Sleek and Wild

Bend it

PPPS: PIFF rocked. That party, so nice. Thanks you cool PIFF guys. And 27th, thanks for that tip. It worked. 27th is a bad boy(cue some music)

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I hate our ads. Apart from those written by Streets and Erique. I hate our ads. They are that fly buzzing above your head as you take a dump. They are that conductor who tells you that he has no change. They are that douchebag tea-lady who spills tea on you on Monday morning. I hate our ads. But I’m too nice to complain without bringing to fruition better thangs. Sleek ads galore…

Cooking oil ad:

(cccsssshhhhhhh-cooking sound)…(ka ka ko ka-someone walking into kitchen)

Someone: mmmapph,yam yum,..I like that smell. Its smells so nice. So so nice. Jimmy, what are you using to cook your food?

Jimmy(briefly stops cooking): Imelda, I’m using xxx beer. It’s all the flavor you need.

Bank ad:

Dear listener, come and we keep your money. You come. Please you come. While you while your days away, worried about your networth, we’ll take your money, use it, get rich and give you a tiny portion of what we make. We’ll go out of our way to put hot tellers at our counters to please your eyes. And your hands…NAT!! No touching, at all…world bank policy, though its not effected in the white house(whispers) come to think of it, that place needs a no smoking ban too..

Ante-natal ad:

Are u pregnant? You are? Are you sure? Does your man know about it? Speak louder…does he? Then how do you plan to raise the byaby? Do you know Chaka Demus? Do you like his music? Do you think your baby’ll like his music? Not sure? Let’s find out…(dundu, duuundudu, dundu, duuuundududu-Chaka Demus beat playing in the background)…Did u feel any movements in your general belly area? Or slightly lower?(cough) or slightly higher?(clears throat)…or you felt nothing? Nothing? Come for ante-natal checkup. This announcement is brought to you by Bono. And our government. In a collabo. One time.

Food ad:

You want rolex? (Queue picture of thin man, hand-on-cheek…)You sure you want rolex? Why do you want it? Is there a shortage of chips/beef in your area? Or do the chip seller’s slimy hands put you off? (PS: It can’t be ‘chips seller’s slimy hands’, too many s’s. We are lisp-sensitive here).

How badly do you want our rolex? Our yummy rolex…non-crunchy, sumptuous, full-of-good-things, mouth-drenching rolex…come get it. (Queue picture of formerly thin man now fat, scratching belly and walking with pomp with a bevy of giggling young ladies following him)…

Clarification: A rolex here refers to that mixture where they get a chapati and a fried egg and put them in a tight bundle together. And its sold to us to eat. We do not refer to that watch made by those Jamaicans. Don’t sue us.

Nifty grifty

A brother turned the bigass 24 on Monday. So, presenting various ways of celebrating. Oh hold that thought…I have on occasion been to BHH’s that rocked, but the one last Thursday was l.e.g.e.n.d.a.r.y. Would typed that again for that feel good effect that writers get from repetition, examples are in order…

Stephen King “He thrust his knife deeper…and she groaned her last. Yes, he really did thrust it deeper.”

Solomon King (No relation,as it turns out…but he’s aight) “He thrast his mouse dipper(sic). He did it. He thrast it dip.”

Jackie Collins “He thrust his knife deeper, and she groaned her lust. He looked like he’d thrust again, and he did.”

John Grisham “He tthrust his hand deeper into the pile of cases. Very deep. Very very deep.”

M7 (yes, our El-presidente is a big writer), “He thrust his democratic gun deeper. And the people groaned in unison. And he thought long about the next thrust.”

Anyway, BHH was mint chocolate with a cherry in the middle. Normzo seriously, not that kinda cherrie. Speaking of, hi Cherry. So at BHH, we talked a bit about changing the world (through, for starters, a party next Saturday…get full details here. Go get them. Stop reading this…go now. Ok, I’ll text you the rest of this entry. Hehe, this entry. Baz gets it). Oso thanks to Spartakuss, we talked about some gross stuff…2 girls and (shudder). Anyway, it was nice. You missed. And if you happen to come from those places where my saying ‘Feel a mango’ doesn’t have an effect, please email me and we’ll dig into your dialect and find an appropriate phrase.

Onto the ways of celebrating…What am gonna do? What am gonna do?

1. Send Lauryn Hill mail. I’ve successfully kept my crush outta the media partly due to the fact that when media people throng me with questions…(clammer clammer, sticking microphones mostly near my face) “Sleek, what’s your real height?”, “Is all that food yours?”, “Is it true that you were awesome even as a baby?” I’ve always given them a good chorus answer (serious face...). “No comment..” so yes, Tanya, I mean Lauryn and I have survived like that.
2. Tanya Stephens and I are going to have a cup of coffee. With her there’s no affair, imaginary or not. It’s full-fledged marriage without the ring, but with the good tings. True story. I know you are reading this Tanya…xxx.

3. And most importantly, I’m going to get into a fight. Nothing serious. I swear. See for yourself.

Monday Massacres: Down and Darry

These massacres today are brought to you entirely by my brain. No sponsor. Let’s just say things have been very involving lately. All prospective sponsors this time round wanted me to do thangs for them. But I turned them down. I think next time I’ll give in.  Good reading..lovely week.

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Weenies!

Yes sir!

Today, you learn to play the men’s game!

Yes sir!

Many of you have been doing ballet, wearing pink, reading mills and boon and watching movies with Lindsay Lohan in them…

(Blank stares)

Today, today you get liberated. Today I break your chains…the chains that have you bound, holding you back from crossing that thick line to manhood. Today, you learn to play rugby.

(Wild cheers…)

Today, I pass on knowledge I have gathered from painful years of experience. Aching muscles, broken limbs, twisted jaws, insomnia, delusion, twisted vision, misplaced teeth…that’s the life all my opponents have gotten used to. Weenies, the game has been a breeze for me…

(Excited murmurs at hearing about my brilliance)

Now, the first thing you’ll ever need to learn on pitch…learn how to pass the ball. When you see grit teeth, a heated animal charging at you like you said something unflattering about his mother…yes, Pass The Ball (PTB). Preferably to someone bigger than you…and cheer as he rams into the animal. Do not cheer if he gets a concussion. Say the appropriate ‘Hey Fatso, I am going to tear you apart!’ to the animal responsible for the concussion. And no, it’s not your fault that your team mate got hit real bad, he coulda passed the ball too you know. Why was he feeling a superman eh? Running into animals like that…and for the rest of the game, avoid making eye contact with the animal. He may send book you a bed and a feeding tube in the hospital.

Never pause in a game; you’ll only draw attention to yourself and the ball would be passed to you…not nice. Stay in motion, keep shouting, preferably some incoherent stuff…

Always look out for the smallest/slowest/weakest guy on pitch. These are always there, unless you are playing against the Springboks. If you do not know who the Springboks are, please forget all the other beautiful knowledge I have passed on, stand up and leave this place. Make sure the door does not hit you on your way out. Actually, I hope it does…(A number of weenies shuffle out)

Yes, on identifying the weakest link in the other team, get the ball, charge at him with the vengeance of three rabid dogs (yes, three…any more would be too many) and make sure you knock him down, hard. When done, dust yourself off and do rule one, Pass The Ball.

Now, some wise words on how to tackle. As evil as the word sounds, tackling is an art form in the league of wine-tasting. It requires skill, great timing, huge arms, lotsa brawn, and a gallant cry that is let out when the tackle is done…I do not have any of these things, save for a magnificent gallant cry. So, how do I do it? Weenies, listen coz I’ll only say this great stuff once…

(weenies lean in to listen)

Now your brawny buddy will teach you how to look out for that split-second when your opponent’s legs are next to each other, and dive for them right then so as to take the goon down. Me, your brainy buddy, I’ll tell you this: wait till your opponent has JUST passed you, and then dive. Do a magnificent dive, and mid-air, spin, slow-down, turn a bit, do those slow-motion things that camera tricks do, and then let out your gallant cry just before you hit the ground. When you finally stand up, stamp the ground in anger and let everyone know how that guy survived.

Weenies, that concludes your Rugby 101 short course. There’s an appendix here about what to do when you are almost making a try, but I doubt you guys will need that. I see your blank looks…well, technically, a try is to rugby what a goal is to football. Though in rugby, when a try is scored, there’s no unruly jumping, throwing shirts in the air, grown men hugging and smiling effusively like toddlers in a candy store…no, here we just shake hands as team-mates and say ‘Nice try’, the irony of the statement notwithstanding.   In the very strange event that you make a try, stay calm, say thanks to your team-mates and if there’s a camera crew around, make it a point to dedicate the try to someone. ‘I dedicate this try to all my O.G’s who knew me when I was broke. Much love. Beer on me, this Saturday, Nalongo has a drink-up.’

Monday Massacres: Black Monday

This stuff, it is brought to you by:

Small and lethal, this baby has been known to leave havoc in its wake…and Normzo uses it to brush his teeth. And also Carsozy uses it as mint. And Streetsider has never even tasted it. And Payo ‘gears up’ with it…Gikobwa doesn’t know what she’s missing. Today’s massacres were penned by Safyre….awesomeness just. Two years, 5 days after he said he’d pen them, he did. Take it away Safyre.

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There’s a lady who works in an office next to ours. I see her every day on my way in. I look at her, she hears footsteps and looks up, at me. I look away and keep moving till I reach our office.

Sometimes I meet her at the stage when I’ve retired for the day. I manage to cough up a greeting. She mutters a response. I’m almost sure she’s not quite fond of me.

Anyway, of late I’d developed a string of ‘reasons’ that would get me to walk into her office just to look at her. The one that has succeeded the most is going over there to ask for a key. What the key does is not important to the story, but it’s a pretty useful key!

I went there a few times, when her boss was around, so I cracked my jokes with him instead. I think they are prohibited from laughing when the boss is around. A series of attempts later yielded a much desired result. I went there after hours and she was there. I was shocked to learn that the office actually had 3 ladies, instead of the two I normally see. And the third was the fairest of them all!

Anyway, I was not to deviate from the original plan just yet, so I asked for that key. She pointed at where it was, implying that I should get it for myself. I obliged. I turned heel and stormed out. A man with a purpose. I returned shortly after, armed with the key to inevitable destiny. What followed was as shocking as it was silly. I asked her if they had another key that opens the same door.

They looked at me with faces showing surprise and disbelief. I repeated my question. The fair one asked me whether the key worked or not. I said that it did, though I believed there was another key, since it’s not the one I’d used the last time I was there. By this time, ‘my lady’ was laughing uncontrollably.

Then Ms Fairest spoke up. “What’s with all the questions?” That’s when I noticed her. I stammered the question again. This time they could not hold back their laughter. I smiled, bowed gracefully, and promised that next time, I’ll not hold back. It was more of a threat than a promise. I said we’ll continue the debate the next day. As I was approaching our office, I overheard them talking about my ‘silliness.’ At least I made an impression.

Now off to undo the damages my rep could have sustained.

Black n blak

The nation’s mourning today. The tale of tombs lost, that I won’t go into. I’m wearing black; in a way I am saddened by a national heritage going up in flames so fast. But I’m more saddened by the flames that that fire started. Small fires everywhere. Occasionally, some of these fires erupt; that irate caller on this or that talk show hurling insults at the people at the helm(before he mysteriously disappears, only to return months later, limping…if he’s lucky), that boda boda rider spilling his guts about how those at the top are so f**d up(among other flowery things), that taxi conductor saying some very demeaning things to an alighting passenger just because she ‘looks like certain people’, that ‘educated’ workmate of yours making sweeping statements about ‘people from that side’…the small fires are everywhere. The stage is set and the main actors have taken their places; the extras and the props, those are lying around, waiting…all ingredients are in bowl. Let’s see how this plays out…

Code burning red

The LAN at work is down. Now, what are the possible causes? Sherlock Holmes at your service, let’s get to the bottom of this:

POSSIBLE CAUSE ONE:

Security guard, after that strong cup of coffee in the wee hours of the morning, felt an overwhelming urge to go do the wee wee. So walk. Walk. Can I wee wee here? No, dogs are watching. Walk. Walk. Skip. Can I wee wee here? No, big buxom lady is getting it from that dude over there. Walk. Walk. Lemme wee wee here. Wait! Big buxom lady was….oh God! And I didn’t stay to watch…oh God! Lemme wee wee here and get back and watch…Weeeeee weeeeee(for long)…ah drat! Some computer…oh sh!t. oh f*ing sh!t…I think I just wee weeed these guys’ server to the afterlife…Now they’ll walk in and one whiff of my urine will tell the investigators that I did it…oh drat! Gotta remove all evidence. Lemme pour some water to neutralize the urine smell in the PC…

POSSIBLE CAUSE TWO:

Lay-around employee notices boss isn’t looking. Boss is busying himself at his desk. Boss is bustling around. Pushing his weight around. Doing belly-ups. Suuuuck belly in, puuuushhh belly out. Sigh. Then do it again. Suuuuck belly in. Puuush belly out. Great for getting trim belly in some time. Boss taken up so lay-around employee takes golden opportunity to open www.http://(deleted by author,but about Britney).com. So he opens. Crap! Wrong address. No eye candy. It should be http://www.(again, deleted by author, but about Celine Dione).com. Oh nice. Nice photo. Nice angle. Oh nice. Eh, what’s this here; look at that…oh, look at that…how do people get into these positions? Amazing…oh what’s this? “You are the first person to cum to this site. Click for here you prize”. Oh, some typos. But I’ll click nonetheless.  Click. Nothing. Double-click. One more time. Double-click. LAN goes down.

POSSIBLE CAUSE THREE:

Heavy-set, middle-aged, suit-wearing, suave-looking Italian man walks into our office. Walks up to our hot receptionist.

(In heavily accented English) Italian man: Hey there pretty receptionist, beautiful day today.

Receptionist: Indeed. How may I help you?

Italian man: I’m here to… (Long boring, though tending towards stimulating conversation)

(Much later, after I’ve taken a leak)

Italian man: (raised voice, agitated) What do you mean ‘people like us’? Do you think that just because I am a heavy-set, middle-aged, suit-wearing, suave-looking Italian man, that I’m Mafioso? I’ll teach you to be less racism (sic)

(drawing magnum, running round the office screaming while firing…aaarrrghhhh,kuchuchchcucuchch(gun going off)…)…LAN goes off.

Monday Massacres: I wear my sunglasses at night

This stuff is brought to you by:

We mean bidness. No jokes. We shall reel you in. Take it away now Sleek.
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I pull up to the traffic lights. The heat is sweltering, I can almost hear the rays screaming “Die nigger, die!”.  THE URGE hits me. I have to go. Now. I have to go now. I look up at the lights. Taking their time. It’s Uganda after all, everything takes its time. Not me…I live my life in the fast lane; quick look left, all clear, quick look right, strange-looking car leisurely making its way to the junction. I step on it…the tyres make that screeching sound as they hug the ground…they make another screeching sound as friction bites their  ass. Poor tyres.

It takes a while for things to register for the police man. One second he’s thinking about donuts and g-nuts (ya, his mind rhymes like that..donuts, gnuts…), next he’s seeing ‘zat car’ zooming away.

“Stop…(Jog.jog)..stop!…I sed stooopp!!(jog.pant.jog)” (Reaching for walkie-talkie)

“Elo dispatch. Elo! We have a runner. We finally have a runner. Errant driver making his way east. Fast.”

(Brain processing what else to say. Drawing blanks. Jumps onto police motor bike. Hesitates. Is the clutch this one, to the left or is it the other one? Scratch that…we have a runner to grab. Kick-starts the thing)

(Revs the bike. Revs the bike. Stops and pulls out his phone. ‘Baby, afande here. I’ll be late for lunch, got a runner to run-down. Hehe, pun intended’. Text sent.)

(Pulls on gloves. Tightens his shoe laces. Smears some black goo on his left cheek. Nigger, you going down. Revs the bike and zooms off to catch ‘ze errant driver’)

I see him first as a distant speck of individual tottering on motor bike. Then he draws nearer and I see it’s the popo I left at the traffic lights.

He is onto me.  Popo’s chasing me…screaming “Elo nigger…Elo u! Elo, stop innadiname of da low”. He has a steady rhythm; scream, totter on bike, struggle to steady it, almost fall, scream again. “Elo…you know dat if I get you…(cough. Prolly swallowed a couple of insects). Elo I yamu realle taking you down!”

I see him struggle to steady himself as he makes all attempts at speaking into his walkie-talkie while riding.

“Ya. Yes. The runner’s now next to Shoprite. Fellow long arms of the law, I beseech you to get his ass. Get his ass. He is now…he is…(bike veers dangerously off-course)…afande, lemme call you back.”

He concentrates and again starts to gain on me. Then life starts to get interesting. First I notice the chopper overhead. And then out of nowhere, a dozen or so popo cars stream in from all directions. Good thing I have this ‘driving like a maniac’ thing down to an art. Let’s get this party popping..or poppoing. I put some weight on the gas. The popos seem to be singing in a chorus, “Elo wiya gonna get you”. I reach into my dashboard. Three sachets of local spirit. I throw them out the window, towards the police cars gaining on me the most. They are delighted at their new acquisition. They pull over and indulge.

(sigh)…Three down, about nine to go.

I turn on the radio. “This is coming to you live from up-town Kampala where the police are in a nail-biting car chase with what seems to be a gainfully-employed street Adonis. We are following…”

I change channel.

“Elo, we are making an appeal…please slow down. You are tiring our officers. We need them to be productive in the evening.(wink wink). Please stop.”

Rastapunzel

You’d be surprised at just how far sending fan-mail can get you. I know, Ussain Bolt didn’t get back to me on whether we are related or not, and Keri Hilson also kept her lips sealed on whether I inspired that ‘Turning me on’ track of hers. The bad-girl. How can she leave me here guessing? But recently, one individual got back to me. I liked his movie, Avatar, so so much…I know, it had no sex scene but that’s not the point here. So I bothered the guy into telling me about his next movie. He first jam. Naturally. So I bothered him some more. Then, finally, he budged. James and I have since been sending fan mail back and forth.

Presenting his next movie, Rastapunzel. It is very loosely based on that Rapunzel story, you know girl with long hair lets it down and prince charming climbs onto it and they do bad manners and live happily ever after . But with a unique twist (as with all James’s movies). In Rastapunzel, a Rastafarian will star as modern-day Rapunzel; only with dreadlocks (and not “long-flowing blonde hair”), and he’d have a deep voice; also, there’d be no Prince charming, or princess charming for that matter. There’d be a pack of broads and every night, the guy’d have to sit at his window and comb his hair (ya, dandruff and all) and on each night, a different broad would ask (smiling sweetly, shyly, eyes blinking ever so innocently) “Hey Rastapunzel, could I climb into your room, using your hair, so we can play?”. To which he’d reply, “Broad number (inserts number), I’d be delighted to have you for a playmate. Oooh I love playmates. Shall we shag now or shag later?” And then he’d quickly let the previous broad out through the back window (no hair, just gives her a slight nudge and tells her to take a leap of faith) before letting the next one climb in. The suspense of the movie is in trying to figure out if he’d actually fall for one of the broads.

And the movie has environmental-awareness undertones. For example, all the broads do not wear fur coats. In fact, there’s a line where one of the broads, while happily skipping towards Rastapunzel’s home, says, “I do not wear fur coats. Or bras. I’m natural. I love nature.” Then the camera zooms in on her shoulder, and then on her bosom to illustrate the aforementioned facts. The camera lingers on the bosom, just to make sure we, the lusty audience, know just how natural the broad is. And all the while she’s skipping. Skip. Skip. Skip.

Ahh, great movie. Modern-day Casanova if you ask me, or Rastanova. I came up with that one on my own. Of course Rastapunzel’s hair fell-out after broad number 8, leaving him bald and scarred, and in the movie, police arrest the star for gross-acts to women. It is set to be released in a women-charged atmosphere, showing female cops assaulting and battering the Rastapunzel character for his deeds amidst wild cheers from fellow estrogen-laden individuals. Surprisingly some of the estrogen-laden individuals were guys. Two of them actually. Complete with…(sigh) let’s not go there, your imagination can only take so much.

So, I told James I’d blog about his next piece, just so we (him and I) can get a feel of what the audience has to say. A blockbuster, superblockbuster, super x 1000 blockbuster or what? Your thoughts.

Monday Massacres:BHH rally

This good stuff is brought to you by:

To good times…

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The Mercedes slowed to a stop. The paparazzi, like starved flies descending on poop, attacked the car from all directions. Some carrying spears. Actually one carrying a spear. The beefy bodyguards sprang into action, swatting the flies outta the way. And pushing some paparazzi outta the way too. When some semblance of sanity had been restored outside the car, HE stepped out. As is instructed in the car manual, HE first put one foot out, waited for a reaction from the assembled crowd; then HE put out the other foot. Satisfied with the slight aaaaahhh from the gathered crowd, HE stepped out fully. Blue-striped shirt, black slacks and a raised eyebrow. Flash. Click. Flash. Time for his company to step out…the siren took HER time to get to the door (Mercedes can be really long) and when SHE finally did, SHE almost tripped…almost. HE stepped in and steadied HER step. Flash. Click. Flash.

Mateos was already an anthill of activity. Erique, B2b, Streetsyder, The Edge, Oli?, Normzo, Jny23 n Naome, Carsozy, Lulu, Safyre constituted the welcoming committee. They were, as welcoming committees usually are, seated, slowly getting drunk (except Normzo, nooo Sir! He likes these things faster faster), and making light (and in a secluded corner) heavy conversation.

Usually the most discreet creature (having studied the ways of the Amazon Ooga Agaa people), HE glided into their company unnoticed and soon started making animated contributions to the ‘Is Stewie a god’ conversation? SHE sashayed in 2 seconds behind HIM. Pause.

“I like Stewie. He always has the most profound punch lines,” Normzo

“But unlike you Normzo, for me I just like stew in any form. Oba Chicken stew. Oba beef stew. Atte there’s this place I went to which had chickenut stew, a mixture of chicken and g-nuts”. Streetsider

“Bati you Streetsider, that Chickenut stew turned out to be really nice. Though for me I prefer gonja with vegetable stew. Diet issues,” Erique.

Blank stares. Gulp. The music stops. DJ fumbles to play number 3, lest people start to hear each others’ thoughts. HE saw a great opportunity to change topic.

“What would it be like to have Stewie for president? For example, there’s this matter of Sleek for blogger president…”

“Do you know that that Sleek guy was once a president those days. Hehe, you play play with that guy. Those those days he wasn’t like you see him now” Bystander paid to say that exact statement. With better grammar but it’d have to do. The deal was he walks off after. But he lingered, prolly trying to squeeze for more dollars.

HIM, grabbing the ball and running with it, “Yes, that guy would actually handle. Do you know what the first point on his manifesto says? It says that if voted into power, he’d allow bloggers to write posts…(pregnant pause)…WITH THEIR MINDS! Yes, the thing bees typed out as you think it. Of course this facility would come with a porn-filter to help guys so that certain bits of their thoughts don’t make it onto paper. Otherwise posts would be…anyway, the porn-filter would also be given to Gikobwa, for free. And also Petesmama. “

SHE “Oso me can I get that filter?”

HE: I don’t see why not. Your thoughts seem to need it. (Feeling HE’D talked too much, makes a move to change topic, again)

HE: “jny23 and Naome, don’t you think this beer’s too salty…does it remind you of anything?”

And they all fell for it, and talked at length about the composition of beer (all the while sipping it of course), and the joys of its consumption. And also the joys of the good life God has given each of us. And the need to make good use of the gift.

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The writer insists that this is how the things played out. If you disagree…well you disagree. Noticeably absent: Santosh, King, BAZ

But the thing, it was nice. Turn-up was nice, convo was good (esp that part about a certain presidency). Till next time. Great week.

PS: Photo respectfully nicked from here

Homecoming

Come here baby. Come here…don’t be like that. I know it’s been a month…I know. But I brought you a keg of beer…ahhhh, now you’re smiling. Here’s your keg.  Hey hold up…hold up, don’t beat me up…hey that’s not fair. (Darting for cover…). Stops to reason with TORMENTOR…hey, hear me out…(sees, rather late, heavy pillow headed for his head. It hits him square in the face. He sees TORMENTOR reach for a flower vase. He pauses to take in the amusing picture as TORMENTOR struggles to actually lift the thing. Heave. Heave. Breathe. Breathe. Angry breathing. Wipe brow. Heave. Strain muscles. He considers offering to help. Sees vase start to move. First slowly. Gathering speed. Ha! Dives. Crushing sound. )

(From the safety of the closet) Look here, listen for a second….blogger, listen. Things have been tight. That philandering bitch, WORK, came onto me. She’s really demanding. She left me spent. If it’s any consolation, she wasn’t even as good as my workmates say she was…I swear.

(Gets phone call. Phone’s on silent. Vibrator tags at his thigh. He picks up.)

(Whispers) Yes? Listen WORK I can’t talk right now, but you’re the best. Yeah, aha. Yeah, yes, okay…let me get this straight, you want me to buy us some leather straps, and to come over wearing nothing, but with a yellow rose between my teeth? Aha…yes…yes….you’ll have nothing but the music on? Aha…okay…ya, yah, you already said that. What? I should come wearing an eye patch? Ok, I’ll see you…you what? Eh oso me…

Blogger baby, that was WORK. I just gave her the tongue-lashing of her life. Told her that she may have my body during the day but you have my life. My passion. My love. My drive. She forces me to do all kinds of things. She…she even…(chokes back tears)…she drove us apart. That…that tart! That…that…WHORE!! (Bursts out of closet, gets blow to the head)

(X minutes/hours later)

(Our star recovers to find blogger passed out from the gift keg of beer)

(Talking to passed-out blogger)

I’m sorry. It will never come to this between us again. It’s been a month to you but it feels like an eternity for me. (Rubs his temples, trying to nurse the throbbing headache)…

(Moves towards passed-out blogger) I’m going to put in that extra time just for you. You and I, we are…we are… (Hugs passed-out blogger) … (The wheels are turning but the car’s not moving) …we are… (Borrowing from his buddy Akon)… we are stuck with each other.

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Glad to be back. Now, fast forward…BHH tomorrow. It’s always been close to my heart this BHH thing. Word got round that blogger elections are coming up. I’m going for the top spot; I want blogger president. My manifesto will follow but first, lemme say the Streetsider and Bazanye have written their names in my ‘Sleek for President’ book. BHH tomorrow, have to get YOU to sign too.

BHH, BHH, BHH…..BHH, tomorrow, Mateos. Licensed to thrill.