Sleek and Wild

Monday massacres: Intent to kill

// August 31st, 2009 // 6 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

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This is our guy, one we take great pride in.

It is that time of the month. The moon has aligned, the flowers have bloomed, Lyupe has lost her flower, Kigwe, village witch, has farted…all is right for the season. You can see it in the dogs’ eyes, the way they make come-hither signals to each other…if canines loved flowers, they’d be carrying bunches to each other. They’d probably hug and croon each other to sleep…yes, it’s mating season. These animals have no shame, doing it everywhere, getting stuck in each other…

This story is not about mating…no, even I, Lundi, soon-to-be-man…even I am above that. Writing about mating seasons. It is hunting season. And I am ‘soon-to-be-man’ because I haven’t captured an animal yet. Take Madi for example. He is a full man. In our village, a full man has seven balls. Metaphorically. I think. But going by the trousers Madi wears, he may actually have the seven balls. Madi achieved Full man (seven ball) status when he chased an antelope non-stop for two days. The antelope run and run and run and run….now Madi, of the blood-shot eyes and sinewy muscles(and of seven balls), also run and run and run…after two days of running, the antelope got tired of running. It stopped. Madi carried the screaming antelope back to our village and claimed his status. Madi, ugly as hell, is now all the village belles have eyes for…you walk through the village with Madi and all the nubile females are like:

While fingering their beads, “njuealkahhj Madi,” while stretching to be noticed. Loosely translated, that means ‘Hi Madi’. And that’s a really loose translation; an accurate one would involve me telling you that the statement has “let’s go and make-out” undertones. But I have young readers…

So today, I too plan to become a man. Seven balls. Myth has it that after you capture that elusive animal, the balls actually grow on you. You know, like how the beard and deep voice creep up on you without you noticing (till someone jumps back in shock when you start talking).

I spent the night practicing my ‘triumphant entry’ speech in front of the mirror. What, you now think that because we hunt we do not have mirrors? Shame on you, tribist. So, in the mirror, I was king. And Madi, ugly as hell, was engulfed in jealousy…

We set off at first light. Technically, that isn’t possible since ‘first light’ comes at the instant the sun’s rays kiss your part of this scorched flat earth. And there’s no way the rays you are seeing are the first kissers. No way. See, I hold both the village brain and village quiet portfolio.

I digress too much…the hunting, we set off, Facebook, the village queer, at the front…he always led the hunting party; sniggers I’d tapped into suggested that the village silently prayed that he get mauled by some aliens or something. Very brave queer that one. The forest was alive. The birds were not singing, they were making some strange strange noises…seeing as it is mating season…but the forest was alive. Insects were making lotsa noise and some (early)birds were actively chasing (early) worms…ahhh, the joys of hunting. I had my spear with me, holding it the way Kaga had shown me. I’d carefully wrapped myself in those pieces of skin we use to hide our loins…just our loins. These village-mates are so primitive! First order of business on getting seven-ball status; get this village some clothes. However, I’ll be quick to point out that I do not mind the skins the girls wear…they leave enough stuff out there for one to enjoy our chest-to-chest greeting.

Yes, I digressed again. The party had been walking forever…and breakfast is taboo. My belly was doing perfect back-flips. The berries were looking very inviting, the leaves seemed to be glistening in the sun’s rays, calling me, beckoning…the forest screamed ‘Eat me’.

Ouuuww!! Sharp pain…a slap. Kaga had slapped me; he says he found me hugging a tree and biting its bark..damn hunger. We keep walking…seven ball status, here I come.

And in other news, this writer was at the Lantern meet of poets…and the fingers are burning to write about it; a story that’ll make you bang your head against that PC monitor screaming “NOOOOoooooo…”

“Why didn’t I leave watching rabbits make-out to Normzo and go for that thing!!”….”NOOOooooo….” and then you stand up and run out of office/the cafe/the-kafunda-connected-to-the-net-using-your-phone.

Chew on this

// August 28th, 2009 // 17 Comments » // true stuff

Was at BHH a few hours ago. I walked in on a heated discussion on the advances in atomic physics and their implications on man’s space tourism. Saffyre had them blogren drinking every word of his as he explained where space tourism had reached and how Professor Wanker, pronounced Vanker, a German chap had made some great steps in atomic physics. This Saffyre chap even pulled out  a snap of the famous proff:

With science in that guy’s hands, all is safe. While we are still on that, what’s it about scientists that makes them not photogenic?
Wasn’t at BHH long, had to run…I stopped long enough to save antipope from ‘the Edge’ a.ka. Ivan who didn’t seem to get it when she kept switching seats whenever he’d seat close by. I quickly diffused the situation by summoning the beefy bouncer. I didn’t know they could pull someone’s trousers that high! Sorry Edge. Send me your number and I’ll mobile money the beef away…
Yes, I finally met the antipope. It should be made a law: every blog should have a snap of the owner. Soloking and I have talked at great length about this and we feel that our blogspirit isn’t giving enough information about blogren. Had this law been in place, I’d have known that the antipope had dimples and I wouldn’t have suddenly started to mix-up me vowels….
Somehow lost my roll-call sheet, but said hi to Dee,Nev,DK,Daredevil, streetsider,Joseph and that N-name my neurons are drawing blanks on…I suck with names, I suck with faces…but I’ll gladly keep your money for you, any of you. My mother Theresa heart would take good care of your dime, especially life-savings…call me, or just send me your bank details and a copy of your signature.
It’s going to be a long weekend; poems, rugby…and a bank heist. The one I’m working on…also had a talk with that guy from the streetside…there’s something in the works there.

Monday massacres: A new era

// August 24th, 2009 // 14 Comments » // Monday Massacres...Bollocks

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We are still going 2010. We are impatient, we cannot wait at all at all. We are in this stuff paka last.

He had always been very very protective of her. She was his baby. The type that turned heads. The type that gave men thoughts that they wished would come back to them during their not so dry dreams. He had guard dogs, a secret-password for the gate, an electric fence and a security guard. A real one who spoke English and did lean on his gun like it was a walking stick. She loved the attention and he gave it in plenty. He fed her on all those good things that most people see in catalogs and those other glossy books.

One day, he was broke so he bought her local food. She took a walk to ponder what was going on. What was the meaning of life if she couldn’t get good food? Did he love her anymore? What was her purpose on earth? These questions tore at her as she braved the overgrown trail and trudged on…thinking. She soon came to a clearing, a big clearing. In the distance, she could make out someone chilling. She walked up to the stranger. He noticed her coming but he didn’t flinch. She sat and watched, fascinated at how the guy could eat so fast, for he was eating. Finally they started to talk. And she was fascinated by how much he knew. When it was getting dark, she had to leave. She went back home, thinking of him.

Days turned into years and it was soon time for her to leave home. He shed tears. It was too soon. And where would she go? Why did she want to leave? Why? Why? He cried…wept, sobbed even. Then he got up, wiped his tears, blew his nose and cleaned off the lipstick…yes, he had been fooling around earlier in the day and the damsel had left a mark. So he cleaned off the lipstick and sat her down, gave her the ‘I want what’s best for you’ speech and offered her his blessings…she stood up to leave. He looked and saw how beautiful she was…how the new man in her life would have a blast, and a number of headaches coz she was the bratty type..the ‘talk-to-the-hand’ type…the ‘emancipated’ type. He walked her to the door and there stood the puny guy who had come to pick her up. What? Give up my daughter to this puny, mal-nourished chap? Neyvar!! But on second thought, that face does look familiar…is that…it can’t be…is it really….him?? What are the chances? Yes it is him…it must be…she won’t be in bad company after-all. So he called the chap over and made him take an oath:

“I Sleekness

Do solemnly swear

To treat the Monday Massacres

To the very best of my magic

So help me God

And Rented

By the power vested in me by the Supreme Court of Blogville, I declare thee Sleek Sleekness Sleek the second president of the United Massacre Front (U.MF)”

*Cheer cheer (from a crowd that had gathered outta nowhere)

And the bitch became his. And they rode off into the sunset, to his castle, where he had plans of giving her a make-over. He had a twisted plan to take over the world, and she’d be part of it. 

This

will very quickly be transformed into this:

And a great week to you too…

Running title

// August 21st, 2009 // 15 Comments » // true stuff

In an effort to be associated with ballistics, and on-top-of-the-worldness, and speed, and everything fast, I present, ways in which Usain Bolt and I are the same. We have so much in common we might be brothers from a different mother. If I could get to him, we’d do DNA stuff. But he hasn’t replied my mail yet, and the number of his that I have is never on. And I think flying to Jamaica would be taking it a tad too far, I still have some pride left. So till he replies my mail and inserts that strand of hair I asked for, I cannot be 100% sure. Just 80%. Presenting, the basis of the 80% certainty:

• Bolt, like me, loves yams. This is the strongest link to our being brothers. We could be the only two people who love yams the way we do. I know there’s fufu and stuff like that in West Africa. But that’s different. Seriously.
• The guy is 6’5’’ and I am 5’6’’…what are the chances of that eh?
• He has never gotten a groin injury. You know how those things are so commonplace? Like lice? Ok, bad example. But yes, no groin injury. Neither have I….amazing.
• “…But with 20 meters remaining, the 21-year-old looked around, and, when realizing he had a strong lead, he started celebrating before he crossed the finish line…”. I do that too. One time, it was just me and the goalkeeper…and I knew I’d breeze past the poor chap, so I celebrated.
• He is always tired after races. Strange as it may seem, I am also always tired after races. It cannot be a coincidence.
• He has big quotes: “I just blew my mind and blew the world’s mind.” I also have big quotes. I even have some about blowing. “Streetsider loves to blow his own mind and himself”. Bolt and I are deep.
• Today is his birthday. We share year of birth. No, it’s not my birthday. We wouldn’t be brothers then would we? You’d see me as a fake. A poser. Kiwani. But I am the real deal.
• You have seen the guy pose after races? Also, “…Bolt expresses a love for dancing and his character is frequently described as laid-back and relaxed.” Lulu, me, laid-back and relaxed, ya? I also have a love for dancing, especially when forced by my boss. Every Wednesday. Mid-week office entertainment. They should get a radio for that. Next time that boss asks me for mid-week dancing, I’ll run away. And time myself while at it.

My case is proved. 80% certainty that dude is my bro. I believe not-so-long from today, there’ll be another fast guy, one so fast they’d have to show us races in slow motion. Seriously. It won’t be long, But till then, my brother’s time in the sun is a relief…I so love the fact that he is not from one of the high-and-mighty nations (US and UK); they’d make it mandatory to say ‘Bolt’ after every two breaths. Our delegates would have to wear ‘Bolt’ t-shirts when going to ask for loans. They’d erect. Let’s hold that sentence right there while you muse on it. They’d erect.

Done? Ok. They’d erect Bolt statues in every village. They’d scrap the word ‘running’ from the dictionary and replace it with ‘Bolting’ or an informal ‘usaining’. Brother, if you read this, send that strand eh? Later man. Off to time myself, we may hold speed in common.

Demo affairs

// August 18th, 2009 // 16 Comments » // true stuff

Today, I watched what had been reported to be a big ‘peaceful demonstration’. We all know how ‘peaceful demonstrations’ play out. Let’s not kid anyone, Ghandi has been gone way too long and in that time, that phrase has taken on a whole new meaning. I watched the FDC demo today; guy in suit screaming his lungs out, followed by a massive crowd of five people. The guy was sweating, making noise, pointing at the cameras (which were following him around…Hot chic carrying one of the cameras…the media has really come of age. Hot chic in nice suit bringing us the story live-yes Princess, that ‘live’ you are thinking). I was perched far enough for my boss not to notice that I was away from work on a comedy break, but close enough to see the veins in the demo guy’s face…well, what was the ‘demo’ about in the first place? The party, FDC, was against (and probably still is against) the re-appointment of the old electoral commission. Yawwnn!! I know, I know…so they sat and thought it:

Text from FDC top-dawg to second dawg: Hey man, why don’t we do a demo man?

Second dawg: But Top-dawg, the last demo we did, that Dr. Dre didn’t even listen to it!!(pissed off, veins in his neck showing, ALL his body hair standing…ALL of it)

Top-dawg: No dwansy! Why do you think like you haven’t gotten any in years eh? I am not talking about sending those guys another demo tape on why we think we should rule…but you must admit, my rendition on ‘If I ruled Ug’ gave Nas gooseblisters. But I mean let’s stage a demo on Kla streets dawg

Second dawg: (Still wondering how all that coulda fitted in a text message. Another text comes in..twit twiit twit twiitt)

Top-dawg: And stop wondering how I did it men! Get on the demo pronto

So second dawg sheds his sweat shirt and oversize trousers, reaches for his suit, takes a shower, puts on deo, get a hair cut, calls his wife and says she is the best mom to his kids, calls the girl on the side and says that he loves her and promises her some…money, calls housie and promises her some too…and then he hits the streets. Oh, he also calls the press and promises them, “There will be FIRE tomorrow”. He translates that just in case intellectuals are listening in.

“Tuta kuwa na moto kesho”… “Klang keng kung “…and in the spirit of tribalism, he translates to as many as he can.

TOMORROW: He has the demo manuals with him; The Ghandi edition, in which some pages which involved sitting down and waiting for people to notice, were torn out and the revised edition which involves sitting down only if you are caught…sitting down and screaming like your mojo just got bit by a snake. The revised edition actually has a picture to illustrate what a snake can do to mojo…click here to view.

DEMO TIME: Among other things, the manual recommends that you have some water stashed in your suit. In a polythene bag. Or bottle. This’ll come in handy when the tear gas pours. Also, gather as big a crowd as u can. Call them relatives from the mental hospital. Okay, they have no phones but get them there. Family support is important. Let loose the chicken, lure the rats out…the goats won’t need coaxing, they love sweaty crowds. Now always stand in the middle of the crowd; that way you always escape unhurt. But at all times, keep the crowd charged…

You: We hate this…

Crowd: Yeeesss…

You: And we hate that…

Crowd: (murmurs, fingers pointing…)

You: I meant we really reaaally hate this…

Crowd: Yeeessss….

Lastly, when things get tight and you notice them popos closing in on you, hating on your popularity, killing your chances of becoming the next top-dawg, take a lesson from a possum: Hit the ground and play dead.

Attack of the killer chicken

// August 17th, 2009 // 15 Comments » // true stuff

Young sleek wasn’t stubborn. Or naughty. He just played a lot and got his clothes dirty. And when they’d leave him and his siblings every afternoon ‘taking a mandatory nap’, he’d actually play ‘dool’ with them siblings. ‘Dool’ is a game very similar to pool; you have some marbles you try to knock into a hole. But that’s a gross injustice to the game, summarizing it like that. A lot of thinking, planning, skill, sheer luck and long fingers are needed if you are to be the village champion. DK was our village champion. Modest as he is right now, that chap walked around the village challenging anyone to a game of dool. Conductors, boda boda guys (there weren’t many back then), the chapatti guy…DK beat them all. How did Lil’ Sleek play ‘dool’ in the house with his siblings? Well, he made a hole in the carpet…be young, be stupid eh?

But this story is not about DK or about ‘dool’…this tale is about the killer chicken. Now one day, Lil’ sleek was walking under an apple tree. And then an apple fell and hit his head. And he picked the apple up and while eating it, he started to think, “Why did the apple fall down?”

And the young man’s mind wandered to gravity, and his mind started racing; Force =mass X gravity. He run and started scribbling stuff furiously…and then he realized that Newton had beaten him to the theory. That scheming Newton. Walking away dejected, he came across a hen with its chicks.…imagine that, a hen with chics following it around. Let’s rephrase that, we don’t want Lulu getting lost and missing the story. A dejected Lil’ Sleek came across a hen and its young. In his dejection, he decided to pick on one of the chics…Lil’ Sleek picked on a chic and all hell got away. Mother hens are mean killing machines. Now, Lil’ Sleek knew about gravity and ish, but he had no idea how mean these mothers could be. So he got his first beat down. From a hen. The thing kicked, scratched, clucked, pecked and even jeered. When it was done, Lil’ Sleek was on his knees clutching his face…his assailant turned to leave probably thinking ‘Wuss!’. The assailant stopped, called the chics (who were frothing from their beaks, having screamed themselves sore during the action) and together they started to walk off. Miss HENdipendent paused and kicked some dirt back at Lil’ Sleek. She wiped her brow and spat on the ground. “Nigger, you’ve been served”. And the posse walked off, clucking to some beat in their chicken brains.

The whole thing had lasted but a few seconds but Sleek was scared for life. To this day, deep down he fears mother hens. His body unconsciously takes the long route round mother hens. He takes pride in putting away huge amounts of chicken when at table. His revenge. This revenge is a dish best served with tomato sauce.

Kwanjula

// August 13th, 2009 // 18 Comments » // true stuff

I was late for the party, nothing new there. I have developed a habit of arriving just in time for lunch at kwanjulas. Not nice. Party hearty always tardy. But those kanzu things are a hustle, you can only lift your leg so high. What if the need to throw a light-hearted kick at someone arises? What do you do? What do you do? Any suggestions on this one are welcome…Mckeith, I’m sure you have some tips here.

I sat in a corner and did what anyone at a party, actually anyone at any event does before they meet someone they know; pull out the phone and type away furiously at the already-faded buttons. That bouncy feel of the buttons, so comforting…finally they came for us to go serve. You know those guys that serve a plate that is so heavy, they carry it with both hands? You can see them flinching under the weight of what they plan to eat. No, I am not one of them. Seriously. And you know those people who have their meal with a beer? Jny23, what it is? No, I am not one of them either. Breezed through lunch, the dude and his entourage left and then the music was set loose on us…and then all hell run free.

Scene one: (BM, before the music was set free) Peaceful people, chatting heartily, making intelligent conversation, laughing at the funny quips from the ‘aboogezi’, looking each other in the eye, holding onto their kanzus and gomesis

Scene two: (AM, after the music) NO sign of a gomesi or kanzu in a 50km radius(I measured, Mzee Kalindu was the only one left in one). Old, young, very young and middle-aged (what’s ‘middle age’? Middle of what? Does it vary with life expectancy? Say, Ug middle age should be 24.5 years coz of expectancy of 49 while middle-age in Japan should be what? 40? So I may be ‘middle-age’ in Ug but a ‘kiddo’ in Japan? So for status issues, I shouldn’t travel?). Now, mystery of life outta the way, we were here: Old, young, very young and middle-aged take to the compound and hand the power over to the music; FRENZY. In all honesty, I’d never seen ‘old’ who could ‘own’ the dance floor. You know those times you are in a circle and then old man gets in the middle and gives you something to look forward to in old age. And the DJ helped matters by playing EVERYTHING. Baz, even zouk. Nice, mellow zouk.

I’d never seen my parents get down like they did. My Dad, teetotaler that he is, had me double-checking what they’d put in his coca cola. And my mum was cutting a rug like a pro. It’s a great light to see parents in: normal, not super, all-knowing, have-very-high-expectations-of-you, always-right, immortal.

And then I met my teacher from P.1. Yes, I have grown. Yes, I so resemble my Dad. Am I still naughty? Aha, chance to go philosophical. Well teacher Enid, that is entirely subjective, you see if…(tirade of moob stuff which she finally breaks off, writes down my number and scampers to safety). Bless her soul, she laid the foundation.

Then while doing my version of dancing (it requires everyone else to be at least 3metres away from me, or else…evil twinkle in the eye); while dancing, someone breaks through my force field and taps me. I turn and she smiles and says hi. She knows my name and we’ve met before. Shucks!! I draw BLANKS. Mob of them. I think. I think. While making small talk. I think. Then ahhh(light bulb), she is Richard’s buddy, the one we met at his office. “So you know Richard is in Tororo now?” I ask confidently.

“Who is Richard? You met me through Isaac.”

And there it is people, I suck with faces. Badly. Very badly. I have been in this spot a gazillion times. He/she knows you yet you cannot place the face. Dear sanyu breakfast and blogren, what’s the best way outta these sticky spots? Face recognition software for my ‘kabiriti’? DK, hook me up…Left the party at 2:00am..and the people were still dancing.

Hot off the press

// August 8th, 2009 // 12 Comments » // true stuff

I’m wearing one of those power suits…the Chinese run around the news room, playing kawuna. These people know how to have fun…but it’s a news room! 1 minute to go…I straighten my tie. Check for any snakes…Can’t have them reptiles sneaking up on me as I read the news. I reach for juice…30 seconds to go. Drat! I’ll have to do without the juice. My Barry White voice won’t come out right but…F it, let’s do this…

Good evening to you, my name is ‘A newsreader named Sleek’ and I bring you this week’s round-up of news in Blogville and the rest of the world.

Leader at a place near where I live covered in dust by the people he leads for failure to deliver a tarmac road he had promised them earlier. They said that they were tired of the dust so poetic justice pushed them to ‘dust’ the guy. These people mean business!! And now word from my snoops has it that he had also promised them toilets…

I love Lulu…na, that came out wrong. I love what Lulu has done with the whispers. Baz, the next

victim, has options to the left, options to the right, options straight on…and its an own goal! I should become a commentator. Though she reduced all the stuff everyone else had written to a soap…ten soap writers.

Cheri walked onto the big-ass stage. She’d done jigs this big time and time again. But it had been so loooong. She last did a jig back when MC Hammer was the ish.

That guy really had some tight trousers…and by tight, we are talking slang here. Word from his buddies has it that the poor dude usually got erections while performing so it was a camouflage technique.

Yes, Cheri got onto the stage and instead of the two-hour, sweaty frenzy of a performance that the intoxicated crowd was expecting, she did a poem…one stanza actually. But it was Cheri so the crowd still gave a mad round of applause, glad that she had at least come onto stage…

In an unrelated development, Erique and Karen and the whole threesome have been under a whole lot of pressure lately…imagine yourself as a famous stuntman who has stared death in the eyeball so many

times. It is your grand performance today. You are all decked out in your leotard…you even have a hat on.

And the cameras are all on you. Today you are to carry a heavy object.

You get into position. They put the thing on your chest. Your buddies are all beside you cheering…ALL of them. Your grandma was flown in from Kitwek. She can barely see but she knows that leotard-clad grandson is doing something big with his life. She’s eating a burger. The cameras are glaring. That hot hot Peurto-Rican is hosting the

show, telling the world that you are the strongest thing alive since Badang. You are set to get with her after your feat. And then you feel your chest start to give way under the weight… Erique and Karen and the whole threesome intimated that they are under that kinda pressure.

In other news, Streetsider was walking down the street…lol. Okay, scratch that. Streetsider was walking down an alley when cupid saw him and decided, “Hey, I have run outta intelligent people to shoot my arrows at. How about I take a jab at someone who thinks a lawsuit is what you wear to court? Someone like that hunched over nigger?” Stop gaping, my sources clearly stated that cupid actually used the N-word. So cupid shot. Five times. And then the arrows finally dug through the dirt and got to Streetsider’s skin. Cupid huffed, but he didn’t puff..those are bad manners. He huffed and sent another arrow. This one got to the skin. Now streetsider is in love…

Nodesix showed us again that even the high and mighty, the people that drive blogville, the people who

if they chose to stop the car and take a pee we’d all have to wait, the people if they sneezed we’d all

get ebola…yes, nodesix, those people…they showed us that even they have moments when their English

lets ‘em down. Yes Bush showed us that but this is Nodesix!! I love the boneboard..But Martha, eh!

Design kingdom is the ish and a bag of chips, chicken and rolex.

Aunti pope (like anti gravity, anti Christ, anti poop) also got onto stage after Cheri, she held her ground, took a jab at a one Queen bee and then she walked off stage..Channel was scheduled to do her thing after her but she snobbed the event. That’s usually Bobi Wine’s territory…he has a hot new song btw.

(plays it for those watching the news. I show them a hot stroke I learnt from the last Kiggunda)

For news and comments, please reach us on our hotlines. They should be on your screen now. Look carefully. There! Now don’t beep, call us…

Delilah

// August 6th, 2009 // 21 Comments » // Wanna-be deep, true stuff

Delilah, she is getting my pants in a twist…she is flooring a smooth talker. She is getting a brother to say evil things like ‘you are the only one’…at least a brother isn’t buying vegetation (read flowers) yet. Not yet at least. A brother has spent though, spent quite a bit on crude stuff, crude stuff she gallops so fast and then coughs a bit and demands for more…

We’ve been in fights but I always come out on top. She seems to prefer me on top, what with her gentle purring when I’m up there. I won’t lie, I kinda like it too.

She isn’t a morning person, I have to push her outta bed. Well, she’s quite a sight. I can’t call her fat, it’s politically incorrect these days…What’s the proper euphemism? She’s sizy. That outta do. She’s dark, and she’s the type that gets quite a bit of attention; yes, even on the streets so sometimes I get self-conscious.

She’s the head-strong type; it’s not safe to get on her without wearing it first. I’m not her first so I gotta be careful. She’s been with quite a few. Yes, she’s been around but somehow I do not let it get to me. Maybe I am crazy about her…maybe I am just crazy.

We’ve had a number of falls. None too serious. We both have scars to show, mine are healing; hers, well, she’s the average girl-the scars take too long to heal. Actually, hers never heal, so I’m really careful with her feelings.

We’ve been going steady for a month now but I still can’t see myself committing. She’s fun and all, and I kinda like the attention she gets me but will these last? Is her hotness a firm foundation for a relationship? Oh love guru yz, speak to me…

She was upfront with me. I had to pay before she could even let herself to be seen with me. Classy. Pricy. Sizy. Delilah.

When you are with her, you are living dangerously.

Delilah. Oh, and she doesn’t mind me displaying her snaps, ZAIN style. Click here.
Be advised, I am not responsible for any bulges that may result from viewing this stuff; do it when your boss goes for a potty break.

In other news, how come Erique and Vique have both hit writing menopause at the same time?

A letter to sperm

// August 5th, 2009 // 12 Comments » // true stuff

Dear sperm,

The Malayans have a saying that goes, “One can pay back the loan of gold, but one dies forever in debt to those who are kind.” Sperm, you are one of the kind ones. Thank you oh so much. I am forever indebted to you for going out of your way, taking time off of your I’m sure very demanding schedule to continuously send me comments.

Dude, I love you man. I know I do not say it a lot, but…(lump in my throat), you make this whole thing called life…you make it orgasmic. I know, you thought I was going to use that cliché, make life worth living. But sperm seriously, you know me better than that. Me and you, we be tight dawg. I see you chuckle….chuckle at how B2b has changed the way I talk. Dawg. I know, I know. I drew the line at wearing heavy jeans and grills. On those I told him, “Basiks, we be dawgs but them jeans they be too heavy man. And them grills ain’t gon get me action from me chics men!”. So we agreed to not agree. Arrgh, you thought a cliché was on the way.

Sperm, you have always been there for me. Even when I’d just started blogging and had no traffic kabisa, I could count on you to drop more than a comment or two. In fact, you overworked my first blog and the database got messed up coz of your comments. Naye you overlove me. Even when people think they have socks, I know you beat them to it, I just do not allow your stuff to appear.

But dude, I have some points of contention. Among the comments you sent me were these:

Free Viagra: I’m still young and energetic (wink wink) so I still have those affairs under control

xanax for dizziness: Thanks but no thanks. I’ll settle for a glass of water for any dizziness

Excellent site. It was pleasant to me: Pleasant? Dude, this ain’t Shakespeare, it’s Sleek!

Very interesting site. Hope it will always be alive! I hope so too. Nodesix, please keep this site alive, the people, through sperm, have spoken

bikini dare preview image: I am at work. I cannot preview from here.

secret resorts.com: Thanks for this one. I’ll forward it to Rhino

free girl on girl action: This is really Erique’s territory. And I’m at work. People think highly of me here. I can’t be pocketing and making lame conversation to try to take attention away from bulges

All said, there’s no getting rid of you. Shontelle and Akon say they are stuck in each other. Not sure whether that’s a good thing to be singing about. You and I, we are stuck with each other. I know I’ll hear from you soon.

XXX (meaning confidential, highly rated, secret)

Sleek.