Life Is An Analyst Prick

Posted: May 10, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

This is going to be the most boring piece of shit you’ve ever read in your life. So do yourself a huge favour and stop reading right now.

Still here? Toh. I already warned you sha.

Fact is I have absolutely nothing to say. It is my sincere hope that you keep this fact stuck in your head as you read. Since you’ve insisted.

I have nothing relevant to say. Except that I hate life. And I sure as fuck hate those fucks at GTB for closing my account without my permission.

In fact, my hatred is so unconditional, so expansive, that I hate the entire banking system. Because just once, ONCE, I would like to win Diamond Bank’s “Salary for Life,” but have I? Nooooo. Just once I wanna be one of those lucky schmucks that suddenly find the atm’s still paying even though there’s nothing in their bank accounts. But has that happened? Nooooo.

Yes, you guessed it. I’m broke. Hey whaddayaknow? Something to talk about. Let me resume boring you in earnest. What is to follow is an argument for why I am certain that life has been precisely engineered to shove it’s huge fat penis in your arse, ram it over and over, fill it with gay little sea-men and not even thank you for allowing it pleasure itself with your anus. Horrible image right? You’re welcome. You think life’s a bitch? No. Life’s a raging hermaphrodite with a dick the size of the washington monument. And life’s always horny. Horny for anal. You’re welcome, again.

I remember when I was about thirteen or fourteen or something-teen – I don’t know, I don’t remember, I don’t give a shit – when I bought several crates of coca-cola and sprite and fanta, just so I could have the crown covers, put them into envelopes, and then drop them at designated shops, so the trucks could take said envelopes back to the company, so I could win a truck load of money. That’s a lotta “so’s”. Then I’d religiously watch the game show, as all the idiots would pick envelopes only on one side, leaving whole sections of the hundreds of thousands of envelopes on the floor untouched. Drove me nuts! I would scream at them repeatedly, through my tv screen, that my envelopes were in PRECISELY those sections they left untouched. But the bitches and sons of bitches would do the same shit, every day.

Now I think of it, who’s to say the people at the shops didn’t just take out my crown covers when I’d left and put it in their own envelopes with their names on it? No. I didn’t think of that. Because I was just so fucking naiive. And I still am, apparently. This pisses me off. I want to hate myself for it, but it’s so hard too, because I’m so awesome, so I love myself. Which is exactly why I hate myself. No, I’m not confused.

But you have to give me points for at least being an optimist. Right after the coca cola scam – or before, I don’t know, I don’t remember, I don’t give a shit – was the lotto. Oh the lotto. I was a lot smarter about it this time. Technically, I got smarter after playing at least a dozen number sequences but hey, at least I got smarter, right?

I went online. I found a website where I could ask free psychic questions. I didn’t have a credit card, so I couldn’t pay, which meant my answers would be incomplete. So I asked what the winning numbers for the week would be. The dude gave me only three, and I needed at least four to actually win something. Three… Four… I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t give a shit. So I created another free profile and asked the same question again, thinking I’d get another psychic or something who’d tell me the rest. Unfortunately, the dude was on to me. (Because, psychic, duh!) So he told me I wasn’t an idiot in a way that diplomatically pointed out how much of an idiot I was. I left the cyber cafe, pissed off, and calmed myself down by saying he was probably just a phony.

Went home. Then it was show time. Those three numbers? They were spot on. In other words my darlings, life had just analysed me again.

My friends – oh wait, I have no friends – my… readers … whatever you call yourselves, the truth is, I have a million and one stories as to why I am convinced that life IS an analyst prick- every punani intended. Only nani is your arse. I’m thinking however that I should save these stories for another trashicle. If I still feel inclined to share. I’m übermercurial, so Ra only knows if there’ll be a sequel.

I mean yeah sometimes life is sweet and all. HeShe – yes HeShe, since life’s an hermahrodite too, remember? Being a bitch with such a huge vuvuzela? HeShe will hold you, cuddle you, whisper sweet nothing’s into your ear, nibble, tickle, blow softly, hold you, spank you lightly, lick off whipped cream and nutella off your preferred parts, wrap HisHer arms around you… and then just when you’re not looking…

There’s something sticking out your mouth.

And it got in from your anus.

The End.

Authored by Vanessa (@VanessaKanu)
Vanessa is one of our admins at La Critique and can be reached at

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