Help Desk High Pool Comp September 09.
Lets bang some balls together.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Attention My Fellow Freeballers
Help Desk High Pool Comp September 09.
Lets bang some balls together.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Too Cool For School
I see the radio station The Edge are planning to create another bit of ground breaking entertainment; they're looking for a couple willing to get married in the nude. Choice. I have just the one question: What the fuck for?
The question is of course somewhat rhetorical because I am sure we all know why they're doing it - publicity, money, sexploitation - the usual suspects, but it's shit. They know it and we know it. It's not even funny shit, it's 'drop the kids off at the pool' shit. And here's another poser from the school of rhetoric: Who's going to sign up for it? Wasters, that’s who, we all know there’s one born every minute silly enough to bare their soul (or in this case their junk) for a ridiculously small amount of fame and even smaller amount of money.
Actually this prize is pretty big. The Edge reckon the value of will be around fifty grand, which, let's face it, is a great piss up in any one's book. The service and reception are going to be held on some yacht in the Bay of Islands which will be very romantic, no doubt. But will it be all worth while in 10 years when the happy couple look back at their wedding pics they can't share with anyone because of the shrinkage one gets anywhere near the water and wonder if it really was a good move whoring themselves out on their big day?
It's like the old saying “you don't get anything for free”. But you know who does get shit for free? Car yards and alike who service your car and plaster the thing with their stickers and their plate surrounds. It's so discreet you probably don't even notice; a window sticker here, a bumper sticker there and to top it off a complimentary key ring. Before you know it your passion wagon is a rolling advertisement for the pricks and not only have they not paid you a cent in commission, they've charged you!
Some places do it as a loyalty discount thing; they sticker the car and next time you come in with it on you get 10% off something that has a 100% mark up, brilliant. But others don't even offer that. My missus took her car into a specialist post sale service dealership for a service and they not only stickered the thing they swapped over the plate surrounds too.
When I queried it with them they were pleased to advise, in a smug bastard kind of way, that it was all part of the service. The fuck it was. Now it didn't say so on the bill (surprise, surprise) but I reckoned that it had to have taken at least 20 minutes for a 'technician' to take the old ones off and put new ones on, all of which we paid for. Were they going to give me a credit for the time and labour? Nope, so I wasted their time the next day when I dropped in and asked them to take the lot off.
Car yard dealerships think they're too cool for school, that’s the problem and of more concern is the growing numbers who think so too. Like poofs who think they're too cool to use pedestrian crossings and instead jay walk their sorry asses across a busy road a few meters off the designated crossing. The irony is that they will often spend longing waiting for a gap in the traffic than it would have taken them to use the crossing. But they don't care; they're too cool for school and too cool for crossings.
Then there are those that are too cool for road rules full stop. These are the kind of folk who like to back out into busy traffic thinking that everyone will wait for them, because they’re cool. Or those too cool for centre lines and on a section of road where parked cars mean someone has to cross ‘em they take the view that it’s first in first served as to who gives way, no matter how close it gets, because they’re too cool to give way. Giving way to them is like surrendering.
Maybe one day, just once, I'll ignore the little voice inside of me called 'social responsibility' and be too cool to stop. That’ll shit them right up.
The question is of course somewhat rhetorical because I am sure we all know why they're doing it - publicity, money, sexploitation - the usual suspects, but it's shit. They know it and we know it. It's not even funny shit, it's 'drop the kids off at the pool' shit. And here's another poser from the school of rhetoric: Who's going to sign up for it? Wasters, that’s who, we all know there’s one born every minute silly enough to bare their soul (or in this case their junk) for a ridiculously small amount of fame and even smaller amount of money.
Actually this prize is pretty big. The Edge reckon the value of will be around fifty grand, which, let's face it, is a great piss up in any one's book. The service and reception are going to be held on some yacht in the Bay of Islands which will be very romantic, no doubt. But will it be all worth while in 10 years when the happy couple look back at their wedding pics they can't share with anyone because of the shrinkage one gets anywhere near the water and wonder if it really was a good move whoring themselves out on their big day?
It's like the old saying “you don't get anything for free”. But you know who does get shit for free? Car yards and alike who service your car and plaster the thing with their stickers and their plate surrounds. It's so discreet you probably don't even notice; a window sticker here, a bumper sticker there and to top it off a complimentary key ring. Before you know it your passion wagon is a rolling advertisement for the pricks and not only have they not paid you a cent in commission, they've charged you!
Some places do it as a loyalty discount thing; they sticker the car and next time you come in with it on you get 10% off something that has a 100% mark up, brilliant. But others don't even offer that. My missus took her car into a specialist post sale service dealership for a service and they not only stickered the thing they swapped over the plate surrounds too.
When I queried it with them they were pleased to advise, in a smug bastard kind of way, that it was all part of the service. The fuck it was. Now it didn't say so on the bill (surprise, surprise) but I reckoned that it had to have taken at least 20 minutes for a 'technician' to take the old ones off and put new ones on, all of which we paid for. Were they going to give me a credit for the time and labour? Nope, so I wasted their time the next day when I dropped in and asked them to take the lot off.
Car yard dealerships think they're too cool for school, that’s the problem and of more concern is the growing numbers who think so too. Like poofs who think they're too cool to use pedestrian crossings and instead jay walk their sorry asses across a busy road a few meters off the designated crossing. The irony is that they will often spend longing waiting for a gap in the traffic than it would have taken them to use the crossing. But they don't care; they're too cool for school and too cool for crossings.
Then there are those that are too cool for road rules full stop. These are the kind of folk who like to back out into busy traffic thinking that everyone will wait for them, because they’re cool. Or those too cool for centre lines and on a section of road where parked cars mean someone has to cross ‘em they take the view that it’s first in first served as to who gives way, no matter how close it gets, because they’re too cool to give way. Giving way to them is like surrendering.
Maybe one day, just once, I'll ignore the little voice inside of me called 'social responsibility' and be too cool to stop. That’ll shit them right up.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Sheila of the Week
Whether this appreciation piece is about a fictional character or the sexy minx who plays her in a movie, we're not entirely sure. But of one thing we are sure; Sienna Miller was born to play a character like The Baroness in the recently released G.I.Joe movie.
Some of the ClubDes Massive made a boys afternoon of it last week and rewound the years back to our childhoods when G.I.Joe was the biggest thing in toys since Star Wars. It's fair to say that back in them days the makers of G.I.Joe (Hasbro) made a token effort in representing the fairer sex with only a few figures; Baroness, Scarlett, Lady Jaye, Jinx and Zarana. Back then female equality in the military hadn't yet occurred and playing with something in your pocket that was three and a half inches big was most definitely a boy’s thing.
But times have changed, there are now females on the frontline of almost every world conflict and we fellas have grown up, at least physically. Our interest in the female figure has changed so much that these days we'd be more likely to arrange our Joes - particularly the few female ones - in an orgy than a flanking ambush. They are fully poseable after all. I don't mind you; mine always have their mind on the job.
So it’s fair to say we looked upon the Baroness and Scarlett in a different light last week than that of my ten year old son who accompanied us. Infact watching them portrayed on the big screen was a bit like bumping into your mates annoying little sister who is now all grown up and as sexy as sin. Quite how a push up bra is standard military issue I don't know but it seemed to work for both the Baroness and Scarlett.
Certainly Bruiser had a three inch in his pocket after the movie despite not actually taking any figures with him, thanks to Rachel Nichols' portrayal of Scarlett, but then he always did have a thing for redheads. Even Cover Girl made an appearance, albeit far too briefly for we the older generation. She is the character who got bored with modelling (hence the Cover Girl codename) and took up counter terrorism, as you do. Cheesy bio but hey, who knows, she could be the perfect role model for the current generation of photocopy wannabes!
But it was the Baroness, or rather Sienna that stole the show. The Baroness was always my favourite SheJoe anyways; sleek and sexy in all black leather, ruthless, she never took any shit from no one. She was every teacher-librarian-authority figure fantasy rolled into one, with Uzis. Even today she is a role model for young women everywhere (less the Uzis) and is a cult favourite going by the number of Google images you can find of fans dressed as her.
Sienna Miller is an interesting sheila herself, although probably not a role model for many given her recent husband stealing ways. She started out as a model and on film, particularly this one, she is electric. She had to undergo a slight appearance change in order to take on the role, what with her being a blonde in real life but as often is the case, good looking blondes make striking brunettes.
Unfortunately despite her many talents she is perhaps best known (before G.I.Joe) as Jude Laws’ ex missus, who he rather infamously cheated on with the couple’s nanny. Now how the hell you choose the hired help over someone like Miller is beyond us and we’re damn sure that we never would.
Especially if she keeps the Baroness outfits from the movie....
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
People Power Gets Shit Done
If there are two guaranteed ways to get things done in life its a) Slavery and b) Piss enough of the people off.
Cadbury found out about the latter these past few weeks when they tried to sneakily – and it was sneaky – change the way they made chocolate by substituting cocoa butter with palm oil. Not only did this change the flavour and texture of the chocolate but it pissed off those that who gorge themselves to morbid obesity on the stuff and if there’s one rule of Fat Club it’s don’t mess with a fatties food supply.
It also pissed off the Greenies (and those that look for any cause that will allow them to pretend that they care for the environment) because of the way unsustainable palm oil is obtained. And we all know there’s no bigger set of moaners than Greenies. Students are a close second but surprisingly they didn’t get in on this one.
Cadbury, possibly realising very early on that they had stuffed up, tried their best to make like the brown stuff hadn’t hit the fan. They wheeled out the smarmiest PR man they could find to try and tell us that sales weren’t down and that people – and by that he meant fatties – would soon get over it. They didn’t and the sales for Cadbury dropped, substantially. Whittaker’s on the other hand were quick to announce that their sales were at an all time high and you didn’t need to be a moaning student to work out why.
So this week Cadbury gorged themselves on humble pie and announced that they’re now bringing back the butter, just like Marlon Brando did in Last Tango in Paris. Only he planned to use his for anal sex, which is a lot like what Cadbury were trying to do to its customer base when you think about it.
That night the news broke some sheila from some inconsequential organisation, possibly a Green one, was on the news trumpeting how people power had won the day and how it was the ‘first turn around of its kind by a multinational organisation’. The fuck it was.
Coca Cola had to concede a similar defeat in the early eighties when they changed the taste of Coke. It caused such an uproar that there was an orchestrated ground swell of support against the company that was bigger than any Facebook group you could join today. Eventually, in the face of massive sale losses in the height of the Cola wars Coke did the rightful thing and reverted back to the original recipe under the label ‘Coke Classic’. Eventually that too was phased out and Coke became plain old Coke again. The people had fought back and won.
In more recent times Metallica, the rock band of the same name and in itself a multinational entity, were so moved by the fans dislike of the Load album which they released in the mid nineties that they immediately recorded and released a heavier, more traditional sounding follow up, Reload.
Metallica were no doubt wary of the need to appease the many millions of disgruntled bogans, who are deceptively dangerous when pissed off. Maybe its the years of wearing super taper jeans and the lack of oxygen to the brain that causes it but an angry bogan can often make a weapon out of the most innocent of inianimate objects, like a can of petrol or unwarrented, unregistered Ford Escort.
Now here in little ol NZ we don’t have the numbers to make just such a stand but if enough folk complain loud enough shit gets done. Like the large number of Golden Oldies that complained when TVNZ tried cutting back on Coronation Street coverage some years ago, or TV3s rescinding on similarly trying to dump the TV series Underbelly last year because they figured no one was watching it.
Complaining, making a fuss and a stand, often makes a difference. I think that as a collective massive we don’t pack enough of a tanty to influence more companies that cash in on our indifference to getting shafted up the rusty sheriff’s badge. But not me, I lap that shit up.
I make a point of never returning to places that give bad service. I don’t buy products that change their make up so much that they are not the same product at all and no, I don’t care how ‘new and improved’ the packaging is. When a company tries to pull a fast one like Cadbury on me I take the moral high ground and self impose a boycott on all their products, not just the obvious ones.
My protests might be minor and inconsequential in the grand scale of thousand unit sales but just imagine if we all did that? Imagine if we did that with alcohol, junk food and everything else that shits society right up.
We, like the Cadbury chocolate eating fatties, would get shit done.
Cadbury found out about the latter these past few weeks when they tried to sneakily – and it was sneaky – change the way they made chocolate by substituting cocoa butter with palm oil. Not only did this change the flavour and texture of the chocolate but it pissed off those that who gorge themselves to morbid obesity on the stuff and if there’s one rule of Fat Club it’s don’t mess with a fatties food supply.
It also pissed off the Greenies (and those that look for any cause that will allow them to pretend that they care for the environment) because of the way unsustainable palm oil is obtained. And we all know there’s no bigger set of moaners than Greenies. Students are a close second but surprisingly they didn’t get in on this one.
Cadbury, possibly realising very early on that they had stuffed up, tried their best to make like the brown stuff hadn’t hit the fan. They wheeled out the smarmiest PR man they could find to try and tell us that sales weren’t down and that people – and by that he meant fatties – would soon get over it. They didn’t and the sales for Cadbury dropped, substantially. Whittaker’s on the other hand were quick to announce that their sales were at an all time high and you didn’t need to be a moaning student to work out why.
So this week Cadbury gorged themselves on humble pie and announced that they’re now bringing back the butter, just like Marlon Brando did in Last Tango in Paris. Only he planned to use his for anal sex, which is a lot like what Cadbury were trying to do to its customer base when you think about it.
That night the news broke some sheila from some inconsequential organisation, possibly a Green one, was on the news trumpeting how people power had won the day and how it was the ‘first turn around of its kind by a multinational organisation’. The fuck it was.
Coca Cola had to concede a similar defeat in the early eighties when they changed the taste of Coke. It caused such an uproar that there was an orchestrated ground swell of support against the company that was bigger than any Facebook group you could join today. Eventually, in the face of massive sale losses in the height of the Cola wars Coke did the rightful thing and reverted back to the original recipe under the label ‘Coke Classic’. Eventually that too was phased out and Coke became plain old Coke again. The people had fought back and won.
In more recent times Metallica, the rock band of the same name and in itself a multinational entity, were so moved by the fans dislike of the Load album which they released in the mid nineties that they immediately recorded and released a heavier, more traditional sounding follow up, Reload.
Metallica were no doubt wary of the need to appease the many millions of disgruntled bogans, who are deceptively dangerous when pissed off. Maybe its the years of wearing super taper jeans and the lack of oxygen to the brain that causes it but an angry bogan can often make a weapon out of the most innocent of inianimate objects, like a can of petrol or unwarrented, unregistered Ford Escort.
Now here in little ol NZ we don’t have the numbers to make just such a stand but if enough folk complain loud enough shit gets done. Like the large number of Golden Oldies that complained when TVNZ tried cutting back on Coronation Street coverage some years ago, or TV3s rescinding on similarly trying to dump the TV series Underbelly last year because they figured no one was watching it.
Complaining, making a fuss and a stand, often makes a difference. I think that as a collective massive we don’t pack enough of a tanty to influence more companies that cash in on our indifference to getting shafted up the rusty sheriff’s badge. But not me, I lap that shit up.
I make a point of never returning to places that give bad service. I don’t buy products that change their make up so much that they are not the same product at all and no, I don’t care how ‘new and improved’ the packaging is. When a company tries to pull a fast one like Cadbury on me I take the moral high ground and self impose a boycott on all their products, not just the obvious ones.
My protests might be minor and inconsequential in the grand scale of thousand unit sales but just imagine if we all did that? Imagine if we did that with alcohol, junk food and everything else that shits society right up.
We, like the Cadbury chocolate eating fatties, would get shit done.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A Gold Plated Vulva?
Masturbation is great isn’t it?
If ever there was an inexpensive way to pass an evening then having a quick game of solitaire is it, but not for some sheila down South with way too much loose change who has just splashed out over two grand for an 18ct gold plated vibrator! Geez I would hope for that money it changes the sheets once you’ve finished and makes you a cuppa afterwards.
Naturally I was intrigued to know more because who isn’t interested in the topic of female masturbation, especially if there are pictures on offer. So thanks to Mr Google I was able to check out just what the Yva offers for the modern woman for whom it seems that the thrifty option of something from the fruit and veg compartment in the fridge just doesn’t cut it.
The Yva is an elegant and luxurious pleasure object, crafted in stainless steel or 18K gold plate, with a deep and resonant vibe. The metal, enticing and evocative against the naked skin, offers exciting prospects for users inclined to the sensual utilisation of hot or cold.
Fantastic stuff. I would have thought you could achieve the same result by putting the cell phone in the freezer for a bit and then having it vibrate against the bits, that’s a far cheaper option but what do I know - I still can’t figure out if the name ‘Yva’ supposed to be a play on ‘vulva’ or not…
Bring her as a discreet guest to the most exclusive gatherings; she is small, exceedingly quiet and never in danger of outstaying her welcome. Just like a midget stripper. What kind of gatherings does one feel comfortable in whipping out the vibrator I wonder? When one is dogging? And why is it a she?
Perhaps these are questions that we men can never know the answers to and rather than letting our imaginations run wild should instead stick to the pages on the website detailing the Bo and the Bob; a padlock of a cock ring and a baseball bat of a butt plug.
The Yva is rechargeable and a 2 hour charge provides up to 7 hours of bliss. It comes presented in an elegant wooden gift box, accessorised with charger, manual, satin pouch for stylish storage and a one year warranty which might not seem a long time but seven hours per day per year – you do the math.
But why choose the Yva over say, a fella? Well for the following reasons you silly frigid bitch. It’s:
1. Deceptively powerful
2. Engineered for strong sensations
3. Charger indicator
4. Conveys available pleasure
5. Intuitive interface
6. Total control in lustful situations
7. Quiet
8. Isolated for subdued sound levels
9. Luxurious for that dressy but boring party
10. Five stimulation modes
11. From soft flutter to intense pulsation
12. Luscious against naked skin
13. Serve heated or slightly chilled
Now ‘deceptively powerful’ works for me when we’re talking about cars, guns or power tools, but a vibrator? That’s just asking for trouble. And Number 9 on this list now has me wondering if the any of the dressy but boring parties I’ve been too in my time had a whole bunch of girls out the back touching themselves up!
Yet despite this wealth of orgasmic knowledge the website of the Vulva provided me, I still don’t know why it was gold plated or just why it was that someone would want to buy such a thing. It does come in a very flash wooden presentation box which I must admit is going to look the business when you have it sitting on the coffee table in the lounge but it’s a fine line between it being a conversation starter or conversation killer.
Depends on the crowd I suppose.
One of these can be stuck into an orifice until you're left with just the tip, the other is a butt plug:
If ever there was an inexpensive way to pass an evening then having a quick game of solitaire is it, but not for some sheila down South with way too much loose change who has just splashed out over two grand for an 18ct gold plated vibrator! Geez I would hope for that money it changes the sheets once you’ve finished and makes you a cuppa afterwards.
Naturally I was intrigued to know more because who isn’t interested in the topic of female masturbation, especially if there are pictures on offer. So thanks to Mr Google I was able to check out just what the Yva offers for the modern woman for whom it seems that the thrifty option of something from the fruit and veg compartment in the fridge just doesn’t cut it.
The Yva is an elegant and luxurious pleasure object, crafted in stainless steel or 18K gold plate, with a deep and resonant vibe. The metal, enticing and evocative against the naked skin, offers exciting prospects for users inclined to the sensual utilisation of hot or cold.
Fantastic stuff. I would have thought you could achieve the same result by putting the cell phone in the freezer for a bit and then having it vibrate against the bits, that’s a far cheaper option but what do I know - I still can’t figure out if the name ‘Yva’ supposed to be a play on ‘vulva’ or not…
Bring her as a discreet guest to the most exclusive gatherings; she is small, exceedingly quiet and never in danger of outstaying her welcome. Just like a midget stripper. What kind of gatherings does one feel comfortable in whipping out the vibrator I wonder? When one is dogging? And why is it a she?
Perhaps these are questions that we men can never know the answers to and rather than letting our imaginations run wild should instead stick to the pages on the website detailing the Bo and the Bob; a padlock of a cock ring and a baseball bat of a butt plug.
The Yva is rechargeable and a 2 hour charge provides up to 7 hours of bliss. It comes presented in an elegant wooden gift box, accessorised with charger, manual, satin pouch for stylish storage and a one year warranty which might not seem a long time but seven hours per day per year – you do the math.
But why choose the Yva over say, a fella? Well for the following reasons you silly frigid bitch. It’s:
1. Deceptively powerful
2. Engineered for strong sensations
3. Charger indicator
4. Conveys available pleasure
5. Intuitive interface
6. Total control in lustful situations
7. Quiet
8. Isolated for subdued sound levels
9. Luxurious for that dressy but boring party
10. Five stimulation modes
11. From soft flutter to intense pulsation
12. Luscious against naked skin
13. Serve heated or slightly chilled
Now ‘deceptively powerful’ works for me when we’re talking about cars, guns or power tools, but a vibrator? That’s just asking for trouble. And Number 9 on this list now has me wondering if the any of the dressy but boring parties I’ve been too in my time had a whole bunch of girls out the back touching themselves up!
Yet despite this wealth of orgasmic knowledge the website of the Vulva provided me, I still don’t know why it was gold plated or just why it was that someone would want to buy such a thing. It does come in a very flash wooden presentation box which I must admit is going to look the business when you have it sitting on the coffee table in the lounge but it’s a fine line between it being a conversation starter or conversation killer.
Depends on the crowd I suppose.
One of these can be stuck into an orifice until you're left with just the tip, the other is a butt plug:
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Sheilas of the Week
Ramona Cash, Munchie, and Darling Clementine are the kind of girls your Mum hoped you would never bring home.
Together they are The Rad Girls and if you’ve ever had the pleasure of catching their show on C4 then chances are you’ve also left the seat you were sitting on in a state unfit for others to use after you.
It’s not ground breaking TV, but there is something innately amusing about the girls performjng inappropriate sexual acts on a busy sidewalk while dressed as mimes, or dressing as sperm while they slide on lube into a sex doll's vagina in a public park. And just when you thought wedgies had been done to death you wait till you see these three give each other one. Using a crane!
If The Rad Girls are the female answer to Jackass then the question must have been ‘could good looking girls be just as funny?’ The answer is ‘yes’ and these three girls prove it. Yes, the humour may be puerile and yes, possibly aimed at pleasing the lowest common denominator but it’s still as amusing as seeing the photos that Stuff had online this week of the recently completed Dwarf Games.
In one of the funniest episodes of the season Darling Clementine - playing the part of a roving reporter bringing us the Rad Girls Action News - interviews people on the street while scratching her pubes. She then reveals her hand covered in yeast. Now that’s the kind of humour we fellas just can’t pull off. Later the girls create a mock set of a porn movie taping, order a pizza and try to get the delivery guy to join in when he arrives.
Hey we didn’t say it was rocket science but it sure is funny and what makes it sexy is a) The Rad Girls themselves, as pictured and b) it leaves us with a smidgen of hope that somewhere in the world there are girls with a sense of humour just as infantile as ours.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Free Jackets, Suburbian Snobbery and Miley's Mallow Puffs
Don’t you just love those guys that spend their days walking around in the free coaches’ jacket they got given for coaching their son’s sports team?
They strut around the place as if being a coach of a child’s sports team is just as important and impressive away from the sports field and as such we should all marvel in their awesomeness. We don’t of course but they spend the whole time cracking a fat over the very thought that we are all so aroused that we too are cracking one at the sight of them in their shiny jackets.
I should confess at this point, that on occasion, I am just such a jacket wearer. I have two which reside between Saturdays in the back of the passion wagon and yes, on the odd occasion I am out and about and in need of a jacket, I will wear one. But I feel like a complete tit the whole time. I am proud of the fact that I coach not one but two football teams and I am proud to wear the club colours, but not when I’m running errands like picking up the Vagiclean from the chemist for the wife.
My wife refers to just such a garment as a ‘Hutt Jacket’ on account of the fact that it looks like something someone from the Hutt, presumably of a lower socioeconomic standing, would wear, by choice. How she comes to that conclusion is beyond me because although she visited there a few times during our courting days, most of it was spent leaving the damn place as quick as she could so how she had time to conduct a comprehensive fashion survey of the residents is a conscientious point between us.
How funny is suburban snobbery? Some folk will do anything to make you think they reside somewhere a little more upmarket than they actually do. Back in the day people who live in certain parts of Taita liked to use the term ‘North Avalon’ because Avalon was a posh place to live. Posh for the Hutt anyway. Nobody was buying it, least of all the gang members who drove through ‘North Avalon’ on their way to the fortified gang patch just round the corner.
These days I can legally claim to living in a far poncier suburb than the shit hole I do on account of NZ Post having us on the boundary. We are literally half and half so subsequently I feel a lot more stuck up when down one end of the house than I do the other. But who really cares aye? I certainly don’t and as I’m not about to invite you lot over to our gaff anytime soon neither are you I suspect.
It was Maori Language Something week last week, did you know? The nervous Caucasian TV presenter attempting to welcome you with two minutes of badly pronounced Te Reo is usually the first sign; some dude having stuck up Maori terms for everything at your workplace is the second. And I don’t mind that, its all good fun, but when the Cartoon Network, which is an Australian run TV channel, broadcasts an entire week of badly over dubbed SpongeBob Squarepants in total Te Reo then you know shit has got out of hand.
What did they think would happen, that thousands of children under the age of 10 would be fluent by the weeks end after watching a cartoon with no subtitles? My son gave it about 40 seconds before deciding that Hannah Montana was far more interesting and that’s really saying something when you are a 10 year old boy.
Now I must admit that I fancy a bit of Miley Cyrus as much as the next fella but then I remind myself that her tasty mallow puffs are only 16 and that’s a bit too young even for me. But something I do fancy is when a crusty old sheila pulls up behind me in a car like the Mercedes SL Roadster (pictured). And its always some glamed up bird well past her prime driving because her husband, also well past his prime, buys her just such a car in the hope it keeps her from noticing he’s rooting someone the age of Miley Cyrus.
But its not just because it’s a fuck off shiny motor that I like the Mercedes SL, but it has these groves on the bonnet that make it look like it has cannons underneath the hood and who hasn’t wished they had a couple of those on the old passion wagon from time to time?
Ze Germans know a thing or two about nose cannons though, back in the 40’s I flew 29 sorties over occupied Europe and on a couple of occasions had the bally Hun up my pooper in his bally Messerschmitt ME 109 (also pictured). Now those things had the kind of nose cannon that caused a man to crack one out of fear, the worst kind of arousal.
Luckily I lived to tell the tale and wear shiny coach’s jackets, all of which makes me terribly important so there.
They strut around the place as if being a coach of a child’s sports team is just as important and impressive away from the sports field and as such we should all marvel in their awesomeness. We don’t of course but they spend the whole time cracking a fat over the very thought that we are all so aroused that we too are cracking one at the sight of them in their shiny jackets.
I should confess at this point, that on occasion, I am just such a jacket wearer. I have two which reside between Saturdays in the back of the passion wagon and yes, on the odd occasion I am out and about and in need of a jacket, I will wear one. But I feel like a complete tit the whole time. I am proud of the fact that I coach not one but two football teams and I am proud to wear the club colours, but not when I’m running errands like picking up the Vagiclean from the chemist for the wife.
My wife refers to just such a garment as a ‘Hutt Jacket’ on account of the fact that it looks like something someone from the Hutt, presumably of a lower socioeconomic standing, would wear, by choice. How she comes to that conclusion is beyond me because although she visited there a few times during our courting days, most of it was spent leaving the damn place as quick as she could so how she had time to conduct a comprehensive fashion survey of the residents is a conscientious point between us.
How funny is suburban snobbery? Some folk will do anything to make you think they reside somewhere a little more upmarket than they actually do. Back in the day people who live in certain parts of Taita liked to use the term ‘North Avalon’ because Avalon was a posh place to live. Posh for the Hutt anyway. Nobody was buying it, least of all the gang members who drove through ‘North Avalon’ on their way to the fortified gang patch just round the corner.
These days I can legally claim to living in a far poncier suburb than the shit hole I do on account of NZ Post having us on the boundary. We are literally half and half so subsequently I feel a lot more stuck up when down one end of the house than I do the other. But who really cares aye? I certainly don’t and as I’m not about to invite you lot over to our gaff anytime soon neither are you I suspect.
It was Maori Language Something week last week, did you know? The nervous Caucasian TV presenter attempting to welcome you with two minutes of badly pronounced Te Reo is usually the first sign; some dude having stuck up Maori terms for everything at your workplace is the second. And I don’t mind that, its all good fun, but when the Cartoon Network, which is an Australian run TV channel, broadcasts an entire week of badly over dubbed SpongeBob Squarepants in total Te Reo then you know shit has got out of hand.
What did they think would happen, that thousands of children under the age of 10 would be fluent by the weeks end after watching a cartoon with no subtitles? My son gave it about 40 seconds before deciding that Hannah Montana was far more interesting and that’s really saying something when you are a 10 year old boy.
Now I must admit that I fancy a bit of Miley Cyrus as much as the next fella but then I remind myself that her tasty mallow puffs are only 16 and that’s a bit too young even for me. But something I do fancy is when a crusty old sheila pulls up behind me in a car like the Mercedes SL Roadster (pictured). And its always some glamed up bird well past her prime driving because her husband, also well past his prime, buys her just such a car in the hope it keeps her from noticing he’s rooting someone the age of Miley Cyrus.
But its not just because it’s a fuck off shiny motor that I like the Mercedes SL, but it has these groves on the bonnet that make it look like it has cannons underneath the hood and who hasn’t wished they had a couple of those on the old passion wagon from time to time?
Ze Germans know a thing or two about nose cannons though, back in the 40’s I flew 29 sorties over occupied Europe and on a couple of occasions had the bally Hun up my pooper in his bally Messerschmitt ME 109 (also pictured). Now those things had the kind of nose cannon that caused a man to crack one out of fear, the worst kind of arousal.
Luckily I lived to tell the tale and wear shiny coach’s jackets, all of which makes me terribly important so there.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Energy Drink or Horse Piss?
Target did another of their tell-us-something-we-don’t-already-know exposés last week on energy drinks. Not surprisingly the consensus at the end of it all was that they have about as much nutritional content as horse piss. No, really?
Of course nobody buys energy drinks for their nutritional content. People drink energy drinks to a) get enough energy to get them through their incredibly taxing lives and perhaps more importantly b) to look cool. But nobody looks cool drinking energy drinks, no matter how risqué they try and make the name of them, you don’t look cool.
Cocaine, Big Cock, Mother, Demon, Redline, Rockstar. They all sound so hip and edgy don’t they? I mean how else could you legally buy Cocaine in a can? Fuck yeah that’s cool and thankfully sounds nothing at all like horse piss, which you can’t help but think might impact sales if it were.
The main ingredient in most of these drinks is of course caffeine. Sure, some purport to have natural things like Guarana and Herpes Simplex Ten to give you the natural energy burst you crave, but the problem with that theory is that Guarana seeds have twice the amount of caffeine in them as coffee beans. So don't fool yourselves; it’s the tried and true mix of caffeine and copious spoonfuls of sugar that put the lead in your pencil not some magical mystical weed from Asia.
The popularity of energy drinks has been born from the ridiculous social theory that we simply must consume caffeine in copious amounts to get through life. As a result large multinational companies like Starbucks and Coca-Cola have had a licence to print money the last ten years on the back of our caffeine deprived, energy drink needing neurosis. Not that the poor coffee bean grower sees any of the billions that caffeine filled products generates.
I have never been a fan of energy drinks. My one and only encounter with one was the time I knocked back a red Bull only to find a couple of hours later that I had so much acne I could’ve got a job at McDonalds. Whether it was a one off reaction or something more serious who knows (or cares), I’ve never tried one since and perhaps of more surprise to those that do, I’ve managed to get through each and every day since without the need for a pick me up.
When did we decide that we needed energy drinks? Not when I was a kid that’s for sure. The only thing resembling an energy drink back then was Lucozade and back then it was like drinking aspirin because they hadn’t yet decided to add a cup of sugary syrup to flavour it like they do today. The only drink we had back in the day was cordial and my old man watered that sucker down so much that it was cordial by colour only. And it was never anything tasty like Raspberry or Orange Mango, no it was always lime. Watery, tastes like piss, looks like piss, could have been piss lime.
Our fathers - and theirs before them - never needed energy drinks and they arguably got through more work in a day than we ever do. And we’re talking manual labour work at that too, none of this sitting in front of a PC for 10 hours supping on a Big Cock to stay awake. The only drink they spent their hard earned money on were pints, at the end of the day, before coming home and thrashing our grandmothers before bed. Maybe beer was the original energy drink?
It could be said that tea is the original energy because hey everyone drinks tea. Everyone except my brother-in-law Bruiser, he doesn’t drink anything hot, not even Milo. Who doesn’t drink Milo?! He does like the odd bottle of V or three though. I must confess I do drink a lot of tea and always have and the stronger the better. These days there’s nothing more I like during the day than a good double tea bagging from Big Gay Ray and a dunking of ginger nuts. But as refreshing as that is – and it is refreshing – I don’t drink it for energy.
During the war the Allies used to put stuff in the tea that they issued the troops to stop them from getting randy. Imagine if they did that with energy drinks?
But fret not those that find themselves with Demon flavoured semen, for I have the answer for those of you that spend close to a fiver on your canned energy each and every day; eat a balanced diet with lots of fruit and veggies, exercise regularly, get out in the fresh air during the day and get plenty of sleep, regularly.
Then let me know just how much ‘energy in a can’ you need.
Of course nobody buys energy drinks for their nutritional content. People drink energy drinks to a) get enough energy to get them through their incredibly taxing lives and perhaps more importantly b) to look cool. But nobody looks cool drinking energy drinks, no matter how risqué they try and make the name of them, you don’t look cool.
Cocaine, Big Cock, Mother, Demon, Redline, Rockstar. They all sound so hip and edgy don’t they? I mean how else could you legally buy Cocaine in a can? Fuck yeah that’s cool and thankfully sounds nothing at all like horse piss, which you can’t help but think might impact sales if it were.
The main ingredient in most of these drinks is of course caffeine. Sure, some purport to have natural things like Guarana and Herpes Simplex Ten to give you the natural energy burst you crave, but the problem with that theory is that Guarana seeds have twice the amount of caffeine in them as coffee beans. So don't fool yourselves; it’s the tried and true mix of caffeine and copious spoonfuls of sugar that put the lead in your pencil not some magical mystical weed from Asia.
The popularity of energy drinks has been born from the ridiculous social theory that we simply must consume caffeine in copious amounts to get through life. As a result large multinational companies like Starbucks and Coca-Cola have had a licence to print money the last ten years on the back of our caffeine deprived, energy drink needing neurosis. Not that the poor coffee bean grower sees any of the billions that caffeine filled products generates.
I have never been a fan of energy drinks. My one and only encounter with one was the time I knocked back a red Bull only to find a couple of hours later that I had so much acne I could’ve got a job at McDonalds. Whether it was a one off reaction or something more serious who knows (or cares), I’ve never tried one since and perhaps of more surprise to those that do, I’ve managed to get through each and every day since without the need for a pick me up.
When did we decide that we needed energy drinks? Not when I was a kid that’s for sure. The only thing resembling an energy drink back then was Lucozade and back then it was like drinking aspirin because they hadn’t yet decided to add a cup of sugary syrup to flavour it like they do today. The only drink we had back in the day was cordial and my old man watered that sucker down so much that it was cordial by colour only. And it was never anything tasty like Raspberry or Orange Mango, no it was always lime. Watery, tastes like piss, looks like piss, could have been piss lime.
Our fathers - and theirs before them - never needed energy drinks and they arguably got through more work in a day than we ever do. And we’re talking manual labour work at that too, none of this sitting in front of a PC for 10 hours supping on a Big Cock to stay awake. The only drink they spent their hard earned money on were pints, at the end of the day, before coming home and thrashing our grandmothers before bed. Maybe beer was the original energy drink?
It could be said that tea is the original energy because hey everyone drinks tea. Everyone except my brother-in-law Bruiser, he doesn’t drink anything hot, not even Milo. Who doesn’t drink Milo?! He does like the odd bottle of V or three though. I must confess I do drink a lot of tea and always have and the stronger the better. These days there’s nothing more I like during the day than a good double tea bagging from Big Gay Ray and a dunking of ginger nuts. But as refreshing as that is – and it is refreshing – I don’t drink it for energy.
During the war the Allies used to put stuff in the tea that they issued the troops to stop them from getting randy. Imagine if they did that with energy drinks?
But fret not those that find themselves with Demon flavoured semen, for I have the answer for those of you that spend close to a fiver on your canned energy each and every day; eat a balanced diet with lots of fruit and veggies, exercise regularly, get out in the fresh air during the day and get plenty of sleep, regularly.
Then let me know just how much ‘energy in a can’ you need.
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