Wednesday, July 4, 2012

My Contribution to the New Constitution (Part Deux)

You know, I just read my last post and I finally have to admit: I AM A GENIUS. That shit was so funny I think I have to buy a new Macbook, my current one is now malfunctioning due to moisture damage from the tears of laughter flowing all over the keyboard. If any of my posts touch a nerve when you read them, it's probably because you don't like the truth about yourself. Either that or you totally have no sense of humor whatsoever. In which case you really shouldn't be reading a satirical blog in the first place. I hate people like you - you're the type of person that went to the Brick & Lace concert at Borrowdale Racecourse a couple of years ago and then afterwards bitched no end about how terrible it was because they only sang two good songs. Bitch, Brick & Lace only have two songs, period. What the fuck did you expect when you bought your ticket??? I was there, but it was just a night out for me; my expectations were realistic. I knew that after "Love Is Wicked" the party was over, regardless if they played it first or last in their set.

Anyhow, I promised a part 2 to my previous post, but I've been so busy whacking idiots on the head for wearing their sunglasses in the nightclub that I haven't had time to think. But a promise is a promise, so here I am, and here you are, so let's do this.

Women. Jesus. Where do I start? I love them, but not all of them. In fact, very few of them. I especially love the ones that know when to shut up, which, incidentally, is almost always. Unless of course the whiskey is running low, in which case a woman who keeps quiet upon seeing such an impending disaster should really just have a lethal substance injected in her vein the next time she sleeps, because she will have rendered herself useless to any man. Because anyone who knows anything about religion knows that God created Woman to be a helper to Man, and there's no greater help a woman can give than to carefully monitor her husband/boyfriend/hook up's whiskey level and promptly refill without being asked, and, should the bottle itself be dangerously low, SPEAK OUT before it's too late. Then shut up again thereafter.

But this article is about my contribution to the new constitution as it pertains to Zimbabwean women's criminal leanings when it comes to dressing. Let's talk about that, shall we? I put to you that the following should be made unconstitutional in the new dispensation.

Weaves that are past their expiry date. Call me the Weave Whisperer, because I can hear weaves cry out when a woman walks past me. Ladies, you know when your weave has performed its duty. Remove it from service. Please, for my sake. The number of tortured weaves I see on the heads of our women these days constitutes a crime on the level of genocide. I hear their anguished cries, these poor, long-suffering soulless things, they wish to be freed so they can die in peace. Daily they get batterings as their owner tries to combat the itching that has resulted from the cataclysmic build-up of dandruff on her scalp. They are stabbed, poked and prodded as women grab objects around me - a pen, a ruler, my sunglasses right off my frikkin' face, anything at all to plunge deep into the bosom of the weave to scratch the scalp. If you are going through these symptoms, I beg you: Give your weave a lifetime achievement award and let it retire.  Recall it from Afghanistan, it has served its tour of duty. If you don't have money to replace it, it's not the end of the world to go a few weeks without a weave. Remember - you are not your hair. Also, the weave was not your hair, either. Make an alternative plan. We'll still appreciate you, as long as your mouth remains shut.

Open-toe shoes that cannot contain the toes. Don't call it a fetish (or call it that if you want, I don't care) but I'm one of those guys that notices women's shoes and feet a lot. If you are going to buy open-toe sandals, please make sure when you wear them your big toe doesn't look like it's trying to break out of jail and be finally free to live a life of its own. Buy the proper size of shoe, please, because if you have a long day in these wrong-sized shoes your toes will die of gangrene and will have to be amputated, I shit you not. Besides, it's simply not sexy. No one wants a woman without toes, there's uses in the bedroom for them.

Nasty, flaked nail/toenail polish. Or as we know it, Cutex. (Damn.) Every time I see a chick with chipped nail polish I want to kidnap her, blindfold her, take her to an abandoned warehouse in Ruwa and dunk her hands in a vat of acid. And then the rest of her body. Surely it's common sense: you paint your nails so your hands look pretty. When the paint starts to peel off, your hands don't look pretty anymore. Your hands may not look as pretty without nail polish, but certainly they can't look as unpretty as they do chipped nail polish? Can they? Is nail polish remover expensive for your budget? Or are you budgeting brain cells, rather? (Here's a hint: use your brain cells, your body will manufacture more.) This is serious, ladies, because having flaked nail polish really speaks to your lack of attention to detail when it comes to your body. How do I know where else on your body you display this kind of carelessness? This thought disturbs me so much that once, when I was in the Whiskey Lounge in Newlands, a pretty chick approached me, but then I noticed that she had chipped nail polish on pretty much all of her nails, so I jumped back in disgust, and in doing so knocked the glass out of this one guy's hand. It shattered on the floor, and a shard from it cut  the shin of another chick who was standing next to him. She began to bleed profusely, and when her boyfriend noticed he tried to lunge at me viciously, but he slipped in the pool of blood and smashed his head on the corner of the table we were standing close to. He slumped to the floor unconscious, maybe dead, I don't know, because in the ensuing melee I slipped out and went to get a quarter chicken and chips across the street because Nando's was about to close. Then I then went home. For want of a nail the horse was lost, for want of nail polish a good night out was lost. Do you see how dangerous chipped nail polish is?

Dress for your weight. Same story as we spoke about in the guy's section, except it's worse when ladies break this rule. Fat girls - and let's not be coy here, when you are fat you know you are fat - don't bother looking at yourself in the mirror very carefully after you dress and before you leave the house. You have proven that we cannot trust your opinion. Rather, it will be a law that fat people get the sign-off of at least 3 non-family members before they can be released from their houses on a daily basis. These 3 people must be honest, unbiased individuals, who have the courage to tell you that yes, your stomach looks huge in that and further, actually, your stomach looks huge in absolutely everyfuckingthing you wear that is not a tent. If people see your stomach and automatically ask you it's a boy or a girl, stop wearing tight fitting tops. We don't want to see your muffin top, it is not appetizing. Don't get me wrong, I have no problem with big girls, sometimes I see big girls that are sexy as hell and I am awed. Mo'nique is a fine example of how to dress and handle yourself if you're big. It can be done. Don't wear clothing that accentuates your flaws, and yes, you have them. Tight-fitting mini-skirts are not for you.

  The same goes for skinny chicks. Stop with the bone hugging dresses and tiny little shorts. They were not made with you in mind. Don't copy Paris Hilton. Her father's a billionaire. What does your father do? In any case, she still looks like a preying mantis with lipstick. In my proposal the law will have a stipulated "weight/length of skirt ratio" that will be strictly enforced. Be more creative ladies - short and tight does not automatically equal sexy.

So these are the things I'm working on in my draft. Forewarned is forearmed. A few more pointers: if you can't blush naturally because of your skin-tone, don't apply that shit artificially to your black ass, you will be fined. If a weave has more than two tones of color, no. Retailers will not be allowed to import it. Don't shave off all your eyebrows and then draw them back in - we keep wondering why you're so surprised to see us when you walk back into the was only 5 minutes to the bathroom and back, did you forget we were here? However, shave or wax your hairy-ass legs, for Chrissake. God, there is nothing I can't stand more than a woman with hairy legs. Except maybe a woman with hairy legs and a big mouth. Yes, that's definitely worse. I don't care if you have the personality of Jennifer Aniston and the body of Nicki Minaj, if your legs are hairy I am leaving you wherever we are that I happen to notice it and speeding off into the distance, never to be heard from again. And while you're at it, trim, shave or best of all wax your nether regions. It gives a sense of cleanliness, and to me that is amazingly sexy.

These are all very easy things to do to ensure compliance with the soon-to-be gazetted laws. Ignorance is not an excuse. And if you have shitty ass comments about my suggestions, don't write them here, it's a waste of your time because no one cares, least of all me. Instead, draft your own suggestions and submit to the Constitutional Opinions of the People's Parliamentary Acceptable Constitution (COPAC) on

Friday, February 24, 2012

My Contribution to the New Constitution

I just found out from this new Blogger website tracking thing that my blog got 830 page-views last month. 830!! Jesus Christ, don't you people have anything better to do? The figure boggles my mind because before last week, the last time I had updated my blog was July 2011. I take this as a testament to my awesomeness, and if you disagree keep your stupid opinion to yourself and go read your own blog, and don't shit on mine in the comments section. It's 2012 and one of my resolutions is to track down pussies and crybabies who bitch about my content and smash their heads in with their laptops, which will solve the problem of them having having to read my blog forever.

Anyway, I digressed before I even began. That's a talent, by the way, it's like taking a detour before you even start your car. Here's my story.
Regular readers of my blog know that I am heavy into social responsibility. I have discussed serious issues that are plaguing our country, such as how our women are causing men to become gay, why wearing zadzadama bhrugwas and swigging beers is not acceptable feminine behaviour in the New Zimbabwe, and why all intelligent Africans should make an effort to never miss a second of Big Brother Africa.

In keeping with my calling, I have since written to COPAC with my own issues that I feel should without fail be included in the new constitution they are drafting. For those not in the know COPAC stands for Constitution-makers of the Parliamentary Committee Caucus. Or something like that, I don’t have the details and don’t give a shit so don’t correct me. One of my issues is outlined below.

I partied a great deal last year, primarily in Zimbabwe but also in a few other countries. The one thing I couldn’t get over when I went out at home is the average Zimbabwean’s embarrassing lack of style. It is now driving me fucking insane and I think this issue needs to be brought to the attention of our President because, love him or hate him, that guy is without doubt the best-dressed 88 year-old in the history of the planet. In fact, if presidential style were a country’s economic prosperity, we would be China, using Obama’s testicles as stress balls every time our finance minister reports that our foreign reserves have grown by another trillion dollars and we don’t have anywhere to put it. But alas, it is not, and we are not, hence we find ourselves with a dapper president desperately courting anyone who might be able to give us a couple of billion dollars in exchange for anything, anything at all they want in his country (except the Presidential post, we’ll wear Guangzhou-grade third-hand underwear before we give that up, screw you, Imperialist scum!).

I find Zimbabweans are not incapable of being stylish, but are simply too damn lazy to make themselves look good. This practice has to stop, and since the grooming and clothing choices being made by some amongst us are bordering on criminal, I am proposing that we just go all the way and put in place a legal framework to discourage and heavily punish those who disregard basic rules of style.

Men in Zimbabwe are the prime culprits in this regard. It’s disrespectful to our women for us to walk around dressed the way some of us do. Seriously, when did flip-flops become the default footwear for everywhere that is not work? I don’t care whether they’re made by Bata or Gucci, you can’t wear flip-flops to the club, what the fuck is wrong with you?  No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend, you look like a loser.

Below are my top suggestions for Zimbabwean men not wishing to get arrested when my proposal is adopted and signed into law. Before you start bitching and moaning about how some people don’t have money to buy expensive clothes, please note that I am speaking here of simple style and grooming, not the latest fashion or designer brands. I have met some girls who were beautifully put together head to toe in flea market clothing. Style has nothing to do with money, so do me a favour: shut up and pay attention.

1.      It’s lovely that you support Arsenal/Man U/Liverpool/Whoever, but that doesn’t give you the right to think your soccer jersey is appropriate attire for every occasion. Yes in your mind it’s fucking awesome that they were able to  fit “MAZVIMBAKUPA” on the back of your jersey, but dude, as surprising as this may be, the rest of us don’t give a shit about your little narcissistic achievement. Stop wearing soccer jerseys every damn weekend and introduce some variety into your casual wardrobe you lazy fuck.

2.      Learn how to tie a tie: here’s a simple rule: if you are over 16 and can’t tie your tie so that it doesn’t end above your navel or below your crotch, use it to hang yourself instead because God never meant for you to live to this age. Your tie is supposed to stop just above your belt buckle. It’s not rocket science, but you’d be amazed how many guys I see in town with a little baby tie peeking out from just under their collar, or a long one snaking down between thighs like a hard-on concealer. Learn to do it right or don’t wear a tie at all.

3.      Dress for your damn weight: this means no muscle tops or tight t-shirts if you are skinny or have a beer belly. The number of pot bellies on display at braais, in pubs and in clubs across this country is astonishing. You don’t have to tuck in your t-shirt if you don’t want to, that’s fine, but if you don’t tuck in your t-shirt because you can’t, the damn thing is too small for your fat-ass, fool. Accept it. Stop buying shirts with an M tag, because congratulations, with minimal effort you have won the right to buy L-tagged clothes, maybe even XL. Don’t question or hesitate, just go for it. On the other hand, if you’re skinnier than a bulimic mosquito, here’s a tip: skinny jeans and tight tops are not your friend. You don’t have to dress in oversized clothes like you’re straight outta Compton, but don’t wear anything that accentuates your skeletal structure. Please?

4.      We must never be able to see your socks while you’re standing: Only one man has ever pulled off this look successfully, but it’s still debatable if he ever got any women, especially since he was black and all of “his” children are white. I think the lesson here is that even if you had boatloads of money (which you don’t) and could sing like an angel (which you can’t) and then went on to wear pants that stop above your ankles, you still would never get laid.

5.      Trim your hair, everywhere: I don’t know about you, but I personally always worry what little creatures could be dropping from a guy’s underarms and helping to spice up the meat whenever I see a vest and hairy armpits at the braai-stand. You don’t have to wax your underarms, but a little trim under there will help us all enjoy the meat better after you’re done. I like nothing better than a side serving of peace of mind with my meal. So just do it. Your roll-on will apply better, you’ll sweat less, and when you do there’ll be nothing to trap the sweat and breed nasties. While we’re on the subject, it wouldn’t hurt to take those clippers or that pair of scissors lower down either. Tame that jungle, before rhinos breed in there then come stampeding out of it and ruin the one chance you may finally have gotten to get laid. Again, just do it. The ladies will thank you.

6.      Don’t wear your sunglasses at night: Two conditions must be fulfilled before anyone should be allowed to wear their sunglasses into a nightclub. One is that your first name must be Kanye. The other is that your last name must be West. If you cannot meet both of these conditions, stop being a pretentious dickhead and leave your shades in the car, because if you bump into me in the club because you can’t see where you’re going I will smash those sunglasses into your head and leave with your girlfriend, if by some miracle you have one.

Why can’t we get simple shit right? I’m not saying wax your asshole. But fellas, please get with the program. Polish your shoes. Wash your sneakers. Apply anti-perspirant. Don’t wear a washed out t-shirt to the pub. If the writing is peeling off your soccer jersey, wear that shit at home or donate it to a street kid, it’s done. Know what to wear according to the occasion: if you would wear those clothes to Rufaro to watch Highlanders, you are not allowed to wear them out to club on a Friday night.

I can almost hear all the multiple defences screaming through a lot of your heads as you read this, which means you disagree and will continue to do what you’ve always done. So I’m going to stop going down my list and plan my night, in which I shall be enjoying a whiskey somewhere while watching style-challenged dick-wads like you supposedly having “a drink with the boys” while you’ll be secretly envying me as you watch hot chicks form a line to greet me with a kiss on the cheek and a twinkle in their eye. Yes, some of you look like shit and still get laid. But what’s the quality of the woman who lays down with you? In my universe of getting laid, Whoopi Goldberg look-alikes don’t count as a score, so stop bragging that you don’t have to go to all this bother to get pussy. It’s about quality my friend, not quantity.

Finally, I just know there’s some hyper-sensitive, high-struck bitch reading this and blasting me for being shallow.  Looks aren’t everything, don’t judge a book by its cover, blah blah etc. etc. Fuck that shit. I always judge my books by their covers, and trust me, it works. I saw a guy wearing pink corduroy pants in Mekka the other day, and I instantly knew that we share nothing in common and we could never be friends or connect on any meaningful level. So leave me alone. If you can’t do something as simple as combing your hair or shaving before you leave your house, your attention to detail is way below the standard that would allow us to enjoy a drink or go into business together, or talk about anything that isn’t asking you to put two, and only two cubes of ice in my Chivas, and bring it in a short glass, not tall, tonic on the side.

And for you ladies who are sniggering as you read this, laugh now. Part 2 is all about you.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

"Why Did You Let Zakeo Die?"

That was the question posed by an upset fan last year when I had gone three months without updating my blog. I had received countless other emails prior to this one, all condemning my laziness and lack of commitment to the cause, which cause I do not know. Because this particular fan is very intelligent and polite, albeit exasperatingly long-winded and prone to digression like the wind is prone to blowing, I decided to honor her with a reply. I now post my reply here because I am indeed lazy and not at all likely to reply everyone who wrote to me about this. So if you wrote me, this is your carbon copy reply. Read it, ignore anything you don't understand and shut up. With a little concentration you will have gotten the gist of it by the end. 

"Dear E.

I know there is possibly no excuse you will accept for me taking so long to reply your mail. But I have to try. What had happened was, when I sat down to reply you, on the very day you had written me, my keyboard switched off because my car battery went dead due to the cats and dogs and hamsters and gherkins it was raining outside. ( a gherkin a pet?). This totally threw me off, but I was determined to write you so I tried to use my mouse, cutting and pasting individual letters from websites in my history to make words, but by the time I finished the first sentence I had turned 71 and forgotten my train of thought. Maybe it’s the arthritis setting in because I keep forgetting everything these days and getting lost on my way back from the toilet. The viagra doesn't help at all, I think we need some kind of Truth in Advertising Commission in Zimbabwe because they told me it would improve blood flow to key organs in my body, and I don't know what’s more key than your damn brain, and at my age it feels like hardly any blood ever goes there at all, pills or no pills.

Thanks for the mail, gosh. It's like getting a gift from a thoughtful lover, before you even open it you know she's visited the spanking new iStore in Sandton or the HP Experience Store in Eastgate and gotten you, well me, the 64GB 3G iPad or the new HP high definition 21 inch monitor, and not the Limited Edition 5-season pack of the Sex and the City DVDs. 

In reply to your mail, however, I think your comment about baby seals was extremely insensitive. Who clubs baby seals in this day and age? That is inhumane, and I'm not afraid to tell you that I was shocked. Everyone knows that the correct way to slay a baby seal is using a current - a quick electric shock conducted by a rod inserted in the ear. The seal doesn't feel a thing, as far as anyone can tell, and an additional benefit is that there is no scarring, which is unsightly on your plate. Next time, try your seal marinated in Mediterranean lemon and herb sauce, served with a dollop of garlic-mashed potatoes, a few caramelized onion rings, and a sprinkling of basil leaves for garnishing. Just please make sure the seal has been caught and slaughtered humanely. Do not ever, I mean ever, order the Baby Seal Club Sandwich, I will never speak to you again, much less invite you onto my yacht.

Zakeo is not dead. He got tired of being a super-hero, and, like the Brad Pitt character in Mega-Mind, faked his own death so he could live in unshaven bliss somewhere far far away. But now the nights have grown colder, the criminals bolder, and the (damnit, couldn't think of anything else that rhymes.) I do believe it's time for him to make a return. I must warn you though, he is bigger and better, if at all that is possible. Can you handle it? He is even more suave, more sophisticated, with beauty that makes flowers swoon every time he walks through a meadow. (Granted, there isn’t that many meadows in Harare anymore, probably due to inflation or sanctions or something, but trust me, the flowers in the one meadow I know of swoon every time my name is mentioned.)

What's that saying about the rarity of a thing increasing its value? The calls for Zakeo to return are really getting louder, and I promise you he will post something soon. Badat emptor! (That means Bad guys beware! by the way). (Ok, I just made that up, but so did the guy who came up with caveat emptor and he got away with it.)

Patience is a virtue, so please stop bitching and be patient.

Warm regards,


Friday, July 15, 2011

A Real Lady Doesn't Wear a Bhrugwa

Driving around in Harare has become a tremendously interesting exercise for me. Because I drive an SUV with black tinted windows, people struggle to see the driver. This forces them – usually women, I should mention, because it rarely ever happens with men - to stare intently into my car, without realizing what they are doing, as I drive by. Obviously these are single women hoping they’ve caught the driver’s eye, whoever he may be. The trouble is that, even without seeing the driver, the majority (if not all) of these women should know simply by comparing themselves with my car that I am totally out of their league, so the intent owl-stare is totally misplaced. To clarify: if you are a woman and you exhibit any of the characteristics listed below, you have no chance of being anywhere near my league:

1. If you are walking around holding an empty. There’s nothing wrong with drinking soft drinks, of course. But if, after finishing your soft drink, you need to walk back to the store to collect your $0.20 bottle deposit or whatever, it’s probably safe to say I can’t take you clubbing at Whiskey Mist next time I’m in London. I cannot possibly foresee how you will dress, or behave. So, either buy your soft drink and let your gardener have the deposit, or better yet get a can and a straw.

2. If you are wearing a bhrugwa. Why would you do that in this day and age? Look, I understand that for some women, at certain times of the month, a full on zadza-dama panty is what they have to wear. I don’t support it - unless we’re boarding an Air Zimbabwe plane and might need to share a parachute in case of an emergency - but during that time of the month I can at least understand it. The women I don’t understand are those that wear these panties everyday. It’s 2011, honestly, get it together! I’m tempted to start a Thong Drive to collect thongs for those women who either can’t afford them or don’t know what they are. No matter how beautiful you are, a parachute panty is going to put me off 10 times out of 10. I know it boggles the mind that thongs have far less fabric than a full panty yet cost twice as much, but don’t question it – just buy them and wear them.

3. If you are over 18 and under 50 and use sanitary pads. I don’t care what anyone says, pads are fucking nasty. Use a tampon for chrissake. That way you won’t have to wear a bhrugwa, and we don’t have to visualize all that blood actually leaving your body.

4. If you drink beer, especially from a bottle. I know people have vastly differing opinions on this, but since this is my blog, only my opinion counts. If you’re in a club, be a lady and order a cider and drink it from a glass. Or order a cocktail. A wine even, sparkling or otherwise. Just don’t order a Lion Lager or Carling Black Label. Goodness, if I walk up to you, what on earth will I say? Beer was made by men for men, because it used to be the one thing we could safely enjoy without feminist bitches trying to copy, because quite honestly, it tastes nasty, and we didn’t enjoy it much in the early days either. But alas, it seems we can’t even enjoy shit we don’t enjoy alone and in peace anymore. You want the right to also not enjoy it. Now I have to wait for you to finish taking the swig from your bottle of Eagle Lager, watch you bypass your beer belly and thud the bottle back onto the table, and then burp out biological-weapon grade gases into my face before I can point out that that is the prettiest pair of shoes I’ve seen all night in this club, are they Prada? and by the way, my name’s Zak. Alternatively I’ll just go to the bathroom and lick the bristles of one of the toilet brushes for the rest of the night instead.

I could go on and on, but fuck it. It’s Friday, I’m ditching this shit. Please, stop staring into my car!

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

If You Don't Know, Shut Up

I wish it was legal to shoot people. I know not everyone can be intelligent, but when it comes to idiocy some people go far beyond the call of duty. Now, I'm rather okay with those who wear their lack of intellect on their sleeve. It's easy to notice, you know what to expect every time they open their mouths, and you are ready for it. Forewarned, forearmed and all that.

The people that truly annoy me are the ones that conceal their simpleness. Like U.S. Navy Seals on a covert mission, their stupidity invades your Abbottabad of supreme wisdom and attacks when you least expect it, leaving you disoriented and trying to figure out where the last 30 minutes of your life just went.

Case in point: I have a friend who purports to be intelligent. However, in reality he knows pretty much close to nothing. The problem is, he always pretends he knows more than he does, which really wastes everyone's time when we eventually discover that that particular topic, or any topic on Earth for that matter, is not his forte at all.

Because I cannot download my corporate emails on my Blackberry in Zim (despite the bastards at Econet promising to install a Blackberry server since January), I recently resumed using my second line from Telecel on my Nokia E71 after reading in the paper that they - finally - were offering 3G connectivity on a test basis. Telecel are so slow - if cell phone network operators were piss Telecel would be those last few drops that you shake off your dick at the end of a long pee. Econet would probably be the odorless fart that comes out before the pee. And Net-one...well, Net-one just drips down your leg when you're already back at the bar.

But I digress.

So I tested my Telecel line and, slap me on the ass and call me Sarudzai, the 3G actually worked! My phone downloaded all my emails, but I now needed to know one thing: how do I change the settings to enable me to send emails? So, because my friend, let's call him Dave to protect his identity from the Idiot Police, conceals his stupidity like a g-string on an overweight chick, I mistakenly thought he would have the answer. Here's a transcript of our actual sms exchange, not edited whatsoever:

ME: Dude, wats e outgoing email server for telecel?

DAVE: U don't put in all that. You just put in the access point name, like where u put for your econet, and just enter "internet" for telecel.

ME: I hav to send email. I can surf fine.

DAVE: The outgoing server depends on your domain. Is it gmail?

ME: No. And no it doesn't, it depends on the ISP. On my laptop it's coz my broadband provider is 263 Technologies. On econet it's or sumthn lyk that.

DAVE: Oh. Its for outlook?

ME: Well, for the built-in email client on my nokia. Same as outlook, u could say.


ME: K. Did you make that up?

DAVE: No. Lol. Email clients always use either pop3 or imap servers. Always.

DAVE: If its a pop3 server, incoming is, outgoing

DAVE: Difference is that a pop one downloads and then deletes from the server. The imap doesn't.

ME: So... how come my 263 one is

DAVE: I have no idea mate.

ME: But you said Always. Why did you say that then?

DAVE: Go away.

ME: If u don't know, next time just say I don't know. You've wasted 15 minutes of my life that I'll never get back.

DAVE: No. I've given you the valuable knowledge that what I thought worked doesn't. Now you'll never have to try it again. Knowledge.

ME: You've given me the valuable knowledge not to waste my time with idiots. Idiot.

DAVE: Go away.

ME: Okay.

Jesus. With friends like this, is it any wonder I'm always cranky? Please, it's really not too much to ask - if you don't know something, don't waste other people's time pretending you know. Shut the hell up and let us get on with our lives.

Friday, May 27, 2011

The Show to End All Shows

For once, I am thoroughly upset at myself. Somehow I missed the beginning of the new season of Big Brother Africa. I started to suspect something was wrong when everyone else around me, in our day-to-day encounters, began to appear more fulfilled than I. This being an unusual and downright unacceptable state of affairs, I finally cornered one of my acquaintances yesterday to investigate. After a brief interrogation, he revealed the reason for his sudden smug satisfaction with his otherwise pathetic life: Big Brother Africa is back, and this time it is AMPLIFIED!

Needless to say, I am mortified for having missed the first several weeks of this show. Nothing titillates me more than watching, for 24 hours straight, a group of ugly, attention-seeking, cantankerous, belligerent people engaging in never-seen-before activities such as cooking, cleaning, showering, and talking. But hard as it is to believe, that’s not even my favorite part of the show. At various intervals, the producers of the show put these people through mind-melting tasks such as: naming the currencies of various countries; dancing like video girls; and acting like clowns (literally). The I.Q. level that is required to excel in this show is truly astounding.

It’s unfortunate I’ve been so busy lately with this other thing I have to do called Life. As soon as I’m done with that, I’m going to register myself online so I can meet like-minded people in the BBA chat room, where, it appears, great fun is being had by all. I revel in intellectual debates, and there are some comments on the site from other members of the intelligentsia that simply cannot go unchallenged. For example:

“Lets kip Confidence in that heads house othewise well die of boredom…” -vaughanz

NSIL 7777 @ SHANI APO????........Q-RIOUS” -Anon 9692


How on earth can anyone not see Luclays bizzy body in house as swagg? Comments such as this cause me deep concern, so I will soon be deeply embedded in that chat room, engaging in mental warfare with these geniuses of our generation. And if I were the C.E.O. of M-Net, I would cancel all other channels and shows to ensure that this divinely-inspired and brilliantly executed show is broadcast to as many Africans as possible, as it is a true reflection of our various cultures and values, values which are important for our 13 year-old children, nieces and nephews to appreciate.

Well played, M-Net.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Fanmail from the Illiterati

A few weeks after posting my article entitled "It's Not About the Business, It's About You, Idiot", I received this lovely comment from an anonymous but obviously adoring fan:

"Bollocks!!!! This post is seriously flawed & misleading. Sometimes it takes several failures for people to fugure out what they need to do to be successful in business. It is only those who get off their backsides and try something who will ever make or improve something. They might never make it but if they do, their actions will poitively impact not only themselves but countless other lives.

It's IDIOTS like the author of this post whose put - downs discourage people from venturing into the unknown. The likes of California & most of the USA, South Africa, Australia e.t.c are great because of people who saw others making money in particular ventures and sought to do the same. In the process of so doing, there imaged some top & shrewd industrial, banking & commercial giants. A market is created by the entry of many participants. Not all those participants will become rich but the wealth of the nation increases because of their joint actions.

VW Toureg??????? For crying out loud, couldn't you have found a better car to use as an example? Your choice of car just shows how low you really are.

ZAKEO ZAKEOS you are an IDIOT, A LOW - LIFER with such a narrow mind who will NEVER make it onto the Forbes list."

Wow. Serious stuff indeed! I always enjoy reading fanmail, especially when my readers set aside some of their precious time to carefully analyze each of the points I raise before posting comments. I am not at all averse to criticism, which is why both positive and negative comments to my posts remain on my blog. What some misguided readers don't realize is that I didn't start my blog to be agreeable. If I wanted to be agreeable I would sit silently in my office with the door closed, considering the fine paint-job on my wall, instead of switching on my laptop and having an opinion. Unless you're a delusional, bald-headed, drugged-up Nazi, you'll find it rather difficult to disagree with someone who hasn't said a word.

But open your mouth and you open yourself up to all types disagreement and criticism. You could say "The sky is blue", and some fuckwad will jump into your face and scream, "Blue?! Blue?! Are you blind? The sky is azure, idiot!"

So some people will disagree with me. I get it. I expect it. Hell, people even disagreed with Jesus, and he raised the frikkin' dead. It's not something you would think people should find disagreeable, but they did.

However, when I posted my first article I gave a few terms and conditions for people wishing to read my blog. They have evolved slightly, but the key points remain the same. If you wish to read my blog:

1. Don't.
It is written primarily for my amusement, and for like-minded individuals, of which there are very few in the world. My blog is not and has never been politically correct, nor is it sexually, racially, or religiously correct, and at times may not even be grammatically correct. If you like your shit correct, visit my other websites, and

2. Don't comment.
Because my shit smells like freshly-baked candy cakes with the pink icing on top, I do not accept negative comments from anyone whose shit smells any less delicious than mine. Period. If you are so intelligent and erudite go start your own blog and get off my dick. Otherwise stop blowing air out your ass about what I've written; I know what I'm talking about because I'm a genius, and handsomer than a photoshopped Brad Pitt-Denzel Washington hybrid sex machine to boot.

3. If you absolutely must comment...
Have the decency to read the entire article, digest the points I have made (though many times I admittedly have no point at all), and then give a considered and well thought-out comment. If you can't do this, do something even easier: shut the fuck up and close your browser.

For example, with regards to the article under discussion, some imbecile commented, "I'd venture to say you've never started a business..." Now tell me, what the hell does that have to do with anything? Does Bill Gates' computer lecturer also run a multi-billion dollar global business? Must every business college professor, just because he teaches people how to run a business, also himself have a booming business to make his teachings valid? Even if I didn't have a business, it doesn't automatically mean my ideas are wrong, especially since it's me, and no one exists that can prove that I've ever had a wrong idea in my life.

Stop annoying everyone else and read the damn article before commenting. My accomplishments, as extensive as they are, will not be catalogued here, for that is hardly the purpose of this blog. But in my article nowhere do I discourage people from starting businesses. I clearly state that even if you can't have an original business idea and want to copy, at least find a business that you can be passionate about, and that you'd be willing to stick with through lean times until it turns the corner. No matter how romantically you want to wax about it, building a successful business is about more than just having a dream. Its also about focus and discipline, hard work and passion.
I'd love for Anonymous to point out to me anyone on the Forbes Rich List who didn't have these things, and whose business did not take at least a decade to build.

I also did not say people shouldn't try different ideas. I complained about people wading into already saturated markets, just because they heard such and such is making money,
without a clue how that person runs their business profitably, and without the same level of passion for that type of business as that person has. I mention car dealerships; there are streets in Harare on which you will see six car dealerships on a 1km stretch of road, all selling the same entry level Japanese cars, with the same colors and the same prices. And then 100m on you see another guy spreading 3/4 stones and erecting shades to construct the 7th car dealership, to sell the exact same type of cars. This makes no business sense. What's his unique selling proposition: Will he offer better pricing? No. A different range of cars? No. A 30 day money back guarantee? Hell no. Free 2 day test drives? You must be kidding. Extended financing? Please. He has no clue what those things are, but he just wants a car dealership because "ine mari".

It's a waste of his time and energy. He will without fail lose money. But let's not "
discourage him from venturing into the unknown", shall we? Let's let Tonderai follow his dream, because the sky is the limit and his "actions will poitively (??) impact not only himself but countless other lives." And from him will "image some top & shrewd commercial giant."


I must also mention at this juncture that if anyone is discouraged from "venturing into the unknown" by the "put-downs" in my article, then I've done them an enormous favor. They were going to fail spectacularly anyway, and I deserve a medal for saving their bank a lot of money and them a lifetime of headaches, ulcers and high blood pressure. Successful businesses are built by people who have grit and the strength of conviction to follow through with their ideas despite whatever obstacles may litter their path. If you can be discouraged from pursuing your business ideas by a tiny blog written by an anonymous author on the World Wide Web, then you're a born loser and are better off focusing on honing your skills as a waitress at the
Cheesecake Factory forever.

Lastly, it's not my fault I don't watch MTV Cribs, or BBC's Top Gear, or read GQ Cars. I really thought the VW Toureg was the fanciest, most expensive car in the world. Obviously I'm mistaken. Can someone please tell me what better car exists in the world, so that next time I write about a bank teller's aspirations for two years in business I can use that car instead. That will be much more realistic, for a bank teller to have imagined buying a car just like Jay-Z's in two years rather than one his old classmate is now driving. How idiotic of me.

Intelligent people will more carefully consider their next business ventures because of this blog post, they will take from here what makes sense for them and filter the rest, and give themselves a better chance of success. The failures will say, "That guy is a low-life and an idiot, fuck him and his discouraging ideas, I will follow my dreams, all of them together, at once, and in 1 year I will be a billionaire and driving a Bugatti Veyron."

To both groups I say, "Good luck."

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Why the "Buy Zimbabwe" campaign is Bullshit

So I'm reading an article in this little paper called Business Connect about this "Buy Zimbabwe" campaign that was recently launched in the capital. I had heard about this campaign and saw several other articles about it in other papers, but I did my best to ignore it, on account of my blood pressure. Then the bastards behind it went on to plan a whole seminar about it, and take time out of their busy schedules to meet and discuss how to get consumers to start buying more local products, and how best to lobby government to raise duties and limit importation of finished goods. A whole businessman by the name of Supa Mandiwanzira actually stood up to say, "...Government must put legislation in place that will force all supermarkets to put 50% of local goods on shelves at any given time." I now feel compelled to comment.

With all the common sense quite evidently seeping through my pores and making people around me smarter just by association, it amazes me that some people still choose to have seminars and such without consulting me first. Because if these learned gentlemen had taken 2 minutes to brief me that they are concerned about Zimbabweans not buying enough local products, I would have given them one devilishly simple but amazingly effective strategy:

Stop making shit.

There is no amount of campaigning that can persuade me to eat a turd. There is no legislation anyone can dream up that can force me to pay for a steaming plate of dog shit. And, unfortunately, dog shit is exactly what the majority of Zimbabwean companies are serving up and expecting us not only to buy, but to pay MORE for than the imported substitute on the basis of being patriotic. Let's take an in-depth look at some of the vaunted local products that sell-out unpatriotic Zimbos like me are shunning:

Charhon's Loose Biscuits: Affectionately known as "ma-doggie", these treats are a delight - if you have polycrystalline diamond cutters for teeth. Otherwise your teeth will disintegrate from just looking at a packet of these biscuits for too long. These are cookies for real men. I can't imagine why anyone would opt for imported Bakers Strawberry Whirls instead - unless they're gay. I think our President has gone to great lengths, on numerous occasions, to enunciate our national position on that particular group of people. If locals, particularly Zimbabwean men, continue to insist on eating soft yummy cookies that don't need a jackhammer to break, a law to ban them might well become necessary, if for no other reason than to stop us becoming pansies. These biscuits have remained the same for decades, while people's tastes have changed. Still, the dipshits at Charhon's insist on shoving them down our throats. Even when, at one time, Zimbabweans became so desperate for an alternative that they bought truckloads of dollar-for-two lemon creams from across the border, Charhon's did not budge from their strategy. Never mind that these dollar-for-two lemon creams weighed about 0.02 micrograms each and evaporated at the sight of your tongue. We just couldn't take ma-doggie anymore!

Willard's Corn Flakes: Willard's Corn Flakes have a unique ability that is as startling as it is odd - they turn soggy the second you say the word "milk" in their presence. By the time you pour the milk in, they're already porridge. How great is that?! Fuck Kellogg's - who wants corn flakes that stay crunchy and delicious for so long anyway? Unless you're a retard and need more than 2 minutes to finish a bowl of cereal. Lightbulb! Let's legislate to send all the Kellogg's Corn Flakes to hospitals for the mentally challenged! Even though they're 10c cheaper than the local version, they must be removed from the shelves before they kill the local corn flake industry, or the retards starve, whichever might come soonest. Seriously, Willard, wherever you are, do us all a favor and suffocate yourself with a fucking cereal bag.

Gloria Self-Raising Flour: The quality of this flour is as inconsistent as a woman on...well as a woman in general. It started out that you never knew how your mafet-kook (yes I know that's not the spelling, leave me alone) would come out with this flour. Now if you bake with it, you are almost guaranteed a disaster. Unless you tie the bag with a long string and hoist it up to your roof, it simply DOES NOT RISE. Sort of defeats the purpose of calling it "self-raising" - it's about as self-raising as my dick if I sat watching Thabo Mbeki skinny-dipping on a frigid winter night in Cape Town. But I suppose that's not important. The important thing is to buy Zimbabwean, and forget about imported Snowflake Self-Raising Flour which actually rises.

Fresh Produce: Mr. Mandiwanzira is quoted as saying: "It's sad that we are importing carrots and tomatoes from South Africa when local farmers are throwing away their tomatoes that would have rotten (sic) because they don't have markets." Really? Who's throwing away their tomatoes because of lack of a local market? Tomatoes?? Perhaps he was exaggerating for effect, but tomatoes are one product I know the masses in Zimbabwe are willing to buy locally. Potatoes, on the other hand, are a different story. Whereas South African potatoes come washed and look presentable, local potatoes come with clumps of red soil attached. These clumps of soil are genetically engineered to remain attached to the potato no matter what you do, until you get home and soak them for at least 30 minutes. The problem is when the store assistant weighs my potatoes at the supermarket, I want 10kg of potato only, not 8.5kg of potato and 1.5kg of soil. We all know the soil is ours - ivhu nderedu - and we will never pay for it.

Various local sweets: Crystal mints have had the same boring taste and the same packaging since I was in Grade 2. Crystal toffees still have that amazing ability to adhere to your back tooth the second you pop one into your mouth, and then slowly dissolve and leave a rather disconcerting, oily, thin film on the roof of your mouth. Despite the advancements in chewing gum technology, Dandy is still churning out the same flavors in the same packaging they had 25 years ago. Dandy bubblegum loses its taste as soon as you unwrap it, still. After approximately 1.5 seconds of chewing, the taste has disappeared like an MDC bandana at a ZANU-PF rally. Freddo chocolate is still the same Freddo chocolate I used to buy at the tuckshop in primary school, with the same stupid white and green packaging with the same stupid jokes, like "Why did Freddo cross the road?" "Because he hopped the Buy Zim campaign would get people to eat him again even though he tastes like ass." Or something like that. Should I really forego my velvety Cadbury's Chocolate Eclairs for hard-as-rock Crystal Toffees? Or forget about smooth Endearmints in favor of Crystal mints, even though they shred the roof of my mouth and leave a faintly bloody taste on my tongue? No sir, I will not.

Furniture: Entering a local furniture shop such as Pelhams, TV Sales & Hire, Banet and Harris etc. is like walking into The Land That Time Forgot. They still have the same design of lounge suites that our mothers bought before we were born. Yet here we are, the new consumer, this generation of MTV Cribs and Forbes Top 20 Celebrity Mansions on E! We don't want leather couches with polished wood in the armrests. We don't want couches that have buttons. We don't want bedroom suites that have so much wood they'd be deemed a fire hazard in any other country. We don't want velvet or floral material on our lounge suites. No, damn it. We want corner couches in white leather. We want shaggy rugs that feel like heaven under our feet. We want bedroom suites that are sexy, not just functional. As long as we don't have these made in Zimbabwe, don't expect us to "buy Zimbabwe."

Clothing: Edgars and Truworths have been flighting lots of press ads recently, showcasing their new range of work and casual wear. Trouble is, none of their designers have ever heard of Cosmo, or GQ, or any fashion magazine that exists in the world, apparently. Their clothes are appealing only to a very Christian receptionist from Budiriro going to an interview at a briefcase company which recently expanded out of the briefcase and into a cubicle on the 2nd floor of a non-descript building just opposite pa Charge Office. You can get more fashionable gear at Mr. Price in Musina for a fraction of the cost, true story. Would it really kill these idiots to glance at a style magazine now and again?

Cordials: Otherwise generically known as Mazoe, because that's what us Zimbos do. All toothpaste is Colgate, and any soft drink is Kokora. Only at a Zim restaurant can you say to the waitress "I'll have a Coke please", and she smiles sweetly and says: "Ok, what kind?" And then you...without a moment's pause, you say, "Cherry Plum". That will never happen in Indianapolis or Birmingham. Anyway, I digress. Whilst Mazoe itself is an excellent brand, all other locally produced brands in that category should be ashamed of themselves for even claiming to be brands. I bought a 2L bottle of Squish Squash Cream Soda the other day. I wouldn't have, if I'd known the mixing ratio is 1 part water to 5 parts juice. My first glass was unbelievably watery after mixing it using the universally accepted ratio of 1 part juice to 4 parts water. Mr. Mandiwanzira sir, do you know how frustrating it is to add juice, sip to taste, add juice, sip, add juice, sip, and on and on for 20 minutes before getting the taste of your juice right?! For my second glass I simply resorted to using a shot glass to measure one shot of water, then filled up the glass with juice. You don't dare put ice in a glass of Squish Squash - may as well drink a glass of colored water. Tacoola, Quench, Citrade - all the shit's the same. Is it any wonder I now choose to stick to Ceres or Liqui-Fruit when I can't get Mazoe?

Eversharp pens: Before I rant about Eversharp pens, I must give credit where it's due. Despite what I'm about to say about them, the honest truth is that ever since I was allowed to use a pen in school, I have been guaranteed that no matter where an Eversharp pen has been, when I needed to write, the thing writes! It generally doesn't need persuading, it doesn't think twice, it doesn't stutter, it just writes. Brilliant! But my God, its been 50 years and we still have the same gold-tipped refill, the same grey hexagonal barrel, capped by the same ridiculous blue, red or black plastic cap. Not a single brain cell has been expended in trying to innovate this pen, for over 50 years! Meanwhile, Bic now has gel pens, rollerball pens, glitter gel pens, 0.5mm pens, 0.7mm pens, purple, pink and gold pens...the list is endless! So while my staff are happy to use an Eversharp pen to write notes in a staff meeting, my 14 year old niece would slit her wrists if she were forced to use one at school. Surely it wouldn't kill the geniuses at Eversharp Pvt. Ltd. to sit down and even copy the innovations of 10 years ago. That would be a giant leap forward compared to where they are now.

I could go on and on, but this is really not a profitable endeavor for me, since none of you bastards donate money to my blog. I think my point is clear. If "Buy Zimbabwe" means the same as "Buy Shit", then the Zim manufacturers can go to Hell. We are not prepared to sacrifice our hard-earned cash and our taste-buds on this garbage.

Before this campaign gains steam, I think we as consumers should start our own. We can aim it at the manufacturers, and call it the "Stop Making Shit Campaign". We can have our own seminar and media coverage, and I can be the spokesman. We can even have a logo or badge of some sort, which can be put on products we certify worthwhile. Instead of saying "Proudly Zimbabwean", it can say "Guaranteed: Not Shit" or something to that effect. If anyone can design such a logo please let me know. I won't pay you, but you'll feel good for bringing down a fellow Zimbabwean's blood pressure.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

It's not about the business, it's about you, idiot

I'm so tired of meeting failures. Zim must be where colossal failures are created and then deployed to other parts of the world to breed. Yes, I know, running a business in this country is terribly difficult. The banks are not lending, the potential market generally has very little income (none of which is disposable), and if you sell on credit you will soon learn that everydamnbody in this country is a remorseless defaulter. But is that the main reason why the 5 businesses you tried to run last year all failed? I submit that it is not. Further, I would like to submit two key points which, in my estimation, explain your financial mediocrity:

1. You are an idiot.

2. You are an idiot.

Why do we Zimbabweans think that just because someone else is minting money in a certain type of business, we should get into that business too? Does it follow that we too will mint money in that business? Here's an idea: stop being a jack-ass that mimics everybody else's ideas and do your own shit.

As an example, at the height of the fuel crisis, how many people did you know who suddenly jumped on the bandwagon and were importing fuel and opening gas stations? Suddenly, no longer did you go to a BP or a Shell for gas - you went to Praise Petroleum, or Ekhaya Petroleum, or Country Petroleum, or Essox Petroleum. Essox Petroleum? Who the hell are you? As it turns out, nobody. You're a guy who was a bank teller the previous year and suddenly decided to quit your job and jump into fuel because you heard Kuda of Sakunda Petroleum had bought a VW Toureg. And that just ate you up, because Kuda was your junior at St. Ignatius. Kuda, of all people! He played Thirds rugby for heaven's sake, and was in the C stream, and when they discussed the list of potential prefects for his year he was somewhere between "Never" and "Who?" Meanwhile, you were almost made deputy headboy (if it wasn't for that bitch bastard Mr. Goredema, fuck him), played First Team volleyball, and on top of all that, captained the chess team superbly in your Upper 6 year.

So how dare Kuda your junior in high school drive around in a VW Toureg and employ 150 people, while you slave away in a cubicle at Trust Bank with your box Nissan parked outside, braaing cockroaches trapped in the crevices of its cracked dashboard? Surely, if Kuda could do it, so could you. So with two other equally incensed and clueless friends, you started Essox Petroleum. For what reason? "Bhikozi fuel ine mari mdhara." Really? "Defaz! Iwe, anaKuda vakuto dhraivha ma Toureg shamwari, ka Kuda kaye kaye sha. Ne fuel dhedhi!"

Hmm, making money from distributing fuel. Not a bad idea. Except for one thing: none of you morons knew anything about the complexities of running a sustainable service station. How did you think your experience in correctly aligning and clipping together bank notes would serve you in the fuel industry? How did you imagine your supreme deftness in operating a money-counting machine would help you make millions selling bulk fuel to the mining sector? Did you burn with a passion for excelling in the energy sector? Did you wake up every morning and check Bloomberg for developments in the oil industry, and calculate what impact those international developments would have on your business, and act appropriately? The answer is no, because you have the intelligence of a comatose slug, and therefore no clue what it takes to build an enduring business.

Despite my demonstrable and extensive knowledge of everything on the face of this earth, some people still opt to not heed my advice. Two years down the line, Essox Petroleum was a distant memory in the minds of the 30 or so customers who regularly patronized it, stopping their run-down tin-can cars to put $5 of petrol in the tank. $5? What are you driving? A lawnmower? (As an aside, and I have said this before, if you can only afford to put $5 of petrol in your car at a time you should seriously consider the merits of suicide. Not all suicide is a bad idea, some of it benefits the community at largetremendously, because lets face it, the earth can only accommodate a certain number of people, and we all we would be better served by keeping space for only productive people. By putting only $5 of petrol in your car at any time, you, my brother, make manifest that you do not fall anywhere near the group of people who can be defined as "productive".)

But I digress, My point is, a year later Mr. Essox was buying diamonds from Mutare and selling them to Libyans at the Holiday Inn. A year after that he was bringing in printer cartridges from Malaysia. This year he is running a car dealership, while working hard to get contacts who can help him buy mining claims, while also investigating the possibility of buying cross-border trucks, and, possibly, importing car parts from China.

For Pete's sake, how many people own car dealerships in Harare? There are more car dealerships in this city than supermarkets. How many women are going to China to buy "original" designer label clothes for re-sale? Who do ya'll plan to sell to, when all of you are going there? How many people own kombis, and now taxis? There are more commuter omnibuses and taxis in Harare than there are commuters in the entire country. And in the midst of all this, I challenge you to find an establishment that sells a full, comprehensive range of bakery ingredients for you to bake your son a lovely, unique birthday cake. Or one that rents out a large selection of good quality men's suits and tuxedos for weddings. Or a cocktail lounge that is actually a lounge, not a bhawa, and actually sells actually really cocktails. Why are we all trying to do the SAME DAMN THING?

Do something different. If you can't do something different, heed this advice: it's not all about the business. It's about the man. There are indeed people who have made millions in fuel. But there are also people who have been equally successful in marketing computer consumables, in selling used and brand new cars, in mining. You can make money doing just about anything. But you need to first have a little bit of passion in the business you're trying to develop, and secondly you need to have the patience and the discipline to stick with the damn thing until it turns the corner. If u flit from one business idea to the next like a leaf blowing in the wind, the ball and chain of failure will remain firmly strapped to your ankle until you die a miserable death. And we shall not cry. We shall drive to your funeral in our VW Touregs and celebrate the end of your sad, pointless, wretched excuse of a life.

The moral of the story is: do one thing, and do it well. Do it consistently. Do it for long enough. And you will find success. And I will find peace, because you will no longer keep taking the elevator to my office to make yet another presentation of a hare-brained business concept that you want me to invest me for 50% equity. Because according to my calculations, no matter what currency you're using, 50% of 0 is 0. I do not want to invest in your stupid ideas, unless you one day have an idea to leave me alone, forever. I will invest at least $50 in that one.