Open letter 1: To Kenyan

Esteemed Kenyan. Allow me to tell you that you are impossible. Yes. All 43 or so of you. All 210 of you. And more so, all 93 of you. No matter where you look, there's an example of a Kenyan playing damn. All I need do is buy some popcorn, put the bucket in my lap, sit back and relax...and just like that, with no need for invitation, mission or permission, you'll pop out a bright idea and allow me to watch you go down in flames with it. Figuratively speaking. Or not.

Many of us would rather sell ourselves to other countries than deal with our own

If you ask the politician, he'll have a view on how everyone but himself is the problem. Seat the regular citizen down and he'll write you an entire script on how the politicos are the problem, and how what lies between him and the regular citizen is even crazier. It could be the jav driver who hikes the fares as soon as a drop of rain hits him, or when Osama kicks the seabed; it could be the Mobile Service Provider who 'clogs up the airwaves' every time they wanna halla at their Sugar Mamma, Mpango wa Kando or Chips Funga; it could even be the Institution of Higher Learning whose capacity to institute any learning -- let alone the higher kind -- you deem incredibly suspect.

Today, however, I take a split second off what was my paying job to moot you a question. Can we really all be the problem? To answer that, let me be Kenyan.

Hello; my name is Kenyan, and I am a loose canon. A troubled soul on a quest. Yet I am trapped; trapped because I have refused to free myself from four little walls, a ceiling and a floor with no door. I have refused to think beyond these walls, out of this fucking box. I am Adrian Monk meets Gregory House MD, completing my capacity to feel with a refusal to feel it. I am anathema to me either way. You would loose your canon too, because you are me. You are Kenyan.

 

If This Country Burns, We Burn With IT!

You hate politicians. You love your country. Perhaps you could hate the system, yet still love the country that runs it. I'm curious as to which is stronger. Can your hatred for the status quo spur you to be the water that calms the fiery storm we find ourselves in every so often? Or are you so 'determined' that you prefer to take matters into your hands and be the kindling that stokes it further?

You could be the teenager who claims that it's never that serious. A claim that comes off the deadening of your affect to all things yours; all things Kenyan. For how else can you be made to see that it actually is serious without your father or mother - figuratively or otherwise - being more than just a spectator in this arcade game we call a Kenyan existence? After all, Super Mario was never that serious either; we seem to think that we can simply press restart once we mess up and the screen screams Game Over.

Everyone has an opinion, and it is no coincidence that you, Kenyan, are thought a reckless teenager today. See Swaggalicious or Google "Teenage Road Carnage in Kenya" for further details. That you are thought a stupid politician. Think Sonko, Bad Boy of the 10th Parliament; UK with his Tuko Pamoja BS; Mututho with the crazy corruption-enabling law. That you are a greedy lot ready to sit around and do nothing while Kenya cries - insert many Civil Servants, Corporate, Media, NGOs in Kibera, Kanjow...name it.

The question should not be 'Who is to blame?', much as it should be how we can change.

(To be continued)

Cupid is Dead! research carried out by MAVI News [part II]

cont'd from part I
3.0 THE VD™ LITERATURE REVIEW by Midega [midegablog]

The most apprehensive day in a man’s life is not when he’s getting a threesome...t’is this day. VD is a jinxed day; that’s why we had the VD massacre in 1929. It should have been symbolic; Al Capone murdered cupid and strangled romanticism. They say chivalry is dead – this, dear students, was its execution date.

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

A friend recently observed that February 14th and April 1st are but the same day, just with different titles. One is a spade, the other a really large spoon. I don’t blame him. Indeed on both days, folly flourishes with astonishing abundance and speed, like a reckless miraa truck from North Imenti.

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!

Reasons why am against this day? One. Last year, VD fell on a Sunday. I remember because there was a league-defining Arsenal match, which I missed because I was out buying roses and swinging pinky-fingers with Prudentia in town. Yes; me, with all my gangstaliciousness, clutching a bunch of roses in all their redneckness, shimmying across town. Ok, maybe Gangstalicious isn’t the boondocky picture I want to paint. So instead picture a guy with gang-sign tattoos all over his arm, a scar across his left cheek, a Rastafarian armband and a smile that curves downwards. That is how gangster I am. But here I was carrying flowers.

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

So it’s Feb 14. Mechanic mass produced messages of love hanging in the damned mobile network, predetermined conversations clogging up the networks. “My wife [or whichever other mountable ass you are endowed with today] has me between a rock and a hard place.” “That’s her job...you should respect that” George Clooney, Intolerable Cruelty

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.

Niccuh you gay!

If you still insolently choose to believe that love sprouts like a seasonal weed today,  lemme say 3 things.

• 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 mourning morning look that lovely, Nairobi? 

• And thirdly, there is no thirdly. And don't second guess me.

Of course if you got me a gift, and my vitriolic bashment of the scupid crimson day somehow leaves you feeling disinclined to acquiesce to the load of bollocks that is 14th Feb, the idea behind this piece is that there's always another day. I may suggest 15th Feb, or someday soon, while your emotions are still on a high, convinced that it's somehow the season of love.

Have a Chippo Fungary, Wasabi and Soy Saucy VD.

Yours truly, Schupid;
the thing that shot Cupid dead.

Kenyan Politics: The Dream Prequel

The year is 2001. A new millennium. The drive for change and prospects of "no more baba" reaching break-even point. A 'new' Kenya. Mass hysteria over the 7Bow coalition, and a bit of International Counselling for the torture chamber vics - and, I might add, collective enema surgical removal of baba's boots from their thendeckholes.

F*%$ Man-U!

Kenya is at this time on the verge of a breakthrough, about to go into 5th on the road to democracy. So we are told. Her climate is hot and humid, with a rainy season the Geography books purport to last from about mid-March to end-May, resuming shortly some time in October and November. She was in the not-so-distant past a colony of Great Britain, and by all accounts - or at least by mine, which is exactly what that means anyways - she now boasts a few notable English customs, not least Football hooliganism.  


Her political climate is moist and slippery; in retrospect, that just happens to be the one constant today - ten years later. The other variables have quite changed: the breakthrough came and broke down at dawn; the climate is decidedly fidgety, like a not-too-straight armyman still trapped in the Don't Ask Don't Tell ™ armada's closet; and the rainbow hysterics died down almost as fast as they had been conceived. Fitting, really, because conventionally, you will find that while rainbow colours are depicted as seven, our eyes can discern many more hues; the final ones are actually  amalgamations blended from individual colours. The hues that made up the 7Bow coalition, however, were quite clearly immiscible with each other; yet the electorate chose to mix them. Go figure.

Isaac Mendez

It is therefore only in Kenyan Politics that the same safe bets can still be made: the skies remain overcast, rain clouds hanging low and gray and scowling - with progesterone levels clearly through the roof, indicating the impending scream to labour of a twin pregnancy. Meanwhile the winds blow in and menace to angrily whip through the Wanjiku[1] palms. As I take my last winks tonight, the currents are at their highest possible reading on the political anemometer's velocity scales, raging to condense and darken the low-hanging foreign clouds. My eyes glaze to their monochromatic dream default.


International waters roar, and the torrents of rain come sweeping in with all their tumult upon the corridors of the Kenya Team at August Tower. And though they play it cool, it is clear that this deafening peal of thunder striking from a distant nether land has their hearts playing trick or treat. The envoy - sent by the Fast International [match] Fixing Algorithm, FIFA - is none other than renowned football maestro, Mourinho wa Campow.

wa Campow has been sent from the Haga headquarters to investigate an alleged conspiracy that occurred during the Kenya Team’s last match of the season, playing against Wanjiku FC. It was to be a crucial game, the winner being crowned champion for the next 5 years. The venue was the Journeycom Pirates Coliseum, Kenya's state-of-the-fart stadium. While details are still sketchy on the actual happenings, it has been contended that the collapse of the stadium’s east and west ends during the game had actually been plotted by two senior National Football officials, one Root Owili and his accomplice Ken Yurihu. Strangely enough, the only casualties of the collapse – and they were in their thousands – just so happened to have been supporters of Wanjiku FC. All of them. 

However, it was what occurred during this bout of commotion that actually called wa Campow’s attention to the matter. In the build-up to a ‘sublime’ goal by the Kenya Team, passes had expertly been exchanged between MK4 and Don 'Mitch', who in turn slipped a slide rule through ball back to MK4. Donning her number 4 jersey with pride, Marda Karwa set herself up deftly with her first touch…and voila! Kenya Team 1; Wanjiku FC nil.

It was only in analyzing the replays that fans the world over – not least wa Campo’s institution – dug up a curious detail. In the entire time it took for half the stadium to cave in, not one Kenya Team player stopped to feed what would have been their only response to such an unexpectedly disastrous happening. Curiosity. Instead, they studiously passed the ball around the dazed and motionless Wanjiku FC players, scored the goal that would eventually cost WFC their previously unblemished record, and went on to celebrate vicariously, blaring tunes of ‘Unbwoggable!’ in the background. Even stranger was the fact that referee Mos' Wacko actually allowed the goal to stand. 

And so it would come to pass that every morning for the next couple of weeks, the universe - in a fit of cerebral anomaly upon waking up and missing its breakfast - would cavort from dusk till dawn, time and again conspiring with fate on an interesting little twist to further screw poor Wanjiku FC’s life up. Riots break out and fans cry foul, demanding a not so much elusive as unfeasible replay.

Soon enough the Kenya Team security are out and about, kicking balls around - yes, fellow wielders of the 21st digit, wince with me now. Soccer fanatics from UoN[2] - Unless otherwise Noted - bridging the gap between speed and strength with a spell of the plyometric exercise that is stone throwing, serving at one go both their fitness and utilitarian purposes.

It is thus that I awake to find myself in the real world, my gaze focusing slowly on my outlandish surroundings. I could swear I actually slept in my bed last night. Oh well. Better get that mud off my shoulders, climb outta this ditch and stagger my wayward thendecks home.

Burp!

To view the next edition of Kenyan Politics, click here

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[1]

 Wanjiku is a bit of Kenyan jargon referring to the Kenyan Citizenry

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[2]

UoN is actually an acronym for the University of Nairobi

British's Surgery by Ng'endo wa #British

A Touching Display of the Force that is Social Media today

(See the hashtag #TeamBritish and handle @TeamBritish on twitter for more)

I was recently interviewed by MoneyAcademy.co.ke after one of the writers read my blog and asked me to share my story of taking care of an elderly person (my mother) without any health insurance. So I kinda just edited the interview and added a few things here and there. The writer is Brenda Wambui. All credits to her, Saiton and the whole MoneyAcademy.co.ke who have agreed for me to use their article. The article will be uploaded today and I’m sure it’s well packaged more than what you’re about to read.

I am is the last born in a family of 4 siblings and I have been taking care of my mother since her health started failing.

My mother, British, is 70 years old, and has faced a number of health problems. She has severe arthritis; she has kidney problems and has suffered two strokes. She has also had her right leg amputated twice and now she is due for ankle replacement surgery…again.

British’s problems began in 2000, when she had to have a knee replacement surgery due to arthritis. Luckily, it was sponsored by American doctors, so my family did not feel the financial strain. Later on, in 2002, she had to have an ankle replacement surgery, yet again as a result of the arthritis. This set my family and I back by Sh. 120,000. My siblings and I pulled together to raise the money.

In 2008, British had her leg amputated because of gangrene. At this time, I was out of the country, as were the rest of my siblings. This cost Sh. 150,000. Unfortunately, the doctor did a rush job and wound opened leading to the leg getting infected and this lead to a second amputation. This cost usy Sh. 80,000. Fortunately, though, it was final.

In January 2010, she suffered a stroke due to hypertension, but she completely recovered from it. A year later, in January 2011, she suffered a second stroke, which was more severe than the first one.

My family and I have shouldered the impact of our mother’s illness, financial and otherwise. No health insurance firm is willing to insure British due to her age and her health status. As a result, we resorted to paying NHIF contributions so as to cater for her health needs. The contribution is Sh. 160 a month, and we have made these contributions 10 times in the past year. This has helped us a great deal!

British also visits the doctor once a month because of her kidney problems. This costs us Sh. 2,000 a visit and Ksh. 3,000 for tests to be done. The medicine she takes costs us anything from Sh. 5,000 to Sh. 10,000 a month.

British’s ankle surgery was also not successful, leading to frequent intense pain due to friction in the ankle replacement. British often wakes up screaming and crying because the ‘screw’s that were inserted on her ankle have all disjointed due to limited movement of the limb. The surgery she is due for will remove the screws and she will have an implant which will hold the bones together. It’s a pretty sensitive surgery.

We had to hire 2 homecare nurses and a helper to give British round the clock care. This costs us Sh. 80,000 a month. We have also had to work with a nutritionist who is also another expense but has helped my Mum a great deal by putting together an amazing diet that has seen Mum’s kidney’s and health general improve.

British is a very funny person and for those who have met her can testify her ever positive attitude and zany personality, but at times all these issues weigh the both of us down. British recently lost one of her best friends, and this has dampened her disposition as she feels like she is alone and that she may be next.

After talking to the surgeon, the total cost of the surgery amount to almost Ksh. 500, 000.

God has given me such peace and I know we will raise this amount…somehow! Big up to my Twitter and Facebook friends who are doing such an amazing fundraising job…we are forever indebted!

Mpesa - 0722 325 614 Zap - 0738 503 339

Yule Mbois Mndialala Signing out

GO @teambritish! Support a worthy cause. Golden Rule here is that it's worth your while. Instead of a beer or two, spare a few shillings and help out.

Everything We Do, We Do It For Sex.....by @wagaodongo

The past week has been a bit easier to handle, but I still can't for the life of me find time to write the pieces stuck in my mind. Too much work, too much pressure from the Varsity as I get down to clearing...but you really don't care about that, do you? So I present you yet another Guest post. Here's what The Wag has to say about Bryan Adams' "Everything I do, I do it for You..."

Click the Pic to see the GIF

Ladies and gentlemen - perhaps gentlemen is too much of a euphemism due to the subject matter today. Firstly if the motion is to bear any truth, you must admit that my reasons for writing this is article are of a licentious nature. My apologies to the prudes. My underlying goal and purpose of writing this article is therefore clear and basic, and you must admit that if my motives were to get a bit of action, this is a long-winded and cumbersome method of doing it. Perhaps I should just whip out the wallet and use pecuniary persuasions on a lady of easy virtue to achieve my ends - but why most men don’t do that is an all together different story that I shall get into later when I am feeling particularly garrulous.

I shall not be a shrinking violet and state it as it is.

So I am glad you are all reading this, especially the women, therefore. If at any point you are won over by the brilliant points or my mercurial wit and proceed to ‘like’ this magisterial article, grab your coat darling because you have pulled! No sooner will you like the article than I will send you an message pap!

The truth is everything men do, they do to get laid, sadly though this is not always the case, the yearning to get laid is not always conscious and it drives us ineluctably and inescapably until death.

If we are Darwinian creatures then the effects of natural selection apply not only to our bodies but our behaviour. The imperative of reproductive success shapes our actions and behaviour just like all other animals.

Sex is universally variable its nuances, inclination, passions- some may call them perversions. It is an act marked by its diversity and its ubiquity.

Women are the gate keepers of desire, the onslaught of predatory men, who want to sleep women is nearly infinite and it is the goal of women to whittle that number, to throw out the chaff, and remain with two men she would regularly have sex with- not at the same time of course.

Imagine a world where men could sleep with anyone they wanted. (To be honest I wouldn't be typing this I would be queuing outside Nicki Minaj's (in front of Frank of course) house for another round along with the rest of mankind.)

In such a society nothing would ever happen. Because we would never stop having sex. Ok we would but when we stop we would eat, and then have more sex. The concept of sex is closely and intricately tied in with Female choice. Why work, steal; fight when you can shag whomever you want?

If men could have sex with any woman at any time there would be no civilization, no art, no music and no society.

A woman is the only person who can predict the future; a woman can get up on any day and say to her, “today I will get laid.” And she will achieve it. Men will say the same thing and unless they are in a long term relationship will find that they come hopelessly short.

Thankfully nowadays due to feminism and Alcohol, Women are less vigilant gatekeepers than they were which is a very good thing, if you are of a vulpine disposition as most men are. Some women are less vigilant gatekeepers than other preferring to leave the gate wide open which admission being a pack of chocolates.

Women decide when and where and with whom they have sex. (Unless you leave in Kiambu of course where men in panga's "come and go" as they please more of the former than the latter I am assured.) Women have more investment when it comes to sex, their involvement is potentially 9 months , men's involvement is potentially two minutes- nine if you are lucky, so that is why women must be sure of a mates suitability before committing herself potentially for the nine months.

The science behind the claim to evolutionary yearning for sex is almost conclusive. The reason many people claim that is untrue is because it doesn’t bathe us in good light, and paints us as less hairy apes, and not the advanced hominids we pretend to be. It shows us as victims of our genes and biology and not masters of our destiny as we often pretend we are. It is mechanistic, and reductionist, it turns man into beast, but you know what it is absolutely irrefutable. Men do not have mating seasons because we were not designed to have mating seasons.

I am twenty one so naturally I am consumed by the notion of sexual intercourse, it is the first thing on my mind as I wake up in my bedsitter and the last thing as I go to bed – alone sadly mind you- at night.

Men will do anything to have sex, I know of this bloke sad fellow who was Luo and dating this Kikuyu girl, he had convinced her that indeed he was a Kikuyu himself, for purposes of advancement. Things went along smoothly until, places reached where alliances had to be formed and collective futures involving hearths and foot rugs had to be made. I pointed out to him that when push comes to shove, she would be presented with evidence contradicted his initial assertion of his ancestral heritage.

Ask yourself why do Hamas bombers blow themselves up? What do their handlers use as the clincher in the contract? It’s those virgins isn’t it? That whole we hate Israel bit is just a footnote. Men will do anything to get laid even kill themselves while they are at it.

Men can replicate their genes successfully 720 times a year, women can only do that once. Knowing this fact means that men’s behaviour has become explicit and easily explainable.

The notion of romantic love is beautiful; it helps tell ourselves that we are not at the mercy of our evolutionary forces. Love is civility, taming beasts. It is the crutch we all cleave to and pretend that it is all fine and that we are amicable. But love is a feeling that makes one imagine that one woman is better than all others as one man says. 

The truth is love is a very good guise when you are trying to pull a woman. It sounds like you have transcended your limbic system that it is a conscious decision of your own choice.

“No darling, you are the only one; there are no others that matter. You are special, we will be together forever. This is a spiritual union, not a physical act...”

“Well okay that’s a lovely thing to say Tiger…”

Men are driven to get money and possessions and status because it is only money and possession and status that makes them attractive to women. More money and power, means more women and better women will shag us, it gives you sexual access to as many fertile women as possible. Yes it is to swive peoples wives.

The sad reality is that women often say no to sexual advances by Men, in my case the answer is almost always no.

For sex men conquer foreign lands, compose symphonies, author books, become president of the USA to get a blowjob in the oval office and some saddoes even write first person autodidact columns in The Nation at the age of 21 when clearly should be more interested in football- oh.

The science bit, bear with me, all of us are descended from men who had very high reproductive success with women. People like Kings and alpha males and their genes are overly represented in society. Men in power like this tend to keep as many women as possible. You cannot descend from an exclusive homosexual coupling- obviously that is why most men tend towards getting as many women as possible.

The best proof that men do all they can for sex is there to see when a man gets married. Steady supply of sex sort of deadens his drive, and he stops trying and becomes a fat git. All man's greatest achievements have been done by bachelors- who seek to impress women. The reason why men also lose interest in their wives is because after marriage you have succeeded in monopolizing her whole reproductive cycle until death, so really there is no point of bothering with her.

So I say it without equivocation, everything men do is for sex and I know many men in committed relationships would vehemently disagree with my proposition due to social and economically imposed constraints created by the artificial construct that is love, but you know I am right.