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Monthly Archives: July 2011

God Hates Us All


Small, innocent, dirty, naked boys, oblivious of civilization, with little care in the world except to live to see tomorrow.

Where does one go when there is nowhere to run, when there is no one to run to anymore?

Where does one go where prayer does not work, politics are rotten, and capitalism is a killer? Where does one go when it hits…

...and when that day shall come.

Their innocent faces, made in His image still, small innocent faces who know little of what it means to live.

Downtrodden, thin, miserable, hungry, emaciated, weak, sickly, the life drains from their bodies as their stomachs grow bigger.

Two little boys, hand outstretched, reaching out to the only meal they have had in several days.

Their faces are the tales of young lives with so little, and yet, so much, dreams of food, anything, now that all their fathers’ cows are dead and eaten.

Their mother is suckling the ninth born, or is it the tenth, counting is a bit fuzzy in this times of life and death, hunger and satisfaction, love and war, tears and joy.

There must be a bigger world out there; there must a world beyond the stars where not everything is so fuzzy.

Where is God that he should let them die like this, we ask, and look upwards for an answer, as if we expect His voice to boom down to us of how we have killed who we are.

We are rotten beyond measure, the maggots feed upon our conscience when this little faces are cast in the news, kill us in the comfort of our home as we go to bed.

The idea that someone else does not have, has not had anything to eat, drives a knife through our hearts, so we wake up and pray to Him, to give them food and a long life, and we give alms, more so that we should live again, inside, than for them.

Their little ribs stick out of their chests like the strings of a guitar, complete with a thin body to pluck, fingers, frets, strings…..and the thin neck that supports that seemingly enlarged head, behind those big eyes where a big smile exists, somewhere.

From the look on their little faces, you can tell they have been in their idea of a food fight, like small kids for whom manna is brought by big trucks from the city, manna that they will eat even if it is rot, if only to kill that sensation they have had for the year.

Small, naked, thin, malnourished, where is God then? To whom do we blame this for, where is all the food, and if it is there, why not here, why here, year after year? Happiness is relative, the world is ending, and we are ending with it…

One looks at the bread the healthy youth donning a red jacket gave him, he can already feel its warmth cruising down his stomach, he has to eat this slowly…

The other clutches at it, his previous one having been shared, and some landing on his face and head, he wants another piece, he needs another piece, he needs many many more pieces…

The third one clutches at his too, his other hand outstretched, he was fighting with his friend earlier, but there’s more, perhaps enough for everyone, he must get some to share with his small sister, too young to walk, too weak to learn how to….

The other stands, confused, the jigger on his foot, the itch on his ear, he is confused, is this really food? Is this a dream? What is happening, am I really here, now, eating?

The last one has had his fill, he was the first one here, he jumped the line. He watched as his friends fought but he’d rushed home with his first share, to feed his wiry, old and feeble grandmother. She ate with her eyes open, and slept, or went to where those who sleep forever go, he ran back, this time for himself….

Five little faces, small booklets of tonnes of tales, where the sun touches their faces as they play, they pray to Him who might listen, that theirs is a penance they will to understand, but the quagmire is norm.

They feed, but no one gives them water.

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Posted by on July 29, 2011 in Causes, Random

 

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Guy’s Washrooms: The Dossier.


Ladies,u might want to wear goggles for this one!

Lets take a hypothetical situation;

So am in a club(the 1 place every1 is bound to use the washrooms?),the inevitable call of liquid nature beckons,so i walk 2 the gents,calmly,the unmistakeable urinal glares @ me when i stroll in.Two other guys are already there,so i take my place between them.

Zip unzip,and my eyes on the wall as i start the journey to relief.This is the part i never get to understand,why do we,after the first few seconds when our eyes are on the wall,then decide to lower our eyes??It always happens,i gaze down at my ‘future’,and then look right,then left,the other guys almost simultaneously do the same,then our eyes meet as if to say ‘sorry’ to the ‘handicapped’ and, ‘wtf!’ to the’ multi-talentd’! It is the defining moment…

The two guys who preceded me are done,and they zip up,use the sink,and leave.Am alone now,feels kinda lonely being the only king in such a large kingdom,but just before i can start sinking into urinary loneliness,the drunks start staggering in.This are the most interesting lot you’ll ever meet in the washrooms!First,they struggle with their zips,then fumble with the ‘king’ and when at last they do find it,they struggle to find aim!the irony of the matter is,its the traditional urinal,u don’t need aim,so long as its out,your good to go,pun obviously intended,!!Aim becomes relative,unless of course,there’s something on the ‘trench’ you are trying to move,as your first achievement of the day.

Impala Club Washrooms

The detriment of having drunks as ‘mates’ in the washroom is that they might just decide to do the one thing you should never do in the gents,talk.Lets be frank guys,talk is distracting,relieving oneself is one activity that has been proven to require maximum attention,you can’t even donate blood when doing it,try it,its impossible.But drunks forget good manners that come with the ‘package’,annoyingly.

Impossible to forget is that time when you have been holding it in for so long that you feel like exploding,and then u happen upon a loo,heaven!You close your eyes and start emitting sounds that would make a blind man doubt whether he stepped into a loo or the private wing.Then you dont care who or what is next to you, Osam (RIP)a would join you for a piss,and you wouldn’t even realize it until the CIA take you in for questioning.

Finally(and this part is for the ladies and kanjo)why does it seem like bad manners whenever you see a guy doing his thing at a somewhat unnatural spot?isn’t it at the discretion of the answerer of the call of nature?? Unless he is doing ion the wall of a toilet, do not adopt the moral high ground, remember that time you were hiking and then…. and guys, two shakes will do, anything more than that, you are playing with it!

And the question i have never gotten an answer to,are there urinals in the ladies washrooms?and if there aren’t,why aren’ we addressing the gender imbalance??

That, and do porcupines have tits?

(First published on Facebook as a note on Sunday, December 6, 2009 at 5:44pm)

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Epilogue


His body lay on the border crossing like someone felt he had to die in two countries. His chest had been ripped apart, you could tell that the vultures had long found his body but something had stopped them before they could finish devour their find. The maggots, a few hours old, poking out of the festering wounds the hyenas had left as they tried to reach his bones. It was almost as if the jungle had conspired to finish off his remains, and midway in the feast, something had stopped them.

When she went back to where it had all happened, she found someone, or a few people at least, had already been there. The body was still in the same position she had left it after he provoked him, just as she had hoped he would, and she had driven the blade through his chest. She knew where to aim, right in the middle of her chest, where she knew he would bleed slowly and painfully. As the warm blood spurt and formed a trail on the blade to her hand, and he fell down onto the moist ground, she felt a satisfaction she had felt a few times before. This was her hunt, this  was the moment she had craved so badly. Yet she knew the cycle would begin all over again, she would feel empty the next morning, like there was something missing from his being, a part that had been ripped off.

The blood had long dried, and the wind had brought with it coats of dust that would deceive one who did not know what had happened there. The border beacon was fifteen feet away, unassuming and stout, like a miniature lighthouse in the middle of nowhere. The locals said that the devil was hunting again, she who always ate what she hunted. The police had looked for her for hundred years, the legend said, but no one who set eyes upon her ever breathed again. The old man said she was the ghost of the ancestors, but in this modern world, she could have been anyone. The body of a man had been found on the border crossing the night before, his arms bent and placed under his head, fingers interlocked, almost as if he had been executed. A visitor would say it was a random killing, the knife lay next to the body, almost as if whoever had killed him wanted to be found, but the locals knew she loomed in the shadows, never killing the same way twice.

No one knew why the legend said the devil was female but they all agreed that she was fear itself. She was said to lack a heart, an empty sould residing in her chest instead.

When they found the body of the Border Patrol officer the next day, they knew she was hunting again, and she would not stop till she had what she was looking for, what she had always been looking for. The police imposed a curfew on the border, no one was allowed into the woods after dark, and yet she did not need to go there, she lived there, she had lived there for many year. Killing people kept her alive, she told herself, but she needed to stop, she wanted someone to find her and stop her.

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

 
 
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