No more Ms. Nice Chick. Or, beware the female of the species…

I’ve been AWOL for a while. Because I was dealing with some annoying s**t. Remember my first post? Where I said that there were people who had PISSED ME OFF? Oh honey you don’t know the half of it. So I decided, in the name of democracy and revenge (but mostly revenge) that I’d let my blog pals decide the proper punishment for They Who Cross KenyanChick.

Scenario 1.
You’ve been dating this guy for about 3 months. He’s funny, you get along great. Then one day, just after work, you call him (it’s Friday, what’s the plan?), he says he’s dropping a friend in town, will call you in 35 minutes. (Yes, he said 35, not 30 or 38, but 35. This lends this excuse particular credence and makes him sound like a mature time-managing man. But I digress.) So, three hours later when you still haven’t heard from him, you call again. No answer. Your girls have dragged you to the local for ‘one’ so you’re not planless, you’d just sorta like to hang out with your man.

One hour and some bad karaoke later, you call again. Still no answer. It’s 10 pm, kwani what town was he dropping this guy in, Busia? Your girlfriends mock you about being clingy and/or having been dumped without your knowledge. Pissed off, but determined to go down with dignity, you desist from calling again. Get thoroughly drunk. Monopolise karaoke machine until owner politely asks you to ‘let others have a chance.’ You weave your way home, singing. Pass out.

You’re woken by the phone. What the…? You get up, whoa, alcohol gets up too, lie back down. Try again. Check the time. It’s FIVE AM. And, of course, it’s him. The Little F***er (LF, for ease of reference.) Drunk, but incredulous, you answer. Lots of background noise, music, laughter, clinking glasses. He’s very happy, he’s had loads more to drink than you have. “Hi baby,” he slurs, with no apparent sense of shame or irony. “Where are you?” Since at this stage you’re incapable of speech, you settle for animal sounds. You bark with annoyance. He’s confused. “Hello?” he pathetically tries again, “What did you say?” By this time you’re so pissed off you’ve strangled your cat. “Anyway,” he soldiers on, “If you’re at home I wanna come over. I’m hungry. Si you have some leftover pork?”

I must pause here. I can’t go on. So, here’s the question: what would you do the next time you saw LF?

1. Smack him in the mouth.
2. Press control alt delete. On his forehead. With a hammer.
3. Have sex with him, record it, digitally alter the pictures to his severe detriment and email them to all his pals and Kenyans abroad.
4. Hug him tight, tell him "you look ready," then unleash the Five-Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique from Kill Bill.
5. Introduce him to your cousin Stevo, the ex-mugger who still enjoys a good workout.
6. Offer to give him some pork he’ll never forget. (I don’t even know what that means but it sounds ominous. Discuss.)

I'm under no obligation to do any of the above, but you never know. You never know.
Vote now.