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.

Blogcks

I have blogcks. This is unprecedented. This is unheard of, this is… Apaana! Won’t swallow! (As the ant vowed when confronted with an elephant and a large bucket of saliva to make it go down easier.)
I feel like disintegrating into rhymes, this is what it must be like to quit smoking. We must exercise discipline. At least ramble.
Alright, so what is blogcks? Let us make this clear once and for all, extra loud for the benefit of backbenchers.

Blogcks: the breakdown
In the year 700 million BC give or take a few years, a humble fisherman by the name of Smiling Smiley Natamwaobworo (he was Chinese) dragged up a large vase in his fishing net. The vase was greenish and glowing and inscribed with magical runes and shit. Smiling Smiley had never seen anything like it. Smiley was at a loss for words. Smiley was a notorious garrulousist and this condition didn’t sit well on his soul.

Said Smiley to self, “I am going to open this fucking vase.”
And so he did.
As is usually the case when vases are opened in stories of this type; a vulgarly muscled fellow composed of smoke and poor lighting clambered out of the vase. This one came with the additional proclivity of making bad jokes. (He was an experimental but highly successful model designed for the retard market). He was called, lemme see… Bosco.
Bosco’s first career move under this new management was to dive into the sand with a loud yelp.
“What the fuck are you doing?” asked Smiley nonplussed.
“It’s new,” Bosco said with becoming modesty, “I have been working on it for the past, whew! I dunno, 2000 years? It’s my special entrance; I call it my Dirt-Groove Move. Haha ha! Haaaa! Ha, not very funny is it? Ha ha! Oh shit, this is awkward.

They stared at each other uncomfortably.

“So…” said Bosco in the worried pseudo-cheerful voice of a middle-aged widower at his five-year old’s birthday party, “How are we going to do this?”
“Do what?” asked Smiley shortly. He had been mercilessly bullied in high school and was understandably suspicious of overly muscled people asking him how they were going to do this. He didn’t care if they looked like a cross between a shit eating TV host and The Ghost of Cannabis Past.

“Go about granting you your wish.” Replied Bosco, slyly inserting a joke about a fish in a dish that was so crude and tasteless that even I me myself the Streetsider cannot find it in me to type it out and everyone knows that I am shameless.

“Aren’t those supposed to be three wishes?” asked Smiley all the while trying to pretend that the joke had not caused all the hair on his back to leap up in protest and defect to the crack in his ass.
“One wish.” Bosco was firm.
Smiling Smiley talked vaguely about precedents.
Bosco stuck to his guns. His employment contract had a very small but very real clause about extra benefits for left over wishes and there was a certain health care package he had had his eye on for some time.
But Smiley was a fisherman and more to the point, was married to Marie Claire Bubinabutono, a shrewish woman with what was ultimately an ambitious name who handled the marketing and sales aspects of the family business. Her skills were as legendary as her concave backside which defied all the laws of science, art and frigging common sense. It was the obsession of perfectionists and perverts alike and had been the death of among others, three plastic surgeons, five fine-artists and innumerable lingerie models. She was a sales and marketing Maharishi who had raised bargaining from a mere art form to something spiritual and who, when you caught her eye, caused the money in your wallet to start sweating.
Anyway, let’s just say Smiley had picked up a few skills. In the end Bosco granted the three wishes as well as an unlimited supply of complimentary coupons to Club PaLui’s Reggae Night. He cursed the day he thought he could ever haggle with anybody who smelt of fish.

Smiley’s first wish was that his wife have Melissa Ford’s bum. Bosco yanked a botox pump out of a previously nonexistent back pocket and rushed off whistling. He was back in five minutes with two black eyes and a swollen jaw. He looked like a giant panda with toothache.
Smiley’s second wish was for a color TV. What he really wanted to ask for was Kim Kardashian and Penny from Big Bang Theory as his second and third wives but the pleading look in Bosco’s next to invisible eyes was too much even for his mercenary little heart.
Bosco gave him his color TV.
Smiley inspected the TV gingerly and found it satisfactory. Bosco stood by patiently.
‘And your last wish?’ he asked in the obliging tones of a servant who has seen much and been beaten much. “Should I give you a few days to think it over?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” replied Smiley. “I know what I want and that’s another job. I am tired of fish.”
“Oh really!” replied Bosco with heightened interest, (he fancied himself a bit of a Career Counselor you see). “Well what can you do?”
“I can talk; I can talk the knickers off a nun (and would have if it wasn’t for that confounded meddling no-behind wife of mine.)”
“In that case,” said Bosco cracking his massive knuckles with relish, “how do you feel about being a writer?”

To be continued…

This is Bad real Bad, Michael Jackson…

Attention Blogren! This is the Streetsider speaking, I know I have been m.i.a.; my apologies. I did not intend it to happen that way. I have not been suffering from blogcks or any of those conditions that grab Bloggers by the short and curlies and twist gleefully. I have been busy. Education was wasting my time. I had exams. Sort of.

It is good to be back.

It is at this point that I should inform you of a certain project. This project was to be handled in conjunction with Sleek, (rumors of whose death at my hands have by the way been greatly exaggerated) but I think I foxed. I have just been in his yard checking and there is nothing, well, if he is still game then so am I.

Therefore, keep your eye-balls unshaved, ladies and gentlemen; in case this worthy hombre comes through, keep your ears grimy, do not clean them, in fact if possible groom and tend those gooey stalactites; keep your hands callused, forswear Vaseline, Lotion, Ghee (yeah Normzo, we know, okay? we know). Stick to sabuni kanga and paw-paw leaves… because my good friends when on that fateful day you type those power laden letters into your web browser , and you have not taken the precautions I have advised, you will have nobody to blame but yourself.

For your eyeballs will need to be unshaved if you are to withstand the searing white heat of the skill that would sizzle your corneas and reduce them to dirty-grey flakes floating merrily on the afternoon breeze …

…your ears will need to be clogged to protect you from the ear-drum disintegrating yells of ecstatic joy that you will be releasing orgiastically at every witty gem and bon mot…

…and your hands will need to be callused to handle all the high fives you will be unable to keep from springing on unsuspecting passers-by and miscellaneous furniture…

If you have a helmet, or any other protective equipment (Spartakuss put those condoms away, I did not mean that kind of equipment) get it out, polish it and keep yourself practiced in its usage. Because we are going to unapologetically blow your minds, Oh Yes!, people will be picking up bits of your cranium in Moroto.

You have been warned.

………………………….

Many people do not know that I had a blog before this one. It was very dark and angry and extremely, extremely confused. It was of this blog that I was referring to here. I have since deleted said blog and I only mention it because of this bit of verse which I found in my junk recently (actually I run into it all the time) that was supposed to be my last blog post before I moved on to the more serious business of changing the world.

O Ye! Wretched of the earth                                                                                                                                                                                   See the Streetsider of sinister mirth                                                                                                                                                                   Hail this fiend cursed from birth                                                                                                                                                           Touched by the devil,                                                                                                                                                                                                Sick on every level,                                                                                                                                                                                                   His mind shall spread throughout the earth

Perhaps I was a self loathing egotistical shit after all.

Onward-

You may remember that a few months back the Streetsider did maliciously and without any regard for the generally accepted standards of good taste, attempt to injure, destroy, contaminate and otherwise blemish the impeccable literary standards upheld by the Ugandan blogging community.

You may remember this here.

Following this fiasco, the Streetsider was very gently but firmly informed that should he indulge in such deplorable wankage again he would be in trouble. You may remember this here.

Resolutions were made.You may remember this here.

…and promptly dashed. Last night was terrible. I woke up from one of those nightmarish things where you feel as if you are being stifled by a gigantic malevolent force and you cannot move a muscle. Some people enjoy them (mbu), I find them terrifying. I also get them a lot. And it was worse when I was a kid. I used to console myself that I must be special otherwise aliens from outer space would have selected someone else to have weird mind sex with.

Anyway whatever, I couldn’t sleep after that. So I spent about an hour squatting in my head thinking about this and that, (too much of this, not enough of that) and ended up trying to finish those left-over rhymes.

Here is the continuation. Enjoy.

Its 3 in the morning but I can’t sleep

Fuck, I am an insomniac

A nervy pervy brainiac who speaks in Bleep

Who’s frustrated and tormented, discontented and demented

Oh sweet Jesus, come save my soul!!

I am almost dead from bingeing off old school rock n roll and raw alcohol!

What! Kid you’re crazy!

What temptation? That was just a movie by Martin Scorsese!

Go away, leave me alone

I am lazy;

I can’t hear you when you pray

Can’t understand half the things you say

Heaven is far away and am in a Chevrolet driving to a café with a bouquet for Mary Magdalay

Wait, I thought you were gay?

Ehh… hehe-hehe

Well, this is not for me, but good luck Eizzy-K.

I lived in despair, walked with uncombed hair, turmoil in my mind wonderin’

Do I dare and do I dare?

Have I time

To turn my back and climb this rickety stair

Do I dare fight these windmills of convention, these clay giants of pretension?

Do I dare to be different, to be strange?

Do I dare to voice my rage?

(In Hell there is a dossier, with your name on every page)

Who speaks, who goes there?

Tell me what to do that I may escape this nightmare

Give me some rules, fight me a duel

I want to be cruel, douse a cat in lighter fuel

Set it on fire and watch it cry and mewl

Shit!

I want to do something, sink my teeth into something

Be it a rock or the devil’s cock

Fuck, am paralysed, stuck…

My life sucks but I’ll die before I become another J.Alfred Prufrock

Living life in a groove, a crack, scared to run amuck, scared of what others have thunk… wait

Have thunk, have think?

That’s kinda funny, you tickled pink?

Keep quiet, be quiet,

Calm down, stand, focus on the tasks at hand, like Tzad you have chosen this path and its enough to give you strife for the rest of your life and more, you might die poor, you might….

Silence! The Gods are speaking, (The Devil roguishly winking…)

…Let’s wait and see if this ka-fucker is just being immature,

Cock-sure

Leaving cyber spoor

Wannabe philosophical entrepreneur

Flirting with shit he cannot endure

See if he’ll make a sudden detour like a drunken boor in the dark wandering off the track beaten and sure off onto the moor only to end up to his neck in muck and manure.

Awww! See! It’s Mother Mary tender and mild                                                                                                                             She’s walking a little unsteady I think she’s heavy with child.

It is important to let things go, to let things flow, let them just be… So.

I know.

To not be picky, its tricky, coz life has a way of being sticky and taking your mickey if your plans are set in stone.

You want to make love , life is a quickie.

I dunno

All I can do is sink my teeth like Rikki Tikki and hang on.

There was more, quite a bit more, but this post is long enough as it is. Regards from the Streetside.

I am in Love…

i think i am in love, somebody please advise..