Don't deny it. Every once in a while, you've felt like uttering the rudest crap in your miniature mental vocabulary to that one really nice person.

You know those kinds of people who are excellent at multi-tasking? As in they can do nothing wrong and stay in your face-at the same time! You politely cuss and their face goes like someone just literally took a dump in their mouth.

Or maybe you're the nice kind who can't stand that immoral bastard who has deliberately refused to compliment your purple leggings which match your (oversize, 2nd hand) high heeled niiginas.

The scoundrel!

Either way, we've all wished we could tell someone off in the most inanely inhuman manner. I had to travel to K'la to take care of business...ok, not exactly business. Just a coupla free pints. Now I'd watched on my neighbour's 14" TV set that Ebola had reached K'la so I packed a Face Mask for the following reasons;

- to look cool like a ninja
- to appear sophisticated and gangster
- it felt stylish
- to somehow get caught on camera for being er, sensible
- to stick my tongue out at people and not get caught/beaten
- I'd been playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas
- to make it less obvious that I'd been drinking vodka all morning

Last and definately least;

- to avoid catching Ebola

I jumped in a taxi sweating profusely and breathing heavily. The light skinned woman sitting at the window, next to me, instinctively turned away.
I had not entirely intended to put on my Face Mask at least until i reached K'la but I don't take rejection, however slight, lightly. I looked at everyone around and noisily pulled out my Face Mask making sure that everyone noticed, in detail that I was putting it on. And that they were all to blame for it.

For some benign reason miss stay-the-heck-away-from-me suddenly got jittery and sneered. I smiled but of course this could not be seen as I looked at her with this look of;

"the fuck you lookin at woman? Ebola could also be caused by eye-banging!"

Who knows? I could be right. I mean research is still going on...tests and a bunch of other scientific stuff that you'd understand after my course in arabic.
Which I rather hate.

The woman looked away and boy did I feel awesome! I mean she tried to ignore the awesomest and look who's all uncomfortable and sweaty now-not me!

This experience just fuelled my rude-o-meter. I reached K'la and I idled along Jja road secretly hoping for some papparazzi to show up. All I attracted were strange looks which spelt something like;

W.E.I.R.D.O.

I sought refuge in some home boy's phone repair shop and after exchanging what's ups and wagwans at arm's length he offers me a hand shake. I raised my eye brows like;

"dude, seriously? I'm putting on a Face Mask! Now get your Ebola laden self away from me you freakin dummy!"

It was generally agreed that it was not a very brilliant joke as he didn't take it well but come to think of it I could have said something like;

"Ay Dawg, you look like monkey conceived in a bat cave and I've strict instructions from gavo to abhor, abscond, avoid your kind."

To the girls, throw your legs in the air like you just don't care! No...not the one nighters. Your legs get around quite a lot and I'm sure they could use a break. The hard to getters are more suited to benefit from this Ebola fracas. I mean we could all use a break from that recurrent it's-that-period-of-the-month bullshit excuse. Get your pen and pad (er, writing pad) for some notes from the amateur. Because I don't take pride in this shit.

Lets say you're seated at table in a cozy restaurant. Now everytime a joke is cracked and he laughs, quickly reach for a handkerchief to cover your nose and look away.

Ebola, my darling...

When he tries to say, touch you-give him that "eww" face.

Kale those Ebola things. Arrgh!

However, if he offers you transport money, do that "naye naawe" thing and grab it. Fast.

Ebola doesn't catch money.

If this article makes your life worse or (most likely) better in any way please leave a comment and be generous enough to share it.

If I had a dollar for every waitress I've made out with, I would be broke. Well, because the most one can do with $17 is a pair of denim jeans. So whoever had a part in the composition, production, lyrics of the original song:

"If I had a dollar for every woman I've made love with, I would be rich"?

Does not deserve to be breathing freely amongst us. Isn't there such a crime as gross deceit? The biggest womanizer, player, casanova, play boy, male slut, giggolo or whatever you want to call him, of all time - King Solomon had 500 wives and more than 1000 concubines. If we are to overlook threesomes and if my maths is right, King Solomon had $1500 according to the 'brains' behind the song. Okay and some inflation, say $2000? Gimme a break, that couldn't have been enough for even a decent spartan slave!

So if there's any justice in the world, that fellow should be beaten up and his mouth sewn shut. Plus he should be dragged no boda-bodas(for lack of camels) through Kiwunya to Nansana wherein he'll be burnt and his ashes thrown in open man-hole septic tank filth where he belongs.

Wait. Wait, that's a bit extreme. Let's just blame it on my anger management shrimp-no hard feelings, I guess I'll need that drink...

...that's better.

See, for most of you who know how unbearable it is to hang around sober minded upright folk, the bar seems like a second home. This also applies to those who are unhappily married to the quarrelsome mother of thirteen hoodlum excuses of infants. The bar is filled with nice random words like love, awesome and many others that the people around you never thought were mentioning to the colossal failure that you are. Plus the waitresses (sometimes) let you bury your head in their bosom to cry out your woes. And depending on how much you tip, kiss you generously and/or indulge in another most likely publicly inappropriate behaviour--

Hold up. Just a minute!

Yay! Breaking News! I would like to interrupt this post with great news-even by my standards. Uganda, has won a gold medal at the Olympics!

Yes! Kiprotech, whom I've never heard of has won the gold medal in a sport which is most likely scuba-diving, at the Olympics. Wait, is that...is scuba-diving an Olympic sport? Goooogle?? By the way, don't you wish Google had voice activation so that you could just yell stuff like you're ordering another round of shots?

"Ay Google! Know that fella Kiprotech??"

Anyway, Kiprotech has refuted claims that he was in London to watch nekkid girls in swim suits doing some gymnastics shit and clinched a title! Tight shit bro, though I've no idea what the deuce you do for a living. Matter of fact, i'll dedicate an entire post to finding that out. Y'all hit me up with info in your comments.

Okay where were we before we were interrupted by all these tech people. That's right. Waitresses. With their nice little uniforms like flight attendants. And the plastick-est smiles. I once stayed in a dingy town where there were no more than 4 bars which offered a pool table. The girls waiting tables in this area-code were especially generous. Or sympathetic. Or broke. Everytime I got wasted there was a kiss-compliment of the house.

Within two weeks, I had no where to hangout.

Simply because when you do such a dumb thing as make out with a waitress, you have to own up to it and budget for her drinks everytime you visit. In three words: that sucks balls.

After spending my evenings in tiny kiosks for the ensuing weeks, i got bored and lonely and decided to head for my favorite of the four bars. As if sensing my reluctance to visit, she was especially very cordial. When i declined to have my usual house compliment. She looked hurt and let me know that it was up to me and that I should,

"make up your mind and call me tomorrow. For anything you want."

My mind went like, "anything?"
Her eyes went like, "anything!"

Whoa! Been a while since I last received a booty call let alone made one. There was a downside-as usual.
I don't do lodges. I can't bear the thought of my self-righteous aunt finding me doing gymnastics in the boner olympics. Plus, I don't think I'm ready for my bastard to be born.

Yet.

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The High Skool Loser

                Unlike most people, I have no vivid recollection of my childhood days or high skool experiences for that matter. I cannot exactly pinpoint a hiatus where something really cool happened. Or when something embarrassing  happened.

Ok, I lied. On the embarrassing bit. I’ve had my fair share of drama in that particular department. Basically, if I had a career it would spell something like mortified-shit-load.

Though it irked me to realise that I’ve been robbed of a childhood, it also makes me realise either of these two things was true;

1.       I was a loser who had no life whatsoever.

2.       My high skool was probably awesome but I did too much alcohol and drugs which in due course led to permanent memory loss and I forgot everything.

Um, probably the latter. Definitely the former. It is weird y’know, when you bump into a bunch of people and they go like

    “whoa, you’re from that skool as well? Man it was so cool! You remember when *insert name* scored the winning goal and we won the soccer title. The crowd went crazzzzyyy! It was so awesome!”

And I’m like,

    “Yep! Of course it was…”

Then flash that sarcastic smile and just to change the topic, I talk about a random song. That would inadvertently open a new conversation on who did what during the ka danke when some long-forgotten song was playing. I would then receive a phony call and run for my dear life.

But come to think of it, I don’t think I was a weirdo. I prefer to call myself Limited Edition since my grades were simply the shit. As in very good. The reason why I think high skool might have actually been fun save for a personal dedication to indulgence in narcotics is the fact that I don’t even remember the class work, the textbooks, the teachers. Yep, even the teachers.

Recently my aunt who knows me for my former exceptional talents in class and current un-seriousness/laziness requested that I lend her drug-addicted son some of my notes, books blab la blab. I promised to check. Of course I knew that the textbooks had been sold at Cairo Bank and the proceeds spent in a cheap-alcohol stinking brothel. As for then notes, they were inexistent as I preferred instead to borrow (read steal) from my class mates, read them while chilling in dorm with HOT 100 on the tiny stereo. Then return them-after the exams. Because I’m no thief.

I grabbed the old suitcase in which most of my educational crap had been dumped and sifted through its contents for any evidence that I’d attended High Skool.

Guess what I found?

.  .  .

No, not condoms you sicko-wacko freak. I found success cards! Yay! You remember those folded pieces of hard paper with (often) a misspelt word and a few ‘encouraging’ syllables to help you pass exams? You don’t? Oh, it’s okay. Just pass by the nearest book store and grab yourself some. Don’t forget to address it to yourself and lemme know how that works out for ya.

Loser

There were about a dozen and as I read through the messages, I realised that I had some really SICK friends. Take Dora for example. This female had issues. Here’s what she wrote;

    “Hey thug, you know u r sharp & I know u r too. So go ahead & do wat u have to do. Pliz get a reasonable job other than sell weed(on campus)!!! & marry a hot ***** babe…”

Don’t even get me started on that one. There was Queen Mary MC who called me King. Well, mostly so that I would call her Queen even though she still thinks I’m a downright infant. She wrote;

    “Tsup, I can’t call u baby now coz these papers are mature *insert a whole bunch of success stuff* pliz don’t swell on Bukenya coz he may show you derrty…”

I recently heard that MC’s already sizeable ass had doubled over which probably accounts for her permanent place in my memory. Unlike TJ, whom I don’t exactly remember but who said to;

               

“make your father’s girlfriend proud.”

There was one Reetah who started her message like some ghetto yoot;

                    “Wazy d? All the Arthurs I know r freakin good in all the B’s i.e books, bed minton, booze etc. N-we, mek sure you pass and make a point to call me 0798765432 for some rounds. Bon chance.”

Don’t bother trying that number. I already did a number of times. It does not exist. There were very many extreme messages which wouldn’t fit here but they were all intended to make me feel worthwhile. Oh and how can forget Angela, with an inverted ‘A’ who addressed hers as “Hey Bro!”

The Bitch

For the record she was not my sister in anyway. Not even in the gangster way. Plus she fucking hates me now.

After receiving all those cards and sitting my papers guess what was on my mind? You’re right! Banging each and every one of these babes during vacation. Yes, all 23 of them. What happened was my bro got with Doryn. Her sis got preggers. Another said “comeon, we’re like bro and sis!”. Dora is happily married. Angela has a kid. MC is chasing the world record for best-ass-ever. I never got to accomplish let alone start my promiscuity mission. Maybe I was loser anyway.

You let me know what you think. Make sure to leave a comment even if it sounds like-DOUCHEBAG! You could save a tree from being burnt by doing so.