June 2012

I had an English breakfast yesterday morning. I really shouldn’t have. I’d have rather had Iya Basira’s jollof rice of champions of champions. Intermixed with Iya Basira’s special intergalactic moi-moi and some superfluous fried fish/meat. I stare at my breakfast this morning and I immediately know that if I add a bottle of Fanta to this mix, I will die of sheer ecstasy. Then resurrect of course because I can’t die. I’ll be right back… Let me attend to the pressing issue below.

*loosens tie*

Iya Basira’s jollof rice of champions of champions and Intergala…

*adjusts tie*

If I could go back 24 hours in time, I wouldn’t have called Peter (the mechanic) to come fix my car henceforth referred to as “The night rider.” This is because the mechanic ended up collecting all of my money to fix the supposed problem and on my way to work this morning the same problem occurred again. Had I known I’d have just kept the money and spent it at the pool party last night. Am I the only one out there that experiences this shit? Anytime the salary hits the account the automobile just develops one problem or the other. The month before last it was the damn battery that needed be changed. Last month ‘twas one of the tyres, now it’s the damn radiator… Daddy be my Range Rover Evoque.

2012 Range Rover Evoque

If I could go back 24 hours, I wouldn’t have been tweeting at work when I should have been working. Now the MD called me at 6:30 this morning and was asking me for the NNPC proposal. I was like nigger chill man, (In my mind o!) I’m still sleeping yo! I had to lie to him that it was almost ready and that he’d get it within an hour of my resuming this morning. Daddy be my super duper fast typewriter. Finally got to the office only to find out that the nigga wasn’t even in town and isn’t expected to return till tomorrow.

Hence, I should have gone to that pool party last night and spent the damn money I gave the mechanic on getting wasted. If only I could go back 20 fuckin’ 4 hours. You see when Frankie Sushey  called me last night and told me about the pool party, I immediately got sexcited and quickly changed to my tee-shirt and special super sexy pool shorts. Grabbed the keys to my car (that I had presumably just fixed) and dashed out of the crib. With just a little cash in hand, I shouldn’t have done that. It was not until after I got three quarters of the way to our rendezvous spot did I realize my mistake. I had no fackin’ I.D with me. I left my drivers’ license at home and was gonna be out for the whole night. Coupled with that, my phone battery went out on me. So I couldn’t be contacted nor identified in case of an emergency. I got to the chill spot, hung for a while and eventually just had to go back home. That I eventually did but shouldn’t have done (should’ve taken a cab) because on my way back to the crib, sad that I was gonna miss flirting with half naked girls at the pool, Night-rider decided to overheat in the middle of nowhere and I knew my goose was done cooked.


I had to use my shayo money to take a taxi to go look for water to pour into the car to start the mo’fuckah so I could get home to prepare for work today. Meanwhile, the rest of the Susheys were getting their groove on at the party. I couldn’t even call for help.

Oh if I could go back 24 hours, I wouldn’t have taken that step. GOD punish the person that defecated on the road to that mallam’s place where I went to look for water. I stepped on another nigga poo poo guys and It stunk real bad. I have already banished my super sexy pool slippers to an eternity in the bin. We are nothing but pencil, HE who provided the former will produce another.

We are nothing…

Fast forward till this morning, 6:30 am. Chairman called and damn I shouldn’t have picked his call. Now I am under enormous pressure to complete the damn proposal before the fat lady sings. Alternatively, this is how my day should’ve gone:

a)      Should’ve eaten Iya Basira’s jollof rice of champions of champions and intergalactic moi-moi coupled with superfluous fried fish/meat.

b)      Should’ve worked real hard and shouldn’t have been tweeting at work. (@AdaCampbell even called me reckless)

c)       Should have kept the plenty money I gave to Peter the mechanic for my personal consumption of expensive liquor.

d)      Should’ve taken my I.D  card/drivers’ license with me and still gone ahead to the damn party and gone to work with a hangover.

e)      Shouldn’t have picked Chairman’s call this morning.

It’s 9 am now and I sit at this desk scribbling this post. I will post it when I’m done with a substantial amount of today’s work.

So help me Jah.

(Now 4:49 pm: One mumu client just called me to schedule a business meeting in an hour’s time. I’m definitely not closing before 9pm today again. I need a very strong drink, VERY VERY STRONG.)

Larry Sush.

Intro tune: *They say Hola’ Hovito; That’s what they sayin’ when I roll up with my people…*

Ehen, don’t lie. Kim Kadarshian is finer than your girlfriend.


After you Mr. West

I lied in the title. This post is not R21, it’s rated 18. That’s a 3 year difference so don’t be carrying nose like it’s the same thing. It’s been a while yeah? I know… I have been uber busy. I’ve been so busy I barely even have time for real girls to do my runs. Now I have 3 imaginary babes on my case. Two Molato women and an Aztec bitch. I’m still forming for the Aztec though, she likes to chew tobacco. I don’t like that shit.

Anyway, I have missed y’all. I used to think I didn’t care much about this blog but #Iswerrugad I do! Like seriously, I fell sick during this long break from thinking about when next I’d have time to put my fingers to keyboard. I will try not to abandon y’all again. I also have a feeling that some of you will not like this post so I’ll just go ahead and make a few things clear.


This post was written by me. Any references/subs to persons living or dead are not a coincidence, I mean am. I take full responsibility for whatever the outcome of this post is. Parent axing, transformer hugging, Maggi cube chewing, soak away drinking and salad tossing can be indulged in, I don’t give a shit. This post wasn’t written under the influence of any legal substances, If you think you have too much sense, i suggest you stop reading now. If you do choose to read this post, (as I guess you would) you have a right to remain silent as anything you say/type in the comment section can and will be used against you in future posts.

*sips shawarma*


HOld up!!! I wan yarn..

I really want to smack the person who coined the phrase “ashawo no be work” upside the head! What is it then? Na hobby?

 Last weekend, I was at BeerBarn a very nice hangout spot on Aminu Kano Crescent, Wuse2 Abuja and after slurping some good liquor I ran out of cash. I decided to take a short walk to the nearest ATM to get  cash for some more shayo. On the way back, there were about 4 hos standing on the curb. As I walked past them, they began to beckon thus: “sweeeeeet boy”; “hans boy”; “come now, let me be your val tonight.” In my mind I was like, “who the fuck are these niggaz calling sweet? Do I look like ice cream?” Like seriously, is that even how to pick up men? What kinds of man ‘fork’ this species of woman anyway? I have nothing against hos. I mean to each his/her own but please what is worth doing is worth doing well.So without further ado, I present to you Larry Susheys hand book for the modern ashaw(h)os. I will print this and go back to distribute it to those prostitutes. Zeus help me.


1.       Be tech savvy: You know this is 2012 right? You know this is the fucking 21st century right? Businesses have e-volved yo! You have to be able to eliminate competition. Sit down there when there are already robot prostitutes in New Zealand. The least you can do is open a social media site account. You are there on the road screaming “sweeeeet guy”, your mates are on Badoo® running things. There’s Facebook® and there’s Twitter® and there’s even 2go ®. All those babes that have usernames such as sexy ass chick, pweety berry, cutie_horny, Ogochukwu_mwah, pweety baby-boo, sexy2love, coco pie, sugar_berry, cherrypieeeeee, pink Barbie, babybop4luv,  etc… Yup, hos! Niggaz go check on your girlfriends, if they have at any point in time or currently go by any of such monikers, you know nah… She’s a slut. 🙂



Do you know what the pic above is What? Calculator?! Mobile phone?! “walking-talking?” *sigh*

It’s a mobile POS machine. Sit down there and be dulling. Nigeria is soon going cashless and clients are gonna wanna pay with their debit/credit cards. All they need to do is to swipe their cards and your money is electronically wired to your “business account.” Think ahead of the game, this is 2012. You can even issue receipts this way and balance your account at the end of a f(w)orking period. The difference between Kimberley Kardashian and Kimoratu Kardashina is packaging. Repackage today.


Spot the difference? (I just had to put Kim up again)

2.  Be Adventurous: By adventurous I don’t mean you should go and carry hiking materials and go into the bush or go mountain climbing o! You will just die for nada… Have you ever tried fisting? Don’t just lie down and spread your legs like a thanksgiving turkey ho! A nigga’s gonna get bored. Twist and turn like an hybrid of Shakira and Beyonce. Some people from this part of the world like to overdo things so let me warn you now, by twisting and turning don’t go and be wiggling your body like a worm dipped in salt! Niggaz will just think you want to turn into a snake and will just behead you straight. Some people will now say they used you for rituals. Do some tea-bagging, give complimentary blowjobs, do the swastika, summersault, levitate if you fucking have to! Just be extra’ho’rdinary. Be bad, be very bad like the biblical whore of Babylon. 


YIMU! Treat me like a king first…

3       Watch Spartacus.

4.       Don’t cuddle: Like seriously, is your grandfather a camel?! When you finish doing the do, don’t be famzing yo! You have no business asking for a nigga phone number and shit… If he asks you, you have scored, but DO NOT attempt to even think of attempting to think of asking for his digits. In your line of business, no matter how good the “d” is, you cannot afford to fall in love. It’s too risky yo! Love leads to pregnancy and that’ll only make u an expired ho like Mariah Carey. Did you see that w’ho’man after she birthed? This is a “Ho no!”  If the money is good or you feel you have seen maga and you want to open office on a nigga head, caress and treat the head like a king first okay? In short, refer to number 2 above.



5.   Dress well: I keep saying it, don’t ever be caught dead wearing red/green/purple jeans. Only a few hos can pull this off. If you’re not in the ivy league of pr’ho’fessionals don’t try it. You’ll only come off looking skanky. When you get home, go into your wardrobe and set fire on your rainbow coloured jeans. All of you that wear dirty bum shorts on the road and in the clubs, God is watching you. 



That’s all you get for free guys. You aren’t paying me for consultancy. If you want some extra advice you can DM me on twitter or something. Before I go though, one more thing… Watch Spartacus again. All three seasons, cram it; act it; live it. If not, what she said—–>


You’re a stupid ho! Stupid, stupid!

Ho bizness is serious bizness, don’t joke with me. By the way, the word ‘ho’ appears 37 times in this post.

My name is Larry Sushey, you know the rest.