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).
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.
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.
As a red-blooded, heterosexual, misogynist male, I have been busy scoping out chicks’ asses, hips, waists and breasts. It’s not because I want to mind you. It’s because society expects me to. I’m just a victim of my conditioning. I can’t help it.
With the disclaimer out of the way, I have been noticing a lot of parasite-bearing ladies happily flaunting their distended bellies everywhere. It’s seems that spawning time is almost upon us and a new crop of leeches will be loosed on humanity i.e. lots of heavily pregnant women be waddling around.
Now, while I lament their misplaced joy at bringing new life in the world, I have been noticing that my troublesome 2nd brain twitches when the women are in sight going, “You know you wouldn’t mind gutting that fish.” And I go “Dammit penis! I don’t need a new perversion to add to my CV!”
But it has a point. I’m more than a bit curious at stabbing the cat of a heavily pregnant, about-to-break-their-water kind of woman. First of all, the mechanics alone would be worth it. Missionary suddenly becomes a maneuver on par with handling nuclear material. If I jackhammer with abandon like a horny rabbit, is there a real chance of inducing a premature birth?
And if the baby can hear all the soothing sounds of classical music while in the womb, will it also be privy to the sounds of it’s mother bumping uglies? Science, I NEED TO KNOW!
Can I punch a baby if I fist the mother hard enough? Will I feel the soft head cave-in as I tickle the lady’s g-spot? How far would my arm have to travel to accomplish that? And would it heighten her pleasure? (See, ladies! With me, it’s all about you! 😉 )
How about 69’ing? Can the body even contort and stretch over that huge hump to get to the gash? Or is that simply a pipe dream at that stage of gestation?
I don’t know if it’s just sexual curiosity that’s the cause of my new found re-evaluation of the baby ejectors, or my maturity as a person (hehehe) that has allowed me to take notice of their attractiveness. But this is a venture that has to be explored at some point in time. Something else to add to the bucket list, along with setting fire to dog’s balls and wearing a suit of bees.
A huge part of babysitting is watching animations (Wait…is it? Ah, screw it. It is if you’re lazy). The problem with this is that I end up watching animated movies I saw as a kid. Might not seem like such a big deal but you have to keep in mind, I grew up into the type of person who writes for a blog like this. SO I end up noticing things like…
Aladdin isn’t interested if there’s any less than 3 girls – and they better know how to belly dance!
Unless you know. They come with an entire kingdom (and a tiger).
But kidding aside. One of those pictures with the girls is taken out of context. The other one though is the truly interesting one. You see, Genie is showing Aladdin all the stuff he can offer him. He’s made it explicitly clear that he can’t make someone fall in love with you. And really, you don’t need a genie to know these girls aren’t exactly in this for the emotions.
However, the animation that actually got me to write this post is thumbellina, probably the darkest children’s movie of all time. Our thumb sized heroine goes through a whole lot of things.
First, she’s kidnapped by a pink haired, big busted, skimpily dressed, musician frog (Essentially the nicki minaj of the frog world).
To what end. This frog wants Thumbelina to marry her son (not the kind of frog who turns into a prince when kissed). She escapes before the wedding and falls into yet more trouble. At some point she’s kicked out of a party for being too ugly. She’s literally heckled by the whole place. Direct quote from one of them, “she’s so ugly she’s hurting my feelings.”
Meanwhile, the prince in the story has been stabbed and the person trying to rescue her just got frozen under the ice (Very happy story this one). She’s then saved by a field mouse who takes her to “The Mole’s” house. The mole is the filthy rich guy in the story.
Once the mouse hears her sob story and her hopes of getting back to her prince she leans in kindly and basically says, “you idiot. Why are you marrying for love. Marry for the money! That’s where it’s all at! Marry the mole.”
Just in case you think im exaggerating, here’s the direct quote (delivered in song).
“Love? Love is what you read about in books my dear. Here comes the bride- is a lovely little diddy. But marrying for love is a foolish thing to do. Coz love won’t pay the mortgage or put porridge in your bowl.”
I burst out laughing at this point. Dark for a children’s story? Very. But hey when it comes down to it Disney princesses end up marrying the richest guy in the kingdom all the time (unless you’re a stone cold player like Aladdin). This one’s just honest about its message neh? Then the song dropped these lines
“Romeo and Juliet. Were very much in love when they were wed. They honoured every vow. So where are they now? They’re DEAD! DEAD! VERY VERY DEAD!”
Well. Talk about pulling no punches. Kids need to hear this stuff straight up. If you marry for love you will die. Find yourself a rich guy. Can’t argue with that logic.
You can watch the Marry the mole song here yourself.
General: President Obama, you wanted to see me?
Obama: Yes…Tell me general, how the hell am I supposed to sell this to the people?
General: What? Sir
Obama: Don’t “What” me, you know damn well what I’m talking about.
General: You mean the city…
Obama: Of course I mean the city. The city that I’m just now learning about, from a journalist no less. The city with all the mutant freaks in it! How am I supposed to explain this goddamned place to the people?
General: Tell them it’s for national security
Obama: For national secu…HAVE YOU LOOKED AT THESE PICTURES? Look at this! These two people have no bodies! They’re just legs…WALKING LIVING LEGS! LOOK!
General: I’m quite familiar with them sir.
Obama: Oh, you are? What about their children. Yes, the legs have children. More legs? No no no That wouldn’t be disturbing enough for you people. They just had to be a talking cow and a talking chicken. What the hell…Just look at this. The damned cow walks on two legs. Look at it just sitting there. Jesus Christ man!
General: Sir, I know this looks bad…
Obama: Looks bad? LOOKS BAD!? What about this red guy? Is that satan? How am I supposed to sell it. America, I present living legs that give birth to animals…oh and the devil. It’s for national security.
General: But it really is
Obama: Oh is it now? How.
General: Well. The cow
Obama: The talking cow?
General: Yes. The talking cow. It has super powers.
General: It has super powers.
General: It has…
Obama: I heard you. General…
Obama: Are you screwing with me right now
General: No, sir. I would never…
Obama: Look at me.
Obama: Look at me
Obama: What do I look like?
Obama: Describe me
Obama: Say sir one more time. I dare you. I double dare you. Say sir one more time and I’m going to shoot at you with this staple gun. Now, describe me!
General: You’re black.
General: Big ears?
Obama: Do I look like Bill Clinton?
General: Sir?…OW! You shot me with a Staple! Ah God! That hurts
Obama: DO I LOOK LIKE BILL CLINTON?
Obama: Then why are you trying to f*** with me in the Oval office?
General: I’m not…
Obama: yes, you are! Yes you are. And I don’t like to be f***** by nobody in this office except Mrs Obama.
Obama: Do you read the bible General? If you did, you’d know living legs, talking chickens, Satan and goddamned super hero cows are things you find in revelations and people already think im the anti Christ. So you fix this and you find a way to blame North Korea.
General: yes Mr. President
Obama: Anything else I need to know?
General: Um…yes. We have one more experiment city. Under the sea. Codenamed. Bikini bottom
The past few weeks I’ve spent a lot of my time babysitting. For some reason it was decided that I’m the kind of mature adult who is fit to take care of a child. I know what you’re thinking. I’m just as puzzled about how they came to that conclusion. Nevertheless I am now saddled with responsibility and I think I’m doing a good job. The other day she said she was getting a hunchback. I asked why and she looked at me like I had asked the most obvious question in the universe.
“Because,” she said impatiently, “you’re a mad scientist. Every mad scientist needs a hunchbacked assistant.”
I wish I was making that up. This must be why people get children. An apprentice for my evil schemes aside, if you know anything about nine year olds it’s probably that they bore easily and always need something new to distract them. Over time this becomes something of a task because you’ve tried everything. I had hit this point when it occurred to me how young she is. Think of all the things she hasn’t seen. My room is a treasure trove of old things that were way before her time. So ….
I showed her records, VHS tapes, audio cassettes and diskettes. I explained what they did and she literally did not believe me. When I tried telling her how you had to rewind VHS tapes before a second viewing she laughed. She thought I was playing a rather elaborate prank on her and she wasn’t buying it.
Feeling old yet? At this point I was feeling a bit old but mostly just amused. In a way it was like having a conversation with an alien. That’s how vast the difference in our generations is. It was at this point she chose to make me feel really old. She asked:
“The Big grey thing.”
“What big grey…do you mean the television?”
“THAT’S A TELEVISION!?”
She wasn’t joking. She had so many questions about it. She walked around it, prodded it and even seemed a little afraid of the thing. This one she believed but I think it was too much to process. She just kept looking at it and muttering “why?”
This is all to say that if you were clinging to the illusion that you’re still young, let it go. You’re aging. You’re old. Stuff you think is ordinary would fit perfectly into a museum for this new generation. You know the way you hate Justin Bieber? It’s the same way your parents hate your music. If you’ve been wondering why Kenyan Politicians still insist on being part of the “youth” when they’re 45-50 now you know. Denial is a strong thing my old friends. Don’t be one of them. Just grab your cane and accept your new fate.