By Spliph, South Africa:
Never mind social suicide, what I am about to share with you is self-imposed social assassination. And since none of you weight lifting testosterone injecting macho predators have the genetic inclination to say it, I Lebogang Kenneth Mokoena will: Some black women are crazy!
One only needs to pay attention to the contents at Clicks outlets to truly appreciate the gravity of the fact in the first paragraph. I mean what other explanation is there for removing eyelashes and drawing them back on? What other explanation is there for putting the car in reverse when travelling 120 KM/Ph. forward? What other explanation is there for finding men attractive? And what other explanation is there for beating your child and then beating them more so they keep quiet after your beating started them off anyway?
Insanity I tell you, absolute insanity that's the reason. But you can't help but marvel at the black women (even the white woman: however I bear no inclination to prophesying my undying love for you while skydiving over the Cape Town coast; that is just irresponsible behaviour). The black woman is a strong woman, a kind woman, a beautiful woman – the black woman is love personified! Some deep stuff to illustrate insanity I know.
Now that I have gotten the proverbial buttering out of the way, let me return to this suicide note of mine. Some black women are crazy – and I use the word “some” very carefully, because some day a very unfortunate woman will have to hear me bark “Honey I'm home” every Monday to Friday; in which case I don't want this discussion to be used as ammunition. But that's another story for a different day. As mentioned in earlier posts, I grew up in Soweto. We used to live in a very modest three room house till my grandfather retired and with his reward for long service the old timer didn't go out and get himself a fancy Merc; instead, he built my grandmother a beautiful home. (good looking out old timer)
For some good 15 years I was the only grandson in the house, so you can imagine how a cute I looked as a chubby, big headed bespectacled boy who grandmother used to take along with her every time she went grocery shopping. I was the envy of adults in bad health who couldn't munch sweets in succession… So that is my grandmother, sweet and kind – then there was “Magriza”, My grandmother's alter ego (Magrizas is a common term of endearment used when calling an old woman. But in my case this was no term of endearment). Magriza was a term reserved for when I was the recipient of some passionate ass whipping sessions every week thanks to getting in to the house after 6pm. These phenomenal posterior shaping sessions have contributed to the God-fearing young man that I am today.
I love my black women, through all their red lips, purple razor cuts and Indian hair they endeavour so much to have; I love them. But be careful for even though the black woman is a worthy ally, she is also a cunning enemy who wouldn't hesitate to make known to the world the terrible things you say about it when you mess up. That is why when I get married best believe I will be a sweetheart – God and my wife will know the terrible things I say about you people, and we know that that is what marriage is all about aside from eternal love – it is the bedroom gossip when the kids are asleep. If Jozi FM had a microphone in every bedroom in South Africa we wouldn't need television.
I now invite all you feminists and all feminist sympathisers to tell me how much of an ignorant misogynist with no back bone I am. Well I have news for all of you – if the shoe fits, Cinderella will wear it.
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