By which I mean Fuck Akon.

Fuck him and his grubby white vest-wearing, nasal-squeaking, tar-baby looking, conflict diamond-blinging, lying child-molesting self. Fuck him entirely and without consolation.

No, I didn’t want to hear him sing: I could care less about his singing. It doesn’t even move me enough for me to dislike it. It’s just there. I actually palpably hate T-Pain, but Akon barely merits discomfort.

He is a ringtone. A tinny, clangy, unremarkable ringtone.

Fuck him and his tinny unremarkable ringtone singing.

It wasn’t the singing—I was even planning on taking headphones and an MP3 player to the concert so I could jam to Game Theory by The Roots.

It was just the concert. I had a VIT: A Very Important Ticket, that would give me access to the coolest parts of the concert premises, including the area where the upper corporati would mingle, like a knot of sitting ducks, just waiting for me to assault them with my business cards. I was very eager to take this opportunity to build business contacts through social networking or, in other words, charm my way into getting people to pay me.

Like Timothy Bukumunhe. He’s rich and I’m broke, a situation that is unjust and in deseperate need of remedy.

The VIA (Very Important Area) also promised endless streams of exotic liquors and I have never tasted Amaretto.

I was going to taste Amaretto, man! Now, because of some spoilt statutory-rapist prima donna I have missed my chance to find out whether or not it is better than Safi Pineapple.

 

 

Oh, update: In this office: There was a brief discussion about recent reforms introduced by Raul Castro in Cuba, reforms such as allowing people to buy Microwave ovens, DVD players, mobile phones and personal computers.
“That was a cool place to be broke in,” said Nigel. “Even if you don’t have anything you can be like, ‘Hey, it’s the law.’”

(In case you didn’t hear, tell 27th)

 

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