The Pastor's Hummer

Okay, Lulu, this is a long one. Buckle up.

From a conscientious reading of the gospels it is evident that they are not to be taken literally. They are not written as a constitution or a rule book. They are works of rhetoric, not reportage, leaning more towards poetry than precision, and so when Jesus tells his followers to sell everything they have and give the money to the poor, we can interpret this less than literally.
After all, it is just not practical for the rich to impoverish themselves this way; it is actually better for them to remain rich and thus retain the capacity for charity.

However, there is a clear principle embedded in that exhortation. Those who have money must do as much as they can to help those who do not. How much? There's the question.

From a moderate interpretation of the verse one answer would be, "As much as you realistically can."

Now, to the Hummer. It takes a lot of money to get one. A lot of money.

That's a lot of money. There is a heart patients need tickets to India. There is a teenage girl who dropped out of school because she ran out of school fees and is being pressured to turn to prostitution to feed herself and her mother. There is an orphanage where the kids have to share beds and blankets. There are clinics that are out of essential medicines. All these people are praying to God for help.

And God has given his follower A Lot Of Money and the instruction to perform as much charity as possible, using the most extreme example of giving everything away to illustrate how important charity is.

A sinner can have a Hummer and be violating only the laws of good taste and moderation (because that is just the most vulgar behaviour I can imagine—bringing a Hummer into the third world)

But a Christian has a duty to not use their millions to buy huge cars that benefit no one. It is a sin to have a Hummer.

What’s wrong with a Prado?

The internet as a research tool

Despite what you may think, I occasionally do engage in intellectual pursuits.

Such as arguing.

I was embroiled in a fascinating one recently, stemming from the Pastor’s Hummer. I posited that Uganda is massively poor, and that the Ugandan who is not daily crushed under the colossal weight of our poverty is not a typical Ugandan by far. If this point survived contention, I was prepared to place hand on hip, raise my chin and deliver the coup de grace-- something along the lines of “How do you be there saying that simanyi you are a true Ugandan when your life doesn’t resemble the lives of the overwhelming majority of Ugandans in the least, si ku your fully-loaded iPod and your cappuccino at Café Pap, not to even mention your fucking Hummer?”.

(I was going to censor that but then I thought that would be ridiculous, given that the word Hummer is dirtier than the word written before it.)

Anyway… this is where the facts failed me.

The way I remembered it, Uganda was the one of the ten poorest countries in the world, with staggering rates quantifying this.

I had to quote numbers though. I had to ask the Internet. This is what it told me:

Uganda has a per capita GDP of $1,800.

The 20th poorest country in the world has a per capita GDP of $900.

In other words, we are not that broke.

I was so pissed off! I mean, like, Shit! When did this happen? You guys just go and develop and mess up my debate positions! Man!

Hate when that happens.

For the record, my future home, The Seychelles, is the third richest nation in Africa: $7,800 baby! When I go there I will be stuntin!

Caveat. Don’t jump on my case, I know GDP per capita doesn’t prove that everyone is Madhvani. I was trying to win a bar argument, not presenting a paper to the UN. Chill me on that.

Matters of The Heart

You know what we need? We need toilet waiters. Like as a job, you have a person whose responsibility it is to welcome customers to the toilet and make them comfortable.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to the toilet. I am your host, Makumbi, and if there is anything I can do to make your visit more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask.”

He will bring you your tissue paper, spray air freshener, hum relaxing tunes and even compliment you when you are through. “May I say, sir, that that is a remarkable specimen!”

It would slash our unemployment problem considerably. I can see mothers bragging in their scripture union meetings. “Makumbi is doing very well in Kampala. After he left Makerere he became a toilet waiter. And not just any toilet waiter, he is a waiter at the five star Serena hotel!”

No consider it. The pay would be good, after all, it is the Serena. You would be doing better than a schoolteacher.

...and now lemme hit you with that link fire:

Firstof all, the blogosphere presents this guy who is so funny he should be Ugandan.

Normally when I link to a Vision article it is to invite you to laugh and cast mockery upon it. But this time, I give you one of the things about the media in Uganda.

Okay. The Vision has not uploaded it to their website. As soon as I can, I will link it. In the meantime, if you pass by while I am at home asleep, go to Sundayvision.co.ug, hit "Kawa" on the menu there, and read read with delight, any article with a headline about the sanctity of the toilet. Okay? Okay. I'm Morpheus in this matrix, exposing fake shit.

There's a darkness on the edge...

I support gay rights. The state should not withhold a person’s rights just because the state does not like who that person is sleeping with. Gay people should be free to do every single legal thing a straight person can do. Including forming a legally-recognised matrimonial union. If I was pushed into a fight between those who want to legalise homosexuality and those who want homosexuality punished by law, I would take the side of the gays. I would have to be pushed into it, though. Cos I believe in freedom, I believe in justice and I believe in common decency. But I still have a problem with homosexuality.

It’s not what you think. Stay with me.

The following:There is this scene in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back where Jay and Bob need a disguise to sneak past some policemen with their orangutan. Jay hatches the clever plan of pretending that he and Silent Bob are gay life partners and that the ape is their adopted child. They threaten the police, saying: “We're gay! And this is our adopted love child! We're not from around here! Don't make us go back to our liberal city home with a tales of prejudice and bigotry in the heart of Utah!”Will Ferrel, the cop, answers: “Sir— or ma'am. Please accept my apologies for detaining you and your unorthodox but constitutionally-protected family unit.”
Then he turns to the other cops and says, “I just avoided a political fiasco by letting this butt-fucking Brady Bunch go.”

I found that screamingly funny.

I also wrote The Buggery Song.

I hate Puff Daddy’s music and public persona. So I call him a faggot. The use of the word gay to denote the opposite of cool generally amuses me.

So the first problem is that the most common treatment I give the subject of homosexuality is laughter. It amuses me. I am sure homosexual people are not pleased by the fact that their lifestyle is a source of humour for people like me, but I am not guilty about that. They don’t need my admiration, and besides, there are aspects about my lifestyle that others find funny. I have no fashion sense, I live in Kireka, I wear glasses etc. No one has a right not to be laughed at.
I always thought that, though I would laugh at the episode where Cartman is trying to train his dog to be straight, if I was told that my bank manager was a homosexual I would look at the person telling me this and say, “His orientation is no business of mine. As long as he is literate.”

I always thought this attitude was essentially harmless. But then something else happened.

There is this guy in Kampala town: he is a fashion designer. He wears women’s blouses and paints his nails. He has a flamboyant hairstyle and strong perfume. He is a big dude. Hefty. Broad shoulders.

Most famous flamer in town.

Like I said, he is a fashion designer. He had a fashion-related deal with one of the photographers at the newspaper where I work and came to the office about that. I wasn’t in at the time, so my seat, which is close to the photographer’s, was empty.

The photographer gave him my seat. When I walked into work, I found him on my seat.

I got a less comfy chair and sat on that. This photographer—let’s not give him too much credit— does not know that you are supposed to say “excuse me” and find a way to replace the chair you have stolen. Prick. Anyway…

After the fashion designer had gone, and my chair was free, I honestly should have retrieved it and sat on it but I didn’t. I exchanged it with the chair at the desk of another colleague who wasn’t there. It wasn’t the warm chair thing. I don’t like to sit on chairs other people have made warm, but I know it wasn’t just that. I just did not want to sit on the chair that guy had been on.

If you understand my feeling then what kind of bastards are we? I mean, what sort of person does this to another person? Refuses to sit on a chair just because that other guy was on it? Supporters of apartheid and Jim Crow laws: That sort of person. This is not just you-are-a-human-being-like-me-but-some-things-you-do-are-funny. This is manifest bigotry. And it is in me. Like an instinct. Like reflex. My name is Baz and I am a homophobe. Have I betrayed my ideals?
What the hell kind of person am I?

Links Galore!

Celebrity endorsement time. Who do we have walking into the studios? It is super soul diva Patti La Belle herself! Hey, Patti! What a pleasure and a privilege.

• Actually, I am Cicely Tyson.
• Cicely who? Never heard of you.
• Okay. I am Dame Judi Dench. I was M in those James Bond movies.
• I liked those. But Austin Powers just killed Bond for me. Now I watch a Bond movie I keep wishing Dr Evil was in it. Anyway, Dame Judi, what brings you here to my blog?
• I am here to tell the viewers about this fantastic and exciting and absolutely tingling-the-roots-of-your-hair new blogger I recently ran into. She only has one post up so far but it is a doozie and I am sure she will completely and utterly slap the taste out of the mouths of all who neglect to consider her a talent of note.
• Wow. Also, Mini Me. There should be a mini-me in Bond movies. Who is this new blogger who you are so excited about that it makes you leap up and down on my couch like this?
• Why Heaven! of course. Spelt with an exclamation mark. Have you been to her blog?
• Indeed I have. Now, make room on that sofa. I would like to leap on it with you.

What else has been going on that I should be telling you about? I see you twiddle your left nostrils in anticipation of some great revelation. What else, Uncle? What else?
Well, outrage and indignation and bloodthirst, for three things. This pervert sent an email to one of our women. This is why children should not be allowed on computers without parental guidance. Look at what the silly boy did… Please leave a comment.


Anything else, Baz?
Yes, as a matter of fact. If you are interested, I updated Tumbavu.


We are running out of time and are beginning to sound like Bukumunhe. Show us one final tongue of that bombolicious Faya.

Well, I call this one "If Lovin' You is Wrong". It is the subject of a story for another day.

Gulu man sentenced over oral sex

WHAT should have been a bedroom matter has ended up in court with dire consequences. Gulu Chief Magistrate Tom Champtai on Wednesday sentenced a man to one-week community service for subjecting his wife to oral sex, Alex Odongo reports.

Richard Abola, 32, a resident of Toro Kal sub-parish in Amuru District was ordered to work at Amuru Health Centre from January 31 to February 8.

The Prosecutor, Josephine Apio, told court that on the night of January 22, Abola had carnal knowledge of his wife Everline Arach against the order of nature.

Abola pleaded guilty, but asked for a lighter sentence saying he acted under the influence of alcohol and pornographic movies.

Published on: Saturday, 3rd February, 2007

Verbatim Vs Verbatim Extra

Our hero has just entered an exclusive bank establishment at the invitation of an Internet acquaintance when it occurs to him (he has been known to think fast, but that is usually later in the evenings. Afternoons, he is notoriously scatterbrained. Bordering on outright stupid) that he does not know the person’s real name. Never to meet outside the world wide web.
So he looks around at the staff members, tellers et al, hoping to catch a sign. None. Before he leaves, however, he thinks perhaps he should make a phone call. He is accosted by the guard.

• You should try those stunts in the other bank across the street. The guard there is not as well trained as I am.
• How well-trained are you? Also, what are you talking about?
• I have a black belt in tae-kwon-do, a black belt in Kung Fu, and, as if that does not make me lethal enough, I also have a black heart and would dance on your corpse after draining every ounce of life from it.
• You would not need those deadly martial arts skills to kill me, ssebo. I notice you have a rifle. It is an ancient, rusty relic of colonial days and probably served in KAR. It looks like the ssassi limu brand. One shot. But it would dispose of me sufficiently. I must ask again, however, why you would feel the need to kill me and thereafter dance on my remains.
• Hah hah hah! You must take me for a fool.
• Not a fool, ssebo. Just a security guard.
• I may be a security guard, but that does not mean I am completely useless. Unlike most members of my profession, I am actually competent and unstupid. I can recognize a threat to this institution when I see it. You, sir, evidently plan to rob this bank!
• Excuse me. I shake and quiver, not with fear, but with shock. What would make you come to this conclusion? I am taken aback.
• Your intentions are made obvious by your actions. I saw you walk in and keenly assess the state of staff deployment, counting how many people there were in the bank. Then you pulled out your mobile phone and began to make a phone call, doubtless to your accomplices, to report your findings so that they can come in and execute the actual robbery.
• Hah hah! This time I shake with mirth. No one has misread the situation so grossly since that time in ‘04 when Nampima told everyone I was the father. Please relax, eager trigger-happy guardsman. I am not a robber. There is an explanation for all this.
• You have a short while in which to expound on that explanation. This gun takes a while to load.
• I am not here to rob the bank. I am here to see someone.
• Yes. And this someone is who?
• That is the funny thing. Hah hah. Konka guard you shall laugh. I don’t know who it is! That is why I was making the phone call. I was calling Ivan.
• You don’t know who you walked into the bank to visit.
• Exactly.
• So you called this Ivan character to ask him who you came to the bank to visit.
• That is a firm and direct hit to the head of the nail. Full marks. I told you you would laugh.
• I am not laughing.
• … Well you should. It is funny.
• No, it is dubious. I knew someone called Ivan when I was still a soldier in UNLA. When he left the army he embarked on a life of crime. He is now a famous underground kingpin and is one of the most wanted men on the VCCU’s hit list.
• That cannot be the same Ivan. No way. The Ivan I called is completely harmless: utterly and totally unable to inflict even mild irritation upon the weakest of foes. Besides, he was like two years old when the UNLA was disbanded. Still pooping in nappies and then crying because of the smell.
• I do not trust you. You must be a bank robber. You lie like one. You and Ivan want to rob my bank. I shall have this gun loaded in a few seconds, after which you should prepare to die a swift death. Muahahaha.