Dog training

So these 'dog trainers' (or are they 'canine behavioural psychologists'?) say that dogs sniff each other's asses to identify one another. So tell me this 'DOG TRAINER' - If you trained this pair of dogs for this single lady in Kileleshwa to the point that her friends declared them the smartest dogs EVARR... Didn't you train these two mutts to be smart enough to know that there's no other dog "apart from the two of us. Just checking. Nothing to see here. Now move along". Let's be real here. Dogs just love to sniff other dogs' asses. Dogs even love to sniff their own asses. They LICK their own asses. Ass is like CRACK to dogs. I have cats, too, and they get along fine. And the dogs keep sniffing their asses. And when my son starts crawling they'll be sniffing his ass going like "That's some different kind of ass, dudes. Let's sniff it". That's why you don't try to smuggle coke up your butt, because the sniffer dogs will be sniffing your ass and "bingo!"

Memories of our Childhood

The headboy would make sure the microphone was working, and he would even throw in a "Mic check. One two one two". But that was frowned upon by the headmaster. The schools in Westlands called them Headteacher and the ones in Lavington called them Principal. Doing a mic check was frowned upon because only deejays kept saying "Mic check. One two one two". And deejays were bad elements who had refused to finish school. Then the headboy, who was also the scouts leader would unfurl the canvas flag which would droop saggily in the windless quadrangle. The National anthem was sung. And then we pledged our loyalty to the President of the Republic of Kenya. The words of the National Anthem and the Loyalty Pledge were inscribed on the inside cover of your school diary so that you would memorise each word, each reflective pause.

And the scouts leader would take a step forward, stamp his foot, do an about-turn and he would say "Scouts! At ease!" And the scouts would part their legs in equal measure and unsquare their shoulders. The scoutleader would resume his position by repeating with flourish, but in its reverse. The cubscouts and the two girlguides occupied the front left row. The class prefects would occupy the inner end of each class row. They always made an inspection before Parade and the boys with untucked shirts and loosened school ties would be asked to kneel on the cold hard tarmac for the remainder of the school Assembly.

Latecomers were not allowed to join the Assembly. They slashed grass until they got blisters in the palms of their hands.  Worst boys were never asked to slash grass. They enjoyed some kind of immunity from embarrassing punishments that involved picking of rubbish on the sportsground.

The scouts weren't ordinary civilians on Fridays. And they could name over ten different knots and go camping in a real tent without their parents. In the bush.

Then the Deputy Headmaster would step forward and shout into the microphone "Silence!" even though nobody was making a sound. Then he would take two steps back and glare at the standard Sevens and Standard Eights who thought they were men just because they wore trousers.

The headmaster would speak with a very deceptively soft voice and go slowly through the list of miscreants and additional school fees payable and inform the pupils that harambee cards were to be issued to raise money for a new Gestetner Cyclostyle Duplicator. We had all of the School Holiday to raise the money. It was rumoured that he would be the Chief Headmaster the whole of next year.

There was a comperehensive rules poster pinned on one of the notice boards outside the Headmaster's office. All the notice boards were now encased in glass. The Teacher on Duty had the keys to the notice board for a week. I couldn't post cartoons of teachers on the notice boards any longer. Nobody had snitched on me so far.

The Headmaster expected every student to memorise the twelve page Rule-Book with a blue Manilla cover. The headmaster was the only one who could expell a student. He would spell out his last warnings. He would not make eye contact with the Worst Boy.

Worst Boy was a title that took hard work to attain. It was the Second Worst Boy who invariably got expelled for doing dumb things like taking credit for what the Worst Boy had done in the generator room.

The Deputy Headmaster would then repeat the last warnings and add a new rule to be engraved on a plaque to replace Major Rule Number Ten which was "NO WHISTLING". All major rules were engraved in capitals in Times New Roman. The bell-ringer polished the brass rule plaques with a rag and Brasso every Monday morning before School Assembly. The school would remove the "NO WHISTLING" rule because everybody would be whistling on Sports Day. And nobody whistled in class or in the corridors any more. It would be replaced with "NO BOUNCING" which would later be replaced by "NO BREAKDANCING".

The rescinding of "NO WHISTLING" is met with lots of whistling. The Deputy Headmaster, while looking the Headmaster in the eye over his glasses would clarify that "NO WHISTLING" was still a rule and would not be removed from the Comprehensive Rules. This was the first time the Headmaster was hearing about this new rule. There were ninety six rules in total, inclusive of the ten Major Rules.

Roger had broken all the Major Rules and became the first to attain the title of Worst Boy in Standard five. He was the first Worst Boy in our school who still wore shorts.

The Deputy Headmaster screamed "Silence!" but the microphone wasn't working. The Headboy ran into Mr. Nyagah's office and came back with the Ahuja megaphone. He had a key to the Discipline Master's office which was basically a storeroom with a desk. It was the only key on the ring attached on his Scouts belt that worked. It was the only day he was allowed to wear his shiny brass keys to school. Tom Hardy was the only other boy who carried keys to school. His mother worked late and they didn't have a maid. The Geography teacher called him a half-caste. The Deputy Headmaster would say "That's all." And hand over the bullhorn to the Sportsmaster. He preferred Sportsmaster to P.E. teacher. We were lucky to have a P.E. teacher who had studied P.E. at Kenya Polytechnic. He had a very good command of English that made his heavy Embu accent even more comical. We called him "Firefox". He didn't mind the nickname because he had watched the movie and was a great fan of Clint Eastwood. He had a poster of Clint Eastwood on the wall of the sports storeroom.  The sports trophies were displayed in a glass case in the Headmaster's office.

Beware of I.T. Guy

Gentlemen, now that we're all grown up, let me tell you something. You remember when you were this scrawny little kid that everyone liked to pick on in school? The kind that they yanked around, pushed around and kicked around... And now you meet this guy who used to yank you around and kick you around several years later and you're like "Booyah! I'm going to make this mutherfucker suffer!"

And as you say this, it's not like you've become this giant pumped-up guy who works out even his tonsils. You're still that skinny, sorry-ass motherfucker. But you're the I.T. Guy. You know I.T. guys are really twisted and crazy motherfuckers. Don't ever get on the wrong side of an I.T. Guy. An I.T. Guy will never solve your problem the first time. Unless of course your problem is that you forgot to plug in your fucking computer. He'll just call all your colleagues around and point you out as a classic example of idiot. Then you will learn. Problem solved.

If you get on the wrong side of an I.T. Guy, he can erase you. Obliterate you. He can erase you from the personell files of the huuuuge multinational you work for. You see, to this multinational, you're just a number that brings in some numbers. This guy can erase you and you won't do SHIT. You know once you're erased from a computer, you can't be an employee. Your access card doesn't work. And even if somehow you got in, you wouldn't get a salary because you don't exist on the payroll. And if you jifanya ati you're a kichwa ngumu, he'll ask your workmates to swear that they don't know you. And you'll be escorted out by security. Your workmates will swear that they don't know you because they don't want to be stupid and get on the left side of the I.T. Guy.

Now I.T. Guys are very smart fellows who never get anything done on time. If they do, it's because some regional head or some corporate big-wig is around. They're always busy with like 3 monitors with 7 applications open. Those aren't applications. Those are turbo-powered torrents. And he's downloading porn. No wonder your internet's slow. And he always waves you away and says "Go away. Don't disturb me. I'm busy. I'm researching on your comp's problem. It's a new technology. I have to research." And you wonder why they're always asking you for tissue. They actually fake a whole respiratory condition that makes them need ridiculous amounts of tissue.

I..T. Guys don't like solving your problem the first time round, because efficiency raises expectations. Expectations lead the M.D. to ask the I.T. Guy to repair his fridge at home, since he has an expense account and the I.T. Guy is an expense to the company. I have had crazy I.T. guys. If this site is still up tomorrow, I.T. Guys haven't read this.

Straight Men in Spandex Suits

When Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster created Superman, they effectively killed all competition. You couldn't call yourself anything more Super than Superman without looking like a jackass. This guy had all the super powers. He could see through blouse and bra. And his only weakness was that he was a newswriter who couldn't take credit for the news his crush wrote. And he didn't wear a disguise. He merely removed his glasses and changed into more colourful clothes.

The superhero space has become ridiculous. The number of mediocre superhero cartoons out there make me want to open up my skull and squeeze a lemon inside what's left there.

Like seriously. What THE FUCK is Ben 10? The motherfucker has a WATCH. That watch can turn him into ten awesomely ridiculous creatures.

Have we run out of creativity to the point of imbecility by making up a mish-mash superhero? Fuck that! My son is not watching that kind of shit. I hope they keep making Batman. But by the time he gets to that age, they may have a gay Batman. Eeesh!

I've always wondered whether superheroes shop in Cape Town.

Spam I am

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Social Network Etiquette

#1 Social network etiquette. Learn how to f******g spell.

#2 Social network etiquette: Be nice to your friends and don't bore them with pictures of your new boyfriend. Unless it's that dude from Twilight. Not the other hairy one with a scrunched up face and abs of steel. The other one. The one who glitters. 12 year old chicks think he's dreamy. So I guess that's ok if your friends are twelve. And if you post pics of your kids or pets, they must be awesome pics taken with a good camera and aptly captioned or memed to elicit LOLs or Awwwwws. If you have a pet dinosaur or dragon, that counts as awesome! You can even post HD videos with free download permissions. These videos should be filmed with an artistic touch and you must use a decent camera. A Canon 7D or similar is fine. A Canon C4 is awesome, I hear.

#3 Social network etiquette: Don't spell out words like "f*****g" in full. Unless you're an actor. Not actress. There's a difference, but that is not covered in this abridged online course.

#4 Social network etiquette: Don't steal other people's posts. Acknowledge the author by clicking "share". Yes. That button right next to "Steal stat update." It means that you respect greatness.

#5 Social network etiquette: 'Like' all my posts. I'm reaching, here :). I put Smiley faces because they convey and punctuate with emotion. 'Liking' my posts can lead to either of 2 things: (a) I shall be inspired to keep entertaining you with silly stories about anything and everything. I know you'll like that. Don't ever ask why I'm up so late. I'm a vampire. OK? (b) Your boyfriend may not like that you 'like' my posts. Tell him to grow up. Unless he's 12. Tell him to go do his homework. Then go see a shrink, because... you get it. I am in a very mature relationship with a remarkable, beautiful and kind soul. I can't wait to see her :) She won't get freaked out if you are serial post-liker.

#6 Social network etiquette: Acknowledge your friends with a "hello", "mamboz?" and "mpangoz". "Mpangoz" should quickly be followed by an offer to buy Chicken Meri Methi and drinks at South C Motorsports Club. Creating empty expectations is wrong, and shall be be followed by a public apology on the same forum in capital or "BIG" letters as some call it. If you're on Facebook and not posting anything, then there's something wrong with you. Arrange to see the same shrink as you get counselling about your penchant for 12 year old boys. If you don't post anything for a whole year, I shall publicly mourn you on Facebook. I shall then unfriend you, because I can't be friends with dead people. I'm a vampire, remember? The undead. ;) I winked there because I thought some people won't get it. Not because they're not smart, but just some people were born with parts missing... like a sense of humour. I shall remain Facebook friends with Solo even though he passed on. Because Solo was one of the coolest chaps I knew.

#7 Social network etiquette: Don't correct people's grammar (LOL. Look who's talking). Correcting people's grammar is only acceptable if your boyfriend is 12. In that case you need a shrink. We covered that earlier. If I have a typo in my post, it's either because it's a pun or a horrible, horrible accident. If the typo is still there, it doesn't mean that I haven't seen it. It's because I already have like 10 "Likes" and don't want to lose them by deleting and re-posting. I'm vain like that. :-D

*See my pal, Edwin Buhere here https://www.facebook.com/edwin.buhere?fref=ts for an advanced course in punning.

Teachers, Crime and Punishment

"How do these international schools punish their students", I asked. According to Kelly, they are just given embarrasing stuff to do. Like picking up litter or standing in front of the assembly. That's not punishment. Back in my day, punishment meant pain. Pain in the backside.

If a teacher tried that out now, Kelly says he or she would be sued. Back then my father would have paid to get me extra punisment in school. Yes. The punishment that brings pain to the backside. My father would want to transfer me from my school because it wasn't 'strict enough'. He wanted me to feel the pain of being in school. He probably invented some pain inducing forms of punishment in conspiracy with the teachers.

Believe me ladies and gentlemen. Some of the worst punishment was not the the kind that induced pain immediately. It was the kind of pain that grew on you. And it also embarrassed you a whole lot. A fine example is the one where a student was asked... Nay. Told. The student was told to go in front of the assembly and kneel down for the remainder of the assembly. Now there was a twist. You not only knelt for the whole duration, you also had to keep your arms raised straight out into the air. It did not have to take time to start having a toll on you. Ten minutes of this was enough to literally bring you down to your knees. Your arms were both tired and sore. Tired. And sore. Not sore like what you got out of the lashing on the posterior with a black plastic cane. That kind of pain stung for two minutes maximum. The embarassment value was a stroke of genius by the teachers. Those who felt pain for the least amount of time were the repeat offenders. The ones who were called to the front to get their lashing by default, because the teacher figured that whatever had happened, they must have had something to do with it. These repeat offenders actually wore TWO pairs of shorts. Two pairs of khaki shorts. The teachers knew this, so they just smacked them harder. Even though our teachers were violent maniacs, they stopped short of asking students to remove their shorts, just in case the student was feeling lucky and doing singles and going commando that particular day.

It would have had a more embarrassing outcome for the student. But our teachers had some sense of decency. Exposing your uncircumcised shame in front of the whole class or assembly involuntarily, would have been the teacher's most powerful weapon against truancy and the like. The returns of truancy was painful punishment. You see the vicious cycle there?

Then there were the girls who were so badass they wore two pairs of khaki pants under their tunics. And they didn't wear the regular grey school khaki shorts. They wore the scouts khakis. These khakis were military grade. They were the kind the British fought The First World War and The Second World War in. These were the same girls who had no bladder control in class. They didn't ask to be excused from class because the teacher would inflict more pain by asking whether it was a short call or a long call. What was wrong with these people?

The poor girl would pee herself sitting on the shared desk bench and immediately the deskmate would rat her out. "Please, Teacher! Nina has suusuud." And for some reason most of these girls were pointies from Eastleigh. So they peed themselves in their two layers of the most rugged of military grade khaki that only the British Army could conjure up. She peed herself and they got a thwacking. You see the vicious cycle again? Incidentally, that's where the word 'thwacking' came from. That's the sound of a black plastic pipe landing on two layers of wet khaki.

Teachers in our day were synonymous with pain. Which brings us back to the punishment of kneeling in front of the assembly with arms raised straight up for divine intervention. Your arms ached for a week or so it seemed. Woe unto you if you were your class's goalie. You wouldn't catch any balls. Your arms were just too tired. And your legs couldn't kick the ball away because of all that kneeling and shit. So basically you were buggered. Because if your team lost, you were given painful knuckle blows to the head by your whole team. The team consisted of half of the class. The boys. With the exception of Nina. Nina was one of the boys. She was more punished than half the guys and she wore two pairs of khakis. And she peed herself. The girls didn't want her. The boys didn't know whom to dump her on. The Special Class didn't want her either. Nina made up for the Indian kid from South C.

The humiliation of being chapwa'd ngoto by half your class and a chick who had peed herself was just too much. You see the vicious cycle here?

The Teachers had taught pupils how to punish their own. The teachers had invented a method of punishment that kept on giving. At the end of the day, your knees hurt, your arms ached and hurt, your head ached and hurt. And in extreme cases, your ass also hurt.

Being a goalkeeper was a punishment for being an idiot. And it all started when you made funny faces at the boy kneeling with his arms raised up in front of the assembly.

I wonder what happened to Nina.