Too Busy Doing Nothing

Have you watched the University Hall sex tape? It is the real deal. After watching that thing, I felt like I’d slept with all campus girls. All of them? Yes, all of them. That dude took one for entire male species of Makerere University, even the kaloolis. You want to watch it too?

Like the KukussFacebook Page, I’ll inbox you a link.

There’s this guy. I seriously want to shag his babe. Kinda like Lil’ Wayne and Mrs. Chris Bosh but without the basketballs, foul language and publicity. Get this; I have nothing against the brother. I just want to do it and check it off that campus bucket list. It would be really magical to be the one they cheat with for a change. I intimated my intentions to my homeboy, adding that “life is too short y’know.”

He said, “No, you are too short y’know.”

So, what makes me so sure she will?

The thrill that comes with sexing me is akin to the one a guy gets when sexing an underage high school girl.

Not my words, FYI.

When she blows me, I’ll make sure she’s under the covers so that she doesn’t realize that I’m too busy browsing through cat pics on my phone. I’ll insist on kissing her even when my mouth stinks like a hobo’s taint.

I’ll basically be the King of Douche bags with a specialty in mortification.

Then she’ll see that her greed and forlon-ity cost her a really nice guy. You can’t have your cake and eat it too babe.

One of my friends told me;

“You are not a fuckin writer. You are a skinny douche with an irresponsible lifestyle who cusses almost as often as he takes a breath. It just so happens that you are also really fast at typing.”

Point

I manage about 70 words per minute and I hate to see that skill go to waste. That’s why I write. I don’t take myself as a natural at writing. All I know is that if I don’t have the reader in my grip within the first 15 seconds then my shit will suck balls. I guess the above ramblings did the trick.

That doesn’t however mean I won’t have designer sex with that nigger’s girl. You see, there are Louis Vuitton condoms these days. So don’t just have sex fwaaa. Get your dick in style yo.

I have nothing to write about this weekend so this is going to be one of those keyboard-to-dashboard posts. Plus, I am a little drunk right now so…

No Ctrl+S in this bitch.

Wait, I could tell you the one about the big ghoulish woman that my lecturer is shagging. Mmm-huh, you like? Apparently, her conjugal obligations include filling in for him in class. I hear she wants to lecture also.

Woman, this is not How-to-Ride-a-Dick class. This is Year III Mechanical Engineering class.

You remember that Primary Three teacher who always told you to sit boy-girl-boy-girl? The one who told you to stand in front when you talked in class? The one who took roll-call twice in a lesson? The one who stalked around the room like King Kong daring you to speak while at the same time asking a question? The one who always gave 50 Grammar questions for homework? The one who told the class monitor to teach the class while she sat at the back sexting? The one you hated?

Yeah? You remember her?

Well, give her a monotone fake-accented voice, bigger lips, a feeble, annoying laugh (she tilts her head to one side while executing it like a little girl) and a fat ass. There, you have my new Product Design and Development “lecturer”.

Oh, add a few pounds of fat to her stomach too. Her entire trunk is like being held captive by this huge “tyre” of fat that runs along her waistline.

Urggh, turn off. Big time.

When I look at her, two things come to my mind. 

1.      God this woman is so fuckin fat.

2.      Umm…just that first one actually, she's fat. 

I know it is wrong to call people fat. So I try to do it as often as possible. A friend of mine visited me a few weeks back. She had this…thing. She had this thing on her stomach that suspiciously looked like fat but I couldn’t tell her that. That’s just mean! So I asked her;

“Hey, when are they due?”

She’s like, “whaaat?”

“The twins, when are they due?”

We.are.no.longer.on.speaking.terms

It is like when you post, shout out to all my bad bitches on your facebook and a babe inboxes you asking, am I also one of your bad bitches? You tell her, no you’re not a bad bitch and she goes wasps about the whole thing. It is clear my intentions were good when I called you preggers instead of fat. The same intentions I had when I told this other one that she’s not a bad bitch – at all.

Like wait, you wanted to be my bad bitch?

Kudos!

I get the feeling I’m treading the fine line that divides relevance and bullshit. Someone remind me, what’s the title of this post again?

Oh, that’s right, nothing. The title of this post is nothing.

*thinks***

That bastard Judas Iscariot sold The Lord for silver last night. I suspect he spent it in a bar and woke up wondering, “Did I or did I not sell Jesus to the fuckin Jews?”

“You did motherfucker,” the whore lying next to him says. He looks at her and says ‘shit’ in nine different languages.

Happy Easter y’all!

I’m going to Mbale to drink with this one who uses a computer mouse like a TV remote when she gets drunk. You, on the other hand, should make it a point to have sex in a bunny costume before Monday.

Now if you don’t mind, I am a very busy boy. Please leave, I need to get back to doing nothing.

Adios!

Dying of Thirst

-          Dude, you’re facebooking in church?

-          At least I am in church. For you, you don’t pray at all.

-          Of course I am praying. It is Sunday yo.

-          So you are also facebooking in church…

-          No, I’m watching mass on TV.

The session I love the most during mass is the one for testimonies. You get to relate with people’s experiences. So I’m watching this dude giving a ‘testimony’ and it goes something like;

“…brothers and sisters I want to tell you about my experience. It is very very worrisome and I hope you all learn from it. I used to say that I have swag but that word is very very bad. I found out that SWAG actually means, Secretly We Are Gay. Can you believe it? Gay? I knelt down and prayed for forgiveness then I fasted for three days. Now I don’t have swag. Please don’t have swag brothers and sisters.”

Sincerely, kill yourselef.

Ay dude, you’ll love this one; how about Stupid Weak Ass fagGot? Nice, huh?

I honestly hope that dude’s wang is bigger than his brains.

I don’t often get a chance to listen to the Word of God. I haven’t been to church in like forever. No, my nephews’ baptisms don’t count. The only reason I was there was to hold the camera. I even failed to take any clear pics because my hands were shaking. Yes, you’re right – I was hangover, mob. Three hours earlier, I had been in some club with my hands in some skank’s bra. I just wanted to have a laugh at the funny names people give their children.

Guzagugunyaga Telefonsa Scovia

So I am watching some Christian thing for students on UBC (don’t ask, I was with my auntie). A woman walks to the podium. I think she’s a gospel artist or something. She talks about how one’s body is the temple of God. She talks about fornication among the youth.

I hear you guys are shagging like rabbits.

Then she tells the congregation to touch their dick/vajay (tick where applicable) areas so that she can pray for them.

Boy, did it feel good to be on this side of the TV.

You should have seen the size of the awkward cloud that dawned in that room. The guys started scratching their beards in an effort to exhibit SWAG. Some girl placed her hand on hers briefly before burying her head in her palms in apparent shame. It couldn’t be done. The woman was serious. She said, ‘if you don’t have one put up your hand and I pray for you also.’ A small number took a deep breath and touched their procreation arsenals.

Then she told everyone to close their eyes. This way you couldn’t see that the ka chic you’ve been eye banging every mass since October wants to pray for her thing. Nanti she doesn’t want to have sex until she’s married.

Ouch!

Most of them then did as instructed. Now there was some babe who real – what’s the word…dried? Eh, that babe could dry banange. Her she didn’t even close her eyes. And the camera guy was also merciless. He also dried on her. At that moment, Saddam Hussein was an angel in comparison to her.

She had this look of I have no intention whatsoever of impeding my wanton mentality.

You go girl!

Last weekend I travelled home to see my mother. I needed to talk to someone. The logical refuge would have been church but I had no interest in touching my penis in public. I was slowly losing touch with reality. I was running low on self esteem and purpose. See, I don’t have many friends. I keep a small circle.

Freddie, I see you. Matter of fact I be you my bikki – realest!

You’re going, “whaaat? How about me!?”

Hey, you are a booty call, not a friend.

As soon as I arrived, my Big Bro (big up to yoselef over deya!) rolled me a sweet, well sorted stick of hash. Not those sloppy, headache inducing, soil stuffed Kampala joints. I’m telling you, when this brodda rolls you a joint, you understand why TRUTH rhymes with SMOOTH. He combines truthness and smoothness…

A few hours later I’m standing behind my dad’s old pickup truck with my mum. She’s holding my duffle bag which is like a weed store of sorts. I am trying to find the words to explain how the weed got in there.

“Maayi, I’m telling you, that’s not my bag. Wait, what’s that? Is that what I think that is? I know that’s not what I think that is. Is that – is that weed? That is what it looks like? I knew that old woman on the bus would pull some shit like this…”

I see the hurt and pain in her eyes. I should have stayed away. I don’t want to become unwelcome in this place. There’s nothing the world has for me. I have the whole world in the person standing in front of me. They say we hurt the ones we love the most. How can I explain to her that if I don’t have my fix, I’ll probably lose my mind?

Alcohol puts problems on hold. You might wake up with a few more. On the other hand, when you smoke weed, you take a step back and figure out your problems. It makes you see that it is you who’s complicating life.

But I cannot tell her that. That’s just stupid. What problems could you possibly have at your age? All you have to do is wake up, walk to class, understand that Engineering rackus and replicate it on a piece of paper. What could possibly be so hard and problematic about that?

She told me the bitter truth;

If you don’t work, then you haven’t earned the right to drink. Otherwise, you are just grooming yourself to become a crook. Now smoking is the worst. A cigarette has thousands of harmful substances which have like a hundred side effects…each. Marijuana will make you paranoid and there’s short term memory loss to worry about. You’ll read a book cover to cover but you’ll remember nothing, zippo. Spend more time on your books instead of hanging with the who’s who of magnanimous assholes. You won’t be of any use to them if wind up jobless three years from now.

Don’t do that shit yo.

“You young men are dying of thirst. You need water, holy water. You need to be baptized with the spirit of the Lord. Do you want to receive God as your personal savior?”

By the way, you gatsa check out this girl's blog. She has awesome fashion sense and sweet lugambo those things...

The 419 Sweetheart Scam

 

The Kiddo Scam: Gimme the Money!

My phone got thugged yo. And you won’t believe where this happened - Nakumatt. I am not saying that he did it. My mental process simply can’t come to grips with the fact that this happened right after I ran into Bobi Wine.

Yes, that will be the weed guy.

I was told by the security company (Securex, which is Indian owned) to take a receipt to prove that I have in fact ever owned a phone. I didn’t have one. Most of the phones I use are donations (I saw your phone, liked it, took it, and then drunk-told you about it at a later date). I definitely wasn’t going to show up without a receipt because there was a 30-70 chance that I would be compensated. I went to my boys over at Mutaasa Kafeero to ‘make a receipt’ for an imaginary Samsung Galaxy Y. The price of the phone?

350 G’s. Like, Three Fitty G’s.

Let me tell you something about Indians – those garlic reeking, chili pepper motherfuckers will never give you free shit; and by never, I mean even-if-you-killed-yourself-twice never. You’ll have to shag his mother to get a second glance from him. He said I shouldn’t expect any financial remuneration from the company, that the most he can do is track the phone.

Ay, Muyindi, there is no phone to track. Here, have some garlic and a pat on the back.

That was my simple kiddo scam. It backfired.

The Badass Scam: The Four One Nine.

2a.m: Inbox blip on my facebook.

Hello dear,

Am Linda Harry, nice to meet you <blah blah blah> please I want to know about you more and I also have a special issue I want to discuss with you, please contact me on <some email>. I will send you more photos in my next mail…

The first thing I did of course was check out her pics, it is like facebook reflex. I don’t care about mutual friends (as in bitch, ani akumanyi?). Nah, I don’t discriminate - just touch up that pout and I’ll accept your request with open legs.

Kinda like what Miss Linda did.

 

Babe, I don’t care if you are retarded and you have AIDS; 

with those looks – you have a VIP pass to my drawers…and wallet.

Wallpaper that bitch.

I feel fortunate that I was born in this era. My only complaints are Lady Gaga and Global Warming. See, a Gazillion years ago, you had to have balls to get anything. Whether it was getting food, respect, a place at the drinking joint or girls – especially girls, you needed cojones, big ones. You had to fight cock-swinging cavemen, kill leopards, sing, and dance and run over coals of fire for your rights to access a little piece of ass.  

These days, it is much simpler. All it takes is some rubber and an email declaring that you’re really all that…and a bag of chips. A little “haha” reply will earn you a direct flight out to Pound City. But even if it is that much simpler, this is too simple, too easy. 

I sent her an email, telling her that she was really hot and that I was having trouble keeping the lotion away because, ‘your open legs are all over my desktop.’ She replied with all those whore-laced fancy honeys and shit.

Then she told me that she was a refugee in some Senegalese camp and that she was an heiress to a 7.5 million Euro fortune but she couldn’t claim it. That she wanted me (recently promoted to darling) to be the one to get the money like some sort of trustee.  All she needed was my full name, age, occupation and phone number.

I am not saying I did not want to fuck her like Hurricane Sandy fucked the East Coast and that after I got done with her, she’d probably thank me and be a better whore for years to come(ain’t that right, whore?); I am just saying I know bullshit when I see it.

I’m quoting Chris Rock, “There’s something about a woman pulling out money from her own wallet that just dries up the (**that word is too razor sharp, I can’t type it**).”

I said to myself, “Self, this is a good one. Now, how the fuck are you going to answer this bitch?”

Dear Millionaire Bitch from the Banks of Beyond,

First of all I just want to go on the record that that dress could cure cancer. You killin it yo. I would also like to mention, in passing, that a pair of leather pants and a gag ball would bring out the slut in you better. Secondly, I am not big on salacious interwebular activities (cyber sex). If you want some dick, you’ll have to escape that refugee camp. I don’t care if you gang bang the whole rebel battalion or if you ride on the back of a frog to get it done. I am not leaving UG for love or money because the rolexes here are simply the shit.

I spent the last hour looking for a single word that fits the description of, ‘really thick, dimwitted, panty waste of a bitch’ and the most accurate answer zeroed on was you, Miss Linda. First of all you are a dude, or at the very least, an ex-dude. Now, let’s talk a little about your balls, what they produce and your brain, how it works. You are giving your money to someone you have never met but trust completely, right?

Good. Personally, I don’t have any experience on managing my own money. I have what they call a menstrual salary – it comes once month and gets done in three days. I will blow your cash on prostitutes, drugs and alcohol with no second thought. My country just dropped from 2^nd to 8^th position in the CNN Global Alcohol Consumption report. I’m pretty sure 7.5million euros worth of liquor would give us a little boost.

Yes, we can be in a long distance relationship, I am your boyfriend from the future. After this email, you are going to tell me to send an email to your bank. The bank (which of course won’t actually be the bank) will then call me and I’ll get all excited and shit and send my account number. With my name and account number, you have all you need. You’ll then sweep out my account.

But that’s okay.

Because my account is always empty. Not even you can sweep money from there faster than myself when I get a deposit. You see, I have many debts so I try to spend as much as I can before the loan sharks strike. So here’s my account number 879-5578-1147-382, DFCU. Although I think it is safer if you just shipped the money in coffins. That way it won’t be detected. I saw it in a movie, it totally worked.

PS: Send me more pics…

PPS: If a bomb was dropped in your refugee camp, what would the world lose? A bomb – the world would lose a fuckin bomb.

Yours truly,

Gigolo from the Other Side of Beyond

***

You know me, always imitated, never duplicated.I'll be MIA this weekend.