Archive for March, 2013


[Ok, this piece has been long overdue, but I actually kinda sorta have a legitimate reason, of sorts, for its delay. Firstly, the Internet has been out since the weekend because MWEB’s Seacom cable off the coast of Egypt has been damaged, proving once and for all that the radicals in the Middle East have finally figured out how to hit the West where it hurts most – by cutting off their daily supply of Transformer erotica. Also, some sheikh needs to donate them a fucking compass, because we live in the South, not the West, assholes. 

Secondly, some human paraquat has been stealing my pieces word for word, clause for clause, phrase for sinful phrase, and posting it on a blog under someone else’s name, because the Internet is a place where douche-dickery can run wild. This is a complicated case with a lotta ins, a lotta outs, a lotta what-have-you’s, and so the competition has been placed on a hiatus in the meantime while I find out who has been stealing my stuff and show them that the pen really is mightier than the sword by stabbing them in the jugular with a Bic. And then going back on that age-old adage by perhaps kneecapping them with a katana, depending on how I feel.

Finally, this piece’s title takes the cake for being more gay than that ginger guy from Modern Family going down on Elton John in a public toilet in London, because my best friend is a closet sadist and enjoys torturing me in such fashions. Also, the protagonist of this piece had to be a female. Viva la vagina!]

“This”, thought Detective Daphne Flower as she surveyed the corpse, “is a fucking messy dilemma.” She ambled nonchalantly around the chalk outline of the body that lay before her, taking careful note to not tread in any of the blood with her expensive-looking stilettoes. She decided to enunciate her finding to the room at large. “This”, she remarked aloud, with the air of one who knows her business, “is a fucking messy dilemma.”

And indeed it was.

The victim lay spread-eagled beneath her, arms and legs splayed at odd angles. A thin rivulet of blood trickled out of the edge of her mouth into a gradually increasing pool of clotting crimson. The victim was dressed – or undressed, rather – in cheap lingerie and what appeared to be seven different shades of glitter. Daphne glared down at the deceased’s enormous breasts for several seconds, then made a firm decision that they were implants and that her breasts were bigger, because this is my story and if I have to write from the perspective of a woman there will be at least two instances of boob-competition.

Daphne examined the curvaceous body from above and noted that the victim seemed to have perished in a very painful, albeit quick manner – her face was contorted and frozen into an eerie expression that seemed to be half-grin-half-grimace. “Ouch”, she thought. Daphne prided herself upon what she considered to be her honed powers of deduction and piercing insight, as well as her other many powerful detective skills – indeed, she thought herself to be one of the best detectives that ever detected. She wasn’t.

She was alerted from her musings by the arrival of her assistant, an up-and-coming, very ambitious and considerably more intelligent individual by the unusual name of Perkins Popinjay. Daphne stared at Perkins in disdain – she intensely disliked Perkins’ name – (What the fuck kind of a name is Perkins Popinjay anyway? she often wondered whilst lying in bed late at night) – and therefore by proxy, hated Perkins. Perkins hated Daphne and thought she was a snobbish cunt, and so there was a healthy balance and rivalry that existed between the two.

“Alright, Bitchtits, what do you have for me? Victim’s name?”

Popinjay glared at her and teetered on the verge of telling her to shove a seagull up her snatch, but composed himself and then answered:

“The victim’s name is Candy Floss Kisses – her alias, I mean and that’s what we can gather so far. She was a stripper working for the Willy Wanker Factory.”

“Candy Floss Kisses? What, was Tina McFucktits taken? These strippers and their fake breasts and man-stealing tendencies and all the fucked up sexual shit they do. Seriously, watermelons are for eating. I tell you, Popinjay, they’re a scourge on society.”

Popinjay stared at her, speechless. When he eventually managed to speak, he could barely mask his utter indignation.

“She was someone’s daughter.”

“Not mine, sweetheart.”

Popinjay gave up on trying to evoke any emotion out of this frigid excuse for a human being and proceeded on with the details.

“Judging by the lack of bruising and stab wounds, it appears that the cause of death was not by blunt trauma or a sharp object, nor by any known firearm. In fact, all the evidence seems to point to poison. The unusually high levels of tetrodoxin in the victim’s blood is indicative of poison derived from the venom of an rare African snake commonly known as the Devil’s Kiss.”

“Aha!” Daphne exclaimed. “So you could say that Candy Floss here was…” – she reached down to her collar to pull out her sunglasses, then remembered that she had left them in the police car, and so forced Popinjay to run back to the car and retrieve them for her, after which she put them on dramatically and finished – “kissed to death.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind a loud YEEEEEEEEAAAAAHHH!!! played out in the background.

Popinjay allowed her a full ten seconds to enjoy this fantasy whilst he caught his breath before interrupting loudly by clearing his throat. Daphne emerged hazily, still daydreaming somewhat of ginger-haired law officers with names out of Shakespeare.

“Do we have any witnesses?” she asked.

“Yes, a few, including the owner of this fine establishment, Mr Willy Wanker himself.”

“Well, lead me to our first witness, Hoppingay, and let me instruct you in the art of interrogation.”


The first witness proved uncooperative after Detective Daphne threw a steaming mug of coffee in his face as she felt that the witness had lied directly to her about her first question – “What is your name?” – despite the witness screaming “Did you really think my real name was fucking Willy Wanker?!?” no less than thrice.

“You see, Perkins, no mercy should be shown unto the criminal!” she roared triumphantly, as the witness was rushed out of the makeshift interrogation room by the emergency staff on hand. She then ordered Perkins to bring her another cup of joe and sat down opposite the second witness, another stripper named Lorna Lickitup, eying her menacingly. Lorna had bigger breasts than Daphne and so Daphne held her in contempt and ordered her immediate arrest for deliberately withholding information from the police. When Popinjay returned and told her that she couldn’t do such a thing as an officer of the law, Daphne told him to suck a fat one, and then decided to give up on the case and detecting in general, just as I’ve decided to give up writing this piece. She walked out the door just as it began to rain.

“But why?” asked Perkins Popinjay, staring after her as she walked slowly off into the sunset.

She paused, the rain dripping down her long, luscious locks. She didn’t turn around.

“Because at the end of the day, Popinjay, she’s just another dead stripper poisoned from the venomous glands of a rare African reptile. In her last moments, what fleeting thoughts passed her mind? Reflections of redemption? Salvation? We’ll never know. At the end of the day, she’s just a dead nobody amongst an ocean of dead nobodies. And nobody gives a fuck about a nobody. Not even the nobodies. Such is the tale of Candy Floss Kisses.”

And so she left, never to be seen again, leaving Perkins – who was happier than a man who had just been serviced for free at the Willy Wanker Factory – in her wake.

[So that’s that. You may say that it’s misogynistic and an insult to females the world over, but I assure you, I love women. I have all their albums. I don’t know if and when the next piece will be up – I still have an asshole plagiarist to decapitate, and I don’t know how long that may take/how messy that may be. I may even hold a writing competition that’s open to the public and that will feature the winning pieces on the blog in the near future, if enough interest is shown. Until then, it’s been a slice]

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved



[The title for today’s piece comes from a Warren Zevon song – if you don’t know who Warren Zevon is, drop everything and go YouTube/GrooveShark/whatever it is you kids do these days to listen to music him. Go. Now. I’m not even kidding – I’ll wait.

Ok, you’re back? How fucking awesome was that? Anyway, I chose today’s title because I am a huge fan of Mr Zevon – I even named a character in the piece after him. Ah, the piece… just a word of warning: it’s kinda sorta a total departure from my usual style. Part of today’s challenge was to write in a different style/manner, so I did. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s bad. There is no such thing as a 2-hour orgasm, a good Bieber song or my lesser work. If you’re searching for one of those things, you’re shit out of luck. So, without any further ado…] 

Long ago, back when the grass was green and the earth was clean and mobile phones were yet to fuck up communication between individuals, I lived in a small house on the outskirts of a small town in the middle of nowhere, USA. Those were the days, the golden days, and as I sit here today on my deathbed, sipping hot chocolate whilst awaiting Death and All His Friends, my mind wanders back to those days of good and old.

I remember a lot of things from those days. I remember drinking cool lemonade on the porch in the sunshine and swimming down by the creek with my brother and roasting marshmallows over the crackle of an open fire and occasionally dropping one in just to see what happens some nights. But one thing I remember particularly vividly from those days of old is the porcelain monkey.

The first thing that I remember about it is that it was ugly as fuck. Hideous, misshapen, grotesque even; it nevertheless had centre stage on our mantelpiece, fucking up what in my opinion was a rather quaint and dainty living room. I never felt comfortable with that asinine ape in the room; I always felt as if it were watching me when I wasn’t looking, and so I always kept my eyes firmly planted on it even when backing out of the room, an action which once earned my uncle’s question of “Is he retarded?”

My father brought the porcelain monkey back from a tiny village in Vietnam where he said it was gifted to him by a monk on the banks of the Mekong. He was a good man, my father, but a weak one, and he brought back with him from Vietnam nothing but the porcelain monkey and a lifetime’s worth of regret as well as an acute case of loneliness and frustration. He loved my mother dearly but did not always succeed in showing it, so he gave the porcelain monkey to my mother as a token of his devotion – in the middle of the monkey’s chest, right over its heart was a painted rose, and he told her that if he ever forgot to bring her flowers all she had to do was look at the rose on the monkey. It was supposed to symbolize their love as in “it would last for a lifetime” or some such shit, and I personally thought it was a cheap way out of ever buying flowers again which are already essentially fucking free, but waddya know, she treasured that thing as if it were the Holy Grail itself. Then he killed himself two months later, leaving his suicide note under the monkey and his entire net worth of twelve dollars. I was the first to find it. I was eight. It was one of the first things I read after learning to read.

Anyway, back to the story at hand: about six or seven years after that, things had just about gotten back to normal and our situation could be described as okayish. I was doing alright at school, my younger brother Warren had just learnt to ride a bike, my mother was happily whiling away the days working at the café down the road; life was good. Granted, the fucking monkey was still up on the mantelpiece, and my glares directed towards it were matched only in intensity by the glances of utter devotion and love it received from my mother. She adored that monkey endlessly, as if it was my father’s living memory himself; I suspect my hatred towards it was probably for the same reason.

One day my brother and I were throwing a tennis ball around the house despite it being a gloriously sunny day outside because we were kids and thus programmed to be stupid. My mother was baking something in the kitchen. You can see where this is going. Warren had just thrown the ball particularly hard at me and since I had and still do have the motor co-ordination of a hamburger, I completely missed the catch and received a faceful of furry ball – hopefully for the last time ever. Now temporarily blinded in one eye and thus even more hampered in my ball-throwing abilities, I nevertheless blasted the ball back at Warren who was now doubled over in peals of laughter in front of the mantelpiece. Warren, being the slimy git that he is, dodged the ball – which was totally unnecessary because I, having the aim of a constipated blind man, missed him completely. The ball curved mid-air and then, as if time itself had slowed, gently smashed into the porcelain monkey.

When all was calm and the shattered silence returned, I looked down at the damage and saw that fucking monkey lying on the rug, cleft in two. Warren looked at me, eyes wide in fear.

“Maybe she didn’t hear it…” I said, not believing the words as they left me.

No such luck. All mothers have an ingrained radar within them that tells them immediately when their kids are fucking around. She stormed into the room still peppered with flour, rolling pin in hand, looking for blood. Honest to God, I thought we were deader than Disco; the look on her face would have sent shivers down FDR’s spine. And then she saw the porcelain monkey lying in two on the rug. And then she just knelt by the pieces and wept.

She sat there on her knees, tears streaking through the flour on her face, looking almost as broken as the object of her grief. She was muttering something under her breath and I discovered myself straining and craning to catch her mumblings only to hear her repeating the words “No no no no…” over and over and over again.

It is a strange and painful thing to see your mother cry.

You find yourself feeling lost and despondent and hopelessly empty, and you feel the drops running down your own face like someone else’s tears. But mostly, you just feel numb, coupled with twinges of hate, and that is what I felt – absolute numbness coupled with hatred for myself, for my father, and most of all, for that stupid fucking monkey.

Suddenly I felt myself walking over to the monkey. I picked up the halves, hated and beloved, each in a numb hand, and walked over to her. It was as if I couldn’t control myself, as if she was pulling me towards her, as if all I needed to do was put my arms around her and hold her oh so tightly. But I didn’t. Instead, I lifted her chin gently and looked in her warm, wet eyes and said:

“All things can be broken, Mum. Things fall apart. They break. Everything breaks sometime. The only thing that doesn’t break is love. I love you. Warren loves you. He loved you. And that can never be broken.”

And then I hugged her. And then Warren hugged her. And then even our Hispanic maid Esmeralda who did not speak a word of English but had watched the entire scene play out and was blubbering something in Spanish came over and hugged her. And then our big gay moment was over, and our mother was smiling again through the tears, and everything was okayish once more.

The porcelain monkey is still up on the mantelpiece and remains there to this day. But between the two halves is a thin, almost invisible line of glue – a reminder to all of us that everything breaks; only true love lasts forever.

[Ok, so that’s it. Totally different from my usual subject matter – hell, this one was about love. I mean, you can’t get any further from “hate” than that. Maybe Nutella. Nobody hates Nutella. Anyway, that was part of the challenge and so I wrote – don’t expect anything like this in the future…

I based the idea for this piece on a story I read nine or ten years ago in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book at Exclusive Books. I don’t know which one, but I felt compelled to release this info, lest some twat accuse me of being a twat.

Neither of us won today because we couldn’t decide on a winner. Which brings me to my next point – we need an impartial judge, preferably literate, who is willing to spend 10 minutes of their time reading two pieces of awesome writing and choosing a winner. If you are interested, tweet me @MibHatesUsAll. I can’t believe I just typed those words. Fuck. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s topic and piece. Thank you. That is all] 

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved


[This is the first topic that was selected by the best friend extraordinaire. I banged this out in half-an-hour with ten minutes to spare because procrastination is my preferred form of self-sabotage, and I interpreted it as I saw fit. Which is to say, fucking awesomely. And kind of weirdly, too… I’ll leave you to it…]

Hello there! I’ll be your narrator for the evening. I’m going to tell you a story. It’s based on a true story, and there are morals and lessons and deeper meanings hidden in it, which is what makes it a true story. Also, it’s my story, so whatever I say goes. My word is law. Now let me take you on a magical journey… I want you to close your eyes… No, not literally, fuckhead. How the hell are you going to read the story? Some people… Anyway…

Once upon a time in a mystical land not too far away called Cloverfield, the neon sun set over the shiny metallic fields with a faint humming sound and a dull bang was heard as The Door shut, sealing off the Otherworld. And so, the citizens of Cloverfield emerged from their sleepy abodes and went about their business under the Strawberry Overlords; the Cheeses went about slicing themselves, every so often screaming in pain; the Creams went about their janitorial duties, sloshing and slipping about; the Butters did whatever the fuck it is that Butters do – it’s Butter, for fuck’s sake, it just kind of lies there until it’s spread on toast and clogs your artery-veins – and the Strawberry Overlords went about overlording, as they are wont to do.  It was just another night in Cloverfield – or so it seemed.

From the dark, a figure emerged. He was a tall, dashing, handsome Splosh of Condensed Milk, soothing to look at and sweet to the taste.  When he smiled, things happened. He also has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with this story – in fact, fuck him. I hate heroes like that – all brawn and no brains, too much of one head and none of the other, always having the Skim Milk bitches fawning over them. If you really want to know, he died that night. Horribly and painfully. He fell off the Great Metal Plateau and was slurped up by the cat. End of cuntly faux-hero. Good riddance.

Still from the dark – the sun has fucking set, where the hell else is anybody supposed to emerge from? – another figure not-so-much-emerged-as-fell-the-fuck-into-the-limelight. He is our protagonist, our hero, as it were. He had stumbled into the limelight and is our hero because he was particularly drunk that night and stumbled into a particularly cuntly Splosh of Condensed Milk and sent him to his doom. His name was Dollop, and he was a dollop of Cream. He is also our hero for other soon-to-be-revealed reasons, because if he was the hero for just that, then he’d be an even shitter hero than Kickass, who is the pussy version of Batman.

Dollop sprawled around drunkenly, bottle of rum in one hand, fistfuls of floor in the other, pondering and wondering however the fuck he was going to explain his current inebriated state to his Sour Cream Squirt of a wife and why someone had just randomly screamed in a rich baritone voice. Some dairies… He fell against a lamppost, exhausted. It was then that he saw something that changed everything.

In the distance, two Strawberry Juice Policemen were pummelling a young Feta Cube into tiny little chunks. Next to the Feta Cube lay a sign with the words “Dairies have Rights Too! Stop the Oppression! Death to Juice!” written on it and which was now being slowly covered by tiny shreds of feta cheese.  Even Dollop in his drunken state could see that the policemen were fucking up this poor little protester for no reason whatsoever – but such occurrences were normal in Cloverfield. Shit happened – that was life. At least that’s what the Dairies had come to believe. Most of them, anyway.

One of the Strawberry Juice policemen turned to Dollop. He had a handlebar mustache, because why wouldn’t he?

“Hey you!” he bellowed.

Dollop started. “Me?” he asked.

“Yeah you!”

Dollop turned to the lamppost beside him. “I think he’s talking to you. You better answer him, or you’re gonna be fucked up like feta over there.”

The policeman goose-stepped over to Dollop and pimpslapped him seven ways to Sunday. Then he grabbed the bottle of rum and walked slowly back over to the Feta Cube, smiling cruelly as he brought the bottle down in a graceful arc over the poor Feta’s head and smashed out his brains. The other policeman chuckled humourlessly, his eyes and laugh filled with emptiness. Then they left, quietly.

Dollop got up and cursed a few times and then went over to the Feta Cube. It was then, as he stared down at the whitematter of the Cube seeping out beneath him, that Dollop had an epiphany. He had tears in his eyes and sorrow in his heart and he began to weep. He decided to stand up for himself and his people and overthrow the Strawberry Overlords and once and for all end this savage regime’s oppression. He would avenge his bottle of rum, come Lactobacillus or high water! Those fuckers didn’t know what they got themselves into…

To make a long story short because I’m running out of time and dairy metaphors, I’m just gonna skip straight to the climax. Dollop joined the Undertable Resistance and quickly rose up the ranks and emerged as a leader – Dollop took his liquor seriously, and vowed to see his vendetta through to the bittersweet end. The UR had meticulously planned to assassinate the Crown Strawberry Prince Ceres, who was in fact ruling Cloverfield and held all the power ever since he had his father King Liqui secretly baked into a fruitcake. Dollop had gone to kindergarten with the Crown Prince and as such knew him personally, because the hero always needs to know the villain before the villain becomes a cunt and marries a cunt wife and perhaps has some cunt kids. Dollop was put in charge of this almost-suicidal mission because he was the only dairy passionate and stupid enough to take it on, and because the UR didn’t really give a fuck about Dollop ever since he activated the self-destruct sequence at the previous UR headquarters whilst trying to watch food porn.

Dollop had planned to meet up with CB, a sexy Cranberry who was working as a double-agent for the UR and worked on other things with Dollop, if you know what I mean… They were fucking, is what I’m trying to say.

Whilst waiting at the rendezvous which was a seedy bar in some seedy part of Cloverfield, Dollop ordered a double shot of vodka and received a phone call from CB.

“I’m late,” she whispered.

Dollop spat his vodka into the bartender’s face and was promptly evicted from the bar.

“What?!?” he shouted, as he was unceremoniously kicked to the curb. “But I used a condom and everything! That’s gotta be like the fucking Immaculate Conception or some shit!”

There was a long silence. Then CB spoke.

“No, fucknut. I’m going to be late for the meeting. I’m almost there now – I think I can see you… Jesus, Dollop… and to think I let you suck my stem…”

Dollop sighed a huge sigh of relief and was then promptly tasered by CB, who, as it turns out, was a triple-agent and was fucking Ceres and his mother (sometimes simultaneously – fruit have weird fetishes, man) on the side to boot. The last thing Dollop saw before he passed out was his troops being banded into a Juice Van and CB kissing a Banana Policeman…

When he woke, Dollop was face-to-face with Ceres, bound fast to a chair. Now, you know how this typically goes – villain makes a speech, tells hero his master plan, hero escapes, stops villain, saves the world, bones all the bitches. If you would like to believe that that is what happened, then by all means, do. Have a safe ride home, and remember to always use a condom. Especially when fucking cranberries because, as you have seen first-hand, those things get around.

In actual truth, Ceres didn’t make a speech. He didn’t even remember who the fuck Dollop was. He simply went about the standard rebel disposal procedure of having the UR troops tortured while Dollop watched, and then having Dollop tortured himself. Dollop was whipped, whipped so furiously and viciously that welts rose up over his welts and he bled thick, creamy blood that splayed everywhere in the frenzy of whipping he received. And then, when he was broken and bleeding and nearing death, he was flung indifferently with his troops into a large cylindrical metal container, where they were sealed and gassed until they were dead and their bodies had merged into a lifeless heap. There they remained, decomposing, and as they rotted their bodies rose and became light and fluffy, and that is the story of Dollop and how he and his brethren’s soulless bodies are currently in the éclair you are now eating.


[For those of you who are Charlie Sheen or care about stupid things like “Winning”, it was very close but I won. Tomorrow’s topic and piece to follow soon…]

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved

So, you remember my best friend extraordinaire, right? She featured in the last post – you know, the one that caused all the kerfuffle with Trevor Noah on Twitter? Of course you remember her, she’s fucking extraordinary. Anyway, she recently proclaimed herself to be my muse extraordinaire too; and I must tell you, it’s actually been working.

You see, she, too, is a writer. But unlike yours truly, she specializes in poetry – and Jesus, what poetry. I hate to admit it but she is a better poet than I – the extent of my poetry skill peaks at “She’s a poet and she knows it.” Also – “There once was a man from Nantucket, whose dick was so long he could…” Nevermind.

So, in order to go about her muse-like activities and actually get me to sit my ass down and write, she proposed that we have a Great Writing Competition-of-sorts over the end-of-block holiday. I thought it was a splendiferous idea. But we also set out some rules, because without rules and rulers, we would have anarchy and squiggly lines. And we would all be fucked – especially the architects.

Also, I’m just screwing with you on the pro-rules viewpoint – I fucking hate rules. But even Fight Club has rules, the first of which I have just broken, thus proving to you that I am both pro-rules and anti-rules at the same time. Mindfucked yet?

And so, dear readers, these are the 7 Golden Rules of the competition:

  1. Each writer has to Write Something in 24 hours
  2. The Somethings can be either poetry or prose
  3. The Somethings must be of substantial length
  4. The Somethings cannot be shit
  5. Being a smartass and writing “Something” warrants a swift kick to the nuts – this doesn’t apply to her because I’m the one most probable to do it. Also, she doesn’t have nuts.
  6. Each writer will select a topic/theme for the next day’s piece.
  7. The winner will be selected between the two writers for each day’s piece

That’s about it. Also, I don’t know if I’m gonna display her work from the competition up on the blog because it tends to be incredibly beautiful and personal and it makes your heart smile and I don’t think that’s entirely appropriate for a blog with the words “Hates Us All” in the title. But I will definitely be displaying my responses for the world to see and judge, and fuck it – I was publicly fucked over by a celebrity on a social media site and then repeatedly gang-molested by a torrent of retweets and favourites – I think I’m famous enough to feature her work later as a guest writer.

Okus dokus. I think that covers it. I hope you enjoy the fruits of the competition, because I’m going to be slaving away at the words getting it there for you, just like my ancestors of old, but with less pasty white British people involved. Thank you. That is all.

© 2012-2013 All Rights Reserved

Despite my countless sermons and vocal abhorrence of the stain on society known as social media, I kind of Judas-ed out on myself and sold my soul to Twitter. Now, my off-hand response to any accusations by people who are accusing me of making hair-cruxes and starting down the road to becoming Baldemort is “I did it for the blog” but the true reason is that I just wanted to have a front-row seat to watch how humanity sums up its stupidity in 140 characters or less. Bite-sized idiocy, I like to call it – hors d’oeuvres of horse-assery, if you will. If you are one of the aforementioned accusers and that answer doesn’t satisfy you, then my specialized clock has some advice for you – the big hand says “Go” and the little hand says “Fuck”, and I can’t really see from here but I think the second hand says either “Yourself” or “A Donkey”.

Anyway, I entered the Twittersphere about a week ago filled with trepidation and foreboding but also a sense of excitement; I was a new-age Zheng He, fearlessly traversing uncharted territory. (For those of you who are shamefully unacquainted with the great Zheng He, he was a Muslim Chinese explorer who had bigger balls than Columbus and Marco Polo combined despite being castrated, mainly because he knew where the fuck he was going). I tweeted sporadically, giving my opinion here and there on why the Pope is a hillbilly hand-fisher and why the Warner Brothers should “go and fucketh thyselves”. But I mainly kept on the down-low, laughing shamelessly at either people’s professions of undying love to each other with emoticons galore or their semi-secondly life updates, most of which are less interesting than a Chappies wrapper. Oh, and the religious tweets too – how could I forget the religious tweets?!? If you are one of those twats that tweets quotes from the Bible/Qur’an/The Gospel of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I would like to just point out to you that nobody gives a fuck, and those who do should be force-fed the flavoured diarrhoea known as Wakaberry. Plus, if the Divine intended to limit His message to humanity to 140 characters, I’m pretty sure it would be something along the lines of “I exist, so worship Me. Follow my homies @TheProphets. Oh, and don’t be a cunt. Peace out – c u on the other side. PS it was the chicken ;)”

[I might have just committed 12 different kinds of blasphemy right there]

But the climax of my new-born twatting came just two nights ago at the hands of a celebrity, who kindly wrangled my tweeting experience in its infancy and then garrotted it to boot. Ramses II was kinder to new-born things, and he had a plague of fucking frogs rained on him by God.

It all started when my best friend extraordinaire sent me this:


Being an awesome badass and thus never backing down from a dare or an opportunity to be an awesome badass, I wracked my neurons at the speed of 4G and came up with this:


Now, admittedly, in retrospect, that wasn’t the best tweet ever tweeted, but it was still better than the other questions Trevor was being asked:

You, sir, have the common sense of a donut

You, sir, have the common sense of a donut

Plus, I thought it was biting and witty and pretty Samuel L Jackson in the second line, and most importantly, I thought that Trevor Noah would NEVER reply.

So imagine my face when I saw this:

Ah, fucksticks

Ah, fucksticks

That was just the start to what quickly degenerated into an evening on par with Kristallnacht in terms of total ownage.

Because immediately after that, my “Mentions” were flooded with a fucking tsunami of retweets, many of them irradiated with “Lol”s and “Lmfao”s and the occasional “Eish” – it was like Japan all over again. (I know that doesn’t exactly make sense, but fuck it, the metaphor lan away flom me).

The worst part was that I didn’t even think of Wi-Fi on an aeroplane as a reasonable explanation. I’m sorry, Mr Noah, but when non-celebrities with Arabic names take out so much as a shoe on a flight, they usually find themselves on the less-pleasant end of a rubber glove. Not that the other side is much more pleasant… Anyway, my point is that I got fucked, solidly, by a celebrity, in public, and he didn’t even have the courtesy to give me a reach-around.

I know I said that was the worst part, but the worstest part is yet to come. Because it was round about then that my best friend and my loving cousin got wind of this PWNAGE and decided to console me.

Let’s deal with my cousin (FRZ) first – what follows is a transcript of our WhatsApp conversation:

FRZ: What the fuck were you thinking?!?

MiB: I dunno. It was funny to me at the time. Until he responded.

FRZ: You really should proofread your tweets.

MiB: At least Trevor Noah knows who I am now. So there.

FRZ: Yep – you’re the ballsack that believes that there is no such thing as in-flight Wi-Fi.

MiB: Fuck you. Ah… varsity is going to be hell tomorrow.

FRZ: So don’t go.

MiB: And what? Tell my parents that I can’t go because of a tweet? That will go down just fine and fucking dandy.

FRZ: No… Say your ass is sore. You know… Coz you got fucked so hard.

MiB: Do me a favour – fuck off. A little more. A liiiittle bit more. In fact, just keep fucking off until you get back here so I can tell you to fuck off again.

At this point, I was miffed, angry and about as pissed off as a fat woman with PMS and without any ice-cream. My torture, however, was about to be compounded tenfold when my dear cousin tweeted my dear best friend, inviting her to get #trevorfuckedmib trending – I swear, innocent people in Guantanamo Bay get fucked over less than I did that night.


Which resulted in:




Someone clearly doesn’t understand the meaning of the word “adore”

All in all, the night ended in a glorious petit mort of 94 retweets, 17 favourites and 4 new followers, one of which was named CabbaJive Khaba. Thank you, CabbaJive. Your support means the world.

I suppose such events in one’s life are supposed to result in some sort of moral – and I think I nailed this one right on the money:


[I perfected the art of being fucked over on the Internet after countless hours spent under Sensei Asa Akira in the mystical Tube of Red. Follow me on Twitter @MibHatesUsAll to keep up with more of my shenanigans and to allow me to insult you virtually. If massive online rape-by-best-friends-and-dear-cousins is your thing, you can follow @SeriFairy and @FRZ_04 too. Also, subscribe to the blog – all you have to do is type in your email address to the left, which takes the same amount of effort as jacking off a Rhesus monkey. Not that I know from personal experience – I’m just assuming that professional Rhesus monkey-jackers have an easy job. If there are any monkey-masturbators reading this, keep it up. Science needs you. The world needs you. But most of all, the monkey needs you. Thank you. That is all]

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