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Duganafi Gaenana Falaeh with Femi (Chelsea) Peters Jr
Saturday, 11 September 2010 17:34
In this edition of Duganafi Gaenana Falaeh, Mr. Peters thinks Pastor Jones is demented, cautions David,
agrees with PC Britain for once, his needs-polishing SOH, Wallet-thinning prices in his local off licence, tells a powerful Hammers fan to switch allegiance and Hahatai. Please read on…Playing with fire…
Here is what I think. Hilariously moustachioed pastor Terry Jones woke up last week thinking, ‘how do I get everybody’s attention, put them on
edge and increase my congregation of 50 worshippers? Right, I will threaten to burn copies of the Holy Koran on the ninth anniversary of September 11th. Touché!’It worked.
The nutter got everyone’s attention, just as he had planned. He claimed to have received over 100 death threats but wasn’t fazed by it.
‘It is time to fight back,’ he stated. Fight back to what, you might wonder? Well, there is nothing to fight back to. You don’t have to be Einstein to figure out Jones is Islamophobic.
With condemnations coming in from the world over, the deranged pastor chose to have a re-think only if plans for the proposed mosque near Ground Zero are scrapped.
You know that Jones alone can’t shift that and that all he wanted off this was some world wide attention.
They say Americans will do anything to make a name.
That cliché would not have been more apt. It is a great disservice that the US Constitution doesn’t outlaw the burning of crosses by the KKK or the disrespecting of the holy books of other faiths.
The world’s oldest law book needs re-doing, I think.
Meanwhile, the men in white coats need to whisk Jones off to the nearest nut house.
The stuff between his ears needs changing.
Haye, easy, easy!
From what I read and watched of a documentary on Muhammed Ali, the greatest thing to happen to boxing , the Kentucky man born Cassius
Clay thrash talks a lot but backs it up and more when he steps in the ring.Fast forward years later, a British boxer is adhering to the same tactics. For someone who named his son Cassius, it is safe to say heavyweight champion David Haye looks up to Ali.
It was lip curling and a good wind up tactic when Haye turned up for the face off with Wladimir Klitschko with a T shirt showing Haye decapitating the heads of Wladimir and his fellow boxing brother, Vitali.
Sadly that fight had to be called off as Haye injured his back.
He was at it again last year when he disrespected Russian boxer Nikolai Valuev calling him ‘weird looking.’
The trash talk worked as he won that fight dubbed ‘David and Goliath’ by the media as 6 foot 3, 15 stone Haye was up against 7 foot 23 stone Valuev.
To promote his latest fight with fellow Brit, European champion and LA-based Audley Harrison, Haye really went off at the deep end.
He promised to bring down the curtain on what he calls the ‘joke that is the Audley Harrison Show.’
‘I will violate him…annihilate him…embarrass him so much so he will have no choice but run off to LA. It will be a public execution. It will be as one-sided as a gang rape,’ he told stunned reporters at the press briefing.
Haye has refused to apologise for his comments stating ‘there aren’t enough hours in the day to apologise for all the stupid things I say.’
I’m a big fan of Haye and I think he is the liveliest, freshest thing in the heavy weight division since Ali.
But comparing knocking out an opponent to a poor girl being raped by sickos is really taking this trash talk too far.
Haye, watch what comes out of your gob.
I admit it is a bit rich to come down on Haye as, two seasons ago, when Liverpool thumped Man Utd 4-1 at Old Trashford, (spelt correctly) I gleefully posted on my Face Book status, ‘I don’t condone rapings…but I fully condone Saturdays own!’
The difference is while it is only my baby brother who looks up to me and I’m sure he wasn’t online when I lost my train of thought that joyful weekend, Haye has millions of kids who aspire to be the next Haye.
A PR to tell Haye how to put himself across seems appropriate.
Hit the park, mate!
I hate PC Britain when schools cancel Christmas carol plays as they would offend other faiths, I hate PC Britain when a 79 year old was asked for ID to purchase wine and I oh so hate PC Britain when families sponge off the state and have the nerve to hide behind some ‘disability’ when they are twice as healthy as you and me.
But I doff my Phat Life cap to PC Britain for sending a 30 stone factory worker home in case he falls and crushes his co-workers.
Fifty one year old Barry Fowers, whose job includes climbing on platforms, had to take a redundancy offer.
Fowers, with a history of angina, diabetes and heart problems explained that he has to climb three feet off the floor to install parts. ‘They were worried I might pass out thorough my diabetes and land on someone.’
If he lands on someone quarter his size, it is definitely curtains for the poor flattened person.
Despite his ailments, he has been refused incapacity benefits and gets £21.65 a week Jobseekers Allowance.
‘I have paid taxes for 34 years and want something back,’ he fumed.
His wife, Shirley, lamented she can’t look after him and he might be better off on the streets.
I have a better idea.
One thing Fowers and I have in common is we love our grub. But while he stuffs his faces and leans back, I stuff my face and find time to work out so I don’t turn into him.
If Bowers wants his old job back, all he has to do is invest in a skipping rope, XXXXXL running tracksuit and do laps in his local park. He could kick off with a trot till he gets the hang of it and set off on a jog.
With dedication and steadfastness and the right diet, he might dwindle down to his wife’s size and won’t have any use for that XXXXXL tracksuit in six months time.
Twisted SOH…
English sense of humor is what I oh so badly wanted to possess but, somehow, I’m always in second gear with my jokes. While what rolls off the tongue of the average Brit could get you in stitches, what rolls off mine gets one furrowing their brows, slighted and wanting to box my ears, I presume.
A lady pal of mine introduced me to her daughter whom she explained was staying with her as she was under the weather.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked.
‘I had a break down,’ she replied and I muttered, ‘You don’t look like a car from where I’m standing.’
‘Did you say something?’ she asked sharply.
‘Just a bad habit of talking to myself, you knowamean?’ I answered sheepishly but the way the cold eyed me told me she heard what I said.
After knowing a pal of mine for three years, I was shocked when I saw him smoking one weekend.
‘Gosh, it’s like I caught you with a man,’ I exclaimed.
Suffice to say, he wasn’t pleased with that throw down.
My dad wanted some fragrance which I got him. I called him up, told him I’ve given it to the person who was going to Jollof.
‘I will send you the bill later,’ I said.
‘What bill?’ he asked.
‘What you think the fragrance was free, huh?’
‘Okay, I will pay it and you also have to pay back the school fees I paid, the…’
‘I never asked you to pay it,’ I cut in, fighting back laughter. ‘In this case, you asked for fragrance, you got it so you pay for it.’
Seeing he is losing out on the war of words, he promised to kick my you know what when next he sees me.
Mark you, not all my jokes goes over people’s heads. A lady introduced me to her friend saying, ‘this is Femi, the guy I told you about who was going to take me out to dinner to KFC and not to forget my oyster card as it is a recession.’
The friend found that hilarious. Buoyed by that, I tried the same joke on another woman. I got the KFC bit out and was moving on to the oyster card bit when she stood up, whipped off her coat to reveal a figure hugging dress.
She spun around slowly.
‘Me KFC? Me? Me?’ she repeated, still spinning as if someone with a figure like hers has never tried KFC.
‘Okay, we will do MacDonald’s then,’ I suggested. At this point, she accused me of being disrespectful, grabbed her coat and huffed off.
I took my partner to a four course dinner at a MPW restaurant located in the grounds of Chelsea FC.
I had every course twice; the bill came and I saw it was a tenner shy of a block. Clearing my throat, I leaned forward and whispered, ‘I’m way short for the bill but I have an idea. I have sized up the place. I can take on the restaurant manager with both hands tied behind my back. Here is what you do. I’m going to call your phone. When it rings, answer it and step out. Walk casually to your car and drive off. I will give you a good head start and run off. I don’t think the manager would wanna chase a guy twice his size. I will get on the train and meet up with you later.’
In three years of knowing her, I have never seen her so petrified.
‘I have £10 if it helps,’ she stuttered, reaching for her purse.
Unperturbed, I pressed on, ‘Come on, I’ve figured it all out.’
Satisfied that I have really put the frights on her, I paid the bill and we left.
That was five months ago. Anytime I offer to take her out, she would go, ‘we are not doing a runner after, are we?’
‘Are you a footballer?’ I asked a guy in JDs sports shop as he was in a knee brace. Before he could answer, I added, ‘I was going to ask for your autograph but you don’t look familiar.’
I want to believe were it not for the knee brace hampering his movement; he would have lunged at me.
I guess my SOH will never be perfected as that of the man in the street. So I will just go about having that wry humor and get everyone’s back up.
Daylight robbery!
I live in an unusual London street. My street is as long as say, half of Hagan Street, give or take.
What is unusual about it is while other streets in the Smoke have off licenses strewn all over, mine has two shops, one half way down and the one almost at the end. Because of a dearth of shops, the guys running both off licences have come up with a devastating business plan. Well, devastating for us.
They know residents have better things to do that compare prices so they have hiked up items in their stores.
An ATM charges £2.15 for a withdrawal, Wrigley’s Extra gum which goes for 35p at Tesco is at a stiff 60p, Nivea body cream which goes for £2.29 elsewhere is at £2.99.
For someone who honed his comparing skills by checking out Paul Maroun’s, Kairaba and Atsons supermarkets for cheaper prices on Shortbread biscuits, these guys were not going to pull a fast one on me.
I only buy what I know is the same price else where: newspapers, gas and electric.
I’m never a fan of ATM’s that wants some of your money. If bankers wake up one day and decide to make all ATM’s charge their customers, I will have to close my bank account and do like my late nan did: bank under the lino.
Under the carpet, in my case.
It’s Barack O-hammer
I’m left handed. So too is William Jefferson Clinton, so too is Barack Hussein Obama. See, you might be looking at Britain’s first black PM, I
told a girl who, when I scribbled directions for her, gushed I’m left handed just like Obama.I adore Obama. Who doesn’t? Well, maybe John McCain during the campaign and Hilary Clinton during the race to be the Democrat flag bearer.
Imagine my dismay when I read this week that the world’s most powerful man is, wait for it, a West Ham fan!
Just when you thought Michelle’s best friend couldn’t do no wrong, he turns around and pitches allegiance with that team that hasn’t won anything since God’s dog was a puppy, that team whose only claim to fame was churn out the Defoes, the Ferdinands, the Lampards, the Joe Coles, the Paul Inces and, oh yeah, the Bobby Moores.
Obama is breathing proof of what a winner is. West Ham has the W word blotted out of their subconscious.
Mr President, there is another team across town, the posher side of town that are winners just like you. Matter of fact, they won the two most significant trophies last season otherwise known as the doubles. They play in royal blue
and have used the US for the past seasons for preseason tours. See, we are promoting US tourism and we are not asking for a cheque for it.
All you have to do is ditch those East Enders and I’m not talking about the BBC soap, declare your love for the blues and I’m not talking about music and the world will be a better place.
Hahatai…
I was told these two jokes last week.
A friend of a friend who lives near Heathrow had a plane crashed onto his house.
The problem was he left the landing light on!
Bob Marley went to the bakeries.
‘Yo mon, me need some bread roll,’ he told the baker.
‘You want some jam in?’ the baker asked.
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Comments
Comment
Terry Jones’ living testimony of what lunacy can embroil amongst a people, since existence of man. Constitutions can place limitations on rules/acts that threaten social cohesion for peaceful coexistence to avoid catastrophes. However, the Holly Quran, like all ‘Words of God’, never sanctioned any violence at anytime, except in defence to safe life under equal-like circumstance. In this era of ours, dialog & reasoning MUST be the yard stick; we can’t afford past mistakes, repeatedly.
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