Humor, Mofeas, Real Life Story

El-shaddai, The Great Cockblocker

So Huddah Monroe (Njoroge) revealed her HIV status and she’s (surprise, surprise) Negative. I’m sure that was a relief to all who have walked down that dark alley especially after that man whore Prezzo had staggered and stumbled through it. For me it means that I can finally remove the two magnum XL’s I’ve been wearing to bed daily after viewing her instagram account so I can quadruple tap that posterior in my dreams in relative safety. From now on it’s bareback back baby, full contact is what it’s about! Of course they didn’t test for gonorrhea and syphilis but i’m pretty sure only HIV can be transmitted in dreams. The only reason I can dream so big is because I’m finally getting my groove back. For a while there I’d started getting mired in self doubt. There’s nothing as depressing as starting to believe that your mojo has gone dodo. When you can no longer get the most frigid of women to soak their small clothes with but a hint of a smile. When red seas are no longer parted at your rod’s behest. When you are no longer Thor and your hammer of the Gods lays silent, no longer laying asunder maidenheads. This was the situation that befell me in the first few months after I moved next to Courage, Eustace and Muriel Bagge in Nowhere Nyahururu. At first, the custodians of ovaries in the vicinity of Nowhere were very eager to sample the hammer of the god from Nairobi. I was the one refusing to oblige, still nursing hangovers from the uptown sweet meats I’d grown accustomed to. I still harbored some notion of class and I was hoping against all hope that my sojourn in Nowhere would be a short one. Three months down the line and negroe was parched! The thirst was intolerable, standards had to be whittled to the simple singular universal truism that K is constant. If marinated T-bone steaks were not to be found, coal roasted innards aka mturas would have to do. So I set out to hunt down the village girls I had previously looked down on. Problem was, while they were only too happy to do the village foreplay routine-you know, big toe dust cartography, laughing at anything you say and exclaiming ‘aki wewe uko na tabia mbaya!’ when you finally asked for the southern cuisine – none would let me explore their southern hemisphere. It seemed all the village lasses were experiencing El-nino in that geographical region when I requested to tour. I knew other negros were getting some and the realization that I was no longer King Cobra drove me to a blue ball exercebated depression. This was until a little birdie disclosed to me the cause of my woes. El-Shaddai. No, not the great ‘I Am El-Shaddai’, although I can’t completely discount his hand in any of my woes. This was my bosom buddy, Shadrack, fellow exile from the city whom I found already growing roots in Nowhere when I landed here. We became fast friends even announcing to the villagers that we were brothers. I always thought the nickname El-shaddai was because he was a swell person. He kept away from village women generally and encouraged me not to engage in village banter too much lest I lose my city aura and be doomed to be considered a fellow villager. This I found out wasn’t entirely the truth. El-shaddai, I found, wasn’t used to describe his character at all, but rather a certain characteristic of his anatomy. It is said that the dude carries the sceptre of the gods in his skivvies. Apparently, upon his arrival in Nowhere, he had wreaked havoc with his bazooka leaving mushroom clouds and infrastructure damage in every southern oasis he had been welcomed into. His reputation had spread quickly and a conference of all the village guardians of southern oases of pleasure had resolved to declare him persona non grata in their little kingdoms. Now enter my good self fresh from the same lands that El-shaddai hailed from and worse declaring myself his brother. That was like papa doc bringing baby doc to continue his reign of destruction. The council of guardians had found me guilty by association and extended denial of access to me. I found out all this from a sympathetic guardian who found me wasting away with depression in my bed. Now that I knew it wasn’t me after all, I rose to the occasion and cajoled her into granting me access on humanitarian grounds. Never have I been happier to be an average sword carrier. I let loose all the skill my blade of valayrian steel had mastered over the years. That guardian had never had a better swordsman in her kingdom. So that is how I got my groove back. My guardian sought to keep her new found treasure to herself for a while but eventually word got out and now I’m a protector and benefactor of the most appealing village guardians and can dare dream of the Huddahs of this world ever again. There is a lesson to be learnt here, always vet your friends thoroughly, you are what people perceive your friends to be. Posted from WordPress for Android

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