Don’t you just love the little peculiarities of holidaying? Like as soon as you bomb into the outdoor pool someone is bound to ask "How's the water?”
In my considerable experience the water is always two things; wet and cold. Even on the hottest of days, the water is cold. Admittedly there might be subtle temperature changes if said pool has been bathed in sun so hot it leaves your pink bits moist, but even so, that initial plunge is still going to be farkin cold. Still, it doesn't stop folk who never actually get in the bloody thing anyway from asking does it?
The water in the shower will be cold too, if you're silly enough to be the last of seven adults to have one each morning. A mistake you only ever make once, partly because you'll freeze your nuts of trying to soap and rinse in two minutes flat but more likely because when you tell everyone they'll laugh at you. It's at that point you realise it would probably have been easier to bomb into the pool where of course you expect the water to be cold and wet.
Holiday homes always spring a few surprises that we pampered city folk have been accustomed to. Like wildlife. Or in our case, cockroaches the size of 50 cent pieces. The old style 50 cent pieces. It's not as if this house is dirty, it’s far from that, although the previous tenants took the 'clean before you leave' rule quite liberally, if at all. No it's a flash place with all the mod cons, but somewhere, somehow, there's a small army of roaches chowing down on something because they don't get that big by sitting on the couch eating Twisties like you and I do.
One appeared out of nowhere in our en suite sink last night. I had just finished brushing my teeth, had taken a whizz and gone back to wash my hands when literally out of thin air there it was. And this was no standard roach either; this was a black Waffen SS number and it looked quite capable of running a small insect concentration camp too. It gave me a little more of a fright than usual roaches, or any insect for that matter would, simply because I couldn't fathom where the fuck it came from. One minute it wasn't there, the next it was. Perhaps it was a ninja.
If hot, humid nights in a foreign land (Gisbos) weren't already enough for me to start dreaming of Nam again, now I have Vietcong like roaches to worry about. Charlie would appear out of nowhere too. Now if three tours of Nam taught me anything it's not to fear the bush, thankfully the wife is prone to waxing hers. But we also learnt to ignore things like roaches because the jungles were full of shit like that; snakes, ants, spiders and of course, Mormons. I lost count of how many carefully planned ambushes were ruined by dudes in black suits who had pedalled their ten speeds through the bush to ask if we'd found God? I hadn't but like I always said, if we did and he was wearing black pyjamas, then the man will have to look for himself because shit would really kick off.
Gisbos, well at least our eight acres, appears to be Cicada Central on account of the millions that seem to call this place home. At night they smack themselves silly against the windows trying to get into the light. I don't know what the birds do all day around these parts but it they ain't eating the fucken cicadas, that’s for sure.
Bookcases and their contents are always an interesting place to spend some time when holidaying in someone else’s house. The one in our room has all the mandatory’s; Robert Ludlam, Bryce Courtney, cooking books, fishing magazines and the old classics that are Readers Digest mags. It also had the bonus of a condom wrapper, empty, the contents of which were hopefully discarded somewhere else other then jammed between the pages of the cookbooks somewhere inappropriate, like the white sauce recipe or the bit on how to toss your own salad. I dare not look.
The local municipality is always a good visit, at least initially, then the shops that were such a novelty the first few times just piss you off after that. You know you're in a holiday town when you notice they have shops that Granddad would spend his days driving between; The Pool & Spa shop, The second hand traders (fittingly named Mr BoJumbles), the mower repair shop and old school menswear stores. The kind that sell hankies in a box.
We used to sell hankies in a box in my first ever job at Hallensteins, Our best sellers back than were short sleeve business shirts, walk shorts and walk socks. We sold boxed hanks to the like of DougalMacs mum, who bought him home a new box of eight each week. To this day he hasn't opened them all in the hope they will be a collectable one day. He keeps them all in his Collectatorium at home, which is right next to the masterbatorium, which is right next to the kitchen. Where he keeps the Twisties.
In Gisbos the council makes money from parking meters, but only the out of townies actually pay for parking. All the locals simply park up and walk away. We do see a parkie every now and then, but she is more inclined to give cars the chalk, the international symbol of 'half an hour more', not tickets. That would never happen in Welly. But that's a holiday town for you, sometimes you'd swear that there's some ongoing joke that the locals get and you don't. Like paying for parking.
Oh and we have a pig running wild out there somewhere. Not your cute, little pink number that you can never see yourself eating, but some humongus, fuck off black Hound of the Baskervilles beast that like the roaches is certainly attracted to this place by something.
Quite possibly the father-in-laws snoring at night...
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Gisbos: It's A Lifestyle Choice
Gisbos, as you may or may not know, is a little known place on the Eastern most point of New Zealand.
Unlike its sister city Lesbos, there is no all night casino where it's liquor in the front and poker in the rear, but Gisbos more than makes up for its lack of nightlife by being somewhat off the beaten track and totally devoid of almost all of the types that find their way to that other over rated town, RotoAnus.
Gisbos, supposedly, is 90% Maori. I would estimate that two thirds of that number are heavily tattooed, which I admire as much as the next intimidated Caucasian. Normally when I go on holiday I feel six foot tall and bulletproof and often walk around like I own the place, which I think comes from the confidence you get when you're somewhere we no one else knows you or any better. Gisbos is not the kind of place to do that.
Funnily enough, seven days in and I'm yet to see an Asian. I did see a Middle Eastern man in a shop down the main street but he looked as bored as fuck and I'm not surprised; I can't imagine there would be much call for Persian rugs in Gisbos.
There is undoubtedly a large Maori contingent up here and a lot of them are heavily overweight which surprises me given the proximity Gisbos has to so many natural resources. It has a beautiful harbour with plenty of fresh fish on one side and fields of fresh produce on the others. Hardly the stuff of a poor diet. Perhaps money is a problem? Quite possibly, but I've seen a lot of said fatty fatty boom booms getting in and out of flasher motors than mine so I doubt it.
Speaking of motors, the passion wagon didn't make this trip. Despite being made from the finest Korean steel, hill climbing is not its forte, so unfortunately we've had to make do with the mother-in-laws big fuck off shiny Audi. So what with us car training everywhere with the father-in-law's aircraft carrier of a Mercedes we're not only the whitest family in town, we are almost the most eye catching.
Now I'm not one to extol the virtues of the fannying about in the ultimate examples of status anxiety, but you could - just a little mind you - get use to feeling like you're part of a presidential motorcade every time you go anywhere in cars like these.
Unfortunately the drive to Gisbos is quite possibly, one of the most boring around. Everything up to Napier is terribly interesting, but once you leave the 'Bay there ain't nothing to see but hills and the arse end of the trucks in front of you that struggle to make their way up each and every one of the rolling hills that make up most of the two hour trip.
Whereas New Plymouth has a mountain to look at and Taupo has a lake, Gisbos has nothing. Except public service announcement signs that read 'Keep Our Lakes & Rivers Clean', 'Keep Out Aquatic Pests', 'Save Our Forests' and 'Women, Trim Your Beavers'. That last one might have been a figment of my imagination; it was a long drive after all.
Gisbos is the kind of place where you can park up at Video Ezy, leave the window down and the keys in the ignition and expect to find your car still there when you return. Something I wasn't keen to try with the Audi mind you. Other innovations in personal safety include turning up the home stereo so loud that the townies from out of town staying across the road in the 8 hectare block could swear that it was right outside their window, then going out for a bit. Nothing puts off a burglar more than some slow summer jams pumping out of the Aiwa. Pisses the neighbours right off too but hey who cares when you're not home to answer the door when they come a knockin aye?!
Still, despite its flaws, Gisbos is quite the lovely place. I was suitably impressed to see a large contingent of locals down at the recycling plant emptying their overflowing recycling bins four days out before the actual roadside collection takes place. Which probably says a lot about just how much piss gets drunk round here but also speaks volumes of just how conscientious some are in maintaining the idyllic feel Gisbos has.
Incidentally, Gisbos is not actually the official name of this town but I think it has a catchy ring to it that in time, could catch on like Paki's (Pak'n'Save) and Maccas. It may be, as my wife was at pains to point out, actually devoid of a gay community (unlike Lesbos) and thus a misnomer, but I've seen a few fruity numbers around the place and I ain't talking about orchards. But that’s Gisbos for you; not just a destination but a lifestyle choice.
Unless you're a Captain Kirk selling Persian rugs.
Unlike its sister city Lesbos, there is no all night casino where it's liquor in the front and poker in the rear, but Gisbos more than makes up for its lack of nightlife by being somewhat off the beaten track and totally devoid of almost all of the types that find their way to that other over rated town, RotoAnus.
Gisbos, supposedly, is 90% Maori. I would estimate that two thirds of that number are heavily tattooed, which I admire as much as the next intimidated Caucasian. Normally when I go on holiday I feel six foot tall and bulletproof and often walk around like I own the place, which I think comes from the confidence you get when you're somewhere we no one else knows you or any better. Gisbos is not the kind of place to do that.
Funnily enough, seven days in and I'm yet to see an Asian. I did see a Middle Eastern man in a shop down the main street but he looked as bored as fuck and I'm not surprised; I can't imagine there would be much call for Persian rugs in Gisbos.
There is undoubtedly a large Maori contingent up here and a lot of them are heavily overweight which surprises me given the proximity Gisbos has to so many natural resources. It has a beautiful harbour with plenty of fresh fish on one side and fields of fresh produce on the others. Hardly the stuff of a poor diet. Perhaps money is a problem? Quite possibly, but I've seen a lot of said fatty fatty boom booms getting in and out of flasher motors than mine so I doubt it.
Speaking of motors, the passion wagon didn't make this trip. Despite being made from the finest Korean steel, hill climbing is not its forte, so unfortunately we've had to make do with the mother-in-laws big fuck off shiny Audi. So what with us car training everywhere with the father-in-law's aircraft carrier of a Mercedes we're not only the whitest family in town, we are almost the most eye catching.
Now I'm not one to extol the virtues of the fannying about in the ultimate examples of status anxiety, but you could - just a little mind you - get use to feeling like you're part of a presidential motorcade every time you go anywhere in cars like these.
Unfortunately the drive to Gisbos is quite possibly, one of the most boring around. Everything up to Napier is terribly interesting, but once you leave the 'Bay there ain't nothing to see but hills and the arse end of the trucks in front of you that struggle to make their way up each and every one of the rolling hills that make up most of the two hour trip.
Whereas New Plymouth has a mountain to look at and Taupo has a lake, Gisbos has nothing. Except public service announcement signs that read 'Keep Our Lakes & Rivers Clean', 'Keep Out Aquatic Pests', 'Save Our Forests' and 'Women, Trim Your Beavers'. That last one might have been a figment of my imagination; it was a long drive after all.
Gisbos is the kind of place where you can park up at Video Ezy, leave the window down and the keys in the ignition and expect to find your car still there when you return. Something I wasn't keen to try with the Audi mind you. Other innovations in personal safety include turning up the home stereo so loud that the townies from out of town staying across the road in the 8 hectare block could swear that it was right outside their window, then going out for a bit. Nothing puts off a burglar more than some slow summer jams pumping out of the Aiwa. Pisses the neighbours right off too but hey who cares when you're not home to answer the door when they come a knockin aye?!
Still, despite its flaws, Gisbos is quite the lovely place. I was suitably impressed to see a large contingent of locals down at the recycling plant emptying their overflowing recycling bins four days out before the actual roadside collection takes place. Which probably says a lot about just how much piss gets drunk round here but also speaks volumes of just how conscientious some are in maintaining the idyllic feel Gisbos has.
Incidentally, Gisbos is not actually the official name of this town but I think it has a catchy ring to it that in time, could catch on like Paki's (Pak'n'Save) and Maccas. It may be, as my wife was at pains to point out, actually devoid of a gay community (unlike Lesbos) and thus a misnomer, but I've seen a few fruity numbers around the place and I ain't talking about orchards. But that’s Gisbos for you; not just a destination but a lifestyle choice.
Unless you're a Captain Kirk selling Persian rugs.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
How To Look Cool In Gizzie, Barack Obama Cool.
We might be on holiday in the middle of the wops but its been hard to miss the Obama magic show on TV. Honestly it's been so incredibly intense that I'm genuinely surprised that those who were watching didn't die of excitement.
Yes the guy finally got inaugurated. Yes it's a momentous day in America's history because he's bleeck. Yes I woke this morning with a hard on at the thought of it but now I am well and truly over it. The whole Obama thing has been gagging on for months now. It all reminds me of a three hour movie that just goes on and farken on. Like Lord of the Rings, which to my surprise ended with actually no ending, meaning you had to wait two years for the next one. I would've known that of course had I read the books in my teens, but I didn't. I was out partying and getting laid. Because I was cool.
Obama is cool. That's why he is so popular. Che Guevara cool. Only without the goatee beard that Che cultivated. My god Che was cool wasn't he? The world is full of metrosexuals today who pay shitloads to look as cool as Che did but don't quite cut it because ultimately they pay some poof to create their look for them where as Che had no choice but to grow his - the man was on the run living and shitting in the jungle without water, or a razor. Now that's necessity cool. His politics weren't so cool but the beard and the beret look great on a tee shirt. Obama looks great on a tee shirt too and everyone digs his politics. Now that's real cool.
That's where Adolf went wrong I think, he neglected his tee shirt market. All those millions moshing at Nuremberg and not one concert tee shirt to be found. He could have had the Blitzkrieg Tour Edition, with all the dates he conquered countries on the back. Not to mention the Death To Juden tour of Europe. All that cash from tees could have helped pay for research into new technologies that might have come up with some super weapon to help him win the war. Like flying tanks.
Obama is cool in a country where traditionally all the nerds who weren't cool, leave college, become politicians and pass legislation to punish the cool guys they longed to be like. They make rules like banning the use of marijuana just so as to piss the cool guys off. I reckon Obama was more likely to have transcended both genres at college. He would've been in with the nerdy guys because he was smart, but in with the cool at the same time because he was good looking and bleeck. Which is a magnet for chicks who long to see if he fit's the stereotype of good looking black men; that he's hung like a rogue bull.
Now Obama has said some very inspiring things about the global meltdown that is the economy and just how America will face it, so inspiring that I suspect that the sun may actually shine from his arse. Whether or not it will do any good is the problem though because it could be that the global recession is bigger than just one man. But hey, full credit to Obama for being the right guy at the right time and for America finally doing something right since ages ago, by voting for the dude in the first place. Who knows, maybe a leopard (America) can change it's spots after all.
A day into his tenure and already Obama has sent a very clear message. He's passed legislation that will ensure his government is one elected by and to serve the people and made it pretty clear that the usual mutual reach around with big business that has happened up till now is to stop. That means there will be a lot of pissed of lobbyists and conglomerates out there or can no longer count on the obscene amounts of money they used to make from the golden goose that is the American presidency. Its a bold move and one long overdue. I applaud Obama for making it his first task because it sets the bar, but I can't help but feel the line of rednecks, survivalists and would be assassins just got a bit longer.
Speaking of bleeck guys, albeit not so cool ones, I encountered one the other day in what is to date, the highlight of our trip north so far. There I was, sitting outside a cafe enjoying a cup of warm milk and water that just about had passed itself off as a coffee when I happened to glance - just glance mind you - at the kind of spectacularly tattooed individual that gives gangs a bad name, walking past pushing a pushbike. As he passed he launched into some fantastic conversation starter that was almost illegible but I was able to pick out the following phrases; 'fucken', 'ballhead' 'smash you up' and 'you cunt'.
I thought perhaps he had tourettes and almost paid him no attention. But being a full trained ninja and having served three consecutive tours in Nam I never miss anything. Even at night these days I still sleep with all three eyes open and the safeties off, so it dawned on me that perhaps his tirade was aimed at me, given that I am quite possibly the only Caucasian in town presently. Apart from Bruiser, but he's a lovely shade of pink at the moment.
My wife confirmed my suspicions. It seems our mate - he off the penile dwarfism and a Mensa mental disposition - can add legal blindness to his list of ailments. He had mistaken me for a skin head despite my having a full head of hair (that admittedly if I style a certain way does look a little like a minge) and a beard that looks almost as cool as Che Guevara’s.
Almost, but not quite.
Yes the guy finally got inaugurated. Yes it's a momentous day in America's history because he's bleeck. Yes I woke this morning with a hard on at the thought of it but now I am well and truly over it. The whole Obama thing has been gagging on for months now. It all reminds me of a three hour movie that just goes on and farken on. Like Lord of the Rings, which to my surprise ended with actually no ending, meaning you had to wait two years for the next one. I would've known that of course had I read the books in my teens, but I didn't. I was out partying and getting laid. Because I was cool.
Obama is cool. That's why he is so popular. Che Guevara cool. Only without the goatee beard that Che cultivated. My god Che was cool wasn't he? The world is full of metrosexuals today who pay shitloads to look as cool as Che did but don't quite cut it because ultimately they pay some poof to create their look for them where as Che had no choice but to grow his - the man was on the run living and shitting in the jungle without water, or a razor. Now that's necessity cool. His politics weren't so cool but the beard and the beret look great on a tee shirt. Obama looks great on a tee shirt too and everyone digs his politics. Now that's real cool.
That's where Adolf went wrong I think, he neglected his tee shirt market. All those millions moshing at Nuremberg and not one concert tee shirt to be found. He could have had the Blitzkrieg Tour Edition, with all the dates he conquered countries on the back. Not to mention the Death To Juden tour of Europe. All that cash from tees could have helped pay for research into new technologies that might have come up with some super weapon to help him win the war. Like flying tanks.
Obama is cool in a country where traditionally all the nerds who weren't cool, leave college, become politicians and pass legislation to punish the cool guys they longed to be like. They make rules like banning the use of marijuana just so as to piss the cool guys off. I reckon Obama was more likely to have transcended both genres at college. He would've been in with the nerdy guys because he was smart, but in with the cool at the same time because he was good looking and bleeck. Which is a magnet for chicks who long to see if he fit's the stereotype of good looking black men; that he's hung like a rogue bull.
Now Obama has said some very inspiring things about the global meltdown that is the economy and just how America will face it, so inspiring that I suspect that the sun may actually shine from his arse. Whether or not it will do any good is the problem though because it could be that the global recession is bigger than just one man. But hey, full credit to Obama for being the right guy at the right time and for America finally doing something right since ages ago, by voting for the dude in the first place. Who knows, maybe a leopard (America) can change it's spots after all.
A day into his tenure and already Obama has sent a very clear message. He's passed legislation that will ensure his government is one elected by and to serve the people and made it pretty clear that the usual mutual reach around with big business that has happened up till now is to stop. That means there will be a lot of pissed of lobbyists and conglomerates out there or can no longer count on the obscene amounts of money they used to make from the golden goose that is the American presidency. Its a bold move and one long overdue. I applaud Obama for making it his first task because it sets the bar, but I can't help but feel the line of rednecks, survivalists and would be assassins just got a bit longer.
Speaking of bleeck guys, albeit not so cool ones, I encountered one the other day in what is to date, the highlight of our trip north so far. There I was, sitting outside a cafe enjoying a cup of warm milk and water that just about had passed itself off as a coffee when I happened to glance - just glance mind you - at the kind of spectacularly tattooed individual that gives gangs a bad name, walking past pushing a pushbike. As he passed he launched into some fantastic conversation starter that was almost illegible but I was able to pick out the following phrases; 'fucken', 'ballhead' 'smash you up' and 'you cunt'.
I thought perhaps he had tourettes and almost paid him no attention. But being a full trained ninja and having served three consecutive tours in Nam I never miss anything. Even at night these days I still sleep with all three eyes open and the safeties off, so it dawned on me that perhaps his tirade was aimed at me, given that I am quite possibly the only Caucasian in town presently. Apart from Bruiser, but he's a lovely shade of pink at the moment.
My wife confirmed my suspicions. It seems our mate - he off the penile dwarfism and a Mensa mental disposition - can add legal blindness to his list of ailments. He had mistaken me for a skin head despite my having a full head of hair (that admittedly if I style a certain way does look a little like a minge) and a beard that looks almost as cool as Che Guevara’s.
Almost, but not quite.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Bring On The Beach and Sandy Cheeks
Those four of you who frequent this blog for the articles and not just the pictures will have noticed an earlier than usual update this week. We're off on holiday for two weeks so we thought it best to give you something to pass the time whilst we're away, so please, enjoy.
We will have the laptop with us but who knows what type of primitive intraweb these rustic holiday spots have. If we can't access wireless porn or download our usual plethora of amusing pics than you may just have to make do with a few candid Polaroids of Bruiser and I whipping it out and whipping through a few of the ol dick trick routines that used to go down so well at parties. That was until he caught one in the eye and we hung up our manbags as a result...
But you know one thing's for sure - someone, somewhere - quite possibly Bruiser even - is going to get on my tits and when he or she does, you'll be the first to know about.
And hey, ClubDes is always open, only you'll have to help yourselves to the drinks.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
What Price Virginity Aye?
With a headline like ‘Bids for student's virginity hit $6.7m’ you know that I’m not going to let this story pass without comment. If ever there was a worthy cause for the boys in the office to have a whip round for, this would be it!
The story, despite the titillating headline and being a boy’s wet dream, makes for some pretty sad reading really. Natalie Dylan – not her real name by the way – a 22-year-old Masters student, came up with the idea after her sister paid for her own degree by working as a prostitute for three weeks. So she comes from good stock, obviously. Natalie has a degree in Women's Studies and is studying for a master’s degree in Family and Marriage Therapy.
How many troubled marriages are going to want to go and have a consultation with the bird who sold her virginity online I wonder? Husbands will, obviously. That’s possibly why the marriage is in trouble in the first place but I can’t imagine many disgruntled wives are going to be so shit hot over the idea. How many families are going to want their troubled teenage girls to have some alone time with Ms Chastity? Teenage boys on the other hand will be going emo by the thousands just to meet her.
Dylan reckons she’s alright with the auction because "I feel empowered because I am being pro-choice with my body." The career limiting prospects of feeling so empowered seem to have escaped her but hey, this is the States we’re talking about, if the Family and Marriage Therapy falls through there’s always a career in porn.
Dylan is running the auction through the Moonlite Bunny Ranch's website, a legalised brothel in Nevada whose telephone number ends in 3825, which spells out F-U-C-K on a telephone pad. If that doesn’t tell you all you need to know about the place then wait, there’s more. Upon entering the website – the things I do for research – you’re greeted with the news and pictures that Eric the Midget partied hard over New Years with Air Force Amy, one of the Ranch’s finest and that Pregnant Bunny, despite being heavily pregnant, is available for work and is yum!
The Ranch owner, Denis Hof, is to receive half of the winning bid. A clever bit of marketing that, but it wouldn’t be the first time; In June 2003, Hof promised that the first 50 servicemen who showed up at his brothel after returning from the Iraq war would get a free root. For another 50 days after that, all returning servicemen would receive a 50% discount.
I can only imagine how chuffed Ranch regulars like Air Force Amy, Sunny Lane and Foxy Rexy were to learn that 50 blue balled servicemen with post traumatic stress disorder and anger management issues would be lined up at the door the next morning. The connection with Dylan and the Ranch is that her sister worked there two years ago, whilst raising money for her degree. With that kind of history to date maybe Moonlite could apply to the Nevada government to get the same sort of allowance that other tertiary institutions get?
The act of deflowering will be of course, consummated at the ranch. But even that isn’t all that it seems. Dylan has retained the right to reject the winner of the auction and pick another bidder, one who she has ‘chemistry’ with. So even if you were the type of guy who has millions to spare and the drive to take the cherry of some young woman who clearly has self esteem issues, there’s a good chance your money will count for nout. But hey, stiff shit. Nobody ever offered me money to take my virginity, infact if truth be told the girl that did probably would’ve liked to have been paid for my wasting of her time. But then that’s another story..
How this freak show ends is anybodies guess but if it doesn’t turn out to be a well orchestrated PR exercise then it’s going to end in disappointment for some dude who has far too much money for his own good – because going by the pictures I’ve seen of Dylan, I don’t think he’ll be her first. She does admit to having had oral sex but in this day and age even the Brethren will tell you ‘oral is moral’.
I wonder if Eric the Midget had to pay full price….?
The story, despite the titillating headline and being a boy’s wet dream, makes for some pretty sad reading really. Natalie Dylan – not her real name by the way – a 22-year-old Masters student, came up with the idea after her sister paid for her own degree by working as a prostitute for three weeks. So she comes from good stock, obviously. Natalie has a degree in Women's Studies and is studying for a master’s degree in Family and Marriage Therapy.
How many troubled marriages are going to want to go and have a consultation with the bird who sold her virginity online I wonder? Husbands will, obviously. That’s possibly why the marriage is in trouble in the first place but I can’t imagine many disgruntled wives are going to be so shit hot over the idea. How many families are going to want their troubled teenage girls to have some alone time with Ms Chastity? Teenage boys on the other hand will be going emo by the thousands just to meet her.
Dylan reckons she’s alright with the auction because "I feel empowered because I am being pro-choice with my body." The career limiting prospects of feeling so empowered seem to have escaped her but hey, this is the States we’re talking about, if the Family and Marriage Therapy falls through there’s always a career in porn.
Dylan is running the auction through the Moonlite Bunny Ranch's website, a legalised brothel in Nevada whose telephone number ends in 3825, which spells out F-U-C-K on a telephone pad. If that doesn’t tell you all you need to know about the place then wait, there’s more. Upon entering the website – the things I do for research – you’re greeted with the news and pictures that Eric the Midget partied hard over New Years with Air Force Amy, one of the Ranch’s finest and that Pregnant Bunny, despite being heavily pregnant, is available for work and is yum!
The Ranch owner, Denis Hof, is to receive half of the winning bid. A clever bit of marketing that, but it wouldn’t be the first time; In June 2003, Hof promised that the first 50 servicemen who showed up at his brothel after returning from the Iraq war would get a free root. For another 50 days after that, all returning servicemen would receive a 50% discount.
I can only imagine how chuffed Ranch regulars like Air Force Amy, Sunny Lane and Foxy Rexy were to learn that 50 blue balled servicemen with post traumatic stress disorder and anger management issues would be lined up at the door the next morning. The connection with Dylan and the Ranch is that her sister worked there two years ago, whilst raising money for her degree. With that kind of history to date maybe Moonlite could apply to the Nevada government to get the same sort of allowance that other tertiary institutions get?
The act of deflowering will be of course, consummated at the ranch. But even that isn’t all that it seems. Dylan has retained the right to reject the winner of the auction and pick another bidder, one who she has ‘chemistry’ with. So even if you were the type of guy who has millions to spare and the drive to take the cherry of some young woman who clearly has self esteem issues, there’s a good chance your money will count for nout. But hey, stiff shit. Nobody ever offered me money to take my virginity, infact if truth be told the girl that did probably would’ve liked to have been paid for my wasting of her time. But then that’s another story..
How this freak show ends is anybodies guess but if it doesn’t turn out to be a well orchestrated PR exercise then it’s going to end in disappointment for some dude who has far too much money for his own good – because going by the pictures I’ve seen of Dylan, I don’t think he’ll be her first. She does admit to having had oral sex but in this day and age even the Brethren will tell you ‘oral is moral’.
I wonder if Eric the Midget had to pay full price….?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Scientology Night Fever
On the face of it John Travolta would seem to have it all; fame, fortune, cougar of a wife, his own jumbo jet that he can fly anywhere he damn well likes, got to dance with Princess Diana and probably even got to keep the suits he wore in Saturday Night Fever.
Some life huh? Only last week all that paled into comparison to life itself with the passing of Travolta's teenage son, Jett. Now normally I write a lot of shit on here but the death of a child is not something I would even remotely consider making fun of.
As a father I can appreciate Travolta's grief and the out pouring of emotion that comes with it, from the man himself and those who knew him. All except Tom Cruise. That guy still has a long way to go before he gets back in my good book. It all started the day he invented the colour pink...
But, the death of Jett Travolta is interesting because it inadvertently bought to the public eye more workings of the A grade nut job conglomerate that is the 'Church' of Scientology, of which John Travolta and wife Kelly Preston are signed up, paid up members. Big time. I use parenthesis when calling it a 'church' because it isn't. It is however an organisation that would very much like to be known as a religion because religious groups don't have to pay tax in most countries where they are officially recognised as a religion.
Jett, according to the Travoltas, suffered from Kawasaki Syndrome, an extremely rare affliction that causes an inflammation of the middle-sized arteries. It affects many organs, including the skin, mucous membranes, lymph nodes, and blood vessel walls, but the most serious effect is on the heart. Kawasaki syndrome is not known to cause fits and seizures. Autism on the other hand, is a brain development disorder characterized by impaired social interaction and communication, and by restricted and repetitive behaviour. Autism is known to cause is often characterised by fits and seizures
Scientology, thought up by a science fiction writer who wanted to make a fast buck (and is on record for saying so), does not believe in Autism, epilepsy or any condition that causes seizures. That means John Travolta doesn't believe in Autism. Now I'm no expert in anything but everything, but even I know that's going to cause an ethical problem when in all likelihood it's your own child who has an affliction you don't believe exists, for no other reason than a guy who wrote stories about alien invasions told you so.
Actually there's not much in the medical department that Scientology does believe and that includes the use of prescribed medication to treat an illness like Autism. So that meant the Travolta's treated young Jett – not with anti-seizure medication – but with courses of vitamins, sauna visits, and running therapy known as the Purification Rundown. Now alternative medicine, homeopathy, Grandma’s remedies -whatever name you give it, is almost as big a sham as Scientology, so put the two together and you have a recipe for disaster, as the Travoltas may have just found out.
One of the first things I heard in the initial news reports of Jett’s death was that it was unsure if any drugs were involved. The classic assumption that is always inevitably made when someone from Hollywood dies unexpectedly. The irony of course is that being a Scientologist (although not by choice) Jett wasn’t on any pills, of any sort.
The final nail in the coffin of this case – no pun intended – was that Jett’s body was not found for several hours and when it eventually was it was found by a caregiver of his that had no care giving or medical experience. Which are sort of prerequisites you would think, when hiring someone to look after your disabled son. The caregiver that found Jett and quite possibly should have been there with him sooner, is a paid up member of the Cult of Scientology though.
Which says it all really.
Some life huh? Only last week all that paled into comparison to life itself with the passing of Travolta's teenage son, Jett. Now normally I write a lot of shit on here but the death of a child is not something I would even remotely consider making fun of.
As a father I can appreciate Travolta's grief and the out pouring of emotion that comes with it, from the man himself and those who knew him. All except Tom Cruise. That guy still has a long way to go before he gets back in my good book. It all started the day he invented the colour pink...
But, the death of Jett Travolta is interesting because it inadvertently bought to the public eye more workings of the A grade nut job conglomerate that is the 'Church' of Scientology, of which John Travolta and wife Kelly Preston are signed up, paid up members. Big time. I use parenthesis when calling it a 'church' because it isn't. It is however an organisation that would very much like to be known as a religion because religious groups don't have to pay tax in most countries where they are officially recognised as a religion.
Jett, according to the Travoltas, suffered from Kawasaki Syndrome, an extremely rare affliction that causes an inflammation of the middle-sized arteries. It affects many organs, including the skin, mucous membranes, lymph nodes, and blood vessel walls, but the most serious effect is on the heart. Kawasaki syndrome is not known to cause fits and seizures. Autism on the other hand, is a brain development disorder characterized by impaired social interaction and communication, and by restricted and repetitive behaviour. Autism is known to cause is often characterised by fits and seizures
Scientology, thought up by a science fiction writer who wanted to make a fast buck (and is on record for saying so), does not believe in Autism, epilepsy or any condition that causes seizures. That means John Travolta doesn't believe in Autism. Now I'm no expert in anything but everything, but even I know that's going to cause an ethical problem when in all likelihood it's your own child who has an affliction you don't believe exists, for no other reason than a guy who wrote stories about alien invasions told you so.
Actually there's not much in the medical department that Scientology does believe and that includes the use of prescribed medication to treat an illness like Autism. So that meant the Travolta's treated young Jett – not with anti-seizure medication – but with courses of vitamins, sauna visits, and running therapy known as the Purification Rundown. Now alternative medicine, homeopathy, Grandma’s remedies -whatever name you give it, is almost as big a sham as Scientology, so put the two together and you have a recipe for disaster, as the Travoltas may have just found out.
One of the first things I heard in the initial news reports of Jett’s death was that it was unsure if any drugs were involved. The classic assumption that is always inevitably made when someone from Hollywood dies unexpectedly. The irony of course is that being a Scientologist (although not by choice) Jett wasn’t on any pills, of any sort.
The final nail in the coffin of this case – no pun intended – was that Jett’s body was not found for several hours and when it eventually was it was found by a caregiver of his that had no care giving or medical experience. Which are sort of prerequisites you would think, when hiring someone to look after your disabled son. The caregiver that found Jett and quite possibly should have been there with him sooner, is a paid up member of the Cult of Scientology though.
Which says it all really.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Year of the Retard (Chinese Zodiac)
I'm not sure what the Chinese Zodiac says this year is, but given some of the antics around our waterways in recent days I suspect it's the Year of The Retard.
Firstly let me just say that the death of anyone whilst out swimming / boating / diving is a tragedy and I would never look to trivialise such a thing, but fuck me, some peeps don't half make it easy on themselves. I know there is always bound to be an element of the unsuspected whenever a large body of free flowing water is involved, but the least we can do is get the bloody basics right.
Like boaties who go out ill prepared, without lifejackets and in dodgy equipment. If that alone didn't justify their Mensa membership for the year then getting pissed whilst dangling one foot in a watery grave is just going full retard and nobody ever won anything by going full retard. Like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. Looked retarded, acted retarded, not retarded. Count toothpicks to your cards. Autistic? Sure. Not retarded.
How often do you hear of guys like that having to be rescued due to their stupidity? No bugger ever needed rescuing in a well equipped, well maintained, life jacket wearing boat. Why do boaties drink when on the water anyway? Is it not enough of a relaxant to be spending time away from the masses, on gods green ocean, with good mates, without having to get as pissed as a fart whilst you’re out there?
Speaking of money - why aren't Retards charged for their search and rescue? If they're proven to be culpable in causing the death of someone at sea they can be charged with a crime, so if they're proven to be clueless and unsuitably prepared then they should be charged for all that expensive aviation fuel the helicopter has to use to find them.
It's no wonder that organisations like the Westpac Trust Rescue Helicopter run on the smell of an oily rag when it spends copious amount of time and resources searching for Retards. And don’t get me started on under resourced, under funded lifeguards at places like Piha beach. If the place is so dangerous that they can make a dozen TV show episodes a year on just how dangerous the place is, then shouldn’t alarm bells be ringing?
This Year of the 'Tard has already seen several incidents involving jet boats and jet skis. Once only the playthings of only the rich and jammy, power boats and high powered jet skis are the most have for those suffering from societies biggest affliction these days; status anxiety. The need for speed and the next big rush has transcended from the roads to waterways and just like our roads it’s become a big wank fest over who has the flashest, most powerful penis extension on the water.
Take Lake Taupo. Once upon a time, if you were out deep enough, you used to be able to drop the daks and squeeze out a sneaky peanut slab without anyone noticing. Even the fish didn’t care, but then they wouldn’t would they? They root in the water. But these days you run the risk of it being flushed back amongst the family paddling in the shallows by the mega wakes caused from anything and everything with a motor.
All this talk of water safety of course starts with our kids learning to swim at school, which hardly ever happens any more. Schools don't have enough money to pay someone to give the lessons which leads me to ask the question - and it's one I find myself asking a lot these days - where the fuck do our taxes go if not to schools so they can pay for swimming lessons?!
Swimming at school was so much more than just water safety back in the day. We had a pool at our primary school and that meant separate changing rooms, the vent of which we boys would take turns in peeking up through. Yep, many a Naenae boy saw their first fanny through that vent.
At intermediate I saw my first boob whilst swimming (other than my mothers ‘softball in a stocking’ number) when one of the older girls had a shoulder strap malfunction whilst breaking the surface after a dive. She didn't notice but we fellas sure did and not surprisingly none of us wanted to stand up. Once we hit puberty, school swimming lessons were all about one thing and one thing only for us dudes; trying to spot stray pubes on the girls whilst underwater. Them were good times.
But these are not so good times and unfortunately the lakes, rivers and various water ways are much like everything else in this country of ours; crowded, abused and spoilt by a few idiots.
Year of the Retard. Get used to it. We’re only 8 days in.
Firstly let me just say that the death of anyone whilst out swimming / boating / diving is a tragedy and I would never look to trivialise such a thing, but fuck me, some peeps don't half make it easy on themselves. I know there is always bound to be an element of the unsuspected whenever a large body of free flowing water is involved, but the least we can do is get the bloody basics right.
Like boaties who go out ill prepared, without lifejackets and in dodgy equipment. If that alone didn't justify their Mensa membership for the year then getting pissed whilst dangling one foot in a watery grave is just going full retard and nobody ever won anything by going full retard. Like Dustin Hoffman in Rainman. Looked retarded, acted retarded, not retarded. Count toothpicks to your cards. Autistic? Sure. Not retarded.
How often do you hear of guys like that having to be rescued due to their stupidity? No bugger ever needed rescuing in a well equipped, well maintained, life jacket wearing boat. Why do boaties drink when on the water anyway? Is it not enough of a relaxant to be spending time away from the masses, on gods green ocean, with good mates, without having to get as pissed as a fart whilst you’re out there?
Speaking of money - why aren't Retards charged for their search and rescue? If they're proven to be culpable in causing the death of someone at sea they can be charged with a crime, so if they're proven to be clueless and unsuitably prepared then they should be charged for all that expensive aviation fuel the helicopter has to use to find them.
It's no wonder that organisations like the Westpac Trust Rescue Helicopter run on the smell of an oily rag when it spends copious amount of time and resources searching for Retards. And don’t get me started on under resourced, under funded lifeguards at places like Piha beach. If the place is so dangerous that they can make a dozen TV show episodes a year on just how dangerous the place is, then shouldn’t alarm bells be ringing?
This Year of the 'Tard has already seen several incidents involving jet boats and jet skis. Once only the playthings of only the rich and jammy, power boats and high powered jet skis are the most have for those suffering from societies biggest affliction these days; status anxiety. The need for speed and the next big rush has transcended from the roads to waterways and just like our roads it’s become a big wank fest over who has the flashest, most powerful penis extension on the water.
Take Lake Taupo. Once upon a time, if you were out deep enough, you used to be able to drop the daks and squeeze out a sneaky peanut slab without anyone noticing. Even the fish didn’t care, but then they wouldn’t would they? They root in the water. But these days you run the risk of it being flushed back amongst the family paddling in the shallows by the mega wakes caused from anything and everything with a motor.
All this talk of water safety of course starts with our kids learning to swim at school, which hardly ever happens any more. Schools don't have enough money to pay someone to give the lessons which leads me to ask the question - and it's one I find myself asking a lot these days - where the fuck do our taxes go if not to schools so they can pay for swimming lessons?!
Swimming at school was so much more than just water safety back in the day. We had a pool at our primary school and that meant separate changing rooms, the vent of which we boys would take turns in peeking up through. Yep, many a Naenae boy saw their first fanny through that vent.
At intermediate I saw my first boob whilst swimming (other than my mothers ‘softball in a stocking’ number) when one of the older girls had a shoulder strap malfunction whilst breaking the surface after a dive. She didn't notice but we fellas sure did and not surprisingly none of us wanted to stand up. Once we hit puberty, school swimming lessons were all about one thing and one thing only for us dudes; trying to spot stray pubes on the girls whilst underwater. Them were good times.
But these are not so good times and unfortunately the lakes, rivers and various water ways are much like everything else in this country of ours; crowded, abused and spoilt by a few idiots.
Year of the Retard. Get used to it. We’re only 8 days in.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
And So A New Year Dawns...Time For A Piss Up
Another New Year's has come and gone, that time of the year where one can reflect in the achievements of the past 12 months and look forward to the challenges that await in the next 12.
Unless you're between the ages of 16 and 20 it's just another excuse for a mass piss up and let’s face it, what isn't an excuse for a mass piss up when you're that age? Even the funeral of a mate who died whilst driving drunk at just such a mass piss up doesn't seem to be an occasion completely unworthy of a mass piss up. Especially not in Featherston, where before Chrissy the mourners of just such a mate decided to engage in the same activity that led to his untimely death - drunken burnouts. Their homage to a fallen fuckstick. Stupid, it does seem, is as stupid does.
I went to Featherston for a 21st once. Now Featherston may be many things but party central it is not. We stayed in the cheapest hotel I have ever been in - $10 a night and $3 pints in the bar downstairs, which you could order with your breakfast if you were so inclined. Now ours was not the only 21st on that night and the place being as small as it is, it wasn't long before the three par-taes combined to form a mass piss up.
Prospects for my night looked good early on as I kept bumping into the sexy young bird who was rooming in the single room directly across from mine, but unbeknownst to me she was from Lesbos, something I only fully cottoned on to after seeing her hook into the sexiest mullet I had ever seen. Even then I still rated my chances in pulling them both as high, thanks to the $3 pints.
It was pleasing to see that both the road toll and arrest rate over the holiday period was down though. Obviously the message is getting through to some and the hard work put in by the Fuzz is starting to play off. Not that anyone at the TV3 news department wanted to admit it and give the cops due credit; they tried to attest the lower road toll to high petrol prices. Sure, it may well be one of several factors that may have helped contribute but it's a slim one at best; idiots on the road are still idiots even when petrol prices are high.
And everyone seemed to be well behaved whilst they partied like it was 1999, except for the usual places where youth, booze and the enhanced prospect of sexy time always proves to be a dangerous mix. Were things as bad as they are now in places like The Mount before the legal drinking age was lowered? Fucked if I know but wouldn't it be interesting if it were only all those MPs who voted to lower the drinking age several years ago who had their cars trashed, letterboxes pulled out, gardens pissed on and their sleep disrupted by running street parties every time there was a mass piss up?
There was no danger of me making a fool of myself this New Year, just like there hasn't been for the last 10 years. My last big New Year's was the time the Ariki Street massive and I sojourned to New Plymouth as part of our North Island road trip. It was one helluva night by all accounts, but I wouldn't actually know. That night I partied alone in our motel room because I'm such a special guy.
The real reason I stayed in with a full bottle of Jim Beam and the 1000 top songs of ‘99 countdown on MTV was because the only picture ID I had on me all trip was my 18+ card, which, despite being legal proof that I was infact over 18, was never ever accepted by any bastard of a bouncer. Honestly it was more than a hassle for me to try and get in anywhere with one than it was without. That's the price you pay for youthful good looks I guess.
Most of the gang stumbled back into the room in the wee early hours to find me singing illegibly into an empty bottle of bourbon. Common consensus by the morning though was that I had had a better night than most.
What can I say? I know how to party, even when I’m alone.
Unless you're between the ages of 16 and 20 it's just another excuse for a mass piss up and let’s face it, what isn't an excuse for a mass piss up when you're that age? Even the funeral of a mate who died whilst driving drunk at just such a mass piss up doesn't seem to be an occasion completely unworthy of a mass piss up. Especially not in Featherston, where before Chrissy the mourners of just such a mate decided to engage in the same activity that led to his untimely death - drunken burnouts. Their homage to a fallen fuckstick. Stupid, it does seem, is as stupid does.
I went to Featherston for a 21st once. Now Featherston may be many things but party central it is not. We stayed in the cheapest hotel I have ever been in - $10 a night and $3 pints in the bar downstairs, which you could order with your breakfast if you were so inclined. Now ours was not the only 21st on that night and the place being as small as it is, it wasn't long before the three par-taes combined to form a mass piss up.
Prospects for my night looked good early on as I kept bumping into the sexy young bird who was rooming in the single room directly across from mine, but unbeknownst to me she was from Lesbos, something I only fully cottoned on to after seeing her hook into the sexiest mullet I had ever seen. Even then I still rated my chances in pulling them both as high, thanks to the $3 pints.
It was pleasing to see that both the road toll and arrest rate over the holiday period was down though. Obviously the message is getting through to some and the hard work put in by the Fuzz is starting to play off. Not that anyone at the TV3 news department wanted to admit it and give the cops due credit; they tried to attest the lower road toll to high petrol prices. Sure, it may well be one of several factors that may have helped contribute but it's a slim one at best; idiots on the road are still idiots even when petrol prices are high.
And everyone seemed to be well behaved whilst they partied like it was 1999, except for the usual places where youth, booze and the enhanced prospect of sexy time always proves to be a dangerous mix. Were things as bad as they are now in places like The Mount before the legal drinking age was lowered? Fucked if I know but wouldn't it be interesting if it were only all those MPs who voted to lower the drinking age several years ago who had their cars trashed, letterboxes pulled out, gardens pissed on and their sleep disrupted by running street parties every time there was a mass piss up?
There was no danger of me making a fool of myself this New Year, just like there hasn't been for the last 10 years. My last big New Year's was the time the Ariki Street massive and I sojourned to New Plymouth as part of our North Island road trip. It was one helluva night by all accounts, but I wouldn't actually know. That night I partied alone in our motel room because I'm such a special guy.
The real reason I stayed in with a full bottle of Jim Beam and the 1000 top songs of ‘99 countdown on MTV was because the only picture ID I had on me all trip was my 18+ card, which, despite being legal proof that I was infact over 18, was never ever accepted by any bastard of a bouncer. Honestly it was more than a hassle for me to try and get in anywhere with one than it was without. That's the price you pay for youthful good looks I guess.
Most of the gang stumbled back into the room in the wee early hours to find me singing illegibly into an empty bottle of bourbon. Common consensus by the morning though was that I had had a better night than most.
What can I say? I know how to party, even when I’m alone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)