A lunatic’s reflection on 2008
2008… Anyone who deserves to call themselves a Zimbabwean knows that fierce number, not as a just as another year, but probably the date of rapture. Any God who did not evacuate his chosen few deserves to be stoned, to death.
It’s the spinach of dates, you are not allowed to say it in front of babies unless you enjoy making them cry. It’s spoken in whispers, the mere mention of it shrivels the c*cks of men like their grannies’ tits or the chest of a f*ck-spent woman. My fellow blogger Daphne Jena, and her merry band of women’s rights defenders, will probably object to my imagery. She claims I’m sexist, but since when does a woman’s opinion matter?
2008 messed me up man, it messed up my head worse than a bad weave. I was a bl**dy trillionaire (yes, I was so rich I – along with every tom dick and even Jane- earned a name that’s not in your dictionary) with nothing to buy.
The money, the value was evaporating so fast the bill went up before you could drop your pants, went up again before you could stick it in, and by the time you finally came…
F*ck me, just thinking about it creeps me out man. Yeah. Things were so weird I got to understand that women are almost human. They have to be, I mean, that’s where people come from right?
I’ll tell you when a woman’s opinion began to count. That awful year my friend, that awful year made unnatural things the norm: great carnivores, like your psychologically
endowed challenged relatives of the Filtered clan, living on boiled cabbage for three days.
Things were so hectic that I had to strangle my wife and dogs. Yes, yes, the children too. They don’t really matter because they were not yet people anyhow, almost though. The dogs I strangled out of pity. It’s not the life without my leftovers in the form of bones that I chose for them, and you could hear them whimper, yelp in shame, begging me to end their lives whenever they smelt the fart of cabbage.
I digress, the woman. I was telling you why I put her down, even though it wasn’t totally awful. Now any human who has spent time with a woman knows those creatures can talk. A lot. It’s part of why we keep them, besides being entertainment in other ways, who doesn’t want a parrot that can cook clean and iron? Of course I’m kidding, nobody wants a woman that talks, we would prefer them with their tongues removed, if said tongues were not useful in other ways.
You see, through evolution, men earned the right to dehumanise women over eons by virtue of being the providers, the martial arms. We fought the important wars, not arguments about dresses and which one to wear, like all men were born with a sense of style, like the homosexuals.
We killed the true monsters, strangled lions with our c*cks while they were killing scorpions with cooking sticks. When you have no monsters to kill in Africa, when Your’s Truly’s business card read like a directory because, quite frankly I did everything; from plumbing to women’s jobs, just to make the fronts meet (I saw too many ends that year).
And you come home in the evening, to sit with the woman, watching it feign ‘civilisation’ and evolution by dining with a fork and knife on the cabbage, while it shrivels your cock with statements like, ‘be a man and provide real food’ even though there isn’t any – – even in the shops – – and you haven’t conjured manna since you dropped your middle name Moses in 3000 BC. Then you decide, it might be time to put it down, and just out of spite, or unwavering dedication to irony, grow cabbage on its grave.
Like his brother, Lunias Filtered is a Madman, any attempt to understand his rantings is entirely at own risk (Editor).