You know what would be really cool?

To walk through Nandos and shout lyrics of DMX songs into a mobile phone. As if you are having a phone conversation.

“What?”

“What?”

“WHAT?”

“This is not a fucking game. You think I’m playing? This is NOT A FUCKING
GAME!!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I HAVE NO FRIENDS!”

“What?”

“I don’t know who you think you’re fucking with but I’m NOT HIM!”

And once you have the attention of all the little prissy boogie Nandoboys and Nandogirls, deliver the coup de grace: 

“Look, let’s dial up all the factors: You’re wack, your pussy, your girl’s a whore, you’re broke , the kid ain’t yours and everybody knows!”

Then, as you leave, stomping furiously every step of the way out…

 

“I am NOT A NICE PERSON!

I made you a cookie, but I eated it

I found a folder of half-done blog posts.

August 4, 2006:

Rock is dangerous, rock is wild, rock is subversive, rock is anarchic, rock is fuck you, rock is visceral, rock is primeval, rock is homicidal, rock is violent, rock is insane, rock is bad for you, rock is vanity, rock is a meteor shower of sound, rock is your brain leaping out of the constraints of its social conditioning and flying out into the oblivion beyond called “Freedom”, rock is the truth. Rock is the truth.

I don’t remember why I was writing that. But now, after reading it, I want to listen to 1979 again. Billy Corgan called the city a “land of a thousand guilts and poured cement.”

A flurry of couplets from nineties and early-00 rock songs rises up in my mind. “You grew up way too fast, now there’s nothing to believe” from the Goo Goo Dolls.

Leah Andreone, sang, “A voyuer with wings flashes a cure. She knows forbidden things– they have a lovely lure.”

It’s alright, it’s ok
Welcome to this life
Killing time
Just watching the grass grow

It’s alright, it’s ok
Welcome to this life
Don’t worry sweet baby
Cos it’s over before you know

Maybe I want to listen to Jungleland again.

Outside the street’s on fire
In a real death waltz
Between what’s flesh and what’s fantasy
And the poets down here
Don’t write nothing at all
They just stand back and let it all be

Fight for the phone

Hot Office Chick and Old Pro descend upon the telephone. Their hands grab it at the same time.

HOC: I was here first.
Pro: Well, I need it more.
HOC: Dude, I have to call Juliana to confirm our appointment. If I don’t confirm, she might postpone again. I’ve been chasing her for weeks.
Pro: Well, I have to call Beti Kamya. Let go of the phone. My call is more important.
HOC: More important? Shyaaa!
Pro: What do you mean shyaa? Beti Kamya is…
HOC: Beti Kamya is a shameless, pandering, wannabe demagogue whose stock in trade is bullshit. Which is more important? You going over to record the unflinching lies of a serial propagandist so that you can convey them as legitimate political discourse, thus perpetuating the myth that Uganda actually has a political opposition, when in fact all we have is a band of fury-fuelled rabble-rousers who only claim to fight for the people when in fact they are just using the people as weapons as they pursue their own vendettas and their own ambitions– you think that is more important? Puh-leese. At least Juliana impacts positively on people’s lives. At least she makes people happy..
Pro: (Reeling from the onslaught.) Okay. You have the phone. Kyokka you movementists…
HOC: Wait, where do you think you’re going? I’m not through yet. This so-called “Forum” in the first place…

 (meanwhile, the Interns had walked in walked in during the “argument”.)

Intern I: Who iz Betty Kamya?
Intern II: Beti. She spells it with a single t and an i.
Intern I: I dnt kno hr. Wat song doez she sing?

Don’t call us, we’ll call you

I was just visited by an upcoming local artist a couple of moments ago, an earnest young man who brandished his CD at me in a way that seemed both deferential and aggressive– he kept calling me “sir” (as he very well should) but his manner showed that, if he wasn’t satisfied that our meeting was fruitful, he would be back.
Usually I deal with ULAs in the same way: polite and professional. I ask for a contact number and a copy of their music, then thank them for dropping by. When they are gone, I listen to it with my colleagues. If it is good, we wait for it to become a hit, then activate the hype machine—we hunt the ULA down and proceed to overexpose him with flurries of cliché and jargon and airbrushed Megapix photospreads. It is how we keep our bread buttered.
The rule is never be rude. Because, after all,

You never know.

I remember very well — I was at my desk in the middle of a Yahoo Game when the receptionists called me and told me a man with dreadlocks wanted to speak to me about this song of his called Akagoma.

The dude who was just here today may turn into a future Bobi Wine, but I hope not. It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want to see him ever ever again.

Well, I wouldn’t mind actually seeing him– What I don’t want to experience is to smell him again.

Because the man stinks. The man stinks with an excruciating and intense potency. The man stinks to make capillaries burst open and die. The man stinks as if his underarms were infested with the souls of dead witchdoctors. The smell is not just bad, it is evil and malicious. It is aggressive. It pounces on you and tries to ravage you like a large angry dog.

While he approached I nodded and smiled and uttered meaningless niceties (all the time trying not to inhale) and I kept inching away. But the further I retreated, the more he approached until… well, let me illustrate: When he arrived I was at my desk, front and centre, in front of my computer. By the time he finally left, I had inched and inched and inched away so much that I found I had rolled my chair all the way past the edge of the desk and was sitting in the corridor.

I have suffered for his art.

The launch of African Woman magazine and then, a few links-o-matic thurrogits.

And in other news:

I realize the Red Pepper is not one of those things (okay, fine. Call it a newspaper, but its your reputation on the line) you take seriously, but its not fair when they stop trying. It’s like the village idiot decided to go around handing out business cards introducing himself and confirming what we always knew. -(edgeofinnocence.com)

I even did the afterlaugh with that guesture where you clap your hands by slicing them over each other and saying, “Oooowaye.”

Between that and Monty Python, they have had me bursting out in abrupt and completely random sniggering bouts all week.

What is a Monty Python?

Conjuring Today is a very very very short sketch. Michael Palin stands on a stage in a cape, the front of his tuxedo covered in blood. He is holding a saw. It is evident that he is one of those magicians.

For some reason he is wearing a pair of google-eye spectacles.

He says, “Last week, we learnt how to saw a woman in half. This week, we learn how to saw her into three pieces and dispose of the body… Aaargh!”

And he is chased off the stage by policemen. 

If I never mentioned it before, the New Vision has very third world Internet, so I am not even sure if this youtube link will take you there…

Meanwhile: Princess (Formerly known as Teti)  found a modernised Computer-age version of Poe’s The Raven. Because of the aforementioned Third World Internet Status, I cannot comment on Blogger.com, but I deeply suspect, Princess, if you by any chance perhaps are as if dropping by here and reading this, that you are the one who had that link to Stephen Fry’s blog. Are you?

Xena didn’t update with her usual Apprentice recap this week. Sadness ensued.

I was going to put a sound clip of Sexual Harrasment Panda (for the benefit of those unacquainted with SHP, he is a panda that says, repeatedly, the words, “and that makes me a saa-a-ad Pan-da.”) but then I thought, if you have not laughed at the Monty Python clip, then let me not push it by putting up even more genre humour. This week is for me to laugh alone, I think.

It is evidently time to call it. So, one more badoinkadoink picture:

…And let’s shrink it. It’s a wrap.