Aren’t the Chrissy holidays great? All that time off work – unless you’re in retail then this period of the year really does blow – to do the things that you just don’t seem to get round to doing the whole other 350+ days of the year. Like gardening, which I need to get out and do but unfortunately for me my neighbour likes to partake in a bit of nude sunbathing behind the fence that runs alongside the strip I need to weed.
Now normally I wouldn’t see anything, the fence that divides us is a good six foot high and where she’s laying she is quite sheltered from view. Infact it was only by chance one day whilst my wife was up the embankment behind our gaff that she happened to glance down and see said pink bits. But like all good fences that have been up a while, the wood has buckled a little and decent gaps have started forming between the planks and when the light is right, or you’re standing at the right angle, you can see through the fuckers.
Now I know it and I’m damn sure she knows it, so either she’s up for a bit of glory hole action or, whilst I’m minding my own business weeding with my head down and iPod on, she’s gonna call me for perving. Usually I wouldn’t mind a bit of the girl next door baking her dumplings in the summer sun but my neighbour is fifty going on a hundred and the last thing I, or anybody, wants to see through the crack in the fence is some grey haired spider action. Needless to say that particular task is being put on the back burner till I notice her car is gone from the drive. Fuck it I might have to even get out there at night and do it.
Usually there would be a time limit on when I have to have a task like that done by, but Mrs ClubDes is in Aussie for the week leaving me alone for a period that I was tentatively proclaiming to be ‘WankFest 09’ but only to wind her up before she left. So Junior and I are home alone, living on the couch, clad only in our undies eating three square meals of toast with various toppings and getting all the essential vitamins and nutrients one finds in the average can of Coke.
It hasn’t been all Playstation and Mythbusters marathons though; I have managed to embark on a spring clean of epic proportions and am feeling quite chuffed with my efforts. Not that ‘clean’ is the appropriate word, when we men spring clean we really only move junk from one location to another. We compress, we never throw anything away.
You never threw anything away in Nam. Anything you could discard Charlie could use to hurt you; empty cans, bottles, nails, stick mags, faeces. You name it and cunning ol Charlie could build a bomb out of it. Yes, even shit. Sneaky bastards.
My pontificating over exactly which chore to do next was sadly put into context over the weekend with the disturbing sight on the news of strewn motorcycles across some byway down South. It was a stark reminder that whilst most of us will be in cruise control at the mo, someone, somewhere is in a rush on our roads and inevitably putting lives at risk.
This is a topic that’s become quite poignant to me with my best mate Coops recently buying a motor bike. I always knew he longed for something big and throbbing between his legs but a bike was a bit of a surprise, even for me and I don’t surprise easy. Just ask Charlie. Now Coops is as smart as they come and he is well aware of the dangers on the roads having had to police them for several years, so I don’t doubt his judgement – but bikes change people and the way they approach travel.
The way I see it, motor cyclists have two big dangers; themselves and other drivers, some of whom struggle to notice other vehicles around them with four wheels let alone two. Now if you start mucking around with the natural order of things, like speed limits, lane markings and peoples abilities to judge distant and speed then shit is going to get serious real fast.
One of the dead cyclist was said to be a methodical, calculating, experienced cyclist. No doubt and far be it from me to speak ill of someone who I never knew and is now the departed, but he tried passing eight cars in one hit on a short stretch of road! Not the best type of methodical calculation to be fucking up.
There is this great Andy Garcia and Christopher Walkin movie called ‘Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead’, which is definitely worth the $4 weekly hire down at Video Sleazy and apart from lending itself to the title of this particular blog, has nothing whatsoever to do with the content of this blog.
Unless you’re a dead cyclist.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Merry Christmas from the Gaylords.
Christmas Day is upon us and if you’re anything like me it’s not so much about the season of giving these days as it is the season for getting time off work!
But it’s all for the kids really, a fact that becomes frighteningly apparent only after you’ve had some. Of course it’s never apparent when you’re a kid because its just one big present takefest but when I look back on those days now I wonder just how my parents did it so impressively for so long – on less money and less opportunity too.
Our parents would buy us stuff throughout the year and not leave it till the last minute, mad farken rush that seems to befall most people these days. There was no such luxury of the late night suicide run to the mall back then either. Almost as soon as the tree went up at the beginning of December that would be a shitload of presents under it just screaming out for we excited kids to try and take a peek and blame any partly open presents on the cat. Of course nothing under the tree at that point would be for us kids but it drove you mad seeing that bloody pile every day.
Thankfully kids these days have four school terms, the one and only advantage of which is that they finish school quite late in the year meaning they don’t quite get the Chrissy bug till around the same time you do, about a week before the big day. Very little present tampering can be planned and executed in a week. Trust me.
My son – almost ten – has given up the ghost that is the Santa myth. He’s done the same with the Easter bunny too but strangely still holds on to the belief that the tooth fairy exists! It’s a shrewd bit of play by Junior because whereas the other two bring cheap presents and cheap chocolate – now that’s the story of Jesus – the mythical molar fairy brings cold hard cash and that is the shit, even when you’re ten.
My belief in the big fat fulla died out not long after I realised that it was mother who kept buying me Master of the Universe toys when I clearly stipulated in my letters to Santa that all he had to leave under the tree for me was a mega pile of G.I.Joes. I even sat on a lot of semi erect penises in the various Santa Grotto’s around the place asking for the same thing, whilst clearly in ear shot of my mother, who I now realise had that same glint in her eye that she always had when she played the ‘I’ll buy him something he doesn’t really want so I can claim ungratefulness when he gets disappointed’ game.
Did you know Santa wears red and white because Coca Cola put him in their colours for a promo once and he’s been in it ever since? How’s that for the best advertising campaign ever? Think about that next time you do that thing you like to do in the shower with the empty Coke bottle that saw you taken to A & E once where you had to use the excuse “I had finished drinking and just slipped on it after putting it down”.
So my Christmas day will be spent with the extended family and the food fest that is Christmas lunch at the in-laws. It’s a fantastic day with lots of presents, happy kids and booze on tap. Last year I decided to make a day of it and tried to drink the wife’s 18 year old train wreck of a cousin under the table. Little did I know back then that she was a certified alcoholic and I never stood a chance - by the time I was slurring my words she was just getting warmed up, so needless to say my day ended with a comatose power nap on the couch and a shirt dowsed in dribble.
I did have quite the insightful discussion though, whilst inebriated, with the wife’s other 18 year old cousin and just how much porn he surfed whilst locked away in his room all day. It was one of those discussions that always seem to be louder than it actually was, probably because the room had gone quiet. I also questioned him at length as to what the two gauges on the dash of his pimped out motor actually did and what was the point given that we can all only do 100kmh on the open road?
I don’t recall him giving me much of an answer but that might have been down to the fact he was half way down the hill driving it away when I asked. It’s true what they say you know, excess alcohol does slow down your reactions….
The father-in-law loved it; he had been working on me for years to turn in a performance like that in front of the Aunties. His theory is if you can’t get pissed on Christmas day when can you aye? It’s a theory I’m beginning to see the benefits of and lets be honest, rules are meant to be broken – that’s why my wife and I don’t use the ‘safety word’ any more.
Anyhoo, Merry Christmas to you all and I trust you’ll have a safe one. I’m off to see if there is any G.I.Joes wrapped up under the tree for me this year. I’ll blame the partly open presents on the boy and if that doesn’t stick, the cats.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Dog Has Bigger Balls Than I
Another moment of groundbreaking television took place last night when, right slap bang in the middle of your average households meal time we were bought the news item on Muzza, the dog that had his man berries removed. Which in itself is nothing to report on but just in case you hadn't regurgitated all that you'd eaten at this stage, we got to see him have implants tacked on in their place.
Now I could start on a serious thing about just how this shit gets on the news ahead of any number of world events that are far more newsworthy, but I won’t. Instead, let me ask of you a few pertinent questions:
a) Do you walk around looking dog’s bollocks?
b) If you do would you then own up to being someone who checks out dogs balls by pointing out that you've just seen one that doesn't have any?
c) Even if you did do all of the above, do you think the dog that you've just seen without any gives a shit?
Who thinks this shit up, I mean really? Who decided that there was a market for silicon testes on dogs? Emasculated owners who worry that a lack of plums on their pets might reflect badly on people’s opinions of theirs, that’s who. Hey, these teabags wouldn't fly if there wasn't a market for them would they? And so there we have it, final proof then that pet worship has finally crossed the boundary of compulsive obsessive to downright disturbing.
The only thing that could make this any worse is if we were to presume that the reason the guy wants his four legged friend to have gnad implants is so that he can feel them banging against his............nah, lets not go there.
Now admittedly I'm awfully fond of our two cats but I'm not so obsessed with their well being that I'm about to attach a couple of ping pong balls between their legs. Especially not on our female cat and not just because she's a girl, but because it's just too fucken much. It's a sad day when our own physical neuroses are passed to our pets. What's next aye, false teets on bitches?
Maybe I'm just a little 'teste' about testes. I think it all harks back to the day I was visiting the type of medical facility - for reasons we won't go into - where a fella can whack one out into a cup and not only will he not get into trouble for it, he'll be thanked for not spilling any over the side! Incidentally the set up at these types of places is usually a lazy boy off in a small room with a selection of stick mags and a box of tissues. Tough break if print porn is not your thing but great news if you have a tissue fetish.
I actually stumbled upon the room when looking for the toilet because strangely enough it makes up part of the mens room - you walk through the mastabatorium to get to the pisser. Funny thing was after finding the reading material next to the tissues I didn't really need to go pee any more....
But the real highlight of the visit was the consultation with some doctor whose name escapes me – probably due to the traumatic moment I am about to describe - but I suspect it was either 'Fingers' or 'Peter File'. His party trick was a surprise teste inspection that he decided would be prudent 10 minutes into our consultation and even before I could quip something witty like 'Doc I thought you were crazy but now I can see you're nuts', he had mine in his hands which the bastard never washed before he started.
To add insult to injury he made some passing comment about them being smaller than usual but to this day I stand by my reasons for them being so which were threefold; it was cold in his office, I had a massive pube on and yours would be too if some guy you had only just met started fondling yours.
Maybe I should think about implants....
Now I could start on a serious thing about just how this shit gets on the news ahead of any number of world events that are far more newsworthy, but I won’t. Instead, let me ask of you a few pertinent questions:
a) Do you walk around looking dog’s bollocks?
b) If you do would you then own up to being someone who checks out dogs balls by pointing out that you've just seen one that doesn't have any?
c) Even if you did do all of the above, do you think the dog that you've just seen without any gives a shit?
Who thinks this shit up, I mean really? Who decided that there was a market for silicon testes on dogs? Emasculated owners who worry that a lack of plums on their pets might reflect badly on people’s opinions of theirs, that’s who. Hey, these teabags wouldn't fly if there wasn't a market for them would they? And so there we have it, final proof then that pet worship has finally crossed the boundary of compulsive obsessive to downright disturbing.
The only thing that could make this any worse is if we were to presume that the reason the guy wants his four legged friend to have gnad implants is so that he can feel them banging against his............nah, lets not go there.
Now admittedly I'm awfully fond of our two cats but I'm not so obsessed with their well being that I'm about to attach a couple of ping pong balls between their legs. Especially not on our female cat and not just because she's a girl, but because it's just too fucken much. It's a sad day when our own physical neuroses are passed to our pets. What's next aye, false teets on bitches?
Maybe I'm just a little 'teste' about testes. I think it all harks back to the day I was visiting the type of medical facility - for reasons we won't go into - where a fella can whack one out into a cup and not only will he not get into trouble for it, he'll be thanked for not spilling any over the side! Incidentally the set up at these types of places is usually a lazy boy off in a small room with a selection of stick mags and a box of tissues. Tough break if print porn is not your thing but great news if you have a tissue fetish.
I actually stumbled upon the room when looking for the toilet because strangely enough it makes up part of the mens room - you walk through the mastabatorium to get to the pisser. Funny thing was after finding the reading material next to the tissues I didn't really need to go pee any more....
But the real highlight of the visit was the consultation with some doctor whose name escapes me – probably due to the traumatic moment I am about to describe - but I suspect it was either 'Fingers' or 'Peter File'. His party trick was a surprise teste inspection that he decided would be prudent 10 minutes into our consultation and even before I could quip something witty like 'Doc I thought you were crazy but now I can see you're nuts', he had mine in his hands which the bastard never washed before he started.
To add insult to injury he made some passing comment about them being smaller than usual but to this day I stand by my reasons for them being so which were threefold; it was cold in his office, I had a massive pube on and yours would be too if some guy you had only just met started fondling yours.
Maybe I should think about implants....
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Why Seedy Santa Only Comes Once A Year
I've come to realise as an adult just why it is that Christmas comes only once a year; because it's a mission and a half to put up freakin Christmas trees!
I did ours the other night and I haven't been that ball deep in foliage sweating like a rapist since ‘Nam. Which I've had a few flashbacks to recently but then I always do this time of the year what with the high humidity, the hot nights and lots of Asian students about, all of whom I strongly suspect of having a hand grenade or AK47 concealed on their persons.
Why just the other day DougalMac and I were enjoying each others metro sexual company down at the lagoon and I was reminded of a similar idyllic setting we had encountered in Da Nang in '68. We'd come across a water hole amongst the hills and had taken to bathing. There we all stood, soaping each others backs all the while hoping that whoever held our single bar of soap didn't drop it, when out of the reeds snaked an advanced patrol of VC.
Quite why they didn't open up on us there and then has always been a mystery to us but we'd like to believe it was because that even they, with their narrow little eyes and communistic ideals, were moved by the poignancy of several hardened men taking the time to gently soap each other in a brief reprise from the madness of war.
Either that or they were awestruck by the length and girth of Lancey's M60 – and I don’t mean the one he'd left on the bank besides the pool.
Yep, someone was watching over us that day. Perhaps it was 'ol HeyZuez himself. He's the reason we have a Christmas after all, not that we should joke about it like Tui did last week with yet another of their billboards. Despite the harmless humour of it all - and it was one of the funnier Tui efforts in quite some time - somebody complained about it. That somebody was a Christian, proving yet again that a small religious minority in this country can't handle the jandal, quite possibly because they know that we know that their religion is a sham.
Not that complaining about Christmas is restricted to Jesus and his home boys, some folk have decided they don't like the giant Santa that has stood in central Auckland for the last 50 years because he has a long crooked index finger, which makes him look ‘seedy’. Now let’s get one thing straight, if he was bumming Rudolph whilst a topless Mrs Claus watches on then it could be claimed he was ‘seedy’, but a crooked finger...
Don’t you sometimes wish Christmas could be like it was when you were a kid with no responsibilities? My grandparents lived in an old Victorian house with ceilings as high as a P addict and every year Granddad would get in a real tree that only just fitted in the room. That sucker - the tree, not Granddad - would soon be covered in decorations, candy canes and so many lights that half the town had to sit in darkness whenever we switched them on. It seems over the top now - says the guy who just struggled to erect a 5 foot plastic tree from China - but that is what people did back in the day.
They didn’t do shopping malls packed to the brim though. Apparently Christmas shopping means only one thing at this time of the year; hard out five fingered discount time as professional shop lifters hit the shops en masse. Who knew there was such a thing aye? I mean we were good back in my College days but we would never have called ourselves ‘professionals’ but we would've practiced more if we knew we could make a career out of it!
I remember once spending almost an hour in Toy World once waiting to pinch as many G.I.Joes as my mate Brent’s bomber jacket would hold. I made like I was buying them for my little brother and even went to go so far as to joke with the owner that ‘they all look the same to me haha’. The fuck they did. I was hard core and I knew what I wanted and the moment the guy went out the back to check something I had more plastic down my pants than a lezzo with a strap on.
It almost went pear shaped though. No sooner had I got out the door than those Joes not tucked into my pants fell out the arse of Brent’s jacket and onto the pavement. Luckily the stores window display shielded me from view and I was able to kick them out of sight of the shop before picking them up and legging it all the way down the main street. I must’ve made quite the sight; a pubescent boy in an over sized jacket running down the street with G.I.Joes in hand and a small erection.
Now that’s seedy.
I did ours the other night and I haven't been that ball deep in foliage sweating like a rapist since ‘Nam. Which I've had a few flashbacks to recently but then I always do this time of the year what with the high humidity, the hot nights and lots of Asian students about, all of whom I strongly suspect of having a hand grenade or AK47 concealed on their persons.
Why just the other day DougalMac and I were enjoying each others metro sexual company down at the lagoon and I was reminded of a similar idyllic setting we had encountered in Da Nang in '68. We'd come across a water hole amongst the hills and had taken to bathing. There we all stood, soaping each others backs all the while hoping that whoever held our single bar of soap didn't drop it, when out of the reeds snaked an advanced patrol of VC.
Quite why they didn't open up on us there and then has always been a mystery to us but we'd like to believe it was because that even they, with their narrow little eyes and communistic ideals, were moved by the poignancy of several hardened men taking the time to gently soap each other in a brief reprise from the madness of war.
Either that or they were awestruck by the length and girth of Lancey's M60 – and I don’t mean the one he'd left on the bank besides the pool.
Yep, someone was watching over us that day. Perhaps it was 'ol HeyZuez himself. He's the reason we have a Christmas after all, not that we should joke about it like Tui did last week with yet another of their billboards. Despite the harmless humour of it all - and it was one of the funnier Tui efforts in quite some time - somebody complained about it. That somebody was a Christian, proving yet again that a small religious minority in this country can't handle the jandal, quite possibly because they know that we know that their religion is a sham.
Not that complaining about Christmas is restricted to Jesus and his home boys, some folk have decided they don't like the giant Santa that has stood in central Auckland for the last 50 years because he has a long crooked index finger, which makes him look ‘seedy’. Now let’s get one thing straight, if he was bumming Rudolph whilst a topless Mrs Claus watches on then it could be claimed he was ‘seedy’, but a crooked finger...
Don’t you sometimes wish Christmas could be like it was when you were a kid with no responsibilities? My grandparents lived in an old Victorian house with ceilings as high as a P addict and every year Granddad would get in a real tree that only just fitted in the room. That sucker - the tree, not Granddad - would soon be covered in decorations, candy canes and so many lights that half the town had to sit in darkness whenever we switched them on. It seems over the top now - says the guy who just struggled to erect a 5 foot plastic tree from China - but that is what people did back in the day.
They didn’t do shopping malls packed to the brim though. Apparently Christmas shopping means only one thing at this time of the year; hard out five fingered discount time as professional shop lifters hit the shops en masse. Who knew there was such a thing aye? I mean we were good back in my College days but we would never have called ourselves ‘professionals’ but we would've practiced more if we knew we could make a career out of it!
I remember once spending almost an hour in Toy World once waiting to pinch as many G.I.Joes as my mate Brent’s bomber jacket would hold. I made like I was buying them for my little brother and even went to go so far as to joke with the owner that ‘they all look the same to me haha’. The fuck they did. I was hard core and I knew what I wanted and the moment the guy went out the back to check something I had more plastic down my pants than a lezzo with a strap on.
It almost went pear shaped though. No sooner had I got out the door than those Joes not tucked into my pants fell out the arse of Brent’s jacket and onto the pavement. Luckily the stores window display shielded me from view and I was able to kick them out of sight of the shop before picking them up and legging it all the way down the main street. I must’ve made quite the sight; a pubescent boy in an over sized jacket running down the street with G.I.Joes in hand and a small erection.
Now that’s seedy.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Back Slap the Smart Stack
It’s not always easy being the smartest guy in the room and occasionally even I have to stop myself from being sucked into a ‘there’s one born every minute’ moment. Like the other night after we’d watched a bit on the telly about the latest craze sweeping the nation, or at least the two schools shown playing it; Speed Stacking.
The game is as simple as time itself, or as the NZ web site of Speed Stacking describes it:
“Sport Stacking is an exciting individual and team sport where participants stack and unstack 12 specially designed plastic cups in pre-determined sequence.”
And it certainly looks exciting. The kids playing it were all cracking a fat over just how fast they could stack and unstuck the specially designed plastic cups, which must have adamantium or something in them because they cost $36 for a pack of 12! Fuck me; I was on board right up till that little gem nearly slipped under the radar and here I was thinking that maybe it was a nice cheap hobby for the youth of today.
And I was all set to buy my boy a set too until I dug a little deeper and realised that this little enterprise could be the biggest cash cow since some cheeky prick decided to bottle water and sell it. $36 gets you 12 plastic cups. With flames on them. Or camouflage (pink for the girls) and each cup carries the official WSSA approval mark, which is important because only Speed Stacks – the $36 dollar cups laced with Kryptonite and with flames on them - are the only cups permitted for use in WSSA sanctioned events.
Who knew there were WSSA sanctioned events aye? Who knew there was even a WSSA? Who even knows what the hell it stands for? No bugger, but for $36 you might just get to find out. The site makes a big deal about just how great the sport is for kids and offers great deals for schools who want to get on board, Destiny Church stylez.
First you ring up and order a free set of cups, just to get the juices flowing and then you really start paying through the starfish:
2. Order a StackMat & Timer for $50.
3. Order a Sport Pack (or equivalent products) to cater for your school or organisation (using an Instructors' Order Form). Anywhere between $500 - $900 per pack.
4. Encourage students to purchase their own equipment (using a Student Flyer, collated on a Standard Group Order Tally Sheet) and earn FREE Speed Stacks equipment for your school. Sets start at $36, remember? Throw in $25 for the manual (how hard can it be?) and the ‘How To’ DVD at $15 and it’s go time.
5. Consider the purchase of a Tournament Display. This is essential if you wish to run your own competitions or demonstrate at a large meeting. $220 for that bad boy.
But hey, what price ambidexterity aye? You're probably already pretty good at it. Do you play a musical instrument? Type on a computer? Play video games? Masturbate regularly? If you do, you're probably using both hands. The most important thing to do when sport stacking is to use BOTH hands. That doesn't mean picking up a cup with one hand and passing it to the other like when you’ve been playing with yourself all day and your wrist hurts, no. Each cup should be handled by only one hand. When you use both hands, you're using both sides of your brain and promoting right brain development which houses things like awareness, focus, creativity and rhythm.
And gullibility, although I couldn’t find mention of that on their site any where. The hard core can even become ambassadors in their area but only after they’ve submitted a questionnaire which asks them to detail ‘their vision for stacking in their area’ and has only three available answers to every question; ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘No but would like to!’. Seriously, I couldn’t make this shit up.
Speed Stacking is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. It’s a pastime that promotes coordination, determination and activity in our kids that doesn’t involve a screen, a keyboard or a joystick of some sort. But it’s no coincidence that if you stack three of the specially designed plastic cups on top of each other you get a pyramid, which is what this little enterprise is, a pyramid scheme to make shit loads of money for the dude at the top.
I’ll buy my son some cups alright, but they’ll be from the $2 shop and they won’t have flames on them, or pink camo, or the official WANKA seal, but they’ll do the same job and he'll have just as much fun.
And I’ll still be the smartest guy in the room.
The specially designed plastic cup, with lithuim and kevlar coating. And flames painted on.
The game is as simple as time itself, or as the NZ web site of Speed Stacking describes it:
“Sport Stacking is an exciting individual and team sport where participants stack and unstack 12 specially designed plastic cups in pre-determined sequence.”
And it certainly looks exciting. The kids playing it were all cracking a fat over just how fast they could stack and unstuck the specially designed plastic cups, which must have adamantium or something in them because they cost $36 for a pack of 12! Fuck me; I was on board right up till that little gem nearly slipped under the radar and here I was thinking that maybe it was a nice cheap hobby for the youth of today.
And I was all set to buy my boy a set too until I dug a little deeper and realised that this little enterprise could be the biggest cash cow since some cheeky prick decided to bottle water and sell it. $36 gets you 12 plastic cups. With flames on them. Or camouflage (pink for the girls) and each cup carries the official WSSA approval mark, which is important because only Speed Stacks – the $36 dollar cups laced with Kryptonite and with flames on them - are the only cups permitted for use in WSSA sanctioned events.
Who knew there were WSSA sanctioned events aye? Who knew there was even a WSSA? Who even knows what the hell it stands for? No bugger, but for $36 you might just get to find out. The site makes a big deal about just how great the sport is for kids and offers great deals for schools who want to get on board, Destiny Church stylez.
First you ring up and order a free set of cups, just to get the juices flowing and then you really start paying through the starfish:
2. Order a StackMat & Timer for $50.
3. Order a Sport Pack (or equivalent products) to cater for your school or organisation (using an Instructors' Order Form). Anywhere between $500 - $900 per pack.
4. Encourage students to purchase their own equipment (using a Student Flyer, collated on a Standard Group Order Tally Sheet) and earn FREE Speed Stacks equipment for your school. Sets start at $36, remember? Throw in $25 for the manual (how hard can it be?) and the ‘How To’ DVD at $15 and it’s go time.
5. Consider the purchase of a Tournament Display. This is essential if you wish to run your own competitions or demonstrate at a large meeting. $220 for that bad boy.
But hey, what price ambidexterity aye? You're probably already pretty good at it. Do you play a musical instrument? Type on a computer? Play video games? Masturbate regularly? If you do, you're probably using both hands. The most important thing to do when sport stacking is to use BOTH hands. That doesn't mean picking up a cup with one hand and passing it to the other like when you’ve been playing with yourself all day and your wrist hurts, no. Each cup should be handled by only one hand. When you use both hands, you're using both sides of your brain and promoting right brain development which houses things like awareness, focus, creativity and rhythm.
And gullibility, although I couldn’t find mention of that on their site any where. The hard core can even become ambassadors in their area but only after they’ve submitted a questionnaire which asks them to detail ‘their vision for stacking in their area’ and has only three available answers to every question; ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘No but would like to!’. Seriously, I couldn’t make this shit up.
Speed Stacking is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. It’s a pastime that promotes coordination, determination and activity in our kids that doesn’t involve a screen, a keyboard or a joystick of some sort. But it’s no coincidence that if you stack three of the specially designed plastic cups on top of each other you get a pyramid, which is what this little enterprise is, a pyramid scheme to make shit loads of money for the dude at the top.
I’ll buy my son some cups alright, but they’ll be from the $2 shop and they won’t have flames on them, or pink camo, or the official WANKA seal, but they’ll do the same job and he'll have just as much fun.
And I’ll still be the smartest guy in the room.
The specially designed plastic cup, with lithuim and kevlar coating. And flames painted on.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Dizzy Is As Dizzy Does
Just when my faith in the common sense of young women today is restored, some dizzy bitch comes along and destroys it again.
A few weeks ago, Hayley Westenra, all round good girl and New Zealand songstress took a very public stand against her record company’s attempts to sex her up by giving her an ‘image makeover’. They reckoned that she had reached an age where it was okay to start dressing like a slut in order to sell more CDs. Hey if it worked for the Welsh version of our Hayley - Charlotte Church - then it would work for Westenra, right?
Only it didn't work for Church because the people buying her classical CDs were predominantly good, wholesome folk who bought the CDs for their musical content and not their soft porn covers. What music companies seem to not get is that the kind of guy who likes an artist because she wears skimpy outfits is going to get his fix by downloading photo shopped pics of the artist wearing little or no clothes, not by buying their latest CD.
Church also decided to go main stream and started singing pop songs that sounded no different than every other manufactured one hit wonder around at the time. Not surprisingly the album sales dried up not long after and for a while there she was perhaps better known for being the girl that used to sing beautifully but now dresses like a skank and roots a well known rugby player.
Church doesn’t sing so much these days, probably on account of her chain smoking, but she does host a successful TV show in the UK, is good for a few controversial comments and still roots a well known rugby player.
Thankfully our Hayley had the common sense and self belief to tell the record label where to shove their proposed sexing up of her. As she so aptly put it "Occasionally, I have had to stand my ground on image issues. I am not a tarty person and I don't wear those clothes when I am out, so I don't wear them to perform or for interviews either."
Her record label Universal says that talks about her image have always been age appropriate, meaning if they could have tarted her up before the age of 21, they would have.
So Hayley restored my faith in young women and had me thinking that maybe they weren’t all Charlotte Church wannabe’s. But then I saw the story this week of the young girl from Massey that was photographed topless by a man posing as a photographer from a modelling agency. The oldest trick in the book that one. I’ve tried it several times myself but I didn’t strike gold like this guy did.
Now admittedly hindsight is a wonderful thing, but there were several clear cut chances for our young heroine to realise that alarm bells were ringing fucking loud and clear, but clearly the allure of being the next Hills girl was a little too strong for common sense to play a part in proceedings.
The girl was approached in a mall where she worked, offered $500 for the photo shoot and a ‘contract’ posted to her. I suspect if she had turned it over she might have found it to be written on the back of a Weetbix packet, but it was only after she had signed it did she start to notice that things were getting ‘weird’.
The guy took her to a hotel, rather than a modelling studio. Ding ding. The friend that she’d taken for support wasn’t allowed in the room with them whilst Hugh Hefner took his shots. Ding ding. Rather than using a flash camera with a big fuck off zoom lens that one usually associates with a professional, Hugh pulled a dirty digital camera from his bag. Ding ding. Ever the gentleman, Hugh had our girl jump straight into a skimpy bikini and start the provocative posing. With a lollipop. Ding fucken ding. Somewhat surprisingly at this stage, he asked her to take her top off. There was no alarm bell ringing at this stage, it was a full blown air raid siren! Not entirely sure if she should or not, Paris was only convinced when Hugh told her that flashing her boobies would ‘open up options for her’. So she did.
Realising her mistake a few days later, quite possibly when she found she wasn’t in the pages of the latest Vogue like she had been promised, Paris told her father. He contacted the Five-O and surprise surprise, discovered the man had falsified his name and the modelling company. Well I for one didn’t see that coming did you? It’s almost as if the semi he undoubtedly had whilst taking the pics wasn’t a dead give away.
Poor Paris is beside herself, of course. "The photos could be on the Internet for all I know," she said.
Somehow I don’t think she’s going to be too disappointed if they are.
A few weeks ago, Hayley Westenra, all round good girl and New Zealand songstress took a very public stand against her record company’s attempts to sex her up by giving her an ‘image makeover’. They reckoned that she had reached an age where it was okay to start dressing like a slut in order to sell more CDs. Hey if it worked for the Welsh version of our Hayley - Charlotte Church - then it would work for Westenra, right?
Only it didn't work for Church because the people buying her classical CDs were predominantly good, wholesome folk who bought the CDs for their musical content and not their soft porn covers. What music companies seem to not get is that the kind of guy who likes an artist because she wears skimpy outfits is going to get his fix by downloading photo shopped pics of the artist wearing little or no clothes, not by buying their latest CD.
Church also decided to go main stream and started singing pop songs that sounded no different than every other manufactured one hit wonder around at the time. Not surprisingly the album sales dried up not long after and for a while there she was perhaps better known for being the girl that used to sing beautifully but now dresses like a skank and roots a well known rugby player.
Church doesn’t sing so much these days, probably on account of her chain smoking, but she does host a successful TV show in the UK, is good for a few controversial comments and still roots a well known rugby player.
Thankfully our Hayley had the common sense and self belief to tell the record label where to shove their proposed sexing up of her. As she so aptly put it "Occasionally, I have had to stand my ground on image issues. I am not a tarty person and I don't wear those clothes when I am out, so I don't wear them to perform or for interviews either."
Her record label Universal says that talks about her image have always been age appropriate, meaning if they could have tarted her up before the age of 21, they would have.
So Hayley restored my faith in young women and had me thinking that maybe they weren’t all Charlotte Church wannabe’s. But then I saw the story this week of the young girl from Massey that was photographed topless by a man posing as a photographer from a modelling agency. The oldest trick in the book that one. I’ve tried it several times myself but I didn’t strike gold like this guy did.
Now admittedly hindsight is a wonderful thing, but there were several clear cut chances for our young heroine to realise that alarm bells were ringing fucking loud and clear, but clearly the allure of being the next Hills girl was a little too strong for common sense to play a part in proceedings.
The girl was approached in a mall where she worked, offered $500 for the photo shoot and a ‘contract’ posted to her. I suspect if she had turned it over she might have found it to be written on the back of a Weetbix packet, but it was only after she had signed it did she start to notice that things were getting ‘weird’.
The guy took her to a hotel, rather than a modelling studio. Ding ding. The friend that she’d taken for support wasn’t allowed in the room with them whilst Hugh Hefner took his shots. Ding ding. Rather than using a flash camera with a big fuck off zoom lens that one usually associates with a professional, Hugh pulled a dirty digital camera from his bag. Ding ding. Ever the gentleman, Hugh had our girl jump straight into a skimpy bikini and start the provocative posing. With a lollipop. Ding fucken ding. Somewhat surprisingly at this stage, he asked her to take her top off. There was no alarm bell ringing at this stage, it was a full blown air raid siren! Not entirely sure if she should or not, Paris was only convinced when Hugh told her that flashing her boobies would ‘open up options for her’. So she did.
Realising her mistake a few days later, quite possibly when she found she wasn’t in the pages of the latest Vogue like she had been promised, Paris told her father. He contacted the Five-O and surprise surprise, discovered the man had falsified his name and the modelling company. Well I for one didn’t see that coming did you? It’s almost as if the semi he undoubtedly had whilst taking the pics wasn’t a dead give away.
Poor Paris is beside herself, of course. "The photos could be on the Internet for all I know," she said.
Somehow I don’t think she’s going to be too disappointed if they are.
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