Drinking versus going to church

I was sober in the morning when I weighed my options. Church or the bar? Well, I put into
consideration a couple of things as I took the long road to the bar;

1. Selfishness.
In church my pastor always has the whole bottle to himself while we manage to
get only the half filled bottle caps. At the bar, I’m usually hearing words like, ‘Hey, the next
round’s on me’ from my buddies, or better yet, ‘this one’s on the house folks.’. Such words are music to my ears.

2. Limitations.
Ok, so dancing and singing is allowed at both
places. But you see, I’m a freelance r sort of guy and, once I get started, I see no problem with
dancing with my shirt off. Hell yeah! I could do more than that if I wanna. Alas, do that in church and you’re one sin up the ladder to the devil’s fork. You might even get banned from ‘salvation’.

3. Women.
Oh yeah! It always has something to do with women, all the time it’s about them nubile, young things. Take these two places and play the
chief justice here: Where would you find easygoing, sexy, mini skirt wearing, purrr kind
of women willing to entertain you in however way you please? Huh? I mean, come on now. I’m talking,
booty shaking beaus, with asstates to match, eye lashes longer than an ATM que on payday, legs that goes all the way to Heaven, beings fit for immaculate conception. Not some long dressed grannys, spectacle wearing virgin girls with medieval hairstyles and Lord they can judge. Bible bashing hypocrites who can’t get dates, so uptight a vice grip has nothing on them. Try to ask any of them out and they’ll invite you to their white tent churches. Next time I meet you kind and they have the audacity to invite me to their revivals, I’ll invite them to my drinking hole. I rest my case.

And hey, last but not least. But this is on de
low-low. So i’m a family man and I love my
wife blah blah blah until i’m blue. I spend the
whole time with them and sunday when they take my money to church and hand it to that nigga who’s known as pastor, I finally get my me time. And
its at the bar.
As Brian O’Rourke said:
“When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. So, let’s all get drunk and go to heaven!”

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Drinking versus going to church

I was sober in the morning when I weighed my options. Church or the bar? Well, I put into
consideration a couple of things as I took the long road to the bar;

1. Selfishness.
In church my pastor always has the whole bottle to himself while we manage to
get only the half filled bottle caps. At the bar, I’m usually hearing words like, ‘Hey, the next
round’s on me’ from my buddies, or better yet, ‘this one’s on the house folks.’. Such words are music to my ears.

2. Limitations.
Ok, so dancing and singing is allowed at both
places. But you see, I’m a freelance r sort of guy and, once I get started, I see no problem with
dancing with my shirt off. Hell yeah! I could do more than that if I wanna. Alas, do that in church and you’re one sin up the ladder to the devil’s fork. You might even get banned from ‘salvation’.

3. Women.
Oh yeah! It always has something to do with women, all the time it’s about them nubile, young things. Take these two places and play the
chief justice here: Where would you find easygoing, sexy, mini skirt wearing, purrr kind
of women willing to entertain you in however way you please? Huh? I mean, come on now. I’m talking,
booty shaking beaus, with asstates to match, eye lashes longer than an ATM que on payday, legs that goes all the way to Heaven, beings fit for immaculate conception. Not some long dressed grannys, spectacle wearing virgin girls with medieval hairstyles and Lord they can judge. Bible bashing hypocrites who can’t get dates, so uptight a vice grip has nothing on them. Try to ask any of them out and they’ll invite you to their white tent churches. Next time I meet you kind and they have the audacity to invite me to their revivals, I’ll invite them to my drinking hole. I rest my case.

And hey, last but not least. But this is on de
low-low. So i’m a family man and I love my
wife blah blah blah until i’m blue. I spend the
whole time with them and sunday when they take my money to church and hand it to that nigga who’s known as pastor, I finally get my me time. And
its at the bar.
As Brian O’Rourke said:
“When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. So, let’s all get drunk and go to heaven!”

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My china’s china is not necessarily my china

When you occasionally have a really bad day and you just need to take it out on
someone, don’t take it out on someone you know, take it out on someone you don’t know.

My china told me his china told him this story, a story whose moral value surpasses any of Aesop’s fables. The moral behind the story is the story. And here it goes:

I was sitting in my front room when I remembered a phone call I’d forgotten to make. I found the number and dialed it. A man answered. I politely said, ‘Hello, this is David. Could I
please speak with Robyn?’
Suddenly a manic voice yelled out in my ear ‘Get the right number fucktard!’ and the phone
was slammed down on me.

I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so rude. When I tracked down Robyn’s correct number to call her, I found that I
had accidentally transposed the last two digits.
After hanging up with her, I decided to call the ‘wrong’ number again.
When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled ‘You’re an asshole!’ and hung up.

I wrote his number down with the word ‘asshole’ next to it, and put it in my cell phone.
Every couple of weeks, when I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him
up and yell, ‘You’re an asshole!’
It always cheered me right up.
When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic ‘asshole calling’ would have to stop.

So, I called his number and said, ‘Hi, this is John Smith from Verizon. I’m calling to
see if you’re familiar with our Caller ID Program?’
He yelled ‘NO!’ and slammed down the phone.
I quickly called him back and said, ‘That’s because you’re an asshole!’

One day I was at the store, getting ready to pull into a parking spot.
Some guy in a black BMW cut me off and pulled into the spot I had patiently waited
for. I hit the horn and yelled that I’d been waiting for that spot, but the idiot ignored me. I noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign in his back
window which included his phone
number, so I wrote down the number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first asshole (I had his number on speed dial) I thought that I’d better call
the BMW asshole, too. I said, ‘Is this the man with the black BMW for sale?’
‘Yes, it is’, he said.
‘Can you tell me where I can see it?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I live at 34 Mowbray Drive, in Eagle River. It’s a yellow house, and the car’s parked right out in front.’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘My name is Don Hansen,’ he said.
‘When’s a good time to catch you, Don?’
‘I’m home every evening after five.’
‘Listen, Don, can I tell you something?’
‘Yes?’
‘Don, you’re an asshole!’ Then I hung up.

Now, when I had a particularly bad day, I had two assholes to call.
Then I came up with an idea.

I called
Asshole #1.
‘Hello.’
‘You’re an asshole!’ (but I didn’t hang up)
‘Are you still there?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘Stop calling me!’, he screamed.
‘Make me,’ I said.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Don Hansen.’
‘Yeah? Where do you live?’
‘I live at 34 Mowbray Drive, Eagle River, a yellow house, with my black Beamer
parked in front, asshole.’
He said, ‘I’m coming over right now, Don. And you had better start saying your
prayers.’
I said, ‘Yeah, like I’m really scared,
asshole,’ and hung up.

Then I called Asshole #2. ‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hello, asshole,’ I said.
He yelled, ‘If I ever find out who you are…’
‘You’ll what?’ I said!
‘I’ll kick your ass,’ he exclaimed.
I answered, ‘Well, asshole, here’s your chance. I’m coming over right now.’

Then I hung up and immediately called the police, saying that I lived at 34 Mowbray Drive, Eagle River, and that I
was on my way over there to kill my gay lover.
Then I called Channel 9 News about the gang war going down in Mowbray Drive,
Eagle River.

I quickly got into my car and headed over to Mowbray Drive.
I got there just in time to watch two assholes beating the crap out of each other in front of six cop cars, an
overhead police helicopter and a news crew.

Looking at my china I was like “Dude! My china’s china is not necessarily my china but that china is my china.”

Lest we forget, opinions are like assholes, I have mine and yours stink.

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The first time I drowned

Image
Before I get to the gist of what this blog is all about. let me pay homage, respect and
dues to the best dad ever, my mom. Not forgetting about the pen and the page, the only weapons I posses, mightier than the sword, more deadly than a loaded gun. Let’s take aim.

 

You don’t need to be at sea to drown in brine. A teardrop caressing your cheek bones, streaming down the contours of your face, finding a reservoir in your taste buds. And the choking starts, a voice suppressed, ghost like even, rise from the hollows in your ch chest.  And you drown in a whirlpool of your own tears. It’s unmanly to cry, but you cry still.  
 
Perhaps tears were meant to flood your optics so that you may see, with clarity in life’s bleak moments. When friends your walk in darkness and days fade into obscurity,  your eyes turns into wells bearing brine to sanctify the air, and quench the thirst of reason. I would reach out to fallen friends and mend them, to make us see days defeated.
Cascading down tear rips you apart with with bullets, that opens forever and eternity unchanging in the face of, in respite, despite prevailing circumstance life is left to the living.

When my mother died, the moon bathed the landscape in eery colours that night. Every shadow looked creepy, but no shadow formed could ever prosper against the hurt I felt. The thought of my little brother haunted me, a little boy who lost a mother at the tender age of eleven and a father at one. my little brother will never know a mother’s love.

That night, I wish i could have crawled back, into the womb that gave birth to me when I still had a chance. When the white rod of burning reality, hit you right in the middle of the eye, tongue tied you speak only in murmurs and abated breaths. You stare right into the throng of things but you hardly see a thing. When I ingested the honey coated titbits; “Ha hoa hlaha se sa hlaheng. Tsheliseha mokuena.”, they rise up my spine ans come back spewing vomit with bitterness.

If I had a say on what the future might hold, if heaven forbids burdens and pains were to be shared mine would seem less greater than you thought. It is because it its, and you will realize that mine was lowered into the ground of failed dreams and despair. How i wish one day when heaven have it’s roll- call, you name will be called out. The grim reaper walked in the vicinity of the ambition you had of me.

REST IN PEACE MAMA.

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