Warning: The writer is a Hitler loyalist slash Gaddafi sympathizer and a diehard rock fan who mixes his guitar string fetish with a lot of Eminem verses. You might want to read this from a safe distance.
You! Look at you you! You think for you you’re better than me? *Cluck. Msstcheew. You think we’ve just seen? Hmm. Kale you’re fake.
Strictly speaking, if you are the sort of person whose sentence construction is limited to the kind above, you will not be respected. You will be feared. And even given whatever you want at the time of disparagement. But not respected. You will be called local. You won’t even get laid. Why? Picture this.
You’re somewhere in a bar and you suddenly lay visual smudge on your preferred female article of romantic ergo long-term sexual organ amalgamation interest, right? So you walk up to her. Look at what you’re going to tell her. Shame on you in advance.
Excuse me. Hi. Are you on Facebook? What’s your name? You look chute. (And this is me helping you even. What you actually say is not fit for publication).
And if, by some ludicrously shrewd luck (or like when Cupid has taken a potty break), you manage to win her affection you will be caught in nauseatingly brainless conversations like:
Honey, check out my status message. You what is yowas?
It’s the gayness of this Facebook generation that’s diluting beef. People no longer hate each other properly. If you boldly stood up to me and shouted while shaking your finger at me nti “You! Look at yowa ga-legs even! No wonder you have big ears”, I would not hate you for the disconnected message you just relayed to me but rather for the way you said it.
Like the way one Ugandan Hip-Hop rapper disconnectedly used the word “self-conscious” in a purportedly hardcore rap. Who does that? You know yourself. Don’t do it again.
You don’t hear internationally acclaimed haters like 50 Cent, Eminem and The Game giving you song titles like “I swear me I hate you” or “George Bush you fake guy” or “Styuped”.
If they wanted to do that, they would just dig right to their African roots, get the most insult-sounding words and just heave tear jerker titles like “Gwe! Bolingo!” and then they’d start rapping.
A typical word churning machine will use proper English to smoothly spit a skin-melting blend of verbs, adjectives, nouns and pronouns so eloquently that he will make your head spin back into your primary school uniform and answers to maths equations you failed in your P.L.E will suddenly start trickling back into your brain.
Pick a leaf, son. Next time that juvenile punk declares that “Your fake legs look like premature cassava”, put down your Milk Stout slowly and calmly tell him:
I give as much of a flying fuck as that superman dude/
Guess I just do what you can’t do or make you look stupid and bamboozled/
Confused as usual and you can get ripped she can open a can too/
But you better hope you can handle the heat/
Or stay the fuck outta hell’s kitchen/
Then lay back and watch as his eyes cower into his skull as if to beg him “Gwe guy, let’s just go back to Facebook.” Then put your earphones back on and turn Eminem up. But don’t use people’s lyrics. Get your own.