Take a Hint, People Don’t Like You

We live in civil times. Manners and courtesy are emphasized and violence is often discouraged. Nowadays, even rappers stop at lame lines about the female anatomy and fake jewellery. You don’t have to pick up a piece (gun, fool) to ‘pop a cap in damn foos’ to sell a record.

Just tell kids to stay away from drugs and promote gay rights, your record will fly off the stands.

Dream Chasers’ Lil Snupe was shot this week over gambling or something. Pretty sure it wasn’t over his rap genius. If a rapper is too angry, and I mean really angry, he’ll take the rival rapper’s mother for shopping and, depending on how much they drink, will sex with her.

No harm, right?

Welcome to the 21^st Century

Somewhere in between, we trek the fine line that divides being nice and having the overpowering, tremendous desire to stuff a shoe in someone’s mouth.

Honestly I don't like you, please go away!

People don’t wanna be rude or hurt nobody so they become “yes people” and suck up to a lot of other people’s meaningless twaddle (read bullshit).

Someone may smile sweetly at you but in his/her mind, (s)he is irately throwing a truckload of bricks at your head.

I do it all the time.

People are annoying. I am a prime example of that fact. I wouldn’t want to be in my company after a few bottles of counterfeit alcohol. I feel like I am at this grand TV talk show where I can talk shit and use sarcasm to slap people in the audience.

Like, “Ay Wonny, you’re drunk. Close your head. I feel a lot of BS coming out of it.”

“Oh, shut up you fuckin nothing. What, you want me to spit Newtonian Mechanics? I’m sorry, bullshit is all you’re getting tonight ‘cause I’m all out faded. Also, you look like 7 different shades of bullshit.”

And he’ll still “like”me the following evening. Yet he actually feels like screaming;

And that night, I will hook up with a fat, older woman who should know better than to dive in a bottle of Uganda Waragi before 8pm. I tell her to sit on the counter because I am the boss and because I want to embarrass and piss my friends off.

I have no idea how she squeezed into that really short miniskirt but…yeah, you know about fat girls in short miniskirts sitting on bar counters and drinking alcohol.

Mini strip show

I love you, get wasted with me please...

And they’ll still “like” me the following evening.

That night, I sense the negativity because no one will get me a Nile Special on credit. I grab a Coffee Spirit because it is cheaper than dirt and because the manufacturers are not yet sure of its percentage alcohol content. Or is it acohol percentage content?

A little mathematics >>

Coffee + Alcohol = Overwhelming desire to celebrate like Sevo after a Cranes game. So I climb on the pool table and scream at my opponent (turns out he is the bouncer);

“You call yourself a bouncer? You are such a bitch!”

Then I try to skid on the cushion Rooney-style and I fall off and I have to be escorted home to my worried mother.

And they still “like me” the following evening.

That night, from their bland smiles, I know word has got around. Arthur is a kukuss embarrassing asshole and any attempt to let him loosen up should be avoided at all costs. 

He didn't have to chase me. He gave me the dead beat eyes and mentioned something about swamps and I took the hint. I drifted to the malwa joint where I called someone a crook and they told me to learn how to;

Well, they weren't white though...

Nowadays, I’m a Persona Non Grata in most circles. So I spend my evenings smoking pot, trying to earn some Tweet Cred and lying to my parents about the internet.

I know sometimes you feel like doing this as soon as you come here;

Ever felt like doing this to a Page?

Just know I'm staying up, waiting to make one more person happy like;

Just one more "Like" and I'll go to bed

Like Kukuss Blog on Facebook and Follow me on Twitter for insane posts, updates, facts, wtf questions, pics and everything that can’t fit here.

Merci mesdames messieurs

Grappling with the First Move - By Nimusiima Edward

Curse words and bad mother jokes are what defines this part of the blogosphere. However, tonight we have something new. Something fresh, drumroll please. Allow me to introduce my bradda from another mother, Nimusiima Edward, whom I call Ed...whom I've never met outside the internets and who's one of the most talented motherfuckers of our age.

He is such a badass, he doesn't use a pen or a paper, he just thinks up stuff and it lays itself bare on the page like that woman I woke up next to last Sunday afternoon. The only difference is that his work is stunning and she is...well, as beautiful as a woman can be after countless bottles of counterfeit alcohol. 

This piece will most likely leave you hitting on everything in a dress (including mannequins). And most likely, you'll get slapped by everything in a dress (including mannequins).

Enjoy

"Grappling with the First Move"

Making the first move to a girl has been bloody hard since when God was a boy. It is tedious and hard and needs one to bring his bravado to the fore. It scares me shitless. I grapple with it but then again, every sod who pees while standing can testify to it; one needs to exhibit infinite temerity and confidence to put his foot before another to pursue a lass.

Why is it hard, for chrissake?

I had a friend of mine at a certain shindig; a highbrow shindig. We slouched at our stools with glasses of our favourite poison nestled jealously in our hands. We sipped on our drinks slowly and jabbered a lot, with booze slowly embracing us in its frigging grip, and shooing us to typsy-ville.

My pal is this sharp bloke; sharp like a whip, hustler extraordinaire and he was blessed (or cursed by) an insatiable appetite for women. Who doesn't? Show me one and I'll show you a homo, or a moron.

It had been a while since we last met. We last met before the world moved on and we tossed to good old days. He had an obedient beard to which I was on a lookout to see an animal slither out. He was good looking to boot; quitessential male charm with cobalt eyes that turn ladies into putty, like Daniel Craig eyes. He still had his penchant for garments with instincts of a metro-sexual; smartass. A skinny tie tied studiously in his neck; it looked like a camel's tongue, that tie. He looked like a black version of Harvey Specter in Suits. He's shaven close to his scalp.

He would lethargically throw a swig at the back of his throat, squirms and spews about something corny, mainly women. He was fiercely single, he whined as he emptied his glass. I chortled, looked away and laughed hard. He tapped my shoulder and pointed at the door.

A lady shadowed the door; a pretty little lass teteered in high heels that made her dwarf everything; she was poised on her toes, literally, like a deer about to run. Tall, slender with an ungodly ass.

He bit his lower lip, my friend, leaned closer to me, noses almost touching, and hissed, "She is mine, that girl!".

 The lass sauntered in and ambled gently as if she's brittle, that she would veer off and shatter her beauty. She curled herself at the far-end. She had sexy oval-shaped eyes and well oiled luscious lips with her bustle trying to catch up with her; a rare gem, that pretty little thing.

 My friend fumbled with confidence. His heart throbbed in his ears. And even though he was already in typsy-ville, he was as scared as bat shit falling through the night sky. 

He wanted to pee. "Shit, I gotta go. Watch and learn." He said, gently as he twisted his tie slightly, the way James Bond does before whining, "shaken or stirred". He was afraid to put his foot before the other, afraid to indulge, to push the boat, whatever gongs your bell. His knees drifted, and turned jelly.

He gawked at her, more intently, like an archeologist's staring at a treasured stone. His stiff face melted with phobia and a slight smile stretched his cheeks. I cackled with mirth. He cleared his throat, stepped off his stool and waltzed off.

He instead bundled outside.

***

Before you do anything rash, I suggest you Like me on Facebook and Follow me on Twitter. There are a few pointers on how to dodge slaps there.

I'm Just a Goodfella, Don't Call Me Funny

You know, I always bump into people and they tell me that they like this blog and they think it isreally funny? Umhuh?

I wonder, funny how?

Please, explain yourself...funny how?

One of my most favorite movies of all time is the 1990 movie, Goodfellas. My favorite character is Tommy, played by Joe Pesci, the short dude who also starred as one of the villains in Home Alone.


Check out this excerpt from the Goodfellas movie. Tommy is hanging out with Henry and the Goodfellas at the bar and Tommy is a real funny fella, wisecracking and all; Here's how he responds when Henry calls him "funny".

***

Tommy:          I had a back job over in Dallas and this nut job comes over to me slaying dominoes, he’s like what the fuck are you doing? I tell him, ‘I’m resting.’

(Nut Job) Hell yeah you’re resting.

(Tommy) I’m resting. I know I’m resting!

Tommy (continued): He starts saying all sorts of things you know asking all kinds of questions. He (Nut Job) says, ‘so tough guy what are you gonna tell me?’

I tell him the usual, zero, nothing! What should I tell you? The fuck?

He says, ‘no, you gonna tell me something today tough guy.

I said, ‘Alright, I’ll tell you something. Go fuck your mother!’

*laughter*

Tommy (continues narrative): So now I’m coming around you know, I start to come out of it. Who do I see infront of me? This pricky gangster, he says what do you wanna tell me now, tough guy?

I said, ‘Bing, what are ya still doing here? I thought I told you to go fuck your mother!’

*laughter**

Tommy (continues between laughs): I thought he was gonna shit!

*laughter**

Henry says between coughs, ‘you’re a really funny guy! Really funny!’

Tommy (takes on a more serious note): What do you mean I’m funny?

The rest are still chuckling but the mood is getting a tart more serious.

Henry: W-well, your story y-you know…you’re a funny guy.

He takes a drink, a little intimidated. Others think the act is still a part of the joke.

Tommy: What do you mean? Like the way I talk?

Henry:            Y’know, y-you’re just funny…it’s y’know the way you tell the story and everything…

Everyone is now silent and attentive, they notice that Tommy is actually serious.

Tommy: Funny how? I mean, what’s funny about it?’

Anthony (One of the Gang stars): Tommy, y-you got it all wrong…

Tommy: Wait Anthony, he’s a big boy, he knows what he said. (Turns back to Henry) Funny how?

*silence**

Henry: J-just—just you know, you’re funny…

Tommy: Wait, lemme understand you ‘cause I might be a lil’ fucked up maybe, (leans in closer), but funny how? Like I am a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh? I fuckin amuse you? What do you mean funny? Tell me, how am I funny?

*silence**

Henry: Y’know…just— (lost for words) y’know how you tell the story…

Tommy: No, no I don’t know. You said it. How do I know? You said I’m funny. How the fuck am I funny? (Raises his tone a notch). What the fuck is so funny about me? Tell me, tell me what’s funny?

*loud silence***

All the gangsters are quiet. They know any moment now, Tommy is going to pull out his gun and whack Henry because getting whacked is as easy as telling someone they‘re funny when they don’t wanna hear it. Everyone pay attention.

Henry(throws his hands up in resignation):            Get the fuck outta here Tommy!

Whole table bursts in laughter.

Tommy (shouts): Motherfucker, I almost had him! I almost had him! (laughs) You stuttering prick! Frankie, is he sweating? Was he shaking?

At this point the waiter leans over so that his head is level with Tommy’s.

Tommy (to the waiter): What the fuck is wrong with you? I thought I was getting pinched already! He’s hanging around my fuckin neck like a vulture! Like a pending day, whaddayawant?

Waiter (Discreetly): This guy’s worried you know, he wants you to go over and get check y’know, thought you’d take care of it y’know.

Tommy: Sure, no problem, go put it on my table, of course.

Waiter (apologetic): You see, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You know it’s seven fuckin big ones mehn. Seven fuckin g’s you owe me mehn.

Tommy takes a sip, obviously irritated and feeling embarrassed in front of his colleagues.

Waiter (continues): Seven g’s men, I don’t mean to be out of order but—

Tommy: You don’t mean to be out of order? Of course you don’t mean to be out of order, you just want to embarrass me in front of my friends. You want them to call me a dead beat y’know.

(Pulls the waiter, Sonny’s tie) You know Sonny, you’re a real fuckin muck’

Sonny: What do you mean I –

Tommy: You know the amount of money we spend in this fuckin ---

By this time he’s pulling on the guy’s tie. A real Nigga moment is about to happen. Sonny is all shaky and apologetic.

Sonny: Comeon, Tommy don’t be like that—

Tommy: What do you mean don’t be like that? (Pulls down Sonny, keeping him level).

Now, he reaches out in a swift movement for the bottle of liquor and swerves it straight at the waiter’s head! The whole table laughs as Tommy, who’s like 5ft tall, kicks the waiter’s butt as he scampers away.

That’s gangster.

Tommy: Can you believe this prick? (Bustling with self importance), that’s funny huh?

There’s a guy putting on a Hawaiian shirt, standing there and obviously shocked at what he’s just seen.

Tommy (to Hawaiian Shirt): What the fuck are you lookin’ at? (Hurls a tray at the dude!) You fuckin moron.

The gang stars are literally in multiple fits of laughter.

Tommy (continues): can you believe this prick?

Henry: You’re a funny guy!

Tommy pulls out a gun and points it at Henry.

Tommy: That’s it Henry! That’s it Henry! You’re a dead man!’

***

Don't call me funny, just enjoy my shit and hit that share button like you're the shit.

Shout outs to my Good Fellas, Jeff, Joel, Alex and the whole crew over at Club El Tanjia. You make it possible for me to skip work and go clubbing at 12 in the fuckin afternoon and I think that's some badass shizzy. Shout outs to Koku, SlumBorn Entertainment y'know wassup! 

Like Kukuss Blog on Facebook yo!

Grow Up? For What, Exactly?

Growing up, what exactly does it mean? Does it mean that you shred your act like a rattle snake shreds its skin? Do you suddenly start talking smooth and acting nice?  Maybe get rid of the all the cursing and have a firmer hand shake? Do you laugh at length with your mother’s friends and scratch your side burns in the company of your father’s associates? Do you send your girl Mobile Money every once in a while to keep her dreadlocks fly? Do you bail your boy out when his girl needs a fuckin abortion?

I don’t know.

You see, I don’t get this whole growing up thing. If it was science, I would say that I have not as yet stumbled upon the formula of being a fuckin grown up. What, you want to tell me how to act like a grown man? Okay;

Why don’t you please have a seat and tell me all the ways you can go fuck yourself?

Age is a high price to pay for maturity, I know. I mean, who wants to wear a baseball cap (tilted for extra effect), a XXL T Shirt and sagging denim pants with a bandana hanging out the back pocket while waiting for the birth of their first grand daughter?

Er, yes that will be Arthur Wonny.

My granddaughter will come through like;

“Damn momma, you didna tell me that Ali-G was my granpoppa. Look at him kick his leg forward and lean to the side. That swagger is off the shizzzy granpoppa!”

That would be super awesome. Also, it would probably be illegal to look like Snoop Lion then. Our parliament folks are already drawing up fashion bills because they are bored and because our President wants bald heads to be the next in-thing. I have a feeling we shall have actual fashion police like in 2030.

Complete with batons, laser zapping shit and breathalyzers – for detecting stinking feet and armpits. I don’t think it would be called a breathalyzer though. Maybe an eww-stinkalyzer.

I wouldn’t want to be patted down by some goof with a scraggly beard so I pray that it will be a female dominated profession. Imagine walking past City Square and there are all these hot officers with high heels and short pants and cleavages that you can balance a shot-glass on.

Yep, that would probably be illegal too.

Most of my friends and former class mates graduated like a century ago. They are now preoccupied with portraying a grown up image. They wear tailored clothes and plastic smiles. They will decline an offer of a drink or pork at least 2 or 3 times before accepting. Because they want you to think that they aren’t the type that stoops easily to charity.

You might think the guy had a buffet for lunch but nara. That nigger washed down a defender with sugarless chai at 1pm in the fuckin afternoon.

Defender [noun]: A really big, long ban that every campuser chokes on every time (s)he is stone broke because the thing is really cheap and really big and cheap. The bakers of this masterpiece guarantee defense from hunger attacks for at least twelve hours because it is really fuckin big…and really fuckin cheap.  

I don’t know about the girls but the boys leave their folks’ home as soon as the day after graduation. Some don’t even go back home. Three months down the road, you will find them washing down defenders with water.

I visited an old friend. He was sipping chai (with his faithful Defender in one hand) when I walked in. Since he is a drunkard, I thought he had spiked it with like vodka or kuber so I asked for a taste. He handed it over dutifully.

Mehn, the stuff scalded me badly.

I was like, “Dude, it is hotter than a yeti’s nut sack outside. Why in God’s name are you drinking plain hot water and tea leaves?  There’s no sugar in this…stuff. What’s up, hard times?”

I reached for the sugar tin. There was like half a kilo of sugar so I looked at him, baffled.

With concern, I said, “Bro, you didn’t tell me you are diabetic.”

He laughed and said, “No, broke niggers don’t get diabetes. They starve to death. I am just practicing for when the sugar gets over.”

I.have.never.laughed.so.fuckin.hard

Anyway, I am not saying that you shouldn’t try to put out this responsible, grown up appearance because that’s how people entrust you with their jobs and their daughters’ thighs.

All I’m saying is that don’t forget to be exactly who you are. Go out, make mistakes, and act a fool. No one wants to be around a wet blanket. Don’t be a damp squid. Don’t bore me with all your office talk. Drink with me, let’s go to the corner and try to score some drugs and girls because that’s how you became my friend.

I believe that friendships must be built on a solid foundation of sarcasm, alcohol and inappropriateness. Without that, we are just not…I don’t know, meant to be.

Ahem, no homo.

PS: If you combined Awesomeness and Kukussness, what would you get? The Facebook Kukuss Page. Like Me Mehn!

On Drugs, In Love and Feeling Alive

And then that time of the year comes again, that time when you go like, “oh shit, where the deuce did the semester go?” But it’s done. It’s over. So you can postpone your allowance saving scheme for another semester, or decade.

Loser

This has been the most bizarre semester of my entire campus life. Or more accurately, what’s left of it. I didn’t drink that much, I smoked quite a lot, I didn’t excel (without cheating) at class, I didn’t make (m)any new friends, I lost a couple of old ones and I got skinnier a couple times over.

It’s been lonely, I must admit.

The thing about barring oneself from any sort of human attachment is that it makes you cold. You keep feeling that perhaps everyone hates you. Perhaps there’s something you’re not doing quite right. And of course there’s tonnes you’re not doing right because at this point, wrong is the new right.

So, you certify your badness by doing a new drug called something that even that Rebel chic wouldn’t recommend.

It later hits you that the people you’re trying to impress are actually continuously getting creeped out by you. You become unstable, bipolar and worst of all, hurt by everything and everyone.

Most times when this happens, I go to that church at the top of Makerere Hill. No, I don’t go there to pray. I go there to soothe a bruised ego. The view is really amazing. The breeze is so fresh and everything feels serene and divine. The best part is, you can cry your eyes out without any interruption.

Wait, scratch that…

The best part is that there’s a dealer selling some really nice marijuana a couple of meters from the top.

The last time I tried this whole bad boy thing, stuff blew up in my face and I found myself trapped. I just kept on going and going and going. So now I write to you live from the depths of vodka hell.   

You see, it is the people that love us that define our niche and what we become. They are what we base on to justify our actions. We rely on them, though sometimes subconsciously, to make the tough decisions for us.

I met this really damaged up babe. She accepts me, laughs at all my jokes, we watch movies and smoke weed together, there’s the occasional blowjob and she buys my liquor.
Basically, I really dig this bitch.

She is my heroine, in every sense of the word.

When she jokingly hands me the needle, I take it and shoot that stuff up my veins.

You are thinking “dude, what the fuck”?

Well, the fuck were you at when I was sprawled naked on the floor at midday with nothing but a dial tone and an empty pitcher of vodka?

She was there. And god be damned if I’m going to let myself feel the emptiness that comes with facing the world alone. I won’t let go of the drugs because with them, comes someone who actually cares or at least pretends to. That’s all I ever asked for.

I could get a decent straight up girl who probably goes to church every day and masturbates a couple times in a week. All I have to do is sleep with a specific handful of her closest friends. That method is proved and true. The problem is, I would have to put up this act of being a nice fella for all of them.

Urggh, boring

I’ve resolved to tell my parents the entire truth. Mum, Dad…I fucked up is all I can say. Your little golden baby boy is so far gone that he can’t tell his elbow from his ass. I have become a pious hypocrite, an ambassador of self denial and the epitome of grim itself. I am not in control any more. I need to go to a rehab or a church or a monastery or Cindy Crawford’s vag.

That last one, that’s the one…real cozy I heard.

Maybe we shouldn’t judge people by what we’ve heard or what we’ve seen them do. Maybe we should all take out some time to really listen to someone and make them feel like they are not solo in this fight. Maybe there’s much more under the surface.

I don’t imply that you should pity poke me on facebook.  No, I don’t need that hokum. Matter of fact, if you haven’t been calling me, don’t. I will ignore you so hard, you will begin to doubt your own existence. Er, that doesn’t include the buggers that owe me money.

Anyway, look through your phonebook and you’ll find that number that you’ve always ignored and just find out how stuff is coming along.

You just might save a life.

PS: There’s this new drug called Wonnycaine. It’s sort of like cocaine but with the awesome Wonny holding the snort pipe and cracking bad jokes about how miserable your life is.

Also, I should write rap music.

Don't forget to Go Kukuss. Like me on Facebook yo.