Facebook - What I think...

Facebook – What I think…

Facebook is an awesome thing. Mark Suckerberg is just that -- a sucker. He’s a sucker because he came up with something for the whole of the human race to base their procrastination on besides drugs. I love and hate facebook in equal measures. I love the fact that I can chat with someone I’ve no clue about. It gives me a chance to interact with people regardless of whether they’re murderers, psychos, geniuses, artists or just plain boring. I’m talking to you boring. I recently received a request from some bimbo who can whistle in five different languages and can make fire with two ice cubes.

What?

Yep, guess it’s true what they say -- everyone is a super star on the World Wide Web. Of course that excludes Seya and the presidents of Uganda and Burundi. By the way, what does the president of Burundi do for a living? Besides of course taking siestas such as these

Put a pin on that we’ll get back to it.

Most of what I post never gets more than a like or two. And I like it like that because;

1. It takes certain minimum IQ levels to get my humor so the less comments I get, the more intelligent I feel. 
2. I never comment on other people’s posts so it is only fair.

If you saw facebook through my eyes, you’d understand why I don’t comment. But you probably won’t see that since you are facing the wall in that profile picture. That makes a whole lot of sense considering the fact that if you face the wall, everyone will know who you are because your ass is just that great and memorable.

I meant that sarcastically.

First of all, that skirt is too long for a mother’s union to be out of the question. And we all have that one friend who is there to make it seem like things are not as nightmarish as they seem. They’ll comment stuff like… “eh, kiKazi…tHE hAir!!!”

B*tch, is your caps lock having a seizure?

And to that slutty friend of mine, you don't measure how much people like by how many likes and comments you get. You are barely nekkid in that profile pic. We like the boobs. We don't like you.

Sometimes, I really want to comment but what the heck are you supposed to comment on a status where someone has been in a relationship with his twin sister and they are expecting a baby? If I’m to comment it will be something Riley Freeman-ish (no homo) like, "Look, fuck you, fuck them shoes, fuck them socks with the belt on it, fuck your gay ass ferried fagot accent, fuck them cheap ass shades, fuck your yuck mouth teeth, fuck your hairpiece, fuck your unborn kid/sister/brother, Fuck Guy Richie, fuck prince William, fuck the Queen. Fuck Indo-China where people fuck they sisters. Now get the fuck off my timeline before I have you exported naked to the Taliban. And if I see you in the street I'm slapping the shit out you."

Gross. That’s why I just sigh and keep scrolling.

Everyone has fantasies of becoming a celebrity some day so we all prepare for it by getting super star nicknames you know…like just in case. That is perfectly fine by me...here I am as a rockstar a million light years from now

 What the Suckerberg fellow didn’t bother to think up in all his “genius” maneuvers is a notification which lets us know that Mpererera Sweetness Yum-beta (Yeah, I’m better) changed her name to Kawonawo Chickydee Fashionista.

Unfriend

Are you sure?

Damn right I’m sure!

Then there are the Jesus Freaks. I love Jesus to death. But I hate it when my undying love is wrongfully exploited for commercial reasons. I hear, like or comment if not you are going to hell. I don’t pray that much but I’m pretty sure there is a special part of hell for motherfuckers like y’all.

Well, while we are still on the facebook topic…I’m still contemplating creating a twitter account and a page for this blog. I’m still undecided because just like a million other wacko-freaks I created a group almost as soon as I joined facebook. Either my posts were really bad or something because none of the members ever commented or posted. It was so depressing that I decided to leave the group because the only other thing would have been my neighbor’s call to the suicide alert hotline. By the way do we have a suicide hotline in Ug?

Y’know, just in case…

On realizing that I had shut myself out of my group…I sent a join request hoping that one of the members would check it out and honor my request. I’m still waiting to be accepted to date simply because,  well no one ever checks it out.

Aaww…that actually hurts like a bitch.

So please, lemme know if I should create a page and while I’m still soft and emotional, please share this post and all other posts that you dig. If you do, it will be the next best thing to ever happen to me since my friends organized a stripper for my 21^st birthday.

Adios Amigos!

Letter to my (very few) friends

Let’s kick it old school. Back when you put something down in black and white to put some views across. This doesn’t entail writing low-grade English on a piece of (green) toilet paper like you did to your first girlfriend when she said she wanted to wait a little longer before kissing you. I just think some things are better left unsaid. Not because I am too afraid or shy or scared to say them, but because you ensure that I’m never mentally equipped to piece together a meaningful statement. And if I try, I might stammer so much that it’ll paint the mood grey.

I love my friends to death. In return, you are trying to make sure my death approaches as exponentially fast as mathematically possible. I love hanging out with people so much so that I can confidently say I’m cool to be around. The problem is that every once in a while, I want to be by my fucking self. I would love to chill in my drawers all day without any of you pounding on my door…say once a week. Make that twice a week.

It is sad enough that the only things I like are writing and watching movies. This line of life sucks. I know. But I’d appreciate it if you understood that it’s the only life I know. So please, don’t make those long ass “free” Warid or orange or zain or celtel or whatever calls when I’m trying to concentrate on something even if it is as boring as The Firm.

And enough with the sarcastic laughter, don’t recycle my jokes in an attempt to get my attention.

If I do not call you back, it is probably because I don’t want to lie to you. Ok, I might want to lie to you but I may not think of something that fast and you might not buy it. So please text and give me time to come up with a sensible lie. I hate phones. Mostly because they make it impossible for me to stay secluded. You know how you switch off your phone for five hours and then everyone starts ranting crazily as though Abed Bwanika just took over government?

I do.

They say a friend in need is a friend indeed. I don’t even know which saying applies to y’all. Every time I’m in shit, y’all say stuff like, “man, you are the shit! How did you get into so much shit! Dude, you’re so fucking awesome!”

What?

Even when we all know you are the one that got me in trouble and I’m going to pay simply because…well, better me than you. The humanitarian in me cannot let me not take the fall for any of you. Because your dipsomania makes it possible for me to feed my sousing craze and because without you, dear friends with weed…I have no friends indeed.

I love you all.

Sincerely,

Me.

Stray Cats

 *Loud knock at the door*    

*checks time*

…3 a.m.

Holy faggety fuck! Who the devil is that?

*Louder knock at the door* Aaarghh!

-          Yo, Arthur OPEN UP!

-          Go away!

-          Man, Arthur are you sleeping?

-          No, I’m scuba diving in the Dominican Republic.

-          What?!

-          Of course I’m sleeping, what the heck do you want?

-           Yo, first open up man. I’ve a big deal for you.

-          At 3 am? Look, whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. Just go away!

-          There’s a cold beer out here…if you decide to open.

-          I don’t drink.

-          Cool, suit yourself.

-          *thinks*(…a beer at 3am isn’t entirely the worst way to start the day) if I open that door and there’s no beer I swear I’m going to throw you over the balcony.

-          Deal

*Opens the door*

-          First things first…where’s the beer?

-          Look, Arthur you’re like a brother so I want you to do one thing for me.

-          What do you want? There isn’t any beer, is there brother?

-          No beer. What I want is for you to find somewhere to sleep.

Blinks

-          What? Hey I know I’ve a ruggedy room but I’m fine here—

It was at this point that I realized he wasn’t alone. Some girl came up behind him and by the end of this post, you’ll know why I decided to bestow upon her the name Sergeant Single Slut. She flashed me that naye naawe look. I threw my hands up in the air in resignation and picked up a pillow before leaving the room for them to get giddy with each other.

-          Ay, don’t  mess up my sheets—

*he slammed the door in my face*

It really depresses me that I wrote that last statement.

Anyway it was my turn to knock on doors. My dawg (whom I shall refer to as Dawg in this post) sleeps on the next floor. He refused to open as I would have expected. As I muttered obscene curses directed at his family mostly, I saw him staggering up the stairs.

 My spirits rose.

And fell when I realized a drunk tall babe was literally hanging onto him for support. I’ll call Dawg’s babe Miss Olympic Boobs because…well she has Olympic boobs. I hope you know the hierarchy of boobs. Here’s the menu for future reference:

(  .  ) (  .  )        Big boobs

( . ) ( . )            Medium boobs

( ) ( )                Small boobs

.   .                   Olympic boobs

There you have it! Oh you’re wondering why they’re called Olympic? When have you ever seen a nice pair of racks at the Olympics dumbo? Not never!

I am seriously losing the plot for this post. Boobs can be distracting…

Ok, fast forward to morning. I go to my room to find Bro and Sergeant Single Slut still getting cozy in bed. She looks at me flirtatiously. Mbu can I get her something to eat. What? Well, a blow job would be nice. The guy you’ve been shagging is right next to you, let him get you breakfast Bitch.

Scratch that…of course I didn’t say that because I was brought up by a nice Christian family (love you mum). I flashed that sarcastic smile and went ahead to prepare them breakfast-like some twisted sort of appreciation for messing my sheets. Dawg and Miss Olympic Boobs made an entrance with quite a fuss because she BADLY needed a cigarette. I got her one. Then she mentioned beer and all of a sudden the Slut didn’t want breakfast anymore. Well, not that she didn’t want…she wanted breakfast and beer.

Cool. Beer it is.

We spent the entire day doing nothing but drinking. The Slut was asking for everything from everyone. At some point I jokingly offer to buy her a phone and she lets me touch her boobs for like 10 seconds. Yay! She wanted to have a rolex, rice, matooke, meat and bunch of other stuff that girls from the ghetto eat only on New Year’s. Miss Olympic Boobs was hating all the attention the slut was receiving (like, hello…I am the styled up one from Nkonzi; trust me that bitch has nothing on me *smirk*).

Besides the Slut really knew how to slut. She was rolling with whoever had the D’s. She whispered mostly so we all didn’t know who she wanted bang next. It got so bad that at some point, M.O.B. pulled out the Slut’s boob!

No way!

It was like some early Christmas for us. Every one digs a little girl-on-girl. The sun set…the boys were high, the girls were hating each other. In short, everything was perfect. To spite                                                          M.O.B., the Slut offered to sleep with Dawg.

I hate long posts so let’s just say whatever happened next is a whole other different story.