How To Make Me Repent

For a while I’ve been battling with the patience of containing this camel brigadier on my blackberry messenger list.

I have given up trying to figure out my tolerance operandi and the elasticity of my patience. Many a times I explode over something that I’ve condoned with a miraculous over-bearing warmth. And in another scenario where I should naturally not withold my contempt, the spirit of good social sportsmanship possesses me, that I become dumb-founded such that I cannot lay hold of an ounce of provocation to excuse pouncing on my assailant. My emotions require the comprehension of an atomic-physicist, so I give up studying her; Atomic Physics is not this Son of David’s playground. I pass.

This Camel brigade chap has been on my bbm list to torture my stoic spirits. “With what?” If you may inquire. With the recitation of his buy-bull fancies. The muslim religitard who apparently got my BB pin from my profile added me on bbm to convert me to his Arabian sky-team. Chai!

An adult homosapien after weighing this Son of David from hair-to-toe convinces his cripple intuition that he can talk me into patronizing the literature of a fashionable desert schizo. Is it possible that someone can convince himself that he can sell the monkhood of buddhism to Bishop Oyedepo or T.D Jakes? There are people who think they can somehow miraculously reason with a wild lion in the bush to eat grass.

Quietly ignoring his consistent messages, was my act, but it did no good in passing a message into the skull of this adult. My silence was broke when this camel brigadier told me I’ll be rewarded with 72 virgins in the sky. That was an abuse on my cognition, I could not ignore this one garbage.

First of all, I do not like virgins. Nowhere! Luckily for me, I’ve never met one and I desire not to meet any in bed. I am not a babysitter. I do not possess the aptitude skills of a high school teacher. I am not a virgin, I need not one either. I do not wish to abuse my bed with melancholic partners. Science is yet to invent an “unfuck” button. I cannot deal with the torture of bloody novices in an art of intense demand of satisfaction.

Finally, to realize that I found no respect in the eyes of this man with his attempt to lure me, a whole Imoh with a childish sermon of celestial pussy is a big insult on my senses. Of all incentives, this camel clan religitard found it convincing that the one which will appeal to my lust are the imaginary thighs of padlocked hijab vessels. Damn!

If I have 99 problems, pussy ain’t one and heaven is out of the chronology. If you want to sell me your tripe and want to convert me to your sky-band, offer me money. I am not stupid to the level of doing some imaginary celestial commerce. Say to me “Imoh I’m offering you 1 million dollars to believe there is an invisible turban-wearing Arabian genie in the cosmos for 30 days”, and I’ll believe you sincerely for just 30 days. But you can extend the contract of celestial patronage if you can afford the cost of my faith.

However, I am not sure anyone will want to throw that sum of money into the coffers of one single spoilt “kafir”.
If you cannot afford such exhorbitant commerce, then don’t bother selling me any hogwash to me cos I’ll I won’t buy it and I’ll hurt your celestial feelings in turn.

As for the camel brigade religitard, if you are wondering how I dealt with his irritation: well, I simply applied the “religitardicide” and that is: offending and insulting their imaginary sky-genie. They’ll simply delete themselves unbehalf of the offense poured on God.

By Imoh “Son of David”

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