20 Dec 2011

Guest Blogger 9: Love and Other Drugs



Hola I'm guest-blogger Ashley from She Who Will be Tamed, anyway!



I have a bone to pick about society and love. Especially love songs.

Why the hell are all of them so damn whiny? It's not that it's just whiny, they're borderline pathetic and almost suicidal. 

Has anyone notice the trend where men are all like, 

"I can't believe you don't love me, look of all the things I would have done for you," which of course, sounds sweet, until you get to the hook where they're like "I would have jumped in a grenade for you, in front of a train for you". 

That's not sweet, that's not romantic and I hope to God nobody really expects the love of their life to jump in front of a damn grenade. The real story is, why in the WORLD is someone throwing a grenade at someone? A friend of mine was like "don't take it literal, wah wah" but I think it's sending a bad message out there for men and women. 

Honestly, if some guy told me that, I'd be quite terrified there's a huge difference between being madly in love and obsessive "I'm going to throw acid fluid in your face if you don't stay with me" love. 

Which is quite terrifying.

 Like dude, I know I'm pretty damn awesome but you gotta let me go, do me and stuff. I don't know, nowadays, the media is doing such a horrible job with love. It's either movies that guy meets girl, girl falls in love, girl does something messed up, guy runs away and then he realizes that she's his "one true love" or vice versa. 

It's a bunch of crap. 

They make movies about women being so desperate for love that they will do anything for it, one more that made me rage was What's Your Number, she slept with almost TWENTY GUYS, ohhh no, she must find her one true love before she hits twenty. 

I did the math and if home girl is 30 and if she started sleeping around when she was 15, she slept with 1.5 men per year, I'm not very good at math but my point is, I can't believe there was a whole movie slutshaming a thirty year old woman. 

It was horrifying, the whole movie her friends were like "OMG, SLUT, keep your legs closed". 

What the actual fuck?

 Nowadays, the world needs to embrace that women sleep with more than two people in their lives, back in the days, where women got married at thirteen, yeah, it'd be kind of weird if she slept with more than five people but women usually don't marry until well into their thirties, if she hasn't slept with at least one guy in her life...well...I applaud her.

 Good for her. 

I'm glad there are people with willpower but don't shame those who like to test the car out before they commit to it. What annoys me about media, well, the world, it's all about women needing a man, if she's well over her thirties she better jump on the first thing comes her way which has been a huge problem for me. 

I don't know how many cougars I had to fight off of the guy of my choice because she's too busy clubbing every weekend, looking for someone to fill her "soul". What's wrong with having a hobby that has nothing to do with love? It seems like if you don't have love, there is something wrong with you which I have a problem with that.

I'm not the type of girl who's looking for love, quite the opposite, I'm running in opposite directions. I'm the one who breaks up with a guy because I need to "live my dream" which usually involves going out with my friends and stumbling down the seawall, looking for my lost shoe and headband, drunk. 

Which is OKAY, if that's you, don't be ashamed of that, I'm twenty two years old and to me, that's young, well for me, I commend those who are my age and who are married. It means you are ready for love, people like me, aren't. I haven't experienced the world, hell, I wasn't allowed to date until I was eighteen, do the math, I've only been dating for FOUR YEARS. 

So when people side eye me because I have yet to find the one, it's like bitches, I can spend my money on a three hundred dollar Coach purse, have a strip-tease dance off at my friend's room and have sex with whoever I want, trust me when I say that I'm not entirely too upset. 

Sure, I want to settle down, I've met the guy who is PERFECT FOR ME but trust me, it is rare where I'm wailing "Bridget Jones'" style that I'm not married. 

So anyway, I just don't get why society is portraying everyone so damn pathetically, men are writing sad ass songs, begging girls to stay or either songs about girls pussy popping, same thing while girls are some sad specimen that sing sad pathetic songs or the sad girl who's chasing down a man to marry her.

Note to the media, not everybody is sad and pathetic. Please stop treating us as such. 

19 Dec 2011

One Night of Prostitution


The first time I got arrested, I was seven. They came to our house in their white Santana, asking for me and my mother. I hid behind the chimney protrusion outside our house, eyes shut so hard because I believed if I couldn’t see them then they couldn’t see me.

I heard mum telling them that she did not where I was but they led her away anyway. Then they came back for me. With their bionic eyes they fished me out from behind the chimney. I did not fight them, although my legs felt rubbery and I couldn’t walk on my own. But they carried me to their car, dangerously parked in the middle of the road.

One of them had a gun, at the very sight of it, my bladder almost gave. But the look my mama gave me stopped me from disgracing myself. But it did not stop the silent tears rolling down my cheeks.

The car smelt of urine and unwashed bodies. All the windows were closed. The man with the gun poked my mama in the ribs and told her to sit up straight.

“Eh, medem what do you think this is? A limo? Sit up straight,”

The one who had carried me to the car chuckled at this and wiped his brow of sweat with the palm of his hand. He looked at his mate and together they sat there watching my mother. Giving her looks I did not understand. I understand them now.

They are the looks you get when from a man when you walk by. They are the glints of appreciation when a man looks at the crest above your breast, they are the looks a man gives you when he sees you in a short coat standing at the corner of the street.

The second time I was arrested, I was 19. The officers came up to us and I tried to talk myself out of the situation. I was not afraid.

“Where to sisters?”

“The club over there we’ll just be on our wa...”

“You don walk away when I am talking to you, stand still,” his baton stayed me, stabbing into my belly. I wondered if it was legal.

“There's a party we are..."

“Shut up and give me your I.Ds”

None of us had them. The female officer stepped forward right into my face. I moved back and she followed. I took another step backward and came up against a wall.

“Were all the clothes shops that sell skirts shut?” she spat into my face.  I looked at her puzzled.

“All of you dressed up like sluts, with your buttocks raised in the air and your breasts spilling out of your tops.” I did not know then that because I went to the local university, I was automatically labelled a prostitute.

“Officer Jenet, let us book them for prostitution, all four them.”

We were booked for prostitution.

Our cell smelt of urine and dried faeces. I couldn’t see it but it swirled around us. In every breath we took and every breeze that caressed my face.

We got one phone call to get raise bail.

I called my boyfriend; I had been waiting for him when we got arrested.

“Hello babe, it’s me.”

“V, where are you I’ve been waiting an hour for you,”

“I’m at the station love, I got arrested, me and the girls,”

He let out a drunken giggle, or maybe it was the weed, “For what?”

“Prostitution?”

He let out a loud hoot and started laughing in earnest, “So if you at the station, what you calling me for? Call me when you get out.”

“No babe listen, I need bail, you need to come and get me,”

“Ah no babe, I am not coming, no, no the cops don’t like me, no babe call me when you get out,”

He hung up then. That was grounds enough for a break up but we lasted another month.

We finally got bail, a fourth year student who had been eyeing me all night paid, for that I gave him my number.

I guess it had been a night of prostitution after all.

16 Dec 2011

I Am Going To Blow You Away


This December, because, as some may believe Jesus was born on the 25th -a truth which has been challenged to no satisfying conclusion, I want to impress you guys.

So I am going to post on important issues, and rant on pseudo- intelligently I refuse to be all sugar and spice, I will comment on world peace, and what I intend to do with my Miss World tenure, a title I hope to win. As some of you may or may not know I am the reigning Miss Zimbabwe, long legs, luscious lips and abs for daaaays.  Our previous pageant queen, whose possible winning of the title I seriously doubted.

A fact which had me going to my booker to see exactly how much I could bet for her pending demise, proved me wrong by coming 9th place overall. As I see myself as way more of a bombshell, and your potential queen I prophesy a clinching of the title based on a unanimous ten by all the judges.

After that all of my ugly minions will be forced to bow and address me as “Your Majesty” “The Divine One” and some such title befitting a beauty such as myself.

So which part of my mythical tale with no Prince Charming did you believe? I do so hope it’s the part in which I described my looks in unexaggerated detail.

A misspent youth, filled with boys (who piled on me less than flattering compliments, which strike me now as heavily veiled, “I want you V,” and “Oh V you are so awesome.”) has me breaking into I am so gorgeous monologues every couple of days.

Judging by the responses from Little N and Big N, this is a lie to myself and mankind like the unicorn.

Which by the way, I spent my entire childhood hoping to spot. Fact that the only horses I ever saw were on  T.V, and nobody amongst my peers owned so much as a horse, a pony, or a better yet a dhongi (donkey), did not help.

Although, there was a group of girls that fancied themselves quite the equestrians. Their horse riding experience was based on rides around the hockey field with some hired stable hand leading a, I am guessing, neutered mare round and round until he may have fallen sick with dizziness. Those girls were a demanding lot.

You will have to forgive me I forgot where I was going with this.

 I blame the nifty little gadget on my toolbar that allows me to spy on the rest of the world every once in a while, and as I said the other day, in one of my posts. My frontal lobe is less than faithful and does skip from little bunny rabbits, to Mugabe and then shoots of into some ever so random thought.

Anyhoo

I have never thanked any of my readers for their daily stalks, but I appreciate all of you. I would however like to scold you. ON the days you stay away and don’t bother to point your browsers to my website, you do so plunge me into a Vodka (in my head) aided rollercoaster despair of insecurity and perhaps schizophrenic terror.

I find myself wondering,

Have all the computers in Italy been hit by some computer plague,

Has my blog been banned in China just like Facebook and Google because it was so awesome and the government felt threatened?

Was my last post so mind numbing and brain cell obliterating that ALL my readers are in a blog induced coma?

In case you a wandering no I never think you hate it. And when you come back you inspire me to check my punctuation and grammar. Just in case one of you wants to give me a book deal based on these here anecdotes.

 Are you surprised I am holding out for those? Don’t be. You see I am saving the good stuff for some such deal; either that or I divorce rich.

I am kidding you handsome rich devil you, I am not married.

But no really, hows about that book deal?

I blog because I love it, Twitter has too few character enough and no one would read if I posted on Facebook. The fact that I have an audience from places I have never heard of (because I do not have a passport and don’t fancy the prospect of window shopping for some such places to visit) and some such places I can only ever dream of gratifies me!

Thank you, and although you may not be as awesome as me (what? It’s hard for me to compliment people) I really appreciate all the hits from you, YOU, YOU, YOU, and yes the other one too.

 Place hug emoticon here, if there ever was such.

15 Dec 2011

Never Ever Trust A Self Styled Prophet


Zimbabweans are a superstitious lot. Four fifths of the population has gone to see someone about their future or situations which usually range from how-to-get-my-husband-to-fall-back-in-lovewith-me to how-to-get-that-promotion-at –work-even-if-it-means-killing-my-boss.

I once went to see one of these seers, a prophet. Now before you judge me, think of the horoscopes you have consulted, and little tarot cards and some such nonsense.

Anyway these people are like little Japanese people asking you to take off your shoes, everything else stays but those shoes have got to go.
Pay attention to the eyes

“You are quite young,”
I was.


“I see you are trying to get your boyfriend to marry you,”
I wasn’t


“It will be a difficult feat to accomplish for I have seen a black cow following you,”


“I have not been trying,”


“Yes it is this cow that is putting those thoughts in your head,”


“I don’t think I want him to marry me,”


 “I see you sitting in a hut, with the walls crumbling,” he seemed to be in a trance, his eyes rolled back and all I could see were the whites, “run hide, but where will you go. You are on a big flat stone you cannot jump,”


What?

I didn’t ask for him to explain how I had managed to escape from a hut whose walls were caving in, with me sitting in the middle of it, right about where you see women with their hands gnarled and palms roughened from too much work bank their fires.


“I see a…” he hesitated then and with a shake of his head as if to dispel mists, he bellowed, “they want to know which school you go to.”
They had seen that I went to school had they?


“Ummmm College,” I was almost feint from suppressed mirth


“I have seen you floundering at the technical college,” he whistled, “you will surely fail.”

He reached for a gourd filled with water, instead of swallowing it he blew it out. All of it.


“But above all child,” he had slipped back into a trance,” I see two cows following you, this person the aunt with whom you share your first name wants you dead.
If I had ever believed anything he was saying this stopped such belief from becoming a fully fledged inkling of understanding.


“My name?”


“Yes, they are calling you; tell me do you have dreams when you see nothing at all”


“No,” does that even count as a dream?


“Are you sure? Because your angel agrees with me.”


“My angel?”


“Yes it is standing right behind you.”



Now hold the phone!

Yes, I believe in angels and I was inclined to believe that my angel was nearby but to bring it into this shameless prophesying of hypocrisy was something else.


My dad got my name from a character in a movie; I am not named after a relative dead or otherwise. And to say I went to a polytechnic, I do not think the principal at my university would be amused. To say college is something I learnt from watching too much college TV where the term is generic for University and everything in between.


Whatever happened to the prophet being a bona fide seer? The man couldn’t see prophesy if it hit him on the head!
Someone had clearly been watching too many Spanish movies

What I learnt from this was that life didn’t have any answers and the best decision you could ever make is grabbing hold of Jesus for all you’re worth, besides the question I still ask myself today is; what was up with those cows?

14 Dec 2011

No Guest Today Sowwy



Read this from my archives, it looks long but it really isn’t, because a lot is just conversation between my grandparents.

Soon dear reader, soon I will be out of my Writer’s Block funk and the pursuit of awesomeness will begin.

------------


Our driver always played the radio loud.  He probably did it to drown out the noise we made. What puzzled me was why the station he played was in English. He was the same age as my Grandpa and my Sekuru always insisted that we play National FM.

“Those reporters on your station speak through their noses Shupi, I cannot hear a thing,” he would say. I would turn it back to Radio 2 as he still called it, as soon as he was out of earshot I would change back to my channel. I did not need to wait long Sekuru was losing his hearing, fast. Each time he came to visit, it seems I needed to yell a little more. He insisted that I talk a little, no need to yell.

“Talk a little louder Shupi” I would yell.

“Now there’s no need for that, I am not deaf you know.” I would talk.

“Shupi move closer, how am I supposed to hear if you talk from so far away?” I would move closer and repeat myself.

“How many times do I have to tell you to talk louder Shupi?” I would yell.

“I said for you not to yell, and you have changed the station again,” waggling his finger he would point at the little radio we had in our lounge, “change it back this instant.”

This would go on until he left two weeks later. Coming to our house was a holiday for him. I did not blame him. He always said to me each time,

“I am going back to that woman who won’t leave me alone.”


He was right. Grandma always seemed to be giving him a hard time about one thing or the other. Grandpa told me that mama had inherited the same nag gene.

“Your daddy is going to age faster than I did. Between your mother and her mother,” he let out a low whistle.
I agreed.

Grandpa was seventy nine but Grandma still nagged him about getting a job.

“Wena Magirazi,” she would say spitting on the ground, “you have spent all week sitting in the sun doing nothing,  get up and go to Chivhu, you need to find a job. I want sugar in my tea. Your daughter left us with Shupi and every minute she is asking for us to feed her.” She spat again, her saliva coated brown from the tobacco she was constantly chewing.
She wiped her mouth on the back of the sleeve and fixed her cataract gaze on me. I wondered if she really could see.

“Why just after tea she came asking for pumpkin, look at her Magirazi she is so skinny where does it all go?”
He ignored her.

“A job doing what Mai Magirazi? I am too old.”

“Too old to look for a job eh, but not too old to be eating?”

“Do you expect me to starve now? Am I not allowed to eat?”

“Listen here, you cannot expect your children to pay for everything, that step son of yours has a good for nothing job”

“Shhhhh Mai can’t you see Shupi and Yemu are sitting over there.”

We were playing hopscotch a little way off; it was hard not to hear. Grandma was so loud, she had to be. Grandpa would not have heard her otherwise. However Grandma continued, disregarding his misgivings.

“You need to get up from there and go to the town, right now Magirazi.” he tsked and turned his gaze to a donkey that had moved closer as if intrigued by their conversation.

“And who will give me this job?” he said turning to regard her through cataract clouded eyes

“That is not a problem, get up and go be a man.”

Back and forth, they bickered, with Grandma doing most of the talking. Sekuru had resumed his contemplative watching of the animals. He made no move to get up and leave Gogo to her nagging and occasionally grunted a reply more to egg her on, than anything.

 He had stopped.


9 Dec 2011

The Misadventures of Bob and Morgan


Before you start, in case you don't know. Bob is our president here in Zimbabwe. And Morgan is the young upstart who wants to usurp his power. The way things are, Bob does not see that happening anytime soon. Here's a little bit of why.

-------------------------------------

Bob was sick and tired of showing Morgan how to do a fist pump, after all there was only one right way. Hand raised in the air, with the fist clenched tightly and shaking it at the crowd for all it's worth.



 It was unheard of in Zimbabwe for a man to aspire to be president and not know how to do a proper fist pump.



Even Zuma who had neither his decorum nor eloquence knew how to pump his fist.




Although if he was honest, Hu Jintao had not been able to figure out how to do it. Once on  trip to China he had tried to show the Chinese premiere how to address the people. Hu had flailed his arms so much that Bob had been forced to give up.




What was insulting however, was the way Morgan pretended to be ashamed by his lack of crowd control finesse.



All he did was lift his arms half heartedly. Which if you asked any self respecting world leader was not enough to impress any flock of undecided voters.




Crowds need to be wooed, impressed by the power of fists. They needed to understand who was in charge.



Only once in a while did you need to take out your toy sword, in order to get your point acoss. He remembered that day well. He had had to take shake his fist extra hard and point it at the British flag for the people to know who the enemy was.



Watching Morgan disgrace himself was quite upsetting.



More upsetting than the time Thabo was sent over to mediate over the issue. Everyone had known who’s side he was on, what with his barely there fists, and arms coming only up to his chest.


The only ting he accomplished was that after he left, noone seemed to want to try. Biti half heartedly tried to do the pump but had ended up giving up because of the fits of laughter that had assailed him.



Things had gotten so bad that Bob finally had to bring in the police.



Even that hadn’t helped; in fact it had made things worse, because now Morgan clasped his hands and handled himself in a way that put shame on the office of the Prime Minister.



This was a matter of national importance, already he had begun to see the looks the Army Generals were giving him.Their salutes seemed quite a mockery. Once he could have sworn that one of them had guffawed as soon as he had looked away.




He made up his mind to tell Arthur about Morgan’s shameful ways. Arthur had shook his head and pursed his lips. Setting his face into a look of such disdainful disapproval only the most stubborn of men would have been able to live it down.


Morgan had hung his head in shame, and promptly given his word, promising never to do it again. Sealing the deal with a firm handshake as all powerful men do.


But Bob was sceptical, sure it was only matter of time before Morgan was back to his unbecoming ways, and so he waited, biding his time.

----

Tune in next week. Will Morgan honour his word? Will Bob be pleasantly surprised by Morgan’s honour? Or will he disgrace himself by flailing his arms in front of a crowd. Putting the Nation’s security at risk?
All this next week!

8 Dec 2011

How To Get Your New Man To Throw You A Party On The First Date


                               

It's quite an accomplishment to get a woman to go out with you, it is quite an accomplishment to get the lady to love you. With that in mind ladies when you start dating a guy you deserve a party for being so pretty/awesome/having such beautiful hands/fine skin/lovely eyes/ such a throaty voice.
All of that should be celebrated, so when he starts a conversation, here's how it should go.
“So what do you want to do? Movie? Dinner?”

You should answer, “How about a party…for me?”

“A party?”
“Yeah, it will be a good chance for me to meet your friends and for you to meet my friends.”

“A party?”

“It doesn’t have to be a big party…although that’s what I would prefer. It could just be at your place with a few friends and drinks.”

“Okay.”

“And then after drinks we all ride in a limo to the ballroom you rented and meet the other two hundred guests. It could be dinner and dancing or dancing and dinner. I’m not particular about the order. Also, it would be kind of fun to have a live band because if this works out–and you throwing me this party is kind of making me think it might–wouldn’t it be fun to have the same live band play at our wedding reception and tell people this is the band that played on our first date?”
"Wedding reception?"
"Yes, although if you would rather have Oliver Mutukudzi, or wouldn't it be cool to hire Justin Beiber because I am pretty sure by then his voice would have broken and he will be age appropriate. And then we can have a circus theme and dress him up like a clown. Wouldn't that be romantic? And wait until you hear what I have lined up for the honeymoon. Ah my word you are sooo gonna love it."
          "Honeymoon?"


From there slip in baby names and houses and college funds, just to be sure. Though I do so hope that none of it will put him off.


7 Dec 2011

Guest blogger 8: Sex and the Pity

Sex & the City grossed $280 million dollars last year while 20 million people died of hunger in the same year. In 2005 major U.S tv stations ran 6,248 segments on Michael Jackson's child molestation trial. 1,534 on Tom Cruise, 405 on a runaway bride from Georgia & only 126 on the Sudanese crisis.

Vulnavia said i should write something light & engaging since her blog is premised on just that. Her blog gets far more hits than mine because it's the Sex and the City kind of blog & mine is like the Sudan Crisis. So to Miss Vulnavia i say thank you for allowing me to bring Sudan On the set of Sex and the City.

The porn industry generates close to $14 billion dollars a year while according to UNICEF 22 000 children die each day due to poverty. Seems the world is now comfortable with feeding their sex addictions than feeding the hungry.

Musicians show off their wealth on MTV Cribs to the people who made them rich. The people who made them rich now want to live like the people they made rich so they become greedy & selfish. So they are saving up for an ipad & their first LV bag they forget about the orphanage in their neighbourhood.

Lipitor is the most profitable drug in the world. It rakes in over $13 million annualy. No it's not for AIDS, Malaria or Cancer, its a cholestrol reducing drug for those who want that Sarah Jessica Parker like body.. (wonder how many will google it). These same obese people quickly change the channel when when a famine struck child comes on TV with flies hovering over him.


We are more comfortable watching America's Got Talent & forget Africa's Got Hunger. We drop coins in the blind man's plate while we keep the notes for the Gucci & Prada, we worked hard for it & we deserve it right? I bet he worked hard for his disabilty too..

6 Dec 2011

Why You Should Get Married Before 21 :)



If you are me, explaining ceaselessly to your 6 year old sister why you aren’t married is tedious. Being cross examined by a 6 and 12 year old is slightly worse.

“V how old are you.”

(Mumbles appropriate age)

“How old is cousin V?”  (Not to be confused with V me)

I mumble a number which makes her 2years younger. It takes N about an hour to figure this out. Large numbers are still a bit of a problem for her.

“But she’s having a baby, why aren’t you?”

“Well…” I struggle to find a response, 6year olds are robotically engineered and any question is most likely a double entendre.

“You see,” I continue in my best grown up voice, “she is married and I am not.”

Big N who is beginning to understand life a little better pipes in,

“But you are sooooo old when are you getting married? I am telling you, by this time next year all the boys will see you as an old maid.”

“But you have a boyfriend; doesn’t he want to marry you?” N whines

“You should move out and find your own house, and stop bothering mama when you get broke.”

“Your husband should take care of you; if i were as old as you are I would be so embarrassed if I wasn’t married.”

“Well I am getting married at 19 when my looks are still fresh like L; your looks V are fading…”

They went on like this for a further half hour, during which time I scowled, frowned, waggled my finger and tried to think if being called old was a good reason to give a spanking.

After they had gone, i grabbed a mirror and tried to see if any wrinkles were showing yet. Lucky for me they are still a long way off.

2 Dec 2011

Let's Take A Little Quiz Shall We...




Please tick appropriate answers.

1.       Hi! How are you?
o   I can’t find my FEET
o   I like tomatoes
o   Good! You?
o   STALKER

Feel free to tick whichever is more appropriate, and befits a person of my station. Although I do wonder what station that may be. Today’s post is all about quizzes, random I-know-the-answer-and-you-don’t questions. LET’S GO!



2.       What number do you mean when you say a few?

No seriously what number, 2,100, 0 how many is a few?



3.       Many people feel that fat women have a harder time than fat men. Do you agree that fat women have a harder time than fat men? Do you feel that society treats fat people differently depending on gender.(found on www.quizrocket.com)

o   as a woman, I suffer special pressure to stay skinny and not get fat
o   As a man, I worry less about getting fat than women do.
o   I am a man
o   I am a woman


I asked my mum this question and she ticked I am a woman. See like most African women she is not satisfied unless her weight I teetering towards 80kilos, which I always try to remind her is really not very healthy. But she told me she wouldn’t quit until she was way ahead of our neighbour Mai Tito. Although I do think her body is letting her down. She hasn’t gained an ounce for almost a year now.


I blame the wholly organic food she eats.



4.       What kind of a dozen is 13?
o   Half dozen
o   Baker’s dozen
o   Dozen and one

Place curse here, something clever and original because you got this one wrong.

 Anne Robinson asked this last night and the contestant and I both said a dozen and 1, what on earth is a dozen and one? If you got this correct more power to you and your brain.



5.       What percentage of Zimbabweans has seen their mother naked? (www.gameshowsabout.com)
  • None
  • I agree with the above
  • 95%
What?
 All of us have, and maybe the memory is so painful that some repressed it. Zimbabwean women go around naked in front of their kids until the children start asking awkward questions at dinner,

Daddy why does mummy have feathers and I don’t?”
“Mummy, daddy has a really big belly button.”



6.       You make plans with friends and they cancel on you, what do you do? www.quizrocket.com
o   Ask them why
o   Make fun of them and then call up someone else
o   Say “whatever,” and plan a night that will be great so they don’t cancel again

ALL of the above, destroy go to town! Subject her to third degree, heck go 99⁰ on her toocus. Ask them why they are so selfish and insensitive and where they get off thinking you will go alone, like the good Lord never thought to bless you with friends.
STEP 2 Make fun of them, how they cannot keep a man, and have the worst morning breath
STEP 3 Really get into it now, use every weapon secret, fault and basically any dirt you have, the louder you yell the better.

“YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND, YOU ARE AN INSENSITIVE (place really rude word here)! WHY I EVEN STUCK AROUND IS BEYOND (place very rude word here)!” 

Basically after this conversation you will feel like a jerk and won’t want to go out anymore, plus you’d have lost a friend. But hey who needs friends right?



7.       If your partner/girlfriend/boyfriend was a cartoon character which one would he/she be?
Chances are, whatever you pick is wrong!
 I liken my boyfriend to that bodiless man in the Power Rangers, The Morphing Grid.


8.       What two words in English used as one word spell the same word forwards backwards and
Forwards?
I gave up on this one I really did, if you think you have an idea let me know.



9.       Do you have AIDS?
Good question this, yesterday was World AIDS day, it’s appropriate for me to ask. Especially if you are in a Sexual Network. And if you don’t know if you are in one that just sucks.