We Smoke de Herb, We Get de Benefit

Mood: We'll be forever lovin' Jah.
Frig Index: 2.6
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course

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That's my name in Braille. So, for dem among ye that want I and I name, there you are. Go get someone who can read Braille, and you can tell the CIA my real name. :-D Babylon want fe fight I and I.
Also, anybody want to do something stupid? Learn Braille! Nothing weird, yeah? It could be worse! I mean, on my nineteeth birthday, I streaked, all nude, down the school walkway. Nothing on. Ah, that craziness. My back was strong, back then. We did silly things when our legs and groins could let us. But now, old and grey, I have to concentrate hard before I hit the space bar.ohfrigimissedthefriggin'spacebar!

Anyway, gwe, let's learn Braille. I mean, from what I have seen, it no seem fe be hard. (Don't mind I and I langauge—before the 1900h spliff wears off, I speak even as Bo' Marley woulda spake, seen? Yah, man.)
When we know Braille, we can tell the blind that we are their true leaders, and we can take over the world, because they will follow us, and so will their grandsons (who are old enough to be the majority of presidents in the world), and so will all nice-hearted humans (which is most humans). So, learning Braille is step one of taking over the world. Humble beginnings.

Lemme pause fe let I and I mind rest from Jah trip 'pon 'eaven, man.
[7-minute lull.]

What the frig is that? Learn Braille? Who suggested such crap? My high alter ego. Don't mind him. He is harmless. He has wild dreams of taking over the world, mbu the CIA killed Bob Marley, et cetera. He is a practising Rastaman. That may explain why I can't get myself to hate them Rastamen. My alter ego is one of them! And Bob Marley rocked!
Oh, frig! He spilled my friggin' streaking secret! Khayaman, you are such an absolute moron.

Now you know how hard it is to live with an alter ego. And I have two. One is a chic. And I am serious, here. I swear. It's called Multiple-Personality Disorder, the condition. Of course the therapist doesn't recognise Khayaman, mbu he is an `induced personality'. But he acknowledges Lota, though, the French-speaking Congolese girl. And she has a perversion, illegal in Uganda. It's why I can't get myself to hate them kinky women.
I crave a spliff, blogren. Sure, sure, I'll quit. But gimme some time, alright? No rushin' it.
[12-minute lull.]

Jah fire burn! Yah, man. Y'know. Dem be t'inkin' dem can fight Jah fire, man. Fe burn. Ah, I and I be sailin' 'pon Jah clouds, y'know.
We smoke de herb, so we get the benefit. You see, if we all smoke herb, we could could [come] together ... in unity.—Bob Marley.
Peace and love, bredren blogren (as him be calling you, of late). You know da smiley fe represent a Rastaman? No :-). Dat be happy Babylonian. I and I show you Rastaman smiley?
#=:oD. See natty dread? Yah, man.

You Friggin' Fool, Where is my Continent?

Mood: Angry, Spreading Propaganda, Hoping for positive answers
Frig Index: 5.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

They say what we know is just what they teach us,
That we are so ignorant, 'cause every time they can reach us.
— Bob Marley (Ambush in the Night)

Have you, blogren, noticed that whenever Africa is shown on CNN (or whatever other channel is feeding you on the Enemy's propaganda), all you see are smelly little kids with flies in their nostrils? Frig it. And the vids are from '84. Whenever these frigged-up zungus get the chance, they grab the shots they hope will make for the most appalling, most shocking show, and say `this is the true Africa'. Fuck 'em. We were having a Bloggers' Happy Hour, and there are Americans (the average one) who think of wild forests and wilder gorillas, whenever anybody mentions Africa. CNN can't name a single Ugandan blogger. But wait 'til the next shot goes off in Kampala. They will swarm us asking questions like `But haven't you given up hope for ever having democracy in Africa?'

Or, have you checked Kassim Ouma at Wikipedia? Verbatim:

His father was beaten to death by the Ugandan Army as punishment for Ouma leaving Uganda. His family lives under constant threats in the African country. The Ouma dream is to provide a better life for his family outside of Uganda.

Now, you may say I should go edit it and put some sanity there. But that's my point—the hundreds of American eyes that read that every night do not see that it is plain shit. They believe it, so they leave it there. Because the only Africa they know is the Africa they are fed on. It's the Africa you see at Wikipedia.

Check the Uganda article. There is: `A Ugandan bicycle taxi. More common is a motorcycle-taxi called a boda-boda.' But there is no picture of the motor-bike, only the bicycle. Because the motor-bike is ... not African enough. There is also a black-and-white snap of `Two Ugandan Men'. For one, I know I have never seen two uglier drunkards. Why isn't it a snap of Cheri? Because that wouldn't be African enough. Too cute. Too, too friggin' cute.

It's not that we don't have the positives here. It's just that the negatives are what everybody dwells on, so they have come to be the picture of Africa everybody has. Any different, and that's not Africa anymore.
Kampala's buzzin', stunnin', Las Vegas-ashamin' night life? Not African. Neither is the 99% of the elections that go well. The 1% that don't are the ones on the BBC. The life I have lived in (evil capitalist) fulfilment? Not African. They want the child soldier in Sierra Leone. No wonder Dennis thinks Africans lost the plot. He is a victim of argumentum ad nauseum. Proof by assertion. I have a whole pile of stories to tell about growing up on the equator. (Seriously, as a habit, I have often tried to split my body equally between North and South—but which side would I back at war?) But because I am well-fed, I speak (horrible) French, I dunno what war sounds like (bar that Mario Vargas-Llosa novel where I got a bullet wound), I use Linux, I hack Haskell, I love Ruby, I have been a computer freak from age 9 (and never off the Blessed Continent for a second), and I program SMS engines in a boring afternoon (yes, Americans are welcome to the duel—I'm trying to brag here), I am not going to be the subject of Focus on Africa (which claims to be focussing on Africa's future/good side—frig 'em). Only that guy who, despite living in a Country that has been growing faster than the US for well-nigh a decade, still earns less than 1 dollar a day, will be there. Why? Wh-friggin'-y?
And the politicians use it, too. They know they will be believed if they say [insert African president's name] is a dictator. In spite of what I may think. The West chooses the opinion that suits their image of Africa.
Wh-friggin'-y don't we see the fact that American kids are shooting themselves to oblivion every day, as breaking news? Isn't it sadder that more American babies are getting aborted than are dying of AIDS in Africa? Yet that would not be a nice picture of America to keep bombarding the world with. `Where have all the parents gone?' is cleaner than `Where is all the semen going?' Sorry for the brutal pun, but ... ;o)

It's why I am encouraging all of you (I just typed `all') to give these Danes some of your time. This will be my first chance to see how the sick documentaries end up on air. Either I see how the clichés are formed, or we give the true picture of Our Place for the first time.
Maybe they'll note that everybody watches 24, Desperate Housewives, the OC, Prison Break, we knock Rock Nite, have the best spirits, wines and lagers under the sun, and we just no give no fuck. And we don't keep pet lionesses.

In other news:
I was supposed to be telling mbu I met dash-dash-dong and dash-dash-dong, both blogren, one a guy, one a chic (thankfully), at the very, very verge of a passionate snog. Okay, maybe not a snog, but they were ... cozy. I had a chic, too, but it was an old acquaintance I'd detoured off with (and I got two years' worth of news). The revolution is against flings. Anyway, so he ... (Baz, is it okay if I name you?) and she (Dee, can I? Please ... I won't if you aren't okay ...) were like ... looking so fine. So, so fine. I can't get words for it. We talked, also. Baz called me to tell me he was behind me. Chick'n Express is not place to hide. Gack. Too long a post. More later. Pray for the revolution, blogren.

Amen. Thanks, man. I needed that prayer. Big battles coming up.

BHH 3.0: Powerfully-Beautiful Women

Baz was at the BHH. Bon. Because I was definitely slitting his throat, if he'd dared to dodge again.
When I arrived there, it was him, Jackfruity and Joshi's bro (alleged), who managed to make me believe he was Joshi, and, for a moment, I went off in a wild discussion of all sorts of stuff ... then he said `You are still convinced I am Joshi?'
Frig. He didn't even have the receeding hairline Joshi complained about. I should have been smarter.

The usual crew was there.
Carlo, in them clothes that always tend towards seeming like extensions of her. The way they just blend in, you know. They don't fight her attractively-jolly, soft, calm, warm, glowing, relaxed, smooth, organised, symetrical, delicate, sensuous, regal exterior. They just flow along. I know what I'm talking about: I have seen it before. You should see it for yourself, then you'll know I'm speaking God's truth. You should see Carlo. You should see her, someday. You must see this chic before you die. You may even earn an extra life just smelling her hair. :o)

Dee. Damn. Dear Lord. Dee. Dee in [d]a nutshell. Joie de Vivre.
I'll give you a lesson. It is entitled: How to Create an Atomic Bomb.

1. Get Dee.

Congratulations. You have an atomic bomb.

Cheri L'Amour. She had posted some seductively pretty pictures of herself, earlier. And I was thinking I'm going to see a friggin' cute chic, when she showed up for the Hour. I was wrong, of course. I would like to make it clear that I don't think Cheri is cute, because, you see, I would be blaspheming. She is waaaay more than just cute. The word hasn't been invented yet, I'm sure.
Frig, Cheri, you are very [to put word, when it is invented].

There are those I fear to comment about. Like Jackfruity. The less I play with my temptations, the better for me, no? And, besides, won't Joshua shoot me about the head? ;o)

Dante, the geeky blogger, was there. I like the way Dante is so composed and all. And I keep trying to resist posting an overly-geeky rant over here, because I know my saner blogren aren't into it. But here is one who is as sane as he is into the darker side of the keyboard. He posted a comment (on the RT 1.6 post) in L33t! Woo! 933|<

The crew went in-doors to participate in a quiz. They didn't suck like our other friends. They were winning lagers and caps and tees.
Dee tied a part of my hair, and it hurt. I think I'll stick to the dreads. And everyone thought I had turned Capitalist, because of my new boots (bought the day after the prophecy in RT 1.6). Blogren, rest assured, these guys are still communist boots. They are spying, hence the faked Capitalist look. I'll put a picture up, soon.
I had a spirited chant (seriously!) with Dennis Matanda. To put it up here would lengthen the post, but just know the Revolution is close to having the numbers swell. By one, at least.

When the quiz was done, it was to Rock Nite. Now, I can't take Rock Nite's decibels. They aren't even Bob Marley jams! And, besides, I sleep and wake up way too early, so I abandoned the cause when we arrived at the Nite, and sloped to the slums. But the drive to the Nite is what I'll remember to my death. Inhibitions melted off by a few lagers (won at the quiz), there was memorable noise in the car. (Dennis' ride, that is—damn Capitalist! What's wrong with Boda-bodas?)
And I sat in the warm, irridescent proximity of CENSORED. Closer than you are thinking. Even closer than that. Eh, now, that's a bit too close, but just a breath away, and you have it.

I have the list, here, of the bloggers present. I dunno if Jackfruity had made a copy, but this stayed on the table.
I shall post it, one of them fine days, if JF don't post.
Gotta go for malaria medication, now.

Rantdom Thurogitts 1.6

Mood: Ranting, Wauling, Wailing, Frothin' at the beak
Frig Index: 4
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

Rantdom thurogitts: back to oppress y'all.

It's official: my shoes, the one's that inspired this blog's name, have started to leak. Damn. So, I have to replace them. But not anything can do. I must get me some brown, thick, high, sturdy comrades, ready to suffer in silence, and go for decades without a sign of care from me. The Revolution demands it. Here's a shot of my old friggers - it may be the last time you ever see 'em. Took it on mobile phone, some time ago.


Also, that story in my last post has (with help from your comments) spat some inspiration at me. Here's a picture I drew, with the GIMP (it's what I have on this Linux system, as of now). It is cool - it made an `old photo' version of the original I drew, which is really fitting for the mood, no? And it was easy.


I am living in Kikoni, these days. Living in the slums always brings out the worst worstest worstestest of you. When you sleep on the cold hard floor, and you wish for a warm bossom to cling to, you wish for daylight, then the sun comes out and bakes the waters out of your blood, to make you wish for night. Frig. No wonder there are many kids in the slums. Sex is the only escape. And so there is a touch of AIDS to follow. But then some very clever bugger goes and spoils the whole friggin' plot, and declares that our bodies have the thingy that killeth AIDS! And the Langerin protein is produced in, off all places under the sun, our genitals! Yay! These friggers have discovered sex again! It won't be long before we are fulfilling the Great, Great, Great Commission. They need honourary Ugandan citizenship! Join me in lobbying for it, blogren. Join! Even you, Cheri!

For the geekier blogren: I am going to, for the first time, compile a modified version of Perl 5.8.8. Maybe I'll put it off to tomorrow. I am going to be tweaking the source code about - just for fun. I have heard the code is terrible, so I am scared. Also, I won't ever let this blog descend into a geek rant zone, so relax, the saner ones, relax.