Journalists were yesterday shocked during a parliament session when an otherwise harmless member of parliament uttered a statement that haboured traces of intelligence. According to several reliable sources the incident that happened at exactly 0807hours GMT started after the MP suggested that roads in Uganda needed to be worked on.

The scene of the dreadful incident

The unprecedented incident caused mayhem for several hours before joint CIA and Uganda police forces were called in to restore calm and order. Because of the shock, one of the witnesses was rushed to Mulago hospital after suffering a near-fatal stroke.

“I’ve been a journalist for twenty years now I tell you but I’ve never seen anything like this. Me am telling you,” a journalist was heard saying. Other witnesses claimed it was only a prank and there was nothing to be afraid of while others thought it was a sign that the world was ending soon. “I think he has a demon. This nation needs prayers,” another MP was quoted as saying.

Woowee: Chaos after the despicable incident

Reactions about the MP in question were mixed though several of his fellow MPs were mostly negative about the incident.

“It is very unconstitutional. That man has been my friend for many years now but I’ve never seen him acting like this. That was very unethical of him and I think this nation deserves a public apology,” said the representative for Sibafaako North, Hon. John-Bosco Pilawo.

Another MP who preferred anonymity but told us his name was Slumber Yebase also expressed bitterness. “Very bad I tell you. Such things will ruin this country’s political future if they are not curbed early enough. He never said anything, he always dozed with admirable dedication and with that kind of attitude to his work, we even thought he would become the next speaker of this honourable house. He should be suspended immediately.”

However, Chogam Fandizi, Youth MP for Nalyasente East was of a different opinion. “I think this will be good for our economy. I don’t know how but I know it will be good,” he said adding that the said MP would be thrown out and the salaries of those left would consequently be increased. “Which is good,” he added. “Very good for us and for this country but mostly for us.”

CIA analyst Names McGood was baffled saying that it was a major science breakthrough. We’ve excavated and studied remains of previous forms of this kind of thing…person, sorry, without much success. This marks the first form of intelligence in a Ugandan parliament. We’ll continue studying it…him until we know for sure that there’s some intellect in that house.

Waaa: The president refuses to believe any such thing happened in his country

Welcome to the Rented show, folks.

I’m going to tell you about how I spent part of my weekend; so if you care and really want to know about it, mind your own fucking business and get a life. However, if you don’t give a crap and are wondering why the fuck I’d want to tell you about shit that doesn’t really concern you, please take a seat. You’re welcome to read.

The start of the story

Now, Saturday and I have this thing that we attend almost every week at Dominos. It’s a long story but in basic summary, many pizza families have lost their dear ones.

Day: Saturday. Place: Dominos. Time: 2.56.03p.m. Anything else: Whatever.

Hi. I'm this picture's caption. Great meeting you.

There’s this astounding and very physically disciplined chic seated somewhere next to the window. Her butt looks like a product of proper upbringing, her boobs are well-educated, eyes upgraded to windows 7, hair is rightly immunized and the face is generally good mannered. I am staring at her.

Then there’s this dude from the oppositest side of opposite sides of beautiful things. He’s seated facing her on the same table. He has vulgar legs, a non-religious nose, toes that look like they are constantly running away from him and he’s staring straight at the chic. I am him.

Unfortunately, this story is not about these two; it’s about why they are staring at each other. This story is about the angry pizza seated on the…wait, this part deserves its own title.

The story of the angry pizza

This story is about the angry pizza seated on the table between them. The pizza is so angry that it has beef sprinkled allover it; beef, mushrooms, tomatoes and cheese. It’s angry because…I smell another title.

Why the pizza is angry

There’s this waiter who carries the pizza to our table and leaves without telling us who exactly it belongs to. This is the part where I reveal that I actually don’t know the chic seated opposite me. We are simply strangers who happened to order for exactly the same thing.

The pizza had said its last prayers, fully accepted its fate, had its last meal and was ready to face its executioner, but no one was making a move. It was angry because what we were doing was psychologically torturing. It didn’t understand that we were only staring at each other to figure out who should eat it. It should be the gentleman dude leaving it to the damsel-in-distress chic, right?

Fuck you. I didn’t know her and I was hungry. In fact, the pizza was more on my side of the table.

At this point you must be wondering where the story is going. Stay tuned.

It was during that moment of dilemma that my super intelligence mode kicked in (happens all the time. Can’t control it). Leaving the pizza to her would be a conversation starter meaning I’d have her number meaning I’d have sex with her. So I did what every wise man would do-I ate the pizza.

Wena, the day guard on duty at the Far Far Awaiean leader’s palace, was lost in wonderment about how he could eat only white rice for eight straight days and still manage to have brown poop when the aeroset croaked: “All ye mortals of Far Far Away, this is an important announcement. I am DJ Zeezoo on 93.7FM and the next song goes…”

The DJ was suddenly interrupted by a deep croak from a foreign broadcast: “Greetings, all. I am Willing to fuck your mother for free provided…”

“Oh, sir? Please stop right there. I believe…” DJ Zeezoo’s persistence was no match for the foreign voice’s arrogance.

“Do not interrupt me! I am hijacking this planet…”

“Sir, excuse me! Unless you are making a song request, I don’t…”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I am robbing this planet.”

“Taking over, you mean? Have you talked to the President about this?”

“No! Do you…do you have his number?”

DJ Zeezoo had always looked for even the slightest reason to talk to a Far Far Awaiean lopitician mostly coz talking to any lopitician earned you the right to spell the title right. Only those who had talked to lopiticians were permitted to call them politicians on radio.

“Well you, sir, are in luck today. As a matter of fact, I don’t. But if you gave me the message, I could pass it on to him.”

The hijacker slash robber slash take overer hesitated for a second: “Fine. Tell him I am Willing to fuck your mother for…”

“Woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah…”

“Hey!”

“Sir? Sir? Calm down. You don’t have to be rude.”

“That’s my name, you son of a gremlin!”

“What?”

“My name is Willing to fuck your mother for free provided she lets you watch as we do it in broad darkness under…”

“Do you have a short?”

*** *** ***

Dude, dude. Lemme holla at you. Did you hear? We have a cameo in his latest post.

Out of love and respect for their master, the sound molecules from Wena’s lips had tried to stall before reaching Willy Wanker’s auditory system in the hope that they would be sucked back. The message they carried had the unbridled potential to get their master debummed.

President Willy Wanker had asked: “Who are you?”, “What is it?”, “Robbing my planet?” and “Who gave him my number?”, and to all the questions, the sound molecules from Wena’s lips had happily played their part in delivering the answers to the president’s ears.

They only hesitated after the president asked a possibly debummal or-in other dictionaries-fatal question, “And who is this foreign being?” to which Wena replied: “Fuck your mother”. Wena’s sound molecules had tried to emergency eject from their space pods in vain and crash landed in the president’s cochlea.

The next molecules were supposed to carry the message: “No, President Willy Wanker quiver. I didn’t mean to quiver offend you in any way quiver quiver. That is only the short form of the being’s name quiver snivel sob.”

But judgement had already been passed. Wena was to lose his bums or-in other dictionaries-die.

*** *** ***

So what’s the lesson today, kids? Do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, pass on messages about things that don’t concern you or you will incur the unflattering consequences.

You still don’t know who I am? I am the chic who really likes my boyfriend and the other guy. Oh, the other guy. He’ll always comment on my boring status messages, he’ll always be there when I don’t need him; shoot, he’ll even respect that I don’t want to fuck because I’ll always be in my periods every month. I’ll introduce him to my pals as my cousin and later, when we are lying next to each other not fucking, we’ll laugh about it. Then he’ll happily give me that 50.000/- for my transport to my other cousin’s place to spend the night coz he’s sick. He has horn, the poor dude.

Surely you must know me. Remember when I last had a decent conversation with a deodorant? Coz I don’t. I remember the medieval days when we used to take showers. Yeah, I was there. Can you believe it? People actually showered and changed underpants. Gasp. I put on the same underpants day in, day out and make sure I sag my jeans so that people notice the admirable transition from white to brown to dark black to invisible. I don’t wash. Hell no! I can’t be that cruel to my clothes.

You honestly don’t recognize me? Now you are just pretending. You don’t remember me inviting you to Fat Boyz and then asking you to buy me a few beers coz I didn’t have any dimes on me? Why did I go out yet I was broke? Buy me another beer and I’ll tell you why. Is it just me or am I starving? Do they sell chicken in that joint? Do you get the point of me asking those questions without directly asking you to buy me some chicken? No? Okay, buy me another beer and I’ll explain.

I swear you ki-guy you be when your knowing me. Stop feeling feeling even you. Shya! I talk English like this and I dont wanna want to punctuate my things properly coz am a chic and the guys they will not care and when I talk or rite it badly I will crack a joke just and they will think I intended it. I put put in some American accent and ayayayayaya people they will think am posh. I request for many friends on facebook so that people they think am hot and famous.

I am a complex dude; the corporate kind that chills in suits and says suity things coz I work for a big company yet earn very little. Sometimes I pretend to be so swearing intelligent by constamagulating on the explicate obstitaries of yonder and sundry. I deliberately stamaquilangate the opportaine promangecies that I get lost in thine own faquilliagarendespendensies. And just to drive the point home, I floss in borrowed Corsas, press the phone to my ear and pretend to be lost in a dangerously deep and fatally intellectual discussion with the quiet on the other end. Oops! The phone rang. Who could it be?

It’s me again. The chic who is so desperate for just one freakin’ guy to like me but I’ll pretend I don’t give a fuck. I’ll arrive at Rouge on a bike (you fake people call them bodas. Hmm!), get one very expensive drink and expensively walk to the expensive table in that expensive corner to sit and wait expensively. When they approach, I’ll play very very very hard to get, they’ll back off very very very much and I will stay very very very lonely. Then I’ll hide my face under a lonely pillow and cry “why God! Very very very why?”

I am Ugandan.

What happened to the last interviewer?

He died.

What? You sound awfully calm for a bearer of such news? When did he die?

He didn’t say. Look, can we get straight to why we’re here?

Yes, sorry. Could you tell us something interesting about you?

Who?

You. Your personality, your likes, your dislikes…

Oh. Well, um, my dislikes don’t talk to me much so I can’t say much about them either. Then again, my likes are too many for this interview so I’ll pick out just one: Women’s buttocks.

Hahahaha. You…

That’s an improvement.

I’m sorry?

You laughed. The last guy just went “LOL”.

… Anyway, so why the name Rentedmess?

Well, like I confided in the dude before, I am an ass; a mess. It’s flattering and quite boastful I know but hey, I can’t deny my superstar assness. The Rented bit was just a meaningless addition. Just for just.

So the Rented is actually useless?

No. Try to keep up. It’s an addition. Just for just. Does that sound useless to you? Women!

Hey! I am not a woman.

If it makes you sleep better.

Seriously, what’s wrong with you?

I’m Erique. What could be wronger?

You have issues, man. Do you want us to stop here?

Is that part of the interview?

No, I just…

I only answer interview questions.

Okay, two more questions. It says here you like Rock music. What do you think of Rachel K’s rock…

You foul-mouthed fuck!

Come on! You can’t use such offensive language here.

You started it.

What did I say?

Rachel K.

Yeah! That’s a Ugandan musician.

What? Male or female?

Gosh! Okay, last question. Who do you consider your role model?

That one down there. I don’t know about the role part but she certainly covers the model bit.

He was vicious, impenitent and utterly fearless. Just like Taylor Swift’s album. Most of all he was a thief; a very habitual and insufferable thief. He stole everything he could, and what he couldn’t, he cursed. His name was Innocent.

One time he was heard rebuking a heavy granite-laced statue because it was impossible to steal and, therefore, a disgrace to humanity. “Go burn in hell, shitprick! Selfish fucker!” he spat. The habit stemmed right from childhood when, at the very tender age of one day, he stole his father’s name when he wasn’t looking. And that’s how he came to be called Gustav. Innocent Gustav.

Growing up, Gustav didn’t believe in getting things the right way. If it was bought for him, he took it back to the shop and stole it back. For his sixteenth birthday, his father bought him a car but Gustav wasn’t too happy about it and hated his father. What kind of human being did such a cruel thing to his son?

At night when everyone was asleep and the neighbourhood was conveniently serene, he snuck into the garage and stole the car. On his way out he remorselessly smashed the unknowing garage door and ran over a group of school going pieces of grass, killing them instantly.

Right now I am Taylor Swift. But when I grow up, I want to be sexy.

When he brought back the car eight hours later and thanked the father for letting him steal it safely, the father immediately revoked the name Innocent, told him he could keep Gustav, and sent him away to live with his grandparents.

The habit steadily grew into an addiction. When he wasn’t stealing, he was furtively staring at women, not because he found anything remotely fascinating about the female body, but because a very friendly and surprisingly understanding dictionary that he had stolen from his stash of presents on his eighteenth birthday had exhaustively explained to him that the act was in fact termed “stealing glances”. Stealing.

Now 26, he crippled the sight economy by stealing glances worth billions but so far, not even the Interpol had him on their radar. Fools. He smiled at the thought as he stole a sip of porridge from his mug and looked around the bar. Yes, it was odd for him to smile but he smiled anyway. After all, the name of the bar was on his side. Smiling Tampon, it was called.

As his gaze returned to his mug of porridge that, probably out of respect or fear hadn’t called the police yet, he saw her. Boobnikov. He hated the Russian bitch but really liked her name. He had no use for the name really so he let her keep it.

You thought I wouldn’t find you! No one could do what he did as skillfully as he did it until she came along. “How the hell did she do it?” he thought out loud as her darting eyes met his.

“Hi!” she smiled while walking towards his table. Did she freaking have to come with her girlfriend again? He hadn’t gathered, nay, stolen the nerve to tell her but he hated that every time he saw her, she was flanked by some girl whose name he didn’t care to know.

His memory drifted back to the day they met in that Vegas hotel, but only for a second. He didn’t want to remember. How could she?

“You bitch!” he shot. Her face did very little to hide her surprise.

“What! You didn’t tell me you had a baby!” What the fuck! Who was she talking to?

He continued unabated: “You’re good, I must give you that. How did you do it, hmm? New Russian technology?”

Boobnikov just kept on staring at him blankly while the friend yapped, seemingly talking to some bunch of girls: “I like the Tampon because it is red on the outside. You like it too?” If only he could steal a backhand slap and donate it to her face so she could shut up.

“Are you going to pretend you ain’t listening? You stole my heart, you bitch! I want it back!”

Boobnikov

She was sexy and loved the attention. In fact, if it wasn’t for the impracticality of living independently, she would have pursued a very lucrative career in the modeling industry. But she was only a boob.

Snort Snort Laugh Snort

Erique

He woke up. Fuck Mondays!

Erique, why the heck do you drink so much?

Well, let’s put it this way. When I was only a year old, I heard a voice; it told me it had a message for me and that message was hidden in a bottle. “The contents of that bottle are alcoholic,” it said. “Look for that message.” 23 years later, I’m still looking for it.

23?

Yes, 23. Do you have a problem with that?

No, sir.

Don’t sir me. I’m Erique.

Erique, huh? Not Eric?

No. Those are two pricks. Well, one prick actually. The other is a closet angel. He comes out only when there’s a burning need to get laid. That’s Eric. He’s the one the ladies want-sweet, passionate, empathetic and all. He even looks like a baby. Erique, however, is an asshole. Yes, he’s smart, talented, liked by many but he’s an asshole. He takes nothing serious; not even the word itself. Serie-ass. See? He doesn’t even think it deserves the -ly. He’s my favourite. Yours too.

There’s something interesting you mentioned about…

Ladies?

Well, no but…if that’s what you want to talk about…

Damn right it is! They suck. But then again, that’s when I like them the most wink wink. I like them sexy, period.

You don’t consider any other qualities-like is she God-fearing, funny, understanding…?

I thought sexy covered all that.

It…never mind. So do you have someone special?

Yes.

Oh yeah? Who is she?

I don’t know.

I’m confused.

Me too. Why would you ask me about she? I don’t know anyone called she.

LOL.

What?

LOL. That’s me laughing.

No it’s not!

It is. It means what you said was funny.

So why didn’t you just laugh?

Okay, you know what? I’m sorry. I can’t do this.

Do what? Where are you going? Hey! What did I say?

Thinkments: Part I

Have you ever had one of those moments where you just don’t want to listen to radio, all the TV stations are boring, your Hangover DVD is skipping, your computer is persistently playing Soulja Boy (DO NOT LISTEN TO THAT BOY! YOU DON’T WANT IT ON YOUR CONSCIENCE!), your porn DVD won’t talk to you because of what it saw that dude do to that chic from behind and there was nothing you did to stop it, and your last airtime grudgingly stormed out of your phone coz, I quote, “You used me, you selfish bastard”? (Shit! It was a question the whole time?)

Thinkments: Part II

Basically, you’re really bored. So you just sit for aeons till your butt gets into a bitter fight with the chair over who doesn’t put enough into the relationship and then you switch to laying on your bed and staring at the ceiling like you have a crush on it but just don’t know how to tell it. Then you think.

Worst time to think, folks. I swear I thought of things till my brain started nervously tiptoeing away from me. By the way, I want to start an annual charitable event like the MTN marathon but I lack sponsors. I’m thinking of something like a hunger strike or an annual rapist murder fest.

Thinkments: The final chapter

With the murder thingy, basically all one has to do is find a potential murderee and plan to kill him. Of course there will have to be intensive media backup to push participation of willing murderers and muderees. The advertising message will be:

“Some people murder for fun, some for prestige, while others murder for charity. What will you murder for? Come for the Murderfest. Sponsored by MTN. Official murderers of the 24…wait, 60, no, yeah, wait, yeah… 24 hours of free Warid to Warid calls Pakalast.” Think it will generate enough profit?

Englishments.

Here’s an excerpt from a text chat session between EQ (for that is I, thank you) and someone of way way lower caliber (just like you).

“Why not?”

“Coz I cunt”

“What?”

“Ya. I cunt n they also cunt.”

“Oh I see. I perfectly understand your plight. You cunt.”

“Wtf”

He couldn’t do what he had previously promised to do and blindly derided himself for it. Put yourself in my original Timberlands. What else would you say to the poor bastard? He blemished my visual sanctity and text-ual virginity, poor me, but I forgave him.

Uselessments

There’s totally absolutely utterly completely enormously (That last one, no. It should be removed from the list of synonyms) no reason for me to tell you what I’m about to tell you but, I rightly assume, if you have the guts to open a page as stupid as www.rentedmess.wordpress.com at any point in your life, then you can take any shit. Apart from Otunnu’s, of course.

So here’s the stupid thing. Here we go. Are you ready? You’re sure? Okay, here it is. Get ready. Are you really ready or are you just getting pissed off at the way this intro’s length is trying to rival rap remixes by things like Little Wayne, aged 27 and Young Jeezy, aged 32. These dudes will take 1 minute, 6 seconds to introduce a song of 3 minutes, 23 seconds and in that intro, these are the things they’ll think you need to know:

• I am back
• This is the remix
• We are going platinum
• Remix, remix, remix (Just in case you didn’t understand the first time)
• Holla
• We’re bad (For those of you who don’t fully comprehend how much we suck)
• We’re back nigga!

I assume that the 1:06 seconds is meant to give you enough time to get done with all your household chores before settling down to listen to the boy’s song. When you finally settle and turn the volume up (“Turn it up mathafucker,” insists the attention seeking rapper) to listen to this very important message, here are some of the things he’ll tell you:

• I gats bitches
• Money ain’t a thang
• My flow is tight
• I make money with every word I spit
• I’ll beat you

I’m glad Tiny Wayne went to prison. Infantile Jeezy is next.

Back to you, Sleek.