Booze Hags & New Years

Booze Hags, we all know one. Unfortunately I know my fair share of a few and it’s at this time of year that they really kick it up a notch in what can only be described as a drunken fanny fest of the worst kind.

Now I’m not talking about nubile young ladies here who we all know can’t do anything but get shitfaced in their downtime to help ease the tremendous pressures they must feel in being young, attractive and having the world as their oyster. No, these are women in their mid thirties who have been doing the same thing for twenty odd years now and really should know better.

I love them all but fuck me, somewhere along the way common sense went out the window with the last pizza chunder and instead of growing up and getting on with life, they’ve quite possibly drunk more in the last ten years than in the first. Which is okay I suppose, each to their own, but I’m always torn between saying nothing and simply deleting them as a mate from the likes of Facebook and thus ‘ending’ years of friendship, or just slapping them the hell out of it.

These are intelligent, attractive (well some of them anyway) women with good careers and a lot going from them, but you wouldn’t know it by the way they act when on the ran tan. It’s then that they become like every other booze hag; getting hammered so as to score young fellas who really should be rooting girls their own age but can’t, because they’re all rooting men my age.

Yet another of life’s peculiar cycles that missed me completely, it would seem. Just like girls wanting loads of casual sex to make them feel good about themselves and doing extraordinary things on webcams...

The sad thing is that when they eventually sober up they all wonder why it is they can’t attract quality males. The answer, I’m dying to tell them, is looking them in the mirror every night after they’ve had a few (bottles of wine), but I fear it’s too late for sarcasm; these ladies are long past the point of a positive intervention. Only Mr Jug Cord can solve this issue, like the so many that he has resolved before...

Of course Booze Hags find great comfort amongst the drunken hordes of young girls that they long to be, but it seems to be that here in NZ at least, even that particular sisterhood of the accidentally soiled pants is on its way out, with a number of New Years venues segregating the young, pissed daughters from their older, pissed sisters. I guess they’ll have to drunkenly root someone their own age this New Years huh?

For me, this New Years Eve will be much like the last ten; in bed by 10.30 with only a passing thought of asking the missus for a quickie. In fact I haven’t partied like it was 1999 since, well, 1999, when I was such a special guy that I partied by myself in a motel room in New Plymouth. That night I polished off three quarters of a bottle of Jack Daniels (in very small shots) and spent most of the night imagining I was cutting it on the dance floor impressing Booze Hags.

Yep, I totally missed that life cycle.

The morning after the night before *shiver*

Best / Worst of 2009 Lists

Are complete shit and a waste of time.

Not just for the geezer who compiles one, but for those of us who have the misfortune to read it, but then that’s why at this time of the year every bastard is doing one, because they can’t really be bothered coming up with something original.

These lists are also two things; subjective and irrelevant.

Subjective because opinions are like assholes, everyone has one. Your best film of the year is likely to appeal to you for the same reasons I can’t stand it, so it’s not so much about the list as it is about how cool the compiler thinks they are and believe me, there are a lot of dicks out there who think they’re cool.

Irrelevant because chances are you, like I, were actually here on Earth for most of 2009 and not on Dagobah (in the Sluis sector), so it’s highly likely that there will be nothing new for you on the list. And hey, if it wasn’t the shizz back in June then putting it on a ‘Best of’ list six months later doesn’t make it any the more cooler.

‘Best of the Decade’ lists are even worse, for all the aforementioned reasons and are usually heavily weighted with stuff that happened only in the last few years, because Mr Ice making the list can’t actually remember back further than that. What a peen-arse.

So in the spirit of useless lists compiled at the end of the year, here is mine, only it’s not a ‘Best Of’, it’s a list of shit I really hope we see less of in 2010:

1. Amy Winehouse
2. Talk of the 2011 Rugby World Cup
3. Talk of the All Blacks winning the 2011 RWC
4. Rugby in general
5. Lists
6. The guy at my work who keeps trying to make Facebook friends with everyone in the building
7. Wife beater Veitch
8. Poo chicks doing anything to be noticed
9. Munters taking advantage of the above poo chicks
10. Lisa Lewis (although I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more than just the ‘guided tour’ pics she has on her webpage...)

Merry Christmas, Bitches

From my family* to yours, you freaks and geeks!

I trust you'll all keep yourself safe and spend the day 'chillaxing', whatever the fuck that means. What genius thought to combine two already small words; chill and relax and which mean the same thing anyway?!

Stoners, that's who. Because we all know that syllables are a luxury you just don't have time for when you're knee deep in the Mary Jane.

Anyhoo, do enjoy your Christmas Day, that's the one between the last day of work and the Boxing Day sales, just in case you'd forgotten.

*ClubDes family may actually differ from that pictured. We're much better looking and I hardly ever pose like that anymore.

The Musings of a 10 Year Old

My son is at that age (10) where almost everything has a double entendre, particularly any sentence that involves the words ‘thing’ and ‘balls’.

His response to hearing such phrases is to erupt into fits of laughter from which he only pauses to repeat what you said with emphasis on the aforementioned words and to tell you that your use of such words ‘was just plain wrong’.

My niece, who is the same age physically but a little more advanced mentally (as all girls like to believe that they are) is even worse, having a heightened sense of in-your-end-o awareness for even the most mundane of words, like ‘package’, or ‘bag’. The end result of all this hilarity is that you can seldom get through a sentence without one, or both of them, snorting their way with delight through the rest of what you were trying to say.

Thankfully my boy is not yet at the age where girls even remotely interest him because they can’t be trusted. My advice to him will be that when he gets a girlfriend is that he doesn’t tell her where he lives or works.

But it did get me thinking that pretty soon I’m going to have to sit him down and give him one of the most important lessons a boy can get in life: how to draw a penis.

He’s off to Intermediate this year and I can’t in good mind send him off without him knowing how to doodle an amusing doodle. Mine were legendary back in their day, everybody said so, especially Bruiser who has played rugby all his life and therefore seen a lot of cock so I always took his word on such matters.

My early efforts were like everyone’s at the time; big balls, pencil thin shaft and big helmet. Occasionally I’d add a few pubes but I never felt the need to add 'the jizz', which I always felt just cheapened the drawing.

Later in my school life, probablydue to the hours I spent playing with my own, I started to etch a pretty lifelike rendition of the ‘ol meat and two veg and it’s exactly that kind of attention to detail I can pass on to my son to ensure that it’s his dick that’s getting laughed at next year on the blackboard.

Now that really did sound wrong didn’t it....?

It's been a while but yep, I've still got it...

A Man And His Boat

Resident house ninja, ginja smacker and man of notoriously low standards, DG Macca, has this summer, bought himself a boat for no other reason he tells me than because ‘it’s a chick magnet’.
He, like so many of us here at ClubDes, is married with children, but that hasn’t stopped him spending the last two weekends cruising up and down the main drag asking young, attractive girls if “they want to come and be surrounded by sea men all day” and if so, “would they mind trying on the bikinis he has back there”, size extra small.

Unbeknown to them he has meticulously taken to the supportive straps on said bikinis with a razor blade and made them so flimsy that approximately 12 seconds in the wearer will suffer a multiple wardrobe malfunction. Oh yeah.

Now I’m not one for boats myself. It has something to do with the fear I have of the big, far-more powerful-than-we forces of Mother Nature and open water is about as impressive as it gets. I have been on boats before, many times, but I’ve been bricking it almost every single minute of every single journey, so as alluring as the slim chance of the aforementioned wardrobe malfunction actually happening is, I won’t be taking up the offer from DG Macca to be his first mate.

Not on the seas anyway, but on dry land, well that is a different story. Why this very weekend he and I are going to spend the day in his boat, whilst still on the trailer, with our tops off, getting pissed and making false mayday calls.

To create a fully authentic experience we’re going to lower the motor into a bucket full of water and let it run all day long and Mrs Macca has promised to come out every couple of minute and squirt us with the hose so as to mimic sea spray. Brilliant.

And most definitely not gay. Because we are both straight.

DG Macca, his budgie and his boat. So hot right now...

Daydream Believer

When ever a Taylor Swift song comes on the wireless I find myself imagining that I am making sweet, sweet love to her in a field of long grass somewhere. Not surprisingly I am magnificent and she a close second.

You really should try it some time, it certainly makes for a far more enjoyable listen.

I have also found that this same day dream also works well when listening to any of the following:

1. Miley Cyrus
2. Any female singer under 20 and,
3. Enrique Iglesias.

Ms Swift, in an actual scene from my day dream...

Never Touchy Touchy The Modem

Now usually I’m the first person to decree that we all need to slow down a little, but even my patience was tested this week as I moved into day four of a five day Internet outage at our house.

By the time you’re reading this we will be once again connected to the world wide Intraweb, but not before our provider has taken his sweet time getting here. You would be forgotten for thinking with that kind of delay I must live out in the wop wops somewhere, or in a third world even. But I don’t. J Town might be a shithole (and it is) but it’s hardly war torn Mogadishu, no one has to run the gauntlet of AK47 fire to get here. I actually live so close to my provider that I could drive there and back quicker than it took me to log the fault.

The problem, I figured, lied with our modem. I believe the technical term is ‘that it’s fucked’, something I deduced very early on. I’m no Stephen Hawking but I do know the odd tid bit about computers, on account of me having worked on a technical Help Desk for the last five years. It might not be Pointdexter HQ, my work, but I’ve picked up enough nous in my time to usually work out where the fault lies.

But in this instance it’s actually the provider’s policy on modem replacements that is really at fault. I didn’t know before hand but they appear to adhere to the strip bar model of engagement; you may look and enjoy the feeling that the modem brings i.e. the Internet, but you must never touchy touchy the modem. Never.

The problem was, as I conveyed to the guy on the phone (Terry), who was trying desperately hard to work out what I already knew, was that not only had I fondled the modem, but I had swapped it with the one we have that runs the cable through the TV. Now, in his eyes, not only had I touched the titty, I had spilt my drink all over it.

So seeing as we were both in agreement that the thing was on the dole (not working), could he courier me another I asked? No. No and no. ‘The technician would have to come and swap it out because only the technician is allowed to touch it’. The technician it would seem, is the bouncer of the titty bar, who can touchy touchy the boob whenever he wants and indeed does so, right in front of you, after having just thrown you out on your arse because you went all maternal on that nunga.

Naturally by this stage I was getting quite miffed at the complete lack of customer friendly service I was receiving. I won’t lie to you, up until that moment I was prepared to not mention the fact that I had been put on hold several, lengthy times, all of which had only led me to wonder if Terry was the kind of guy who genuinely wonders if getting married means you have to show your wife your penis. I don’t mean to whack on about it but I have worked in ICT help long enough to know that if you’re putting someone on hold that many times for that long then you probably have no fucking clue as to what you’re doing.

Terry, despite his rugged good looks, was not one to be easily talked round to reason (but then the slow never are) and so reluctantly I awaited the technician who was scheduled to arrive five days (three working) after my titty, I mean modem, stopped producing the goods. Not that his arrival was any sure thing either, Terry gave me a three hour window in which he might arrive, because turning up on time it would seem, as scheduled, really would be too fucking much to ask.

No surprise then that even that didn’t go smoothly. I arrived home on Tuesday to find a calling card advising me that the tech had been, a whole day earlier than scheduled and could I call to arrange another suitable time? Yes. Yes I could and when I did I was none to cordial either. I’m not a violent man and I loathe being a prick on the phone but some companies are just gagging to be talked dirty to I find.

Luckily, this particular fairytale has a happy ending and not just because the Net is back on and the porn is a streaming. A nice Asian man rocked up today, early too and has hooked his Caucasian brother back up.

Incidentally it turns out it wasn’t the modem at fault, but rather a junction plug in the box on the wall outside. Luckily they didn’t send me a new modem because that would have just annoyed me even more......

We're back on line @ ClubDes

An Ode To A Great Man

I had a dose of reality this week with the passing of my Grandfather, aged 88. Thankfully it wasn’t a sudden thing and sadly, had been on the cards for some time.

Granddad was a tough old bugger. He was cut from cloth that we Metrosexuals would consider too harsh for our delicate skin and yet sadly, despite having a hide tougher than chainmail, it was skin cancer that killed him. All those years he spent outside in the hot Hawke’s Bay sun, slaying dragons and building castles from the ground up, came back to bite him on the arse. I always remember him as wearing a hat but the damage was probably done well before then it would seem.

In writing a eulogy for him it struck me just how extra ordinary his life and others of his generation was. Quite rightly by the time I’d finished I felt like a little girl and proceeded to cry myself to sleep that night.

He spent six consecutive years away at war with the New Zealand Navy. Six years! Imagine walking out the door tomorrow and not returning to your families for that period of time. And here I was thinking that the three tours I did of ‘Nam was impressive. How many of us can honestly say we have done anything for six years by choice, like lived in the same house, stayed in the same job or shagged the same bird?

Even if you have, now imagine spending a good part of that period bricking it in the fear of being shelled or torpedoed by the Hun, or kamikazed by the nut bar Japs. He was torpedo actually, very early in his naval career and not only did he live to tell the tale but to serve four more years helping to liberate the Pacific from the rice rollers. Oh how he must have enjoyed seeing the proliferation of sushi bars around the place now, after all that sacrifice....

After the war, he, like so many others, shunned the attraction of the big cities and returned to his rural hometown where he would spend the next fifty years building it up to be more than just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it you would pass through on your way to somewhere else.

He wasn’t the type of guy to be worried about keeping up with the Jones’s like so very many of us are these days. In fact he would be more inclined to help the Jones’s build their place up before he even thought of touching his and even then he’d be moving on to the Jones’s neighbours in between, to help with theirs.

It drove my Grandmother mad that it was community first; home second with him but that was just how he was. Incidentally they were married for 55 years, another milestone that you and I are going to be hard pressed to match with our achievements when the time comes. The closest we’ll come to being anything for 55 years is having been completely sucked in by the rampant consumerism that would have peed its pants in fear, if faced by a man like my Granddad in his prime.

Admittedly they spent the last 20 years in separate beds and separate rooms but still, that’s a lifetime to be putting up with someone else’s shit. These days we struggle to give it five minutes before we’re on the internet looking for someone else, or porn, to help alleviate our swollen testicles which have expanded to watermelon size in that time.

Granddad would not have been much of a fan of the internet, especially Google. Back in his day if he’d have asked too many questions he would’ve been beaten with a stick for being so bloody nosey. Back then you learnt by doing, not by wanting to know the answer to everything all the time. As for my blogging, well, he’d probably tell me that he went to war, it was grim, but he didn’t need to write a novel about it.

He was the only guy I’ve ever known to come back from the town tip with more than when he left. Sometimes I wondered if the character Del Boy from the TV show Only Fools and Horses was based on him because he was always arriving home with a thousand of something he had just managed to procure with some fantastic barter. He always had a plan for the steal of the century too but not surprisingly we came across the bulk of them the other night, still in his shed and still without a use.

Like most Granddads he was a great man. A very different man than you and I could ever be but yet he taught me more than any one single person ever will again. Like never trust the Japs.

I shall miss him.

How Good Is The Net Aye?!

Did you see the two guys who launched NZs first rocket screaming their tits off the other night? It was pure, unadulterated geek joy, the likes of which we haven’t seen since the advent of the Internet.

Do you ever get sick of the Internet? Have you ever reached the point where it seems like you’ve looked at everything worth looking at? Sure there’s always porn but even that can get a bit predictable. But still, if they took all the porn off the Net I reckon there would only be two sites left, one called ‘Hey, What Happened to the Porn’ and the other ‘Bring Back the Porn’.

There’s always Google. Man you can type anything into that sucker and you’re guaranteed that somewhere, somehow someone has a page about it. I’ve gone off it a bit though; the other day I searched for a photo of farm equipment and it showed me twenty thousand pictures of horse dicks.

Thankfully I’ve stumbled across these sites, which are brilliant.

everything.com

A website where instead of having to look all over the Internet for what you want, it’s all in the one place. This site will effectively end the need for search engines so I can’t actually tell you where it is otherwise Google representatives will kill me in my sleep.

whereaboutsami.com

This is a website where users can write the name of the city and street they are on and it tells them where they are.

whatkindofcoughisthat.com

A website that contains sound files of different coughs. Each cough has a description to allow the user to sound match and determine the kind of cough they have before going to the chemist and buying either dry or wet cough medicine.

yourloungeroom.com

Users of this website can take a photo of their lounge room and upload it to the site. Then it tells them what furniture does not look good.

deceasedlovedones.com

This is a website where you pay a fee to join and are given your own web page with an empty blog. In the event of your death, you can use the page to write a message to your loved ones. Similar setup to prepaid funerals. Your loved ones can either log on and check whether you have left a message for them or can opt to receive an email notifying them when you leave a message.

howdoigettowhereiam.com

This site contains a link to the page you’re currently on.

whichonetowear.com

Users of this website can take photos of themselves wearing every combination of every article of clothing they own then upload the images to a user database. Every day, instead of trying on clothing, you can choose an outfit by simply viewing their choices online.

armbook.com

Similar to Facebook but people upload photos of their arms.

uploadyourscreen.com

A website where you can take a screenshot of your computer screen and upload it so that when you are looking at porn and the boss walks past you can type in the link and go to it instead.

amihavingaheartattack.com

A website for people having a heart attack.

Is It Wrong...

What's With All The Damn Photo's?!

Should I be alarmed that my son has come home from school with the words to an R Kelly song that they’re having to sing at assembly?

It’s not so much the song but if any of those poor kids was to type his name into Google they might get an education far beyond their years. Perhaps I’ll teach my boy how to spell ‘paedophilia’ and let him Google that instead...

Why is it that teenagers feel the urge to take hundreds of photos whilst doing the most ordinary of things? I spent the better part of my Sunday at the beach the other day which allowed me to partake in one of my favourite pastimes; people watching.

Unfortunately places like the beach are a Mecca for the young and desperate to be noticed, so it’s hard for a fella to sit there with his blu-blockers on trying hard not to look like a perv. I need not have worried though because they were far more obvious dirty old men than I on show but even that didn’t dissuade those gagging for attention from doing their thing.

I was watching a bunch of young teenage girls in bikini’s capturing each other’s every move on their phones and cameras. I wasn’t watching them in a ‘keep looking so I can have a wank about it at home’ kind of way, I did look at other things, but inevitably every time I looked back the cameras were a flashin.

Undoubtedly those photos would have been uploaded to the owners Bebo pages later that evening and everybody who was there on the day, tagged, so those that weren’t there could identify who was...just in case there was any doubt 275 photos later who had actually been there and who hadn’t.

Closer to me were two other similarly aged and clad young ladies who did the same with their cell phones, in between numerous, desperate calls to young men begging them to come join them. The fellas never showed and I wasn’t surprised, they were probably at home prowling through Bebo pages checking out photo’s of other young girls at the beach.

Nobody took photos like that back in my day. If you were lucky enough to have a camera – one with a film and a winder that you could never quite tell had worked or not – then it was unlikely you carried it with you on account of it being about the same size and weight as a brick. If you did take photos the chances were it would be several months before you saw them anyway because it took that long to take the 25 pictures you needed to in order to complete the film.

Once you got them back from the camera shop (where developing took days, not minutes) you would relive the memories the badly exposed shots would bring and curse the ones where you had had your finger over the shutter. And there was always two or three photos less than the 25 the bloody thing had said you’d taken...

Back then it was all about living in and experiencing the moment. Now it’s more about getting dozens of great photos that show you were there and fuck the moment. In a way it’s all about the self promotion that the youth of today seem to think they have to make of themselves in order to get anywhere with anyone.

Girls, who I’ve already discussed my theory on how they do things primarily to impress other girls, not fellas, treat every photo as if it was some raunchy magazine shoot. Look through any online album and there will be young women pouting, giving it their ‘best side’ and slutting it up as if their lives depended on it.

Not that making a tit of yourself is an all exclusive sheila’s club because the young men that they inevitably attract do a pretty good job too, doing their best to look right hard by doing the finger or tensing every muscle from the neck up every time a camera is pointed in their direction. Being surrounded by drunk, loose young women it would seem, is not enough for a fella to sit back with a smile as wide as his stiffie is tall.

There was one other highlight to be seen at the beach; the foreign bird who stripped down to her bra and undies did a spot of topless sun bathing too. Or so my wife tells me. I missed it because I had gone to get the family lunch from New World where, unfortunately, no one had their Scandinavian nungas out.

What a pity my wife didn’t take a photo...

Now this is a photo...

Shane Bond & Cheque Book Loyalty

Tosser’s are a lot like buses; sometimes one comes along every now and then and other times a whole bunch arrives at once. We used to do a ‘Wanker of the Week’ column here at ClubDes which proved the aforementioned theory and we didn’t stop because all the wankers went away, no far from it.

Shane Bond is one of our Wanker of the Week alumni. We did a bit on him when several months ago he decided that it was money, rather than playing for his country that mattered most and accordingly he turned his back on NZ cricket and headed off to ruddy India as a sporting mercenary loyal only to the chequebook.

We made the point that his departure was a nice kick in the balls for anyone that had coached or supported him from a junior level onwards, all for free and none of whom would get to see a cent of the many hundreds of thousands dollars he would make playing in front of crowds who would see him only as the big Caucasian from somewhere other than Bombay.

But now the Judas has returned and NZ cricket, so desperate for talent, have welcomed him back with open arms thus proving that they’re all keen to get down his members end and face a few balls. The memories at NZ cricket it would seem, are shorter than one of his bouncers.

To top it all off now the hero worship has started again after his taking a few wickets against the Paki’s last week who must be loving a 10 degree NZ summer. It didn’t take long for the media to start gushing over the guy and rolling out the James Bond references ad nauseam. Photos of him and team mates (who must be relieved to have just won a test) are popping up like pics on a 14 year old's Bebo page.

I wonder if NZ cricket would be so welcoming of them if they were to break the rules and piss off overseas for thirty pieces of silver, thus turning their back on their country. Probably, because desperate needs call for desperate measures when you’re struggling for credibility in a sport played by a handful of countries.

Sometimes that means even welcoming back a Judas back with open arms.

Bond on Bebo

Today's Idol, Tomorrow's News

I see another Idol winner has been found and again I find myself asking myself ‘does anyone really give a shit?!’

Obviously someone does because they keep churning out Aussie Idol to an audience that just seems to lap it up. They obviously make money out of it too, quite possibly by selling the show to nice but dim countries like us.

The latest winner is a Kiwi which makes me laugh, because if there’s one thing sure to piss the Aussies off it’s a New Zealander winning anything.

Admittedly Stan Walker’s back story is impressive in its adversity; he was fiddled by his uncle (Peter File) at an early age and raised – in his own words – by Jake the Muss. Grim stuff. But yet I can’t help but feel the world needs another Idol winner like it needs another Hitler and so despite Stan the Man’s emotional victory, you and I both know that come this time next year, he will be yesterday’s news.

The list of former world wide Idol winners who have ‘made it’ is considerably shorter than those that haven’t. Actually, apart from Kelly Clarkson can you name any past winner who still has songs played on the wireless / TV / car full of silly teenage girls? No. No you can’t.

Sure, they all go on to record an album or two but then that’s part of their prize package. They’ll murder even more decent songs with their ridiculous covers and perform on stage with the likes of Michael Buble, the man with a tit in his name. But after all the contractual palaver is completed they go back to doing whatever it was they were doing before winning Idol; sweet fuck all.

And the reason is simple – because the same folk who got their panties in a twist during the competition this year will be doing the same again next year, only for some other try hard with a sob story. It’s rent-a-crowd in its purest form.

So does anyone really give a shit? Possibly, but only for a few weeks so you better laugh it up while you can Stan, because this time next year you’ll just be another Maori living in Brisbane and Michael Tit-lay won’t be answering your calls.

Who Violated Who Facebook?!

I suffered the infamy this week of having Facebook remove my profile picture. I feel so dirty and violated.

Apparently a man can’t even show some back, crack and sack these days without someone taking an offence. Whether it was that someone complained or that Facebook simply came across it I shall never know. I suppose they have searches running for these things but I cringe at what they must have had as the search definitions if that was the case.

Maybe it was a spurned ‘friend’ that dobbed me in. I tried to think about the last one I declined and I’m pretty sure it was the request from Jesus. Damn him and his omnipresence.

So now I’m torn between wanting to push the envelope and post another dodgy pic, or just post nothing in protest. It might be a complete waste of space and serve no real purpose in the grand scheme of things, but I wouldn’t want to be the only guy you’ve even known to be kicked off Facebook. My mate Veins was but to be honest, if any one individual was likely to be kicked off a social networking site then Vinnie is that guy.

Our Lillian has just discovered the pros and cons of the ‘ol FB and was quite possibly the last person on earth to do so. Apart from George Clooney that is, who has declared that he will never ever have a page. What a guy. I bet he’s on their every night under some pseudonym perving at young girls along with the rest of us.

But unlike George, Lillian is suffering from that inability to say ‘no’ to every bugger who asks to be his friend just as we all did when we first signed up. Now he’s torn between not wanting to piss off work colleagues he hardly even talks to during the day and long lost buddies who some 500 plus ‘friends’ later seem to have just been waiting for the day he signed up.

Maybe it was he that dobbed me in, or maybe it was my angelic, twenty something, Greek goddess of a mate who laughed when I told her what had happened and declared that her profile would no longer look like she had some dodgy old guy stalking her. Well...the thumbnail may change but the truth will still be the truth XTina!

So now I’m putting Facebook on notice, because from here on in I’ll be wasting their time by flagging anything I find as only even slightly dodge as offensive. Babies in the bath? Paedophilia. Booze hags bearing their under carriage because they’ve fallen over in a drunken stupor? Porn. Munters doing the finger in every single photo trying to look ‘right hard’? Hate incitement. My mate breast feeding? Well, that one’s okay. I might have to check it again a couple of times just to make sure though...

Oh well. What do I give a fark, it wasn’t a real picture of me anyway. But it was bloody funny...

Does my mullet look big in this...?

Beyonce, Bikies & The ACC

I’ve just watched possibly one of the worst music video’s ever. It’s Beyonce doing a remake of a Beyonce song (for reasons I don’t know) and features two very strange things; Lady Gaga and guns.

Only you almost won’t recognise Ms Gaga because instead of wearing her usual array of kooky costumes, she wears none. Yep it’s just plain ‘ol Lady Gaga in a one piece and if there’s any truth to the rumours that she’s a lady man lady then she’s doing some major puppetry of the penis in this vid.

Personally I find Lady Gaga strangely attractive and I’m not entirely sure why. It probably doesn’t help that I know somebody who is a dead ringer for her too and if I was 19 and single I would probably start obsessing about just how much she resembles her and start harassing her about it in the misguided believe she’ll be flattered by it. Then, when completely freaked out by my actions, she rejects me completely I’d get all angry and start stalking the bitch. Not that I’ve ever done that of course.

Thankfully I’m a happily married thirty something and these days I can direct such obsessive compulsive compulsions to young girls who leave their Facebook pages unlocked. 316 personal photos? Don’t mind if I do...

There’s also the strange matter of the two wielding guns in the video which I don’t quite get but they were vaguely more interesting than the two singers. I’ve said it once but I’ll say it again; if you’re turned on by guns you’re not interested in sheilas and vice versa, so putting the two together is a weird combo.

It’ll do fantastically well in the charts though, despite the acid trip of a video and yet probably because of the acid trip of the video. Once upon a time a song was a hit because it sound good and folk liked to hear it played on the wireless. Now a day how the song sounds is almost irrelevant to how much vulva you can squeeze into the video.

Beyonce cracks me up too. Here is an influential young woman who professes strength, independence and intelligence yet always inevitable sluts up in her videos. Perhaps she’ll do a perfume soon and call it something just as empowering to young ladies everywhere, like Steel Vagina.

Speaking of which, is there some rule that says when you get a motorbike you have to start looking like a right hard mofo? Watching the footage of the motorbike protest at Parliament the other day I couldn’t help but chuckle at just how many of the participants that were interviewed on the various news programs fitted the stereotype.

The leather they wear is a big part of it, of course. Chicks dig the leather, like Batman said. But that doesn’t account for the anvil beards and far off stares of someone whose father never gave them the time of day that they all have.

I emphasise with the bikies and the large ACC levies that they face but only to a point. For every law abiding, never-had-an-accident-in-my-life motor bike rider there is at least several maniacs who push the limit and it’s those clowns I couldn’t give a flying fuck about. But then of course munters on the road are not confined to just two wheels either.

ACC to me should be like insurance; everyone contributes a little and if you never use it then you get rewarded by contributing even less. If you’re a waster of a student who toboggans down Dunedin’s steepest street in a chilly bin and you arse it, then, on account of your stupidity in doing something that no sane bugger would ever do, you are automatically exempt from claiming ACC. Likewise criminals.

But then what do I know aye? I wonder if I can claim ACC for Facebook wrist...

Steel Vagina & Lady GaGa

Time For We Footballers To Move On

I was going to write something really profound about the All Whites but every man and his dog – and I mean literally every man – has already beaten me too it.

Even the nation’s rugby writers who spend their days trying hard not to say the thing as each other have written about it and yep, they’ve all said the same thing as each other. Which has lead to the inevitable conjecture as to which is now bigger in this country; ruggers or football? Its short shorts verse long shorts again, just like it was back at school. Stubbies verse grippers, those that shower with their undies on and those that didn’t.

Which reminds me of my playing days at College when the long shorts that are common place today, started to make a comeback to football fields across the country. Not in my house though. My parents, the bastards that they were, never bought me anything longer than teste depth when it came to shorts and remained blissfully unaware of my desire to encase my pasty thighs in satin.

So I took matters into my own hands and made a pair of knee length shorts out of my rain proof track pants. Man did that shit them right up. Before then I had made do by making bike shorts out my old adidas trackies, the ones with the stirrups on the feet, so needless to say they were completely bricking it over the slaughter of two perfectly good pairs of pants.

In their anger they decreed that they would never buy me any new soccer gear ever again, which was hardly a punishment as far as I could see because they never had anyway!

But back to the All Whites vs. The All Blacks. Sounds like an interracial gang bang doesn’t it? It’s a futile argument really and a lot like trying to prove your point with the devoutly religious, so why even bother. Football, right at this very moment, is bigger than rugby in Godzone and that’s a fact. If you really want to get anal and hey, I’ll try anything once, let’s talk big picture.

There are over 200 countries in the FIFA world rankings and less than 100 in the IRB’s (which is a very generous count given how many of those countries are actually competitive). There might be a ‘world’ of rugby playing nations, but the world’s sport is football. It’s a World Cup Final tournament where 32 foot balling nations compete compared to rugby’s 20, so I don’t care how tight you like your shorts, football is bigger in every which way.

Anyhoo, I digress. Saturday night was a marvellous spectacle regardless of code and one that will live long in the memory but not if the team performs abysmally at the Finals that we’ve all gotten so excited about them making.

A few months ago I was very critical of the All Whites and their performance in the Confederations Cup where they were hammered by the best team in the World (Spain), brushed aside by South Africa and eventually drew with Saudi Arabia, a team not too dissimilar to Saturday nights opponents, Bahrain. Despite the euphoria of this week I haven’t forgotten that they were boys in a man’s world at that particular tournament.

At the World Cup they will in all likelihood, find themselves playing even tougher opposition and they will have to work very, very hard to try and avoid the kind of results that the last NZ team to make it to the Finals had, conceding 12 goals in three games.

If they do well (and nobody expects them to win the bloody thing or nuffink) then they will do more for football in this country than they did on an epic night in Wellington. If they crash and burn as so many footballing minnows in their position have in recent years then, just as they did at the Confed Cup, they will have wound the credibility clock back to pre November 14.

I hope they do well; really I do. Because I don’t want my boy to ever have to wear short shorts, or shower with his undies on.

Boring Sports #1: Cricket

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Talk Derby To Me

Now I don't usually get excited about much.

Even the other night, when an attractive young thing appeared at my door trying to sell me movie tickets and it dawned on me that I had seen porno's that had started like that, I didn't get excited.

Because too much excitement ultimately leads to dissapointment when shit doesn't get half as exciting as you thought it was going to be. However if you treat everything with pessimissim then you will always be excited when shit isn't half as bad as you thought it was going to be. See, easy isn't it?

One thing that I have come to get quite turned on about though is Roller Derby and if you can you should get yourself down to the TSB Bank Arena tomorrow night around 7pm.

Trust me, it'll be the best $15 you spend that night and you won't even have to get shitfaced like you usually do on a Saturday to get over the fact that the night out isn't half as exciting as you thought it would be.

But enough about you. Roller Derby is more fun than a strap on and unless you're there tomorrow night you'll just have to take my word on that.

Goldie Scorn; she can shoulder barge me into the suicide seats anytime..

Don't Text And Drive

Have you spotted anyone using their cellphone whilst driving yet?

Better yet, if you have did you dob the buggers in? I have and did so today and what made it even the more sweeter was that it was one of those a-typical pricks who think they are the authority on everything and therefore above the law; a middle aged balding dude in a desperately dated BMW. Tosser.

Apparently the first few days have been reasonably offence free which is a good thing, but lets be honest, it won't be long before old habits return and the cellphones in cars start a ringing. I've been waiting for mine to ring because my lovely wife has a habit of texting me when she knows I'm driving and then ringing two minutes later to see why it is exactly I haven't replied to her text.

Sadly, it will be around this point that the Five-O will start getting bad press for ticketing cellphone user drivers and undoubtedly, one of the best laws passed in ages will become, in the eyes of the lawbreakers only, a money making exercise. Middle aged balding dudes in desperate dated European cars will be the most vociferous of the lawbreakers, making outlandish statements when faced with a ticket and demerit like "Why don't you jokers go and catch some real criminals and stop wasting my time".

Of course the irony of the situation will be lost on the man who hasn't actually seen his own penis for some time...

The thing I like about this law is that it's proof that if we really want to, we can change things to protect ourselves. Despite what the knockers say, making it illegal to chat on the trouser phone whilst driving is a damn good thing and it's such a simple step to have taken you have to wonder why the fuck we didn't do it sooner.

Now we can start on the other stuff that puckers a few sphincters; like banning alcohol advertising that glorifies getting pissed - which is most of it. Have you ever noticed how advertising for alcohol made overseas is seldom about getting comatose like ours, but more about an attitude or way of life?

While we're at it we can reinstate the legal drinking age back to twenty, given now that most of seem to be prepared to admit lowering it was a mistake. That particular exercise was a bit like lighting your own fart wasn't it? Great in theory, but one scalded, blistered gooch later and suddenly it's not so cool.

Then we can start on shitty food advertising which is aimed at making our kids of today tomorrows Biggest Loser. Am I the only one who can't help but think that the rise in popularity of cooking shows (so much so that we even now have dedicated cooking channels) has helped influence not only waist lines, but an entire industry and series of TV shows around - wait for it - losing weight. It's a conspiracy I tell you.

And hey, if you haven't spotted anyone using their cellphone whilst driving yet then don't despair, there will be a middle aged, balding guy in a BMW just around the corner.

Halloween Cometh and Goeth (Thank God for That)

Now we all know that we Kiwis don't really get into the spirit of Halloween.

Most of us see it as an Americanised thing that only comes about because we watch so much Americanised garbage on the box. But it's precisely for that very reason that there are now a whole generation of kids up and down the country who love the whole idea of dressing up, knocking on strangers doors and begging for shit. Or lollies. Depends what you're into I suppose.

Of course the scaremongers amongst us love this time of year because they can crank up the myth that there is a paedophile behind every door. Thankfully we haven't reached the state of paranoia about kiddie fiddlers that they have in the UK where an online newspaper heading this week read "Parents Are Warned Not to Watch Their Kids at a Park - In Case They Are A Paedophile".

Anyways, we don't really do the 'Ween here at ClubDes but we got many at our door who did. Here are a select few who, despite interrupting us from our streaming kiddie porn each and every time, did earn themselves a sweetie for making us laugh.

The Taste of Yellow & Teabagging Dead Men

Have you seen the latest in the series of Yellow Page ads that try hard to not be the scripted advertisement that they are?

The first was about some bird having to make a restaurant in the tree tops. The actress - yes that's right, she was an actress - made it on to our trampoline one week on account of her tightey whitey effort in the first ad. Ridiculous concept that but they knew you just can't beat a girl in a tightey whitey and the reason is simple; because we boys will try our darnedest to spot some Bruce Lee's (hard nips) each and every time. Tea in a tree? No thanks but if you're selling puppies I'll take the two with pink noses.

In the latest incarnation, some actor - yes that's right, he's an actor - is trying to discover what the taste of 'yellow' is and make a chocolate bar out of it. What is it with the fat bastards over at Yellow Pages and food do you think? First a restaurant and now choccies. Personally I think they should dunk a copy of the Yellow Pages in chocolate and make him eat it, now that would make for some interesting telly.

Do you want to know what my take on what yellow tastes like is? Well, first thing every morning, thanks to my my gnarly lungs, I cough up a ball of phlegm so thick you could plaster your walls with it and guess what colour it is? That's right. Try wrapping that in chocolate, you tit. Actually it'll be easy cause it's so gelatinous it usually sticks to anything.

Is there anything you can't yet do in a video game? The latest in the now long and boring 'Rockstar' series of games is 'DJ Star' where you, the budding DJ, spin a turntable shaped controller. Now all you need to do is get your mates round and have one turn the lights on and off, one flick water from a bottle all over the place and one constantly yell at you 'play the Macarena, play the fuckin Macarena', then you'll have yourself a rad rave. For the full affect you can get a whole bunch of chicks who spend their day clothes shopping at Supre to come round too, get pissed and chunder everywhere.

I've seen a lot of people play the Rockstar games and I'm yet to see any of them look half as cool as they think they do. Its Simon Says on a guitar is what it is and having Metallica playing along with it doesn't make it any cooler. I can't help but think that if only the millions of kids tuning it and coping out on their consoles actually learnt to play a real instrument instead then the chances of the series getting to 'DJ Star' would have been greatly reduced.

But I suppose can't really blame the makers of such a game for cashing in on what kids have always loved to do; play air guitar with a tennis racket, cricket bat or for those just-got-out-of-the-bath moments, their diddle.

First person shooters are stuffing it up for everybody too, not because they glorify violence because lets be honest, what doesn't do that these days? No games like HALO do absolutely nothing in preparing the youth of today for the apocalypse that humanity will soon force upon itself as a result of too many first person shooting games. The highlight of the game, as my homeboys Lillian and BigGayRay tell me, is to teabag your opponent when he's down for the count. Shit in my mouth. Teabagging a dead man?

We didn't survive three consecutive tours of Vietnam by slapping our gnads on the foreheads of deceased VC. Charlie was into some kinky shit but that wasn't one of them. Gloryholes in the showers, yes, Earl Graying dead guys, no. Have you actually ever tried teabagging anything? It's not easy (so I'm told) so how the youth of today plan to do that when locked, loaded and all the safeties are off is beyond me. You pull out those bad boys on the battlefield and somebody is going to put their weapon up your arse and pull the trigger till it goes 'click'. Maybe someone will make a game of that someday?

Kids huh? Why not smack one over the back of the head with the Yellow Pages next time you come across one playing Rockstar or HALO, it'll do them good.

No one ever got teabagged playing Simon Says

Bring Back The Luncheon

We wound back the clock at our place this long weekend; luncheon and tomato sauce sandwiches for lunch. Tidy.

Remember how luncheon used to be staple in our diets? Mum would come back from shopping with a pile of luncheon the size of a small child, all of which cost her about 30 cents. For you and I that meant luncheon, cheese slice and tomato sauce roly-polies all week, the breakfast, lunch and dinner of champions.

Then two things happened that almost irreversibly struck luncheon off the shopping list of mothers across the land. First, some ponce called Tarquin had an allergic reaction, allegedly to a slice of luncheon that he was given by the butcher who gave every kid a free slice of luncheon in the supermarket. We loved it because it was luncheon and that stuff was the shit. Our mothers loved it because it keep us quiet for 10 minutes.

But then Tarquin went and ruined it for everybody by having some sort of spew in the supermarket that was instantly attributed to the last thing he ate; free luncheon. To this day nobody knows if it really was the luncheon or something else that caused it, like perhaps the anti-bacterial soap that his mum doused him in after playing with the coloured boys up the street.

The story also caught the attention of the kind of people who long to make a fuss out of absolutely nothing and thus the seeds of a mass panic were sown in the guise of 'Letters to the Editor' and calls to talk back radio, all purporting to have experienced the holocaust that is free luncheon. Why they had never mentioned it before was never explained and thanks to their efforts a nation of precious mothers turned their fear from that of the coloured boys up the street to free luncheon in supermarkets, all the while stuffing Tarquin and Sebastian full of artificially coloured cereals, cordials and ridiculous things like chicken nuggets.

Those very same shit stirrers got their knickers in a twist the other week about silly boys doing silly things in front of swastikas and alike at the Auckland Museum and true to form, did they kick up a needless waste of all our time about that too. Suddenly several luncheon-free-diet boys were 'Public Enemy Number One' and only the butchers who used to give out free luncheon really knew how they felt.

It all reminded me of this one time as a child, whilst being dragged along to yet another dead set boring craft fair (the likes of which your parents always made you go to) I came across a guy peddling military memorabilia and man, did he have some good shit. Hanging high in the corner was a genuine Hitler Youth outfit and it was the business. I didn't dare ask where it came from because quite frankly he had a thick European accent and was roughly the age of an escaped-from-justice war criminal, but my god did I want it. Why? because it was cooler than free luncheon, that's why.

Thankfully due to the price (or because they never bought me anything I actually ever wanted anyway) my parents had the good sense not to indulge me that day and I was not given the chance to make a mistake that only a naive child would make; like bowing down in front of a banner bearing the swastika or in my case, strutting around a predominantly brown neighbourhood in a Hitler Youth costume.

Of course the other stink thank that heralded the end of free luncheon was that at some point we started to get a bit hoighty toighty about what we ate and suddenly common, we've been eating the stuff for ages luncheon was not quite good enough.

Instead Mum's started buying things like shaved champagne ham which had to be posh because it has booze in the title, but went shit with tomato sauce. That then lead to the cured meats, the peppered pastrami and these days, prosciutto which is ham you silly bitch, only at three times the price.

So bring back giving out the free luncheon I say, because life was never the same the day after they stopped.

Saving Boobs, One Asparagus Bunch At A Time

I smelt something suss the other morning whilst in the supermarket fondling bundles of asparagus. Had I had a small child with me I might've done what my parents used to do whenever they smelt something fruity; look down the back of my shorts.

What they hoped to see there when they did I will never know because if you've ever tried it with your own children then you'll know the only thing you see down a kids pants is their bum and unless they've had a shart of catastrophic proportions that's all you're ever going to see. But yet, parents everywhere still look. What would they do I wonder, if they did see something - fish it out in the middle of the fruit and veg department? Tasty.

I did once shart myself silly whilst at primary school. I knew I was in trouble the moment I could feel it run down the back of my knee and it was quite the mission making it unnoticed to the boys toilets in the furthest, far flung corner of the school. It's very difficult to run from only the knees down and especially when you're trying to make it look like you haven't just monumentally soiled yourself. Once there, it was a sight the likes of which I hope I never see in my own daks ever again. Things were so bad I had to flush the ones I was wearing and thus, my first experience of going commando was had that very afternoon.

But back in the supermarket it wasn't the asparagus itself that smelt mind you (no, that happened when I had my first whizz the day after I ate it), but more the fact that it was held together with pink rubber bands. On closer inspection of the tag there was that ever present pink bloody ribbon heralding breast cancer awareness, which in itself is cool, but on asparagus?!

October is Breast Cancer Action Month in case you weren't aware which means everybody who is in support of the cause is wearing pink ribbons and buying pink stuff. I'm not wearing a ribbon which must mean I am for breast cancer, which I'm not, but it gets a bit intimidating not brandishing one especially when surrounded by the farkin things. Ribbons that is, not breasts. I don't mind being enclosed by those, especially on long road trips where it's like being wrapped in bubble wrap.

The whole Breast Cancer Awareness thing has to be the 'most supported by a corporate' cause in town. One check of the website confirms that the list of companies plastering their tat pink is a lengthy one, proving that every man and his dog is in on the cause, even the farmer and their asparagus it would seem. Which is great for the awareness, of course, because breast cancer is the most prevalent cancer amongst our women and the most likely to affect that special lady in your life. Grim stuff indeed.

But it is those same sad stats that makes it a 'sexy' cause to be seen supporting, as if an indiscriminate cancer can ever be described as such a thing. All those products with a splash of pink on them make the cause a lot of money but I'm betting they make the producers a whole lot more. It's a ploy that pulls at the heart strings because who doesn't want to save boobies (god knows I know I do), so consumers who so want to be seen doing the right thing will buy the overpriced option that promises 10 whole cents to the cause.

Quite how the marketing extends to garden veg I don't know. Admittedly I was buying the asparagus because it was a two for deal and only noticed the label at the checkout, where, thankfully, there were no children whose pants I could look down the back off. Would the marketing work so well if it was testicular cancer? No, because your average pair of testes are only half appealing as your average set of nungas. And what colour ribbon would you use for that anyway, purpley red?

For the record I did put some coin in the bucket of the lady collecting at the mall because Breast Cancer Action Awareness month is a worthy cause. She gave me a ribbon but I haven't gotten round to wearing it. If only they gave you a Polaroid of the boobs you just saved....

Best Sporting Quote of All Time?

Quite possibly one of the most honest and amusing sporting quotes you're ever likely to hear came out of the mouth this week of Argentine National Team Manager, former World Cup Winner and legend of the game, Diego Maradona.

Maradona was speaking at the televised press conference after Argentina's great escape against Uruguay, a game they simply had to win in order to qualify for the World Cup Finals next year in South Africa.

Prior to this game Maradona and his team had come under heavy criticism from the national press in a country where people die for their football, so understandably they were a little pissed that the team was playing so poorly. Maradona was humble in victory:

"To those who did not believe in us - and ladies forgive me - they can suck my dick and keep on sucking it," he said. "I am black or white; I'll never be grey in my life."

"You lot take it up the arse, if the ladies will pardon the expression. This is for all Argentineans except for the journalists. I would like to thank the team for giving me the privilege to lead Argentina to the World Cup. Thank you to the Argentinean people who had faith.

"This is for those who did not believe in the team and treated me like dirt - but we still qualified with honour. They will now have to accept this. I want to thank the players and the fans - no one but them."

Maradona's comments were much like the man played football; direct, entertaining and breath taking. Consider yourself blessed - you may have just read one of the greatest sporting quotes of all time.

Infinity, Plus One.

Did you ever play that game at school with some smart arse who proclaimed that no matter what number you could think of he could think of one higher?

Naturally the biggest figure you could think of was 'infinity' but the focker could even beat that; he would retort 'plus one' and walk away before you or anyone noticed the stiffie that was forming in his corduroys with all the excitement of being 'right'.

Incidentally everyone's Mum made them wear cords back in the day because they were so hardy. Naff, but hardy. And if you tried to get out of wearing them by ripping a hole in the knee or crutch Mum just patched the bastards up, with some colour other than that of the cords. Now you were still wearing naff cords with naff knee patches. Mum fights back.

It was a futile argument then to try and convince the jammy prick that his premise was fundamentally flawed, the same way it is today with people who whole heartily believe in psychics, ghosts, conspiracy theories and even religion. And nothing brings out the crackpots quite like a missing toddler but I've whacked on about this kind of thing before and you and I are probably both sick of hearing me say it, which makes this blog all the more sweeter.

That was written of course before the terrible news came to light of just what exactly happened to wee Aisling but that hasn't stopped one such seer of dead people claiming that her vision that Aisling was 'in a hole or ditch' was spot on.

Only a drain, or specifically an underground drain pipe, is neither technically a hole or a ditch and although one needs to be dug before the pipe can be laid you would be hard pressed to argue otherwise. But then that's the psychics chief weapon; extreme vagueness. That and they can count higher than you. Infinity? Plus one.

After the grim news broke a large section of NZ started on one of their favourite pastimes - playing the blame game. And no one is immune from it; if only the mother hadn't turned her back on the child, if only the Police had of checked the drain better or if only the council had of fixed the drain weeks ago.

It's all bullshit and irrelevant now. Even with the benefit of hindsight this tragedy has to be seen for what it is, a terrible moment in time that happened by cruel chance. Will something similar happen to some other poor child elsewhere in the future? Sadly yes.

Busy, tired Mums will take their eyes of their toddlers, frantic Police will make split second decisions in times of great duress like when searching for a lost child and councils will spend their days ticketing cars parked partially on the footpaths of tight, narrow cul-de-sacs like mine then fixing faulty drain covers.

And some smart arse will try and convince you that he / she can count higher than you, or pretend to have images of a body in a vague location that kind of matches the usual description of where a body is found.

Plus one? Fuck off, you vultures.

Sheila of the Week

You always have to be a bit wary anytime someone - particularly an airbrushed celebrity - is named the 'worlds sexiest' anything.

Esquire magazine made just such a call this week when they crowned Kate Beckinsale as the worlds sexiest woman and in doing so professed "Isn’t it time to pay more attention to Kate Beckinsale?"

Maybe. It's a decision that we personally have absolutely no issue with because Beckinsale is a stunner and one of our Top 5 favourite Mums as we detailed in our Mothers Day Special earlier in the year. We are more than happy to pay more attention to her but we can understand if some fellas don't agree with the magazine's choice and even we would have to wonder, just for a moment mind you, if she is truly the 'sexiest woman alive'.

What makes one person sexier than another in just such a competition anyway? How do they know, did they test everybody? And if so can we get a bit of that action next year? Let's be honest; one man's wank is another mans yawn and chances are the 'winner' is little more than the one handed surfing fantasy of the person who makes the editorial decisions.

Thankfully, to their credit, Esquire didn't go down the Megan Fox fan club path that every magazine / website / wank blog seems to be signing up for because that girl is definitely over rated. I've said it once and I'll say it twice; Megan Fox reminds me of Tea Leoni and look what became of her. Not to mention she's turned a perfectly good film franchise into a sexploitation exercise and in doing so lowered the IQ quotient of those who get excited about the likes of Transformers 3.

If you're wondering what the fuss over Beckinsale is all about then you need to watch either of the first two Underworld movies where she does the whole vamp clad in tight black leather thing. Yeah, yeah - who hasn't, but like Carrie Anne Moss in The Matrix before her it was the performance she delivered whilst clad in the said leather that makes it all the more memorable. If action flicks aren't your thing then try Click (if you can put up with Adam Sandler doing the same ol same ol for two hours that is).

Beckinsale is indeed an incredibly attractive sheila. She may well be the sexiest woman alive but we'll reserve judgement until we've seen them all, but until then we're more than happy to let her hold the crown for now.

And yes, we could have posted one of the many millions of pics of her clad in very little to help illustrate that she is a bit of alright, but we think it's the pics of her looking really, really, really ridiculously good looking in civvies that do her the most justice.

Politicians and Cashies

I dunno about you cats but I'm well over our politicians fleecing we, the tax payers, once in office.

How is it that many of those elected by the people to serve the people can so easily live the life of luxury when many of those that bought them that privilege suffer through tough economic times? It must be some white cunts joke that we black cunts don't get.

It's almost as if they see being elected as the hard work and everything that comes along after that as the reward. Free travel, subsidised housing, personal expenses paid not to mention the aides these ministers have following them around like a fluffer on a porn set. Fuck me, it's tough at the top isn't it?

For example, Chris Carter, NZs gayest politician (and that's not a slur, he really is) spent over $130k in international travel in six short months whilst Labour was in power. He argues that everything was approved by the PM at the time (she of the suspect living arrangement) and that it was all above board.

Perhaps it was, ethically speaking, but morally it's right up there with stand up sodomy. For example he and his partner, who went with him on all his trips, spent over $7000 in a two night excursion to Sydney which is one hell of an expensive hand job in a hotel if you ask me. How do you rack up such a bill when you and I can get airfares to Oz as cheap as chips?

I'll tell you how; if you think you're above the good folk who elected you then you'll have no qualms about taking their hard earned taxes and living it up at every opportunity. Incidentally Carter thinks that the fuss around him taking his partner on his travels rises from the fact that he's gay. Not really Chris, although that does create some disturbing mental images, but it's because it's really a waste of our money, you tit.

Meanwhile, Bill English, the Minister of Fi-fucken-nance, tries to tell us that he didn't break any rules in claiming an allowance that most of us believe that morally he isn't entitled too. He's paid it back but the question you have to ask yourself is would he have done so if the shit hadn't hit the fan? Either he knew what he was doing and figured no one would notice or he's as thick as the clowns that several major European banks employed to run their empires a few years ago and who had no banking experience prior to getting the job! Not surprisingly they promptly ran the banks into the ground.

I know why these guys get away with this carry on. It's that ingrained 'good on ya mate' attitude we have towards those that pull a sneaky and who come out the better for it. It starts with getting someone in for a 'cashie', or claiming benefits that we aren't really entitled too or staying on ACC for a tad bit longer than we actually should. It happens when they guy next door takes more seafood when out in the boat than he's allowed but gives you some regardless. Everybody has done it, seen it and probably lamented it, but still it goes on because no bugger says nothing.

But the times are a changin' and as High-ho Tito Philip Field found out recently more and more people are not happy with a cashie and aren't afraid to now say so. Here's hoping more of this ingrained, institutionalised wasting of taxpayers money comes out in the wash so those that abuse the privilege can be exposed for what they are; a waste of space. Funny thing though, the Philip Field case, because every transaction I've had with a Thai national has always finished with a happy ending...

Of course those that do abuse the system get away with it for at least three years before you and I can do anything about it. Imagine being able to steal from your employer and know that there is not much he can do about it for three years? I reckon guys like Messrs Carter and English should have a yearly performance appraisal (just as you and I do at work) conducted by those that put them there in the first place. That'll shit 'em right up.

But should we expect anything substantial from geezers who approve their own pay rises? I doubt it.

Carter (MP for Poo Bay, where he likes to drop anchor) and partner. Together camper than a row of tents.

Dumb Is As Dumb Does

Sometimes I lament the ongoing dumbing down of this nation.

Usually I don't give a toss but just occasionally I can't help but sigh like you do when you think of a girl you could've gone all the way with but didn't. Now you chastise your indecision at the time and wonder 'what if' but no matter how hard you look, she's not on Facebook or Bebo, so even if she was interested 15 years later (and wasn't a complete minger) you know your chance is gone. You know that feeling and I know you know.

I had one of those moments after watching a show on Sunday that is hosted by Marc Ellis, which says it all really. It features Kiwis trying to break world records, but not outstanding stuff like being the first to reach some unmountable summit like we Kiwis used to do, no, these are decidedly low brow achievements; like trying to catch the most Malteasers in the mouth, tossing washing machines or breaking wooden toilet seats with your head. Real world changing achievement type of stuff.

Which in itself is okay I suppose, if you want to spend your days looking through the Guinness Book of World Records trying to find some obscure, who-gives-a-fuck record that you think you can break then good luck to you. But somebody with more influence than I made the conscious decision to put up the funds to make a program out of it and then sell it to the network who broadcast it every week. Why did they not stop to think that that some money could've been used to make something remotely educational or informative I wonder to myself?

At the other end of the social scale was the Tua / Cameron fight, billed as the fight of the century but alas proving to be far from it on the night. The real hi-jinks started earlier than that though when the two got together at one of their first press conferences and started discussing nuclear physics. Well, not quite. A meeting of Mensa minds this wasn't and after the jokes about old men and mountain goats* had passed I couldn't help but wonder if the Tua / Cameron circus would go the distance.

It did and it didn't. I personally thought that one of the two fighters would make like a Christian and pull out before the big night. When the tsunami hit Samoa it seemed like Tua might have his way out but full credit, he didn't and you can't help but think that the terrible event didn't help motivate Mr O for Owesome in some way because prior to that it seems his only motivation was to make it through the whole palava so that he could get down to Burger King.

On the night it was decidedly men vs the boys stuff and over in less than five minutes which has to be disappointing if you paid all that money to watch it in person. It might have been a spectacle to see Tua win like he did but so is watching Pearl Jam live and you'd be pretty pissed if they walked off after only one song. Now I'm not a boxing fan, sure, I like to see two men smash the shit out of each other as the next guy, but boxing is not my bag. But what I do love about it is seeing the effect it has on people in the crowd and the Tua fight / Cameron massacre was no exception.

There is something primal that happens to those present at such an event. It turns even the most ardent of white ribbon wearing person into Jake the Muss and often you see it in even the most unlikely of onlookers; women. Watch any boxing match where shit is getting torn up and I guarantee that in the background you will see some bird swinging her way into Fight Club. Brilliant.

Over in his native Samoa Tua's victory made front page news, knocking of the small, inconsequential event that was the 100+ life claiming tsunami. Now I know they love their sport over there but even that seemed a bit much. Perhaps one day someone will make a show of it called Tua vs The Tsunami; The Real Fight of the Century, starring Mark Ellis as David Tua.

Now that would be dumb.

*Shane Cameron's nickname is The Mountain Warrior. Mountain goats, incidentally, are best shagged at the edge of a cliff; they push back harder. Don't ask how I know this. Please.