28 June 2006
Bored at work?
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
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
24 June 2006
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.
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.
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.
20 June 2006
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.
18 June 2006
Get rich quick1. 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
15 June 2006
Five jobs worse than yoursBomb Disposal Dude
Bomb Guys are not like trainee hairdressers who make a mistake - bombs are not hair and your limbs do not grow back. You probably don’t want to do this job if you have shaky hands or poor eyesight or tend to show up to work still pissed from the night before. If you marry a Bomb Guy you are likely to have great Guy Fawkes celebrations.
the lady who operates the colonic irrigation machine has three awful aspects to her job. Firstly she has to stick a large tube up your clenched arse. Next she has to walk into the shit-stenched room half way through and massage your tummy. Finally her last chore is to sift through your shit to test your fiber count when you’re all done. If you marry a Shit Sifter it is unlikely you will discuss her day at the office much.
This is the person on the set of an porn flick whose job is to clean up any male ejaculate that splattered about the place during the money shot. And this is the glamorous aspect of this trade – aging Jizz Moppers frequently end their careers wiping spunk off private booths in dirty movie houses. If you marry a Jizz Mopper, you probably won’t eat a lot of porridge.
This is totally true – I swear I am not making it up. People wank chickens off and collect the spunk in little tubes. I think this is probably how eggs are made although I am not really sure how the jizz gets into the eggshell after that. Maybe they inject it in with a syringe and then glue the little hole up afterwards. If you marry a Chicken Sexer you are likely to end up giving really really good handjobs.
Trash festers and can become both toxic and infected so all you bitches out there that sneak hazardous materials into your weekly garbage should spare a thought for the guy that has to trawl through reeking decade-old landfills to stop the world from blowing up. If you are married to one of these folk, you can expect a lifetime’s supply of free recycled kitchenware.
I would very much like to know if there are worse jobs out there than these, especially if you have actually done the job yourself. Oh yeah – and have a nice weekend.
13 June 2006
SkeetersAlarm 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.
10 June 2006
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?
03 June 2006
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.