Weekend Thurrogits.

 

Thurrogit Number 1. Can’t Knock The Hustle 

Blogtrotting this evening, I found This: Precious Magic (TM),  a review of a poetry and short story collection by Jane Musoke Nteyefas, who is like a superhero in the sense that it seems no one has ever met her or knows who she is, but we all know she exists mysteriously somewhere. 

The book is available for free reading online, at Google Books.

If that link doesn’t work, please search for “Butterflies of The Nile” at books.google.com

That review makes me think the book will be kind of racist, but like I said, I am not going to knock the hustle.

I also found: This  Something you facebook junkies ought to think about…

I told you there are more blogs out there than you and Countryboyi count. 

I should not promise things the way I did last Friday, when I posted Nami and Alana’s picture and never got around to telling you the story,  but this one for reyo-reyo I will post it. I am going to spend the whole weekend working on it.

I got an email from Nigeria telling me that a friend of mine was stuck in Lagos and needed money.

A flurry of correspondence ensued, rising to a cresendo of lies, before plummeting abruptly into an anticlimax when Sylvie Owori stole the two grand. Stay chooned.

Movies. Mouths. Hathaway. Bale.

There were two interesting movies I saw on a recent weekend, both of which had interesting plots which I will not be telling you about because we must address the far more intriguing matter of Anne Hathaway’s and Christian Bale’s mouths.

Let’s get Bale’s out of the way first. Bale, who recently starred in The Dark Knight, a movie which couldn’t have aroused the fanboys more if it were sweet lesbian porn, acted the Batman part in a mask that tugged his nostrils upward and caused him to speak in a grunty way. We blamed the mask for Bale’s wierd way of talking, but to find the culprit who was truly responsible, you have to watch The Prestige, starring him and Hugh Jackman.

They play turn-of-the-other-century magicians in this movie and, while Wolverine plays his role in an American accent, Batman speaks in cockney. And that is when you realise what is wrong with his voice. It was not the mask to blame.

 

There is some strange echoing going on with his voice, a way the sounds slosh around in his mouth before he utters them. Christian Bale’s mouth is evidently more hollow than that of a normal human being.

For more details, ask Christopher Nolan. 

(34337, if you don’t get that joke, I  will never spell your name correctly again.)

 

But his mouth is not as strange as that of Anne Hathaway, who starred in Get Smart along with Terry Crews, Masi Oka, Terrence Stamp, the Great Khali, and even the dude from Weeds.

 

At many points during this awesome movie (oh, Carell was in it as well, I think) Anne Hathaway’s mouth seemed to be performing off cue. It is a large, broad and erratic mouth, full of massive teeth and, probably because of its vast volume, it is ungainly and clumsy. Hathaway seems to have trouble coordinating those gargantuan lips because at times it felt like I was watching an overdubbed Spanish-language soap because the wobbling of the lips and the blare of the teeth did not occur in synch with the words she was actually saying. I frequently found myself asking if that was really her mouth, because at times it seemed like it was actually just a mouth-shaped pet that had wandered onto the set and was playing its own random games on her face, obscuring her real mouth.  

 

Plus, what is it with Anne Hathaway’s left eye? That thing is so lopsided I am sure it is going to fall off one day.

Bad Idea Redux

 

Ideally what the Sunday Vision publishes in the magazine every week should be the seventh draft of what I originally wrote, but time has kept getting shorter and shorter, and I have been cheating—that is why you find so many silly grammar errors in my column these days, (thank you so much for reading it, by the way. Thank you every time I see my paycheck).

This last week was the closest I came to a full seven redrafts in months, because I had initially written twice as much as the paper needed. I had to cut it down to 500 words without losing the ire I was trying to express.

Well, I don’t think I succeeded. I lost the ire. But since the internet gives us all a second chance, may I try again?

You must be acquainted with the phenomenon known as Small Man’s Complex, even if it is not by name, because there is a virtual epidemic of it going around. It is probably an unfortunate by-product of the era of peace and development ushered in by Muhwezi and his friends, because now that we have hotels and restaurants and such, we need askaris to guard them. And that is what small man’s complex is. What the askari suffers from SMC is a situation where a person with inadequate amounts of esteem in himself latches on to a little bit of authority and uses it to irrational excess against, well, anyone he can find who he thinks won’t hit back. It is bullying, in short.

A recent example forms the crux of this rant. Presenting: One Evening at The Supermarket.

The offending object:

Since I lost my wallet a while ago and because I lack the discipline to get around to replacing it when there are makeshift alternatives readily available, I have, of late, been carrying my cash, cards and miscellenia around in a book. Yes, a book. I slip banknotes and ATM cards between the pages.

 

It is an excellent book, yes, thank you for asking. It is called Last Chance To See, by Douglas Adams and Michael Carradine. I bought it second hand at the taxi park.

Which means that it is also an old book. It is dog-eared, frayed, tattered and weatherbeaten and made even more so by the fact that I have been carrying it around as a wallet for over a month.

It was the only object in my hand on the evening I entered a supermarket in the Ntinda Shopping Centre.

The Offence:

As we walked in (I wasn’t going to buy anything, I was just escorting someone) I paused for a second at the baggage check counter.

At most reputable supermarkets, those which respect their customers and therefore opt out of insulting them, I raise the book for the baggage check personnel to see that it is all I have in my hand and they graciously pass me on, either with a friendly smile, or by actually saying, “You don’t need to check that, sir, not unless you want to. You don’t? Well, then enjoy your shopping experience, sir.” And they wave me on.

The Offending Staff:

This baggage check man at this supermarket was not gracious. He called me over to insist that I leave my book with him. Now, still under the misapprehension that I was dealing with a professional, I offered a little joke. I sniggered that if he would not trust me not to shoplift in his store with the aid of my little paperback, I won’t trust him with its contents. I proceeded to remove the cash from the pages of the book, and the cards as well. When I began to extract two CDs from between the pages, he stopped me again. To assert that I have to leave the CDs, too. It was at this point that I realised what was happening. Either of two things:

The first thing: He thought I was anextremely cunning and unscrupulous villain, who is desperate to steal and cannot be trusted to enter a supermarket with open shelves while in possession of two CDs, let alone a whole paperback novel. If he lets me in with them I will certainly find something to hide and pilfer. In short, he was determined to call me a thief.

The other thing: He knew that he had no reason to suspect that I was on a mission to shoplift whatever tiny shelf item they have that can be secreted in the sleeves of a transparent CD case. He was just throwing his weight around. He wanted to assert what little power he had even if it had no consequence at all.

I know the prudent thing is to give such idiots what they want, but like I said, I wasn’t there to shop. The person I was escorting had already disappeared into the store. I had time to argue. So I did.

I was forcefully asking the man what the hell he was smoking when a uniformed girl, thinking she was coming to his rescue, said something about how they couldn’t let me in with a book because they sell books on their shelves.

The Oafs:

You are gasping, aren’t you? And you are not sure if it is with shock, or indignation.

It is so imbecilic because even if you chose not to consider the advanced decrepitude of my book, the store sold mobile phones as well, and they weren’t stopping anyone from walking in with their phone. Not even me. And I had two! Yes, I roll with two phones. Don’t hate, though. One is a katorchi.

By now I was quite peeved, so I turned to look for the customer service desk, only to find that it was right next to the hulabaloo, and the service rep was right there, ignoring the incident of customer dissatisfaction brewing right next to her.

I didn’t expect her to do much, actually. I wasn’t dying to get in to her store with Last Chance To See.  I would be as comfortable waiting outside, but I wanted my nerves soothed. I turned to her, hoping to hear words like, “I’m sorry sir, but there is nothing we can do. It is just store policy. We mean no disrespect by it, I assure you.” At which point I would say, “Well, teach your man how to talk to people. He is obnoxious and rude.” Get the response, “I promise I will have a word with him.” And then I would be mollified and I would continue to enjoy shopping at Quality.

Instead all I got was a glassy-eyed look and a few mumbles.

“Listen, this whole baggage check issue is very delicate. I know you can’t let people walk in with bags. I know you can’t trust your customers and that you have to assume they are all criminals before you can let them in. It is a sensitive matter. But you should at least try to handle it with some finesse, with some class, instead of just letting this oaf insult us to our faces!”

Glassy eye. Mumble.

I wasn’t a customer that day, and you can rest assured I will never be. They have a competitor across the street anyway. Nice people who smile when they bag your groceries.

 

 

Shoes, ships, sealing wax, etc

If you saw a copy of the New Vision today, Friday, you may have been impressed to see that the newspaper went all out in expressing support for the cause of Breast Cancer Awareness. 

You may not have been as impressed by the means by which we expressed that support. Said means being yet another example of an idea that sounds good in the boardroom but gets lost along the way and ends up making the word “vomitacious” suddenly spring to hundreds of minds. 

We meant to come out printed on pink coloured paper. But instead we looked like beans and eggs and bad milk on the way back out.  

A friend described it as “pukish.”

But it is still Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I am glad that the company, and others around us have taken it upon themselves to try and do, say, or wear something that shows some concern about the matter. But that, you know, is only as commendable as it is useful.

And it has to be useful. Now the month is still ongoing, so you have until the last day to learn and know, for example, what the incidence of Breast Cancer in Uganda is, what facilities we have in the country to treat it, what the survival rate is, and what you can do about it. That sort of thing.

In other news, Morris is a Moron. Sheila said so, and she should know. She lived with the idiot for a month.

Here is a quote from the Monitor.

I found him boring. Morris is no Gaetano. He lacks charisma.

She stopped short of saying (or the Monitor reporter just didn’t transcribe that part) that he was the kind of challenged that can’t shit and think at the same time and that is why he spent so long in the can. 

Going face: today was International Eradication Poverty day. There is a day for everything, it seems. Earlier this week, I recall hearing that it was international hand washing day. Hand washing day. There is a guy at work who smells like he hasn’t even have a body washing day all week but let us not digress further.

And here, In honour of IEPDay, some thoughts on poverty eradication: 

The most effective weapon against poverty has always been wealth. So to eradicate poverty, make money, or enable the making of money. Buy Ugandan wherever possible, guys. Support local industries and companies and services as much as you can. 

But don’t buy the shit stuff—let the guys who make shit products go out of business. I mean the good stuff that is made in Uganda.

It’s the weekend and I need to skate. Before I go there are two things: One is an apology for a grevious wrong wrought, that isn’t even my fault.

There was a day a couple of weeks ago when I wrote a thesis about development, and urged that we should emulate Icleand if we wish to develop. Well, Iceland is broke. 

As in last week they were looking at the possibility of declaring bankruptcy AS A NATION.

Now I’m off. I have proggie this weekend. 

Kwambox Returns

Kwambox left the Big Brother house on Sunday, taking with her every last iota of interest I had left in the whole show. 

Which should not be taken as an honest criticism of the programme. The fact that I hardly ever even watched it at all renders me soundly unqualified to comment on it. That is, unqualified to comment in anything but a shamelessly deceitful way. Which I shall now proceed to do.

Sheila Kwamboka became the most recent Big Brother evictee this Sunday, but the feisty Kenyan refused to leave quietly and achieved what University of Johannesburg statisticians believe could quite possibly be the fastest single-backhanded castration in history when Thami stupidly began to giggle after her name was announced.

Asked whether he will disrupt the show now that Thami’s balls are gone, Big Brother producers replied that they saw no reason to interrupt the proceedings. Thami wasn’t using his testicles that much anyway and if the time ever came when he had urgent need for a pair, Mimi would be more than happy to lend him hers.

Kwambox is out of the house now, but inside there is thick sense of fear. As she was dragged out of the door, kick and screaming in the hands of the burly BBA security men, she promised fiery and certain and painful retributions and the housemates do not know when or how they will arrive, but are certain that they are coming soon.

Tawana is particularly frightened. A special set of branded Big Brother Adult Diapers had to be issued to contain leakage since it became obvious that she was going to piss herself every time she heard a sudden noise and nothing could be done to stop it.

Morris has described his feelings as “mystical” and said he felt “enigmatic” before adding, “It has decalcified my magnanimity and bedecked my consternation likewise.”

University of Johanesburg statisticians were asked to translate, but they are still too busy trying to decode his speeches from three weeks ago.

Finally, TK vanished the night before last. There were scratch marks on the wall of the BBA house and rumours of a sighting at the Kenya Airways terminal at the airport, which have prompted a slew of brochures from Anti-Stalking bodyguard firms to fly to Sheila’s hotel.