Tag Archives: Negom FM

Abou El Leef

2 May

I hope I can make it and chime in before Mr. Leef 15 minutes of fame is up. It’s just that novelty acts tend to have a very short life span, and once their shtick get tiresome, a new viral vid with housewife puppets comes in and grabs the public’s very short attention span. It’s just how the pop-cultural jungle operates; it’s chews up and spits out, and judging by his cave-man rig-out, Mr. Leef should find that humorous if not bitterly ironic.

I’m not hating on the Leef on grounds of his artistic merits, I am calling bull-shit on the whole working class hero motive. For reals and for reals, yo; I hope he gets fucked up his shitty ass hole by a king kong.

I don’t know the dudes backsoty; the funny crooner doesn’t have a wikipedia page, and if you’re not important enough to warrant a wiki entry about you then you ain’t the research. What I know is this though: He’s in his 40s, he comes from a middle class family, and he always wanted to sing with no luck what-so-ever; I am guessing he never had access to a mirror too.

Inspired by premature symptoms of midlife crisis, he found a way to make it work: Endear your self to the masses by, you guessed it, dissing on faggy motherfuckers who have parents that could provide for them, cause if there is one thing we as a nation agree on, it’s that unless your parents were deadbeats who let you sniff a street dogs ass hole, then you’re most probably a spineless fucktard. If you wanna know which camp you belong to, check your passport cause evidently it’s written somewhere right next to the size of your dick. Belittling the less-unfortunate is a the cheapest trick there is, plus, didn’t Adel El-Far dry that well like 15 years ago.

I admire the fact that in his first album (volume 1?) he, setting a precedent for Egypt, discuses the complexity of romantic relationships in a post-facebook world, he did have his hairy hands on the pulse there.

Our society is completely unjust, no argument there. But dose that make it ok for every un-talented douche to use working class frustration to climb to fame and fortune and gave them nothing in return other than hypocritical empathy? I think yes.


Shit on Pedestal

29 Sep

Hi there! Umm Kulthum can’t sing for shit. I would rather listen to technical support trying to explain to my grandma what an access point is than listen to that diva sing one more hour-long song about cryptic shit. Youssef Chahine, that talentless fruit, why does all his agitated characters have a 160-words-per-minute word count. I lose my breath trying to keep up with the dialogue. And for the knockout, Requiem for a dream is just as artistically stimulating as watching two cats trying to blow one another.

If your knees are shaking after reading these statements then you suffer from “shit on pedestal” syndrome. The symptoms include (but are not limited to) having godlike reverence for the things you admire; acting defensive when said things are put under question; brain-freeze episodes when faced with someone who does not share your affinity. To sum up, you’re just another sheep in the common denominator herd.

It’s stupefying how unwieldy normal conversation can get as a result of this. Why I’m suppose to feel like imbecilic just because I don’t think Teer Enta is the most significant cinematic event of this decade, It was a funny movie, but when a movie shines compared to other Hassan Hosni joints it does it really mean that much?

I don’t mind giving qualities to things don’t merit them, what I do mind is refusing to think for yourself and putting down the ones who do. This better be a byproduct of our –already 50 years overstaying its welcome– inferiority complex. It served us good not to question prevailing stances back when we forming a nation and fighting a war, but right now it only solidified odd cultural icons reputation as being historically significant. Who wants to see another autobiographical drama about some schmuck who’s only claim to fame is that he physically existed during the midd-20th-century.

I know it radiates mad sex appeal to be opinionated, but if you don’t know your foot from your butthole then I would advice a different game plan; not knowing shit and caring less about it. It’s sexy and gets the girls motor going, but If you’re going to stick to your ignorant guns on that one then why don’t you go back to your room and watch that Bravehaert again. There are some details that you don’t get until the 6542nd viewing.

Taxi Drivers

8 Sep

Like any Nile drinking Egyptian, I love a good “fucked a hooker without a condom” story, but truth by known, I am getting tired of the confined intimacy of taxi drivers, maybe not for so long.

We are now living through a taxi paradigm shift. One by one, these boxy-black eco frienemies are falling out. In their place we’re getting these slick white air-conditioned joy rides, yet there are some things that I’m going to miss. The personal touch for example, BW taxis used to be decorated employing very tacky DIY aesthetic. The element of surprise, where else would you pay an arbitrary fee, depending on your ability to read the person infront of you, for the same exact service.

One thing I wouldn’t miss is the casual relation taxi drivers had with their customer. I don’t know how it started or why but all of sudden it became kind of rude not to sit beside the taxi driver and hold his hand while he’s driving you to your destination. The new taxis offer a much colder and more distant experience, but I’ll take it anyway. In fact hustling with taxi drivers is a very pivotal Egyptian experience and a constant source of agony, one that we all bitch and whine about to the point that writing about it is just so obvious and uninspired. Yet, no list of Egyptian crap would be half complete without it.

I can clearly see the taxi drivers side of this, fuck, they are the ones who live life through this never ending sham that is Egyptian traffic. But you know what, all this bullshit they soak all day, they take it out on me someway or another, and while I don’t wanna say something harsh like that I hate them, I centrality have no love in my heart for these jerks what so ever. Bellow is a list of the different breeds of taxi drivers one might come across, some of the drivers are hybrids of two different breeds so feel free to mix-n-match.

The Storyteller Guy:
The plain vanilla of taxi driver. Storytelling abilities vary as the stories themselves. You got a wide variety of stories ranging from your basic you-wont-believe-what-happened-to-me-today, to the I-fucked-a-hooker and in some rare instances fables in real life context.

The Push It To The Limit Guy:
You say you’ll pay 10, he’s gonna ask for 15. You start with 15 he’s gonna go for that 20. They are harmless as long as they do it in a I-might-as-well-ask manner, but some of them get real rowdy, avoid those at all costs.

The Daredevil Guy:
Hard to tell at first, but within seconds of hitting the road you’ll notice that things keep getting progressively fucked. Like a frog in boiling water you won’t notice that one until it’s too late. A common excuse they tend to give is that some daddy’s boy cut them off or is pushing their buttons.

The “Walked Into The Middle Of A Story” Guy:
A psychedelic variation of the storyteller; You hop in and the minute your ass touches the seat it hits the resume button on some story he’s been telling the passenger before you. Feels like walking 15 minutes late to a movie, you’re confused and don’t know what the hell is going on. Caution: don’t ask him to fill you in, show any signs of confusion or else you’ll be walking right into his trap.

The Zawahiri Guy:
Easy to tell; Load Quran or Islamic lecture, occasionally asks you if you prayed or not. Harmless but potentially annoying, depending on your mood.

The Eyeballer Guy:
If you’re a fella riding with him, he’ll slow down everytime he comes across any thing with two holes between its legs, then proceed to eye rape the shit out it. Some of them also are whiny as fuck. Hate those dipshits because they are the personification of hypocrisy.

The Cool As Ice Guy:
Mid 20’s, listening to Nogoom FM or some badass (read shitty) Arabic pop via his mp3 player, car all pimped out, wholesome and very friendly. Some though, suffer from The Fast and The furious syndrome.

The Shortcut Guy:
Would rather die than take a regular route.

The Carpooler guy:
Always stopping to trying to persuade people to join his party. Sometimes the taxi would be full but he would still stop for people as if it’s a freaky gag reflex.

The Bold Face Lair:
You agree on a fee, you get it and then he starts sweet talking his way into getting more. By the end of the ride he’ll say that he didn’t really agree, he was merely just going along, and that there is no way in hell he would’ve picked you up if he knew that you really were planning to pay what you said you’ll pay. It’s the same logic that drives men to kill their family to “protect” them.

The “I Don’t Know The Way But I’ll Act As If I Know Any Way” Guy:
This one is the worst, they’ll say yes to any thing, and by the time you find out that he’s acres full of shit and he realizes he’s getting way to little money for the drive the real ride begins. These guys are extra shitty because you can’t really tell them until it’s way too late. Fuck them, fuck them up their stupid asses.

Ramadan Traffic

26 Aug

Growing up, Ramadan was THE time for gulping trans-fat goodness while I reevaluate my favorite teenage mutant ninja turtle; Michael Angelo loved to party, but his surfer dude doozy cracks were over the top. The angsty “Raphael” and the tech-wiz “Donatello” felt so been-there-done-that, so I was left with Leonardo. He was the coolest, most grounded turtle I have ever seen, and he wasn’t even trying. Not to mention his weapon of choice were two swords. I’d love to see a ninja turtle pick a cooler instrument of death. Now fast forward to the time they dubbed the Simpsons and Ramadans synonymity with good ol’fashion fun was over and done.

Nowadays you got the distasteful choice of watching horrid dramatization of social phobias on LCD, or, going to a tent where you watch them with a bigger group of people (speaking of Ramadan tents, the idea is low rent that it’s doesn’t even have to be an actual tent.)

During Ramadan one must refrain from eating, drinking, smoking, and indulging in anything that is in excess or ill-natured. Enduring the absence of these worldly pleasures can be somewhat challenging, but in practice all of them get dwarfed by Ramadan’s real test of endurance, one that even transcends religious beliefs. I am talking about—drum roll please—the traffic.

Traffic in Cairo is bad as is. Now take it, condense this run-of-the-mill 24-hour jam into a 2 hour cluster-phobic sauna session and you’ll end up with Ramadan Traffic. Remember these gigantic spaceships looming in the sky in Independence Day and how everyone made a run for it, think that, only people are less eager to get to their destination and more likely push you over the 6 of October Bridge.

I also wanna give a shout-out to the unsung hero of Ramadan Traffic. I am talking about the guy who—when you finally get off the bridge and into the streets—bolts at you and hurls you with a bag of tamr. Good for him, he found a Ramadan loophole: Help break someone fasting and you get to score a grip with god. It’s like micro banking on a spiritual level–Way to go you cheap fuck, why don’t you assault me with something I can’t buy for less that a pound, like say, a cup-o-nodels.

Alas, there aint no more weekends at the Sahel. So why don’t take off your skimpy bikinis, hop on and put your seat belt tight because you’ll be driving to speeds up to 16 KM an hour. And don’t worry about losing your cool, Yehia El-Fakharany got paid an 7 million just so he turn your frown upside down, so be sure to watch his show, otherwise he’ll be only getting paid to fulfill his life long dream of having a swimming pool filled with condoms. And remember if you’re setting beside someone who’s been still driving you to home, distract him from the pain by looking him dead in the eye and asking “are you fasting or is it like every year.”

Cellphone Boomboxing

11 Aug

Using public transportation is embarrassing as is. In Egypt your means of transportation is an indication for your class, oh you can mask it by saying you’re trying to be more green, or you hate parking, or that you’re trying socialism for size, but the truth is no one would dare set foot in those dutch-ovens unless he had to.

My biggest beef with public transportation isn’t how sweaty stink or crowded it is, it’s these fucks who take out their cells and blast there favorite jam with complete disregard for the rest of the passengers, the balls on them. Nobody seems to mind though; within the working class sharing is accepted if not celebrated, but this ain’t no satellite hookup or ADSL, so why am I should I put up with this bull shit.

Sometimes people wanna share the love, and instead of playing a secular song they opt for playing the Quran instead. For them it’s a win-win, for me it’s my worst bus-riding nightmare. I don’t want to listen to Quran on the bus, and I hate justifying my bus-napping fetish to people, so I always end up with having to choose the lesser of two evils, either to man up , voice my complaint and risk coming off as an infidel, or shut the fuck up. I shut the fuck up.

Tony Robbins believes that people are drivin by six needs: certainty, uncertainty, significance, connection or love, growth, contribution beyond oneself. This list is incomplete because he forgot to add the most important need according to Egyptian people: To annoy the living fuck out of a person.

Arguably the lowest form of Egyptian self-expression, this behavior has its deep roots in the time old tradition of making one’s presence known. People must take notice of you or else why even exist? It’s the same drive that make some ass superimpose his name and email on comedy clips before posting them on you tube, or crediting trailer makers, or Egyptian actors being on every single frame of their one-man-show movies.

And hey guy who must listen to shitty songs on the bus, they’re called earphones, you’ll find them in the same box that your cellphone came in. And if you bought yours third hand for less dough than what you dish out on your hair gel, splurge an extra 5 on an earpiece, you’re the cock of the walk and you deserve a treat.

Me, Myself and Mega

9 Aug

There is a negative correlation between how easy is it to get laid in a place and the gayness of said place. Case in point, the billboard Ads Featuring adult men playfully sucking on ice cream cocks. These images (that I’ve grown to loath) are the dreadful conclusion to this summer Mega ice cream campaign “Me, Myself and Mega,” a campaign that maintained its self-set level of low standards all the way to the end.

I am flabbergasted that nobody else seems to pick on the homoeroticism of these Ads. Can you people even get more desensitized, or has this become our way of channeling our sexual frustration. Sigmund Freud realized that almost everything is about sex (although he understood that “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”) and his words rings a billion times truer every time my eyeballs falls one of these Ads. In Saudi Arabia, boys fucking/sucking each other in high school is not considered gay but just a “phase”, a sexy rite of passage on your way of becoming a man. The way things are moving now I don’t think we’re that far behind.

Also, since I’m talking about my Saudi brothers, I wanna point to that shit-smeared look that our Ad-boys are busting. There are different schools of facial hair grooming, and that rough look is not exclusive to the gulf, but these homies have a different game. I can’t point my finger on it but I can smell that kabsa reeking from these stubbles and I don’t like it.

Now this campaign got its kick-start by a radio Ad, the one with the unmistakably seductive voice of a woman. When I first heard it I thought I must’ve left a Redtube window open or something–it’s straight up dirty talk, and her tone! she was talking on the It’s-time-to-fuck frequency. It’s like that Bill Hicks bit about the perfect ad, a woman holding a product while sitting comfortably in the nude. See, when a guy gets in that zoon, part of his brain shuts down, and it’s the same part that tells you not to photoshoot your self in such compromising position.

Anyway, this isn’t about the big picture, this is about things that makes you stop, things that when combined create what is greater than the sum of their parts. This campaign, along with other cultural pillars, are all poisoning the air with their lethal paradox, one that suggest to guys that fagging out to impress a lady is totally legit—I call bullshit.