Posts Tagged ‘Manchester United’

LOVE.HATE THING

Posted: September 6, 2013 by ketihapa in Twitter
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Love vs Hate: Take your pick what rules on Twitter

We signed Ozil bishes \o/. Anyway, first of all, I need somebody to explain to me in a manner I can understand why we don’t call corridors in mental institutions psychopaths. While you’re at it, will you also explain to Mckym that girls hate men with vaginas. A relationship can have only one vagina at a time. Also, Lencer needs to act an age that’s bigger than the size of her bra and quit telling everyone how men’s penises always drown in her Basin.

In addition I am still depressed that you assholes chased Dopest from my Twitter Streets. Just when we’d found someone to sweep the trail of pubic hair she leaves behind; I guess we’ll just have to find elsewhere for StanSubru to sweep coz that’s all he seems to be doing nowadays. Sweeping up where men have just finished coming.

However, that isn’t the reason for this blog post. I need someone to invent a time machine to take us into the future so we can see what the world will look like 20 years from now with all this hate on Twitter streets. Or just take us back to the time before Twitter. I’m sorry guys, I don’t want to give advice no one will follow like Canduh, but it had to be said. As someone pointed out, Hitler probably had less hate in his heart. You people will shoot down anyone- and with more accuracy than Van Persie’s shots.

Take for instance the “If United want depth they should sign Huddah” tweet during the recently closed Transfer window.

Where am I going with this you ask? Simple, can everyone please take a fucking chill pill and calm the fuck down!? At least for a day? You can remind Dorcas to calm her tits down too or we’ll get Mbunde to twerk and scare the shit out of her. Because at this rate I foresee Twitter being listed by the government as the leading cause of suicide.

I mean, I’d kill myself if I were a fat person and someone told me my stretch marks prolly have more exercise than me. Or that the only form of exercise you get is when you jog your memory? I’d go on and on about fat people but I don’t want to make them full of themselves. I’m sorry if you still haven’t seen what I just did there.

The next group that you guys love picking on are the ugly and the dark-skinned. If KOT were allowed to draft the constitution I’m 70% sure it’d be illegal to be ugly. You guys would just ship them off to Uganda in exchange for Milk- the shoes I mean. Wait, I think I just described Bata trade smh. My heart goes out to those wonderful creatures of God. Some of my best friends are actually dark-skinned.

At least dark-skinned women don’t reply to your 30 page text with ‘IKR’ or ‘Aaaaawww’ or ‘LOL’ or as someone noted last week, reply to Safaricom’s insufficient balance texts with ‘I have a man’. The only trick is, remember to get yourself drunk in advance so your brain lets you see their inner beauty. At that point they’ll look so hot your zipper will fall for them. There’s also the added benefit in that you’ll not remember when you ‘make sex’ and she calls you Tiger.

Finally, for Heaven’s sake, please don’t keep any grudges with a bigwig or tell everyone you shared a hole or you’ll be dancing to Hole of Fame when the hate boils over and your TL is full of ‘Shots fired’ tweets. Trust me. Ombajo, or Paapa or whatever knows. Or at least he found out the hard way. Now all women know he smokes. And that the stove is all to blame.

They say 666 is an evil number, which means that 25.806975801127880315188420605149 is the actual root of evil. Personally, I think Twitter is the root of evil. Anyhu, I am off to edit my Fantasy Football team. And y’all can bet whom I’m making my Captain for the next game week. Later fools!

There is no going back: Sick Puppies

The sequel continues. In case you missed In Pursuit of Redemption Part 1 and Part 2:

“Do you need anything else sir?”

Those are the words that bring him back to reality. He looks up at the young pretty waitress staring curiously down at him waiting to take his order.

“No, I’m good…” he says, and hands her a Ksh. 1000 note to pay for his half completed meal. He’s no longer hungry. “You can keep the change.” She thanks him with a smile and walks away.

Alfred takes one look at the single clock hanging at the far left; 3.37 pm. He sweeps his gaze across the room. To the trained eye, it’s pretty obvious he’s a stranger here; but he did a pretty good job dressing up as a local. Good thing or they’d easily recognize him. He knows his face is most probably on all TV screens across the country by now, but that’s what he’d expect anyway. Good thing the folk down here love watching Nigerian movies or they’ easily pick him out.

He takes his jacket and stands up to leave as a sharp pain runs through the wound on his shoulder; he winces. The bulge of the gun beneath his coat his visible, but nobody can really tell what he’s got in his pockets. He’s made up his mind; he’ll lay low here for a while and then when he’s come up with a fully operational plan, he’ll strike back. Revenge burns his heart and soul, almost leaving a mark that can never be erased.

*********9 hours earlier**********

Alfred stares at the white ceiling from his prison bed. Nothing. Not even a slight hint or glimmer of hope. Soon the prison guards will be escorting him to the police vehicle that will take him to the Kilimani law courts. He closes his eyes and says a prayer- as hopeless as he knows his case is. He knows he has to pay for his mistakes, but at least he knows he’s made peace with himself and his wife. He hopes she’ll be there nonetheless.

Twenty minutes later, Alfred is being ushered towards the police car that awaits. He’s about to get in when one of the guards places a piece of paper into the palm of his right hand.

“Read it when no one’s looking but it’s imperative you do so before you reach court. And Alfred, follow all the instructions carefully,” the guard whispers, before he shoves Alfred into the back seat of the car.

A few moments later the accompanying guards are embroiled in a heated conversation about who’s going to win the English Premier League and the impact Robin Van Persie has had on Manchester United. Good. He sees his window of opportunity and takes it. As instructed, he carefully tears up the paper struggles with his handcuffed hands to shove it down his throat. He slides to the left hand side of the vehicle and waits.

Now they’re almost at the courts. He knows any time now whatever is being planned for him will be put into play. Again, he silently says a word of prayer. When he opens his eyes all he sees are the news hungry cameras of the reporters; but this is seconds before an unnumbered vehicle rams into the police car. The impact is enough to push the car towards the pavement, as its occupants struggle to hold onto their seats, the driver desperately trying to bring the vehicle to a halt to avoid hitting passersby and the wall they’ll quickly approaching. But the commotion that arises is all that Alfred needs.

As promised, the left passenger door is unlocked. Alfred knows it’s going to be risky but he has to try. He makes a run for it towards the black vehicle parked on the other side of the road exactly as promised, moments before the police men realize what is going on and start firing at the running Alfred ordering him to stop. He’s almost at the vehicle when a bullet rips through his left shoulder as another shatters the rear windscreen of the vehicle ahead of him. A few inches lower he’d be on the ground, he knows. But he pushes on and dives into the now open door of the awaiting car, whose engine is already revving.

Only when they’ve sped away leaving a mass of confusion behind and stunned cameras does he feel the pain rip through his body. Blood is gushing from his bullet wound but one of the occupants- two men at the front and the woman- is already tending to his wound. He has no idea where he’s being driven; he’s in too much pain to notice anyway.

“Alfred, you made it man. That was close,” the man on the front passenger seat has turned and is addressing him. “You should have seen yourself running.” He laughs. Alfred looks at him despite his agonizing pain.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of your wound.”

“Now listen, your wife is dead. Murdered to make it look like she succumbed from the wounds you inflicted on her.”

“W-H-A-T!!!!? WHEN?????”

“This morning. Now shut up and listen, you don’t have much time; you’ll mourn her later,” he says coldly before proceeding, “We’re taking you to a safe place. We think Sam is behind it.”

More shock waves ripple through Alfred’s head, momentarily numbing his pain. His best friend? What the fuck is going on here, is the question in his head, his mind in a wild frenzy.

“Sam planned it all. Stabbing your wife gave him the opportunity he’d been waiting for to put his plan into motion. Alfred, Sam is trying to take over your company. And he has most of your board members behind him.”

Alfred looks down, hurt and anger starting to boil in him.

“But then why should I believe anything you’ve just told me?”

“You don’t have to. That’s why we’re helping you escape so you can find out more on your own. Let’s just say we have common interests.”

Alfred nods.

“We’ll leave you here with food, a car, fake passport you can use to create your aliases, medicine to help you recover and money to start you off. The documents, meds and keys will be in a safe behind the bed upstairs.”

The man hands him a card with a number on it.

“You can use this to reach me- I’m Nathan. This is Moses and the lady that’s tended your wound is Marion.”

Now they’re entering one of the gates of a house in an estate he cannot recognize. Good thing the houses all look similar.

“You can get out now, we have to go dispose this car before the police start tracking it. The door of the house is unlocked.”

Alfred walks out, and turns just in time to see Marion smile at him shortly before the car speeds away. He walks into the house.

********9 hours 20 minutes later*********

Alfred is driving back to his motel room, memories of his dead wife running though his head. He pulls up at the side of the road and he lets the tears flow freely. They’ll pay, he decides. He is beyond the point of no return now.

Ciku Muiruri, or as she’s recently been baptised online, Ciku Aliyeshikwo

So, we finally got a new president.. Uhuru Muigai Kenyatta, son to the first president of this country, Mzee Jomo Kenyatta and an ICC suspect. I must say, I was impressed with the way we handled the whole issue. Most of us were just happy there was no violence this time round while the rest of us are just happy we’re finally going to get free wi-fi. Personally, I am excited about the laptops, because now i finally have a chance to have a side hustle of my own convincing nursery school kids that laptops cause cancer of the balls- if there’s anything of the sort- then selling the laptops for them and receiving my humble commission.

Some sore losers on the other hand were conspicuously seen in South Africa, while some brothers in the lakeside shit on themselves, literally, when they couldn’t take it anymore. I forgive them, Tunajiharia Kuwa Wakenya. Others, kina Karoocy, were busy cleaning graffiti off the State House walls, allegedly, after Kibaki, again allegedly, left ‘Kibaki Was Here’ messages all over State House.

However, I did not intend this to be a political blog.

The one thing that brought just about as much controversy as the Swearing in of the fourth president of Kenya was the this week’s Jicho Pevu. More specifically, Classic 105’s Ciku Muiruri, who hosts the popular radio show, Busted. For those of you who still aren’t aware, Ciku was busted on National TV cuddling with one of the Artur Brothers. And boy did that story boil over; Karma the bitch was on some alien PMS mode.

The following morning, Ciku wrote a detailed explanation, insisting the Artur brother in question merely lifted her up to create more space for people at the party. Right. Kenyans unleashed their madness, with some replying, and I quote, that her affidavit did not fool anyone and that it was Amicus Stupidae since it was pretty obvious she was the Amicus Chips Fungae. One idiot in particular said the Artur brothers ‘walimwaga-ryan kwa stronghold.’ Yeah, Kenyans can be rough.

Whether Ciku was indeed telling the truth that space was being created beneath her for other people to sit, squat or stand, we’ll never know. But the one thing that was clear was that being a celebrity in Kenya is tough. In my honest opinion, the only Celebrity that’s never taken heavy fire from Kenyans, especially on Social Media, is Miss Babes. Yeah, the one of the Mitumba High Heels fame. Think about it. Whom else haven’t we roasted?

To consider a few; Bamzigi for starters.

Despite the guy fighting a drug addiction problem and getting his act together by going for rehab then releasing his first song in about as long as I last got laid, people still had a go at him. I admit, Bachete was an ear sore; and a pretty bad one for that matter. The kind that makes the deaf feel a sense of victory over the rest of us. Perhaps it was because he chose to collabo with Kaytrixx, or as he’s better known on Twitter, Gaytrixx. The point here is, Bamzigi was accused of going full retard because he did not quite live up to expectation.

Then there’s KTN’s Ian Mugoya, who was brought to the limelight following a successful season of Changing Times. Then he decided he was rich and famous enough to get dumped by the daughter of the Keroche Industries CEO… and the roller coaster ride had just begun. He went ahead to goldigging a certain lass from the Coast, only this time he was stupid enough to get exposed on FaceBook. As if ndurama that resulted wasn’t enough, he went for the socialite, Huddah, whom I swear I have nothing against. I swear.

Ok, may be just the fact that the blackboard we had back at Primary School was less flat. Or the fact that her P is so pounded she could be the backup currency of the United Kingdom in case anything happened to the Sterling Pound. And we would never know. Ok, never mind. Back to Mugoya. Now nobody takes him seriously anymore and Shee seems to think he’s ‘a broke ass bitch of a man’. Her words, not mine.

Next, there’s Camp Mulla’s babe, Miss Karun. Despite her obvious talent and beauty, people still said she looks like Danny Welbeck. Honestly, I’m still not sure why my crush had to be compared with a dude. One that plays for Manchester United for that matter. Miss Karun was clearly a victim of a MEME that went viral that resulted in me unfollowing the perpetrators of hate-speech against my girlfriend.

One day i will let her know my new binoculars are in love with her too… and perhaps if she’ll let me, that the colour of the paint in her bedroom doesn’t look very nice from a distance. Nevertheless, how people roasted Miss Karun and never for one minute did the same to Kaz will forever remain a mystery to me… pause… oh wait, I think that may have had something to do with her generosity in providing more fap material than the entire pornhub.

Moving on.

Then there is Caroline Mutoko. We all know her story. Magnificent on the microphone at Kiss 100 and splendid at plagiarism and picking fights with Kenyans on Twitter. Carol picked the wrong day(s) to annoy people and it almost resulted in a world war. She had clearly learnt nothing from Alai, who took to the streets to perfect his screaming skills and eventually got rewarded with one of the funniest trending topics I ever saw, #TheAlaiScream. Why she chose to steal an article that had been posted online only months before, I still don’t know… but I doubt she ever will again. Ninjas spotted the article so fast, a premature ejaculator would probably have come last- absolutely no pun intended- if it were a race against time.

Anyway, the list could go on, I haven’t even mentioned Esther Arunga and Jimmie Gay-it and Larry Midomo or even Shaffie the king of being tossed out by bouncers and i won’t, because now you see my point. Being a celebrity in Kenya is hard because people love drama too damn much.

Oh, what the hell, life wouldn’t be the same without them anyway.

The ultimate symbol of undying love in modern marriage is a ring

Dear wife,

I don’t know who you are and you don’t know me either. If it were up to me, this is how it would remain. In the event that we do meet (sadly, as we will eventually do), I want you to know that I will do my best to love you and be there for you. However, in order for that to happen, you will have to observe a few guidelines that I have take the liberty of coming up with.

First and foremost, if, God forbid, we do at some point in time discover that I am impotent, please do not panic. I have been saving up my sperm in an undisclosed sperm bank for an undisclosed fee. I am fully aware that many marriages break because of the absence of children to hold them together; however, you have Beyonce and Rihanna to thank as that is not going to be the case, thanks to the saved sperm. I refuse to elaborate further on this issue for moral reasons. Unilever Company, the company that makes Vaseline, wouldn’t be too amused either if I revealed the exact nature of our transactions.

And speaking of children, if our first child is a girl, I will name her Beyonce or Rihanna in gratitude to them. Not buts- refer to the previous paragraph above why this must be so, unless you will be okay with Julie Gichuru for our second daughter. If on the other hand it will be son, then, WE will sit down TOGETHER and come up with a good name. Nothing fancy like Ashton or out-dated like Leon or common like Kevin and definitely not, a religious name like Eustace or anything that declares him gay at birth like Bieber.

Another thing, I will expect you to dress up and behave like a lady. To that effect, I ban long dresses, skirts, baggy trousers, mothers’ union panties, condom shoes, weaves, wigs, Equity Bank T shirts or any other beauty product designed to fool my eyes. In fact, the shorter and the scantier the dress, the better. Also, NEVER roll yourself in a bale of flour like Sheila Mwanyigah or even possess her genes if she’s your mother. I expect you to wear see-through night dresses or night gowns or nothing at all and not pajamas. For recommended dressing in my house, please feel free to download Beyonce’s or Rihanna’s photos. They are free on the internet.

In addition, I expect you to fully support Arsenal FC. I therefore declare it the family team. You will attend games with me in proper attire (read an Arsenal jersey) and you will not under whatever circumstances make fun of the family team. It will also be your duty to teach our children to adore support the family team like their parents. If your friends support Manchester United, Barcelona, Chelsea, Manchester City or Tottenham, please ditch them in advance. You can however be friends with people that support Liverpool on grounds of extreme pity, while those that support Real Madrid and Juventus you will honour for their immense talents and or wealth. Please note that I am exempt to the above guideline.

Next, it will be an unforgivable mistake to let me cook my own food or to let me eat food cooked by anyone else but you, and that includes the house-help. I expect you to perform your wifely duties diligently. You will cook and take care of me and in return, I will reward you with the D whenever you ask for it. In addition, you will be expected to know how to prepare Mukimo, which will be our family food, as dictated by Kikuyu custom and tradition. (I doubt my mother will give me her blessing if I marry a woman who can’t prepare Mukimo). In the event I do marry you and you don’t know how to cook Mukimo, I will expect you to learn how to do it within the first six months of our marriage. During this period, I will eat food that is not prepared by you and that will include Chips Funga(s) and or Chips Mwitu(s).

It is also, in my opinion, very important that we should have adequate time for each other if we are to form a strong family bond. As such, we will spend as much time as possible having sex. At least two times a day should suffice. Nevertheless, no one is perfect and neither will we. We will therefore allow a sex expert of the female gender to join us and evaluate our sex-life. This should be at least once every three months. You can call it whatever the hell you want, but I personally prefer the term ‘three-some’. Remember, AT LEAST once every three months.

Moreover, you will be a church-going woman. You will thus have to attend church every Sunday in order to pray for our family, as well as to pray for me so that I succeed- I am the breadwinner of this family after all, right? My success, as you already know, will determine how well I am able to take care of you and our kids. I therefore urge you fast at least once a month (just before pay day) so that I will have enough money for you and the kids after I drink, party and go wild. You are welcome to tag along whenever I go out drinking, but make prior arrangements for someone to take care of the kids. Also, if we go out, I cannot promise that I will not pick up any Chips Funga(s) or Chips Mwitu(s). I will however allow you to attend one or two parties every four months because I do not plan to be a selfish husband.

Finally, you will respect my friends and more importantly, my mother as well as the above guidelines. In return, I will love you till the day I take my last breath and I will support you, respect you and make you the queen of my heart.

Yours faithfully,

K.H.

P.S.- For a successful marriage, Chips Funga and Chips Mwitu are exclusively to be eaten by one of us; in this case, me. Chips Mwitu refers to any woman I will pick up on the street, not a prostitute. I will not give you AIDS.

P.S.S.- Failure to observe any of the above will be grounds for an immediate divorce.