Category Archives: Funny


So… a while back, I wrote a piece for a friend’s site based on the theme “Pick Ups.” The idea was to create a story based on how to pick up a girl in a given locale. The locale I initially got was airplane. Due to certain problems beyond their control, the story I wrote had to be hurriedly edited for the locale ‘Bus’. Anyway, here is the original version of that story. Enjoy.







Bollocks. He’d asked for a window seat. This was about to be no fun whatsoever. Then he sat down. The lady on the window seat. Was. Hot.

“Jesus,” he cursed.

“Excuse me?” she said. He thought her voice was a little deep. This made her seem even hotter.

“I’m sorry. I was just… I asked the lady at the check-in counter for a window seat so I’m just a little miffed that I didn’t get it,” he offered.

“Oh. So do you always get what you want?” she asked,

“Depends. If we are talking about my six-pack, or lack thereof, no,” she smiled. “But If we’re talking about my bank account…” he paused

“Yes?” she asked sweetly even though she really disliked men who never missed a chance to flaunt their wealth.

“… then I never get what I want,” she laughed. She just might like this one.

“So what do you get?”

“Not much. So having a hottie sat beside me for the duration of a flight is a more-than-welcome bonus.”

“You think I’m a hottie?” she asked, pearly whites now out in full resplendent glory.

“I was talking about her,” he pointed to the right with his thumb. Across the aisle, a woman who was surely in her fifties was seated and looked straight ahead.

“Nice one.”

“Thank you.”

“I bet you’ve charmed your way into countless hearts with such well-aimed compliments,” she spat sarcastically. He found her angst cute.

“I’ll have you know that I truly suck at this.”


“Truth. The women I’ve gotten with were either chloroformed or…” he was making her giggle,

“Or what?”

“Or clubbed,” he deadpanned. She burst out laughing.

“I refuse to believe that,” she managed between fits of laughter. “Okay, you know what? We’ve got roughly ninety minutes together on this flight. Woo me!”

“Really? And what shall I get? Cookies? A pat on the back? Or your old brassieres for parachute practice?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “you might be surprised. I have surprisingly sturdy brassieres.”

He smiled. He thought this day would never come. He felt about his jacket. Time to break out the flashcards.



“With great power comes great responsibility,” he looked at her for effect, “and access to bigger boobs!”

“Is that really what you’re starting with?” she looked shocked.

“I wanted to open with a joke.”

“Then you could have read me your bank balance.”

“Ouuuch! That was low. Even for you.”

“Isn’t that what the bank said?” she replied,

“Come on! Don’t be so mean. I’m making an effort here.”

“The hell you are,” she growled.

He discretely chucked the first of his flashcards to one side. Well mentally anyway. He did not walk around carrying them, but had those plays memorized. It was supposed to be some harmless fun but her endless stash of zingers coupled with her delicious scent and her hotness (dear Lord her hotness) made him want to give this a fair shot.

He could see that she had long shapely legs ensconced in some really fitted jeans. She was made-up but not excessively so. He could tell. Her eyes popped and her red lipstick and dark complexion really made her glistening teeth stick out every time she opened her mouth. Her mouth. Father merciful, her mouth. This was going to be a long flight.



“Are we destined to be like the parallelogram? Tilted at similar angles but destined never to meet?” he offered. She looked at him while he spoke. He was lucky, she reckoned, that there was plastic airline food in her mouth. Otherwise, he’d get a dastardly reply.

“I’d like to think we are more like circles though. For what goes around, comes around,” he tried again.

And at that moment, she just thought he was a proper square. He’d started off great but had veered off into this horrendous territory. Why did men not know to just be normal when they had a girl’s attention? If only he knew that he was better off teasing rather flattering her.

“People are like triangles: we all have three sides. Our good, bad and horrendously ugly sides,” she chuckled beside him instantly.

“What?” he asked,

“I’m good-looking, you’re really bad at this and therefore this situation is about to get horrendously…” she opened her right hand and used it to cover her face.

“Crap,” he murmured.

“Is this a geometry lesson? ‘Cuz I’m beginning to feel like it is.”

“No. It is not.”

She was more than a little disbelieving when he came at her with his ‘I suck at this stuff’ line. This guy was clearly smooth once he took his foot out of his mouth. When she’d looked up and saw him approaching, she had hoped he would sit beside her. She had been sat beside a prayer warrior the last time she flew and every in-flight announcement had been met with invocation and the speaking of tongues. This was a fine brother right here. Apart from all the shape references, he spoke really intelligently and seemed so confident. And what was it about his mouth? She decided to see if she could throw a spanner in.

“You know what? Actually, I misplaced my ring recently but you should be informed that I’m engaged,” his reply was swift. “Nope. That’s untrue. I saw the attendant make you switch off your mobile phone.”

“I don’t,” she started, then paused as she caught his reference to telephone speak of the nineties. “You need help,”

“Or a violent sexual awakening. Either of which you look fully capable of providing,”

“What?” she was liking him again.




He chucked the flashcards. Bloody load of good it had done him. Now, he was nervous. But he was sure. Having arrived with a screech at his wits’ end, he felt he had nowhere to run. This was as frustrating as it was exhilarating. Time to get real. This flight was about to end.

“You have to understand that it’s not easy for me to say these things,” she turned to face him. Stare quickly morphed into glare. He was unfazed as yet. “Expressing myself like this is difficult for me. It may come a lot easier for you but I…” he had to power through, “…I… I clam up most times,” now she looked bored.

“I don’t know how you got the same seat with me. Clearly I have a future in magic so please…” he could sense his honesty rising to the fore. It tasted like poop. His poop. And it seemed to be the only thing he had left now anyway, “… please let me finish the illusion. I think you are one of the smartest, clearly one of the prettiest women, I have ever met. You seem like a really genuine person too. I don’t know how I know this but I guess my magical prowess must really be taking shape. In, what, seventy odd minutes, I have been put down more times than all my previous put-downs combined…

“But I have never enjoyed it more. So when this plane lands, I just want a chance to maybe continue this conversation. Maybe you want to talk about cereal sometimes, or movies. Or maybe…”

She interrupted him by pressing her lips to his now reddening cheek. She lightly put both her palms to hold either side of his neck. Just as he closed his mouth to try to savour the sensation, she released him.

It was fleeting. But the message was clear.

“Happy now?” she said. He whistled faintly, clearly shocked. Then he put out his hand and tilted it from side to side.

“Well, I was actually hoping for just your number… so…”

She sat back laughing.

“What took you so damn long?” she asked,

“Don’t women like men that take it slow?”

“Not always. And I don’t believe you actually came at me with geometry references.”

“That wasn’t just any geometry,” he put out his hands and gestured a flying motion, “that was plane geometry!”

Silence for fifteen seconds. Then:

“Dude…” she started,


“That shit is corny.”

“Damn you.”

“You do realize we are going to need serious help if we ever date right?”

“Sure. I can’t say things right, you can’t stop…”

She looked at him in mock anger, “I can’t stop? You want to be alive long enough to get help or not?”

“What? You mean you’re going to cook for me?”

“Oh you are dead!”

“Not unless you baked the airline food! I knew it smelt like arsenic, I just wasn’t sure!”

She faced the window laughing but made sure to raise her middle finger at him.

“Wait, I thought your phone number started with a zero?” he suddenly feigned realization. “Oooh. You mean one. As in Lagos’ code yeah? Let me just grab my pen.” Still turned away, she put the base of her other palm to her forehead as she shook with laughter.



“Okay. Promise me one thing,” she turned to face him as she spoke. People were grabbing their luggage and walking hurriedly past the crazy, noisy pair.

“Anything. Although I can’t grow my foreskin back and I can’t afford the surgery. So…”

“What?! No. Promise me that once we get off this plane, you will never try this hard ever again.”

He laughed exaggeratedly and immediately began reciting.

“I pledge to Miss Window my new bae,

To be faithful loyal and horny,

To service Miss Window with all my strength…” that was when she punched him in the stomach.



“Oh you have no idea!”

Lagos Girl

I am not a Lagos girl. Zinny now is and this post is from her. NOT ME. I REPEAT, NOT ME!!!



I am a Calabar girl, born and bred. I thought I’d always be a Calabar girl… until Lagos.

I was raised every inch a lady. How to walk, how to sit, the proper decibels at which to speak given the occasion, how to observe other people’s personal space, whether standing or sitting, how to observe rules of polite behaviour when speaking, like ‘please’, ‘excuse me’, ‘may I?’, ‘sorry’, etc. These all formed part of my home training growing up, at a time when formal etiquette schools had yet to make their entrance. And about the only abusive term I was allowed use of was ‘you are silly’. My dad was that particular! So it was that I blossomed into a lovely young lady who observed etiquette and frankly could not understand it when others wouldn’t.

This, until I was thrown into the cesspool that is Lagos… Thrown, because I was unprepared. Imagine my horror and utter confusion to find that everything which formed the basis of great relationships and a structured society was upended. I was introduced to a society where everything unacceptable is the norm. Even worse, unacceptable is considered cool. Death rides with conductors hanging out of buses whilst speeding through Third Mainland Bridge. Who does that?! Why would you want to do that?! Jumping out of buses that are still in motion. What are you trying to prove? That you are death proof? So was Humpty Dumpty…until he fell.

Lagos is the stuff nightmares are made of. For the longest time, going out was daunting. Why, oh why is everyone soooo angry and suspicious? And where are you all running to? Really! Sir, do please, pretty please, tone down your voice. We are perfectly capable of hearing you – thanks to the two ears the creator planted on our heads. And you might as well lose the viciousness while at it: some things are not worth the hypertension. Errrrrr, Oga, we want to go to heaven in our own good time; no point driving as if hell’s own hounds are giving chase. Ha! If only I knew I was practically alone in thinking this.
Gotta say, Lagos has done a number on me. How do I know this? I’m numb to most of the things that used to make my hair stand on end. Progress, huh? I think so too.

In Calabar, I would go to bed to the occasional bark of a dog and soft music playing in the background. Now I go to bed to the sound of blaring horns, screaming tires and humans who want to prove to each other that they know more abuses in the Yoruba language, and this at roaring volumes expected only in tunnels, so those of us who have nothing to do would be held captive. As it turns out, this is now music to my ears. As it plays on, I sleep on.
In Cally, I would awaken every morning to birds chirping, tweeting in the trees outside my room and the crunch of farmers’ boots on the way to their farms. Now I wake up at what is internationally recognised as an ungodly hour -4 A.M.- thanks to the loudspeaker in the mosque which is situated on the street directly across my house. During Ramadan, I am woken up at least three times a night by that darned gramophone. Oh who cares? I’m alive and it’s a new day, thank you Jesus!

One of my best features was my catwalk: a measured, somewhat seductive way of moving my hips in time to my feet. It was, if I say so myself, musical and paced just right. I am what people call shapely and my gait helped emphasize that. But noooooooooo, Lagos said it was snail pace and utterly unnecessary, when my job description did not read ‘model’. Buses zoomed off before I got to the spot where they had been standing. Conductors cursed and jeered. So I learned to gallop. It’s a cross between walking and running. Forget seductive, forget beauty. I need to get to where I’m going and do so in time. What’s the point of pacing yourself just so if it is lost on everyone?

In secondary school, in Calabar of course, we used to eat to time. If you hadn’t finished when the bell went off, you had to chuck your food. I was that girl who stood at the bins after every meal throwing away half my food because I couldn’t rush eating. There were times when students engaged in what was called massacre. They would rush at the servers with giant bowls and cart away huge quantities of food or an entire pot of meat or fish. The servers would be helpless to do anything because they were few and we were many and there were no prefects to bring order to the chaos. Even in those dire times, I would stand back and watch because I did not have the capacity for such violence. I was too ladylike for such extremities! I would be mauled! Not anymore. Now, when there’s scarcity of transport here in Lagos, I find myself rushing with the spring of an accomplished acrobat and the menace of a wild animal.

And don’t ask me what I do to my food.

Temperament wise, I have always called myself a melancholic. I won’t speak unless I need to. I enjoy my own company. I’m mellow and soft spoken; aggressive only when arguing a point (and that you can blame on my profession: Law). That’s all in the past now. I have undergone a whole personality change. I don’t remember what bedroom tones sound like. I scream at conductors with gusto. I am brash for no reason. I speak pidgin like an upcoming Warri babe. I even think in pidgin now (scary!). I tend to get bored of my company too soon. I look at me sometimes and I don’t recognize me. LAGOS!!!

Lagos is not just a place, it is a culture; an identity; a frame of reference. Lasgidi. Lagosian. It is an identity a lot hold dear and beat their chests loudly to in proclamation. It is an identity I loathe and embrace in equal parts. Think about it, what does Lagosian mean? It means one is tough, ready and able to do the necessary to achieve success, even if that means exerting grievous effort or taking on the lowliest of jobs. It means one is acclimated to traffic and its accompanying exhaustion and yet can still rise before cocks crow the next day headed for new traffic. It means one is aggressive enough to stand up to touts and their ilk and the quickest to head off in the opposite direction if a rape, beating, theft or murder is taking place. It means one can spot a cheat a mile off and never misses an opportunity to make an extra buck. It means one can live in filth without flinching. It means clubbing and working are one and the same and aso-ebis would never leave the no.1 spot on ‘trending’. It means strangers and beggars deserve the same treatment: ignore.
Lagos, the owners claim, is survived by only the fittest. Well, I have survived two years and counting and intend to do so until hubby dearest whisks me off to a destination island where we would spend the rest of our days. Come quickly honey, for although I am surviving considerably, the tell-tale signs are beginning to show. You see, all hustle and no fun, and there you have it – the perfect recipe for aging.

I just found my new tagline…

Lagos: Age Quickly.

A Crash Course in Old Nick’s Dealings

You might not be familiar with some of the terminologies used if you haven’t read the first and the second editions of Crash Course. Try to enjoy. And subscribe. Tagging is a royal pain.

Devil dey work o. Who tell you say devil no dey work dey lie. Devil dey work pass ashewo wey get target.

I been dey house wen Napodia papa wan use cutlass do me like mallam suya.
“Open dis door! Make I see d tin wey you use give Napo belle! Wen I finish wit you, you go see woman run.”
Small time, him halla come turn to cry.
“Ooooh. My Napodia. My innocent Napodia!”
Innocent ko, flourescent ni. Napodia wey like Patrick pass pure water. I wish say I been snap picture wen Napodia dey show me skill wey she see for blu feem. Abi u tink say na ordinary eye dey turn Crash Course to Credit? No be only innocent. Small time, Napo papa vexation return.
“Foolish boy. Come out now!”
My guy wan break dis door sha.
I remember d oyinbo wey Pastor been blow on Sunday. Wetin Crashito dey find for church? You dey mad? Where I wan see offering tiff before? “When God closes a door, he opens a window!”
I look my burglary proof again. Omo dis window lock die. I come hear noise inside ceiling. Idea. E no reach two minutes wey I use remove ceiling board, enter roof begin dey run. As I dey up dey run, I see space for down where anoda ceiling board don remove. I tink say na inside person room I dey go land. As I jump down, I see myself for d corridor of our face-me-I-slap-you.
Also, one man (wey ugly pass gorilla wey smell crase man armpit) carry cutlass dey wait me. “You must marry my Napodia or else I will feed you to wild animals.” I no tink. I just look him cutlass answer, “Sir, which day make I come pay dowry?”
Devil dey work.

I dey do construction work. My company dey send for us anytime wey work dey. So if I no dey house or my friend place, I dey site. One day, I dey site for Lekki. We dey build one big house. Dat day my oga say I no go carry load. Na only to supervise one small tin so I wear beta cloth come dat day. I dey work my own jeje when horn sound outside gate. I look but d gateman no dey.
“Heyss! Ol boy! Oga pikin don land. Go open gate.” Na one of d boys wey I dey supervise dey open him mama gutter dey follow me yan. No fear. Normally we dey follow work sha. So no yawa. And I reason say na me neat pass so I first threaten him life before I go open d gate. One fine, clean motor enter d yard. D motor park, and oga pikin come out. I tink say na man. Omo na babe. Finest babe.
Money good o.
See as d babe skin fresh. Goddddd! Her face too fine and her body make sense. She get front but back no too full. Like 504. And na small pikin o. She no fit pass 22, 23. I senior am for sure but I no kno when I greet am.
“Aunty good afternoon.” see wetin bobbi dey cause.
“Hello, good afternoon. How are you?”
“I dey fine ma,”
“There are some things in the back seat. Please help me carry them.”

Make I explain give una small. This work no be new house. Na renovate we dey renovate. Dem break one side but the people wey get house dey live another side inside the same compound. I carry some small small things then follow madam go where she dey go. As we dey pass, some of the boys dem wey dey work begin shout give me.
“Crashito, dis one wey you follow madam for back, no too near am o. You know say you dey smell,”
“Yes na,” I answer d guy, “na me do mistake borrow your papa perfume!” D babe troway face like say she no dey hear but I see am dey laugh small small.
“Crash Cos!” Another idiot. All these yeye boys can sabi misbehave once dem see babe. “Why you tiff my shirt wear come work na?”
“No vex. Your sister open your wardrobe dash me after I give am Patrick chop!” Me sef sabi shout. Boys dem just dey laugh as we waka pass. Madam just face front. We waka reach back of their house na im she open their back door from kitchen side. She show me where to drop d tins dem. After I drop them, I see her face. She dey smile.
“What is your name?”
“Crash Cos,” as I dey answer, she dey bust laugh.
“I was afraid of that,” her foné no be here. I no too dey hear am sef.
“My name is Colette, by the way,” I shock.
“Sorry ma, you be D’banj pikin?” She bust more laugh.
“Why do I always get that? It’s Colette not freaking ‘cocolet,'”
“Oookay. Co…lette.”
“Yes. Colette. Now could you do me a favour?”
“Like wetin?”
“I’m an English major doing my thesis and I’d like to ask you some questions about broken English.” D only tin wey I hear na ‘question’, ‘broken’ and ‘English’. But trust mumu wey I be. I just answer.
“Yes ma,” next tin wey I know, d babe collect my number come tell she say she go buzz me. Jesu mi. My life don beta na. Levels don change. Dis kain babe collect my number, na happiness and joy and hammering remain na. As I wan commot go return my work, she come ask me JAMB question.
“So I have to ask. What’s does it mean when you say ‘Patrick?'”
Wallahi, I know say baba God dey my side, but devil dey work.

Devil dey work but sometimes, e be like say God dey work too. My phone ring the next day and na Napo.
“Hello. Napo, na wetin?”
“Hello. Crash Cos, na so u dey ansa your future wife?”
“Make thunder use old crayfish solder dat ya mouth. Who be your husband?”
“Wait first. Who dey pursue you?” D only tin be say devil dey use dem family. If not, Napo voice sexy die. Temptation.
“Pursue? Dem no tell you say ya popsy wan take my bloqos do dog food?” D idiot start to laugh. Dem don swear for dis one?
“Crash Cos, no vex. If na your daughter, abi our daughter, you sef no go vex?”
“Which one be our daughter? Napodia, you follow ojuju dance for dream?” I don dey vex. Which kain nonsense?
“Crash Cos relax. My mama don follow my papa talk. Me and you no go marry. Money you no get. And no be say you too fine. Plus you no kuku get respect for elders.”
To start d matter, I happy say Napo dem people don free me. Na d insult wey she follow join for back na im dey pain me.
“Napo, who no fine? Me and you who fine pass. Na only yansh you get o. You wey do face like burnt offering,”
“Oya e don do, e don do for you Crash Cos,” she sef don dey vex. Make she see as e be to collect insult na. Idiot.
“No be d tin wey make me call you sef. No dey use my credit curse me,”
“I don hear. Wetin make you call me?”
“I tell you say my mama follow my papa talk. But before we do anything about dis pikin, dem say make you come house make we follow talk.” Which house? To go die? I answer Napo straight.
“Ah. Una don see cheap market abi? E be like say your papa don see buyer for d dog food atink?”
“No o. No be so. My popsy don calm down. True talk. Just come. Me sef I know where him dey keep d cutlass. I go hide am. Trust me.” Napo voice come sexy again.
“Which day make I come?”
“Next week Tuesday. Around 6 when you go don close work,” I tink am small.
“Okay. I go try. But I no go wear shoe come o. Na pam slippers. In case I need run,” Napo start laugh again.
“Okay, I don hear. Bye bye.” She cut phone.

On Tuesday, I jam Colette for work again. That day, she come where we dey work come find me. All those boys come begin jealous me.
“Crashito, madam dey find you,” I do go meet am where she stand.
“So I was thinking we could do that interview today,” Interview? So all d grammar wey she dey blow since na for interview? Well, I no too complain. She fit be d future Mrs. Crashito. Baba God abeg.
“Which time?” I gats tell am say I get waka for dem Napo house but I no tell am wetin d waka dey about o. I sha tell am say we go meet after I finish for dem Napo side. She come call d name of one restaurant say make we meet there. Before she go, she press 2k inside my hand say make I use am join taxi.

For evening, I surprise for Napo dem house o. Dem papa don mellow. Na d babe mama dey look me like say I carry dustbin for head. Dem tori no too plenty. Story no too long. Dem just wan know my face and dem tell me say na me go drop money for anytin wey Napo need do for hospital. I just dey remember Napo papa cutlass dey answer “yes sir, yes ma.” When I reason say yans don finish, I stand up say make I dey go. Na Napo voice I come hear:

“Crash Cos, you must chop na,” Chopology. Awoof dey cut spirit for Orile o. My guy Kajeta, na awoof finish am for area. Im tiff for the place wey im dey work houseboy before. D people know say e tiff. D next day wen im come, dem mix juju and cement give am chop inside ogbono. My guy chop am finish dey happy. Since dem sack am, rumour be say na only Julius Berger gree employ am.

Because im dey helep dem shit block.
Devil dey work.

But last week, wen I dey ‘collect’ church offering, I hear dem pastor dey preach.
“The devil is liar!!!” Na so church shout “AMEN!”
“No weapon fashioned against you shall prosper!” As I dey commot d money, na so I dey use style dey shout “Amen!” Baba, I believe.
Juju no dey kill herbalist.
“Bring am make I chop,”
Omo dem give rice and beans chop. No be say d food no sweet. E sweet die. D yawa be say I suppose see Colette after I commot here and na egg and bread I chop since morning. D food sweet. Wella. I chop am one time clean mouth. Small time, I move.

I reach d place wey Colette say make I jam am. One fresh joint for VI. D people get restaurant inside come get joint outside for open air. She been don dey wait me sef. Chai.
“Hey Crash Cos, why are you sweating?”
“Nothing ma,” Omo na something o. Wen I dey inside bus dey come, na im my belle begin turn. I just dey hold myself since.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“No ma,” dis one want make I die? I just dey under breeze dey sweat. E be like say she tink say na fear wey dey make me sweat.
My hand been dey on top table. I no know wetin push d babe: she just carry her hand put on top my own.
“Relax,” omo as she talk dat tin, see as joy full my heart. I no know wen laugh catch me. And na dat time yawa come gas. Well, na me actually commot gas but d smell na yawa. And d breeze dey move well. Chineke God of Orile criminals. Which kain mature mess be dis?
“What died in here? Crash Course, did you fart?” D tin smell na instant.
I swear, cry dey my eye as I dey confess. I no fit lie dat kain lie: everybody know say I no get weight, “Aunty I no fat. Na mess I mess.”
“Oh my God!”
Since she run go dat day, she never call me again.

Devil dey work.


Una well done o!
Yes, e don tey. I know.
The worst part is that I come bearing no reassurance that this will change. Indeed, my writing juices have not flowed much. I thought getting a bb would help the matter but alas, no such luck.
You see, these days, a brother is without employment. And a jobless Cikko is an uninspired one. It’s how I function. This situation should get better real soon sha. Emem?
I also need a netbook. My big 17″ laptop is groovy but not great for typing at 2am in the morning when the craziest ideas hit or for taking with me into the crapper where all the best stuff is born. Donations are allowed of course!

On to today’s post. I wrote the first three stanzas when I was in ss2. I couldn’t remember the rest but I really loved the idea. So I rewrote it yesterday. Hopefully, the thought process feels the same. Enjoy…


If pehsin die today no vex,
Na God want am like dat,
No let woman break una neck
Weda she tin or fat.

I know why I dey tell una,
Woman don do me so
Na one girl dem dey call Tina
Wey make me catch gono.

D first time I been see dat one,
My head turn upside down
My plan den na to hit and run
God hear dat one come frown

I waka meet d babe and den
Omo boy start to rap:
No do, no do, lyrics no gel
Na im she tear me slap

Shakara sef na normal tin
I just gats to change style
When guy man start to drop kishi
D babe come begin smile.

E reach two weeks before Tina
Begin dey gree for me
But after dat e no too tey:
She come show me bobbie!

But bobbie no be food at all
Man must to chop complete
If I say Tina no sabi,
Na lie: her tin too sweet.

One day my Johnny no respond
When I wan piss by force
E pain me sotey I wan die
D tin wan tear blockos.

“Tina what is this you have done?
Why you give me gono?
D tin wan scatter my pomo
You go say you no know?”

D gyal come look me up to down
Come hiss like village snake:
“You get luck say I no kill you.
Idiot. Waka shege.”

And so my country people
Na so d matter end
Tina carry disease give me
Come follow weather blend.

He who chops and runs away
Must chop again of course
But if you chop Tina commot,
Ya mouth go commot pus!

Seeing as Twitpic did me anyhow…

What ken I say? It was a jobless morning. Enjoy and feel free to fap!

Tissues and Tissues

He was watching the Discovery Channel. Something about dolphins. It was quite absorbing. He began to marvel at the awesome wonder of creation. He took a minute off to pray; to thank God. The structure of earth and its inhabitants was indeed the work of a Genius. He finished praying and resumed watching, wistful smile intact. He barely noticed when she came in. More like stormed in.


She was literally foaming at the mouth. That was due to the fury. The unshed tears were a direct result of the feeling. The immensely painful feeling of betrayal. And heartbreak.


He didn’t sense her till she was standing right beside him. Dolphins were that much of a delight to watch.

“You lying, cheating bastard!” she screamed, waving her mobile phone at him. He looked up at her; shocked. She stared at his beautiful face. Well, it was beautiful to her no more. Perception was such a fickle substance. Alterable at will.


In a split second, his face registered guilt. “Guilt!” she thought, as her heart – already broken – now shredded. He’d broken that most sacred of sacred pacts: infidelity. They’d scaled through the lies that popped up every once in a while. Most of them even turned out to be for a decent cause. Ultimately. But this?

Once again, for the five hundredth time in her most grief-stricken hour, her mind replayed the images on her phone. Sent to her by a P.I. that was never hired. She didn’t know whether to thank the snooping bitch or curse her.


But she knew exactly what to do to the scum-bag that was no more on his seat but was weeping on his knees, saying things while he clutched at her pelvis. Things she wasn’t in the mood to hear. Things she DIDN’T hear; her mind and heart were now cordoned off by an immovable, unflinching resolve.

Quietly but poignantly, amidst sobs of her own, she murmured: “I want a divorce…”

*                             *                             *                             *                             *                             *

Being a ‘Lagos lawyer’ is not easy. Especially if you come from where I come from. I am the only lawyer my village has produced. Those folks would rather harvest yams than learn the English alphabet. Subsequently, everybody from my hometown now figures that they have an inherent license to steal, kill and cheat: for Chibuike is now a barrister.

So, yes – I have responsibilities. Did I mention the financial implications of being called to the Nigerian Bar? Let me: they are always at my door – home and office. Especially home. I figure owning cable tv and a really comfy leather sofa must be the feathers tipping that particular scale.

But don’t get the wrong picture: I’m pretty well-off if I may say so myself. The damsel who I deliberately knocked up (in order to force her father’s hand) gets to dress all fancy on Saturdays and Sundays. You know, for church and parties. Having walked her down the perilous aisle, she also gets to bear my surname. That’s gotta be a perk, right? Anyway, the rest of the week, she’s at home. On my shelf. Displayed nicely!

Today though, I’ve got a different set of priorities. I heard about this ultra modern bidet that just came into the country. For the very few who don’t know, a ‘bidet’ (pronounced “bee-day”) is a plumbing fixture that automatically washes your bum and other hidden parts after you’re done using the toilet. Suffice to say it is not common in Naija. This one is definitely going to cost me.

But I am ready to put my money where my arse is.

The current plan is to skim some money off the top of this merger my firm assigned me to oversee. Nobody is going to know. The companies’ MDs and I have a solid deal. Once it comes through, that’s going to get me at least 10 bidets and a grand piano in the foyer. It’ll just take a few weeks to complete the process. I can wait. Unfortunately, my wife can’t – she asked me to bring home a six-pack of tissues.

I wonder where I got the idea that six-packs stopped at canned beers and chiseled abs!

My phone rings. Oga Bode. Bode was my classmate in university. He now works for this really cool law firm that specializes in land matters. He’s also a ‘Lagos lawyer.’

“Lord Bodacious!” I hail – I love to patronize.

“Chi Bweeksy!” he yells back. I loathe the name but love the man.

“Whaddup, dawg?” I ask,

“Guy, I have some sharp-sharp paroles I think you can handle,”

“Oh yeah? Give me the info abeg…”

“Nothing major. Just a routine divorce settlement. Collabo style. Are you busy now and will you be in the next two hours?”

Collabo style’ is Bode’s title for Collaborative Divorce Practice which is simply an out of court settlement conducted as peacefully as possible. It’s closer to a negotiation than a tussle. It’s also new in town. We Lag wigs like to stay on point, thank you very much!

“A bit. But I can move stuff around. When do we see?” I ask,

“How about twenty minutes from now?”

“No problemo.”

It turns out that Bode just got me in on this gig to represent the husband in said settlement while he (Bode) caters to the wife. It’s one of those jobs neither of our firms is really down with. So we take them privately. Just some cool money on the side. From what Bode is saying, this couple is super loaded. It seems my b-day has come early – I mean my bidet.

I ask the mandatory questions: how did he land me this engagement? Does the unhappy couple know we’re friends? He says they’re aware and have no problems.

“This couple is weird-ish sha,” he adds. I tell him I’m on my way and hang up. Before I leave my office, I call Sarah to confirm our appointment.

Sarah is what you’d call my side dish; my trimming, if you will. And a hot trimming at that! Why do I ‘do’ Sarah? No reason in particular. Seriously, my wife is great. Aside from the fact that she refuses to do anything other than tend to my kids and I, my wife’s actually quite the treat. Sarah just likes my money, I think. Plus, my shlong is really a shlONG. Not a ‘shlORT’. In other words, my wiener is a real winner: I have a large penis, ok? Once again, that’s has to BE a perk, right?

Forty five minutes later and I have been fully briefed. Hubby cheated, broke it off, but couldn’t ‘fess up to Mrs. Wifey. Wife’s friend shows her damning pix – because man turned her (wife’s friend) down. Old story. Truthfully, I’d have screwed them all and kept my marriage. If ever there’d be a truer definition of win-win!

Bode and I are now sitting as we await the intending divorcees at a neutral venue – first settlement meeting. It’s your generic conference room. One table, three chairs on either side. As soon as they’re both in (husband arrived first) I begin to sense why Bode called them ‘weirdish.’ They are a pair of genuinely beautiful people, but they look a mess. Also, for a couple on the brink, they belong in a classroom teaching science; because their chemistry is absolutely palpable.

It’s in the subtleties. Once wifey has taken her seat opposite her soon-to-be ex, they involuntarily reach for each other’s fingers across the table. Midway, they catch themselves and seem to remember where they are and that they hate each other.

Or are supposed to.

After the preliminary introductions, Bode takes the reins: “Was there a prenup?”

“Heck no!” husband answers. What’s up with the ‘heck’ is what I think to myself. A simple ‘nada’ would have straightened everybody out.

“Okay,” Bode continues, “that’s settled. Ummm… what assets are between you two? You know, the major stuff – houses, cars, businesses, stocks, shares, money?”

The husband starts to think out loud, “Well…”

And his wife interrupts: “I don’t want a kobo!”

Hubby suddenly becomes loquacious, “No. I cannot have that. She can have whatever she needs. Whatever she wants. Look, I have twelve sedans and three jeeps. I own two houses. As at yesterday, the money in all my accounts totaled roughly…” he seems to be doing some math upstairs “… two hundred and fifty million naira.”

Hello, Dr. Bidet! I cannot help but whistle slightly. This causes Bode to toss a sharp look my way. Even the missus is taken aback. He continues as if nothing happened.

“I own twelve factories across the country, and one filling station in Abuja. I simply ask for half of my accounts’ worth. She can have all the rest.” For all of this guy’s proficiency at arithmetic, he seems to be lacking heavily in plain logic.

My next problem is how well this particular settlement is going. The squabbles are because one person is offering and the other doesn’t want to accept. From my experience, it ought to be the other way around with one willing to take stuff but the other unwilling to give stuff up.

Then the Mr. gets thirsty.

There’s a jug of water on the table complete with 6 glasses. He picks one up and fills it up. He’s a little klutz. Maybe not every day, I guess, but today he is. He lifts the glass to his lips and spills quite a bit of it. It’s like his mouth leaks! But that’s not my problem. My newest problem is the wife’s reaction: she rushes to his side. And I could tell it wasn’t pity – it was instinct.

Oh snap! Because this camel’s back has gotten the bejesus broken out of it. Some couples deserve to be apart, others don’t. Try to guess what I’m thinking.

“So, big question: do you STILL love this guy?” My question shocks her. Heck, it shocks everyone. She stutters as she answers but her eyes speak clearly and fluidly because they glistened a little.

“W-w- what?” as she says this, she resets in her chair, finally realizing her give-away. I widen my eyes but say nothing.

“I g-g-guess I-I-I still  do,” she finally blubbers. Surprise, surprise.

“You do, good ma’am. In spades,” I confirm.

“But he CHEATED on me!” Now she looks pained,

“Yeah yeah,” I deadpan, “that makes him a dumb fool without question cuz I gotta tell you, you are a remarkably attractive woman,” truth is that, in my head, instead of the last three words that actually came out, I said ‘decent piece of ass’. I’m in a polite mood is all.

“However, before you kill me, ask yourselves: did Moses in the…” I snap my fingers trying to recollect. Bode is on my page but clearly not on my side. He cups his chin in suppressed anger as he says “Bible,” completing my line. He also shakes his head slightly and subliminally calls me ‘heathen bastard!’ We’ve been friends a decade now and I know his thoughts.

“Yeah. Bible. Did Moses lie about the source of the water when he hit the rock? Yes. Did God consider it a big deal? Yes. ‘Cuz homeboy never saw the Promised Land. But does that mean that when we get to the pearly gates we won’t see Mo’ and some angel sipping cappuccino while reading out our verdicts of “guilty as charged, take thy sinful butts to hell”? Yeah, we will. I’ll bet God even lets him wear Armani!”

I know I’ve made a point, so I wait for everybody to digest. The room is now silent. Hubby is looking at Miss Ma’am with those soppy eyes. I seriously wonder where he found the guy who loaned him the balls to cheat. Not so fast. Our scorned Mrs. doesn’t look quite softened up. She tears away from her husband’s remorseful mope to ask:

“So, you can live with a cheating spouse?”

Ah. Bitch done gone sucker-punched me. I actually don’t know what I would do if I was to find out that my beautiful trophy wife likes a midday salad quite as much as I do. But I have never lost me an argument and I’d be damned if I started now.

“Maybe I can,” I retort.

“Oh really?” she looks bemused. Bode looks at me with deliberately widened eyes, lips pursed and his head cocked 30 degrees to one side as if to say: “You got yourself in this, get yourself out.” Well, this is no time to punk out.

“Yeah, maybe I can. Because I don’t think that’s the worst crime in the world. Has he… I don’t know… punched you in the stomach recently? Bashed your face in?” As I say this, I begin walking slowly to where she’s sitting.

“Of course not,” her expression seems to ease up, “He’d never.”

By now, I am already around to her side of the table. I squat in front of her and smile weakly. “Think about your two kids as well. You know what this’ll mean, don’t you?” I can see she’s buying my furniture little piece of wood by little piece of wood. She nods feebly.

“Look. Clearly, you know he’s still mad about you but you’re stung. And with good reason. He did a horrid, horrid thing. To forgive is divine, you know.” Somehow, my second reference to religion cracks her up. She giggles. Very cute.

“I’m not asking you to turn a blind eye. I’m just asking you to put a bit more in. One last push. Therapy, church, you could bang me for revenge, anything!” I say this playfully enough for everybody to realize I’m joking around. Everybody laughs. Bode, once again, shakes his head at me. At least he’s getting a chuckle out of this one. I look up myself. Just in time to catch a glimpse of my bidet as it quietly slips out the window. At least for another few weeks. I wave.

*                             *                             *                             *                             *                             *

Sitting in my car, it’s time to take stock of what just went down. Mrs. took a bit more cajoling. However, considering that she and Hubbity Hub Hub came separately but are now leaving in the same ride, I think my work’s been done did. Bode is predictably displeased since I just cost him some decent cash with my mini-drama but he’ll be fine. I always make it up to him.

I saved a marriage today and I deserve a gift. “And tonight’s winner will be going away with our star prize of…” I bring out my phone and dial it.

“Hey. Be at the venue in an hour and a half… And dress extremely naughtily. I’ve been nice enough for a Nobel peace prize!” I pause while she talks, then it’s my turn again. “…Ok. That’s fine. Emmm… could you bring along some condoms? I’m out and I can’t seem to find that particular brand you bought the other day… Yeah, with all those crazy contours and stuff…” I think for a second: I might not be able to hit a supermarket on my way home. Why not kill two birds with one obnoxious phone call?

“Ummm Sarah, could you also bring along a six-pack of tissue paper?”

Captain von Clapp Trapp (2)- Shattap!

Hello, ardent followers of crap. It’s that time of the month again. Not for you, silly woman! I meant me. Gee whiz! It’s football season and I play with my small team once every month. The games are always hectic. Meaning? I cramp too!

Ok. Where were we? Ah yes…

Two people were trying to fall for each other: what else is new?

This week, I decided to include a trivia section. Why? Yep, you guessed it: for no bloody reason at all. Nice to see you guys are catching on swiftly. I reserve the right to remain quirky!




In the 1800s, advancements in the inner workings of toilets were made, the bulk of which form the basis for the structure of the toilets we use today. Those refinements were made by an English plumber called… wait for it… Sir Thomas CRAPPER!!! Seriously…

Now how’s that for toilet humour?!

“Back to you M and T….”


Book II: Freedom of Screech


Theo Gee:           gess wat

Morim P:             What?

Theo Gee:           its bn two weeks since our little… wateva this iz… startd

Morim P:             Really?

Theo Gee:           yea.

Morim P:             and they say boys don’t remember dates…

Theo Gee:           oh but we do. we just choose not to

Morim P:             Pardon?

Theo Gee:           never mind. I’m just makin excuses for our fathomless amnesia

Morim P:             Lol.

Theo Gee:           anyways… I gotta question for you

Morim P:             aks away

Morim P:             I meant ask

Theo Gee:           HOLY SMOKERSVILLE!!!

Morim P:             what???

Theo Gee:           u jst made a typo!

Theo Gee:           she breathes! by God shes human!

Morim P:             hehe. you’re not seriouhsd

Theo Gee:           pinch me. anoda!

Theo Gee:           hey, evil spirit… wat v u done wit my friend?

Morim P:             I make typos, don’t I?

Theo Gee:           nt wen we’re chattin dear

Morim P:             really? that’s mighty surprising. But oh well… I guess your carefree style has caught me some

Theo Gee:           ouchie. anywy bak 2 my questn

Morim P:             yeah

Theo Gee:           well, questionS

Morim P:             Whatever. Fire!

Theo Gee:           do u ave any tattoos?

Morim P:             hmmm

Theo Gee:           wat r u thinkin about? u do or you don’t!

Morim P:             I’m trying to figure out how many I should tell you abt.

Theo Gee:           *&@^%^$#@#@!!!

Morim P:             what? Can’t handle a girl with tatts? You asked didn’t you?

Theo Gee:           w/out expectin a positive reply

Morim P:             Well, you got one. I have a bunch of tattoos.

Theo Gee:           Where

Theo Gee:           ?

Morim P:             EVE

Morim P:             RYW

Morim P:             HERE

Morim P:             !

Theo Gee:           (gulp)

Morim P:             And piercings…

Theo Gee:           KM. KMN…

Morim P:             In english please

Theo Gee:           kill me. kill me now.

Morim P:             Lmao. So… not so keen on meeting me now, are you?

Theo Gee:           emmm…

Morim P:             Theo?

Theo Gee:           yes?

Morim P:             BUZZINGA!

Theo Gee:           wat?

Morim P:             ever seen ‘the Big Bang Theory?’

Theo Gee:           nope

Morim P:             you should. A character in that show says ‘BUZZINGA’ everytime he plays a prank

Theo Gee:           oh. so that means… no piercings?

Morim P:             or tatts

Theo Gee:           praise d livin Jesus!!!

Morim P:             You’re such a dumbass

Theo Gee:           phew. Ok. clozest I’v com 2 a heart attck

Morim P:             but I thought you were devoid of prejudices. Especially after you said you didn’t mind that I was Yoruba

Theo Gee:           I have limits o! imagine carryin a tattooed up chic to my folx.

Morim P:             our parents can be sooo conservative

Theo Gee:           imagine my speech: “hi mom. hi dad. dis is my gf. she might look crazy but I swear she isn’t. besides, she has perfect teeth!”

Morim P:             You are just not serious

Theo Gee:           thank ya! b4 I forgt: if somday we ever have kids…

Morim P:             in your marijuana-induced dreams. But keep going

Theo Gee:           lolz. aas I was saying, if we eva hav kidz, never evr make us call one of em Bolaji

Morim P:             why on earth not? it’s actually a cool name

Theo Gee:           why not? cuz all my demented friends will call me ‘daddy b.j.’ till I die of frustration!

Morim P:             hahahahahaha. But I’d love for you to die of frustration!

Theo Gee:           I wont evn reply dat

Morim P:             why not, daddy? lol

Theo Gee:           movin on… next question. any hidden skill/talent?

Morim P:             explain

Theo Gee:           lyk can u burp d alphabet or sing lyk lena horne?

Morim P:             who on earth’s Lena Horne?!

Theo Gee:           old skool crooner. one of the best I tel u

Morim P:             whatever you say, Methuselah…

Theo Gee:           so? any talents?

Morim P:             Nah. I’m a talentless member of the proletariat. I slave to my paycheck… What about you?

Theo Gee:           I make jokes. sometyms

Morim P:             really? who’d have thought. Bleh. Dude that’s not ‘special’

Morim P:             everybody’s funny at one point in time or the other. Besides, I already know you’re funny

Theo Gee:           not like that. I mean I write jokes dt I send to get published in mags. for real.

Morim P:             any of your jokes got published?

Theo Gee:           one

Morim P:             no kiddin. can I see?

Theo Gee:           I’ll av to dig it up. thru it smwhr

Morim P:            

Theo Gee:           found it! it’s dirty tho

Morim P:             the joke?

Theo Gee:           no, the paper I wrote it on

Morim P:             oh. lol

Theo Gee:           and of corse the joke. bt make up yr mind 4 yrself

Theo Gee:           sendin now

Morim P:             okay

Theo Gee:           do you si it?

Morim P:             i… just did. Hang on a sec while I read

*             *             *             *             *

While we wait for Morim to finish reading said joke (how slow can she be, right?) could I indulge you in some witty anecdote about why oysters are an aphrodisiac? No? You want to get back to the story? Well, I don’t! Choir sing with me:

“This is my story, this is my song…

I’ll say my rubbish,

Long as I want,

This is my story, this is my song

Pissing you all off,

Turns me right on!”

How do you like that? Ooh before I forget: “Aaaaaa-men!”

My nephew has gone to school today. His parents think he’ll get smarter this way. That might work for genuine dimwits but this fella’ couldn’t get any wiser if his school was called

“M and T, take it away…”

*             *             *             *             *             *

Morim P:             Theo?

Theo Gee:           Im hia

Morim P:             my question

Theo Gee:           ask

Morim P:             what mag published this joke of yours?

Theo Gee:           *big smile* PENTHOUSE!

Morim P:             that mag filled with naked models?

Theo Gee:           yeah baby!

Morim P:             You read that?

Theo Gee:           Umm. no. bt my uncle does. he subscrybs sef

Morim P:             Little wonder

Theo Gee:           wat?

Morim P:             that is one vile joke

Theo Gee:           its not DAT vile

Morim P:             but it kinda is. luckily though, it’s mildly funny.

Theo Gee:           mildly?

Morim P:             work with me here dude. I’m trying

Theo Gee:           ok

Morim P:             but you could take this a step further

Theo Gee:           ??

Morim P:             your joke thing. Ever considered stand-up comedy as a part-time commitment?

Theo Gee:           no. scared of krowdz

Morim P:             you shouldn’t be. You seem (I’m guessing) like someone who has a big presence

Theo Gee:           *blushing*

Morim P:             Technically, black people can’t blush

Theo Gee:           quit sidetrackin

Morim P:             Okay. Anyway, my point is that you could do this.

Theo Gee:           Rily? stand-up?

Morim P:             yessir! even the way you chat is hilarious!

Theo Gee:           hmm. I’l think abt it

Morim P:             don’t think. Act. Now.

Theo Gee:           y now?

Morim P:             because I know enough to believe you can do it. It’s a lady’s cliché but ‘you have potential’

Theo Gee:           wow. thanx

Morim P:             you’re welcome

Theo Gee:           no 1 has ever sed dt to me before..

Morim P:             hahahaha. Dude! You sound like a cheap, z-list rom-com. I understand but please.

Theo Gee:           I see wat u mean. it just came out lyk dat sha. I fil exposd

Morim P:             then put some clothes on!

Theo Gee:           lolz again. should I be d one doin d standup?

Morim P:             I don’t know about that…

Theo Gee:           Morim?

Morim P:             yes?

Theo Gee:           I think I like you

Morim P:             wow. the way you said that

Theo Gee:           well?

Morim P:             well, what?

Theo Gee:           I jst used the miniature ‘L’ word dats wat!

Morim P:             well then, I think I have a question

Theo Gee:           shoot

Morim P:             why does your profile say that you’re ‘in a relationship with Tina Q?’

*             *             *             *             *             *

I personally think this is a good place to yell ‘cut!’ Don’t you? Your opinions don’t matter anyway. Besides, what better way to keep my ratings up than with a nice little cliffhanger of sorts. So till I come your way again, same time next…

I’m not sure when I’ll be back.

Some of you are expecting me to say something funny to end this entry. Well, I shan’t. Moral of the story? Never provoke a quirky cramping person.

I’m off to watch a series of naughty movies. I solemnly pledge to tell you about them.

For those who think I’m harsh towards my nephew, consider this: I gave him the honour of picking out a word that rhymes ‘clap’ and ‘trap’ so that I could add the chosen word to the title for the sequel.

See what he came up with?


Closing Snippet: Theo’s Joke


Q: Why did the nurse at the sperm bank give Shaquille O’Neal a tiny cup?

A: Because big things come in small packages!

Me and My Women

I am now convinced that I am going to die single.
Growing up, I had been tutored to have high demands when it came to women. I was encouraged not to ‘settle’. So, as early as JSS3, I had made up my list of requirements. Whoever would be my main squeeze had to have the following exact characteristics:

1. Pretty face. Females who were ogres in their former lives were advised to stay far. Very far.
2. Hot figure. Something of a mix between Eva Longoria and Beyonce.
3. Height. Pygmies not welcome.
4. Fair complexion. This particular idiosyncrasy was handed down from Dad: you should see my mother.
5. Ample bosom. I’m a big dude with man-boobs. We shouldn’t be competing!

But you see, dear readers, I met Jennifer during my first year of university. She had all but number 4. Her chocolate complexion was exquisite. I fell in lust instantly (she dumped me after I farted in bed). Anyway, I had then realized that I could date dark chicks. Awesome. Then I met Bimbo who kind of looked like a bimbo. However, she was missing numbers 3 and 4. Our relationship went down the drain after she caught me ogling at her mother. What? Don’t judge. The woman had all 5! But she also had her blasted husband’s stupid wedding ring. Aaaaargh…

It all went downhill from there. Eno, while of average height, was shaped like a pedestrian bridge: straight and narrow. Daphne made me rethink item 5. She put the ‘2’ in too much. The Jews could have hidden from Hitler’s Nazis in her cleavage!
I once dated a girl called Ugochi. Ugochi was not ugly. Rather, ugly WAS Ugochi. The day her ‘jazz’ wore off, I texted her to end our fling. Rubbish.

Recently, I finally let go of my precepts. I made but one new rule: conversation. I want a woman I can talk to. All my friends lauded the new and improved me. I had indeed matured, they all said.
And so I happened upon Ingrid. She was a colleague at work. And –you guessed it- she had all five. Plus, she was single. How ironic that I should meet the girl of my dreams AFTER I’d contrived to trash those prerequisites. I’d only seen her a few times when she came to our floor and… my oh my: she was stunning! First she was half caste, and then her figure was to die for. On top of that, she was at least 5feet 10inches.
I once snuck a peek while she was talking to Clinton (another colleague). I couldn’t make out what she was saying from where I stood but I figured she must be a pretty powerful orator because Clinton clearly had tears in his eyes. Amazing! What could make such a macho man cry? If my curiosity was piqued before, I was nearing obsession by now. It seemed my search was finally over. I couldn’t wait to meet Ingrid and have terrific conversations with this intelligent, hot girl.

My chance came soon enough. One day, I spotted her at an eatery my colleagues and I frequented during lunch breaks. I was about to order when our eyes clashed. I ignored the attendant and walked over to where she sat.
“Hi”, I started, “my name is Chris and I’ve been dying to meet you.” By the time she was done replying, I was weeping like Clinton. She said:
“Hello Chris. I’m Ingrid. Let me start by apologizing. I have a birth defect which accounts for my incurable, tear inducing halitosis…” I wiped my face without bothering to hear more and trudged back to the counter.
See why I wrote the first line?

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