In Uganda, you can see them every Saturday night at Bubbles Irish Pub—a group paler than the living dead, more opinionated on race relations than Donald Sterling, and drunker than Dudley Moore at Peter O’Toole’s stag party. They are, of course, the lifelong expatriates. Continue reading
It was time to get out of Kampala. During the week leading up to Easter, I asked a man who cut in front of me at the grocery store if he was stupid. When he assured me he was not, I proceeded to call him a series of words that would make an etymologist blush. On my walk home, I boldly asked passive starers on the roadway, “What the fuck are you looking at?” Walking through my front door, I yelled at the neighbors’ abandoned barking dog innumerable times to “shut the fuck up”. There were a lot of fucks in my life. Continue reading
Everything is legal in Uganda. Want to snort coke off of a prostitute’s back as you club a baby elephant to death? Go right ahead. To be fair, this act is illegal (when done in combination) due to the obvious fire hazards. However, it magically becomes a legally-sanctioned activity for (and I’m absolutely just guessing here) $20. In Vegas, you have to spend at least 20 times that—and you don’t get to choose the elephant.