BumRoll Calls

The VoK has a mailing list which we use to stay in touch with each other. We are all young professionals, some of us being even practitioners of the globetrotting setup...so it's a fairly convenient way to send a quick laugh around to just keep us sane. To ensure we keep hope alive through laughter, even as we take shit from The Man as we fatten his pockets at the expense of our meagre pittances whose 2 digits are only worth the butchery paper they end up printed on.

Talking about shit...Wacha this week we get the funniest email from Mgema wa Viceroy. Mgema can only be described as an artistic, confident Kenyan whose bursts of randomness and overzealous support for Arsenal are only matched by his undying love for Nyakomaber, the hypotenuse of his triangular heart.

Mgema works in the hospitality industry and this week, management at his jobo decided...fuck hospitality, these employees have to suffer for the sake of the budget...cut costs and corners, and of course recycled paper at any cost. Here are excerpts of the communique for an insight of what transpired:

On 4/3/06, Mgema wa Viceroy wrote:
Sweetie, please buy for me a bib-
Can you guys imagine-they're giving everyone his/her own roll of tissue in the office?!!
At this rate, kesho we'll require hankies on our lapels and name tags with our mommies' phone numbers!!!!!!!!

Yaani these guys are being unlash for TP in rations! Kila mtu na yake! This reminds me soooo much of waaay back in the day in an unnamed nursery school (Ms K, tulikuwa pamoja!) where you had your own TP and safeguarded it like a hockey goalie guards his balls with those "nyeh pads". One miscalculation and shit flies everywhere.

To stoke the proverbial moto, Mgema then in a sonnet dedicated to his love, declares that:

On 4/4/06, Mgema wa Viceroy wrote:
Not funny-seriouly-I had runny-tummy jana!! Walalala! I finished someone's ration before early afte!! At least kulinyesha; kama mbaya na-dunk pale kwa compound halafu nioshe na leaves.....

Some scenarios to paint (ah! not like that!)
- Mgema desperately needs to take the dump of his life...the only mama in the office who might have TP is this fly thing who has always had a crush for him. He has a feeling that ombaring TP and then proceeding to the toi and riproaringly painting the "Armitage Shanks" ceramic bowl brown and green (skumas) and yellow (the mysterious maize seed that shows up and you have no recollection when you last dished "corn" from the barabara) wont up his ante with this mama...what to do, what to do.....

- The boss kujas to Mgema to omba TP. Things have gone awry after a cheap dry fry in a kiosk somewhere in Westlands. As luck would have it, its Mgemas last roll and there is this shell session (say that really fast!) he has been postponing across the whole day, at the expense of guys in his corner of the office enduring odiferous exertions of erratic recto-colonic activities - ah sawa, mishutos if you insist - all day...ata fanya aje, watazamaji?

- The boss notices that the previous days newspapers have been going missing rather mysteriously. All fingers have pointed to Mgema who, despite denying having anything to do with any Houdini-like acts, has inexplicable and massive papercuts on his knuckles. And oh, there have been reports of noises (in conjunction to the raucus that accompanies being in the loo) similar to paper being repeatedly rubbed against either in a bid to soften it to Sta Soft meets Velvex status or to start a fire. Or both. Take your pick.

Peeps just need to get jobos in greater-than-cheapskate establishments, me thoughts......