Sleek and Wild

Monday Massacres: Conception

Sleek — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 04:56:07 +0000

This glorious stuff, it is brought to you by:

(tututulu tutu tuuutuuuuu…..)(Trumpets going off)

We support Sleek. He is our bwoy. In fact, we are in deals with him to have this movie script he has displayed here for free turned into a movie. Watch dis, one time. Over to you home bwoy, Sleek.

First off, BHH rocked. Massive rockery. Baz, the insidious being, didn’t show. He said that he’s on hunger strike till the people of Cambodia get NTV. Noble Baz. But the whole world was there. And (drum roll) even Angie Kintu. She drove straight from Jinja to BHH. Her account of the story included stopping over at a hospital to deliver a baby…but I didn’t believe her. Who delivers a baby and goes for BHH? No even Britney can pull that one off. Ok, I take that back. Twas nice meeting you Angella. Moving swiftly on. Moving on swiftly. As the 20^th Century Fox guys above already told you, they approached me to write a script for them. Here goes…come on, don’t be shy, tell them how awesome it is after ya? Ok.

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(credits rolling)

Written by: Sleek, also Wild contributed

Produced by: Competent producers

Edited by: Sleek

Starring: Heffner, Hugh

Co-starring: Amazon virgin

(more credits)

Movie name: CONCEPTION

(more credits)

####

Hugh wakes up with a start. “Oh crap, it was just another one of those dreams. A dream within a dream. But maybe these dreams are telling me something. Oh well…”

He reaches over and taps one of the arms next to him… “Morning sunshine…”

####

In a remote place in the Amazon, the Igoo people start their day off long before the sun comes up. They are a very small tribe, the Igoo. They are a place far from civilization, away from the Facebook wench and the only tweeting they know is of actual mating birds. Speaking of mating, the Igoo have a problem. With all the success they have had in the past under their recently deceased leader Bobo, they are now fast approaching extinction. The tribe now consists of 15 belles and 5 boys. And the late Bobos wife. Oddly enough, the tribe has never been exposed to TV so they all don’t know what to do with their loins. All but the late Bobo that is. See Bobo, he was travelled. And he’d watched several things on TV, some too darry for the writer of this script to put here. So when he returned home, he practiced with his wife and soon they were with child. And more child. And even more child. But with his passing, only boys remained on the village, boys barely 3 years old. And Bobos wife, she didn’t know what to do, how to keep the tribe going if she was stuck with mere boys…what to do? What to do?

If only she could propagate the race…the tribe…all this pressure was too much for her….and everyday they all looked at her…expecting an answer…where was Hugh when she needed him? (The late Bobo had shown her a colorful book with many things in it. He said it was written by Heffner, Hugh. Great Bobo, he said that if he ever passed on, Heffner, Hugh would be the answer. The one to lead the Igoo out of the Amazon.)

Super Hugh? Where was he? Where? Where?

####

(dudu…dudu…dudu..)(pounding headache)

“Heff, are you ok?,” she asked, while walking towards the bath-robed Hugh

“I’m fine Sharyce. Oh, it’s you Charvaan. My bad. I’m ok. It’s just that I keep hearing voices in my head, it’s like they are telling me to…aarrggh”(he falls to one knee)

“There they go again. All speaking at the same time.”

“I’m outta here. This is not what I signed up for.” Shontal turns to leave.

“I can hear them. I can. They are telling me to….hell no, I ain’t doing that. Hell no. Amazon? Hell no”

####

Due to copyright issues, that’s all that can be shared for now. But sneak preview: Hugh does go to the Amazon. Yes, he does. Does he save the Igoo? Was the movie called ‘Conception’ for nothing? Are there some hot, steamy scenes involving Heffner, Hugh and Bobo’s wife? Are there other hot, steamy scenes involving him and the 15 Igoo belles? All at once? One at a time? Two maybe? Five? Does he make it out alive? Do they turn out to be cannibals? How did Bobo die? Too many questions, too many questions…when the Fox guys give head. A go ahead, we shall publish the rest. Word!

Monday Massacres: Doctoring

Sleek — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 04:53:32 +0000

Today’s stuff is brought to you by:

Nike. Just do it. All of it. Come on, don’t hold back. Do it. Now. Now onto the massacares. Good reading.

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I’m not feeling dandy today. My usual walking-around-town-skipping-a-rope-and-singing-pretty-songs routine just isn’t coming naturally. I think I’m coming down with something. I walk to a nearby hospital. Fifteen minutes pass and I’m still waiting on them. Do they want me to type a complete post before they actually see…ah, there she is. The Doctor. Now why did I expect a man? Yes, madam…

(Shuffle shuffle as she leads me into a private room to discuss private things)

(In hushed tones…private things…private things…Yes, I do that at least once a week when I find someone willing…more private things… Private thin…oh yes, I last did that this morning, twice…she’s amazed. We high five)

She then directs me to a lab. I get there and there’s a man. And he pricks me. (That’s for you Normzo). And I get up and I head back to the waiting room.

My extensive interaction with Dr. Gregory House (Of that super dooper series) has led my medical gonad to grow. I’m told there are no such things as medical brains, only gonads, true story. So, after much soul-searching, I present possible causes of my ill condition:

Possible infection one:

I could be the temporary host for LINKTUS, a semi intelligent life-form from a long-deserted galaxy come to take over all the female brains on earth. From what I read, LINKTUS has a penchant for women and also for dogs. We are not sure ‘why dogs’ but Professor Klang, an insanely learned fellow, believes that the life-form wants women…to eat them. Apparently, all the magazines that get to his planet show lovely fleshy mammals suitable for a feast. I guess the jokes on him.

Possible infection two:

Brown bread disease. I tell you, it was a normal day. I woke up and I took a gulp of the fresh air that was all around me. I looked next to me. A SHE. I considered saying hi. Then I stopped considering. I walked out and went to the kitchen. There, atop the small-fridge-that-doubles-as-a-table-and-as-’other’-things-sometimes sat what looked like bread. My brain broke into a war.

Einstein side: It looks, feels and probably tastes like bread. Eat it, you’ll be fine

Wilde side: Dude, if that’s bread then it was probably made with livestock in mind. Don’t go anywhere within 5 meters of that thing, it’s probably emitting invisible, radioactive badness right now.

Einstein side: Do you want to live your life in fear? Take my word for it, your housemate bought that bread. It’s probably fine. See, it’s even bitten. Someone else ate a bit of it. No one’s dead.

So I fell for that story. And I took some bites. And now I’m in hospital.

Possible infection three:

I have a multiple-heart-disorder. See, my heart has multiple personalities. In the left ventricle (if I get too technical for you Nev, please skip this part), yes in the left ventricle lies the Mother Theresa heart. Very kind. Very giving. In the right ventricle lies the heart of a knight. I’m not sure which one but my guess is King Arthur. So brave. So valiant. Noble. In the right auricle, I have a Superman heart. Always out to rescue someone. Beating up bad guys. I’ve writ about this heart before. And the left auricle, that one is empty. It is where love, lust and all those things are stored temporarily on their way out of the system. Now, so why am I sick you ask? Well, the hearts are at war. A battle is on to decide which heart my system is going to use for the rest of my life. GULP! For the rest of my life? Yes, for the rest of my life.

So, after my ordeal, I’ll either become overly kind and giving (bless you Mother Theresa), or very brave and gallant, walking around town swinging my sword for all to see (King Arthur, pronounced with a heavy ‘r’), or I’ll spend the rest of my days saving damsels in distress and never getting any (Superman, the man who never saves guys. What’s with that? Sexist punk).

There is also the remote possibility that the empty auricle would take over. My guess is I’d become very very loving, like those guys in the French movies. I’d kneel at ladies’ feet and say things like, “Por favor mademoiselle, tu es tres magnifique. Couchez avec moi maintenant”. And I’d walk around with a flower in my back pocket, just in case I need to fall at someone’s feet in the park. And whisper sweet things.

Possible infection four:

There is the rather remote possibility that I have malaria. Or some such disease that attacks the innocent writer in the third world. There I was living my life, giving to society, taking from society, and then this happened.

Monday Massacres: Dutty love

Sleek — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 05:03:19 +0000

These writings are proudly brought to you by:

We love it here. Oso you you better.

###############

We’ve heard this phrase over and over again. In songs. Many songs actually. Dutty love. And like the faithful, we sing along. I took time off to do some heavy investigations into the meaning of this phrase ‘dutty love’.

To aid my investigations, I had to choose between Sean Paul and Sean Kingston, both frequent users of the phrase. Not a hard choice actually.

Dutty love is when brave, brawny, sweaty fighter shoots an entire village in his quest to rescue damsel. He shoots. Sweats. Reloads. Shoots. Says some heavy fighter words. Like “I kill you. Really, I kill you”. And then he runs off doing even more shooting. Then he finally gets to the leader of the weasels who have his damsel captive. He aims to fire, and the gun jams. The beefy leader also aims a gun at him and it too jams. So they drop the guns. And they stare each other deep in the eye ball. Eye balls lock. Time stands still. The birds stop chirping. Other birds stop making out. Dry leaves drop to the ground.

Our hero: “Give me the girl and all this will go away. No one else has to get hurt”

Leader of pack that has girl captive: (He doesn’t have too big a vocabulary) muhahahahahaha

Our Hero: I said give me the girl and I won’t hurt any of you

Leader of the pack that has the girl captive: I said muhahahaahah

Our hero moves menacingly towards the leader. By now a small crowd of villagers has started to gather, to see the faceoff. These are the villagers that our hero didn’t kill during his wild gun-totting on his way to meet the leader in this standoff they are in now.

(Side Poll: Don’t you find it odd that villagers would go out of their way to go watch a fight between the two grown men in our story? Don’t they have anything better to do with their time? See, Big Brother All Stars does have some upsides…if those villagers had it, they wouldn’t even give this face-off any attention. Only the village livestock would be witness. The happy villagers would be glued to their TV sets, on Big Brother, watching how grown men and women go through the stages of courting, listening to the life-changing things that these people pass onto us, seeing first hand what dreadlocks can do for a guy, learning how useful it is to be overly active and talkative, even when you don’t really have much to say. Just say ‘I do not have much to say. But…’ and then launch a monologue. Though you wouldn’t call it a monologue; that word means bad manners in Uganda. Ok, so watch Big Brother ya? Ok)

Our hero keeps moving menacingly towards the leader. He gets to him and the fight that we’ve all been waiting for throughout this post begins. They fight. And they fight. Punch. Blow. Kick. Lost tooth (it flies very very slowly out of the mouth of the leader, he makes an arghh sound, and we see some small drops of blood fly in slow motion after the tooth. They both land at about the same time some distance off. The camera focuses on them for a few minutes then we get back to the fighters). More punches. Out of nowhere, a round kick. Leader is down. Hero is standing over him.

“Where is she? Where is she?” he screams

“I don’t know”

Hero raises his hand

“Ok ok ok. I’ll tell you. She’s in the room at the back.”

Hero punches him. It’s lights out. Hero walks off to find the room at the back. The villagers clear his path. He walks. Kicks the door open. Rushes towards the room at the back. He is both excited and apprehensive; will she still love him in this state? He kicks open the door of the room at the back. And there she is doing bad manners with someone else. That’s dutty love.

As told by Sean Paul

Monday Massacres: HeroMan

Sleek — Mon, 19 Jul 2010 05:33:13 +0000

It’s been a while since we run these massacres. So understandably, prospective sponsors were queasy. They said that they could not trust the brand. What’s there not to trust? WHAT’S THERE NOT TO TRUST EH!!!???? Ok, let’s breathe in, breathe out…think pretty thoughts, pretty thoughts. Presenting the massacres…I have a gut feeling the sponsors will be queuing up next week.

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It is no secret that we live in hard times. Very hard times. Ladies’ bags are getting stolen. Men are sending money to their offshore accounts, money meant for drugs for the sick and needy. Other people are going years without getting any. Hard times, my friend, very hard times. We need a hero. Someone who can lift us out of this…this despicable state of affairs.

Someone who’ll champion the cause of the weak,
speak up for the meek,
and do it every week,
justice he will seek,
no, he’s not a dick,
not even a prick,
he, he is Sleek.
With a kick and a flick,
He’ll pounce on them robbers, the pricks,
Yes, they’ll have sticks,
But Sleek, he’s unique,
Taekwondo and jujitsu make him tick,
We need a hero, we have Sleek.

With an intro like that it’s hard not to trip. But back to our story. Hard times, yes, very hard times. But Sleek has this covered.

CASE ONE:

(kock kock kock kack kock kack)(High heels hitting the tarmac as unidentified SHE walks down a lonely alley in Buziga, having left work late from taking an extra cup of tea to her boss.)

(kock kock kock kack kock kack) (kamppphhh)(She breaks her stride. An unidentified man with bloodshot eyes has stepped into her path, a few meters away)

HE: Nze tegumanyi luzungu naye ‘Hand over zat handbag and no one gets hurt’. (Translation: translator unavailable right now. Apologies)

SHE: (shrill scream) (breaks into her mother tongue) Ai bambe, kjnivcreuoyuwyedeouweyofcitfouwdyootedouwyywevfdiyvuycwiyfiwrv, where is Sleek when we need him?

(Flash of light, barefoot man grimaces, punches, kicks, more punches, a scream, then calm. Barefoot man is bundled up, struggling to break free.)

Barefoot man: ‘Nze mwana I’ll get you Sleek, if it’s the last thing I do. Naro!‘

(Sleek and the previously so-scared-I’m-going-to-piss-my-pants lady walk off hand-in-hand. To her place of residence. She lives alone. They proceed to have a discussion on possible ways of empowering lady to defend herself in such situations. Then they tell me not to write anything more about them.)

CASE TWO:

Burly HE is seated in his office. Sipping cold coffee. Eating a mandazi. He is waiting for the money. It was supposed to come in the previous day but word has it DONOR had some other stuff to take care of. But today is the day. The money, it is coming.

(Knock knock)

Ah, that must be them. Come in.

Tea girl walks in. ‘You aren’t done with the tea? And you owe me for that mandazi…what’s with your ilk and procrastination?’ (She walks out, semi-slams the door)

(Tension builds…tension builds…more tension)

(Another knock)

Ah, it must be them. The money, it is here.

They walk in, three of them. DONOR, and two goons in shades and body-hugging black suits. And white sneakers. The goons stand on either side of DONOR. He is clad in a red and black t-shirt, brown corduroys and mauve sneakers. He hands over the sack of money and insists on a signature. Burly HE signs. They head for the door. DONOR turns just before the door is shut behind him, “Now make sure all those with Malaria actually get drugs bought with this money.”

Burly HE nods. They leave. Unable to contain his excitement, he starts to stash some of the bills into his socks, shoes, underwear….

(Flash of light, scuffle, kicks, punches, burly HE is now bound, struggling.)

Sleek: Thought you could get away with eating our money eh? Eh? Take him away boys…

Low days

Sleek — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 06:06:26 +0000

Bomb blasts went off at a very popular hangout last night. It’s one of those things where you get the news and you just don’t want to believe it. I honestly have little faith in our popos but for all that’s at stake, I hope that this time round they surprise us and actually get to the bottom of this.

To give this a little perspective, I’ll point out that up-til now, Kampala has been one of those places where at 03:00 AM, one can walk from one end of the city to the other. And that we are the kind of people to complain about rising fuel prices, high Pay As You Earn taxes, impossible airtime charges…basically a very high cost of living. But in all this, we’ll still go to that new hangout place and pay UGX 5,000 for a beer. And we fill the place to the point that you literally have to fight your way to the bar to get a drink. And that’s the average hangout.

And then you hear about bomb blasts…

But where are we getting news from? Twitter, Facebook, BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera…where is our local media when we NEED it? Why are they still presenting ‘normal’ stuff in the face of this? Isn’t this a stop-the-press kind of thing, do detailed research, give us names of the affected, talk to their relatives and whatnot…yes, we love the Sean Kingston music(maybe not), but give us relevant stuff at least this one time. Reminds me of how Sanyu FM, in the midst of the Riots in September last year, amidst all the mayhem and us running scared, Sanyu FM, the only station I listen to; they didn’t have zilch on what was going on.

Bloggers, Facebook die-hards, Tweeple, we are the new media. Let’s show ‘the pros’ how it’s done, and maybe, just maybe they’ll start giving us relevant info.

Future speak

Sleek — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 07:30:27 +0000

When I grow up, I want to do many things. I want to sell crack on a corner, and run from the popos when they come. And I want to say “Bad manners to the popos” as I show them one of my fingers. The middle finger preferably since flashing it has yielded angst and the like in the past. And when they do finally get me, they’ll say “We finally got you Lil’ Sleek. Your nefarious ways will no longer go unchecked on the corner. You won’t be selling crack ’round here no more. Take him away boys.”

And when I get into jail, I want to beat up the biggest guy in there. Left jab, right upper cut, kick to the groin, and as he doubles over, quick left, a right and finally I finish him off with a round kick. And everyone will respect me. And not look me in the eye. And I’ll have conjugal visits from my friends. Girls. And no one in prison will tell me to “Pick up that bar of soap over there” because they know I’ll whoop them.

And three months later, I’ll break out of prison. I’ll cover the hole I’ve been digging in the wall using a Grace Nakimera poster. And the guards won’t notice it. The hole not the poster. They’ll notice the poster, and get hard-ons.

And when I’m free, I’ll sell more crack on the corner. And release a hit song, “Crack isn’t whack”. I’ll feature Loose legs on that track. Loose legs will be the female sensation then; to give you a lil’ perspective, she’ll be a mix of lady Gaga, Lauryn Hill and Beyonce. And besides doing ‘crack is whack’ with me, Loose legs will fall in love with me…and she’ll write songs about me. She’ll also remix ‘Heaven sent’, and dedicate it to me. And she’ll ask me to father her child and I’ll say, “Loose, I dig you and all that ish, but I ain’t ready for no baby mamas. A brother gotta hustle right now, that’s whatitis”.

Bujagalati times: The massacre that came in late

Sleek — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 23:21:17 +0000

I’m hungry. I’m very very hungry. Give me anything, onions even, I’ll eat them. Garlic even. Scatch that, no garlic. Been scanning the area for a restaurant…anything, it’s that bad. I’m desperate now…and then I see something. It looks like the kind of place with fairly slow waiters…but fairly slow’ll have to do…for now at least. (grumble grumble)..Stomach’s starting to protest rather loudly…hold on baby, steel yourself for some broth that’ll probably make you even grumpier.

I step in and he runs over like a puppy set loose. Good sign, attentive waiters. ‘Bujagalati rhymes’…I read his name tag. Odd name…or maybe that’s today’s special soup. With a name like that, the soup is probably bad. It probably went bad soon as the chef quit doing his left palm, cleaned himself off and decided to call it that…only chefs who do their left palms can call soup that. And let’s not even get started on those that do their right ones…

‘Is that your name?’ I volunteer.

His eyes roll unsteadily in their sockets as he considers his answer…I could almost picture the whole process; ear gets sound waves, they fight their way through the wax and somehow hit the ear drum. The ear drum barely flinches, taut from years of exposure to hardcore lingala…the kind that pygmies in remote Congo make babies to. The ear drum grudgingly passes the message on, and the responsible jimmies pick it up. They run through walls of goo, to the brain. Panting, they pass on the message. And then the brain says, ‘Pardon?’. Three odd minutes later, Bujagalati responds to brain and says ‘Pardon?’ And I consider repeating the statement but I picture the spent ear drum and let it be. I place my order and he skips off, relieved to be away from a coherent being.

Time ticks.

5 minutes…he has finally reached the head waiter and passed on my order.

10 minutes…he has mentally undressed female customer 4 times. You can tell how many times by following his gaze and observing the excited quivering of his palm.

12 minutes…Buja,BJ if you may, has managed to spill soup on 3 customers, 2 females 1 male.

13 minutes…’Hey, I’m starving here. Where’s my order?’ He picks himself up, drags himself over to the counter, fumbles with something there, turns round and walks over. He then hands me glass of hard liquor. I can almost see the passed-out guy who last used this glass. He won’t be awake for the next three days or so. But seriously, dude, who ordered for hard liquor?

Girlinator

Sleek — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 05:24:45 +0000

Schwarzenegger was a choir boy. He was the strongest voice in the choir. And he was a great great soloist. You don’t know who a soloist is? It’s that person who says “Me me me me me(frantic waving of arms)” when choir-master asks “Who wants to sing this part here alone?”. So yeah, Schwarz was a soloist.

Scwarzz was especially looked to for vocal redemption when it came to songs like ‘silent night’, ‘killing me softly’ and the like. Don’t be fooled people, Schwarzz also sang some non-ballad music. He had a small part in rapper Slit Throat’s hit song, ‘jjjjj‘. Great song, Heavy chorus. “Come on,jjjj, Come on jjjj. All dem who*es come on jjj.’ Due to his Australian descent, Schwarzz was called upon to sing the ‘jjj’ part. Needless to say he rocked it.

On stage, when girls would be screaming, “Oh Schwarzz we love you. Please do *** to us, and also do **** to us” Schwarzz would look down mid-song, think about it and just before leaving stage, he’d turn to the girls and say “I‘ll be back“. Schwarzz the proverbial girlinator.

Unfortunately, Schwarzz didn’t take any photos back then. None. But one of his girly fans did. Stare. Zoom in if possible.

Special delivery

Sleek — Wed, 26 May 2010 05:56:13 +0000

Fang Shui woke with a bang. Dang, that hurt! Time-check…oh shit, he’d been asleep for a whole 6 minutes. Not good, not good at all. “Have to deliver package…have to deliver package”…heart racing. He reached out for her….gone! Stupid whore, she left with the best 5 seconds of his life…But no time for whiny tears, have to deliver package…have to deliver package. He felt around for the package…feeling, feeeling, feeling…nothing…he started to feel himself then he thought better of it…get package! Ah, there it is…he picked it up and made a crazy dash for the door, the rickety I’ll-hit-your-tall-ass door. The musky early morning air slapped him a welcome. A mouthful will do just fine, thank you…now to dash…craaap! Local priest, Chang Pot Poi, on his way to mount Pimpei, had bumped into him and he’d somehow managed to spill three drops of white, gooey pooey on Fang Lui’s angry-brown shirt…craaap! Now for the face-off…no priest spills gooey pooey on Fang Lui’s angry-brown shirt and gets away with it.

“No battle cries pastor, I’m going to whoop your lofty (ahem) without making a sound…apart from this just-concluded statement that is.” Fang Lui

“I pray for your soul young ‘un…coz the whooping I deliver was last seen when the Vikings raided Nigeria…” Greying priest

(Pause as leaves flutter to the ground)

(Priest squints eyes, everything fades into the background,save for a lone picture of his lord and savior)

(Fang Lui widens eyes, taking in every detail, even the mole on Priest’s left cheek)

Fang is the first to move, ever so fast…

(now writing in slow-motion mode to get all details of Fang’s attack)

left jab, right legheadedforTheHead then QuickLeftLegHeadedForTheGroin…

Priest dodges the jab, uses his hand to fend off the kickToTheHead but he’s not fast enough to guard against KickInTheGroin…ka! It hits home…Fang waits for a reaction….none. Ah shit, he remembers that the Priest, for lack of use for them, has no balls…evolution. Darwin.

Too late, Priest has already smiled at Fang’s feeble attempt..nobody’s home sucker!

(Priest moves into super uber faster fast mode)

(Writing in slow motion mode to keep up)

(Whirlwind of activity, not possible to keep up, writer only sees Fang on ground, Priest walking away)…

(Sometime later)

Fang comes to….ah shit, deliver package…deliver package…

Monday Massacres: Nelly Dilemma

Sleek — Mon, 17 May 2010 05:30:46 +0000

This beauriful stuff is brought to you by the Hip-hop community:

All the popping, and locking and thingsYouShouldntTryAtHome and thingsYouShouldTryInTheBedroom, we bring you all that. Even hard lyrics. Even soft ones(Will Smith rap). Even scary ones(Rick Ross showing face). We bring you all that. Now we bring you some prose. Just because we can. Peace. Out. Peace. In.

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Why do people let Nelly anywhere near a recording studio? Where’s the logic in that? I mean, it’s bad enough that they let him even sniff the air outside the studio…but then as if that’s not scary enough, they watch him stop sniffing the air, sniff himself for about ten minutes, hold his gonads and then walk towards the studio door…any alarms going off? Red-alert yet? No? Nothing. And then the guard at the studio door hits pause on an Eminem track he’s listening to on his I-pad, looks up, sees Nelly limping towards the door, a ‘fake voice approaching’ look written all-over his face…Nelly even brushes last night’s dinner off the front of his t-shirt, just in case it’s obscuring the case-sensitive words ‘FAKE FAKE guy’ emblazoned on his chest…guard squints and reads the message, takes it in, stands up to stop the fake guy from soiling the studio’s path any further…and just when he reaches for his hand grenade, he sees P-Dildo trying to sneak into through the back door disguised as a woman…poor guard is distracted. What the hell? He moves laser fast and grabs Dildo by the kahunas and throws him out…(P Dildo goes on to sing a song using some improvised stuff and somehow some loonies worldwide get down to it…but that’s a story you’d undress in protest at hearing..so i’ll write it strictly for one person’s eyes…one gal. At a time. You can borrow it when i’m done. The story. Yes, yes, the story, not the girl.) Yes, P Dildo drops remix after remix, and just to make sure we don’t get it twisted, he always announces ‘This is the remix’. Why thank you Diddy, ahem, we didn’t know that…

So guard distracted, Nelly gets past the door and into the recording studio…a sudden dark descends over Eastern Uganda, but no one worldwide makes the connection…Nelly-in-recording-studio=darkness-in-Eastern-Uganda. That goon’s making locals suffer…he looks around, pockets the face towels he finds lying on the floor, probably discarded by real musicians, like Lauryn Hill, after a long, intensive, draining songing session…Yes, songing…the word singing has been defiled by people like Nelly so real songers now have to use their own word…some examples maybe? Songer: India Arie. Singer: P Dandy. Songer: A Keys. Singer: T-Pain. Songer: Common. Singer: Chamellionare. Songer: Floetry. Singer: Sean Kingston.

So Nelly, pulling his cap low to hide his face, proceeds to the now-abandoned microphone…producer sees weak chap go to mic, but assumes that it’s a song about charity so he let’s it pass. He reaches for his water and takes several sips to steady his heart when the guy starts to sing. Shrill. Uncordinated. Shallow lyrics. Wannabe. FAKE. Producer goes for potty break. Producer’s dumb assistant enters, gets CD and sends to radio station with instructions, ‘Play this. It’s by homeless klut, play once only’. And they play once only…and fellow kluts worldwide love the ‘song’ and request for more…and ageing producer has no choice but to invite Nelly to sing. You brought this on us, you Nelly lover you…go to sleep knowing that.