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 room...it 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 dumshitsuggestions@copac.org.zw.


zakeozim@gmail.com
www.zim-madness.blogspot.co.zw

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.

zakeozim@gmail.com

www.zim-madness.blogspot.com

"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. (Wait...is 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 nay-sayers...um...older. (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,

Z."