Cupping Java House Coffee. Enter Woman.

I just love coffee. Plain old fashioned coffee made from ground coffee beans with no milk and a dash of sugar.

One day soon after I started working, I decided to try Java House coffee. A number of friends were full of the coffee on offer there. This was after having to imbibe in weak coffee in campus, made from boiling water passed through a sieve with coffee beans. I will not bore you to death with remarks on the taste here, but I took it for a number of years, and I actually still miss it.

This being a big day for me, I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth overly, no need to pass ill judgement on celebrated coffee, whilst you actually had toothpaste in your taste buds. I took a shower, used no shower gel, dried myself and oiled myself with no-perfumed Vaseline and sauntered out of the house without wearing any cologne, feeling light spirited and headed for the Java House on Mama Ngina Street. I used to stay deep inside Ruaraka, and had to walk about two kilometres to Thika Road to catch a mathree to town, so I set-off on my grand mission.

The day had bloomed like a lofty flowery plant from Mount Kenya, petals of hours torn free by the wind to seek cool water and shadow within which they might be forgotten. As I walked along the asphalt track, memories of days gone by shimmered with the slight heat peppered by a cool breeze, blurring details of the long walk and picturesque view of the GSU Headquarters into an impressionistic canvas upon which everything else was distorted when one looked too closely.

The black pieces of garbage disposal bags stuck on growth along the banks of Ruai River, the balustrade of the narrow bridge bound together by bolts and nuts, arrhythmic strands of birds chirping along the way, a few Colobus monkeys jumped from one tree to another, as some tinier genres of monkeys streaked along the GSU headquarters wire fence, dancing rhythmically as they did so. I passed the gate of the mysterious building, rumoured to be an NSIS officers’ mess, but was soon after opened as Hotel La Mada. I could imagine myself drinking weak coffee in campus, as I savoured the taste, eyes closed, just for a few moment of caffeine bliss to sink in, then back to books. The limbo between voluminous Finance books and coffee drinks shifted with the sun, sometimes noticed, sometimes eternal, as the rays pieced through the leaves of the trees outside my room in the hall of residence. The difference was inconsequential.

It was approaching 4 PM, and I got to the highway, had an uneventful ride to the city centre in the boom twaff No. 44 superide mathree and alighted at Tom Mboya street, near the post office. I had the urge to stroll into one of the noisy exhibitions and buy a few pirated movies look at some clothes on offer, but the urge to taste the famed coffee urged me on. I walked to Mama Ngina street, and paused briefly at the entrance to Java House. Will I be thrown out? Is there a dress code? Is it expensive? The thoughts flew through my mind, and I decided to just take the risk and get in, not go home as I had done before when I developed cold feet outside a club, I was too shy to walk in there.

Choosing the coffee was one difficult task once the friendly lady thrust the menu at my chubby scared face. She must have known instantly that it was my first time, and I was lucky that this was a coffee shop, not a pub or a brothel. I told her I wanted plain coffee, and she suggested the house coffee, without milk. “Any accompaniments?” she asked, and I declined, as I wanted to cup this coffee without prejudice and pass judgement fairly. As I waited for the coffee to be brought, I looked around and some people were reading newspapers, some were chatting while some were in serious discussion, probably a business deal and someone was reading a book.

I noticed the woman once my coffee was brought and I looked up to acknowledge the waiter. Buxom. Large eyes. More flesh than she needed. And the sort of smile that derailed conversations, wrecking trains of thought. Starting of on my coffee, I gave her no more thought than she deserved. Her eyes sought my own. Fragments of the road I walked on half an hour ago were coming back, and they had grown sharp. Faces without names. Backs gleaming. Ecstatic grimaces. Dark liquid waiting in my cup. Focus recedes. My mind starts drifting.

Flash and blindness. Evening sets in. Shadows have probably stopped moving outside. Stitching the night closed with the thread of explanation, two silhouettes mapping the path from pillowcase to comforter, the eternity separating me from solace.

Strange girl arises, her face discerning a contentment of sorts, reminds one of a faded moon in the night of memory. I hear the rabbit scream of the cappuccino machine. Cream mist hides the alchemist as I turn over to look at the counter. Probably.

Throat relaxed, smooth Kisii soapstone, a statue leaning on sharp elbows, claws extended. Passionate kisses, sweaty bodies in the dark of the night. Frosted windows and the lights keep flashing, spectrum keeping time with a slowing pulse. Vodka expands upon contact, forming a pool beside the bed. She has no such luck. Leaning over the side, she can see everything. Hair covered in beaded Maasai headdress, dreadlocks emerge from the side like dark twines of wild climbers in Mau forest. Iris the color of old bruises. Reaching down toward herself, a finger breaks the surface. The image ripples, distorts before she has the chance to recognize the face.

"Excuse me."

I looked away from the past to the present, chasing the voice. The woman was standing beside my table, tucking her golden necklace back into her inviting bosom. I look back at my untouched coffee, then back at her. I feel sixteen again. Her smile was hesitant, hopeful.

Like that of a nurse with a patient regaining consciousness.

"I'm sorry, but I'm supposed to be meeting somebody here, somebody I haven't met before. Are you James?"

Seconds fractured and broke apart, the smallest pieces of which I took to consider my response.

Could I be another man? For an hour? For a night?

Possibilities unfurled, paths carved by words and careful sentences.

I could start over here, pick up where another man never had the opportunity to leave off. I could pretend I knew things I had yet to learn. Middle names. Nairobi suburbs and neighbourhoods. Small countryside towns and the ages of siblings. I could pretend I did not know the things I have learned, speaking without fear of seduction or offence, acting a part unrehearsed. Long walks in Uhuru Park. Courtship. Gold and diamonds. Bells. Children.

Peering back into her eyes, I saw a hope independent of my face. The dream of a romantic, seeking the first star, dropping small leaves as she stripped bare a sapling on some dusty countryside path.

No matter how the story might be written, the ending is always the same.

"No," I replied with a wicked thought otherwise. Orgasms and despondency flitted across my vision, translucent spots after glimpsing bright light. "Should he fail to meet your appointment, however, I should be flattered to assume his place.", I added. The light behind her gaze dimmed somewhat, falling with the corners of her mouth.

"That's okay," she murmured. "Thanks." And away she went, returning to the chair from which she had risen.

I stared at the table, gulped the contents of my cup, my coffee cupping mission all but forgotten. The taste of the coffee was just plain, slouched in regret, lost opportunities. “I shall come back another day to cup the Java House Coffee….” I told myself. Occasional glances went unnoticed. Waitresses went about their business, serving coffee, eggs, Mexican beans and more. Gathering my courage in resignation, I asked for my bill, I saw the woman sitting by the window, watching. Waiting. I slipped the waitress a hundred shilling note and left.

This is romance, I thought as I walked out the door, the unwrapped gift of a promise, empty in expectant hands.

An unremarkable lady alone, hoping otherwise. This is the wound that always bleeds, the truth we look away from, stumbling about in the dark room. Why is it we only identify knives by touch?

Suppressing every instinct, I did not turn back.

An encounter with a House of Yahweh adherent

The world has just ended. Or it is just about to.

This is not another of those sour predictions of the world ending that you hear about every now and then. No. This is just a short review of the recent happenings in the Rift Valley. Nakuru to be precise. Why would somebody predict that the world will end on 12 September 2006? That there will be a nuclear war and that is not the end. This is the post Yahweh.com:

“You need to put this date on your bathroom mirror. You also need to make preparations for the dark days ahead, which will affect every person on earth.... ”

I got to do a bit of an online background check after I read in the paper and in the news that there is a sect, very busy in Njoro, Mauche and Molo areas in Nakuru asking its members to sell their property and prepare for end times.

End times my God.

Members of the sect are right now holed up in some chamber in Njoro, praying away and waiting for the apocalypse to strike. Some have probably shat on their pants; some are grovelling and gnawing in fear, waiting for the final obliteration of our planet. From my frequent online sojourns, the last time this earth was under any sort of obliteration threat was from an asteroid that was 250,000 kilometres away, and that from the same people who downgraded Pluto from planetary status. Never mind.

So why would a sect leader announce that end times are here and throw a region into a panic?

Like Albert Einstein said, science without religion is lame, but religion without science is blind. These religious types just bore me to the core. What would somebody run their mouths on other people’s bizness? So and so is not very nice, watch out. Doing this is wrong in God’s eyes, it is wrong for you to desire what is not yours, oh, please donate and help build God’s ministry we need to grow this church bla bla bra (pun intended).

There was this joke I once read and thought it was a sheer mimicry of religion and a silent neigh in the sunrise of Christianity, but it cracked my sick mind nevertheless. Some kids were apparently asked by their teacher what the stretchiest (is that an English word?) substance in the world was. To her utter amazement, one of the kids raised his hand and answered ‘human skin’. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you are probably as astounded as I am. What? Some of you are probably feeling pain or some sort of itchiness just because some kid said the stretchiest substance on earth is the human skin. “Why?” asked the teacher. “Because I read in the Bible that Jesus tied his ass to a tree and walked five kilometres to Jerusalem.” was the kid's answer. Whew!

Well, I took it that the kid was innocent in a dirty way, but still thought some sick minded guy wrote it just to poke fun at Christiaity. I am a Catholic myself, although I have not seen the inside of a Catholic since my high school chapel in March 1996, before I got suspended for a whole term and chased from the school like I was a rabid rodent. But that is a story for another time. Now, I want to recount one of my religious dig-ins in the past. I didn't understand church very much in my childhood, and I don't really understand it much now, not just church but pretty much religion in general but before anyone start trying to go overboard and blow some crap up around me because their religion said to, let it be known that I probably know two cents more than what anyone knows about religion and history, bows down to or who they are giving ten percent of their earnings to. I was raised Catholic and any time some Bible thumper asks, I say I'm Catholic but, I'm currently in a mild state of confusion when it comes to religion and I presently find myself in between religions, especially with all the negative energy that comes from all of the new churches mushrooming all over Kenya.

There was this time when I was busy with some farming assignment back home (I come from Molo by the way, so this sect has touched a raw nerve), and was looking for some guy to plough my land. As I waited for this guy and his tractor at the roadside in my one-muddy-run-down-street home town in shaggz, a former classmate from old days walked up to me and we started chatting. He told me he’d been okay and was travelling to Nairobi and was waiting for a lift. He asked me to keep him company near the stage with him as he shone his shoes and I obliged, and we walked to a shoe shiner’s stand and he sat down.

All went quiet and we realised we had interrupted some debate, so I asked these guys what was happening? Apparently some old man (let’s call him S) who repaired padlocks next to the shoe shiner had been taking them on, you guessed right, why the House of Yahweh was the church to be, and all other churches were nought in the name of Yahweh. There is no God, only Yahweh, and his son Jesus Christ! I told them to leave him alone; he’d probably taken some busaa that day on his way to work.

The old man belligerently asked me what church I belonged to, and I said I was a Catholic. One of the guys standing around chuckled, he probably sensed trouble. I asked the old man what church he belonged to. He responded that he was a Christian, which is rather like being asked where you live, and you respond Africa, and you are right here! So I decided to narrow it down. I figured I'd start with the largest branch, so I asked him if he was Catholic or Protestant.

That set off his short fuse right there, and he wiggled in his seat, that old and wiry old man. He scolded me stammeringly for using the label "Protestant" (in his words an unholy phrase uttered by the Pope to demean innocent people) and told me that Catholics worshiped of the Virgin Mary, not Jesus Christ or Yahweh. I tried to keep from smiling as I pointed out the giant crucifixes that adorn virtually every Catholic Church, as well as the image of Jesus Christ that hangs over most alters in said churches. And the references to God in the Bible and scriptures, sermons and other writings of the Catholic Church.

S enlightened me, informing me that they were all part of an elaborate cover up to turn people from the one true faith, and trick them into being thrown into the boiling lake of fire to burn for eternity. How about that? Here I was just trying to defend my church, despite all those child abuse accusations cropping up around the world when it turns out that we apparently have some kind of hellish fetish too. This communal barbeque would be achieved, S claimed, through worship of the false idol, the Virgin Mary.

Upon hearing those words, I felt as though I had been awakened from a sound slumber in the deepest darkness and suddenly thrust wide awake into shining bright light. Yes, I felt tired, annoyed, and I wanted to go back to bed, not even to wait for the ploughing guy and his tractor. I asked S why Jesus Christ would be so pissed off about us being nice to his mother. He muttered something about idolatry, and then went back to bashing Catholics. He explained to me how Catholics had written their own Bible which was based solely on lies. S taught me that the Catholics had used that false power gathered with their unholy Bible to scare people into obedience. Using this power, Catholics had been behind every atrocity and major war for the last thousand years. With a cry of cynic passion, S informed me that the Catholic Church was the sole cause of the Nazi holocaust.

I was a little confused by this statement. I suggested that maybe S was thinking of something else, surely not the Holocaust! S assured me he meant the Holocaust. According to him, the Catholic Church paid Hitler to begin the war, while they (the Catholic Church) secretly seized Jews and killed them. Now the reason I was confused here, is because there appeared to be a few holes in this story. It can be argued that in the past the Catholic Church may have been responsible for some of the anti-Semitism that built up before the 2^nd World War, but the actions of Catholics during the war itself seemed to be pretty reasonable. I told S that the Pope in power at the time maintained a stance of neutrality mostly to avoid military retaliation from Italy and Germany. Other high ranking members of the Catholic clergy did openly protest, however. It's also a well known fact that Catholics hid Jews during the holocaust period. Fortunately, S was able to denounce these apparent falsehoods. The Catholic Church got control of every single history book on the face of the planet, and rewrote them all.

At this point my head was starting to hurt (it being filled anew with words of divine truth and all) so I decided to go back to my original question. What religion did he belong to? S once again insisted that he was Christian. I pointed out that there were many different branches: Methodists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Anglicans, and Jehovah's Witnesses, to name a few. S interrupted me with a hearty "Those stupid Lutherans". Apparently they worship the Virgin Mary, too. Calming down a little bit, S told me that since I was a Catholic, I was a liar, claiming I was defending the cruellest, most bloodthirsty, most sadistic cult on the face of the planet. I asked him what church he attended then, if he was a Christian. He responded that he was a member of the House of Yahweh sect, and did not attend any church though, they went to a shrine. I asked him where exactly it was; I was from around there and did not know where it was. He said that for now, they worshipped at an open field about five kilometres away, but that was for a short while, they will build a better shrine (he avoided the use of the word Church by the way) for Yahweh.

My friends’ shoes were done and they glittered like the back of a dung-beetle. Seeing no point in pushing further with that elderly lunatic and his sordid religious beliefs, I told him we were enlightened, and took our leave and went forth to spread the word.

Do you have a Nakumatt Smart Card?

It sometimes gets very cold in Nairobi at around this time of year.

I mean it, the kind of bone slicing cold that jams your feelings so far up into your spine that at times it would be absolutely reasonable to believe that as a man, you have become the benefactor of a free gender reassignment procedure.

So, when one finds themselves on their own and on the outside of society at the spry age of nineteen, working as a tout in a dingy matatu can fairly beat out being the master of your own destiny, half frozen to death inside the mat, asking the passengers for their fare and haggling with them over change, constantly looking over your shoulder at the street ahead , expecting the cops to swoop on you, or incidentally looking out for other cars that ply the same route as your ‘squad’ lest they overtake you. You also have to look out for passengers on the wayside, and keep shouting ‘beba!’ whenever the driver slows down or hoots, to the irritation of some of the passengers.

That's right readers; I did my time in the matatu industry as a tout! Three long days, doting over passengers with young kids, ogling at some hot chicks (and I carried a number of them for free), to the disgust of the tall bearded driver who never brushed his teeth! I bribed almost all the policemen on the way, got arrested twice (to and fro!) in one day for giving out a 50 bob at a 2 sock police roadblock, and almost got slapped once (but got kicked instead after I ducked) by a policeman. I refused to wash the matatu, much to the chagrin of the driver who said that is the conductor’s job. We used to do a long haul, from Nakuru to Kisumu and we carried all sorts of stuff and different genres of people.

There were no Michuki rules then, as this was they year of our lord 1997 and the matatu was a 33-seater minibus and we once carried close to 70 (I lost count along the way). I fought with fellow touts at the various stops on the way over ‘tips’ for swinging us passengers, shouted at fuel pump attendants at times when we were in hurry (either fast approaching darkness or rain) and did some not so honourable things to the passengers. -- "just drop us here, tumefika, wewe unatupitisha!!! " – That time the dere is cruising downhill at 100 kph and someone wants to alight. If it was some young guy, you shout at him to walk back a kilometre to his stop, the elderly and respectable or some young ‘fly’ mamas, you give them 10 bob to catch a ride back and say sorry and then force a smile.

I hate to break it to you, but when your beloved Chirau Mwakwere and ole Kamwaro etc orders a crackdown on public service vehicles like the one that is currently on, I feel the pinch. I feel pain. After all I was part of this litany of sorts after high school when a friend of mine had the misfortune of having the driver and tout run away with his cash and the matatu keys, leaving the matatu stranded in Kisumu City at the mercy of vandals for two days. Luckily, the police towed it to Kondele on time to save the tyres and a few seats, but the windscreen and batteries were not so lucky. We had to find our way there and luckily, he got another driver after fixing the matatu but no ‘trustworthy’ tout as he put it. He blamed the previous tout for inciting the former dere to run away, and called him a ‘hothead’ (if that’s what he meant as he spoke in vernacular). So while awaiting the arrival of his cousin’s son to come and take charge I jumped aboard for an agonising three days on the cross. (RIP, Wahome ‘Whispers’ Mutahi)

Now that you are certainty wondering what the purpose of this long-winded digression is, which is to state I understand the importance of upselling, using skill and product knowledge to maximize the shilling amount of a consumers purchase. It seems that in the past few years, supermarkets and other retail outlets have turned to so called "rewards schemes", offering savings to those who are willing to burden their wallets with special propriety cards, in effect making them eligible for deals that are restricted like literacy in caste-era India, or political leadership in Kenya today. Now this practice has grown until it became an affliction, and the rear right pocket of every suburbanite male will soon (if not already) bulge like an inflated lymph node, and the purses of every female shall became a support to more petroleum-based material than a small middle eastern oil state, as a proof of a world in which all the doors in all the world are opened by way of a branded plastic card.

There are those among you who may be asking yourselves at this point something to the effect of, “but this has been going on for years, why has this issue become instantaneously so pertinent? Why at this time is StackOfStiffys’ hatred at its apex? Well, I'll tell you.

For my part in all this... I have fought. I have rebelled against this ridiculous commercial fad, I have been on the front line, breaking through enemy barrages of "but if you sign up now, you'll get a free gift when you have 200 points, or redeem each point for 2 shillings" and mortar rounds of "but you can earn 10% discount at AA, on your insurance premiums at Lion, a drink or meal at Kengeles or even accommodation at Safari Park", and in this chaos I never made it out of the damned Nakumatt store on time on my way to where I was going when I was just trying to get an energy drink and some water, or some groceries for the house. And I humbly admit my falterings, the pitched battle of the declined smart card when buying tyres and rims the other day, missed opportunity to earn thousands of points {that could be converted to school fees (read drinking money)} when I was buying furniture the other day, this computer desk included. I am not a perfect man, but I am a man of conviction, and I fought as hard and long as I could, and am still fighting.

The other day, I went to Tamasha for drink and some good tunes with a few friends after being away for close to a whole year and had to part with a cool 2 sock, while they got in free. Why? I did not have a membership card like them, and the hefty bouncer would have none of my pleading for free entrance. The same happened to me at Kengeles Lavington on one of those c.o.p. (citizens on patrol, euphemism for an all night out where you tour bars from Dagoretti corner to Thika Road and round of at Jam Rescue in Eastlands on your way back home, (I did 12 bars once, with 2 or 3 drinks at each)} nights.

But what, what among all things became the straw that broke the proverbial rhino's back? Dear readers, I would not lead you astray, nor bear to you false witness; and so, believe me when I speak these words: Yesterday, as I went to Nakumatt Ngong road to buy a heater to warm the house in this colds season, and as I walked into the cool and air-conditioned ‘superstore’ , crawling over the assortment of goods on display to ask for a heater, the kind lady who happened to be the store or floor attendant kindly asked me to follow her and said "Don't worry about it, I'll show you where it is" And I turned and followed with a small forgotten feeling of compassion for mankind creeping back into the creases of my wrinkled fat face, and started climbing the stairs, and then it happened: the lady had began speaking again, this time in a musical voice and her words floated toward my ears melting the air as they came, reached me, and began the explosive chemical reaction in my problematic brain…

"By the way sir, do you have our Smart Card?"

What could I do... for air... for the most abundant resource in our world alongside water, which all the water bottlers have so commercialized and poisoned long ago…they would defile even our breathing essence... all for 2 shillings in exchange for a point or ten percent off your next purchase at a member outlet like Safari Park Hotel (who sleeps there anyway?).

I don't know now if this is the beginning or the end of this, I only know the right thing to do.

Burn them.

Burn them all.

Burn all the Nakumatt smart cards you have. All the Uchumi R&Rs, all the Tamasha membership cards, Sohos VIP cards (these shall be painful I bet!), Kengeles bonus-you-pay-less-when-you-drink-more cards, you name it. For these loyalty, membership and reward schemes are just ploys to make us buy goods at inflated prices.

And if we are lucky (hope am not being blasphemous in the eyes of the religious types amongst the readers) and ascend to the holy place called Heaven, we will stand at the pearly gates, covered in the black ash of the Smart or otherwise Cards we shall have burned, and we will look upon the grand visage of St. Peter and he will look down onto us and as our gazes lock, he will nod, and we will produce the last charred plastic idol, and as it crumbles into nothingness, his left hand will find a shoulder, while his right hand waves open the gates with a motion so slight, not a molecule of compressed air will be displaced.

Sleazy attack on Capital FM breakfast show

A bunch guys on an idle banter on a blog think they have a say on the quality of Kenyan breakfast shows, some of which they do not even listen to? See: this and this one also and tell them what you all think. I have told them what I think of them and my 2 cents worth.......!

Like I told them, I feel sorry for Seanice and her capital in the morning crew. A handful of guys doing a good job earning their bread within all legal means yet they still have to deal with the unpleasantries of people who don’t like their show and yet they don’t even listen? It seems so simple: if you don’t like it don’t listen, be smart. Capital FM has been around long enough for some of us to say it’s not a passing fad. Seanice and Leo shouldn’t bother trying to explain themselves to people who just don’t get it (nor listen!). Maybe Capital FM isn’t for everybody, but it’s for me.

Drunk driving, Kenyan MPs, and our laws....

The problem with having sex with a cow is that you have to have to jump down from your stool to run around the front to give it a kiss.

I came across this line the other day and I naturally laughed my head off. However, I pondered it and I guessed our MPs right here in Kenya could do just that!

Look at it this way, those guys earn sleazy amount to idle and beat the pig in the Chamber in National Assembly! National affairs are reduced to idle matters by our petulant legislators right here in Nairobi.

With all the problems the country is facing and the troublesome things happening around the world, Israel raping Lebanon as the US claps it hands in glee and refers to it as 'shit', George W Bush expressing his profanities and the German Chancellor, Ken Lay faking his own death and people still not accepting Jesus into their hearts, we are close to facing another bleaky future at the hands of the Kenya goverment.

I'm an easy going kind of guy and I care less about the majority of things, situations and people around me. The only thing I care about is my family, friends, making a few guys laugh occasionally and alcohol.

Yeah, that's right, I said it, alcohol.

People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim - Ann Landers.

Which takes me to my point, drunk driving.

A horrible, deadly criminal action of which I am guilty as charged. You see, I am incredibly lucky, and have survived some amazing predicaments, not the least of which was circumcision in the deep of the Mau Forest on a rainy night, more than a couple vicious fights, and who knows how many incurable diseases. I have a job to be envied, a kind patient and loving woman, and a resilient mother.

What's my point? Instead of enacting laws to weed out social wimps like me and outlaw drink driving, our legislators fall asleep in parliament! We do not even have a road to take us to the Rift Valley in time nor in comfort anymore. But because these crazy numskull douches feel that they know what's best for the rest of us, they've decided to approve bills that will not only pretty much send shivers down everyones spines at the mention oth word 'sex' but also another to deny us our retirement savings until we are wheezing incoherently.

I'm sure Osama is in his cave, chasing a squirrel, thinking how well his money is being laundered at Charterhouse Bank because of all the naive people who run the GoK. I have put my alcohol in check but what about others? And the roads budget? And the perennial drought? But what do they do? The run around politicking and massaging their egos all day with nothing to show for it.

This is the greatest country in the world and I wouldn't want to live any other place but what these geezers are trying to do to us as an entire population, as Kenyans, as free thinking human beings, while crazy militia are in the Middle East and Somalia living in the sand without enough armor on their Uzi's is just Crazy Crap!

I ask you to log on mzalendo.com and shame these guys away!