Wanted – trillionaire. Octogenarians with faulty hearts/chronic illnesses/terminal illnesses preferred. Penchant for Viagra a must. Debonair good looks not a requirement. Numerous offspring essential (as this womb is not for hire). Own transportation required, wheelchair or hoist will do, as long as both are motorised.
In return, offered: all manner of conjugal rights, intimate Kama Sutric knowledge including (but not limited to) the ability to ‘make a Sprite can disappear in my mouth’. Acts prohibited under specific statutory law codes in more than one country. Ability to cook up a storm, on any front. Or behind for that matter.
Billionaires need not apply. With the rapidity of the depreciation of the Zim Kwacha, your money aint worth the paper it’s written on.
On a more serious note, I am really tired of this work gig. Took a week off work which has managed to dull my homicidal tendencies, but at the same time made me realise that I really, really hate my job. More than I have ever hated any other job in my entire life. Granted my propensity to hate is legendary, but I have plumbed all new depths of despair.
If it was a product, it would be marketed as ‘new and improved despair, to help you go that much deeper’. Kinda like Viagra, but without the mandatory happiness. Oh to have been born to rich parents who would fund a round-the-world trip to help me ‘find myself’. Although weighing over xxx pounds, it’s kinda hard to lose myself.
So if anyone out there has any bright ideas, preferably inexpensive because I am currently in line for Third World Debt Relief, about how to get myself out of this essentially self-imposed rut, this is officially a plea for help.
p.s. if anyone does chance upon any men fitting the above criterion please speedily despatch an email to me at: