Rat-routes …

When you think about it, most of the good inventions and innovations come along to make sin a whole lot easier, fun and faster. Rat routes must have been evolved by people who wake up late and have to dash to work to lie to their bosses how they were stuck in traffic. Smokers too. Let me narrow the scopes down to ‘weed smokers’. The rest have nothing to hide. Funny though; we short cut users know each other by name; at least a false one. … More Rat-routes …

Sit in a park

Is there a queue anywhere? Like at a soft drinks booth? Good! Join the queue. You don’t really have to buy anything. When you reach the end of the queue, just plonk to it’s tail and help elongate it. Sometimes just watching the world burn is what you need after all. I have a penchant for queuing and apologizing, especially when fueled by coffee from a hawker. I’m sorry. … More Sit in a park

Organ donation … and broken hearts

I’ve just eavesdropped a dialogue from the kitchen between Kelly and a visitor who’s left green crocs at the doormat. I’m not making this up. Fashion sense. Why green, though? Because green is the color of money, grass, oak leaves, and alien bombs. How the hell would I know why it was green? Anyway, she’s sobbing uncontrollably. She’s told Kelly, amid her spasms, that she’d given her heart to someone. The whole of it. And as if I haven’t heard enough, this dude broke it.

What? Heart. So people do that? Yes. Organ donation. … More Organ donation … and broken hearts

Tragedy at House No. 352

That’s why I’ll miss Otis. I’m sure his wifey never discovered our numerous escapades through breathalyzer checkpoints, completely unscathed by the law. Mark you, Otis was rarely home. I’ll long for the inebriated attempts to sing some golden country music such as “country road, take me home” that Otis did at the wheel; having arrived at the gate in one piece at 1 a.m. Most times he’d visit my quarters at the top-most floor the following day-break before wifey got up and leave me with the remnant oranges, lemons, gum and other chewables that were myriads attempts to drown the smell of alcohol that she loathed. “Mrs. Otis didn’t entertain edible paraphernalia in the house unless brought by her,” Otis often claimed. … More Tragedy at House No. 352

Home’s always sweet!

Then, I come from that part of the world where I have to mention our hens that look fleshy, not only to the boys in the hood (that’s me and my 2 bros who always have to answer a case of who slaughtered the chicken) but also to the chief’s cocks who make sure they exercise their curvy thighs by engaging them in what seems like prey-predator skills that come in handy for the x-mas chases that always ensue. Determined to strike gold in the hearts of our layers, these cocks always stream in through the fence we share with the chief, making them scamper all over the compound like stray bullets, to provide some cherished home-made entertainment for crazies like me, writer dog. I want home! … More Home’s always sweet!