Truth V 2.0

2.0I would like to tell you that I am a really smooth Casanova-type of character. That if you take Hitch, mix him in with Eddie Murphy in Boomerang, then mingle that with LL Cool J songs sung in Julio Iglesias’ voice and wrap it all up in a tuxedo with a rose in its teeth, the result will look up at me and say, “Damn, that dude’s about as smooth as I am!”
I would like to tell you that, but my powers of exaggeration are not that strong. Don’t get me wrong, I am not entirely a dweeb, and I certainly don’t be saying “so, um... this your first time here?" (Lord have mercy, what kind of LOOOOOSER does that? Me when I was fourteen, actually, but that is another story.) however, it took me a while to learn that just being myself works fine. I don’t even try to mess with smooth. It’s like putting a bowtie on a donkey: the absurdity of the sight completely eclipses any merits the ass may have had in the first place.

Anyway, Daisy and I were both members of the same church: a church that had a well-publicised policy about teenagers growing up too quickly. There was a cut-off age. I was past it, and thus allowed to crush on whoever I wanted, but Daisy was not, and because of that it would be a sin to try and coax her into requiting stuff. At least it would be a sin if I didn’t wait a few months for her birthday, when she would become eligible.

Before you start crying out, she was sixteen, okay? Just two years younger than me.

I suspected that it was also sin to be infatuated with a person below the gazetted age of eligibility, but I am sure God understood. I prayed, “Lord, I mean, look at her! I mean she’s not just hot, she’s a conflagration! She is an inferno! You know what I mean?”

I waited for Him to say, “Okay, sonny, just this once, I’ll make an exception. Just this once, but only for you.” He didn’t answer immediately, but I was certain He would in a couple of days, and while I waited, I began to find ways of placing myself within blast radius… I don’t want to overdo the flaming supernova of hotness metaphor, but you have to understand, chick was that hot.

I found myself organising my activities in such a way that I would often bump into her accidentally. "Well, hello! Fancy that! I didn’t expect to see you round these parts! Who would have thought? So um, is this your first time here?"

And that is how I got to learn a very important lesson. Pay attention, boys, this could change your life. I learnt something very important: That Beautiful Girls Don’t Bite.

When we were boys sitting around the statue of Mary in the dorm quadrangle (We used to call her SMACK Babe. There is no Madonna statue as pawed and fondled and molested and having nipples drawn on it with chalk as those in boys’ schools. I digress...) When we were boys in school, we used to speak of beautiful girls as a challenge to be surmounted, a trophy to be won against great odds, an obstacle to be overcome. This is misguided and it is called objectification. No wonder those perverts be groping at the statue of SMACK Babe.

But while I waited for God to deliver my exemption, I actually got to know Daisy, to talk to her and listen to her and learn that she was a really great person. She was warm, funny, smart, deep and extremely nice.

I mean, we like totally had so much in common.

As in we liked the same music and we both liked to draw pictures. She was very good at it.
In spite of my infatuation, I actually found that I liked her. This totally discombobulated my paradigms.
Those lazy days and easy evenings became even more delectable and that month (she was on school hols) was one of the reasons I remember vac as one of the most pleasant periods of my life. Another reason is that I was just starting to write and a third is that I wasn’t as malfuncted as I was to later become.
NOw, because I got some sort of evil kick out bikozulu and scotchbuscuits' comments, I shall stop here and say: TUNE IN NEXT TIME for the conclusion which is very similar to the one in When Harry Met Sally and has the bit about me finding Daisy twelve years later.

The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. (Except a few barefaced lies)

I’m going to tell you a true story now. I will be embellishing and exaggerating along the way because it is very important that I maintain the blurriness of the line that distinguishes truth from fiction. Especially since, unlike other bloggers, I was stupid enough to put my real name up there.

This is a story of a boy, (me) and a girl, (whose name was yeah right, like I’m going to go and tell you. What if you also know her and you report me? I’m not putting my business all up on the Internet so that I can get into trouble. Let’s call her Daisy and move on).

Like Daisy Fay in The Great Gatsby. You will see the parallels as the tale progresses.

Daisy was the girl next door, the girl on whom, as these things go, I had a massive crush.
I was just out of S4, chilling through vac, luxuriating through lazy days and easy evenings, watching The Fresh Prince on VHS, recovering from a hectic year during which I narrowly survived becoming a juvenile delinquent by fortunately being broke…(I had started to hang out with the wrong crowd, you see. They were called the Borbon family. They were SMACK Gangstas).
I was vacing at those of our’s when (cue music) she walked into my life.

Twinkle-twinkle-chwiiing!

(That was the music)

She was stunning. She was mesmerizing. The fluttering my dear little heart assumed when she first glid into sight has not been replicated since. Yes, glid. She did not walk like mortal girls walk, with her feet touching mundane dirt. She would glide. Hence glid.

My brain leapt up, on seeing her and said, Dude, why are you still gawking, go, go, go!

But Mr. Flutterby in my thorax had objections. “Go with what? Those corny moves you learnt for social?” And he had a point. You see, ladies, and I could get into trouble for spilling this secret, if a guy comes at you with confidence, poise, grace, saying the right words and all that crap you like, there’s a chance that he isn’t into you as much as you think. He has thought it would be nice to kick it with you, but he knows that if you tell him to get lost it won’t be the end of the world and he can just go off and maybe catch the game on Supersport.

But if the little boy is stuttering and stammering and dropping his braces and generally acting like a wet fish, that is true love. That is because he knows he is facing total devastation in your arms. You would lose a smidgen of your composure too if someone was holding a gun to your head and you didn’t know whether they were going to shoot or not.
So my heart told me…

Ooops. Out of time. I’ll tell you the rest next time I can get to a webcafe.

Random Thoggits

1. Whatever zadie smith is smoking, I want some.

2. After the morose melancholython that is Bruce Springsteen’s album Nebraska, it is a pleasant shock to rock to Sherry Darling. You’ve got to love lyrics like this:

Your Mamma's yappin' in the back seat
Tell her to push over and move them
big feet
Every Monday morning I gotta drive her down to the unemployment
agency
Well this morning I ain't fighting tell her I give up
Tell her
she wins if she'll just shut up
But it's the last time that she's gonna be
ridin' with me

You can tell her there's a hot sun beatin' on the black
top
She keeps talkin' she'll be walkin' that last block
She can take a
subway back to the ghetto tonight

3. It is imperative that I stop sucking and start kicking ass. Delay is unforgivable. April is almost over.

4. Someone stole my DVD player on Friday. The house was in such a mess that I didn’t notice for a full hour.

5. I heard the most outrageous story over the weekend. It involved a woman, a very very short skirt and a line of suitors, none of whom would be turned away. The narrators were not as shocked as I was. They see this sort of thing quite often, I guess.
There are a whole world out there I know nothing about.

It's not goodbye, it's I've met someone else

The Print and Pub Corp., who pay me good money to obey them, have deemed this blog pornographic. I cannot access it on their computers, therefore, and that is why I have been updating as regularly as some people I will not name.

And before you start sniggering, all your blogs are pornographic, too. All of blogger.com is, according to the Corp.'s internet filtering machines. It's hell because it means I have to go to a cafe with a flash disk to get the latest.

And then I can't comment and say, for example, that whatever Jay has been smoking, I want some, oh, that's what he's been smoking; or to muse on Degstar's cars; or to I forgot what I was supposed to say about Michael Buble to Carlo; or to be all like, "Welcome to our millennium" to Inktus; or to monkey-yelp at LA's discourse on television etc.
And I certainly haven't been able to flame Iwaya.

Because you are all pornographic.

But if you still want to play with me, in a morally-okayed environment, the family-rated Corp. has set me up at
http://newvision.co.ug/blogs/ernestbazanye

They allow me to use their pictures, so I can finally show you that photo of Sharon Obsessions that I love so much.

Do stop over once in a while.

Nothing Personal

I did not sleep last night. And I had run out of the drugs. I did not sleep last night. So, today, I am in a very sour mood. Very. I WANT TO KICK SOMEONE!

And I hate everyone. Every one.

That is, except you guys.

Everyone includes:
1. Mike Mukula- Where does he get the gall to flash his fancy, flamboyant house at me like that all week? I didn’t buy African Woman to have my face rubbed in it, I bought it to beautify my own house. It had a picture of Natasha Whatever-her-other-name-is from Obsessions.
My house, you must understand is very very ugly. Factors contributing to this include the following:

a. Lazy occupant
b. Lack of housegirl since Diana got pregnant
c. It wasn’t mine I swear
d. Appetite for steak subs from Me Takeaway which come in huge boxes that lead dustbin to overflow in a matter of days
e. Strict LC guys who ensure that occupant cannot just get up and empty dustbin for fear of being fined. (Fine for dumping doesn’t mean permission is granted, it means they will fine you. Took me a while to get that) So occupant has to wait until late in the night to sneak into neighbour’s large externally-situated dumpster and deposit his own trash therein
f. Occupant is too lazy to do that more than twice a month. Neighbour’s deserve it anyway—they always be blasting their WBS at night with the result that it sounds like there are two televisions competing in occupant’s house. So occupant has to crank his own television up really loud to drown out Kyekyo That’s It or whatever mind-poisoning gwash neighbour has been watching. Then neighbour thinks this is a challenge, like in The Fast and The Furious and he/she/not sure which and antisocial so won’t find out raises the volume higher. So occupant has to raise his volume again. It’s a vicious cycle, and in the end it is the children who suffer.
g. Neighbour’s children. Occupant has no children. Neighbour’s children suffer because they end up hearing Kyekyo That’s It with volume at full blast. Anyway…

The personal abode is a mess, so I bought this month’s African Woman magazine, intending to post the cover picture of Natasha on one of the walls in the hope that it will mitigate my living room’s ugliness.

Didn’t work. Natasha’s fine, but, apparently, not THAT fine.

As if the purchase of a cover that failed to repel the room’s hideousness was not enough of a waste, there, in the mag, is eight pages of salt leaping out and rubbing itself in my wounds of poverty.

And a photo of Mikey grinning at me, as if to say, “Hey, you, with the ugly house, you call that a living room? Even my cockroaches wouldn’t live there. You want to know what a living room is? Check this out. This is a living room, you Loser. You big-ass LOSER! Take that!”

And then, not finished yet, he goes on to call his wife, “Baby, tell this dirty muthafucker about our house.”

Then the interview, which you read, in which Mrs Mikey said, and I quote: “Oh there are so many expensive things in the house…I think the (most expensive) would have to be the sauna, steam and Jacuzzi and all of that. We didn’t spend too much on the boy’s bedrooms besides the expensive showers.”

I hate that guy.

Nothing personal, of course.