Let’s Get All Naughty Guys, Time To Chase Some Girls And I Tell You How

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Before I go into this laughterfest of an article, we both have to come to an agreement. By clicking this page, out of stupid curiosity, or an uncanny desire to whip out your dong and stick it at some diseased old wench, you’ve already admitted to yourself that you are a pervert. Perverts Ahoy! Nothing intrinsically wrong in reading Chris’s articles about bedroom time with strange sexy Jasmine…but that’s if you keep it away from your Pastor and maybe your impressionable teenage little brother who’s mind is still battling with the Scripture Union meetings and the porn flick his friend made him see last week.

hot girls


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So here’s the agreement: You’ll solemnly swear to believe all I say, without doubting the truthfulness of it, and most importantly without doubting if I’ve had my last visit to my psychiatrist (I always visit my psychiatrist, but stopped taking me pink psycho pills). Even though I use taboo words like tits, butts and penetration, that you’ll still believe me with all your heart, and all your desire to smash your genitals against that of faceless women. You have no choice. Just believe. So to start, let’s get on with the hardest truth;

I had sex with 15 strange women last weekend so I can write this article.

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Believe that? No? yes? Remember our agreement, yeah? You’re honor-bound to respect that, good. Now let’s get this lecture started.



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You need to jog fifty miles everyday, while listening to R2Bee’s “Ajeeii” and chanting the word ‘ajeeii!’ just joking…

Nah. For me, it wasn’t easy. I didn’t jump out of my house naked, body well-oiled with some sweet-smelling lube all over my massive spectacularly hairy chest. And say ‘hell yeah ladies, come get some David!” neither did I hang at the darkest corner of the street, whistling some old romantic tune from Lionel and expected 15 women to fall head-over-heels for my exceptional whistling prowess. It didn’t work that way. I worked hard to get laid all weekend. I earned my dong interaction. You hear me? So buckle up son, there are holes to be plugged (All sex puns added on purpose. It’s bad manners to reject a sex pun opportunity).

First, I had to leave work early on a Friday. And that’s like the hardest thing to do. It appears comedic entertainment writers are loved by their Bosses, making it impossible for them to sneak out of the office with an excuse like “Hi Sir, I have some f***ing business to take care of. Erm, I have to go get laid, so I can develop an article idea”.

Just like Mahama, comedy writers suffer this same fate from their bosses…and fans


So I sorta just sneak out from the office, zoom off in my leggedez-Benz, and shout for joy when at a considerable distance. There’ll be no huggy-huggy from my Boss, but then, who wants a Bear hug from his Boss? When a thousand strange ladies are queuing to hug you down there all weekend? Not me. So off I went back home to get ready for a big night.

Alcohol helps. You can’t afford to tongue-lash a faceless chick with your mind free from Gulder and Guinness. That just won’t do. Your mind will quickly be flooded by images of Hell, and HIV, and also the stern voice of your childhood preacher will float back to you in short, sharp, half-remembered mental bits, making you hate the chick, the awesome makeout and the sex. Your morale will go out the window, your libido will go down the toilet, and this advisory article which has taken me 12 months to write will go to waste. You might even hate I, David, who only has your best interests at heart.


“Get thee behind me, thou evil Joey Akan of the house of The Chris Handler Show”


You see? So let’s avoid that and get you something strong and cheap. If Gulder appears too expensive, then try the dirty roadside drinking kiosk. Where they sell assorted tumblers of alcoholic poisons to knock the morality out of you, and replace it with a special kind of courage. The Dutch kind. The cheap stuff won’t feel great, neither will it taste great, but in the end, getting high is the aim. So you gotta take one for alcoholism. One cheap shot of god-awful, tasteless, liver-killer of pretty cheap Ogogoro will do the magic.

And your Mother will be so proud of her son


Now you’ve gotten to this part, let’s count your blessings. One, you’ve escaped from the office (and your Boss’s awkward hugs). Two, you’ve acquired courage (while reducing the lifespan of your internal organs). And three, you’re well on your way to a weekend of marathon sex. Don’t forget these, dear friend, your sexual life is about to make porn stars green with envy, which brings us to the next stage which is…


Getting To Point Awesome…

Greater joy hath no man…


This next stage is the real deal. You either break or shag it. Get this wrong and all you’ve ever done up to this point will go up in smoke, while you go home heartbroken, with a frustrating bulge in your pants. Mess this stage up, and you’ll end up your evening cold and alone at home. You’ll eventually cry out of loneliness, and jerk off while using your tears as lube. Pretty gory ending. So this is the crux of the job.

Look clean, groom yourself to an inch of your life, use up all the cologne in Paris, get a shirt starched to carton-thickness. Brush your hair, and your teeth, your underarm, even your nether regions. You can floss your arse if you have too. All’s fair in this business. With that, you go hang at some exclusive night club. Somewhere with real class and character. Looking like a bad imitation of Idi Amin. Check out the ladies who come in. Anyone who comes alone, suck in 4 deep minty breaths, fill your courageous lungs with sweet air, breathe out heavy, and approach. Flirt, pour her your scent, use all the tricks in the book, and get her mobile number. Do that to as many women as you want, except the last one. The last one is special. You hang with her, get her the best wine money can buy, and make sure you both get high. Dance for 30 minutes. You’ll be amazed at how open she’ll be for some dong interaction.


‘Bathroom, now!’ I’mma eat you raw…honey


Bingo! That’s your first chance to work up a good sweat. Quickly hit the restroom (with the giggling lady), and take a quick trip to cloud 9. You just earned the first of many genital massages for the night. Your Dad truly will be proud of his little man. But don’t tell him yet. There’s still work to be done. Raise your game. Call the next lady on the list. Be sure to confirm she’s no commercial hooker. Hookers take your money, your self-esteem, and your time, while giving you substandard ‘bang for your buck’, and some creative STD virus. Avoid hookers!

Go through your list, call them up, one at a time, and go through the motions. Boom! Your dream has come through. You’re now the King of Bang, the master of squeaky butt time, Congratulations.

You are the man. Now go into the weekend and have more fun.

Thank me later…


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