Save The Whale? Not This One...

Some people should be banned from owning computers. Like the guy who writes the Whale blubber – I mean oil – blog site.

According to Wikipedia he’s a ‘controversial NZ blogger’ but I challenge that description and in doing so I might be about to break the rule of some unwritten blogger's union by criticizing the guy, but I don’t give a fuck. I only belong to the one association; the Captain Awesome Union, membership of one. Me.

He’s in court this week for breaching suppression orders because he on his blog he ‘outs’ high profile people who get name suppression when they beat their wives or fiddle their kids. Now I support the principal that is naming and shaming these pricks, but sadly, there’s more to Whale Blubber than just the community service he likes to think he’s doing.

I’ve read his blog a couple of times and maybe it’s just me, but I could never work out who it was that he was trying to name anyway, which is surprising because I’m an intelligent man. He doesn’t actually name them as much as give you the clues so that you can figure it out i.e. a pictogram.

Perhaps therein lies my problem; I always have all the answers it’s just the questions that confuse me.

Aside from this fantastic public service that he does, or doesn’t do depending which way you look at it, he also indulges in the following; name calling, personal attacks, speculation on the penis size of those that disagree with him (which is a bit rich considering it’s probably been some time since he saw his own) and other such gems you’d expect from someone best describe as an ‘angry old man’.

In his trail this week it was revealed he suffers from clinical depression and takes medication. Sure, don’t we all. Earlier this year it was reported that he and his wife lost their family home after insurance payments for his depression were stopped by his insurer. It led to an emotional exchange of posts on the Blubber blog between him and his wife who clearly don’t actually talk to each other in person.

Who knew you could get paid for being a sad fuck aye? I sense a lifestyle change coming on.

It’s about now that I’m starting to get a bit bored of this whole sorry saga and as we all know boredom leads to porndom, but one look at this guy will soon solve that. He is the stereotypical look one would associate with a blogger and he gives us all a bad name, especially the ridiculously good looking ones like me*.

Apparently he has a job in the real world but that doesn’t stop him from blogging constantly. Fuck if I tried that carry on at my work I would be out on my arse but yet a little something like ‘job security’ probably doesn’t rate high on this guy’s give-a-fuck scale.

Here’s what I think. I think it’s easy to be an arsehole to lots of people and then hide behind the excuse that is clinical depression. I think it’s easy to be a political commentator when your father used to be the President of the National Party and tells you how and what to think.

I also think it’s easy to make like you’re some virtual vigilante when in fact you don’t really reveal anything so I reckon it’s time Whale Blubber got out from behind his PC, got himself some exercise, some fresh air and pretty much a life. I'd also like it very much if he didn't turn up on the news while I'm trying to eat.

Otherwise I’m going to point the Japanese Whale Fleet in his direction.

*You're a very close second KB.

Lift Only Your Own Trophies, Trust Me.

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Spammers Can't Add.

We all know that the web is no longer a safe place.

Gone are the days when a fella could pretend to be 15 year old boy in a teen chat room just so I, rather he, could get a few kinky undie pics from the 30 year old gay guy pretending to be a 13 year old girl at the other end.

No, people frown on that kind of stuff these days. Spam is a big problem too and the battle to stop our inboxes filling with offers of a 10 inch cock balm is a never ending one.

I clicked on one of those once - who hasn’t aye? -but luckily it was my flatmates work PC. It wasn’t a major though, I had masturbated my way through filling it’s hard drive with porn by that stage so nobody in her ICT department would’ve noticed the extra virus I reckon.

One way websites do this is by getting you till fill in one of those ‘Captcha’ fields where you have to copy words or letters written by a deaf, dumb blind kid with no arms. Or legs. The theory is that because that can’t be done automatically it stops spam.

But today I came across a marked step up in the war against spam, the maths test!


It's like putting your keys in the shoes whilst at the beach, no one can get round that kind of thinking because it's pure genius. We all know spammers can't add so that’ll learn 'em...

Birthdays; Then & Now

Birthday’s aye? The shit right up till your 21st, just plain shit for every occasion thereafter.

Actually my 21st was quite shit, now that I think about it. Mine doubled as work dinner, which was planned first I might add and although I promised to do a very lady-like 21 shots, I didn’t. My boss at the time bought me a Playstation game – PS1 back in those days – which I thought was the shit until I found out it was a freebie he had been given by a supplier.

Still, it was the thought that counts I suppose.

Only at some point the thoughts stop. And birthdays are no more of a celebration than they are something you have to write on the calendar each year. Yesterday was my birthday and although Mrs ClubDes and Junior made a fuss, nothing much else happened.

Not that I expected it to be headline news but no matter how low key things have gotten you always hope that this year will be as exciting as the time you got an HMX, an underwater walkman or Castle Grayskull. It’s that expectation that makes the day suck a whole lot more when it doesn’t come to fruition.

I really should know better. After all my philosophy on life is that the eternal pessimist is never disappointed...

So as I counted away the minutes at work on a day where my importance was no more enhanced than that of any other, I still had hope that Facebook, of all things, would save my day. For I knew that when I got home and logged in I would be welcomed by a virtual wall of birthday greetings. Now that would be the shit.

Only it was complete shit, because a few months ago I removed my birth date from my profile to make it harder for someone to steal my identity. With that gone, no bugger got a reminder that yesterday was my birthday. Online safety, it would seem, is not without a sense of irony.

Admittedly it wasn’t all grim. Choppa whipped out a slab of banana cake upon my arrival, with candles no less. Maxi promised me that Lisa Lewis was on her way (she wasn’t. The bitch.) and Bruiser got me really bailed up with talk of buying me G.I.Joes for a present. He really is the mother I always wish I had.

So I’ve decided that next year, my 35th, will be the shit. I’m going to hold an all expenses paid party to which I will invite all 64 of my Stalkbook friends, most of the people I work with, old Veitnam buddies and everybody that is anybody in my magnificent life.

I will even fly in mates from overseas and I’ll make the joke that the only time you get this many friends in one room is at a funeral. It will be funny on so many levels. The dress code for the night will be tight, revealing, or both.

It will be held at some venue like Queens Wharf only not quite as gay. It will be something of a cross between an old school sports disco, a rock concert and a dance party. There will be tables, couches and a dance area. Upstairs there will be a gaming area for Junior and his mates to hang out and watch the adults get pissed below and it will be there that Big Gay Ray will spend most of the night, breaking the spirit of many a 11 year old on the PS3.

There will be a constant stream of food and piss, all served by ridiculously good looking waitresses that I will have handpicked and that Almo will spend the night hitting on. Matty T will have them all mentally organised into his Top Ten and DougalMac will try to get subtle cell phone photos of them all.

At some point The ClubDes House Band will make an appearance comprising of me and other muso mates. We will rock out with our cocks out on a handful of songs like “Waking up in ClubDes” and other likeminded anthems that put lead in my pencil. I won’t sing much myself, because I am quite shit, but I’ll do one or two numbers like “Jessies Girl” that only KB will get.

At some point the juniors of the world will be sent home and the party will really start a rockin’. The entire night’s playlist will be from my iPod and it will be good, damn good. There will be lights, smoke and free taxi rides home and for many, many months afterwards we’ll all talk about it as the night we really did party like it was 1999.

It will be the shit.

P.S. The cost of which, even at this early stage, is looking like it’ll be something like a million bucks. I’d better start the whip round tomorrow...

Bruiser did try to spark things up for my birthday...

Fancy Some Gok?

If there’s one thing we love more than a celebrity in this country, it’s a gay one.

Not a sneaky gay man mind you like Adam Lambert or Neil Patrick Harris, because you can never quite tell with guys like that, no we love our celebrity homo’s to be raging. Like designer, fashionista and full on gay man Gok Wan, who was in the country last week and my, didn’t he get the penile blood pumping.

Gok was here as the new ambassador for retail chain Spec Savers and did the obligatory spokesperson things; gave female news anchors advice on their frames, judged ‘best specs’ contests, probably recorded a few TV ads and of course, played his role in the whole ‘gay man meets awkwardly straight man’ interview routine . Oh how he must tire of doing that.

It was his interviews on the likes of Breakfast and Close Up that proved that behind the facade of straightness, many a NZ male is gagging for a bit of Gok. Paul Henry, he of the glassed POV, gushed all over the Gok, as did Mike Hosking who tried to make like he was uncomfortable whenever Gok laid some in-your-end-oh on him but you could tell that deep down, he was loving it.

The irony being of course that for a long time in the media many believed Hosking did actually fancy some Gok.

Personally I like a bit of Gok. I admire the adversity he’s gotten over in his life and the magnificent work he does increasing the self confidence and body appreciation of every day women. I like that he sometimes makes his hair look like a minge and I especially like that if it wasn’t for his TV show I would have no idea who Alexa Chung is and I fancy the designer pants off her:

All of which reminds me of two things; a very funny Catherine Tate sketch and a theory I’ve have for a while now on just how many of us would secretly love a bit of Gok.

It’s all based on the research done in the 1940’s by a guy named Alfred Kinsey. He conducted some then groundbreaking studies on the sexual activities of men and women in America. What he found was so profoundly revealing that for a long time the two books he published on the matter were banned in several States as ‘objectionable’.

In his findings he found that almost half the men he had surveyed had had a consensual homosexual experience and from that, he was able to formulate a scale of 1 – 6 indicating just how gay a fella was; one being dead and six being, well, Gok.

It was shocking stuff to Middle America because although homosexuality wasn’t stigmatised in the mainstream like it is today, nobody was bumming each other out in the open either.

His methods were pretty kinky too, Kinsey encouraged his research team, both male and female, to sleep with each other and even their wives if they so felt the urge but then this was the swinging Forties after all. That kind of stuff only happens at arranged parties these days. Or so I’m told.

These days we see a lot of homo repression and almost everyone with a penis has taken part in the teasing of each over supposed gayness, but when I learnt of Kinsey’s research I started to wonder if it’s all really an act of bravado that we fella’s have built up over the years to hide the fact that we really wouldn’t mind a bit of sausage in the morning.

Being gay, somewhat ironically, is now ‘in fashion’ more than it ever was with people even pretending to be queer and yet, there is still that stigma attached by most males to being attracted to the person, not the gender.

Not that I’m trying to tell you something about myself that you didn’t know either for I really do fancy only the one penis; mine.

But the real question is just how many of us really do fancy a bit of Gok...?

Mmmmm Gok, so hot right now.

The Safety Of The Net

Did you read of the dirty prick that got done this week for attempting to sexually groom a 14 year old girl online?

Only it wasn’t a 14 year old really, it was a NZ Police Detective posing as one and the 45 year old former school teacher polishing his knob at the other end was caught lock, stock and two swelling testicles.

And what a surprise that it was a school teacher involved aye? Then there’s this guy, a Kiwi working in England who likes to stay in touch with his former pupils via Facebook so he can see how they’re doing. Sure he does and hopefully gets them into web cam sessions where he tries to get them naked.

There’s a reason why Facebook automatically locks the accounts of anyone under the age of 18 – and this guy is it. It’s a bit damn scary when teachers tire of trying to get down each other’s pants and decide to try it on our kids instead...

Speaking of Facebook, are you, like me, just sick of seeing new stories about it all over the place that are even remotely interesting? So they've changed their settings, or people cheating on their spouses are being caught in the act. Hey if they're that silly to braodcast it on Facebook so they should get caught. Newsworthy it ain't.

Anyhoo. I applaud this kind of subterfuge by Police the world over. For some reason the internet has become a place where far too many people feel the rules of society no longer apply and they do things that there inner voice would otherwise tell them not to. Like tell a 14 year old girl how to play with herself, ask her for sex 22 times and / or masturbate on Cock Roulette.

I’m even willing to offer my services to the internet Police on this one. I’m prepared to go online and pretend to be a 14 year old boy in order to entrap cougars and young women who might try to groom me for sex.

I’ll fool them into sending me copious amounts of nudie pics on the premise that I’m teaching myself to wank...it won’t be pleasant but I’m prepared to make sacrifices in order to make the world a safe place.

My old P.E teacher, Mr Jackson, likes to see how I'm doing these days too...

Better Work Stories? I've Got 'Em.

One of the many benefits (and by far the coolest) of working where I work, is that you are often surrounded by shit that others never, ever get to see up close.

Like being buzzed by an Army Iroquois all day today, as it drops off and then picks up again, armed to the teeth AOS squads. Oh aand these guys were packing too, all locked, loaded and the mother fucken safeties off.

Well they were probably on to be fair, but hey, let’s not worry about the finer details.

Needless to say for us Vietnam Vets it was one long wet day dream, especially with a scene from The Matrix outside your window every 15 minutes. But not everyone was enjoying the action...

From: Noshow
To: DG Macca
Subject: I am so turned on...

You're missing all the chopper action over here DG Macca and I'm not talking about us hitting the communal showers again either...

From: DG Macca
To: Noshow
Subject: Re: I’m not...

I'm not interested in associating myself with that bunch of amateurs!

I was disgusted at the e-mail that came out notifying us that they would not be flying yesterday due to the fact that there was a little bit of moisture about.

The shit would have really hit the fan if we had tried that nancy crap on back in Nam....

"Sorry LT, we can't go in to serve Charlie his daily dose as it appears that it's a little damp out today".

Man, we would have been on latrine duty for the rest of our lives.

See? We really do have better work stories.

Cats & Tats

I know I’ve said it once but I’m going to say it again; my cat is awesome.

Now I don’t want you to think that I’m one of those spinster types that keep photos of their pets on their desk and as screensavers and yes, I know pets and kids are never quite as good looking in reality as you’d like to think they are, but mine is.

My only wish is that he was big enough for me to mount and ride him.

Imagine that Jermaine, me arriving at your place on my giant domestic cat. I would never need to tie him up because he’d only ever serve one master and we’d be able to communicate in much the same way that only Han Solo could understand Chewbacca.

He’d be like that bloody horse of the National Bank ads too and just appear when you least expected, watching, always watching. Like Aslan the lion only less Christian. At night I would ride him bareback through the fields, holding on only by handfuls of his white fur as his muscular legs propelled us through the long grass.

Later we would wash the excitement off by bathing together in the lake which is not at all odd because my cat really does dig water; he’ll often hop in the shower or dip his paws in a bath. See I told you, he’s awesome.

If I ever got round to having a tattoo I’d seriously contemplate having him on one arm and our other cat on the other. Not as in a gay Lassie portrait kind of way, but in a Chris Garver tiger sprawling up each arm way. That would be awesome. Tattoos are awesome. I wish I had one.

The reason I never got a tattoo for a long time is that I feared little things, like pain, and looking like a complete peen-arse because I’ve got skinny extremities and a kick arse tattoo definitely loses some, if not all, of its coolness when etched on the guns of a nine year old.

For a long time I was comfortable in telling myself that that was the reason but then it dawned on me that far skinnier, far weaker and far more tragic peeps than I have been tattooed and they look awesome.

Except the bogan at my school that lied about his age so that he could get a tat a full year before he was legally allowed to.

He went to one of those parlours where everyone who works there looks like they have Hepatitis and as you’ll find out a few months later, they did. His tat sucked and looked ridiculous on his skinny, pale arm, especially when he wore his sleeveless flannelette shirt on freezing cold days, just so he could show us all his ink stain. What a winner.

Tattoo wearing is very much in vogue these days. Everybody seems to have at least one and isn’t afraid to show them, as a mark of their individuality as much as it is art and I like that, I really do. If there’s one thing that excites me more than riding my cat bareback it’s a girl with a spectacularly cool sleeve, or two.

But there’s a small, nagging irony in this whole thing that I just can’t seem to get over; people get tattooed to express their individuality but yet consume the same products en masse that make them far from an individual i.e. cell phones, iProducts, clothes etc.

Once upon a time people got tattooed because it really did make them stand out, so much so that society shunned them. Now I can’t help but think people get tattooed because everyone else is. So now I have another reason as to why I won’t be getting one any time soon and I feel strangely contented with it.

P.S. Your new sleeve is awesome KB. Like the song, you are the only exception.

Me and my cat. Awesome.