new year, new me

This morning whilst dancing around the stockpile of pills I will be shoving up my jiggly arse tonight I couldn’t help think about the year that was 2005 and my conduct as a child of christ. New Year is always a good time to take a giant emotional shit and resolve to make a few changes. And I fucking mean it – this isn’t just teary, sentimental pap because it’s the last day of the year.

• I will not say “cunt” at all anymore but I will say “cock” a whole bunch. This is in case I have to eat my words.
• I will stop wearing my Gary Glitter t-shirt when I pick up my niece from playschool
• I will not leave tampons dipped in tomato sauce in restaurant ashtrays.
• I will stop mis-labelling tranny-sex mpegs as humour and uploading them to file sharing servers.
• I will drive past the gym at least once a week.
• I will finish reading “Auto Erotic Asphyxiation for Dummies” and collect some homeless people to practise on.
• I will abandon my fantasy of becoming a sex slave.
• I will stop holding Tubgirl re-enactment parties.

Happy New Year muthafuckas.

Mike Hunt

Dear Lucifer,

You know how I swapped you my soul for that big bag of weed? Well that’s all done and gone now and I am now wondering if you would have any use for a heart? I don’t think I want mine - actually I would be happy to be shot of the damn thing if the truth be known. I do realise that there is a limited market for second hand hearts but I figured you might be able to use it as a doorstop or something. I know it will blend right in with the rest of your décor – black is so timeless.

I was thinking that maybe we could just do a straight swap – you get the heart and I get to chose a replacement body part that would be a bit more useful to me. I've done the math and decided that a spare vagina would probably come in real handy - we could simply drop it into the cavity that my stupid heart left behind. I’ve checked in the mirror and if I warm up my tongue it can just about reach. And I promise to look after this one real good – no chunky piercings on the new gutted hedgehog.

I know I’ve caught you at your busiest time of the year but have a word with your people and get back to me, yeah?

sincerely,
JJ

The Milky Way

I have no time for cows or the contents of their tits. According to my Know Your Farm Animals dictionary, milk is “a short term maternal lactating secretion for newborns”. I think that is supposed to read “newborns of their own species” but the dictionary writer dude was too busy dry-retching at the thought of anyone drinking bovine mammary fluid to write it up properly.

Here in the jungle we have long been of the view that we would sooner eat our own snot than put our lips anywhere near Eau de Teat. We can only but imagine that milk drinkers have never stopped to consider the poor bacteria trying to do an honest day’s work in their lactose-lined colons.

So great is my disgust at the filth that is milk that I have spent most of today researching udders in an effort to know my enemy. I now know a whole bunch about the median suspensory ligament located in the center of the udder but I am still entirely unclear as to why the western world woke up one day and decreed it okay to drink a substance that was designed to rear baby cows from 0 to 2 tons in a short space of time. Why not cats milk? Or dogs milk? And how is it that I have some friends who take milk in their tea but think that giving headjobs is ewwwww?

I am fairly certain that somewhere out there is the solution to the Great Milk Mystery. I will not rest until I have answers.

Jesus Turkey

In my ongoing work-in-progress of exploring my feminininininity I have decided that sharing recipes is girly. Now here in the jungle we celebrate the baby Jeezoo’s birth just like regular folk, so figuring that I may as well kill two birds with one stone I hereby offer the world my recipe for Christmas Turkey.

JJ’s Jesus Turkey
Serves: several human beings, 3 hyenas and a cat
Preparation time: half an hour in the tree, 10 minutes skinning and stuffing. Cooking time variable.

Ingredients
1 large koala
1 plump turkey
Sprig of parsley to garnish

Method
Sit your fanny firmly on a branch of a large leafy tree ensuring that the koala is within arm’s reach. Wait until the largest, plumpest of the jungle turkeys is gobbling directly under your branch and drop the koala decisively onto the part of its head that looks like a giant clitoris. Both animals will die but the koala at least will be dreaming of eucalyptus leaves, so it’s all good. Skin the koala and feed the remains to the hyenas. Then pluck the turkey feathers and set them aside to stuff inside the koala skin later – a novelty pillow is just what your mum needs for Christmas. Sever the turkeys head and lay it out in the sun so as you can turn it into a bong when it’s dried to bone.

Next you need to rip the turkey guts out, mash it into offal and shove it back up the turkey’s arse – everyone loves stuffing. Stoke up the jungle fire, chuck the turkey into the middle of it and then pour yourself a few nice pots of jungle juice. You deserve it.

I’m not exactly sure how long it takes to cook but eventually you’ll be so pissed it won’t really matter if it’s raw or not.

If gay people are coming over garnish with a sprig of parsley.

tampons

I dunno if being a potty-mouthed, hard-living, drug-scoffing, cheap-piss-drinking mijito counts against me but I’ve been noticing recently that blokes seem to be really awfully scared of me. In short, I think I should put a bit more elbow grease into honing my femininity instead of dissing my yang by perving on midget porn and flicking my bean. If that fails I guess I could just grab the nearest bloke and club him in the kneecaps to keep him from fleeing.

After a snap poll amongst The Girls it appears that my hobbies might be a starting point – fucking about with motorbikes and having a season ticket to the cricket doesn’t seem to make it on any other girl lists of Fun Things To Do This Weekend. I clearly need to get a hobby with XX chromosomes – and one that doesn’t involve me, my lady-parts and a big sack of batteries.

So after a bit of research and a lot of thought I have decided to go with the flow and write me one of them Coffee Table books. More specifically, mine is going to be about tampons - I figured that you don’t get much more girly than a grouse dose of toxic shock syndrome. In deference to my authentic self I won’t sell out completely though – Jam Rag (it’s still a working title but am I right or am I right in thinking that's one classy title) will of course have a nasty sealed section for educational purposes and also for dirty blood fuckers - Period Porn is a booming big business.

I have already decided on a Tampon Art section, an introduction to Tampon Haberdashery and possibly even a small section on Beaver Hammocks - or sanitary napkins as my dead Nana used to call them.

Now I know I have a long way to go before my work makes it into the Museum of Menstruation (I love how they call themselves MUM for short. That’s real neat.) I know that recognition from Tampaction's Menstrual Activism section is a bit ambitious right now while i am still in the conceptual stages, but I also can’t help thinking of the words of a wize old zulu: a journey of a 1000 miles begins with a single step. which in my case would be getting off my arse and out this bloody hole….

cat shit

Watching the cat wash his arse today, I couldn’t help but wonder about the taste of shit. Presumably cats have only two facial options available to them – closed mouth and open mouth – and are therefore unable to grimace. Possibly the taste of their bums doesn’t offend them. Or maybe the answer can be found in Mother Nature’s website FAQs, along with the explanation of why one’s own noxious emissions are so much more bearable than that of others.

You never see cats going off for a drink of water to get the taste out of their mouth after they are done washing and they do seem to spend a disproportionate amount of washing time licking their lookalike Cigarette-Smoker’s-Mouths compared to the rest of their bodies. I figured therefore that their kitty Goo Goos really doesn’t taste all that rank to them.

What remains a mystery however is why they narrow their eyes and glare in haughty disdain when their dinner is not quite to their taste. Even more curious is if all cats are fussy about their food yet all cats don’t mind washing their arses, why cat food manufacturers haven’t brought out cat food out in Feces Flavour?

wanking

Today whilst carrying out routine monthly maintenance on my sex toys I realized with a jolt that I have invested more money on wanking this year than I have outlaid in my entire life on hairdressers. I have a clit clip to keep the cat-food bag sealed closed yet I have never paid to have my nails done. My annual pubic topiary bill (latest design - a green map of Australia to celebrate our entry into next year’s World Cup) amounts to more than I have spent on make-up since I was 15. I have never bought myself a bottle of perfume yet where most people use crocheted poodles, I have the Fiesty Arouser 9 incher on top of the loo to hold my toilet rolls in place.

Masturbation – a supposedly free and harmless activity that is encouraged by everyone in authority except for the Pope – is a jolly costly burden to anyone’s net take-home salary. So why is it that you never see it in accounting software pre-formatted budget spreadsheets? When last did your financial advisor gently suggest that you be sure to jerk off within your means?

If you add up the cost dodgy of website subscriptions, DVDs, toys (practical - used regularly), toys (funny and/or bizarre albeit completely impractical– nothing more than amusing ornaments), masturbatory accessories such as lube/poppers/beanies and everything else you smear, sniff or swallow or sprinkle plus of course phone sex bills for the blokes and you end up – if you are conservative in your estimations – at an annual expense of around $4,000. Now I am far more creative than mathematical but with a battering average of a nice daily wank that’s around 12 bucks for your bang. More expensive than cigarettes.

At that price, I had better not be faking it…

who put the crack in the crackers??

The reason that more people suicide on Christmas is because its fucking depressing.

I was shopping around for my Christmas puppy today – you know, the one I intend taking back to the RSPCA on Boxing Day once I am done bored with it - muttering to myself about “fucking Christmas” when it hit me with a jolt. “That’s it!” I thought. Bollocks to hymns for the baby jebus, a Fucking Christmas is exactly what we all need - a day that even straight men look forward to.

So instead of getting my usual childish festive kick from soldering razor wire into the inside of my chimney on 24 December, this year I am going to hold a 3 day orgy with for a truly rocking Fucking XXXmas. On the offchance that I can’t rustle up 3 friends prepared to join me I will simply hire 3 nubile Ho Ho Hos.

XXXmas is coming? It will be in my house…