And It Came To Pass…

That Solomon was epic.

And God said “dude. What do you want?” And Solomon didn’t ask for money, clothes or hoes. He asked for common sense. And Premium Common Sense™ was granted to him. And two women came to argue over whose child it was. But Solomon had seen this episode of Desperate Housewives before, so he solved that shit with ease.

And Solomon married like 300 hunned hoes. And Fela was like “damn”. And it was nothing. Cos Solomon wasn’t satisfied with having a different box every day cos that leaves out 65 days. So Solomon had like 700 more concubines. And the Bible doesn’t tell us if they were all female, but I’m not saying anything.

And Solomon was a thrill nigga. Cos Solomon didn’t forget any of their anniversary dates. And Solomon prolly called all his hoes by name. Cos he was wise. And Solomon tried everything ma nigga. All kinds of alcohol, weed, had like 3 orgies daily, prolly wrote the Karma Sutra book, and Solomon was tired of being so real and declared it all vanity and decided to be a poet.

And Solomon wrote love poems on some R Kelly shit, and died.

And it came to pass…

That David had 3 mighty men. Even though we’re only gonna talk about two. And these niggas made Leonidas and his band of 300 merry men look like runway models. And these niggas. And they were called Josheb-Basshebeth, Eleazar, and Shammah.

And Josheb-Basshebeth (we’re just gonna call him Josheb yeah? Cool) was the head of the 3. And this nigga killed 800 people in one day. Meaning he probably woke up at 6am, brushed his teeth, freshened up for war and looked daper as fuck, swagged all the way out to the battle field around 8:30am, probably, and started whooping niggas asses. He also had to sleep, cos real niggas don’t play with they sleep. Meaning he prolly went back to his pimped out tent at about 8:30pm. So 800 people in 12 hours. That’s like 66 people every hour. That’s 1 person every minute.

And this nigga didn’t even take a water break man, this nigga was turnt. Shaun T better watch out.

And then there was Eleazar. When he Dude was online one night when the Philistines were slandering them. Then the philistines attacked and all the punk ass niggas retreated. But not ma nigga Zar. Zar stood alone and was slaying bitch niggas left, right & center like it was nothing. Then the Isrealites joined him but all that was left to do was cleanup.

Cleanup. Shit.

And so it came to pass…

That Joseph could read minds yo.

Okay, no. He couldn’t. But that nigga could dream on some Martin Luther King shit. And he told his brothers that he was gon’ be the greatest and they hated him cos he was too real for them. And they sold their own flesh and blood to the Egyptians dawg the men in the old testament had no regard for their brothers since Cain and Abel.

And Joseph legit went into slavery but somehow found himself in Potiphar’s house. And Joseph was so fresh and so clean with his white linen on that Potiphar’s wife’s pussy had a seizure when she saw him. Shit was mad real man. Joseph used to walk by and she would get so wet she would swim back to her room.

And one day she couldn’t take it anymore, so she called Joey Fresh to her room and she offered Joe the box. And Joe legit turned it down like a popped collar ma nigga.

For this reason alone, Joseph the thrillest nigga to ever walk in Egypt. And God looked down and was like “That’s my boy” and God made him Prime Minister.

And Potiphar’s wife had to buy a dildo.

And so it came to pass…

That Samson was so strong he grew his dada by pulling hair out of his head and was such a badass that he killed niggas with the jaw of an ass. I didn’t even know butt cheeks had jaws man this nigga was too real. And the Philistenes were all like “whoa”.

And the Philistines got together and decided the only way to bring him down was to send a lightskinned hoe his way. So they sent Delilah and Delilah got Samson’s number on Facebook and sent Samson some nudes on Whatsapp.

And Samson flew over to Delilah’s crib for the weekend.

And Samson definitely wasn’t hitting it right. Cos if he was, Delilah wouldn’t have had the strength to ask him stupid questions like “what is the secret of your strength?” after sex. Cos she would be passed the fuck out from all that good dick.

And it came to pass that Samson told her the secret to his strength like a punk ass bitch lil nigga cos we all know we don’t trust these hoes. And Delilah sold him out to the Philistines. And the world’s most famous haircut happened and Samson died.


And Delilah retired as a professional loud mouth, hair styling hoe and decided to go ‘inspire’ / seduce the members of the Plain White Tees.

And it came to pass…

Tat Ma Name

Video Games.
Friend’s House.
These were the basic ingredients in my relationship with Koko. It was sweet, real and in your face bitches… I called him Sweat & he called me Salt, weird I know but that’s the thing about me & Koko we aren’t your next door couple. The fights were always intense & the sex was the Thriller in the Manilla, Rumble in the jungle type of shit.

His dick was my weed, my drug, my elixir, my kryptonite, my food…. I smoked a joint every morning; just wrap my lips around his joint & blow. Twitter was our playground, we laughed @ some basic people there (Oracle, Madam Nose & That Dude)…. A lot of people were jealous of us, our PDA was offensive yet interesting .
Everything was good. On point. Blissful till…….

Well, till our 2nd year anniversary, I already had it figured out:
-Ice cream ☑
-Movie (The NoteBook) ☑
-Honey ☑
-Handcuffs ☑
-Striptease ☑

Just basic stuff nothing extravagant per say. I called homeboy & told him to come over. I had on my black corset, fishnet stockings & red stripper heels. I was on the mission to make him my bitch for the day….

Koko came over & told me he had a surprise for me but I had to dress up first. I sadly dropped my imaginary whip, got dressed & we went out…

‘Is he going to propose?, OMG OMG OMG is he?’ I was trying to compose my nervousness when this nigger pulled up to a complex…. ‘Err okay, what am I doing here’ I asked myself. I looked at his face but couldn’t read shit so I decided to play along. We entered a Tattoo shop & he shouted:


I was stunned that he bought a tattoo shop for me, I was already devising a plan on how to transform it to a shoe whore house when my sweet Koko announced:

‘ We are getting Tattoos love’.

Wait what? Are you kidding me?

I looked at him with my mouth wide open & the negro continued

‘We are getting tattoos of our names, I’m gonna write your name on my chest, where will you prefer?’

I just kissed him & smiled. I told him to go begin, I stood by his side as they stencilled my name, I watched them shave the necessary part as the needles began working. I excused myself and walked out, the whole twitter ish about the girl (Handle withheld for obvious reasons) that got a tattoo of her boyfriend & got dumped later played in my head till I got into a cab.

I switched off my phone and thought about the Ice cream melting away at home (Fucking Waste)
Then Rick Ross’s Free Spirit played on the stereo. Tat my name on you so I know it’s real. Tat my motherfucking name so I know you’re an Ode… I laughed out loud_

Happy Anniversary Koko :*

Shitty Business

I must say growing up was fun. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t entirely fun back then but now, when you sit back relaxed with a hot cup of molten choco milo and reflect on the past, you actually realise it was fun – sometimes, I’m even honest to myself to admit i miss it.

Whenever I’m struck with such memories, its the ones with me in nursery and primary school that get me laughing a lot. Come on, you can’t tell me you never covered your ass with ur hand, farted and used the same hand to cover ur classmates nose. Or stuck pencils on a friend’s chair and waited for ‘her’ to sit down. Or eaten your meal so early in the morning before your friends come, so you can lie to them that you forgot it at home so they can share theirs. Or…………. Should I go on?

Hey, don’t give me that look.


Other things I often remember are the things we were taught in nursery class. I’m talking about the rules we had to follow, etiquettes, we were taught to show courtesy at all times, to pray before eating, to sleep when told to, never to tell lies even if it meant us getting into trouble, to always trust our elders;

“Tobe, did you do your assignment today?”


“Come on tell me, you know I won’t beat you”

“I didn’t do it”

I still have the scars.


But come to think of it, these things they were actually trying to teach us back then, while we thought they were just being mean to us, were quite helpful. I remember specifically how we used to stand up and recite this ‘welcome greeting’ in nursery class every time a parent/teacher/headmistress came in.

“Goodmooooooooooorning Ma/Sir….. You are welcome to nursery 2A. God bless you Ma/Sir, Amen. Thank You.”

It was compulsory that any time someone much older than you walked in, you were to show your full respect by standing up and warming the person into the room, with your charm of course. Even if the person was so hideously looking and all you could think of was a crucifix and some garlic to chase the person away, you still had to pray for them. (That’s where the ‘God Bless You’ part comes in)

What our nursery school teachers failed to do, was to tell us this particular courtesy doesn’t apply in all cases – there are some instances you can’t just stand up and say hi… Fuck the rules!

What you are going to read happened in a small village called Nkwerre, in Nigeria of course…way back in the 1990s. 1994 to be precise.

On the fateful year, my parents decided that I should spend some time with my maternal uncle’s family back in the village who was a popular trader. My uncle and my aunt considered me as that ‘City Boy’ who needed a lot of help to adjust to life in Nkwerre and they tried their very best to make my 15day stay comfortable. Unfortunately, they couldn’t help me with one thing… Back then, houses in Nkwerre didn’t have toilets.


You read it right…

They didn’t have toilets. The folks in Nkwerre were so busy working that they found allocating space to toilets, an unnecessary wastage.

So as a result, my uncle’s house also didn’t have a toilet.

Within 30 minutes of landing in their house, I asked: “Uncle, toilet?”

“Number one or number two?” He enquired.

“Please Uncle, tell me,” I replied embarrassed.

“Son, it depends. Tell me…number one or number two?”

“”Hmm…number one.”

“Just head out to that little shed down there, wait for it to be empty. The best times for this is between 2pm to 4 pm”

“Whattttt?” I just couldn’t believe my ears, and eyes, at what he was pointing at.

My uncle smiled.

“Don’t worry, we have a better arrangement for number two.”

I could see that he was confident that his solution for number two was better than that for number one.

“And what if it were number two?”

“Hmm…in that case, here take this ₦5 note and head straight for the Anthony Road, the very next street…they have a public toilet there. Tell the guy sitting outside that its number two and give him this ₦5 and he will allow you inside.”

“Whattttt?” Again, I just couldn’t believe my ears.

Fate had struck twice within the span of 30 seconds. And struck at my genitals…it wasn’t going to be easy getting up.

With a heavy heart, I walked out of the house, onto the next shed and waited for it to be empty (it was a long wait)…and then emptied my bladder. The moment I was back, my uncle, aunt and their three children were waiting to ask me how it went. To add insult to injury, they were smiling.

That day, I didn’t drink too much water …but still had to rush out at 7pm. It was a little easier. At around 8pm, it struck me that I should also be worried about the next day morning. What about number two? So, I had a very light dinner…it surprised my aunt that a boy my age had such bad appetite. But I wasn’t willing to risk emptying my bowels in my trouser.

At 11 pm, I managed to sleep off the fear. But it was back again when I got up at 7am. I moved around the house slowly…lest I trigger some bowel movements. I refused the tea my aunt gave me saying I wasn’t into drinking tea. She couldn’t believe it…but I was adamant.

At 6.30 am, my uncle said I could accompany him to the public toilet. The whole distance I tried to maintain a balanced walk, lest I triggered any intestinal movements. I tried not to laugh at my uncle’s jokes, which tend to upset him a bit…but I didn’t care. Honour before anything else.

My first public toilet experience was a huge success. I was in and out in less than two minutes. The man who collected money smiled when he saw me return and asked me to come back the next day – and why not, after all it is the two-minute customers like me whom he would prefer for a bountiful business.

The next day my uncle didn’t accompany me. I would ask my uncle for ₦5 and walk out of the house on my daily chore….it was that simple. The next three days went well…in fact I had started to enjoy the new experience. It was all fine, I told myself. Or at least that is what I thought.

But on the fourth day tragedy struck…the moment I came out of the toilet after spending my ₦5, my stomach started mumbling again and I had this urge to go back immediately.

“Hi Sir, I just paid you ₦5 and came out early. Can I go again please?”

“No! For ₦5 there is only one entry. To enter again, you need to pay me another ₦5.”

I wouldn’t say I walked back with a heavy heart…it was in fact heavy bowels that I walked back home with, asked my uncle for another ₦5 and walked all the way back to the public toilet to relieve myself. I came back to my uncle’s house a dejected boy…and also, a boy who had understood the importance of ₦5.

This went on for a few days (I had started going there with ₦10, just in case). During a casual chat with my uncle, I asked him:

“Is this the only place one can go to?”

“No…there are couple of other options as well. But I thought you might not be so adventurous.”

This pricked my ego so I replied: “You haven’t tried me yet, uncle.”

He continued looking into his papers and said: “OK then, be ready at 6am. I would suggest you eat a light dinner.”

The next day we took off at about 6.15 am for an adventurous dump taking. Once I started asking questions, I came to know that we were going to a almost dried up lake in the outskirts of the village. We were to take a dump in the lake, wash up in the yet-to-dry parts of the lake and come back home.

As luck would have it, this lake was 3kms away and I was tired by the time we reached. But when we reached, it was heavenly….a wide expanse of dried up land with little bushes sprinkled all around. Once we were almost in the middle of the dried up lake, my uncle advised me to take a spot behind one of the bushes and relieve myself. The very next moment, he vanished…. probably behind some bushes.

I looked around, found a thickset bush, went behind it and squatted. The next two minutes were very peaceful…nobody in sight, just the chirruping of the birds. Just when I was about to get up I heard some women talking and the voices grew louder with time. I tried to place where they were coming from….and it was from right behind me.

I had two choices – stay put and pretend nothing happened or get up and stand right in the middle of nowhere, greet them while I pretend I was doing something else. I could have easily said I was Weeding the bushes. Or looking for my aunty’s lost earring. Or following the trails left by an animal, probably a mammoth.

Or just claim to be picking beans.

“Where’s is the beans?”

I planted them some days ago but not everyone can see them because they were magic beans an old woman gave me.

I chose the first option.

Now the voices were really close…and that’s when I heard: “Why won’t he get up? He is still sitting there. Has he no respect?”

They were talking about me!

But I stubbornly held my ground…now they were probably 15meters behind me.

Within seconds I could see them from the corner of my right eye. My nursery school teacher hadn’t advised me on the appropriate behaviour in such instances. The stench coming from beneath me was suicidal. But I held my ground…I continued to sit. For psychological comfort, I even closed my eyes.

I heard one woman ask the other: “Do you think he is blind?”

The other replied: “Even if he was blind, I am sure he can hear us. Or is he is both blind and deaf?”

Now I didn’t need to look through the corner of my eye – I could see them through the bushes. But I continued to hold my ground.

Before they disappeared, the first woman told the second: “Children of now a days have no respect…can’t they get up when they see women approaching? Nonsense! If he were my child I would have beaten his destiny out of him.”

Now I knew why the women were upset…but it was too late to get up.

I think it was a mini heart attack or a nervous breakdown, all I remember was gravity taking over and something warm and uncomfortable welcoming me.


Fairy Fails

I was sitting around doing my daily Rounds of meditation, and a few thoughts crept into my subconscious and opened my mind to things that you homo sapiens have otherwise been oblivious to. You people have been in the dark for far too long yo!

Never fear. Cumical’s here.

I shall further proceed to enlighten you. It’s bad enough that you have no idea about the origins of the childhood stories you grew up to. And yet you stay eating food and breathing air like nothing is wrong! There are subconscious messages in the average storybook, and y’all niggas don’t see this shit?

Tsk tsk. *lights blunt*

Listen close.

We shall begin with by far the most obvious sex scandal of all time. Subtly hidden in the title I might add. I wonder why no one has seen this.

-Little Red Riding Hood
This skank red-haired ho here be wearing red pumps and lingerie, skipping through the forest merrily, looking for some dick.

Yo! Red is by far the worst ho since Snow White.

But that’s a story for another day.

Ain’t no damn wolf in this love story. Shiiit.

Remember Robin Hood? Steal-from-the-rich give-to-the-broke-ass-bitches Robin Hood? Real nigga with the bows and arrows and the really strong hands, and about four hunnid faggots all up in his grill ‘n’ shit? Yeah, that’s the nigga we’re gonna be shedding some light on.

Huddle up niggas. Huddle up.

So Red be doing her daily dick survey yeah? Robin Hood be setting traps for rich niggas in the forest n shit. Red be going “Damn, he fine” skipping merrily t’wards the nigga with her titties all bouncing and what not, goimg “Hey, what big strong hands you have”

Now Robin Hood might be a kind hearted gentleman that gives to the poor and to charity and all, but the wadn’t gon let no pussy slide, nah mean? So he gets his baritone on and goes “The better to fist you with”

Oi! Wole, Tula! Do you see what I did there? No?

Then Red goes “What a strong back you have”

Hood goes “Yeah, work’s all night too”

Red goes “What a big dick you have”

Hood goes “How the fuck did you see that?”

Red goes “Oh I seen you butt nekkid during those regular feasts o’ yours. Yeah, you be hanging that dick on your shoulder n’ shit” and the skank ho starts taking Hood’s shirt off, and his pants and gets on top of him and…

Well, Little Red (starts) Riding Hood.

Bet you didn’t know that, didya? Nah…

You’re welcome. Mortals…

Let’s move on, shall we?


Everyone knows Rapunzel was black right? If you didn’t know, then now you do. She lived in a tower with her ‘wicked grandmother’, who never let her go out, she was 18 years old, and she was blacker than Michael Jackson. And guess what other thing she had in common with MJ?

A jerry curl…

Lemme start from the beginning though! Kick some knowledge in this bitch.
Rapunzel’s ‘grandmother’ didn’t need Rapunzel’s hair to look young. She had Dr. 90210 for that shit. Naaah. Rapunzel’s mother was a lesbian yo! And she needed that young blood, that vibrant exotic body. Rapey never got any older than 18, and that was her magic. Not that she could transfer that to anybody or any absurd shit like that.

ALSO (and this is very important), Rapey had a fro. But it wasn’t on her head. It was down south on her tushie. Booyah!
I kid you not. Faggots, I kid you not.
Rapunzel’s grandmother had a standard OTIS lift that took her up and down the tower so she really didn’t need Rapey’s hair to get in and out. So really, every time she said “Rapunzel, let down your hair”, she wanted to have sex.

And believe it or not, Rapey’s vagina fro would become a jerry curl and slide all the way down, parting at the clittoris to reveal that sweet nectar.

Get it? Let down…your hair?

*crowd goes crazy*

*blushing* Shhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!! You guys! I’m trying to spit wisdom.

Another thing, is that the fro had voice prompt. So the damn vagina wouldn’t open up for anybody else. So a young horny prince once noticed this shit going on, and recorded Rapey’s grandmother while she was saying “Let down your hair”, and then bust a cap in her, and saved Rapey from the bondage therein. He now had the key to the pussy which he kept locked on his iPod.

You’re welcome yo! You’re welcome.

I’ve got a couple more, but the post is already getting long, so that will be all for today. Cool? Cool. See y’all tomorrow.

Am I free now?

Rated 1580

Good day, mortals.

I know you’re going to disagree with me, but nothing is harder than peeing with morning wood. Not even pregnancy. Trying to get the Tower Of Babel out of a jeans zipper is by far harder than any math/physics problem you’ve ever encountered.


That has nothing to do with the post. I’ve just always wanted to start with some absurd truth that nobody can disagree with for once.

Has anyone watched the movie “Anonymous”? You know, the one about Shakespeare being a fraud? Well, I’m not even here to promote, what I loved about the movie was the dialogue in Old English. This was a major inspiration to this post.

Just putting it out there… ( ._.)

This is an article I wrote for Deolu Bubble’s magazine. I’ve been a big fan of Deolu Bubble’s posts, especially the “Stories from My Duvet” 18+ section, and so when he asked me to write something for him, I knew it had to be sexual. Then he said he wanted something funny. I was at a dilemma, then I decided, “Fuck this shit, I’m a writer gaddemmit!”

So I wrote some shit.

I wonder what erotica was like back in the day. Like when they didn’t have use of the words “fuck”, ”bang”, “screw” and all those obscenities. And then the idea came to write Elizabethan erotica. ^.^ Here is what I would have written if I was born in TweetOracle’s time:


He found himself drawn to her. His thoughts dawdled to her oft at times when the diurnal was set and the crickets exchanged banter. He would retreat to his room and rouse his lumbar with liniment to images of her visage created by his imagination. He reckoned she may not be substantially riveted by his mien, but he had avowed to give it a try. And so at twilight, when the sun retreated to the shadows, and the homosexual vampires were about, good fate smiled upon him, and he was finally opportuned to indulge her in a tryst. He invited her for a rendezvous at the giant room with moving images.

With the lights dim and but a handful of people seated all the way at the obverse division of the large room, he ventured to pour out the innards of his soul to her. Attesting to how she was the very epicentre of his cosmos and how the stars shone in her eyes, and yada yada and the inoperable dribble of youth in an endeavour to lure women.

“Oh ye unintelligent lad, doth thou not know that the fair maidens of the land desire a man so stalwart as to make my fleeting heart leap from my form and beat to lands nigh yonder? Art thou oblivious of the desire of my heart?“, She had interrupted.

“I understand not what you speak of dear lass”, He said.

“Engage me in sweet coitus and bequeath unto me bliss of heights unknown. I trust your hacksaw is of significant span?”, She asked.

They couldn’t be perturbed to bolt the ingress to his abode, and as the resonance of the plethora of raindrops beating on the window panes outside attempted to engulf her loud moans and muffled yelps, he could not help but recount those night falls when he had stimulated himself.

Such a misuse of advantageous ointment…

When she lay expended in his arms, his thoughts were about the occurrences that just occurred but a few moments ago. He thought about how the beginning of her unswerving oration had interrupted the middle of his vocal rendition, how they had nigh on hastily ventured to his dwelling place, and how he could not evoke the memories of the moments when his bare chest began to make contact with hers. He could however hark back to how she had swathed her forelimbs to circumvent his neck and whispered “occupy me”, how there were silent protests in his head, and how the konji had held the fort of his better judgement.

Then he had her in his arms in one upheaval, and had transported her to the kitchen in but a few quick strides, for his inner chambers had seemed oh so far away. He had frayed her clothes off, had unfurled her hind limbs and had lapped up her juices. Then she had begged, nay pleaded with him to slide into her and he had inserted his phallus in her moggy. She had screamed his name and held on tight and begged for mercy from this stallion.
He became a brute. Yearning, craving, and demanding. And she succumbed to all his desires. He was beheld as unto one expected to never be drained of his vigour, his vitality, and he bent her and entwined her to his will. His prowess at contortion could rival that of even the greatest magicians.

And then she was down upon her knees, and she was taking his phallus in her vocal fissure. Then he gazed upon her countenance and spoke the sweet words every maiden hankered to heed:

“Fair maiden, I draw nigh unto mine acme” and then he burst his seed upon her gaze.

“You will never have need of liniment, ever again.”

And right she was…


You just gotta love Elizabethan English. Don’t be ashamed to use the dictionary, I know I did. Hope you enjoyed it. Please share what you think…

Things That Keep Me Up At Night

As we all know, Terdoh is a sick, perverted, gay dude. And I don’t mean the happy kind. See, he wanted me to write about incest. Like, brothers and sisters playing mummy and daddy and such. Can you imagine? *sigh* But really. What is incest? I mean, doesn’t it depend on how we look at it? I could spend hours online looking for irrefutable evidence that everyone is related to everyone else (seeing as we all started with Adam and Eve), thus we are all guilty of incest. No? Well, I don’t rally have that much mental strength. We will not be discussing incest like the fellow wants. We will be discussing something more important than that. Things that keep me up at night. Lemme start by saying: I’m not an insomniac. WTF do you think an insomniac is? An insomniac is someone who has SERIOUS difficulty going to sleep and/or staying asleep AT ANY FRIGGING TIME OF THE DAY. Shit is ridiculous. The fact that I happen to be awake between the hours of 12am and 5am doesn’t make me an insomniac. No, it doesn’t. It means I have better shit to do than sleep. But you know what? Even that makes me more of an insomniac than most of you illiterates out there.

You can’t go to sleep at 10pm, manage to wake up before the sun rises, and then come on twitter to tweet ignorant shit like #TeamInsomnia. Ugh! The worst kind are the ones that even pretend they’ve been awake watching movies or reading (as if!) all the time they’ve been absent from the interwebs. I mean, come on! Really? If that isn’t stupid, I don’t know what is. If you are one of these people and you’re reading this now, you have been educated. Insomnia is not a condition you kid about, or turn into a characteristic of a coo keed. You’re welcome, dumbass.


Things that keep me up at night. How much space do I have to write? I mean, what’s my word limit? Meh. I’ll stop when I’m tired. I’ve been obsessed with nursery rhymes lately. I loved them so much when I was little, I had like a dozen tapes of rhymes and sing-a-longs and I had A LOT of books (even though they all contained most of the same content). But when we moved away, I lost it all (˘̩̩_˘̩̩̩ƪ) I didn’t know how to deal, so I forced myself to move on. It’s why my childhood was so incomplete 😦 Or is it?

Recently, on my blog I discussed nursery rhymes and how nursery-friendly they really are. The first post was really a spur of the moment thing, so, since then, I’ve tried to spend more time looking into it. I have failed on account of laziness ( -.- ) But fret not! I’m gonna throw another haphazard thought process your way. Because I love you, and I know how crushed you’ll be if I don’t give you something to read. Yeah. I’m awesome like that. Now. Who here doesn’t know ‘Rock-A-Bye Baby’? I refuse to believe there’s anyone who doesn’t. Still, for the sole purpose of chopping space, I’m gonna go ahead and put it here for all to see:

“Rock a bye baby on the tree top, When the wind blows the cradle will rock, When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, And down will come baby, cradle and all.“

You’ve known this as a lullaby for as long as you’ve known it, right? By now, you have to have asked yourself “da fuq kinda lullaby is this?”. If you haven’t, I suggest you re-evaluate your mental condition. Is this shit supposed to soothe a baby? Lull the defenceless creature to sleep? You’re basically telling the baby “Look, if you sleep, you will fall and die”. Am I right?! Or am I right? Who thought up this bright idea, anyway? I have to wonder if it started as some sort of joke. I mean, why would you even consider putting a baby’s cradle on top of A TREE. And then he/she didn’t stop there. Some wind has to come along and rock the cradle resting on the tree. Of course, the branch has to break, sending the innocent child crashing to his/her death 😦 I fail to understand how this is comforting. And it’s hard for me to think that parents who read this to their kids really have that child’s best interest at heart.

It’s true.

Think about it.

How possible is it that no parent has detected the violent undertone in this “lullaby”? They may be old, but they aren’t stupid. You probably pissed your dad off, and he just wanted to kill you. But he knew he couldn’t. So, he picked you up, held you in his arms, and started singing this shit to you and rocking.

Dude will be smiling being comforted by the thought of you falling from a tree, and you’ll be there thinking he loves you. *sigh* This life.


Terdoh wanted me to read some sort of sexual meaning into this, and I probably could have. But I didn’t. Why? Because I love you, even though we’ve never met, and I want you to know the truth. Here it is: If anyone, especially your parents, ever read or sang ‘Rock-A-Bye Baby’ to you as a child, you were unloved. Probably because you’re adopted. You should find out. You have a right to know.

Again, you’re welcome.