Half of Me Is My Mother, Why We Cheat, and Five Other Points

Mood: :o|
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Entebbe

1. Argh. I'm having a horrible week. I should close a deal by the end of the month, or I'm going under. :o( And the month has three days left to it, two of which are not working days. Horrible time, right now. But tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow, I may close one.
2. Alicia Keys' You Don't Know My Name is a bleeding hymn to the red-eyed goddess of unrequitted love. If you agree, say "Aye".
3. Salman Rushdie got a rejection for Midnight's Children, believe it or not. Stephen King once got rejections for a book that was later let through to sell well. Heck, Stephen King has a collection of rejection slips—yes, the guy who wrote Dolores Claiborne and Shawshank Redemption. Moral: editors generally suck more than the writers over whom they have power. Christ of Nazareth! How did we end up like this? So I'm thinking there may be some semi-literate fuck telling Ernest Bazanye and Iwaya that their books won't be published, or something like that. After the Revolution, all editors will be sent to labour camps. Holy Communist Nazarene! Sometimes you want Plato's republic already.
4. I'm thinking of a name for my phone. I realise she doesn't have one yet, which is a bad thing. Even my mug has a name (which I'm scared to tell). Heck, even some dreadlock on me head has a name!
5. Someone once said I write "all feminine and shit, all girly [...] very emotional, sometimes [...] feminine writing [...] gay [...]". She said my writing was "feminine writing". Can you believe that? Maybe women these days write a lot of fuck-the-West and lots of racist and anti-American shit that achieves little beyond frothing at the mouth. Then again, that was back then, when I still wrote stories from the slums. I'm going to start that again, by the way. The "feminine writing", I mean; the stories. (Since half of me is entirely made up of my mother, hints of androgyny every here and there should be permissible. Yes, this is my excuse. Fuck you too. Fu ... what did you call me?)
6. My left finger-tips are still in the shock of once again meeting the guitar's fretboard. Poor fuckers. And this time I'm pretty serious about wanting to play this thing, so they are only getting started. Pray for my left finger-tips. Also, I'm about to give up on copying James Blunt's chords, until some years from now, when—insha'llah—I've improved much.
7. I realise this is readably-short, so far. But I want to chase many readers away, so let me lengthen it. (My posts have stage fright, so smaller audiences are all we'll allow for now. Go Away™.
   
   Get The Daily Monitor of August 9^th, if you can. Go to the women's section. I don't remember the name of the pull-out, Women's Special or the like, but there is a story there, a story of pain. A woman recounts how her new husband cheated on her with his secretary, and the hurt drips off the page and falls onto your shoes in big salty drops. Here's the problem: I think all the guys who cheat on their wives (I'll say "us" and "we", to avoid sounding like a Pharisee or, worse, like a pastor) do not intend to. It's just, at some point, the hormones grab us by the horns—yes—and hurl us against the women. Wait. Sit down. Let me explain. Calm down.
   
   The hurt that the woman expressed was so tangible, I heard a scream in my head, which I think corresponds to the scream she gave, when she discovered him with his secretary, clamped tight, chest-ku-chest, between the unrelenting jaws of an impending climax. (Or maybe they were into less-clichéd positions.) Apparently, the door was even open (beware of wanting the thrill of discovery—you may get it). She even got a miscarriage, in the events that followed her seeing her hubby and then fainting. It's a horrible, horrible story of betrayal.
   I am always scared of angry women, and this one was more than just angry.
   Now, cheating is bad, and not cheating is good. That is the problem: I know myself to not do the right thing except by mistake. As such, I'm totally scared out of my wits when I realise that the wrong thing will cause such severe damage (because I do the wrong thing nearly always). But I love my women so much that I don't want to hurt them, especially not in this fashion. So I'm caught in a hard spot. What to do?
   
   Once upon a time, there were men who would resist the urge to fuck. But they died out, because any hesitation is genetic suicide. All the men, therefore, who have survived to breed today have that strain of losing their mind in the vicinity of sex. It is why humans exist at all. (It's easy to see why it wasn't up to the women, and therefore why women, in general, are more-faithful.) The reason you'll have kids with your husband (his Male Urge™) is the reason someone else may also have kids with him. (Hey, why is it so quiet here? I'll talk to myself, alright.)
   
   The only hope for us, I think, is to not get into a situation where there is a chance of getting into the neighbourhood of the possibility of the chance of cheating. I know, you've heard it many times: don't be alone with your nude secretary. But that's not what I mean. I mean don't have a fucking secretary at all. Too much to ask? Yes. I intend it to be like that. In reality, the murders you'll save the world, if you forgo the secretary, outnumber those you incur by managing your two-appointments-a-week by yourself. It's built into your fucking mail client, after all. Work from home, if your urge, like mine, hits with stochastic regularity. (And, of course, have your wife close by.) If it sounds like you're sacrificing much (money, comfort, &c), it's because you are. Look at it as an investment, maybe.
   For prominence, let me put this in a block:

   It is important for us to know that we can't resist cheating on our women, and therefore to not get in a situation where we need to resist cheating.
   ~ Me

   If you can't swallow, don't chew. Why? Because swallowing, like fucking, doesn't involve the brain. It's an involuntary action. It's a reflex. You can't think about it and weigh the risks. The point-of-no-return is not marked. All you know is that you've ruined two lives, and now you know—only in retrospect!—that you, at one point in time, did cross the point-of-no-return. I think this is the only survival strategy we have. Do you, like me, fuck anything that walks? Then close your eyes. I sound like an extremist, and I hate that. But, honestly, I think the only alternative is causing such pain and damage that it would be better if we never got involved with our girls at all in the first place. (Funny that they expect us not to cheat on them precisely because it is a bit hard not to cheat on them. The "effort" put in refects the worth, blah-blah-blah. That's another post, I guess.)
   

   Lead us not into temptation.
   ~ The Nazarene

   Ah. If you, like me, are in the "spirit is willing but the Flesh is weak" category, then what you want is not to get into having to make a choice on whether or not to cheat: you'll make the wrong choice. Just don't be led into where you have to make the choice (therefore you can't make the wrong choice). It's not lead us not into the right decision, but rather lead us not into having to make a decision at all. Lead us not into temptation.
   
   I'll close with four things.
   1. I love the Haskell programming language because it leads me not into temptation. Other languages require me to be very smart. But I code when I'm supposed to be sleeping—when the right decision won't happen. Hence my love for this beautiful language. (Ignore the criticisms in that article—utter bullshit.)
   2. I assume that, because female cheating is not as common, it is also less-forgivable. Chauvinist Pigs of the World, Unite!™ But seriously, the receptive nature of female sex, you see, makes it very much a different thing. But the hurt caused by cheating, incidentally, is bigger for the women (I swear) than it is for the men. If we want something to remind us of the damage we are causing, we should imagine being cheated on, then multiply it by 25,457.493. Hehe. Renders you impotent, no? Me neither.
   3. I was watching a play by Tyler Perry where his Madea character was, and there was this exchange (and you see why Tyler is a genius, even when he's generalising too much). The play was called Madea's Class Reunion, if memory serves:

      - How can I tell if my husband is cheatin' on me?
      - Do you think he's cheating on you?
      - Yes ...
      - Well, that's how you know!

      Ah, women. I used to think it was only my Mama I couldn't lie to. Then I discovered it was all girls in general. Then I discovered that all guys couldn't lie to girls, so I stopped feeling inferior. Women's intuition is about my strongest evidence that God is a girl.
   
   
   4. I think, also, it helps to give these things much thought before we have to think about them. As in, it helps for each of us to have a calculus for dealing with this kind of case before we are faced with a nude army of lesbian rapist nuns with beads on their waists and army bandannas and toe rings and full-colour Communist tattoos and piercings in hush-hush places and guns and handcuffs (ah, my fantasies!). And fire. Don't forget the fire. :o) I love fire.
      That way, we work out where we stand on the issue without being compromised by the Urge™. We kind of do mock drills for survival, as we turn it over in our heads.
      Maybe my fears are unique, but I certainly never love a girl until I love her very, very much, and to think that I'd hurt a girl I love in such a brutal fashion is so, so scary for me, O God, I can do little more besides pray to the Heavens Above to just never, ever let me live into the year when I'd betray my heart's love like this, to lead me not into into temptation.
      OMFG. That's so ... girly. Too gay. But I'll leave it, since I can't spend more time thinking up a replacement. It's fucking late, and I have an early day tomorrow.

"If it eats, bribe it," said The Philosopher

Mood: Uncertain-about-my-mood mood
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Nakulabye

Because of the spot I am in, at this point in my life, I'm prone to falling for this stuff of subscribing to "conventional wisdom" from business "thought leaders". You know, I may end up picking up a book from some "business guru" or the like.
But I won't.

If I'm going to read anything for my business edification, I know where to find it. For the curious, it is between Ecclesiastes and Psalms—common sense distilled into Semitic dichotomous verse. Consider Proverbs 17:8

A bribe is like a magic stone in the eyes of one who gives it;
wherever he turns, he prospers.

No education is complete without that. I know about Proverbs 17:23, too:

The wicked accepts a bribe in secret,
to pervert the ways of justice.

But you notice the evil one, here, is the one who accepts the bribe to pervert justice—not the giver. I'll be a giver, certainly. Not a taker, but a giver. The bad side of bribes is also part of a complete education, isn't it? More on bribes from The Philosopher, in Proverbs 21:14

A gift in secret averts anger,
and a concealed bribe, strong wrath.

Two lines repeating the same thing (for emphasis, I guess), and with poetic élan.

But the other source of wisdom is from music. The official band of my company will be Coldplay. There is a recurring theme in Coldplay lyrics that is at the very centre of this effort: If you never try, you'll never know. These words, exactly these words, occur in two songs. One is Fix You, and the other is Speed of Sound. Another song, the tear-jerking What If?, has It could bend, or it could break; that's the risk that you take. [...] How can you know it if you don't even try?
So, you see, seated at Trenchtown, this silly old iMac G3, I have roughly everything I need to check up, when drawing policies. When a question arises, say like "Should we slip them a bribe, you think?", I know the answer. "If it eats, bribe it." Vive la corruption! Uganda's single greatest convenience.

Blades, Wealth, and Music

Mood: Uncertain-about-my-mood mood
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Nakulabye

Of late, I've been walking into no-weapons areas too much. And it always interesting to see the reaction on the guards' faces, when I hand them my switchblade to keep it. Usually, they are just proding my groin with the metal detector in a well-practiced, pointless, homoerotic ritual, expecting to wave me through, after they've asserted who the true Isaza is around here. And then it bleeps when they hit the dagger at my hip. And the veins on their worried faces visibly fill with blood, and you can see the big subcutaneous worms start to crawl all over their arms. Drops of sweat gather like FDC protesters and congregate at the nose, a most-unruly one running down the kalinda-minyira to perch in defiance at the upper lip (must be the Besigye drop). A shaking hand tries, and fails touchingly, to point at the steel bulge stuck to the belt, the tremors forcing the finger to indicate, instead, the general area of where I'm standing. I reach for my knife. At this point, their armpits are darkening rapidly, the footprint of sweat growing like a stain on the ceiling, a bit like a fungus, it even looks like an infection. They glance around. I tug at it and pull it out. They close their eyes, duck a bit, call out Maama nnyabo! (or Ayi Yesu!, when the Nazarene is likely to respond faster than the mother).
I'm harmless, guys. Not a gun; it's a knife. I just love blades. Arabian scimitar, Japanese katana, East African machete, American switchblade, all. I don't stab. I try not to, anyway. Just keep the fucking thing while I check out my concerns here, okay?

If I ever want to get wealthy, it is ... wait. I reiterate that too much wealth is obscene. You cannot accumulate it sans cheating someone out. Okay? Good. But still: if I ever want to get wealthy, it is so that I can totally quit working. Totally. Working takes away my time. I'm a lazy slob; a good-for-nothing lay-about. I want to be so wealthy that I can just chill without having any real worries. I can't stockpile time, so I should just stockpile the other things, and leave time open for me. Wealth would, I hope, afford me time. Time to think. Time to play in my mind. Time to chill with my women. Time to blog. Time to read books. Time to grow delicate flowers and bleed care all over their petals in big, sudden blotches of thick crimson blood. Time to document the growth of kittens from the minute they are born. Time to draw my picture series. Learn languages, take photos, write short stories. Paint a girl's toe nails with fussy, veins-on-temples, shaky-steady-shaky-steady-shaky-steady-hand perfectionism. Time to gather a lot of information that I'd only use if I were to live for a thousand years. And the most-important benefit of wealth: no reason to leave bed. Just grope about, eyes still closed, listen for the breath, locate the warmth, advance and settle within that bosom, like a nestling at home, go back to sleep.

If I'm not making much sense, it is because I'm not trying very, very hard to make sense. At some point, you've hit a wall, really. You can't make sense, try as you may. It's what happens when you are listening to the weirdest bands. Venus Peter is a Japanese rock band I'm enjoying. God bless them for this here song on my repeat, Let It Know. Really sweet.
And Gotan Project, dear Jesus. There is this song, Queremos Paz whose only (very spare) lyrics are sounds of Ernesto "Che" Guevara. It's an international band, but they sing much Spanish. Do you know how beautiful jazz is in Spanish? They sing many genres, also. Some song was recorded in a bar. Jazz in a bar—it don't get no better. The lady there croons, and the glasses can be heard tinkling, calls to the waiter, sporadic laughs. At this point, my mind fills in the smoke creeping out of Cuban cigars like defeated demons, bearded revolutionaries bullying a journalist at a table that has more guns on it than bottles, the couple on the dance floor where the tall girl is barefoot, so that the height difference can be tamed, her head buried in his shoulder, her empty glass, its mouth facing the floor behind him, in danger of falling out of her hand gone numb with desire, and Gotan Project is over there bleeding into the microphones, all eyes closed in nearly-sexual concentration on the instruments. Lunatico, the album, is beautiful.

If you don't know by now, I really love long, long sentences. Nadine Gordimer wrote one (page 159, if you have The House Gun), and did the masterful trick of blaming it on the character. How totally ingenious. I have no characters to blame for what happened in the paragraphs above. :o(

The Unhappy Monogamous Polygamous Happy Marriage

Mood: Uncertain-about-my-mood mood
[Toot!] Index: 1.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Entebbe

First a quick shout before we go on to the post. I've had the occassion to express enough of why I find evolution to be a stupid joke. It wasn't expected, but the comments on the last-post-but-one have provided a platform, and I don't believe I'll ever blog about this again, as I find it uncomfortable material. If you have any strong opinions on evolution, pitch in. And, in the same comments, I mention that I understand the logic behind the agnostic argument—and why it is, itself, the answer to the question it asks (related to the ontological argument for God's existence). Now, the post.

---

He says polygamy is the normal relational state of humans. That it is "really stupid" to expect that humans interact with multiple people for everything—everything—except who you're laying. Wrong. Even evil.
She, on the other hand, says polygamy is a thing humans do that, while undoubtedly-human, is worse than any alternative (monogamy, in this case). She says humans fight, humans commit genocide (and homicide and suicide and infanticide and other *cides), humans lie, humans betray, humans do stupid things all over. That says absolutely nothing about whether they should be doing these things.
Welcome to our debate. This is Jude, and this is Ange. The argument is about polygamy. Thank you for joining us.

Jude goes like polygamy, okay, is only appealing to girls, not guys. You can ask some honest people. Girls like it. Guys not so much. At which point Ange quips that, The Judeo-Christian marriage vows are strongly-monogamous—and they were crafted by male hands, not girl hands. And isn't it indicative of men's liking for monogamy, Ange says, that they get murderously-angry in the case of unfaithfulness (except their own)? There.

The fact that monogamy has survived vigorously through millenia, where much of the related human urge and behaviour calls for its quick and gruesome death, implies that we are wired for monogamy, in the same way that we are wired for peace, love, kindness, et cetera (which have suffered roughly the same fate: sanity calls for the loss of hope in peace, human goodwill, and even hope).

Just when you're sad (or happy) that Ange has won, Jude raises a finger.
Mothers want their sons to have many girls. How do you explain that?
Ange says, Mothers also want their sons-in-law to be strictly-monogamous. Draw.

Jude is quick to point Westward. The West, he says, is anti-polygamy. And see, he says, how short-lived the marriages there are. There are no chances for Wife n to help Wife n-1 (where n is greater than or equal to 2). The result is that the pressure of this crazy institution—mental institution, I believe—of marriage is applied to only two participants. Only one woman. There is no chance she'll survive it. Just like a pin's point against the skin versus the pinhead against the skin. The solitary wife gets damaged by the pressure, with nobody to share the load with.
Even worse, this monogamy in the West, Jude adds, is only an illusion. In reality, them Westerners are all polygamous. They are very unfaithful to their spouses. Maybe polygamy could help, but we'll never know. They segregate against polygamy over there. The real, safe form of polygamy, that is. Not this surreptitious, unhealthy kind that the entire Westerners do from when they are out of diapers.

Ange counters it, saying that Jude's argument is flawed for assuming that there should even be such undue pressure in a marriage. There should only enough pressure in a marriage, she says, as there is in a close friendship. She has no love for men who have bar friendships that last across decades and regimes, but marriages that are better-measured in hours. These men take caution not to apply undue pressure on their friends, but take no such measures for their wife [sic]. They create this pressure that Jude says justifes the next wife. The men should change, not monogamy.
And on how monogamy doesn't really exist, Ange says Jude is wrong. You see, she says, in polygamous societies, the concept of faithfulness in marriage (by the party that is allowed another spouse) doesn't exist. Because, you know, to get another spouse requires you to have that "wandering eye". By definition, polygamous societies are pro-unfaithfulness. So, the argument is flawed from the very start. If you think unfaithfulness is bad, you are looking for monogamy, not polygamy. Fix the issues with monogamy: that is the only place you have a shot at faithfulness.

At this point, Jude goes and slaps Ange on the shoulder. And I manage to pull him away before Ange cries. He says, Why does she call my argument flawed?
Maybe because it is flawed? How about we stick to supporting our points and leave the tantrums alone?
And Ange goes on about the beauty of the one-and-only concept. That, It is good to lie gathered in arms that you know are yours, and yours alone. Nobody is entitled to this; it is mine, and mine alone. The breath that hits you, the slight snore you hear, the incoherent groans in the dead of the night, when the moonlight has kept pouring into the room through open windows and towelled the two of you off. When the light perspiration on the two lovers and their beddings doesn't know who it came from originally. In a time like that, you want to know this is yours and yours alone. It is beautiful like that, not when you know someone else will take it away tomorrow and treat it like you had never even existed there before. Not ...

Jude cuts Ange short, and says we should keep it in tangible logic here. This bullshit about what is beautiful should not be allowed in a sensible debate, man. And if it were me saying these things, you'd reduce my score points as punishment. But when it is Ange, you allow her to talk ...

I cut Jude short. We should end this. For today, it will end here. This debate is old. Every now and then, we revisit it and it is clear that these two won't agree on anything soon. It entertains me to mediate in their many debates. I hope you liked it. In this marriage stuff, these two nearly never agree on anything. Except, of course, that marriages are never happy. (The say marriages are incapable of being anything like happy or unhappy. Marriages don't care. There are only happy people or unhappy people in marriages. Marriages are, themselves, neutral. The people change; the marriages never do.) Okay. That will be all for tonight. Thank you for joining us.

Dancing, Music, and Other Concerns

Mood: eclectic
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Nakulabye

Eh, I want to dance. I don't really dance, me. I'm nimble on my feet, but I reserve that for other cases, not dancing. But right now, I crave the sensation of just rocking slowly on my feet, next to a girl. A drink in the hand that presses her against me, dangerous promises dripping off my lips in the heat of the moment, binding suicidal oaths, such as promises of undying love. I want that. I want the other hand to run up her neck as we swap positions and now I see what she was seeing before we twirled. Maybe now it's her turn to look at the fire and see the flames hopping about, and now my turn to face the table and see the perspiring bottle of wine, and feel her glass touch back as she gathers me closer to her in this dance. And I don't know what expression she has on her face. As if that matters. Eh, I want to dance. You hear me? :o(
All this John Mayer, Michael Bublé, George Benson, Ringo Madlingozi, all this Tuku Music, all this teary-eyed jazz and guitarwork, it is for sharing. My headphones are a blasphemy. It is for playing from concealed speakers, at a sweet low volume that is loud when two people in love get in each other's hold and dance. None of that sweaty stuff. I was always the slow-rocking type. Nice and slow. Mostly. ;o) I want to dance; God knows I want to dance.

Hello, readers. I'm the 27^th Comrade. Thank you for joining us for this blog post. And now, the main prolix.
My cat is fine.
... -ish.
The vet took her to a place in Kireka. I'm supposed to trust it to be safe there, but you know how it is. Can't be sure anybody else understands just how to take care of Space. But she's a tough wee tigress; she'll manage. A hug to all who cared. Now you know why I am lovin' all y'all.

I'm tired of hearing "[...] it comes from the Latin for [some word]". Or "[...], which, of course, comes from the Greek for [some word]". I think it is such an elitist line, really. What sounds better than that, for collecting elitist karma? I'm not against that. Do it, if you like. I'm against the Eurocentricism. I am more into negritude and Afrocentricism. So, you know Nimrod? The dude in the Bible, who was the first World emperor? (It was a small world, yes, so he outdid Genghis Khan without ever riding a horse.) I mean this selfsame Nimrod to whom some Nigerian peoples claim to trace their origin. Nimrod was a Cushite. As in, Black. That doesn't matter. (You see, I'm not Black, me, so I don't give a fuck for colours. Nobody seems to mention my colour—chocolate.) This Nimrod; what matters is that he was an African. And he ran the show at the Babel Tower, yeah? Mama of all them languages. So, any time I want elitist points, I'll just go all like "[...], and it comes from the Babel Tower language for [...]". Me, nobody mess with I.

After noticing the comment trend on my invective-laden posts, this comic makes so much sense. And it is the formula to my immortality. Many columnists use that. Like Timothy Kalyegira, for example. Like Onyango-Obbo, whose logic (for the times I can bear his well-written silliness) only manages to prove its absence—if even that. No reason I shouldn't use it, myself. Hmm. "Shit on a biscuit!" :o)
And if I don't comment back to you, dear reader, it is because I'm away from the computer, bound against a pole by a dagger-wielding dominatrix. :o)
But one rule, I've learnt: do not insult people, unless you include yourself in one way or another.

Next: if you ever have to fill in a field—on the internet or on paper—that asks for a postal code, and you put "256", and I catch you. I'll beat you so hard, your entire family tree will be covered in bruises.
I was filling some form, and the lady at the counter told me to fill "256" into the "postal code" field. In a fucking bank. "256", people, is the international phone code, not the postal code. Uganda has no postal codes. Just refuse to fill that field, when asked for it. It's the only way to heal the world of this silly cultural assumption. Not every country is an unwieldily-huge hunk of dirt that requires postal codes. When I meet a field on the Net that requires a zip code of a Ugandan address I fill it with an expletive. Just Say No.

In the video of Usiende Mbali, Juliana is seen, in some shot, reading a Jackie Collins novel. Hahahaha. FAIL.
In a related development: my recent stories (the ones that don't come to this blog) are often very, very steamy erotica, because of the girl I give them to. She likes them. I've just finished one some two hours ago. By the way, see the time I'm writing this: Thu Aug 7 05:25:55 EAT 2008
Explains the incoherence, eh?

Now, more music stuff. At the last Happy Hour, Antipop and Dee said they only done heard Viva La Vida and Violet Hill off the new Coldplay album. Sad. Because, to me, these are the two least-artistic songs on the album. It contains two hidden tracks, Life in Technicolor (comes after Death And All His Friends), and another that comes after Yes. The same brilliant lyricism that made the band give us earlier greats. The best part about this album is that it will put to death this stupid idea that Coldplay is a rock band. Coldplay is not a rock band, if we are willing to invent a new category. There is more of bagpipes and violins in this album than electric guitars.
Strawberry Swing should top charts. Has an Eastern-leaning theme that may be bagpipes or flutes. I hear the album was recorded in Latin America and Iberia, and took the mystical inspirations. It is evident, the loose Catholicism, in the album. Some songs have audible studio sounds (someone counting down from three, at the start of Strawberry Swing, and a chuckle reminiscent of Twisted Logic from back then at the beginning of Reign of Love). Basically, the work of a band that has proven itself, and is now comfortable with experimentation. Lost! is very rich, but not exactly team-work. Chris Martin sits at the piano and makes it bleed. Nice song that deliberately feels underproduced. Cemeteries of London, with lyrics that are as macabre as they are beautiful. Think a gothic artist like Marilyn Manson singing with a jazz band. That's close.
And the last observation is the unashamed nostalgia on the record. Lovers in Japan feels like an '80s song that took a wrong turn—and feels beautiful while at it. The album is great. I love it. Chris, Jonny Boy, Champion, and Guy have given us nice stuff. So, Dee and Antipop, there. :o)

You Might Be An Idiot: The Circular Idiocy Theorem

Mood: Sad
[Toot!] Index: 0.2
Communism Bit: On
Location: Nakulabye

I just got this idea. See, if it were a good idea, maybe I'd have resisted it. But this was just too bad to leave alone. I'm going to make all of you watch my attempt to start this company. You'll watch it sink or watch it float. I'll be noting the stuff worth telling, until it is clear which direction things went. And I'll be honest, the best way I can be. *blinks solemnly*

Whenever I write a post, I subconsciously choose the audience. Some are meant for friends (and non-friends won't understand them or finish them). Some for enemies. Some for those who are reading here for the first time. Some for the three people who read everything I put up. This one is for those, the last group. I know who you are (one of you told me she prints it, if she can't sit through it immediately). This is for you, for I want to trim our numbers. :o) You always read my tripe? Behold I punish you for this sin, visiting mine wrath upon thy seed, even unto the third and fourth generation. Honestly, though, thank you, and here is a verbose one for us. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. And sisters.

Now, on to the post. It should get long, and even angry. I'll call every last one of you names. I'll be a mean, generalising little twerp. I'll call you names of body parts, and one rear one in particular. Some things just never change. You can blame the mood, this time, on the fact that I've come to the end of my savings. :o) My point, if it has eluded you thus far, is that you're not one of the three people I know who will manage to read all this. Go away now. Thank you.

First, the theorem. Jude has recently developed and tested his Circular Idiocy Theorem. It says:

The farther you try to get from being an idiot, the closer you get to being an idiot.

So, here is some news for you: you might be an idiot. I recently saw some comedian funny enough for me to doubt he was an American. He has some lines that end in "you might be a redneck". (If you're not sure if it's your mother or sister that died, you might be a redneck.) My version is "you might be an idiot".

If you've been employed for long and you still run broke, you might be an idiot. (That "long" is subjective.) You know, The Educated Jew noted that it is outside of the intentions of the capitalist lord to make his employees wealthy, since he'll have no employees, then. It is his Intention, rather, to keep them alive (to rear the next generation of wage slaves), and poor (to stay dependent on his wage); for once I'll let you be the one to infer that this is what the West is doing to the Rest, and not even hint at it myself.
Now, if you're clear-headed enough to work through this paragraph—and one that cites Karl Marx, no less!—and you still wake up to report to your fetters in the slave galley, you might be an idiot. Why work hard to make someone wealthy (and assuredly stay broke), rather than work to get wealthy (and probably get rich)? In both cases, the worst that can happen is that you'll be broke. So, why pick the option that has less light? I know why, actually. You're clinging to the sense of consistency and assurance. You're, in short, trying hard not to be an idiot—and therefore being one. Ever heard of retrenchments? New bosses? Have any habits that may upset your boss (and earn you a sack)? You might be an idiot.
I realised it was sinful to waste my most-productive years making other people wealthy, only to get to the other side of maturity and see withered hopes and dreams, as I stand with impotent men in the pension queue, wondering what could have been if I had only tried and tried again and tried one more time. Sinful. My grandpa, the philosopher, would have slapped me for even considering working for anybody else. I'll try to make up for the wasted time.

If you support Besigye, you might be an idiot. Because the alternative to Museveni, in case you didn't know, is not some angry, bulldog-ugly retard. If you really want an alternative to M7, and parties like Bidandi Ssali's PPP don't impress you, you'd rather stand for President than support a stupid, vengeful, lying, angry, bulldog-ugly bag of pus like Besigye. If you're willing to concede that there are problems with Museveni (and there are more than you can ever know about), you should be willing to stand for President. And isn't it stupid to say the guy you're replacing M7 with is the one who once did M7's business? And also, Besigye paints himself as the opposite of M7. That's the problem: you should be smart enough to know that if you don't want your tea too hot, you don't want it frozen either. The worst, though, is that, even if you're not an idiot, many others are. I am, for example. You can't win! The numbers are on our side! Hence why Besigye even has an audience. If someone is too dumb to know that you can't blame fuel prices on the government—any government outside of the American one—that someone is too dumb to lead anything, leave alone a country. Museveni is smarter than Besigye, and that should matter when you're supporting.
In trying hard not to be an idiot (ie., showing "indignation and anger" about M7, since it is what smart, educated, democratic, idealistic people do, these days), you might be an idiot.

If you do as the society expects you to, you might be an idiot. Because that may require you to, for example, wear suits into the equatorial sun. Sure, you're trying to not be an idiot, and I understand that. But that means you might be an idiot. Do only as you want to; where you concur with society, good for society. Otherwise, it can go to jahannamah. (That's how the rules you're following were made, after all.)

The sweetly-paradoxical part about this Circular Idiocy Theorem is that it means that if you concede to being an idiot and stay put, you'll be less of an idiot than the one who runs away from (to!) idiocy. Hehe. Circles are interesting. They have a property that implies that everyone is equally idiotic, as per this theorem. Don't worry. We are all idiots.

If you believe in evolution, you might be an idiot. You're only trying to believe what you've been told is smart to believe, right? Trying to not be an idiot, and therefore being one. We have the monkeys. We have the humans. We don't have the middle "early men". Why? Weren't they fitter for survival than the monkeys from which they evolved precisely because they were fitter for survival? I know, I don't want to go there, but I can't resist. It's Friends Only night, after all. I might as well spill forth. You know, it takes like billions of members of a species before "speciation happens" (new species coming up). That's why, with at least six billion humans around, not one is a mutant that is a different species. Therefore, if we came from, say, six billion "early men", why do we have only one tooth remaining? Are you too spineless and lacking confidence in your brains to take a stand and concede to not knowing? This is one of many questions nobody has answered for me (gimme answers, if you can). Until then, if you believe in evolution, you might be an idiot. (For evolutionists, there is no possibility of an intelligent designer who makes things that are similar. There is no possibility of an intelligent designer who makes things that are similar, for evolutionists. None, whatsoever. None, whatsoever. Similarity, to them, implies evolution. To them, similarity implies evolution. I feel my respect for someone ebb fast, once I discover that he/she is an evolutionist. I feel my respect for someone ebb fast, once I discover that he/she is an evolutionist. Fearing theism so much as to pick idiocy? Fearing theism so much as to pick idiocy?)
You know, one of Isaac Newton's most-famous lines is not even one of the thoeries. It's a confession of ignorance: Hypotheses non fingo; Latin for "I feign no hypotheses." One looks to these scatterbrains in coats for a sentence that approaches that in honesty, and there is none forthcoming. And their intolerance for dissent is the biggest problem here.

I noticed, in the Saturday papers, that Betty Nambooze was coming out of jail to cheering supporters. And she had an Eminem t-shirt on. Now, that's gangsta. Wear the guy who rhymed on Renegade, and the government will flee from thee. And, is it me, or does Eminem just sound better on other people's tracks? Renegade must be the tightest rhyme since Forget About Dre. Man, that kid might be a prophet! Oh, and since Eminem is arguably White, I'll get in a racist mood.

If you're a White person writing about Africa, you might be an idiot. (Don't knock this, you. Racism is everywhere. Everybody be doin' it. Least I ain't lynchin' 'em. At least there ain't no crystals in the night, outside of White establishments. Them racists are even still relaxed enough to be having sex in South Africa! The racists, if you want them, are the Whites over here. I'm glad Baz doesn't read this far, though; I'll admit that. Exit the damn brackets.) After all, no Whites are going to read this far; remember, this is not one of their blogs. So I'm not offending anyone (which is in line with my intention).

I can prove that they are not reading this: you done seen Global Voices? Good. In my time here, I've seen like three Global Voices correspondents in Uganda. Uganda, if you're an American, is an African country. (Yes to both those questions, American.) These GVO correspondents, they are diverse and interesting. A rich mix of backgrounds and cultures that reflects the country they are reporting about. But they have one thing in common; can you guess? Okay, apart from being Americans? (We skipped that consideration, as "one thing in common" sounds better than "two things in common".) Good. Correct. They are White.

That may be because all other Ugandans turned down the offer to help. I know I'd never work for a blog like that; it's against much of what I hold dear. That would be a post for another time, but I'll likely not say such again. In short, GVO is another pseudo-activism portal to burden us with deluded idealistic paranoids who will take over all 365.25 days with "International Blog For [something] Day". More in my "Blog for Human Rights" post. And it loves stereotypes: result of using only one mindset there. Et cetera; all the problems, in short, that show up when White people write about Africa. Point is, it is where White people write about Africa. Little wonder White people read it. My Africa is some book I saw in Aristoc. Interesting cover: blue-eyed girl with lions. Same week, someone asks why we generally don't blog about politics in these blogs. Well, we have White people to do that for us. Politics, lions, child soldiers (politics reloaded, I know, but nude, hapless Blacks look good on American TV, you see), Evil Politicians™ (politics revolution, because evil Blacks are also an American favourite), spiritism, dust, the city chaos, and other similarly-expected things. These, the Whites will write for us. (And "mediocre" is a mediocre word for this.) When we write about the night in the club, leave it be: it's what the Whites don't believe exists, and therefore the only thing they leave for us. Still, if you are White writing about Africa, you might be an idiot.
(Yes, the non-Whites I know who write for GVO about Africa—and I know them because they stand out, as is expected—are based in the West. I'll not mind a list that proves me wrong.)

You're White and writing about Africa. You try hard not to be an idiot by filing Yet Another Thing About Child Soldiers and Evil Politicians™, since that is the safe way to play. You're only trying not to be an idiot. Therefore you might be an idiot.

Before I exit my racist mood, I'll note this. When Dennis wrote his call for recolonisation, many White people said it was an interesting read. You know, things like "uncomfortably-honest [...] daring". He said it was his most-controversial. You see, White people will read when you tell them to be the master. Is this a stunning revelation? But tell them that, with recolonisation, you want the massacres of the times as well. They shut up. What is it, anyway, with people thinking the Jews had it rough with the Nazis? At least there were some survivors. The Reich believed it was possible to exterminate a race after seeing what the Americans had done there, what the British had done here and in Australia, after seeing what the Iberians had done in Latin America, what the Gauls had done in the parts of Africa they had taken. Blame for the Jews' plight is better placed on the Americans than on the Nazis. Next thing, governments will be doing arbitrary arrests, sending people to bays of pigs, doing unilateral anschluss, choosing which leaders run which countries, and we'll blame them, not America. Or should we blame the Nazis, from whom the Americans learnt? When I lynch the Whites in Uganda, I'm only aping Great America, okay? Besides, I'm curious if there would be blog badges for WithoutSanctuary.org, maybe from GVO, if it had White people, instead. (Don't visit that site, if you love me.)

Ange noticed a trend: when White people try to exterminate you, they are about to get fanatically-supportive of you. This is largely in the same way that school bullies are supportive of the kids they've beaten and broken in; a kind of rite of passage. It's why the Aryans, after what they did to the Jews, became the guarantors of their dramatic aliyah. (And because of what these selfsame Whites did, the rest of us are not allowed to crack Schlemiel jokes anymore.) These days, the remnants of the Australian Aboriginals are being spoilt by government cash, after returning from the brink. So, Ange expects that Africa's moment is here any time soon. She points at the Western Aid™, and Jude says "but that is part of the extermination attempt!" You know, until they have convinced themselves that they are the Masters, they'll keep trying to exterminate us, and then turn around, as soon as they are convinced of their Power over Us. Luckily, the World (as we know it) won't stay around long enough for that.
(And it is funny how Americans rush to say it is "this administration" that is evil, not their country. Stupid. Idiotic. American. Retarded. At least "this administration" waits for the Hurricane, before it starts on ethnic cleansing. The "administrations" that founded that country were run by slave-drivers and lynchers. "This administration" is the worst, sure. Save for all the others. And I quote "administration", because that is correctly a regime. They say regime when they talk of any non-White leader, and "administration" for them. Plus, it's one regime since the founding, but different leaders.) Phew.

If you are Microsoft Windows, you might be an idiot. My friend installed Windows Vista, recently, and he loves it. I'm happy for him. I've always had qualms with Windows. Not with the system itself—I nearly never use Windows—but with the icons there. You know, these icons that depict human busts, in cartoony form? A good example is if you go to Control Panel and see User Accounts. All of them are white heads covered in brown and yellow hair. In other words, the icons are White. (Yes, we aren't done—it's been centuries of silence, you see.)
Well, they were White. In Windows XP, before Vista, I once went through these icons looking for a non-Aryan icon. None to be found. It seems it was more than one person who noticed this, because that has been remedied in Windows Vista. If you compare that User Accounts icon, you'll see that there is now a—gasp, choke—Black man in the icon. Here it is:

So, let's recap. Windows XP is oblivious of non-Aryan icons. They notice, and try hard not to be idiots in Windows Vista, and therefore get closer to being idiots. Because, you see, the prevailing attitude towards a black man in your User Accounts in America is Shoot To Kill. As though Windows doesn't know that? They could have portrayed more of the less-than-comfortable truth by putting the Black man icon to take out the Recycle Bin. Or where they need an icon for Potential President.
I just had to note. It was funny. Sorry.

Before the last one: if you are Andrew Mwenda, you might be an idiot. You see, that dude opened his mag. Politics, naturally. The first cracks show when he publishes false shit that could have been verified with a two-minute phone call. Many people forgave him, myself included. You see, while I don't like him, I want his role to be played. His role is vital to good governance, you know. You don't have to be against the government to want it to suffer hard opposition. Indeed, if you like a government, pray for its competition. If you like an athlete, pray that his/her training is obscenely-hard. It is how we keep things in tone. So, I like Mwenda's role, and I think he plays it with genius. My beef is with his publication.
He has sold out to selling out. As in, he wants to sell copies so much, that he has abandoned much of what makes him relevant. Now, he let a stupid story through and (consciously or not) ignored to put it up to rigorous testing, because it would make for good headlines and sell out copies. We forgave him, for many reasons. But what I can't forgive him for is this shit of putting headlines that belong in The Red Pepper. You know, "Museveni assassination fails ...", "Is Kayihura meant to silence the opposition ...", and such-like tripe. Next thing he knows I'll be calling the editorial to ask where the nude girls have gone. Seriously, though, Mwenda should be told that a mag is more than its headline. Tabloids are where the headlines are the story. He should wake up immediately. In trying hard not to be an idiot, he might be an idiot.

You read this far? You might be an idiot.
Did I write all this? Heh. I might be an idiot. Nay, nay. I am an idiot. Takes one to know one. To close with an Eminem line, Ahaha. Cummon, wage slaves, Besigye supporters, social conformists, everybody, evolutionists, White people writing about Africa, Microsoft Windows, and Andrew Mwenda, you know I love you.