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...

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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?