random pic.

The Things Boredom Does to Me…

Certification:

I the undersigned, do certify that to the best of my knowledge and belief, the following story is a true and sacrosanct account of events that may or may  not have transpired on a certain morning two or three weeks ago.

According to one Alexandrei Alexandrovich, I.T ass-kicker and close friend and associate of the tripod, do not, and I repeat, do not do chows with pathogens in your system. Just don’t do it. (Of course that is not his real name; the tripod may be as cool as shit but still, we only deal with Russians when we are on-line looking for anti-virus updates….Or when we are buying illegal arms)

Those anyway, were the instructions. I did not listen. People, listen when people give you advice…. Now the story.

So I had my chow. It was a fairly good chow as chows go. I had been feeling groggy all day but ignored the very broad hints my system was hurling willy-nilly. Mbu because of sex.

That night! Tossing and turning and screaming and nightmares of a giant fat-as-fuck talking sausage with teeth all along the edge trying to wheedle me into letting it give me a blowjob. I simply cannot describe the horror. Simply cannot.

Woke up veeery early, feeling only barely human. Slid out of the premises like a thief.  Wandered through Kikoni and Nakulabye looking for a clinic to do a blood test. All the clinics were closed. It was a Sunday if I remember correctly. It looked like a ghost town. Except for the emaciated dogs trying to find food in the gutter and failing and trying to eat their own genitals and succeeding. But then I guess that is a staple ingredient of the basic ghost town scenery. So I walked, not giving up hope. Undaunted. This chick might have had some alien-eat-your-flesh-from-the-inside-starting-with-your-duodenum type of virus lying dormant in her vagina for all I knew and I had caught it.  I do not know about you people but my duodenum is very dear to me. I walked all the way down the road that goes to Kasubi. Like half an hour of walking, then came back and landed on some clinic just at the junction.

The great thing about this clinic was that there was a huge sign outside saying, Malaria Tests Free!!! (yes, even the exclamation marks.) I did a jig in the road. Not the basic free-for-all version designed for public consumption and that any kayoola can access by typing The Streetside Jig into You-Tube. (The link is here.  Yeah, yeah I know but a  guy has to start somewhere.)  I didn’t do that one. Oh no! I was so happy to be getting some free shit that I did the elaborate and simply mind boggling Triple Platinum Star ( For Members Only, Limited Edition, Collector’s Release 1, do not expect Release 2 until 2020) version. That jig is quite flamboyant and intricate and basically unbelievably mind-boggling and I am afraid I might have traumatized a street child or two for life. Oh! you should have heard them howl! It would have done your soul good to hear those brats howl! Especially the part where I, in the middle of an especially convoluted squirm, got the fleshy part of my left palm and with a loud war whoop forcefully inserted it in…. Haha Haaaaaaa! You guys are so easy. Did you think I was going to give up even a smidgen of inner-circle Streetside to your punk-asses? Keep wishing.

Anyway, free malaria test, I bounced into that motherfucker like I was Iceberg Slim. A shameless Ugandan looking for free things. Yeeah! That’s when things got interesting.

To be continued tomorrow. Time to go home; I want to dance, it’s like being in P.4 all over again. Just pray they don’t give me work.

Aargh!

Well first things first. I am removing that stupid banner up there. Talk about living in the past.
I am at work. My first day here. My workstation is next to TheRentedMess’s who is all suspiciously scrubbed and Vaselined and shaven headed and generally looking like your friendly neighborhood pedophile.
Work, how low can you fall? I have spent the whole frigging day choosing a wall paper aaaand… yes, that’s it. Will post when actually have something to say. Work. I feel stupid already, trying to think is becoming more and more like a tractor ploughing through fast-drying concrete.

On The Fly…

BHH came and went. It was fun, though I am not going to do a recap (sorry Baz). Wait for the one in December, I will do a recap to murder all recaps, pon’ my word. Anyway, here are the attendees in order of holleration, B2b, Santosh, Jny23, Heaven, Antipop, Silverbow, Normzo, Martha, Sleek, Darlene, Rhino, RogueKing, Xiona, Baz, Carsozy, and respectfully yours, TheStreetsider.

Mckeith’s punk ass didn’t show up. I feel I need to mention this. LALutara, people are talking about you man.

And so there we were, we few, we happy few.  Not that few really (yeaaah! My shameless campaign! Wait for December, NRM will come looking to recruit) and not that happy. The RogueKing was sickish, Heaven couldn’t get a drink to save her life or her bosom and Rhino almost got into a fight with the security.

Security: No camera!

Rhino: Camera!

Security: No camera!

Rhino: I said camera!

Security: And I said no camera!

Rhino:  Headbutt!

Security: Ok camera.

So there we were as I was saying, and I got into this conversation with the RogueKing. (This was a serious BHH, clowning was at a minimum. Business etc etc). We were discussing the hidden and untapped powers of blogger. Blogren, we can do much with the influence we wield, and it is a lot.  With a little organisation and co-operation, who knows?  We need to think about this. But let me not preach. Here’s a link, a start. Here’s another one.  Saturday is the big day. Now if you people will excuse a nigga while he retreats to the Streetside for a spell.

Chewing gum

Nothing in this world succeeds like audacity.  Raphael Sabatini- ‘Scaramouche’

“…And so how far are gonna take this?

The question is not how far, the question is, do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith to go as far as is needed?”  The Boondock Saints

As long as I can remember I feel I have had this great creative and spiritual force within me that is greater than faith, greater than ambition, greater than confidence, greater than determination, greater than vision. It is all these combined. My brain becomes magnetized with this dominating force which I hold in my hand. Bruce Lee

BHH! BHH! BHH!

I have come here to blow noise. I have come here to be a nuisance. To rabble rouse. To irritate and annoy, oh yes! Did I mention that I came here today to annoy?

(We interrupt this transmission to bring you a small word from our sponsors; Static in the Attic and The Rustic Agnostic.)

(token static) -dzz zz dzzzzsssh dsssh—

BHH!! BHH!! BHH!! BHH!! BHH!!!

BHH is tomorrow, you people come, the spirit of blogger as we knew it is dying. Ok not dying, but it has like gonorrhea of the throat and is in much pain and generally doing poorly.  Consider;

The Spartakkan is gone children; the world has swallowed him up. The Antipop comes out of the woodwork to give deadly sniper comments but then vanishes again. The Calf of Troy likewise. The RentedMess (because you can rent/hire him to make a mess of someone you don’t like with nothing more than an old Ofwono bottle) deleted his blog. The Madness, who use to write the most beautiful prosetry since like Elizabeth Browning is doing I dunno what. Reading probably. Serakelz tried her hand at the pimping business and the experience threw her off blogging completely (that was very sad btw).  Those are not the only ones.  Bloggers are losing it. Seriously, anyone who has more than twenty comments on their last post put up your hand.

Let me tell you about how I started blogging. I used to be a good writer, much better than I am now since I don’t read as much as I used to, or write. Those days I used to write all the time. Just for the sake, just because I enjoyed it. And my head was screwed on looser. Then I stopped writing for certain reasons that I will go into later.

 I had this friend. She was a blogger but now I think old age and general fakeness caught up with her ass. I am not forgiving on this point. Sweetheart we miss you, why do you do these things to us? You work in a goddamn newspaper for crying out loud.

 She would tell me, “Daniel (for that’s my name), why don’t you start writing again?” but like the boxer who knows that just because he had it once doesn’t necessarily mean he still does, I fenced and dodged. She kept hammering. I gave up. I started writing again. Then she told me, start blogging. In her gentle way this heavenly calf can be quite relentless. She presents the most convincing arguments. Then looks at you in that way of hers that makes you feel as if you were on Christ’s crucifixion committee. So I started blogging. Sort of. Then the Streetsider was born. Then, “You should come for BHH”.

“I dunno. You know, I mean…”

“Motherfucker come for BHH! This was my main man Sleek. I rolled my balls there. I was very trepiditious. People have a way of becoming larger than life when you have read their cool and supercalifragilistic blogs. You think they have oba what. Like two heads. Some of them were people I had stood in awe of for years. I expected to find like this 21^st century version of the Algonquin table. I found clowns. Which was ok. Clowns can be cool. These ones were.

 You people come for BHH. Don’t you know that one great BHH can change the world? Come on!! People have had babies, people have lost babies, people have lost laptops and girlfriends and been scared within an inch of their teeth by breast cancer, people have fallen in love and people have fallen out of love. People have made money people have left their jobs, people have moved house. People have had the equivalent of non-stop 24 day hard-ons. People have been to India. People have done things and had things done to them. This is your chance to share your woes and joys with kindred spirits. People have …. Wait….

 BHH!! BHH!! BHH!! BHH!! BHH!!!

Sorry about that, there were a bunch of campusers demonstrating outside the office. They are saying that you guys should come for BHH or there may be trouble. I have talked to them. They have said they will be easy. For now.

 Anyway, there is this therapeutic side of BHH; where you tell jokes knowing that the people who are laughing at them actually understand them. Then there is also the chance to get buzzed, get drunk, get crunked, get fucked up… get fucked, get sucked, get wasted, shit faceted, pasted, blasted, puke drink up, get a new drink, hit the bathroom sink, throw up… wipe your shoe clean; knowing you’ve still got a few chunks on your shoestring……  which you can do elsewhere granted, but which you can also do here. Or should I say there.

 Since the thing nowadays is to leave a playlist stapled to your post, I will leave a one track playlist, by the latest sickest, slickest artist sorry, artiste on the scene. Recently signed to Streetside Records, this dude’s style is of the illest. He goes by the handle of Spastic Bombastic. The track is called…. Wait for it…. BHH.  For those who cannot download or otherwise acquire it, the lyrics are on their way (the bureaucracy at Streetside Records is unbelievable).

 

 

Homage to Cata-Lauria and other fings

This is another one of those nights: another episode in a strange girl’s room. This particular one is an idiot.

Sweetheart, I have a mosquito on my head, come and kill it for me.
She has just said this. I swear. Not two minutes have passed. Mother of God, where do I find them?! It is 4:46 am. This is how low I have fallen. Typing blog posts on random females’ computers at wee hours of the morning. This could become a thing. I could call these posts Dispatches from the Chow Front. Or Close Encounters of the Carnal Kind or Humper on the Sly (correct me if I am wrong but don’t you think I could have made a comfortable living just coming up with porn titles?) … the truth is, when you lose a loved one, you can do some disturbing things. This one is for Laurie.

I bought Laurie with my own money (as the harassed young slave-owner tearfully said of his moth-eaten purchase) It was my finest hour. It…
(Streetsider if you ever, I SWEAR IF YOU EVER MISUSE A QUOTE LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL (mouthing wordlessly in rage, like a goldfish)……I will…I will …Ntssssss!)

It was not my finest hour. It did not define me. Generations hence will not say that the Streetsider became a man the day he bought his first laptop. But it was close. I had had my inner eye fixed on a laptop of my own for some time. It had become an obsession to be honest. I had been scrounging for over a year without much progress. I had been, to quote the great sage and all-purpose wise-guy Katt William, tryin’ shit and tryin’ shit…tryin’ shit and tryin shit (don’t work). Tryin’ shit, tryin’ shit… Tryin’ shit, tryin’ shit (switch it up). I had been leading this highly depressing existence for a good while when a lucky windfall brought me 500 dollars, around .8 in those pre-crunch days. That and a small loan from mzee and I had my laptop.

She was beautiful. Heavy as fuck granted but who cared? Who cared that I looked like some Martian species of semi evolved turtle when I toted my backpack all over the campus. It was a cross worth bearing. Aaah I remember, the soft crisp first pap-tap-ra-taps as my fingers broke her virginity. The soft purring in pleasure when I switched her on for the first time… the great and magnificent things that we brought to life together… She never gave me shit, did Laurie; never complained when I woke her up at 3 in the morning for some quality time. Did I want a movie played? She would happily oblige on her large-as-a-fuckin’-cathedral-door  LCD. Did I need a wingman on some lonely foray into the dark unfriendly domain of some new target? Laurie took the bullet, and took it with honour and skill. Was there some bulky gig or two of stellar quality porn that couldn’t… simply, just simply couldn’t be done without? Laurie would without a murmur spend the night valiantly piecing together shreds of data from torrent sites all the over the internet. The entire night!! Those lonely hours!! That cold silence! Such selflessness! Such courage!! Soliciting encouragement and succor from other Laurie’s throughout the limitless expanse of the world wide web that she may deliver this gift of elegant and beautifully crafted porn to her master. She bore it all, bore it all and never spoke one word. Not one electric crackle of discontent, not one sullen cyber hiss. Not nothing. And now she is dead.

This is the point where I insert one of the greatest poems of all time, slightly massacred.
Sacrilege I know. The basest blasphemy. This is fitting. Also Laurie is gone, I can’t be bothered.

Inserting….inserting…inserting… here we go!

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message She is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

She was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Meanwhile the mosquitoes in this room do not bite or whatever it is mosquitoes do. These ones devour. They buzz like radioactive hornets, they hover like manta rays and swoop like demon sharks. I swear just one of these fuckers of grandmothers could eat a kitten whole. My back looks like minced meat and I can tell you that the condition did not spring from the throes of passion. Meanwhile my latest project snores away cheerfully. And very loudly. If I hadn’t grown up on a farm I would have said this bitch was Satan.

Also I think this chick may be a psycho. All her teddy bears are missing an eye. And it’s the same eye (the left one). This cant be normal. If I do not make it to BHH on Thursday someone call her number and ask what she has done with one Streetsider, now deceased. I will probably wind up in a gutter somewhere, sans head as yz who has a thing for French would say. (Yes dear, not only do you sling a lethal word, you are also the resident French authority in blogville. We even quote what you might have said. You are just the baddest. Bask away… ; it’s your time to shine.

Shining yet? Very nice, now wipe that Vaseline off, this is not Jam Agenda)

I am sorry for manyirating. It’s all love. According to reports, this blogger is coming back to the motherland. I am joyful and exultant. I am beside myself. I am so beside myself I am standing next to me thinking this dude needs to chill. Chick kicks ass. Alright that’s enough.

Regards from the bedside.

Title

I MISS MY FUCKING LAPTOP.

On The Road

I have a feeling that I should write about windows. I don’t know why, I just have this feeling of urgency that there is something of cosmic import about the nature and character of windows.
Time check: 12:38 am

I am in a strange room, (at any rate it’s not my room) there is a very good looking girl, half naked and pissed off as fuck at me because I am here squatting like an ageing Buddha over her laptop frantically typing about shit she couldn’t give the most far flung fuck about.

Did I tell you people that my laptop is dead? Yes it is. I drowned it. I drowned Laurie; with a jug full of drinking water. I accidentally poured the water on her when I  woke up one night thinking to catch up on some work that would have done wonders for both of our lives… I did this… And I can’t do shit about it now.

Also, it is in the dead of night, so the existence, or absence of windows should not be of any relevance.  What the fuck?

Windows….. Eyes are supposed to be the windows of the soul. No, that’s not it. You don’t jump bolt upright in the middle of the night to torment yourself and therefore by extension your readers (which you are by the way,) with gutter philosophy.

I am going back to bed (and other matters pertaining thereto)

…Time check 8:13, who wants the story? Haaa! Thou wishest.

What are you typing?
Stuff
Should I give something to write about?
Yes
Write about me.
You do know that you will never get to read it?
Okay. (Then with typical feminine illogic) but one day you will have to tell me. If necessary by force
What do you want me to write about you?
Anything you want. You can write about how I give a good blow job.
Fine

People, she gives a good blow job. She is a remarkable girl by the way. If I wasn’t such a jaded so and so I think I would be in danger of falling in love. She’s hot for one. She is not my usual type, which is high brow, or tending in that direction. In fact if you were being uncharitable you might call her coarse. She is straightforward, she doesn’t try to manipulate you or wrap her vagina around your head or any of that other shit. When she is happy she laughs. When she is angry she throws a tantrum. You know where you stand with her. She is direct. She doesn’t calculate the effect everything she does will have on you. She just says what is on her mind; and she has an interesting mind. She is inordinately charming. She is strong willed and big hearted. It is a pity she will never get to read this.

I gave up on the windows btw, the epiphany escaped.

I am trying to do this whole honest blog thing. Of saying it like it is and not like I think it should be; an almost stream-of-consciousness flow. Less focus on what people will be reading and more on what I am writing. I am not a fucking performing monkey with a keyboard. (Oh my God Streetsider, you are so funny, and mad! Yeah, shut the fuck up)

I put up one such post in a period when I was feeling a bit overwhelmed. I cringed like a snail in a salt pan for hours afterwards. When I checked people had made some encouraging comments. (In a moment of monumental cowardice I deleted it; I dare anybody to make me put it back up.)

Honest blogging is powerful. Honest blogging is Streetside.

Some chewing gum;

Fuck… through the pain  -Katt Williams

Blogcks. The Return Of…

I have blogcks. Again!!! Me! This rankles. This chewing gums under my foot. This fingernails on my blackboard. This snags in the undergrowth (not my undergrowth). This is terrible. This gives blowjobs with lots of teeth action and no technique. This… I could go on for ever.
It is at moments like these that you resort to sneaky underhanded Smeagol like methods. You will hate yourself afterwards but you will have moved on, hoping that the universe will understand and having understood, forgive. Actually if you do understand… you have no alternative BUT to forgive. If you are honest that is, and mature. Which I take it the universe must be, being older than all of us pressed down and shaken together and run over and etc.

I digress, as the apothecary said after he mentioned to the peddler in passing that he had bled his wife to death.(and btw I gave up on this as-the-blahblah-said-when-he/she etc shit) Where were we? Oh yes, sneaky, underhanded and Gollum-like. Unconscionable! Shocking! Outrageous! (voice of Judge Clark Brown ). Why?

Because ah
this isn’t… what you thought it was
It beez.. This brother rippin’ off the D-irty Deacon
I be the S-T-R the double E-T
Sider! Sider! (faint shouts)
And check out the post it goes by the name of er…

Random thurrogits… here to addle your wits
It was either that or go jerk off and call it quits
Mind’s croakin’, am a smokin’ naughty rotten rhymer
Brain failed to explode like it had a faulty set-it-off timer!!

Bwoosh!

you’re blacker than the motherfucker etc etc

Yea well, bit of plagiarism there mixed with some imperfect rhyme. I don’t have the time. I am going to do a random thurrogits thing, in the style of the late great Ernest Bazanye Ssempebwa III, may he rest in peace… haha! Ernest Bazanye is not dead but New Vision is, if the gossip on the blog is anything to go by. Dead as the ringworm that used to grow on King Tut’s gonads. Deader.

These are ideas that should have made post but (insert shifty eyed look of guilt) I have blogcks. So be grateful.

#1 The Strange Girl Conundrum
Some days ago, I met some one who apparently has been very curious to see me. Reason? She found my blog interesting. Okay, fine, no problem. But, and this is the interesting part. She was shocked, when she met me, to discover that I can smile.
What do people think I am?

#2 The Eminem-Relapse Disillusionment
Everyone knows that I think Eminem is pretty fantastic. (I was ripping off The ‘Nem himself up there) He is the adjective that is above and beyond fantastic. so above and beyond in fact that you need a licence to use it. I was prevailed upon, despite my madly clamouring instincts, to re-listen to his Relapse. I now know why they are called instincts. Its because (this is beneath me). But (and I say this with love) Darlene and Ivan need to have their heads examined. This album is nothing more than an 80minute slew of unalloyed wankage. My head even hurts just thinking about it.

I think I like the word wankage. Even more than fuckery. Wankage has a certain, how do you say, atmosphere. In fact let’s say it again. One two three…

Wasn’t that nice? Wasn’t that liberating? Feel free to use it whenever you need the therapy, I am a believer in the open source philosophy. You shall not be charged any royalty.

Now clap.

#3 The Bobi Wine- Butler William Parallel.
I am a sucker for honesty. I hate being lied to. People’s lies have complicated my life. They complicate my life everyday but that is all I will say for now.
Now… the first time I ever heard Singa by His Excellency, I was knocked. it is a nice song. It reminds me of Yeats These were honest(or managing to sound honest) men pouring their hearts out. These men are saying hey; look here. This is how it is. I feel you. Ate mob. Now what is the way forward? I can’t give you money. You better know that now. God knows I wish I could. But I can’t. I cannot give you everything you want. All I can do is give you the realest most valuable thing I have. I can give you me. And the promise that should I one day have all that other stuff, it will be yours.

Aaaaaaaaaw!! I am a hopeless romantic. They should put me in a cage and charge tourists bitano to take pictures.

query.

does anybody have an ellery queen novel that i can borrow, buy, steal, photocopy, read frantically in their living room pretending to be a lookout while they acquire coital knowledge of their houseboy…. whatever it takes man. whatever it takes.