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We run out of fuel for our planes. We keep borrowing and run further into debt. We run the economy into the ground. The Banks run after us cos we defaulted on our loans. We run against corruption while running towards it. We run 70% out of MBs before we even load the MBs!
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For all we know, there might be more variants in the world than number of Ugandan MPs. It’s now almost like a variants race [see ‘arms race’]; and you get the sense that every country is as though striving to be perceived as the one with the most powerful mutation of the virus. “Hey! Our variant is deadlier. And copyrighted! Get your own!” India yells at America.
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Problem is, nearly everyone that passes you looks like the girl in gold and blue. Seems like a wonderful problem to have, but being new to the culture, you’re quite cautious whom and how you ask for directions—what if she screams and people think you’re harassing the girl! The last thing you want (at least not yet!) is to behold the Heavens opened and the Son of man standing at the right hand of God!
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With his ribs and side already thoroughly tenderized from that massive blow, just a little spice for treatment and Goatie will be cremated on the grill. He will thereafter receive a befitting send off accompanied with a glass of buttery wine.
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I strongly recommend you also buy yourself an original set of fake nails to use during the nail-biting penalty shootouts. Otherwise, after those extremely tense 10 minutes of penalty kicks, you might be shocked to find that not only are there no nails left on your fingers, but there are no fingers either! You nibbled on them! All you have left is your palms. So, now you even look like a leper.
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Overall, I sense that there’s more faith in our great leaders teaming up to pull this off and bring that trophy home, than there is in our African soccer boys outclassing the rest of the world to deliver the $20m trophy.
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Argue all you want to, but it’s general knowledge that every woman has got a minimum of two birthdays. Yet it’s only on one of those birthdays that you’re permitted to compute a plus-one to their age; and—wait for it!—you’ll still not know how old she is! Tell you what: it’s probably easier to discover the whereabouts of Cleopatra’s tomb than it is to establish a woman’s actual age!
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