Ode to the writer

Hello online denizens. Residents of the digital world. Occupants of the electronic haven that is the internet. It's been a while since I last blogged here. The advent of micro-blogging (Twitter) has made it such that a lot of us don't have the time, energy, or attention spans to follow through with a regularly updated ‘proper’ blog. I'll take this moment to give kudos to all those who have kept their blogs updated with regular content. It takes effort, commitment and dedication - Discipline. If one has the energy and mental focus to consistently deliver new content online, then they're probably able to deliver a lot more to the world. Through their sheer tenacity, I'm sure they will pull through even the most seemingly daunting tasks.

I didn't start this post with the intention of moving in any particular direction. I figured I'd just let my mental train run - off the tracks If need be - just because it hasn't run at all for a while. I blame Twitter to an extent. Why blog ‘properly’ when you can push out intermittent random thoughts that don’t have to follow in any particular order. There is no rhyme or reason to Tweeting. It makes it so easy. You can tweet something, RT something else, LMAO yet another thing, engage in some twitter slander, then return to what you were originally tweeting about. It’s genius. Textual cacophony has never been so wonderful. The existence of twitter and other micro-blogging sites has changed the way we communicate information to ourselves. And it has changed even further the way we process this information. Data now comes quicker and easier. But as quickly as it comes, it goes. We are inundated with messages of all genres - current affairs, politics, high fashion, and the occasional nude picture (thank you @postbadbitches). We hardly have time to reflect on a piece of information before another rolls around. With micro blogging, we have adapted to processing the information as fleetingly and ephemerally as it comes to us. We are now micro thinking. Think of it as online induced ADD. The web has made so much information available to us that our challenge now is not what data we can access (because we have almost everything at our fingertips). No, the problem now is how much of it can we get through.

Everyday I'm asked "have you watched this" or "have you seen that". Have you listened to this new song? Do you know the latest meme? Have you read the latest news report?  There's always something new. There are millions of people every day uploading new content to the internet - videos, photos, songs, articles, you name it. We've come to the point at which a lot of your colleagues might have said to you "I don't watch TV anymore".  I think I hear that one every other day, if not every day. The rate at which 'regular TV' is losing its audience, the broadcasting industry will have to look at better way of monetizing that market. I have a theory which proposes that in America, most shows are sustained by an audience which still attaches some value to being the first individuals to watch an episode of a show. A fan base. These fans will sit for the show to premiere on television because it won't appear online till it's been shown on telly. These fans are what adds to the show's viewership numbers, and what dictates the advertising revenue for the show, as well as its future time slot in the networks programming schedule. Shows with a successful season one will get more prime time slots in subsequent seasons. So in America, where these shows are produced, the system works. Shows are produced and people watch on tv. Viewership goes up, ad revenue comes in. All is well. Well except for the growing number of individuals who couldn't care less if they missed the show's TV slot, because they were just going to watch it online anyway. These are the guys that are reducing viewership numbers, and making that ad revenue go down. But do not fear corporate america. Companies like Netflix - and almost every other major broadcasting network - have moved to the online frontiers to tackle the shifting viewership masses. These companies make viewers pay a small fee to rent and watch programs online, so they can watch shows at their convenience. So while the show loses television viewers, it makes a bit of money back online, especially since copyright laws make it harder to find illegal viewing sites in America (a lot of them are blocked). Also, in America, law enforcement can easily track illegal downloaders and levy them a big fine for their downloading misdemeanors.

But what happens in countries like Nigeria, where copyright rules are not that strongly enforced. The web has very limited police patrolling, if any at all (although that's apparently about to change due to some Israeli company coming in. Thank you Jonathan), and people have possibly the strongest aversion to paying a kobo for any service received online? What then, happens to the television industry? A lot of us have dstv subscriptions, but how many of us actually watch the thing while our internet/hard drives work? I don't know about you, but unless I have guests over, that dstv decoder lies dormant. Maybe if I had one directly in my room, I'd use it more. I don't really mind if the TV industry develops viewership challenges in Nigeria though, seeing as our TV is outsourced from south africa anyway. DSTV's monopoly is strong. And that's a ton of money leaving our shores. Shame, really. Its funny now, because I remember when I was a kid, and there was all that south african programming on the tv. I just took it as TV. The real implications never hit me - that it was a south african company and we used its services because ours sucked/was nonexistent. Now I wonder why my house also received Super RTL (a german channel) for a few years. Probably another television contract someone chopped back in the day and made off with a clean bundle before the venture was liquidated. As I always say, whoever can solve the problem of declining tv viewership and nigerian television content is going to make a boatload of money.

But I digress. In a major way. I didn't intend to talk about the television industry at all, or give you all my limited insight into its workings in nigeria, and in the hovaseas. I guess I'll attribute that to my micro thinking, which hasn't been helped by my already existing ADDDDDD (super ADD - attention deficit disorder for those who don't know. Yes, I assume some of y'all don't know. Problem?)

But yes, my point of writing all this was just to give a tip of the hat to those who have unfailingly delivered relevant content to the online masses, and who continue to do so. I don't know how you do it. Sometimes I don't even know why I write -or used to write. It's not to be funny, to be an 'activist', or an opinion leader, or anything like that. My pieces were never anything spectacular. The diction was just above par, if that. The structure barely existent - I digress a lot. But that can be attributed to style. Once any writer makes it, any writing quirks/flaws they had become grand, fabled, celebrated 'styles.' I think half the stuff literature teachers interpret in Shakespeare is not what Shakespeare was thinking. Shakespeare says "there was a black chair", and suddenly to literature teachers everywhere, the chair becomes an allusion/reference to the black man, who is meant to be subservient and sat upon, like a chair. Hey, esteemed lecturers of literature, maybe shakespeare just meant it was a chair, huh? How about that? Ah, see? I digressed again. Maybe one day this will be a legendary writing style - the Utomi digression technique, where the writer digresses so far off tangent to test if the reader can follow his original train of thought  (which had run off the track several paragraphs ago). Speaking of styles, I wonder if hashtags will soon make it into regular literature? #okayIneedtostopdigressing

As I said, I just came here to salute the diligent writers, no matter what they write about, and what their reasons are for writing.  In a world that is moving so fast, with information blazing past us at the speed of light, I am truly inspired by people who can string several paragraphs together coherently, and concisely. And for those who do this regularly, I wish them more readership. For it is a shame that one would have taken such time to put so much together, and have no one pay attention to it.

But even if readership is low, the task of writing is reward in itself, because it keeps the brain focused, sharp. It means one has the mental fortitude to take on even greater tasks, and to be consistent in their delivery. And I believe that's what brought me back to this - to putting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) - For the self discipline, and to reassure myself somewhat that I can still put together some literature that isn't a memo, a report, or a speech, which is what I do as a profession. I may not be consistent as a lot of you, but I will try to write more. Not because I have anything new or interesting to say, but maybe because I need to be sure of my ability to say what I need to say, when I eventually need to say it. To be sure that I can still write, even if not that well. Maybe I'll be able to do it better if I stay consistent. Maybe not. But I guess we'll see now, won’t we?

To all the writers out there, keep writing. The number of people that can piece together more than a single paragraph of coherent text at a time grows smaller by the day. We need all of you that we have, especially in a country that churns out so many near illiterates who are likely to be future leaders of the nation. At least, when these people reduce Nigeria to a pile of smouldering ashes, at the very least we'll have you folks to write all about it.

Today's Trol

Today's Trol

DIY

Made it myself! ( ^_^)

today's favorite FUUU

Blackberry na bia from Ovaseas. London!

A look at the upcoming fully touch screen Blackberry. Have a butchers you fanatics!

Bird Box

I randomly stumbled upon this video, and for a good minute and a half was wondering why on earth it had up to 5 million views. "What the devil is going on? They're just bantering in Russian, or whatever they call that language nowadays. Is this some communist plot to take over Youtube?" Then, just when I thought all was lost, at about 1:40, pure amazeballs ensues. wompwompwompwomp!

Awkward

Know your serf

If you have a housegirl/houseboy (a.k.a if you live in Nigeria) this one’s for you.

Think fast - What is your housegirl’s name?
An all too easy question. In fact, let me answer that one for you: Her name is either Grace, Patience, Mercy, Charity, Comfort, or Mary – just pick one of the saintly virtues and bam, you’ve covered 90% of the Nigerian housegirl population. If you have a male serf, you would forgive me for dismissing him as a weekday – If he isn’t a Monday, he’s probably a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday. Or a Thursday. Or a F… you get what I mean. Honestly, why do parents bind their Children’s destinies and cast them into bottomless calabashes from which no destiny can escape? It’s just not right. This is the reason why I have a list of names I can never give my child, such as Boniface and Cletus. You should make a list too. But I digress.

My second question - What is your househelp’s last name?
Ah, gotcha there. You don’t know, do you? (cue smug grin of smugness from me. unless you actually do know his/her last name. In which case, cue this face)




A lot of us have no idea where our househelps came from. Our parents seem to magically procure them from thin air - we get back home one day and suddenly we have a new servant being. Joy and happiness! Our household tasks have diminished! For all we know there’s a secret underground laboratory that cultivates housegirls and houseboys in test tubes. Just add water and poof! Instant serf. Serf-in-a-can! If only. (Joy and happiness are also househelp names. Just saying)

Jokes apart - unless your househelp’s name is Joke - it begs the question: How much do we care about our househelps? How much should we care? Are they just tools to be used around the household as we see fit? Or are they perhaps individuals who happened to fall afoul of chance; people who did not have the good fortune to be exposed the opportunities we had, and, had they been given those opportunities, could have turned out to be even better than we are now?

There’s an underlying belief in a lot of people that househelps are not competent in several capacities/cannot truly be trusted. You’ll let them clean your room, but they’d best not look in the cupboards. You’ll eat the food they cook for you, but somewhere in the back of your mind you’re praying that today isn’t the day she’s decided to sprinkle a healthy portion of jazz upon your edibles. As a result of this, a lot of us keep our househelps at arm’s length, if not a lot further away. All we know is their names, and that they are at our beck and call. (“Yo Sunday, go fetch me a can of Becks! -__-“)

Believe it or not, househelps have souls, and should be treated nicely. It sounds like a given, but sometimes we forget. Like many things in our homes – such as the generator, it’s diesel, and the parentals paying for both of them – we tend to take our extra hands at the house for granted. Sure, we’ve come to the conclusion that 99.999% of Nigerians are douchebags. But they could be the 0.001%. and, at the very least, even if they are enemies, it wouldn’t hurt to give them less incentive to lace your evening pounded yam with cyanide. Keep your enemies closer, no? If you haven’t been nice to the help, start now.

Apart from making them feel like fellow human beings, closing the gap between ourselves and our ‘household life facilitators’ has other implications. Perchance your househelp actually is a low down good for nothing thieving scoundrel, and perchance one day he/she makes off with your precious new blackberry Porsche. And that just happens to be the day mummy and daddy are en route to the USA - on a 14 hour direct flight. So you have no way to reach them. WHATCHU GON DO? Chances are you’re going to throw a cataclysmic fit and threaten fire and brimstone if you ever get your hands on the thieving scoundrel. But chances also are you have no way to go about finding said scoundrel. You can’t call him/her. And even if you do, I find it unlikely that he/she’ll pick up the phone and go ‘oh hey, yeah, I’ve got your blackberry Porsche. Oh, you want me to return it? Okay.’ Yeah, not likely. If at all they pick up the phone it’ll be to say “LOOK WHO’S LAUGHING NOW! YOU WANT ME TO COME BACK AND COOK YAM FOR YOU? OH HELL NO NIGGER! POUND THAT SHIT YOSELF! I’M RICH BIYOTCH! AHAHAHAHA!”

Okay, so that’s what I’d say. But I bet they’d say something along those lines. At the end of the day, you are helpless in your predicament, so all you can do is lean back in your chair, cup your head in your hands and go :’(

So show that you care. If not for the help, then for the sake of your future blackberry Porsche, or Lamborghini or whatever they think up next. Investigate your househelp. Find out where your mom hired them from (there’s often a third party that referred them). Find out where he/she lives (no, not your boys quarters. The place they go whenever they leave your abode). Do something - anything. Every little helps. Do your part. Ask your househelp’s name today.

"Three great men..."

I managed to get through the first three words of this trailer before squealing like a little girl, hyperventilating and subsequently passing out. Season 2 of Game of Thrones looks a right treat, and I cant wait to sink my teeth into it. for now, here's the appetizer.

Maintain

Considering how little I've heard from Olu Maintain since he released 'Yahooze' about half a decade or so ago, I think it's safe to say he hasn't Maintained his high flying career. (Yeah, I said it). He has however had a go at making another video for a song he released last year. Here's 'Nawti'.


I just have one question - Do girls really gyrate in their rooms with fellow females when watching music videos (about 48 seconds in)? asking for a friend who may want to set up spy cams. No, really, for a friend.

For the boys...

Call me a heartless bastard, but living in Nigeria has made it increasingly difficult for me to give a quarter of a pig's flying excrement about the next person's financial problems. With prices at an all time high, and everyone and their mother's brother looking for a tip they don't deserve, I've pretty much had it up to here with parting with the odd N200 at intermittent intervals.

After days of shirking off door attendants, elevator attendants, security guards, policemen and area boys who apparently have deeds to the curbside on which I park my car, as well as having my eardrums besieged by ever evolving incarnations of “Anything for the boys?”, including but not limited to “May we know you? “, “Happy Weekend”, “Any bone for bingo?” and “Oga we dey ya side”, I would appreciate coming home knowing that I will not be besieged by any entities attempting to get their grubby paws on my last N200. Alas, one gets not off the hook that easily.

Upon returning to my house one fateful day, as I alight from my vehicular conveyance I am met with a "Welcome sah!" from the Meyguard - Routine enough. No signs of encroaching fiscal depreciation. I breathe a sigh of relief, give the obligatory "oga nod" and jejely continue on my way. I take a step towards the house. The meyguard takes a step toward me - and Houston, we have a problem.

"A problem?" you might ask. “What on earth could be the problem?” Well I'll tell you the problem. Critical analysis of the Nigerian situation allows me to know that processes subsequent to touchdown/arrival at my place of residence should have the following order:

Arrival --> ‘Welcome sah’ --> obligatory oga nod --> take steps towards house --> insert bodily existence into house

Once the flow becomes Arrival --> ‘Welcome sah’ --> obligatory oga nod --> take steps towards house --> meyguard takes step towards my bodily existence, then I know something is afoot.

Now this is not always a bad thing. Oft, the meyguards approach towards my earthly manifestation/bodily existence is for him to inform me of happenings of relative significance that may have occurred in my absence - delivery of diesel, perhaps even a letter arriving for me. But, sometimes, one is not so lucky. Sometimes the following words tumble out of his glottal cavity:

"emm, I don't know if you can help me..."

Anyone who knows anything about Nigeria knows that any ‘help’ one has to render is purely financial. And as I remember the Area boys/meyguards/attendants-at-places-where-attendants-shouldn’t-even-be, The first thing that runs through my head is “Oh, F*ck no, I can’t help you! Negro you know my ass just got through a day of mongoloids and homo erectuses looking for a handout and now you want me to cater to you? Do I look like Beyonce? I mean, are you not paid for doing your job? Is it not enough? Then tell the Security contractors that pay you - Because we pay them a whole lot to hire you. What are you asking me for? And how does your ass come to the house without transport money to go back? Ever heard of budgeting? Negroloid peel off!”

Now, before you judge me as possessing a heart so black it makes Wande Coal look like vanilla Ice, allow me to plead my case. I was not always this way. I once had the disposition to inquire of the domestic staff “what ails thee? “, and lend a listening ear to their woes. But times were different. Fuel was N65 per litre. I was in College and only home for vacations. I had fewer expenses and more disposable income. In a nutshell, I had not yet chopped Naija life.

Ever since my return to this god-forsaken hellhole… I mean, to this challenged nation, levels don change… and I am not talking 10/10 - Quite the opposite actually. From the moment I stepped off that airplane and into the warm, humid embrace of scorching heat cum Nigerian sweat/B.O at Murutala Mohammed airport, things started going downhill. Flip that 10 around. Na 01/10 knack my akpako.

Now, I may be eating a super-sized bole (hyperbole) with regards to describing my circumstances. It really isn’t that bad. But man can’t lie - living in Nigeria and having to spend a lot of my own money on expenses has indeed taken a toll (insert Lekki pun here) on my wallet, but more so on my mental state. In other words, hearing “anything for the boys” and its various iterations every couple of days has driven me slightly batty.

As a result, I often find myself straddling the thin line between grudgingly letting go of my last N200 and saying STFUGTFO! (note that ‘happily parting with my N200’ is not an option). If I go Lord of the Rings on my moolah and keep it tightly clasped within my fist, something in my heart feels like it is transfiguring into the wretched Gollum, only that ‘my precious’ is a N200 note that can barely purchase one packet of Digestives, as opposed to a mystical golden ring that has the ability to turn its bearer invisible and has spawned a multimillion dollar franchise. Meh! fifty Naira, hundred Naira, million Dollars. All na money. But I digress. The fact is that a part of me sorta kinda feels a bit guilty about not freeing the monies. Because naturally, I’m a caring, stand up guy!

However, the STFUGTFO part of me is not just your every day Ebenezer Scrooge. It’s quite the pragmatic practical thinker – and it’s telling me “Patty me lad, we’ve got ourselves a wee bit of a problem if ye part with yer last piece of gold.”

Yes, my more fiscally prudent alter ego is Irish. Got a problem with it? (¬_¬)

“Ye see wee lad, as ye pile up your monies, little by little, it accumulates, a bit like racks on racks on racks. And before you know it, you’ve got yerself a mighty grand pot of gold.”

Yes, my Irish alter Ego also listens to rap. But that’s beside the point. The point is that by the time I account for all the ‘things for the boys’ I’ve parted with by the end of the month, I’ll be looking at quite a tidy sum. (insert ‘Tiny drops of water making a mighty ocean’ variant here). And that’s just when dealing with the odd area boy or two. They are just after the odd N100. Domestic staff members usually have requests going into quite a few thousand. Talmabout “Abeg I fit hold three thousand?” Three thousand? Three K?! when I go KKK on you and flay your negro ass you won’t be coming up to me talkinabout 3K. mscheew!

It’s not like man cannot part with the odd Ku Klux Klan (3k). But giving a one-off favour in Nigeria can put one on an extremely slippery slope. You give people an inch and they'll take a mile. Nigerians however, will take half the circumference of the globe if you let them. First it’s transport money, then their child is sick, then their other six children come into contact with that child and get sick too. Oh, the fact that they have seven kids to take care of when they only earn so much a month? Let’s not even get into that. Because I will shoot a negro fo sho!

The real problem with household staff and their ‘can you help me’ wahala is that they’re there every time you return to your home. You just can’t escape. Sometimes I feel like the journey from the car to my doorstep is like more difficult than crossing the Mexican border. Park car, wait for meyguard to look away, wait for it, wait for it, run for your life! (Yes, It's that deep). Alas, this man can’t hide forever. Sooner or later the Mexican border patrol will spot me and release their hounds; The ferocious canine beasts will race across the arid desert, chase me down; drag me to the floor, and just as they are about to sink their teeth into my flesh they shall ask “any bone for bingo?”

Lagos Big Boy

A lot of us can go on for days about the Lagos big girls we see around - toting bags the size of baby elephants, with equally large Sunglasses and the latest mobile phones. We know their repertoire and their itineraries. However, the Lagos big boy doesn't seem to get as much attention. Well he didn't till now. Here is a small piece from a friend of mine, Ms. Okemini, that gives an interesting take on the Big boys of Lagos.







THE LAGOS BIG BOY


“There’s a ‘Look’ in this city. Do you notice?” She asks Him.



“A look to the city?” He is confused.



“No, no I mean a look IN the city. It’s a little...strange.” Pause. “I think it’s the men...there’s something about them, you know. Suddenly, they’re all vulture-bald and goateed these days. Leather sandals and white kaftans. Maybe, some ethnic jewellry on the right wrist and voila we christen another LBB!”



Unconfirmed reports have stated that the factory’s capacity is currently one (1) Lagos Big Boy every two working days. With 2 manufactured a week from over a million factories in the state alone, an epidemic is imminent. The pirates have gone on rampage, there are counterfeit LBB’s littering our streets. Gold-diggers arm yourself with discernment.



“Everyone looks the same.” Her.



“Welcome to Lagos.” Him.

That one feeling

Be it love lost, falling out with a friend, a business plan gone awry, or destruction of a priceless memento, I always get a most curious feeling when things don’t go as planned; A feeling that comes when I feel that something has been broken; perhaps beyond the point of repair; A feeling that bubbles, oily, to the surface of my psyche, only to drag me down, into its void.

It is a deep emptiness; a feverish turmoil that grips my mind. I pace, I shuffle, I drag my feet for minutes on end. I wonder where I went wrong; what I could have done better; how it is too late to change things. But as suddely as the feverish storm grips me, I am calmed. I am calm because, in the midst of my chaos, I perversely find tranquillity. I discover the eye of the storm, and there I find peace.

Like numbing poison, this feeling corrodes me, yet I do not feel its sting. A part of me is dying. I know this, but I do not care. I care for nothing. I am in a deep valley, with no shepherd. But there, at the lowest point of my consciousness, am I at my best. Because nothing else matters, I can set myself to task.

Blurred words on manuscript become razor sharp. Jumbled syntax is laid straight before my eyes; I can read. Distractions fade into misty grey; all I see is white parchment before my eyes; I can focus; I can write. Emotions in disarray; letting down their defences; I can push them aside, and pay full heed to carnal intent. I am a machine, more efficient than I have ever been.

But this state of mind is far from perfect - in truth, it is fatally flawed. For while my intrinsic motivations find themselves fortified, a part of the extrinsic world is lost on me. I cannot listen. I hear spoken words, but their meanings die upon my ears. I can read text, but English script is Spanish to my unhinged mind. I am a machine, and while I process input, I will never truly understand it. I will be cold; I will be detached; I will speak my mind, no matter how callous my thoughts. I will be mechanically efficient - but only for so long.

As with most emotions, this sentiment wanes. While traces of prior linger, and occasionally gnaw at my soul, they are soon overshadowed. Other feelings soon regroup, barricading my path to dispassionate efficiency. Phantoms of distraction materialize, restricting my cognitive advance. Work still needs to be done. I pace, I shuffle, I drag my feet – but this time, there is no subsequent path to tranquillity; no quick fix for my pending workload. Only mental exertions will help my cause - but I don’t mind. The mental load is lifted, and, even at the cost of my godly work rate, it’s great to have my feelings back.

The sinking feeling in my gut disappears, allowing me to fill it with food, laughter, friends, and the occasional bouts of euphoria they bring. More importantly, I can hear again; I can let the outside world in, and fully experience life. But that sinking feeling is a drug; and when it leaves, a part of me wants it back. A part of me wants to be free of distractions, to operate without a care in the world; to get jobs done and to get them done quickly. To speak my mind without concern for what anyone else thinks. That feeling will come again, but I will not search for it. When it comes, it comes, and I will use it to further my cause. I will learn from it and change, so that hopefully, one day, the feeling will be no more.

The Maga Chronicles

"A Blackberry Torch? you shouldn't have."



Oh, but of course he should have. In fact, it is expected, for these are the words from a lady to her designated Maga; a man who will spend tirelessly on her, perhaps with some underlying intent.Just perhaps. A lot of women think they are above the Maga, and that they will use him for what he's worth before discarding him. But beware, the maga is not a simple animal. I went on a bit of a twitter spiel which I aptly named #TheMagaChronicles. Here it the collection of tweets:



I almost dont mind being a maga. If I have enough money to buy multiple girls BB torch + brazilian weave, I'm probably in a good place



A basic boy who can barely afford bb bold is laughing at a man who buys torch for fine women on the regular. Go figure. #magachronicles



To the maga, ladies are an investment. you think you've found maga, but maga has added you to his portfolio. #magachronicles



The maga is patient; he will lure you in slowly. The process may take months, years, but eventually, something's gotta give #magachronicles



The reason a maga has multiple women is because he's smart. At least one investment will bear fruit - if not all of them, at different times



The maga is a psychological genius & will mess with your head. While you think he's getting nothing from you, each gift let's him get closer



The maga doesn't give gifts; he gives you a chance to let him in - to talk to you for that extra 2 minutes. To let him crack one extra joke



The maga will extract information slowly, one piece at a time. With each gift/convertation, you let him know something new...



After 6 or 7 gift-versations, the maga knows more about you than your coworkers & some of your friends. Suddenly, you start to feel attached



A couple more gift-versations later you start to think "you know, that guy aint so bad. Sure he's old and not that cute, but he gets me"...



The golden opportunity for the maga arises when youre in emotional distress. He'll use all the information he's obtained and draw you closer



Then you start thinking "that guy's always there for me. Perhaps I should give him a chance"...



Before you know it, he's got you. Maga don hammer. But weren't you the one supposed to hammer in the first place? See how things change.



What happens from thereon out is up to fate. If maga had good intentions, he may wife you after the deed is done. If not, who be maga now?







You must forgive me if the tweets seem a bit disjointed. Twitter only allows 140 characters at a time, and I was just airing some Maga-ish thoughts. No, I am not a Maga, though, as I've stated, it wouldnt be all bad to be one. =)



On the random, I also followed @CharlieSheen today. He keeps me winning with Tiger blood!



Yours in winning,



Pat II

The CEO

CEO of Japan Airlines shows people how a true CEO should behave. Pity it aint happening in corporate America anytime soon.


Peep the link: Here

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

Brilliantly written. Makes me want to go out and do that.

You should date an Illiterate Girl.

Why you aren't married

This is a nicely written piece I stumbled upon while browsing. You may not agree with it, but I just thought I'd share.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tracy-mcmillan/why-youre-not-married_b_822088.html

EPIC DISCOVERIES

I have come across too many Epic things this week. okay, maybe just two epic things - but they are SO EPIC they count as multiple instances of EPICNESS!

First of all, watch one of the most EPIC naija videos out there till date. Nollywood aint got nothing on this one!






I dont Even know if I should make this second post seperate due to its SHEER EPICNESS! I just hope this one blog post can handle the EXPLOSIVE AMAZINGNESS of these two things at once. The internets may just explode... or implode!


This blog is by far one of the best things out there. Read, and revel in the epicnesity as it fills your mind... then BLOWS IT UP FROM THE INSIDE!

www.blackgirlsareeasy.blogspot.com

Yours Epicly,

- Pat II


btw: This post deserved all CAPS!

Parental Concerns

Now I'm not a parent... yet. But I oft wonder how good (or bad) a parent I would be if eventually saddled with a responsibility of such epic proportions. It's a life-long task, just in case that somehow escaped your notice. As a parent I would want the best for my kids, and would want them to be the best they could possibly be.

But how does a father/mother elicit the greatest response from their child - the response, both mental and physical, that leads them to the epitome of their childhood form, setting the pace for a future of success and prosperity? The article below Compares two starkly different methods of "rearing" a child. My choice of word is intentional. Read on, and ponder which form of parental guidance would work best for you.


http://online.wsj.com/article/SB20001424052748704111504576059713528698754.html#dummy