Matt Forney
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Why I’m Going to Lesotho

I’ve been back in the U.S. for nearly six months now and it’s time for a new adventure overseas. I’m still moving to Chicago at the end of the month, but even with the constant hailstorm of bullets south of the Loop, I don’t think the Windy City qualifies as foreign soil yet. I need to hop on a plane and get some more stamps in my passport.

But where does a love tourist who wants to be ahead of the pack go?

I could go to South America, but the place is overrun with dumbass gringos and countries like Brazil are going balls-to-the-wall feminist. I could go to eastern Europe, but I’m too lazy to learn any of their peasant languages. I could go back to Southeast Asia, but I’m sick of having to boil my drinking water to keep my bowel movements from turning into mud soup.

Let’s face it: we love tourists have to stay one step ahead of the game. We have to be willing to go to the kinds of places that fatass American tourists and dipsomaniac stag partiers fear to tread.

That’s why I’ve booked a flight to Lesotho.

I’ll bet you think I just made that name up. But nope, Lesotho isn’t a fictional country from a Sacha Baron Cohen movie, it’s a nation in southern Africa. It’s entirely surrounded by South Africa, in fact. Why isn’t it part of South Africa? You’d have to ask the British guys who drew up the maps.

Anyway, Lesotho looks like it could very well be the next poosy paradise. For example, because 40 percent of the country’s population lives below the international poverty line, Basotho girls aren’t the barely senescent lardlumps that American girls are. For example, take a look at these fine specimens:


If these ladies don’t get you sprung like a leak, you’re probably some kind of beta. Plus, they’re clearly domestic gals, as evidenced by their traditional dress and love of pottery. If you’re looking for the kind of girl who will scrub the skid marks out of your tighty-whities in addition to screwing your balls empty, Lesotho looks like your place!

But hey, who said you had to stick to one girl? Men used to running soft harems in places like the Philippines will be in hog heaven in Lesotho, since polygamy is actually legal there! If you get sick of your bottom bitch, just trade her in for a new model and let the old ones rust on the front lawn.

“But what if the whore divorces me and takes all my money in family court?” you may wonder. Fortunately for you, since the Basotho exchange rate is currently one loti to $0.08 USD, you’d have to bang damn near the entire country before the alimony started to harsh your mellow. Lesotho looks like the ideal country for the love tourist on a budget.

Some men fags might be deterred by Lesotho’s catastrophically high HIV infection rate; almost a quarter of Basotho have AIDS, and there’s actually a movement to merge Lesotho with South Africa in order to keep the country from collapsing. Fortunately, since I’m a straight white male, I can’t get HIV.

I’m also not a savage who forces my concubines to dry out their va-jay-jays before I plow them, so I should be okay.

On July 1st, I set sail for Maseru, Lesotho’s capital city. While you chumps continue to labor at your lame chemist jobs and play the clown for your beached whale girlfriends, I’ll be macking on HB10s from the safety of my maximum security, $300 a month penthouse. Forget the white fever of the Philippines: I’ll have whole hordes of mocha honeys looking for me to drop a little cream in their coffee.

See ya, betas! Wouldn’t wanna be ya!

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