29 January 2006
- Hedgehogs live for up to six years. They are 20 - 30 cm long and weigh on average the same as a very large block of hashish - around 700g. They feast on slugs, snails, caterpillars, beetles, earthworms, birds' eggs, frogs and snakes. They have up to 500 quills on their backs with their face, tail, belly and legs covered in soft fur
- A 'gutted hedgehog' is an amusing name for a vagina
- Hedgehogs are lazy cunts. They sleep all day and and then hibernate all winter
- There are no indigenous species of hedgehog in North America or Australia. There are also no indigenous white people in either country, but most hedgehogs are too polite to point that out on their blogs.
- Hedgehog Humour exists amongst the hedgehog enthusiasts community. An example hedgehog quip: “unlike a Ferrari, hedgehogs have their pricks on the outside”. It is unclear as to whether porcupine enthusiasts use the same joke.
- Hedgehogs are considered sacred in China. Cats are not so fortunate.
- One of Europe’s top selling potato chips claimed to be “hedgehog flavour”. Angry hedgehog lovers eventually forced Hedgehog Foods Ltd to reveal that in fact they were flavoured with pig fat. It is interesting to note that pig supporters did not squeal at this. This anomaly can also be observed in the fishing industry whereby dolphin supporters elicit large amounts of sympathy at the suggestion that dolphin is found in tinned tuna, yet tuna fish supporters remain notably silent.
- Hedgehogs are becoming increasingly common chocolate snacks at easter time. It is confusing as to what role they play in the crucifixion of christ as they are not specifically mentioned in the bible.
- In South Africa it is considered hilarious to half pull two matches out of a matchbox to mimic an aerial and then to whisper urgently into the matchbox “calling all hedgehogs, calling all hedgehogs”. The origin of this nonsensical lark is unknown, however the author has done this more than 50 times and verifies that it is amusing.
- Although anyone that has been impaled by hedgehog quills will swear that the animal is the windshield, when it comes to tarmac the hedgehog is in fact the bug. Traffic accidents account for 80% of injuries in rescue centres in the UK. If you do hit a hedgehog, follow this link for an awesome roadkill recipes
is unlikelyhas been conclusively proven that Josh Williams would be able to find a Tom Waits song that mentions these prickly little critters
- mr dna is *very knowledgeable * (don't ask) about porn star Ron Jeremy. He informs me that Ron is also known as "The Hedgehog"
18 January 2006
Bizarrely it seems that most of my homies are vastly uncomfortable with having to take a crap at work! Not so me - with the exception of weekends when I drop by my local church to do a holy shit, generally I only produce faecal matter in the workplace. I don’t mind using their cheap scratchy loo roll that doubles up as sandwich wrap – the fact that its free makes it worth putting up with anal bleeding. I also love that I am getting paid to do a dump – at my current consultancy rates I am earning eight aussie dollars for every load I drop! Some nights I eat curry so as I am justified in charging overtime the next day!
I love that I start my working day with a cheery g’day greeting to the toilet bowl – scat makes the flowers grow and that's real beautiful.
Crap plays a HUGE part of my personal entertainment during working hours. I like to wait until I see someone I hate go off to the loo and then tiptoe in quietly after them so that they mistakenly think that they are alone. I only make my presence known after about a minute and I usually do so by knocking sharply on their cubicle and cheerily asking them to pass over some loo paper.
If I am feeling mean or the vendetta I wish to fulfil is particularly nasty I enter the bathroom loudly about a minute after they have gone in, knowing my presence will cause them to break into dead dead silence and muscular immobility. I love to yell out their name in a greeting - “Hello Doloris” I squawk, knowing that the Accounts poon will be clenching her butt so hard she will be making involuntary noises. I then proceed to fuck about for ages, whistling softly. I brush my hair, i adjust my labia in my pants, i wash my hands and then i apply some make-up at length. Poor Doloris.
Anyhow. Enough about my stuff. How was your day?
16 January 2006
I therefore need to sell some of my personal property and as such I hereby offer to the highest bidder my grandmother and a black & white cat.
The two items can be purchased together or separately and both come with cute-yet-functional accessories – you don’t need to spend a single additional cent on them other than food and vet bills moving forward. Granny needs less flea powder than the cat but the cat doesn’t smell like mould so they both have their pros and cons. Should you buy them both as a package deal I will, of course, provide a 10% discount.
My Granny is 94 and somewhat incontinent but she is very useful for holding balls of wool while you knit. If you don’t knit you might be able to use her as a door stop or a scarecrow. The cat is quite old but his left eye is still good. He either has kidney failure or bowel failure – whatever it is it’s runny and reddy brown-ish – but he still rocks when it comes to washing his bum and making the dog next door hysterical.
I am happy to post pictures of both beasts.
The sale will start right now and will last for 48 hours. Please post your best offer here and indicate how you intend paying. I accept cocaine, direct money transfer or guns that I can sell to gangsters for cash. Monthly instalments can be negotiated. I will ship each item wrapped in bubble wrap but please note that I do not accept liability during transit.
Thank you for your interest. Together we will make the world a better place.
13 January 2006
Now although some women find solace in listening to Celine Dion whining, traditionally the cure for mending a broken heart has been lots of time to heal, a very short haircut and a drunken one night stand that is so goddam awful you spend the rest of your life avoiding the pub you pulled him in.
I object to this remedy – I think mending hearts should be covered by MediCare taxes. Fuck sakes - if we have to pay for old Harold-down-the-road’s bumhole transplant out of our medical levies then surely shattered hearts should qualify for a rebate?
I Have a Dream! I am going to a invent a pill that fixes broken hearts and then pimp it out to all my friends. It would work a bit like an indigestion tablet or even possibly a tapeworm tonic. I haven’t done any scientific research yet but I am sure I can find a recipe on the internet somewhere. I figure that if medical science can fix this surely heartache repair should be a walk in the park?
I am not sure yet what side effects to bundle in with my new tablet. Although I am leaning towards palpitations or appetite suppression I might just stick with everyone’s favourite: hallucinations. I would welcome suggestions and feedback on this.
My vision is that washing that guy right out of your hair would be as simple as dissolving two tablets in a cup of water and taken on a food-lined stomach. Or you can just shelve them up your arse like you do with your Ecstasy.
So if anyone has an ounce of charity or goodwill left in them after the festive season please send your heart for research for advancement of medical science. I will return it in an airtight cooler box once I am done trampling all over it.
11 January 2006
Today I carefully smeared shit on the arse of my white trousers and then wandered about the office taking detailed notes on how many people would be decent enough to alert me that I had mucked myself. Now I’ve tallied up the responses in an Excel spreadsheet (my assistant knocked it up after he returned from picking up a box of tampons for me from the chemist) and I am sure you will agree the results are so terribly useful.
- Number of people who whispered “Janey I think you might have over-delivered on your last fart": 16
- Number of people who opted for diplomacy: “Babe, I think you may have sat on something dirty”: 8
- Number of people who looked embarrassed, averted their eyes and said nothing: 5
I am not sure whether to be upset or not that so many in my office associate me with a leaky bowel, however I can confirm that I was perplexed at how different the data was to yesterday’s social experiment: rubbing a dead fish all over my shirt and leaning over people trapped behind their desks:
- Number of people who wrung their nose, dry-heaved and then tried to get away: 22
- Number of people who said “fuck dude you stink” : 3
- Number of people who thought of vaginas and tried to chat me up: 6
I am happy to take requests if anyone has a pressing social issue that they would like me to collect statistics on? Please remember however that I have a prestigious and well paid job that cannot be jeopardised. That means I can’t go nude or fuck things. So let’s keep it clean, eh? And yes, I would be happy to photograph and publish my fact finding mission for the good of the whole community. Amen.
09 January 2006
Anybody who has actually heard me sing will be floored by this news...many have remarked that my singing voice sounds uncannily like the squeals of a baby seal being clubbed up its arse with a pitchfork.
Relax gang. My new album - which is entitled Faster Baby - is the glorious soundtrack of me faking loud multiple orgasms (clitoral...not vaginal...for the benefit of the details Nazis).
Overcoming the eerie feeling that I was being watched in disgust by my dead grandmother, I recorded Faster Baby in order to fool the neighbours into thinking that I am getting laid regularly. I had to take cunning action - my ongoing sexual drought has now become so painfully obvious it’s got to the stage where I can’t look the Power Lesbians next door in the eye anymore. I really had to do something to dispel the perception in my street that I prefer a good shit to a root.
Like every classic album, Faster Baby has an epic anthem. I will be playing this loudly approximately every fortnight to pretend i am hosting a nice drug-fuelled, whip cracking, gang banging fuck fest. Unfortunately right now this track is as yet unfinished as I still need to recruit 4 backing vocalists.
To demonstrate my sexual versatility and to cater for the masses I have thrown in a catchy pop tune – I love how the sound of me slapping my own arse makes me click my fingers and tap my toes in time to the funky beat.
And finally, who can go past a nice slow ballad - perfect for a rainy Sunday morning. This symphony piece nicely demonstrates my orgasm vocal range and the series of vaginal farts harmonising with my crescendo of frenzied yelping are nothing short of beautiful.
I am so delighted with my efforts that I may place the audio on my blog so that it starts blaring from your shitty, tinny computer speakers as you enter the site. And before you all boo and hiss at me like spoilt brats please stop and consider the effort I have put into this – it takes 116 facial muscles to fake a climax but only 17 for you to smile…
05 January 2006
It is with much pride and not a small degree of emotion that I present to the world for the very first time my new coat of arms, Cunt With Wings. See how she soars. Note how the diamond in her piercing sparkles. Observe how she sits slightly skew because I don’t know how the rotate button works in Photoshop.
Now although I have recently taken to calling my vagina Narnia, my logo will not succumb to cheap commercialism, oh no. She will simply be referred to as CWW. She will adorn my stationery, my made-to-order toilet paper, my company invoices and a small silver necklace I intend having crafted to match.
In honour of the unveiling of my new heraldry and in line with christening methods employed in the shipping industry I urge you all to purchase a bottle of champagne and break it against your computer monitors. Thank you.
03 January 2006
1. locate a beast of a similar species to yourself
2. lift up its tail
3. commence humping
Post coital gratification is a jolly nice sleep and no dull mushy chit chat. Unless of course you are a spider - then as a bonus you get to eat the creature you just fucked. Jungle folklore has it that Jeffrey Dahmer was raised by spiders.
In the human world scoring an Aussie kiss (same as a French kiss, but downunder) has been complicated to the extent that it is remarkable that anyone (and I don’t count my parents in this because I am certain that they DO NOT have sex) gets their legover. Is he or she gay/straight? Am I too fat/thin? Too black/white? Too old/young? Too ugly? Too brunette? Are my tits too big (male) or small (female)? Am I too bald (male and female)? How about my pubes? Shaved or bushy or trimmed or bald? What about my tattoo on my neck that says “Cut Here” ? And my pierced bumhole – will that be a turnoff?
Enough already – step aside and let me fix this mess. Girls forget buying Fuck Me boots. Straight guys you can stop borrowing your mate’s baby and walking around the park making eye contact with single mums.
The solution to sexual paranoia is really very simple and from today onwards I propose we all go back to basics: Everyone who wants sex please move to Australia. If you wish to keep your legs closed, please make your way over to the USA. Gay people, you can sort out your own country - I have my hands full with the straight crowd.
Well I’m glad that’s all sorted out then. If anyone has any other pressing world issues that they would like quickly resolved, drop me a line.