No Hard Feelings Buddy, You Are Not Invited.

I don't like visitors. They make me awkward. I can "be easy" if the visitor has, say, a 750ml Bond7 whiskey. In that case, we'll be BFFs for the next two hours or so.

After that, Adios! Later! Go Away! Bye!

No hard feelings...

Er, unless it's a girl and she's a visual orgasm numero uno - then we'll leave the hard feeling (or two) in some random rubber.

So, really, no hard feelings.

It is a pleasant afternoon, I'm trying to fix my dad's old Mitsubishi Pajero. One of the pistons isn't firing so I'm in overalls all greasy and everything, cranking up the engine like it's my third arm.

Then a fellow shows up. I don't care to look up. Because, you see,I left all my fucks in my other pair of jeans.

"Arthur, right? I can't believe this! I didn't know you come from this pocket of the country! Jesus (to mum), I know Arthur! I was with him at Nsibirwa--"

7. Mmmkay, if our acquaintance is somehow underscored by Nsibirwa Hall, Makerere University, you're a goon.

You fellas fired Oga, my only source of free cigarettes. How heartless! What happened to A.P.??

And you crap too much.

Y'all look like you've just visited the shitter all the time - all bored smiles and teary eyes. Heck, your toilets have dibbs on poop. They're the reason why all latrines around the country stink. Blaming your toilets for being filthy is like blaming Sevo for being president. Or Straka for being fat. It is fruitless.

6. It's 3pm and I'm bargaining with this hunger in my tummy to get on its best behavior and stay on the DL ..

With all the reefer on my head, that's  like stifling a boner while watching Chinese teen porn. C'est absolument impossible.

So, when my mother, sweet woman that she is, offered you a 2nd helping, you were supposed to politely refuse. All 2nd helpings are pour moi - for me.

The hint was when I sucked my teeth and made one eye smaller. You clearly didn't get.

5. And by God, do you really really have to finish every last piece on the plate? Jesus, you have even eaten the pattern off that plate. This is supposed to be lunch, not a goddamn food convention.

Now what will my puppy eat?

Do you think he goes around doing random deeds of kindness? Food is his idea of a payday you goddamn mutt. Scheiß!

4. I hate 8-9pm because soap operas. They sound like taking a crap but through the nostrils. I think they rehearse and/or shoot the breathing part(s) separately.

But it's the only time I have to be with family. So sincerely, that Christian broadcast on Impact fm can wait.

It's not like Jesus is going anywhere or anything.

And he's playing it on speaker phone - those Chinese ones whose ringtones can be heard in the middle of a packed club.

I was like, "hey, buddy, you must be such a Christian. That's awesome. Here, have my earphones. This soap is really funny! Have you heard the way they breath..?"

3. "It's getting late, why don't you sleep over?" is my mother's idea of being nice. She doesn't really mean it. Even if she does, be a gent and bounce. You don't want to wake up and the whole place is crawling with bed-bugs and everyone is all, "I don't get it. These bugs showed up right about the same time that Red-Shirt dude slept over."

2. I've got abs - really nice ones. In fact, when NTV was doing that story on masturbation, I wanted to ask, "what if you don't watch porn and you have a fly ass babe (who can make her titties wink for real) and you honestly don't mean to jerk off but you step out the shower and you look at the mirror and gosh, it's so damn sexy..."

So you've got yourself some abs. We all have them, it's nothing special. So, beyond the 4 meters from the bathroom, don't walk around in a towel. What are you trying to do, bang our maid?

1. I just got the July/August collection of Chinese Teen Porn. Bring back my earphones.


Sincerely,
Me.

posted from Bloggeroid

Ay, Badilisha this Thing. Gotta Go!

Greetings from rainy Mbale, where "gals" are women, people are "folks," a little bit is a "skosh," if you're tired you're "logy," if something is a little off it's "hinky," when the sun comes up it's never called sun but always "sunshine," boyfriends and girlfriends are "partners," beer tastes better than it has any right to, you're not allowed to cuss but someone might occasionally "drop the c-bomb," you can cough but only into your elbow, and any request, reasonable or unreasonable, is met with "no worries."

It's all rot and funk up here. And I'm stuck in it. I thought I'd be out of here right after intern but whaddayaknow? My folks heard about the MUK lecturers strike.

"We don't want you to go and start "lousing" around and sleeping in baalas (bars). You'll leave when school starts (i.e. when we watch it on the 9 o'clock news).'

Closing baalas (and chasing fast women and trouble) is exactly what I want to do for the next 3weeks or so. I had a tidy, neat, little excuse in my back pocket for my folks. That "I gats to be at Campus like ASAP coz, guys left me with the key of the lecture room's like trash can's padlock..."

My dad said, "Son, it's called thinking outside the box, not thinking outside the dictionary. You'll report when I say you report."

I was infinitely miffed. See, it is not just boredom up here, it is boredom plus losing the will to live. Like smashing my brains on a pavement would be an easy call right now. Sadly, there's a six month waiting list for if you want to jump off the roof of Mulago Hospital.

It isn't that I expected home to be all fancy schmancy or that I'm exactly eager to get back to the campus routine of dealing with the who's who of magnanimous assholes from wherever and beyond, it is just that there's nothing happening here!

The place is so empty, there's more activity in Jacob Oulanya's head.

Don't get me wrong, I love home - a lot. But I hate - no, not hate - I loathe inactivity more.

Did you know? The leading cause of death in Mbale is people falling asleep. Mudslides are running a close second - but that's just because people are asleep.

In fact, I kinda miss Intern. Even though it took so long, that Craig Kadooda went through menopause.

Even though I had to put up with barbaric, annoying questions such as;

"Where are you from? Did you go to College? Did you go to Prison? Do you have a girlfriend? Do you have a will? Am I in it?"

Even though I wish to but etiquette demands that I don't respond with, "Yes, also, I'd very much like to replace your teeth with my fist."

At least when I was going through that intern drill, I didn't have to spend so much time listening to my weed dealer's life stories; for which, I'm awarded marijuana mountains which leave me pushy, obnoxious, crass - anything and everything - the full catastrophe.

I want to go. Anywhere. Badilisha this shit, the world awaits my grand entrance. It's my show. And as always, I'm running late.

*Drags on cigarette*

And it's so freakin cold! Gosh, I've had to pee ever since I picked up my phone to scribble this.

P.S. I fully expect you to charge me for the time it takes to go through these ramblings. But I'm dirt broke so spend whatever you hadn't intended to and put it on this blog.

Happy Academic Year, 2013/2014!

Sincerely,
Peeing.

posted from Bloggeroid

Let's Play "Who's The Baby-Daddy?"

On some evenings, a random relative pops in for a chat with Mother – a little gossip here and there. I never bother to listen because (*dotcom whine alert*) it kills my internet vibe. While they blabbermouth, I’m all chill on the sofa, tweeting away like I don’t put on my pants one leg at a time like everyone else.

Bitch, Dant Kill My Vibe

I could've tried to follow their conversation if it didn’t sound so much like Yoko Ono singing.

It would’ve been easier if I wasn’t reading Joan Rivers’ bat shit crazy book. Even easier if I wasn’t watching Klint the Drunk on that NTV show – the one with the dude who has a closet which looks like your dirty laundry basket.

Despite all that, a story caught my attention and I thought I might just share it with you, my dear *insert relationship status here*. It is high time I wrote something that didn’t leave me feeling entirely like a literally gas bag or a transcendental schmuck.

This young girl, let’s call her Miss My-Thighs-Are-Never-Never-Ever-Getting-Back-Together. She’s my cousin, or niece. Sometimes I fail to get the difference.

Apparently, this girl’s legs have spread so far and wide, the only way she can get them together is by calling for a parade every last Tuesday of the month. 

So good to have both of you here again. Now, in our last meeting...

Rumour says she has had sex in places which are so tiny, that the rats that live there are hunchbacked.

Sadly, she got knocked up in one of these dingy hideouts sometime last year. Slutty Legs didn’t know who the father was. Slutty Legs put it on some pimple-faced high school-dropout. I’ve met this guy. He is so nice it is irritating. You know those people who never fail to compliment? You tell him that some white chum killed Thirty Three bloody kids and buried them in his back yard and he says;

“Well, he sure was a hardworking fella,” he ponders, “All the thirty three?! Boy, he must have a really huge back yard.”

His niceness, however couldn’t keep the girl’s parents from fining him 1.8Mill – UgShs – Cash.

*Checks Forex Markets*

Yes, those will be 720 Cold Nile Special Beers.

Sighs.

When I refuse to cross with high school girls with their heart-shaped asses and wry smiles, people call me a fala. And I don’t mean to brag but the fact is that if Campus babes checked me out half as much as high school girls did, I would have something resembling a sex life. But I’ve been turned down by so many Campus babes, I should probably apply for government funding.

When the baby was born, it was handsome, which was confusing because my friend Pimple-Face looks something like a black avalanche. 

That's your son. You both look hungry. See?

The girl thought that perhaps the kid had a condition like slow metabolism or a glandular condition and would, in a few months, ease into its father’s ugliness. It didn’t happen.

Instead, the baby looked more and more like the twins who smoke weed down by the river.

It gets better.

The twins came to demand for their kid – separately.

At this point, the story teller started unwrapping a candy bar slooooooowlyy and annoyingly, demanding one more like on Kukuss Blog.

But he knew that if you turn your radio volume down to the bottom, you’ll hear Mama Fina tell the end of the story. So he’ll continue. Because he’s such a show off.

The twins are gut-chewing, good for nothings who steal their auntie’s purse money at times. They live on the streets looking for a quick buck. 

To date, my cousin doesn’t know which one of these goons is her baby-daddy because they are totally identical.

Pause. 

This is the part where we play the Which-family-is-more-disappointed game. 

It’s kinda like the Radio-Lillian-Weasle scenario. Except that my cousin, Miss Slutty, is a nun when compared to Miss Lillian. Like babe, Radio and Weasle are not even twins!

Blech

Anyways, I have nothing on her. Who knows? Maybe when she was studying The Balanced Diet in Lower school, the teacher overemphasized the point that semen was one of the four basic food groups.

I bet the twins sometimes got to the riverside and be all chill and smoking weed and one of em goes like;

"Dude, you know that baby could have easily been there before I hit her?"

The other is like;

“I know, right?! That’s why you’re getting the diapers today.”

*  *  *

On a serious note though, defilement (and bestiality) is some serious shit nowadays. Young girls are promised dates with free meals while the goons get free feels. I don’t know what they promise the animals though, I’ll refer that query to the Kenyans.

But if you’re one of those girls with a Jamaican dancehall ass and the abs of a lesbian gym owner and the arms of Michelle Obama and doll tits and you’re all for guys’ attention, please, set yourself on fire – you’ll have our undivided focus. Don’t shag every Dong, Dick and Jimmy. 

You don’t know what you might catch out there. My friend Pimple-Face lost his parents to HIV so what’s to say everyone in this story isn't already six-under?

To learn more about defilement, like this page and join the movement to stop the scourge. 

Yours truly,

Still Not Getting Any

Follow Me on Facebook and Like Me on Twitter. Pardon the confusion. Share the story - click the thingee down there >>

Hey, stop touching yourself!  

This is the Fasting Season, not the Farting Season

A chap, high on the hashish, boards a bus…

Now, at this point, the story could take very many turns. The guy could refuse to pay the fare, he could rhyme to Bobi Wine weed song(s?) or he could try selling the half-stick of marijuana in his shirt pocket to the driver.

The story can go both ways – ay, that’s not a buffalo. We’re still waiting for Prince Cambridge to invent “thrice ways”. Until then, yuck it up.

But the chap is Arthur Wonny (until recently, aka Timmy) So the story will most likely be a lurid tale of anxiety. And cowardice.

*

I sat across from a sweet little dumdum. Immediately to my right, a fella without a lick of hair on his head shuffled in his seat. Half-wits don’t need Google Images to identify Muslims. Their hair has this high affinity for the chin and, apparently, likes to be called Side Burrrn.

Anyway, I’m high, hot chic to my left, Muslim to my right – basically, something which would make the perfect rap line. I’m still deciding whether to pull out my phone and tweet about it when all of a sudden…BA-BOMB!

A fart the size of Zaire upper-cutted my nostrils like POOFFFFFF-AAHHH!

Sweet Jesus, what the - hey! Can't you see the sign???

Instant.Amnesia.

I quickly turned and scowled my nose. Sweet Dumdum looked at me the same way Minnie looks at Mickey when they are about to have sex but Mickey says some inappropriate claptrap and Minnie pulls her panties back on. And Mickey pulls out a gun like

Bitch, you better gimme some

I managed a half smile – half scowl and pulled out my John Grisham. You’re a mutt and you deserve to die if you think I should have said/done something.

Like, “hey, is it you or is it me who just launched some massive weaponry of ass-destruction? What, me? Well Kudos to myself you fuckin muck.”

When I was a tween – which is just a teen who hasn’t given/received a blowjob yet – farting was a commonplace fool’s errand. We found that shit funny. If it wasn’t for my lack of memory (or, to put a positive spin on it, my surplus of forgetfulness), I bet I could remember all the members of Team Fart-In-People’s-Lockers-During-Lunch-Break.

So, I let it slide. Perhaps he was having a tough time keeping things together – what, with all the fasting and everything. I looked at him with quiet, feigned, empathy like the whole thing was a wonderful misunderstanding.

Before long, the guy raised his foot and about four seconds later, the sneaky little fart sodomised my nostrils – Again. I swear to God, I’m not lying – the guy smiled.

Oh, so it’s like that motherfucker?

I wasn’t going to sit around inhaling whatever daku (spelling?) this Willy Wanker had stuffed at dawn because I’m trying to be nice because this asshole is having a bad day? Or should I say that this asshole’s asshole is having a bad day?

I was going to manufacture my own fart and send it right back.

**You can place your bets here**

I tried. I focused. I thought about food and bog and everything that has been associated with farts. 

But Weetabix and weed give lousy farts so mine came out kinda like a kitten purr. No one heard it, not even my neighbours, Pretty Dumdum and Boldhead Farts.

I felt small and embarrassed.

To make matters worse, he let out another bazooker. And he had this amused look like he was making my day by shooting bughatti farts at a rate of 5farts/km.

I’m a coward. I didn’t have the language to express my feelings but questions were running through my head like;

Did I wake up this morning and say to myself, ‘Self, what would make your day?... Hitting the lottery?... Becoming a ninja?...The unexpected death of Justin Beiber? Sitting on a cross-country bus inhaling Muslim Farts? Why, yes, that would make my day. In fact it would make my life worth living!’

Paris Jackson, please walk me through one of your suicide sessions. Thank you, you may now kill yourself like you’ve always wanted.

*

I don’t know a lot about anything but I know a little bit of everything. When it comes to fasting (and farting), I believe you are supposed to keep it to yourself. As soon as it clocks 6pm – immediately, on the dot, the fella announces that he has been fasting and orders for a stick of meat chops. Like dude, you’ll be home in 15 minutes, would it make much difference? Matter of fact, why not go like 3 or 4 or 40 days like Jesus?

Wait, Jesus was a Christian

That sounds funny. Almost like saying Arthur was a Kukuss.

I’m out of stuff to write. But if any of this offends you, or you happen to love puppies and kittens and the infirm… well… I’m impressed. I don’t like you much, but I’m impressed.

Okay, bye.

By the way I speak Koisan. We use click-click-clacks to keep relationships. So lovers and haters, do click Like Kukuss Blog on Facebook and Follow Me on Twitter. You'll be in niceness itselef. 

We do a lot of Things. Love is not one of ‘em, you feel me?

Okay, I lied. My heart is in my pants so feel free to fall in love.

A few months ago, my friend Freddie introduced me to her friend *insert name here*. Facebook requests were sent, numbers were swapped and Whatsapp messages started flying back and forth…blah blah blah, you know the drill. I had no intentions whatsoever of sleeping with her – at all.  

But as always, Vodka happened.

You must sleep around a lot

The three of us linked up in Kansanga – it was the second time I was seeing my new friend. We drank a lot that night. At some point, we bumped into Bizo, my future Alcoholics Anonymous session mate. He bought us booze, let me touch his girlfriend and invited us to crash at his place.

There were only two beds in the room. Bizo crashed with Freddie and I crashed with her friend. A few inappropriate touches led to some really amazing fellatio. I’d noticed she’s rather calm and quiet in character. So I didn’t introduce my Jimmy to her Jenny because we all know the quiet ones are screamers.

We left it at that.

In the morning, Bizo woke us up with Leading Waragi. We spent the whole Sunday drinking, playing cards and smoking cigarettes. By lunch time, I was drunk enough to let her blow my wang’s imagination away one more time. She did it four times – once in the john.

I'm not sure if it was some sort of World BlowJob Day but she just kept going at it like;

At around 7pm, she told me that she had to leave. I told her it would be selfish and unfair of me to get blown by a babe and not return the favor. So we left the party and went to my place and Jenny was introduced to Jimmy.

When I woke up in the morning, I took a really good look at her. I didn’t know a thing about this girl. For the first time, I noticed that she was like four times my size, I noticed her tomboy character. I realized that if there ever was a relationship between us, I would be the bitch. I had intended for it to be a hit and run but I was scared that if I told her, things might go south and she would beat the living crap out of a brother.

Now the rule is, More Sex = No Death. Okay?

So I decided to play it out a little longer. I hoped that we’d interact and I’d know something about her that doesn’t entirely involve procreation ammo and alcohol. She turned out to be nice. I found out she was kind, generous (four blowjobs, duh) and temperate. The best news was that she wouldn’t, in a million years, thump me even if I said the barmiest shit.

After semester closed, I travelled back to Mbale. We kept in contact. I jokingly told Freddie to come see me out here. I didn’t think she would show up but lemme tell you something.

Freddie.is.one.Kukuss.bitch

She came with my chubby friend and her girlfriend.

I was broke, as always. I called up my hommie Jef and told him that I was stuck with two lesbians and another big girl who might or might not also be a lesbian. He checked us into a room at his motel and got us a Uganda Waragi.

It was a fun night. We went to club. Freddie introduced my chubby friend as “Arthur’s girlfriend” and I played along. I couldn’t help noticing the wry smiles that my hommies threw at me and my brand new “girlfriend”. I don’t know how to paint this picture – me all scrawny looking and skinny and everything and a gargantuan babe by my side. Just know there was something awfully wrong with that picture.

I loved the attention though.

After tipping back a few,  my mind was working along the lines of;

Also, Freddie’s girlfriend was "kinda tired". So I took the girls back to the motel. We left Freddie trying to talk Jef into donating some sperm to her because she thinks he is just so handsome.

I had earlier intended to tactfully break things off with this babe because we were just not compatible. Like I really enjoyed her company and everything but I am way too small. I didn’t want to lead her on when I knew that I didn’t feel that way you know. Bitches have done that shit to me many times before and it hurts like a bitch. A girl leads you on and just when you think you’ve got a thing going, she tells you that you listen to whack music and your dong looks funny and ‘go fuck yourself you fuckin feral broke ass clown’.

But I couldn’t just break up with someone who had travelled more than 300 friggin kilometers to see me. I had to have sex with her like the good host that I am. So I’m on this titanic bed with Freddie’s girl on one side and my girl on the other. I start making out with my girl and things get a little heated and we realize (with overwhelming disappointment) that Freddie’s girl won’t join us.

Things I pray I'll never have to say >>

Newton must've wrote a rule against saying that shit

We shift the party to the bathroom. 

I don’t know what happened in that bathroom but Jef tells me that the toilet needs to be repaired.

I think break-up sex that runs along the lines of a broken toilet is more than most people get. I hope she reads this. I hope she understands. The fact that our whole relationship can be put in less than 1000 words is proof that we can’t be together.

The worst thing about this break-up is that I now have no one to think of when I masturbate. She had mad skills yo.

Show me some L.O.V.E. people. Like me on Facebook and Follow me on Twitter.

Yours,
Drug Addled Poindexter. I put the E.R. in Nerd.