What bloggers block? 1095 words, baby!

Nollywood movie. Called, of all things, Beyonce, The President’s Daughter.

They are serious. This is not a comedy.

This chick…

Is called Beyonce.

And she is the daughter of the president of Nigeria.

You already know how bad this movie is going to be.

 Nah. You just think you know. You have no idea.

It is worse. Look. Opening scene:

Buff Nigerian dude walking through neighbourhood that looks a lot like the Bucket’s street from Keeping Up Appearances.

There is a drive-by shooting.

 “Rata-tata-tat-atat-oh.”

A generic Toyota salon car rolls up. There is a racket of gunshots, then the Toyota speeds off, leaving buff Nigerian on the ground, lying in a pool of his own ketchup.

Luckily there is a hot Nigerian chick loitering. She sees his predicament and, having nothing better to do (turns out she is unemployed. Or at least, shows no sign of having a job anywhere in the movie) she walks over and asks him what ‘appuned.

Buff Shooting Victim is too shot up to speak, so we don’t hear his sarcastic response. I guess he means to say something like, “Nothing much, just chilling here dying. And how is your day?” but all he can manage is a cough and sputter.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking the chick turns out to be the president’s daughter, Beyonce. Nah-uh.

Actually the chick turns out to be Ciara.

Really. Her name is Ciara in the movie.

Beyonce,

         And Ciara.

Ciara loiters off to where the special hires are and fetches a cab to takes the boy to the hospital. We find out that his name is Raj and, thankfully, not Usher, and not Ne-yo.

At the hospital, they lay his bleeding form down in a pleasant waiting room.

You want to know why this is the case: are there no emergency wards in Nigeria?

The reason why is that the nurse won’t allow a gunshot victim into the real hospital without a police report that authorises the saving of his life. She explains this to Ciara, who immediately runs to the police station to get a report.

Ciara really ought to consider buying a mobile phone, don’t you think?

The police station looks like the reception of a tourist hotel, and that is why the cops are polite. And useless. They politely tell her that she has to go back, fetch the victim and bring him with her to the police reception before they can consider making a report.

To recap. Bleeding gunshot victim stranded in hospital waiting room. Nurses won’t even give him an elastoplast until the police have signed a piece of paper. Woman goes to the police to say she has witnessed a shooting. Police don’t even get up off their asses. All they do is say, “Really? Okay, you go and bring the victim here to us.”

By now it is evident that this film was written by men and women afflicted by a deeply profound and vigorously rapacious form of stupidity.

Indeed, I would have stopped watching, except that I hadn’t seen Beyonce yet.

Raj recovers fully and next time we see him, he is telling his sisters about the mystery woman who saved his life.

His baby sister asks, “Was she wearing a mask and a cape?”

“No,” says Rajj, with that where-was-this-one-when-the-rest-of-us-were-getting-our-basic-intelligence-genes look.

“Oh, cos If she was wearing a mask and a cape, I could have told you who she was. Batgirl wears a mask and a cape…”

She doesn’t finish because Raj sets his pit bulls on her. Again.

Okay, That isn’t what happened, but I wish. That was just in my head. I couldn’t actually hear what they were saying. But we could gather that he wanted to see Ciara again. And eventually he did. Bumped into her in a club, told her he is the dude she saved and that he loved her. He is fast as a bullet, this one.

No pun intended.

And now the moment you have all not even caring to wait for. Time for Beyonce’s scene!

Cut to lavish mansion. Presidential palace apparently. Bootilicious chicks with lots of jewelery on, wearing little skirts, wobbling their heads around talking about “grrrrl!” and “grrrllfreeen!”. In the midst of all this, the light skinned one, who turns out to be Beyonce, The titular President’s Daughter, announces that she just got a seat in parliament.

Fortunately, that was the last time parliament was mentioned. Some would call that an unresolved plot thread, but the rest of us know better. We call it relief.

I now hand over to Evil Twin:

Kenyanchick: I’m trying to picture it. Chicks in small skirts, shaking their bums to “I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.” Then one of them stops and says, “Oh shit, I forgot to tell you: I’m going to Parliament.” (Shades of Legally Blond: all the booty shakers yell, “Let’s all go!”). Nollywood is extremely surreal…

I think that was what the movie was supposed to be up to that point, then they decided to lose the Legally Blonde bit and just go Cuandos Seas Mias instead, so they dumped the parliament storyline and cut to Beyonce is in a supermarket being followed around by a bodyguard with an earring and a thyroid problem. Rajji is in the same supermarket.
The inevitable occurs.

Kenyanchick: Baz, this is a Nollywood movie. What is “the inevitable?” Being Nollywood, she could turn into a witch.

KC is right. Okay, the following occurs. She meets Raj and falls for his sweetsmoking hot caramel ass.
She really doesn’t have time to waste being a smooth operator—she is too busy being the fucking president’s daughter, what about, so she picks him up the way you are supposed to pick things up in a supermarket.
She says, “You are very handsom. I think you should call me.”

Can’t believe you are still reading this…

Cos by now we had long chucked the movie. We only looked up now and then cos the girls wanted to check out Raj.

Beyonce was trying to steal Raj from Ciara, of course and there was a sweet scene when she smashed a flower pot over Ciara’s head.

See that happening in real life? Next day it will be on all the headlines. “President’s Badass Daughter Brains Proletariat Chick With Homongous Flowerpot.”

But in this movie the president had disappeared completely. Along with parliament.

And that is when I realised how brilliant the filmmakers were: The filmmakers were cunningly trying to make a statement! They feel that the nation of Nigeria is falling into anarchy! They are lamenting the absence of government where it is needed! Gasp.

I wanted to know if the ketchup would ruin Ciara’s hair, but it was explained that it was a weave. No worries.

Big Brother Update

Big Brother Update
Day 134
09:45hrs

The housemates have just called an emergency meeting to discuss Lerato’s claims that there is a ghost in the house. You will remember that over the past couple of weeks Lerato has been gibbering in psychotic despair, insisting that she keeps hearing strange sounds in the night. The other housemates dismissed this, saying it is probably just Richard jerking off, but a few hours ago conclusive proof emerged that there is indeed something strange afoot.

There is booze missing.

The housemates are all dedicated drinkers and at any given moment each and every one of them knows exactly, to the least millilitre, how much booze there is left in the house. But they discovered that there is a quart of vodka unaccounted for.

Maureen swears she didn’t pour it into Code’s fruit juice as a desperate last-ditch attempt to make him finally put out.
10:58hrs

The housemates have drawn up two theories: One is that Justice snuck back into the house and is living in the air-vents because he just couldn’t stand to go back to the slums of Blantyre or wherever.

The other theory is that they need more booze.

Tales From The Gulag

Colleague Who Abuses His Soundcard chose to afflict us this morning with a stream of Ethiopian tribal music. No disrespect to the any Abyssinian blog-crawlers out there, but that stuff is ghastly. It is as if it unleashed thousands of tiny little imps each wearing tiny little cleated boots  and they swarmed your ears to perform mis-coordinated tap-dances on your eardrum. Excruciating like that.

No disrespect, of course.

Anyway, as this audio odium was skittering off the walls driving me crazy the office kaboozi switched to the subject of how to get rid of unwanted guests: after all the yawning and hinting, just break out a CD of bad music and watch your guest go, “Well, look at the time!”

I work with geniuses.
 

Sack of Hair

We tend to think that beauty contests are for dumb chicks — The yard is well-tended, but there is no one home sort of thing.

This is not always true. Not all beauty pageant contestants dwanzettes with nothing in their skulls but a lot of thick black grease just sloshing around the place and only two heavily overworked brain cells trudging through it grumbling about having too much of a task remembering that the lipstick goes on the lips not the earlobe and griping that if there was more staff they would be able to spare resources on things like speaking with lucidity, but as short as they are on labour, they cannot waste time on that; they need to focus on the task at hand, which is remembering which side of the shoe to put the foot on.

Not all beauty pageant contestants are like that. Some pageant contestants are actually able to multiply double figures in their heads.

If you give them enough time and do not make any noise to distract them.

And allow them to use their fingers.

Others, moreover, are actually intelligent. But we never hear of those. Every beauty contestant who is given a microphone says something dumb into it, to the delight of the New Vision reporters.

But if you thought Miss Uganda contestants were bad, you need to check out Miss South Carolina. This is a global epidemic.

She was asked this question: “Recent polls have shown that a fifth of Americans can’t locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?”

Her answer, written exactly as she said it: “I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some people out there in our nation don’t have maps. And I believe that our education, like, such as in South Africa and the Iraq, everywhere, like such as, and I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., or should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries so we will be able to build up our future for our children.”

I found the video here:

I found the video here:
Kenyanchick, who introduced me to the hapless blonde, said, “The Youtube age is a cruel one. Very cruel. This doesn’t, however, mean I feel any sympathy for her whatsoever. Oh no. Dumb as a sack of hair.”

Ah, now I get it!

I got my African Woman review. (Ref: Bitching about not getting my African Woman review)  My very first book review. I feel so…

…I feel so violated, so dirty, so exposed, so ruined for all women.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the review. They said my book was funny. I am grateful that they managed to come to this conclusion. I know they had to overcome great obstacles to reach it, obstacles like the reviewer not knowing what this things called jokes look like, but I am glad that they got there, though, and am proud of them.

The Reviewer (who also said the book was funny, which I appreciate that) said it was marred by inaccuracies borne from such ignorance as this: That I Hear I don’t know what Dolce and Gabana is.

Have I ever told you my Dolce and Gabana joke? It is hilarious. It will kill you, absolutely slay you, completely wreck genocide within the precincts. Har har chortle snigger and guffaw as I descend into that thing where a guy laughs at his own joke before he even tells it.

Here is the joke.

World’s Funniest Joke

No, that wasn’t actually, the joke, that was just extra.

That I hear: “Tell me ze yoke!” Chuckle and guffaw.

Hem-hem!! This is the joke:

“Look at that very fashionable man. He loves the heavily-advertised fashion labels and is always wearing brand name clothing. He is often clad in Dolce, or Gabana. Occasionally even both.”

That is my Dolce and Gabana joke.

(Silence. Sound of pins dropping as far away as Brazzaville)

Geddit? Geddit?

(Sound of pins dropping in Lisbon)

Okay, I may have oversold it a bit. Maybe it isn’t that funny after all. Maybe it is actually a very poor joke.

Maybe the reviewer, on encountering this monstrosity, thought to herself, “What a dreadful joke. He can’t be serious, ironically. No, there is no way any sane, rational, intelligent human being with opposable thumbs can come up with a joke so awful. It is more likely that he does not know what he is talking about. Evidently this man is completely clueless about Dolces and Gabanas. I would rather believe that he is ignorant and/or negligent than believe that he is stupid.”

And the review that issued forth, consequently, issued forth.

Ah. Now it all becomes clear.

Let’s Be Solution-Oriented

First a confession. I don’t really watch Big Brother. I should for purposes of my work as The Press, but we already have Ivan Musoke on the job so You, the public, are in good hands. In spite of his near-debilitating heroin addiction, in fact, maybe because of it, he maintains an uncanny facility for keeping his finger on the pulse.

(This pun was brought to you by Obscurity Uganda Limited.)

I only actually watched Big Brother like for an hour on Sunday when I was visiting my dear mother.

Big Brother, I thought to myself. What boring twattery this is.

All they are doing is languidly swanning around from room to room, muttering monosyllabic non-statements at one another with unconscious contempt as they pass. Except for Richard, (he’s from Chad or some such place), who stares beadily at everybody as if he is two sips of alcohol away from humping their leg.

Look at this stuff:
One person.
Walks.
Other person.
Also walks.
They mumble.
Walk again.
 Yet another person.

It was like watching bits of crud aimlessly floating around in a puddle you have upchucked into.

That is the problem with Reality TV. If you want entertainment you should have realized long ago how to get it. Lie. Pretend it is real even if it isn’t. Just fake it.

Big Brother needs to call on the services of…

Mr Macmahon 

That’s right. Vincent Kennedy Macmahon.