Reboot.

Hows this for irony; the ClubDes desktop is broke and despite working on a technical help desk I can’t do a thing about it.

Not surprising really because I’m an ideas man, not really a doer as Mrs ClubDes is only too happy to point out. Admittedly she starts plenty of things started but seldom finishes them so we make a good pair really.

I know what’s wrong with the damn thing and no, it’s not a hard drive chock full of ‘the good stuff’. The video card is stuffed and I’ve proven it by using a loner from work that I really should have kept because no one would have noticed if I had. But I am an honest lad and didn’t.

That was about two years ago and since then have made three concerted efforts to find a replacement, mostly under harassment of not being a doer, I should add. The first involved me contacting Hewlett Packard directly only to have the will to live sucked from me by their helpless desk and their incessant need to tick every fucken box on their ‘450 mandatory checks to make before logging a fault’ list.

The second involved Chef because he’s quite clued up and not just with food. He was very helpful and we got to the point where we tested two replacement cards that were new, but faulty. And about there he left it, possibly because I lost interest and he picked me, quite correctly I might add, as a hopeless case.

So we come to the third, most recent attempt which started with me emailing the deets through to HP the other day. ‘Deets’ by the way is short for ‘details’. I get this new found abbreviated jargon from coaching my girls who are all totes about the abbreviation. ‘Totes’ is short for ‘totally’, btw, which is short for…..oh forget it.

They emailed me back stating that although our desktop was no longer supported but did provide a link to an approved supplier that may have the part. They didn’t, because the desktop is no longer supported. Funny that.

Unsupported? My Grandmas nungas are unsupported and why not at her age aye, she’s earned the right to free boob if she wants, but it’s a bit fucken cheeky of HP to say the same about a bit of kit that I bet somewhere, right now, some Asian family is getting paid 50 cents a day to put together and dispatch. Now this is no Commodore 64 from 1984 either, it’s about four years old.

They want me to buy a new one, that’s why it’s not supported no more. But it’s a fine line playing that game because I’m so slutted with them I’m not going to buy HP ever again. I’ll instead buy some other brand that will undoubtedly go the same way in four years time. And you thought porn on the internet was free aye? What a fucken liberty.

It’s a conspiracy is what it is. I’ve always felt the same about Sony who I truly believe have a big red button on the wall somewhere at Sony HQ that when pressed, kills off all the previous incarnations of the Playstation meaning, if you have one, that you now have to upgrade to the new $800 model. That button sounds like a cash register when pushed.

Thankfully I have one more option and it, or rather he, works on the help desk, so I know he’ll know his shit. Unless he’s an ideas man, like me then I really am stuffed.

So no pressure Puffer, but it’s your cock up, my arse.

I'm pretty sure I know what the problem is...

Her Next Door

Today I read yet another trivial ‘news’ story featuring Katy Perry, the very sexy singer who touched us all with her breakthrough song about kissing a girl.

I fancy her like crazy but not since she started dating Russell Brand. What's he got that I haven't is what I ask myself when dancing topless to her songs in the mirror.

Why is it that when someone windswept and interesting like Perry comes along we all start gagging for any tidbit of a story that might prove even more titillating than the last?

Whether she really does like to kiss girls or not who cares? She sang a song about it and got over it, if only we could. Now that she’s hooked up with that mangina Brand it’s like all the newspapers and websites in the world are hoping that it all goes spectacularly sexual so that they have a licence to print even more money.

I do like her songs though and it’s okay for a guy to sing them too, which isn’t always the case because girlie songs are not always suited for a deep manly voice like mine, thanks to my bull like testicles.

I have been sitting at home today, with the front door wide open, singing like no one is listening and only now do I realise someone has been - she next door who likes to sunbathe topless in the back yard.

I wouldn't mind that she gets her knockers out as often as she does were she 17 but she's about 50 and at that age gravity is the enemy. All summer I have been painting the fences and there is a section that I am yet to paint because I can see through the planks. Even if I tried not to, I would still see through the planks.

I had a close call the other day whilst painting the section next to said glory hole. My wife was water blasting the drive at the time and she next door, perhaps panicking at the thought of an unexpected shower, popped her head above the parapets to see just how far away the missus was.

Thankfully she didn’t look my way because I wasn’t in the mood to make conversation with a topless retiree, but the real relief was that I wasn’t working on the said section because I would have had a knothole full of nipple and she a body paint experience like no other.

Needless to say that section can bloody wait till the winter.

The view through planks three and four...

James Cameron's Legacy - Postscript

My ten year old son went and saw Avatar with the mother-in-law today, his take on the film: Averagetar.

"How was it son?"

"Okay, not the four stars everyone raves on about it being."

"Oh no? Why not"

"Well the first half hour is okay then it's like 4 hours of talking about the same thing. Boring"

"What about the 3D?"

"It's okay, I could have drawn better though."

"Really?"

"Yep and I would have drawn a lot less boobs too."

Straight from the mouth of babes.

James Cameron's Legacy

The most common question around the traps these days is, somewhat surprisingly, not “Do you fancy a bum?” but rather “Seen Avatar yet?”

Personally, I’d prefer the first.

I haven’t been to see Avatar and I won’t lie to you, I don’t plan to anytime soon. I’m not saying that I’d prefer to stare at the wall and hold my breath for two hours instead, but the thing just doesn’t interest me, even if it is full of big blue alien boobs (and kinky stuff like that usually does interest me. Enormously so).

For a start, when I first heard of it I thought ‘Avatar’ was a movie adaption of the rather cool cartoon my son sometimes watches. It isn’t (although there is a movie of that coming out) and I’m still a little pissed that I got all excited needlessly.

Secondly, the plot doesn’t interest me. From what I’ve seen of it the bulk of the money spent on the flick wasn’t on an original script. Visually it’s spectacular, so I’m told, but I’ve seen 3-D before, hell I’ve even seen 4-D (Shrek 4 @ MovieWorld, Australia) so again, nothing new there.

Which is typical James Cameron really. Sure, Terminator was blow-your-socks off visually stunning for its time, but Titanic was gayer than the volleyball scene in Top Gun and instead played the epic love story card, which is rather ironic don’t you think, given that Cameron has had five wives?

All of which makes Avatar seem to me to be a bit like the hottest girl in the room, who is also the dumbest. She’s great to look at, but there’s to be strictly no talking when you’re giving her a sneaky finger out the back and just like her, Avatar may be the first good looking 3 D film but it won’t be the last.

Avatar has had its knockers though (and I’m not just talking about blue nungas again), the Vatican hates it but then that might be due to the lack of partially clothed pubescent boys in it. The usual group who whack on about such things have proclaimed it racist, like rice and the anti-smoking lobby think that the character played by Sigourney Weaver sucking on fags the whole time, sucks.

Maybe she should have sucked on a Fishermans Friend instead?

3 D, like widescreen format, high definition and BluRay before it, is the next big thing in movies, or so we’re told. The porn industry, already the frontrunner in my book for so many things on film, like midgets, is the first to pick up on the success of Avatar and is planning to crank out streaming 3 D porn quicker than you get your pants down and the moisturiser out.

The very thought of which I love, because the increase in porn watching injuries is going to sky rocket when it goes 3 D! The reported incidents of accidental injury through one handing surfing go largely unreported these days; no one wants to admit that their chair toppled whilst it was delicately balanced on two legs as they furiously masturbated with alternate hands while trying to control the scroll function of the RedTube clip with their feet.

But those instances of self harm will go through the roof when millions of young men around the world panic, mid wank, when it looks like a big black cock is about to whack them across the forehead, or that they’re about to be drenched in a climactic facial. Not to mention the number of eye related injuries that will occur as 3 D glasses are hurriedly whipped from the head when Mum walks in on them unexpectedly.

And that, James Cameron, will be Avatar’s legacy. You wanker.

Blue boobs, as seen in Avatar.

What's With All The Damn Photo's?!

Should I be alarmed that my son has come home from school with the words to an R Kelly song that they’re having to sing at assembly?

It’s not so much the song but if any of those poor kids was to type his name into Google they might get an education far beyond their years. Perhaps I’ll teach my boy how to spell ‘paedophilia’ and let him Google that instead...

Why is it that teenagers feel the urge to take hundreds of photos whilst doing the most ordinary of things? I spent the better part of my Sunday at the beach the other day which allowed me to partake in one of my favourite pastimes; people watching.

Unfortunately places like the beach are a Mecca for the young and desperate to be noticed, so it’s hard for a fella to sit there with his blu-blockers on trying hard not to look like a perv. I need not have worried though because they were far more obvious dirty old men than I on show but even that didn’t dissuade those gagging for attention from doing their thing.

I was watching a bunch of young teenage girls in bikini’s capturing each other’s every move on their phones and cameras. I wasn’t watching them in a ‘keep looking so I can have a wank about it at home’ kind of way, I did look at other things, but inevitably every time I looked back the cameras were a flashin.

Undoubtedly those photos would have been uploaded to the owners Bebo pages later that evening and everybody who was there on the day, tagged, so those that weren’t there could identify who was...just in case there was any doubt 275 photos later who had actually been there and who hadn’t.

Closer to me were two other similarly aged and clad young ladies who did the same with their cell phones, in between numerous, desperate calls to young men begging them to come join them. The fellas never showed and I wasn’t surprised, they were probably at home prowling through Bebo pages checking out photo’s of other young girls at the beach.

Nobody took photos like that back in my day. If you were lucky enough to have a camera – one with a film and a winder that you could never quite tell had worked or not – then it was unlikely you carried it with you on account of it being about the same size and weight as a brick. If you did take photos the chances were it would be several months before you saw them anyway because it took that long to take the 25 pictures you needed to in order to complete the film.

Once you got them back from the camera shop (where developing took days, not minutes) you would relive the memories the badly exposed shots would bring and curse the ones where you had had your finger over the shutter. And there was always two or three photos less than the 25 the bloody thing had said you’d taken...

Back then it was all about living in and experiencing the moment. Now it’s more about getting dozens of great photos that show you were there and fuck the moment. In a way it’s all about the self promotion that the youth of today seem to think they have to make of themselves in order to get anywhere with anyone.

Girls, who I’ve already discussed my theory on how they do things primarily to impress other girls, not fellas, treat every photo as if it was some raunchy magazine shoot. Look through any online album and there will be young women pouting, giving it their ‘best side’ and slutting it up as if their lives depended on it.

Not that making a tit of yourself is an all exclusive sheila’s club because the young men that they inevitably attract do a pretty good job too, doing their best to look right hard by doing the finger or tensing every muscle from the neck up every time a camera is pointed in their direction. Being surrounded by drunk, loose young women it would seem, is not enough for a fella to sit back with a smile as wide as his stiffie is tall.

There was one other highlight to be seen at the beach; the foreign bird who stripped down to her bra and undies did a spot of topless sun bathing too. Or so my wife tells me. I missed it because I had gone to get the family lunch from New World where, unfortunately, no one had their Scandinavian nungas out.

What a pity my wife didn’t take a photo...

Now this is a photo...

Saving Boobs, One Asparagus Bunch At A Time

I smelt something suss the other morning whilst in the supermarket fondling bundles of asparagus. Had I had a small child with me I might've done what my parents used to do whenever they smelt something fruity; look down the back of my shorts.

What they hoped to see there when they did I will never know because if you've ever tried it with your own children then you'll know the only thing you see down a kids pants is their bum and unless they've had a shart of catastrophic proportions that's all you're ever going to see. But yet, parents everywhere still look. What would they do I wonder, if they did see something - fish it out in the middle of the fruit and veg department? Tasty.

I did once shart myself silly whilst at primary school. I knew I was in trouble the moment I could feel it run down the back of my knee and it was quite the mission making it unnoticed to the boys toilets in the furthest, far flung corner of the school. It's very difficult to run from only the knees down and especially when you're trying to make it look like you haven't just monumentally soiled yourself. Once there, it was a sight the likes of which I hope I never see in my own daks ever again. Things were so bad I had to flush the ones I was wearing and thus, my first experience of going commando was had that very afternoon.

But back in the supermarket it wasn't the asparagus itself that smelt mind you (no, that happened when I had my first whizz the day after I ate it), but more the fact that it was held together with pink rubber bands. On closer inspection of the tag there was that ever present pink bloody ribbon heralding breast cancer awareness, which in itself is cool, but on asparagus?!

October is Breast Cancer Action Month in case you weren't aware which means everybody who is in support of the cause is wearing pink ribbons and buying pink stuff. I'm not wearing a ribbon which must mean I am for breast cancer, which I'm not, but it gets a bit intimidating not brandishing one especially when surrounded by the farkin things. Ribbons that is, not breasts. I don't mind being enclosed by those, especially on long road trips where it's like being wrapped in bubble wrap.

The whole Breast Cancer Awareness thing has to be the 'most supported by a corporate' cause in town. One check of the website confirms that the list of companies plastering their tat pink is a lengthy one, proving that every man and his dog is in on the cause, even the farmer and their asparagus it would seem. Which is great for the awareness, of course, because breast cancer is the most prevalent cancer amongst our women and the most likely to affect that special lady in your life. Grim stuff indeed.

But it is those same sad stats that makes it a 'sexy' cause to be seen supporting, as if an indiscriminate cancer can ever be described as such a thing. All those products with a splash of pink on them make the cause a lot of money but I'm betting they make the producers a whole lot more. It's a ploy that pulls at the heart strings because who doesn't want to save boobies (god knows I know I do), so consumers who so want to be seen doing the right thing will buy the overpriced option that promises 10 whole cents to the cause.

Quite how the marketing extends to garden veg I don't know. Admittedly I was buying the asparagus because it was a two for deal and only noticed the label at the checkout, where, thankfully, there were no children whose pants I could look down the back off. Would the marketing work so well if it was testicular cancer? No, because your average pair of testes are only half appealing as your average set of nungas. And what colour ribbon would you use for that anyway, purpley red?

For the record I did put some coin in the bucket of the lady collecting at the mall because Breast Cancer Action Awareness month is a worthy cause. She gave me a ribbon but I haven't gotten round to wearing it. If only they gave you a Polaroid of the boobs you just saved....

Boobs On Bikes, Tanks and Midgets

It's one of those decisions that could go oh so wrong when at work; do I view the Boobs on Bikes pics online or not?

If you're lucky like me then photographic slide shows are disabled by the security settings on your network so the choice is made for you but I wonder how many did? Not that it mattered because later that night they (being gigantic mammaries) were all over the news. The funniest aspect of just such a story is watching some female news anchor like Hillary Barry having to fight back the disdain she clearly has for having to introduce such a trashy item.

And it is trash. Boobs are boobs and ridiculously large ones aside they fall right into the 'seen one pair seen them all' category. Promoter Steve Crow is man who has undoubtedly seen more teats than a dairy farmer and although he may be many things, he is smart and I reckon he's realised that sex alone doesn't sell these days so this year he kicked up a notch and bought something new to the masses - freaky sex.

You know shits gotten freaky when they have to get someone named 'Chelsea Charms' in on the act. Did she ride a tank because her breasts are so big or was it just to complete the image of mammoth milkers? In any case it doesn't do anything for me personally. Tanks? Yes please! Titanic titties? No thank you.

But its remarkable just how many Aucklanders line the streets this same time every year to watch Steve Crow's floppy Filipino breasted freak show when they could see a lot more quality teet on The Net. And they're not the smartest bunch (well certainly not the ones they interview on the news) which just adds to the freak ability of the event I suppose.

All this breasticle talk reminds me of the time back in my country school days in good ol rural Hawkes Bay. The local school was one which catered for kids of all ages, it had to because no other bugger was going to really, but it was certainly a good thing because we got to mix with kids of all ages, especially when it come to swimming season.

Now we had these two sisters at our school that were physically advanced for their age and that meant big ol titties, the kind of which many of us hadn't seen since the days of sucking on Mummies bittie. It was quite the sight that pool of ours; two well endowed girls splashing away like the carefree teens they were and the entire male student faculty unable to stand up in the waist high water because of it.

I shall never forget the momentous day that one of them had an astronomical wardrobe malfunction whilst mid frolic. Her shoulder strap - perhaps in hindsight ridiculously too thin to ever really support just such a fantastic specimen of nubile breast - snapped, releasing the said mallow puff for all we fellas to see. Now that alone would have been enough to keep many of us going for well into our late teens but in a marvelous twist of fate it remained unnoticed by it's owner for several time standing still, water splashing over it moments.

I can still picture it to this day and consequently wrote that entire last paragraph one handed, but that is how a breast should be bared - just enough so that it can be appreciated and fantasised over for several seasons later. This is where I think the Erotica Expo blows it load far too soon, by having the assetts on display too early in the transaction. Parading goose pimpled knockers down the main street might be a great way of getting yourselves on the news but is it going to get punters through the door that wouldn't usually rock up with their cocks up? I don't think so.

Now Steve Crow is a funny looking fellow and if ever you needed a reality check on just what the porn industry really looks like then he's the man to have a gander at. But the thing I like about Crow though is his acumen; Harei Mai John Campbell had him and that ridiculous waste of space that is Lisa Lewis on the other night arguing over a contractual dispute. Lewis, who's average assets have been plastered over the place ad nasuam thinks that her appearance should be worth more than the likes of Ms Charms. Crow in his usual brash self disagreed and quite rightly told the silly bitch to bugger off.

Yep, he certainly realises that sex alone doesn't sell any more. Freaky naughty does and just you wait, next year I reckon he'll go for the next logical step for the Parade; Midgey boobs.