Fellas. I think the only time a man – you, presumably – are allowed to wear red on February 14th is if it’s a Man U jersey you’s in.
It’s the ultimate fete of emasculation alongside the wedding, which if you bought the latest Ladies Thesaurus means ‘entrapment’. Everything about this now putative idea is more commercialized than the FIFA world cup. In men’s world it’s a social anathema, a financial tribulation from which they desperately need emancipation.
So much candy and sweet words go around VD you could get diabetes by just sniffing the air. But if you’re planning to give your lady a lousy gift you’d better make sure there’s no cheap candy or chocolate involved; your chutzpah and cheek won’t get you far, coz chics are curmudgeons at least twice as physical as they seem, quick to anger when on a sugar rush.
Today, pleasing a lady on VD is abstruse; like the female orgasm, it’s hard to understand, but you’ll just know when - and how - you’ve disappointed.
I love relationships though; I love that sublime sensation of emotional blindness when you find someone with whom you find your own language. The kind that only you two speak and understand; the kind that even with distances parting them, as one heart beats the other reverberates.
But VD is a social obligation that I’m not so social with. It’s that smidgen of dirt that taints the whole institute of courtship, that blithering taste in your mouth that refuses to leave; t’is to love what the Nixon Regime is to the United States presidency. The Watergate of relationships; the Anglo-leasing of marriages; and like the Kenyan referendum, it splits opinions right through the sexual divide.
Somewhere between acceptable VD celebrations and expectable romance, ladies lost their ethical compasses, and the line between rational and capricious expectations became impossible to trace.
VD is second to only Xxx-mas day as the day with the most sent cards. But technology is rendering Christmas cards obsolete, as it should VD. Today, it’s subsequently apt to just wall your lady “HVD, love” on Facebook. Most of the local media are what I consider infotainers – merging information with entertainers – but on VD they metamorphose to bullshitainers. Brutally milking the day for all its worth. They entertain by spreading disinformation about VD; anything to make a commercial kill son.
I wonder why ladies take VD advice from these mainstream disinfotainers; it’s like a six-year boy going to repent to a catholic priest that he likes older men.
The day is ridden with so much controversy you’d think you woke up at the Vatican City. It has such an arcane and esoteric history, murkier than swimming in the Nyando River.
The only special thing about February the 14th is...it’s just two days after Mary Lindo’s birthday.
So this year I’ll spend my VD in the morgue, the same way Valentinus of Rome and Valentinus of Terni actually did, years ago in the third and second centuries respectively. Plus I’m no catholic, don’t subscribe to their doctrines and practices so I see not why a lady should coerce me into actively observing anything that comes from a sodomy-ridden fat bellied society of religious bigots; sorry, I meant The Vatican.
The whole concept of VD is nefarious and defeating to humane logic. There’s actually been no documented authoritative evidence that backs up erroneous opinions that Valentine, the Saints, displayed any romanticism during their lifetimes let alone February 14th.
But if at all we insist on celebrating this day, I say let’s make it green. The whole universe is going green, signified by the construction of Masdar City in Abu Dhabi; the first all green city powered solely by renewable energy. VD causes anthropogenic environmental degradation. So why not put designated bins around the country where all flower recipients could smartly discard them and help in growing compost manure?
Similarly, VD could be extended over a three-day period so that those who get roses on the first could resell them on day two to other lovers and we’d have collectively made the planet a greener place.
Some quarters insist VD is a Christian culture. I differ; rather, it’s part of ancient roman culture. There’s nothing churchy about propping up intimacy on just one day of the year, especially for the unmarried. Wouldn’t the church call that premarital sex? But then again it’s not really premarital sex if you're not planning to get married. It’s more of a business culture.
There’s this great book I saw my mum reading this December, ‘214 Ways to Say I Love You’; ladies, it’s a great book and you’d really not want to miss it. It makes great fire for the jiko at night! VD is a pain in the neck, literally, in the sense that every time I see a lady in red I have to turn my head the other way in utter disgust.
So as the farce continues, enters a lady stage left, exits a man stage right. MAVI!
4.0 CHALLENGES OF THE VD™ FALLACY by B'Jay Ongeti
VD comes charging at us like a Spaniard bull, bells clinking and whistles resounding, but we men and all our glory in folly simply stand there, waving our RED towels. Daring it to charge. And smack! We get paraplegicly crushed. But we never learn, do we? If ever there is an event that should call for men to run, it is VD.
It matters not whether you have those Kipki-mimi arap Kipke-wewe genes or not. Just call yourself Hussein Nuts this once... and BOLT! Seriously, the mascot for this horrendous day is a fat portly obese chubby chunk of a dude with an arrow. An ARROW...for Berbatov’s sake?! That’s a bloody weapon! Ama Bruno Mars managed to convince jamaaz that the only weapons in the world of love are Grenades and Blades? That’s called rhyme; fools! Why not a fungabble mamacita with a bottle of Napoleon or something?? I for one would have less bile for Valz were that its talisman. Ahem, taliswoman!
By now you might think that I am averse to the whole love and romance wagon. Far from it. In fact, I am happily attached. (Wait. You can’t really be “happily attached” can you? That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? Much like “fully empty” or “happily homosexual.” But that’s for another day.) I AM happily attached to a girl...we’ll call her Prudentia. I give her a pseudonym because should she read this article, I would effectively be under sanctions for an indefinite period; further, any attempts by me to obtain any ‘favours’ would be so royally Mubaraked!
Two. VD leaves a serious dent in we the men’s pockets. It is well known that romance and finance are synonyms. If not, they are Siamese twins connected by brain – again, how many survive surgical separation? Now, if cars are a measure of finance, this is how rich I am: I own a Toyota Feetz, a Legsus and a Feetsubishi. I acquired my driving licence from NFS Underground School of Driving. Sadly, Prudentia like many other Kenyan girls is allergic to an Ubandoh diet, so you can imagine the magnitude of the dent that was left in my pocket last year after a 5-star date. It brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “money has been poured”.
For these two reasons, I believe this day is manifest bullshit! nonsense. A calculated scheme by our opponents, aimed at bringing our gangsterhood to disrepute.
Which is why, dear students, I fully endorse MAVI. That, and MwaKs – Mpango wa Kayndows.
5.0 CONCLUSION by Yule Mbois Mndialala
What you should not respect, however, is the moronic view that today is a ‘day of love’. Like Waga Odongo, I prefer 365/6 days of real emotions. In fact make that 364/5 days. I choose to ignore Feb 14th completely! So MAVI on you men who are dressed or accentuated in red today, be that literally or figuratively. Unless of course the only top you could find to cover for your only clean trouser's mysteriously awol zipper is a dirty Kenya Airways T-shirt. Like me.
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| Niccuh you gay! |
- Firstly, it is clear that the kind of help you need I am not equipped to deliver. It would involve a speculum and a heavy dose of Valium. I would however be open to abetting euthanasia for you; any good farmer knows that a weed must be nipped in the bud before it spreads root;
- Secondly, look outside your window. Does your
mourningmorning look that lovely, Nairobi?
- And thirdly, there is no thirdly. And don't second guess me.
Have a Chippo Fungary, Wasabi and Soy Saucy VD.
Yours truly, Schupid;
the thing that shot Cupid dead.
