So this is what my blog looks like. Nice.
Yeah I didn’t think I’d ever write on this blog too again. But thanks to unemployment and the high cost of the dollar and the terrible movie that is Birdman (How is it winning so many awards?), here we are. So much energy that needs to go somewhere.
If I had a girlfriend, at least I’d have somewhere to put all the energy in (yes I named it Energy). But these people lied to me. Terdoh lied. Kelvin lied. Abraham Lincoln lied. They all lied.
“Open a blog and try to be funny,” they said. “The girls will come,” they said. A nigga has had this blog since 2011. Only thing that has come since then is spam comments and me when I find small Vaseli… *sigh*
In a sane world, it really shouldn’t be hard for me to get a girlfriend. I mean, I’m like a Messi stat-wise. Let me illustrate for the non FIFA playing people.
As you can see, he has a 99/100 rating for Dribbling. I have an equal rating for humour. He has a 94/100 rating for passing. I have an equal rating for good looks. Yes I’m a fine boy. Argue with your internet service provider.
Messi has a 41/100 defense rating, which is the same rating my bank account has. Should it have an impact in the grand scheme of things? No. But sadly, it does. Not even my sex game rating of 96 seems to be able to make up for it (Don’t judge if we haven’t made love under the moonlight.)
I don’t understand why money matters so much to these girls. What is wrong with drinking garri? If you add Milo and Peak Milk and groundnut you have a balanced diet right there. And not every time enter car. That’s how obesity starts and before you know you have liver cirrhosis and 3 weeks later we are eating akara and talking about what a good friend you were at your funeral. Trekking once a while is good for the body. But no, they don’t want to listen.
I’m not even in a hurry to find a girlfriend anymore though. I have discovered something that I love more than breasts: Money. Moola. Cheddar. Bar. Cash. Whatever name you want to call it. In the immortal words of the iconic David Adeleke, Owo ni koko.
When I have all the money I deem necessary, then I’d go and look for my Yoruba princess. I’m not a tribalist, but I have to date someone that I can marry. Can’t date an Igbo girl that I’d fall in love with then I’d take her home and Mumsie will now be asking deep-searching questions.
“What is all this?” “There is nobody worth marrying in Lagos, Ogun, Oyo, Osun, Ondo, Ekiti and half of Kwara?” “Who is going to carry yam with you to Ughelli?”
Nah nah. Then we’d now break up and be singing Westlife for each other.
“I’d always look back, as I walk away….” Nonsense. Ko ni da fun walk away. Yoruba princess please.
But it really isn’t that easy to find a Yoruba princess. I’d have to find her, and groom her. Teach her about life. Show her how things are to be done in life. Remove every bad mentality in her thinking.
Teach her that her name is Oluwatobi, not Hhlouwartowbee. Teach her that body spray does not cause cancer, and its quite okay to use them. Teach her that it really isn’t cool to smuggle Amala into the cinema.
I’d grow together with my Yoruba princess, teach her how to be awesome like me, and we’d spend our days eating Shawarma and drinking Fanta.
And finally, when I’m ready to make her mine, I’d take her to my bedroom, strip her out of her clothes, and give her Energy. And just when she’s about to explode into the most glorious orgasm ever, I’d ask her the most important question ever asked since Juggernaut asked Kitty Pryde if she knew who he was.
“My Yoruba princess, do you want to be my wife? The Bonnie to my Clyde? The Westbrook to my Durant? The Moin-Moin to my Fried rice?”
And because she’s my Yoruba princess, she won’t say something cliche like “Oh Wana I love you yes yes.” She’d look me right back in the eye and tell me,
“Like Sade, Adu.”