Posts Tagged ‘Vodka’

THIS IS PURELY HYPOTHETICAL

Posted: February 18, 2015 by ketihapa in Life
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Get out of your High Horse and make something for yourself…

This is purely hypothetical.

Suppose one day you woke up and on your way to buy milk and bread for breakfast, you find journalists and cameramen outside your front door.

“James!,” they shout, “Would you care to comment?”

You’re confused at first; your head still isn’t clear enough and your head is buzzing. You are still hangovered from yesterday, and anyone within two inches of you can tell that you’ve been drinking. Your first instinct is to rush back into the house. Still breathing heavily, more from the effects of the booze in your system than from the panic you feel right now, you carefully push a way the curtains, just enough to see what is going on outside. Someone spots the movement at the window and in no time, they’re at the window, trying to catch a glimpse of you and perhaps take a photo or two. You retreat back to your couch and switch on your TV, hoping there might be a news item that could perhaps jog your memory. With the magnitude of the number of reporters outside, you must have done something newsworthy.

But then, a blank screen stares back at you, almost mocking you. You’d forgotten that Kenya made the #DigitalMigration from Analogue TV and you still don’t have DSTV or Zuku. Next, you reach for your phone. 16 missed calls in total and 13 messages. Most are from your friends, Andrew and Adrian, a few from your neighbor and three from a number you cannot recognize. None is from your girlfriend; which is weird because she usually calls or texts you in the morning to check up on you and find out your plans for the day, hoping to sneak in an hour for lunch- which you will inevitably buy if she has her way. You dial Andrew first. No answer. Adrian next. No answer. You try your girlfriend’s phone- unreachable. You try logging into your Twitter hoping you might find some information that could help you. Nothing.

In full panic mode, you walk over to the cabinet in the kitchen and take out a bottle of Vodka that you had left there a couple of nights before. You take a huge mouthful and wince at the taste of pure, undiluted Vodka. You light a cigarette and smoke hurriedly, hoping it will calm down your nerves. Another sip of the Vodka. Nothing seems to help. You still have this cloud over your head telling you that you did something very bad. But what could it be?? You ask yourself. Finding no answers in your head and absolutely no clues, fear starts gripping you.

You then decide to try to retrace your steps. You fumble your way to the bedroom and start inspecting the clothes and shoes you wore yesterday, hoping to find perhaps a receipt, a piece of paper that could help you, anything. Nothing is missing from your wallet as far as you can tell, and you don’t have any blood stains on your clothes. You let out a sigh of relief, but that is short-lived because as soon as you check yourself in the mirror, besides the usual bloodshot eyes, you have a bad bruise on your head. You wonder why it doesn’t hurt. Now, you’re in full panic mode. You’re terrorized and a hostage in your own home.

Then, you sirens outside your door and before you know it, there’s loud banging on your front door. Police. It has to be the police. Nobody else uses sirens save for the ambulances. You almost pee on yourself because now you’re almost certain you committed a terrible crime and they’ve come to arrest you. The saddest part is, you have no idea what. You give in to your frustration and sink to the floor, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. You take a huge gulp, again, from the bottle of Vodka, but it’s too soon. You feel like throwing up. You try to suppress it but it’s no use. In no time you’re kneeling on the toilet floor retching. Your wipe your mouth with the back of your palm and take another sip to wash the foul smell away. You flush the toilet but just as you do so, you hear your door give in. They’re IN the house!!!

Slowly, you rise from the floor and start walking towards the living room, the bottle still in your hand, and you take yet another sip. By now, the hangover is gone and you’re just as drunk as you were yesterday, as far as you can tell. In fact, you realize you’re staggering and you have to support yourself with the nearest wall to prevent yourself from falling over. But then, a police officer is already with you. You put down the bottle and raise your hands above your head in surrender.

Laughter.

Why aren’t they arresting me? What is so damn funny!?

“Sir, you’re James Mwangi Kamau, ID number 27123456, right?” a policeman asks, amid bouts of laughter.

“Yes. WTF is going on. What did I do?” You ask, bewildered.

“Sir, calm down. We’re here to take you to see the President. He wants to see you urgently. I suggest you sober up. And fast!”

It isn’t a request. It’s a bloody order. But at least he doesn’t draw his gun or handcuffs.

“Please, would someone tell me what has happened? I am dying of panic here!” you plead. More laughter.

“You’ll find out more at the State House. All you need to know now, Sir, is that you’re a lucky son of a bitch!” he says, which helps you calm down a little, but it still doesn’t put you at ease. Slowly, they lead you outside, where the reporters are in a wild frenzy trying to get statements from you and photographs, and into an awaiting cruiser. You black out almost as soon as the vehicle takes off.

At the State House, when you’ve sobered up enough and had almost a bucketful of water at the president’s orders, you will learn that the girl you were dating, your girlfriend, is actually the president’s daughter. The president just wanted to meet his future son in law. You will laugh about it with Andrew and Adrian later and realize how gullible you are. But you really don’t care, because you are about to become a President’s Son In Law.

***********************************************************

You’ll ask yourself, WHY THE FUCK doesn’t this happen to me? I’ll tell you; because it is just a purely hypothetical scenario that will never happen. It is about time you got off your high horse and seized the opportunities accorded to you. Work for it. Make something for yourself yo!

Don’t let the baby in them fool you.. Food thieves, or rather food bandits, we see you

I was on the internet the other day (don’t ask Googling what) when I came across this sex position called the Lap. I know what you’re thinking… It isn’t a sex position invented by the Kalenjins. But I did come across a sex position for you Luhyas out there tho called the Spoon, feel free to check it out. As for the Lap, apparently the lady sits on your lap and you hump away. It is – not my words- best carried out on a couch. I would suggest, if you’re going to try it, to do it with a laptop size lass, you know, the ones that won’t break your legs and couch in the process. And it isn’t anything I have against fat women, most of them are really amazing people, but they’re also full of themselves..

Anyway, some days back somebody tweeted about how he’d been robbed. Well, it was a pretty lame story, until he mentioned what he’d been robbed and the entire twitter community in Kenya was suddenly interested; the guy was robbed of his phone. And Chapatis he’d purchased for supper. Your guess is as good as mine. Either he’d carried the chapatis in his wallet- which is highly unlikely- or I want whatever weed those guys were on because that is a new level of munchies.

But the thing is, his story relates to mine, which I remember blogging about some years back. To refresh your memory, I’d bought myself half a kilo of beef- it’s something I often do when I want to congratulate myself- along with all the ingredients I needed for the meal from mama mboga downstairs; nyanya, vitunguu, dhania, hoho, pilipili… I’d even marinated the meat in garlic and ginger. Next, I made sure there was enough maize flour, nothing goes better with beef than ugali. Satisfied everything was in order, I set out to get beer. Sadly, as we all very well know, one for the road usually turns out to be six for the night in a ditch. I over stayed out, mixing Vodka and water like a Russian  like I wanted to re-incarnate the Holy Spirit. That day I was like a bee… I went to the pub and came back buzzing.

I came back to find my door open, the padlock missing and the lights on. Which at first didn’t occur to me as very odd considering I could barely stand on my feet leave alone string a few sentences together in my slurred speech, plus there was still a half bottle of beer in my hand. But then on entering the house something else struck me as out of place. There were dirty dishes on the table, which is very odd because I am usually a very tidy person (Bae has accused me of having mild OCD because when I start cleaning I don’t stop till everything is sparkling.) I somehow managed to ignore the dishes because at this point all I wanted to do was to jump into bed. It was the aroma of food that really shocked me because I honestly could not remember cooking. I assumed it was the neighbors that were cooking because it was not uncommon for them to cook at odd hours of the night.

Till I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

There was food alright, beef and ugali and more dirty dishes. At this point I was wondering just how high I was or if I’d had a concussion. But then, I realized my gas was missing, at which point I was suddenly very sober; Mututho would have been proud. Now fully alert, I proceeded to do a quick stock check. Everything was in place in the kitchen except the gas canister, in the living room everything was in place except my pair of leather shoes and my subwoofer (thankfully I’d left the laptop at a friend’s who wanted to copy stuff) and in the bedroom, my ironbox and my deo were missing, along with a few notes I’d left on the table and my red scarf.

I did what any normal man would do. I went back to the kitchen, served myself whatever was left of my beef, cut a chunk of ugali and sat down on the kitchen floor to eat. When I was full, I picked my bottle of beer and drank. I knew Alcohol was not the answer or solution, but I was fully aware it would make me forget the question- in this case, wtf had happened. When I was done with my alcohol I gracefully went back to bed and dozed off. I will not bother narrating to you the confusion I had in the morning when, not remembering my gas was missing, I bought eggs to make breakfast.

Perhaps I’ll never know wtf exactly happened that night, but I do know this, I hate food thieves. Bruh, stealing is okay, just don’t steal people’s food, it isn’t cool at all however or wherever you look at it, even in a freezer; in my book that makes you a terrorist. I think I was more upset about my food than all the other items. But hey, at least I wasn’t robbed at dick point like one Wateba, plus it was beef not pork because I’d literally have broken down in tears. Which makes me question how people survive in places like Githurai and Dandora, because, as I’ve said before, I imagine I’d feel like Alibaba knowing that I’m surrounded by 40 thieves all around me.

HOW TO GET WET

Posted: October 21, 2013 by ketihapa in Alcohol, Women
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

No, this is not the kind of wet i am talking about..

As a fact, God punished women with periods and child birth and getting wet when it’s not even raining; doesn’t matter if they have umbrellas. Of course, our God is a fair God; He had to punish men too. He made us deal with women on their periods. I have stated this before in this blog time and again, I am NOT homophobic; but you understand why God hates gay people. They obviously found a loop hole in His punishments.

Away from religion, there are few things that scare me. Among them are losing the people that I love and care about and being anally raped by any one. Ask the guy that was robbed at dick point, Wateba it was, I think, if you don’t think this fear is valid. I also fear failing. No, scratch that. I hate failing. I fear that I will end up alone- and at this rate that is where I am headed- and I also fear that the Muslims were right all long and that Christianity is bullshit and we’ll all end up in hell as the terrorists have sex with their 70 virgins. Naturally, I also fear death, as well as my dear team, Arsenal, losing. Not to worry though, we have the Wizard of Oz11.

Then, there is the new fear I discovered I have not very long ago. Over the last weekend actually. I fear being pissed on. Especially if the person that’s going to pee on you is female.

I am not insinuating anything. But one thing is clear; I am never talking to any female first year students. With the exception of Daisy that is. Ever. Let me explain my decision.

As everyone who reads this blog knows, I am a drunk. I love beer and everything it stands for. As I once pointed out, beer is possibly the best thing ever invented. Beer allows you to see things as they are. Beer helps you get rid of that brain so everything is clear.

That ugly neighbor of yours, just drink two bottles and suddenly you will see beauty as God intended it to be; in the inside. That girl you’ve wanted to hit on for ages, beer will make that possible; It will give you all the confidence you need to grab a hammer to hit that. Beer will allow you to tell that asshole that’s been making you feel like shit that he’s shit. Yes, beer allows you tell him he’s shit even when you’re not in the toilet. Beer is also the best slimming chemical ever invented; beer makes you lean. On tables and random strangers though.

But that’s beside the point.

So, last weekend I found myself drinking beer for all its above mentioned benefits. And she walked in. She was beautiful. Again, refer to the benefits afore mentioned. She wore a short dress that exposed her long legs and made her cleavage seem like it would divert the attention of any sniper. That includes the sniper from the movie Saving Private Ryan. Yes, she got a number of men slapped by their girlfriends for staring too long at her. I needn’t say the girl I was currently hitting on slapped me too. From the moment she walked into the place, for me it was love at first site. Literally. And no Pepper, that wasn’t a typo.

Anyway, this beautiful lass walks up to the counter and orders a bottle of vodka. Vodka; and she’s on her own, which effectively signals the race to get her number. After all, we’re in Juja. Men here sense fresh female blood the moment it steps out of a jav. Count Dracula would be proud. If you don’t believe me just visit the JKUAT swimming pool. If God suddenly decided to unleash a virus that made all men cum at the very same moment, the JKUAT swimming pool would be a national resource for sperms.

Nonetheless, the girl walks up, aware of the attention she’s receiving and (miraculously) sits at the table next to the one we’re seated in. I assume my natural charms have something to do with it. I mean, it wasn’t my fault I was born very handsome. Wafunya, when I talk about handsome I am not talking about the other kind of handsome that involves Vaseline Petroleum Jelly. Anyhu, either that or the Axe deodorant I’m wearing if the Axe adverts are to be believed. I decide to take advantage of my obvious advantage. I ‘accidentally’ spill what’s left of my drink with a very precise aim that’s aimed at her shoes and I curse out loud, of course after saying sorry. She turns and laughs. My cue.

I turn to her and boldly proclaim her hotness must have heated my bottle to the point I couldn’t hold it any more. Cheesy, I know, even for my standards. She keeps on drinking her vodka. My pals, who’ve been following the proceedings carefully burst out laughing. One of them offers me his not yet opened bottle of Tusker.

Then a waiter places an empty glass on the table, right where my arms are. Suddenly, the girl pours alcohol into my glass and says she’s sorry her hotness made me spill my drink. Yeah, my pals shut up in unison. First time that’s happened in ages. She raises her arm and greets me.

“I’m Audrey.”

“I’m Victor. And I have no idea what’s going on.”

Audrey laughs and says takes a sip off her glass. Then:

“You’re an idiot. If that’s the pickup line you use to get girls you deserve to die a virgin. You’re lame.

“Do you see me in a wheel chair?”

Audrey gives me this priceless WTF look.

“Plus you just poured alcohol into my glass.”

“Yeah, I was sorry for your obvious effort.”

At this point in time I have to mention I can’t really remember anything else because Audrey’s vodka got me pretty drunk. So we’ll just fast forward to 9 am the next day. However, right now I do feel like I have just drank a bottle of varnish… I do expect a lovely finish.

******* 9 a.m. The Next Morning***********

We’re at my pal’s house. On the couch. I refuse to speculate whether we had sex or not. As afore mentioned, I can’t really remember anything. Killi and someone else I can’t really remember are playing FIFA. Killi is losing- as always- and Audrey is texting on her phone. And then I reach for my phone in my right pocket and freeze. My pants are wet. I instantly wake up like Rihanna and Ariana Grande just told me we’re having a threesome. I rush for the loo.

The moment I’ve locked the door I reach for my boxers. They’re dry; which doesn’t make any sense at all. I calmly remove my pants and smell them. I hope it’s beer. As you’ve all guessed by now, it’s not. I slowly wear my pants and walk out of the toilet.

“Audrey, ebu kuja nje kiasi.” I don’t really care for English now. I walk out and Audrey follows.

“Ok,what happened? Why do my pants stink of pee?”

Silence.

“Errrrm, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry boo. *whispering* I peed on myself. I didn’t think it reached to your pants.”

Silence.

“You whaaaaaaaaaattttttt?????????”

“I’m sorry.”

At least, she does look genuinely sorry. I calmly walk into the house and get the cushion. Killi and the other guy I can’t remember are too busy with FIFA to notice. Killi has just equalized. I place the cushion on the rail in the balcony.

“If anybody asks, you accidentally spilled water on the seat.”

Audrey nods.

I tell Killi I’ll see him later on during the day and walk out. Audrey tries to pretend nothing happened. As I walk out, I delete her number from my phone. It officially goes down in history as the first time I got a girl wet and she returned the favour. Only her’s is too literal to be even minutely sexual. You can thus understand why I am never hitting on any girl that’s more than two years younger than me.

The Shawshank Redemption is undoubtedly the best movie ever produced that details what redemption and self forgiveness is all about

With a heavy sigh, he forces himself to stagger away from the window, where he’s been standing in his boxers for the past thirty minutes, no longer able to bear the sight of the man staring back at him. His eyes are partly bloodshot, his head heavy and his hands are trembling. Taking one last sip from the bottle of vodka firmly in his grip, he places it on the small table beside his bed, gently, before reaching for the pack of cigarettes next to the now empty bottle. With a slight hesitation, he lights up a match, but his trembling hands cause him to burn two of his fingers in the process. He winces. More scars. It doesn’t matter to him; what are two more little scars compared to the millions of scars that blight his life anyway.

He lights up another match and this time, he successfully manages to light up the cigarette already on his lips. He inhales and feels the head rush hit him almost instantaneously, even before he blows out the poisonous smoke. The woman on his bed coughs and stirs up, her gaze now fixed on to the back of his head. Annoyed, he takes two more puffs in rapid succession, almost choking him. He didn’t pay for her services to care a morsel about her; besides, it’s his room. Like most smokers, he resents how the cigarette makes him feel like shitting a ton. He wishes the cigarette, now almost halfway, could make him release all the shit in his life.

The events that led to this night are still fresh on his mind, burning him, scorching his soul and will to go on in the process. His gaze is fixed on his right hand; he wishes he could cut it off. After all, Jesus did say any part of the body that causes you to sin should be cut off. He wishes it were that easy- to cut off the hand that drove a dagger deep into woman’s chest only hours before and forget the whole thing happened. He knows he’d give anything, including his own life to go back in time and warn his past, angry self before the bugger did the heinous act, because like most murderous, he didn’t intend for it to happen that way. He also knows his anger for her cheating didn’t warrant her death… for starters it has only added more misery into his life… but what is done is done. They are probably looking for him now, but he’s made up his mind not to run.

God knows he already misses her; if she were here he’d probably tell her something cheesy to make her laugh, just to see her warm smile one more time… to hear her beautiful voice call out to him telling him to stop making her ribs ache. He knows he’d probably respond with something even dumber. He’d tell her to forgive him for making her tired, because she’s always running through her mind. He still remembers the very first time he saw her. He was having lunch with a friend when she walked into the hotel. Disappointed they didn’t have pork ready at the time, she left. He’d run up to her and told her he wanted a picture of her to show Santa exactly what he wanted for Christmas that year. He bursts into a drunken, hysterical laughter when he remembers the priceless look on her face. For them it had been the proverbial love at first sight; there had been no need for him to walk by again. People had once described them as the perfect couple.

But like everything else on earth with the exception of Herpes, love too fades away. He makes a resolve.

He staggers one more time to his bed, where by now the hooker, whom he can’t remember her name, has already helped herself to a cigarette, but was too occupied with his thoughts to notice it. He takes out another cigarette and hands the remaining pack to her; where he’s going he won’t need them. Then, he pulls out a bunch of notes without bothering to count them and hands them to her. She knows she was lucky this time. To show her gratitude, she tries to pull him back into bed to give him one last fuck. He declines and she starts putting back her clothes- her work here is clearly done.

She follows him out of the door and watches him as he slowly locks up and without as much as a goodbye; both of them take to their different directions- two strangers that will probably never meet again, at least not in this crowded neighbourhood of Ngara. He pictures his destination in his mind. Outside, it’s began raining but he keeps walking straight ahead, willing every muscle of his legs not to let him stagger, knowing he’ll soon reach his destination. The darkness coupled with the rain trickling down into his eyes make it hard for him to see where he’s going, but he soldiers on, unafraid someone might jump him at any instant in these unsafe streets of Nairobi.

At last, he arrives. He looks up at the signpost that reads ‘Nairobi Central Police Station.’ He smiles as he lights the last cigarette he’s ever going to smoke again. He finally knows he can have a chance of redemption by taking the first step of taking responsibility for his actions. He reduces his pace now, taking one step at a time. He knows he may be drunk, but his mind is clear. This is what he wants to do. What he has to do if he’s to live with himself. Finally, he’s at the doorstep and he throws away the remaining cigarette.

He takes his first step inside the building, his gaze firmly at the book on the desk ahead, unconcerned about the curious glances directed at him. Then his phone starts ringing… A new number. He might as well find out whom his last call will be with.

“Hello, is this Alfred?”

“Hello, yes it is… Who’s this?”

“I’m Dr. Kimana calling from the Nairobi Hospital… We want to let you know your wife was brought here today with a stab wound and we performed an emergency procedure. We managed to save her life.. She’s awake now and she’s asking for you….”

He doesn’t bother letting the doctor finish… Alfred drops the phone and crumbles to the floor, tears in his eyes…

The Doctor told me to take only one glass per day... fair enough....

The Doctor told me to take only one glass per day… fair enough….

Dear Consumer,

My name is Vodka. Yeah, the one and only. This is a one-time thing. It will never be repeated and you will not argue about it. You’ll just have to listen, nod and I’ll be done in few. If at any point in time you do try to argue to argue with me I’ll straightaway assume you’re on your periods and I’ll give you a tampon- for free of course. And you will also, at any one time, not assume that I have feelings for you. Do not catch that shit.

Anyway, I am here to give you advice on me and most of my friends. First of all, I am, contrary to popular belief, your friend. Doctors will tell you all sorts of misinformed nonsense about me. For instance that you should drink water instead of me; well, tell me this, who kills germs and who causes pip0es to rust…

For purposes of this monologue, you are from now hence forth to disregard their stupidity, unless you’re dying and do not have a liver donor. They tell you that I am not the answer; hell, i make you forget the question. They also tell you that I give you cirrhosis, that I make you stupid and that you will engage in irresponsible sexual behavior and that you will be carefree and very happy. Other than the cirrhosis, tell me what else among those things that you do not enjoy doing. Name one. And I’ll quit. I’ll even refund you.

Thought so. Since we’ve established that I add value to your life, now please listen..

I’ll not exactly brag that I am responsible for 90% of the fun you have, I am a humble being. However, I will profusely apologize for lying to you that I can make you dance like Keko; or that I can make you lean. You will dance like you suddenly have two left feet and the only lean I will make you do will be on ugly people, tables and chairs. Which reminds me, sorry about the ugly thing. I just think it’s funny watching you make out with a hideous creature that you’ll be totally embarrassed of the next day. Kwanza that time you jumped off a balcony to avoid being seen coming from Ugly Susan’s apartment, hilarious! I instagrammed that. You should thank me for making you a celebrity on social media.

Another thing, whenever I ask whom you think is the best person to call when you’re with me, keep off your ex’s number. Hell, I have no idea what you’re doing with it in the first place. It is however allowed to call your crush, stalkee and or the girl you think is not giving you enough attention. Also, I may have misled you that girls love illegible text messages at 3 am; I swear I didn’t know. I only learnt recently it was the reason our friend Mutinda found himself a bachelor last week. We ought to help him get back with his ex…. loooool. Just kidding. It’s awesome he’s single now. We can drink till morning now.

Oh, and by the way, I forgot to tell you I discovered what your fist is finally perfect to hit with; the guy who just bumped into you. But you could spice it up by trying to call him an asshole first… the slurred speech will make it hilarious. However, don’t you dare tell the first man you see that has a bike and lots of hair ati “Hagrid! OMG you’re real!” You’ll gerrit. A swollen face that is. After you’re done, celebrate your victory. You see the swimming pool down there, jump into it- of course after you have taken off your pants first. Trust me you don’t want these to get wet. Women hate competition. **pun intended** Hold on a minute, i think my cousin Beer is on the line.

*muffled conversation*

Yeah, it was him alright. Haha. Beer is a funny one; he never fails to make me laugh. Anyway, Beer says to tell you that he’s sorry he lied to you that some girl needed new makeup. He’s sorry about the whole vomiting incident. He says he’s offer to buy you lunch but he’s kinda broke right now. Actually he was borrowing me money. That idiot thinks just because I’m from Russia I am loaded. He should meet my brother BlueMoon from Ruiru. Personally I think he should accept that he’s broke and settle for what he has like Keg did. See how happy he is now? He even rolls in a metal drum that weighs at least a ton. He also told me to tell you not to dare mixing him up with me. Ever. You’ll black out, but not before you decide your neighbor’s door is the best place to take a piss.

Alafu, I am told to warn you by the Society of Alcohol and other Drugs (SAD) that they accept responsibility for their actions. Alcohol did make you a tad too truthful and it sucks because you ended up admitting to your boss that you hate him and the bloody job. You’ll probably never get a promotion… but don’t you worry friend, I will always be there for you.

Before I go, I need to tell you something. I think Maggie likes you. For some reason she couldn’t stop laughing last night when you walked up to a lorry and whispered “Optimus Prime, I know your secret. Show your face just this once…” Also when you told her, which was very responsible of you, to drive you home… Only problem is, the party was at your place. Wife her man… OK, sorry. Have sex with her. All you have to do is to let me help you. In fact, my younger brothers Tequila and Black Ice can do the job for you. I will instruct them promptly to get on it. Somebody say Bow-chicka-wow-wow!!! 😀

I hope we’ll be meeting later on today… you know where. I can’t wait to get you fucked up.