As a normally rational human being with above average intelligence, there are some things that positively tick me off and I have taken the trouble to compile them all here. Think of it as a means of improving public relations, because these things tick off other people too. In fact the very sight of you probably ticks some people off!

THE TELEPHONE

At first glance it appears innocuous enough but believe you me, the telephone is one of the most abused instruments on the face of this planet and this is precisely what I shall address first:

I don't care if you are Miss Nairobi, Miss World, Miss Kenya, Miss Tourism, Miss Environment, Miss Farming, Miss Science, Miss Agriculture, Miss Education, Miss Demeanor, Miss Ing, Miss Terious, or Miss Take -- the next time you call me at 2 in the morning and bleat "Guess who!" into my ear will be the day I take out an ad in the paper in which I shall advertise that all your property is for sale (dirt cheap) and invite callers to telephone bids, and seeing as you work early morning shift can the calls please be made at 4:00 in the morning?

There is also a species of individuals called flashers. These cheapskates call you, wait for the phone to ring once, cancel the call and then wait for you to call them back. Being the good jamaa you are, you call back, because after all there may be something important. It is with stunned amazement that you listen to someone whinnying on the phone "SEMA dude! I WAS JUST CALLING to say hi..." Wot the hey? YOU were just calling? IDIOT! If you are too cheap to buy credit sell the phone and buy some you cheap waste of space!

Why oh why do you call me in the middle of the night then after I pick up the phone your retarded mind directs you to ask me "Sorry, have I woken you up?" Well, news flash: HELL YEAH you've just woken me up! And as if that is not bad enough the shoe where your brain should be directs you to say "Sorry, let me call you later then." News flash number two: IDIOT! You wake me up and then change your mind about talking? WOT THE HEY?! Brain transplants are going cheap in the Philippines! Have two while you're there!

I don't give a hoot, two hoots, or indeed any number of hoots how many features your phone has. I don't care if it has digits 0 through 9 then for good measure 10 through 20. I don't care if your phone can brew coffee, make toast and type 30 words per minute. I am least bothered if it is smaller than your peanut size brain. News flash: no one else cares either so all that hot air you spew extolling the virtues of your phone is going to waste! Work for NASA's hot air balloon division and put your talents to use there!

If you are behind the wheel of a moving car and are simultaneously attending to a mobile phone call then my son you had better be calling God to say that you're coming. I refuse to die on the road because your Billy-goat mind was engaged in asking if akina Bob has brought the meat. If you speak on a mobile phone (without the hands-free gadgets I mean) you are a jackass! HEE HAW!!

(From Anissa:) If you jolly well know that you are not going to call, don't say that you will! Don't waste my time! Why would anyone in their right senses say that "I will call at 8:00" then at 8:00 your sorry behind is playing hopscotch with the estate children and I am wasting my valuable time waiting for your sorry behind to call, and then wondering if anything has happened to you?

We also suffer from clever swine who call you, stutter that the connection is bad and suggest you call them back. To these clever individuals I have this to say: "May two pineapples be tied together, smothered with cream, strawberries and sugar and SHOVED RIGHT UP YOUR NOSTRILS!!!" It is like saying this hose pipe has a hole on my end. Put the tap on the other end and the hole will go away!!

THE RAVE

Man is a social animal and there inevitably comes a time when he wants nothing more than good company, good loud music, food and drink, and a dance floor on which he can twist and throw himself in a manner guaranteed to attract the attention of everyone within a ten meter radius, under the guise of dancing. This is good and noble and healthy. But there are some things that some sons and daughters of their parents do during these sessions that beggar both belief and description.

There are those jamaas who are generally peace loving until they get some alcohol in them. Once this is done they imagine they are a combination of Superman, Batman, Spiderman and PacMan. They pick fights with dudes whose wrists are bigger then their own thighs and end up getting the snot beaten out of them. Then, battered, bruised and smarting from the shame and the very real agony, They then proceed to look for you, who is busy minding his own business, to act as their backup, needlessly inviting you you to an early grave. IF you do this you are a TOAD!!!

If you are the kind of jamaa who waits for me to order meat, chill for it to be roasted then when the platter is brought to the table you start whinnying like a horse from across the floor and you gallop across Carni faster than Moses did the Dead Sea to come and "see how I am doing", basi wewe ni mjinga. You have the IQ of a tin of Blue Band. I have no beef with you seeing how I am doing. I have beef with you extending your hooves across the table to help yourself to MY meat. GO AND NEIGH SOMEWHERE ELSE!!

And while we are on the topic can some dudes explain to me why they find drinking themselves senseless such an achievement? Is there some sort of glory attached to throwing up the peanuts, meat, Patco, mabuyu, roast maize, milk and Big G you have been partaking of all day all over the floor? Personally I have no beef listening to a jamaa telling me how after the 5th Safari Cane he started believing he was a combination of James Bond, Superman, a Boeing 747 and a rubber band and tried to fly around Kengele's. In fact I find it amusing. Lakini boss, it can chill. There's no need for you to come galloping over to me the instant you see me, eyes reminiscent of a traffic light, especially if I am accompanied! I don't want to listen to your drunk stories then!

The next jackass who looks at me with cow-like eyes when the bill comes and tells me sheepishly that he has "forgotten his wallet in the car" atashangaa kweli. You will be too shocked. Utagutuka na kuduwaa. This excuse should be retired with full honours along with the Kuku Dance. If you have forgotten your wallet the management will undoubtedly be glad to remind you how to wash dirty dishes and peel potatoes!

And to our sisters who wear spaghetti straps and then proceed to throw their hands in the air, and wave them around like they just don't care do take the trouble to establish that there is no hair languishing in the armpit. I have seen some growths so rampant that I thought the lady had cancer of the armpit or something. It does not matter how demure your smile is, or how fetching your new outfit looks -- if it seems to me that you need a combine harvester to trim the hair in your armpit I shall flee precipitately from you. It shows that your moustache may be longer than mine and your beard richer, and trust me that is not a plus if your chromosomes are XY. In school we used to rub rulers on our hair and use it to attract bits of paper. Upon seeing some of the growths on our fair ladies you'd think if she sat on the table and raised her arms very mysteriously the menus and bills on the table would start drifting in her direction! Jinyoe ki-Nacet!

Do you bring your beer to the dance floor? Do you smoke while on the floor? Do you bring your glass of your drink to the dance floor? If you have answered yes to any of those questions then you are the missing link between man and monkey. Bringing your bottle of Kumi Kumi, your filter-less cigarette or your glass of gum to the dance floor is a bad idea. You will spill it on someone who will object to it. He will probably shove your eyes down your throat so you can watch him kick your behind. And I will cheer on every second. I am sick of getting cheap drinks poured on me and kiwenzawenzaing on broken glass. In fact if you break a bottle on the dance floor you should be made to sit on it!

Beatrice takes exception to the breed of jamaas who shamelessly tag along with their chicks, rubbing their grubby feet on your leather interior and wiping greasy palms on your windows when you decide to go out. You drive him to the rave and immediately you are in the door the dude disappears into the wild blue younder. The next time you see him he is very much the worse for wear and is trying to persuade some other maiden that he is James Bond on an undercover mission. And at the end of the night the cabbage again is on you for a ride home!

A simple rule when going out -- if you can't pronounce it, can't spell it and don't know what it tastes like, LEAVE THE DRINK THE HELL ALONE! Leave it! No one cares how may tequilas you can down before regurgitating them. No one wants to be your unofficial waling stick? Boss, the next time you try to fly I am going to point out the nearest window, and if we happen to be in K2 -- pole bana!

People

SOCIETY AT LARGE

Do you know what 'separate bills' are? Well, you're jolly well going to find out the next time you pull a stunt like this. I am a very reasonable jamaa -- when I invite you for a nice lunch I have budgeted to pay for two I have booked a table for two at the back of the restaurant.. And so when you appear at the restaurant with the chick you've been tight with since kindergarten, another chick who you shell peas with on weekends, another who you compare corns with, another who you exchange stockings to wear on the head and another you met at the door you will understand precisely what I mean. I am sick and tired of inviting someone for lunch or a drink and she shows up with 15 buddies, a maternal aunt, a paternal aunt, her 2 grandmothers, her mother, her third, fourth, fifth and nth cousins (where n is a large number) the family dog and the family cat. Are you aware what a rat's ass is? Or a monkey's crap?? That is precisely what I am not going to give. If you and your gaggle of girls have forgotten how to wash dishes and peel potatoes you will learn quick smart when I ask for separate bills and pay for myself. Those are the manners of a CRETIN!

There is no need for you to tell me what you drive or where you live. This is chiefly because I don't give a monkey's crap, or that of any other animal, whether you drive a Merc or unaendesha period. I don't care if your house is in Lavington or in jeopardy. You can live under a kimbo carton for all I care. I especially object when you tell me and I didn't ask you where you live or what you drive in the first place!. And I really mind when you ask me to tell your audience what you drive, smiling like an excited donkey. The next time you do that I will tell them your transport is a Black Mamba, with a radio on the handlebar, a rear-view mirror, a carpet, a spare wheel and a mudguard with the legend 'MZEE NI WEWE!'

This HOGWASH of being fashionably late is getting strongly on my nerves. Quite frankly I don't give a hoot, or indeed any number of them, if you are perfection on earth and a celebration of creation. When I asked you if 1:30 was okay for lunch and you said yes, I knew what the hey I was talking about. And when you said 'yes', so did you! Hearing your pigeon toed footsteps at 10 to 3 will not do anything for my mood I assure you! If 1:30 was not ok why the hell did you say so in the first place?! Ushindwe wewe!

And then there are some jamaas who sadly undermine the good name of gentlemen's agreements. You make a bet. You win. Then this feller exhibits behavior shadier than a Mugumo tree. A cat starts telling you yes, you've won, and no, he's not refused to pay, but you didn't agree on when! Jamaa, you deserve to be force fed with paraffin and when your body is ejecting the paraffin, both ends if your alimentary canal should have matches applied to them! GOON!