to actually listen to what those annoying roadside preachers are saying. They do it banking on the belief that no one is actually listening. If you stop to look and listen they are baffled and will dedicate the rest of their time to looking at this idiot staring at them like he’s got no better place to be.

2. Make a ‘favorite things’ list.
This is just meant to target the things she hates most. Make sure you start liking the things she holds in greatest disdain. There are some you have to discover on your own and others that are simply universal. For example these nankanis…the two noise makers, Lace & Brick. Any normal person hates them. Or at least should. Tell her you like reading The Red Pepper because it is the most reliable newspaper and you love the Al Qaeda because they act for the greater good. Stalkers are a very cunning species, though. She could start liking things she previously hated just to impress you. Step it up a notch. Tell her you love politics and make sure every conversation somehow ends up in politics just to drive the point home. She could be like, “Honey, I got you something. I hope you like it” and then you go, “Oh, a burger? These things are really expensive these days. Not with the NRM economy today. There are just too many taxes and Museveni doesn’t really mind. Kony is unfairly treated and Bukenya is…” Go on and on about how those enyesyesyefu people are just fooling around…

3. Act the bad guy.
This requires you to build a highly destructive profile. The easiest way is to spread a rumor about how you switch girlfriends as easily as socks. This sometimes backfires because they normally go after those with girlfriends thinking they are the better catch. So then you have to go wild. You could say you are HIV positive or you are a high profile fugitive on the CIA’s most wanted list. The best way to spread such rumors is through her friends. Become friends with one or two of her friends and during conversation you could surreptitiously slip in a few sentences matter-of-factly. You could say, “I don’t know the best way to tell her I’m HIV positive. I want her to love me as I am and don’t want to lose her. I love her so much.” Then shed a tear or two for effect. You know how chics are. That is the last you’ll ever see of any of her friends. She’ll probably change her mobile number thinking she will catch the virus just from talking to you. Not that you’ll call her anyway.

4. Forget the special days.
This hurts the most. Days like her birthday and Valentine’s day are held so dearly that missing them is equivalent to stabbing her in the heart. So you can construe this as committing murder without having to go to prison. When her birthday comes around remember to forget it. The worst case scenario is she will call you on her birthday eve just to remind you. Just feign surprise, “Oh my God! I totally forgot and it’s already too late to plan anything now. I have a business meeting in Nani tomorrow. But it’s not such a big deal. Just go chill chill with a few buddies and be around around what. I promise to be with you in spirit. There’s always a next time.” And then when Valentine’s day comes around you could be like, “Goodness! I don’t know why I keep thinking it is actually the 14th of gundi (jeer and snap fingers for effect)…of March. I could have saved some money.” Sometimes they get desperate and want to foot all the bills if that’s what it takes to spend time with you. The best thing to do is use that day to visit long lost friends and relatives. I believe there would be lots to catch up with grandma.

5. Be straight with her and tell her you do not love her.
You probably think I am a jerk for not telling you this in the first place. But let’s be honest. You only read this because you had tried all the conventional methods, this one inclusive, and failed. So read on. Let us put a small wicked twist to it. The nastiest way to do it is to go public. Call Capital FM’s DJ Ronnie of the Late Date (is it still running?) and reach out to her live on air. Tell her, “Angel, I love you so much and it hurts me to have to do this but…” Give it a few seconds to sink in painfully hard and slow then “…I don’t love you. In fact it doesn’t really hurt me. I feel so good saying it. You’ve been a pain in the anus and all the sorrounding areas for a very long time Ruth…I mean Jessica…sorry Julia. Who am I talking to anyway? Who’s this?” No, you are not finished. “I hate you and only wanted to use you. You heard me right. Use you. And now I’m fed up. I’m moving…Hello! Suzan?…Hello!…”

 

Vengeance Knows No Mercy

They Killed His Son. Now He's Back!

Some time back a friend said something shockingly sensible in decades (way to go Rev). WBS TV still uses VCRs to play all their programs (VCRs!) and the police are doing nothing. Even their live news is recorded. The topic somehow evolved to hollywood movies and their cliched stunts.
Why does the bad guy waste no time fighting the extra good guys (the cops and stuff) and then when it comes to the main good guy he yaps and yaps right to death. The idiot comes in, cocks the .357 magnum, starts about how he’s “finally got you. Thought you’d stop me, huh? Well, say your last prayers…” Then recocks the gun and that’s when the good guy turns around in abrupt fury to kick the gun away. That ain’t no hero act.

Oh, and how about the part where the good guy is beaten, beaten and then during the last seconds he suddenly recalls his late father’s words: “I love you son, never accept defeat, yada yada yada” In those chinese movies (God bless the heyday) it was the master’s words: “The tiger monkey snake chimpanzee cow hook is the best defence”

Haaa, then he jumps up and does one of those flying back kicks and the bad guy dies. Seriously, what the fuck! During the reminiscing what was the bad guy doing? Having memories of his own? Replenishing his make-up? Taking a break with his favorite 50 Cent (sucker) song?
Then it comes to adventure movies. A guy enters a blindingly dark cave and lights a matchstick. Somehow it has the power to light up the Wembley stadium. There’s this part where they go to bed and switch off all lights including the bed lamp. I don’t know how strong these actors are in God but miraculously we can somehow still see them. Probably our TV screens provide the illumination.
Then we come to my favorite comedies-horror movies. The ghosts really crack me up. They’ve come to kill a guy but they have a game (probably some kind of ritual) they play first. They swish and swash behind and sideways trying to scare him. Why the hell don’t they just get it over with? Will the movie be too short? And the chics in these movies are always really dumb. I think they should make an all-guy horror movie (I see the gays grinning. Wipe that silly smirk off your face, punk).

Anyway, where was I…yes, I was asking where I was. You know, detective movies should be stopped altogether. They’re trying to find the killer and the camera guy knows who he is the whole time. Who are they kidding? They make breaking into houses so easy. I swear I tried breaking into my room with my ATM card but had to pay a fine to Stanbic the next day. If you know about any more of this crap please post it here.

 

Before Death Hollas

Today I got a ‘rocket-ful’ cough and realised I could die at any time. So I leaned back into my supposed death chair and started reminiscing. Going back in time, there are many events that remind me of what I’d love to do before I die.

My agent gives Bush the dreaded news

I’d love to:

1. Throw Curtis Jackson nine more shots (Yeah, I’m the one who shot that idiot. Sue me). This time in the head. And one in his nutsack. Then pledge 50 cents if he doesn’t release another CD. Screw you 50. You suck. Go go go out of the industry.

2. Donate my son to Michael Jackson. This white boy is a big blessing to us. Why sue the dear prick? He’s only trying to have some fun. This is the king of pop we are talking about here. Instead, you should sue him for not screwing your kid. I mean, what, isn’t he boy enough for you, Michael?

3. Sue SABC for defaming Africa. I can’t believe what these guys think of Africa. Have you watched them? They portray us as a flourishing continent full of fun and modernity. They show multi-storeyed buildings, sane leaders, mobile phones, people in good health, war-free zones, cars. Can you believe this? You guys are tarnishing our reputation. Watch CNN, BBC, Sky and you’ll know what Africa really looks like.

4. Create a country, become its President, start manufucturing nukes, and start a war with a smaller country just to piss off Bush. Looks like it’s the trend these days. This guy has the biggest comedy show worldwide. Every TV station airs him cracking jokes like “We shall not allow this, we’ll take serious action against blah, blah, blah.” Oh, and this is verbatim. Ha ha, this guy really cracks me up. Hey George, you’ll always be my dawg. Big up to Laura.

5. Hook Sarkozy up with my porn star buddy. This guy has a knack for picking out the trendy babes and somehow making a big deal out of it. My buddy here…(hey, put your clothes back on Monica)…anyway, my buddy here has an impressive background. She has interned at the whitehouse and is looking for another hotshot with whom to share the fame.

6. Become an Asian-based superhero. Do you realise that since time immemorial all the superheroes live in and try to save the US first. Even the villains pick on America. Do these guys find nothing to destroy elsewhere in the world? Look, the Middle Easterners have Osama, the Russians have Putin, the Cubans have Castro, the Africans proudly have Mugabe, even our Thai buddies have that President cum cook. This is a message to all the villains living and working in the US.

Then the plane ran out of fuel, caught fire and the pilot and waitresses died. I had no one to bring me food so I got a parachute and landed back in Uganda:

1. Sell some land to NSSF. I hear it’s the quickest way to get rich without anyone knowing.

2. Release a hit single featuring Red Banton, Ras Dee, Loketto Lee & all the paraphernalia. I’ll be called Bad Dee Reggae Man Base…yo yo yo, watchi disssss.

3. Become a Ugandan Pastor. Then I’ll be able to heal chics by touching them eeeeeeverywhere with the power of the holy-wood ghost and make them shudder with “yes, yes, yeees” before they fall down all wet…with holy water you sick bastard!

4. See an era without Sevo. This will take quite some time so I think I’ll pass it on to my great great great grandsons. I hear there’s a guy who predicted that M7 will relinquish power soon. It was back in 1986. He’s still in Butabika.

5. See a news story in The Red Pepper. One easily thinks “big sexual prowess” is a requirement to get employed with this here most reliable paper in Uganda.

6. Become an Ugandan M.P and say something sensible. I hear these guys mbu they be staying up at night partying and shopping whores using government vehicles. Did you know that a group of Owls is called a Parliament?

 

I Want My Mummy

A friend today broke up with his girlfriend so I’d request the blogging fraternity to observe a moment of silence for our beloved brother’s loss (…). Okay, so back to serious business. The following is guy talk so lady, if you could please move that little cursor to the top right corner of your screen, kindly click that red X button. Yes, go right ahead…Chips, chaps, chicken, ch-smirnoff… You couldn’t resist that, could you? We promise not to talk about it so off you go.

I think congrats are in order for this here brother in distress. He can now proudly say “I’ve been through it all” and sound like a real man. Dude, do you know how many people would die to be elevated to the prestigious ranks of having an ex? This comrade is crying and ranting about how he can never ever find someone like her, how he can’t live without her; he even quit his job. It got too bad that we had to purify one of our friends and offer her as a sacrifice just so he could come back to sanity (Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one who brought up the idea). Anyway, personally I don’t feel sorry for this dude. I knew it was a raw deal ever since they hooked up six months ago. She wanted this guy for friendship because he was “so sweet” and he wanted her for a relationship and ebigenderako because she was “so sweet”. There seems to be a middle ground here but it looks like males and females have different perceptions.

What beats me is women always know a guy is into them but because of the undeserved care and attention they find it hard to let go. They try to make their availability apparent while masking the truth. This dude always asked why she doesn’t return his calls and texts most of the time and she gave the stupidest and most common reason: “I rarely have airtime and anyway that’s how I be”. She works with Zain. Another time we were at Bubbles and he called to ask if she could join him for the night. “I’m at the airport waiting for a friend”. I left to get us some drinks and found she had teleported back to the counter. She looked so jetlagged from the sudden speed and some other guy was comforting her with a ‘welcome back’ kiss on the lips. I ordered for a Zappa instead of a tusker for him before I could deliver the blow but later decided against it. I figured she would probably realize her mistake and apologise but clearly, I know so little about the female species.

About two months later she decided this guy was worth a shot. So she called a panel of her peers to give a verdict before she went ahead with her decision. (Apparently, one of the chics ratted out to him. Humans!) Metaphorically speaking, the first ten gave a ‘yes’ except for the forewoman and another one. Since the jury had failed to come to a conclusion she decided on ‘guilty’ and sentenced him to heavy drinking, quitting the job, whining, ranting and rolling on the ground with no chance for parole. No, the drama doesn’t end.

His lawyer tried to appeal the decision but it turns out the prosecutor had a crush on him. They slept. Again, I can’t tell the victim otherwise he’ll put a whole new meaning to ‘I can’t live without her’. I’ll save this valuable piece of info for “you better do me this favour or I tell…” Guys, I need some advice for this guy, and ladies, I know you read this so the question is, “why do you have to be so callous?”

 

I Kissed A Girl…

“Dude, you better sprint before he finds you here. Otherwise you’re done man. Here, take my car. It’ll take you faster.”

72 Hours Earlier

Saturday
It’s 3.00pm and we’re seated at Nando’s. Guys, it’s Nando(apostrophe)s. So basically we don’t say Nandosss but Nandozzz. See, the logic here is…ugh, this isn’t what I came to talk about. Anyway, everything is normal save for this stubborn fly that keeps insisting it heard my burger calling its name. The jazz with my three buddies is flowing normally from women to cars, technology, women, hangouts, women, designs…and women (I almost forgot).

Blast (he talked too loud) saw her first before her killer fume announced her presence. I turned to…mmmm…she meant to peck my cheek but I turned too fast and our lips collided. She was back!
“Hi guys,” flew out of Perry’s luscious lips in perfect harmony with a sensuous smile that easily made the devil give up his job just to spend eternity with her.
“Whatsup P,” came the reply from the guys but somehow they kept looking at me instead. Everyone knew the power this…this angel (for lack of anything better) had over me. And she knew it too.
“H-Hi Perry,” came the near-whisper. Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me she was back? Did they know? The smirk on Big T’s face said it all. You bastard.
Next month would have marked two years since we last saw each other. It hurt when she said she was leaving for the U.S for further studies and I figured I would never see her again. I dedicated the rest of my life to forgetting her and would have made great success in about 80-90 years. But here she was to torment me all over again.

I was too lost in awe that I forgot I was standing and just staring at her. She was now in my seat. I fumbled for another one just next to our table. The speed my friends used to make space for me next to her reminded me of Jesus’ welcome to Jerusalem. You should have seen it. I had nowhere to start. Wow, you look lovely. How have you been? When did you drop in? Do you have someone else? Damn, where did you get that dress? Have you listened to the new Coldplay? Shit. Focus Erique.

“So…umm…wow, you’re really good at surprises, aren’t you?” You’re kidding me!
She just smiled. No, please don’t smile, please. It’s not fair to a brother.
“It’s really lovely to see you again Perry. When did you get back?”
“Oh, just yesterday. Thought I’d surprise you. How’re you?”
“Great. You sure did surprise me.” Enough with the surprises already. “I really missed you, you know?”
She laughed (wow, guys see. I made Perry laugh). “I wondered when you’d say that. We’ll see about that later.” Wait, later? What did she mean later? Did she mean…? I knew I still had a reason to live.

The next jazz revolved around what she had been up to, what I had become, what she planned to do next, and all the usual ‘it’s been long’ chit chat. We tried to steer clear of the relationships topic probably because we were scared of being hurt. She had to be somewhere so we decided to meet the next day at about the same time.

Sunday
She came over to my place and before long we were making love to our tea cups. It was a cold day and we decided to do coffees. Here were two people who had not really broken up but were not really in a relationship…yet…again. Did I mention it was a cold day? I don’t think I need to spell it out for you. We’re all adults here and it’s perfectly normal for two people of the opposite sex to get comfortable, if you know what I mean. Anyway, let’s cut to the chase. I got two sweaters and gave the better to her. She sat over there and I sat over here to avoid doing bad manners. About twenty songs and two teas later we were miraculously cuddled on the bed separated only by our clothes. We had so much to say that we stopped talking and let our lips get better acquainted.

After getting satisfied with the foreign currency exchange she begged me to go see where she stayed in Kansanga and, of course I had to spend the night. She stayed with the brother but we found he was asleep. We sneaked in at about 1.00am and headed straight to her bedroom where we had sexual intercourse for about two hours (this ad is sponsored by Tusker Malt lager).

Monday
I woke up at about 8.00am and decided to turn the day into a weekend extension. Anything for my vivacious princ…where was she? She wasn’t in bed with me and I turned to find the brother leaning against the door staring hard at me with a cup of coffee in his hand. She’ll most probably read this page so I won’t call her brother creepy. No. I love her so much to start calling her 23 year old brother a sick freak. I mustered enough strength to ask him where she had gone.
“Who? Perry?” No, the President of the Philippines. “She’s in the living room with dad.”
What the… These guys still lived with their parents?
“He came to drop her car and see how she’s doing before he leaves for work. She asked me to tell you she’s really sorry but she’ll cal you. You should go before he comes in here. Man you’re not hurt or anything, are you?” Gee, you think?

I didn’t know which of the million questions to start with but the next statement guided me.

“Dude, you better sprint before he finds you here. Otherwise you’re done man. Here, take my car. It’ll take you faster.” He threw me his keys and I only thanked God his windows were tinted. Later, she called and explained everything but I’m kinda tired to tell you now. Catch you later. It was mega fun though.

 

The Adventures Of Eri-berry Finn

Some chic told me I’m not so adventurous. I got so pissed, got up from my very sumptuous plate of pig (who does that?) and jumped onto the first taxi to Jinja just for the fun of it. So let me fill you in on my very adventurous journey.

For once in a long time I sat next to a quiet passenger. This shabbily suited up guy sat silently still just looking down at his leather case as if wondering how it had mysteriously gotten there. Not minding him I opted to stare out the window aimlessly like every Ugandan passenger is supposed to do by law. I saw boy and girl strolling hand-in-hand, lying to each other about forever (poor dude, he doesn’t know what’s coming), this polite lady showing 200 shillings worth of mercy to a street beggar (poor woman, what will she feed her kids?), this big guy cruising a brownish H2 series Hammer (poor idiot, he probably couldn’t save up enough money to buy a toyota coronna). Life! I switched sights a little higher and was slapped in the face by this super duper James Bond billboard. This pic was sure worth a nod and so i nodded. I have to catch the premier of this thing. I think it’s called Quantum Physics or something like that.

Bored with the sites I switched to my phone radio. As I scrolled through the stations there’s this ad that struck me as kinda stupid. Which kid would be happy that daddy opened an account for him as a birthday present? DFCU, I hope this doesn’t tarnish my prospects of getting a job. Apart from your name sounding like something-something Church of Uganda I have no beef.

Anyway, this ad forced me to flip to Touch FM’s morning show. i don’t know what made me cheat on Melanie and Fatboy but I’m afraid whatever I listened to will traumatise me forever. Mystri! This guy’s lucky the taxi wasn’t heading to kamwokya otherwise I swear nandimwokyezza. nze? I’ve never cried since that fat matron caught me taking some of Muwonge’s posho without anyone else’s knowledge (it’s not like i wasn’t going to tell him…some time…later…in life). This guy made me cry. He cracked annoying jokes and laughed through my earphones. Let’s not cross paths Mystri. Let’s not cross paths. Heee Mmhmm!

I got bored with radio and sleep got the best of me. I woke up in hell and surpirisingly it was so windy. Lucifer was standing right infront of me preaching about how immoral Big Brother is (this guy wasn’t so bad afterall). All of a sudden he got so passionate about it that he started nudging me with his elbow. I shot out of sleep to find the quiet passenger had opened my window and was extending saliva-tory charity to my face with profuse determination while preaching about the demerits of BBA3.
“Me u see me? I can’ta watch sucha madness! Even this this part where this Africana woman got the sponge and entered it through her underwear to wash her privacy? I can’ta berrieve people were rraughing.” Whatever I had done to this guy I was willing to apologise and compensate him. His anger seemed to have been ignited by something i did. What was…wait, the t-shirt. ’se7en. This guy thought I’m a Sevo supporter? He didn’t give me time to think.
“Rook rook,” he blurted as he shuffled through his case and pulled out a ramshackle foolscap. “Rook, I gota my own son writing ngu vote raiko out. I said nangwa. No. I am never going to pay for the dstv again.” Then he turned to passenger two. Phew! Sorry pal. Your turn.

As I wondered what had gotten into this western brother I couldn’t help but notice a poster screaming ‘St. Zalwango SSS’. I have a confession. I’m not an ardent reader of the Bible but in all religious life right from the day I swam out of him I’ve never recalled a Bible Saint called Zalwango. Do people just apply for these Titles? Oh, and I was surprised to find schools with sss…1,2,3…ss..4,5…s… still existed. I miss the S era. Their motto is off the hook: “We are the best in academic excellency” I see so much originality and excellency.

Then there was this roadside joint made mainly out of iron sheets. It was labelled ‘Chips Hotel’. Some made guys could be seen inside this hotel with their lips being linked to pots by long straws. I stopped in Lugazi and got a taxi back to Kampala district where we have big hotels like Serena and Sheraton.

 

When You Lose Something You Can’t Replace

The following is written simply out of pain, anger, love or something. So forgive me if I get emotional coz sometimes the tears are unbearable to hide…

Remember when I told u I kissed a girl? Well, I lied. I only created this perfect moment in mind where everything came back into place. I’m not as crazy as the guy you saw in that story. I only try to be, just to find my place in life and try to make sense of it. The part about the feelings is, however, true.

Her name is Kathy. All close call her Kate hence the derivation of Perry from Katy Perry. She was…she’s still the best thing that ever happened to me. There’s something unfathomably divine about her that just makes me feel alive. Sad thing is she’s not mine. And probably never will be…again. She’s the perfect blend of vivacity and charm, the girl that tore my life apart, I bleed but my heart still beats, desperately holding on to life and trying to find meaning. She’s the one that has driven the sense out of my life, a life that once held limitless promise. It’s been two whole years since the breakup but I’m still falling apart. It’s a storm that, however hard I try, will never get out of. I’ve lost my way and it kills me that I leave a big mess everywhere I go. Why does it hurt so much? Why does someone fail to find beauty in life just because of one otherwise insignificant person.

It was towards the end of my first year at MUK when we started moving out. I was the truest definition of a novice when it came to relationships and that day was the start of life for me. We were classmates and I had spent the entire year deriving satisfaction from just staring at her. At some point I attended class only to look at her. No one noticed coz I strategically placed myself at the back of the class. I simply stared and built a life so big that by the end of every class I had built her castles that made the Taj Mahal shed tears. Our kids were in the backyard playing while we lounged in the swimming pool with Barcadis and stuff. My Range Rover was parked over there and I still couldn’t get why my workmate was taking long with the CLS500 Mercedes. Anyway, no worries we’d use the Lear jet. We just had to spend some time at the Eiffel tower. I was getting stupid…yes, I was definitely in love.

It took me quite some time to finally muster the strength to walk up to her with the lamest line. Don’t ask. You’ll laugh at me. My feet surprised me that day. I was so scared by they kept defying me. They just kept moving…towards her. My lips joined the rebellion and just started saying something…anything. Equally surprising was her flattering response. Wait, did she just say yes? I had been so straight to the point coz I only wanted to get it over with before it killed me. I expected a smack, a sneer and a walk away.

From then on my spark was ignited. I was finally alive. Everything I did I did for her. I lived for her. I was ready to throw out anyone from friends to family if they ever came between us. I just didn’t care. She was mine. I was ready to follow her into the dark.

It was all so smooth for a year before everything started taking the wrong turn. It’s like she had suddenly realised she was a marvel and wasn’t ready to do nothing about it. She was propositioned and chased after endlessly and that’s when the pressure set in. You see, everything I experienced with her, I experienced for the first time. This was all new to me and I had no idea how to handle it. Should I simply do my part and let her be? Maybe then she won’t consider me clingy. Should I get tough and tell her to stop or else…? She’ll think I’m overreacting, over protective and acting like we’re married. I just didn’t want to lose her. Ever. There were late night phone calls, she went out with guys I didn’t know and said they were ‘just friends’, she criticised almost everything I did to please her. She suddenly hated public affection and simply introduced me as ‘…Erique’, not ‘…my boyfriend, Erique.’ Where had I gone wrong? What did I do to deserve this?

All these guys were working class guys so I nagged everyone I knew for a job. I just wanted to change into whatever she wanted me to be. Just please don’t go Kate. My friends noticed all this and told me to break it up. That was the end of our friendship. (I’m terribly sorry Tony, Ivan, Julio, Benz, Rev and whoever I hurt). I thought it was cowardly to just back out without a fight. Girls want their men to fight for them and this is the road I had to take. I would be all that she wanted me to be, I’d do anything to win her back.

I never saw how serious things could get till the worst started happening. I heard stories about her making out with guys in clubs but I wasn’t going to believe such bullshit. Then I saw her kiss someone else at Steakout;a famous ex-basketballer. It hurt more to think I was so small in this big circle of hotshots. Then another time she cried coz some guy had failed to turn up. She cried for someone else right infront of me.

Kate, why did you honestly have to do these things to me? Why? And you had to pick up Dan’s call and flirt with him while we made out? Yeah, so long ago but I remember. Did you have to spend nights at someone’s place and call in the morning to ask if I was pissed? Did you, Kate? You didn’t have to bleed me so much.You knew we were not yet over. You knew it and yet you slept with him. Remember the day I walked into you and him in bed? The blood just wasn’t enough for you now, was it? You went ahead and told him to chase me away like we had never met. You just stood there as he cruelly told me off. The guy who had stolen you away from me was telling me off and yet I was somehow invisible to you.

No, it wasn’t enough. You knew I wasn’t over you but you went ahead and ran to me when you two had problems. Remember? The tears you cried infront of me over someone else? Over and over again.

I know I’ve done quite some very stupid things in life that I fervently regret but somehow I don’t regret the day I literally shed blood for her. It had gotten unbearable and yet nothing was stealing the pain. I was so broken and found no meaning in life. I still have the scar on my left palm from when I tried to kill myself. Stupid, right? I’m supposed to look back and laugh, right? I still regret why I never succeeded.

I embarrased myself yesterday when I saw her again. I got so drunk and told her exaclty how I felt. Clearly I still have strong feelings for her and somehow I couldn’t stop myself from saying all this infront of her boyfriend. Not an ounce of embarrassment. It sounds absurd I know. And I wondered why I’m still single after all this time. I’ve never found it in me to love someone else. It’s so bad I give everyone this false facade that ‘I’m a player’, ‘a wrong guy’ just so I can hide what I actually feel. Everyone knows how much I hate ‘bitches’ but few know the reason.

I ended it with some other girl and she even thought I was gay. She didn’t understand why I did it and she still hates me for it. I seriously need help and have no clue where to find it. Is this normal? Someone cheats on you, falls out of love with you and yet you still have feelings for her. Instead of hating her I hate everyone and everything else. Does it happen to everyone? Is it natural for the heart to fail to open up again? It hurts real bad and I can’t stop it. Someone please help ignite my life again coz I’m really scared of what I’ve become. I desperately need a reason to live, another chance to keep holding on. Please!

 

The Bet

Hey Big Meat, I want my money you punk. I made a bet with this guy about the odds of getting pity out of a breakup. In today’s world where pussy floats freely like oxygen what the fuck does someone think crying for a chic bitch? To pull this off I got real life events (yes, it all happened) and put a softener: staggering emotion. I wrote it all just after getting back from a big time fun night. I walopped enough swallows to conjure up enough emotion to make the girls go ‘oh, poor thing’. I give it up for Chanel, though. You deserve a standing ovation. Where’s your heart you woman?

So Big Meat here says it’s best to cry your heart out, let the emotion flow so you heal and move on easily. Bullshit! This crap happened even to Adam. In fact it was harder for him coz she cheated with a snake. Goddamn bitch! My pals wondered why I never cried foul over the breakup. I hear I need a shrink coz guys like us are really dangerous when we finally let out the emotion. Well, I had my fair share of ranting for quite some time. That doesn’t mean I should go around blowing about it to everyone. You even end up missing getting laid coz of such shit. Any chic who feels like giving you some is scared by your shitty feelings for someone else.

Gwe Biggy I seriously want my dimes. This guy said I’d get at least five comments of pity and he’d give me 80k if I didn’t. I’d do the same if I got any (guys, please don’t make me lose my hard earned cash). I knew I had a reason for liking you Chanel. Thanks Wasake, Solo, still waiting on that comment Ivan. We’ll share the money guys.

Here’s the thing Biggy, much as everything I said is true the gloating bit is just too…to be polite, fucked up and bitchy. Something will come up with time. Something always does. Why am I still single? It’ll take some time before I fall back into that trap. I still need the freedom to make a selection. To flirt endlessly and answer to no one. Screw you Big Meat. You made me open up an irrelevant part of my life. Now I have to deal with chics shunning me. Ladies, ladies there’s a perfectly plausible explanation for all this.

Oh and guys? The fact that I wrote about some fucked up piece of my life doesn’t give you the right to come to me for solace and stuff when you get your share. I’ll fuck up your face. I hate listening to this relationship bullcrap and wouldn’t have written about it if it wasn’t for the cash. You come to me for a crying shoulder and I’ll make Chanel’s words sound religious.

 

How To Act A Guy

Of recent there has been an influx of imperfection when it comes to men. Last weekend I saw some dudes hugging in an alley in Kisaasi (I was looking for my other shoe) and somehow I found myself picking a not-so-flattering rock to throw at these weirdos. They stopped to stare at me and I was determined

Gooood, good...

to throw my point home, so to speak. I stood there and gave them my what, what look. They must have realised their mistake because they began chasing after me. You still don’t get it, do you? Guys don’t hug. It’s just too gay. Learn something about social etiquette you pricks. Half of the city does it so I’m here to save you with five things guys should do to act like real men. You’ll pay me later.

1. Slap your woman.
If you have a girl, I’m really sorry. These things happen. Okay, now that you have her you can turn it around to your advantage. Stop being too soft on women. You hear them everyday whining about ‘men, men, men’, right? Give them something to actually whine about. Let her say men are dogs and actually mean it. Bite her nipples hard during coitus. You could pretend it’s part of the bliss if you want to get away with it. If she’s too good to be true (please!) and you find it hard to raise your hand at her you could tone it down to once or twice a year. You just have to do it anyway.

2. Drink, drink, drink.
Put down that glass of water this instant and read this to the end. I mean get high. This is the essence, the very epitome of being a man. It makes you act stupid and yes, stupid is good. Do blunts and weed as a side dish. Don’t…are you questioning me boy? Just do as I say, okay? Don’t ask questions. You wanted to stop acting sissy so you read this. Now do it.

3. Have sex.
No, no, no. Not with your woman. Ha ha ha lol, you really get funny at times. Let’s try to leave her out of this. She’s too special for this crap, remember? And science has proven it builds your celebral something. Why did you think I was telling you to get high? For this very divine purpose brethren. Gone are the days when you put your woman through all the agony of being ‘the only one’. Being a man is perfectly synonymous with cheating. You’ve heard girls K’la-wide telling dudes to ‘be a man’, yeah? Exactly. If it’s too tough for you you can stick to the DVDs. Chanel, did B2B bring back your Kamasutra DVD?

4. Hygiene. Bad for your health.
There’s this Saturday I was at Fatboyz. I needed to pee all the water so I could purify my body for the beers I was about to take. Amen. In the loos there was this guy who was doing his thing next to me. I don’t like people carrying guns so I had to look him up and down to make sure he was clean. A nanosecond later I was staring at his gu-thing. Stop the sneering, will you? Evidently it was by accident. Anyway, that’s not the point. He finished his business and shook it so hard I had to wince. In so doing some of the susu splashed on his pants and hands. It never even crossed this guy’s mind to at least look at the wash tabs. He just zipped up and out he went to high five with his buddies. Now that’s a real man.

5. Throw out those CDs.
No need to panic. I don’t mean rubbers. I mean those lovy dovy bulshitty romantic tracks you gat stashed under the bed or wherever you keep them. Now this is going to implicate most of you. Don’t be ashamed. It’s perfectly normal to be a sucker at times. Listening to Leona Lewis, Mariah Carey, Shayne Ward (If that’s OK with you? Breathless? Seriously?) is…is…honestly, unless your Medulla Oblongata is in dire mechanical condition. These are the very negroes who hug each other and utter profanities like “goodnight sweetheart” and “I love you baby”.

 

Comprehendable? Comprehensible?

Whatever we can’t understand we throw to science. When science fails we turn to religion. That’s where every unexplainable phenomenon is narrowed down to “God’s ways are not ours”. And that’s when you stop asking questions.

There’s, however, one thing that surpasses scientific complexity and the divine touch of religion. This…thing has unfathomable origin and its composite intricacy builds a compound web that several ancestors of Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein and Barack Obama have failed to untangle. So the Inter-universe Academy of Science and the Pope met and decided to enlist my help.

Ladies and Gentlemen it’s an honour to have you here as I dissect this…thing with the most convoluted surgical precision.

Rap Intros
Anatha joint from yo boy (yeah)/ladies (yo)/ma niggaz (yeah niggaz)/We the best shawty/remix/remix/reeemixxx/Told u we ain’t going nowhere haters/Players in the house/turn it up dawg/It’s time to heat it up (yeah)/Number one in the gaaaame/ah ah ah yeah NY City/Get yo shine on homie/Ya’ll busted niggaz/Turn up the mike Sky Storch/Perfect joint up in here/VIP mathafuckaz/yeeeaaah yeeeaaah yeeeeaaaah/uh ha/Get yo ass up if u feel me…this goes on for a whole minute and a half before the three minute song actually starts. Then all he tells you is how much money and women he’s got before abusing you.

The City Posters
Land for sell/We deal in…funs and radio players…/Gain weight simultaneously/Simparks available/We plan events and bake cakes for weddings, parties…funerals…/Die in style…with the best coffins/MTN airtime for all networks available here/Find piece in Jesus. Call…

That FM Morning Show Presenter
Verbatim: “Good morning my listeners, everyone, hello Kampala. How wars your weekeeend? Yes Weekend. Mine was the beeeest (laughs). I hard fuuun (gets hysterical!) at every joint people y’all. Fun fun fuuun. So how was your weekend boys? Call me and tell me man. Well if you’re asking I had fun. All the fun in the world. Woooo. Every club ina di city centre of Kampala was fun. There was fun eeeeeverywhere. Am going for a short break but when I return back we shall talk about fuuuurrrn…” By the way did this guy tell you he had fun? He didn’t?

Love Stoned
-“Baby I want to marry you in the end. Me and this guy are just having fun”
-“Let’s wait for the right time” (She’s 35 and he’s 38)
-“Kale me it doesn’t matter even if you’re poor…(minutes later)…”Sweetheart could we please go for the PAM awards with my friends? We can all use a cab”
-“I love you hon.” “Thanks too dear.”
-“…you are too small and can’t even grow bigger…” Part of a reason for the breakup.

Bureaucratic Uganda
General Manager: “You have to see the accountant first”

Accountant: “No no no. You have to get the Director’s signature before coming here.”

Director: “Have you seen the accountant?” “Yes Sir.” “Well let him sign then you can come back.”

Accountant: “I told you to see the Director. Let me see…Okay, I see the problem. Go to the General Manager for a chit and another form.”

Director: “No, you don’t need the forms anymore. The format changed. You can go to the accountant.”

Accountant: (Out for lunch)

I’m still trying to find solutions before I present my final analysis. It deeply hurts my pride to have to ask you guys but…please help.

 

Back To School

The Stomach
It’s the part of the body used for digestion. It also provides the intestines with the poop and the mouth with the puke. It also has another function over which scientists worldwide are still deliberating: screwing up your job interview. I didn’t know mine could do the latter til this morning.

I woke up early, called my boss to lie about my health and easily got off with a “sorry. you can come in tomorrow”. I uploaded a heavy breakfast of milk and bread sprayed with lots of peanut butter. Lots and lots of peanut butter. I normally use it to get groggy. Being groggy helps me overcome anxiety especially in instances that involve too much pressure like Bukenya, ex-Luboobi and job interviews.

I went through hell to get my would-be new employer to squeeze some time for my interview and when the time came I wan’t goin’a let nothin’ get up in my way (Don’t ask about the grammar. I’m black). Even if it meant lying to my boss.

I was there at 8a.m sharp and liked this guy’s speed. It only took five minutes before I was called in. The panel had only three guys. Easy. Throw guy one insane with my unequaled wit, make guy two laugh with my super duper jokes and make guy three sprint out cursing and choking his nose when I take my shoes off…Ha ha just kidding. Seriously. I’m kidding. Anyhow I went in all smiles and politely greeted all with a firm handshake just like it said in the newspapers in Uganda…daily…everyday…in the jobs and employment sections…in the daily Ugandan newspapers (Damn it New Vision and Monitor. I get the point…Oh, and Red Pepper).

The moment I took a seat is when things took a wicked twist. Question one required my name. Come on bro, you know me. What’s up?! I guess that’s how interviews in Uganda went-asking the obvious. Only it wasn’t so obvious this morning. Instead of answering I just started grimacing. They must have been perplexed by this dude who had to think hard about his name. How dumb. Guy two frowned and offered to repeat the question, only with more apparent comtempt. My stomach and the peanut were in Vietnam. The chair vibrated as I heard the rumbling it made. I got so embarrassed as the room conveniently fell silent as if to let the stomach do the answering. More rumbling, more grimacing and more frowning all coming from one guy. What the…I had taken decades preparing for this day and this is how the struggle pays up?

I stood the pain through question one to four but found it sickeningly hard to think with my stomach still attached to the body. Here’s how question five turned out:
Bad guy: “What do you think determines the choice of a medium when placing the ad?”
Poor guy: “I…I guess it’s the…umm…among other factors…umm (swallows and bends a little to ease the pain)…the price…of the audience…the medium, I mean…” The simple word, ‘research’ was lost in the crossfire between stomach and peanut.

Tip for Jamwa: No peanut before the next inquiry.

 

Ladybird

Boy attends girl’s birthday party. Boy isn’t moving out with girl. Boy waits mid-party to kneel infront of girl and ask her to be his one and only. Boy thinks surprises melt every girl’s heart. Boy has watched way too many movies. Boy only manages to melt girl’s face into scowl. And crowd bursts out laughing. Including girl. Boy is so embarrased that he runs out like a girl and is never heard of or seen again. So boys and girls, what’s the moral of this story?

Oh, the pic? No, not at all related to the story. Just felt like uploading something. Go to hell if you don’t think she’s gorgeous.

 

Random Thoughts

I slept over at a friend’s hostel last night. Remind me, is it a fasting period of some sort? This guy woke up at 4p.a.t (Party Animal Time)…ugh, okay a.m…and just started chewing on something. Couldn’t tell what it was (rolex I think) coz the only light was coming from the TV. He was watching this irritating reality TV series, America ‘08. The silence in the room was turned up so loud I could here every wheat cell in the Chapati screaming in so much pain (bambi).

What was wrong with him? Then this Chapu-infested psycho throws his left hand into his nether region to scratch his sack like Obama’s history is a big turn on. Then goes back to torturing the rolex. Anyway silliness passed and the need to pee came. And I saw that it was good. So I went out to the toilets. Every toilet was adorned with at least a kilogram of human dung of different races-brown, yellow, black, green, take your pick. Either flushing lessons needed to be introduced on every MUK curriculum or people were too busy buying cameras and taking mug shots of their bog (nanti they told them to flash).

I’m in the middle of a Sherlock Holmes so I’ve developed a knack for concentrating on detail. I noticed that none of the…(what’s a collection of poop?)…had toilet paper attached to it. So I started deducing possible elements at work here.

One: They did their thing, miraculously lifted the poop, flashed the t.p, and resettled the poop in its rightful spot.
Two: They did their thing, wiped their thingis, and the dear environmentalists pocketed the t.p for better disposal.
Three: They did their thing but decided to support ancient African culture as part of their Africa-for-Obama campaign strategy.
Four: Dr. Watson is still working on that one.
Five: Geez, do you have a poop fetish? There’s no five.

I’ve always had this feeling that if you pee directly onto bog, the bacteria can pass through the pee into you. So I try to pee away from the bog. There’s too much geometry and mathematical calculation involved in order to determine strategic angles of placement of the pee. If X is the pee, you have to prove that angle Y is directly proportional to…whatever! See the pain I went through to pee?

When I went back I had lost all sleep. I stayed up staring at nothing and listening to everything. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on this guy’s phone conversation.

“Gundi, am badly off. The guy just decided to die abruptly and I can’t even make a condolence. It’s annoying man”.

What are you fussing about you sick bleep? It isn’t his fault he’s dead. Just shut up if you can’t offer anything. His hard stare only meant I had thought out loud. I spent the rest of the night trying to recall why we had become friends.

PS: Someone asked me to write something about Obama. I’m sure you’ll find his name somewhere in this post. So there you go…

 

Due To Public Demand…

Okay okay okay. You win. Here she comes again, only this time with jaribu. I guess all ya’ll just couldn’t resist her. Tumwi please don’t call the cops. I’m not defiling anyone. And I believe you were all Baz-ified into believing it’s ka-Frida. It’s not. The two runners-up are under witness protection (they saw beauty) and their identities cannot be revealed. Don’t fight, don’t fight. I believe there’s enough for everyone so please share equally…

DANGER: DO NOT TOUCH!

Seriously Chanel, what’s that thing down there? Mr. Bigg, what controls your eyes?

What the…!

Check out the staggering contrast. Unbelievable! Biggy, just to prove my point…

See? See?

 

How To Tell He’s Cheating

(Sob Sniff) I’ve seen so much bloodshed on my page, thanks to my apparently sexist remarks. In lieu of being considered a chauvinistic pig by Antichild and her followers I…(blows into hanky)…I devised a flawless plan just for the ladies. Someone go get the popcorn coz this is one blockbuster you won’t want to miss. Go, I’ll wait…Ok, in the meantime let’s talk about ducks. Have you noticed how much these things have disappeared off the scene? Who has seen a duck this year? Not that I eat them or anything but…oh, she’s back.

Ladies here’s five ISO satisfied (I miss Kazoora) ways to be sure he’s cheating on you:

1. Get home from work all tired and in need of a sweet cuddle, walk up to him with that killer smile and touch his cheek. No, not that way. Swing your palm to touch his cheek at breakneck speed…what the hell, slap him. Here’s how it works. Naturally, he should be so mad. He could even return the favour. Don’t take it the wrong way coz that’s a good thing. He cares. However, if he gets all panicky and makes a sorry face without a trace of alarm, that’s your guy. He’s definitely cheating on you and is wondering how you discovered. Slap the other cheek just to be right with the Bible and walk away.

2. Statistics show that a normal man thinks about sex every 15 minutes or so. It’s why you should smile proudly when you catch your guy oggling at bu-chics every few seconds. He’s normal. Here’s where the the twist gets messy. If you’ve never (or rarely, to be realistic) caught your man staring at another woman, he is cheating on you. He’s just fighting so hard to make himself holy in your presence to cover his tracks.

3. If he whines about the gifts you’ve given him, he’s definitely cheating. Worse, he wants to break up with you. Guys do not make such a big deal out of gifts (except if you give me an Obama poster. I don’t care how much you think we’re close. I’ll fire you.) Naturally, a guy should say thanks to whatever you offer. People think I’m so unromantic naye kale me I’m the most romantic dude you’ll ever find. There’s this time I was so broke and it was her birthday. I just told her “honeysugarsweet, I offer myself to you as your gift.” Then I threw off all my clothes. Women! She refuses to talk to me to date.

4. If, after having sex, he wants to cuddle, you’ve got your criminal. Most of you must be sneering, jeering and throwing popcorn at the screen. Wait for the cliffhanger, will you? Those other women he has on the side are just mechanical. He wants to get the passion from you. The man who rolls away and listens to his throat regaling him about what sound the big bear made is yours for the taking. He’s so passionate that he gives his woman some time alone to savour the sweet moment he just had (Hey Mousy, I just saved your sorry a** from getting dumped. You’ll have to pay up).

The next one comes as a last minute thing to save me from “isn’t that the guy who refused to congratule Obama?”

5. If he supported McCain, it’s so obvious he is…nay, he has cheated on you for ages. But no worries. Let him go. He’s so stupid. Too stupid to see what he has lost. Too stupid to see that melanin, not brains…melanin is the most obvious key to the Whitehouse.

 

Na na na na naaa na

I bet my fingernails no one has a post as long as this…

 

Let’s Talk Love

Love. A word that has been cunningly crafted by humans as a euphemism for mating. I say we should stop the annoying pretence and live as originally planned. I got into a serious discussion (yes, even if it’s such a painful ordeal) with a friend the other day about this and it struck me: humans create their own demise and blame it on democratic Museveni and loving Bush.

You fall in love, go against the rules of nature and then say it’s the government’s problem. Look, from way back in the days of Genesis (how I miss those days) man and woman have been put together for strictly one purpose-sex. Why do you think Eve cheated on Adam with the serpent but the dude didn’t file for divorce? Sex, sex, sex. Now look at what happened to the world. Men shamelessly waste time and money taking women to institutions of eating and dancing, buy them flowers (how dare you trade a woman with just a plant!) just to lay them.

What happened to the laws of nature, huh? Why don’t we act with some dignity and respect the institution of procreation? Why don’t we take it from the chickens? You want her. So stop staring. Get on your feet and chase her furiously. Don’t mind that you caught up with her at the Parliament. All the MPs do it. Just put her down on Nsaba Buturo’s bench and do your thing for just a few seconds. Feel guilty and want to be nice? Tell her ‘God bless you’ and saunter away. Cocks (not in the mood for puns) don’t waste time.

On saturday I was in this spot where humans do the mating dance-Club Silk, and I noticed my friend staring across at some girl who really knew how to attract males using her waist. He tapped my shoulder and screamed, ‘I think I have a crush on her’. I almost slapped him for using such profanities. Crush? Dude, there are kids everywhere.

I looked at the punk’s miserable face and wondered when humans would be able to reason again. Maybe Obama will help afterall. Humans are animals, right? Now how hard was it to go over to the dancefloor and pee around the girl’s spot to claim his right over her? Why should I be the one to provide reason everytime? Instead he walked over to her and asked to have a drink with her. What a loser. In the end it’s all about sex.

Back then the orderly sequence was: See, like, chase, mate, reproduce. Period. Simple, right?
The sequence today is : See, like, fear, think, talk, call, feed expensively, drive around, feed friends and family, buy flowers, take shopping, take partying, start liking what she likes…(breathe in, breathe out)…mate a bit, buy more gifts, listen to yap, mate for real (unbelievable!), fight, mate again, breakup.

It’s kinda like those primary school teachers who told me to do stupid things then reported me to mummy for being obscene and disrespectful. You want respect? Tell me to do something sensible. Do not tell me to add X to Y and give you a number. Whatever happened to the world!

Quit falling in love and do what we all fight for in the end: mating. Then you’ll stop the tears. Museveni got angry, went to the bush, became president, became president, became president and retained all the money just to impress Janet. Just like all humans, he does what he does for the sex. And that’s what he’ll keep doing till about the year 3000.

 

Melody To The Eyes

He was just seated there bored. Just another idle Kampalan looking at taxis come and go. I was parked just opposite Nando’s talking on phone and couldn’t help noticing him. He picked on this taxi parked just two cars infront of me. Ignoring the endless rantings of the nearly deranged conductor to get ‘those unrelenting passengers’ on board, he moseyed his way across, got to the taxi and chose to do exactly what the conductor was doing. Exactly.

He auto-embraced the trademark stench and mannerisms of those animals in the taxi business, grabbed the slide door with a firm grip and squeezed his behind onto the magical weenyigeemw’aamo seat as if the kondakita was just another passenger. His determination wowed me that I hang up on my would-be woman to push the seat back, insert a CD and take a sip of my succulent Pepsi just to create a comfy environment for this show.

It wasn’t long before the conductor and driver got irked. A small scuffle ensued that forced the driver to step on the gas (it wasn’t a pun until one of the front seat passengers rushed out frowning aggressively while trying to save his dear nose from the aero-embarassment). The scare only worked to remind the pseudo conductor that he had dully played his part. Without saying anything he stretched out his right palm to the pre-conductor while concocting his best Obama-lost-the-elections face in the ready for a major sulphuric splash of verbs and nouns still unknown to 21-rated movies and all the horny pornstars from Kyebando to California.

The conductor then did exactly what evil me wanted him to do-he pushed pseudo person out of the taxi and added a little verbal discord on the side with a pinch of unflattering fluid from the mouth. God bless the food I’m about to have, Amen. I only wish my buddy Bush Jr was available for this very sumptuous optical meal. He would have loved every moment of this goodbye gift from office. I dubbed it “The Last Iraqis” in honour of George while I furiously looked for a nice CD from the glove compartment to go with it.

The scuffle had started but I wasn’t going to let the moment pass without a soundtrack. I looked and looked as famous verses like “oggyakump’ezange” and “Kuma…shut your virgin ears…nyo…don’t look don’t look…ko” (I warned you) made a sudden dash through the very darkly tinted windows to my darling ears for solace. I gladly welcomed them with a wicked grin and looked up in time to dive fast and save myself from sacred scriptures read out of the ancient scrolls of morbid language BC BC BC. These guys just didnt care that there were innocent children of 100 and below, around and in the taxi. Their profanities were in a language that my keyboard has failed to type.

There’s one lesson I learnt from this that I think I should share with my Blogren. In about two hours I was supposed to go for an interview and figured maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need the interview afterall. I could just walk into said boss’s office like during the lunch hour when he’s out of office, sit comfortably and do exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. When he walks in about an hour later all I have to do is show him my palm and be like “mp’ezange”. Easy cash. All I needed was extensive research about his office duties, right? Seriously guys, me I be thinking of starting a serious countrywide campaign to boycott interviews. The tagline is: ‘Why have interviews ate nga‘…no no…’Interviews. Everywhere you go’…no no no…we’ll discuss this when I convene the first meeting.

As I drove off to the nearest internet cafe for my research my phone rang to tell me that the interview had been postponed. Speak of being saved by the bell.

 

Crowning The Princess

You’re all Pervs (hey, who threw that?!). “Any good story must posture at some point-a male and female, to hold the majority’s interest”….and she was right. You all posted comments that almost made me lose my job; instead of getting done with my assignments I had to spend the whole afternoon scrolling and scrolling and scrolling.

The level of interest when it comes to a male-female story really amazes me. Ashamed to admit it but my ka-comment can also be seen at the bottom there, if you could just stretch your neck a little bit more, more, there. We all love watching sex, don’t we? Naturally Nevender and Carlo should be running out screaming wildly but no, they’re the only ones who asked for a part 2. Princess knows about those things? Even I didn’t see that coming. My sympathies for the loss of chastity, Your Highness.

I tested this seamless theory at work.

Lab 1:
I waited for a convenient moment when everyone was so busy with their own hassle and bassel-listening to radio, doing nails, typing away, reading…I raised my vocal decibels to regale the guy seated next to me about this dude and chic (key words) who got a room in Wandegeya and…less noise…lesser noise…silence…more silence…then…(guy in the corner) “Ah! just finish the story.” Bingo! I was merciful enough to read the story to them out loud and before I knew it vigils were held in wait for the next “Collage?”

Lab 2:
Again, I waited for a convenient moment when everyone was so busy but this time the silence was blinding (except for the keyboards and mouses/mice, of course). I raised my voice to tell all who cared to listen about this fight between taxi conductor and some guy. No one talked to me for the rest of the day.

Now let’s all take a moment to bow our heads in reverence…(Speaking of, 27th Comrade, tell her we’re sick of waiting for another post)…to the next queen of blogville and my favourite bloggeress for such a mind-blowing and sexy series. Tell that chic I’m still mad at her for not giving the guy some. Friends? Please!

And in other news…

And I take the knickers for being the first to wish you all a nice weekend. Okay, boots.

 

English And All The Paraphernalia

(…3 minutes…looking) First, let me tell you a story. A story about my cousin. My cousin Boy (yes that’s the name. Don’t ask). Boy has Alexander-ridden ambition. Ambition to ignore the fact that he’s yet to learn lots more before starting his own blog (…7 minutes…There! He has just found the letter Q on the keyboard). A blog where he writes about entertainment. Entertainment kinda like what you read below:

“ music in uganda has come allover from so many years to have somw of the greetest artists in uganda and eastafrica as a whole with the greetest voices of the likes of charmeleon, bobi wyne and bebe kool. they have produced many hits that have put them on top of the biggest chats.
chameleon’s big hiatus came in mid 90s with big hits such like ekipepewo. he manifested big competiters from kenya and uganda and he became the best. internacionally, stars like lil Wayne have become superstars by beating the comptition from those who have existed before like 50cent. though, he is big there is no way he will beat the outstanding vigor of artists like jayz (hehehe I even bet here)“

My head starts to throb so I fast forward to the end.

“ all in all I think ugandan musiv has come from far and our artists are now on MTVbase. We should take everyday as it comes in order to be the best in what we do.“

Now 19-year old F.5 Boy here wants to score fast recognition. He wants me to upload his stories (including this one) onto my blog before he can start his own. He also wants me to use my “connections” with Vision and Monitor to get him published. When I told him to get the woah! outta ma face I thought I was being too insensitive. Reason I need your Senga-lly advice…no, he doesn’t read this blog.

PS: As I read this, somehow Cheri’s cousin Yana kept popping up.

Now onto more insightful matters of national security…

The perfect words never crossed my mind
Cuz there was nothin’ in there but you.
I felt every ounce of me screaming out,
But the sound was trapped deep in me.
All I wanted just sped right past me,
While I was rooted fast to the earth,
I could be stuck here for a thousand years,
Without your arms to drag me out.There you are standing right in front of me
All this fear falls away to leave me naked,
Hold me close, cuz I need you to guide me to safety.

No, I don’t want to wait forever

In the confusion and the aftermath,
You are my signal fire.
The only resolution and the only joy,
Is the faint spark of forgiveness in your eyes.

Even if you’ve been cheating with the veteran whores of Paris and Rome, she’ll forgive you. These Snow Patrol lyrics are too killer not to be shared. And then you ask why I love Rock.

 

The Campus Chronicles

I wasn’t going to post anything today coz I’m in the middle of a major Robert Ludlum page turner but I was whipped into it. I started to type something but the novel shot me this just dare! glance that I slowly steadily backed away from the keyboard and used the mouse to hastily search through my hay day archives whence I surprisingly stumbled upon this true life series I wrote in the darling first semester of my second year. Behold, the first chapter of my campus days:

PS: In order to preserve the essence of my virgin writing days, nothing has been edited. So don’t laugh, I pray you…

Biwero. For some reason this guy never gave anyone his first name. We have been friends for five years now but it’s weird that I still don’t know his first name. I mean not weird weird but, you know, one of those situations where you do something wrong for too long that it feels stupid doing it otherwise. It’d feel stupid if I went up to him five years later and I’m like “by the way Biiwe what’s your other name?”

Anyway, Biwero (or Biiwe to the blessed few) was peculiar in a kind of indescribable way. He was one of many that honestly lived up to their names-rugs. One minute he’d act normal in a serious discussion about witches and the other he’d simply stare at you like he couldn’t figure out how you got there. Staring; saying nothing, doing nothing but seated and simply staring. One time I overheard Yeye, one of my annoyingly talkative friends (don’t tell him I said that) say “I hear he be’s getting a message from your relative if like he kicked.” No one ever believed Yeye. But for the kind of person Biwero was anyone could easily believe that. He loved talking about witches and sorcery. He was so passionate about it that every time we watched a horror movie he’d get so passionately pissed if anything evil was wrongly portrayed. “Sorceresses in the sixteenth century were burnt upside down, for God’s sakes.” Not sake. “And it was done at crossroads goddammit.” And just before he went into one of his stupors he would go on and on about how witches were unfairly treated ages ago and how evil deserved a little respect because the world was practically created out of it. He was a devout Catholic.

Then there was Brown. Bambi Brown. This guy was excruciatingly slow in speech and thought that whenever he joined a conversation we suddenly remembered we had course works to finish up. There was a common joke that his name only came from his natural gift to talk at breath-preserving speed. He was asked for his name but in efforts to precede the answer with an explanation that ‘brown’ was supposed to go under ‘colour of eyes’ and not under ‘name’ he started, “Brown…”, and the inquisitor could not tell that it was just the start of a sentence. Yeye once suggested buying an emergency alarm detonator (where do they sell these things?) to wear on his arm in case he swallowed poison because he would only be able to explain what was wrong with him after death. For Brown, thinking was an even harder task we almost applauded whenever he thought of something sane. We cracked jokes and occasionally explained what they meant. I guess he had the most fun because he could amazingly preserve a joke, think hard about it and come back two hours later laughing hysterically before concluding “You…guys…are…really…funny.”

Dan. We called him D. Not for Daniel but for Denial. He stood for everything he hated. He claimed Mariah Carey was the biggest fraud of the twentieth century but set Always be my baby as his ringtone. Whenever his phone rang he went, ”Ugh, who changed my ringtone. Naye MTN!” Daniel, with a girlfriend of two years, hated getting emotional with girls and claimed it was ‘sissy’. “A real man don’t cry, hug, celebrate birthdays and shit man. Is you gay?” It isn’t broken English. It’s just the way he talked. Daniel Kasiisa, a Musoga born deep in Kamuli district had a vehement hatred for Blacks. He strongly believed Eve, Goliath, and Judas Iscariot were Black, the C.I.A is looking in all the wrong places for Osama because he is chilling in Africa, and the average Ugandan annually spends a Starlet on partying. It was hard to decide which side he was on, though. Naturally, you would expect him to be on the White side but he said all Whites lacked a major protein and all their great accomplishments were lucky mistakes. He referred to them as “the lucky bastards”. Sir Daniel, the know-it-all never lost an argument even when he was clearly wrong. I can’t figure out where he got the notion that Martin Luther King Jr. and Mandela were racist. Maybe it’s true, I don’t know.

Yeye, the talkative one was just talk and no sense. At least Brown came up with some plausible ideas every once in a long, long, looong while. But for Yeye, all we said whenever he brought up one of his crazy arguments was “yeah, yeah”. He hated criticism and lived by many principles. One of them was people did not die. They simply retired from earth to open up bigger businesses in Heaven or Hell depending upon where they thrived best. The criterion used to select last (first?) names in his family is still a puzzle. He had two younger sisters, Wawa and Keke, and one older brother, Haha. Seriously though, his tribe of origin is still unknown in the brotherhood to date.

The biggest noise maker was Plural. He was christened so because he always talked at double the normal human decibels. He reasoned that he hated repeating himself. His noise making stunts redefined the word emergency. He never knocked. He pounded on the door after pushing it open while screaming “Gwe anus…”. And all of a sudden he dropped to a whisper, “what’s up”. He had the power to surprise one who expected a surprise and never called people by name unless he couldn’t help it. He used gwe, thingi, punk, nankani when elated and priceless profanities when normal. In Plural a correct sentence went, “Gwe dickhead, first loan me your advice; should I fire this bitch?

Together we made the Brotherhood of Badness, a wicked fraternity sent through time to save human kind from happiness and all the rigorous absurdities they put themselves through to keep smiling. Basically, crap that makes a good life. We harboured ballistic knowledge-I think you humans call it common sense or something like that-passed on from aeons of generations ago to help our cause. Together we had a record high IQ of one, the highest ever known to mankind and we stopped at nothing to bring misery to those around us.

 

Wicked Witch of the West

I traversed the internet at 2a.m. I wasn’t blogging. Too tired for that. I wasn’t facebooking. Sick of reading what the world is up to. I wasn’t googling. Too much information for one day. I was doing what could make ma and pa ground me for at least a decade. I was…we’re friends, right? Promise me you won’t tell anyone I did this.

I was…looks around to make sure no one is in earshot…I was…turns a little timid and says a silent prayer for himself…I was…whispers in victim’s ear…I was listening to Nickelback’s ‘Gotta be somebody’ off their new album. Disappointed? What did you think I was doing? What!

People piss me off with this misconception that rockstars are devil worshippers. Considering I’m down with malaria I’ll let it rest this time. Feeling dizzy but no anopheles buggers (donno why this word always sounds obscene) will stop me from telling you about this song. I stopped believing in that concept people call love but for B2B’s sake I’ll tell you to listen to this song. Listen to this song. You have to! (Don’t make me pop a vein). Something that almost made me want to fall in love again is a must listen. For a free download click here. Sing away. If you don’t like it, I humbly beg you to murder yourself.

This time, I wonder what it feels like
To find the one in this life, the one we all dream of
But dreams just aren’t enough
So I’ll be waiting for the real thing, I’ll know it by the feeling
The moment when were meeting, will play out like a scene
Straight off the silver screen
So I’ll be holding my own breath, right up til the end
Until that moment when, I find the one that I’ll spend forever with

[Chorus]

Cause nobody wants to be the last one there
Cause everyone wants to feel like someone cares
Someone to love with my life in their hands
There’s gotta be somebody for me like that

Cause nobody wants to do it on their own
And everyone wants to know they’re not alone
There’s somebody else that feels the same somewhere
There’s gotta be somebody for me out there

Tonight, out on the street, out in the moonlight
And dammit this feels too right, its just like deja vu
Me standing here with you
So I’ll be holding my own breath, could this be the end
Is it that moment when, I find the one that I’ll spend forever with

[Chorus]

You cant give up,
(when you’re looking for)
A diamond in the rough
(Cuz you never know)
When it shows up,
(make sure you’re holding on)
Cause it could be the one, the one you’re waiting on

Cause nobody wants to be the last one there
And everyone wants to feel like someone cares
Someone to love with my life in their hands
Theres gotta be somebody for me, oh

Nobody wants to do it all on their own
And everyone wants to know they’re not alone
There’s somebody else that feels the same somewhere
There’s gotta be somebody for me out there

Nobody wants to be the last one there
(what your looking for)
Cause everyone wants to feel like someone cares
(you never know)
There’s somebody else that feels the same somewhere
(start holding on)
There’s gotta be somebody for me out there

Now wish me a quick recovery. It’s not a request.

 

The Valiant Coward: Chapter One

He looked again. Damn it! Her friends were still around. She was more than a just friend to him and the burden of letting her know was getting unbearable. He had to let her know. He could not fathom why bad luck always picked on him. Memories of that night he had been publicly humiliated by Anne suddenly plummeted back with torrential resolve. It deeply damaged his esteem to become the laughing stock among friends. ‘Loser Loser’ interjected their every sentence that it sounded odd for conversations to end without him being the subject. He winced when he thought of Anne’s reaction to his request. What had gone wrong? Was February 14th suddenly shunned by females? Was TLC not romantic enough? Was he wearing the wrong cologne? And why did she always bring friends whenever he asked to go out with her?

Damn you Anne, he thought as he took another sip of his drink and nervously looked around to see if anyone was watching. A critical glance would tell anyone he was stalking this girl. But he wasn’t. Stalkers carried daggers, right? It amazed everyone the way he conveniently unraveled complications and came up with easy-to-the-mind theories. To him a stalker was someone who killed a girl if she refused to have sex with him. So someone who exceedingly stared at a girl and eerily followed her every move was just so in love. Besides, this was Steakout. Who would notice anyway?

He tightened the grip on his almost empty Guinness bottle and clenched his teeth as Anne tenaciously haunted his every thought. Since he was never going to have time alone with her he had picked this night when she hang out with the fewest friends-just two girls. He had mustered the courage to risk interrupting their squabble over ‘Chanel and Gucci, which was better?’ He had to ask her to move out with him. He had ignored the obvious anger searing through her flustered face over the loss of an argument. He just wildly shifted gears and stepped on the gas faster than a Formula 1 racer just to have a head-on collision with a bewildered look that could smoothly drill a hole through a frozen diamond.

“What!” shot Anne with an unsure blend of frenzy and confusion.

“Would you please be my girlfriend?” It was almost a retort to this agitating kid who didn’t pay attention in class and always brought friends when she wasn’t supposed to.

“Wh…I…,” she started amidst sporadic chuckles of anger? Awe? Please let it be awe, God. Please. She continued while shooting glances at her friends as if to beg for help. Open-mouthed, they were deemed speechless.

She continued. “Oh my…Paul, I thought we were friends. What the…why did…” Still no word from him. “…Paul, we’re friends and we’ll never be anything else. Ever. Trust me.” Then she giggled while her friends painfully held back the laughter. He stormed away from the table faster than the Guiness book of records permitted without even thinking about who would foot the bill. As far as he was concerned they could all go to hell and burn and unburn just to burn again. His rocket-like exit was the final pin to the girls’ mouths. At a distance he could hear three demons laughing uncontrollably.

Unconsciously, he hit the table hard enough to throw some guy’s beer to the ground. Reality dashed back as the noise the breaking bottle made coincided with a scratch in the CD that forced an unexpected halt to the deafening music. He fidgeted as a thousand eyes slapped him in the face. Including hers. Oh, Pervia my angel. Her profoundly sensual stare calmed him but for just a second as he suddenly realised the mission at hand.

After replacing the guy’s wasted beer he now had no choice but to walk over to where they were seated. Pervia’s dazzling smile widened with every step he took. He beamed and couldn’t decide whether it was for that exquisitely divine smile or for his all-time Avril Lavigne favourite, Innocence. “Thank you,” he whispered to whichever Angel was kind enough to carry the message. The night had just began.

 

The Valiant Coward: Chapter Two

Have you ever been in one of those offices where it’s so quiet almost everything around is freaky? When you come in they all stop what they are doing to look at you like “Hey, there’s the next one. Go gather everyone”. The place is so quiet everything is put on vibrate. Even sneezing. Outside there are signs like “Employees reserved for parking”. Okay, you get my point. For serious security reasons I’ll refrain from telling you where I found such an office. All I’ll divulge is it’s on the 11th floor of some prominent building in town. Some building whose name has the letters c.o.m.m.u.n.i.c.a.t.i.o.n.s h.o.u.s.e in it. But no, I won’t say which building it is. That aint what I came here for, though. So here we go…
_______________________________________________________________________________________________
Paul angled his wallet strategically so that Pervia, seated ninety degrees to his right could see all kinds of possibilities worth over 150k. He ejected a 50k note and sent for Smirnoffs for her and her three girlfriends. For himself he sent for a Coke.

“You don’t drink?” asked one of the girls.
“Oh me? No. Just, just a little.” He knew something about chicks and free things. So he tried to keep it cheap for himself.

His general idea of love was show her you have the money before she even considers considering you as a candidate. Paul’s amateur mind never instructed him on the best lines to start a conversation with a chic. And when he was nervous the brain just switched to lock mode.

“Eh, so you’ve been so lost Perv. Why did you chuck me?” is the question that the zillion cells in his 25-year old brain manufactured and electronically projected to his lips. He smiled with content that he had started a conversation with the girl he liked.
She chuckled before replying, “Hmm, who said I chucked you? Me am there. You’re the one who’s lost.”
If anyone around was wondering where this smashing chic and this other shy, unfashionable guy intersected, there was their answer.
“No kale you’re the one,” smart Paul continued the lively conversation. “So how are you doing? I hear you’re killing guys around town,eh?”
“Haha, me? Look at me. How?”

A sudden urge initiated by the ears came over Pervia’s friends to pee. They asked to be excused and left with their handbags and drinks to pee. They walked around to the general direction of the bar to pee. They joined everyone else on the dancefloor to pee.

And so the lost conversation continued only to be interrupted by an unexpected visitor. Knock knock. Who’s there? Bad luck. Bad luck who? Bad luck you won’t get laid tonight.
His heart made a major leap to the moon when he saw her. When she said “hi” it wasn’t sure whether to get back into his body or just head straight to NASA for a relaunch.
Anne was back.

“Hi Pivy,” she sung the angellic song to Pervia.
“Hi Annie,” replied Pervia. “You two know each other?” The nervousness on Anne’s face was as clear as Paul’s which really confused him. What is this meanie feeling nervous about?

[Narrator briefly lifts eyes from page to say, "Kids, Anne and Pervia are sisters but of course Paul doesn't know that." Kids go "Oooooooh" Narrator nods satisfactorily and gets back to story]

Pervia continued, “Wait, is this Paul Paul? The Paul?” Slowly she put down her drink to look Anne straight in the face. Dumbstruck, Anne didn’t reply.
“Oh my God! Paul, this chick never stops talking about you…”
“Piv! What’s wrong with you?” Anne interjected with utter disbelief and embarrassment before she buried her face in her hands.
“No way. You’re not stopping me you chick.” We’re tired of you not telling him. Paul wamma she has a major thing for you and she keeps pretending pretending.” …

 

Bleep!

Some asshole (excuse the pun) yesterday knocked my car from behind in a traffic jam and reasoned that ‘me they also knocked me’. So I chose to stay calm and polite and told him, “Hey dickhead, mind paying for that?” He furiously flew out of the car to ask, “What did you say? Do you know who I am?”

So peace-loving me paused all anger to contemplate this punk’s question. You know, like in those Achilles days where you respected the enemy and followed a set of rules before and during battle? I gave this pre-cadaver the deserved respect and deeply pondered his question before I engaged in any Osamese language.

I looked him over and wondered, ‘dude do I know you?’ He had a mouth, two identical ears and a nose right in the middle of his face. Surprisingly he also had eyes like yours (assuming you do, of course). Basically his facial structure kinda looked like yours. So I figured, wait I know this dude. He’s human, right? I definitely know him from somewhere. So I looked harder and there it was. I wonder how I had missed it the whole time; this guy had two arms and two legs. Memory came rushing in and I recalled meeting him somewhere on Entebbe road during a heavy traffic jam about five minutes ago. Oh, so this was him? Coooool. Asshole? Is that really you Asshole? Wow, nice seeing you again dawg.

Now can we please get done with this fight? I have lots to do, if you don’t mind. Turns out he conspired with some green lights to get him off the hook. Real fast. I hate green! Look at my template snickering at me…okay I hate the green that lights up as an antonym for red.

PS: The next Valiant Coward will be posted tomorrow night. Stay tuned.

 

The Valiant Coward: Chapter Three

“What!” Paul almost screamed unsure who to kiss; the much longed for angel or the carrier of the good news. Everything around became unknown to him as his stare was deeply fixed on Anne. Her face was still buried deep in her palms as she softly shook her head in amazement over the sudden revelation. When she finally found the courage to show her face she wore this poignant look that had compassion written all over it. Paul almost jumped over to where she was seated just opposite him to comfort her and tell her there was nothing to get embarrased about.

He blushed as he tried hard to keep his gaze on Anne’s eyes. Oh he had so much to tell Michael and everyone else who had laughed at him. Who was having the last laugh now, Jeromy? Polo, you bastard. He would so shame these three. He looked at Anne and wondered what was keeping him from kneeling and worshipping this being of such beauty. He could propose to her right now. Pervia was so cheerful and pleased over her genious. She had managed to finally piece the puzzle and now enjoyed every moment of the blushing. Why does Anne look distressed? She is probably having a hard time dealing with all the emotion. Poor girl. At least I’ve brought the lovebirds together. The rest will work itself out.

Anne nervously gripped her Smirnoff bottle with both hands and rubbed it hard before she opened her mouth. She started to say something before a deep opulent voice came from behind to say “Hi guys”. The tall, rich-brown body let the striking voice linger as it crouched to render a peck on Anne’s cheek. She beamed at the familiar voice and turned to look at the sweet face of her everlasting love, Paul. “Hi Sugar,” she said as she stood up to hug and hold him at the waist. She tried to keep her gaze off the bereaved Paul still seated in shock as she introduced her boyfriend.

“Guys, this is my boyfriend Paul,” she said stressing the name mostly for Pervia’s benefit. If Pervia tried to hide the embarrassment she was doing a damn good job. “Oh,” she simply exclaimed as she offered her hand to greet him. “So you’re Paul? Nice to meet you.” Oh no. Why the hell didn’t you stop me Annie?

Anne continued. “Baby, this is my sister Pervia.” No one noticed the renewed dismay on Paul the late’s face as an even more shocking discovery was made. Boyfriend? Sister? He wasn’t going to let the next piece of news be a shock. So he came to the quick conclusion on his own: we’re dead and in hell. “And this is Paul, a friend,” she continued while swinging her free hand in not boyfriend Paul’s direction. He was weak to stand up so he offered a ‘nice meeting you’ while seated. It came out awfully guttural as he fought back the urge to run away screaming. Wait a minute, he thought. He knew this guy. He squinted a little while trying to put a memory to this familiar face.

Anne then called Pervia to the side to talk to her about something while the Pauls were left on the battlefield to get to know each other better. Loser Paul felt two horns creeping out of his forehead but thought better than to waste his beer on this punk’s face. Or could he? Boyfriend Paul was just glad to make friends with this dude whom he assumed was Pervia’s boyfriend. There was something sort of familiar about him but he chose to ignore it. He offered to buy them a round while they tried to have a conversation.

“Hi again. So we’re bursting to check out Mystique. You guys wanna come?” In no way was loser Paul going to watch these two make out so he not-so-humbly shook his head to say “no, it’s kawa.” Oh my God! Of course it was him. He remembered exactly who this guy was and vowed to tell the girls when he got the chance. Traces of a smile showed up on his face as he leaned back to enjoy his beer and talk to his new-found friend. Oh how he would love every moment of the look on their faces.

The girls came back shortly. Anne whispered something in her boyfriend’s ear. In a second they were up and out to head to club. “Gwe Paul, Annie is pashing at that guy’s place tonight and I can’t head home without her. So am spending the night at yours,” said Pervia. Paul couldn’t help picturing what Annie and her boyfriend spending the night together meant. It hurt even more that he hadn’t told her what he knew about the guy. What the heck. He would tell Pervia.

“Kawa,” said Paul as he wondered whether he would get lucky. It would just be the two of them and since Paul 1 was with Anne, it was only fair for Paul 2 to do it with Pervia. It had a nice ring to it. As the place became emptier with people leaving for other hangouts Pervia got bored and suggested they head back.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

This just in : Due to unavoidable circumstances my editor has just asked me to blogcast the last installment of this V.C season tonight. So read on fast and pass the word.

 

The Valiant Coward: Season Finale

The three o’clock silence between the two as they drove to Paul’s house in Ntinda was only broken by the serene and soothing voice of Mariah Carey on Radio One. Pervia’s mood as she stared out at the heavily clouded sky alarmed Paul a little. This isn’t the Pervia he was used to and for the first time he felt a pang of deep concern for her sweep through him. He turned focus back to the steering wheel and only directed his voice at her. “Hey, are you okay? You look troubled,” he said with more concern than actually intended. She shot out of her reverie to look at him and force a smile.

“Hmm? Oh am…good.” She adjusted in her seat. “I just wonder why our lives have to be so uncertain.” As if to wipe the frown off Paul’s face she continued. “Just less than a year ago Anne was badly heartbroken. I looked at them today and wondered how this, like, would all end up for her. She can’t go through another breakup. I really hope this guy is for real.” Paul really wanted to comfort her with the usual all-will-be-ok but the memory that guy’s face conjured forced him to keep his mouth shut. I’m so sorry Pivy but another heartbreak is inevitable.

“Do you have an ex…like have you ever been in a relationship?” Paul asked and wondered where the question had come from.
“Maybe, maybe not. It was just a…thing. I really don’t believe in-” she stopped herself and looked at him. “Why do you ask?”
He laughed and wondered where this was heading. “Just. I’ve never seen you with a boyfriend.” The drive continued in silence.

*** *** ***

Anne’s night was complete with euphoric orgasm as Paul proved to be everything she had wanted. And more. They had hooked up only three weeks ago but the relationship was high in the heavens. His tender arms never let her fall, his heart was always ready when she needed affection, his lips and hers were in constant yearn for each other and most of all tonight, when she needed to smile and be happy, he was the god of joy. They danced wildly and attracted the awe of the club crowd. She didn’t care if she got high to infinity. Paul would take care of her. Her Paul was there. How could Pervia even think she could ever want someone else? Me and that other Paul? The Paul who had acted childish and left us to foot the bill just coz I hadn’t said yes? No way. She swayed and staggered into his warmth. This wasn’t heaven. It was some place where the angels went after death. His body was such a perfect haven that she felt so hot and wet. She had spilled beer on her pants.

*** *** ***
Pervia collapsed onto the sofa closest to the door while Paul secured the door and drew the curtains. He hurried to the kitchen and returned five minutes later with a cup of coffee for each of them. Pervia had already adjusted to the comfort of Paul’s six-roomed house. The stereo was tuned to Val’s show and the TV was muted to some gossip show about Paris Hilton on ETV. Paul was glad that she was comfortable but most of all that she had stripped into a tight top that accentuated her cleavage and gorgeous shorts that could easily get ripped if stretched even just a little. Perfect. She rushed over to get her cup from his hands, said thanks and they settled in the comfy leather seats facing each other. She took the first sip and grimaced when her lips touched the steamy cup. “I hear this stuff is supposed to make you sleep faster,” she started.
After a sip he replied, “No it’s supposed to give you more energy to be awake. You like it?”

“Yeah. Kale you’re a good cook. We should get married haha”. Paul would have paid a fortune to not make that a joke. They talked to the bottom of their cups and Paul thought it was a better idea to continue from the bedroom where they could dose off at will. Pervia was not comfortable with the idea at first but she sure needed the company. Paul would take the floor and she would take the bed.

*** *** ***

“Sugar, we should get married right now,” Anne shouted into Paul’s ear before screaming in ecstacy, “Whooooooooo”. They were exiting the club. Outside, Paul did not want to seem like he was taking advantage of this tipsy girl. He really loved her dearly. And he wanted to make love to her. But he asked anyway,”Baby-” She interrupted, “P Sugar, I can’t go home this high. Let’s go over at yours.”

*** *** ***

The silence was defeaning. They had talked about movies, music and all their favourite things. The silence only meant they were switching topics. Each was so far from dozing off and could use anything to stay up. This is it. Go.

“Pervia?”

“What?”

“I think you should know something.”

“What, now you think One Tree Hill is better than O.C?” She laughed at that.

“No, it’s…Anne’s boyfriend is married.”

 

Let There Be Me

Going through all my posts last night I realised I’ve never really formally introduced myself. So I want to tell you all about me. [If you backtrack this statement you'll find I used 'want' not 'need'. That's the first thing about me. I want. So you'll sit your nankani back down and read on]. That ka-pic down there was fished from an album I vacuum cleaned this morning. For the slow lot, yes that’s sweet sweet cute cute me.

Anyways in order to spice things up a little I ran over to where Kazoora is working these days and asked him to carry out this interview.

Kaz: So who…

Rented: I’m egotistic if it means I like spaghetti. I’m so predictable. For example I’ll say those Hot 100 presenters have really good English and you’ll know I’m only being sarcastic. I hate everything. Yes, even you. Today, my grandfather didn’t eat katogo, his favorite meal because he’s dead. He died 10 years before I was born. I really loved him. My ex-girlfriend calls me her ex-boyfriend and I just can’t figure out why. I only poop when I develop the urge. I swore never to answer my phone when it’s not ringing because you see, unlike most of you, I’m high on moral standards.

Kaz: Anything el…

Rented: I love my haters coz they give my life reason to keep fighting. And I mean this literally. Do you hate me Kazoora?

Kaz: No but…

Rented: Hmm, what else? Oh, this is my page. Bet you didn’t know that, huh? Gotcha. This is the place where I’ll say anything and get away with it. Happy Easter guys! See?

Kaz: Yes I…

Rented: Where are you these days?

Kaz: Oh, me?

Rented: No, me. I’m right here being interviewed by you. So where are you these days?

Kaz: Me?

Rented: Geez! You’re so full of yourself. Ok, you.

Kaz: Me am everywhere dog. I…

Rented: Who are you calling dog?

Kaz: Sorry man…

Rented: Erique.

Kaz: Sorry Erique. I meant…

Rented: Erique.

Kaz: Yes, that’s what I just…

Rented: Just say it anyway.

Kaz: Erique. Now can I…

Rented: Erique. Say it. Erique.

Kaz: Erique.

Rented: Yeah?

Kaz: What?

Rented: What do you mean “what”? You just said my name.

Kaz: You said I should…

Rented: Oh, so you just called me for the sake of it? Are you stupid?

Kaz: But why are you…

Rented: Get out. Now!

Me. Yes, me

Sucky weekend to all your enemies, blogren.

 

Corporate Psychosis

I want to be a politician. You think that’s mindboggling? Now imagine what I went through even writing about it. I had one of those toilet moments where you think deep about your life as you wait for the next lump of kakka to flee your selfish body screaming “You used me!” Anywho, we’re here to talk politics. Over the weekend I fluked a corporate party (my name was on the list but it feels good sounding sleek). The place was packed with all these political-like faces that (unsurprisingly) spent the entire party time talking politics. I was bored out of my pants (literally) when I came up with these ideas. So these are the things I would handle in my first term in office.

Traffic jams: As a rule all licence plates would be changed to UD and UN. Every UD vehicle is allowed to travel only during the day and UN vehicles are strictly meant to travel at night. I don’t care if your loved one has had a heart attack during the day. There’s always time for emergencies at night. Tell them to wait.

Frequent kidnappings: This gruesome act really irks me. I have to waste my money on newspapers every other day just to find the headline has been wasted on yet another kidnapping. How heartless! The law would be amended to require all prospective kidnappers to acquire licences. That way it’s legal and my precious dimes are spent on more Obamacentric headlines. Oh my God Rented, you’re so callous! You who told you to read this?

Load shedding: Aeons later the biggest cause still is low water levels, right? Well, change is here. On top of paying your water bills on time, you would be required to let your water flow freely back into the sinks for at least 24 hours once every month. This noble cause would help stabilise the lake water to the required NRM (or Umeme) electricity generation levels. You’d also be required to have at least five pee moments a day. It means you wee-wee not less than five times a day. If you can’t do it, you better hire kids or (assumes you-failed-my-science-test primary teacher posture) risk fatal consequences.

Noisy opposition: To register a political party on the opposition side, you would be required to have at least one member with normal human IQ. If said candidate is able to decipher the meaning of “Agende, agende…agende wa?” he’s good to go. No, dude. I respect Liz’s language (your queen). I mean this literally. He’s good to go.

HIV/AIDS: I’m not your conventional Tom, that guy and Harry. Don’t expect me to tell you I’ll fight AIDS. No. As a firstie, let me get religious. God knows whatever happens before it does and if He lets it happen, He likes it. I believe He let AIDS be coz, for some reason, men find it deeply offensive to keep their ga-potties away from random women’s urinal areas. It’s intensely disturbing for men to keep punishing and constantly pricking women’s thingis like that. What did they do to you? I’d encourage the spread of AIDS so Ugandans develop some effing morals. So people of the Rented faith, I argue you… (I swear corporate guys still make this freaking mistake. They add salt by calling it a cooperate party) …I argue you to vote for me. Vote for the first black Ugandan president.

 

The Forgotten World

First off I’d like to apologise to all who were offended by my previous post, “Corporate Psychosis”. However, I’m not bringing it down as explained in the comments section. I have a genuine reason for putting it up. Some of these things are my way of escaping the sick hurtful crap that goes on in this country.

Now, the following is out of a serious heartbreak from news I just received 20 minutes ago. As a forewarning I’m really emotional and in the mood to slap anyone who gets in my way. Kinda why my room door is locked right now. Yeah, I’m not at work. So if you easily get offended, please exit. Thank you.

She’s called Esther. We’ve been pals since way back in my early primary school days. Our families are really close we could pass off as relatives. Now Esther started dating this weirdo two years ago. I hated it but am not the kind to go blowing for an adult to stop what they are doing. It’s her life and she’s able to make sane decisions. This dude just wasn’t right. He cheated on her, treated her like a useless piece of garbage all because he knew she was so into him and couldn’t go anywhere. Sad thing is he was right. Roughly two years down the road he gets her pregnant. She rushes to all close to her (except her parents, of course) for help. Later, she finds a solution. She’s to give birth to this kid and someone else is to take care of it till she’s ready.

She goes back to the guy and gets plan B. She wants to abort. No one changes her mind so she goes ahead with it. I clearly told her never to get in my face again if she ever does it. Sadly, she listened. This morning she passed away during the (illegal) procedure and the boyfriend has disappeared. I’m so far from tears coz am just so fucking pissed. Who the fuck gives women the right to decide who lives and who dies? What the fuck is wrong with these fucking pieces of shit, huh? They get into bed with someone and expect no consequences?

To borrow Rev’s word, tumbaavu. Really, if you’re planning to abort, don’t ever say it to me, okay? Coz I’ll fucking kill you before you do it to yourself. I loved this girl and was willing to help her any way I could. I swear if she was here I would smack her. Esther, I hope there’s a smooth internet connection wherever you’re. I want you to log onto my page and see how angry you’ve made me. And if I see that boyfriend of yours, I’ll send him over. Just do me one favour. When he comes, please call Lucifer ASAP to take care of this asshole.

Which reminds me. Someone showed me a hardcopy pic of a beheaded kid and I almost gagged. Honestly, please! What the fuck is wrong with the world? Maybe we need another of those Noah floods. And then there’s lunatics stalking girls with no apparent reason, guys turning women and women turning men. SERIOUSLY!

What’s wrong with the world? This isn’t something debate-worthy. No radio or TV station should make it a discussion topic coz it’s just clear. Something is wrong with earthlings today. I just lost my sense of humour so I’ll try not to be sarcastic. All such criminals need to be brutally killed. I don’t care if it’s the law or mob justice. Someone needs to die for this shit. And it’s not going to be Jesus this time.

 

Rented Bucket List

These are the things I’d like to do before I get married:

Cheat on her. If you’re having sex with someone other than your wife you’re cheating, right? Well, I’d like to cheat on my future wife. That’s right, before I even meet her. Hope she doesn’t get mad when she sees this.

Party like crazy. I hear in the institution of marriage it’s highly forbidden to have fun. They say, being bored to your wit’s end is a sacred and respected tradition passed on through centuries. You’re initiated into this rite by signing a pact sealed by a ring. This pact gives your wife the right to ask you irritable questions like “Where have you been?” followed by sanctified statements like “I’ve waited up all night for you.” In some cultures ghastly sentences like “Lie down!” are accepted.

Have kids of my own. When you get married you’re only permitted to have kids with someone else: a woman. This strips you of all rights to call the kids my kids. They become our kids. Before entering such harsh territory I’d like to have kids of my own. No, no one else is involved. Shut up! I’m not gay.

Make my name proud. Everyone loves their name. Sort of the reason they got it in the first place, yes? Well here’s a shocker. Come closer. [Whispers] When you get a wife, you lose your long adored name. [Crowd goes 'What!'] Sssshhhh! Keep your voices down. You’ll wake the females. Now, look. You love her, don’t you? So you go ahead and marry her thinking life will get easier and you’ll live like Cinderella and Prince Charming. You think Prince Charming didn’t have a name? Look what happened when he fell in love. Who knows his name? Who, huh? See? You relinquish your name to verbs like sweetheart, honey, sugar, baby…can you believe that? She calls you a baby. How more demeaning can it get? Last night I heard my friend being called a pumpkin.

Go to the gym. When you get a woman, there’s a big chance you’ll need muscular vocal cords with at least six packs. I’d want to get my voice fit for the occassion. In fact I’ve already started. Every morning I make three push-ups with my adam’s apple. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t scream at women. As I’ve repeatedly explained I’m the epitome of romance, thank you. I just need my voice to call for men emancipation and scream for help when she’s chasing after me with a jerrycan of petrol and a matchbox. I told you I want DSTV not GTV, you bum. Now where will I watch Oprah?

Kiss a girl, like it, tell the whole world about it, sell a million copies, tell the world about it, and then sell another million just to tell the world about how I sold a million copies telling them about how I sold a million copies.

Learn to like the unlikables. In marriage it’s obligatory to compliment your wife even in undeserved intances (unless you’re conjugal fasting). You have to wake up in the morning and resist the urge to scream at that thing lying next to you. You panic, hurriedly check the closet for the wedding album, look at a pic of her with makeup, sigh and repeat to yourself “This is my wife. This is my wife. She is beautiful. She is beautiful.” Silently, you creep back into bed, painfully mould your face into a sexy smile and wait for her to wake up before lying, “Hey sweetie, you look gorgeous this morning.” Then you start to wonder why she looked at you wide-eyed in sudden fright before softening into a lovely smile and saying, “You too hon.” You can hear her stifle a sob. Must have been another nightmare.

And now to open your christmas presents:

Now he’ll stop thinking he’s loaded with the highest seasonal morals

 

Questions and Answers

So I was chilling with a friend the other day. We discussed really constructive and intellectual stuff and somehow, the topic got around to virgins. I know what you’re thinking. Easy now. I need you to ignore the dirty dark spots of your mind. Back off slowly, easy, easy…there. Lock that door real good.

My friend had this disturbed look on his face. So I wondered and asked me, “Hmm, what could be wrong with this dude?” And me looked at I and wondered the same thing. He said [me said] “I dunno. Maybe we should ask him.” So I nodded in agreement, turned to face my friend and asked, “Hey dude, what’s wrong?”

My friend looked up at me with a very flustered look and asked, “You know virgins, right?” Duh. “Well, people be saying that when you break a girl’s virginity she can never leave you. Even if you break up with her she’ll still think of you always and want to come back to her first guy. Does that be true?”

I looked at me and me stared back blankly. We didn’t want to admit ignorance. How could Rented have no answer? So we thought hard about it before answering, “I’ll get back to you.” Of course me was hurt that I had answered. He was tired of standing under I’s spotlight.

Anyway, this friend calls back today for the answer and I (we) still don’t have it. So here I am, asking you for answers. Girls. Does it be when it’s true? Do you cling onto your firsties?

 

Sex

Sex Go Standard

Let me tell you about this thing at the office. There’s me, right? And then there’s my boss. And then other blah blah employees. Now. My boss, who also doubles as their boss [that's kinda greedy, don't you think?], is sourly rude and obnoxious, and exasperatingly cavalier. He’s cruel to everyone and prides in the fact that he handsomely says sorry everytime he gets vindictive. ‘Handsomely’ denotes happy material compensation, not excluding sly promotions and other whatnots.

So in the end you’d be quite privileged to experience his unkind gestures. It gets so annoying that the victims’ faces beam with jaw-impairing smiles everytime he throws a “You’re such a goddamn scumbag” or some such compliment at them. This is where I come in.

I’ve never had a raise, a promotion or even a “beer on me” from him on those roaring Saturday nights when we aggressively attack Uganda Breweries under the crafty guise of partying at Fatboyz. Know why? Of course you do. But since I started the story, I’ll tell you anyway. It’s because he has never acted mean to me. Never. It almost drives me to tears to think anyone could be so callous to somebody. I mean, what, am I not cruelty-worthy enough? What’s so different about me that makes him respect me that much? Is a little hate too much to ask?

I complained to a close friend about this and all he did was stare blankly at me for such a long time I could feel him drill a stare-nail through my skull. Then he bonga-d, “catch you later”-d and trod off shaking his head. So much for friendship. The equation is simple. Be ill-treated, sneak into boss’ good graces and get awesomely compensated.

Since I’ve not been as lucky as the other employees I’m devising a flawless plan to get him to hate me. Better yet, he should beat me up. Surely that’ll ensure a fatter reward than all those suckers got. Or even better, he should kill me. I bet that’ll make him feel so guilty he’ll offer me a blank cheque. Boy I’m smart!

How do you say “asossola” in English? He’s sexist? Racist? Favourable? I-love-this-employee-more-than-that-other-one-the-one-seated-over-there-yes-that-one-ist? Whatevs. I’ll settle for asossolic.

[Some P.5 kid just whispered, "discriminative". Hey, go play with dolls or something. I'm trying to concentrate here. Kids!]

Sex Per Second

Sunday afternoon, somewhere in Makindye I saw something stupid. It involved two chickens. When chickens feel horny they chase each other around till the hen finally consents to legal rape, right? Well, this time I witnessed a contradictory episode. They ran around wildly till, in a sudden twist of events, the hen screeched to a halt and turned around to face the cock as if to say, “Look at this cock!” Surprised by the unprecedented move, the cock stopped, looked around to see if anyone was watching [at which point I whistled and stealthily pretended to mind my own biz], frowned and in chicken language told the hen, “Easy, girl. Don’t make me hurt you.” It then crept towards the hen and buried the hatchet without any sound. Some weird shit.

Sex’o Max

The title is completely unrelated (well, maybe just a little) but it got you here with high adrenaline, yes?

[Signs out]
[Signs back in]

Sex Zone

Okay okay. I know I know. You didn’t get your money’s worth yada yada yada. Let’s talk sex then. Did you know that the only other word you can get from the letters S.E.X is ex? See the connotation? Sex leads to break-ups. Sex is bad for you.

Sex. Everywhere you go.

Happy another week.

 

How To Be Ugandan

It’s official. Our assiduous Members of Parliament decided to amend the citizenship law. Now, all that is required is that you follow these archetypal rules to become a Ugandan.

Haggling:
Let’s start with that man on the streets who sells shoes. Look him over head to toe. He’s all sweaty with a poverty stricken face that spells hard work with very little pay. Perfect. He’ll do. Whatever price he tells you, don’t fall for it. Those shoes are worth way less than that. Three grand for Batas? What? He won’t take two grand? Walk on. The lady over there is selling Warid airtime. How much is a Shs.5.000/= airtime card? What? Five grand? Damn cheats. Tell her to take four grand or go to bed with herself.

Spitting in public:
You stroll jauntily down the streets, whistling and suddenly your favourite part of the song is netted by some antagonistic saliva. Well, what are you waiting for? Spit it out. But wait. This isn’t the right spot to do it. There’s a bin over here and public toilets over there. Eew, toilets? To think someone could be so rude to an innocent fluid. Wait for a clean spot, probably with lots of people. That way, they’ll admire you for being respectful to your treasured piece of mouth muck. Kampala road or the taxi park can do. Oh, I know I know. How about Serena’s lobby?

Peeing on public walls:
Guys, you work so hard for your money, yeah? And then they tell you to pay Shs.100/= for public toilets? Seriously? Why call them “public” anyway? Save the money for a PK. Look around. Over there. Oh, thank God for walls. Smile at the realisation that the Berlin Wall wasn’t so useless, after all. So this is what it was built for? Man. Why did I flunk that history paper? Look left, right, left again, no traffic, whip out your weewee and pee. That simple. And while you’re at it you could laugh at the bastard who failed to spell “urinate” right in “Do not urinette here”. Illiteracy!

Loud car music:
You just bought your car? Congs man. Why don’t you tell the world? No, seriously. They should have a feel of the fruits of hard work. You’re probably among the first guys on earth to work as hard. You might as well enjoy your moment. The fastest way is to pimp up your sound system. Especially the volume knob. Buy one of those latest models. Yeah, the one that has no decibel limit. Besides, how will the shorties know you’re in the hood with a new ride? [Wink] Turn it up. Look. That woman up there on the 20th floor isn’t hearing a thing. Come on, dawg. You disappoint me. Let her know Lil Wayne has a new single.

Partying till the sun comes up:
When you go partying, you should mean business. You came to party. Period. No kidding. Let nothing get in your way. Not even the solar cycle. For all you know it can shove your middle finger up its rear. It’s your social image we’re dealing with here. What will people say? Go all night, wait till the last guy leaves, the DJ scratches the discs to a halt, and the waiters start collecting bottles. Look at your watch. It’s 7a.m. Oh my God, it’s late! Now stagger to the last boda-boda guy, wake him and ride back home. On your way, enjoy sights of the poor idiots walking with Bibles. Forgive them, Father. For they don’t know what they are missing.

Useless political rallies:
It’s a boring day? It doesn’t have to be. Buy today’s papers and scan through for any upcoming rallies. Bingo! Take a quick shower, clean your favourite shoes, pick a leafy branch from that tree in your compound and merrily saunter to the venue. Now it’s time to get serious. Get pissed! Yes, just get pissed at anything, frown and start chanting tukooye. Museveni, twakoowa while riotously waving your branch. Then an hour later, like during a break, you could conveniently ask your neighbour what the rally is all about, anyway. HIV awareness? Look at the banner he’s holding. “Go get tested”? What the heck, at least you had a kick out of it.

Inconveniently tapping chicks in club:
You came to club to have fun and one of the rules is “get out with a chick”. I mean, duh, what else could they be here for? Oh, you like her? First check the basics. Looks. Never mind that you look uglier than Bebe Cool in the “I Don’t Wanna Be Lonely” video. It could have been worse. Fragrance. Don’t mind that you stink bad enough to make a pig curse you. It could have been worse. Dressing. Don’t mind that a street kid would look at you with piteous eyes that spell Oh bambi. It could have been worse. Just swagger right up to where she’s seated and, in your most sexy-licious way, tell her “Baby, heaven must be missing an angel coz damn! You want me, right? I know you do”. Now show her that teeth don’t necessarily have to be white while you stand in wait for a reply. No, don’t even offer to buy her a drink. It’s a weak move, bro. Just relax. Oh, she slapped you? She probably mistook you for her ex. Just move on to the next.

 

I Got Bored

The following is a boring adaptation of the insane chronicles of the murderous Edge-Nest duo. I wrote this completely out of lethal boredom. I was bored. So I told you I was bored, right? This adaptation is quite boring coz it turns out I was bored out of my wits. You’re still reading? Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Setting:

Sheep and Cow chilling, eating grass. Wolf a good distance away throwing stones into ocean. Sad and Bored.

Plot:

Sheep: Baa [Looks at cow and exasperatingly repeats] Baa.
Cow: Hell’s wrong witchu nigger. Quit with the ego, man. I aint a sheep, dawg. Dunno ’bout you but that means I don’t speak sheep. Aight dawg?
Sheep: Oh. Why didn’t you say something?
Cow: [Shakes head and continues eating grass]
Sheep: [Keeps staring at cow before saying] Hey, pal? I think you need to get on a diet. You’re so huge.
Cow: What the…
[Interrupts sombre horse. To cow]
Horse: Wadup homes. Could you help me out? [Gives cow Vimto bottle to open]
Cow: What’s witchu and this human piss, nigger? You outta hay, dawg?
Horse: Nah, man. It’s black season, you know. We’re getting slaughtered everywhere, man. It’s depressing, you know?
Sheep: Why do they have to treat us like animals? [Both stare at him with frowns of disbelief] What?
Horse: Anyway, I’m switching to human diet so I look horrible. That way chances are I won’t be eaten. If I get unlucky, I’ll taste horrible.[Looks over at sad wolf] What’s with him?
Cow: Oh, he aint so happy about the little girl’s escape, dawg. [Blank] You know, Little Red Riding Hood. Made him so sad he wanted to kill himself, dawg. You feel me?
Sheep: Oh boy! Did he do it?
Cow: [Gets mad and makes fist] Man, will someone shut this f…
Horse: Easy, homes. He aint worth it, man. [Nods towards wolf] And what’s with the sheep’s skin?
Cow: [Chuckles] Dumb nigger thought he could go all Harry Postter…
Sheep: Harry Stopper…
Cow: Yeah, what the hell do you know? Anyway, dumb nigger thought he could go all Harry Stopper with that invisibility cloak crap, dawg, and eat sheep over here. It wa’nt fly with his ego that a sheep could figure out his sleek move, dawg. [Laughs] Dumb nigger!
Sheep: Cut the guy some slack. He’s only a sheep. I mean, what could he possibly do?
Cow: He’s a wolf in sheep’s skin dumbass. Man, ama kill this punk if he don’t shut up, dawg. I’m tellin’ you, dawg. Anyway, what’s with this whole black season thing, dawg?
Horse: Oh, you know, all the slaughter and stuff? And it’s happy Christmas season for those human jerk-offs, pardon the French.
Sheep: [Mutters to self] That’s not French.
Cow: Yo, is it like the time some famous human died for them?
Sheep: Psssht! No, dummy. It’s when that resurrection thingi happened.
Horse: [Laughs] No guys, it’s when the human was born.
Sheep: Wait, the guy ressurected as a baby? Awesome! No wonder humans are all happy about it. Must have been a major science breakthrough.
[Deep voice from behind]
Wolf: Hi pals.
Sheep: Whoa! Please relax, Wolf. [Backs away slowly] I didn’t do anything to you. I didn’t even hear about you and some little ridden hood.
Wolf: Who told you that? Anyway, relax. I’m vegetarian. Besides, I only wanted to warn the little girl about her cannibal granny.

 

Romance Reloaded

I watched a couple fight for over thirty minutes. The girl wasn’t happy with the way the boy treated her. Normally, I’m not really into this eavesdropping thing but my ears have this irritating habit where they hear everything. Especially if the couple is seated just next to me. I’ve tried talking to them but the end is always the same. “Mind your own damn bi’ness,” they scream. I even tried seeing an otologist but his advice made me seriously doubt his qualification. He told me to cut them off. I think he’s some kind of psycho.

Anyway, so this fight crucified the guy for not playing his part. I couldn’t (still can’t) fathom why it’s always the women to complain. Apparently, it’s never a woman’s fault. For fear of getting my page bloody, we’ll agree to disagree here. So as a representative of the males (we’ll do the voting later) I’ll lay out a few ways women can cut us some slack and behave like they are supposed to:

E. Be beautiful. This should be quite easy. The standard procedure to test beauty levels is simple. Stand right in the middle of a busy road. To be pronounced a certified beauty the cars should swerve off the road to save you from getting killed. Then the drivers should get out without uttering any curse words and ask you out to dinner. However, if you’re knocked and crashed to death, well, just know you’re damn ugly. Again, the standard procedure is to kindly refer your man to a gorgeous damsel and quit pushing him to love you right.

R. Act exemplary. Simply put, you should do the things you think he should be doing. Take him out for a date, welcome him home with a big kiss and carry him to the table for a quickie (Let’s not lose the notion here. He’s a man). Give him a shoulder to frown on (Men don’t cry but I figure you want to argue. Take it to your blog) and learn to speak less and listen more. (Okay, you can skip the last one coz chances are you’ll need serious mental help if you manage to pull it off).

I. Sacrifice yourself at the altar. Hypothetically speaking, the bedroom is a tabernacle where ultimate sacrifices are made for a successful relationship. Naturally, men need lots of blood to keep a relationship going smooth. Learners’ Edition: Never deny your man sex. Never. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of a glorious dream. Wake up, open up, close up and go back to sleep. In case you didn’t know it, men are typically vagivorous. And we eat a lot.

Q. Cry less. Truth is men love looking all posh and debonair. That way they’ll remain in their women’s good graces (And other women’s good graces, of course). Looking elegant involves, among other things, staying clean. Staying clean involves, among other things, having a dry shirt. Having a dry shirt involves, among other things, having a shirt with no tear stains. Easier spelt, we don’t like offering shoulders to cry on. We only do it coz of the vulnerability (read sex) attached to it. So please try to list all your pro-tear factors and cross out those of less priority. Make sure you leave the trully cry-worthy problems. Then go buy a hanky.

U. Mean what you say. He’ll stop taking you for granted. Say “I hate you”, then pack up and leave. He’ll admire the resolve and love you for it. Of course, it doesn’t guarantee that he’ll call you back. Just stay wherever you are knowing he loves you for what you did. You’re such a strong woman and your ‘no’ means ‘no’.

E. Learn to like what he likes. He loves Spaghetti. Surprise him with a sumptuous Spaghetti meal and share it with delight. Smile. He loves Bob Marley. The guy died decades ago but what the heck. Buy him a CD and listen to it with him. Smile. He loves that other chick. Invite her over to dinner with the family and spend just that night in the guest bedroom. Smile, my darling. Don’t forget to smile.

 

He Slept He Dreamt

I got so agitated by the state of affairs in Iraq that I called their Prime Minister. Who the hell authorised them to start selling shoes over there? When Georgieboy raided Saddi I clearly instructed him to find all WMDs and destroy them. He killed Hussein, poor bastard. When I told his father to put the Middle East back into shape, he killed some Taliban soldiers. I don’t know what’s wrong with these two.

It got so irritating I had to borrow Sevo’s jet to have a meeting with George. He’s lucky we ran out of fuel mid-air. We crash-landed in Iraq, fended off a little gunfire by offering the soldiers free bananas and ki-Nigeria movies then we were escorted to the Ugandan embassy.

On our way…[we refers to me and a few other bloggers who refused to attend Chanel's party. I figured if we had to die, I could give them up in exchange for my survival]…anyway, on our way we spotted many Middle Eastern wonders. There was some Iraqi soldier trying to set a black guy on fire without any enhancements like petrol. Our driver explained that they figure black guys have the natural qualities of charcoal. We drove on.

A few kims away, (that’s kilometres in Rented) I spotted some sort of suicide bombers’ class and a kid bowing to a bata shoe with a wicked smile on his face. Then it hit me: the shoe guy. I quickly instructed the driver to take us to the prison cell holding the famous shoe thrower. We drove on.

At the prison gate we were searched as thoroughly as prisoners on death row. Our hair was chopped off just in case we were hiding any MTN Simcards to call the police. All our hair was chopped off. As we waited for the last blogger to be searched some weird guy rushed towards us all suited up with wires and holding something with a red button. I figured this was some Middle Eastern Holy Spirit but when I turned to ask, everyone else was flat on the ground with heads buried. The Holy Spirit guy shouted “astagafuraayi” and fidgeted with his funny suit. He kept perspiring and pressing the red button. Maybe the button pulls up a tuxedo over the wires, I thought. I walked over and offered to help before a bullet spoiled the guy’s head beyond repair. A prison guard had shot him. I didn’t care to ask about what had happened seeing as no one was in the mood to talk. We walked on.
The other bloggers waited in the reception area all traumatised while I was ushered into the shoe thrower’s cell. He sat coyly in a dark corner all cuddled up and naked with nothing but well-polished shoes.

I got a stool out of the other corner, sat just next to him and asked the only question I was dying to ask: “Why did you throw the shoe, shoe thrower?” Slowly, he turned his head up to look at me with tears in his eyes. Then he said, “I tell er this-i story for everyone. But-a nobody is er believes me.” Another sob. “They er come to me and to ask er me about shoe. I smile eeeh and tell people there is fly on head of Bush, yes? I want er to remove fly on head of Bush, si?

“Shoe guy, I thought you were Iraqi.”

“Si si. I just but er grew up in Mexico and stupid Americanos beat me when I cross border. So I say when I get Bush when I grow up, there will be fly on his head. Two fly in fact. And I will shoo them off.”

 

The Wicked Paaaaaaaaaarty

I’m a good guy. For those who missed the party I selected eighteen of the best Kodak moments. And a few other moments…

Before the alikokol:

Shamelessly, Ivan wasn’t staring at that beauty right infront of him. He was staring at a baby. A baby. I’m a good guy. I always take care of the slow ones. That belle right there was the hostess; the famous Chanel.

Enough hours of waiting dealt a catastrophic blow on this here brother. The guy couldn’t figure out his name…

“I could swear I had a name just a second ago…”

She was there…

And she was there…

I swear no one saw the slap coming.

The guy in yellow is Rev, the 27th Comrade. Figure out what he was doing and come for your dimes. I repeat: this is all before the alikokol sets in. Rented looks on…

Here’s a clearer picture…

The Party:

The drinking.

The grooving. Don’t know how Solo disappeared from all the pics. He’s hidden somewhere in there.

The chilling. Oh, that’s Dante. Yes, he was having fun.

“Look at these kids!”

If it wasn’t for Dee’s magical touch, Baz here would have played the truth-or-dare-dare-i-dare-myself-to-sit-through-this-party game.

“Nah ah. My mouth is full right now.”

His eyes aren’t red for nothing.

Is it just me or is there something about that finger?

And now to wish you all a very Merry Christmas…

…And a…

 

This Post Has a Title

The brain is the complex organ on the inside of your head used to carry out all bodily functions; to make your right hand click on that porn site while your left has a juicy chat with your privates, to open your rectum when it’s time to let go of the shitty past and to transcode evil electrons into lies that make people believe your heart has been broken yet somehow you’re still alive to tell the story.

Every human needs the brain to think, of course, with a few exceptions like Straka and Boney M. Scientists the world over are still trying to figure out how these people function entirely with their lips.

Plot build:
I spent my Christmas season in Fortportal, christened by a friend as ‘the land of the stupid’. The following is what made me switch to his side.

Disclaimer: I don’t exactly entirely disagree with an antonymous estimation of my friend’s opinion which is otherwise a not so entirely badly thought inference of the level of thinking of the otherwise would-be brilliant (See? I used the word. So don’t go preaching about how I’m a Batooro hater) dwellers of Fortportal.

My Stupid:
Christmas Eve I got into a serious fight with bore and, seething with anger, grabbed the car keys and left for town. I had no specific agenda so I pulled over to wait for an angel with the good news that my virgin brain had conceived a brilliant plan for the day and his name is, well, Plan for the day. A couple of minutes and the scriptures came true. I was to take the next right and stop at the first house I found just to drop in and say hi. I ignited Mary and drove her (I like the way this sounds) to the designated spot where I found some kind of institution for AIDS patients. I didn’t know it then which explains the blunt look on the face of this man who I caught spitting in a bucket and stated, “You’re sick!” He gave me a stare that spelled “and what’s your point, mister?”

Their stupid:
Post-Christmas, I grudgingly succumbed to a crappy day. I spent the afternoon in an uncomfortable chair (they called it a sofa) thinking about the world’s economy, the way forward for Africa, the sad and endless fights in the Middle East, and Straka. My reverie was interrupted by a loud bang from the door behind and a grand what-did-you-say-nigger? entry. My Auntie was wildly pulling one of my cousins into the living room. She sat her down just opposite me and escorted the not so flattering treatment with an equally not so flattering story. The accused was in some kind of relationship with another cousin. Her cousin. Her relative. The two in a relationship. Together. Both of them. Do you get the point now?

After Auntie ran the end credits, damned cousin developed a critique of the movie, a critique that transcends all genres of stupid. “Why does everyone have to care?” After Auntie’s tearful exit, I slowly took my hands off Beyonce’s tits, told her to dress and wait for me. I gave cousin a long hard stare as I came up with the suitable words for this situation. After failing to come up with a plausible reason as to why I had been chosen for this unholy task, my mind settled on one thing: I was the only one capable of saying whatever needed to be said. So I gathered all calories left from my marathon with Beyonce and politely told her, “Fuck you. Now get the fuck out of my sight.” She didn’t understand a word I said but she got the cue from the expression on my face.

This one has a title too:
I received messages wishing me a “Merry Xmas & Happy New Year”. Then the same people sent other messages wishing me a “Happy New Year”. Is this some kind of anti-Xmas crusade? You partition its wishes but then when the new year comes around it has its own messages. Funny thing is I’m doing it too. Happy 2009. Damn you, Erique!

 

Diaries Of Vice City

Happy Fresh Year, you. Now onto less mundane matters.

Friday afternoon I’m in a Stanbic queue. Enter student dressed like some kind of G; some Lil Wayne wannabe. He proceeds to next counter where there’s this new young chick (probably fresh outta campus). Enquiries counter. Here’s what transpired:

Student: Good afternoon ma’am. I was told to fetch my ATM card today.
Ma’am: How long ago?
Student: About two weeks ago.
Ma’am: Okay, what’s your name?
Student: Saka Dick.
Ma’am: Excuse me!

Rest of story doesn’t matter. This is what I came here for:

The Devil has called for the 2009 Annual Demons Conference. It takes place every start of a new year. Today it’s at the famous Grimmers Hall in Hell’s capital, Evileden.

Somewhere in the crowd a female brushes through:

Female: Excuse me, passing through, oops sorry, excuse me. [She spots him a small distance away. That bastard! she shouts after him] Sarge? Sarge? Sargy!

Sargimamtusopion: Oh, hi baby. Come to papa.

Loquivamamian: Don’t baby me, you ass. How could you?

Sargy: [Somewhat confused] Now what?

Loqui: Now what? Now what? What’s this, huh? [Throws pic of some couple at him]

Sargy: [Mutters to self] Mathaf… [To her] Where in hell did you get this?

Loqui: Shirt pocket, asshole. While doing your laund…

Sargy: [Teleports to her and gags anything further she might have said] Ssshhh! If anyone finds out we have water, you and I are dead! Kappish? Now, about the pic; that’s my sister. From my other mother.

Loqui: You fucking liar!

Sargy: Of course I’m a liar, baby. And look who’s talking. Miss I’m-the-holiest. Remind me, you’re the demon of adultery, no?

[Drums]

Sargy: Ok, off you go. Shoo. He’s here.

A different somewhere in the crowd:

Man: Hi, I’m Lecktopazhisctck. Xaputomelian Lecktopazhisctck.

Man #2: Zipoleqaborini. But you can call me Zip. Not nice to meet you.

Leck: Wait, Zip? The famous Zip who invented zip codes and mobile phones so men could cheat on their wives and get away with it by lying about where they…

Zip: [Chuckles] You don’t have to spell it all out. Yes, that Zip. But I graduated from that task a long time ago. I’m now the demon of African elections.

Leck: Oh my Devil! I can’t believe I’m standing next to you. So you’re still the famous Zip who has kept Mugabe on for this long, given Kibaki another term, kept Somalia in turmoil and is now based in Ugan…

Zip: Sshh! You could get banished to heaven for revealing some stuff. But hey, thanks. I didn’t know I had such a big fan base.

Leck: Whoa, Zip. [Stares at him with great envy and offers sweaty palm] Not nice to meet you too. You know, I’m the Deputy Demon for Middle Eastern Affairs. [Assumes proud tone] We’re having an excellent start of the year. A few more Israeli bombs and I’m full D.M.E.A.

[Drums]

Zip: Good for you. Now shush. Here we go.

Behind a black transparent curtain a grand seat lifts out of the ground amidst loud merry music revealing a dark ugly figure. For a second the lights fail to illuminate figure.

Lucifer: [To self] And they say MTV makes the grandest stages. Pricks! [Lights on, then deafening applause from crowd] Thank you. Thank you. [Applause dies down] I damn you all in my name.

All in reverence: Aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

Lucifer: Now, today we mark the start of yet another battle year. We…hey, did someone kill the air con? It’s damn cool in here. [One of his bodyguards runs off stage. Continues] Last year we slacked and let the one of that name which…of whom whose name we…which name of which we…what the hell…you get the point. We don’t want the same thing this year now, do we? We must… [Blackout] …Did someone pay the power bills?

Demon of duplicity: No, Sir.

Lucifer: Good, now what’s the problem? [Power is turned back on] Now, where were we?… [Another blackout]

Somewhere in the crowd: Jesus!

To be continued…

 

The Other Diaries Of Vice City

There was a massive earthquake that measured red on the hellter scale. Everyone was mortified that even the damned souls forgot their agony for a second. They all shut up.

Lucifer: [Tail stops wiggling in extreme anger. Grits teeth] Who the fuck said that? [Each word came out with studied resolve to find all synonyms to the word 'rage'] I said, who the fuck said that?

Suddenly, there was a stir somewhere in the crowd that left one terrified demon isolated in the middle of a contemptuous bunch. He pee’d in his pants which was an even greater embarassment because, you see, he had pee’d fire.

A year later:
The Tourist’s Guide to Hell (Ch 16, Pg 92) – “…to this day no one knows exactly what happened to that demon. Prominent rumours are he was indefinitely banished to Switzerland to suffer the anguish of so much peace…”

Today:
7a.m the next day finds the Devil seated in an office, cross-legged, opposite a young unsmiling lady wearing specs. They were ill-fitted because one of her horns had an abnormal branch just under the left ear. She didn’t care, though. Just like she didn’t give a hoot about anything other than the man seated infront of her. Who was she to deserve such an astounding presence? She was only a shrink. They sat in silence as each waited for the other to say something. Anything. Even the screams of the burning souls could be heard five miles away through reinforced soundproof glass.

Lucifer: You know you have the oddest name around here?

Odd name: [No facial expression whatsoever] Oh yeah? No I don’t. Enlighten me.

Lucifer: Stpdstdmnsssb. No vowels. How do even pronounce that?

Stpdstdmnsssb: How did you just pronounce it?

Lucifer: I didn’t. You notice it was typed. Unless of course you’re so dumb to see that. Do you know that if someone inserted a few vowels and spaces in your name they would get the words ‘Stupidest demon’? And ‘Sick Silly Son of a Bitch’ to go with the extra consonants? Huh, and I thought I was fucked.

Stupid demon: [Still expressionless] I sense some anger here. Where do you figure it comes from?

Lucifer: “Where do…” I hate being rhetorical but are you stupid? First I come in here and the welcome question is “who are you?” Now this? Where do you figure I come from? Why do you figure I exist? Why do you figure the world is…it’s the essence of my existence you dumb fuck.

Dumb Fuck: I only asked about who you are to help you figure yourself out. It’s the reason you and I are here in the first place [No expression]

Lucifer: [Silent for a minute] It’s ‘me and you’ not ‘you and I’… And your fuckin’ face scares the hell out of me, you know that? No matter how much I try to annoy you, you sit there without a single frown on your face.

Scary Face: I don’t mean any disrespect, Sir, but it’s ‘you and I’.

Lucifer: [Sigh. Then softly] Do you know how old I am? Do you even know…

The door bursts open to let in a panicky demon.

Demon: Sorry to interrupt, Your Evilness, but we have a serious situation.

Lucifer: [Barks] Can’t you see I’m busy here?

Demon: I’m afraid it’s very important, Sir.

Lucifer: What! And it better be damn important.

Demon: [Timidly] Sir, the story ends here.

 

A Letter To Beyonce

Dear Biiyo,

Am staying in Uganda exactly in Buganda in a place called Kampala district. I am in Makindye zone 4B and am the L.C. I have studied so heard and so far I have a diploma. I want to be with you and I will study so heard until I get a cerfiticate and a degree.

I am applying this letter to show you my true feelings of ever since you still sung for the destiny’s child. I even have all of the albums from when you where starting to sing upto now when you are singing that new song where you say that if you were a boy. I have even the remix. I will send it to you so that you can download it. I have seen all the news where you have been put like on DSTV and GTV. Even when the Manchester United and Arsenal is playing I get out of the march to go and just be listening to your albums and see you on the TV.

Your the fast and last thing I think about. I will love you until when a lake called victoria and it is in a place called Jinja district I will love you until that lake become driy. I will be with you until Jesus comes dawn to the earth. I want to ploduce a child with you and I will call him also Beyonce. But I dont like that man called jay zed to be with you.

Please love me and I be calling capital radio so that they can be praying youre song everytime. I want to make love in this club. Am on MTN and if you give me youre number I can be calling from everywhere you go. I have added you on facebook so that you can be my frend. I have also send you a CV from when I was in nursery. I love you Biiyo. I have even chased the wife because of for you. Please reply back this letter and you be my African quin. You can use the post office the one of jinja road.

Ded:
Breethless by Shiny Word.
Titanic by Selindion.
Nakudata by Weazo and Radio.

Yours sinsirelly,

Mutwegwangege Yeriki.

Matters of National Security:

“Diaries Of Virtue City: A Complete Guide to Heaven” will be published on Wednesday.

Good week, ladies and gents.

 

Diaries Of Virtue City: A Complete Guide to Heaven

The general mood was sombre. Everyone was driven to tears as the sight of Jesus being caned won the souls of the pitifully emotional Angels. Sherem furiously raised the whip for another one of his unforgivingly sinister lashes. Mustering all resolve he brought it down with…

“Cuuuuuut!,” screamed a deep voice adequately loaded with admirable resonance. Andrew, the movie director, had spoken. Everyone else had to listen.

“Oh come on, Andrew. This is the twentieth cut we’ve made. And for just one scene?”

“Oh shut up, Simon Peter!…”

“Simon. Just Simon. Did you have to spell out the whole name?”

“Gee, how else will the readers know exactly who I’m talking to? Anyway, as I was saying…Oh shut up, Simon Peter! You were just a fisherman when Master brought you into the limelight. What would you know about directing? Gibson used way too much blood. We gotta give people a diff…”

“Guys, guys. Come on. I enjoyed The Passion. I believe the earthlings enjoyed it too. Even Museveni attended its premier at Cineplex,” someone in the crowd interjected. Everyone was quiet for a second. They all stared at the figure that had spoken before Simon Peter broke the silence.

“Iscariot? Judas Iscariot? [He chuckled] Wh…what are you doing in Heaven?” The spell of silence was reborn as they all looked at each other in disbelief. Even Jesus from the movie got up to give his punisher a consulting look.

“Umm, guys? This isn’t what it looks like…” Judas defended himself as he backed away slowly.

Amidst the silence someone spoke, “That doesn’t look like Judas to me. Sure the body, name, and, well, the face all look convincing but…nah, don’t think that’s him.” But no one cared what doubting Thomas said. The silence continued. Five minutes later Andrew spoke.

“Guys, you realise we have readers. Will you say something already?”

“Let’s stone him to death!”

“Hey who said that? Forgive your neighbours, remember?” corrected Andrew.

At Simon Peter’s suggestion they all agreed to drag Judas to Jesus for questioning. Everyone, including the cast, left for the Garden of Eden to witness this astonishing development. Only two angels, One and Two were left. No one knew why they were named so.

One: Hey Two, do you think he escaped from Hell so he could repent?

Two: Dunno, dude. There’s no part in the Bible that talks about forgiving ghosts. [Drops to a near-whisper] I hear he was acting like some kinda source for some blog post about Hell; Diaries of Vice City or something like that.

One: Oh. [After a few seconds] Hey, maybe he betrayed Lucifer.

Both laughed while they got up to join the others.

One: Who’s Museveni?

*** *** ***

The arrival of the disciples and Angels who had brought Judas for questioning found The Trinity in a board meeting. In the meantime Judas was secured in, for lack of a better place, a lion’s den. It was his biggest nightmare since the New Testament. He shivered, perspired and cowered in a corner, afraid that anything from breathing was a signal for the lions to pounce.

[In opposite corner]

Lion Un: What’s with him?
Lion Deux: No idea, dude. He’s probably claustrophobic.

After a tiresome hour of waiting a consensus was reached. The Trinity would be left to handle matters of Heavenly security including a sequel to the Bible. Judas was to be tried by a jury of his peers. Unfortunately, he had no peers available so a court of his foes was chosen instead. A large screen appeared where Gabriel, the head Angel was to give a verdict after everyone cast a vote. Heavenly voting was done through thought. All one had to do was think it and it was projected into Gabriel’s ballot box.

The process was quick and before long it was time for Gabriel’s appearance. The screen lit up with such brightness that someone on earth got blind. Of course, it didn’t matter that the earthling’s face had just received a fair dose of acid from beating his unrelenting wife. For a few seconds nothing appeared on the screen. All of a sudden, there was still nothing on the screen.

About a second after nothing appearing on the screen, Gabriel’s face lit up, cleared its throat and with the speed of a shoe thrower declared “innocence unto Judas.”

A female Angel in the crowd: “What! The man who betrayed Master is innocent? I don’t believe this.”

A male Angel somewhere else: “What! We have crystal clear HD LCD TV Flat screen Plasma technology already? I don’t believe this.”

Continued Gabriel, “Woe unto ye that fail to find forgiveness for a repentant soul. You should be ashamed. [Drops to a whisper] Judas, I’ll forgive you only because everyone reading this expects me to. Naturally. You’ll find out what I trully feel about you after this story ends. Wacha wewe. And it has ended.”

 

Wander in Wonder

There’s a story I wanted to post about what transpired on earth as the Heavenly and Hell-ly events took place. However, my characters are on strike coz, apparently, I don’t pay enough. One of them, a chicken, made an unprecedented move of throwing itself off a twelve-storeyed building. Don’t ask me how it got there. Apparently, the sheep from I Got Bored told it-and I quote-”I bet you can’t throw yourself down there. Chicken!”

So in lieu of said post I leave you with ten things that ail me with acute wonderingitis. It’s a rare disease.

I wonder:

1. What Obama would look like in a nappy.

2. Why you have to turn on every machine before using it.

3. Whether you’d fall in love with that person if the thing between their legs wasn’t there.

4. How Noah could build a boat better than the Titanic.

5. If the world would be as interesting without “d”. I mean who would want to pronounce it “worl”? Eeew.

6. If Rambo can beat Swaziniger.

7. If Bill Gates’ digestive and poop system is powered by Windows.

8. What Mugabe’s fart smells like.

9. If deaf guys listen to their hearts.

10. Why females find the esteemed art of ogling quite unappealing. It’s a divine act that leads to buying you a drink, which leads to sex, which leads to parting ways, which leads to changing simcards, which leads to more profit for telecommunications companies, which leads to a country’s economic growth. By all means, ladies, try to love your country.

Blasty weekend, boys and girls.

 

ABCD…Hey, what’s the next letter?

I’m one of those punks graduating this week. It irritates to see kids celebrating this thing like the second coming. Next day the natural frowns will be back as they scour newspapers for jobs. But I’ll cut them some slack. To many, this is such a big step. Congs, Ivan.

Thought I would spend the week crashing parties but I have my own. I hate them but for the sake of the alcoholics at home I’ll throw one. This is where I need your help. You know that irritating part where they tell you to say something? [Like you've grown up a mute kid] Well, I have absolutely nothing to say. So I devised this major plan to utter crapperies that no one understands so in the end they are all like “Whoa! He’s mighty learned.” Something like:

I amalgamate you all to this procrastinating ceremony. It is such a quid pro quo subterranean honour to visualise you all. You connote so much to me and all my cerebelluminian and oblongatinian existence. I would be but an insinuation of philosophical non-condominium without you. Parents, friends and family, Range Rovers offer quintessential fascimile to the glory and splendour of beauty. Thank you all.

I know. I don’t understand a thing either. Brilliant, isn’t it? I’m sure these words possess the distinct propensity to make Shakespeare’s forefathers frown at his ghost for not going to school. But seriously, what do people say at these functions? Who wants to listen to speeches while disorganising food and sending Tuskers to their graves? If I start appreciating people I’ll have to appreciate my mum’s husband too [He doubles as my father or something like that] and I have nothing to say to that ass-like creature. [Long story]

He’s such a…please say something. I’m bubbling endlessly about my life and you’re just seated there looking at your screen like I don’t matter. You make me look like a fool.

 

E…That’s The Next Letter

Did y’all miss me? Yes? What, you want a hug now? Shoo! Anywhich, I’m glad this whole grad nankani is done. But I’m tempted to get frustrated when I think of the “now what?” Whatevs. Not here to sulk. The speech? It got outta hand but I’ll tell you about it last.

First:
SK, B2B, Darlyne, that chick who works with SK, fatally glad I met you guys at Efendy’s. Igiss, you liar! Cheri…haa, now you…schedule an appropriate time for a fight. And a divorce later. You’ve lied to me way too much, Coochie. To SK and the bunch I met, I’m so sor…I ask for pardon for the unbloggy thing I did. I spoke so little and disappeared into a deep euphoric fog. My system had a lethal dose of Rock and, according to doctor, the only way to get back to normal was to get wild. Which is why that me-like guy next to you was screaming and jumping like he had seen God but no one believed him.

Not Last:
I know I said this would come last but something more lasty has jumped to mind. Here’s how I got rid of the 24 hours on Wednesday.

The following takes place between Tuesday 20th and Thursday 22nd:
I got picked up from my place by mum and prodigal father, and threatened not to graduate if I wasn’t given the car keys. I wasn’t going to be driven by that dude who calls himself my father. I hear phones weren’t allowed. I decided to test the intellectual capacity of those bleep machines. The guy before me had no phone…bleep. I had a phone…bleep. Diagnosis…stupid. But the hand-search askari had a thing against me so I had to surrender the phone.

After the MC noticing I was getting uncomfy with the whole grad thing he instructed his mouth to say my name out loud. There was a whoo whoo somewhere in the crowd [probably some chick who thought that was the easiest way to get my attention] and that was it. Wait, that was it? I wasted a whole freakin’ day for name-dropping stunts? I walked out in protest and swore to get retakes the next time some lecturers conspired to get me into another grad ceremony.

The party:
Through my entire party life I’ve never come across a ceremony where they lied so much they forced the dictionary to look up the word lie. These were responsible adults of strong faith but everytime they dropped lie after lie they smiled tooth after tooth. Said one of them, “Since childhood he has been a very good, intelligent and loving boy.” When my jaw dropped he thought I was awing his suit. My turn came but coz of so much disbelief I switched direction. Everyone expects you to talk about how good education is blah blah, right?

“Well it sucks. [Giggle here, laugh there. These dudes knew what 'sucks' meant?] I’ve graduated but so have a zillion souls since the start of the alphabet. Yet half of them are still looking for jobs. This is not something you can proudly smile at and say ‘I achieved’. It’s sheer character and determination that counts…”

I didn’t know I had it in me. I could actually speak and make people nod? Huh, maybe Obama doesn’t deserve all the hype afterall.

Last:
Monday 26th January is a public holiday. No, it’s not NRM day [Try to get history right]. It’s my birthday. Mark it on your calendars right after you send those gifts. But if you don’t, I won’t sulk. I’m not a girl. I’m a guy. I’ll kill you.

“Happy Birthday.”
“Oh, thanks. You too.”

 

Reverse Psychology 101

I watched a movie where one of the actors looked directly at the camera (by mistake?). I almost switched it off in a big bout of tax-deductible rage but I gave the culprit benefit of the doubt. So I rewound to that culprity part. I guess he realised his mistake coz he didn’t do it again. Arrghh! I’m MHI positive (Major Headache Infection) thanks to Steakout’s sinister motives. I don’t know what I did to have so much fun this week (speak of life being unfair) but Tuesday was one of the so-much-fun days.

Here’s where the headache came in. I was seated at the counter minding my own damn bi’ness and there was this Tusker that came out of the blue. Some chick dressed in blue dropped it in front of me adding, before I could breathe in enough to say thanks, that it had been sent over by some dude standing over there next to the DJ. I couldn’t readily make out his face so I simply assumed it was meant for this chick seated next to me. “No, it’s yours.” What the…you think I’m gay? Before my face could borrow a few calories from the stomach to fuel a badass frown she added, “It’s from your brother”.

Oh. My virtuous brain told my hand to wave at him while my lips split up in a mini-smile. (Now this is another story. My body does things before I even tell it to. I had a fatal argument with my brain the other day. I hear it’s what gives me what to think about in the first place. Who…what does it think it is? Mbu it wants to secede. Who cares?)

Anywhen, back to the Tusker and the headache. I let the Tusker say its last prayers while I listened to Bobi Wine’s philosophical words of wisdom: “Badman a say mi gwan pan watta say bomboclat boyaka boyaka…” This guy is exceptionally poetic. Mid-headshake I shot the Tusker bottle a cursory glance and noticed it was discourteously looking at me in a parody of discomfort like I had done something unholy. At the risk of sounding wacky before this chick and badman Bobi Wine I gave it the same impolite look and asked what! The damn thing just kept staring at me like it had nothing better to do. I got so angry, pulled an opener out of my pocket, be-bottletopped it and sucked all the blood out of it.

I couldn’t afford getting disrespected by alcohol. At least with a Coke or Mountain Dew you could say kale kale. But a Tusker? Hell no! Amidst blinding rage I failed to notice that the other Tuskers in the fridge had seen it all. I bought three more thinking they would act more polite but no. They wanted to clap back for a fallen brother. They pumped every percentage of alcohol they could gather into my innocent body. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just me having a fight with the brain. My whole body was rioting against it. The body was tired of having one guy in charge for all these years. In a bid to call for free and fair elections for a non-Movement brain to take over, it sent all the alcohol up to the ruling brain.

In protest, the brain declared a state of severe emergency. It recalled all the neurons and every other Member of Celebral-ment, a move that left the body desperately helpless. Which brings me to Wednesday morning; the headache.

Ahem
On to more dignifying matters, has someone seen my toilet paper? Thought I would write this before pooping so I put it here just next to the mouse. I can’t believe someone has the guts to rob toilet tissue especially in these trying moments. In case you took it please bring it back.

 

Dum Diddly

Girls are really damn complicated. I try to show a little bit of so much of my affection and look how they clap back. Now my left cheek has generous fingerprints. I put it out to open court to judge me. Here, I present the masterful stunts I use to show my undying love.

It’s the small things that matter:
She says you don’t have to give her the world to prove you love her. Just show you care by doing something unforgettable.

Dum diddly: I push her off a cliff and break a bone or two in her legs. How’s that for unforgettable?

I love it when you make me smile:
She loves it when you do the things she wants you to do. “Sweet potato, look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me.”

Dum diddly: I look her straight in the eye and tell her, “Bebe, I don’t love you.”

Don’t be so available:
She hates it when you get all needy and want her by your side all the time. Though it feels good, at some point it gets nagging.

Dum diddly: She’s severely hurt and is rushed to hospital. But I was with her only yesterday. It’ll taint my image to be with her all the time. I show up a week later after all hospital bills have been paid just to say sorry darling.

Think about me all the time:
She adores you when she becomes the last thing you think about before you go to sleep and the first thing that comes to mind when you wake up.

Dum diddly: I’m just about to doze off but I remember “Shoot! Bebe, did you lock the back door?” She says “yes, Potato”, I relax and snore. Morning comes, I wake up, look at her divine face and decide “Sweet chips and chaps, I think we should sell your Volvo and buy me a Range. What do you think?”

Surprise me every once in a while:
Chicks really like it when you surprise them. It makes them feel special.

Dum diddly: I wait five minutes before she gets home from work, rush the maid to the bedroom and do very very bad things with her with the door wide open. “Oh my God!”

Speaking of, there’s this cockroach that keeps rubbing at my feet and then disappearing under the table like it’s high on whatever cockroaches get high on at their nights out. What’s wrong with these people? Anyway…

Make our love public:
She’s yours forever if you feel proud about her and introduce her to friends and family. That way she’ll know she’s the only one in your life.

Dum diddly: “Hey, Lucy? Come here. Come meet my pals. Er, this is my very best friend, Dave. We come a long way. I love you, Dave. And umm, this is Jane, a close workmate and very good drinkmate. I love you, Jane. Then this is an O.B from High School. Taken really long without seeing each other. Where’ve you been, dude? Love you, man. Okay, guys? This is Lucy. I love you, Lucy.”

Learn to say sorry:
Dudes, saying sorry doesn’t make you lose respect. It’s a simple word that buys you more affection. You gotta say it, explain what you did and tell her you won’t do it again.

Dum diddly: I say sorry and she says for what and I say I cheated on her and she says what the hell and I say she shouldn’t blow it outta proportion it was just a quickie and she says I should go shove my head up the mid-section of my butt-cheeks and I say she’s a reference to a female dog and she says that thing flying towards my face real fast is a frying pan.

 

Rented Goes Political

My mind is dressed in a perfect White House suit, only without that stupid Cheney grin. I’m here to discuss stern issues of global importance in the hope that, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll keep your shoes on at the end of this discussion.

That said, I’m sick of this credit predicament. GTV sighed and boarded a pirate ship through Somalia back to Britain. Now several companies are laying off workers faster than a rabbit declares, “Honey, I’m done”. Businesses are liquidating, prices of essential commodities are increasing, the unemployment rate is shooting up and I’m taking Splash after a kickass lunch. Normally, I’d do a fine tequila [commonly mislabeled ‘Rwenzori’].

It’s now time to explore the root of this disaster. [Not that I give a squito’s butt about the world. I just don’t like the whole Splash-after-lunch idea]. Here’s how I apportion the blame. 90% goes to women and 10% goes to people who aren’t male. Why? At the risk of getting rhetoric I’ll ask the obvious. Are you dumb?

Look. The biggest percentage of the world’s economy is dedicated to impressing women. A guy works till his ass melts then goes home and lavishes all his love (read money) on the family. Matter of fact, I’m putting this the wrong way. Guys, what if, by any wild chance, you lost your instrument of power, say, to a bomb blast or your doctor heard resize instead of circumcise? Would you have any reason to live? ‘Course not. This stands to explain that the ultimate reason for existence is sex.

Everything the world does is meant to provide a life of fun (read sex). Everything we do is meant to build our sex eligibility. Females attract males and males fight to impress. Females construct daughters with butts that cause an optical credit crunch and give the illusion you’re looking at Everest in perfect 3D while males spend like money is the new WMD. See where the crisis comes from?

This…is…CNN.

 

Code Of The Virgins

Dry spatters of very heavy rain fell lightly on the roof of a somewhat large building-actually a very large building-inside of which was some sort of gathering-no, it was definitely a gathering (what’s wrong with me?). I’m sure it was a gathering of some creatures which, looking at the way they had a weird concentration of facial features-two eyes, two nostrils, two lips, two ears-I figured were humans. And seeing as the pair theory continued to two arms, two legs, and some two still undefined pumpkin-like things just below their backs that, for some reason or other beyond the metaphysical, had a linear split right in the middle, I couldn’t help thinking what a greedy species this was.

“I welcome all girls and girlesses to…” she began and paused to shoot a questioningly confusingly frowny look at the crowd that seemed to consult with each other over something or other she had just said. The completely nude chick looked back down at the piece of paper carrying her speech. It frowned back at her and, just to help, blurred the part that was confusing the crowd. [Blur-girlesses-Blur].

“Oh,” she cooed in a manner that sent neurotic waves to her brain with a message that it was okay to stop wondering. She continued, “Girlesses, girls and girlesses, means girls who are actually girls. Now her brain was getting angry. It joined the crowd and snickered at her. “Girlesses are virgins who don’t lie about their virginity. They are virgin virgins, dummies.” Now she was getting angry so her brain pretended to understand what she had just said, concentrated on answering a call that had just come in from the rectum requesting for permission to launch, and let her go on with her speech.

“I welcome all girls and girlesses to this here first HIV Conference, otherwise known as the Highly Intellectualised Virgins C. No more shall we stand the unfair exclusion from society. No more shall we starve for sex. No more, g’s and g’s, shall we look at ourselves in the mirror and wonder what some things on our bodies are for. Today, ladies, is the holy day of enlightenment. Today is the day we throw complacency out the window. It is judgement day for virgins worldwide. Today we say no to bondage. Today we de-virginise.”

She paused to welcome a stupendous cheer from the excited crowd of stark naked chicks. She smiled a smile that scared the lips bad enough to make them hurriedly give way to the teeth. (It’s reported that a year later her lips submitted a bitter resignation letter on account of unfair treatment. Read a certain paragraph: “You say derogatory things that are way too blasphemous to our way of life…doing things to men without prior consent of our sister, Tongue…”) Enjoying every moment of her fame, she winked at the small, quiet crowd crouched naked in a corner at the back. This eccentric bunch of nude men was honoured with the task of robbing these young girls of their virginity.

Pointing at the dudes in the corner, she continued, “Those loving gentlemen have offered to help us for free. I can’t help but cry for such a brave charitable cause. Guys, may your selfless act be rewarded abundantly.” The crowd observed a moment of silence as a few chicks said silent prayers for these men and their instruments of charity that dangled aimlessly like bored yo-yos.

The speech chick broke the silence. “We’ve been made fun of by famous selfish writers at blogville and we’re being made fun of even as I speak, ladies. Well, today we put our feet down; our backs, for those who prefer to go missionary. Today we realise a change that will turn the U.S.A into an icon of new-age morality. Hooray to the United Sex Alliance!” Deafening applause emanated from the crowd before she continued.

“Now if you could all proceed to that door that reads Rented…”

I shot out of a deep sleep and shed tears of so much grief. I cried for whatever will happen to females on Saturday, the 14th of Feb. Oh, the cruelty of this world.

 

Silly Conversations

Saying too much could get you into serious trouble. And then again, saying nothing at all could get your ass fried real good enough to turn a chicken from vegetarian to cannibal. Tuesday night at Steakout I met an ish friend. We chatted and somehow got around to girls. [Why do people seem to think I’m some kind of chick maestro?] Normally, this is a topic I’d willingly contribute to but I just wasn’t in the mood to talk to a boring dude who said the same shit every time we met. And so the K.B went:

After the you’re-lost-man-you-don’t-even-holla-at-a-brother minutes were archived, I hibernated and he went into permanent auto-chatterbox mode.

Bore: Yo dude,waddup. Eh, man you never stop partying. I see you here every time. Kati why don’t you first pass me those birds I normally spot you with. You have a constant supply of bu-chicks, man. Eh!

Erique: [Smiles and takes sip of whatever he’s holding]

BR: Oh, by the way, what’s the plot via that light-skinned bird? She’s sexy sexy like so and has mob long hair and some tight ass. I think you was with her some time at thingi… [snaps fingers] …what’s that joint…Phaze 2. I spotted you with her….Name, yeah, Name. What’s the deal with her? You getting some?

EQ: …

BR: Don’t tell me you are, aren’t you? You are, right?

EQ: …

BR: Damn! That’s what I’m talkin’ about, dude. You have a tight game, man. Dudes everywhere are flexing for that shawty big time, man. Damn! Kati first hit it. [Offers palm for a high five at which point I pretend to read a text on my phone.] She’s your chick or what?

EQ: …

BR: [Puzzled] I know that look. She ain’t your woman. Are you even tapping that ass?

EQ: … [Another sip]

BR: Oh my goodness! You’re not, are you? You’re such a freakin’ liar. How can you fail to get it on with such a fine bird? I swear you’re fake. Hope you’re not thinkin’ of eating her, are you?

EQ: …

BR: You’re, you freak. You want to lay her, right?

EQ: …

BR: I knew it. Naye why do you lie lie so much? Or you guys are just buddies on the low low?

EQ: …

BR: Man you’re slow. How can you just be buddies with such a chick? Anyway please help me and don’t do anything to her man. I want that shawty bad but she feels on me. I hope to eat her some day.

EQ: [Piteous facial expression]

BR: Aaah, man. No way! You chewed that chick. Naye man I swear! [Still can’t decide if this is some kinda question.] Ate someone told me she was your chick naye I wasn’t going to believe him till I heard it from you. And now you’re jazzing me I hear you chewed her. What’s wrong with you man? You know I want her.

EQ: ! [Another sip]

BR: Man I swear… [Shakes head]… a’ight I’ll spot you. [Walks off stage]

This guy managed to annoy himself and all I did was smile and sip.

Disclaimer: Name is an ex-workmate I used to hangout with frequently. No, it wasn’t a date and no, this guy has absolutely no chance.

 

Valentine’s Special

Finally. Hypocritical Tom, inauspicious Dick and plain dimwitted Harry can all stuff their closets real good this Saturday so all their bad habits are chocolated by undeserved I-love-you’s. It’s that time of the year when we lie and lie and lie till it gets too bad she has take off her clothes and you have to take off yours and you both have to fall into bed and declare how much you both hate being lied to. Here is the basic economics of Valentine’s day.

There’s you:
You two are so in love. You’re the most adored couple among family, friends and foe. You do all the right stuff at the right time. You kiss early in the morning and share the lovely aroma from last night’s eggs and yoghurt. You tell each other to talk dirty in bed just to spice up the romance and the verb scattering starts: “Your face looks like smashed avocado” “Yours looks like expired human faeces” “Come here, my dirty baby”… Your love is bona fide fun and you don’t give a hoot about anything else the world has to offer. Your love is typical Hollywood romance. You go for a date on a bodaboda, eat rolexes and call it cute, watch the pretty skies at night (perfect excuse for not having a TV at home) and then do that thing where you use your tongues to dig out each other’s dental fossil and spit into each other’s mouths.

Truth

The dude: He likes another girl and you’re just a specimen to show the other girl how romantic he can be. The dirty stuff he said? He meant it but only got away with it coz of the moment. He’s not original at all. All he does is copy what’s done in movies. These are the negroes who put rings in Guinness bottles and force the girls to take those beers specifically just so they can propose. Like in the movies. “Honey, please get me a Smirnoff” “I already got a Guinness, baby” “But sweetie, me I want a Smirnoff” “Coochie, please just try a Guinness” “Cheese burger, maybe another time. Gimme a Smirnoff” “Will you just take the damn thing already! And if you want us to make it in this marriage, don’t call me a cheese burger again. Ever!” Also, either he’s just too damn broke or just wants to get dividends with as little investment capital as possible.

The chick: She’s genuinely in love. Now I don’t know what dictionary you use to define your words but the latest versions of dictionaries define ‘genuine’ as ‘stupid: Jane is genuinely in love. Jane is stupid’. Most probably she has never been in a relationship before otherwise she’d know how to actually talk dirty. Come V.Day, he’s going to have sex but she’s going to make love, poor thing.

There’s me:
We all know what the day is actually for. For the girls in your periods, well, I can only go as far as crying for you. Either he’ll break up with you or kill you or he’ll cheat on you. Or he’ll kill you then break up with you then cheat on you. Still not good. My advice? Postpone the periods. For the guys in your periods, take enough water. It’ll sober you quick.

Then there’s them:
He: Hey peaches, how much?

She: Oh hey, knight rider. Depends. You want a minute? An hour? Or are you an all nighter?

He: [Chuckles] Come on, chocolate. A minute?

She: Yeah, well, believe me they are there. Sad, huh?

He: Can’t imagine! I’ll take an all nighter.

She: Nice choice, Hulk Hogan.

He: You really are sweet, you know? Here. [Throws keys] But please park it where no one can touch it. I need it in real good condition early morning.

Happy one…

 

Monday Massacre

I was totally plotless over the weekend. Went to Nandos Saturday evening to assess the general lovers’ mood. I sat in a corner and interrogated the chair real hard till it admitted to treason and conspiracy to create discomfort to my butt. Then I proceeded to moving around different joints just to crack my ribs with the absurdities of the season.

Observation 1:
The dark black man won the FDC elections. Huh, like we expected anything else. Politics is not really my thing so I don’t know what I’m doing telling you about this crap.

Observation 2:
There’s a dude who allegedly received a phone battery for a valentine’s gift. What’s that supposed to mean?

Observation 3:
Unless you’re dumb beyond the natural realm of the known and unknown of the visible and invisible galaxy you should be able to deduce, by now, that I really have nothing sensible, let alone senseless, whatever that means, to tell you. By the way, is it true Amin used to eat people?

Obser-freakin’-vation 4:
If you ever try to shop a whore (or any other grocery) and it says no to you, please, by all means, I implore you to go commit self mutilation ASAP. This dude in Wandegz just didn’t get the point. He kept begging and begging to near-tears till the potato gave him a piece of her vocabulary (not shaken, not stirred) plus a little bit of spit on the side. It was really funny. Till they both stared at me. Here’s a snippet.

“I’m not so big. It won’t hurt I swear. Let’s go and do fast fast. Pleeeaaase!”

“I told you you’d beg me one day. Even if it’s 10k I’ve refused.”

“Please forgive me. It’s Nsubuga who was abusing you. I swear it’s been months. Please. I’ll do anything.

Chuckle chuckle.

Stare.

Ob…blah blah blah 5:
A friend told me an interesting story. There’s this dude who made a really romantic gesture and surprised the girlfriend with an engagement party and a major proposal. In front of all pals: “I’ll think about it”. Girls, over to the comments section. I’ll start. I think you don’t deserve shit.

‘Vation 6:
Have y’all listened to the new Kelly Clarkson? My Life Would Suck Without You is the bomb, to say the least. Listen to it if you want to fight terrorism, so to speak.

That-thing 7:
Some bloggers should stop being such pretenders. If you’re not baaad, don’t pretend to be just so the girls think you’re cool. Be your sweet self and they’ll like you for what you’re. If you have too many probs you have to whine about them every time you post something, go see a shrink and stop fuckin’ boring us. If you’re good at a certain style of writing, don’t try to impose some other style on yourself just so you can be like him/her. You suck, dammit! Yeah, I’m pissed. It’s a Monday. Duh!

Obiecrap 8:
My friends think I’m a detached meanie who has absolutely no sense of passion. I think I need to hook myself up with a chick and work on my P.R. No one believes I’m warm and affectionate at heart.

Obangana 10:
Shut up! I know how to count. I’m having a very cold piece of cassava for breakfast. Want some?

 

Kingdom Come

In this vast Kingdom of Slaughton , King Stieu was adorned with such awe that every inhabitant of that kingdom was tasked with abandoning their last names and taking on Stieu. Sadly, this presented such bad luck to one villager who, in a bid to report to the King that one of his goats had purposefully disobeyed his orders to be delicious, had introduced himself as “Stieu Pidd, Your Majesty”. Before slaughtering his goat, he had given it strict orders to be tasty or at least act like it but since the goat had failed in this field, he had come to beseech the king for permission to commit suicide and haunt the goat’s ghost. The king had complied, however, for a different reason altogether.

“What concerns you, loyal subject?” King Stieu couldn’t comprehend how this thing standing before him could be referred to as human. It had a look that only an ogre could have copied. One of his servants had announced, “There’s a man here to see you, Sire” and after taking one painful look at him/it the king had ordered the ‘slaughter by fire’ death of the servant on account of visual treachery. You dare lie to a king about the nature of an animal? Of course the king had only let it into his presence after the dying servant’s last words had somehow inexplicably escaped being burnt. He promised to look into that matter too. The servant had shouted: “His face was only disfigured, Sire”.

So King Stieu now spared some time to subject his eyes to this torture. It better be worth it because he had just been pulled out of a critical meeting of kingdom significance. His most trusted ministers were discussing the importance of water in the kingdom. Said one, “Your Majesty, I was a sales executive at a top company that collapsed a few years to come. We used to manufacture horses. Now through all my experience at BMW, I’ve learnt that before letting a product into the market, we need to establish its importance to the people. We need to establish the core importance of water. Do humans really need it? In what ways do they use it? Which age group uses it and which doesn’t?”

Interjected another minister, “Well, Your Highness, if we’re to look at it that way, then we need to recall all water and its products before selling it into the open market.” “Well, then I demand that all water in the kingdom, and its products be recalled.” “But Your Majesty, that’s just not possible.” “Then I demand that it be demanded that it be possible.” He had then stormed out of the discussion to attend to this subject.

“What concerns you, loyal subject?”

“Your Highness, as you might very well see, my nose was stolen. I ask of you to please bring the thief to justice.”

“Did you have it on you at the time of the crime?”

“Yes, Sire. I’m sure I had it. But I think I saw my neighbor surreptitiously lift it off my face last night.”

“Are you certain, without doubt, that it was him?”

“I can’t quite say, Sire, seeing as I only saw him from a distance. But I can testify to the fact that I’m not sure it was him, Your Majesty.”

“Very well, then. Guards! Go bring his neighbor into my chambers immediately. Can you make out his face, subject?”

“No, Your Highness. Just his hair. I’m quite certain it was human hair.”

“Alright, then. I want you to arrest every neighbor in this kingdom with human hair and the closeness of someone he doesn’t know.”

Update:

She’s Kitten. She’s the freshest member and she really needs your support. So head over NOW.

 

A Shot at Ranting

Bloggers moan and grumble and whine so I said “What the deuce. Lemme give it a shot”. I’m kind of a beginner with this stuff so please guide me where I go wrong. Okay, here we go. Oh my God, I’m so nervous. Okay… okay [Clears throat]

On my way from work yesterday I felt really different. Not different from my usual self (which would be a disastrous additive to the global crisis already at hand) but different from humans as a whole. Have you ever felt like…like just smacking someone as a therapeutic measure?

I mean I was seated in a taxi during a jam on Jinja road. Suddenly I unplugged my earphones from the ears, turned to face the guy seated next to me and a very strong urge to slap him just washed over me. He was stinking, he endeavoured not to pay his taxi fare and he kept spitting out of the window. Basically, nothing was wrong with the dude. I just felt like walloping the poor sod. Can you believe that? Just wanting to beat up a totally innocent creature.

Which reminds me of this ex-workmate who was expelled by my former employer for stealing very essential office stuff (pencils and toilet paper). We met again and he bragged about how he had been opened to greener pastures. “Man, now I rob more expensive stuff,” he swanked.

Anyhow, back to m… [cough choke] …sorry. I just chocked on some piece of milk I was chewing. Anyway, back to my mood rants. So you haven’t answered my question. I asked: have you ever felt like just smacking someone out of the blue? Here’s another incident.

My boss recently threatened to raise my salary if I kept on with all this timekeeping and admirable work. How dare he! I really work my ass off to keep this guy angry and this is what I get? You think this is a joke? This is how it works. I don’t like my boss (no sane employee does. Yes, worldwide). My workmates don’t like my boss. I like my workmates. So it’s only fair for me to hate my boss. I only accepted the offer coz he presented it rather kindly. You should have seen the look on the poor thing’s face. You couldn’t avoid melting with so much sadness. I just had to say yes.

So it’s Fri…oh, before I forget, you’re all to assemble at Efendy’s tomorrow night. A round on me (you all eat toffee, right?) I wonder what the average blogger does on a Friday after work. Me? Oh, I’m pretty busy but I multitask so I can finish up my very tight schedule. Like I can think of sitting, I can sit, I can think of turning off a PC, I can turn off a PC, I can think of listening to the loud music from my neighbour’s PC, I can listen to the loud music from my neighbour’s PC, I can think of breathing (all this in one go, mind you), I can breathe… see the stress I go through? And this is how it is every single minute of every single day. [Sigh] I know, right? But I guess life has its downs.

Phone call. Just a sec…

Okay so a friend wants to buy a ride. He’s thinking of getting a Nissan Terrano but I don’t trust those Nissan dudes just as you head to Garden City. How do you sell such expensive commodities without expiry dates and stuff? I mean the damn things are just left out in the open without any kind of refrigeration.

Ah well, back to my rants. So like I told you before, I’m seriously thinking of pursuing romantic sexual congress with a being of the opposite sex (which means acquiring a girlfriend) but… I don’t know. I mean what if she doesn’t like me for who I really am, you know? Like she could just like me for my Warid line instead of my heart, you know?

Have a blast this weekend guys…

 

Another Monday Massacre

Guys, I have very big news from this weekend. Been keeping it a secret all this time but I guess for the sake of honesty I’ll come clean. I’ve been dating this girl for close to three years now (guess I’m a romantic dude afterall) and this weekend we decided to go to my parents’ for the first formal introduction before the big thing. It was just a small lunch for them to get to know their son has been doing bad things.

You should have seen the looks on their faces when I dropped the news. I’ve never taken home a girl (even a friend) and when we first came in I noticed they wore skeptical faces. When the news was finally let out we had an uneasy silence for almost a minute, the longest since over two decades ago when that fat nurse told me “You’ve been given birth to by a bouncing adult mother”. Mum suddenly leapt up with such rapturous allure the glasses on the table rushed for cover (which was such a stupid move considering the floor wasn’t quite welcoming. The poor things died a pieceful death) and the words “congratulations son!” escaped her lips in search of a more serene environment for which they invaded my earspace.

She came round the table, planted a sweet kiss on my cheek and turned to face my fiancée-to-be before burying her in a tight hug and a thousand kisses. In a every bad turn of events she carnivorously uncorked her and distributed her blood among all the living glasses before cold-bloodedly uttering “You have the most excellent taste in wines”. You’ll be dearly missed, sweet Chardonnay.

Saturday night at Efendy’s:
A few shots of any brew will make you do anything. With a little highness in me I wanted to find out why some girls dress skimpily, sit in a corner with a few miserable drinks, expect dudes to hit on them, and when they actually do, they wear those yucky faces like what’s with him? I pulled all the cliché pickup lines from movies and RnB songs and gave the girls a taste of their own medicine.

Victim One: “Hi sugarpie, heaven must be missing an…” She walked away. So did her disgruntled beer bottle.

Victim Two: “If I could rearrange the alphabet I’d put you and I together”. Then I sat. She just looked at her friends and laughed. Then left for the next table.

Third One: “Do I know you from somewhere?” “No, I don’t sink so”. Touché. I left.

Four One: I decided to put a little twist to “If I could rearrange the alphabet I’d put your sister and I…” at which point a favourite song was played and I went “Whooooo!” I messed this one up. She just kept on with her phone. Girls and phones!

Fifith: “Your place or mine?” “What?” Not so smart, are you? “Your place or…should we go to my place?” “Excuse me but I don’t know you. Please leave me”. Loser!

Sextet: “Do I know you from somewhere?” I didn’t want another sink-ing saga so I quickly added, “we went to different schools together, right?” “Erique! Hi”. Shit! Turned out she’s some O.G from high school. Speak of coincidence. She was in the sciences class so I couldn’t readily place her face. Pickup line obviously flopped. We engaged the “you’re lost gears” for about 30 minutes. Booooo!

Seven Up: This one was seated alone and looked bored. But she was nodding to the music so I figured she’s not the boring type. “Hi. My watch tells me you’re not wearing any panties”. Her eyes widened for a second and, by reflex, she looked down at her crotch “What!” Her face built into a brick of scorn so I added, “Sorry, it must be an hour ahead” “Hmm!”

Eating at me:
I have an honest question for the ladies. If I don’t pose it here, where else will I? Do you often get turned on when you walk? You know, with the way the jeans, skirts or whatevers rub at your sensitive spots. For a guy to get hard, a mighty thrust is needed so it’s different for us. We just wiggle left and right like pendulums in serious thought. But seriously, how do you girls handle? Like with the vibrations on a boda. Does it sometimes get so bad you want to throw the boda guy down and pay him right there in kind?

 

Facebook Junkie

“You have also commented on your status”. What’s your point? Do I look dumb? Do I look, to you, like I don’t know what I did five seconds ago? Facy, what’s this shit? Our relationship is already strained, as it were. Every time I enter you, you ask me “What are you doing right now?”

I try to contain my anger and tell you what you want to hear; “Erique is feeling good”, “Erique loves this” but you just never stop asking the same damn question every other time. God knows I’ve had enough. The other day I changed my relationship status to “It’s complicated” by mistake but you just had to go bitching about it over the internet. You couldn’t even choose a more appropriate avenue.

Oh, so you hate me now? What? Oh, come on. Look who’s talking. You talk of gossiping like you’re miss I-say-nothing. Please! Who goes around telling everyone who cares to listen about how this and that is doing this and that and then asks everyone who happens to have a PC to “leave a comment”? Who? Who refuses to respect privacy and has to announce it every time I try to have a special moment with you, hmm? I try to create a little bit of romance between us but you always spoil the moments by telling me so and so in online. I thought all you cared about was me.

Are you cheating on me? Who are those men I see up there? What do mean wh…see for yourself. Akon, Timberland, Lil…wait, I thought Lil Wayne was a woman. Are you lesbian now? Facy, come on. Please don’t bring that shit up. You know Rentedmess is just a friend; nothing more. Of course I know Myspace. She’s my ex and you know we don’t keep in touch anymore. Stop tripping, girl.

I don’t care? You know so much about me, I know so little about you and you say I don’t care? That’s mighty nice of you, Facy. I know your favourite dish is Idle Human but you can’t even remember such a simple thing as my favourite colour. You know I hate blue.

What did you say to me! Know what? Fuck you. Am outta here.

Soundtrack:

Irreplaceable – Bey-Bey

 

BHH and Clouds

Hello, boys and girls. In case you missed BHH, here’s a recap. We talked ill about you. You all suck. We even did a chanting thing where you’re supposed to be haunted by wicked ghosts forever.  Now this comes from me: Igiss, I don’t care if you look like A.Hol-iday but I’m not cool with that move you made with your blog. And for that reason? You could have told us your girlfriend gave you a condition to delete it if she was to continue loving you but that reason? I didn’t even get it. Carlo, Silent, Nev, Lucy, Carsozy; good meeting you guys. B2B, Dee, Chanel, Dante, DK; you rock. 27th and the Australian are here with me so no shout-out. Baz, put back that post. Tumwi, that story about the ear-licky dude; is it true? Over.

Today, I’m here to talk about weed. I have no name for the session yet but for now you can call it Weed Anonymous, Pilots Anonymous or Stinking-up-to-no-good-goofs Anonymass ™. However, I’m open to less courteous titles. Pay attention coz I’m only going to say this once. You’re all demented globs of fatty shit. What! I’m here to discuss all the advantages of getting high.

I saw a live chicken. Of course that’s not worth talking about. I tried to shoo it but it just wouldn’t move. That’s weird, right? It just stood there in deep thought like “I always wanted to be something in life, but now I realize I should have been more specific”.

No, I didn’t digress. Having empathy for a chicken is just one of the various benefits of supporting the farming industry. Besides jitteriness and drowsiness, weed has the power to make you think you’re Obama. (Have you seen that dude up in the White House? The guy acts just like Obama. It’s amazing.)

Weed could kill you, sure, but it sure as hell won’t harm you. Besides, the last thing you should listen to is advice from those assholes up there on the social ladder who think they know everything. I mean, look, if TVs are bad for kids, why the hell are they placed in every American hospital room? If banks are all about trust, why the hell do they lock the vaults? That Stanbic chick once stared at me like “Why the hell is he banking so much money? Is this a rip-off? I don’t like this dude.” They say it’s hard to quit smoking. I know a guy who has quit like seventy times. If you want to hear good things about your mother, please don’t act smart with me.

Proudly, we have testimonial acts from guys who have zealously supported the cause. On the international scene, there’s Bill Clinton who, as President, loved his name just fine without the ‘n’ and who, as ex-President, took on female form to have another shot at the White House just to impress Lewinsky.

Down in Africa, we have Brother Mugabe who, as President, tries to use his brain, a task not many African Presidents can accomplish. These dudes have the biggest economy on the continent. Bless you, Robert. Power to the plant!

Now, let’s confer a standing ovation upon the next brother-in-faith, Nasser “Big S” Ssebaggala. For those not well-acquainted with this dude, he is the Mayor in charge of City Predicaments. “Big S has been faithful to the Ugandan fatality industry since childhood,” chimed his brother, a proud Weed Industrialist who has supplied to global companies like Fire Department of the Ugandan Police Force LTD. Many don’t know why he’s called Big S but it’s rumoured to have come from his brain disorder hence “Big Syndrome”. A close friend on the brink of tears narrated a sad story. “His brain accidentally caught fire as a kid but, apparently, the Fire Brigade couldn’t make it on time. It was still somewhere on the Indian Ocean en route to Africa.”

 

Monday Massacre Again

Wakey wakey:
Over the weekend I took time to look through the comments sections of all bloggers with links on my page and had a sudden realization. Did you know that some bloggers have crushes on each other but conceal this fact behind cheap sarcasm and lame jokes? You all better come clean or I spill.

Shower:
There’s something really amiss with these Karimojong street women. They know they are poor but give birth to kids like a damn marathon. It’s like there’s some kind of street promotion where you “Win, win, win lots of cash and instant prizes. Produce five kids and get one free!”

Strong coffee:
There are dudes in Kampala who still use newspapers to wipe their behinds. I saw one who ripped “Museveni to stand for another term” out of a Vision paper, kukunyad it real good, tested it on the back of his right hand and sauntered proudly to make pupu. Isn’t it like using a block of very dry and fermented cement? Guys, your rectums have feelings too.

Dress up:
I’m hiring a broker to hook me up with any restaurant that serves mutton. I seriously need sheep in my life. Think of me as the good shepherd who chews his ninety-nine sheep and goes out to look for the last one. Only this time I’ve chewed ninety-nine pigs. And I’m tired.

Sing national anthem:
Spectacles. When’s the last time you heard it said in full? I heard it from a police dude (one of those who say viyacles) Spectacles. I found it somewhat unamusing. It sounds like a crude curse word picked from an ancient dusty Egyptian scroll BC. Spectacles. Kinda sounds like Batakos. Who’re you calling buttocks!

Say prayer for Beyonce:
I need billboard models, male and female, for various companies especially Warid. So if you think you have it in you, please get in touch with me ASAP (Cherrypie, why don’t you send that ka-girl over?). Offer open to the few who read this. It’s not a newspaper ad so I don’t want kayoola.

Off to work:
With the aid of Lulu’s page I give you the most selfish creatures ever. Who is your ideal guy?
“Someone I can talk to….as in the type we talk and talk and talk…and before you know it, its 4am….time just flew bye.” He has no job?

“A man who actually lets me do what i want without getting offended when I do.” Right. Just go right ahead and have sex with whoever you want. I’ll wait.

“Lets me speak my mind” Tell me I’m stupid and we’ll see how to go about it.

“A man who gives me my space when i need it.” Watch me leave.

 

The List

In the blessed book of Rented 9.10: “Ye that possess crushes in the dark will be brought forth and shone light upon”.

Emi & UG: Did you know who her poems are dedicated to? She denies it in open court but it’s pretty apparent. He is so in crush with her but I’ll bet my uncle’s life savings he’s going to deny it. Just watch.

SK & TRP: Pity she’s cheating on this guy with some other dude named DK. She even has a third sidekick called Rogue (Yes, I’m exposing them all. Sue me). He’s Da Knight in dark armour and she’s The Rising Princess. “I crush you, Knight” “Internet explorer and other browsers react to CSS differently” “Let’s make out, my love” “I’m Rogue not Rouge” They kissed.

Jasmine & Princess: I have bigger evidence but the most recent involves the closure of blogs and the multiplatinum shoulder generosity. “She stuck her tongue in my mouth and wiggled it around a bit.” Connect the dots.

Antipop & Emrys: I would have let it slide but I don’t know why I keep having this dream that these two have a kid stashed somewhere. And it always comes to me whenever I’m at Efendy’s sipping on my easy drink.

Spartakuss & Liz: Beeme refused to give him some. Now he wants an equally horny replacement. Liz, you didn’t know?

Jny & Silver: Jny, tell her what you told me. Ama he told me he kissed you behind your back. Think I’m lying? Ask him. “J, did you kiss me?”

Baz & Dee: At BHH, Baz kept stealing glances like ‘I wish she were mine’. Be a man, dude. Tell her ‘Baby Dee, I’m already your dude. So let’s cut the crap”.

Cheri & Igiss: He closed his blog and moved to the UK. It’s not bloggers’ block. She’s just preoccupied.

The rest are free from castigation. For now.

PS: Be at Efendy’s (not Effendy’s dammit) this Sat for a more social BHH. Pweeeez! (Baz’s pup couldn’t be reached at this time). For the rest, I’m on a weekend program to visit every Ugandan blogger. So register your name below if you want a Rented touch this weekend. It’s strictly a promotional offer so order while stocks last.

 

You & I

Sorry I posted late. I looked for the word ‘post’ on the keyboard but the forsaken thing has only letters, numbers and punctuation marks that I find quite offensive. And now I write…

The weekend brought with it a sequence of events that really infuriated and saddened me that I would pay any sum if someone got a gun and shot me. I wanted to tell you about them but just after the first sentence I slapped myself and changed my mind. No one wants to listen to anyone’s problems coz they are so irritating and boring. I began getting bored writing the first sentence. I’m even getting bored telling you about how I wrote the first sentence. It’s freakin’ annoying. Now I’m getting angry telling you about how I’m getting bored getting bored writing the first sentence. Jeez! What the hell am I going on about? And what the hell are you staring at!

[Breathe in slowly, breathe out. Relax.] For the first time ever I had the most boring Saturday night at Efendy’s. I thought you wouldn’t tell us about your crap. You selfish bastard! Oh, sorry. My bad.So let’s talk about you then.

You. It’s one word ye don’t want to hear. According to a famed report by a sixteenth century philosopher, the word ‘you’ comes out of ‘shit’ to mean, well, shit. Following this premise it’s argued that if someone said “I need you in my life” they’d unknowingly mean “I need shit in my life”. So it’d only be wise to act nasty towards that person. That’s, of course, if there’s no shit in the vicinity to throw at said person’s face.

Extensive research done by The Union Of All Researchers In The World Who Have Nothing Better To Do (commonly known as TUOARITWWHNBTD) suggests that you should be used but carefully. “I’m astonished by the way the word is thrown around like some kind of lottery,” commented the Ass.Producer in charge of word usage. “The damn word is worse than any four-letter word in the swearing alphabet.” He explained that statements like “I love you” were so derogatory and he just couldn’t comprehend the emotion attached to them. “Last time my wife said it, rest her soul, she…she cut her head off, buried it deep in the Kalahari and jumped over a bridge. Just so sad.”

In an intelligence report prepared by the KGB, CIA, MOSSAD and UPDF ‘you’ was linked to deep terrorism involvement. “…involving passionate desire for the ‘you’ terrorist network…and it’s imperative to kill IMMEDIATELY any persons that utter ‘I love you’…”

I love you all.

 

Insult Analogy

Be Silent’s last comment on previous post reminded me I was slacking a little. Sorry dudes and dudesses. I blame it on Bush and his war on Iraq or Red Banton, depending on the way you see things.

You’re all whores. I don’t say this to spite you or to undermine the virtue imparted in your heart, mind and groin since kidhood. I say this from ages of observation and factual inference accrued, in essence, from your behavior and that of your ancestors since the first ape. [Whichever scientist came up with the notion that humans germinated from apes was either fresh out of a bad gay divorce or somehow inexplicably thought of my hand ages to come and saw the odd prominence of my middle finger. Screw you, Shakespeare! Or was it Einstein? Whatevs!]

Anyway, back to the devoted purpose of this post-insulting you and making you smile about it before realizing you are actually acting like a fool and then you start frowning because you realize it’s what you’re actually supposed to be doing but can’t see it until you read to the end of this sentence. So, you’re all whores. Here’s how it stands to reason.

You stand at street corners and beckon guys and chics to take you home and pay you for satisfying their sexual needs. This is your job and it’s the literal definition of a whore. So you might as well close this page and move on to more boring posts. Or…

You’re married, you have a girl/boyfriend or you’re single (and searching, of course. Don’t give me that shit). So here is how it goes. To hook up, there are flowers and other petty gifts involved-airtime, lipstick, iPods, popcorn, fountain pens; the usual. These cost between 499/- and 300.001/-. Then comes the moving out bit where the gifts keep on coming but the stakes go higher. Now you start buying payphones to go with the airtime, lips to match the lipstick, Celine Dion CDs to flow with the iPods, Desperate Housewives DVDs to go with the popcorn, fountain books for the pens and condoms for the moving out (or moving in depending on how you look at it) thingi. Now it’s between 299.999/- and 700.001/- on average.

See how much you spend just shopping the lips? By the time you load the cart with the one item that aids your sexual fantasies you’re breathing out of your ears. What I should have said is ‘you’re all expensive whores’. I say you should all lay off your romance business partners and go for cheaper whores-the ones that sell at factory prices. No, I don’t do it. I just think it’s a more logical option for such a third world economy. Who’s with me?

The country, the world, the universe, the galaxy and the rentedmess at large:

There are two world leaders I owe utmost allegiance. So help me God.

 

Monday Massacre – Wonder Edition

Again I posted late. This is just intolerable. Guys, please change your behavior. Seriously, you can’t keep acting like this.

Oh my God!

I was taking an evening stroll through some bushes when I accidentally triggered a beehive with my elbow. I casually took two breakneck footsteps (gentlemen don’t run) before turning back and realizing the bees hadn’t moved an inch. Perplexed, I zoomed in with my original 15X Optical Zoom 20Megapixel Rented Eyes (can be found on eBay) and couldn’t understand what I saw. The bees were lined up in some sort of parade facing a plump piece of soil. What were they doing that could possibly make the average bee ignore an elbow nudge from me? Who did they think they were? I kicked around just to make sure my legs were in perfect shape before giving the hive another slight nudge. Nothing. Well, screw them! I moved on. I think it was some kind of inauguration ceremony for the new queen bee or something.

Alas!                                                                                                                            

I talked to a topnotch dude in the government. Well, of course you don’t care. I tell you this so you know why and how much I respect this guy. The heavily intellectualized conversation somehow got around to pens.

I ask: “Which ones are you referring to?”

He says: “Those two ones over there.”

Forget the poor state of roads and dilapidated buildings. This country faces a much bigger problem.

Maama Nyabo!

I hear beers have the power to get you so high you start to utter stuff detrimental to your being. It gets so bad that you sometimes stagger right into a guy’s fist or a girl’s palm without knowing it. How can you take that crap from a beer? A beer? Seriously? It’s not even a living thing, for crying out loud. If it were me I would sit it down, point a finger and assure it, “Beer? I don’t like what you’re doing. Don’t do it, okay? And look at me while I talk to you!”

Ayaaa!

My friend. It was her birthday so I took her to this shoe centre, picked out the best pair I could find and bought it for her. Then she said it was too big. I thought this was the same chick that told the boyfriend size doesn’t matter. Women are so complicated. They speak of emancipation but when you treat them like equals, you’re the bad guy. I asked some chick to lift a TV set into a car and she shook her head saying it’s a man’s job. We had just used that TV to watch some Oprah show that preached women and men are equal.

Hmm!

If you were a ghost and had this major crush on another hot ghost, how would you profess your love for it? “You mean the afterlife to me”? “God must have been thinking about me when He killed you”? “I’d die for you”?

This font sucks. Give me some time while I try to figure out why I used it.

 

Topics Factory

I started this post with a clear direction. I was going to talk about politics. But then I realized no one understands my political views. They are probably way too complicated for the average Ugandan who spends roughly 24 hours a day, give or take, thinking about Lil Wayne. Then I thought okay, maybe I should talk about music. But then I noticed, with all dismay, that the biggest percentage of blogs has no common factor with music. Look at the two words blog and music. Is there a common letter?

Then I thought much much harder, thanks to Mountain Dew. [Just looking at this drink my brain is thrown into a tough realm of thought: Where will I find the inventor? How many ways can he be killed? What’s the best way to tell him “you look like shit” without directly referring to his physical appearance and hurting his feelings in the process?]

I thought maybe I should talk about fashion. But then this is Africa. I wouldn’t know the first place to find trendy bark cloth, goat skin and dry banana leaves. Fashion nullified, I thought I should talk about something that demands relatively less brain power so I started to write about geometry. But then maybe that would insult my readers’ scholarly aptitude. I switched to talking about something more intellectually demanding like, say, the letter E. There’s just something fascinating about it. I don’t know it yet but I’ll get back to you soon as I find out. Did you know it’s the only letter in the entire alphabet that closely resembles an E?

Okay, lastly I thought I’d maybe leave you with a diary entry from a close buddy.

From a taxi’s heart.

Hi. My name is Matatu. I know, sounds like a medieval constipation drug, right? Well, maybe to you but not to Kiwanuka, my very handsome man. Friends and all close to him pimped his name to a more sexy Kiwunya. He’s the greatest guy any traffic girl will ever have.

Right from our very first date he has taken me to the best restaurants in town-Total, Caltex, Kobil, Engen and, oh this is my best, Shell. I like the food there especially since it comes at a very low price. A glass of unleaded petrol costs a measly 2400/-. It’s just unbelievable.

The sex? Oh, it’s great. The guy drives me all day and sometimes stretches into the wee hours of the night.

Crap! Word limit reached. That’s it for this week, folks. See you at the next Monday Massacre.

 

Monday Massacre Again

My Crunch

Of late I’ve started thinking deep into people’s statements. I rarely take something for its face value. It’s a serious problem I’m yet to fight. Like this dude who told me “Man I’m broker than GTV”. Normally, such a statement would simply mean, well, you’re broke, period. However, my mind saw a dude who was so broke he once tried to commit suicide but didn’t have any money for a rope. He tried to borrow one but didn’t have any security. So he worked his ass off by whoring himself night after night for a little cash to secure a rope. After some time he became HIV positive which really upset him that he wanted to commit even more suicide. Again he had no money for a rope and worked his ass off night after night and ended up passing the disease on to one of his favorite customers. He got even more upset…see how my mind reeled in circles? By the end of my reverie the whole world was HIV positive and the dude still hadn’t found enough money for a rope. I idiotically turned to look at him and asked “Have you been tested for HIV of late?” Even I couldn’t comprehend where that question had come from.

My Birth. Not Exactly

What’s so hard about telling a kid where they came from? Just say ‘Kid, you came from your mama’s vagina’. You think that’s hard? I had a dream on Friday night. Two drunken pieces of shit were seated in a bar and one troubled piece asked the other “Other piece of shit, where do you figure we came from?” then the other piece was like “Some nigga’s ass, my friend. Some nigga’s ass”. Then the first piece was like “You’re drunk, you know that?” and the second, now agitated, went “Screw you, you piece of shit!”

My Ark

Been wondering, how come Noah was able to carry all those animals on his boat? Did he have the technology to build an aquarium for the fish? How did he carry the blue whales? Why the hell did he carry everything in pairs? He could have just told the males “Look, much as I’d love to take the both of you I just don’t have the fuel. Besides, y’all didn’t help me build this thing. I need you to have sex with her and we’ll go our separate ways. I don’t need you. Am sorry, dawg.” And how the hell did he summon all those creatures? Unless, of course, he used Facebook to send friend requests. I imagine they all received something like “Noah would like to add you as a friend. Accept/Reject.” “You have three friends in common: Squirrel, Goat and Mosquito”.

My Girl

I’m still in the Bible mood. Have you ever wondered how Adam and Eve spent their days? It was just the two of them and the poor bastard had no excuse for staying out late. “Where have you been this late, huh? Are you cheating on me?” “No baby. I ain’t been cheating baby. I spent all day with God” “Spent all day wi…are you high? Are you on drugs? Get out of ma garden!” The poor thing was stuck with one woman who destroyed the world with her greed for apples like she couldn’t eat berries or mangoes instead. And you think your relationship is bad.

My Facy

I wanted to quit Facebook but failed. I picked on highly influential guys to offend but they didn’t reply my messages or even report me. Two weeks ago I asked Queen Elizabeth, Barack Obama and Salma Hayek to be my friends. Then last week I sent Liz a message telling her we moved out back in High School and I want her back or I tell everyone who her real mother is. I told Obbie I’m a weed dealer who adores him and one of his daughters. She has a baby with me and I’d be glad if he sent some financial help. Then I told Salma I’m a 7 months old baby and I’m emaciated. I don’t like the particular taste of the milk from my mother’s boob and I could sure use her boob if she didn’t mind. However, none of these guys replied and none of them even reported me. I even deleted them from my friends list. I guess Facy and I will have to find some way to make up. Yes, I even tried Baby Joe but I guess he’s busy figuring out the best way to convince fans he’s actually a normal, grown up guy who sings.

My Other Girl

This weekend wasn’t so good for me. I broke up with my girlfriend. What’s the look for? You actually thought I had a girlfriend? Are you blind? Do you see a ring on my finger? Yeah, I know rings are for marrieds. What, you think I’m dumb? What’s wrong with you people?

 

In Brief

Pepper Reporters Shock President

By Rented

Two Red Pepper reporters yesterday shocked the president and his cabinet when they walked into his office wearing clothes. Reports indicate that the two still unidentified reporters planned to interview the president on matters of democracy and governance but instead of having their usual obscene natural skin attire they opted for a normal dress code.

“They walked right into my office with Red Pepper badges and I thought it was a bluff,” said the president who, fresh from the bizarre incident, was still sweating. “But after an hour or two of serious thought I realized no one in my office really knows how to make jokes. I could have been dreaming maybe. It’s the first time in years any Red Pepper employee has tried not to be obscene,” continued the president whose finger was now swelling from being nervous. He turned to give the two cuffed reporters now standing next to the window a suspicious look before adding, “I would have freely answered questions about my sex life but democracy and governance? No, these are certainly imposters.”

A cabinet member who preferred anonymity was quoted as saying, “Nigga, you should have been there, man. I swear this shit was off the hook. I mean ‘em dudes was all like not cursin’ et all. I mean can you belie’e tha’? There wa’nt no word like Kandahar, Gologo or even Whopper, nigga. Damn!”

"I...I just can't live like this. Where will I get free porn?"

A State House floor and toilet cleaner, Abblue Awori added that he was suspicious right from the moment he saw the astonishingly normal human beings walk through the front door. “Never in the history of this country has a Red Pepper journalist said two words without being obscene,” he said with a strong British accent. “They walked right up to me and said ‘hi there’ and I knew straight away something was terribly wrong. I also noticed they wore clothes which struck me as really odd. They even acted normal like humans do. Funny thing is they looked all calm like everything was okay. It was creepy,” he narrated close to tears.

A member of parliament who had forgotten the route to the parliament building lagged in the State House corridors sobbing with a copy of The Red Pepper under his armpits. By press time it was not ascertained as to whether it was the bizarre unprecedentedly clean copy of the Red Pepper he was holding that drove him to tears of joy or the fact that he had lost his way to the parliament and no one offered to give him directions.

A woman dressed in odd traditional attire and wielding a shield and spear threatened to stab the impersonators. She went ahead and splashed fresh milk onto the face of one of the reporters just to “teach him a goddamn lesson”. She claimed to be the president’s wife.

Several State House residents and ministers immediately sold their cars and ran to the nearest churches to confess their sins with the belief that the world was coming to an end. One minister was later arrested for confessing to the funding of several fraudulent projects including the building of another dam. It is reported that the construction of the Bujagali dam was a devious plot initiated by the energy minister to stealthily increase electricity supply hence bettering the general public’s wellbeing, a crime punishable by lifetime imprisonment.

 

Kingdom Come: House Of The Gargomines

She gave him this look that could easily drill a diamond that other diamonds were afraid to even look at because it was the hardest and meanest of them all. They were all seated at the dinner table; wife, husband, a few plates, forks, a table, all paraphernalia defined in the Slaughtonian dictionary as eating aids and a reasonable amount of oxygen fragments enough to fuel the clearly unflattering frown she adorned him. Just like all Gargomines right from her greatest grandmother she never liked explaining herself unless someone asked a question. All she did was show emotion (or sulk, since it’s all she did since sulkily exiting her mother’s womb apparently because there was absolutely no light in there for her to play and her mother never sent down enough food) and you were meant to ask what was wrong or she sulked even more.

On this particular night she so much wanted Zexisus to shoot the inevitable question but he was busy munching something that closely resembled a potato. She made a slight guttural sound but Zexisus was determined to teach this potato (or whatever it was) that it was fatal to act delicious, a lesson he hoped it would pass on to its brothers still alive in the garden. How it would do that he had no idea but assumed such a delicious potato (or whatever it was) had the distinct ability to somehow make rational decisions and successfully pass on messages even after death.

A few seconds later Corvillon’s throat started to draft a letter that it would quit its job if she continued to make those annoying guttural sounds. Corvillon now had no choice but to break the silence. “Ask me why am not happy.”

“What?” came the reply from a mouth that was still making a critical decision regarding the fate of this fresh piece of potato (or whatever it was).

“Ask me why am sulking. Go ahead,” said Corvillon and sulked even more just for effect.

“O…kay. Why am sulking?” came the question.

“I don’t know why I married you, you lump of foggery blobamstad.” (According to the Slaughtonian dictionary foggery blobamstad is defined as ‘a word so unholy, gravely obscene and very depressing that defining it would force you to burn me. So just go ahead and open to the next page.’) Corvillon continued, “I didn’t mean you should ask me directly. Make it a question, you bumwaggot”. (Slaughtonian dictionary: Bumwaggot: ‘can be used when you want to say foggery blobamstad but don’t have enough time.’) “Now ask me why am sulking.”

“Why are you sulking?”

“Now why would you ask me such a question? Where do you pick the guts to ask me such like you can’t read it on my face? Can’t you see the word I wrote on my forehead with charcoal? I put the letter from the king on your bed but you never noticed it, you wad of foggery blobamstad. And you can’t even read this word on my head,” she complained pointing at her forehead. Actually, Zexisus had noticed the ‘leta fom kig’ on her forehead but had only assumed it was just another one of her undefined insults. “Here. Read!” She tossed the letter at him.

“As all you Slaughtonians know, the king is very wise. He’s wiser than the definition of the word and this ailment could most likely kill him in no time. He therefore needs his wisdom to be diluted with so much stupidity so that a healthier middle ground is created. The king and his council voted you, the Gargomine family, as the stupidest in the land, an honor we very much congratulate you for. We therefore ask you to send him and the general public a daily post that will include anything stupid you can think of. We look forward to your positively stupid response.”

Behold, the birth of The Red Pepper.

Carlo, Edge, Pop, Shifa, Baz: How was BHH?

 

Monday Massacre: The Analyst

The Heart

I overheard a conversation between two girls that summed up the biological nature of males: dogs; point being they fall in and out of love like dogs. I’m not a vet but… anyway, I have a solution for the girls. Call it farfetched but I’ve made my consultations with high-ranking dogs up in the government.

Go out more often till you find a dog that fancies you. Once your target (also referred to as boyfriend) is acquired wire an explosive device to his heart with the following instructions.

·         You’re to love me with all your heart.

·         If any part of your heart thinks about someone else this light on my watch will turn from green to orange then to red at which point the device will be triggered and you’ll be dearly missed.

·         At no point should you die because that would mean I have no one to love.

·         In case of impending death you’re to notify me so that I take the necessary measures.

·         Any unnecessary or sudden death without prior consent from me will trigger the device and you’ll be killed.

·         Good luck.

 

The Jet

I read an article in The Independent that talked about what Sevo’s new private plane means to the taxpayer. Can you believe this thing consumes forty million shillings in daily maintenance? Forty million shillings a day? Unbelievable! This will definitely ruin Sevo’s countrywide support, or worse, my support. I had so much faith in this guy but honestly, a whole president and you have such a cheapass plane? After 21 years you’d think the guy has a profound taste in presidential jets but then he goes and disappoints devoted fans by buying a state of the ass plane. I’m very disappointed in you, Yoweri. Don’t even try to talk to me. Yeah, well, I know you’re sorry but I think we need some time apart. I need time alone to think about this.

The Movie

For the first time ever I watched a movie and was really touched by the overwhelming love I saw. The Titanic and The Notebook are nowhere compared to this thing. Have you guys watched The Terminator 3? Did you see the adorable love the Schwarzenegger-like robot had for that chick? He saw the pain she went through by being cast in such a depressing role and offered to take her out of her misery. He killed her. Isn’t it just touching? If she had lived, everyone would have hated her for trying to destroy the world. It’s the most romantic movie I’ve watched in such a long time.

The Street

I passed a beggar on Luwum who asked me why I couldn’t offer anything for a poor man. I’ve never defaulted on my taxes and the money I give my employees, the government, should be able to take care of this punk.  I clothe this guy (as I know most of you unwillingly do, bless you), I feed him, hell, I even give him a place to stay and look how he pays me. Does he know where would this poor country would be if, God forbid, I stopped offering the government some of my salary?

The War

I watched a documentary on world conflict. Apparently, peace can be achieved through universal love. Come to think of it, do you realize that Osama would have forgiven America if he had maybe made love to Laura Bush? He would have been like “I slept with that idiot’s wife. How’s that for payback?” Maybe Kony could forgive Uganda if he slept with Janet. I wonder why Yoweri sent his wife up north.

The End

 

Pupu Journalist

Gigantic Pupu

Yesterday a workmate had an almost bloody feud with his stomach. I have this rule against toilets during office hours unless I have to pee and this is exactly why. This guy’s water broke and he had to give birth to this stinky child really urgently. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. Well, thing is, all the toilets are immediately close to crucial offices. One is just next to the big guy’s office and the other is adjacent to the creative department. I don’t need to explain anything, now, do I? Kaka has the tendency to be extroverted in nature.

Anyway, so my friend scuttled to the nearest taxi stage with his telescopic legs that make a Ferrari want its mama and had to go all the way back to his place in Ntinda just to have a comfortable session without necessarily endangering the environment and alerting NEMA. What do you mean why did I tell you the story? I wasn’t talking to you, you sick prick. Well, fuck you too!

Mammoth Pupu

Okay, calm down. I told you that story because some people came to the conclusion that journalists have the rowdiest toilet sessions. Apparently, they blow shit out of proportion. I agree. Salma Hayek whipped out her boob just to feed some kid and probably get free publicity so she’s cast in a new movie with a sex scene but CNN just had to go and air everything to PG eyes over and over again. (Where was Sempa?) Then there’s this stupid Sunday Vision magazine that talks about nothing but caves in Tororo. Who in their right mind likes to read about the ethnic background of a goddamn cave? If you really have to run these stories, put them somewhere else. I bet all everyone does is read Bad Idea and donate the mag to charity.

Colossal Pupu

Let me define foolish. When, say, you stand in front of a speeding truck well-knowing it’s shameful and you could easily ruin the truck and pay so much in damages, that’s foolish. For you to be any bigger than foolish you have to act like something you’ve just watched on TV. Don’t get my point? There’s this dude I saw sometime at Iguanas. He pissed me off with his ‘nigga’ stunts real bad I almost cried. Well, he did nothing to me really but he acted like a kid brought fresh out of the kisenyi slums and betrothed Nigga. He wore a grey-haired vest and saggy pants that absorbed his abdomen so that when he swaggered it looked like he was floating. He floated right past me to some dude seated just a few eyesights away and asked, “Yo, I wanna to borrow a match, my nigga. Pass for me one small small, my men.” That night I shot out of a nigga nightmare sweating and thinking maybe we should have stayed in the sugar plantations. The moral of this story goes to journalists like Mwenda who keep ranting “democracy in Africa”. It takes time and we’re still growing. Stop watching too much TV.

Epic Pupu

Guys, who started the Thursday Happy Hour tradition? Why did you pick a Thursday? I find it odd. I suggest we make it every last Saturday. I used ‘suggest’ to make it sound like a request but really it’s not. I want it to be moved to Saturday afternoons, not just because it’s more convenient for me, but also because then more people could appear for longer. I’ll put this to the vote just to blind the public into thinking bloggers are democratic but a decision has already been reached. King, it’s now up to you to put up the announcement. So all in favour of Saturdays, say aye. All not in favour, say nay and sprint before I catch you.

 

Rented Exit

Dear you,

The next BHH and those after should be pushed to Saturdays otherwise I’ll never get a chance to meet any of you again unless we bump into each other wrestling for taxis.

I have to take a hiatus of at least 744 hours. Originally, I had decided on 745 hours but that would be way too overstretched. Now you can all breathe a sigh of relief from my, quite frankly, boring and unintelligent anecdotes.

Good month y’all. And remember, use condoms sparingly and learn to always share share share. If you’re tired or have outgrown the condom, please donate it to the needy.

Mine,

Erique

 

3…2…1…

There is an excellent quote I like. It’s from a famous 14^th century writer who, in an unprecedented move, texted Shakespeare the message, “so u think u cn chill yonder n jst rob ma romeo n juliet idea. wait n c. heh!” A decade later he poisoned Romeo and shot Juliet in the leg. She died of a blood clot. Anywho, back to the point. This writer said, “The greatest works are performed not by mind alone but by Rented alone”. He died a year later in a fatal traffic accident when two horses failed to negotiate a turn.

So the greatest works are back. Antipop and Edge almost got me outta hiding when they raided my workplace. Hey, calm down; one question at a time! Yes, you at the back with a face like a possum. Well, I just had more responsibility at work, there was lots of travelling, stuff to settle, yada yada. Okay, enough with the questions already. What do you think this is; a blog page?

Lemme see…what did I miss? Awards here, gifts there…speaking of here and there, I need your help. Something weird happened the other night. See, there’s this friend of mine. That’s not the weird part. Thing is I’ve wanted to have sex with her but she always shows up when I’m doing nothing and I really love concentrating when I’m doing nothing. Fast forward to the other night, we chatted as we listened to some romantic Michael Bublé from the PC and it got quite cozy till she said it was okay for us to have sex as long as her boyfriend didn’t get to know about it. Suddenly-and this is where the dilemma comes in-there was a power surge and my UPS stopped working. That’s weird, right? I thought a UPS was supposed to withstand any kind of voltage. So should I repair it or should I simply buy another one?

On the by, what’s this gay pastor nonsense I keep reading about? What would a man of God be looking for from a guy’s butt; the lost chapters? Guys, the ass is an exit, an outlet, a way out. You don’t go pushing things back inside like you’re offended by the colour yellow. Or brown. Or green. Even black. Think of it as an exhaust pipe. Bad things happen when you block an exhaust pipe. Shit could blow up in your face.

And they are recruiting kids? Where have I been? Kids, guard your buttocks jealously, okay? Staple them if you must. Being gay is bad for your health. It could even kill you. And if you die, well, that’s bad for your health too. Besides, sex is fun only when you have it with a girl. Do you want to have sex with a girl? Good. Now go play mummy and daddy not daddy and daddy, okay? Yes, mummy and mummy is okay as long as daddy is watching while playing with his hands in a nice way, comprender? Attaboy, now off you go. Big people are talking here.

Gays! [Scoff] Were they running late when God was apportioning common sense? I could say to them “hey fuck you, asshole” but the rebuke would defeat its own purpose, wouldn’t it? They’d only smile and get turned on.

On the by-er, there’s a certain fashion trend girls citywide have adopted and it’s giving me the creeps. I get sad when I see a female carrying a bag the size of another human. Why do girls carry such huge bags? With their sizes you sometimes wonder who’s carrying the other. Is it like a way to lose weight? Coz if it is purely for fitness purposes I’ll understand. Speak of a big burden on your shoulders. If you have any problem with your shoulders, talk it out like two grown-ups.

 

What We-men Want

I rarely post on Tuesdays and it’s not a posting marathon so don’t get used to it. I just thought I should cover for the days lost. Who knows? I could have one post for each day of this week. Maybe. Just maybe. Today, let’s explore gender equality.

There will never be gender equality because men and women act different in every situation. Let’s consider the following circumstances.

I was fired.

Woman: I swear me I hate that gu-man. Kale I knew this was coming. He always used to be hitting on me but when I refused he just wanted to punish me so he fired me. Hmm! Let me remove him from my friends on facebook. Am even quitting this job.

Man: Man I got another job. I just haven’t been confirmed yet. My old job wasn’t as challenging so I had to quit, man. Otherwise for now am just chilling and waiting for them to call me. Why do you ask, you have a job opening those ends? Coz I can chill there in the meantime.

We’re meeting after two years.

Woman: (Screams) Give me a hug, you girl. Some being lost. Maama, some weight. Eh! Some getting pregnant on me. Some nice hair. You girl you’re bad mannered. Not even a ka-phone call at least-ko? Kale you look good. Where are you working now? Eh! Some money.

Man: Yo waddup, man. First buy a brother a drink. Dude you’re scarce as hell. So where are you at now? Damn! Chicks must be all over you. Gotta rush somewhere but let’s hook up some time. Aight, spot you.

Someone else used my towel.

Woman: Honey, are you the one who used my towel? Okay, baby.

Man: Who the fuck used my goddamn towel? Oh, it’s you. Cool. I almost lost my temper.

Sex? Not now.

Woman: Baby, am in my periods. Yeah, sometimes they happen twice a month.

Man: Baby,… oh what the hell. Let’s do it.

I was caught kissing someone else.

Woman: Oh my G…! Erique… Am sooo sor… Erique!

Man: Shit! Baby, it’s not what you think.

I’ve been dumped.

Woman: I die if he ever meets someone like me. He’ll beg me to come back. I didn’t even like him.

Man: Dude, her dumping me? Come on! [An hour later…] Someone told you she dumped me?

We share a plate of food with my love.

Woman: Wow! I wish he could make passionate love to me after.

Man: Why the hell didn’t she get her own plate?

It’s a friend’s birthday.

Woman: Happy birthday, sweetie. Me mine was last month but we broke up a day before.

Man: ‘Sup dude. I need to borrow your sneaks.

What I watched last night.

Woman: Gwe, can you believe Alejandro chucked Maria Clara? I hear her cousin Fernando found her in bed with Anotherhandro and wanted to revenge because she had also caught him with the other cousin… no, not that one; the other one who has long black hair who looks like Maria Teresa. By the way, did Scofield start dating that chick?

Man: Nigga! Did you spot the way Fabregas was on form? Naye Fergusson shouldn’t have changed the defense that fast… no, nigga me let me tell you. Ronaldo is on form right now and any… no! Listen, listen! The mid-field was open and the… listeeeeen! … By the way, did Scofield kill that dude?

 

How To Do Nothing

Many people find it hard to do nothing. They think it demands too much and needs lots of practice. Others don’t even know how to go about it. Well folks, contrary to popular belief, it’s actually a little easier than rocket science. I consulted a renowned PHD holder in Nothingness and Boredical Engineering, and author of the international best seller Investing In Nothing, Professor McDont Exeest ESQ. DDT. NRM. and came up with these simple guidelines on how to do nothing.

First, you have to set goals. Doing nothing can be overwhelming at first but with dedication and persistence, you can do great wonders of nothing. Start with small nothings like not turning on the computer before using it and then grow into the big nothings like not breathing at all. Think of anything that requires nothing of you. Like joining the parliament. Unfortunately, the parliament is already filled with people who successfully completed these steps so you have to think of something else. Matter of fact, just think of nothing.

Most of you might be disadvantaged meaning you have jobs. When your boss comes in to get that report he asked for earlier, just stare at his forehead and wonder who he’s talking to. He could be delusional. The right thing to do here is take him by the hand, lead him gently out of the office, put him on a boda and tell the boda guy to take him anywhere he can find a report.

Now you’re ready to go to the next level, termed by the Professor as “I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it”. It involves doing away with anything that might act as an obstacle to your goals. For instance you have to shred or burn any evidence that you might have gone to school. That includes all certificates, transcripts and, of course, your teachers. In case you had started working, your workmates too are evidence that you are learned. Burn them.

At this point some unscrupulous people referring to themselves as the police may come to ask you a few questions and may even arrest you, which is so unfair, I know, considering you’re just trying to build a meaningful life here. Consider this collateral damage. Don’t mind them. Just tell them to wait outside while you finish with some blog helping you achieve your goals. Tell them it’s rentedmess. They’ll understand.

Okay, it’s now time to become a pro. No need to get excited because then you’re doing something hence killing the whole purpose of this article or the sheer existence of me as your mentor. And that’s insulting. Now, you need to do a bigger nothing. I need you to hold your breath for as long as it takes. At some point it might feel like you’re dying. That’s perfectly healthy. It’s just a crucial step to more nothingness so you need to do me proud. Just keep holding your breath until your eyes recede into…

…If you’re reading this, you’re now a pro. Jump up from your seat, race to the policemen you left outside and scream “I am untouchable! I am invisible! I am unarrestable!” You may notice that they don’t give a hoot about what you’re saying. See the power you now wield? Well, you’re welcome! Basically, you’re now a ghost and… wait, demons coming after you? That wasn’t part of the plan. You probably executed the steps wrongly… What? Burn them? No, I meant ban them; as in ban them from your life. Dude, don’t you know anything about human error? Oh yeah? What will you do to me? Go to hell!

 

Monday Massacre Returns

Sponsored by

Telecoms

Competition has shot up in the telecom industry and these guys have gone lengths to try to con me into having sex with them. MTN stalked me everywhere I went, Celtel tried to convince me they had changed and were now ready for marriage if only I could adopt the name Zain, UTL rubbed it in my face that it was offering a hotspot, Warid told me they cared and offered me a job just to prove it and then Orange thought that by simply saying hello I would let them get into my pants.

Orange, nyabo, I’m not that cheap. You don’t just bed me faaa. UTL, you started with mangoes and I said no. Now you think hotspots will make me change my mind? It’s not all about sex, madam. Zaina, I still want my name. MTN, I know I lost my virginity to you but no means no. Warid, I was still nursing a breakup when we hooked up but we’ll see.

Laughter ATMs

You think you’re about to read about a very innovative bank that likes making its customers happy so it has introduced ATMs countrywide where you can withdraw laughter and the more laughter you deposit the more the interest therefore you get to withdraw profitable laughter after a certain period? (Yes, it’s a question.) No.

This paragraph is about a disease that makes bosses think they are funny. The biggest percentage of stale jokes worldwide is cracked by bosses but when they see you laugh they think they are funny. They never think you’re only laughing to suck up to them. I used to laugh at ‘jokes’ like “…that woman has really grown haha” (don’t ask) and “you man, you’ve taken my pen haha” (what the hell!). The last joke unidentified boss made was so traumatizing that I got dizzy when everyone else laughed. What’s so funny about “I am hungry haha”? Enough is enough. I’m quitting this job later in life.

Baby futures

I watched a Nigerian movie (by mistake and I terribly apologise to those I’ve hurt. I didn’t mean to commit such a grave sin. Pray for my soul, brothers and sisters). So in this movie (apologies) there’s this kid who tells the father “Me I din’t ask you to produce me”. It got me wondering, I think we should start respecting unborn babies’ wishes. If I knew I was about to be conceived I would have drafted a job ad that goes something like:

Father wanted

A person is needed to fill the above position.

Skills & Requirements

• Should have at least 18 years’ breathing experience
• Should have a degree in Sexual Relations with a few years’ working experience
• Should be human (Being male is an added advantage)
• Should be able to produce a boy
• Able to name me Erique
• Not able to run away when she says “Honey, I am pregnant”

If you think you meet the above requirements, please send me a friend request at www.facebook.com. Only successful candidates will be contacted.

And other whatnots

A newspaper editor tried to blackmail me into confessing to the murder of so many innocent civilians. Apparently, my “killer” stories are forcing him to take me under custody. I think he was wearing a wire otherwise he wouldn’t have insisted on my “taking the offer” or at least thinking about it.

Me writing for a newspaper? I don’t think I can ever do it and props to you guys in the newspaper business. Does this guy know how hard it is to make an entire country laugh? I honestly don’t know how I Am Ernest Bazanye pulls it off but the last time I tried to crack a few ribs, I cracked a few ribs. Back in low school (O-level sounds lame) I made fun of a prefect’s absurd mound of hair in front of an entire class and later he tortured my ribs (Now I see why I still have no better half). Oh, before you say anything, 27^th, back then I was naïve about the bombasticness of an afro. Watagwan, ganja brada.

 

This Is The Title

I borrowed someone’s heavily tinted car and thought I was free from the stares Kampala people adorn you when they see you driving while sipping on a beer. Geez, it’s not like I’m taking anything so damn expensive. Anyhow, looks like a long-lost pal was able to use his height to his advantage. He saw me through the sunroof during a light traffic jam and did exactly what I tried hard to avoid. He waved and asked me to unlock the door. Now don’t get me wrong. It would have been okay if he was getting in so we could chat en route.

But the dude wanted me to pull over so he could tell me how lost I was. Again, don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining here. It’s just that there was no parking space and drivers behind me were hooting furiously. I had to accelerate without even saying hi. Guys normally brush this off with “hell he didn’t have any parking space” but this dude called me up and asked why I was so mean. Now I have to devise a way to keep my image untainted.

So I thought I should prolly hire a PR firm to assure him and everyone else planning to get hurt by my mean accelerating-without-hi syndrome that I’m not such a bad guy. I plan to throw a big bash for all hurtees past, present and future. For maximum impact it will be held on the ground floor at Workers House after which there will be a midnight ball at Parliament where everyone will get to dance with the finest MPs and ministers money can buy.

Guests will be treated to the best international cuisines courtesy of Riham Biscuits. There will be lots of glucose and many other brand new foods that have never been eaten or even regurgitated before. Some Makerere University lecturers will be present so everyone is allowed to carry a stone or two in their bags.

Ideas to be discussed range from clever (that’s me thinking about myself. I be like that sometimes) to utterly stupid (yes Besigye, you’re invited). Many opposition parties have vouched for this cause so as a way to say thank you, everyone will be able to leave with a new political party. Now, prior to the event you should be able to come up with a name for your political party. Anything from Change for Democratic Change Front Forum (CDCFF) to I Just Want To Oppose Something Movement (IJWTOSM) will do.

Turning to the dress code, Red Pepper journalists will be present and they’ll want to masturbate. You’re all requested to engage in the unsexiest dress code you can afford. If you’ve spotted Straka anywhere, I’m sure this won’t be such a hard thing to do. Never mind about the ethics minister. We’ll give him a few dolls to play with and criticize for being naked.

During the party, a few UPDF soldiers may budge in and try to shoot you. In the event that you’re shot dead, please try as much as possible not to annoy the soldiers. Quietly sneak out of the room and call the police. They’ll help you investigate your murder.

I plan to dish out invites through phone calls but since there’s a big chance some people in the government will tap the calls, you’re all advised to start with statements like “we want our roads repaired” or “Museveni should go” so they immediately stop listening.

Come one. Come all. Come one or go back.

 

Paper Pages

Negroes who ask for part of a newspaper I’m reading need to be shipped back to their damn sugar plantations. And the dude got out of the taxi with my pages. Imagine your heart is racing with so much excitement as you read an article like:

Nollywood origin uncovered.

By a snitch

A group of American-based UN scientists has finally made a major breakthrough into the origin of Nigerian movies after a 120-year-old man from Lagos “felt guilty” and offered to confess. This comes after years of fruitless and nauseatingly costly research that led to the suicidal death of frustrated Director for Google Research on The Origin of Nigerian Movies, Broody Sloan.

Flanked by pissed off environmental activists, Dr. Harry Brown, head of the group, announced the shocking news yesterday during a press conference attended by several world leaders and project donors including the United Federation Against Fucking Annoying Movies (UFAFAM) chairman, Barry Crosse A.S.C.

It was reported that 120-year-old Ougbwani Okokolo Kisiraani came forward with the shocking confession after realizing he was taking too long to die and he couldn’t stand the shame anymore. “God knows I’ve tried to smoke to get cancer-wooo. I can’t stand da shame any longer-wooo. It was me-wooo and a group of African haters-wooo. We hated all these black ass-wipes-wooo and wanted them extinct. We wanted to cause so much misery that they would kill themselves-wooo but clearly they are goddamn misery-resistant. Goddamn punks!” he spat while smoking a cigarette…

And then this negro goes, “please help me with the page you’re not reading”. So you give it to him and realize the continuation is on that other page and now you have to abruptly switch to another story like:

Police say chicken killer had troubled past

By the same snitch

The police have shed light onto an ongoing investigation into the gruesome murder of a chicken during this year’s Easter celebrations. Police spokesman, Mr. Abram Glott yesterday told journalists that the chicken killer had a traumatizing childhood that groomed him into a serial chicken murderer and consequential eater. “He used to watch his parents and siblings devour chicken at the dining table and it’s this that built his passionate distaste for chickens. Now he kills and eats the poor things with vengeance.”

“He kills and eats the

poor things

with vengeance.”

When asked about the sheer right for humans to eat chicken as food he said he had no comment adding that the chicken murderer had to be subjected to the law if they were to send the right message to the public. “We shall not rest until every last chicken assassin is brought to justice.”

Turn to page 3

Again you realize the damned negro has page 3. Idiot!

 

Monday Massacre Duets

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Speeches & Messages

We have this dude at work who toils with his tongue in some funny way like he’s downloading syllables using a poor internet connection. Like he says “omo” to mean “homo”. During a board meeting last week he tried to pitch for an agricultural investment and at some point he thought starting a “fish pon” was the best way to go about it. Everyone laughed, looked at his still-serious face, stopped laughing and started critically pondering the feasibility of fish acting porn. It took a painful two seconds for reason to knock at everyone’s door screaming “he meant fish pond!”

One of my recent facebook status messages had something to do with hating Rick Ross in a very unsexy way. I was asked to explain this and it eludes me the way someone would fail to hate this spoilt boy. Have you seen his chains? That’s what he calls them. The things are like saucepans on his chest. That’s my only beef; his saucepans. I don’t have enough space to tell you about his biodegradable beards.

Cyber babes & Antipop

Recently, a certain tabloid accused me of having cyber intercourse with an unknown D. Let me tell you a small tale about how the writer came up with the story. Originally, she started with thinking about going to the toilet but when she pushed the toilet door, someone inside screamed “Hey, I’m in here!” Puzzled, she asked “Doing what?” Person inside answered “Ah nothing. Just spending a little precious time.” Puzzled even further, she paced to the kitchen, got a crate of beers from the fridge and sat down to ponder what any normal human being could possibly be doing in a harmless toilet.

She decided to send the first glass of beer down her throat to ask the brain to come up with a plausible answer. Unfortunately, it didn’t come back so she sent down the second glass to remind the first. Still no answer, she sent down the third and fourth to check what the first two beers were doing down there. Nothing. Infuriated, she got the fifth, sixth and seventh beers, promised them heaven on earth if they could kill the other four beers and sent them down. Then she sent the eighth to manage affairs. She got excited, looked everywhere and wondered who had been so generous to bless her with two of everything. She saw two fridges, two coffee tables, two cables leading to her stereo and even two of herself. She thought, “Wow, now I see things more clearly” and that’s when she got to writing the story.

Hello, Dorene. Or should I call you D?

Girls & Singers

I’m very intelligent. Now, at this point most of you must be going “Duh! We know that” but let me tell you why I point it out. I finally figured out what girls want. I know, I know, the topic is so passé blah blah but again let me explain. Someone told me a girl cannot like you if you’re not challenging. Apparently, if you give her everything she wants when she wants it, that’s bad. I hear they say something and mean the opposite. So I started a policy where if a girl asks me for something, I give her something else. Yesterday, a girl asked, “Pass me that pen?” I politely said no and instead gave her a saltshaker. Guess what she told me. “You’re daft!” I think she likes me.

Basing on this principle let’s try to revisit some of the stupid things chick-singers say. When Jordin Sparks asks “tell me how I’m supposed to live with no air” she actually means to ask “tell me how I’m supposed to live with air”. Well, it’s because, Jordin you dense chick, you use the air to live. Gosh!

Cadavers & Balls

A body was reported missing from a morgue in Brazil and the police failed to act. Now the woman who reported the case is suing for negligence. I really wouldn’t blame the police here. I mean, for someone to be classified as missing there has to be a 48 hour gap, right? The dead dude is probably just having a longer-than-usual nap somewhere in the hospital. She hasn’t even tried his cell phone, for God’s sakes. Women!

Speaking of bodies, if anyone gives me a really genuine reason as to why men have two balls-otherwise known as testicles by the modern age urban youth (spoilt brats)-instead of just one I’ll give them Antipop and other lucrative commodities for free. I swear these things just irritate me with the way they add useless weight and just droop like they can’t get anything more productive to do. I get it that women have two boobs (for commercial purposes and moral support) but two balls? Greedy bastards!

 

Before Farell Heads To Bazanye’s…

Why do people say “needless to say” and then go right ahead and say it? …Goodness, there’s this guy who keeps playing some disturbing song; you know the one where a girl calls unto the bambambira gods before pointing out the obvious fact that she’s going mad? (It’s a Rihanna song I think… oh yes, Disturbia) He’s playing it over and over again and it’s getting to me. Wait, why do these guys fail to solve their problems and opt to tell the whole world about it? Are they soliciting for aid from Africa?

Know what, screw today’s post. Let’s talk about these malicious degenerates they call musicians. If it was all about problem equals singing, I’m pretty sure we’d have Mulago Records up and running. I have a heart problem? No worries. I’ll just head right to Dr. Dre and sing about it. Oh, I have AIDS? Sweet! That’s another platinum album. At this rate we’ll be asking chicks to chuck us just so we solicit for pity and get awards and worldwide monetary donations from fans. Then you’ll hear statements like “Oh my God, he broke up with another one? When’s the concert?”

Ah huh, that part is playing again: The bum chant and then “Am goin’ crazy now…” Yeah, that’s it. She follows it with a bunch of inaudible sentences like Chris Brown was in the studio with a clenched fist and a malicious look that said “Should you dare sing words that can be understood, woman!” A word in the chorus is quite audible, poor chick.

I wonder what Michael Jackson will say during his tour. Some kid molested my penis with his behind? I think these guys have different prescription bottles that do not have the usual ‘Take two tablets a day. If symptoms persist, seek medical advice.’ No. Theirs are special. They have ‘Record two songs a day. If symptoms persist, use Timbaland or an equally good producer.’

Cheri, you have blogger’s block so I wrote a song for you. Forgive my rusty voice. Haven’t been to the studio in such a long time. Rihanna used bums so I’ll opt for something along:

Verse One

Cham cham cherim cham cham cherim cham X2

Am goin’ messy now

No more stories to write

Can’t even think about it

Inaudible Inaudible

Chorus

Blockurbia…

(Princess, 27^th, Baz, Edge and all bloggers suffering from cerebral starvation can join me here. Antipoop, we both know you’re using me as an excuse to get over your blogcks so join in)

Okay, let’s get back to the reason I actually started this post: I thought it was kitten play when Antipoop said she’d wage war if… here’s where it all started. We chatted on the interwebdings till she started thinking we were becoming man & sexual predator. I hurriedly put it off but:

Date:	Monday, May 11, 2009 7:32:18 PM
To:	Erique Mununuzi <erique_mununuzi@rock.com>
CC:
From:	“dorene namanya” <ndorene@gmail.com>
Subject:	RE: EQ
0 Forwarded Message(s) 0 Attachment(s)/Image(s)

“haha

Gwe, you think youll stop talking and I’ll shut up? I have a gift for u over at mine. tell me when yuo get in. Can I have a snoop of your post before u publish it? Pleeeeeease! Why didn’t you pick up my call yesterday? And don’t give me the same lame excuse mister. By the way, was the C cup thing a way to get me all wet? Pssssst come on. Oh and yes i still have the porn collection. B2B brought it back. U have a memory!

Ps: Why do you not want to come for BHH anymore? Why are u snobbing the good bloggers?  For me, BHH is the only time i get to mingle with other humans so I go as much as i can. So it is a date then? we meet at BHH and I see if you have that silly look when you first see me…please stop ignoring me.“

Antipop, I concede defeat (yeah right) and will consequently pass this lesson on to the boys.

Moral lesson to every guy thinking of ever using an innocent chick: Antipop needs to get laid.

 

Relationship Neck & Neck With The Dollar

I’m thinking, is it possible to build a toilet made of mirrors so you pinpoint the exact location of the thingi? Maybe then that punk seated next to me yesterday could learn how to wipe his ass. The dude stinks like toilet tissue got a restraining order against him. What a cruel joke to play on someone’s nose.

Anyway, I was having a heated debate with workmates yesterday about whether girls look for emotional attachment or money in a relationship. I’m proud to testify that much as I started out as the only one on my side, by the end of the session I had won everyone over, brothers and sisters. Can I get an Amen?

They argued that women were innocent beings who wouldn’t dare to get into a relationship with a guy if they didn’t love him (I swear I don’t know why I’m still working with them). I tried to put them on the right path by assuring them it was money then looks then emotion. Let me tell you about a friend of mine. For the sake of this story let’s call him Tony (we’ll pretend I didn’t just say his real name).

Tony likes women. Tony shares my thoughts on women and the general nature of presidential sex (we think it’s constitutional for presidents to have sex with the national anthem playing). Tony is a hunk among women. Whenever women hit on Tony, he bluntly tells them “I don’t have money. What do you want?” before giving them a naive look that watches them walk away never to be heard from again until they see him get into a rich friend’s car and think he was only playing hard to get. Darned genius always has sex with 80% of them.

But that’s it. Sex. The poor idiot wants to get into relationships with 100% of the chicks he lays but when they realize how much truth his pickup line held, they walk away never to be heard from again (this time for real). It beats him how “ugly mathafuckers with noses constantly appealing for federo” manage to lay the prettiest women in sight but when it comes to the “heaven sent dude” that he is, he’s treated like a “sodomy victim with lots of rereretracted statements”. It’s how heavy your wallet is, buddy.

These days I almost find myself moving with my bank statements just so I walk up to you and read you my budget for the next financial year before kneeling, opening a small box with a shiny little ATM card and asking, “will you be my investment?” “Oh my God, yes! Yes, I will!” Then the crowd cheers and throws all the congrats while whispering, “Aren’t they such a lovely business?”

Girls, let’s stop pretending about this. Do I make a fair judgement when I say relationships these days are all about money?

Aga Walaayi: The way Misa Campo holds that rod with that (for lack of a better word) glorious body! Look what you’re doing to the audience…

“I swear to read your every post, the whole post and nothing but the post, so help me God”.

 

Monday Massacre Dreams

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Desert

I was in the middle of nowhere. Actually, it was somewhere; a desert. I was totally naked and there was no one and nothing in sight. I was so thirsty coz of the cruel heat and didn’t know where to start. All I had in hand was a mobile phone left with only one bar of battery power. I hobbled a few inches and saw a mineral water bottle lying on the ground. I got so scared because I didn’t know the first thing about mineral water. “What should I do with this here creature?” I asked no one in particular while bluntly staring at the cold bottle. The phone. I quickly dialed 911 before the battery ran out and asked for instructions on how to use water when thirsty. For a whole two minutes the strangely antagonistic lady on the other end kept asking where I was calling from ‘til the phone blacked out (like I couldn’t tell where I was). And that’s when it dawned on me MTN had a role in this evil plan. I fainted.

Home

My wife. She was so damn controlling. Look what she made me do…

Job

I was so broke. I badly needed a well paying job with lots of untraceable bonus packages. I went through my phonebook and found Museveni’s number. I SMSed him:

Hi M7, I cn kil Besigye 4U & create many mo districts faster thn yo ministers. Pliz gv me a job. Wl amend da constitution as many tymz as u wnt. I can mek faith mwondha cry evn more lol. reply. thx man. Eq

He replied:

LMAO. Dnt hv enaf credit rite nw bt wl call u sn as I gt 2 office. M7

Life

She gave liquor to her baby of 7 months. No, she wasn’t kiddin’. She pushed the wicked drink down the kid’s throat and I almost killed her but then remembered some law about preserving wild life. She looked kinda like Antipop, you know? It’s the breed that substitutes “the princess, the white horse & the evil queen” bedtime stories for “the bush, the missile system & the ugly talibans”; the breed that replaces Misa Campo (R.I.P) with a retarded Colin Farell (W.T.F). Oh wait, it’s not a dream. These dreadful people actually exist!

Blog

SK said I’m an opportunist and Comrade reiterated with “no, he just pretends to be”. Rev, I’d like to think that’s a compliment. (Ignoring the fact that you always use the statement when daring me to do something) I’m trying to change, you see. It’s down to one girl per season. King, your one dollar a day thing is just not feasible. Tried it and cried the whole of last night.

Granny sex pictures/ebony erotica/young mum/cheap porn…who keeps spaming this stuff to my blog? Who in their right mind would do that without leaving their address? I badly wanted to watch it but there was no link. Such insensitivity!

 

Downloaded Project

Zipped

I was taking an easy stroll through people’s profiles and found something quite interesting. You know that statement that people use when they say “I know it’s none of my business but…” then they ask something that’s none of their business? I think it’s something like “I know it’s none of my business but…” Well, I’m about to use that line mostly because what I’m about to say doesn’t concern me really but I want to say it anyway and I don’t care what you think.

I know it’s none of my business but those of you who gave their personal info on their blog profile slots should change the age. Some of y’all have been 21 for ages and that affects my search for the next chick. Yes, I just made it some of my business. I need to know your ages before laying my strategy so move chapchap and update them.

Now, you know that part of the date where he looks at her with the most staggering romanticness and asks “can I ask you something?” I hate that question big time because; one, the asker will shoot the question even if you say no; two, if you actually say no, their eyes will gasp and their mouths will grow wider with utter disbelief; three, it precedes a silly, very personal or you-really-should-shut-up question; and four, it’s just stupid to ask to ask. So anyway, I’m about to use that question.

Can I ask you something? Is it okay to have inter-blogger relationships? Isn’t it like some kind of incest? Blogcest maybe? I’m trying to dig into Serakelz’s thing for Sleek. I think Dee (the Lyne version) and Dee (the Tamble version) couldn’t stand the hypocrisy so they quit blogging. Dante too. And Biggz. (Wait, I hear Dee’Lyne’ has posted? Shame on me)

It’s explained by some still-unproven evolutionary hypothesis that when two random particles (in this case, bloggers) come together to establish the law of romance, they fall into direct conflict with the rule of post. Therefore, the two particles (the misguided humans) cannot press ‘post’ at the same time. It’s simple physics really. They become blind hence start operating on the universally accepted scientific notion, blinded by love. Alternatively, it could be explained by the bloggers’ sheer sloppiness but the supposition could be fatal.

Unzipped

How the bad word do you come out and accuse the ruling party of wrongly using State House? Do these guys have a spinal fluid oba do they use Umeme to carry thoughts to the brain? It’s time politicians stopped grieving and living in denial. Museveni owns this country, period. Maybe they haven’t visited twitter of late. If you paid more attention, you ganja-infested descendants of folly, you’d find that Kaguta’s status reads “@Uganda Haha til death do us part suckaz”

All Ugandans are just foolish. I mean, apart from all bloggers and their immediate families. High five!

Played

If you haven’t listened to Coldplay’s latest, I don’t know how you were bred or what you learnt in school all those years. You need to take a moment to look at who you are deep down, find out your aspirations and what you desperately want in life, erase it and in place paste the name COLDPLAY.

Deleted

I want an orgy for all bloggers with high libido. I discussed this with Princess and she gladly said yes so who are you to have that look on your face? She’ll initiate it with a chain post that will go on to every other blog that wants to build on it (like the Bazedgenye Christmas story but involving more bloggers). Get my point? So who’s in so we start already?

Oh hell! Forget I said it. I don’t see anyone wanting to get involved. Freaks! You hurt me with your selfishness and frankly shocking lack of insight into what makes me happy. I’m calling my mum.

 

Monday Massacre News Forum

roxkHbvgyruq

Kenyan women went on a one-week sex strike. Apparently, the men clapped back by making it a month. Because of my priceless love for Kenya and Kibaki’s wife, I’m joining the cause. Only, I’m changing the rules a little. I’m going on a two-month sex strike kama mbaya. This means I’m going to mercilessly romp women month in, month out until our demands are met. You can tell me what we’re fighting for after my strike.

CuiVbbuac

Kayanja, you’re not a homosapien. A couple of testaments ago, before all traces of intellect mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth, criminals were dared to do what they were accused of in order to disprove their accusers. If they reacted as normal human beings, ergo hating the crime, they’d be pardoned. Kaaya, I implore you to please consider this. Go get that boy, call for a press conference, malice the boy’s buttocks and come out with a badass scowl on your face to show the reporters you actually didn’t enjoy what you just did. You’ll thank me later.

MssfgBbcu

Faith Mwondha was again re-fired another time and is now Uganda’s currect ex-acting vice IGG deputizing the former IGG who, oddly, is the same woman. So now that she’s deputizing her ex-self she should Inspect Generally the Government of her brain to know what exactly it is trying to tell her. “Brain, am I or am I not the IGG coz if I’m not, I will humbly step down and take up my post as IGG.” She talked to the press:

The Press Guy Asking Questions: Are you not the IGG?

IGG FM: Yes.

TPGAQ: Does that mean you’re the IGG?

IGG FM: What did I just say?

TPGAQ: I didn’t get that quite clearly, madam. Could you…

IGG FM: Get out or I write to Museveni!

XsopjrpdGh

On Thursday, Chameleon was nabbed giving a fake 50k note to a pump attendant in Wandegz. I happened to see it all on my way to BHH.

Attendant Who Pumps Fuel Into Vehicles At Kobil: Excuzi me, you have gave me a chichupuli.

The Singing Lizard: Oliyoliye!

AWPFIVAK: Wait, that is who?

TSL: Duh! That’s Rentedmess. Now, what was that about the note?

AWPFIVAK: He’s doing what?

TSL: Getting content for his next blog post. Look, aren’t you supposed to call the police? You’re distorting the future, miss. People have to write about this tomorrow so let’s get it over with. Now, I gave you a fake note. Your turn.

AWPFIVAK: Police! Help!

TSL: Good girl. Wait, what?

 

Kingdom Come: Stance Of The Gogomines

Night had fallen on dull Slaughton and the vast army of stars in the sky couldn’t agree more. An eerie breeze tore through the dark determined to prove it was master of the night. It left a creek here and a shatter there in its wake. It carried the following message: Bumwaggots, a bigger master, stormy in nature, is asserting enormous presence on Slaughtonian rooftops anytime now.

Pistir Kiyinji was not entirely pleased with this development, not because he hated water and all its products, but because he’d inevitably be late for the Gogom Council meeting. Tonight, the sacred council and the King were meeting over a very crucial-as the King preferred to call it-Kingdominal matter. They were finally voting on who’d take over the late Potipoti’s duties as the King’s ass wiper. (Rumour had it that Potipoti had gradually developed nose cancer from inhaling air the King unkindly exhaled from the wrong part of his tired body).

Said person would have the prestigious title of Interior Minister for Buttockal affairs and this is not a chance Pistir Kiyinji was about to let slide. He had dreamt of this day a gazillion times. In fact, he had extensively practiced this on several boys, well, not because he found the meticulously crafted shape of male buttocks fascinating (the joke always cracked his rib), but because the King was male and he too was male. He just didn’t see where a girl fit in. He braved the weather and hiked to the palace.

********** ********** ***********

“What’s he doing!” Now the King was getting anxious because Zabanye, one of the Gogomine councilmen, was taking too long on phone. “We have a meeting you, know?”

“Yes, Sire. I understand,” said one of his servants. “But we don’t have phones in this here age.”

“What the…what is he using then? He told me he was ordering for pizzas for the councilmen. Is he lying to me!” the King burst out.

“No, Sire. Those things only exist because the writer is imposing them on us. Zab is only trying to impress a fair lady from UTL.”

“UTL? Nought have I heard of village such. Whenceforth does it haileth?

“No, UTL is the writer’s…never mind. And King, I think it’s best to keep the English a little less Shakespearean. You could have said it better with ‘I’ve never heard of such a village. Where is it?’”

“What’s your point? I can sayeth whatever I wanteth. Yes I can. And why are we veering from the point of this post?”

“Because, my King, this whole thing about gays is getting boring. It’s not worth talking about anymore.”

The King adorned him a blank stare that kept shaking hands with dismay, waving hello at anger and winking at fear. “Dude, are you talking to me or the readers?”

“Sire, I think we should end this post.”

“Yes, I think so too. Let’s give them a killer ending act. Like a hymn from Cece Bool and a bow.”

“Or one last sentence in quotation marks with a period at the end.”

“Oh yeah yeah! You mean like this?”

“Period at the end, Sire. Period at the end.”

“You mean like this.”

 

Monday Massacre: I Am Rentedmess

I am the singer whose lyrics they don’t understand

I have a song that used to hit charts worldwide but was surprised no one twittered about me. I thought I’d get more girls all over me but those hip-hop videos are full of lies. I changed my lyrics thinking I would make them a little easier to understand.

Instead of:

Yeah yeah yeah I chill in ma hood poppin’ bottles

Holla at ya boy coz I gat bitches up in ma crib

Am the number one gangsta en I’ll pop ya skull

Coz am a bad nigga

I used:

Yes yes yes I stay indoors opening bottle tops

Call me because I have girls in my house

I am the best gang leader and I will shoot your head

Because I am a bad African-American.

Now no one wants to talk to me.

I am the president but they didn’t like my state of the nation address

Hello? Jenit, hello? What network is she using? Jenit? Hello? Oh, that’s better. Hi wifey. How is it up north? Okay, listen listen. Can you believe they didn’t like my speech? I hear I should be like Obama. Can you believe that? People just be hating on a brother. Did Obama fight in the bush? Did he fire a gun like me, mmm? Ask the soldiers I killed who killed them. Do they know who I am? By the way, when are you coming back? I’m a man, you know?

I am the guy at Fatboyz seated over there wondering why no woman is talking to me

Look at that one. She doesn’t even know how to walk. I am too dope for her. Now spot this one looking as if something is smelling for her. I don’t even like her face. I am too dope for her. Look at the other one. It’s like her hair is high on something. I am too dope for her. That one at the pool table is too pretty it’s even annoying. Look at her. She thinks her dopeness will take her anywhere? I am too dope for her. That chic in the corner with those two babes needs prayers and a lot of fasting. She’s too ugly I almost thought it was Halloween’s. I am too dope…wait, is that…shit! She has seen me. I pray she doesn’t break up with me.

I am the blogger who likes writing about me

Hi. It’s me; the one who doesn’t like writing about stuff worth reading. I only write about myself and I really enjoy it. In fact, last time I very much enjoyed telling you about my new underpants that I took a picture. I’ll post it tomorrow-yes, just the picture-and I’ll need you to comment like you actually found my post fascinating. And after commenting, please go back to your blog and give me a scrap award for being the best blogger. Nanti we’re friends. No, it doesn’t matter that I actually bore you. How could you even say that (boohoohoo)? I thought all the LOLs you left on my blog meant my underpants were funny. Now you’ve made me cry. And me let me tell you, me when I cry I run to my boyfriend. Did I tell you about my boyfriend?

I am the thief looking to make an honest buck

I need to change my ways. I’m tired of stealing and leaving people crying. It’s so heartbreaking that I sometimes stop, look up to the sky, shake my head, shed a tear and wonder why God is so unfair to the innocent. A friend told me they are not crying for the loss but for the lack of knowledge of the whereabouts of the stolen property. So I’ve decided to steal and tell my victims what their property will be used for. I will tell them, “Excuse me sir, I have just stolen your wallet. Now, I am going to run away very fast, disappear for a while, probably to my grandmother’s in Kisaasi, and then I will come out later and start spending your money. I hope that’s okay. I will spend it wisely.”

 

School Of Heroes

I am a hero. Stop the gasp, stop the gasp, I see some of you crying, others stabbing yourselves, others swearing over your dead bodies and some denouncing all relatives starting with E, all because of such a preposterous claim. Why am I a hero? I’ll tell you. Actually, I won’t. I’ll just type it for you. You don’t deserve to hear my voice, lowlife.

Bronze medal

I hate men who disorganize the factory settings of small boys’ butts. Yes, this topic is far from being closed. Well, because I said so. Think of it as a pooping gizmo. Any slight change and it could do things naturally shunned by species of its kind. The default setting is ‘push to exit’ not ‘push to enter’. Whenever I start this discussion my medulla coyly crawls into a corner with a popcorn kaveera and watches Late Show until Straka’s boobs fade into the end credits giving room to a barely audible oh-Lord-why-did-you-forsake-me moan. So I beg to stop here.

Silver medal

I stood up for the remote. At this point, you might develop a concussion coming from first degree burns elicited by rapid illogical transmission of brainwaves suggesting your eyes took a message to your brain and the brain maliciously spat into their face before instructing, “Go back and read again!” And I repeat: I stood up for the remote. Here’s how it happened. To us boys, watching porn is like chewing something and swallowing it before generally conforming to the idea of eating-we just have to do it. So we were a group of six porn-watchers and an innocent by-sitter (a girl). The show came to an end and, naturally, someone had to pick the remote control from the table over there, eject the DVD and sit back awaiting comments.

Now, pornography has a way of spiritedly encouraging some parts of our bodies to disobey the law of gravity, promising them sweets if they acted like upright citizens. No one in the room could stand up, let alone cough because that thing hurts badly if you do anything even slightly detrimental, especially if it’s covered by jeans (heh!) But I did it. I stood up like a true hero, (I could hear the sound of heavenly trumpets all around me as everyone in the room looked on with bated breath) walked in slow motion like a gifted ninja, got the remote and pressed play. I wanted to watch what I had missed during my brief nap.

Gold medal

There’s this song I usually hum whenever I’m in the deepest of trouble or in the lowest of moods. It has a strange way of lifting your soul to the furthest clouds. It goes something like hum hum hum…hum hum. It’s by Chaka Demus and Pliers (or Tongs; I’m not really good at mechanics). Yesterday was one of those days I badly needed inspiration. My life wasn’t really going right and I wondered what on earth I had done wrong to deserve this.

You know one of those days you just feel like your life has suddenly screeched to an end, and you wonder why it was driving without a permit in the first place? You know, like when you have no one to chat with on Facebook? Or that waiter at Nandos tells you a piece of bread crammed with tomatoes and dodo is not called a piece of bread crammed with tomatoes and dodo but a burger, and it costs more than your phone?

Well, yesterday was one of those days for me. My stomach really hurt so bad I almost called up my ex to ask for one last round of sex for a dying old man. Then I thought, naye wait. What if I just headed for the toilet? And that’s when it hit me: I was too wise even for myself. The average human wouldn’t have thought of such a genius cure. Indeed, I am a hero.

 

Monday Massacre: Criminal Incognito

The

I’m seated on my favourite living room chair perspiring; it’s rocking.  I am nervously sipping on a cognac while trying to figure out my next move. The dead body is still in the kitchen and my wife will be back any second now. Darling daughter of two is just out of her cradle. She toddles towards me, tough-faced, arms behind her back.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Did you kill him?”

“Yes?”

“Good boy. Did you bury him?”

“Yes?”

“Are you lying to me?”

“Yes?”

Conti…

It’s 10.00pm. My wife is still out celebrating a company merger. She hid that stupid pig in the garage thinking I wouldn’t find out. After twenty years of a sturdy marriage you’d think she respects me. The blood is slowly sipping into the living room. Shit! It’s been thirty minutes since the fatal gun shot. Luckily, the neighbours are away on a family trip. No one heard. Except her.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Do you still want to have sex?”

“Yes?”

“Then you’ll make sure mummy doesn’t get to know about this.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you keep saying yes?”

“Yes?”

“That. Why do you keep saying that? Yes, yes, yes. Is it some sort of proverbial maxim for murderers?”

“Well, not rea…”

“Ah, he speaks! Go on.”

…nuation…

“Well, I still want people to think we actually…”

“I…”

“…I actually murdered someone.”

“You’re kidding me! They think you murdered someone? How preposterous! And dumb. Well, did you? I heard a gunshot.”

“What! Don’t act like you weren’t part of the plan.”

“Hear hear. Now you’re hallucinating?”

“You bitch!”

“Hey, don’t act like I’m the one holding the gun. Tell ‘em what you did.”

“I…I killed a pig my wife wanted us to have for dinner…”

“Yes? Go on.”

“…because I don’t like eating pigs. They cause pork flu.”

“Now that’s what I call a father. Okay, on your feet! Go bury that thing before mummy gets back. Wait, pass me the remote. I think you’re watching way too much CNN. Besides, Teletubbies must be on now. [Scoff] Dumbness just! You say ‘pig’ and they still think you’re talking about a human. Pigs!”

 

State Of The Blogville Address

Hi. I’m the president. During the recent violent city strikes, the Holy Spirit inspired me to write a little love song for the great kabaka. It’s titled “President Romeo and King Juliet”. It’s the first single off my upcoming album, I Am Third Term Fierce. I hope you like it.

M7 Feat. Lil’ Wayne & Rihanna – President Romeo and King Juliet

V1 (Wizi half baby)

Yo ma niggaz you feel me?

This is the shit right here

When you sent your Katikkiro to Kayunga, I accidentally ordered him back to Mengo

When your radio station said shit about me, I accidentally shut it down

When your people threatened to strike, I don’t know why I did but I accidentally sent the police to shoot ‘em niggaz

You dig?

When your people actually started the violence, I  accidentally sprayed teargas all around ma city

I just want you to know that I really love you and would do anything to take it all back, ma nigga

Ah ah ah yeah

Chorus (Riri)

Kabak-ella ella ella eee

Let’s start over again, my Ssabagerek-ella ella e e e

The Banyala can kunyala on themselves for all I care

Let me stand again and have a better 23 years

If I mess up again, you will give me another 23 years to run this town

So have an umbrella ella ella e e e

V2 (The M in NRM)

*Presidential sigh

For all my dawgs and bitches

Yo I should have supported you by asking the soldiers to shoot themselves instead

Stopping a strike was just too cavalier of them, the unemotional buggers

My love, my love, my love

One more thing though

Your people are idiots, silly.

LOL just kidding. Of course “silly” comes before “idiots”.

Yo yo yo reeeeeeeeeeeemiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiix

 

Unknown guest

Hiya. Watsup, blogren. I am not the famous Rentedmess and I deeply apologise for the boredom am about to impose on you. I am someone who stole his password just to have a feeling of what it is like to write. Oh, by the way, he told me to tell you “he has flu but has not tasted pigs in the near past which is so unfair.”

So it’s pretty clear I changed his theme because I was so tired of the old one. He asked me to choose which one I thought suited best and I hope you don’t swallow me for this lol. I have nothing to jazz for you except maybe I can update you on what Rented is up to. He’s jazzing (wink) some chic who is a close cousin to one of the board members of the agency he works for. The guy has no limits!

Before I forget, again he told me to ask you to discuss about “Sato BHH and blogger whispers” but refused to tell me what they mean. He says you know. So I have nothing to tell you about myself except maybe that I have a crush on him (yea right) but he keeps pretending. Blogren, who knows how to make Rented like a chic?

He asked me to apologise to you if I posted after 10am but since its not, I guess am off the hook.

 

Still in charge temporarily

First, so sorry for staying around but after so much begging, Erique gave me more time on condition that I give the blogren what they want. So I brought back the Range. Sleek, u are so mean. I like writing but am not as good as u are. Maybe it’s because I wasn’t so in the mood. I will improve with time though. Erique has faith in me.

You must be wondering what am still doing here. First, I want to start a blog but I thought going through Rentedmess would be the best way to build my publicity before I get my own blog and he was kind enough to let me use it. (Thanx darling) Guys, i don’t intend to bore you so please don’t feel bad. PLEASE. It’s like my internship (like Baz says).

Second, I need to ask you for a little advice about my boyfriend (now ex). I ve always tried to be the best I can for him but his demands sometimes get too big for me. Like is it okay to have sex during periods? I try to explain that I cant but he keeps saying its okay (yuck!). Much as I wanted to sustain our relationship, sometimes it becomes so hard.

And then everytime we meet he wants to have sex with me saying am too sexy and irresistible. I know that’s supposed to be a compliment of some kind but it made me feel he only wanted me for sex. We rarely ‘talk’ as lovers. And then is it just me or is it a turn off when men always say yes to whatever you ask for? The guy never wants to make a decision. Whenever I ask him to decide he says we should do what makes me happy! What is his use then? It feels like am the man here and that’s so not kool.

We didn’t officially break up but now I never talk to him hoping he will get the point. He wants me back so badly that he asks his relatives to call and talk to me. Guys, if by any chance you are reading this and i end up dating you, please get a clue and act like a man. Now this guy doesn’t cheat or anything. He’s not so bad in every other aspect but I think am no longer in love with him. He acts so jealous apparently because am moving out with so many guys. I admit I get hit on frequently and my inbox is full of messages from guys but however much i try to tell them we can’t be, there’s no other way i will stop them. That doesn’t mean i cheat on him, does it? He is so insecure and again that’s a turn off.

Do you think I should let him back in? Can you fall in love with someone again?

Like Baz asked, i will leave a teaser before the real thing…

Victoria.

 

Monday Massacre Things

Introducings

Y’all had fun with Vick? Well, congratulations. You just had a sneak peek into the newest, hottest blog in town, and by hot I mean triplesome H.O.T. People, meet Vivacious Victoria, Hot Karen and Stunning Pod. Together, they make the blombastic webpage ingeniously labeled, The Trio. You know what I came to work thinking this morning? How I get to introduce a threesome of stunning, sexy ladies and somehow you’re still here. Go! I’ll make a coffee while I wait. Gwe, first come back. Before you leave I want to explain the difference between Vick and I or me and Vick or I and Vick or whatever.

This is ordinary me…

And this is Vivacious Vick…

The camera wasn’t fully charged.

Womenings

In my lower secondary we had best farter competitions (It’s Bazanye who started those things of talking about people gassing) where the gassers gassed and the gassees determined who was to be voted class captain to make sure there was no teacher in class on the days we didn’t want to be taught. Let me figure out why I just told you that.

I think it’s because I had a crush on this very pretty chic who broke my heart when she made me watch her entering a toilet. And then she made me listen to the sounds of a broken generator. How cruel can one get? You know those things where you grow up knowing Santa exists? For us we grew up knowing beautiful girls don’t do those things. Oh, the pain!

Deathings

I wondered what it’d feel like to drill a nail through someone’s skull without touching any vital organ, bend him over and watch as he sluggishly loses sanity while brain matter slowly sips out of the skull. Then Streetsider shot to mind. And I mulled over it even deeper. You tarnished the idea behind Blogger Whispers, you fella. DK, please go into the good books as the guy who saved a street kid’s life. Give the story to someone else, preferably sworn nemesis, Sleek. Today! Princess, I think the ultimatum is up.

Eatings

I was with a girlfriend friend who is a girl having lunch at certain restaurant X (scars brought on by my primary school math teacher). She kept yapping about failed relationships or some shit in that bracket while I checked my mail using a device Y (and I passed his paper). At some point, she asked a question that, out of failure to allot due cerebral faculty, couldn’t answer. Then she suddenly blurted something in the range of discourteous sarcasm. She said, “Name, why are you not listening to me? It’s like you’re here but you’re not here.” I’m sure Shakespeare’s ghost must have missed a heartbeat over this one. I was seated right in front of said friend who is a girl! Which brings me to my next point.

Thiefings

It’s only two days ago that I realized my sarcasm has gone a trifle too far. My wallet was stolen. Now, that’s not something to even smile about. Only thing that got me off the hook is it only had cash and my campus ID. When I realized it was gone, first thing I said was “Oh no! That was my last stash of porn in there!” Who the fuck in their right mind says that? It’s not even close to funny’s great grand kids, Erique. That wasn’t cool.

See what I just did up there? That’s called intellesturbation or masturbation of one’s intellect. It’s the act of insulting oneself for the sole purpose of pleasuring one’s acknowledged comprehension of his or her stupidity. See what I mean? I just offended myself and made a joke about it!

 

Manyanga Manyanga

Nightmare on my street

Crappy night I had last night. First, I dreamt I was breaking into a minister’s house but forgot the security code. So I called him at work to kindly ask him to help me with his code so he could make my work easier. Then I dreamt Rentedmess, like James Bond, was just a hereditary name and there was a new Rentedmess in town. Then I dreamt Ivan of The Edge was wearing a Halloween mask and pointing at me while eerily shrieking “Vicky Vicky!” She wanted to keep behind the curtains (like Ashy, the blogless commenter) but after so much kneeling and tearing she let me give out one more piece of info: she’s a client service intern at my workplace. Back to the nightmares, I woke up to experience another one.

Another malicious taxi

I entered and was surprised to discover many other people had entered the whore! Six: thirty a.m, I’m coming to work thinking I’m the only early bird today. So I get into the taxi and two people left to go, I remember there’s something I forgot at my joint: my phone. So I tell the sick rodent that doubles as a conductor to open the door coz I need to get out but the ugly tortoise (it evolves) refuses to open, thinking I want to get into another taxi because this one has failed to fill up. The hideous hippopotamus (and can change form at will) even tells the driver to “genda” just to prove “ssebo tujjudde”. Realising I have no choice but to do exactly as my captor wishes, I ride on to my destination to type the story and rush back to get my phone, leaving you in the hands of Vicky. She’ll do the last bit before pressing post.

Before I run

I see people commenting commenting mbu sijui that “see you on Thursday”. I thought we agreed BHH is on Saturday. Kiki?

Vick

Lol he’s gone. I realized that if I post something here, I may not be able to give you tomorrow’s post over at The Trio. So I guess all I need to do is say “Goodmorning everyone” and proceed to press post.

 

Let’s Play A Game

We’re friends, right?

You’ll always have my back, right?

Wow, let’s celebrate.

On the by, during my lunch break yesterday, a pal told me a story about a chic who pulled her clit since younghood that when she squats it touches the ground. I know the book says “wrap around me and keep me warm” but let’s try to keep such statements figurative.

It’s like this model chic we told to appear for the photo shoot as natural as she can be. When she flung her arms in the air, her generous metropolis of pubic looked at me while playing cards and asked “Hey, whatchu lookin’ at, pal? Do you mind?”

Oh, new post at The Trio. King, you gotta help them out.

 

Monday Massacre: Dotes Of Anec

Tumbaavu

We used that word to ridicule boys who had angered us. Boys, not girls. Girls were a precious commodity so we used the much softer stupid, bogus or shit you (You didn’t want the P.7 class monitor reporting you for saying ‘fuck’. You could get expelled or worse, get looked at by the cross-eyed headmaster, Mr. Oluk).

Curse words always sounded softer in English. For example you couldn’t compare the male komanyoko or matako to the female you look like an anus. Funny thing with these words is the way you said them determined how you’d live the next few seconds of your life. Like if you said “komanyoko “, the abusee only treated this as just another bout of anger and the next few seconds were simply characterized by a bitter exchange of words ending with “you even bling my sandals back you wizz yowa ga-bad legs like a floogo” and “me you also first bling my posho da one I gave you for lunch time wizz yowa fake nose like a saucepan”.

However, if you went more literal and said “go and enter your mother”, there was a ninety percent chance “you with your fake nose” would turn into “you with no nose”. There was this badass kid-we called him Bosco because, well, that was his name-who had a thing for pulling noses until they suffered so much wear and tear and cried blood. It was best to annoy him with your back turned towards him.

I love you

You couldn’t use such statements in primary school because she’d either run to the matron crying, or there would simply be nothing to do after that. Where would you take her for a date, the dormitory? We had crushes on girls but didn’t know how best to go about them.

If you were lucky your crush got sick and was sent to the sick bay for a week, you’d do your best to acquire flu or a worse disease just so you too could be sent to the sick bay to be with that person for whom you’d do anything until lake Victoria dried up or (this was me after so much deliberation) love until you were reported by a prefect. So to get sick you’d take so much unboiled water, refuse to wash your hands after using the latrine and become tight with the guy who kept blowing into his hankie. Most times this plan backfired after being given a few injections and some chloroquin-like tabs before being given a bed rest and sent back to class the next day.

Some of us, after days and nights of thinking, devised a brilliant plan to get the girls to notice us, an option that saved you from making all the moves while she just sat there faaa. We stared. Yes, simply looked at them. We took every opportunity to look in class, look during assembly time, look during preps, look as she walked back to her dormitory, look look look till she noticed you were over-looking and asked you about it. Then, she wouldn’t go accusing you of wanting her. Hell, she talked to you first. But if your buddies saw you heading somewhere without them and asked you about it, it would sound lame if you told them, “Am going to look”.

Quagmire

You were a god for saying such gigantic words. In fact, in order to get elected Head Prefect it was wise to show us how articulate you were with tongue-threatening terminologies. Your profile, for example, would shoot through the roof if you replaced statements such as “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” with “Exclusive dedication to necessitous chores without interludes of hedonistic diversion renders Jack a hebetudinous fellow” or “Cleanliness is godliness” with “Freedom from incrustations of grime is contiguous to rectitude” or even a simple “Twinkle, twinkle, little star!” with “Scintillate, scintillate, asteroid minim!”

It was best to let your opponent go first with the usual boring “vote me and there will be no more classes on Monday” and “no one will ever line up for food” then come onto stage and bury him with “All that glitters is not gold”. No, you had to say it like the class-apart entity that you were. You had to say “All articles that coruscate with resplendence are not truly auriferous” then watch as the crowd suddenly shuts up and stares at you uncertain of whether they heard you say something unpleasant about their mothers.

Good week, y’all.

This one was just used to wish bloggers a happy week.

 

Habibi!

Indy fight:

One Indian. One French.

French screams:

“And next time you better have a watch before you say anysing!”

From afar, the Indian:

“You mean vatch out before I say anyting, you idiot?”

French retorts:

“Who are you calling you idiot?”

Distant retort from Indian:

“Vat do you mean who am I calling? And who are you calling an idiot, nigga hater!”

Frenchman not particularly excited about previous statement:

Suggests Indian should engage in acts of sexual pleasure with himself.

Indian, not exactly thrilled by suggestion, thinks it’s best to mould exact opposite and hurl it back:

“Fuck you? Fuck me!”

Walks out not necessarily happy and bangs door behind him. Talks to anyone who cares to listen.

Indy talk:

Hey, they tink I’m an idiot. I need you to guess dat I’m tirty years old from just my handwriting. Go ahead! Try. See? You can’t, can you? I’m not an idiot.

I vent to dis best restaurant de other day and ordered for a burger and a soda. I tink dey didn’t hear me vell coz the vaiter came back vid a soda and a burger instead. I try to complain and dey said I vas stupid. I don’t understand.

Mahatma, bless him, fought for da rights of all of us niggas and now dey treat me like dis? My brothers Harshiti and Bijay said to me “Avinash, you’re an idiot!” and I said vat! Den dey said how could I name my vife “Bitch?” Den I told dem 50 Cent call his vifes bitches so vhy can’t I call my lowely vife, Lalita bitch?

El-oh-el. I love America!

*Good start of the month, huh? I desperately hope you don’t expect to read this shit and come out saying “I learnt something today”. I have no point, okay? Now get the hell outta here before I snitch on you for being idle.

 

She’s All Yours

I post late and, as usual, blame it on you.

So I watched as a boy pathetically quivered while the girl-this weak chic to whom he had nigga-strutted to lay his silly boy band strategy ergo vibe-played him in front of his own eyes. If she treated him this way in his absence, you’d say kale kale naye he was standing right there, the dumb idiot!

I believe you still don’t know what I’m talking about? I think you share his dumbness. Okay, this is my point. My point is…wait, what am I saying? Oh yeah, I’m here to give you instructions on how to vibe a chic without coming off as a complete idiot.

Moja

Whenever you walk up to her, I need you to keep it at the back of your mind that she knows what you’re there for. I mean why else would you be there, to discuss the romantic ramifications of the government’s takeover of the city? She knows you’ve fancied the way she looks at the moment (let’s not get carried away), she knows you’re going to ask her very personal questions like “what drink do you take?” (How dare you, you insolent bastard! That’s my family you’re talking about here), she knows that at the back of your nasty mind you want to violate her private parts and, as collateral damage, start dating her.

So basically, when you walk up to her, don’t do what she knows you’re going to do. Where the stupid guy who doesn’t know how to vibe would say, “Hi, I’m Erique. Would you mind if I sat next to you?”, look at him miserably, shake your head at this pitiable loser, then walk up to her like the expert-at-these-things that you are and say, “Hi, I’m Rented. No relation. Me and Sudhir are tight. Hush! Just listen. I don’t want to know your name. Not yet. I’m leaving this place at about four a.m and I don’t want to leave you here. So have this-it’s your last drink-and let’s go. I’m going to buy condoms. Be right back.”

Deux

A group of chics bunched up in a club is called a chictet. The one you want from that group is called a chicling. So you’ve spotted this chicling, right? Now this is before step one up there. This is you chilling easy on low low seated somewhere in a corner passionately agreeing to every word Lil Wayne shouts at you. Then you spot her. Normally, what this would mean is you looked up from the Wi-Fi laptop (looked up from my blog, you piece of shit! You offend me) and saw the chic. To know what you have to do to get her, you have to look back down at your laptop and read the next step. Hey! Lookie here, boy.

III

Now you have to walk to her. Don’t swagger like you just aborted a zipped file of antagonistic shit, okay? You have to walk in mp3 format. Walk like every chic wants, nay, needs-yearns, matter of fact-to listen and open up to you. You know, women who actually give an ounce of attention to rich and strong male protagonists like us are very rare and, frankly, God doesn’t make that model anymore (something about ecological factors and saving the environment). So when you stare at this chicling and she stares right back at you even just for a second, bingo, she’s into you. Go do your thang, bro.

You know those scholarly and biblical scripts that say something as if they don’t mean it but they mean it? Like instead of saying “you don’t know the truth” they say “ye know not of the unlies”? That’s mysterious and chics like mystery so when you walk up to her-assuming the first chic up there left and now there’s another victim-you look her in the eyes and say “Woman, I want not to deny myself of entering you”. (By ‘entering’, you mean getting into her heart. So don’t mind that look on her face. Go on. Be strong, bro).

Number foe

What kills us the most is we don’t have faith in ourselves. You park a Toyota Corona driven by a stranger whom you have to remunerate every time you want a ride in your car, you’re drinking a very priceless Pilsner that your pal bought you; basically you look fly and you still think you can’t get you a girl? You disappoint me.

Last one

No posts next week. Tight schedule.Yeah, I know. I feel your pain.

 

Blogger Whispers Messed Up

Heaven, you freakin’ *link for previous whisper*!

The instructions:

1. You take the story, and give it your own unique twist.

2. Link back to the blogger who whispered to you and or include their name in your post.

3. Whisper the new challenge into the ear of a blogger of your picking.

4. Let them know by leaving a comment at theirs.

Pass it on with the instructions!

Raymond knew he was in for a torrent of language that bestowed a vow of eternal comradeship upon the tear glands. Diablo, more commonly referred to as Boss, had a knack for using his curiously morbid voice to call you things that made you doubt your sheer existence, especially when you pissed him off. He said them so matter-of-factly like he’s the one who took care of the sperm you came from until it grew grey hair. Raymond picked up after six rings.

“You fart-sniffing grandiose bum-licking jerk-off! I don’t gat all day. I call you, you pick up. That’s the way things work aroun’ here,” came the heavily Latino accent. “Watchu gat?”

Nothing.

The assignment had seemed simple at first: “Bring Ellyn to me,” Diablo had instructed. Raymond, then strange to Ellyn, had thought that the easiest way around it was to park in front of her house, knock on her door, say hello and politely ask her to come with him, if she didn’t mind, to wherever he was going. Realizing the problem, he quickly reshuffled his mind and added shooting her in the head to the equation. Nah, something was still wrong.

Two days later, Diablo had called and, after his customary “you pus-sucking witless up-chuck-inspiring shithole pecker!” had added, “I want her alive and no one should notice she’s missing. That’s when his brain recalled all cells on vacation and hatched this brilliant plan: to build some sort of sexual relationship so she’d go to his place without any coercion and then he’d take it from there.

The three painful weeks it had taken him to build this relationship were taking their toll on him. Now he had to pretend he gave a shit about this puttana and this involved attending stupid birthday parties with some creepy kid; Jacob, they called him. For some reason he had been instructed to keep an eye on the kid to make sure nothing happened to him. Why did Boss want Ellyn anyway? All he ever told anyone was “someone up high needs her bad and it’s none of your goddamn bu’ness, che cazzo!”

Che cazzo in Spanish meant ‘you dick’ but the way Diablo threw it around made you think you received countless blessings if you donated it to the Salvation Army. Raymond had been called che cazzo so much that at one point he considered calling his mum to ask if, by some unflattering chance, he had a middle name she had never told him about. In fact, a few newbies in the Diablo neighbourhood thought that was his real name, may their souls rest in peace.

He had planned to step up his speed and just do it today but she hadn’t shown. She had lied to him, the double-edged bitch. And now he had to endure Diablo’s fury.

“Boss, she’ pra’lly runnin’ late, boss. She’ not yet here but am on it, boss. She’…”

“Tu es stultior quam asinus, you know that?”

“Am sorry, boss?”

“You’re dumber than an ass, hombre. It’s been three weeks, you crud-infested brain-dead vomitrocious hog-humping dickwad! You don’ bring her within the hour, you’re dead. You hear me?” And he hung up.

*********************************

John knew. He had caught Ellyn on their wedding night and knew. But he was a senior partner in a top law firm and had an image to protect so he married her anyway. Nothing in life would ever shock him more than the night he found his wife and his personal assistant, Michelle, having something freakishly close to sex. What the fuck was his assistant’s head doing between his wife’s legs?

There was a third female devotedly pushing something rubber-like into his assistant’s vagina while stroking something-was that a clitoris?-but he was too tense to remember who she was exactly; probably that maid from Uganda. Ellyn wasn’t into men and a couple of months into the marriage had also revealed another bitter fact: she couldn’t give birth. Ever. John knew Sarah and Jacob weren’t his kids. Whose kids were they? No, whose kid was Jacob?

*********************************

Ellyn tried hard to keep her family together. She had done something awful to John and couldn’t understand how he had managed to keep his cool all these years. She tried hard to be the woman he wanted her to be; a loving and caring mother and wife. To keep her sanity she needed to constantly convince herself she wasn’t gay. She thought she needed to do it with someone other than her husband if she wanted to get the real truth. Raymond was the perfect start. She tried to convince herself she was in love with him.

But then she thought about the fatal secret; a secret that could destroy all their lives forever. If her husband found out about Raymond, it’d hurt him bad. But if he found out about the secret, he’d probably do what any sane man would do in the same situation-commit suicide or better yet, kill her. She had hurt her husband enough. Raymond wasn’t worth it.

*********************************

“Make my day, Diablo.”

“Senor, he failed again, the shit prick, but I promise to have her within the hour.”

“Merde! Give Ray the green light to use any means.”

“Si, senor.”

“And Diablo?”

“Senor?”

“Make her talk” John hung up and thought again, whose kids are they? What is she hiding?

Sleek, pass me your ear for just a sec…sshhshshffshfhhshsffhshhhssssshssh. There, I just whispered it to you. Anyone else have a debt with me?

 

Monday Massacre Schupeed

Take 1:

Dudes and dudesses,

I humbly very sorrily apologise for posting for long. Oh crap…

Take 2:

Dudes and dudesses,

I unarrogantly apologetically say sorry for taking long post…goddamit!

Take 3:

Dudes and dudesses,

I take long to post and I say apologies. Phukes! Wait…shit.

Take 4:

Dudes and dudesses,

I am sorry for taking long to say sorry for my late postage. There, that should sound about right.

Now…

Pushers

You settle down to finally offload all that junk implanted in your intestines by that evil stomach to blackmail you into giving in to its demands. “Poop or I shoot!” it shouts. Then in the middle of the politically fetid separation process, you receive a crucial phone call from your boss but can’t answer while still in the toilet. It happened to someone. He held the rest of the things hostage, talked to the boss and then let them go free.

Sufferers

You think your life is not worth living. You think you’ve suffered lots and can’t take it anymore. Every time your birthday comes around, no one remembers to say “Happy birthday”. You throw parties but no one attends. No one. It happened to someone. Everyone avoided his birthday. Even his parents weren’t there when he was being born.

Thinkers

When you talk, no one understands what you’re saying. They don’t even get your jokes. You make sure they laugh by emailing the joke you cracked last night at BHH. No one replies even with a simple haha. You’re frustrated. It happened to someone.

He say: Hi, did you get my email address?

I say: You mean your email?

Then he say: Yes. Wow, you’re intelligent. I wouldn’t have figured that one.

And I say: It’s how I be.

After he add: So did you get it?

I replies: Yeah, it’s the one from your yahoo address, right?

He reply: Yeah! How did…how did you know it was from my yahoo address? How did you even know it was from me? You’re really properly schooled, my friend.

I gasp, I say: Well, I just gasp.

He say again: Jesus! How did you know you were going to open your mouth and look at me in disbelief? I swear you are a genuine.

If thee disappear thou art, don’t lay in yourst wonderment for thine thee mind is busy. Whoa! I knew Shakespeare was saying something to me in that dream.

 

Salvado Goes To Hollywood

Setting:

A Hollywood movie set, basically. What else do you want?

Ambience:

It’s best if we skip straight to the action.

Scene One: The scene with the man.

Enter Antonio Banderas clad in badass clothes movie stars normally wear. He finds Rowan Atkinson, Jim Carrey, Adam Sandler and Lucy Kibaki at gun point gagged by very bad men with Kalashnikovs and mean ugly faces to match. He realizes it’s the wrong set so he calls his manager, fires him and drives on to the right set.

Scene Two: The scene with the same man.

He turns off car engine, opens door, closes door, and on realizing this is going to be a long sentence if he continues telling you exactly what he did step by step, he fast-forwards to the part where he reaches the set and sees a grownup individual, potentially with a wife and kids, dressed like a spider and swinging around the room like a demented child. In the corner he sees two motorcycles cum cars cum robots-what the hell are these things?-fighting for no apparent reason. He calls his manager again and re-fires him before moving on.

Scene Three: Yes, it’s still the same man.

He arrives at the set and sees the good boobs of Salma Hayek, OMG. He calls up his manager, rehires him and walks to one of the actors on set.

Tony Bands: Excuse me, I thought this was the Desperado set but every face here looks like it was printed off a Spanish soap opera on UBCTV or WBSTV or NTVTV or EA…

Salvado: Desperado? Dude, that movie was acted ages…wait, I thought you acted that movie.

AB: What did you say?!

Salvado: Desperado? Dude, that movie was ac…

AB: No, I mean I know I saw you say something but by some very-not-funny unholy supernatural error the words that came out of your mouth were different. Did you just call me a piece of human waste?

Salvado: Dude, what’s wrong with…

AB: Uh huh! There, you just did it again. I could swear I saw your lips say something else just now; something that doesn’t flatter my persona. I want to talk to your superior. Where’s your superior?

Salvado: Jeez! Okay, dude. She’s over there.

At which point Tony wipes his fist across Salva’s face and a scuffle ensues. In comes the superior.

Supeniorita: What’s happening in my hacienda, my love?

Tony: I want this man to stop calling me things.

Salva: I’m innocent, Maria Teresa.

Tony: See? See? His lips just called you a cursing commercial sex trader.

Maria Teresa: You’re fired, Salvado. My love.

Salva: What did you say to me!

Maria Teresa: You’re fired? My love?

Salva: No, you said something else about my nature? You called me a female dog?

Poor Maria: My love, I did no such…

Salva: Oh, hell no!

Scene Four: Hmm, the man is still there.

Maria Teresa meets her love’s fast palm.

 

Monday Massacre: I Also Wrote About MJ

I hear Michael Jackson is dead? The world is such a cruel place, huh? Death couldn’t pick on one of our rebel groups? I mean, they don’t have multiplatinum selling CDs and their noses are firm. Hell, they can’t even walk on the moon or change skin colour. They stay the same goddamn black asses populating our TV screens (wamma WBS don’t cry) like they don’t have mums to teach them how to change skin colour.

Look at this ill-mannered boy, er, Kony. Does he know about MJ? Does he even know there’s a new Harry Potter, the silly kid? But that’s beside the point. I’m here to complain about MJ’s death. God knows I’ve tried to avoid MJ appearing anywhere on my blog but I’m only human. I run out of stories.

MJ dies

So he died, right? Is that justification for bombarding us with the dude’s face like…how come no one knows about my great great grandfather’s death? My great great grandfather on my uncle’s side died about forty years ago. He was very strong at heart and well-behaved. No, he wasn’t a pop musician but I’d be grateful if you gave him a little airplay on CNN. No? UBC? No? Oh, c’mon. WBS? You say quality matters, right? He had some very good qualities. Why do we have TV stations that don’t have hearts? This is my great great grandfather, for heaven’s sake.

Look everywhere around you if you think I’m lying.

Usher performed ‘Love In This Club’ at the funeral. I watched the whole thing. Say, does anyone know where to buy an “AXE” deodorant; specifically Enigmata? Did someone tell them to stop producing it? I sense some antagonism here. What did I ever do to you guys?

Did I tell you he’s dead?

So far this post is not funny. It’s supposed to get you angry. I’m making fun of the King of Pop, in case you haven’t caught up. Whiny journalists who irritate me with their nonsensical ramblings think the best way to get known is by yapping shito about Jacko. Let’s take a random pick: Connie Nankya.

See what I just did? I advertised her freakin’ column on my page. Hell, I might as well do the whole thing. She has an adolescent column called Connie’s Tiffs in The Monitor’s Scoop magazine. This here woman blew flu about MJ and got famous for it so I figured I would give it a shot.

Kill yourself and your worthless songs will hit charts

Jacko is shit, Jacko the kid molester, Jacko Wacko the king of papo. King of pop? Please! Does he know about Britney Spears?

There, now throw stones and write about me in your columns, on your blogs and on your facebook pages. Meanwhile, there’s a Monitor writer who keeps throwing Connie furtive compliments about how beautiful she is. Dude, grow one more and tell her you like her. I don’t spend my 2K (the newspaper dude ripped me off) on love letters.

A big MJ fan thinks you ought to have a great week. And why is my spam full of Viagra ads? What’s their point?

 

I Need A Slogan For My Newspaper

M7 on Buganda: Migingo is ours

President Museveni yesterday refuted claims that the disputed Migingo Island belonged to Kenya. This was in response to the Kabaka’s request to relocate the capital city out of Mengo.

Interview on pg 3.

Pg 3

• ‘Porter: The Kabaka has asked that you relocate the capital city. Any comments?

• M7 of only 65: What! We have our own border inspectors and I know they’ll find Migingo is ours.

• No, mister president. We are talking about the king of the great kingdom. He said something about his land and he was mighty pissed, by the way.

• Who gives a…

• Hey!

• Who cares? Our inspectors say it’s not their island, period. Look, we don’t have enough hangouts in the city. We need a place to relocate a few Ugandans on Friday and Saturday nights and Migingo sounds like a great idea. Hell, we could relocate all the schools so we have enough space for more hotels. God, we need more hotels.

• Okay, let’s talk about Teso.

• I said we need more hotels. Do the math. This is a minor issue.

Bill to rename migraine tabled

Parliamentarians yesterday tabled a bill to rename migraine headaches to Museveine headaches in honour of President Museveni’s unrelenting love for his country. “The man will just not leave power. He’s only old and this country needs very old leaders. Let’s give him time,” commented one of the MPs on the leading migraine side.

A statistics report complied by The Rented Group indicates that one out of every two newspaper articles are ended abruptly before bloggers are told to sod off and mind their own blogs. “The dude ends his stories weirdly,” said a commenter whose eyes were glued onto the PC screen. “Look, look at this one,” he continued. “He says ‘Have a great weekend, miserable pieces of rot’. This is a public forum, for goodness sake. Who says such things?”

 

Monday Massacre: The One About Headaches

Been thinking…actually, not really thinking but, you know, like thinking…ish; well, not exactly…fuck it. So I was there just being there when I realized…

Backspace

We started off on the wrong foot, yeah? Liar! You haven’t seen my foot.

Seriousness now

No, I’m not back officially-at least not in the Cheri-ty sense of the word. It’s just pathetic moving around blogville and finding one-sentence posts. Where the fuck are your manners, people? Mmmpppp! I spit on you, mortals. Matter of fact, you just inspired my mini-post: How to avoid headaches.

My mini-post: How to avoid headaches: The one you inspired: Another colon for the heck of it:

“We have to provide an escape goat to some of these things,” said a friend and ardent supporter of the mighty Queen’s native tongue. “People can’t just be having headaches rapidly everywhere,” he added before continuing, “Seriously man, don’t laugh!”

He made me think of headaches. Headaches are very fatal especially when they involve your head. I spent a little time to jot down a few tips on how to avoid headaches especially if they hurt.

1. First,-and this is very crucial- you need to have a head. Most people generally ignore this step, something very bad for any normal human being. A head is a very vital organ, both to humans and to the writing of this how-to manual.

2. Then you need to have a headache. Do your best to get one from close friends and relatives, especially those who think getting a job in Kampala is synonymous with “Eh, you must be eating very much money on us. Where’s you car?” A shortcut would be to get a girlfriend.

3. Headaches can get so bad that doctors sometimes prescribe weed from Kalerwe. Headaches can get so good that doctors sometimes prescribe weed from Kalerwe.

4. A major aspect in headache prevention is if you stopped having it in the first place. Think about it.

5. Do you watch telenovelas? This medium has been used repeatedly to transmit psychologically impairing messages by clandestinely incorporating them into storylines about English subtitle speaking people plotting to fall in love and cry, then falling in love and crying and then crying some more upon realizing they are actually supposed to cry after falling out of love, and then crying a little bit more just for the icing.

6. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas. Stop watching telenovelas.

7. You should have probably skipped step 6; the one that says stop watching telenovelas.

8. Okay, I’ll post for real next time.

 

The Hottest Chics Are The Dumbest

That up there, my buddy, is simply a prelude to another even meaner sentence that says: that’s all we’re going to talk about chics’ hotness today.

Or not

Every dude now has to choose between intellect and body-llect. But if you forced me to, I’d tell you I have a dual sim phone. Yeah, that’s right baby. It takes two fucking sim cards. Beat that! And I love my dual sim phone. (If you still don’t get the point, move on to my other posts. For they are less mentally demanding. Much much less.)

Sarcasm

There’s a Vision writer who once insulted my sense of sight with a sentence… no, read it first, then we’ll talk.

I really loved her sense of style and fashion…I hope you know I’m being sarcastic

As I slowly put down the paper, it suddenly dawned on me what career path I wanted to follow. I whispered to myself, “When I grow up, I want to be a Hannibal Lecter”. Only this time, I would eat writers.

But then I thought, maybe he wanted to run a paternity test on his editor but didn’t have enough money. So he decided to slip in his very juvenile sarcasm so that if it successfully passed for publication, the editor was undoubtedly his father.

I swear I still don’t get your point

Be patient. What’s wrong with you? Point is if you’re being sarcastic, it’s probably best to do it without pointing out the obvious. That way you won’t look stupid grinning while looking at your phone screen expecting a text that reads: rotflmaozqxw man.ur artiko is vry sakastik.

But I thought you were talking about chics

Back to the chic I’m supposed to be talking about. She was so hot, so fly and so all the words that reduce female description to adjectives and pronouns. This is where I need Princess and crew to use their poetic muscle to say “she was beautiful” in so many words. I’ll start:

Her lipstick glittered like the afternoon sun as the wind wafted through oceans beneath the soul of her hair while her skin follicles radiated with the might of a queen in a castle with fingers that had a sensation of cutex…

Do you know about the WOW effect? It’s a writer on weed?

Erique, please!

Okay, okay. Chics. So she was hot and all but we failed to laugh at the same time. She laughed only when I got serious and frowned when I unearthed a random Chris Rock sentence. The bummer:

The woman mbu: Where did you get my number?

The handsome man: NASA.

Kko the woman: Who’s Nasser?

Interlude: Who the fuck doesn’t know NASA? If you don’t, then don’t dress and make up like you know about these things.

Me, the dude: It’s…(fuck it!) the CIA gave it to me.

Hmm the woman: CIA doesn’t have my number.

No smile, chuckle or laugh. She’s tough-faced the whole time. I repeat: No smile, chuckle or laugh. She’s tough-faced the whole time. Thought I’d explain some more and point out the sarcasm but it was already lost on her. Besides, “The UPDF did” just couldn’t cut it.

 

Letter To The Editor

In Uganda, when you write to a newspaper, there’s a 100/100 chance your letter will be published even if that wasn’t really your intention. The following are excerpts from Rentedmess, a prominent Ugandan daily.

What should I wear?

Dear Editor,

I’m having a tough time picking out what to wear to my board meeting. There’s a debonair black suit that I’m sure fellow board members will adore and these pajamas I’m wearing right now. Thing is I bought them only yesterday but my wife still hasn’t noticed them. I need someone to notice I bought new pajamas. Please help.

Pajama freak.

Make me known

Dear Editor,

My name is Mess. Rented Mess. I’m just checking if my mail works and scoring a little exposure in the process. Please don’t forget to include my name (italic bold) at the end of this letter. Thanks.

Rented Mess.

Letter of the day: Editorial deserves more respect

Dear Editor,

I think it’s disrespectful of people to simply address you as “Dear Editor”. So far, everything I’ve written to you has been published (the private number guy stopped calling, thanks to the published threat to publish his number if he didn’t stop calling) and I have you to thank. I think it’s more honourable to start addressing you by your name. What do you think, fellow letter writers?

Concerned reader.

Minister should act accordingly

Dear Editor,

I need to get an encrypted message to a certain minister whose phone is surprisingly off. He’s an ardent Letter to the Editor reader so please publish it because it’s quite urgent. Thanks. Message: Kutesa. Over. Airport land title. Over. Original stashed. Over. Safe. Over. Give fake. Over. To parliament. Over. What happened. Over. To phone. Over?

Chief encrypter.

Eminem is obscene

Dear Editor,

I’d like to vent my concern over Eminem’s unchristian songs from his new album, Repulse. He repeatedly uses the words fuck, bitch and Mariah Carey without considering the ethical and religious backgrounds of us, his fans. I believe it’s quite selfish and, honestly, someone needs to do something about it.

Diehard fan.

Reply

Dear Diehard fan,

The album is called ‘Relapse’. Also, this is a public forum and I really don’t appreciate your use of obscene language. I’ll talk to some of his fans and see how to deal with your concerns.

Editor.

Correction

Dear Editor,

In your story: “Unidentified killer butchers family” (Rentedmess, 14^th August, 2009) it was reported that the killer used a machete. I’d like to point out clearly that this was wrong information. I humbly ask the journalist or whoever is in charge to change it to “dagger”. The killer used a dagger except on the 2-year old kid (that kid!). She’s not dead, though. He’s keeping her for pedophilic satisfaction. My condolences go out to relatives and friends.

Sile Mugwagwa.

Police should style up

Dear Editor,

I’m a thief by profession. Some time back, I stripped a poor family of all their belongings and raped the mother. A mob grabbed and tried to lynch me but, thank God, the police came to my rescue and set me free the next day. Recently, I was rehired and promoted to Robbing Director. In patriotic spirit, I went to the URA to become a fully registered taxpayer but was told to get a letter from the police. I went to the police and all they gave me was a small wrinkled paper with “Cool. He can pay musolo. Love, Afande” scribbled in the middle. This is very negligent of them. The police should style up and start doing their job.

Concerned citizen.

 

Monday Massacre Bows Out

I post late and, well, you know the drill.

Three kings

Rented, 27^th Comrade and a third party who, for the sake of national security, will remain unknown congregated and discussed matters concerning this country’s political quagmire (you see the words we used?), the world’s financial policies and the universe’s alienatic representation of itself pertaining to our relationship with the paranormal galactic peoples especially E.T and the ones we humans pissed off in Men In Black.

“Erique, why do they give you a small burger yet you ordered for a medium?” we asked ourselves. This is the quintessentially fundamental question analysts the world over fail to answer hence the recurring economic catastrophes.

Ha, nga I didn’t come here for intellectual dissection

Have you tried listening to Boney M’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ on a slow Monday morning? The song just speaks to your heart. I’m selling the tape at a giveaway price.

Does this dude even read the stuff he writes?

Did anyone attend General Mega Dee’s album launch? It’s rhetorical. You know like the way someone would ask “Shya! For you you think you’re better than me you?” Yeah, that way. In attendance was a curtain raiser (literally, the guy who raises the curtain for the audience to watch), a chair organizer, a DJ, three muchomo vendors, a press detail of one, and the general himself. I tell you this because:

1. You don’t give a shit and

2. I wasn’t there either.

Wapi! You’re boring us and you know it

My crush buys Sunday papers “just to read Bad Idea”. I try to explain to her, “Crush, that man (pointing at the humanlike creature in the Bad Idea corner) has a woman (finger retracted because there’s nothing to point at). You don’t have to laugh at his stuff, you know?” Then she insults me: “He just makes my Sunday” and I’m standing right there! And it’s a Sunday! And I’m standing right there!

Now

I’m tired of telling you about the life of mine. It’s time someone else let us in on their crap. I’m officially passing on the Monday Massacre rights to the last blogger to comment. If s/he chickens out, I’ll do a whole post on him/her titled “Chicken”.

Cock-a-doodle-do.

Who will it be?

 

Kampala Vs Washington DC

Presidents Obama and Museveni met and discussed stern economic issues. The fundamental question was “KLA and DC: which one is better?” The following is what transpired.

O: Oh ho yo ‘sop, I mean ‘sup. Sorry, the whole O thing is stuck in my head.

M: Another term, another term, another term. Sorry, the whole term thing is stuck in my head.

O: So, I say my city beats yours.

M: Waaa. Why?

O: Well, for starters…

M: Twenty three years.

O: Say what?

M: I’ve ruled this country for twenty three years. Don’t call me a starter.

O: It’s just an exp…never mind. In my city, if your car bounces up and down so that you’re knocking your head every few centimeters, it’s because you installed springs. In your city, it’s because the road uninstalled coal.

M: Oh yeah?

O: Uh huh. In my city, when it’s dark in your house, it’s because you’re fucking. In your city, it’s because you’re fucked.

M: Hey, you can’t come in here and say such things about my country!

O: Yes I can.

M: In my city, if a traffic cop stops you, it’s because he’s broke. In your city, it’s because he’s doing his job. Ha haa beat that!

O: How…how is that even a good thing?!

M: It’s a kickass rebuttal?

O: Douchebag!

 

Horoscope: What’s Your Sign?

Aries

Your life is filled with surprises. You’re frail and such a nuisance. I know, surprises me too. You go for a date and foot all the bills, you moronic, self-loathing imbecile, thinking you’ll amass enough pity to get you laid. And then you get laid. Your life really is full of surprises.

Taurus

The world revolves around the sun. Sounds smart but that’s just it: the world revolves around the sun. It’s a scientific fact.

Gemini

Get it out quick! Your kids are running up the stairs. Get it out fast! They are coming into the kitchen. Get it out! They are opening the lawn sprays.

Cancer

You’re dying. What do you mean why? What’s your sign? Good. Now shut up and listen. You will die today. But be happy because your future holds great possibilities.

Leo

You know, ninety-nine point six six (if I got my fictitious figures right) percent of people who make a big proclamation of their ganja addiction have never even seen a grain of weed powder. Half the world’s jail population are Leos. Look it up.

Virgo

You’re emotionally vulnerable probably because you were born a virgin or because, as a baby, you were given only 120 years to live. Life would naturally suck for you.

Libra

The stars are in perfect alignment with the moon. No, it means it’s not raining and you two can go to the movies tonight. Something big will happen. Notice the absence of specific positives in that statement.

Scorpio

Daft. But you probably already knew that considering you’ll forever wrongly spell “scorpion”. Your life is centered around you, you selfish bastard. Your love life is full of promise which annoys your enemies coz man do we badly crave for your downfall.

Sagittarius

Delusional. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Hold that thought. Your mind tells you you just read the same sentence over and over, right?

Capricorn

It’s a comedy. The ship sinks. Jack dies. Rose tells him she loves him only because it’s not her ass freezing to death. There, you might as well eject the movie.

Aquarius

Did you really expect a yes? “The sun shines out of your eyes?” Really? That was way below the belt even for you.

Pisces

You’re constantly undermined by your assistant mostly because she’s smarter than you. You’re a dimwitted snob and this makes you a perfect role model for kids and Americans.

 

We Gooo We Go We Go…

Govt to start radio station that airs silence

The information minister, Kigundi Kivewalala announced yesterday that the government would soon launch a new environmental-friendly pro-buganda anti-Banyala radio station called Shutthefuckup FM.

Speaking to journalists and The Mess at a casino in Las Vegas yesterday, he said that this would be a brilliant and long-awaited move to curb the problem caused by the ever-growing number of noisy radio stations in the city.

“Like the other day,” he started. “I was wanting a station they call Hot 100 to hear Riri and Bey-Bey but when I turned on the radio, eh!” he criticized while whistling, clapping his hands agitatedly, shaking his head and uttering statements like “maama nyabo!” to mean “my radio set volume was turned up way too high”.

When asked why the government had decided to spend a fortune starting a radio station instead of turning his volume down, he digressed to what kind of content would be aired. “Guess,” he started again before adding: “We shall broadcast silence.” He frowned at a reporter who tried to read into the statement. “Broadcast nothing? What is wrong with you? I said ‘silence’”.

The minister disclosed to journalists that he had been called to Las Vegas for a business meeting with NSSF MD, Chandi Jamwa to discuss the way forward for Uganda’s ever-growing financial sector.

President and Kabaka meet to discuss things

The President of Buganda and Kabaka of Uganda finally met yesterday to discuss things after two years of conversational celibacy. The meeting took place at State House Mengo and things were discussed.

Matters discussed were geared towards ending the unending political tension between the two parties, the most prominent issue being why the kabaka kept beeping the president of a revered republic. The kabaka admitted to lack of airtime around his area and it was resolved that he’d switch to using Warid’s Pakalast.

Their divorce was nullified and another term of marriage therapy was recommended for the ruling couple. No one was available for comment on the way forward but the head dish washer was. Before asking us to keep him anonymous and the information secret, Mr. Kanyala Piss exclusively revealed that the president and the kabaka had “really discussed things”.

Breaking news

In a shocking turn of events, Erique Mununuzi of the famous Rentedmess finally ended his post. In a press statement released long after press time this morning, he revealed that “what the hell! Why do you guys make it such a big deal every time?”

He was whisked away by police, the army, a few fuckin’ rioters and a munyala. On the way to prison, the four groups realized the problem and turned on each other. Luckily, Mununuzi left unhurt and pledged to post more.

 

Columns Or Crap Like That

Star Watch Moon Watch

Boo hoo hoo I miss the massacres. First, an announcement to all chillers and ay-sayers of the muslim faith. Some of you had IDD yesterday and that’s fuckin’ unfair. That was Mubajje’s.

Today, I’m announcing another one from the Kayongo faction. So after reading my post, shut down your machine and go have a blast, yeah?

Tiff

Our IT prick changed my machine settings and now it pops up the freakin’ screen saver after every five seconds of idleness (or is it idolatry?). Let’s do the math. It takes me five seconds to enter one letter of the Microsoft alphabet. I started typing this post at exactly 5.32.17a.m and I ’ m  j u s t  h e r e . Calculate how many times I’ve read “Erique’s Computer”. For Pete’s sake I know it’s my damn machine. You don’t have to remind me every five goddamn seconds like I have amnesia or someth… whose machine is this?

Fashion Police

What, you think this is the Sunday Mag? I didn’t buy my new 9.2MP 8X Digital Zoom Original SONY cam to take pics of humans laughing at the funniest joke commonly referred to as proper dressing. Shish!

Bad Idea

Watch WBS’s Showtime Magazine. You know the punch line? You’re torn between believing the sentence straight from the columnist’s fingers and taking the column’s label for its literal meaning. Is it bad to watch Showtime Magazine? That is the question.

How To Be

It’s official. If you want to grow up to be just like me, stop posting. The underlying principle here is that you are one SOB who has joined the ranks of funny people like Antipawp, Cherio, I Am, sijui 27 biki. You are now what we call a fake guy who has those things called blogcks. Mbu. What keeps me busy? Look at my sign-out down there. Hey, not your crotch, dimwit! I mean down below here:

Shoot! Meeting…

 

The Self-Proclaimed Idiot Posts Again

Ladies like the dude who doesn’t crave much for them. Don’t go all lovy-dovy. That shit will cost you. Want to learn why? Read a two-chapter excerpt from Rented’s new book: “My new book explaining why ladies like the dude who doesn’t crave for them much by me.”

One Chapter

He: Are you crying?

She: Gee! Am I that obvious?

Him: No, it’s just…whenever tears flow out of your eyes it means you’re crying

Shim: Oh.

Male: Yeah, so are you crying?

Female: *Blank stare

Dawg: *Oh yeah? Blank stare too

Bitch: When’s the last time you and I had an actual conversation? Whenever I try to…

Man: What the! Bruce Willis is dead the whole time? *Looks at her. I’m sorry baby. *Switches off TV.

Woman: I think we need to take a break and underst…

Hell: Wait, are you saying what I think you’re trying to say? Coz we were on holiday just last weekend, baby. It’d be a big waste of money if we took another vacation this…

Shell: No, you asshole! I mean us. We need a break from this relationship. You’re not even listening to me!

Hiya: Oh c’mon, babe. I thought this is what you wanted. Women are attracted to uncaring, insensitive bastards who are as far away from husband material as possible, right?

Shya: Well…yeah, but…but that doesn’t give you the right to act like such a di…

Boy: Shut the fuck up!

Girl: *Sob What! Why are you shouting at me?

Penis: Hon, I’m just trying to be the person you fell for. You liked me coz I’m macho and insensitive, right? Like…like a real man, right?

Vagina: Yeah, but…

Testicles: I said shut the fuck up, bitch!

Ovaries: *Pained stare! That’s my baby. Come here, you.

Two Chapter

First, I introduce Kate, the gorgeous belle of the Kitten Stories and she goes off radar. Then I bring you the exquisite Trio of hot chics and look what they do. I’m not making any more introductions. Ngaanye!

I was asked by His Shitness, Rentedmess (for that is I) to declare Friday a public holiday. Well, originally it was just for bloggers but, well, Sevo pleaded and…I have a heart, you know? Thursday: be at Steakout for the mother of all ROCK NIGHTs. Everyone!

Oh, in case any of you thought I was going to write sense, false alarm. Now shoo!

 

Because It’s Me

I was arrested for being idle & awesome. This is me at CPS.

I cometh hencefortheth to bring thee this:

Teacher Proscovia: Class, what is SST in full?

Pupil Awesome (a.k.a Myself, for that is I): Teacher me!

Teacher Proscov: Yes, Oh Mighty One. What is de answer?

Pupil Awesome again (a.k.a Me): Rock night at Steakout!

Teacher Prossy: What! You look like blog! Come me and I beat you!

Pupil Badass (a.k.a …. yes, thank you): But teacher dat is de answer. We ask even everyone and you see?

Teacher Pross: Now you hear this one! Wamma class, you think de answer is what?

Everyone (a.k.a everyone): Rock night at Steakout!

So what’s the lesson today, boys and girls?

 

THE END

THIS ARTICLE HAS BEEN DELETED BY THE AUTHOR.

EVICTION NOTICE:

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, I’M GIVING WRITING AN INDEFINITE BREAK!

IT WAS FUN KNOWING YOU ALL. BIG UP.

 

The Post With Two Titles. This Is The Second Title.

People say I never write about serious stuff. Yes, I do. No, you don’t. I so do. You so don’t. I do! You don’t! See? Even my keyboard doesn’t agree. So today, I’m doing something unprecedented and, naturally, grand in all variations synonymous. I’m writing about love.

No, please please retain your seats. I swear this is interesting. Cross my heart and hope to eat duck. So let’s talk love. I’ll start. Love is bullshit…wait, someone gave me the wrong script. Okay, let’s start again.

Love is one interesting feeling that has the power to make or break you. It is something that, if you want to keep hold of your life, shouldn’t give in to. Why? Who the hell asked such a juvenile question? Get out of my class, dimwit! Wamma, we were where?

I cavorted with a girl a few months back and you know the totally unexpected thing that hapened? Yes, you guessed right. I misspelled “hapened”. It’s supposed to have a double-p. So I fell head over heels for…why the fuck is it head over heels? Obviously, the head is over the heels. Duh!

Anywho, when I fall hard for someone, I start acting really crazy-going on dates, kissing passionately, saying “I L U”, making her laugh…I know, right? I mean, who in their right mind does that? So I got into the whole thing and eventually got locked in it.

We occasionally had mini fights for reasons that don’t concern you and temporarily stopped talking. Every time that happened, I had this fuckin’ hollow feeling like my entire being depended on her staying in my life…

Waaaaaaaaiiit a minute. Which of you juju-infested, broomstick-headed witches tricked me into divulging this much detail? No more serious bullshit. I am here. So please throw all level-headedness out and welcome invariable inanity loaded with unsurpassed acumen. Let’s all join hands in welcoming…no, I said join hands, not clap. Idiots! Let’s all join hands to welcome His Rentedness, Sir. Erique Mununuzi.

EQ: Thank you, thank you.

Asker: So Mununuzi, umm…er…umm…

EQ: Where have I been? Well, here and there.

Asker: Wow, that’s a lot of places. Umm…

EQ: Why did I stop blogging? Well, because of this and that.

Asker: You’re kidding! Get outta here! And er…ummmm…

EQ: Am I back in business? Well, yes and no, really.

Asker: Okay, ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….

EQ: What’s wrong with you?

Asker: Mm?

Magic:

I want you to take a deep breath, hold it in and imagine this cast in one movie.

• Sylvester Stallone
• Arnold Schwarzenegger
• Jet Li
• Bruce Willis
• Jason Statham
• Mickey Rourke
• Terry Crews
• Dolph Lundgren
• Steve Austin
• Eric Roberts

Now I want you to exhale slowly and shoot out of the trance. Voila, the movie exists. Watch out for the blockbuster Sylvester Stallone production, The Expendables coming out next year. Ooooh, I’m getting the jeepers already.

By the way, where’s Mr. Bazanye? I call his phone and it tells me “the telephone number you have called belongs to the person you are calling. But, as I’m sure you can tell, it’s off.” So where did he burst? Or in more correct English, oba he went where?

 

New Post

This is what I posted before about an hour ago.

I have a meeting at 9a.m and that’s like fifteen minutes away. So I’ll rush through this: dfuwef usdhfu f hurih vcuhwuif u hdiof aiodj fj jdsfj op wd

Okay, maybe I’ll go a little slower.

Effective today Monday, the date of the year, Streetsider and I are colleagues. In English, we are now workmates. Ain’t that just grand? More to come after my meeting.

Stay tuned for:

• My new hangout
• What happens when you start giving a shit about…

Oops..meeting.

Then when I came back, I found wordpress had posted nothing.

And so I come back with a vengeance!…tidididinnnnnnn (imagine the whole movie trailer thingy)…a passion to avenge the death of my post!…tadumdumdummmmm…and there’s nothing to stop me!…tadandandammmm…oh fuck it. The post continues.

So Princess went for a Maroon 5 concert. And then was propositioned by Jason Segel. So Princess went for a Maroon 5 concert. And then was propositioned by Jason Segel. So Princess went for a Maroon 5 concert. And then was propositioned by Jason Segel. So Princess went for a Maroon 5 concert. And then was propositioned by Jason Segel.

I’d freakin’ kill for that stuff. Only if you replace the “…by Jason Segel” part with “…by Jessica Alba” of course. Princizzo (too much rap on my iPod), you wanted me jealous and now you have it. Happy? Did Levine perform ‘Goodnight goodnight’? Did you tell Mr. Ernest Bazanye about the concert? Mbu for him he thinks he’s having fun.

There’s a joint in Naguru I uncovered over the weekend. It’s not exactly as exciting as a Maroon 5 concert but the serenity rocks. Bestros, they call it. They have stunning lawns, a cool setting and they play music off a 2-speaker Panasonic radio. Basically, it’s a place you’d call boring while maintaining a huge smile.

Yes, I am advertising it. I’m advertising it because I don’t want you there. No, there’s no irony hidden anywhere. Seriously, I don’t want you there. See, that’s one of the goodies about it: no one goes there which translates to there’s no noise which translates to there’s no American shouting about whores and bitches and bling and nigga this nigga that and something or other about his teeth in your ears which loosely translates to I don’t want you there.

A bigger crowd means they’ll sell the original Panasonic RF-P50 and buy huge speakers that will harbor nothing particularly educative but bitch, nigga, whore, dawg, my shoes, remix, this is the shit and other words that largely point to describing who the rapper is.

I don’t want you there.