Remember When We Used To Visit Other People’s Houses? (Toilets Edition)

Drinking coffee at a time like this? Are you crazy?

Yes, yes I am. Have always been. And it is not chamomile in those mugs, it is black coffee. Black as midnight, black as hatred, black as the charred remains of Shaka Zulu’s Ancient Enemies. Because, as the poet says, if you wanna cruise, you gotta run on heavy fuel. Coffee premium unleaded.

I never got to understand why petrol was such a pale colour. It looks like urine. Whose urine I would rather not say, because that would require elaborations I would rather not provide.

Okay, if you insist, let me just spill, heh heh, the details.

It was at a house party at Franko’s house. Now Franko isn’t exactly rich enough to afford that kind of house party. That is to say, he has only one toilet in the house.

I would have assumed, as you would, that everyone else would just go outside and piss on the wall, or in the bushes, or on the dog like a normal Ugandan. I did not expect that while I was in the process of streaming my download, some other lumpen would barge into the lavatory, brazenly ask me to make room (He actually said “Extend kko”) whip out his lungfish-looking appendage and proceed.

I don’t want to assume your gender, so I can only speak for myself and my kind. But for men, urination is like the Movement regime, once it starts, you can’t stop it.

Therefore I was forced to stand there peeing with this strange man.
And that is when I found out that petrol looks like the urine of men with big mamba-shaped dongs at house parties where the host has served Bond 7 mixed with Herdsman Whiskey in Jack Daniels’ bottles.

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