Sleek n Wild

It is

Heavy heart, be still…Heavy heart, be still…okay, for a second there I was going Princess on you.

It was a very fast day. HE was at work. After turning down repeated advances from the heavy-laden receptionist, heavy-laden because of very ample mounds positioned firmly on upper torso, positioned in a way that, as many of their kind, they were more imposing than the unfortunate carrier, unfortunate because she didn’t know just how much power she carried around…After turning those advances down, HE sat at his desk and started to go through shit-loads of work, only coming up from the clutter to sip katunda. Katunda, juice, is the stuff that fuels the country’s economy by way of :

1. Beating the hangover

2. Allowing itself to be served to the MP by the mistress the morning after his ‘long trip to meet his constituents’

So, when HE was finally done with work, he looked up to see that it was fast approaching 2100hrs. So he rang DK to find out how fast HE needed get to BHH.

DK: BHH? ah, you’ve missed. We are re-locating. Kels was here and he did ‘Happy people’, he dedicated it to all  the illiterati, i think he was going for Illuminati but for literary people, thus illiterati..he even..

(girly screams in the background, younger girly screams too)

DK: (continues) Oh, that’s him these femmes are gushing about. One of them just (static) and she’s (lots of static) She even offered to blow (more phone static)

ME: (shouting) Dude, I can barely hear you…

DK: (oblivious to the bad connection) And you won’t believe what he just did…he..he just..

(more very young girls screaming…)

DK: (still going on) he is now reaching over and….

(goat bleating)

Word from The Streetsider has it that BHH was ok. And that they re-located, en-mass, to a dingy place where they all sunk into a shit-load of debauchery. And some intelligent banter. Like:

Baz: That one, you see her (using his one good eye to point her out)

27th: By all means my good man, yes, my eyes have caught a whiff of her exuberance (sic)

Baz: (still chewing on the word ‘exuberance‘, wondering whether it’s in the right sentence) Those ones, (using his hands to draw ‘the big picture’), are they real?

Monday Massacres: Juicy Fruit

This long lost stuff is brought to you by:

We saw pain the blogcks was putting this guy through. So we stepped in and saved him from that whore. She’s sleeping with every one in blogville. Whore. And so the year finally kicks off, here, on the wild side. Good reading. Also, drink our stuff. It unlocks packets of energy you never thought you had. Yes, you Carsozy.

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Lil Sleek always had his eyes on some juicy stuff in the neighbor’s compound. No, it wasn’t a girl. Let me point out that Lil Sleek actually had his eye on many girls. So many girls, he needed more eyes. But this isn’t about them. That juicy stuff in the neighbor’s compound was a guava tree. Lil Sleek had never seen any fruit that had made an impression on anyone like those guavas…that guava tree stood firm, and could be seen for a radius of 1 km. That or Lil Sleek’s sense of measurement was warped. But that had no bearing on Lil Sleek’s resolve to relieve that bewitching tree of some of its goodies…I can see girls reading this getting excited at that word; Goodies.

So, in preparation for operation ‘Juicy Fruit’, Lil’ Sleek insisted that mummy prepared chicken for lunch. And he ate it. Oh, so nice. Nyam, nyam.  Not that the chicken would in any way have an effect on his juicy quest, but the young man wanted to just get some. In those days, ‘getting some’ referred to eating home-made chicken. This quest for juice was too big for the young man to pull off on his own, so he wrote a note to Sly, his cunning buddy, and went to his window to call carrier pigeon to do the delivery. But carrier pigeon was out having quality time with his harem of birds. Pigeon pimp. No wonder the feathered one was always tired. You’d send him to deliver a note to Salama, telling her to come over since mummy and daddy were away, and the foul would only stop at Pallen’s, panting, spent. Late night’s partying, bird manners and beaking were getting to him; he’d have to be relieved of his duties.

Seeing no other option, Lil’ Sleek decided to consult Penelope, his cousin. This Penelope, she lived with those of Lil’ Sleek. And all day everyday, she stayed holed-up in her room, getting high on the only thing that gave her teenage life meaning; Mills and Boon. The few times she’d wander out of the room, like the one time her curtains caught fire, a glassy, far-away look in her eyes never left her, and she’d keep twiddling the flowers in her hair, long gone dry from lack of exposure to proper sunlight and lack of soil and all those things Lil’ Sleek had been taught in Science. As though preparing him for a lifetime of  farming. Not knowing that the lil one had his hopes set on being a poet. One who only performed at national celebrations; independence and the like.

The hero of our story approached Penelope’s room stealthily, for he knew that he’d require a whole lot of tact, and luck, to tear that teenage girl away from her Mills and Boon. Like all girls her age, she read those Mills things faster than they were produced. And she couldn’t re-read any of that stuff; even she couldn’t stoop that low. So she’d resorted to writing her own. Anything for a high. And then at school, between giggles, the girls would pat down their pink skirts (starting to bulge from nature taking its course in the chest area) and then after solemnly swearing en-mass, not to steal each others books, they’d exchange the litter, ahem, literature. And the giggling would start immediately as pages were turned. And they’d go on to fail in class. Those books killed a generation. They still walk among us, eyes heaven-cast, waiting for Hector, Ramon, Carlos to fall from the sky. To come on a horse. Yz, not ‘come’ in that way. Sick child.

Grown-up Sleek has run into some of these deluded girls. Screaming to get them to stop staring at the sky, he usually tells them, in a deep, roughshod sorta way, “Lady, (appropriate cowboy soundtrack playing in the background), Hector, Ramon and Carlos won’t fall from the sky, but Daddy Sleek has got you.”(Said while partially tearing shirt-off to reveal just enough chest hair to cause movement in female-chest area)

“Lady, I may not have….”

They usually walk past him at this point, eyes still heaven-cast.

Big digression there. As big as they come. Again Yz, not ‘come’ in that way. Back to the story.  So, Lil’ Sleek obviously had a grand task on his hands. Getting Penelope’s attention. All stops had to be pulled. Guavas needed to be got. These guavas would be his first conquest. But first, to get Penelope’s attention outta the Boon.So he reached for a frying pan…

Winging

The year has started on an all-time low for Sleek and Wild. I think while the two were gorging all those niceties during the festive season, blogcks creeped in behind them…one second they were dancing in the rain, singing hallellujah in Russian, schmoozing with Anastasya and Valeriya (not in any way related to the Czar), and generally trying to take as many body shots of Vodka as possible… the next they were splayed out on the floor, uttering sentences only coherent to monks…and to certain animals. That’s not to say that monks speak animal…that’s not to say they do not.

The massacres took a hit…(heavy sigh) so sponsors are holding onto their purses…but even the lowest moments do have some good stuff. Guys, listen closely coz I’m going to whisper this, don’t want the ladies eavesdropping…Back off a bit, that’s too close GUG…now, I came into the possession of some high-end details on the best wingman on the market right now. This stuff will have you telling the ladies,

“Hey, stay in the queue and your turn’ll come. Stand in line woman, stand in line”

“Hey you! Hot mini skirt, low-cut top, luscious lips, oogy eyes, get back in the queue. I said get back in the queue! Lady, don’t make me….” (you trail off as she finally eases off and steps back into line)

(Sigh)…(you wipe your brow, steadying your humping heart beat.)

OFFTOPIC: Is that correct? Can one say ‘humping heart beat’? Doesn’t it bring to mind bad manners? Maybe, in the interest of all the youth that are here, we outta take that down. Let’s rephrase..

(you wipe your brow, steadying your excited heart beat)

Now, Alba, where were we? Yes, how did you beat the queue to get to me so fast? Nice little black dress by the way…what’s that? Ah yes, I love my goatee too…

I had to give you a picture of how good this wingman is. I know Mo hasn’t got it yet but that’s that…this wingman helps you skip most of  the preliminaries: No ‘meet the girlfriends’, no ‘holding hands at Rugby club’, no ‘reading poetry to each other’, no ‘watching Hentai together’…. However, you’ll still have to clean up your wardrobe and put in those pink shirts she bought you; wingman can only do so much.

Now, jumping straight in…this wingman is actually a…..(drumroll…)

Movie.

Shock. Awe. Finger-raising. You think I’ve ripped you off. Now, ignoring your angst, I’ll go ahead and say that Twilight, going by research done by www.twilight-as-a-wingman.com, that movie will get you more hits than the Beatles.  Women worldwide are gaga and giggle about this movie…so dude, use it as a bargaining chip.

You: “Honey, I’d like you to (insert appropriate perversion)”

Honey: “WTF!”(reaching for high heel, aiming for your already crooked nose from all the beat-downs)

You: “Boo, if you do not do (repeat appropriate perversion), I won’t let you watch Twilight for the 26^th time”

Please document your findings.

PS: My verdict on the movie? C.H.E.E.S.Y. And I can’t see how anyone can be attracted to someone that pale. I’d check for a pulse first. There will be more vitriol on this topic…(deathly soundtrack as writer picks up his pen and limps out of the dark room)

PPS: It is assumed, by Writer, that you know what a wingman is. If by some stroke of nature-doing-bad-manners-to-itself, you do not know, then google is your friend.

PS: (Hush, I know I already did a PS)Writer has depicted a violent, dysfunctional couple in this article. Writer does not encourage such stuff. Violence, it is bad.

Monday massacres: Signing out…

The current Santa is a very fake guy, with a low IQ, and no training in any formal field, as Doperah’s interview showed us last week. And much as his usefulness has passed, (seeing as ‘The Big Day’ is out of the way and we are back to poverty and fornication), I feel that this is an opportunity for me to leave my mark on the world. I need to make a contribution. Mother Theresa style, or thereabouts. I think I’ll settle for ‘or thereabouts’. Somehow going to the ghetto to save the aching hearts there doesn’t seem so appealing right now. So, presenting the new Santas. The types that’ll bring the long-lost pomp back to X-mas. Starting next year that is. We are all tired(and rather scared) of that guy who wears red all year, and whose dimwit vocabulary is restricted to ‘Ho ho ho’… so, angst out of the way, presenting the new Santas:

SANTOS

Well Santos is short for Santiago. He is a Santa strictly for ladies. To the ladies who’ve been good all year (those who haven’t fantasized about boning their boss, or sweating it out with cute married workmate), Santos slips through their chimneys and drops highly energized gadgets that these ladies can make use of when they are alone. He leaves a phone number just in case the ladies need ‘how to’ instructions or just in case they want Santos himself. He has a steady job as a chef in a high profile restaurant so the ladies have to call after working hours. First serve basis depends entirely on the passport photo submitted.

SANTY

This vixen is a package strictly for the guys. And yes, she comes in red. No dude, she won’t slide down your chimney…it’ll ruin her nails. Because of her big heart (and her secret desire to win a Nobel Prize) she takes time off from the catwalk this time of year to do this Santa thing. To the guys who’ve been good all year (those who haven’t cheated more than once), Santy purrs at their door. When they open, she walks in and offers them a trick or a treat. When they finally usher her out 5-45 minutes later, the guys are always smiling, boner gone.

SANNY AND SANDY

This respectable married couple santas the kids. Originally from the Dominican Republic, this couple travels the world during Christmas spreading cheer, goodwill and of course presents to the children who’ve been good all year. (those who haven’t given their parents a heart attack, or drowned the cat, or drunk rat poison, or stuck  a bean in their nose, or cooked roaches, or pulled limb by limb off of  insects, or jumped off trees trying to fly with a towel  for a cape). All kids who pass these stringent conditions get themselves a Dominican Republic flag, and a toy of their choice. No knives. No ‘gaggles that can see under people’s clothes’. No ‘portions that can make a girl/boy like me’.

SPOOF SANTA

This guy is a phoney. I felt the need to include him here so you stand warned. And look out for him. And clobber him on sight. And use that pepper spray. He goes around offices saying ‘Whore whore whore’ to girls. And making come hither signals. And asking them to sit on his lap. And promising, with a sly wink,  to ’slide down their chimney’. And saying that he’ll spank the bad girls. And saying that he has a big reindeer. And saying that the white hair is from all the angles he has had to work at. Bad santa. Bad santa.

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And to all who’ve visited sleekandwild this year, a year that saw Sleek quit procrastinating and actually start beating this here keyboard, spewing out this stuff, thank y’all…This week’s ish wasn’t sponsored coz I came clean and told the sponsor that the epilogue of the post would be raw emotional mumbo jumbo…so Sponsor recoiled, saying macho Sleek shouldn’t do any such stuff…

And yes, thanks to my sponsors…I’d still be here without you, but Thanks oh so much

I’ve loved doing these here massacres, thanks Erique for passing them on. Ima find a way to put digital strippers in this here stuff next year…(hi5 Normzo!)

2010,let’s rock this thing…!!!!

Monday Massacres: Santa closed

This goodness is brought to you by:

It’s a season for red, and we aren’t exactly happy about that…so we are sponsoring this guy to put our yellow stuff out there…

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The conventional Santa has done his time. He is old, rugged, has weak lines (Ho ho ho?) and probably has a very low IQ. Honestly, what kind of guy lives in bloody cold weather all year, spends the entire year watching kids to see whether ‘they’ve been good’ and wears red all year round? The dude is always either with elves (which are as intelligent as goats) and reindeers. The dimwit. He even has names for his reindeers. Let’s put this into perspective…

Doperah (the wildly popular show that replaced Oprah. The show host is a struggling dope addict): Santa, it says here that you spend all year at the North Pole in the company of elves and reindeers

Santa: That’s right dope

Doperah: No Santa, you cannot abbreviate my name

Santa: Okay dope, I mean Doperah…Ho ho ho…I just made a joke

Doperah: Do you have any formal training in anything?

Santa: Aahhhh, not really…

Doperah: What do you do for fun?

Santa: I play with my animals…

Doperah: Do you touch your animals?

Santa: Of course I do…How else would I play with them? (scratching chin)

Doperah: So you touch your animals…the elves, the reindeers…you touch all of them. And do you enjoy touching them?

Santa: Ho ho ho…(belly boogies in sync with the laughter)..yes I do Doperah, I do

Doperah: So when you aren’t touching your animals, and enjoying it, what else do you do to get by?

Santa: Well Doperah, my job involves watching children to make sure that they are being good all year round. That way I can slide down their chimney on Christmas and leave them a present

Doperah: So all you do all year round is watch kids and touch animals?…no offence if I got the order wrong. It could be touch animals and then watch kids. There are claims that you are as racist as the XXX. Or is it KKK? Anyway, word has it that you only take presents to America, and the rest of the world you leave it to Madonna to adopt the kids

Santa: (starting to show signs of anger) How can anyone say such insulting things about me? That’s sodomy. I mean sedition. The truth is my reindeers do not really fly so…(gasps from the audience)

Santa: I mean…I mean…

(sensing that the old man is almost losing control of his bowels, calls for a short commercial break)

Doperah: Welcome back. We hope you enjoyed that sensual ad by Gildo, that new vibrating tool for that hot, know-it-all emancipated woman in your workplace. Now Santa, you were saying something before we broke off…

Santa: Yes Doperah…I was saying that my reindeers were brought up on a wussy regimen that didn’t harden their skin. They generally avoid all areas with people with strange accents, no cologne, no McDonalds, no democracy and slow internet connections. This naturally leaves the U S of A as the only area of operation. I however have plans to expand my operation with time; this year alone I’ve tried my hand at genetics to make these reindeers less wussy; I tried to get some Alsatians to you know, get jiggy with them but they didn’t quite hit it off. If these cross-mating things fail, I may have to start using commercial airlines rather than reindeers…I am in talks with the atlantic virgins to give me a good deal

Doperah: I think you mean virgin Atlantic

(blank stare)

Doperah: Okay Santa, it was great having you today…

FFFBHH…laters

It seems the fun,FFFBHH, has to be put off till later…now as the heavy sighs die down, African wisdom, passed on from generation to generation, comes into play:

“It requires a lot of carefulness to kill the fly that perches on
the scrotum” – Ghana

FFFBHH

Monday massacres:FFFBHH

These massacres are brought to you by:

The brand that brings this here stuff to you has a history in excellence in many fields including, but not restricted to, astronomy, g-spotation,urbane folklore and a whole lot more. We support this chap…

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Let’s drum this up a likkle bit, drop a rhyme if necessary, mush it up, bloodklat, ya! While Streetsider, the stark raving mad DJ causes mayhem, and DJ Flextone works some juju with the waitresses, I unleash a parchment and head onto stage to spew roses, the color pink and some rainbows.

18^th of December

A day that you’ll always remember

For the fun, the mayhem and the brainy jokes

And a secluded smoking zone, yes for THOSE blokes

Bloggers, twitterers, and even those without Facebook accounts

Horse ride, carjack, boda their way to Buziga in time for the headcount

And proceed to engage in all acts yuppies consider fun

Apart from THAT ONE, no, we don’t want to stun

The guest BBC reporter

19^th of December

Another day that you’ll always remember

For waking up and thinking

Dang, who the hell is this next to me, sleeping

And saying F! it, and reaching for the covers

Fighting, yes, the bloody hangover

Monday Massacres: This just in

This stuff is brought to you by:

Wi luv tha additionz ths hiya guy hz med 2 textual intercourse…he has dusted iti off, n put it there fwa. Hs thumb’s are soa 4m txtg. Hz 4ne buttns r soft soft 4m over-doing. Gd rdg.

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There I was seated. Bored stiff. Counting the number of dance moves the drunk on the other end of the room had. Three and a half moves exactly. One where he raised his leg above his head and hopped around for a bit. One where he made groin movements that were supposed to be suggestive. Going by the mixed reaction he was getting from the barmaid, the movement prolly wasn’t suggestive enough. And one really interesting move where he shuffled his feet around, in a sorta cool way…at this point I should have walked up to him and asked him to show me how to do that particular move but he was drunk, staggering, drooling more than talking, and basically working up a small lake around him, one he’d later slip in and fall. As he laid his bed, so he had to sleep in it. Honestly, which dwansie thinks that is a profound saying? Why would a grown self-respecting man wake up, fight off the urge to leave an unmade bed, lay it and then give it out to someone else to sleep in?

Oh yes, the drunk’s half move involved a half raised leg with simultaneous groin and hand motion…I couldn’t consider it a full dance move; there wasn’t enough character to it to make it one. Yes, these dance shows, ‘So you think you can dance’ et all, had made me knowledgeable in these dancy things.

So, me, seated, bored stiff. And my buddy from outside countries was seated on the next sofa, grossly engaged, to near-kissing levels, in a conversation with some random dude. And then my mind said “F! it, let’s both get out of here. We could have more fun watching the Simpsons at home’. By both I think mind was referring to both dirty brain side and nice church-going side. So just as I got up to take the odd pair home (said Pam Anderson to the barman), buddy from outside countries tapped my hand. And we got into an animated conversation about geo-physics and its implications on bar dynamics. And we analyzed how the theory was at play in the bar. We thrashed that out before moving onto Schrödinger’s ‘Get-laid’ theory. And we saw that that guy in bright blue shirt, near the pack of ladies in bright red dresses, that guy wasn’t going to get laid. He was going against everything Schrödinger emphasized in his theory. Schrödinger was a great scientist….he had game, and he had science. Ultra geek with game. Unlike many a scientist of his time actually.

And during this mind-exchange, random dude (who was previously engaged in acts of very small talk with my buddy from abroad) was sipping furiously from a bottle. And with each sip a bad eye was thrown at me. I knew my time was not much. That bottle being sipped was my sandbox, counting down to doom. Through the corner of my eye, I watched as the bottle-fluid dropped to dangerous levels. I know that once it was done, random dude would want to do more than throw the per sip bad eye. So I feigned a cough, and a hurting ball, and I told buddy from abroad that I had to leave, one ball was hurting. No, no, buddy from abroad couldn’t check the ball. To all buddies from abroad, I know its now hard to do the ‘Girls gone wild’ thing here, but you could walk through the taxi park furiously sucking on a lollipop, Petesmama guarantees that it pumps up just as much adrenaline as GGW…And so the week begins.

Bazzed

There I was chilling. We ought to start more posts like that. The imagery depends on who is writing the statement…some illustration if I may.

Carsozy: There I was chilling…

In blog-reader’s mind: Carsozy seated in a dingy, make-shift bar that will collapse if anyone coughs too loud…Carsozy sucking from a straw, out of a malwa pot, making merry, cracking jokes with all the other malwa-takers…occasionally turning down advances from Salai, the malwa-serving lady…

(PS: Malwa, for you upscale people who don’t know Carsozy, malwa is local brew made out of…ahh, who cares. It is local brew, period.)

Erique: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Erique, playing video games in which with every win, a certain damsel is relieved of an article of clothing…

Lulu: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Lulu, watching movies with a strange setting and poor acting with the volume turned down low lest aroused neighbors knock at the door and ask to borrow the movie immediately…

Streetsider: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Narcotics, legal and illegal…but mostly illegal…but what does the law know about nirvana?

Sleek: There I was chilling…

IBRM: Sleek, at the beach, surrounded by a bevy of reporters asking for freebies…him fending them off, insisting that his gold chain isn’t for sale, fighting off the rowdy reporter who keeps reaching for his drink.

So, there I was chilling, skiing through blogville, looking at what the wild, wicked and the tame, timid were up to. I was wandering past granpa’s place, the Godfather, when I saw some scribbling that seemed like my name up there, on his wall. I leaned in and was shocked, the Godfather had writ about me. So I leaned even closer to read what he had to say. The tirade of accusations jumped off the wall and grabbed me. This guy, he has strong words.

So, Baz, earnestly accused me of impersonating him. Me? Me? Looking at the mountain of accusations being thrown my way, let me say this to the crowd baying for my blood.  ”Calm down. Calm down. Hear me out. I did not impersonate Baz”. Ok, I did. Once. Just for just. Not many times. I am not skilled at these impersonating things. Erique is. He has been impersonating class and sophistication all this time. And hi-fiving with Streetsider. And hiding the trio’s make-up so that they can get acne and go into hiding.

So after I impersonated, Baz tried to impersonate me. He wrote a comment pretending to be me. But his poor grammar gave him away, and the world started to ask questions…wagwan with the Godfather? If while impersonating Sleek, Baz has poor grammar yet he uses bombastic words at his own blog, who writes for him? Is there a ploy that has us duped? Is there a Nabweteme doing all his typing? Is the Godfather a sham? We need answers…we, the inhabitants of blogville, we wanna know wagwan…