Category Archives: Vents

Tax Reform

Few things remind me of mind numbing redundancy than the requirement of the Kenya Revenue Authority that all tax payers submit their written returns. Countless man hours are wasted by taxpayers, accountants all around Kenya and KRA employees to collect data that they already bloody have. Mind numbing repetitive manual work at unnecessary cost to the taxpayer.

As I vented my spleen on this matter the other day on my fourth attempt at filling my returns, friends and relatives backed away to a safe distance and I let slip the dogs of war.

What is my problem with the process?

  1. COMPLETELY redundant. You need a P9 form to fill in your returns. You then copy values from the P9 form onto your return. You then attach the same P9 form to your returns. Just think about that for a minute. What’s the damn point? I might as well just hand in my P9 again!
  2. COMPLETELY Greek. Not a soul I know could fill in those forms unassisted. Many accountants (including ours) flounder with the Greek like forms asking you to subtract this from that and put it there. (49A + 12B + 5C). What. The. Fuzz?
  3. COMPLETELY unacknowledged. If some KRA officials get marooned on an island and decide to set your returns on fire for warmth and cooking, you are buggered and have no recourse because you cannot prove you handed in the returns. You don’t get any receipts. In that same vain the KRA can’t prove that you didn’t either.
  4. COMPLETELY brain dead. If my only income is from my job, and the money is deducted even before I see it, why bother me with amorphous forms asking me questions I neither know, care about or understand? My company accountant is paid to do this, and he does in 12 months a year. Why bother me?
  5. COMPLETELY GRATUITIOUS use of my time. It is not, repeat NOT my work to track down landlords.

Instead of lowering taxes on cameras to promote the local porn movie industry

  • Let tax returns only be for those with other income to declare. I don’t have flats or any other business so leave me alone and stop wasting my time!
  • If we still have this foolishness, can’t the P9 be redesigned to BE the return for salaried employees?
  • If we still have this foolishness, at least let it be online
  • Stop asking me stupid questions. Especially if the answers are already in the P9
  • Redesign the bloody thing to make it easier to fill. Why should I give my name, ID number, etc and I already filled in my PIN? It takes special talent to come up with the concept of Personal Identification Number and then ask me to identify myself some more. Nonsense.
  • While at it, redesign the P9 too and label the figures with the corresponding slots in the returns forms. As it is both forms seem to have been designed by dyslexic, epileptic monkeys on crack and safari cane highs writing in a moving vehicle driving over corrugated potholes.

I assure whichever finance minister that scraps this stupidity, or at least reforms it, he will be thought of at least as a higher level mammal with binocular vision rather than the river trolls most people are sure their politicians are!


Yes, I am very much alive and have not been captured by martians. My blogging mojo is much sapped by twitter ( However I shall make it a point to blog more. I have a lot to say

World War Loo: The Battle Theater

Some time ago I penned a passionate appeal to my fellow brothers about the usage of the throne room. And you, of course, disregarded every word I said!

On retrospect perhaps I wouldn’t mind having daughters instead of sons. The associated hardware and utilities required in raising a girl (shotgun, pistol & associated firearms, machetes and whips for errant boys) are a small price to pay for having lovely, gentle and well mannered girls in the house instead of shouting, rowdy and disgusting small boys whooping and leaving muddy prints everywhere.

Take for example last week. I was at some large corporation whose identity I shall keep secret to protect the guilty. Shortly before lunch (the meeting was strategically set up in the window between 11 and 2, leaving the host no option but to feed me and my lads) I walked into the washroom to wash my hands. Yes, gentlemen. Shocking as it may seem some people still wash their hands before meals! It was not some sinister agenda imposed on your mothers from communist Russia!

If Jack Bauer ruthlessly shot his best friend in the head, his wife in the heart decapitated a hapless prisoner while shouting into his mouthpiece “Chloe, pull up the schematics of the lavatory” this is what he would come up with.

Theater 1

The battle theaters are as follows:

A (Medic) Where preparations are (generally) made before and after combat. Those of us who visit the Medic was our hands. Sadly, we are a minority
B (Fantasia) Where limited operations, generally of chemical nature are effected
C (Kosovo) Where dive and cluster bombing, as well as light machine gun fire cum gas warfare is practiced


Now, there I was, hands gleaming from liquid soap and starting to walk towards the door, whistling the happy whistle of a man about to sit down to a free and wholesome meal when the door burst open and a man swaggered into the facility.

That I did not mind. That sort of thing happens, given statistics, probability and other whatnots.

What I did mind, and mind to the extreme, was that the man had opened his firing turret and his howitzer was aimed, locked and loaded at the recommended 45 degree angle.

So let us recap.

Theater 2

Starting to move due South was M, hands washed, anticipating a lunch.

Advancing North without cover is Megatron, cannon exposed pointing, inevitably, due North.

Now I don’t know about you but I acutely, emphatically and totally object to having another man’s equipment in my face pointing at me as a rule. It’s just not my cup of tea.

Meditating pleasantly about a lunch of roast potatoes, pan fried steak, lettuce and tomato, the mind was lurched into unplanned for activity and the following tumbled out

  1. What the hell?
  3. What if in addition to priming his weaponry early the feller had an itry trigger finger and fired … er … prematurely?
  4. If a random stranger walked in, or worse still a client, how on earth would I begin to explain things?

Megatron suddenly noticed  that he was not alone and there was “gentleman, dead ahead”.

What followed was a social impasse that has played out ever since Adam and Eve discovered they were naked.

M went to his left and Megatron went to his right, effectively blocking him.

M then went to his right and Megatron to his left, again blocking him.

Megatron was a believer in pragmatism and saw no need to holster his weapon if he was going to unholster it not 15 seconds in the near future. So as we danced the dance (a dance without even a damn dinner!) a chemical weapon was pointing at me.

Finally I saw that we were getting nowhere so I effected a tactical retreat due North towards the far wall.

Megatron took this to be a surrender and consolidated his position by advancing North as well.

Hands spread in surrender I backed further and further, dying a thousand deaths at the thought of someone wandering into the scenario that from a cursory glance was getting dangerously close to a BBMM (Brokeback Mountain Moment). Some things really cannot be easily explained. It won’t do for a man that has spent his career elaborating at great detail the dimensions of Miss Halle Berry to be caught in such a situation. Within moments the creative grapevine would be buzzing and I would be fielding questions as to which of us said “I wish I could quit you” .

My breath caught in my throat as I felt the wall behind and I rapidly consulted the field manual on what to do in such situations. The manual drew a blank.

Megatron mercifully pulled a sharp right turn at the corner and rumbled into Fantasia for some light skirmishes.

I departed with a sonic boom.

As we sat down to lunch my host looked with concern at my violent and passionate objection to an aperitif of sausages …

Guys, is it too much to keep your weapons holstered until you’re actually at the firing range?!!

O Kenyans! Wake Up!

A concerned citizen over at Mzalendo drew my attention to the following article, reproduced in its entirety from the Nation, September 15 issue of 2003

Two Narc MPs yesterday supported the outlawed Mungiki sect and called upon police not to harass its members.

Tigania East MP Peter Munya and his Subukia counterpart Koigi wa Wamwere were addressing a rally in Limuru Town attended mostly by followers of the sect.

“Mungiki members are Kenyans and should not be harassed unnecessarily by the police. Instead, they should be absorbed into the force and the military,” Mr Wamwere said to the wildly cheering, snuff-taking group which had earlier entertained the meeting with poetry, song and dance.

For the uninformed, Koigi wa Wamwere is an assistant minister in the  Communications ministry

Mr Munya regretted that the sect had been associated with the recent violence that hit some city slums and other parts of the country. The sect was also accused of being behind the frequent turf wars on matatus routes.

The regretful Peter Munya is an assistant minister in the ministry of Internal Security, tasked with protecting us from the same Mungiki who are beheading us.

Mungiki members, who support female circumcision and a return to some Kikuyu traditions, are also known for weapon wielding and long unkempt hair.

Members from different parts of the country were ferried to the venue in at least 100 matatus and were led by their national chairman, Mr Maina Njenga.

Mr Njenga vied for the Laikipia East parliamentary seat in the last elections, but was beaten by Mr G.G. Kariuki.

I shudder at the thought that the Mungiki head almost became a Member of Parliament! Just imagine if he ended up in the Internal Security Ministry!


When Mr Wamwere and Mr Munya arrived, they were offered snuff by the sect officials. All except Mr Wamwere, turned down the offer.

Hmm …

At the end of the rally, the Kamirithu grounds was filled with discarded dry banana leaf used to carry the snuff. 

The meeting resolved that the issue of prime minister should not be discussed at the Bomas of Kenya or at Parliament.

This article leaves me speechless when I contemplate a couple of issues

  • Why are Mungiki sympathizers in positions of authority in the government, rising to full assistant minister?
  • How can a sympathizer of the Mungiki have a position of authority in an institution tasked with dealing with the threat of the Mungiki ?
  • How can I take a government that has such people in their ranks seriously when it talks about commitment to law and order and ensuring the safety of its people?
  • It is an insult to our collective intelligence if said government fondly believes that anything can be hidden forever.
  • How is it that we as Kenyans forget such things and elect the same people back into office, and then act outraged when Mungiki runs riot over us with impunity. Our collective amnesia will continue to be the bane of us. Are we doomed to always be doofuses?
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 Sting & The Police – Roxanne

Odds & Ends

By and large I believe in Charles Darwin’s theories, especially natural selection and survival of the fittest. But do the fittest of the species always survive?

  • Why or why do doofuses at an elevator push both the up and down buttons, fondly imagining the lift will come faster? To add insult to injury, the stain on our collective DNA pushes the buttons repeatedly, suspecting that the bright red light is just, to coin a rugby expression, a “dummy”.
  • While still on the lifts, one wonders whether to laugh, cry or both when seeing a daughter of a mother
    • Wait 5 minutes for a lift to come down to the ground floor
    • Upon entering the lift press the button for 1st floor (there are no mezzanines)
    • Upon getting to the 1st floor enter an establishment whose core business is a gymnasium
    • Later over hear said lady, over a large and greasy meal. asking her friends if they think she has lost wait. No, HMS Ulysses, you have not lost weight. If you wait 5 minutes for a lift to take you up one floor, you don’t have to think too hard to realize why your friends refer to your belt as the equator and your trousers as the Tropic Of Capricorn
  • I am sick and tired of hearting about Raila Odinga and his bloody Hummer. I have had enough forwards from kind people who think my knowledge of all things Hummer is wanting, and thus pollute my inbox with all sorts of photos, specifications and catalogues. Listen nitwits:
    • There is no way a plain vanilla Hummer can cost 45 million shillings. 45 million shillings, using a rounded off dollar rate of 70 bob, is about 640,000 dollars.
    • Unless Raila Odinga’s Hummer polishes Raila Odinga’s shoes, brushes Raila Odinga’s teeth, reads to him bedtime stories and calls him Papi after a hard day’s work, no one gives a flying rat’s ass.
    • If you are still forwarding these bloody forwards, rest assured someone somewhere is imagining taking the largest model of the hummer, covering with with gravy, turning it sideways and STICKING IT STRAIGHT UP YOUR [This section reserved by management]
  • The next time you’re preaching to me about Don Imus, you’ll be a lot more convincing if at the time
    • You don’t hail me with a smile and a cordial “What’s up nigga!”
    • Your CD player is not belting out very loudly “I make it rain on them hoes, I make it rain“.
    • You keep referring to bitches and it is common knowledge you have no pets
  • The next time you attempt to justify anything by telling me you were under the influence of Mr Al Koholic, that look in my eye is me imagining you
    • Being horse whipped
    • Being whipped by a horse
  • The other day concerned souls forcefully sat me down and told me who the Kenya’s celebs are. Among them are
    • A doofus who hired a helicopter to fly over a fence
    • Several half-witted stars and starlettes who torture our eardrums on radio. Since when did reading news on radio make you a celebrity?
  • It goes without saying I completely reject the nitwits we celebrate as celebrities. I can confidently say that I am jolly interested in what folks like Paul Tergat are up to, not the shenanigans of twelve jabronies at the coast
  • A movie is in the works about Anna Nicole Smith. Who. Cares?
  • Paris Hilton and Britney Spears are generally top searches on Yahoo. If you are one of the doofuses wasting our limited bandwidth searching for those two smack your fat head as hard as you possibly can.
  • There is no difference between Othaya Really Old Boys & Country Club (Narc Kenya) and the Court Jesters Association (ODM-K). Both should take very long walks off very short piers.
  • I no longer take the notion of “African Time” or ladies being “fashionably late” seriously. At all. In fact if you find yourself saying this that patient look on my face is not of understanding. It is me praying very hard that re-incarnation is true, so that you can come back as a toilet seat in the only toilet in  a men’s hostel during a diarrhoea outbreak.
  • And last but not least, I object to being generalized. I object to being referred to as a typical man. And should you find yourself addressing me thus, then rest assured this typical man is typically thinking you can kiss his typical [This section reserved by management]

Groan Of The Day

Dude, you need to get serious. Wash your damn car! Kwani you think you’re Chamillionaire?

 Walanguzi – Vaseline

Sounding Off

This post may contain ‘French’

Of Language

Picture this if you will. You speak Hottentot, French, Kiswahili, Hindi, Kikuyu, Luo or whatever your mother tongue happens to be. You are seated at a table with a friend and colleague who also speaks the same language, and also present at the table is a third person who does not. However you all speak English, or some common language


Now, if you insist on speaking to your friend and colleague of the same ilk in your language while leaving the helpless third person who does not speak it to sit there helplessly and foolishly you are precisely the kind of ass who needs to have his backbone kicked out of the top of his head and beaten with said backbone.

It is rude, shameless and thoughtless of you to gibber, roar and guffaw with your friend while the third person sits there with that embarrassed half smile of someone who does not know what to do with himself as you two nitwits hold forth amongst yourselves! Your levels of being asses is directly proportional to how long you continue to converse merrily in your secret tongue leaving your hapless third colleague to feel like a sand salesman in the Kalahari.

If you are one of these Oompa Loompas do yourself and the collective gene pool a favour and style the hell up.

Continue reading Sounding Off

Anatomy Of A Kenyan MP

Meet Jack Arse, MP. The initial urge to smack his fat head can be overwhelming, but if you keep your hands in your pocket all will be well. This feeling is intermittent but on the whole it is wise to keep your hands in your pockets.

Jack insists on being referred to as the ‘Honourable’ Jack Arse, despite the fact that this gentleman is nothing remotely of the kind.

He is the living testament that stupidity is an entirely relative term. Between the 30 million people and the 250 Members of Parliament, most of whom lack the intelligence to hit the water if they fell out of a boat while wearing a suit of armour, it is indeed debatable which of the two groups, as someone once said, “wallows in a miasma of crass stupidity”.

Armani, Boss and Laurent need look no further than Jack for that fond, mellow feeling that honest work done lovingly and skilfully well brings to a skilled craftsman. Well cut and well stitched silk, with buttons able to withstand the considerable assault of an obscenely protuberant stomach can only be fashioned by a chosen few. A blind eye can be turned by these craftsmen to the fact that Jack on occasion appears in public with pink trousers and a yellow coat with a blue shirt and a orange tie. On a good day Jack is like a Boeing 747– you hear him well before you actually see him.

Jack’s vocabulary is quite unlike that of the rest of us. He proudly refers to the lengthy heated debates with his bosom friend D Mwitt about the oil content of the parliamentary cafeteria samosas as “healthy democratic expression”. When this degenerates into an ungraceful exchange of fleshy fists and fatty kicks, peppered with biting and scratching this is referred to as “increased democratic space”.

Jack has no qualms about appearing with his arm fondly around the shoulders of D Mwitt in public on Monday. He is also has no problem appearing on Tuesday with his foot appearing to have been grafted into the back of D Mwitt’s trouser seat. On Wednesday both will be clinging to each other in tearful laughter, the very epitome of friendship that has withstood the corrosive effects of the sands of time.

Jack has been heard on several occasions to express puzzled surprise that 30 million Kenyans do not understand the back breaking work he does tirelessly for them. He is amazed that we do not find it obvious that 10 minutes a day idling at the parliamentary cafeteria establishing the calcium content of Castle Milk Stout while awaiting instructions from the Chief Whip to vote for white instead of cream napkins for the parliamentary picnic is work not for the faint of heart.

The threat of his pointed crocodile skin moccasins giving him corns as he queues for his innumerable allowances are the very exemplification of sacrificing for the benefit of his fellow countrymen. Risking paper cuts from the crisp thousand shilling notes is what separates the ordinary Kenyan from the true patriot.

Suffering from having his considerable hindquarters wedged in the confines of an airline seat as he flies to Mombasa for a conference of parliamentary procedures, details of which are conveniently and perpetually available in the parliamentary library he is leaving behind, is standing at the front line of the calvary charge in the service of his countrymen.

Some of his constituents have trouble recognizing Jack whenever he appears in public because whenever they see him on TV in the house, his eyes are invariably closed and his snoring is shaking the rafters of the house.

When it comes to unity, the Holy Trinity can learn a thing of two from Jack and his 249 colleagues. Any issue to do with their personal welfare unites the 250 in ways that atoms could do well to take note. Bills such as increasing their own remuneration pass quicker than milk through a small boy suffering from diarrhoea. Light needs to spend more time in the gym in order to move as fast as a motion suggesting increased perks and the passing of the said motion.

Jack’s latest favourite word is “dialogue”. Dialogue is the solution to anything. Had too much roast beef for lunch and suffering from the effects? Dialogue. Pesky constituents harassing you with requests for services? Dialogue. AC Milan lost to Liverpool? Dialogue. Suffering from a sore throat? Dialogue. Jack and his colleague could dialogue the jawbone off a donkey.

Jack is one of the few people on this earth who can convincingly deny utterances he has made that have been captured on film. His outrage, shock and disappointment, followed by a loud and almost incoherent denial has to be seen to be believed. Video footage showing him actually say the things he is denying leave him unmoved an unimpressed. If anything the footage brings out the conspiracy theory in him.

“Money has been poured to finish me politically” Jack declares, frothing at the mouth. “I have powerful enemies. The Media also have a hidden agenda jealous of my success!”

Jack’s myopia is such that Optica and Baus Optical, two of Nairobi’s leading dispensers of spectacles and contact lenses have declared him as unwelcome in their premises. The instant a corrupt official that Jack grew up with is arrested on corruption charges, Jack wastes no time in thrusting his ample, sweaty face in camera lens.

“It is victimizing our community”, he bleats into the camera. “It is our turn to eat!”, he adds as an afterthought.

Jack additionally clamours for promotions purely on merit, as his latest press release reads. It was a coordinated effort with participation from a good number of his ministerial staff. Written by his brother, typed by his sister, proof read by his third cousin on his mother’s side and mailed by his first born son, the press release rails at government officials with the temerity to recruit only their kith and kin. As his childhood village sweetheart brings him his morning tea, he observes to her that such practices would be the death of the nation. He also asks whether fresh documents have been sent to his wife and sister in law, co-chairs of his Constituency Development Fund.

His aversion to the mud tracks, dust and insects of his rural constituency are legendary. The only time he is spotted there he is invariably in tropical suits that Livingstone and Stanley would have envied, complete with hats with netting like contraption to keep out the rural air and insects. He is only seen there during election campaigns and funerals, and it is during funerals that he can overlook the casket with the dead body and the bereaved family and begin vocally and fluently describe just what he thinks of his political opponents.

At present Jack is currently on one of his many recesses, but we expect to see him soon, fast asleep, mouth open and dribbling onto the leather of the August House as he attends the reading of the budget.

<info>Flickr seems to be resting so photo of the day to come later</info>

Kriss Kross & Jermaine Dupri – Live & Die For Hip Hop

It Shouldn’t Be This Hard – I

Kenya is composed of 31 million. 30,999,740 of these are human beings. The remaining 260, while closely resembling human beings, are nothing of the kind. I’d call them beasts of the field but even swine and bovines would object to such a crass generalization so I shall call them what they are normally called, MPs.

Out of those 30,999,740, let’s say half of them are supported by the other half, either by parentage, guardianship or other such relationships, voluntary or otherwise. In summary, 15 million of us support the other 15 million, providing food, shelter, clothing, education and medication, as well as tickets to Shaggy Concerts. Those 260 provide the 30 million with hot air and manure, so we cannot say they are totally useless. But ii digress.

It is jolly hard waking up at 6 in the morning, getting to work, working and going back home. You risk being kicked, stepped on and pushed. You risk stepping on substances that have only recently left the confines of a dog. Your risk being splashed on murky water by passing motorists. You risk getting run over by said motorists.You risk having thoughtful Kenyans relieving you of the contents of your pockets and handbags. You risk arriving at your office and find someone sitting at your desk with your property neatly piled on the the floor by the door. You risk getting typhoid from tap water.

In summary — life is not easy (at least for 31 million less 260 of us). This we have come to expect. Adam and Eve had a picture perfect existence reclining happily in their nakedness and watching Chris Murungaru’s sheep gallivanting with his goats, watching lions laying with the lambs, but they had to go on and ruin things by craving fruit salad and here we are, struggling through day and night as we rush towards old age.

Life is hard, but what we DO NOT NEED is it being made needlessly much harder for us by people like

The Nairobi Water Board

Those of us who don’t live in Muthaiga generally share the same fate as those who live in Korogocho. When it comes to filling 50 litre containers I can modestly say in a competition I would come first, second and third. The taps in my house have become a woodwind orchestra. They produce nothing but whistling. The tank at the top of my house is dryer than Kiraitu Murungi’s resevoir of wit. The only two taps that work are directy connected to the mains and even then that is no guarantee that they will produce water.

To make things interesting, water comes at seemingly random times, to relieve the monotony of continous water supply. The times chosen by these gracious officials generally tends to be 2 AM in the bloody morning. Solid bonds have been made between men and women of goodwill dozing sleepily as water trickles into their buckets, tanks and assorted containers. Couples have met over the water bucket. At two in the morning no one is in the mood to put on sophisticated acts so people are themselves. They appear in their pyjamas, night dresses, different slippers and brown stockings on their heads. Those who do not wear stockings on their heads appear in their real hair, if any. It is failry common to see good ladies blissfully fetching water with veneers of cucumber on their faces and gentleman in what look suspiciously like high school P.E. shorts doing the same.

Next to taxes, death and asinine politicians, nothing is more certain than the bill arriving from these clowns. Without fail you will find that white stapled letter in your mail just before the end of the month. They will expect prompt payment, and actually use words to that effect for the bill, for services that they appaarently rendered.

Last month I personally went to their offices to settle the bill. They were unwilling to accepty my argument that since they pretened to provide water it was only fair for me to pretend to pay the bill. This was at their office in in Town Center, but when I complained about the supply they informed me that the people in South B with water complaints should take up the matter with their Karen offices.

This month I have a suprise for that snide clerk and her immediate supervisior. I shall pay the bill entirely in 50 cent coins. I’m also going to enlist the services of mine Pater and get his advice as to the bigget water pump I can get my hands on


If you look in a modern thesaurus under audacity, Safaricom will feature prominently. It takes quite some cojones to offer a service, allow customers to request said service, attempt to render service, fail to render service and then go on to charge the customer anyway. That’s right. Safaricom will merrily tell you that they were unable to deliver your messages but they will go on to charge you.

This leaves me speechless. It actually tells you message not delivered but your balance has dipped.

Once in a while I could let slide. But daily, or every other day? No way. On Tuesday alone I lost 11 internatinally bound SMSes. That’s 110 bob up in smoke in just one day.

Perhaps if ii put it in figures. Safaricom has round about 350,000 customers. Assuming each loses one SMS a week in this fashion, and a local SMS is 5 bob, then in one week Michael Joseph and his merry bunch have made a clean 1,750,000/- or doing precisely nothing In a month that’s 7,000,000/-. And in a year that’s 84 million shillings.

Now, that is a best case scenario. For Safaricom at any rate. I can wager that everyone loses an SMS a day. So that’s 12,250,000/- a week and 49,000,000 a month. In a year our friends in Lincoln Green could pocket 588,000,000/- a year on those dud SMSes. That’s right, 600 million shillings for doing precisely and absolutely nothing. Damn thieves! Robbing the poor to pay the rich.

Then they have the temerity to donate money to good causes like the Lewa Marathon and the Sportsman of the Year awards, ostensibly tightening their belts in support of good causes. With money sourced for doing absolutely nothing, donations are not a problem!

The only emails that Safaricom will answer are those asking for prices. Ditto with phone calls. Anything else is ignored. If you want to be told “thank you for wasting five minutes of my life that I will never get back” in a sweetly seductive voice just call Safaricom customer care. But I shall solder on and keep you posted.

If your system is smart enough to tell it did not deliver the service, why the heck isn’t it smart enough not to deduct my damn money?

I am strongly tempted to write a program that will dial customer care and either hang up immediately or read to them the contents of a file of my choice. I just happen to have War And Peace in a text file. Or one of Mwai Kibaki’s speeches. As soon as they hung up it will dial again. And again. That ought to irritate them at least half as much as their bollocks service irritates me.

In the meantime I shall see what the CCK think of this, and if indeed they have a spine. And teeth.

A Ghetto Cowboy prepares to do his thing shortly before hospitalization with stomach troubles from partaking too much from the pleasures of the dining table


Craig David – Fill Me In


All right, all right, all right. I’ve had about enough of having my inbox cluttered with nonsense messages like these:

Little Hugh Jass is suffering from cancer of the rectum. He also has hay fever, malarial fever, swine fever and jungle fever. He has foot and mouth, mouth and foot, head, shoulder knees and toes. In addition he also has colic, arthritis and parkinson’s disease. And to make a bad situation worse, his bottom is fused together and he desperately needs an operation to unblock his plumbing and fix all his issues.

Microsoft, General Motors, Ford and Oracle are companies with a lot of time on their hands. Instead of donating 10 million dollars directly to Little Hugh Jass and his family, they are going to waste considerable amounts of their (and your) time and resources tracking a single email as it is forwarded to 10 million people. How exactly they are going to track this email is something that will be discovered later.

Please affix your name to the bottom of this petition and forward it to 10 other schmucks so that 10 dollars will be donated to this noble cause for each jackass that actually receives this mail, adds his hoof prints at the bottom and forwards it to another set of chumps

(1) Bull Schyte
(2) Ign’ant Chap
(1,345,322) Half Wit
(1,345,323) Nit Wit
(1,345,324) E. Dyott

Please, if you want to keep the friends you have, resist the urge to clutter our already limited bandwidth with this nonsense!


New Internal Security Minister John Michuki is blissfully unaware that new Transport Minister Chris Murungaru is visualizing him being eaten alive by carnivorous smurfs

Run DMC – It’s Like That