Yo Hailz! Tweet Me Kay? Thx

Apparently we Kiwis are one of the heaviest users, per capita, of Twitter.

Something I was not surprised to learn because let’s face it, we as a nation, love the sound of our own fucken voices. Twitter is just another in a long line of mediums that fool us in to believing as if somehow, somewhere, someone actually cares about what we think and say.

Think talk back radio, letters to the editor, blogs (mine excluded of course, because it is quite ace) and you have more bastards blowing than a windy day. Add to that Bebo and then Facebook and you have a whole new generation of loud mouths filling cyberspace with their innermost musings.

There’s another factor I reckon and it’s this other warped sense of importance we seem to collectively have in NZ, which comes, ironically, from being a small country on the other side of the world millions of miles away from anywhere. It’s this sense of missing out on something that makes many of us think that it’s vitally important that we unload our shit on everyone else, really fucken quickly.

Other countries similar to us in size just don’t care about stuff like that. The Nordic nations focus instead on making love to each other, smoking funky things and doing magical things with pastry.

Asian countries just get on with working their arse of for the man and doing sensational things with rice, which, by the way, is a great food if you ever want to eat a thousand of anything.

Speaking of which, do you think the Indians will sort their shit out in Delhi? To me it looks like they’ve just spread their shit out which is the crux of the issue really. I know hindsight is a wonderful thing but you have to wonder don’t you, just what kind of fucktard would award anything to Delhi but the Shithole of the World award?

Anyhoo. We’re big online gamers too, apparently. Sometimes, when I get bored of actually having a life, I wonder if I should’ve got into online gaming because it would definitely have been my thing many years ago.

I’d be the shit too. Whenever Coops and I went to the movies because we couldn’t get real girlfriends, we’d always stop and have a few games of Time Crisis and we were so good at it that they had to put up a sign after our first visit that read ‘No Professionals’.

Afterwards we’d be so amped we’d sit at the back of the theatre in the row with about five seats, hoping no one would notice our semis. Told you, I’d make a perfect online gamer.

As I alluded to in my last post there comes a false sense of security with all this virtual openness. It’s easy to start thinking that by being ‘out there’ unscrupulous cads will be put off stalking, stealing identities and other fruity things like breaking into your house just to leave you a dump in your toilet.

People don’t put their full name on things in the virtual world because they feel safe. It’s so that you can find them, realy easy and listen to what they have to say because opinions are like arseholes, everyone has one and you’ll find no bigger collection of arseholes than you will on the net (and I’m not just talking about the kind of sites that DougalMac frequents).

So tweet all you want New Zealand because I ain’t listening. Or reading. Or however the hell it works. I don’t care who has the most followers and I certainly don’t care that you think where you are right now is just so exciting you had to stop and tweet about it. Think again you tit.

I did like the tweet-nip-pic though Hayley Williams. Post more and I just might sign up...

I'd tweet that.

WankBook and The Chef

I read something somewhere recently how some silly bitch was proclaiming that these days The Net is actually a very safe place and the proof is that everybody uses their real name in email addresses and on Twitter and shit.

Clearly she hasn’t be stalked by some nut bar which surprises me in one sense; she’s an editor on a public website, but not on another; she is a complete minger.

Oh and I have a theory on that very premise that I’ll cover in another blog. Not that she’s a minger, because that is completely true, no, more on Twitter and shit later.

Sometimes, just sometimes, when I start to think that she might be right I have to remind myself that there are guys like this out there and guys like me, trolling the net just waiting to mock the shit out of them.

I have blanked out his last name because as you’ll see he may not be the sharpest knife in the draw but like so many borderline personalities he does seem to have access to some and that makes him a little bit scary.

Likewise I removed the name of his friends because it’s not really their fault that he’s their mate is it?

Let’s start at the top.

‘Chef’ is not even a real title. Not like ‘Doctor’ or ‘Sir’ which would be used when introducing or talking about someone. I have a feeling Chef Michael introduces himself as such and probably even talks about Chef Michael in the third person. Win-ner.

Now I know a Chef Mike and he's not even a real Chef but that's okay, because his title is a term of endearment. We bestowed it upon him for chrissake, it's not like he created himself a Facebook account using it.

He's a standup guy is our Chef, the real Chef, who does wonderful things with pastry and I suspect does not 'cook alone' quite as much as Fake Chef. And by 'cook alone' I mean wank.

Fake Chef Mike's activities are interesting and his interests scary, although strangely, his interests are not actually listed as activities...so it makes me wonder why he even listed them at all?!

The real clue though that Chef Michael is, in fact a Penis is that he lists ‘Samurai’ and ‘Ninjitsu’ as activities when we all know you’re one or the mother fucken other. Which is it, Samurai or Ninja? You can’t be both Superman AND Batman, you tit.

And no self respecting weight lifting, Samurai Ninja would even feel the need to know what a sniper rifle looks like let alone use one. Swords are much better because they are silent which means you’re more likely to use them. Shits opponent’s right up. Guns for show; swords for a pro.

So let’s be careful out there gang. Because if you ever start feeling a little better about the world wide porn web just remember that the application could be renamed WankBook tomorrow and guys like the curry munching Chef would still fit right in.

Boring Sports #3 - Basketball

Basketball is a boring sport and here’s just one reason why; the world champs were played last week and Turkey finished second.

Turkey. The land of kebabs, delight and now the second best basketball team in the world, which is even more disturbing than the time the Captain Kirks finished third at the football World Cup in 2002...

Basketball is played in a lot of countries and internationally it appears to be a very competitive sport, which should make it great and compelling to watch, but yet it doesn’t because who really wants to see Lithuania win a world anything?

Basketball is one of those sports where it’s not about scoring – that’s the easy bit – but outscoring your scoring opponent. Fans of such sports will say that makes it exciting, I say anytime a team scores a hundred of anything and only just wins then that makes it boring.

Consider this; I drive the passion wagon in and out of the garage several times a day, would trying to do so more times than the boy racer next door make it any the more exciting? No, it would not.

Now I may well be a white man who can’t jump, but I have some history with basketball that allows me to make the criticism including having watched the movie of the same name more than once.

I grew up in the mean streets of Naenae at a time when interest in the NBA really cranked up and for a while there I was even an official garment of the NBA wearing kango.

But back then who wasn’t? We had moved on from the WWF; had collected all the trading cards and watched all the Summer Slams, had grown out of our NSW and Queensland State of Origin jerseys so basketball wear was the natural progression.

This was at the height of the Chicago Bulls legacy and some guy called Mike was making ‘hang time’ a profession. Bruiser was into Mike in a big way and now that I think back on it, his obsession for the seven foot black man was probably not healthy.

He always had the shoes, the ones with the pump in the tongue, the life size posters, all the videos and all the clothes. He not only watched Space Jam several times but rated it and if Facebook had been around then he would have been a fan and dare I say it, a friend of the big man.

We all had our favourites. I can’t recall mine but then I would’ve only pretended to be interested so as to appear windswept and interesting to the young ladies that hung around my tall, long dicked, basketball playing mates strutting around in their Club 55 tees. It didn’t work.

Back then, as it is now, basketball is great when it’s a five minute highlights package of all the slam dunks and massive, buzzer beating three pointers from the men’s toilets, it’s just everything in between that blows.

And why does every game have to be commented on by at least one loud American who wheels out every annoying basketball phrase in the book?

John Dybvig was always good value as a comments man but then he looked like he would thrash his wife and kids, or somebody else’s, within an inch of their life at any moment, which made him imminently watchable.

Yes, they might love basketball in Turkey and Lithuania (who finished third for fucks sake) but it’s not my cup of tea.

Jammin with my homies, back when Basketball was as cool as wearing two singlets...

Mortality Check

I never thought I’d be quite as pleased to have a discharge as I do today. Oh yes, its home time.

Here’s to at least another two years between hospital visits but with the chances of some bastard giving me swine flu again I won’t hold my breath. Besides, lack of oxygen is what got me here in the first place.

This visit has been unlike my last three, it was, in the immortal words of Big Chris, emotional.

I don’t want to over dramatise things because I hate wankers who do, but my first night in here was about as close to me checking out as I’d quite like to get for a bit, fuck you very much. I like to tell people that it wasn’t that hairy but if I were to be honest – and don’t tell anyone that I am now – but it was the retro minge of close calls.

And you know what my main thought as I lay there struggling to inflate my sad state of a lung sack? That I hadn’t yet put together a playlist of essential funeral songs for the missus to play, should this be it. Yep, priorities - I’ve got ‘em.

Now I’ve been in similar predicaments before and I’m not talking about Nam either. Oh sure, we got into our fair share of shit storm’s there, but there was no chance I was going to let someone with a name that sounds like an empty Coke can blowing down the street and an AK47 take out Noshow.

But when you’ve got little things like, oh, lungs and shit starting to cease what it is they should be doing, then there is a point where you have to man up and make a decision; do I stay or do I go?

Far be it for me to shatter any Mills & Boon dreams you might have about how that moment might present itself were you ever unfortunate to reach it, but here’s how it goes; there are no bright lights, no aliens in spaceships probing your anus (Maxi you will be disappointed), or sadly, nubile maidens in nearly-but-not quite see through cotton one pieces beckoning you into the water.

The chances are that when it comes you’ll have several tubes sticking in you, which always looks so ace on TV, but in reality makes the necessities of life, like sleeping, impossible. There will be a constant stream of people fussing over you the problem, not you the patient and despite all this activity there’s a very high possibility that you’ll be alone.

Nor will there be some gay, Greys Anatomy back ground music track playing but that’s a plus really.

It will be just you and the choice. Like Neo choosing between Trinity and Zion or Batman choosing Rachel over Harvey Dent and you lot know me, I’m a sucker for a good looking brunette so I chose to stay with mine. But it’s not the easier door to open, I won’t lie to you.

Yet open it you must because unless your penis has seen so little action that it’s retracted upon itself thus leaving you with a vagina, or vice versa depending on your gender, you will still have much to see and do. Personally I plan to write at least 4000 more blogs, coach more football and stalk so many more young ladies on Facebook.

Mortality is not something I contemplate too much because that would lead to eyeliner, striped jerseys, Adam Lambert CDs and crying over absolutely nothing, but every now and then you just have to look back and say “Shit in my mouth. That was a close one”.

There's only ever one door worth opening...

Things To Read When You're In A Hospital Bed

When cooped up for nine days straight one often turns to reading to pass the time. Well that or masturbating but we all know you can only do so much of that before the chaffing starts...

Luckily I have several magazines to peruse in between bouts of treating my body like an amusement park ride.

1. NZ Home & Garden – Provided by raging interior designer Maxi

This is one of those mags where women who look like a boiled horse pull on their best white pants and pose with their hen pecked husbands on beds and couches that are more pillow than furniture.

They like to hang their plates on the wall, have seven duvets where one would suffice and for whom sticking flowers in a vase on a jaunty angle is about as cutting edge as life gets.

They are always, always pictured with their husbands who look as though they are gagging to say “Enjoy this moment dear because once the photographer is gone I’m moving in with my 18 year old sugar daughter who really does give me something for all the money I waste on her…”

Masturbatory verdict: Absolutely none, unless you have a thing for middle aged women who look like tampons in their tightey whitey three quarter pant’s..

2. NZ Performance Car – Provided by thoughtful but ultimately misguided sister

One for the mecapheliacs. Lots of shiny, throbbing pistons and rotary engines adorn these pages, usually from cars owned by young people who must be mortgaged up to their eyeballs.

Strangely, most of the featured rides were bought, dismantled and rebuilt again at some cost just so they could make an RX7 look like, well, a RX7. What the fuck for?

There’s a lot of Asian envy in these pages and of course, the token tart in a bikini who you just know has no interest in cars that drift or the gearsticks that drive them.

My issue also has a big A3 poster of a shiny RX7 that I doubt will appear on any wall other than that of the guy that owns it.

Masturbatory verdict: Lame with a capital L, although, having read it I did have the desire to insert my penis into the exhaust of the passion wagon. Imagine that.

3. FHM – Snuck into the work basket by the lads. Have you fullas never heard of a stick mag? Geez.

For Handy Masturbating is a magazine I have always struggled to understand the point of even when I was looking for a handy wank back in the day.

It really is the junk shop of magazines and tries to squeeze a whole bunch of stuff that apparently appeals to men, like cars, movies, fashion and grooming but ultimately fails because the geezers buying it are not doing so for the articles.

Jessica Alba is in my one and yes, she is an attractive lady but she kills the mood a little by declaring that she would never appear nude on screen or in print.

And besides, she reminds me far too much of ClubDes alumni Amz for me to ever fancy her in a dirty way.

Masturbatory verdict: it was a sad wank.

4. Uncut – a good effort by the sis.

This is one of those English music mags which is for the most part a really good read. The rest is all about how one of the writers attended some obscure concert by some obscure band that has gone on to become the stuff of legend. Well, at least to the four people that saw it that day anyway.

My issue has Fifty Best Lost Movies, all of which were scandalous and in some cases salacious in their day, but are all bar a few, are completely nonexistent today. And the point of the article was thus...?

My copy also has a free CD of artists I have never ever heard of before and by the look of it, never ever will again.

Masturbatory verdict: Original Lady Man Lady, David Bowie, was strangely attractive during the 70’s.....

5. New Idea – included in the basket from work. Not funny guys, not funny.

Utter drivel aimed at the Good Morning watchers amongst us. A program which happens to be the ultimate in catering for those with attention deficit disorder...

Masturbatory verdict: I wouldn’t even beat the cleaner with this, let alone the meat.

6. Time, The Listener – bought by the missus in an excellent effort.

Once upon a time I collected these mags like I did my X-Men comics and I was pleasantly reminder why; cover to cover factual reporting that is so informative my brain just about burst for a bit.

Masturbatory verdict: Faster working than Viagra which, for those who don’t know, takes about half an hour and by then she’s probably managed to wriggle free anyway….

Camera Self Shot Fail

Is it really worth the fuss ladies, really?

Selfshot #1

Selfshot #2

Not really, no.

Hospital Bed Clarity

The world is a crazy place isn’t it, what with earthquakes in Crimechurch, floods in Pakistan and the cell phone thief who uses the stolen handset to take pics of his wang which he then sends to everyone in the contacts book.

Personally I don’t know why the guy has to commit a crime to facilitate such a joyous task, why not just pick up a mate’s phone when he’s not looking? I know I do. I don’t send mine though I just leave them there for the significant other to find one day. It beggars the question though; just what would you do if you got a cock pic from the phone of your best mate...?

Angelina Jolie visited Pakistan this week in one of those poignant but utterly fruitless celebrity endorsements of a cause. Her revelation on seeing the place was that yes, it was quite shit and yes, something really needs to be done about it. And who says actors can only be told what to say aye?

There’s probably several reasons why people aren’t flocking to help the Paki’s like they have other nations affected by natural disasters, but consider this; in the same week we were hearing about the floods we had the Pakistani cricket team being exposed, yet again, for the cheating bastards they are.

So what are the cricketers doing for their fellow countrymen at this time? Living the high life, pretending to be rock stars and taking bribes to bowl no balls, that’s what and Ms Jolie wonders just why it is no bugger wants to lift a finger to help?!

Of course it’s easy for me to have this clarity when locked away in Ward 5 where I spend my days not concerned with the poor and impoverished of the world, but instead getting angry at really important things like the gay designers on 60 Minute Makeover and their decidedly piss poor taste. Since when did being gay mean that you automatically lose any semblance of colour coordination?

But then it’s easy to be a gay interior designer when its someone else’s money isn’t it? Oh how the real rimmers amongst us must cringe when they see the ‘Fabulous’ branch of the movement out in the public eye fucking it up for everybody.

Angelina doesn’t have the time to have my clarity. She has a family and a career of course and must fret dreadfully over just what to do with all those millions she makes from lame movies like Salt. Personally I liked her a lot more when she was edgy, bi-curious and prone to getting her nungas out in movies.

Everything up to Tomb Raider was cool but it’s all gone a bit mediocre since then I reckon. Mr and Mrs Smith was a good wank the first time round but I struggled to rub one out during consequent viewings.

Sadly I haven’t yet had a nurse that comes close to being even remotely attractive as Ms Pitt, yet. The closest so far is tidy, but she does have a passing resemblance to a colleague at work who just happens to be a dude. Which is like fancying your best mates younger sister who is hot and the opportunity is always there, but yet so is the family resemblance...

So what can Angelina do to make a change in Pakistan other than state the obvious I wonder? Maybe she could fly Mayor Bob Parker over when he’s done with being the hero of Crimeschurch and he could do his stubble and Icebreaker orange jacket thing over there? It seems to be working well here.

Or maybe she could bribe some Pakistani cricketers to fuck off home and help out with the cleanup.

Bloody gay interior designers, always getting it wrong...

Breaking Through The Bubble

Hey, which are you sick of hearing about more; me being sick or the Christchurch fucking earthquake?

Personally, for me, it’s the latter although I’m just about over the former too. It doesn’t help that I’ve been in isolation for five days watching wall to boring wall coverage of the quake.

Thankfully I am now out of isolation and the doctors say I’m on the mend but given that I didn’t once think of playing with myself in that entire time I’m not so sure...

Why I’ve even left the room a few times too, with Mrs ClubDes to make a cuppa and always with a surgical mask ala Michael Jackson. I don’t need to wear the mask, so say those that would supposedly know, but given the last guy admitted with my condition died on account of something he picked up whilst staying here I’ll keep it on, fuck you very much.

Despite being in a hospital I feel very strange in wearing one.

I can’t help but feel I must look like an Asian on my walk to work, which is a bizarre thing anyway when you consider that Asians are prepared to bombard their ovaries and testes with the gamma rays from any number of miniature electronic devices they profigate but yet, they stress over a little bit of airborne carbon monoxide?!

Of course being a fully fledged ninja I am well used to wearing a facial mask but then I’m used to being completely invisible when I do so too. Hence my anxiety.

It’s fair to say then that with my isolation and paranoia about cross infection I have become a little, shall we say, unhinged. Last night I ventured out by myself in the 9pm twilight for a simple char run and it all went horribly wrong.

The writing was on the wall when I passed the room where I could see two massive, black feet, face down and sticking out from the end of the bed. Was it a patient, I wondered, or was it some dear old lady getting railed by a six foot four black man, because that really would be alternative medicine at its most inventive...

Then there were the fire doors that were closed, thus blocking my way to the kitchen. Now usually I’m well aware that pushing the green button releases these things but for some inexplicable reason all logic went out the window and I panicked.

For two reasons really; I’m a little on edge as it is but also a good looking blonde nurse was watching what I was doing and possibly all the time wondering just how awesome a guy needs to be to get a Captain Awesome tee shirt issued to him like the one I was wearing.

Naturally I was eager not to disappoint her by failing to navigate a fire door because that would be distinctly un-awesome.

So I doubled round to the second set of doors and they too were closed. They even had a bit of paper stuck on them telling me to use the button but yet, I retreated back into the night and scarpered back to the safety of my room - my bubble - tea less and slightly concerned that my room was only one away from the black man.

Actually, come to think of it, if I’m having thoughts like that then maybe I am on the road to recovery after all...

A Week Of Firsts

Well. What a week of firsts it has been for your’s truly.

It’s the first time I’ve gone without anything resembling sleep for about five consecutive nights, food of any sort for three days, the first time I’ve actually felt quite close to carking it and my first time in the new hospital. Oh and the first time I’ve had swine flu, did I mention that?

The new digs are very nice by the way; a vast improvement on the old, but the same old design flaws make this modern day version the biggest mastabatorium since Dougal Macs time at boy’s school.

Like all the sinks which are still delicate poised at crutch height with hairline triggers for taps and which pick up the slightest change in air pressure anytime your hand goes near them, thus dumping a pulsating stream of water into the sink, the wall and your crutch.

It would be all a little bit erotic if it didn’t leave you looking like you had been playing with yourself rather than doing whatever it was that you were supposed to be doing. Incidentally that’s one first I haven’t yet rattled off in the new ward, a wank, but yet, the stay is still young…

I have however had two, yes two, up close and personal space contact moments with nurses which included some accidental boob touching. Unfortunately they were both of the morbidly obese build so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that the pleasure was all theirs.

And please let the record show that as far as the two aforementioned incidents go, I was more concerned - as is usually the case with such encounters - of the weight shifting ability of the said nurses were gravity to get involved. How many incidents of death by accidental smothering by obese nurses go unreported in hospitals I have since thought.

It doesn’t seem right does it, that nurses are allowed to be obese? How is that supposed to inspire anyone to get back to full fitness? Now topless nurses on the other hand..

The one thing they don’t tell you about swine flu is that it is the biggest trip you can have legally and for good reason too because imagine if that news got out?!

Young people would stop trying to look like they’ve got hepatitis (as most of them seem to do) and start trying to cultivate the pale, emaciated, dead behind the eyes look of the H1N1. Now that really would be a trip.

So it has indeed been a week of firsts. Although what with the blood, sweat, hallucinations, Filipino nurses and choppers landing on the roof it’s all been very much like my time in the evac hospital at Hanoi in 1970.

Only without obese nurses.

The movement has begun...