Category Archives: HUMOUR

It is the funny things in life that make it interesting.


You’ve got to love the evolution of words. One day a word may mean one thing, only to end up meaning something so unrelated to the original meaning as to be completely outlandish. Do you remember the days when ‘China’ was a noun, referring to a specific oriental country? Those days are long gone. Nowadays people use ‘China’ as an adjective to qualify something as a low quality imitation or fake version of another. With the great advances in genetic research, we might one day be able to produce a fully functional human being from scratch. You know, without the use of the traditional sperm and ovum. The one thing we can be sure of is that if such a human being is ever made, China won’t waste a second before they start manufacturing their own version. It is hard to accurately predict what such a person would be like but we can imagine they would be something to behold.
My third phone was a China phone which my sister gave to me. It cost much less than my second phone but had infinitely more features. I swear that if the damn phone did not have that all-purpose red button, there are times I wouldn’t have been able to navigate back to the home-screen. China people would be made with an even greater number of features so as to maintain the unlimited potential of humans. But with the way some people are good at living as if they have no potential at all, I bet some of the China people would look simple in construction but have their true abilities hidden within applications which are themselves hidden within applications which are hidden as extras in the settings menu of the messages folder. No one would ever suspect that they have it in them to be anything more than a second rate imitation of a human being.
China men would be the antithesis of the stereotyped Chinese man. He would be tall and muscular, and handsome, with a deep, resonating voice. The box would promise that his emotions ran on the latest version of the most sensitive heart and his logic was backed by an attentive memory capable of remembering the tiniest, important details. Before unpacking him from the box, he would be a real catch for any woman. But the moment he was taken home and removed from his box, she would notice that beyond a given amount of stress, his voice changed to a tiny, girlish squeal. She would then learn that there was no way to check on the humanoid device whether the heart and memory were as good as promised. Practical experience with the man would however confirm that those specifications might have been overly exaggerated. Adding to her disappointments would be the final realization that the handsome face was the furthest thing from scratch resistant. All sort of scars, markings and wrinkling would start showing on his face within a week of acquisition.
You can imagine that men would be so happy to finally walk into a shop and walk out three minutes later with their dream girl all gift wrapped and shit. Getting a woman should be that simple, right guys? If it were, most men would bite off more than they could chew. By the time it dawned on them what had happened, it would be too late. They would already be addicted to one thing or the other in a desperate attempt to forget the bundle of problems at home which was now their responsibility. Given a choice, what qualities do you think most men would go for in a manufactured, China woman? Here is a guess based on observation: big tits, big butt, less brains than he, beautiful face and smile, worships him and can cook a descent meal. Everything else a man says he wants is more a matter of verbiage than semantics – it is just a different way of saying the same thing. Anyway, the above characteristics are the right-out-of-the-box specifications. Give the China woman a day or two and the facade falls off. First, her make up melts or smears and you are left wondering why whoever painted her face did not bother to pin an expiration date note on any of her numerous earrings. Surely, even the women themselves would appreciate avoiding the let down of looking like a kid’s doodling board in public.
Secondly, many men would learn with lots of regret that the coveted big butt and boobs were actually made of plasticine. Consequently, when pressed, kneaded or subjected to any kind of pressure, they would not regain the full roundness for which they were bought in the first place. But it is easy for a man to overlook the physical shortcomings of a woman who worships him and makes him feel on top of the world. Sadly, the joy of having such a woman would be short lived. The bubble would burst when the man learned that the praises and compliments were confined to the bedroom. Outside the sanctity of their house, he would be the object of ridicule of his lady’s chama group. Nothing is off limits with those women, especially not the size and length of his erection. The final blow to his ego, however, would come from her feminine mind. True to the specifications, she might have less brains than he. Nevertheless, she can still twist the simplest facts until they are plain confusing to the man. Factor in her ability to drag the most inconsequential argument for hours and the man has no chance of ever being heard in his own house. Speaking of his house, the China woman would change everything in it and make it her own as soon as she moved in. As these things go more often than not, his dream woman would be his undoing.
The devil would insist on having the last laugh though. The man and woman wouldn’t unravel before they had a child to painfully remind them of their lapse in judgement. A China child would be no ordinary baby. They would come with customizable cry tones so that the parent could decide which MP3 tone should be the child’s cry. Like China phones, a very loud crying volume would make their voice to go permanently hoarse. Some would start leaking from weird places like the armpits and between the fingers. The flip side would be that no matter the damage to the babies from poor handling, some tape and elastic bands would always be enough to patch them up. Matter of fact, as long as the parents did not mind the worn look of repeated repair, the kids could live to be hundreds of years old. That is, until they begin to look like they belong to your mother and common sense forces you to give them to her.
In short, if people were made in China, they wouldn’t be much different than they are now. Men would still last fifteen seconds in the sack, women would still not know how to give good head, and children would remain to be an unpredictable nuisance that many men would still wish to avoid taking care of but not owning. Hopefully, there would be original counterparts to China people so that those who weren’t afraid to pay the price for quality wouldn’t be forced to marry ratchet hoes or b**ch-a** n*ggas. One couldn’t afford to pay such a price unless they were worth something themselves. So those who sought after quality would be necessitated to develop quality in themselves too. Is this a coincidence? No. Quality begets quality; but if we live and behave like China people, then we are doomed to end up with a fake a** n*gga or b**ch. That’s karma, and am out!



There are many reasons why I am not a huge fan of formal education. To start with, the most important and useful lessons in life are not taught in any classroom. Ironically, some of the lessons neglected are the ones which no one should ever have to learn by themselves. Anyway, I now find myself in dire need  of a tutor. I am on holiday for four months, probably longer, so why do I need a tutor? Well, I don’t know how to hide from my landlord. All the eighteen years I have been in different schools at different levels of learning, no single teacher saw it fit to give me a crash course on how to deal with my landlord. Matter of fact, I am so naive on this subject that I committed the cardinal sin of inviting friends over and proceeding to engage in boisterously loud conversation in the late evening when the landlord is around. No sooner had my visitors left than my landlord came  knocking at my door, a fake smile on her face. And, in a deceptively friendly way that only old people can pull off, said to me, “I am glad you are so happy. You remember you haven’t cleared with me this month; maybe you might want to make me a little happy too?” Damn! I wish someone had told me before that laughing inside a house whose rent is unpaid drives landlords mad. Now I know never to laugh until I have paid my rent.

After I finished with her, having bought myself more time to deliver her well deserved and wrongfully delayed rent, I realized that I was faced by another dilemma. It was time to prepare supper. Unfortunately, there was nothing in my house to eat with ugali but eggs. Even though no one had taught me this lesson either, common sense told me that the smell of eggs from my place would ruin her appetite for her sukuma wikis. There’s no telling what the resulting foul mood could make her do; she might decide to come claim my eggs as down payment. Anyway, I did not have the time or energy to go buy something less obtrusive to the senses. In other words, I was broke. Why else did you think I had not paid my rent already? Anyway, I managed to cook myself a nice meal without any further disturbances.

I suspect that she is also trying to set up a “Broke Tenants Anonymous” club where all the tenants who cannot afford rent can meet and share their frustrations. Each time she comes to collect rent, she first lets one know that they are not the only one who have not paid. She will apologetically tell you the names of all the others who have not paid rent, “Today is the 15th, and you, Baba Junior and Mama Pesh have not paid rent. I decided to come for it just in case you forgot.” I have no doubts that everyone in the building will know who has not paid rent by the end of the week. The landlord is adroit at slipping in such details even in the most casual of conversations. Maybe she reasons that embarrassment might push us into paying. Which reminds me that I really should go to church this Sunday and thank God for shutting down that area of my brain which would otherwise cause me to feel embarrassment. I will also speak to one prayer group and ask them to join me in praying and fasting for a memory reduction. If there is one thing I will never forget, it is paying rent or, in this case, the fact that I have not paid. My landlord, however, doubts my memory and sees it fit to keep reminding me. I wish my memory was that fickle, then I could be able to go through my day without dreading that awkward moment when I try to open my metallic door without making the tiniest of sounds. If she comes back before I have the money, I won’t know what to tell her. All the excuses I could think of are exhausted already. If you know anyone with experience in dodging their rent payments, please give them my number. I promise to give them an egg for each successful idea on how to avoid another run in with my landlord until I can finally pay the rent.


Early today, on my way to school, I saw a traffic policeman too busy on his smartphone that he did not notice three PSVs pass by him! When the fuck did social media become that addictive? Or is Mark Zuckerberg peddling another version of Facebook behind our backs? You know like one that is reserved for really cranky people and is guaranteed to kick the antisocial out of them. You all have to agree, a Kenyan cop is one cranky motherf***er whenever he is in uniform or packing heat? These geniuses need to come up with an app that integrates Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, etc. into one news feed and then throw in a porn background to complete the picture. Maybe then some cops wil get addicted to social media like the rest of us and forget to do their “job”. Why is job in quotes? Dumbass! I am referring to extortion — they don’t seem to ever do anything else. Knowing the Kenyan cops like we all do, it must have been something more addictive than porn to make that cop let go of three 50 bobs just like that. I am even discounting the real and imaginary offenses he could easily have found in all three vehicles to make it an even thousand or two.

So shocked was I by that early morning scene that I almost skipped breakfast to first write about it. Luckily, by a twisted stroke of fate, my laptop was run over by a bus and so I am stuck with the computer labs. Guess what time those open. You are wrong! The correct answer is anytime between 7.50 and 8.30 AM. Well, that gave me a half an hour for breakfast. It also gave me half an hour to imagine what the cop might have been doing on his phone and wasting all those money making opportunities. Or is scorching, January sun not burning their money as fast as it’s burning mine. Sorry, make that past tense, burned mine, it’s long gone. I imagined maybe there was an accident at home. But no, an accident would have been a phone call and he would have appeared concerned. His face was sober, only a look of concentration on his face. This makes me think he was watching porn, but I seriously doubt. He was holding the phone below his chest — too far for porn viewing. A dude watching mobile porno will have his phone much closer to his face. It will be more closer still in public where he fears someone might be watching. The pious hypocrites are wondering how a self-respecting man ends up watching porn in public. I’ll break it down to you, Moses. Admittedly, there are guys who God would personally come down to throw in that hole that swallowed your flock. They love porno, not just any porno but the perverted kind that creates sickos, then they watch it everywhere whenever they think no one is watching. But some of us are not so ‘evil’. We will just be taking a leisurely pass through various websites when we click on a random link and voila! Boobies and huge a***es everywhere! You know how men can be, so if it is free and it is here, why not sample it? Some of us reason that if God didn’t want us to watch this stuff, he would have given us more self-control. Take it from me, it can be real hard to close that tab even if you did not open it on purpose. Unless you are in a crowded public matatu minding your phone and the next thing you hear is the moans escaping from your loudspeaker. Heaven forbid you be travelling with a relative or someone who knows you because nothing but the grace of God will keep you from throwing the dumb thing out the window. But God might have a small problem with helping you out under those circumstances in which case the devil will always throw you a line; after all, the two of you can’t be such bad friends if you are watching porno and shit. That’s is when you seriousy think of suing Apple et. al. for false advertising. How can it be a smartphone if it doesn’t know not to play loud porn in a public vehicle?

So no emergency and no porn, what else could that cop have been doing with his smart phone? Perhaps he was tweeting his latest conquest, or his future plans. I imagine one of the tweets might read: “I am never broke… ‘cos I make it rain rain rain! These drivers be raining on me like rain rain rain. ” Then he might have logged into Facebook and posted: “Fom 1 school fees for mbaby girl now found, ndaddy loves you so much. I love mbeing a poriceman.” The Kamba accent is in memory of this really old cop I once saw take a bribe. It was shocking but not because I expected more integrity from a man his age. It is just that he seemed like he could die any minute. And I am not sure anyone wants to walk up to the Pearly Gates only to realize they still have a bribe in their pockets. There are no dustbins there ‘cos there ain’t no waste, so he’d just have to take it to hell with you. A Kikuyu would be like, “Now Peter, Saint Peter surely, there’s no need to burn money even if you are saying it is sinfully gotten. I have a better idea, why don’t you hold it for me and I’ll come take it after eternity with interest? No? OK, then I’ll take it after eternity without interest.” You gotta love Kikuyus. I mean, they did not inherit the earth or nothing, but I’ll be damned if they don’t own it by the time Jesus gets back. Then they’d greet Jesus like, “What’s up, JC? Finally! We been waiting for you ‘cos your people said you are the one who was gonna pay their rent for living here on earth. What?! You’re kidding! How does your dad own it, we have the title deeds. Does your dad have a title deed?”

I am neither holy nor religious, but above age 70, I think one is better advised to live righteously. That Kamba cop was way above that. It seemed like a driver could just give him a 100 shillings in loose change and wait for him to die while counting and take it all back. That is it, counting! Maybe that is what the cop was doing using a calculator. Receiving two hundreds and a fifty from the same driver is not the same thing as getting five fifties from five different vehicles, the math gets complicated then. Or maybe he was counting the bosses share after removing taxes, breakfast, lunch and hardship allowances for standing all day in the sun to do the dirty work while his boss is in the office growing a second chin and a waist the size of equator.

Anyway, for his sake, I hope he was not answering one of those questions all men hate to answer and women love to ask: Why didn’t you come home last night? Married men know that this is one of those questions you need to answer immediately if you need any peace in your life. Failure to do so will result in endless weeks, sometimes months, of continuous or intermittent nagging. It is even worse if she signs off with, “…Are you OK? I am worried.” Oh, boy! Tick tock, tick tock. Your ten seconds are over and you did not reply or call her yet. I won’t tell you what the punishment will be, I’ll let you find out for yourself the same way i found out. In all likelihood, that cop was answering a text message. And what text message might make a cop forget about his doh? The type of message that makes him realize that money won’t spread her legs, her brain and heart will. So he dutifully sacrifices time to appease those two beasts and tame them into puppies, win them back on his side. I can only imagine what a sweet day it would be if all cops pissed off their wives and/or girlfriends on the same day. Someone still doesn’t believe that women run the world? The poor deluded fool, God have mercy on his blind self.

P.S.: Congratulations to Stano, my best friend since high school and now a honest cop, who will very soon be a father. You make me not forget that you all are our brothers and sisters, and much as some cops are totally rotten, they are still a few who sacrifice a lot to keep us safe. To the honest, hardworking and disciplined cops, salute! I got crazy respect for y’all.


Yesterday was Christmas! Before you start calling me Captain Obvious, let me point out that I saw a woman weeding her garden yesterday. 365 days and a quarter more in a year, and she had to go gardening on Christmas? What’s wrong with some people? Can’t they show some respect, you know like this guy actually saved the world? As far as I am concerned, Christmas is more important than Sunday. Remember when Jesus said that you cannot leave your donkey in a hole on a Sunday just because it is the Sabbath? Well, he did not once make light of the importance of Christmas in similar manner. That should be enough to tell you that Christmas is not to be messed with. It is with that spirit that I decided to pay some relatives a visit on Christmas. Imagine my shock and horror upon finding my aunt buried ankle deep in loose soil digging up potatoes. A load of Napier grass was lying a few feet away from her, further revealing the true extent of her indiscretion. It is really true what the Swahili say, mcheka kilema, kwao kipo. To make it worse, the handicap of dishonouring Christmas managed to end up afflicting me too. Being a gentleman, I was forced to carry her load of potatoes and animal feed as I accompanied her to her home. Yes, I ended up working on Christmas day despite my deep rooted aversion to doing any work other than bring down mountains of rare cuisine on this divinely ordained day.
It is said that the first time is the hardest, after that you get used to it and even begin to enjoy it. And to the perverts amongst you, I am talking about your first time working on Christmas day; something I was almost used to by the time I finally bade my aunt goodbye and hoisted the load of bananas she insisted I carry to my shoulders. But let’s backtrack a little, I did not just arrive and then leave immediately. I got to hang out with my uncle, who finally decided to ask me what I study at the university, three years after I was admitted. I refrained from pointing out the fact the he was three years too late in asking and simply told him, “I study engineering.”
“What does that entail?” He asked, confirming what I had suspected – he does not know the difference between a mechanic and an engineer, much less that between a civil and an electrical engineer.
I had to humour him, “There are different fields of study in engineering.” I explained and he shook his head in understanding. This encouraged me to go on, “I will be a Mechatronics engineer upon graduation.”
He looked at a point on the ceiling directly above my head in deep thought; I was sitting across the width of the table from him. After almost a minute of silence and some very serious contemplation on his part, he said, “Can you put that in mother tongue?”
I almost laughed out loud. Not because he did not know what Mechatronics is, but because all that time we were actually already speaking in mother tongue, with only the exception of the occasional English word or phrase for which I could not find a direct or ready equivalent in mother tongue. Anyway, it was now my turn to think. I tried to imagine how I could explain words and concepts like automation, computer programs, engineering design, robots, artificial intelligence, etc. in mother tongue. When I saw him still looking expectantly at me, I concluded that he probably did not care a single piece of his goats’ droppings what Mechatronics is all about. What was more important was the reassurance that my course will be able to land me a job and put a descent meal on my table, which translates to our table, mine and his. I gave him that reassurance in the simplest way I know how.
“Mechatronics deals with a lot of things related to different types of machines.” He nodded his understanding and I continued to tell him what he wanted to hear, “But the reason I love it is that it will buy me a plot and a wife one day.”
That made him smile. I have come to learn that the two things most men who are my uncle’s age value most are a prime plot in some urban or semi-urban area and a fully paid for wife, I am talking dowry here. There are reasons for this. A plot, just like a car to most Kenyans, is a symbol of wealth. It earns a man respect among his peers as one with the financial acumen to accumulate wealth. A wife completes the picture; she is what makes a male worthy of the title man, especially after she has borne him children. Finally, paying the dowry serves to give the man that inner pride and esteem of knowing that the woman is fully his, both in accordance to customs and whichever romantic barter trades of love that brought and bound them together.
Our discussion was cut short by my aunt who came to join us at the table room. She noticed the half-empty cups of muratina on the table and saw it fit to give my uncle a lecture about mixing medication with alcohol. The grown sissy sat there staring at me sheepishly as he got told off by his wife. That’s when I learnt the truth; he is not free to drink whenever he wants regardless of how much his throat needs some oiling. Boy was I grateful I am not married! But that was not the only thing I learnt from that encounter. It also dawned on me that when you pay dowry and finally ‘own’ your wife, she also owns you in equal measure. The only difference is that she was useful at her parents’ home and so they wouldn’t let her go for free. Conversely, all you did at home was steal sugar, ruin stuff by tinkering with it and come home late. In short, you were as much a headache as you were useful, and your parents couldn’t wait for the day you left their home to make one for yourself. That’s why you pay dowry and she doesn’t, according to some African folklores.
Witnessing that scene left me confused somehow. The thing is, my uncle’s masculinity is not in question here. He is the very definition of masculinity. To prove it, he drowned his cup before corking the brewing gourd and taking it back to where he hides it. I took it that that was his way of telling his wife, “I have heard you, but there are reasons why I filled this cup up in the first place. For those reasons, I’ll finish it and drink no more today.” My aunt was wise enough not to say anything. After that scene played itself out, we all settled in a kind of comfortable calm and made small conversation. I observed the kind of companionship which ‘owning’ each other had developed between those two and was quite impressed. That’s when it occurred to me that if indeed Mechatronics will buy me a wife, it will also sell me out to her. They have a name for this type of trade but it is not taught at school alongside barter and cash trades. That name is marriage.

P.S.: Mr. Mututho don’t think I’ll ever snitch on my uncle, so don’t waste your time coming after me hoping I’ll lead you to the muratina. But if your wife is making it difficult to drink at home, you can hit me up on my twitter and I’ll teach you how to sneak around strict spouses. In exchange, I’ll request that you put my name as an exception to all your laws and regulations alongside such persons as the president, Otieno Kajwang’, Bonny Khalwale, the cardinal and catholic priests, etc. I am referring here to people who may need a drink, at hours which might be at odds with yours, so as to perform the functions of their offices (president, priests and cardinal) or to maintain the eccentricities of their personalities, salute Dr. K. My favourite quote of yours still remains, “For fun to survive, and men of all ages to enjoy themselves, he must go. KiMututh… Oh! Hic! Sorry, Kimunya must go!!”

Happy Festivities before Mututho’s compassion wears thin!

Kay Qube, staggers out!


Christmas day is a very special day of the year, the most special in my opinion. So I decided to celebrate it in a special way, by spending time with my beautiful wife of six years. You can probably guess that I am not old enough to be married to anyone for six years. How then do I have a wife? Thank God for wife inheritance, and especially for that golden age when AIDS did not exist, during her late husband’s youth. This latter fact is what made me deem it reasonable not to put her through the stressful process of going to a VCT. Some of my friends call it horniness, but I like to think of it as sensitivity. And not that kind of sensitivity that makes you too eager to reach for the condoms in the bedside drawer. That kind of sensitivity only gets you STIs and unplanned pregnancies. I am referring to the kind of sensitivity that makes you want to marry someone after you’ve dated for some time. More about this lady I call my wife: She was a second wife to her late husband, which I think literally means that she is a great woman. After all, she must have had something extra to make a nigga go like, “I know I have it all at home already, but I am not living one more day without this latest model release of a woman in my life.” So far I am sure I am not mistaken, nothing has given the tiniest shred of evidence to the contrary. These are all things which served to add to my excitement at the thought of seeing her after some time apart.
Don’t ask me how the devil found out that I intended to visit the woman who loves me with all her heart. All I know is that very early on Christmas day he was at my doorstep doing everything he could to ruin my plans. It began with my mobile phone. The moment I picked it to leave the house, it beeped and started to blink red, battery low! I had to delay and charge it first. Then he started using the oldest trick in the book, I started becoming all anxious and nervous about the visit for stupid reasons. When I saw that he was gaining some footing against me, I showed him the one thing which frustrates him most, love. Upon realizing that I loved this woman too much and was resolute on paying her a visit no matter what, he decided to leave me alone. I was to later hear that he was seen at Machakos country-bus station totally drunk and dancing naked in front of the buses that were supposed to leave at night. Consequently, the buses could not travel to their destinations because some pawns chose Christmas to reinforce the night travel ban for PSVs. The devil works in many ways, sorry to those who will be late reporting back to their jobs because of that inconvenience.
Unfortunately for peace loving folks, the devil does not work alone. Indeed, he sent someone to try and recruit me into his gang on Christmas day. And the devil is smart, he uses ordinary people we cannot suspect. This time he had sent a cousin of mine who I was meeting for the first time. He was elated at being introduced to another one of his relatives. It is with that joyous euphoria that he smilingly held a cup to my mouth and insisted that I drink. I looked inside the cup and saw that it was filled with tea, so I took a healthy sip like a good African male. While I was swallowing, my taste buds were simultaneously sending out memos to all my other senses informing them that my eyesight needed serious help and was not to be trusted. My nose confirmed it as he was withdrawing the cup. It turned out that he was actually enjoying a cup of traditional, alcoholic brew. My gag reflexes were too slow to help me keep my promise to myself never to drink again. I conceded that the devil had won that round. I honestly saw no need to cry over that spilt milk, it was alcohol not poison.
Northwards, the truly nasty amongst the devil’s servants and cronies were busy painting a picture of hell in a country still desperately trying to find its own footing as a young nation. Thousands are reported dead already and the count keeps rising. The UN has been forced to move in more peacekeepers. Our own country chartered two planes to fly out the stranded Kenyans out of that hell. But there are others trapped in areas which have already been captured by rebels. Whether they are alive or dead… we can only pray and hope. Everyone keeps saying how it is better to solve the problem and not the symptoms but very few seem interested in doing that. How come that I never heard of a widespread manhunt for the devil? Perhaps a cash reward of like $1 billion? Bill Gates might even be willing to pay the larger share of the reward if he’s promised that upon the devil’s capture, his computing systems will never freeze, crash or overheat again. Who knows if in one of the two times he came to ambush me on Christmas I might not have been able to turn the tables around and hold him until the cops (or would it be pastors?) arrived? With one billion dollars in my pocket, I could buy each Kenyan citizen two thousand shillings worth of Christmas gifts and still remain a multi-millionaire. That’s 40 million people temporarily extricated from the tentacles of poverty.
I know some of you don’t believe that two thousand is enough to remove anyone from poverty for any period of time. Well, there are people who live on fifty bob a day. To them, the two thousand amounts to 40 days of consistent provision. Didn’t I tell you that the devil is smart? He has some of us so deep in poverty that we cannot even look up to sense the smell of chapattis being cooked all over. Some hearths and stoves remained untouched during and after Christmas. The devil is a very busy man. I wonder how those people who make deals with him manage to even book an appointment. Do you know how difficult it is to put anyone down on Christmas day? Everyone is always in an upbeat mood and clings to the smile on their face like it’s the very air they are breathing. But the devil has ways to steal away those cherished smiles on this special day. A friend of mine lost his dad on Christmas, God rest his soul. It is impossible to smile through such a loss.
Despite everything that the devil did on Christmas and is doing right now to cause suffering to earth’s children, we have the heavenly assurance that God is with us. So take heart and do not agree to lose to the devil. If you lose one round, get up and recover your strength then fight another round, until you win. The devil is a bitter old man who is enraged because he knows nothing good will happen to him ever again. You shouldn’t lose to such an opponent considering that you have divine strategy and armour to use in the fight. But remember that the devil never sleeps, he planted the stupid thoughts in this post on my mind when we all thought Christmas was finally over and went to sleep. So never let your guards down even in your sleep. Methinks those erotic dreams are the devil showing you porn in your sleep. Wake up and take a cold shower, give your hands something distracting to do.

Finally, to my late grandpa who I am named after, rest in peace. I am taking good care of grandma for you. She was so happy to see me on Christmas day, joking about how I chose and wooed her myself because I was bewitched by her dark skinned beauty. She tells me you were quite the Romeo, and I think it rubbed off on me. Until we meet again in heaven, keep them angels smiling.