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.
This is a truck towing Mountain Dew. Stay out of its way
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?
Like the Human Torch. Only a chick
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?
One phone
Other Phone
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.
This picture is just so cool.
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.
Mr E. Bazanye 