By Igbokwe Ebuka
The rest of what he said; I was unable to catch. It sounded like he had too much spittle in his mouth—maybe he was taking the phrase, ‘spitting lyrics’ too literal.
I heard korusi, jamisi and sanusi, words that made no sense to me. It occurred to me that he was uttering words which will be inadmissible against him if he is arraigned to the Badness Tribunal (BT) because they are gibberish. This is because on the badness scale, he is yet to attain Level Zero. This was also one of the reasons Wacko Jacko got broke; the BT sued his ass for his ‘Bad’ hit song.
While Ruggedman is still a Jambite seeking admission, I am like the Vice-Chancellor of University of Bad. There has been a paradigm shift in the study of the evolutionary philosophy of badness: I am no longer studied as the mimesis of bad, bad is now studied as a philosophical abstraction of me.
I looked up the word ‘bad’ in the dictionary and I was the only example featured. I googled it and the first 5 results were articles on my badassry. The world was created in eight days, most biblical records omit this: And on the eighth day, the Divine created him (that’s me, obviously) out of the fabric of the yang. And he completed it and saw that it was very bad. And the gathering of Badness, He called [me]. And He said, Go unto the world and show them…WHO’S BAD! *drumbeat of Michael Jackson’s Bad*
I once beat 11 men. As a direct result, 15 men died instantly, 13 were permanently paralyzed and 12 were hospitalized for over a year for serious internal injuries. You do the math.
On one cold harmattan night, I encountered an armed robber sticking an old woman up. In anger, I picked up a deflated party balloon and clubbed the idiot unconscious. Anything heavier and I would have disintegrated him.
In 1994, I decapitated a goat with one stroke of a blade of grass. I once climbed a NEPA pole without harness- and with two chicks on one arm, holding a 270 pound, 6 foot 6 inch wrestler in a half nelson with the other hand, smoking a 40 inch cigar and pulling a two ton weight with my foot.
In a similar incident, I hugged a NEPA transformer. The transformer got electrified and blew and this put our whole hood in a 1-month blackout.
I am so bad I exude legendary amounts of ultra-concentrated testosterone. I am currently working on a business deal with the pharmaceutical giant, GlaxoSmithKline, to market this product under the name, ‘Liquid Hunk.’ A single drop would have even the most delicate chick a veritable Incredible Hulk with a Rick Ross beard for a day.
I briefly attended Xavier’s School of the Gifted—re: X-Men Trilogy—where Dr. Gray and The Professor examined a peculiar part of my anatomy; my balls were made of adamantium. I didn’t stay long there and this, I think, was related to several scenes of pandemonium which my presence caused in the midst of the mutants. The Professor asked me to leave and I obliged for the good of the public.
When I play football with my friends we pick 11 players per team. When the game begins, its 21 players against me; they just dribble me around the field. Why they don’t allow me to get the ball is this: when I kick it into the post, it does not tear the net—it vaporizes it! The ball gets burnt in the process. Or I kick it into the nearest state; Anambra, Ebonyi or Imo State. That’s just a waste of good balls. When I get really pissed, I kick it into Cameroun. This has caused a diplomatic rift between Nigeria and Cameroun with Cameroun accusing Nigeria for launching missiles that kill cattle in ranches in the Futa Jalon regions.
When the banks got remodeled and got their new tube security doors with metal detectors installed, I visited my bank with my brother. He stepped into the door first. The other door refused to open. Then the electronic voice said, ‘Please exit and leave all metal objects in the box outside.’ He stepped outside, deposited his keys and other metal items, returned and was let through. I was next.
When I stepped in, I set off a series of ear-splitting shrieks of alarm. The machine squealed, ‘Please exit and leave all WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION in the nearest MILITARY ARMORY.’ As there was no way I could get through save amputation, I had to leave. I don’t visit banks anymore.
The reason I was disqualified from the 1998—and all subsequent—World Kumite Karate Championships is that all other contestant registered their limbs as ‘Lethal Weapons’. I registered mine by their God-given attribute: ‘Mass Killer.’ They were ill-equipped to handle that.
The last time I farted, 2 people almost lost their lives. A series of operations and medical procedures was necessary to defuse the threat. After a series of operations: colonic bypasses, rectal filter maneuvers, gastric ferment-flux stabilizing processes and all medical what-nots—I was assured it would never happen again. And it never has. Now after a heavy bean-based meal with my friends, when a fart is perceived and no one’s passed out on the floor, it absolves me of the need to say, “It wasn’t me.”
Mosquitoes (or insects in general) biting me only do it as a suicide attempt; they just bite and die. Parasites in my blood get enslaved by my white blood cells. Vials of my blood cells are scattered in so many research facilities around the world where they are trying to isolate this elusive tyrant gene. It’s called the Triple X gene.
I don’t go to movies anymore; I’m tired of watching the confusion of my favorite actors when I watch them. In Rocky, Sylvester Stallone gets beaten because he usually is so nervous and afraid watching me watching him that he loses focus. In Vietnam War movies, the ambushing locals burst out of cover and run away if I as much as say ‘boo’.
Cocky and confident Chris Tucker develops a stutter (“D-d-d-you unnerstand the wuh-wuh-wuh-uds that are coming out of my ma-ma-mouth!”); I just ruin the viewing experience for everyone. Chuck Norris goes cluck, cluck, cluck when he sees me and the Incredible Hulk gets wimpy and shadowphilic.
The most exasperating is when James Bond, prior to ogling any chick he is likely to bone in the movie, cocks his head to my general direction and asks, “Is she yours?”. I shake my head like twenty-one times in a Bond flick. I also won’t watch three in a row or I’d strain my neck from all that exercise.
And who the hell is Jack Bauer? The dude becomes very diplomatic and pacifist when I’m in the audience, like; “Please don’t kill our President” to a 6 year old with a slingshot.