Sunday, November 25, 2007
Teen Had Group Sex in Public View - Part Deux
Nearly a week on and this particular story is still one of Stuffs Top Ten most viewed items - now that's a lot of folk hoping there's a picture or two and I reckon it's a bit like when you can't find anything in the pantry to eat, but you keep checking back every 20 minutes to see if there has been any change...
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Teen Had Group Sex in Public View
You know, when you read a newspaper headline like “Teen had group sex in public view”, you would think they would have the decency to include pictures.
Now I’m not talking about pictures of the act itself, although if they were to print those I, like thousands of other horny males would fell compelled to view them. We wouldn’t enjoy it mind you. No, what we really want to know is was she hot or not? Because it’s bad enough reading a story that makes it seem as though everyone else is getting better sexy time than you, but if it was a hot chick putting out too? Then that would keep a lad going for quite some time I can tell you.
It never is of course. Like when you hear some teacher or babysitter has jumped her 14 year old male ward and we all think ‘Oh yeah, another Penthouse forum just wrote itself’! Then it turns out, when you finally see a picture of her, that she’s the type of bird you’d have to roll in flour to get to the wet bits and suddenly it’s not so cool. Or prostitutes, who in the movies and TV are so pretty they could be waitresses and are so ridiculously hot that it’s almost unbelievable that they would need to be paid for sex. Almost, but not quite. Hey, if the top is coming off, we’ll believe anything.
These misconceptions we fellas have are down to Porn. Ever since we realised it did something if you played with it, we’ve been right sucked in by the one medium that has served as our single most comprehensive guide to sex and relationships and led us to believe, quite wrongly I’m told, that every girl wants in the bum. Porn it would seem, has a lot to answer for.
But then so too has my mate Big Al who this week made me view the single most disturbing thing on the web that I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen a lot of disturbing things. Yet ironically, repulsed though I was, I had to watch it all right till the end. Again, it’s a male thing; we have to watch because if we don’t, we worry that we might miss some tidbit that makes us a better lay. it didn't hold any such gems unfortunately, but it has put me right off chocolate Mr Whippy icecream.
Coffee enemas. Now there's something that had to be thought up by a sexual deviant. It's all the rage in detox land, is pumping a couple of cups of cold coffee up your date. Does wonderful things to your colon they reckon. Quite frankly, if you're the kind of cat that is willing to pay someone a huge amount of your hard earned cash for them to suggest jamming something up your shitter is going to make you healthy and you take their word for it, then I'd recommend replacing the coffee with a pistol and pulling the trigger until it goes click. You twat.
My mate Jase’s Mum and dad had a mega porn collection. In truth it was only half a dozen tapes but in the eyes of a roomful of 16 year old boys with swollen testes, that was a mega haul. Conveniently for us, they were into their stock car racing and would travel every other weekend meaning that we chaps would head up to his house for a sleep over and 24 hours of masturbating our brains out. At night we would all lay on the floor in the lounge in our sleeping bags, with our knees bent, watching back to back skin flicks. Every 20 minutes or so someone would make a 10 minute visit to the toilet, where they either were doing what I was doing, or there was a really bad shared case of the runs happening every other weekend too.
Thankfully those days are no more and the new generation of wankers can surf the net one handed in the privacy of their own room. Even so, I still reckon that out there somewhere, even now, a group of lads are trying to play it cool and not make it too obvious to anyone else in the room that they’ve cracked one over the video with the bad tracking they’re all watching.
Ever notice how attractive blonde girls seem to be hanging out in twos or threes these days? It’s quite the phenomenon. I thought it was standard sheila practice to hang out with at least one poo chick and thus increase your chances of being noticed, but that doesn’t seem to happen any more. Thankfully we blokes still live by those rules, and will often surround ourselves with several of evolutions missing links in order to bump up our chances of being noticed by a threesome of blondes. It usually backfires though and inevitably we end up as a group of munters who all think we’re better looking than the guy next to us. Which we're not.
So I guess if all the blondies are hanging together and the sultry brunettes that look good in any number do their own thing, then the poor old Plain Jane’s and aesthetically challenged have to either go it alone, or have group sex in a public place.
But if only we could see the pictures to make sure that’s how it goes….
Now I’m not talking about pictures of the act itself, although if they were to print those I, like thousands of other horny males would fell compelled to view them. We wouldn’t enjoy it mind you. No, what we really want to know is was she hot or not? Because it’s bad enough reading a story that makes it seem as though everyone else is getting better sexy time than you, but if it was a hot chick putting out too? Then that would keep a lad going for quite some time I can tell you.
It never is of course. Like when you hear some teacher or babysitter has jumped her 14 year old male ward and we all think ‘Oh yeah, another Penthouse forum just wrote itself’! Then it turns out, when you finally see a picture of her, that she’s the type of bird you’d have to roll in flour to get to the wet bits and suddenly it’s not so cool. Or prostitutes, who in the movies and TV are so pretty they could be waitresses and are so ridiculously hot that it’s almost unbelievable that they would need to be paid for sex. Almost, but not quite. Hey, if the top is coming off, we’ll believe anything.
These misconceptions we fellas have are down to Porn. Ever since we realised it did something if you played with it, we’ve been right sucked in by the one medium that has served as our single most comprehensive guide to sex and relationships and led us to believe, quite wrongly I’m told, that every girl wants in the bum. Porn it would seem, has a lot to answer for.
But then so too has my mate Big Al who this week made me view the single most disturbing thing on the web that I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen a lot of disturbing things. Yet ironically, repulsed though I was, I had to watch it all right till the end. Again, it’s a male thing; we have to watch because if we don’t, we worry that we might miss some tidbit that makes us a better lay. it didn't hold any such gems unfortunately, but it has put me right off chocolate Mr Whippy icecream.
Coffee enemas. Now there's something that had to be thought up by a sexual deviant. It's all the rage in detox land, is pumping a couple of cups of cold coffee up your date. Does wonderful things to your colon they reckon. Quite frankly, if you're the kind of cat that is willing to pay someone a huge amount of your hard earned cash for them to suggest jamming something up your shitter is going to make you healthy and you take their word for it, then I'd recommend replacing the coffee with a pistol and pulling the trigger until it goes click. You twat.
My mate Jase’s Mum and dad had a mega porn collection. In truth it was only half a dozen tapes but in the eyes of a roomful of 16 year old boys with swollen testes, that was a mega haul. Conveniently for us, they were into their stock car racing and would travel every other weekend meaning that we chaps would head up to his house for a sleep over and 24 hours of masturbating our brains out. At night we would all lay on the floor in the lounge in our sleeping bags, with our knees bent, watching back to back skin flicks. Every 20 minutes or so someone would make a 10 minute visit to the toilet, where they either were doing what I was doing, or there was a really bad shared case of the runs happening every other weekend too.
Thankfully those days are no more and the new generation of wankers can surf the net one handed in the privacy of their own room. Even so, I still reckon that out there somewhere, even now, a group of lads are trying to play it cool and not make it too obvious to anyone else in the room that they’ve cracked one over the video with the bad tracking they’re all watching.
Ever notice how attractive blonde girls seem to be hanging out in twos or threes these days? It’s quite the phenomenon. I thought it was standard sheila practice to hang out with at least one poo chick and thus increase your chances of being noticed, but that doesn’t seem to happen any more. Thankfully we blokes still live by those rules, and will often surround ourselves with several of evolutions missing links in order to bump up our chances of being noticed by a threesome of blondes. It usually backfires though and inevitably we end up as a group of munters who all think we’re better looking than the guy next to us. Which we're not.
So I guess if all the blondies are hanging together and the sultry brunettes that look good in any number do their own thing, then the poor old Plain Jane’s and aesthetically challenged have to either go it alone, or have group sex in a public place.
But if only we could see the pictures to make sure that’s how it goes….
Friday, November 16, 2007
A Mans Home...
Once upon a time, houses were for living in. Now they’re a form of currency and if you have several of them you’re a right smug bastard. If you don’t have any, you’re fucked.
We don’t own our house because I refuse to pay an extra thirty grand over what its worth just because the present owner knocked down the wall between the shitter and the shower. It used to be the only reason you did that was because you liked the smell of shit whilst you showered, or it turned you on to watch your sister shower. Now you can actually make money out of your perversion and what’s more, a homosexual man with an uncanny sense of colour coordination and a black belt in Fung Shui will appear on a TV show telling you to do so.
The housing market really blew its load a few years back when the rampant consumerism the experts refer to today as ‘status anxiety’, reached its zenith and there was no more money to be made from ramming bling, home entertainment systems, cars or having children up peoples arses. The only thing left to fleece was folk’s houses. Oh sure, children still rank high on the ‘must have’ list though. These days it’s important that one owns an orphan, preferably an African with some sort of disease, but an Eastern European or Asian one will suffice. Best not to refer to ‘owning’ it though, ‘rescue’ or ‘liberate’ is a far better way of admitting you paid ten grand to a corrupt gun running drug lord for the privilege.
At this point, some very important folk like those that make TV shows, publish magazines and write newspapers collectively put their heads together and decided that property was the new black (Or Eastern European or Asian) and started a saturation campaign of DIY home improvement shit. Now it’s all over the fucken place. You can’t even turn on TV without some home improvement program hosted by some washed up celebrity ramming his or her big ideas down your throat. And if it’s not DIY, then it’s a weight loss program. Why not combine the two and have the fatty fatty boom booms lose weight by renovating houses? That’s one less hour of shit on TV anyway.
I love how these shows suggest things like hiring furniture and artwork to make your place more appealing to potential buyers. They do so because a) it’s their way of saying you have no fucking taste and b) they are paid by or have supply contracts with the pricks who rent out furniture! If I was selling my house I would tell them to lick my ring – if somebody wants to see what their furniture looks like in my house then they better pile it all onto a trailer and bring it with them to the open home. And TV shows make it all look so easy don’t they, with their big budgets and endless experts who in real life charge $500 an hour to tell you that your taste in furniture sucks.
Owning a home now is no longer about owning a home at all, it’s all about renovation and flogging it off to some daft cunt for far more than it is worth. Not surprisingly when this actually happens, the vendor cracks an almighty chubby over an overpriced sale and the extra cash they just made. But this hard on lasts only until they have to buy their new house and a small thing called karma whacks it back down to a flaccid state when they have to shell out far more for a house than it was worth. It sure is a vicious cycle this housing biz.
Stay at home Mums and dole bludging bums fucken loved the housing boom too because they’ve now all got jobs as Realtors. Whereas they used to have clean schools after hours or do paper runs to pay to make ends meet, they now need only do a two day course on how to use MS Office, the photocopier and booya, they’re facilitating 6 figured cash transactions. All of which makes the person selling your house, or selling you the house, about as knowledgeable as the deadbeat at Farmers when you ask him to point out the benefits of one stereo over another. Honestly, you’ll get more info off the box then you ever will by asking the guy in the purple polo shirt. Don’t even bother trying to ask the same question at The Warehouse.
Which is fair enough, they’re discount stores and they save money by employing morons, but I think you would be justified in expecting a little more know how from someone employed to sell houses. But then you don’t have to be qualified to sell houses, par se. The guy who owns the real estate company and takes most of the money you pay Sheryl to market the house does, but Sheryl herself doesn’t. He drives a big fuckoff shiny, four wheeled drive, top of the line Beemer too, if you hadn’t noticed. It has a personalised plate that says something like ‘REALTR’ when it should read something like ‘TITWNK’. And does this guy take a pay cut if your house doesn’t sell for as much as Sheryl promised you it would? Not likely.
What ever happened to the notion of owing a home that had a decent yard for the kids to play in too? I grew up with a full size trampoline, decent size pool and a small creek in my back yard, but that was just Naenae for you. Now when you buy a house in a newly developed part of town you’re lucky if there’s enough lawn for the cat to cack on. Even then the wanker who owns it is trying to sell that bit separate to the 64 members of the same Sri Lankan family who all live in the one town house over the back fence. They can't wait to build that extension that will mean you can't even open your back door fully!
Yep, the housing market these days is a lot like Monopoly really. Only Monopoly is a board game and the housing market is real life and the only actual thing they have in common is whether you’re playing Monopoly or playing the housing market, there’s always a fat bastard in the middle with a chubby fist full of cash – yours!
We don’t own our house because I refuse to pay an extra thirty grand over what its worth just because the present owner knocked down the wall between the shitter and the shower. It used to be the only reason you did that was because you liked the smell of shit whilst you showered, or it turned you on to watch your sister shower. Now you can actually make money out of your perversion and what’s more, a homosexual man with an uncanny sense of colour coordination and a black belt in Fung Shui will appear on a TV show telling you to do so.
The housing market really blew its load a few years back when the rampant consumerism the experts refer to today as ‘status anxiety’, reached its zenith and there was no more money to be made from ramming bling, home entertainment systems, cars or having children up peoples arses. The only thing left to fleece was folk’s houses. Oh sure, children still rank high on the ‘must have’ list though. These days it’s important that one owns an orphan, preferably an African with some sort of disease, but an Eastern European or Asian one will suffice. Best not to refer to ‘owning’ it though, ‘rescue’ or ‘liberate’ is a far better way of admitting you paid ten grand to a corrupt gun running drug lord for the privilege.
At this point, some very important folk like those that make TV shows, publish magazines and write newspapers collectively put their heads together and decided that property was the new black (Or Eastern European or Asian) and started a saturation campaign of DIY home improvement shit. Now it’s all over the fucken place. You can’t even turn on TV without some home improvement program hosted by some washed up celebrity ramming his or her big ideas down your throat. And if it’s not DIY, then it’s a weight loss program. Why not combine the two and have the fatty fatty boom booms lose weight by renovating houses? That’s one less hour of shit on TV anyway.
I love how these shows suggest things like hiring furniture and artwork to make your place more appealing to potential buyers. They do so because a) it’s their way of saying you have no fucking taste and b) they are paid by or have supply contracts with the pricks who rent out furniture! If I was selling my house I would tell them to lick my ring – if somebody wants to see what their furniture looks like in my house then they better pile it all onto a trailer and bring it with them to the open home. And TV shows make it all look so easy don’t they, with their big budgets and endless experts who in real life charge $500 an hour to tell you that your taste in furniture sucks.
Owning a home now is no longer about owning a home at all, it’s all about renovation and flogging it off to some daft cunt for far more than it is worth. Not surprisingly when this actually happens, the vendor cracks an almighty chubby over an overpriced sale and the extra cash they just made. But this hard on lasts only until they have to buy their new house and a small thing called karma whacks it back down to a flaccid state when they have to shell out far more for a house than it was worth. It sure is a vicious cycle this housing biz.
Stay at home Mums and dole bludging bums fucken loved the housing boom too because they’ve now all got jobs as Realtors. Whereas they used to have clean schools after hours or do paper runs to pay to make ends meet, they now need only do a two day course on how to use MS Office, the photocopier and booya, they’re facilitating 6 figured cash transactions. All of which makes the person selling your house, or selling you the house, about as knowledgeable as the deadbeat at Farmers when you ask him to point out the benefits of one stereo over another. Honestly, you’ll get more info off the box then you ever will by asking the guy in the purple polo shirt. Don’t even bother trying to ask the same question at The Warehouse.
Which is fair enough, they’re discount stores and they save money by employing morons, but I think you would be justified in expecting a little more know how from someone employed to sell houses. But then you don’t have to be qualified to sell houses, par se. The guy who owns the real estate company and takes most of the money you pay Sheryl to market the house does, but Sheryl herself doesn’t. He drives a big fuckoff shiny, four wheeled drive, top of the line Beemer too, if you hadn’t noticed. It has a personalised plate that says something like ‘REALTR’ when it should read something like ‘TITWNK’. And does this guy take a pay cut if your house doesn’t sell for as much as Sheryl promised you it would? Not likely.
What ever happened to the notion of owing a home that had a decent yard for the kids to play in too? I grew up with a full size trampoline, decent size pool and a small creek in my back yard, but that was just Naenae for you. Now when you buy a house in a newly developed part of town you’re lucky if there’s enough lawn for the cat to cack on. Even then the wanker who owns it is trying to sell that bit separate to the 64 members of the same Sri Lankan family who all live in the one town house over the back fence. They can't wait to build that extension that will mean you can't even open your back door fully!
Yep, the housing market these days is a lot like Monopoly really. Only Monopoly is a board game and the housing market is real life and the only actual thing they have in common is whether you’re playing Monopoly or playing the housing market, there’s always a fat bastard in the middle with a chubby fist full of cash – yours!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Dumb and Dumber
I’ve got a great idea for a TV game show. Its working title is ‘Blind Root’, which may be a bit ‘edgy’ so I’m open to suggestions at this early stage of planning.
The premise will be that each week one contestant has several sexual encounters (all on camera of course), whilst wearing a blindfold and then has to rate their performance. Then back at the studio they have to work out who was who by simply playing with their bits. If contestant number one picks his / her best Blind Root they get syphilis as a prize. If not, they don’t go home empty handed, they get pubic lice from one of the more mediocre roots.
This is not a new concept of mine. I’ve actually had this idea for some time but I’ve had renewed hope it will make it to TV this week after seeing them kooky Koreans choose their nations first astronaut by reality game show. It was an Astronaut Idol type concept and I hope there’s a second instalment for when all the astronauts are up in space; Who Gets To Come Home? idol. Now that would make for some good viewing and seeing as it’s a mission funded by the Ruskies, the chances of them running out of cash half way is not as far fetched as it would seem.
Them Asians really know how to do reality TV game shows though. Most of theirs involve self torture, or pain and that makes for good TV, especially in Asia where they like to bury their European girls in bath tubs of sand on the apartment room balcony. Here in New Zealand we just do idiocy on our shows, like Are You Smarter Than A 10 Year Old, copied from the American show of the same format.
Actually the first episode set all sorts of new viewer ship records here because all the paedophiles tuned in thinking it was called “Are You Tighter Than A 10 Year Old”. Needless to say they quickly realised their error and returned to trawling Bebo and Facebook.
This is entertainment at its lowest ebb. You take several shit for brain adults and prove just how thick they are. Everyone watching feels great because they realise they’re not as thick as the contestant and the kids on the show, the real stars, feel great because they know they're not as thick as the contestants. It must be one hell of an audition process. I would never have believed that we have so many dip shits in New Zealand but obviously I was wrong, for once in my life.
It can't be easy being labelled like homemade jam. You’d think that if you were slightly slow the last thing you’d want is for the van you’re riding in to read ‘Special Needs School’ in big letters along the side, wouldn’t you? I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the van load of spastics I passed on the way home the other day riding in just such a van. Man, they can’t even have a quiet dribble in the van without being labelled for all to see. I did wonder though if the ones sitting at the back thought they were getting a longer ride home....
I am dubious of reality shows though and of just how much editing goes into the process. Some folk are suckers for a good dose of edited make believe, like all those that watch rubbish like Sensing Bullshit or any other show that deals with ‘mediums’ solving anything. Just watching it wouldn’t be so bad I reckon but when people actually believe that what they’re seeing is groundbreaking stuff then that gets on my tits.
No medium or physic has ever been attributed with helping to solve a crime. Ever. Not just here in NZ but in the world. Now if that’s not definitive proof that the edited, scripted, shake stuff off camera to make it move production you just watched is the biggest work of fiction since the bible then what is? The reason this rubbish is on prime time telly and not buried in the twilight hours where only the kiddie fiddlers surfing Bebo would watch it, is because too many potential contestants for Are You Denser Than A 10 Year Old tune in and cop out at 8.30pm!
Mind you, the scariest thing I’ve seen on the box for quite some time was an ad for David Gray’s Best Of CD. I didn’t even know that Mr Elevator Themes had one hit song, let alone enough of them to make a whole collection of 10 – 12 tracks. I reckon guys like Gray, James Blunt and NZ's own Greg Johnson should all be locked in a room together with a few empty 1.2 litre Coke bottles and be forced to listen to each others songs.
The last dude standing who hasn’t hung himself with his own guitar chords gets to be a contestant on Blind Root.
The premise will be that each week one contestant has several sexual encounters (all on camera of course), whilst wearing a blindfold and then has to rate their performance. Then back at the studio they have to work out who was who by simply playing with their bits. If contestant number one picks his / her best Blind Root they get syphilis as a prize. If not, they don’t go home empty handed, they get pubic lice from one of the more mediocre roots.
This is not a new concept of mine. I’ve actually had this idea for some time but I’ve had renewed hope it will make it to TV this week after seeing them kooky Koreans choose their nations first astronaut by reality game show. It was an Astronaut Idol type concept and I hope there’s a second instalment for when all the astronauts are up in space; Who Gets To Come Home? idol. Now that would make for some good viewing and seeing as it’s a mission funded by the Ruskies, the chances of them running out of cash half way is not as far fetched as it would seem.
Them Asians really know how to do reality TV game shows though. Most of theirs involve self torture, or pain and that makes for good TV, especially in Asia where they like to bury their European girls in bath tubs of sand on the apartment room balcony. Here in New Zealand we just do idiocy on our shows, like Are You Smarter Than A 10 Year Old, copied from the American show of the same format.
Actually the first episode set all sorts of new viewer ship records here because all the paedophiles tuned in thinking it was called “Are You Tighter Than A 10 Year Old”. Needless to say they quickly realised their error and returned to trawling Bebo and Facebook.
This is entertainment at its lowest ebb. You take several shit for brain adults and prove just how thick they are. Everyone watching feels great because they realise they’re not as thick as the contestant and the kids on the show, the real stars, feel great because they know they're not as thick as the contestants. It must be one hell of an audition process. I would never have believed that we have so many dip shits in New Zealand but obviously I was wrong, for once in my life.
It can't be easy being labelled like homemade jam. You’d think that if you were slightly slow the last thing you’d want is for the van you’re riding in to read ‘Special Needs School’ in big letters along the side, wouldn’t you? I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the van load of spastics I passed on the way home the other day riding in just such a van. Man, they can’t even have a quiet dribble in the van without being labelled for all to see. I did wonder though if the ones sitting at the back thought they were getting a longer ride home....
I am dubious of reality shows though and of just how much editing goes into the process. Some folk are suckers for a good dose of edited make believe, like all those that watch rubbish like Sensing Bullshit or any other show that deals with ‘mediums’ solving anything. Just watching it wouldn’t be so bad I reckon but when people actually believe that what they’re seeing is groundbreaking stuff then that gets on my tits.
No medium or physic has ever been attributed with helping to solve a crime. Ever. Not just here in NZ but in the world. Now if that’s not definitive proof that the edited, scripted, shake stuff off camera to make it move production you just watched is the biggest work of fiction since the bible then what is? The reason this rubbish is on prime time telly and not buried in the twilight hours where only the kiddie fiddlers surfing Bebo would watch it, is because too many potential contestants for Are You Denser Than A 10 Year Old tune in and cop out at 8.30pm!
Mind you, the scariest thing I’ve seen on the box for quite some time was an ad for David Gray’s Best Of CD. I didn’t even know that Mr Elevator Themes had one hit song, let alone enough of them to make a whole collection of 10 – 12 tracks. I reckon guys like Gray, James Blunt and NZ's own Greg Johnson should all be locked in a room together with a few empty 1.2 litre Coke bottles and be forced to listen to each others songs.
The last dude standing who hasn’t hung himself with his own guitar chords gets to be a contestant on Blind Root.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Shits, Giggles and Dirty Dreams
Life is full of unwritten rules for all the important things that no one ever thought to write a rule about, like taking a dump at work or not bowling a beamer first ball in backyard cricket.
The dump rule usually kicks in around age 13 or 14 when the homophobes at school stop kicking cubicle doors in like they have done their entire school life, thanks to the onset of puberty and the fact that their chopper has started to look decidedly teeny when compared to those actually taking a crap. From that point on the rules for men defecating in a public place are set in stone and are pretty much obeyed by all. Except the guy who used to kick down toilet doors. He spends most of his adult life sitting on the toilet wondering why his pecker stopped growing in College.
Men’s shitters, unlike the magical mystery world that is the female rest room, are not blessed with multiple thrones. We’re lucky if we get two to service on average, 40 guys per floor. Now each of them is going to unwrap a picnic bar at least twice a day, three times if the going is good, so unwritten rules are essential in ensuring a smooth transaction and a pleasant experience for all. Otherwise its carnage and the sinks and urinal would get used - which is often the case if Mr High Fibre gets in early and puts a cubicle out of action. At my work, we even have a shower in the men’s which is definitely an option in the event of a full house, but I suspect only those with the consistency of Mr Whippy are going to find the going good in there.
It works a little like this: Dumper A kicks things off when he parks up in the morning and gets things going. In due course Dumper B will arrive and it’s at this point shit gets serious (literally). Dumper A must begin the paperwork, making enough noise in the process to drown out Dumper Bs down trou, throning and any embarrassing sound affects that usually occur after holding in a turtle head all the way from one’s desk to the cubicle. Whilst Dumper A flushes, belts up and washes his hands, Dumper B is charged with releasing the mother load then and there whilst under the cover of the noise screen supplied by Dumper A. Dumper B can then enjoy his time in quiet contemplation until the arrival of Dumper C, at which point the process begins again.
Simple huh? But then there’s always someone who wants to stuff it up for everybody. Like Silent Guy who sits in silence the whole time, forcing anyone arriving into an awkward standoff that is only broken by the occasional squeaky fart that slips out from a nervously puckered anus. Or Mr Power Turd, who has hardly gotten the tweeds down when something akin to 63 baby potato’s dropping from a great height into a bucket of water can be heard. Let’s not forget Mr Explosion, who makes like an egg in the microwave and spends 30 minutes having to mop himself and quite possibly the walls, up afterwards. These guys are messing with the karma of the carzie. One day I'll be a dinner party guest of theirs and I'm going to take a dump in their cistern at home as a payback – after a few days it'll reek but they'll never find where the smell is coming from. Pure genius.
And what about the unwritten rule that pertains to not being able to tell a colleague or mate that you just had one hell of a sexy dream starring her? There’s nothing to stop you telling them of course but in my considerable experience, most girls don’t dig it, which confuses me to this day because wouldn’t it be the ultimate compliment knowing you were in someone’s dreams? When Big Al told me at work the other day he had had a dream about me I was right chuffed, only he wouldn’t go into any detail and now I just feel dirty.
And it’s not something you necessarily want to tell the wife either, although she has no hesitation in telling me about all her deep sleep rendezvous with various movie and rock stars. With inequality like that is it any wonder so many men are falling victim to that terrible social affliction that often goes un-noticed, self rape?
My mate Bruiser had a PG13 one night many years ago over Grace Kwan off Shortland Street and has had a soft spot for girls of the Asian Persuasion ever since. Not that he’s scored any since but it does go some way to explaining his close friendship with our good mate Matty, the four foot two Asian man in the flared trousers.
So I guess I’ll have to play by the rules and keep that one to myself. Maybe the memories will keep me focused during the next silent standoff I have in the men’s.
P.S Rach, I had a dream the other night. I was great, you were a close second.
The dump rule usually kicks in around age 13 or 14 when the homophobes at school stop kicking cubicle doors in like they have done their entire school life, thanks to the onset of puberty and the fact that their chopper has started to look decidedly teeny when compared to those actually taking a crap. From that point on the rules for men defecating in a public place are set in stone and are pretty much obeyed by all. Except the guy who used to kick down toilet doors. He spends most of his adult life sitting on the toilet wondering why his pecker stopped growing in College.
Men’s shitters, unlike the magical mystery world that is the female rest room, are not blessed with multiple thrones. We’re lucky if we get two to service on average, 40 guys per floor. Now each of them is going to unwrap a picnic bar at least twice a day, three times if the going is good, so unwritten rules are essential in ensuring a smooth transaction and a pleasant experience for all. Otherwise its carnage and the sinks and urinal would get used - which is often the case if Mr High Fibre gets in early and puts a cubicle out of action. At my work, we even have a shower in the men’s which is definitely an option in the event of a full house, but I suspect only those with the consistency of Mr Whippy are going to find the going good in there.
It works a little like this: Dumper A kicks things off when he parks up in the morning and gets things going. In due course Dumper B will arrive and it’s at this point shit gets serious (literally). Dumper A must begin the paperwork, making enough noise in the process to drown out Dumper Bs down trou, throning and any embarrassing sound affects that usually occur after holding in a turtle head all the way from one’s desk to the cubicle. Whilst Dumper A flushes, belts up and washes his hands, Dumper B is charged with releasing the mother load then and there whilst under the cover of the noise screen supplied by Dumper A. Dumper B can then enjoy his time in quiet contemplation until the arrival of Dumper C, at which point the process begins again.
Simple huh? But then there’s always someone who wants to stuff it up for everybody. Like Silent Guy who sits in silence the whole time, forcing anyone arriving into an awkward standoff that is only broken by the occasional squeaky fart that slips out from a nervously puckered anus. Or Mr Power Turd, who has hardly gotten the tweeds down when something akin to 63 baby potato’s dropping from a great height into a bucket of water can be heard. Let’s not forget Mr Explosion, who makes like an egg in the microwave and spends 30 minutes having to mop himself and quite possibly the walls, up afterwards. These guys are messing with the karma of the carzie. One day I'll be a dinner party guest of theirs and I'm going to take a dump in their cistern at home as a payback – after a few days it'll reek but they'll never find where the smell is coming from. Pure genius.
And what about the unwritten rule that pertains to not being able to tell a colleague or mate that you just had one hell of a sexy dream starring her? There’s nothing to stop you telling them of course but in my considerable experience, most girls don’t dig it, which confuses me to this day because wouldn’t it be the ultimate compliment knowing you were in someone’s dreams? When Big Al told me at work the other day he had had a dream about me I was right chuffed, only he wouldn’t go into any detail and now I just feel dirty.
And it’s not something you necessarily want to tell the wife either, although she has no hesitation in telling me about all her deep sleep rendezvous with various movie and rock stars. With inequality like that is it any wonder so many men are falling victim to that terrible social affliction that often goes un-noticed, self rape?
My mate Bruiser had a PG13 one night many years ago over Grace Kwan off Shortland Street and has had a soft spot for girls of the Asian Persuasion ever since. Not that he’s scored any since but it does go some way to explaining his close friendship with our good mate Matty, the four foot two Asian man in the flared trousers.
So I guess I’ll have to play by the rules and keep that one to myself. Maybe the memories will keep me focused during the next silent standoff I have in the men’s.
P.S Rach, I had a dream the other night. I was great, you were a close second.
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