Do not look at me as a prophet of doom for the words I’m about to say. Rather, I reveal the deep truths that we refuse to admit even to ourselves.
SCIENCE HAS FAILED US! How you might ask? Simple. We don’t have robot sex dolls.
I would be more than justified in using this space to bemoan the pathetic state of our sciences and our scholars and our technology, but I’m just not that kind of guy. I’m the kind of guy who thinks beyond his present circumstances and tries to solve the problems that he’s presented with. And there’s only one obvious solution to this dire situation: Necrophilia.
It really is the perfect blend of human contact without the inconvenience of human interaction. Our techniques of human preservation mean that bodies can be maintained in pristine condition after death for a long time. And all it’ll take to get corpses flexible again after rigor mortis is a few strategically placed metal joints. And if you think that is impossible, think of the artificial joints surgeries all over the world that replace knees, elbows and hips. It’s only a small step to doing the same to the dead. It’ll actually be cheaper since you don’t have to worry about anaesthesia and quality of (after)life.
And for all those with petty moral concerns, GET OVER YOURSELVES! You want to deny hundreds of people the joys of having a human sex partner with no demands of their own! What kind of monsters are you!? Yes the partners might be dead, but that’s better than the nothing that those people currently have. It’s not like these corpses will be diverted from some critical function. In fact, we’d actually be using them to bring even more happiness to the world. And I’m sure that if it’s one thing our loved ones would like to know they brought to this world even after their passing, it’s happiness.
Don’t bury or cremate your loved ones. Instead, donate their body to that sexless friend or frustrated who you know could use some good lovin’. In the immortal words of Michael Jackson, you’ll be doing your part to heal the world, to make it a better place for you and for me and the entire human race.
If you’ve spent some time on this blog then you probably know that the end goal is world domination. What might surprise you however is how long this plan has been in motion. See, when I was a kid we had a giant picture of Jomo Kenyatta, Kenya’s first president, hanging somewhere. Kenyans know the one. The iconic image with the fly whisk.
Now I didn’t know who he was exactly and I certainly didn’t know he was dead at the time. But, because I was a stubborn child who refused to ask questions when I could make my own (horribly uninformed) conclusions, I decided he was the world ruler. Why else would we have a picture of him? Solid reasoning, right? And in a moment of childlike confidence I declared that I would take his job. It was a vow I took very seriously as you can see:
As it turned out the entire office of world ruler was unoccupied so (sadly) I don’t have to unseat anybody. But (again, sadly) I do need you people to actually get the office. Dictatorship ain’t what it used to be. So i (not really) humbly come bearing gifts.
- A GUILT TRIP
Look at the hope in that child’s eyes. Do you want to crush it? Are you trying to get in the way of that dream? Do you dance in a field upon the forgotten corpses of children’s hopes?
If not then support our domination. Vote for us here.
- A POWER PLAY
In case you’re a heartless bastard and you’re not swayed by any of that then consider this. You, our readers are coming with us. When we establish our class system, you’ll be the party members, the aristocracy, the Shogun, the Brahmin etc.
If you want to bathe in the tears of your enemies, Vote here.
- BLACK MAIL
In case guilt or the promise of power aren’t your cup of tea, consider this. We know how you got here. You heard me. We know what you were googling that somehow landed you on this site.
Be it your strange desire to see cartoons misbehaving
-Marvel comics sex
-thumbellina frogo porn
-spongebob flipping off
Or you were accidentally trying to find Vaseline.com (which raises the questions. Why? How did that even lead you here? And Why? Bulk purchase?)
Or the 69 (har har) of you that were looking for a man in a diaper
We know! And if you don’t vote for us. Well…I trust you’ll do the right thing
PS: I really wish I was making up those stats. And those are the tame ones. I love you dear readers, but y’all are messed up people. Which is why you should support your own. Do not feed the bloggers for best creative writing blog. We promise really useful corruption.
You may have heard that we’ve been nominated for Best Creative Writing Blog for the Kenyan Blog Awards 2014. Cue unseemly celebration with terrible dancing and everything. I’d like to thank all you sick twisted people who nominated us. We will take you with us when we take over the world so don’t forget to vote for us here:
As for you new readers. Why should you vote for us? First, meet the bloggers.
I’m the boss around these parts. I’ve been kindly informed several times that sanity is not my strong point.
You can read about my (succesful) quest to find the funniest book ever here
My thoughts on cartoons here
Meet Olivia. Aka BBB (Big Breasted Blogger) our resident cynic.
Are you happy? Let her disabuse you of your foolishness. You are broke and single, accept this here.
I’d say meet Aggrey but it’s probably safer if you watch from a distance. Aggrey, also known as Molesto (The Clown) is our dark side. If i told you how many times we’ve had to seek legal advice on his account (from law students obviously. Ain’t nobody got that kind of money) you wouldn’t believe me.
Nat aka Nuthead is our angry violent side.
Strangely enough, she’s the (relatively) sane one. Sit down and let her teach you the difference between anti-social and selectively social.
Fred is the man in charge of everything else. We need a podcast. He’s our guy. Photographer. The man has invented a way to take pictures of the past so he can tell you what Jesus actually looked like. I would tell you about his hacking activities but we don’t want him to get arrested. Of course, he’s extremely lazy so his world changing activities take a while.
Black lazy James Franco can tell you how all this begun.
You know you want to vote for us. Vote for the Madness
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.
“I’m a writer.”
“No…you’re a blogger.”
“No no no. Those two are worlds apart. You know the way at the circus they have like a seal playing bagpipes or something like that? You’ll watch it, you’ll be amused, you’ll even clap. But you won’t call that seal a musician. It’s still just a seal playing the bagpipes.”
“In case you didn’t get it bloggers are the…”
“I got it!”
“Seal. You’re the seal.”
I did two things in response to this conversation. First, I resisted the ridiculously strong urge to rename this blog to “Seals playing bagpipes.” Second I decided to reclaim the dignity of bloggers everywhere (you’re welcome). How was I going to do this? Simple. Good, old fashioned investigative journalism.
To show this naysayer, I had to delve into this country’s dark side and emerge victorious with some kind of exclusive story. But what story? Corruption? No, nothing would be surprising there, besides, I don’t need (any more) political enemies. Crime? Screw that, I don’t want to get shot. Perversion? Nah, too easy, Aggrey can write about himself.
I needed something darker, more dangerous (in theory) and interesting. And what’s darker, more dangerous and more interesting than corruption crime and perversion? If you said Witchcraft, 10 points.
For our international readers, it may help to know that in Kenya witchdoctors actually have advertisements. Wooden signs nailed to trees and posts that clearly read “mganga” (Swahili for witch doctor) and have a phone number and a list of services. In richer neighbourhoods they say “astrologer” but it’s not fooling anyone when the list includes “expelling demons.” I’ve never heard anyone actually talk about it but odds are they’re doing good business. The signs are on pretty much any street you walk on.
So, now committed to my gonzo journalist quest I called one of these supposed witchdoctors. Actually, I called several but most wouldn’t talk to me while I was on private number. Only one didn’t seem to mind my secrecy. It’s actually shocking to me that people give their numbers to these people so much that they expect it and get irritated when you don’t. Seriously? If you don’t buy their story, you gave your number to a conman. If you do then you willingly handed your contact and possibly your details to someone you believe can perform magic. There is no winning in that scenario!
Anyway, here’s the line I was selling. I’m a husband at the end of his wit because of his wife’s infidelity. I need her to stop. What can you do for me?
I don’t know what I was expecting. A con definitely but nothing like what i got. This guy says with all the confidence in the world (translating what he said).
“I can make her vagina seal shut!”
What!? Now hold on a second here. If that’s a bluff it’s the hell of a bluff isn’t it? If my story was true and I actually was in that situation I’d damn well notice if he actually delivered. If it’s a con it’s not an efficient one. You’ll get caught and you won’t get repeat customers and if there’s such a thing as a reputation in the witchdoctor market you won’t have a good one. It makes no sense unless…he actually could do it. I’m a natural skeptic but i’ll admit, his sureness unsettled me a bit.
“How much?” I asked.
That’s it? If I have a grudge on a girl all I need is what, 125 dollars and presto “vag away”, just like that?
“Ok…” I pressed on, “but I don’t want her completely unable to have any sex. I’m still her husband, I just want her to stop having it with other people.”
“Love potion then?”
“Hmmm – I can make any man she tries to sleep with have difficuluty ‘standing’.”
“Wait, are you saying you can make any of her potential lovers impotent?”
Whoa! Ok, as a con, this one makes sense. How would I ever know if it worked? But really, think about it. Imagine if this is true. Ladies, imagine if your ex can make you a ray gun of impotence. Spread, aim, fire…Man down! Man down!
All for 14,000 shillings. That’s all. Sure, it ain’t chump change but I know loads of people who’d consider it worth the price. as far as services of any kind go, i don’t know anything else that interesting within that price range. Now the only questions is…is it real? Do these people actually have powers?
I don’t know…yet. Generally, im the least superstitious person you’ll meet so I think it’s a con. But that man’s confidence has made me curious enough to give it a fighting chance. So…
I’m making a test. Next week I’ll meet one of these witch doctors. I’ll acquire some fairly cheap service they offer (much as I’m curious I’m not paying either of those prices without a guarantee or the witching equivalent of a warranty or whatever). Still trying to figure out what I’ll ask for but you’ll know by next week. Just to keep things interesting and confirmable, the victim will be one of my fellow bloggers here. Teren teren. They’re willing in a, I haven’t asked them kind of way. But this is for our pride, necessary sacrifice and all. Also, for science.
See you next week…Maybe
A horrible accident saw me lose the most important limb I have, my penis. I will not go into any details but suffice to say, one should never be cheap and use knock-off lube that can pass convincingly as axle grease with one’s fleshlight, especially if it’s for a vigorous session.
But thanks to the miracle of science, all was not lost. Just to be clear, all the penis was lost, everything from the pelvis onwards. All of that gone! I was left looking like a mannequin with a pair of saggy balls for comedic effect.
Medical science has come a long way from the days of leeches and spells (MODERN medical science). I did not have to go through life with the humiliation of having to be the only chap to argue for leaving the toilet seat down. Because really!? Who can’t be bothered to take the single second to actually look to check the position of the toilet seat before getting down to business.
A radical new procedure, the penis transplant, meant that I was able to get a new lease on life. I could consider myself a man in all the relevant ways. I would only have to comprise in a few minor ways; length, girth and skin tone. Small sacrifices to still be able to have a penis.
Surprisingly, the concept of having a penis that was from a corpse was surprisingly easy to get used to. It’s amazing what the horror of having to live with no dick will do to your sense of perspective. Even the skin tone thing was pretty easy to get used to. Flashing it became an amusing party trick as no one could actually believe they saw a lightest-skinned cock on this darkest of dudes. It was hilarious. And it was more than once where I was propositioned by women looking to experience the cock to believe the story *wink wink, nudge nudge* i.e. white man meat from a black mandingo.
But these little things did not take the edge off the hardships of having a second hand sausage.
Masturbation was never the same. It never felt like I was pleasuring myself, more like a phantom handjob, and an amateurish one at that. The technique I had perfected since my teens was off thanks to the new thickness and length of the shaft and its different nerve endings. I always had to be conscious of the strokes or I would end up almost ripping my head of as I overshot. The natural grip I had was suddenly not right and it felt like I was jerking a disembodied penis that mysteriously made me orgasm.
Sex with the girlfriend was always awkward. After the initial new dick novelty wore off, she became uncomfortable with having the Frankenstein weiner all up in her. Blowjobs are at an end when you have to convince her that no really, it’s totally fine to have what was once a dead man’s schlong in your mouth, it’s not at all necrophilic. Sex became a dutiful chore that even a Puritan would deem it frigid. Of course the lack of release has made me more of an ornery bastard, which weird enough, is suddenly gaining me more female attention. Which just amps my need for release, making me more annoyed. It’s a vicious cycle.
Even months after the operation, a simple morning wee can end in disaster, with pee all over the floor, due to misjudgement of positioning and trajectory of the morning wood due to the foreign stiffy that is now attached to my body.
Deep down, I don’t think I will ever get accustomed to having a new tool to work with. But still, better used dick than no dick at all. A philosophy most women, gay dudes and, now one straight guy, can live by.