My Idiot Boss

So my boss, "pork chop"...is a fat, piece of shit, vile collection of pimple squeezings, sprinkled with festering baboon asses and served on a preposterous assortment of leaky mutilated lizard bums...hot. Evidently I have a slight problem with my boss being born a human instead of a cockroach...but I'm still hopeful that he will at one point be reincarnated and will end up as a pile of unwanted aborted maggots. Basically, he's an idiot who's mad at everyone for having better all around vision as opposed to him only being able to see whatever's growing on his nose and not much else. Or maybe he's just mad that because of his gut, he hasn't been able to see his dick since 1983 and has since had to sit down to take a piss...who the fuck knows?

So yesterday, pork chop decides to monitor the amount of time that I take when I'm going on break, and apparently, I come back three minutes late from my alloted time. I sit down, chill for a bit and go back to this mundane routine of a job, only to get an email from this uncouth basket of hot garbage telling me I'm three minutes late from my break. Three minutes. THREE MINUTES!!! THREE MINUTES???? Really? so that half hour I came in early to help out today means nothing...and you're gonna talk to me about three minutes? Where's the fire? Where's the fucking fire...seriously, coz for my own sanity and for the perpetuation of sanity and peace at work today, you need to show me where the fire is...or I will focus all my mental energies to the point where I develop psychokinesis and see if I can set you the fuck on fire you inconsiderate supply of incessant swine farts. Seriously, this guy has pissed me off so much, I want to take a nice long shit. Like what kind of petty shit is that? Then he sends an email to HR telling them I was three minutes late from my break. I don't know whether to laugh at him or strap a metal rod to his head and lock him outside during a thunder storm.

But I'm the dummy, for some reason, I chose to help out at the work place and forgo one of my breaks to keep the place running smoothly. Never again. Fuck all that going the extra mile shit...I'm shoving my foot up the "above and beyond" notion's ass. Here comes doing the bare minimum to get along at work mentality. I'm telling you...I'll be great at it.

Sorry to vent people...I just had to put it down. I feel much better now. Where are we going for drinks tonight?

As Fate Would Have It.....

So...here we go again with this bullshit. Ok...I so I pretty much knew from a very early age that my luck with women was going to be fucked up for the rest of my life. This started when I think I was in Buruburu Nursery School, where the object of my infantile lust/subject of my only stalking experience, Kathini, went to. Whenever it was time to lala, I'd drag my mattress with my 2ft 3 frame and chase her around wanting to sleep right next to her...an exercise I'd follow through with till she gave up...then I'd plop my plastic covered mattress right next to her and catch some Z's. At least that was until I finally understood why all those stupid mattresses had a plastic cover...coz on one of these inauspicious days, I must have dreamed that I had drank a gallon of Quencher and that it was time to get it out of my system. Of course I woke up in denial and proceeded to ask a bunch of my school mates why they'd go around peeing on my mattress trying to bring me shame....with a big old wet spot on my corduroy pants. I was framed I tell you!! So what if their pants were dry?

Of course my luck with women took a nose dive from there...in high school...my boy was going out with this nice girl. Nice girls, as it were, tend to have nice girl friends, and they both saw it fit that they should hook me up with one of her friends, Miss Babu. Miss babu looked pretty dara-able, coz I guess I wasn't fucking at that point (thus not fuckable), but she had boobs (I don't think size mattered as such, or if I can remember what size they were...I just wanted to cup a feel, and she had a pair). So I get thrown in the water to do something I've never done before, at least knowingly...katia a chick. LoL!!! What? Me? do what? so of course, I had zero conversation points...but chose to put my conversation points from "Hallo Children", the std. 3 version, to the test. Is that the one where they had grass soup?

So I proceed to blurt out one idiotic remark after the other, like what are your hobbies (what???), what do you do (she's in form 1...what could she be doing, designing a rocket?) among others which I think my brain is working hard to block at the moment. It was so bad, I almost asked her what type of padlock she had on her desk. I even started talking about how I like to read the dictionary, and told her which word I read that day: Myriad -- tens of thousands, a large number...I heard my mdomo say, and immediately I wanted to slap myself. At that time I was thinking, you're stupid ten thousand times you idiot...you are an idiot a myriad times. How's that for using your word in a sentence you buffoon! And from the goodness of her heart, she decides to throw me a bone, and she suggests we walk, maybe that would get some blood flowing to my brain and chalk up some ideas. So I'm thinking, ok, wacha I tell her about how I grew up, but decide to ask her about her childhood then blab about mine later. So for some reason, she stops and we end up standing under some mugumo tree. So she's huko talking about who knows what (her sweater was...well, let's just say at the time, I was thinking that when I grow up I wanna be her bra). All of a sudden, I see something dropping from my peripheral vision, and I sorta ignore it. Then all of a sudden she gets a funny look on her face, like she's getting grossed out...and I'm like if my pants are wet again, I'll be sooo mad coz those kids from nursery school are taking it too far now...hehehe...I hope it's not them again.

To my relief, my pants are as dry as a bone, which brings a smile to my face, then I see her scowling even more, and her hand starts to move, and I realize there's something wrong...coz when these gestures start coming in doubles....basically....FUUUUCCCKKK!!! She proceeds to point to my shirt (you know...that ka nice shirt that you used to save for functions/music fests/drama...that kind of thing) and I immediately catch a bout of Tourette's Syndrome as soon as I saw what she was pointing out. Some FUCKING dumbass of a bird had decided that

1. It was Picasso
2. I was the perfect canvass to lay its next art masterpiece on

.....poop art.

The idiotic pigeon had dropped a deuce on my shirt. The good shirt. What??? As if my day wasn't going badly enough, this had to happen? THIS!!! This can't be a coincidence...this is a message from the cosmos itself. There's no way I can't fight this... Upon this realization, I knew at once what this was...unchangeable. I chose not to stand around and wallow in self pity...I just walked away, didn't say nothing to Miss Babu or anything. Just walked straight to the school bus and waited to go back to school...coz from that point on, I knew my fate with women was pretty much sealed.

PS: I did however wage a war on pigeons, and ate tons of them in high school....they make a pretty good stew. They little buggers had to pay for the sins of their kin.

Humble Pie

So, evidently I had become notorious for airing out some few people here and there, but last sunday I was forced to eat multiple helpings of humble pie...and when I say helpings, I mean a ginormous, self-replenishing (with shame filling) helpings of humble pie...and as usual, I'll share my not so good tidings with you my (mostly) unseen and unmet, yet strangely close and hopefully entertained wananchi.

After a long strech of kamataing hoodrats and not so I'm-going-to-take-you-home chicks, last sato while at the club, I hooked up with a fine girl, and when I say fine, I mean so fine to the point you feel your balls tingling when talking to her, to the point you can already see your children, to the point you want to kwenda home with her and scrub your balls religiously so that if you happen to angukia the goods, they smell like a fresh spring day (and by the way, I've been to Ireland in the spring, and I gotta say, spring in Ireland smells nothing like Irish Spring soap. Where do the lies end? Then again, it's quite a leap from asepso back in the day...that was just torture. I mean, sabuni isn't supposed to kill bacteria as well as roaches...but again, that's another storo). So, to my unbrided glee, girl kubalid to come home for my bullshitly (yes it's a word, I don't care what you say...shuddup!!) suggested "after party", lakini in my head, I was just skiaing Big Pin's "I yeng to the beat", and for the shengly challenged, that means I shag, fuck or segere (whatever) to the beat, which was my number one intention with her. After seeing her dancing to dutty wine, sgt. Shit-For-Brains went ahead and had a discussion with Bw. John, a meeting obviously carried out without my knowledge or consent since all of a sudden, I started to realize that my pants feel a tad too tight. By the time I realized that there was anything like that going on, the meeting was over, and Bw. John was pigaing salute to the sgt as if Moi was about to inspect the Guard of Honor. So before anyone could see that I was "pitching a tent", I did the move, the ultimate adjustment...jamaas, you know this one, the one you jifanya like you're tucking in your tshirt, lakini you're actually either lifting the shuma so that it points north, ama you push it all the way chini so that your belt or underwear holds it...ama is that just me? For me, North worked just fine, especially since I was wearing a big ass untucked shirt, so bw. John would have a few minutes to look at the stars before realizing that it was kaaing next to a part of the ng'ombe that was making a mostly futile attempt to go around my waist (I need to keep chanting, "round is a shape... round is NOT in shape), thereby introducing it to a temporary state of depression, which in turn would make my Chocolate Thunder mellow out.

Since Miss Pretty had kujad with her not so pretty nor interesting friends, I ambiad her that I would give her a ride home, and I hoped that the fart that I had let out in the gari as I was approaching the club had been absorbed by the upholstery. BOB tends to do that sometimes...actually, I half expected the girl to see BOB and bolt. We walk towards the car, and I can almost hear her asking herself whether she was going to need tetanus shots after riding in BOB, and I assure her, telepathically of course, that she will not. As I start the car, both of us let out a sigh of relief, since none of us was sure that the damn thing was going to start, not that it would have been a problem, coz I was willing to beba her ass on my back all the way home if the need arose. Shuma irikuwa razima irare dani!

As I'm driving home, in a semi-blizzard, at like 2 miles an hour with a raging boner which was at this time pulsating and thumping on my tummy, I couldn't help but feel like a midget was trying to give me CPR while I was still standing, and was missing horribly. I tried to stifle the smile on my face, but she caught it, so I was like, no, I'm just excited coz you're so fine. After what seemed like a lifetime to me and especially drill sgt. shit-for-brains, we got home, and immediately broke out into a prayer, not necessarily about being seen safely home in this horrid weather (I was thankful though). First I prayed that it would snow incessantly for a week so that she and I wouldn't do anything but chill with each other and shag senseless. Secondly, was afraid that the super alien breed of roaches that now have me paying them rent would please grant me the decency of behaving like other regular roaches and scatter when they see the light instead of shielding their eyes as they do now...I mean...seriously...what the hell. And I think they're working out, and are on steroids, and I coulda sworn that I saw one of them in a vest and walking on two legs.

I apologize for the diversion, back to the story. So, of course the roaches don't scatter, they look to see if whoever's stepped in the hao is a familiar face and as soon as they see it's me, they go back to doing their business, and I see some of them walking behind my bangable item for the night (and possibly for a long time after that as well) and started pointing at her ass with their antlers. "It's all good", I thought, "I get to bang her". I go to open my mouth to say something to her and to my surprise and downright delectation, the girl jumps me, and I realize she's as horny as cow on heat watching cow porn. Huku, I'm happy as a clam and of course, my fingers make my way under her skirt in record time, and I realize that the fountains where they chota KY Jelly must be, coz she was dripping...which made me happy, coz that morning, as I watched the discovery channel I'd found out how rubber is tapped from rubber trees...I'm learning things and learning is enjoyable. School should always be like this. Ok, why am I talking about rubber. Back to the girl. So the girl shikas Chocolate Thunder, a.k.a. Bw. John, a.k.a. Little Rascal and starts to stroke wildly, and somehow I manage to turn the lights off, coz at this time, I'm thinking in my head that at the rate that she's rubbing my shuma, it's going to burst into a flaming torch and that there would be more than sufficient light. So, I find my CD's and start fumbling with the damn thing, trying to get ready for our bedminton session. Man she's horny...I love it! Unfortunately, she senses my difficulty with the CD and she goes like, "si uwashe taa" and I'm like "No, No, I'll get it", then she says "No, just turn it on, coz I like it with the lights on anyway". At this time, who am I to refuse, I mean, literally, who am I to refuse, coz the sergeant has got all control at this point, and my hand turns the light on faster than a puppet on crack.

Alas, the folly of my past actions, and the source of my everlasting shame got to a meeting point, coz as soon as the lights came on, both our focus shifted to my nether regions and beheld a sight that still holds an emotional scar to this very minute. My eyes widened and a cold sweat embraced every inch of my body, especially Little Rascal, coz he immediately shrunk to the size of a baby carrot, bowing his head as a Samurai soldier would in disgrace, ready to perform the dreaded Harakiri. The girl burst out laughing and I stood there embarrassed like a mutha cursing every single god of rational thought for not allowing me the sense to go to the bathroom to make sure everything was sawa. I'm looking at this girl, and now, she's falling off the bed, tears streaming down her face, now twisted to the point of me not recognizing her anymore as she gasps for air coz she's laughing so hard, and I tell my meat that I'm going to cut it off and feed it to my neighbor's cat. The reason for her laughter/my embarrassment was coz balls had pararad like they were floured and breaded waiting to be deep fried and sold as a delicacy...so bad, it was like I had Michael Jackson's balls on loan for the day (does the mutha still have his cajones by the way, ama did he get a vagina? Someone get back to me on that one. On second thought, it's ok, forget I said anything).

I quickly hepa and try to save the night coz in about a split second, the sergeant had sent an SOS to my main brain, "WE'RE AT DEFCON 5!!! WE'RE AT DEFCON 5!!! AMBER ALERT!!! GO GO GO!" So my legs take off, and of course, since the transfer of my reasoning capabilities was being done at a speed never done before, the capabilities went south to an obviously surprised pair of legs, which were so excited at the opportunity to think for once that I ran straight to the kitchen, then of course, the rest of my body realizes that my legs are idiots and quickly strip my legs of this "gift" and as soon as they realize that my hands have grabbed a baster, my body realizes that no other part of my body, save for the brain, should be trusted with my reasoning capacity, mostly due to lack of experience. Soon, I get a rational thought in my head, the first one in what seemed like a lifetime, even though this whole thing happened in less than 5 minutes. I go to the bathroom and wash my stuff, and lotion my equipment. I can still hear her huko, still in stitches about the whole spectacle. I get myself together and walk back to her, halfway in shame, but hopeful, coz I wanted to punish her pudesh for the laughter...and luckily, she thinks the whole thing is so funny and cute that she's more than willing to make me know that it's ok, and boy did she ever make it up to me. So yeah, humble pie I'm still eating mpaka now...as well as her nether regions.

I guess I learned my lesson...then again, I was never really a good student.

I make it rain

Life is a war, when it comes at you, it doesn't only rain, but it pours.

LIFE:
So the other day, I decided that it was about time I went to visit some friends out of state for a weekend. I get my shit together, get my ka suitcase, pack up a few things, not forgetting my spongebob underwear...it's my lucky underwear...I always get laid when I wear that...basically coz it's one of those things that will pretty much start an interesting conversation, while at the same time safely allows you to show a girl your underwear without being sued for sexual harassment. I set off to go there...short trip...something like an hour and as soon as I get there, and these boys are ready to go to the club...so I get ready and we head out.

The club, as would be expected, was full of nice looking mama's, asian, white, black, kenyan too, since we're everywhere like roaches (I swear you could go to the North pole, knock on some random igloo and a Kenyan will pop out with some frozen ugali in his hand).

As fate would have it, I met up with a kenyan one, decided to hook up with her behind since for one, she had an ample one, two, she was easy prey (jamaas were avoiding her coz of how she was dancing, which was basically a concoction of being struck by lightening while being bitten by ants, as you were running away from a rabid dog while imitating a chicken flapping its wings...by the way, I'm being lenient. Or maybe it was in the way she drank her rum and coke...which I swear is exactly how a kuku drinks water...I dunno. Half the time when she danced, I couldn't tell whether she was facing forward or backwards), three she had an ample behind (did I already say that...well, I feel like it deserves second mention, if for nothing else, then at the very least, I think each butt cheek should get it's own mention) and last but not least, I was feeling a little bit patriotic since I had forgotten to celebrate Jamuhuri day last December, and this was going to be my way of paying homage to my people (Bw. John seemed to whisper as he slowly saluted in my nether regions).

THE WAR:
Well, the folly of my actions was soon to be revealed, and consequently punished in a plethora of avenues, because as soon as I decided to dance with this random looking Wangare, this bitc...ok...this goddamn punda of a woman went on to kick and step on my legs and feet so unrelentingly, I almost went to look for a rock so that I could at least welcome her into this little world of pain that she was creating for me...then she kept on apologizing, asking me whether she hurt me. WHAT??? Is she serious? Did you hurt me...NO...you idiot...you didn't hurt me. But you have successfully conviced me that you were raised by a bunch of donkeys which used to fight alot...that's what.

THE RAIN:
So, I decided to man up...I was able to convice myself (dunno about the level of success I achieved with the conviction though) that the tears coming from my eyes due to this girl suffering from severe jackassitis, were eye sweat, I manage to pull her away from the dance floor and get her to sit down. I notice though, that all of a sudden, the dancefloor is a little bit more silent, albeit the music. At one point, I had been wondering why the hell the beats of the music being played were so off...only to realize that this dummy was stomping the ground so hard with her "dancing", it sounded like a wildebeast stampede. Ok...ok...I'll stop it with her dancing...lakini, ai! So as we're sitting down, I start to talk to her, just so that I know what she's all about...and amazingly, she's got good vibe, talks sense and all, she's got a good head on her shoulders, she's got plans and all....she could have used numerous tic tacs and a prayer for her mouth....but I guess that's excusable, seeing as this has been a really long night. Her hair was kidogo jacked up, and she shrubbed only slightly (those R's and L's can be a killer), but I tell myself to be open minded and be an EOF (equal opportunity fucker). She doesn't look half bad, so I decide to chomoa a couple of dingy lines and see if she was going to come home with me. I soon realize that I could have offered this girl a partially populated moshakwe and she woulda still come home with me, so I get my coat and tell her that we can bounce.

...AND THEN, IT RAINED
So we get to this girls hao, and I don't know whether to laugh or to run away or to call the authorities on her behind. First of all, there was mold on her door...MOLD ON HER DOOR...AND in the winter!!! How the hell does mold get on the door? I understand it being on bread or something like that, unless her door is made out of bread...but what the hell??? Of course, I let her open the thing, coz you never know what creature from the recesses of the door might jump at you. We go up to her bedroom, and it looks like it was designed by grenade: clothes everywhere, food remnants...I mean, the only reason that this place didn't have roaches is coz even the roaches have some amount of self respect. Bw. John at the time was going through the motions, fighting with me on whether to stay or not...

Me:Can you see this damn room?
Bw. John:Can you produce milk...how the hell am I supposed to see the room you moron?
Me: I really don't wanna be here, some food in here's so old, I think cavemen left it behind
Bw. John: Do I look like I have legs so that I can take you away from this place? Question is, are you gonna put me in something or not?
Me: Is that all you ever think of?
Bw. John: No...I also think of nuclear physics!
Me: Sarcastic bastard!
Bw. John: Whatever
Me: So, paper or plastic?
Bw. John: Double bag

Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out where they sold full body condoms (coulda certainly come in handy at this juncture), but I decide to make do with that which had been made available to me, and I proceeded to play jackhammer with her sehemu ya aibu...I was drunk and horny, what do you want from me? Besides, she was pretty good at doing the do...so it really didn't matter...at the time. So, after a couple of hours, sobriety comes back to its rightful place in my kichwa, and I see a piece of bread on the floor...wait, if I'm looking at the floor, why can I feel the mattress on my back??? Is that the light bulb? Does this bitch have a piece of bread on the damned ceiling??? What the fuck??? Why the hell does she have bread on the damned ceiling??? Then I notice that my hands had already started calling my ride to come get me from this dump...hold on...I was kinda drunk when coming home...did we get into a garbage receptacle? Does she pay rent for living in a garbage can? In about 15 minutes, my ride comes and I slip out without saying a damn thing...she doesn't see my ass getting out. Good riddance!!!

A couple of days later, my sehemu ya aibu starts to become seriously unfriendly...so I see a doc and the mutha says I got goddamn crabs. I wasn't even surprised...so I'm like just give me whatever's going to kick the stupid muthas off me, and knock me a few times on the head so that I pata some amnesia and forget all that traumatizing shit that I went through at this woman's hao. He does and I apply the cream as instructed, and curse out the heavens on why there was no divine intervention when I was about to get into her crib....a hand, a fight, faint for the first time...something. Then I notice something very strange...these fuckers come rushing to where the dawa is concentrated! Great, now I've patad junkie crabs...they get high on dawa! At least it helps me figure out a way to get rid of them, just weka the dawa somewhere on a table or something and let them go party.

So basically, now, I'm in need someone who knows the law vizuri, coz I'm contemplating suing this doggone woman for pain and suffering...you're all my witnesses.

Valium is my friend...Valium is my friend...

When I came to this so-called land of opportunity, I didn't realize that the opportunities being talked about were not limited to just those ones that I could pursue, but that I was also to be subjected to those of others as well. Not too long ago, I was subjected to one of these "opportunities", and not surprisingly, it was one that was rejected by every single part of my anatomical and metaphysical being. I'll put this disclaimer out there though, for everyone to understand where I'm coming from though. I have tried (and I believe, successfully so)to be accepting to this cultural phenomenon(and in every sense of the word, a way of life)-homosexuality, basically, to me, they have found love that's all there is to it. Sina shida na mtu. But the other day, me and a few friends decided to go to this nice spot (I'm not going to sema the name, hiyo ni advertising, and they haven't given me a red cent...so screw them) which I know is frequented by a growing number of same sex couples due to an increasing level of tolerance among its clientelle, and it was during this fatefull night that resulted in me having to shower about 7 times and want to yell out "SODOM!!!" at every gay couple I met in tao. The answer is "Yes", if you're still asking yourself whether a gay jamaa made a pass at me, not to mention that you're slower than a snail on a hot summer day.

Tom, a 6' 4" jamaa, built like an industrial freezer kept on coming to talk to us jamaas, and me, oblivious to everything that was going on, I thought that this jamaa was just standing there looking at some lesbians attempting to lick each others tonsils, coz that's what the rest of us were doing. It was a good show, but he was one of those people that keep on touching you when they talk. I didn't think much about it, coz Johnstone Kipng'etich from high school had this annoying thing of shikaing your elbow whenever he talked to you, and not like in a manly way, it was like a really weak midget was trying to practice daraing a chick using your elbow, that almost made you think that he was trying to get away with wiping something on your shirt or something. I had sorta gotten used to such people, and needless to say, I was thinking that this jamaa was just being the same way. So my boys go hanyaing on the dancefloor, and me, since I had been playing soccer like a couple of hours before clubbing, I was having pains in places that I didn't know were part and parcel of my so called anatomy, or that of any other poor creature. Incidentally, all through evolution, if we adapt to our environment and stuff like that, why have we not evolved in a way that our bodies would just let you know that there's something wrong, as in instead of pain, the spot vibrates or something like that. I dunno, something...but, as I was saying...I was in some major pain. I'm huku trying to dance with a girl, who for some reason was spending so much time kwendaing chini, she must have thought she was a carpet...and the only part of me that could follow her was my eyes.

In all this time, Tom hasn't even tried to kuja dance with us or anything. A few minutes later, he unnecessarily announces that he's going to chukua a drink(he never offered to get some of anyone, so why announce it?). After getting it, it becomes apparent to me and the rest of my boys that Tom seems to be enjoying the straw more than his drink. Twirling it around his mouth with his tongue, obviously getting kidogo tipsy and throwing glances at a number of jamaas as they passed our tables as we sat down...glances a little bit out of the ordinary...looking at them like the way I look at the last slice of pizza as I'm trying to wolf the slice in my hand like a panadol so that I can jump on the last one. Naturally, I start to get a little bit paranoid about this, but then two minutes later, some random Wangare passed by with an ass that would make your elbows get goose bumps. Tom was immediately discarded from my thought process (I suffer from Severe Lack of Multi-Tasking Abilities) as The Sargent took control and set Bw. John on Auto Pilot. As I was operating Under Testicular Influence, I found myself following the ass to some dark corner of the room (where it mysteriously disappeared...made me kumbuka those majini storos that mboches used to tell us when we were kiddos) just a little bit off the bar counter, smiling extremely sheepishly hoping to be noticed (which was a dummy move, coz the spot I was standing in was so dark, I could have sworn that I saw my shadow looking for me).

As I stood there, tipsy as all hell, eyes half closed and wondering who the fuck had the audacity to turn the lights off at this juncture (someone could get hurt, I seemed to think) of this soiree, I felt a hand squeeze my left ass cheek. On any other occasion, I really wouldn't have minded, but this was too hard, too aggressive, (as my eyes widened) too....and I wheeled around to see who was practicing preparing dough with my booty. What I saw instantly sent The Sargent on a kamikaze mission and Bw. John passed out. Standing there was a behemoth of a man, eyes wide open, sweaty as a mutha, smiling at me the way I was smiling at that random Wangare from a while ago (I sure hope she don't see this shit). Faster than you could say Michuki, my asshole contracts to the size of a fullstop, my butt cheeks squeeze themselves so tight, I could literally crack walnuts with it and my mouth closes itself up so tight that for a minute there, I thought that it had gone into exile (I wouldn't have blamed it either. It's 2007, I'm sure someone will eventually find a way to make a BLT sandwich in I.V. form).

What happened from there is a little bit blurry to me, and I believe this is definitely due to self-preservation practices being carried out by my vacuum of a brain. All I remember is what my boys told me, that they found me curled up in the fetal position and spewing out verses from the good book really loudly. Apparently, they saw Tom bolting out of the club from the spot that I was standing at and they heard the yelling and came to see what was happening. As I came to my senses, I redirected what was left of my traumatized brain to my ass to see if there was any sort of pain that had would have been caused by certain objects gaining visitation rights without a consent that would NEVER be given (thereby giving me the green light to righteously kill a man). To my joy there was none, my pants and everything else was intact. Apparently, all this had occurred in about 2 minutes. I stood up, downed a fifth of jack and told my boys to take me home. As I was leaving, the random Wangare (Betty...and she was so much finer that I had seen) asked me if I was ok. I mustered some few what I believe to be Uzbekistani words (they sure weren't English) and said yes in them.

So, as I sit here, with a couple of valium inside my palm, I am battling with the mild case of Tourette's Syndrome (I only yell out "SODOM" at some people), I wish that Tom gets raped by a really horny donkey.

RAISE THE TERROR ALERT TO "DAMN"!!!!

You know, for years I have been an avid student of the human body, especially when it comes to sexuality. I have let myself delve deep into this widely misunderstood realm (since most people, unfortunately, approach it with a one track mind...to dip Mr. Wang into Ms. Beaver and pump wildly as if in an attempt to both dig for oil as well as create diamonds). In order to fully experience what I studied, I also engaged in practicals (to put it lightly), just to know what I'm talking about. Now, it was during one of these practicals that my self proclamation of indepth knowledge in this field came to bite me in the ass...and hard.

See, like a month ago, I was at my boy's boy's party, don't really remember what it was for, by the time I got there I was already kidogo drunk, and I really didn't care what the hell the party was all about, as long as there was food, women and liquor. My lesson began as I was sipping a concoction of fire and brimstone (coz as soon as I took a sip of it, I got so hot, mpaka I could feel it on my nails). So anyway, as I kept on kunywaing my beverage from the depths of Hades, I see a reflection of a girl standing somewhere in the room, and since everything was spinning, my brain tells me to look stare at one spot and soon, she'll spin into view. Then I force myself to realize that I'm really not that drunk yet, and slowly I turn to inspect the source of the reflection in the corner. And there she was, Lynn, standing in all her ghetto fabulous fabulousness, in a skirt at least two sizes too small and a tank top (or whatever they're called, I know as much about women's fashion as I do about brain surgery). Her wonderbra had pushed her titties so far up, I think I saw frost on top of the things...but again, I was a considerable distance away from her, and my eyesight isn't what it used to be (and I hate carrots). Of course I get all excited, and I walk up to her, mostly in a bid to check her out to further explore the question of whether to katia her or not.

As I get closer to her, I start to notice a few things about her were kidogo off, for one thing, her hair was kidogo nappy, a little bit dishevelled for my taste...and I thought of asking her if one of her hair products was a grenade and if she had used it tonight (I can overlook that...it's kinda been a long night). The other thing I noticed on her was her lips, which were so dry, she looked like she had a porcupine in a deadly death grip in her mdomo...but me being the generous, understanding gentleman that I am (ok...fine...me being the horny jamaa I am) I was like, that's nothing that a little lip balm couldn't fix...well, in her case, a tub of vaseline...coz if she were to give me a BJ with those things I might as well start peeing sitting down, coz I know Bw. John would look like he was attacked by a bunch of knife wielding ninjas. Her toes looked like they had their own story to tell, and I'm sure if they could talk, they'd say that they were living out Cinderella's ugly sisters ordeal with the glass slipper on a daily basis (for those of you who don't know, the feet were being crammed into shoes so small, they practically had to be folded in half in order to fit into the shoes). As in her corns and bunyons were so big, they had their own time zones...just big for no reason...things looked like they were pregnant with some mutant babies. Immediately I blame the booze for my "distorted" perspective of reality.

So, against my obviously better judgement, I go for this girl, probably coz I'm thinking that she's going to be an easy target and I don't feel particularly compelled to work for some ass. So, after using the "I was standing there and I noticed you, and I noticed you noticing me" line, which worked by the way, I manage to convince her to go to some room and see if we can make an real party out of this evening. She agrees and we try to get in to a couple of rooms, which were locked until we get to the room with all the coats, and we start making out like crazy...which at first annoyed me coz she was shoving her big ass ulimi into my mouth like she was trying to taste my tonsils...I mean, how french can one person get? Anyway, soon enuff, she start going downtown and obviously I know what's coming next, so I tell her lemme sit on the bed, coz drunkenness and sexual pleasure turn someone's knees to absolute jelly, and I don't want to pass out with my dong sticking out of my pants should I fall and hit my head on whatever...end up having concussions on both heads. So, she goes to work and I can tell that she has done this a good number of times before... she's really good at it, and I don't know whether to think that she's a ho and be scared or be happy coz practice makes perfect.

After like ten minutes of doing a good job of making my shuma stiffen up like I was about to use it to drill for oil, she gets up and tells me to do her, which I never really have a problem with, but since I really don't know this girl, instinctively, my hand goes into her pants, not to give her pleasure as such, no. I did that coz that's my guaging tool, guages sensitivity of the clit, so that I know if she's more of a clit person or a penetration person...I bet not too many jamaas know this trick, do they? Anyway, as my fingers are busy trying to immitate a bad case of sign language, I start to notice a smell...I know this smell, but this is...it's...growing...I don't know...stronger...worse...what the hell is that...and then it hits me...full force, like a crash dummy in one of those crash tests...and I pull my head back so fast, I actually get a mild case of whiplash. I toa my hand from her pants faster than you can blink your eyes and I look to see if I'd lost some fingers to the abomination that was her sehemu ya aibu...in this case, aibu kubwa zaidi. Then me, in my ?confusion?dumbness or whatever it was, as if to confirm the source of the smell, I do the unthinkable and I bring my hand to my nose. My eyes immediately begin to well up with tears as I look at my hand in such a way that you'd think a shark just bit the thing off. Yaani this thing was tupaing so hard, if it was a baseball game, both the home and away team would have been struck out on the very first pitch of the game.

And of course, the girl pretends like she can't smell it, and me, since I'm drunk, my discretion is out the window at this time, and I make her smell my hand...yaani this thing was smelling of pure evil...and she wanted me to go down on her!!! Kwani I want my tombstone to read, "succumbed to a short whiff of an evil vagina", that shit would be totally embarrassing in heaven...everyone would be clowing me and all. At this time I eye a packet of listerine pocket packs and I start to consider the option of holding her down and sticking a few of those babies in there, hell...she's going to be the first woman to have to rinse out her vagina with listerine instead of her mouth...and she'd have to do it for the full thirty seconds. And then, as if this whole scenario hadn't degenerated into a full terrorist attack, she proceeds to defend her coochie...explaining to me that this is a woman's scent, coz of all the secretions that they have and all...and I'm like kwani you secrete cat poop...coz you smell just like it...I mean...that smell is actually so bad that I think I can actually see it.

Of course, she gets pissed off like a mutha, and I can see a vein pop out in the middle of her forehead, as well as the blood flowing through it (or is it the cat poop?), and I know it's about to get ugly. I try to excuse myself, and I see her reaching for her shoe, and as I try to make my hurried exit, her shoe smacks the fingers which were in her (how much punishment can they take in one day???) I go into the kitchen and find some dish washing detergent and I scrub my fingers religiously with some steel wool that was on the sink...and not surprisingly so, the smell doesn't quite fully go away. I start thinking of exactly how much it would cost me to get finger or hand transplants...and from how serious I was while thinking that, I realize that that evil smell had totally sobered me up...as in completely. I think of letting her know that she could bottle the smell up and make some money (just in case you're not a chaser tablet swallowing kind of person), but I decide otherwise...coz I'm like we need the o-zone layer a whole lot more than we need sober people. Fuck it...I'm going home!!!

I Look Ruff and Tuff...

For the longest time, I have had my little secret reservation about comments made towards a certain section of European women for nurturing their body hair like it's a requirement for ressurrection when Jesus comes back (ai, na amekaa! Hiyo alarm clock yake kwani iko na Eveready? Hizo battery zilisha die). I have to even admit, and not too shamefully so, that I do have a thing for girls with some hair on their "sehemu za aibu" (as my catechist teacher so fondly put it back in the day). Bald coochies scare the religion out of me, and for some reason, they remind me of aliens in alien movies...well, with the exception of that dumb fuck of a hairball, chewbacca...all those years with kina Luke Skywalker and it has not learnt to speak even one word of English...that thing should be shot. So anyway, yes...I do like my women with some carpet for my lips to rest on while my tongue is fanyaing a tour of the area...I'm weird in that way...at least I was, until I met Khira (I have obviously changed her name so that Wangare doesn't know that I'm talking about her hairy behind...shhh!).

I met this girl while still in colle in Kenya, nice girl, although at the time, she already had sideburns...and me I still had that one ka-ndevu that you nurture like it was an egg from an almost extinct bird whose sole chance of the extension of it's kinds' survival on earth lay in it. As in she was so hairy, I could have sworn I saw nywele on her tongue once...but I could be wrong. So yeah, after we were done doing "comps" (wasn't that some useless shit??) I didn't see her behind for a while until I came to this joint. I had gone for some party somewhere and there she was, standing there looking like some strange reminder of a wooly mammoth, and booty grown to magnificent proportions which called unto my loins in a manner that could only be compared to what Peter must have felt when he was called to be a "mvuvi wa watu" by J.C. (is it getting hotter in here or is it just me).

So we get the talking, obvious bullshit about how things used to be back home...I totally kumbuka her shoving down two big ass samo's (za ndengu tena), all at once, when we were on break from class...which by the way she denies ever even tasting the damn things or even knowing that someone could even fathom making a samo with ndengu...but at this time I had chosen not to remind her again since I really wanted to further examine the anatomy of her midsection at a later time that night. So of course, one thing leads to another, and before I know it, she's got her tongue in my mouth and my paranoia kicks in, coz at this time, I'm slightly afraid of choking on a hair...well, in her case, a fur ball. Sgt. Shit-For-Brains of course wakes up and starts to send morse code through bw. John, trying to get approval to gain entry into any acceptable crevice on Khira's being, and it is at this point, I realize her dumb ass doesn't know morse code (some of you may have no clue of what I'm talking about right now...I mean the shuma started to pulsate uncontrollably and this girl was just standing there like she had been hit by lightning like 2 times, stiff as a pole). So I decide to take my hand huko chini on a tour, see if I can jump start her behind, like I have to do BOB every morning (stop it...BOB is my car...it stands for Bucket Of Bolts...nasty ass people). Kidogo kidogo, even before my hand gets anywhere near the prize, she shikas it, gives it a squeeze and tells me Aunt Flo is in town, and that's all it took for Bw. John to deflate faster than it would take you to put a fullstop on a piece of paper (this feeling is kinda familiar, I think in my head). So we agree to meet some other day, maybe a week from this particular day, to "catch up", as she put it.

True to the day, a week later, we meet again, and now she's looking just a little bit different, I could have sworn, she was less hairy, but again, maybe I just wanted to see it like that, coz by the time I got to see her again, I was so horny, I could have fucked her in the ear if she would have let me. Without missing a beat, our catching up quickly develops into catching rubs, to me quickly putting on a rubber in anticipation of digging her out like she was the sole remaining catchment area left on earth. As I'm getting ready for a prolonged session of bedminton, even her, she's stripping as well, and I swear I hear a sound, something like a poof sound and I immediately wheel around to see what the hell is going on behind me. It was at this time that I started to pray for momentary amnesia as well as blindness coz this mama had just taken off her panties and my eyes (against my will) passed to my brain (whatever few brain cells were working overtime at that time...sgt. Shit-For-Brains usually works solo) that unforgiving image of the largest patch of unkempt pubic hair that heaven, earth and hell had ever seen...I think I saw a jamaa trapped in that thing, but I closed my eyes too quickly, as I was trying to rewind my thoughts to that blissful period right before I saw Chewbacca's head sticking out of this girl's coochie (please let it not make a sound...please let it not make a sound). All of a sudden, I get a strong urge to get a weed whacker ama some sheep shears to bring her jungle love patch back to sanity...kwani it's paying homeage to the afro puff era? What the hell??? Immediate paralysis struck every pulse sent to my nervous endings as I beheld this anathema of what was supposed to be the very pivot of pleasure in the whole universe.

And then this girl, like an idiot, goes ahead to ask me if there's was anything wrong. An overwhelming sense of bewilderment overcomes me at this time...and I almost ask her, "can't you see it?! Do you have some poor rastafarian in a leg lock, or is that all you? If you're not careful, some hillbilly will hunt you down and skin your (as my friend Mutunga would say it) fanjina and make a coat out of it. Honestly, people...why would anyone in their right, God given and hygenically conscious mind have pubic hair that long....unless she was trying to save some money by growing her own braids.

Now, I know you're wondering about what I did afterwards...and like any other mwanaume, I did hit it, coz yes I was hornier than a jogoo during mating season (by the way, that little move a jogoo does when it's about to shag a hen...you know, the one it stretches its wing right next to the hen...me, I think the jogoo is ambiaing the hen..."haki Wanjiru, ukiwacha tu niingize, nitakununulia Skirt...wacha hata nikupime", which might also be wrong...but you never know). Yes, I finyad the hell out of her...punished her pudesh like it was responsible for hunger in somalia. I still haven't seen her from that day, but every once in a while...I hear cries of help from the distance, and I can't help think to myself whether they're coming from Wangare's sehemu ya aibu.