I write thousands of brilliant words a day. My writing is so brilliant it takes you an hour to understand a post I churn out in a minute.

I am secretly writing a book. I throw down chapters easier than Jamie Oliver cooks a meal. My novel will stun and awe, arouse and inspire, and I will earn more prizes than you earn Shona dollars in a year.

I have a life far more exciting than yours. I find humour and inspiration in what to you are mundane, everyday occurences. More exciting shit happens to me on the average day than will happen in your entire lifetime.

I am your role model – you wish you were me, and that a single event in my full and exciting life could be replicated in your dull, monotonously sedentary existence. If none of the stuff on my blog happens to you by the end of the year, you shall kill yourself.

I am in the ZIMSEC syllabus. Chaucer and Shimmer are nothing compared to my blog, and English teachers often fail to even understand what I’m saying. My writing keeps children in school, and teachers in jobs. I should be in Cabinet.

I am irresistible to females. Women read my blog and become instantly aroused, masturbating furiously over my latest blog post. Ladies pull me off the street to give me head in sanitary lanes, hoping to absorb just an iota of my talent. I never decline.

I have babies named after me, in the vain hope that sharing my name will bless the spawn with my ability to make presidents cry and popes faint with my brilliant wit, unconventional humour and majestic personality.

I rule the world, because I have a fucking blog my friend, and you don’t.

Who cares that you bought a Mercedes?

Fuck this place; I’m done. Really, it’s over. What does it take for people to realise they’ve failed?

I heard yesterday that the contract to supply all of ZINWA‘s water treatment chemicals was given to one man, a certain fun-loving deputy minister and sitting Member of Parliament.

That, right there, is corruption of the worst kind.

And where are we now? In the middle of an Epic Fail that has cost 179 lives in Harare alone. Well done guy, no, really, clap clap. Now go shoot yourself.

Then there’s the bastards who sit on their high horses saying shit like this :-

Neighbouring South Africa meanwhile said it was time for an end to “political point-scoring”.

Okay, listen here RSA, SADC or whatever acronym you’re going by today – would you force your brother to marry a whore, knowing she’s a whore, cos it’s better to be married to the whore than be single and broke? Would you take her to bed then, Kgalema? Didn’t think so.

I love my country, but I think it’s over. Now to renew my fucking passport.

There is no water in Harare.

There are no chemicals to treat the water from Lake Chivero, where all our sewerage goes and water comes from.

They didn’t listen when they stole the water functions and infrastructure from Council and gave them to ZINWA.

Now everything is screwed, and those buggers in ZINWA are caught pants down. Have their principals been seen or heard from? No.

Why do we still have these inefficient parastatals?

So I walk up to the girl at Ballantyne Spar with two sixpacks of Mountain Dew in hand (the fact that I was buying Mountain Dew should have been alarming in itself, but anywho).

I’m hungover, I’m sweating, I have no power at home and it’s blistering out. So I’m in no mood for shit. Shit ensues.

She looks from cans of sugar-water to me, back to cans, back to me.

“Do you have changed money?”

Me: “Do you know how much the drinks cost?”

She: “No, but I do know I have no change at all,” indicating the till clearly stuffed with nothing but large bills.

And by large bills, I mean nothing smaller than a ten. Hey, I’m a Zimbabwean, gimme a break.

Me: “Well, if you don’t know how much it costs, how can you assume I’ll need change? Why don’t you just ring it up, please?”

She: “Do you have exact money for the drinks? I won’t be able to give you any change …”

Me, clearly annoyed: “No, I don’t have exact change. The stuff costs 9.90 and I have a fifty, so no, I don’t have exact money.”

She: … blank stare …

Me: “That was sarcasm.”

She: … confused, looks around, maybe for a supervisor …

Me: “Just ring up the drinks, the change doesn’t matter to me.”

So she rings up the fucking six-packs, and is pleasantly surprised when they tally up to exactly $9.90 as I’d said. I hand her a fifty, and she sheepishly says to me …

… “What’s sarcasm?”

P.S. – To hydrate either the flu or a mild hangover, try Mountain Dew. For a strong hangover, use beer. Just saying.