Evolution

The area on a female’s body between the hips and the tits is called a ‘waste’ is because there is heaps more un-used space for an extra pair of tits.

In the scientific interests of mankind and the progression of the human race I gonna have a word with my cosmetic surgeon to see if he can turn this redundant area into a zip-lock pouch. The mathematics are simple – my fat gut can easily be removed with some liposuction and the blubber that is pumped out can be nicely spread over my arse with some kind of medical spatula to even out my hail-damage. The saggy skin left on my belly can then be folded upwards and neatly stitched to craft a fashionable and functional purse.

My new lady pouch will be used to store a spare set of house keys, a couple of beers in case of an emergency and my large stash of pot. Throw in a spare tampon, my mobile phone, a condom on the off-chance that I do actually get laid again in my lifetime plus my lipstick and I think I am just about sorted.

When my gut is utterly crammed with stuff I will be able to pretend I am pregnant, thus pilfering seats on trains from people less pregnant than me. Anyone who frowns at me drinking beer and pulling cones when I am with child can fuck off – there are WAY too many do-gooders in the world.

God, I am clever. Feel free to adore me.

Over and out

Goodbye Australia. Even after 9 years together we were never really meant to be, were we? A bit like ham & peanut butter sandwiches - sounded great on paper but didn't really sit too well in the tummy in reality. I wish you well Australia - just not in the cricket.

That is all.

The Jungle will be hibernating for a while. Please send beer.

Bored at work?

Across
1. Choking Kojak
3. A device for finding furniture in the dark.
4. Soft and warm when you go to bed but hard and stiff when you wake up
6. A type of food that never digests and is clearly visible in one’s shit
8. Your employer
11. A poop milkshake
13. nut sack
15. Prevents males from shitting on their testicles
18. _______ Week (Common term for a woman’s menstrual period)
19. The ugliest kid in Grade 2
20. World Champion and all round nice guy?
21. One who has undesirable or negative qualities

Down
2. The similarity between a choir boy and a queer boy
3. A foodstuff high in protein
5. Occurs when you use Herbal Essence shampoo
7. Frequent public areas in search for having sexual intercourse with the same gender
8. An activity frequently conducted in the shower
9. An animal with a cunt half way up it’s back (2 words)
10. Computer V.D.
12. A long word for a short word
14. ( + )( + )
16. A Blogger who doubles as a human coathanger
17. The rounded part of a man’s knob
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Click here for the answers

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Re-cycle your old sex toys

The coat hanger
Retired black strapons look fantastic in the Hallway or in bathrooms. Never forget the rule: Style plus practicality = tasteful. Do remember to neatly trim the attachment belt off and I urge you to use matching black screws. Do not use your coat hanger as a towel rail or bathrobe hanger if it is made of jelly-like rubber – your garment will in all likelihood end up on the floor.

Bicycle Handlebars
I guess the only person interested in this would be Egan. But just in case we have any other budding cyclists among us, the double dong is perfect replacement for your boring old metal handlebars. Make a statement! Announce your presence! Your style reminder here is not to simply attach your bell on the bellend – the testicles are usually squeezable and I recommend you slice them open and install an amusing foghorn inside.

The Mortar & Pestle
Your broken buttplug is perfect for crushing garlic, spices and peppercorn. Make sure you really have retired this little device though and are never tempted to bring it back into the bedroom. It is very difficult to orgasm with traces of chilli on your bean. Male readers be warned – your bum will smell of garlic if you multi-task your new pestle.

Toilet Roll Holder
Tired of granny’s knitted bog roll covers? Step into the 21st century and convert your ‘old favorite’ into a stylish bog roll holder. 6” dead vibrators will hold one roll and 9” will hold two. Do not use your old 14” whopper for this purpose as they are usually too wide and result in your loo roll getting stuck.

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Cake Icer
No one likes their cakes to be badly iced, do they? Put an end to those blotchy roses and squiggly lines – your old double thrusters is a perfect cake icer. Can also be used for biscuits, doughnuts and flans. And let's face it – it was fairly useless as a sex toy anyhow.

Pull my finger

No matter what nationality, culture or religion you are the common bond that all humans share is shit-flavoured air.

The fart is merely a wise burp that took the elevator, yet the social reaction to rectal emissions way transcends loud accoustics and a horrifying smell. It is difficult to know why such a pleasing pastime can be so vilified by so many people – after endless scientific research I can only conclude that farts are embarrassing firstly because they fucking stink and secondly because of the risk of gravy-pants.

My scientific research concluded that 'killing a canary' is considered disgusting when performed by vegetarians and fat people, yet humorous when performed by the dog. It is not clear as to why human beings ask each other who farted in a social setting and it is certainly a mystery of science as to why people sitting in hard plastic chairs still attempt a silent fart.

Society’s attitude to farting really is hypocritical when you consider what an entertaining pursuit it is for all of us when conducted in private – not only does everyone like the smell of their own death breath, but thunderingly loud panty-burps are enormously satisfying and soothing for all of us.

This leads me to conclude there are two entirely conflicting genres of farting: the first being your own farts where you are the star of the show and the second is someone elses farts in which you are the hapless spectator.

Usually in public most of us will try to avoid an obvious trouser cough by attempting the Stealth Fart – it is difficult to retain your dignity if you 'step on a duck' in company. If you do commit a social fart pas however there are really only two ways to deal with the ensuing discomfart:

• You can ignore the fart and pretend it never occurred. Personally I do not employ this approach because the embarrassment remains with me, the farter. Unless you have a chair nearby to scrape on the floor or another handy fart-like sound at your disposal to employ as a decoy, do not ignore the Fart Accompli.
  
• A better tactic is to loudly draw attention to the fart to emphasise that not only have you have broken one of society's universal taboos but you are hugely proud of your efforts. The re-affirmation of your fartality neatly transfers the embarrassment from the farter to the audience.

The average human being farts 12 times a day. That’s approximately 350,000 farts per lifetime. Approximately one fart in 10,000 results in a shart – although this number increases with age. Approximately 1 fart in 100,000 will result in a complete ‘follow through’. This means that we will shit our pants approximately 3 times each in our adult lifetime. I personally have 2 to go.

I am quite happy to blog about the time I crapped my pants but as a good host I think it's only right that y'all tell me your poopy-pants stories first.

Get rich quick

1. Print note out on your printer.
2. Roll note up
3. Snort large line of coke
4. Unroll note and lick residue off
5. Take note to your bank and swap for local currency
6. Repeat until you are rich

You're welcome.

Five jobs worse than yours

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Skeeters

Alarm clocks would be a whole heap more practical if they sounded like mosquitoes when they were going off – the dentist-drill sound of a hungry mozzie is living proof that you really don’t have to be large to be effective.

Formerly known as ‘bloodsuckers’ until religious evangelists were invented, the mosquito literally means "little fly" in Spanish. I am not sure if this is similar to Spanish Fly – not even I could incorporate these whiny little bitches into my sexual repertoire.

Male mosquitoes are nectar eaters – it is only the chicks that suck blood. They tend to be attracted to overweight, fair-skinned human males and for all you dirty bastards out there that don’t wash, they also happen to love sweaty people and dirty feet.

Mosquitos have attitude – of that there is no doubt. Flailing arms do not deter them and hiding under the sheets rarely works either – the mosquito knows that at some point you have to come up for air. You are advised to let these scum drink their fill once they have started snacking on you – unless you kill them the persistent little fuckers will almost certainly return for more until they are full.

Mosquitoes are not just annoying – they also happen to be the deadliest animal on earth. The malarial parasite carried by them kills a million children a year in Africa alone. The little blood junkies (mozzies, not African kids) are largely unaffected by even the strongest anti-malarial drugs.

Notoriously lazy little cunts, most breeds fly less than a mile during their entire lifetime making them even more languid than the domestic cat. Unlike cats though, mosquitoes will never ignore you. It is unclear as to whether these little freeloaders have a valid place in the ecosystem at all – unless they were created simply to make flies seem more attractive. It appears that other than killing people and ruining sunsets on the beach, their only goals in life are feeding and reproduction.

The only amusing aspect of mosquitoes is that human male practitioners of penis puppetry can perform 'The Mozzie' – the act of squeezing around the base of the genitals so hard that the shaft looks like the stinger and the balls look like eyes.

That is all I have to say about these creatures. Goodbye.

Laundry

Because I am a filthy little troll I generally always get more than one wear out of most of my clothes before I see fit to do the laundry:

Frilly knickers: n/a - don’t own any
Tracksuit pants: worn until they stink
Long sleeved t-shirt: at least 2 wears – sometimes as many as 3 if I turn it inside out
Sports gear: just once
Denim jeans: at least 4 wears
Rubber sex apparel: numerous - usually hosed down when it gets all scummy and gungy
Bed Sheets: once a week but only due to dirty paw prints left by the cats. Otherwise during sexual drought definitely 2 weeks.

Dry cleaning in my opinion is for pussies. Fuck getting stuff dry cleaned – it all goes in the wash in my house. I don’t fuck about with all of those fancy-pants settings on the machine either and nor have I ever read a washing label on an item of clothing – it all just goes in on Cycle 3, which according to the manufacturer’s icon is for cottons and synthetics.

Once the washing machine has done its thing I remove the clothing, chuck it all in the tumble drier and silently retort “oh fuck you too” to the environment – no washing lines for this princess.

Because I am busy and important I do not iron my clothing - I have never even owned an iron in my entire life. Once my clothing is dry I simply take it upstairs in the laundry basket and there it sits in my bedroom as I use it directly from the basket. I very rarely manage to muster up enough interest to transfer it from the laundry basket to my cupboard - I prefer to spend my spare time on more practical pursuits such as flicking my bean and drinking beer rather than folding and packing my laundry.

It doesn’t matter where my clothing is lying about the place – on the floor, in the clean clothing basket or half hanging in the dirty laundry basket - I subconsciously know exactly what is clean, what is dirty and what is somewhere in-between.

I do admit that around half way through the week my system does start unravelling as semi-dirty items (such as a long sleeved t-shirt only worn once and therefore technically still clean) end up back in the laundry basket or possibly – due to my bad aim – what was meant to be thrown into the dirty laundry basket in fact ended up in the clean laundry basket. And then add to the mix that that I tend to leave my clothes lying on the floor once I have taken them off at night and really by the end of the week it's all starting to get a bit hit and miss.

Anyhow...now that I am on such a roll with all this domestic stuff, what do you say next week we discuss my dish washing strategies, eh?

Smoking

Dear Cigarettes,

Its taken me 20 years to see your true colours and frankly you stink.

There was a time when I was young and foolish and I thought I loved you – truly I did. But the slavery of our relationship has transformed love to hate and now it’s time for you to let me go – release me from this hold you have over my soul for once and for all. This time I mean it – you are no longer welcome in my life.

I’ve left you in the past and I was happy without you. Yet somehow you always managed to sweet talk me back – usually late at night when I was under the influence of alcohol or drugs. In my drug-crazed state I would think “Oh just one night won’t harm…I am over you…I will have my fun and walk away in the morning…its just for old time's sake”. And in the moment – yes, you were what I wanted.

Yet every time I gave in to you I would wake up the next day to find you still hanging around and I was powerless to resist you. And that’s when the guilt and shame kicked in, leaving me scared to tell my friends and family that we were together again. Dreading the look of pity and sorrow in their eyes. Sneaking around with you behind their backs for a period. But it was just a matter of time before I would openly be seen out with you and I would feel weak and ashamed.

You think I still love you? Well I don’t. I think of you and all I remember is fear, hate and insecurity. You never loved me – you abused me physically and polluted the air I breathed. I gave you so much time and loyalty and all you did was erode my confidence and manipulate me into believing that I couldn’t cope with life without you. You shamed me on social occasions, you disempowered me and you drained me of my energy.

Yet stupidly I stuck by you, wasting my money on you for the ‘pleasure’ of having you in my life. The hours I spent justifying our toxic relationship to my friends, loved ones and even myself. Even my cats hated you. Everyone else could see the damage you were inflicting on me yet like a fool I closed my eyes and steadfastly refused to listen.

Our relationship has seen years of needless suffering on my part while you slowly set about killing me and stripping me of my self-respect. The constant fear that you were going to give me some awful disease – the self-recriminations and the distrust every time I crumbled and went back to you sobbing like a baby. Well that was then and this is now. I don’t need you. I don’t want you.

Good riddance, Cigarettes.

Yours unfaithfully,

Jungle Jane

No thanks, I'm full

Blog relationships

The I Love You But I'm Shy blogger reads your blog without fail but never ever comments – they worship you from afar. In blogging terms these are lurkers.

The One Night Stand blogger comes from nowhere, leaves one comment and then disappears never to be seen again

The Stalker is a blogger that always visits your blog using an IP blocker. Eventually they will be rumbled because all free IP blockers fail regularly and spectacularly. They just fucking do, people.

The Selfish Lover blogger will always comment first and yell 'Yay I’m first' without saying anything else. They cum, they leave and that’s all you will get from them.

Unrequited Love is when you adore someone else’s blog, you read it religiously, comment feverishly but they never fucking visit your blog. Eventually we give up on them and either read their stuff and not comment, or we get in a huff and stop visiting them entirely.

The Let’s Just Be Friends blogger forms a really good connection with you. They comment on your blog and you comment on theirs. Then just when you are feeling a connection with them their visits become scare and their comments half-arsed and nonsensical. Eventually they disappear entirely and it becomes clear that they were just dumping you kindly.

The I Can't Commit blogger visits you here and there. you know they love your work yet their visit patterns are sporadic and unpredictable. Somehow they just never become one of your tight gang.

The It's Just A Physical Thing blogger visits you regularly but only comments when there are dirty pictures on your posts.

The Deadbeat Dad blogger has a tons of profiles and starts up a succession of blogs that never really go anywhere. They use their profiles to cause shit in other bloggers lives and then shut up shop and move onto the next one.

The Slut blogger is someone who has a blogroll that fucking goes on forever yet doesn’t form blogging friendships of any substance. No one wants to invest time in forming a relationship with a blog slut although we are all very happy to drop in here and there and enjoy their charms.

The Blog Crush is one of the few blogging scenarios that can spill out into real life. It's unclear as to how many of these ever translate into physical relationships - perhaps y'all can let me know if you've ever actually hooked up with your blog crush.

The Happily Married blogger visits your blog, comments and lot and stays with your forever. You visit their blog and you remain loyal to them too. Blogging can be polygamous in this respect – we can all have several very happy marriages and no-one get jealous.

The Unhappily Married blogger is someone with whom you are constantly niggling. Really when it comes down to it you are coming to the conclusion that you loathe them. It is likely that you will end up in a huge blog spat at some stage and then finally seek a blogging divorce.

The I Want A Divorce blogger. We have all either been part of or witnessed ugly cyber wars in which people end up in a blogging divorce. You stop visiting their blog and they don't visit yours. In extreme cases, your friends get dragged into it and can't visit anymore either in fear of pissing you off by being 'disloyal'.

The Married Too Long blogger is someone who used to interact with you meaningfully but now is very obvious that they doesn’t actually read your posts. You can always tell when someone comments without having read your post or just skimmed through it and picked out keywords to comment on.

NOTE: there is a part of each of these types within us all.

SPECIAL NOTE TO EGAN: yet another serious post from me. I am on a roll with all this philosophy shit, huh?

Lovestruck

Entering into a love relationship with someone new requires commitment. So does insanity.

In my limited experience there seems to be two genres of falling for someone: the brutally awful vom-vom type and the kittens/roses/fluffy type.

The first type - Bad Love - is a merry little goblin who dances around your heart and then turns on you with a machine gun. Actually Bad Love is fairly easy to spot thanks to our inbuilt gut instincts, although most of us choose to interpret these signals as the urge to take a crap.

The second type – Good Love – is a lot more enjoyable for you, but hideous for your mates who walk off from your lovestruck babbling feeling like their ears are bleeding. Your constant 100-watt smiles, glazed faraway facial expression and the “If you are going to walk on thin ice you might as well dance” attitude makes everyone want to stab themselves in the eye with a very sharp pen.

Either way you look at it, your friends draw the short straw every time you get the horn for someone new. Sometimes it goes on for months until eventually we either get together with our new love or the pin is pulled on our daydreams. And let’s face it - when the pin is pulled, Mr Grenade is not your friend.

Seeing as your friends are the ones that truly suffer every time you fall in love I think it is only fair that they be given the opportunity to circumvent all this crap.

I will get the ball rolling. From now onwards, anybody wishing to date me will need to apply to my Panel of Concerned Friends, chaired by the lovely Mone. You will be required to pay the application fee ($229) and attend a two hour interview during which you will be assessed to see whether or not you are boyfriendable.

• Your morals will be tested by your ability to avert your eyes when my best mate takes her top off.
• You will be required to pay for expensive champagne to gauge your Levels of Stinginess.
• You will be handed an inflatable butt plug and timed on how long it takes you to insert it.
• A large cat will be placed in your lap and if you flinch you will be scored as a cat hater.
• You will be required to display your penis to establish whether or not you have foreskin and if you do, exactly how flappy it is.
• Finally you will be asked to pitch the panel in 10 minutes or less as to why you believe that you are a suitable applicant for the position of My New Boyfriend.

The Panel’s decision will be final and no correspondence will be entered into.

I feel sure that I have covered all bases. If I have forgotten anything else that my panel should be considering I urge you to let me know. If you would like my panel to consider your application please say so and I will forward you the paperwork. Bear with me people...this tough love system benefits the whole world. Remember that love is a disease that pollutes the brain and renders a person part-retarded.

That is all. Thank you for your interest.
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Liar!

A liar is someone who tells fibs in order to save themselves embarrassment or penalty. Everyone has their price (mine is $4.55) although it is also true to say that a little inaccuracy sometimes does save a ton of explanation.

I completed a very sobering exercise in self-analysis this week. Walking about with a notebook and a pen I was startled to discover that I average out at 9 lies per day. That’s almost the same as my daily fart tally! The only difference between me talking through my arse and blowing hot air out of it is that my lies smell fishy whereas my farts smell more like ripe bolognese.

Some of these untruths are vocational lies – the shit I spin my colleagues and clients in order to continue to appear diligent. I estimate that these account for approximately 60% of my overall daily tally. Others are hobby lies – the crap I sprout to my mates about their weight, looks and cooking skills.

Then we add to the mix the semi-lies that I am certain even Jesus would be cool with – a bit of truth sprinkled in with a total fabrication. An example of valid semi-lying would be telling a telesales caller that there are no women under 40 living in your household and then hanging up.

Lies don’t have to be an outright statement – sometimes deception occurs when information is withheld. There are also more marginal forms of deception to consider - evasion, euphemism and exaggeration. This accounts for a lot of my non-truths – every time I write a blog post for example. Does that make it okay because it's for entertainment?

Lying seems to be so essential to life that bible-types even invented a good-lie category: the white lie. Lying to help someone else is probably covered by that genre and so is self-enhancement misrepresentations - lying to make yourself look better while not hurting another. My resume springs to mind here.

I’ve always considered myself to be an exceptionally honest person - a woman of enormous integrity. It is core to my identity as a human being and I loathe dishonesty in others. Completing this little exercise this week has shocked me senseless. I’m a complete cunt! I fib constantly! This must be addressed. If anyone has any bright ideas on how I can become a truthful person please sing out.

I know that god kills a little kitten every time you masturbate. I sure as fuck hope he doesn’t extend this to fibbing.

Junk

Vulva. Penis. Rectum.

Hands up those of you whose parents used those words to describe your genitals when you were a kid? It seems to me that I am the only person I know whose parents didn't teach their child words such as noo-noo, wee-wee or poo-poo to refer to their junk.

Mind you although my parents did have the balls to call a twat a twat and a knob a knob, I have to say I can't remember them ever needing to say out loud the words 'clitoris' or 'scrotum' in my entire life. And of course like all good parents, they did lie to me prolifically in other areas – my mother solemnly assured me my entire childhood that chopping onions made you cry black tears. I was 18 years old when I discovered that it was her mascara running.

So how is it that kids finally find out that the anatomically correct name for a doodle is in fact a cock? And armed with their newfound biology knowledge do they confront their parents and demand the truth, or does this become a taboo subject that is simply never discussed? If so, does this mean that families continue to call their genitals silly names long after the child has grown up? Do you – the adult – use your embarrassing childhood words to describe your nasties when talking to your parents now to this day? As a parent what words do you intend using on your own children?

Maybe we should just cut the crap and refer to all genitals when speaking to children under 10 as “Cheeseburgers”, yeah?
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How long is your twat?

A yucky soggy tampon string squelching around your knickers is pretty fucking gross, let me tell you. Does anyone know why the strings are soooooo fucking long? Tampons strings should emulate trousers and come in lengths - Short, Regular or Tall. Alternatively tampon boxes could come with a ruler and cutter on the side so that ladies could measure up and trim the string according to their requirements.

It has of course occurred to me that possibly I simply have a freakish twat – although I have in the past enjoyed recreational fisting with my lady-friends I have never actually fisted myself and am therefore unable to make accurate comparison. No one ever lost their head up there to my knowledge either - although I did hear some muffled cries for help south of the border the last time I got back from holiday.

Now being a woman of science, I approached the mystery mathematically. Clearly I either have a hilariously short vagina or tampon string designers are all married to blue whales. What I do know with certainty is that my particular brand of tampon and its string measures out at a whopping 10 inches (25cm). After having sat on a ruler and marked my cave entrance with a piece of chalk I can report that – once I had removed the splinters – my vagina turned out to be a bit like a french fry – a mere 3 inches (8cm) long.

Making a note to ask Karen Little to kindly measure and report back to me the vaginal lengths of all of her patients, I decided continue my investigations and check out other women on my local adult sex site. Unlike the men’s section where penis size is a category (It’s amazing how many guys on the internet have 9 inch cocks) women’s vagina size is not. I immediately emailed the site administrator suggesting that they add a cavity depth category for ladies – I recommended they offer checkboxes labelled Grape, Orange or Watermelon to make it more feminine and less clinical.

So here I am now sitting at my computer and chewing the end of my ruler, and I have to say that I am just as confused as when I started: If my 3 inch vagina is normal (awaiting confirmation from Karen Little) and tampons in Australia are the same as everywhere else in the world yet most men have dicks that are 6 inches (9 inches if you hang out in chat rooms) then I think its clear to see the human anatomy is really quite fucking flawed and in fact the female vagina is totally way too small.

Fuck. No wonder we all end up having anal...

JJ screensaver

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and say yes to all the prompts.

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Networking

I’ve been out of town for the past couple of days on the most entertaining work conference I have ever attended.

I made sure that I booked into my hotel and the conference under Tickersoid’s name – really it seem utterly pointless to get a bad reputation myself.

I have my conference entertainment down pat these days - after checking in and collecting ‘my’ conference name tag, I always take a seat at the very front row of the seminar. I make sure I am wearing a short skirt and no knickers and at timely intervals I entertain myself by opening my legs and flashing a clean-shaven beaver at the stunned male presenter. Not only are they unable to keep track of what they are saying but naturally they find it impossible to disguise their erections in front of 700 conference delegates. For maximum effect the flashing should always be timed for when they are in the middle of the stage rather than safely standing behind the podium.

A couple of tomato sauce sachets come in handy at work seminars. I pick a female audience member of the audience who is wearing white, wait for a tea break and then smear the contents of the sachet onto the middle of the seat of her chair. If you are very discreet you can even take photos of the look on her face when she returns and upload them to your blog afterwards.

But the part of work conferences I enjoy the most are the nightly social networking drinks functions. When I meet people I swap business cards with them as soon as I possibly can and then immediately assume their identity when speaking to the next person I meet. At the end of the conversation I hand them the last person’s business card, continuing this bad behaviour for the rest of the evening. By the end of the night not only have I confused the identities of the entire gathering but I have also made all sorts of outlandish promises in the name of other people in high positions.

Finally after checking out the next day I leave a plastic fake dog shit on the entrance stairs to the hotel. It goes without saying that I adorn it with a small paper flag with the photograph of the lead speaker on one side and Tickersoid’s Egan's company logo on the other side.

Anyhow. Enough about work stuff. Have y’all been behaving while I’ve been gone?

Sport

As a top athlete I believe that the world would be a lot more interesting if shagging was declared a sport. Competitive Shagging is such a fantastic idea I am surprised the government isn’t implementing an Elite Athlete training scheme. Even feminists would love it - for the first time in history men would actually prefer to watch women’s sport.

Competitive Shagging is not an easy life. It requires years of mouth ulcers, groin injuries and crotch rot for those who are training in tropical climates. In return our heroes are subjected to the humiliation of soft-cock, the agony of premature ejaculation and shattered dreams of instant disqualification due to burst condoms – all in front of a packed stadium of hecklers yelling “Is it in yet??” as they climax to a Whitney Housten tune blaring through squeaky speakers.

Naturally athletes would compete in categories based on age, gender and sexual orientation. I propose to stage the inaugural World Rooting Championships with the following classes:

• Heterosexual (one-on-one male/female rooting)
• Homosexual (male)
• Homosexual – (female)
• Veterans (over 40)
• Masters (over 60)
• Mixed Doubles (team event - 2 couples per team)

Just like surfing, ice skating and gymnastics Competitive Shagging would be judged on both technical and creative execution. Like high board diving, points will be awarded for manoeuvres and multiplied by the degree of difficulty. A few examples that spring to mind are Oral (degree of difficulty 1.4), Anal (degree of difficulty 4.5) and for Teams, the Daisy Chain (degree of difficulty 5.1).

Sport is about fair play, so of course drugs cannot be condoned – as such I intend blood testing all male competitors for Viagra before the contest. I am not sure yet whether I will allow Bookmakers or not in case they get arresting for pimping. We won’t have any cheerleaders either – a gaggle of strippers is just what the crowd needs to get them in the mood.

You cynical folk out there are probably wondering if is not simply a ploy to pull a root on my part? Not so - due to my commitment to ongoing celibacy I intend to take care of the commentating side of things with a style similar to that of a horse race commentator.

Auditions for the judging panel will be taking place in the next week or two. If you think you have what it takes please state your qualifications and experience. Note that masturbation is not a criteria and nor is the size of your porn collection.

And the winner is...

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Jungle orgy

I was nestled on the branch of an oak tree today gleefully snooping on the rest of the jungle and scoffing on a piece of cheesecake (I do love cheesecake) when I realised that I am totally in the mood for a comment orgy.

So to kick start the filth and to see who has been paying attention lately I have provided y’all with a dirty little contest quiz. The blogger who gets the most questions correct will win a money-can’t-buy prize: a blog post on The Jungle written by me about them. Neat, huh? You may enter as many times as you want – this is an orgy after all – and I might even provide helpful clues as we go along if I feel like it.

1. Name three sex toys owned by Jungle Jane?
2. When was the last time Jungle Jane pulled a root? (month and year please)
3. Is Jungle Jane heterosexual, lesbian or bi-sexual?
4. How old is Jungle Jane?
5. Who is Jungle Jane’s secret blog crush?

The last question is a bit of stinker but I couldn’t exactly hand it to you on a plate, could I? If you think that you may be my blog crush feel free to crawl out of the woodwork – lurking about the place isn’t exactly gonna win you that glowing blog post, is it?

Saint Jane

Those of you who think becoming a saint is a doddle let me tell you that the traditional path to canonisation is even more complex than self-treating anal warts. You need heaps of:

1. time
2. money
3. testimonies
4. miracles

They make it so damn hard its no wonder that on checking the list of 10,000 Patron Saints currently annointed I couldn’t for the life of me find the Patron Saint of Blogging. What truly shocked me though is that despite the fact that world clearly needs more wanton rooting - not less - if you flick through the list you will find no fewer than 6 Patron Saints Against Sexual Temptation alone.

When you considering the hoops one has to jump through, I figured we best all pull together as a team and kick start the process for my canonisation right now.

Working through the requirements list it appears that we might be able to fast track my application. I have plenty of time and if we get Josh Williams onto starting a collection that means the money side of it is sorted. I’m sure it will be a walk in the park collecting testimonials – I know at least 3 bloggers who will verify as to my life of purity - so all that’s left is performing a couple of miracles and it’s in the bag.

My first miracle will be feeding 40,000 people with two loaves of bread and a limp fish. Anyone who has tasted my cooking will vouch for the fact that there is certain to be two untouched loaves of Janey bread and the faint smell of unwashed woman lingering in the air when everyone has left my dinner table. How easy was that?

My second miracle requires the assistance of you, the blogger. All I need is for one of you creative creatures to contract a deadly disease for me to cure and we’re sorted. I’d prefer it if you could keep the blistering and pus to a minimum and it would also be nice if you could avoid hacking coughs in my presence – you wouldn’t barf boogers all over Mother Theresa, would you? The blogger that comes up trumps with the most lethal and disgusting disease will be rewarded with a signed photograph of my tits. If one of you would kindly put your name down for leprosy I’ll add a bonus pic of my snatch.

Oh yeah and I don’t have a me a hymn or anything for my sainthood just yet but we all know the words to Waltzing Mathilda, right?

Hobby killing

I realized yesterday as I was colour-coding my Serial Killer Hit List wall chart that the USA produces more of these suckers than any other country. Up to 85% of the world's serial killers live there and at any given time there are about 30 active serial killers engaging in their chosen sport.

Everyone should be on their guard unless you live in Africa - serial killers tend to be white, heterosexual males in their twenties and thirties who are frequently sexually dysfunctional and have low self-esteem. If any of you know anyone that fits this description I suggest you call Crime Stopper now, especially if you don’t actually know them personally - serial killers usually murder strangers. You should definitely be paranoid if they are the same race as you and you are female - serial killers tend to prey on women and children of their same race.

This is not just an aimless observation targeting young white men though - female serial killers tend to be like spiders, killing a succession of husbands, lovers, and other family members. They can also be nurses or other medical professionals who murder babies, the elderly or the terminally ill in a misguided effort to relieve their suffering. I am not sure if this means we should be wary of all married women or nurses but please report them too – it’s best to be on the safe side.

Most serial killers grew up in violent households and are sadistic in nature. As children many enjoyed torturing animals, setting fires and were chronic bed-wetters. As adults, many serial killers are highly intelligent charmers with a taste for alcohol and/or drugs. This worries me – usually these are precisely the qualities I look for in men I date.

Now before you think its all bad with serial killers let me tell you that jailed Bundies have groupies in their droves. Women write to these people, fall in love with them and even marry them. So if you are female and struggling to get laid, I urge you to cast your net a bit wider and post that letter.

Don’t get serial killers confused with mass murderers. Mass murderers do not have the cunning stealth and premeditated intent of today’s blog topic heroes. They are probably just pissed with bad postal service. I like to think that serial killing is more of a hobby – and let’s face it…everyone needs a hobby – whereas their chumpish mass murdering cousins are usually one hit wonders, saving the last bullet for themselves.

Now that you are educated in this matter - you're welcome! - I am thinking you all feel a whole bunch safer. Don’t leave it at that though – I urge you to take this quiz right now and let me know how you scored. I got 10 out of 10, which is a great relief when you consider my line of work…

Exercise

picture supplied by Die Murane

As you all know I am a top athlete. Well I appear to have been overdoing it somewhat recently – I’ve done so many sit-ups that my vagina has shifted upwards and is now nestled firmly between my tits. And before you all go “ooh aah - what a freak” let me assure you that my arsehole is now rested where my belly button used to be so I am still perfectly in proportion.

Yay! I don’t have to worry that men are staring at my breasts anymore – I am quite sure they are simply perving at my twat. Of course I now have to lean over the loo just to take a piss but at least my pubic grooming has become a heck of a lot easier.

I now cannot tell the difference between a menstrual cramp and heartache. As a further bonus, flicking my bean has become a whole bunch easier too – who would suspect that I am knocking the top off one when I simply appear to be scratching my chest? I don’t have to wear undies anymore either – I just pop on a padded bra and don’t give a second thought to incontinence.

Of course I have to be very careful not to perform a runny fart but at least I don’t have to worry about having a fat arse. I just suck in my belly and smile like a supermodel.

I have always been innovative. Feel free to worship me.

Fat Cunt Thursday

Happy Fat Cunt Thursday from me and Sausage. We recommend that you spend the evening eating chips and scratching your nuts.

Once you have done that we recommend you swallow a box of laxatives so you can fit into your nice jeans on Skinny Arse Friday.

www.janesfuneral.com

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For Egan

Monkeys are cute little creatures native to jungles and Seattle. Fed up with being mistaken for chimps, these adorable critters even have their own awareness society – the Committee Uniting Needy Tree Simians. 

When they are not spontaneously masturbating at the dinner table, monkeys make fantastic pets! Their love of smearing shit on walls has saved many a discerning family from having to purchase artwork - for the price of a bunch of bananas and a pack of cigarettes who wouldn’t invest in one of these good natured and easy-to-tame primates? They are also extensively used in laboratory experiments and thank goodness for that – I am sure none of us want to die from using toxic lipstick.

Here are some facts that may surprise you about monkeys:

• most monkeys prefer to use a Mac. Which is why they are monkeys I guess.
• many monkeys have part-time jobs as George Bush impersonators
• man did not evolve from monkeys – if this were true we wouldn’t still have monkeys
• eagles may soar but monkeys don’t get sucked into jet engines
• a Monkey Bath is a bath so hot that when lowering yourself in, you go: "Oo! Oo! Oo! Aa!Aa!Aa!".

All this teaching has left me drained yo. Lets wrap this sucker up with a nice bit of simian humour:

Question: What's got one leg, fur and bleeds?
Answer: Half a monkey

UPDATE: Monkeys LOVE swimming. They just don't like swimming ools because there is no P in them....

Barbie goes cave diving

Photo source: unknown

violated

logo by Toby

I was mugged today. I am still shaking so please excuse any rude language that I might use in this post.

What happened was that I went down to Bondi Beach earlier in the day as I normally do on a Saturday. Not to frolic in the sea or anything gay like that – just to score some weed from my dealer.

Anyhoooo after I had pulled a few cheeky cones behind the police station I got myself some fish and chips and went and hung out on the sand mentally taking notes of which chicks had fatter arses than I do. The score was about 70-30 (not in my favour) when I suddenly got a chilling feeling that I was being watched.

Now lethally trained martial artists like myself know that your best defence is to look about, assess the danger and then flee. Unfortunately today my number came up and I did not have the flight option – I was wholly cornered by a threatening, menacing, nasty pack of butt-ugly seagulls with one stealth mission in mind – my lunch.

The dirty fuckers had it all figured out. One created the diversion by landing on my head and while my arms were flailing about like a drowning tourist the bad boys moved in and stole my battered cod, my slice of lemon and my whole pack of chips one by one.

The chaos of arms and wings! The screeches of seagulls sounding like i just raped one of their babies! The feather flurry!

I pay tax. I demand answers:

1. Since when do seagulls eat potato?
2. Did they squeeze the lemon on the fish when they got back to headquarters?
3. Was it really necessary to rub it in by crapping on my bare leg too?

When I was a child I used to enjoy hours of endless entertainment by feeding seagulls Alka Seltzer (google it if you don’t know what it is you lazy fucks) and chortling as their stomachs exploded from the gas as they flew off.

My childhood hobby along with my brother's support may be my salvation. I am now going to post notices around the whole of Bondi detailing my nightmare and asking others who have been mugged of their lunch to contact me. I will form the Seagull Retribution Society. We will have a logo and all.

Lock up your daughters people. This is war.

swimming

Top athletes like myself accept that serving our sport requires suffering and sacrifice. That’s what I remind myself when I apply my nose clamps, floral swimming cap and water wings each morning as I plunge into other people’s urine in my local public swimming pool.

I am happy to swallow a bit of urine – I am sure it’s good for my complexion. What I would like to avoid is the lane rage I suffer from when I am training. Lane rage occurs when swimmers (usually men) refuse to comply with the Public Swimming Pool Code of Ethics that requests that you swim in a lane matching your swimming ability. Lane rage is very similar to road rage except the vehicle is your body and it's rare that one carries a crowbar into the pool.

You will NEVER see a bloke in the slow lane! These are provided for those who gasp through their laps like wounded seals often employing a made-up swimming style of their own crossed with doggy paddle. They are usually either old people, ladies who keep their head out the water so they don’t get their hair wet, the injured remedial crowd and people who simply cannot swim well.

The medium lane is the catch-all and there are usually several lanes devoted to you Medium folk. The rules in this lane is simple: keep to the left and don’t overtake near the wall in case you bash the person on the return path. Easy.

The fast lane is made available for top athletes like myself who thunder up and down like jet-skis. It is impolite to use anything other than freestyle in these lanes and even more impolite to enter this lane if you are slower than me.

Lane rage could be prevented if swimming pools appointed a more military style lifeguard who could belittle people swimming in a lane outside of their abilities. They could also exert their authority on people entering the swimming pool with band-aids and plasters. The aerodynamics of these vile devices are simple: they don’t stay on in the water and your fellow swimmer is bound to swallow your scabs. I also believe that there is place for the militants to detain and punish those that snort snot into the pool – and once again I am sorry to say that its usually the brothers that do that.

Perhaps the solution is to have gender-specific pools? That way the girls can politely swim in the lane of their ability and men can fight each other in the fast lane of their pool while their band-aids float about spreading germs on boats made out of snot. Sorted.