Its that time again, I’m house-sitting in Bugolobi and as such I won’t have very regular posts. This time round, I am not blessed with a TV so huge you can play table tennis on its screen, but what I do have is a wireless internet connection with no computer. It’s like that line in that song by that woman who says its like rain on your wedding day…its like inter-nets, with no com-puter.

I also happen to have DSTV which I utilize for work. Everyone else watches TV to unwind, but not I. I do it so I can earn a salary.


Idols, also known as that show where people go to sing and stuff, is coming to an end. Coming up is Big Brother Africa 3. The show that saw Tanzania in bed with Angola and Nigeria.

It goes without saying that I am really psyched for this thing. Its not even the whole prospect of viewing “public displays of romantic action”, but the fact that it is multi dimensional. Something is always happening. Or someone.

And there’s always someone we figure we are better than. It wasn’t quite the same with the Idols experience coz the lads and lasses there-on have better singing voices than I do, which is not saying much.


I was asked recently whether I have had the opportunity to smoke weed before…yes. Ages ago. And it made me paranoid, walking around telling people to stop looking at me like I was high. They weren’t looking at me. Hell, not even in my general direction. I take solace in the knowledge in knowing someone else was higher than I and propositioned a lady twice thinking he’d landed on two different people…

“madam, how much? What? THREE THOUSAND? Keep your ****!” individual proceeds to stagger a bit, turn around and (meeting the same lady again) asks, “madam, let me give you two thousand five hundred for a quickie…”


I went for comedy night recently after vowing not to and had myself a grand ol’ time. The problem is, I don’t know whether it was because I was drinking quite a bit… oh and I met some dude that was on the prowl for some “fine laydeez over hurr”… Told him he’d probably get himself some if he made sure no one caught on that he was from around “herrr’…fo sho’!

I watched WANTED the other day and I gotta admit, I was impressed with how mature we’ve gotten as a cinema going er, as cinema-goers. Seriously. Any one that has watched this movie will agree with me, it is so full of it, in the old days people would stand up and clap every so often (LOSERS ALL!), however every so often people would just look on, staring in awe… to borrow a word, with “eye-gasms”..but no claps. Impressive shit really.

…and I be here saying I am unemployed

I was on phone with a pal when the issue of my house-sitting came up, says she, “I didn’t know you did that, you should have sat for me when I was away…” Say I, “ I only do plush places..” Says she… well, you know what you said


Allow me to introduce y’all to. . .this blog

I watched Speed Racer, finally! The reason I was watching it in the first place is because it is from those brothers that decided, “screw physics, a guy can dodge bullets with his mind…” The movie plays out like an advert for paint…or a device for torturing epileptic insurgents in Iraq.


One Afternoon, not too long ago. . .

“when I was growing up as a child. . .”

-Patience Rwabogo

So there I was, chillin’ out at a pal’s video lib. Conversating as we are wont to, when suddenly…

Vacist: Man, you guy, your stuff is dope! Do you have Sopranos?

Mr. E: Yeah, what season?

Vacist: Okay, what. Gene (generally), I can’t click what season it was. Oba (perhaps) it was 2 or 3. First play and I scan

After a few moments of “scanning”

Vacist: Yeah, mob! That’s the one. Man! But I am going to pay 1500 instead of 2500, shit is tight ehn, you click?

Mr. E: But borrowing is Two grand.

Vacist: Eh..Okay.. heh

Then he sees me…

Vacist: You guy, you’re a blogger, what!

Me: Er…

Vacist: Man, don’t deny, what! You’re the chief blogger, yeah. I read about you somewhere!

Me: Yeah, I blog, but I wouldn’t say I’m a chief blogger. Ernest blogs more than me. He even puts up pikicha of roco artis

Vacist: Ah, wah, so you write what!

Me: I write whatever comes to. . .

Vacist: I know. I was saying. So you write articles, words, those things, what!

Me: Uhm, yes… those things

Vacist: So how do I blog, begin writing,what! Who do I pay?

Me (suppressing urge to make money off this chap and his question tags): It’s easy, just go online, sign up and you’re set

Vacist: Its that easy what! Man those things of internet, www, what! Those things are tight mob man, when!

Me: What??

Vacist: Yeah, sorry, I meant what! You click these things ehn, man!

…and then

(I promised I wouldn’t include him in this post so in all fairness, we have only one side of the chat)

Vacist: Man. Do you want someone to work here with you.


Vacist: Its kawa, I don’t want money. Okay you can pay me a bit while I try out


Vacist: I like movies,what!

Me: You just want to hit on girls

Vacist: Uh, no man! You guy you are a spoiler, what!

Me: You haven’t got the job yet, I can spoil more for you.

Vacist: Man, be easy. Be kawa

So I shot him.

Random Instance Of Thought _ Its kells!

You’ve heard the news, R. Kelly is NOT GUILTY. However, you have to ask yourself what it was like in the courtroom. . .

-So Mr. Kelly, Mr. Pied Piper… R! mask, ziggy dee, whatever your name is, what do you have to say for yourself…

Kells: Well, if I could turn… turn back the hands of time. . .

-Screw that. We know what you did, you peed on her didn’t ya? You peed on a poor defenseless young

Kells: Age ain’t nothing but a number!

-Who the hell do you think you are?

Kells: It’s Kells!

-How is that relevant to the case?

Kells: We got room keys!

-Judge I’d like to call our first witness… I call to the stand, Chris Freakin Brown ladies and gentelemen!

Chris B: Thank you thank you, you’re far too kind

-Hang on, that shit ain’t yours. You’re channeling Jay Z. Mr. Brown I have to warn you, we haven’t gotten over that stuff you did over at facebook!

Chris B: I just left comments from wall to wall…

-So how do you know the accused?

Chris B: Mr. Kelly? I don’t. I know the girl in the video.

-Crap! Okay, so that it is not a waste of time. How did you meet?

Chris B: It was in a gym…or a subway. I remember asking her to gimme that. . .

Kells: What does that have to do with anything?

-Shut up Mr. Piper! Go on Mr. Brown. Then what did you say

Chris B: I said OOOOH! I’m into you then I planted one on her

-Yeah? Then what.. what did she say to that, you sly dawg you. . .

Chris B: nti, how am I supposed to breathe with no air. . .

-Sir, like this piece you’ve gone off on a tangent. Go away. . .Mr. Kells, what do you have to say in your defense?

Kells: I’m a flirt!

-Excuse me?

Kells: I don’t see nothing wrong, with a little bump and grind. . .

-Mr. Kelly!

Kells: sorry, but I doubt Mr. Brown’s claims, that was not the same girl!

-And you know this for a fact, how?

Kells: I did that same girl shit with Mr. Raymond. . .Usher Raymond.

-So you were saying.

Kells: Hey, you’re kinda cute… we can do this on the down low. . .

-Excuse me?

Kells: Your Body’s Callin. . .and I bet you’re Home Alone. . . I’m So Happy Its Thursday.

{Reader: Hang on, that’s not even a song title. What’s going on? I thought you were doing song titles. What the **** !

Me: Anyone notice it gets abbreviated as SHIT? No? Moving on . . .}

Mr. Kelly it is, in fact, Friday!

Kells: Thank God.

What? The case is not over. . .

Kells: Thank God it’s Friday

So, back to the matter at hand. You say you did not pee on her. . .but it says here you said you were “feelin on her booty”

Kells: That’s just a song. Hell, I sang I believe I can fly! You don’t see me flying! That shit is depressing. I can’t sleep!

There, there Mr. Piper, I’m your Angel

Kells: You’re pretty kinky for a lawyer. . .

That wasn’t me, it was that Celine Dion chic. . .it’s just a big coincidence that her words are following the same structure as mine are.

Kells: Come on now, we can all get along. We’re all Happy People.


Kells: Sorry, I thought the Storm was over now. . . and by taking the piss on justice I’d prove what I said before, I’m the world’s greatest.

Not that it has any bearing on this case, but you haven’t done anything with Celine in a while, why is that?

Kells: When a woman’s fed up. . . I don’t need this, this line of questioning is making me feel trapped. . .like a cup in a cupboard, or a shoe in a closet. I feel trapped in the closet! I’m out of this piece!

We’re not done, Mr. Kelly!

Kells: I’m a Rock Star. That court shit is for playa’s only! Jigga Kelly, not guilty!

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I had a Turkish delight this morning. That was on my way to the bathroom…soapy water got into my mouth so what was once rose flavored, became Geisha flavored. Tasted like crap, incase you were wondering.

My pal told me that who you are at 25 is who you will be for the rest of your life. Technically that means I have roughly three months to mould myself into a morally upright citizen…I’m keeping my fetish for girls in white pants till 5 minutes to my birthday.

I am afraid of babies. Not in a clown’s freak me out sort of way, but I wouldn’t want to be left alone with a baby for even five seconds… shit, at all. My sis wonders how I will cope with my own kids… I haven’t planned that far ahead.

The contestants on Tusker’s Project Fame make me want me to throw our TV…at them…I was going to let it slide until the traffic jam they caused made it close to impossible to get a decent meal at Garden City… there’s also the fact that some chic said, “My own very home!” …and most of the contestants seem to have developed accents of questionable origin after going to Nairobi…NAIROBI for crying out loud!

What’s the deal with teletubbies? Why don’t they grow old and wrinkly and die? How come the kid in the sky with a sunny disposition is not aging? Aren’t we filling our kids with false hope?

The fair and lovely lady on telly in that advert says four is her lucky number… haha, mbu 4! The nerve.

My niece believes in shooting stars. After watching Ragga Dee and Bobi Wine engaged in a game of pool at the night club the other night, I think it’s a brilliant idea.

I want my Sony Ericsson to be as deadly as the Nokias in that advert where people are as-if fighting using their phones network waves. Damn you Sony, when will you make my phone a weapon of mass distraction!

Random Instance Of Thought _ soccer!

It’s come to this; I am going to find a soccer team to support. Everyone seems to be into soccer. I tried to console someone over her team’s loss saying, “You need to remember, that stuff doesn’t happen in real life.” The silly team went on to equalize in the 95th minute, but now we are not talking.

I figure I need a reason to justify my highs and my lows. I can’t keep being happy and grouchy “just for just”. That would just be weird.

The way I see it, I can be pissed off and miserable (yes. You can do both these things at the same time…with close to little or no practice) and if anyone asks me about it, I’ll say my team lost. We can’t rule out the possibility that I may be in a foul mood even after a stunning performance from team X. So stunning, in fact the pope and queen came down to watch them and fought over who should shake hands with the players after the game. (brrrr, nasty mental picture!) In which case, I will assume a self-righteous stance and say something like, “I hate how showy my team has gotten! What happened to playing for the love of the game?”

When I am on my natural high, even on a Monday, I can claim to be celebrating my team’s “awesome”. (the word is surrounded by “” , clearly I know it can’t be right.)

I haven’t figured out which team to support, but I am slowly leaning toward Chelsea. Express FC and SC Villa just bore me. And they don’t have the backing of a wealthy Russian. Shit, dude can buy the moon!

Back then I was all for supporting the underdog, but when you think about it, it as for all the wrong reasons. I’ll tell you why. I hated going to bars and stuff and being the guy that still had a full drink or a glass in one piece everytime a team scored. So I came up with a brilliant strategy, I’d support the “other” team. It was particularly messed up during games with the top dawgz (my word processor is bitchin over the spelling of that word, how does Cheri get away with these things?) coz then I’d feel like a total sell-out.

I haven’t figured out whose name I am going to get on my Jersey. Come on, you must have seen this coming from a mile away. Who doesn’t wear these things? In any case, that’s something you can wear anywhere… even weddings. I have considered getting a jersey with the coach’s name across the back coz he makes me laugh. He probably shouldn’t, but come on, dude looks like The Count from Sesame Street. Hell, he looks like any vampire. Everytime he bares his fangs in glee whenever his boys score, I am delighted.

The only foreseeable problem here is holding onto the Jersey knowing full well that The Count’s manager may tire of buying planets and decide to give him the sack.

We also have to consider an important truth. I am not growing any younger. The list of natural causes is fast running out. I have cut down on my drinking. Seriously. I don’t smoke. (I know what you’re thinking, shut up! THAT is NOT smoking!) I seem to have picked up a fear of experimenting with drugs. Partly due to the fact that Raymond told me Ecstasy leaves holes in your brain. Big, Nasty holes with no clearly defined shape. Just the thought makes me gag.

I realize there are other drugs that don’t need Techno music and mood lighting… (come to think of it, other drugs come with their own music and mood lighting. Ecstasy, you’re a freeloading wuss!) But nuh, I think I’ll pass.

The junk food in Uganda will not leave a layer of fat around my heart. If it does, I think we Ugandans are built to fight that. Our hearts must be lookin’ at that stuff and screaming, “What the **** do you think you’re doing here?”. In the western world, hearts be sayin, “Why hello there, make yourself at home. There’s room in here for the both of us. Care for an artery?” A few months later, the heart realizes its mistake. The fat is that guest that overstayed his/her welcome.

ANYWAY, by getting into soccer, I open myself up to a heart attack or some “accident” during a bar brawl.

Of drunken watchmen

Mine is the tale of a drunken watchman, you see,

One that comes to work whenever he’s free,

Reeking of booze,

Drunk as heck,

Drunk as can be,

Drunk as a skunk,

‘Tis the story of he,

Read the rest of this entry »

because everyone has pix up. . .

So I couldn’t sleep, right, and then my teeth were killing me, right, so I started thinking about life and stuff, specifically, where I am in life, you know, how long will i be this way, what will it be like when i get older, how come i have ignored punctuation in this post, when will it end…blah blah blah.

Anyway, because I had time on my hands. . . Read the rest of this entry »