Backing Up The Back Up

The owner of my local servo – bless him – has two blank VHS tapes on his shelf for sale. I nearly bought them myself because I haven’t got the heart to tell him that no one makes so much as a sex tape on VHS these days.

It reminded me of the mega VHS collection that Bruiser and his older brother had back in the day. They were quite possibly the first proponents of what we’ve come to know today as making a ‘back up of a back up’.

The O’Brien boys were before their time when it came to dubbing VHS. They had two recorders and copied every new release they could get their hands on, recording through one player whilst watching it through another. Older brother Terry’s long Sparky apprenticeship was worth its weight in gold the day he set that up, that’s for sure and it wasn’t long before that second recorder soon paid for itself.

Imagine your standard floor to ceiling bookcase full of VHS tapes. They had two of them. All uniformly labelled and sorted in alphabetical order. It was a beautiful sight and it meant that all of us never had to pay for a single rental for quite some time.

I recall Bruiser took to playing one during an English class at school because the teacher at the time had a bad dose of vaginal thrush, or something. I don’t really recall why. But the ironic humour that was the ‘piracy is a crime’ message at the start of the movie was not lost on anyone...

Now these days I have some antiquated standards around the whole piracy thing. It is a real test of character to resist taking up the lads on their many offers of a ‘back up of a back up’, especially with the exorbitant cost of seeing a movie at the theatre these days, but I manage to, just.

But I caved this week when T Bag offered me a download copy of Cold Chisel on CD. I accepted. Sure, I felt bad but the bastards aren’t on iTunes so it serves them right really. I do fancy a bit of The Chiz, especially the song Khe Sanh which details the troubles of a Vietnam vet. You had to be there really and T Bag and I were.

It came on whilst I was driving and shit got emotional. I had to pull over for a good, uncontrollable cry which was awkward because at that point in time I was driving Junior to school.

One medium I am happy to have a ‘back up of a back up’ in is TV. Programs make their money by paid for by networks who in turn sell the advertising time to fund them. So the way I see it is that cast and crew have already been paid for their efforts, so rather than be shafted by the TV channels into watching them when they decide, downloading them is watching them when I choose to.

Even then I’ve resisted the urge to get ahead of the telly on one program; Lost, which comes to a climactic end this weekend and my god has it got me moist with arousal. On one hand I am an excited young man to finally find out the islands secrets and yet, on the other hand, I feel slightly sad that the biggest mind fuck in quite some time is going to be over in just under 24 hours.

Lost has been like the girlfriend that you could never quite figure out yet the sex was just too good to walk away from. At least until you found someone filthier.

Maybe all this talk of ‘backing up a back up’ is not such a bad idea after all. Just imagine if the record company for example, lost their master copy of The Chiz. Wouldn’t they be grateful to learn that I had a back up of a back up that they could borrow? The fuck they would!

I might email them and let them know...

Terry spent the money he made from flogging his back ups well...

Fruity Football Boots & Serena's Budgie

What is it about top some athletes and their outfit choices aye?

Maybe it’s the enhanced levels of adrenaline or testosterone that cause complete lack of judgement. Maybe it’s at the insistence of the sweat factory sporting label that they are contracted to. Maybe it’s just that they spent their formative years developing sporting prowess and not sense. Maybe they’re just fucked in the head? Who knows?

Venus Willams – not to be confused with her brother Serena – unleashed the latest shocker this week with ‘flesh’ coloured undies. Not ‘flesh’ as in Caucasian, no Michele Obama made that mistake a few weeks back when she wore a ‘flesh’ coloured gown to some knees up only it was whitey flesh, not darkie, so was it really ‘flesh’ some asked?

It was fucken beige, that’s what it was. Just as Venus’ grundies were poo brown. Neither are any more skin coloured than is the dirty black atomic wedgie number she’s wearing under them. Now that is truly shocking.

But if you needed more proof that this type of decision is made because the drugs don’t work then read Venus’s reason for wearing them:

"The outfit was about illusion, and that's been a lot of my motif this year, illusion".

All I can say is aren't you glad it wasn't Serena photogrpahed wearing such tightie brownies? Then we really would have seen the smuggled budgie wouldn't we....?

Meanwhile over at the World Cup next month the world’s foremost exponents of the beautiful game will be wearing jellies on their feet. Yes jellies. The same brightly coloured plastic numbers your sister wore and that you borrowed occasionally when dressing in her clothes when you thought the family was out for ages only they weren’t, they came back early and caught you.

When I was a boy there was only one boot colour and it was black. Not skin coloured black but black as a black man’s cape and they did the business. These days football boots are as fruity as some of the guys wearing them and shit is starting to get ridiculous; not only do we now have fluorescent greens, yellows and oranges, but combinations of all three.

Which look great if your tiedyed socks match, but they don’t. So Christiano Ronaldo will spend his pitch time poncing around in purple and orange boots whilst wearing green socks. Would he leave the house in just such a combo? Well, probably. Bad example.

It’s all marketing of course. You might think the World Cup is about Brazil vs. Spain, or Argentina vs. The Dutchies, but it’s not really. Its Adidas vs Nike in a battle to see who can flog as many pairs of their overpriced boots as quickly as the tiny little underpaid hands in the sweat factories can make them.

Another day in the Nike factory, another dollar. Literally.

But I wonder where it will all end? How long before we see boots that flash like a set of Christmas lights, or change colour depending on temperature, moisture or after impact? Maybe we’ll see mood boots that change according to the feelings of the player wearing them. Thus Ronaldo’s will always be purple because he’s a poof.

Or maybe we’ll go back to bleeck and not just because it’s retro but because no one really gives a fuck about multi coloured jellies, no matter who’s wearing them.

Except your mother, that day she came home early to find you wearing some, as well as your sister’s underwear...

Venus, who may need surgery to retrieve her undies...

Six Degrees Of Cock

The subject of hand washing came up at ClubDes this week.

Specifically why is it that some round here don’t, despite being ‘responsible’ adults and damn well knowing better than not to. What’s more, you know that they know because nine times out of ten the non hand washer will exit without Horoia Ō Ringaringa when he hasn’t been seen, thinking that his safety lies in his anonymity.

But like all bad habits, familiarity breeds contempt and it’s not long before the non washer is distracted into forgetting that not washing the piss spray off your hands is actually frowned upon by the majority and they make the ultimate error; doing it in front of someone.

Just as On Yer Bike Stu found out this week when one such perp felt the need to rub his hands on his – not Stu’s – face, but yet absolutely nowhere near the sink. The ultimate irony in this whole sorry saga is that if you walk around opening doors with a tissue then it’s you who is looked upon as being a fuckwit.

I don’t know where these guys were when we had that hand washing lesson in kindy and primary school, but clearly not in the vicinity of a basin. What must they think when teaching their own children? Maybe they don’t teach their own children...

Now I don’t care that these guys have no qualms about touching their own cock. What they do with it and where they stick is their business but when they exit without washing they effectively leave their cock on the same surfaces I share and it’s that I’m not so cool with.

Its effectively six degrees of cock; their hands, the toilet door handle, my hand, my sandwich for lunch, my mouth.

Clearly strategically placed reminders don’t make a blind bit of difference for these guys so I am advocating some shock treatment to get the message through. Hey if they can do it with cigarette packs why not the back of toilet doors:


And yes; I had to Google some very fruity phrases to find such and image. I only hope Internal Affairs weren’t noting down my IP address as I did so....

Dear Capt. Mark Bennett...

...you nearly had me just then. Right up till the bit about survivng two suicide bombs.

Till then I was prepared to overlook the broken English that one would associate with a Private, not a man of your rank and the small matter of you listing almost the entire plot of the movie 'Three Kings'.

But if you can't even blow yourself up right what chance have I of ever seeing my share of the money?

I would have smuggled that money in a cavity for you too, dammit.

I am Capt. Mark Bennett of the US Army base in Iraq for peace keeping I found your contact detail in an address journal am seeking your assistance to evacuate the sum of $5,000,000 to you as long as I am assured that it will be safe in your care until I complete my service here in Iraq. This is not stolen money and there are no dangers involved.

SOURCE OF MONEY: some money in various currencies was discovered concealed in barrels with piles of weapons and ammunition’s at a location near one of Saddam's old palaces during a rescue operation, and it was agreed by all party present that the money be shared amongst us, this was quite an illegal thing to do, but I tell you what? No compensation can make up for the risks we have taken with our lives in this hell hole.

The above figure was given to me as my share, and to conceal this kind of money became a problem for me, so with the help of a German contact working here and his office enjoys some immunity, I was able to get the package out to a safe location entirely out of trouble spot. He does not know the real contents of the package, and believes that it belongs to an Asian American who died in an air raid, and before giving up, trusted me to hand over the package to his family. I have survived 2 suicide bombs by the special grace of God.

Get back to me in my person email: markbennett61@live.com.

Capt Mark Bennett

Free Wheelin' Wayne

High emotion this week with the momentous news that the readership of this blog increased to five:

1. DougalMac, who still reads each post, prints it out and collates it in his binder.
2. Bruiser does, but only to see how many times I mention him (That’s one this post)
3. The guy who keeps posting porn links in the comments pops up every now and then.
4. I do of course and I don’t mind admitting I crack myself up.
5. And now Max*.

Maxi is the kind of guy we like round these parts, he’s ruggedly good looking, has strong but gentle hands and his idea of a good night in is a tube (or two) of surgical lube and an S Club 7 cassingle. True story.

Maxi wasn’t with us in Vietnam but one look at the guy and you can tell he’d be right at home in the bush and we like that in a fella. If there’s one thing I do when I meet someone is imagine them clad in sweat stained khakis, humping their way through a hot, sticky jungle.

I also imagine them in a thong. Backwards. But the less said about that the better.

So Maxi is on board and he has promised to lift the standards of the place. Why this very weekend we’re all heading over to his place to put him as many positions as possible from the Karma Sutra and reminisce about the guy at work who asked him just what his personalised plate was all about?

It says CRPPLE. And Maxi’s in a wheelchair.

Welcome Maxi, welcome. We like the way your wheels roll.

*Not his real name; it’s Wayne. He changed it to avoid the stigma that comes from having a bogan name and I for one don’t blame him; I changed mine from Hitler Tampon.

All That Sparkles...

Shit in my mouth, when did we get rid of Sparkles?

2008, apparently. That’s when the last run was made of one of the best boiled lollies of all time. Snifters are gone too, as are Tangy Fruits which were not only the best thing to suck on at a movie (other than your girlfriend), but made the best projectile for when the onscreen action got a little slow.

The reason for their premature retirement was lack of demand, which is a goddamn lie because there is always at least one prick I want to throw something hard at when watching a movie...

I only found this out the other day whilst mursing Junior who was home with the spews. Eating was not an option for the young fella but sucking on a sweetie was so off to the corner dairy we trundled. Well, we drove. Who walks anywhere these days aye?

Dairies, like servo’s, have become the biggest rip off merchants in town. Once upon a time you could send a kid down to the local shop with a lady godiver (fiver) and it would take them a week to spend it all, but not anymore.

Now I didn’t do a lot in my 5th Form economics class other than wind up our four foot two, flared trousers wearing teacher - the short, backward square Mr Moriaty. But I did pick up that if you sold many more of the same items, only slightly cheaper, than your competition, you’d make the most money. Maybe they don’t teach that in Bombay schools.

Still, there is a sense of comfort that comes with knowing the corner dairy is still the only place where the lady behind the counter will use the same hand to take your cash, wipe her nose, whack hubby off and pass you the unwrapped liquorice strap you just bought.

So imagine my surprise when she told me that they no longer make Sparkles. I stood there dumbfounded amongst the crappy, tasteless, gelatine based candy and wondered just which shitty, foul tasting, rubber based lolly from Guatemala I’d have to buy in its place.

Junior, who was just gagging to get out of the place, quite literally, picked up on a pack of Cola flavoured Mentos. Sure, Mentos is a fine suckle, in its own right, but it’s a sad, sad day when cola flavoured mints have to take the place of Sparkles. Which were the most popular off all the lollies given to Grand kids by Grandparents back in the day.

Anyhoo, they helped do the trick and he’s back at school this week, just in time to complete the 4km cross country run that every kid has been forced to prepare for this term. What is it with schools these days and their incessant need to force exercise amongst the student faculty? It seems as if the ClubDes brethren spend half of their school life’s running or jumping.

Which would be great if they were fatties and were that the case I’d be totally behind the movement if they were, but neither is. My two are about as likely to become morbidly obese in the next few years as I am and I can’t help but wonder what the teachers are doing all this time their students are running? Surfing and saving pornographic images I bet.

So maybe we should give the skinny kids a rest, bring back Sparkles and give them a handful to eat. Because no one ever got fat eating Sparkles.

The departed.

Friendship - Real or Otherwise.

The world we live in is a very peculiar place isn’t it?

A 16 year old girl can sail single handed around the world only for it not to count on a technicality. Bummer. Personally I was hoping she would die in a fiery auto crash whilst at sea because all this rubbish to be the ‘youngest ever’ at anything is just that. And we wonder just why it is our kids are having sex earlier than ever before...?

Maybe it’s the salty sea air or sand in the bits but there’s even crazy talk of someone making a movie about the whole thing. Please don’t. We all know how it ends, just as we did with the Titanic yet somehow James Cameron squeezed three hours that we’ll never get back out of it.

We now live in a world where more than ever it’s easier to communicate with each other but yet we still think that the same old bullshit excuses will work when we just can’t be arsed. How many times have you to use the following rhetorical questions on someone who hasn’t given a damn; Did you get my text? Did you get my email? Did you get my voice mail message I left?

Likewise, social networking has made it super easy for the people you spent the last 20 years trying to avoid, track you the fuck down. You can friend someone but decide not to show them everything, thus defeating the purpose of the whole exercise. Its ‘friendship’, but on your terms.

I have an ‘all or nothing’ attitude with it. I always have, dating right back to my college days where if I didn’t like someone I made it crystal clear to them, providing they were not in a position to break me. Physically. I could never understand why we all made small talk and shit with someone if deep down we couldn’t actually stand the perp.

Besides, I had more important things to worry about like just how I could con Nat D into letting me feel her boob. A task made even the harder given the two of us had never spoken to each other in three years.

This time may have coincided with the period of my high school life where I proceeded to listen to the same three track Rage Against the Machine cassingle day and night. But I can’t be sure; I spent most of that time very angry at something...

This inevitably led to falling out between me and good mates, like Coops. We were both head strong young men and although he was built like a Greek Adonis it was I that was hung like a rogue bull, so naturally we envied each other as only two straight guys can.

Yes we fought, but the makeup sex was well worth it.

But it wasn’t just me. Coops and Connors, another behemoth of a boy at that stage, were always rarking each other up something chronic. In a classic encounter that the three of us still laugh about to this very day, the two of them had a long running verbal stoush that ended up in some very homo erotic wrestling in the hallway.

Maybe it was just me but there’s something very alluring about two boys wedging each other dangerously high in school boy shorts...

Coops had started calling Connors an ‘Aussie Bumfucker’ on the grounds that he was Australian, whilst in retort he had called Coops ‘Mr Kungfu Man’, on account of Coops liking a bit of martial arts action. It was a name calling mismatch of epic proportions but highly amusing all the same.

Bruiser, so called because he was always getting into fights, hardly had a bad word to say about anyone but there was just something about the look of him that pissed people off. Personally I’ve never seen it but then I wouldn’t; I always try to imagine everyone around me naked in black gold top socks.

Now that would make the world a peculiar place.

Got Pubes In Pocket

Pubic hair; it’s everywhere.

Like in your pocket, what’s up with that?! You go to pull out some shrapnel and amongst the fluff and minute bits of paper there will be the odd pube or two.

Now some people might be disgusted by that but I’m not; I hold on to mine and even transfer it from one pair of pants to the next because you can never be too sure when you’ll come across someone selling something for 3 bucks five pubes.

I watched a TV show the other week about Kiwi couples getting married. Quite why you would want to make an already stressful exercise like organising a wedding by having some nosy fucken cameras poking about is beyond me, but there you go.

I refused to watch the first episode because it featured the couple that won a radio comp last year to have their wedding paid for, providing they performed the ceremony nude. Tissue box and hand lotion stuff, you would think. But no, the couple covered their bits with bits and had themselves a ‘partially nude’ wedding which is false fucking advertising really and only slightly erotic.

Anyhoo, this particular night I watched two virgins were getting hitched and the highlight of the episode was the bride to be getting a Brazilian in prep for the big night. Another quality TV show this, I tell you.

It was at that point my mind again turned to pubes and why the silly girl felt she had to remove hers?! Did it not occur to her that hubby hasn’t ever seen one so it’s not going to bother him one bit if it’s a massive bush. Now she has to keep the yard work up because he isn’t going to want anything less. Good one.

Then there was the sex scene on ‘The Pacific’ the other night and the guys smooth arse, which would be fine, if fellas waxed in the Forties. They didn’t but Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks clearly didn’t think about that when they sat down and planned this out did they? Fantastically believable special effects, yes. Hairy arses, no.

Speaking of retro vagine, my mother had a perverse attitude to all things shaving, especially where my sister was concerned. Under peer pressure to do something about her hairy legs she asked my mother if she could start shaving them.

My mother’s response was that if my sister was to start shaving she could never stop so why even bother? Which was a bit rich really, coming from the woman who regularly made us both bathe in the same water she had used to shave hers in every other night. The hairy bitch.

And that would have been the end of the matter had I not taken pity on my younger sibling and let her use my disposable razors which was okay because I wasn’t actually growing any facial hair (and wouldn’t for roughly 10 years), despite my pretending to shave every day.

Now there’s a song out at the moment that is quite popular with the young folk, sung by one of those androgynous emo types who favour the kind of hair style that can best be described as having stuck ones head up a cows arse.

It’s a catchy number, I like it, but I’m pretty sure I wrote that song some 20 years before this kid stopped cutting himself to pinch my work. I realise they’re incredibly complex lyrics and I don’t actually have any proof that I came up with them but I seem to recall standing in front of my mirror, tennis racket plugged in and the amp turned up to ‘11’, rocking out to the very same four word anthem; Wataya want from me!

They were the only words I had mind you, because back then I had all the musical ability of a sock. Some would argue that some things haven’t changed despite my professing to be an okay guitar player but at least these days I don’t have to pretend with a cricket bat, or on the nights when I had left it outside by the back door, my diddle.

Okay so sometimes I still do the nude guitar in front of the missus. She hates it which is admittedly why I keep doing it. It’s not enjoyable for me, not in the slightest. Especially now that the ukulele I strummed back then is a full sized acoustic.

Maybe that’s how I end up with pubes in my pocket....?

Girls Who Need A Slap - Part 1

For as long as I care to remember I’ve wondered just what it is about that chick from Twilight that makes her always look so bloody miserable. I figured she just needed a damn good slapping, but then I came across this explanation, in her own words...

“Kristen Stewart claims she looks miserable to stop herself from crying.

The Twilight actress hates the criticism she receives for her downcast expressions on the red carpet, which she believes is an uncontrollable response to the people around her.

She explained: "People say that I'm miserable all the time. It's not that I'm miserable, it's just that somebody's yelling at me ... I literally, sometimes, have to keep myself from crying ... It's a physical reaction to the energy that's thrown at you."

Kristen also insisted most of the negative comments she receives are unjustified because she is passionate about her profession.

She said: "I think it's funny that when I go onstage to accept an award, they think I'm nervous, uncomfortable, and awkward - and I am - but those are bad words for them. I hate it when they say I don't give a shit, because nobody cares more than I do.

"I'm telling you I don't know anybody who does this that gives a shit more than I do."

And you know what? Having read that now I know she needs a bloody good slap.

Silly bitch.

Fundraising Chocolates & Norwegian Fuckwits

It’s been fundraising month at Junior’s school which has meant I’ve been the annoying guy at work trying to bully you into buying over priced chocolate.

I’ve hated what it’s made me become. Not because I want to sell the most, but because for every box I can offload on my colleagues I can rest easy in the knowledge its one less my son has to try and peddle door to door to rain coat wearing, internet surfing strangers.

It’s a strange world we live in where schools, the place you used to learn about stranger danger, now subliminally promotes it by heaping ‘sell at all costs’ activities on kids. Nobody actually says to go knock on some sexo’s door mind you, but it’s implied when they start rewarding kids who move the biggest quota.

Some little shit sold 40 odd boxes last year and apparently he’s on track again to do so this year. You would think the folk he sold that to a mere year ago would have seen him coming this time round, but no. The smarmy bastard.

Needless to say my boy had grandiose dreams of shifting a similar amount. He wanted to not only knock on doors, but stand outside a supermarket selling something that the punters could buy cheaper inside. For me, the protective father yet who wants to give his son the room to grow and experience life, it was a lose lose situation.

So I turned to peddling the shit. Thankfully both I and Mrs ClubDes have wonderfully supportive colleagues and between us we moved enough choc tinnies to appease our offspring, who, it turns out, must share a class with likeminded parents because he has surged to the top of the selling charts in his room.

So that solves one problem. But are you, like me, just a bit weary of the whole chocolate fundraiser thing? It’s near impossible to work through any workplace these days without someone trying to flog you some morbid obesity causing sugar saturated product, all in the name of the children. How much more chocolate can the workplace around you take, for fucks sake?

Norway probably has some room for chocolate. It certainly has a shortage of intelligence, especially amongst the good ol boys that came over recently and nailed a few of our endangered birds whilst on a hunting trip. Makes a change from equally helpless and harmless whales I suppose.

It would appear that the fruity fish eaters knew what they were doing and had prior knowledge of just what they could shoot and what they couldn’t. The wankers made a video while they were here, just to capture for prosperity what a bunch of hard core survivalists they were.

Eventually our Government decided the fuckwits would be charged, but only if they come back to NZ. Yeah, good one. They might be thick but they ain’t that thick. Thomas, Bennie and Bjorn aren’t coming back any time soon and will be laughing about this one in their fire fed hot tubs for quite some time.

But I have a solution.

Let’s send an expedition of our own to shoot a few fat birds over in sleepy old Norge, because it would be rude not to really. Corporal Willie Apiata can lead the touring party now he’s back from ObamaStan and he can take as many of his bad ass mofo mates as he needs to strangle a few Norwegian Blue’s as they sleep in their Norwegian wood houses. Shit em right up.

Now that’s a trip I’d gladly sell more fundraising chocolates for....

Justin Who?

I don’t know who the hell Justin Bebo is but I’d sure like to smack that cheeky, pubescent grin off his MyFace.

Actually I do know who is, how could I not?! One half arsed trip to NZ and it’s not just the pubescent girls who start acting like, well, pubescent girls. Stuff.co.nz, for example, confirmed my long held suspicions that it is actually Dolly magazine in disguise by acting like it the whole time Bebo was here.

And I know his name isn’t actually ‘Bebo’ but I feel it optimises the generation most likely to be screaming their itty bitty titties off at the mere mention of his name. What are all those tweens going to do when Bebo gets shutdown because it’s haemorrhaging money? They’ll turn to Facebook that’s what which, in turn will undoubtedly lead to an influx of closet sexos who will flock to their pages (and photo albums) before the text generation has a chance to work out just how to turn on Facebook’s complex privacy settings.

But then maybe the Be-bos crowd just don’t care about that shit. Justin’s mother certainly didn’t for it was she that posted clips of him singing on You Tube, the paedophiles’ other favourite free perve. That’s how he got ‘discovered’.

Some producer (or closet paedophile) spotted the clip ‘by mistake’ and tracked down the young blonde boy in about three easy steps. Now at this stage alarm bells should’ve been ringing in the Bebo household, but clearly they didn’t give a monkey’s. Quite the opposite.

Now I don’t know about you lot who have kids, but if my son caught his mother a) filming him singing and b) posting it on the Net he’d David Bain the lot of us and my god I hope it stays that way for a very long time. If, when he’s 18 he wants to hang out with his cock out on Chat Roulette then so be it. But at least it will be his decision and his alone.

Bebo on the other hand, loves the adulation. I had the misfortune of seeing an interview with him on one of those shows that purport to bring you the news but these days seem to be focusing a lot on movies, celebrities and other such bollocks. He sat there preening himself like a rooster and he certainly looked like a right cock the whole time.

I even forced myself to sit through one of his songs just to see what the fuss was and it left me confused how a 16 year old Christian boy could know so much about love and heartbreak when you and I both know that his experience of relationships to this point in time is likely to be confined to his right hand.

Maybe it’s just me. I am getting old and yes, a lot of things seem to piss me off these days. Hell, I even piss myself off from time to time. And maybe it’s just me reacting the same way our grandparents did when our mother got all moist over The Beatles, or how our parents got miffed with our sisters when they went all silly over the New Kids on the Block.

Maybe. Or just maybe I’m justified in thinking that that if some baby faced kid who looks like he’s twelve and sings songs written by middle aged men is truly the most exciting thing in the world, then we’re all fucked.

Yeah and up yours too, Bebo!