I would like to thank all of you, friends, commenters and other remorseless sluts for your contributions to my blog post, my story and, subsequently, my paycheck. I am truly grateful for the outpouring of immoral ideas that have come from my last post in which I asked the question: When do you think it is okay to betray the trust of your loved ones?
A lot of responses indicated that the drop of a hat was sufficient reason.
You have given me more than I could have asked for. I am going to write my article and drown in praise and admiration. I might be the next up for a prestigious journalism award like the ones Shifa Mwesigye of the Observer bes nominated for .
And I will remember to mention you in my speech. After making it seem like I really did do all the work, of course.
The ceremony is going to be awesome. Hugh Jackman and Beyonce will be there.
Beyonce will say, “Ah take great pleasure in announcing this nex’ award. Cos this journalis’ righ’ here? He make meh wanna shoop, baby, you knowwham’sayin’? Sho’ nuff! I read that there ar’cle he wrote and ooh, baby chile, I just couln’t help mahself. I just lawst it! You hear me grrrrls? Canna git an ameeean?”
Then Hugh Jackman will nudge her, eyes full of nuggu, and say, “Git ta da award, ya bonkers Sheila! Roit!”
(“Roit” is how Australians say “Right”. Except Detamble. She speaks English.)
So Beyonce will recover her composure and straighten her dress. It’s the one she wore in that other video. You know the one, yeah?
“Ah’m sawry. Ah do nat know wha’ came over me. I musta bin trippin’. Ah do declare.”
And then because we are tired of her wasting our time swooning over me, she will hand me the award for kickass newspaper articles and leave.
Now, if you want to know, if you care about my opinion on what is cheating and what isn’t, there you go: I am so sprung on one woman that even when I fantasise about Beyonce, she just hands me a journalism award and then leaves the room.
We interrupt this blog post’s scheduled thee-day tenure to bring you a special announcement.
Yo, my peeps, I need your help.
I need to know how you, the public, would, in your various ways, words, points of view, mannerisms, states of mind, inclinations, degrees of morality, personal experiences etc, fill in the gap in the following sentence:
It’s not cheating if……
You should know that I am going to use your answers for an upcoming newspaper article. I won’t use your real names unless you tell me to, so feel free to be anonymous, or unless you are Erique, who deserves to be exposed for the whore he truly is. Thank you so much in advance for filling my comments section with dozens of statements that I can use for my article. Thank you.
This is the story of the Pothole That Saved My Life. And no, it isn’t about how I had to swerve to miss it and ended up in a ditch instead of going on to terminate in a head-on collision with a truck towing Mountain Dew. It’s nothing as dramatic. As that. The Mountain Dew truck was moving quite sedately, and I was stationary.
We shall, as usual, require some background before we start: I have a work colleague who is going to be at M-Net’s stand up comedy compettion on Wednesday. He is one of those pictured in the advert.
I have yet another colleague, one who is sure evidence that being up-front, direct and outspoken are wonderful traits to have in a friend only as long as that friend is not talking about you. She spotted the comic aspirant in the caferteria and said to him: “I saw you on the advert for Stand Up Uganda. Wow! I didn’t even know you were funny.”
That was a scorcher, hotter than the past three days put together. Chick is like Johnny Storm. How do you heckle a guy before he even gets on stage?
But wait. The stand up comic has nothing to do with the tale we were unraveling about the pothole. We were distracted. I should be leading you through the narrow narrative alleys that lead to the climax. We are ambling, as it were, up the preamble. Which goes through one more digression. I need to remind you that I have two phones.
It’s not that I fantasise about a triumph of anarchy and the destruction of the corporate behemoth — oh, no. I am a fervent market supporter and am still in denial about the Global Financial Crisis. I simply refuse to believe it exists.
I just think that innovation should not only come from one end of the dialogue and that customers can also evolve new ways of interacting with the market just as businesses constantly adopt new methods. Having more than one phone line is an excellent way to ensure you have choice and that you are able to maximize convenience on your part. You see? I’m not such an idiot, now, am I?
I have two phones. One that enables me to take advantage of the Mango Jazz talk-all-day for 1k, and one that allows me to play with MTN Zone. I carry both everywhere I go, because I am not a woman. I have pockets.
I hear pins dropping. What did I say? Did I say something wrong?
I was on my way to town to meet a dear old friend of mine. I scattered across the road in my usual harebrained way, rushed and addled and generally in that state Enid Blyton would describe as harum-scarum back when she was alive and in the business of describing things. I flew across the road, dove into the car and sped off towards the office building that was the scene of my appointment.
It was when I got there that I realized one of my phones was missing.
I learnt something very important. There are advantages to being a woman. Because women have handbags. They can carry ten phones if they want.
What? What did I say?
Even though at that time my telephonic capacity had been drastically truncated, I went on to have a very fruitful and very enjoyable evening and only began to worry when I had to go back to the office.
That was when my distress began to mount. I was growing frightened. I returned to office clinging to the hope that I had left it behind for some reason, but that was a vain hope. I have lost enough phones to know one thing: if you call that number and it is off, your phone, my gango, has been stolen.
As I crossed the road to the office building something in the pothole in the middle of the road caught my eye.
Yes, it was the phone that caught my eye. It was lying in the pothole in three pieces. Look, who is telling this story?
I don’t need to belabour the point. The thing had fallen out of my pockets as I dashed out of the office and had settled snugly at the foot of a large pothole that was itself settled in the middle of our road. If the pothole had not been there, the phone would be lying in the middle of the road waiting for someone with covetous eyes to see and then steal it or, if not that, for a car, or maybe even Mountain Dew truck to run over and reducing it to so much Nokia dust.
I don’t know what it was that made me look down into the pothole when I returned to the office that evening. It might just be that Heroes is based on true facts and I am developing strange powers. I thought about the possibility of my guardian angel’s involvement, but I don’t know if my guardian angel approves of the way I used my phone. There was a lot of facebooking that went on with that phone and as we all know, facebooking is a godless activity.
Whichever the case, I got my phone back thanks to potholes. Oh, and when you watch Stand Up Uganda, look out for Titus.
I, too, am dissatisfied and demoralized and disillusioned and de—well, I am not Dee — in that regard, you are on your own, shorty, however, my own affliction is not your typical case of the corporate blues. My Afrascadan issues are acting up again. I am still shoveling shit and it’s really getting me down. I cannot bring myself to write cheery, happy, gleeful stories of the type they pay me for.
I can’t come up with a Bad Idea column for this week. Not unless they allow me to just type the words “Fuck”, “This” and “Shit” a few hundred times in sequence.
So I am going to do something I always thought was beneath me, an act I sneered at every time it was suggested by those I thought were my friends: a loser move like stabbing a chick’s ear for your first kiss sort of move.
I am here to rip out a blog post and hand that in as Bad Idea.
It’s either that or three words. I am sorry, but it has to be done.
In other news, I quit Facebook. It wasn’t easy but after an entire freaking hour of irritation the stupid machine finally got the idea. I have never felt better about myself as a person. Of course I am bored stiff now, because the only thing left to do is work, but still, Elenesiti Bazanye has been deactivated, and Ernest F. Bazanye can now return to service.
Unfortunately, my dubious talent for verbosity still hasn’t regained its original extents, so I continue to write things the length of a status-message.
Eg: “I have never really fancied Beyonce. I think the fact that she was even willing to contemplate a sex-change may have been the reason.”
We have come to the point of crisis, gentlemen. We can no longer pretend that there is nothing wrong. The elephant in the room has laid a doodoo. We must act.
My blog has not been updated for over a week. Something must be done.
If you are still interested in what goes on here, even after seeing the same disgusting story about bestiality on the page for days and days and days, let me offer this explanation: I have a mistress.
I am not saying what I did was right, but I am just saying it so that you understand what happened. I was seduced by another Web2.0 phenomenon not knowing how demanding she can be, how much of my time and energy she will consume. I have been spending so much time on facebook that it has come to the point of an addiction. Seriously. All the energy I would have otherwise spent on coming up with blog posts or, goes into composing status messages. It’s ridiculous. A status message is ONE SENTENCE LONG!
You can see the reason for my grief. I am cheating on you with a single sentence. What is wrong with me? That’s like Jay-Z sleeping with Rosie O’Donnel.
Steps have been taken, though. I am determined to return to more constructive ways of wasting time and office internet resources. I will no longer be a slave to facebook. I am going to quit.
Seriously. On Wednesday.
I have even changed my profile pic to reflect this.
It starts of with a simple exploration of your friends on the site and suddently you are logging on 10 times a day to see if any of your friends have made updates to their profile, changed their relationship status or have posted new videos or articles. Suddnely you are glued to your computer monitor and the only thing on the screen is Facebook.
AN enraged raccoon bit off a man’s penis as the pervert tried to rape the animal.
Russian Alexander Kirilov, 44, was on a drunken weekend with friends when he leapt on the terrified animal.
“When I saw the raccoon I thought I’d have some fun,” he told stunned surgeons in Moscow.
Now Russian plastic surgeons are trying to restore his mangled manhood.
Now, I know I don’t have a lot to blog about today, but I can’t just leave this just fwa like that. We have a special surprise guest with us. Ladies and gentlemen please put your hands together for former Russian man, Alexander Kirilov.
Welcome to the show. I don’t know if I should call you sir. Do I still refer to you as “He”? What pronoun do those who no longer have penises take?
Kirilov: “You can call me it. Not because I have no defining gender attributes, but because I am a sick pervert who thinks bestiality is fun.”
So, the first question, the question on everyone’s mind is, by the standards of disgusting beastiality aficionados like yourself, were you attracted to the raccoon or were you just gross?
Kirilov: I am stupid. I don’t even understand my own motivations.
Is this the first time you have done such a stupid and disgusting thing?
Kirilov: The fact that I was comfortable attempting this in front of my friends suggests that I have done it before. I doubt that any person would stage their first attempt at a raccoon in public. Chances are, I was accustomed to this sort of thing.
How is the Raccoon now?
Racoon is fine now.
And you are?
Without a penis right now.
Did the doctors refuse to reattach it?
They are in meetings with Russian Animal Rights Activists and People with Common Sense trying to find a loophole in the Hippocratic oath that will allow them to just throw my dick away, thus ensuring that I can never misuse it again.
From the people who brought you How To Start A Bar Fight and How To Slowdance With The Opposite Sex, it’s The Uptowner 12 Step-Guide Presents How To Cook! Yeah, baby! Applaud wildly!
1.Collect your stuff. Expert cooks will tell you it is important to make sure you have everything you need right there in front of you before you even begin. You can assemble all your cooking stuff here on the sideboard.
2.What does this cooking stuff include? Glad you asked. Three things.
a)First of all you need equipment. A cooker of some sort is going to be required. Gas, electric, paraffin-fueled, they manufacture quite a variety these days so you could be spoilt for choice. You will also need saucepans and wooden spoons as well as the amusingly-named “skillet”. I like the sound of that word. “Skillet”. I wish it was a cussword. “Skillet!!” looks so much better than “bastard piece of rotfuck!!”
b)Secondly, you will need some uncooked food. The technical term for uncooked food is “ingredients”, which is not as fun a word as skillet, unfortunately. Examples of ingredients are eggs, onions, tomatoes, and spaghetti while it is still wrapped.
c)Thirdly, you will need courage in your heart. Cooking is not an activity for the weak. One small mistake and you could burn yourself or poison everybody. You need steely nerves and unshakeable conviction in the righteousness of your cause.
3.Put some 80s music on. We learn from sitcoms that this is an essential part of the process. Every time they cook on TV, what plays in the background as we progress through a montage of hilarious scenes, including one where a character is covered in flour? That’s right. 80s. Pat Benetar, LaBelle or Bananarama. Wonder how they cooked in the 70s.
4.Have the phone nearby. It is my experience that whenever you start cooking, you will get a call when you are halfway through the process. It always happens to me. In fact, put the hands-free on.
5.Okay. Now light the cooker.
6.With a match, doofus.
7.Because you have not switched on the gas. Turn on the gas, then light the cooker.
8.And the phone is ringing. The vibration on the sideboard is making more noise than the actual ringtone. Who is it? Brenda? Tell her what’s up. Tell her I have Heroes season 3 up to episode 12 so if she talks to me nicely I might be amenable.
9.I am sure you can fill the pan with water and place it on the cooker while you speak. It is not illegal to do both at the same time.
10.She wants Prison Break? I don’t have Prison Break. Put an egg into the pan. I don’t like Teabag. I have House, though.
11.Dude! Gosh. Give me a minute to grab my head in my hands and squeeze the way German superstar goalkeeper Ollie Kahn grabs the football. You don’t have to break the eggs to boil them. You put them in the water unbroken, whole, and without any cracks. Oh, Skillet!
12.Tell Brenda for me that if she is coming for the series, does she mind passing by Chicken Express?
I’ve been hearing too many lies about Africa recently. Too many.
Life in Africa was perfect before the white man came along.
The white man abducted Africans to make them slaves without the complicity of any Africans.
Tyranny, war, pestilence and poverty were unknown before colonialism.
The persistence of poverty in Africa is the result of a deliberate plan by the West ensure Africa never challenges their cultural supremacy.
The problem with this view is that it forgets one simple fact. That Africans are an intelligent and rational people, too. Just like everyone else on the planet. If you take that into account, all those lies collapse.
When you idealise the past in this way, you need to first recast our ancestors as simpleminded buffoons, incapable of the simple logical steps that lead societies to do the things they do—secure property and increase their wealth through wars, for example.
And you have to reduce the African mind to a malleable childlike state to ensure that it stays incapable of guile and to ensure that it stays vulnerable to the manipulation by a few white people so that you can argue that Africans just sat there to be picked off the coast by slave-harvesters.
To believe that pre-colonial Africans never waged wars and lived in perfect communist societies under wise and benevolent kings for all the centuries prior to the arrival of the white man, you have to remove from those Africans the basic intelligence that tells you simple things every child learns very early age: that if you see something you want, and you have the power to take it, you can have it.
We condemn British empire building, yet celebrate Shaka Zulu and even our own Ugandan kingdoms. But how are kingdoms built? Is it not through the same process as empires? By subjugating smaller, weaker political entities under your control? Didn’t we have to kill and steal to build our glorious African kingdoms? Or is it only wrong if a white man does it?
We romanticize the past to the point where even the most heinous violations of basic human dignity are cited as examples of rich nobility. I have heard people speak of, say, the tradition that the king had the right to sleep with any woman in the kingdom as if it is evidence of love and generosity on the part of the kabaka. As if they can’t see anything wrong with living under the reign of a man who won’t even respect your right to your own wife.
I am not embarrassed to say that I have ancestors who were hunter-gatherers somewhere along the line. I am not ashamed to have descended from farmers, even if they did worship a tree. Everyone—even the Europeans— is descended from savage cultures, and there is no shame in tilling the land to feed your family, whether you use a bronze-age hoe or a combine harvester.
The revisionism which cannot sustain itself without insulting all the generations prior to colonialism may be pervasive, but it is not as dangerous as the ostrich-like head-burying of those who carry this philosophy past the 60s and continue to insist that Africans are the dumb victims of the cruel machinations of a Muzungu conspiracy to keep us down.
African economies take blow after blow from epic mismanagement, from the psychotic levels of theft by our governments, from war after war, from tribalism fanned by cynical sectarian demagogues, and during all this time the masses can’t find clean water or a pill to cure their malaria. And when they ask us, the lucky few, what is wrong, we turn away from the true villains: we declare that it is the white man.
As if the white man built a mansion out of Gavi funds.
Anyway. Now that I have got that off my chest, let me work on a blog post…