We don't bite…unless you're into that sort of thing


One Person’s Dead Is Another Person’s Love

Do not look at me as a prophet of doom for the words I’m about to say. Rather, I reveal the deep truths that we refuse to admit even to ourselves.

SCIENCE HAS FAILED US! How you might ask? Simple. We don’t have robot sex dolls.

I would be more than justified in using this space to bemoan the pathetic state of our sciences and our scholars and our technology, but I’m just not that kind of guy. I’m the kind of guy who thinks beyond his present circumstances and tries to solve the problems that he’s presented with. And there’s only one obvious solution to this dire situation: Necrophilia.

It really is the perfect blend of human contact without the inconvenience of human interaction. Our techniques of human preservation mean that bodies can be maintained in pristine condition after death for a long time. And all it’ll take to get corpses flexible again after rigor mortis is a few strategically placed metal joints. And if you think that is impossible, think of the artificial joints surgeries all over the world that replace knees, elbows and hips. It’s only a small step to doing the same to the dead. It’ll actually be cheaper since you don’t have to worry about anaesthesia and quality of (after)life.

And for all those with petty moral concerns, GET OVER YOURSELVES! You want to deny hundreds of people the joys of having a human sex partner with no demands of their own! What kind of monsters are you!? Yes the partners might be dead, but that’s better than the nothing that those people currently have. It’s not like these corpses will be diverted from some critical function. In fact, we’d actually be using them to bring even more happiness to the world. And I’m sure that if it’s one thing our loved ones would like to know they brought to this world even after their passing, it’s happiness.

Don’t bury or cremate your loved ones. Instead, donate their body to that sexless friend or frustrated who you know could use some good lovin’. In the immortal words of Michael Jackson, you’ll be doing your part to heal the world, to make it a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.


To World Domination

If you’ve spent some time on this blog then you probably know that the end goal is world domination. What might surprise you however is how long this plan has been in motion. See, when I was a kid we had a giant picture of Jomo Kenyatta, Kenya’s first president, hanging somewhere. Kenyans know the one. The iconic image with the fly whisk.

Now I didn’t know who he was exactly and I certainly didn’t know he was dead at the time. But, because I was a stubborn child who refused to ask questions when I could make my own (horribly uninformed) conclusions, I decided he was the world ruler. Why else would we have a picture of him? Solid reasoning, right? And in a moment of childlike confidence I declared that I would take his job. It was a vow I took very seriously as you can see:

Your king has arrived

Your king has arrived

As it turned out the entire office of world ruler was unoccupied so (sadly) I don’t have to unseat anybody. But (again, sadly) I do need you people to actually get the office. Dictatorship ain’t what it used to be. So i (not really) humbly come bearing gifts.


Look at the hope in that child’s eyes. Do you want to crush it? Are you trying to get in the way of that dream? Do you dance in a field upon the forgotten corpses of children’s hopes?

If not then support our domination. Vote for us here.



In case you’re a heartless bastard and you’re not swayed by any of that then consider this. You, our readers are coming with us. When we establish our class system, you’ll be the party members, the aristocracy, the Shogun, the Brahmin etc.

If you want to bathe in the tears of your enemies, Vote here.



In case guilt or the promise of power aren’t your cup of tea, consider this. We know how you got here. You heard me. We know what you were googling that somehow landed you on this site.

Be it your strange desire to see cartoons misbehaving

-Marvel comics sex

-thumbellina frogo porn

-spongebob flipping off

Or you were accidentally trying to find Vaseline.com (which raises the questions. Why? How did that even lead you here? And Why? Bulk purchase?)

Or the 69 (har har) of you that were looking for a man in a diaper

We know! And if you don’t vote for us. Well…I trust you’ll do the right thing

PS: I really wish I was making up those stats. And those are the tame ones. I love you dear readers, but y’all are messed up people. Which is why you should support your own. Do not feed the bloggers for best creative writing blog. We promise really useful corruption.



I have a very…interesting story to tell you, children. Gather around and let me amuse you with the shenanigans of this place of mine that I live in.

We had a drug bust at my complex, and it was really amusing. (By it I mean all the shit that happened during said drug bust.)

Now, as you all know but don’t understand, I love this place that we stay at. My man and I are the only people considered sane since we never involve ourselves in the extra-ordinary ratchetness that goes on here a lot more often than it should. (Our new roomie, for instance has decided to share any and all STI he possibly can in any way he possibly can during this most righteous time of lent. Yesterday for example, he was walking around nude from the waist down asking people to help him burst the millions of pockets of puss in and around his nether regions. Think he had some up his bum as well. I’m sure even an andrologist would be apprehensive to check out whatever disease(s) he’s suffering from).  The stupidity that happens here is quite entertaining on most days, as long as nobody bothers to involve us. On the days that they do, I take it upon myself to show them the repercussions of having little to no self-preservation and why it’s a bad thing. Some people have ended up in hospital during my more…violent moments, but that’s a story for another day, no? *smiles sweetly*

Alas, I digress. The drug bust. We had one. It was really awesome, and kinda dramatic, but it will end up pretty anti-climatic. The disadvantages of having a country that banned the death penalty. *sigh* This is where Malaysia stays winning.

So, the chic two flats above us (Colombian, by the way. She looks like something out of a porn movie really: big boobs, big bum, perfect hair and make-up, barely any clothes on, etc etc. She even had that accent thing going on, where she’d give dudes boners by just talking) was selling drugs. All the hard core stuff: crack cocaine, heroin, crystal meth, morphine, the really refined form of LSD, and the likes. She hid them in the cracks on the walls, under the skirting board, in the ceiling, in the herb garden (and no, it’s not weed that’s grown there), in her mattress and other such creative parts. The thing is, nobody knew. She was social as everyone else, never had ridiculous amounts of money from outta nowhere, she never abused any of that shit, just sold it. But she never sold it to anyone in the complex, which was pretty smart.

So anyway, Jupiter and I are misbehaving on the couch when suddenly we have the Queensland Police, AFP (Aussie Fed Police), Immigration and guys from the drug department sprinting around, busting into houses and demanding that everyone gets the fuck out. So this cop nearly breaks down our door and nearly gives me a heart attack then proceeds to (rudely) stare at me in my state of undress instead of saying whatever the fuck he wants to say. I donno who was more irritated, Jupiter or myself, though my irritation was brought about by embarrassment.

Our Colombian is arrested, (along with the guy she was entertaining. As in the cops walked in on them when she was giving him head and he was in the middle of his orgasm, since when they came out she had some of his nether fluids around her mouth and he was…well, spilling them out. XD The cops are asking them questions and the poor boy is so terrified he proceeds to start crying and one of the cops goes like “Are those tears part of your orgasm?! Jesus…have you never had sex before? How the hell do you cry during an orgasm?!” Then they turn to question the chic and she can’t answer anything, when one of the cops realises she still has this dude’s semen in her mouth. So the cop [a lady who probably doesn’t get laid much] snaps “Are you gonna swallow that shit or spit it out, because you are going to answer my questions, brat.” She then proceeds to like gulp it down and in my head I’m wondering kwani she was storing it in her mouth for a later time or something?  XD) and the cops get into her apartment to check it out. (She was living alone. I donno how many sessions of disturbing, yucky sex she had with the cunt that’s my landlord. This is a guy who has the potential to traumatise even Aggrey. He really needs to be locked up in an asylum. He’s very disturbed) and man, they are coming out with like 30 250g bags of EACH of these drugs. As in 30 250g bags of crack cocaine, 30 250g bags of crystal meth, 30 250g bags of the LSD, and those drip bags of the hospital, like 6 of them full of morphine. And when I took a peek into the apartment, it had been systematically pulled apart. The ceiling was cut at the corners on one corner, there was no skirting board anymore, the walls had been chipped apart…heh, it took them like 12 or so hours to get everything, since they began their operation at about 10pm and when I woke up the next day at about 9 they were still there, questioning everyone. Kwanza one of them tried to question me and I pulled the racism card out so fast he promptly apologised and proceeded to go look for someone else to bully. Ain’t nobody gat no tahm for that.

I remember how guys freaked out though, and it was hilarious. Someone actually jumped out of the balcony into the pool because of how the cops were bursting in. There was also an orgy going on in another room, I understand (to which the landlord was peeking at through the window and probably fapping to. See? I told you this guy has serious mental problems). As in people were being chucked from the house in the middle of their showers. Hilarious shit.

So, to summarise, this chic will be charged, very probably found guilty and receive life imprisonment. Moral of the story, don’t give people head in the place you’re stashed your stash. You may get caught and people like me will blog about it.

Peace, from Down Under.


Vote for Madness

You may have heard that we’ve been nominated for Best Creative Writing Blog for the Kenyan Blog Awards 2014.  Cue unseemly celebration with terrible dancing and everything. I’d like to thank all you sick twisted people who nominated us. We will take you with us when we take over the world so don’t forget to vote for us here:


As for you new readers. Why should you vote for us? First, meet the bloggers.

Left to Right: Fred, Nat, Gachagua, Aggrey, Liv

Left to Right: Fred, Nat, Gachagua, Aggrey, Liv


I’m the boss around these parts. I’ve been kindly informed several times that sanity is not my strong point.

You can read about my (succesful) quest to find the funniest book ever here

My thoughts on cartoons here

And my adventures with withdoctors here and here.


Meet Olivia. Aka BBB (Big Breasted Blogger) our resident cynic.

Are you happy? Let her disabuse you of your foolishness. You are broke and single, accept this here.

Now that you are aware of your problems Ask Aunt Olivia for help here and  here.


I’d say meet Aggrey but it’s probably safer if you watch from a distance. Aggrey, also known as Molesto (The Clown) is our dark side. If i told you how many times we’ve had to seek legal advice on his account (from law students obviously. Ain’t nobody got that kind of money) you wouldn’t believe me.

Read about his life with a donated member. Or his Pregnancy fetish.

Still here?

Might as well read about the Man Child’s struggle then. And if you’re not sufficiently shocked, read about his girlfriend.


Nat aka Nuthead is our angry violent side.

Strangely enough, she’s the (relatively) sane one. Sit down and let her teach you the difference between anti-social and selectively social.


Fred is the man in charge of everything else. We need a podcast. He’s our guy. Photographer. The man has invented a way to take pictures of the past so he can tell you what Jesus actually looked like. I would tell you about his hacking activities but we don’t want him to get arrested. Of course, he’s extremely lazy so his world changing activities take a while.
Black lazy James Franco can tell you how all this begun.

You know you want to vote for us. Vote for the Madness

I Need A Drink

Inspired by these tweets

Inspired by these tweets

I need a drink.


I was told, “drinking buddies are not your friends. Get rid of them.”

Its true, they aren’t, I did.

But now, I have no one to drink with.

Yeah sure, I have friends, and they drink, but their drinking sucks.

Its either,

after work drinks,

drinks with a client,

a stupid SINGLE glass of wine before bed,


I have work in the morning excuses,

drinking in my local because alcoblow excuses,

I have church tomorrow excuses,

Its all about me excuses,

why can’t you come to where I’m at excuses,

you’re drinking with my ex excuses,

I aint about that life excuses,

fuck you and your excuses.

(Drinking buddies had no excuses. :( )


Drinking alone is a writer’s thing. The good and evil spirits that reside in your creative mind get drunk and have an orgy in your brain.

Yeah, I don’t like that.

Drinking alone is sad, something pop culture dictates is done as you contemplate suicide.

Drinking alone leads to lonely hangovers.

Hangovers are accompanied with so much self loathing, and now you decided to partake by yourself?

There is no warmth to be gained from crowd mentality of poor decisions made as a group, this pain and suffering is yours alone, just like every other burden.

When you wake up in the morning, that bottle is still there. Call someone for the love of God.


I drink with guys. Every woman who does this gets called names for having common sense.

Men don’t cry and sit on disgusting bathroom floors when overcome by emotion.

There are no queues in the men’s bathroom.

As long as you don’t throw up in their car, its okay, because what goes down, must surely come up. Or something like that.

The drunker they get, the nicer they become.

This is not the same for women.

Actually its not fun drinking with women. Well, that’s harsh, it can be fun.

Disaster starts with a tingle in the cooch, and then everyone has their own agenda.

Alcohol restores the natural order of things. We are all lions and lionesses. The lionesses hunt and murder one another, armed with their militarised jackets and weaponized heels, and the lion waits in a drunken stupor for the survivor to bring forth the spoils of war, shows gratitude in an unsatisfactory 2 minute romp and farts himself to sleep.

Also, they leave me with the handbags. The ugly girl is always left with the handbags. I cannot stand this constant insult.


Not like drinking with men is all roses.

There are the occasional futile attempts at escaping the friend zone, which maybe when feeling completely worthless and sexually unappealing, might work. Just as long as he doesn’t make it weird. Because it’s definitely him who will make it weird.

Then there’s the one you want to/have already/are planning on sleeping with. You can drink with 2 other people there but when its the two of you you are confused on whether to flee like a rabbit or lock the door and lick his skin. Don’t lie. We all know. (He’s the reason you’ll get called names. BURRIZZOKAY! )

There are the bitter words of those who have been banished to the zone of no return. They chastise you on your poor taste in men yet they themselves are as problematic in relationships as you are, hence the reason you’re at the bar together.

Mbio za sakafuni huisha bro-zone.


White TV told us women can go to bars and drink alone. Another stereotype perpetuated by the white man.

Why are you alone? I came alone.

You shouldn’t drink alone. I’m not any more.

Tell me about yourself? Why?

I’m just trying to make conversation. I don’t want conversation.

You’re a bitch, and you will die alone. Probably.



So what’ll you have? Beer. Women don’t drink beer.

Why don’t you drink something more ladylike? Smirnoff Ice is for hookers. (It is though.)

Vodka. Vodka is for teenagers.

Gin. You want to smell like wood varnish?

Whiskey. Hello there, big baller!


Everyone gets off from telling everyone they have a drinking problem, and everyone is probably right. Drink anyway.

The Downside of A Relationship


This is literally the saddest news for all the thousands (possibly hundreds, maybe tens, perhaps ones, but who’s counting?) of ladies that were salivating at the thought of getting some of this prime grade D. But it’s now reserved for a party of one. Sorry, y’all is too late!

Ouch! Businessman being dominated by woman in spike heels

She knows just how I like it

And with a girlfriend comes TONS OF SEX!!! LOADS OF IT!!! ON THE REGULAR! And warmth, love and companionship though why she wastes that on me I have no idea. She already got me with the first part, I wonder why she’s putting in the effort with all the rest. Anyway, SEXY SEX OF SEXTY!

But despite the state of my drained and shrivelled balls, a part of me still unsatisfied. You can only commit so many crimes against god, nature and physics with athletic sex. As all encompassing as her affection is, there are empty places in my heart that she cannot touch. It keeps me up at night trying to figure out what in could possibly be missing from what should be an ideal situation for this inappropriate toucher. Suddenly, with a crash like thunder I farted! After airing out my room, I finally figured out what I’d been missing. Or rather who. Palmela Handerson.

She had been with me for so long that a void was now left that a living, breathing partner could never replicate. Through my awkard teenage years, through my journey of discovery to even my coming into adulthood (a work that is vey much in its infancy), Palmela and her 5 sisters have seen me through the good times and the bad. They know my little quirks and ticks that only come with years of familiarity. Whenever my frustrations have built up, she has always been there with her crew to help relieve the pressue that has been building up inside. So many nostalgic days spent milking the one eyed snake, blowing the horn, choking the chicken, doing the five knuckle shuffle, beating the meat, tenderising the steak, giving me a low five, greasing the pipe, polishing the wood and evicting my testicular squatters.

Sure it was always rushed. Sure Palmela left me with a feeling of intense self-loathing and disgust. Sure she never really cared and was off as soon as the job was done. But she was there! And that’s what mattered. Now I can’t even think about now that I spend my days recovering in haze of post-sex dehydration. A man should not be reduced to living like this. It’s simply inhuman! But unfortunately, even Molesto has to bow down to societal demands at some point. Now it’s time to get and and do some stretches. Using a sex swing with meat hooks to do the reverse dragon dagger with an noose tightening incrementally is a lot more difficult than it sounds. Need to at least be warmed and limber for it.

Show me the Magic: Part 2

Last you heard from me I was on a mission. I was going to prove that bloggers are writers, perhaps even journalists, by getting involved in witchcraft (that sounded saner in in my head).

Do you respect me now?

Do you respect me now?

Here’s how that went.

To start with I needed to consider two things. What  I was going to ask the witchdoctor for, it had to be testable and cheap (because there’s a fine line between a fun experiment and getting ripped off) and who was going to be the victim.

The “what” turned out to be easy. There’s one thing every single witchdoctor in the country claims they can do which by definition means it’ll have to be cheap. Love potions. The problem with that choice is that the “who am I going to use it on” part becomes tricky. If it actually works then things can get ridiculously problematic. And besides, how do you even test it? The reason I assume the cons think it’s a good bet is because it’s so hard to know. If you see no effect they can simply say the person is faking, people do that. And if you think the person is under a spell it probably gives you more confidence and you do all the work yourself and tada! Love potions work.

So if this was going to work the “who” could only be one person, me. That would make the whole thing easily testable. I know who I do and don’t like and I’m quite sure I’d notice if that suddenly changed after the potion. As for being problematic, well…I could take steps to minimize that beforehand.

Here’s the gist of the story I came up with: My uncle is a rich man and he’s picked a wife for me as a favour for one of his cronies. If I do it, then I’m guaranteed a good share of his inheritance but on the flip side I feel nothing for this woman. If I have to spend the rest of my life with her and not get caught cheating, which would void the part where I get rich, then I need some help. Now do your magic. Good plan, covers everything that needs to be covered (and in hindsight is needlessly complicated. I could have just said I’m marrying rich woman, much more plausible. Oops.)

As for who I was supposed to be falling in love with I considered someone I despise just for maximum effect but that’s a terrible idea. If it worked I’d be stuck with feelings for someone I hate. Not that I thought it’d work but hey, no need for needless risks right – besides potentially putting myself at the mercy of dark magic that is.

This part of the story will get a little vague. I’m skimping on details because I realize (with the way things unfolded) just how easy I would be to find if they read this post and for reasons I’ll make clear later I don’t want to be the guy who gave up the name and location of this particular witchdoctor. I’ll say this. I drove to prestige plaza and took something of a long walk to get to the meeting spot, which was an apartment complex. If you can work that out good on you Sherlock Holmes.

The witchdoctor’s lair was not really what I expected. It was a nice apartment. No skulls. No animal hides. No rows of potions. Nothing witchy. There was even a laptop somewhere. The witchdoctor was disappointing too.  No skinny old crone. She was maybe 50 and approaching obesity and looked a lot more like a kind school teacher than a witch. But she did have that “Mombasa Swahili” thing going so that was something.

Her son was waiting in the next room. This is significant because he looks like he was put together using parts from rugby players and MMA fighters who were killed in their prime. He is a monster. Which is why I started off by saying a good friend of mine recommended her and escorted me to the gate. Best if she thought people knew where I was and who she was. Wouldn’t want Frankenstein of the gym in the other room to snap my neck or leave with a vial of poison. Yes, I do occasionally consider the potential consequences of my foolishness.

Please don't kill me

Please don’t kill me

Cutting to the chase, I told her my story, she gave me my instructions and…I did it.  On the fateful day I, against every sense in my body, woke up at 3 AM. I spun an egg in a bowl for 3 minutes without breaking it, all the while picturing the girl, and then chucked it over the fence (If you’ve ever found a random broken egg where you live then your neighbour is probably practicing witchcraft). Later on, about an hour before meeting her I took the potion which, disappointingly, was actually a bitter powder. Then I set off to meet her without spending more than 5 minutes in the presence of any other woman.

Digression here, if you’re wondering how I chose the girl it wasn’t easy. After hours of trying to figure the perfect combination I gave up and decided to go simple. I settled on only one trait. For obvious reasons, she must not under any circumstances be a reader or even a potential reader of this blog. It wasn’t that hard finding someone who’s sworn off this blog for life (thanks Aggrey).

How did it go? It didn’t work. Now that’s not to say it didn’t do anything…it just didn’t do what it was supposed to. What it did was make me spend about three hours with the most thought numbing erection of all time. You know how they say men think with their dicks. It isn’t true. Trust me, you’ll know when it becomes true. I have said some stupid things in my life but that day holds a personal record. Probably the entire top 10 really. And she was around the whole time because i lacked the wits to gracefully excuse myself. No, I’m not going to tell you anything i said it was mortifying enough with an audience of one. With all that said, I’m not in love with her(unless you define that as a short burst of barely contained lust) so…thumbs down for witchcraft.

I’m probably supposed to have some deep insight after this. Some kind of lesson or something. All i’ve got is…If you must go to a witchdoctor for heaven’s sake don’t bewitch yourself. I get the feeling that you already knew that though. Also, definitely try this at home (I figure if you’re willing to take advice from me  theres no use telling you not to. I’d be wasting potential for a good story for everyone you know).

Happy new year readers. The madness has just begun.


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