It's been a while since I hit the dancefloor. I knew I had to get back in the clubbing scene this Weekend. Too much piety is not good for the soul. I put my tusbax down, rubbed my prayer bump, and got ready to touch skimpily dressed cadaan girls where the clerics told me not to.
People underestimate my salsa moves. They think if you're middle age you have no game. I knew I had to set the record straight. So I called up Abdisamed and Sharmarke and said "Let's roll". Abdisamed told me he'd love to see me relive my salad days, but that he was down with a bad case of osteoporosis. A pity 'cause Abdi really knows how to make groping look like just another regular dance move.
It was only me and Sharmarke for the night. The nightclub we strolled into was so hot it felt like I was breakdancing in jahannam, beads of sweat running down my buttcrack. I got a couple of digits, but I suspect one is fake. As for the brunette who gave me a real one, I noticed she only worked up interest in me when I told her how much my Rolex was worth. I'm not rich enough for her to be a gold digger. She will only be digging up silver.
I ran into a couple of Somali guys who were dressed to the nines. Or so they thought anyway. I've never seen a more goofy looking pair in my life, and I've seen it all in my long life on God's green and pleasant earth.
Why do Somali guys always rock ill tailored suits? They've got no dress sense. Wallahi I suffer a cardiac arrest whenever I see these Borat lookalikes with their hand-me-downs at my local wine bar hitting on fake blondes with nothing stronger to steady their nerves than a glass of orange juice. It's always oversized or poorly fitted or the colour coordination is way off like a pint of caano geel well passed its sell by date.
You know it's the first time the qaxooti is wearing a suit just by clapping your eyes on him. I've never seen a guy attired in a suit repping the community well. They've got no swag, no style, no mojo. A bunch of sartorial incompetents. I'm never going back to that club again. I'm writing a style guide for Somalis called How To Wear A Suit. I will post it on SSpot. Look out for it folks.
People underestimate my salsa moves. They think if you're middle age you have no game. I knew I had to set the record straight. So I called up Abdisamed and Sharmarke and said "Let's roll". Abdisamed told me he'd love to see me relive my salad days, but that he was down with a bad case of osteoporosis. A pity 'cause Abdi really knows how to make groping look like just another regular dance move.
It was only me and Sharmarke for the night. The nightclub we strolled into was so hot it felt like I was breakdancing in jahannam, beads of sweat running down my buttcrack. I got a couple of digits, but I suspect one is fake. As for the brunette who gave me a real one, I noticed she only worked up interest in me when I told her how much my Rolex was worth. I'm not rich enough for her to be a gold digger. She will only be digging up silver.
I ran into a couple of Somali guys who were dressed to the nines. Or so they thought anyway. I've never seen a more goofy looking pair in my life, and I've seen it all in my long life on God's green and pleasant earth.
Why do Somali guys always rock ill tailored suits? They've got no dress sense. Wallahi I suffer a cardiac arrest whenever I see these Borat lookalikes with their hand-me-downs at my local wine bar hitting on fake blondes with nothing stronger to steady their nerves than a glass of orange juice. It's always oversized or poorly fitted or the colour coordination is way off like a pint of caano geel well passed its sell by date.
You know it's the first time the qaxooti is wearing a suit just by clapping your eyes on him. I've never seen a guy attired in a suit repping the community well. They've got no swag, no style, no mojo. A bunch of sartorial incompetents. I'm never going back to that club again. I'm writing a style guide for Somalis called How To Wear A Suit. I will post it on SSpot. Look out for it folks.