I know, sounds like a self-help book doesn’t it? Fear not, I’m too delusional to write anything quite that serious, or helpful for that matter. Folks, may I present: THE Kai Nikii
Catchy title, no? No? Moving on swiftly…
Women. We vex you don’t we? We say one thing and then turn around and do the exact opposite, and then we give you hell when you ask us why. I know, its bloody frustrating, but what can you do, right? Gentlemen, because I am a kind and generous person, and because it’s a sunny Friday morning and I’m in a good mood, I’m going to give you a few tips about the games women play, and how to beat them at it, and to make it easier to comprehend, I’m going to make like the PM and go all football metaphor on your ass(es). Forgive me for taking the name of the beautiful game in vain, but needs must and such like nonsense.
Now before you step out onto the pitch you might want to get yourselves in shape, a couple of sprints, a jog or two, maybe a push up here and a lunging squat there. The aim is not to firm up your biceps, glutes and others, although that’s a much appreciated bonus given that your rippling muscles leave them drooling when you step out in your sleeveless tunic and ass gripping shorts (remember the kitCameroon wore to that Afcon in Mali
Catchy title, no? No? Moving on swiftly…
Women. We vex you don’t we? We say one thing and then turn around and do the exact opposite, and then we give you hell when you ask us why. I know, its bloody frustrating, but what can you do, right? Gentlemen, because I am a kind and generous person, and because it’s a sunny Friday morning and I’m in a good mood, I’m going to give you a few tips about the games women play, and how to beat them at it, and to make it easier to comprehend, I’m going to make like the PM and go all football metaphor on your ass(es). Forgive me for taking the name of the beautiful game in vain, but needs must and such like nonsense.
Now before you step out onto the pitch you might want to get yourselves in shape, a couple of sprints, a jog or two, maybe a push up here and a lunging squat there. The aim is not to firm up your biceps, glutes and others, although that’s a much appreciated bonus given that your rippling muscles leave them drooling when you step out in your sleeveless tunic and ass gripping shorts (remember the kit
1. This game is one of endurance and persistence, if you can’t outwit them (and you probably can’t), then outlast them. They’ll eventually get tired and lie down.
Assuming that you have trained like there’s no tomorrow and have now qualified to play in a real game, you then get to walk on to the pitch, if you’re lucky in a magnificent cathedral like the Bernabeu, or, as is more likely, a little bowl like City Stadium. No matter though, the rules of the game are the same; you score, you win. No, I’m not being blonde, this game is slightly different from football. In football you play as a team, looking to score the most goals, yes? Not in this game, here only the bugger who scores, scores. Teamwork is only useful in as far as it gets you to the goal mouth, then you’re on your own. If you have visions of being a nondescript sweeper cleaning up at the back for the rest of your life, my friend, you will be alone for a long, long time. Even Baresi came forward every so often, and scored, no?
Assuming that you have trained like there’s no tomorrow and have now qualified to play in a real game, you then get to walk on to the pitch, if you’re lucky in a magnificent cathedral like the Bernabeu, or, as is more likely, a little bowl like City Stadium. No matter though, the rules of the game are the same; you score, you win. No, I’m not being blonde, this game is slightly different from football. In football you play as a team, looking to score the most goals, yes? Not in this game, here only the bugger who scores, scores. Teamwork is only useful in as far as it gets you to the goal mouth, then you’re on your own. If you have visions of being a nondescript sweeper cleaning up at the back for the rest of your life, my friend, you will be alone for a long, long time. Even Baresi came forward every so often, and scored, no?
2. You have to take a shot, yourself, eventually.
There you are, you and yours on one side, and a bunch of women on the other. What? You thought you were playing each other? Noooo… What fun would that be? You’re playing against a bunch of vicious women, extremely devious and deceptively small, but with one or two defenders who look like they ate their children for breakfast. These women play like Italians, professional fouls from start to finish, this as they smile sweetly at the ref they bought two weeks ago. Please note that before the game starts one hand is tied behind your back, and then said hand is loosely tied to your boot for good measure, just in case. Not to worry though, these ladies won’t be using their hands either, they just got their nails did…
3. The game is stacked against you, adapt or die (alone).
So the game is about to kick off and you notice some commotion on the opposite end. What’s this, the goal posts are being uprooted? And now they’re carrying in a new set… What the hell? Not to worry, one goal is the same as the other, right? The ref blows the whistle and you’re off, running down the pitch with fluid well thought out passes, all German like, tap, run, tap, run… in a couple of minutes you’re right outside the box. The ladies, however, are quite nonplussed, standing on either side of the goal, chatting. Confused you look to the ref and he waves play on, so you swing in a cross to your star striker, he that always claims to score. He leaps up and swivels his body, raising his right boot to meet the pin-point Beckam-esque cross. Thwack! He bicycle-kicks the ball over his head, flash bastard, and it’s headed into the top right hand corner. The crowd is hushed watching the trajectory. The ladies are hushed watching the trajectory. The team is hushed watching the trajectory. Then at the last minute, the ladies on the right give the goal posts a little shove to the left and the ball whistles just past the upright. That’s right gents, the goal posts are on rollers.
4. The goal posts can and will be shifted at any moment, deal with it.
You run to ref crying foul but he walks away, unmoved. Play on, he says. You shrug and get back into position, you figure that with your skills, its only a matter of time before you score, law of averages and all. The ladies get their goal kick, and their keeper, a voluptuous little thing clad in a skimpy outfit better suited to beach volleyball, promptly kicks the ball right back to you, winking saucily as she does so. You miss the ball completely as a result of such blatant overtures, at which point their striker, a nippy little thing who bears some resemblance to Marta snaps up the ball and takes off down the wing, making a beeline for your goal. You start to chase after her, but you quickly get distracted by the sight of her ample ass jiggling in her Sepp Blatter inspired booty shorts as she sprints ahead of you, and before you know it the rest of your team mates are right there beside you, watching her go. Ah, the beautiful game… She shoots, but your goalkeeper, the only other person with his eye on the ball makes a fantastic Casillas type save. So fantastic in fact, that Marta walks up to him and kisses him, a hot, nasty, ‘we are about to get busy’ kiss, grabbing his head in one hand and his ass in the other. You know the kiss I mean, no? No? We must talk about that, later. He passes out in a delirious fog of lust (Casillas again?), and they both leave with the medics, having just scored their own goals.
5. Keep your eye on the ball, if you want to score.
Game restarts but this time the ladies have come to play. They’re in an aggressive 2-3-5 formation, they’re out to score. They quickly pass the ball forward, flowing towards your goal like a wave, tap, tap, tap, tap… you can barely keep up. You slide in to tackle the winger, but she skips over you lightly and continues her run down the flank, leaving you on the grass with skid marks on your ass. She plays the ball into the box and your defender heads it away over the crossbar. Corner. The lights go out, then come back on a few seconds later. In front of you now is the all star team. Yep, they switched players, all of them. Where before you had Wangeci, the unassuming intern from accounts with a thick Nyeri accent, you now have Maryanne, the ’accounts assistant’ with a bosom to die, luscious locks down to her pert little ass, and an American accent (with faint traces of Nyeri). Again you run to the ref crying foul, and again he walks away unmoved, checking his mpesa balance to confirm the cash is in. They take the corner, Maryanne rubs her boobs against your defender’s back and he turns to her, inadvertently heading the ball into his own net. He shoots, she scores. The lights go out again, and when they come back on, Maryanne is gone and Wangeci is back, only now Wangeci has his number.
6. Substitutions will be made, often, with no warning.
When the game restarts, you manage to steal the ball away from their midfield as they gossip about your number 7, the one with the very tight shorts on, who runs like a girl and squeals each time you touch his hair, the one you suspect is really playing for the ladies team. You sprint down the field, heading straight for the centre, that way they cant shift the goal on you again. As you huff and puff towards the goal, you notice the voluptuous goalkeeper standing in the corner with your star striker, having an intimate chat. Incensed at not being taken seriously, you continue charging forward, ignoring the screams of your better placed, and more talented, team mates, this goal is yours. At the edge of the box you chip the last defender and watch as the ball floats towards the goal mouth, dipping… The goalkeeper looks up in shock at the unexpected attack. Dipping… Your other star striker, the one who spends most of his time wandering around aimlessly contemplating a new hair cut, lurches forward to try and poach it, but it flies just over his head, dipping… It looks like its going in and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Dipping… And it’s in. The crowd goes wild… You are now a superstar.
When the game restarts, you manage to steal the ball away from their midfield as they gossip about your number 7, the one with the very tight shorts on, who runs like a girl and squeals each time you touch his hair, the one you suspect is really playing for the ladies team. You sprint down the field, heading straight for the centre, that way they cant shift the goal on you again. As you huff and puff towards the goal, you notice the voluptuous goalkeeper standing in the corner with your star striker, having an intimate chat. Incensed at not being taken seriously, you continue charging forward, ignoring the screams of your better placed, and more talented, team mates, this goal is yours. At the edge of the box you chip the last defender and watch as the ball floats towards the goal mouth, dipping… The goalkeeper looks up in shock at the unexpected attack. Dipping… Your other star striker, the one who spends most of his time wandering around aimlessly contemplating a new hair cut, lurches forward to try and poach it, but it flies just over his head, dipping… It looks like its going in and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Dipping… And it’s in. The crowd goes wild… You are now a superstar.
7. Skip the bullshit and go straight for goal. They won’t see you coming, and by the time they do, it will be too late.
Game tied at one all, the remaining players are forced to go to penalties, this after a boring extra time where all they do is walk from one end of the pitch to another, sipping on a clear liquid that looks like water, but isn’t. Being that they’re all Africans, the penalty shoot out is nothing if not dramatic, if for no other reason than they’re all quite plastered. After each player has taken a shot, and missed, the game is still tied at 1-1. Being that they’re all drunk Africans, they then decide that they are tired and resort to taking body shots, last man standing wins, and thus loses. Remember those defenders who looked like they’d eaten their children? Turns out baby fat is an excellent stomach lining, soaks up alcohol like a sponge.
8. When all else fails, try tequila. Or not.
There are days I worry for my sanity, and if you’re reading this then I worry for yours too.
8. When all else fails, try tequila. Or not.
There are days I worry for my sanity, and if you’re reading this then I worry for yours too.
