Working at that farm, lovingly and tenderly inserting my right arm deep into the hindquarters of a constipated pig is growing more and more desirable than having to listen to another breathless journalist pontificating to me about the Ocampo 6.

I stand unsure whether to weep or laugh at the absurdity of Kenyans celebrating the return of possible perpetrators of the election violence. These same Kenyans for some reason don’t give a rat’s ass about the victims who lost family, friends, property, homes and livelihoods!

Please, using well annotated diagrams, in which parallel universe to we celebrate the perpetrators and not the victims?

Yes, my entire torso is covered with bird seed, chicken droppings and feathers. This is because I preferred to lie face down in a chicken coop that accommodates six dozen chicken suffering from acute diarrhoea than have to listen to another second of blasted ‘Live Coverage’ of windbags returning to the country.

I am forced to conclude that the media’s insistence on perpetuating this farce is a start reminder that perhaps the media is missing among the Ocampo 6.

Helping broadcast innuendo, tribalism and hate speech as far as I am concerned makes the media just as guilty as the perpetrators.

And to add insult to injury these guys are being covered in such detail I am reminded of a movie I heard in some obscure movie

Your head is so far up his arse you can see daylight

I mean, c’mon! Media has a responsibility to the people of this great country.

How I wish for a vibrant, responsible media with the brass cojones to collectively decide:

You know what? This story is fracturing this country right down the middle. As patriots and fellow citizens we refuse to participate in this.

But no. We are getting blow by blow description of the very personifications of impunity. It is just a matter of time before we hear

And after that colossal dump, His Excellency {bleep} {bleep} has now proceeded to wipe his backside with Rosy (2 Ply) in pink. He will then flush the toilet, belch and walk over to the corner where his discarded, slightly soiled y-fronts lie

Journalism indeed.

My resolve in relocating to the farm and spending happy periods in the presence of belching and farting bovines grows stronger as I listen to KBC talk about these Muppets as ‘heroes’. As my good friend David would say

Dude.

WTF

In preparation for my move I am quite simply boycotting any local media I see happily rushing this country to it’s doom.

Starting with

Citizen TV

The Standard

KBC

KTN

Capital FM

K24

Quite simply I am going to boycott these media houses in every way, shape and form. This includes

• Not buying their newspapers
• Not watching their broadcasts
• Not wrapping chips in their newspapers
• Not polishing my shoes with their newspapers
• Not cleaning my windows with their newspapers
• Not wrapping meat with their newspapers
• Not expressing amazement at their stunning range of Mexican Soaps

I’m hoping many of us will follow suit. They will definitely hurt if enough of us do this.

Given a newspaper is 40 bob, and I buy two every day, in a week that is 200 bob and in 53 weeks that is 10,600/-

Suppose just a million of us refused to buy the Standard for a year. That would be 10,600,000,000.

That they will feel.

Or if we refused to watch KTN/Citizen/KBC.

And the nail on the coffin – no eyeballs – no advertising. No advertiser will advertise with them.

Is it just me who is seeing the parallels between what is happening here and what happened before Rwanda exploded?

What say you?

Stop The Madness. #isupportocampo6mediablackout

Whenever I hear of William Ruto, Uhuru Kenyatta, Joshua Arap Sang, Francis Muthaura, Hussein Ali, Henry Kosgey, Hague, ICC, Ocampo etc I get the powerful urge to hand in a heartfelt yet relieved resignation and retire myself to a rustic existence in a distant farm in the periphery of the country, where I will spend happy days doing glorious duties like shoveling the dung of assorted barnyard animals, administering artificial insemination to large and angry horses and being the go-to man when the time comes to administer a variety of suppositories to the beasts of the field, winged and hooved.

I say this because such a lifestyle is infinitely more pleasurable to the absurdity that is the farce of the ICC circus.

Concerned friends thought I was simultaneously having a stroke and a powerful bout of diarrhoea as I took in the sight of Uhuru Kenyatta and William Ruto in a stadium in Nakuru being cheered on by thousands, some of whom invariably lost family in Nakuru. As a great man once asked succinctly, “Dude – WTF?”

Other concerned friends confiscated all the sharp objects around me as I digested the news that 40+ MPs, whose responsibility is making laws and looking after the interests of their constituents were electing to abdicate this responsibility to travel as paid windbags to the Hague, ostensibly in solidarity with the six. How, for goodness sake does this happen? Why aren’t these muppets in solidarity with the internally displaced?

Who will pay for these tickets? Let us assume that a return ticket is 180,000. For 40 windbags this is a travel budget of 7,200,000. Yes sir, 7.2 million iron men being wasted. We are yet to even think about accommodation, transport and meals for the 6 Alis Baba and their 40 appropriators of wealth that is not strictly speaking theirs.

I can just imagine the cumulative effect of these 40 idlers on the Dutch populace who have never seen professional time wasters in person.

One cannot talk about this matter without touching on His Excellency Stephen Kalonzo Muskoka. I had the misfortune of meeting him the other day during some innocuous event. He said to me “Good morning” and dear reader I must confess at the time to being unable to believe even those words that came out of his lips.

I wonder if there is anyone, besides his loving wife that takes that gentleman seriously (and even that is speculation).

This man has been flying around in shitshuttle diplomacy to convince other countries to back the deferral of the ICC case.

The realization that this government has probably done more to assist the Ocampo 6 than it has for the IDP victims makes me want to expand my KPIs at the farm to stripping down to boxers and wrestling with fat, greasy pigs every morning in an attempt to exercise them.

This past Sunday in a gratuitous charade of theatre show of emotion Uhuru Kenyatta’s tearful mother blessed her son and William Ruto and accused colonialists of the troubles befalling her offspring.

It is pure speculation that she later wondered why hungry people unable to get bread were not eating chocolate biscuits.

My life flashed before my eyes as the porridge I was drinking went down the wrong way and threatened to kill me when Mrs. Kenyatta promised to write a bestseller detailing modern colonialism in this country.

This reminds me of the time a some indignant hyenas and lions promised an assorted pack of wildebeest, kudu, gazelles and buffalo to write a tell all expose on dangerous carnivores in the Masai Mara.

But let us return the the matter at hand and look at the famous 6

William Ruto, aka The Corn Man

Todate William Ruto has been unable to shake off the powdery white substance that looks remarkably like flour that enveloped him while he was custodian of the country’s Agriculture ministry.

There has been intense speculation over the past few years that William has a ‘tell’ such that it is possible to know when he is lying. The tell apparently is that his lips move.

Brigadier General Hussein Ali, aka the Postmaster

Good old Brigadier Ali is called the Postmaster for the excellent reason that he is the Postmaster.

The Brigadier probably bitterly regrets ever picking up the phone and taking instructions from his Commander In Chief to nip in the bud an army career to come and run the police force.

Todate he is still stamping out crime, but in denominations of 20 shillings

Ambassador Francis Muthaura, aka Ambassador Francis Muthaura

Some small boys I regularly play football with expressed surprise when I corrected them by informing them that ‘Ambassador’ was not actually his first name.

Uhuru Kenyatta, aka AKA

Anyone with an appreciation of timber furniture especially tables would do well to be wary of this gentleman, who has a penchant for banging tables in anger. Uhuru Kenyatta is a man whom at some level I admire. Anyone who can see no contradiction between advocating for togetherness of Kenyans as a people while simultaneously speaking in vernacular and threatening those unwilling to toe the line is to be admired.

Henry Kosgey, aka The G-Man

Henry Kosgey, commonly referred to as the dinosaur of Kenyan politics is a man whose chief claim to fame is an unwillingness to use the letter C. This naturally greates a guagmire for segretaries taging digtation

Joshua Arap Sang, aka News In Brief

Arap Sang, a diminutive journalist invariably is known to many as “Habari Kwa Ufupi”. Arap Sang has cultivated my personal admiration in his attempts to get out of having to go to the Hague. Hampered by a lack of wealth like his fellow 6 he has been forced to

1. Write shamelessly to the ICC that he, a trained and professional journalist, suddenly finds it difficult to communicate in English
2. Write again to the ICC to request funds for his transport and accommodation. Nothing fancy, you understand

He has also, impressively within the same week managed to break his arm.

This is bound to be an interesting week!

This gem I have just been forwarded has left me quite amused

Her Diary

Tonight, I thought my husband was acting weird. We had made plans to meet at a bar to have a drink. I was shopping with my friends all day long, so I thought he was upset at the fact that I was a bit late, but he made no comment on it.

Conversation wasn’t flowing, so I suggested that we go somewhere quiet so we could talk. He agreed, but he didn’t say much. I asked him what was wrong. He said, ‘Nothing.’ I asked him if it was my fault that he was upset. He said he wasn’t upset, that it had nothing to do with me,and not to worry about it.

On the way home, I told him that I loved him. He smiled slightly, and kept driving. I can’t explain his behavior. I don’t know why he didn’t say, ‘I love you, too.’ When we got home, I felt as if I had lost him
completely, as if he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. He just sat there quietly, and watched TV. He continued to seem distant and absent.

Finally, with silence all around us, I decided to go to bed. I still felt that he was distracted, and his thoughts were somewhere else. He fell asleep -I cried. I don’t know what to do. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster.

His Diary

Arsenal lost!

I am mystified as to what point we stopped speaking English in the business world.

This link,  http://news.saymedia.com/2010/09/videoegg-to-acquire-six-apart-and-create-say-media.html, had this gem:

Through the creation of social hubs and influencer-driven custom content programs linked to the innovative AdFrames offering, SAY Media delivers engagement across display and mobile.

What the bugger have they just said?

Sometimes truth gets in the way of fiction making it very hard to blog …

Here’s the thing.

If you call someone and they don’t pick, and you call them again and they don’t pick, DON’T CALL A THIRD TIME.

Really.

Calling a third time makes you look like a complete doofus, and every time after that increases your DF (doofus factor) exponentially.

Some people, like me for example, take it as a challenge to see how many times i can ignore your phone calls if you call more than twice in a row. I have successfully artificially evolved the gene that removes the urgent need to answer a phone call and say "hello" as soon as the phone rings.

This makes me unpopular in particular with people in the sales profession, who think I am kidding when I say "Don’t call me, I’ll call you". Attn. those folks peddling mortgages, credit cards and loans from Barclays etc. Don’t call me. Really.

If you call someone twice and they don’t pick it is because of one of two reasons

1. They cannot pick the call (in a meeting, driving, being mauled by a hyena etc)
2. They do not wish to pick your call (you are a stalker, you are owed money etc)

Whichever the case may be, calling for the 40th time does not increase your chances of hearing " {Click} Hello?" If anything it steels the determination.

If you know you’re not No.2, just wait after your second attempt. Your call will be returned. If not — well, try physical stalking.

Also, by the way, joining chocolate teapots and powdered water is the question "Why weren’t you picking my calls?"

Don’t ask that question, because there are only two possibilities and only one answer

1. Person could not pick the call because they were in a meeting, driving, etc. In which case they will tell you they were unable to pick the call
2. Person did not wish to pick the call because you closely resemble Onyancha. In which case they will tell you anyway they were unable to pick the call.

In summary, there is only one answer to this question, so don’t bother asking it. Save time. Save your credit.

And if you are an adult of sound mind and body, are gainfully employed and are still flashing folks … may you wake up in the Middle of New York with Osama Bin Laden’s face grafted onto your own. You are, in colloquially correct Kiswahili, a "shenzi type!"