Booze Hags & New Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, I totally missed that life cycle.

The morning after the night before *shiver*

Best / Worst of 2009 Lists

Are complete shit and a waste of time.

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

These lists are also two things; subjective and irrelevant.

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas, Bitches

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

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

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

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

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

The Musings of a 10 Year Old

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Man And His Boat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daydream Believer

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

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

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

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

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

Never Touchy Touchy The Modem

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're back on line @ ClubDes

An Ode To A Great Man

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shall miss him.

How Good Is The Net Aye?!

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

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

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

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

everything.com

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

whereaboutsami.com

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

whatkindofcoughisthat.com

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

yourloungeroom.com

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

deceasedlovedones.com

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

howdoigettowhereiam.com

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

whichonetowear.com

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

armbook.com

Similar to Facebook but people upload photos of their arms.

uploadyourscreen.com

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

amihavingaheartattack.com

A website for people having a heart attack.

Is It Wrong...