Byoma; The legend (or Martyr whichever, I don’t mind) May 30, 2008

  

It is dreadfully clear that I am not going to live much on earth. Maybe in some other after life with varying principles from this one I might, but this life? Not a fat chance in runway.  

I’m saying with all the hints I’m throwing that grim hooded reaper’s way and all the winking he’s been doing my way, there’s no misconstruing the signals. Might as well be a Vegas billboard in a cemetery with my name on it. Complete with the blinking lights, sound effects and a caricature of me going through all possible deaths Death foresees for me. I’ve really cut the guy’s work out for him; I don’t understand what’s taking so long.

 

 

 I mean there’s my road crossing tact; you’d think I was white (read, knew the guy who built the road). And then there’s the intoxication. I’m past that cute but abysmally pathetic point where one deceives oneself with that hilariously timeless “I can quit when I want to” bollocks. Not to mention my knack for experimenting. Tell me inhaling cow dung will yield heights unimaginable to grass and sure enough I will look for a cow and in doggy terms, introduce myself. I also have a problem with alcohol. I can’t take booze. I can however take alarming amounts of spirits. And don’t even get me started on the whisky. A wee bit o’ the Irish blood in me, I think.

 

 

This might not count but I think I’m a superhero. I’m yet to get the hang of this thing but in some strange twisted way that can only be explained by my hailing from some strange planet ending in “nite” like Byomanite or whatever, I attract current. You know, the way kids attract Michael; a powerful force drawing the two together that neither party can defy. With the number of times I’ve been mini-electrocuted, death by electrocution would be a joy ride.

 

The possibility of my premature death rates higher by the day, and the event that my legacy be continued, my memory be stamped upon this earth for all the lifetimes to come, is becoming one of those dratted things. An impossibility.

So I am embarking on a damage control scheme. A device to combat the impending risks. Presenting the Byoma trademarks. Copyrighted and shite.

 

 

Kabyoma; We all know that cult sect Kabbalah thing. Yea, well move over Kabbalah. There’s a new guy in town. Introducing Kabyoma. (Pity I can’t pull off the drum rolls, funfair trumpet and red carpet effect as exactly in writing.) I am one of the founding mothers of this group. Okay, I am the only founding mother of the group. Efforts to contact Will Smith to be the patron have met a dead end. I’m now trying for Michael Jackson. I figure the guy has more connections with the other side and whatnot.

You’d be surprised the number of guys that are “dying” to join (he he). Initiation is simple. Do something that involves toes and a blind kitten, nudity (we don’t mind whose) and can get you arrested. We’ll bail you out.

There have been some qualms about the name, however. It is being revised, no worries.       

 

 

The Bum Dance; The privileged few that have seen this dance will attest to the fact that it is truly a masterpiece. I have been well endowed in the buttock region and any African man in his right senses would fight possessed dogs to have me. I came up with The Bum Dance from an… okay so it was one of those “spirit of the moment” (read stupidity) things. I can’t even describe it. The body was not designed to move so. Mine does, ergo my Bum Dance legacy. I’m still looking into getting it registered as a class somewhere.

 

 

Good Will; Yea, yea, yea, I have a heart. Vain it is, but a heart all the same. I’m donating all my body parts to some scientific institute yet to be decided upon. They should be able, with the advancement of technology and what, to make everyone look like me in a few years. You’re thinking, what a champ! I know.

If that doesn’t work out I’ll have me dried and stuffed, preserved and a statue of me trapped in motion doing the Bum Dance should suffice. Think of it as a mannequin for my Bum Dance class. I smell a Google brothers’ fame about this thing.

 

 

If the world is not satisfied with what I have left them (which they wont, you just can’t get enough) then I’ll see what I can do. Knowing MJ has its merits. I could strike up a neat deal with the dudes on the other side and get like five years extra roaming the earth as a discontented malicious spirit. The things I do for the fans.

Pulitzer? No, thank you. Well, if you insist.