On some evenings,
a random relative pops in for a chat with Mother – a little gossip here and
there. I never bother to listen because (*dotcom whine alert*) it kills my internet vibe. While they
blabbermouth, I’m all chill on the sofa, tweeting away like I don’t put on my
pants one leg at a time like everyone else.
 |
| Bitch, Dant Kill My Vibe |
I could've tried to follow their conversation if it didn’t sound so much like Yoko Ono singing.
It would’ve been
easier if I wasn’t reading Joan Rivers’ bat shit crazy book. Even easier if I
wasn’t watching Klint the Drunk on that NTV show – the one with the dude who
has a closet which looks like your dirty laundry basket.
Despite all that,
a story caught my attention and I thought I might just share it with you, my
dear *insert relationship status here*. It is high time I wrote something that didn’t leave me feeling entirely like a literally gas bag or a transcendental schmuck.
This young girl,
let’s call her Miss My-Thighs-Are-Never-Never-Ever-Getting-Back-Together. She’s
my cousin, or niece. Sometimes I fail to get the difference.
Apparently, this
girl’s legs have spread so far and wide, the only way she can get them together
is by calling for a parade every last Tuesday of the month.
| So good to have both of you here again. Now, in our last meeting... |
Rumour says she has
had sex in places which are so tiny, that the rats that live there are
hunchbacked.
Sadly, she got
knocked up in one of these dingy hideouts sometime last year. Slutty Legs
didn’t know who the father was. Slutty Legs put it on some pimple-faced high
school-dropout. I’ve met this guy. He is so nice it is irritating. You know
those people who never fail to compliment? You tell him that some white chum killed Thirty Three bloody kids and buried them in his back yard and he says;
“Well, he sure
was a hardworking fella,” he ponders, “All the thirty three?! Boy, he must have
a really huge back yard.”
His niceness,
however couldn’t keep the girl’s parents from fining him 1.8Mill – UgShs –
Cash.
*Checks Forex
Markets*
Yes, those will
be 720 Cold Nile Special Beers.
Sighs.
When I refuse to
cross with high school girls with their heart-shaped asses and wry smiles,
people call me a fala. And I don’t mean to brag but the fact is that if Campus
babes checked me out half as much as high school girls did, I would have
something resembling a sex life. But I’ve been turned down by so many Campus
babes, I should probably apply for government funding.
When the baby was
born, it was handsome, which was confusing because my friend Pimple-Face looks
something like a black avalanche.
| That's your son. You both look hungry. See? |
The girl thought that perhaps the kid had
a condition like slow metabolism or a glandular condition and would, in a few
months, ease into its father’s ugliness. It didn’t happen.
Instead, the baby
looked more and more like the twins who smoke weed down by the river.
It gets better.
The twins came to
demand for their kid – separately.
At this point,
the story teller started unwrapping a candy bar slooooooowlyy and annoyingly,
demanding one more like on Kukuss Blog.
But he knew that
if you turn your radio volume down to the bottom, you’ll hear Mama Fina tell
the end of the story. So he’ll continue. Because he’s such a show off.
The twins are
gut-chewing, good for nothings who steal their auntie’s purse money at times.
They live on the streets looking for a quick buck.
To date, my
cousin doesn’t know which one of these goons is her baby-daddy because they are
totally identical.
Pause.
This is the part where we play the Which-family-is-more-disappointed game.
It’s kinda like the Radio-Lillian-Weasle scenario. Except
that my cousin, Miss Slutty, is a nun when compared to Miss Lillian. Like babe,
Radio and Weasle are not even twins!
Blech
Anyways, I have
nothing on her. Who knows? Maybe when she was studying The Balanced Diet in
Lower school, the teacher overemphasized the point that semen was one of the
four basic food groups.
I bet the twins
sometimes got to the riverside and be all chill and smoking weed and one of em goes
like;
 |
| "Dude, you know that baby could have easily been there before I hit her?" |
The other is
like;
“I know, right?!
That’s why you’re getting the diapers today.”
* * *
On a serious note
though, defilement (and bestiality) is some serious shit nowadays. Young girls
are promised dates with free meals while the goons get free feels. I don’t know what they promise the animals though, I’ll refer that query to the Kenyans.
But if you’re one
of those girls with a Jamaican dancehall ass and the abs of a lesbian gym owner
and the arms of Michelle Obama and doll tits and you’re all for guys’
attention, please, set yourself on fire – you’ll have our undivided focus. Don’t
shag every Dong, Dick and Jimmy.
You don’t know what you might catch out there.
My friend Pimple-Face lost his parents to HIV so what’s to say everyone in this
story isn't already six-under?
To learn more
about defilement, like this page and join the movement to stop the
scourge.
Yours truly,
Still Not Getting
Any
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Hey, stop touching yourself!
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