Saturday, July 11, 2015
My Ride, My Rules - Period!
We called him Reverend - though I never saw him in a dog collar or heard him talk about a sermon he had given. There was though, a tattered bible that was always on his desk, so that might explain the name.
Seeing I was in my ride and headed into town, Reverend asked for a lift which was okay with me, provided he observed the rules of the ride. With that, I lit up a sportie and puffed away. Reverend complained and I was about to remind him of the rules, but compassion set in. Realising I had gone more than a tad too far, I bit my tongue – even though it was my ride and could do what I wanted, there was no harm in holding back on the smoking until Reverend had been dropped off. I felt so bad that
I actually apologised to him as I tossed the cigarette out of the window.
In traffic outside Electoral Commission on Jinja Road, Cypress Hill, were in full cry on the pimped up car stereo - something about: “...hanging out my window and my magnum taking out some puto’s...” when all went dead. Looking round, Reverend is fiddling with the stereo.
Let me rephrase so you get the gist of the gravity of the situation. Cypress Hill had been muted and Reverend was fiddling with MY pimped up stereo and in MY ride because it was too loud.
Tossing out my cigarette for him was tight. Not observing the rules of the ride? So not on! We all know that when you are in Chaps ride, especially one who has a pimped up stereo, you don’t tamper with it. It’s a killable offence, just like Al Shabab Man would want to return to earth to slit the throat of Imam who had told him that in heaven, 72 virgins await him when he blows himself up but gets there to find two skinny women nibbling on bacon rashes and who happen to be prostitutes.
A tumbavu was unleashed and reiterating the ‘my ride, my rules’, I reached across him, opened the door and literally pushed him out followed by another tumbavu and said in a belittling tone.
With a bewildered Reverend ejected into the middle lane on Jinja Road to get knocked by the boda’s and taxi’s, the pimped up speakers kicked in and once again, the lyrics - “...hanging out my window and my magnum taking out some puto’s...” reverberated down Jinja Road.
Enough of me, let’s talk Barack Obama. The other week, he was heckled as he gave a speech in his house. He tried to reason with Heckler for almost five minutes - telling her that she was “in HIS house eating HIS hors d’oeuvers and drinking HIS beer”, but Heckler went on and on, that he simply stood there and got insulted.
And in HIS home!
But how does that happen? Somebody getting into YOUR ride and disrespecting YOU by tampering with YOUR stereo, Chap can easily pull out a knife and stab you. Inviting a person to YOUR house to eat YOUR food and drink YOUR booze and that person insults you? Chap can easily kill!
That said, Obama, style up, man up and start bouncing the filth out of your house - just like I did with Reverend - you with me?
But that Reverend, he was something else. Can you imagine the next day at work, he had the audacity to report me to the bosses – Barbra K and Cathy M, and anybody who cared to listen, about how I had thrown him into traffic without a penny in his pocket. “Well, he shouldn’t have tampered with the pimped up stereo. Even God - his boss, knows that” was my line of defence.
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