Sometimes brainwaves attack me when I'm shooting the breeze with my Bantus or chrome sisters from Namibia. Sometimes they come when I'm chilling with the least intelligent folks like Public Servants. Here I guess I steal the little wisdom that roams around and finds their domes too thick to penetrate because they are all full of Solitaire winning tricks.

The other day I was chilling, minding my business at this internet cafe when a pastor I found there started attempting to get fresh with the naive attendant there who I have known for some time by now but never attempted to get fresh with because she looks like all my exs. I could feel it in his voice and see it on his reddish eyes that the padre was horny, some experience I extracted from my whore-boning days archive (Medulla Oblognata File 13).

He started talking a lot of gibberish but really saying nothing of substance. I know when a soul does that it's a sign he is trying to get recognition, unless he's me who naturally talks a lot because I read a lot and need to clear space in my memory by spitting the least important stuff to anyone who dares to listen. The padre was trying to get his way with two broads who were acting all fresh like two-ply toilet paper before it walks in the valley of the shadow of shit and turns brown.

Their conversation was about relationships and whether girls found it interesting to date guys who materially don't have shit. 'Shit' in this instance means 'money and a car'. This other broad, who attends a fly-by-night college was busy lecturing us about how povery + poverty = poverty. I looked at her and informed her that poverty multiply by poverty equals wealth. Of course she did not know that not only was I lying but it equals poverty.

The same way she did not know that us guys enjoy the hunt better than the conquest. The same way she did not know that our animal instinct is more supreme than our patience. A vulture is a patient bird, darling. I warned her. I cautioned her it's the reason why they always complain that we only want to hit and run. 'If you make it hard for me to hit, when I finally hit I will hit so hard that I won't even need to take a run. But I'll disappear from your radar like a special effect'

Now I was becoming the expert much to the detriment of the pastor who was trying to consolidate his position by alleging that part of theology is media studies and then decided to ask me if I'm married and I showed him my hand which is tattooed with this beautiful angel I enticed to this world and called my daughter.

He kept telling me that I should think of marrying and I was protesting that marriage is overrated (apologies to the Creator). The girl who didn't want to date poverty was now becoming all liking of me and even telling me the gory details of how she was raised in poverty by her single mother and did not want to date poverty in her life. She was confessing how her sister failed to change a loser to be a man and I assured here that was her mistake. A dog is a dog even if you put it in your house, same applies to bitches.

Me, I asked her why can't she make her own dough but rather opt to be asked out by someone who has earned it? I asked her why shoud she be content with sitting on that passenger seat sipping cheap mixed fruit juice when she can put her stilettos on the pedals and indulge in 100%pure Tropica juice or Decarees while screaming 'fuck the world'

Right there she was starting to like me, which is an effect I have on women who have no balls. She looked at me adoringly and the pastor could sense it and he decided to ask me if I was working. 'Yeah, I work for the NIA'
'What is the NIA?'
'National Intelligence Agency'
'Is it? What do you do there?'
'I'm an analyst'
He looked at me all scared when he remembered that earlier on he told us he was happy Bafana-Bafana were beaten by his country. But his accent was actually selling him off as a Zambian even before he could tell us about his moment of happiness.

Now, me I looked at him soak it all in before I told him I was a journalist. Okay, now he was relaxed and he could see the broads were now about to ask me for my numbers and he tells us that he always wanted to be a journalist. I ask him why didn't he follow the draft and he responds with a lame 'God called me'

Wow, I tell him that he called me as well but I assured Him that I'll come later, after I've written all the stories that waits to be written. Now to him this sounds philosophical and right there I can tell he's never met Ribelatti because mine is actually recycled wisdom compared to the bombs dropped on yodemo and the love tips found on Life.

The girls now love me for shietzy and the one who is always running away from poverty announces that she's leaving and wants to know if I'm interested in getting with her. I raise my tired middle finger (the one on my right hand) and before she asks me 'where and when' I tell her 'with an SABS approved condom missus'

Quite funny heh!

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