Layering It On For The New Flattie

“Come support the multiple births club” the flyer at work reads.

Talk about unnecessary, a ‘club’ already exists for births; it’s called parenthood and you don’t have to be Jon and Kate to join either. And yes, a lot of the time spent in this club is shit, tough and all of it unpaid, but what bonuses there are will be the most rewarding you ever have and guess what? You don’t need to join another club for those that have popped a couple out through the beef curtains to have them experiences either. You dicks.

Speaking of clubs, changes are afoot at the ClubDes homestead next week as we welcome a flatmate for the first time.

Whether it was the fact we had a spare room worth a tasty week’s rent just gagging to be let, or the fact that the missus and I are done talking to each other after 10 years of wedded bliss who really knows, the ad went up and arrive in a few days she does.

My last experiences of flatmates, some 15 years ago now, are not favourable so I am a little apprehensive. They were the days of living with Coops older sister, who avoided confrontation by sticking post it’s to the bedroom door noting such helpful hints as “please don’t masturbate in the shower as it clogs up the drain”. Or something like that.

Usually I have a very big thing about stranger danger, especially in my own cave. I am creature of my own habits and I like my own routine so the prospect of some noob coming in and disrupting that would usually tighten the sphincter markedly. But truth be told I am quite excited about the whole thing. Yes she may be attractive but I am only looking forward to reading the articles.

Now naturally when one prepares to welcome a young lady into a house dominated by boys, talk naturally turns to the important issues like the state of the toilet, or ones attire in the early hours of the morning. Strangely it’s only the females in the household that seemed concerned about these things.

Thankfully Junior is at an age where most of what gets aimed at the carzie ends up in there. Unfortunately some of what ends up in there does tend to stick around though which presents a separate issue entirely because a quick mop up of the floor or seat with the sock, or Dads towel is not going to cut it where a good bowl dent is concerned.

It’s a strange phenomenon is the toilet dent. Theoretically it shouldn’t happen; the area is well lubed and unless we’re talking about public shitters, flushed afterwards. Mrs ClubDes, like all good women, has a technique that she swears by which is the layering of several pieces of butt wipe to catch the Cosby Kids and thus alleviate said skid marks.

I reckon that 'layers' are the female answer to everything though. Layers on the bed, layers of clothing, layers of pillows on the couch, my feelings are like layers, why paint the feature wall once when you can do several layers all different colours...

Which is fine in principal but it misses the one variable in all this; angles and height. Because anyone who has played bombers over Tokyo at the age of 12 whilst doing the business (and who hasn’t aye?) knows that get the range right and even the most mundane of bodily functions can get awfully creative, awfully quick.

So we might do the layer cake thing with the two ply but I ain’t wearing more clothes early in the morning. Besides, how do I expect our new flattie to feel comfortable waltzing around in her undies if I’m not….?

Now you can see why I've rushed around and put the hidden cameras up...

Canada, Oh Cana-duh.

Week three of the RWC is all done then all that early talk about the worlds minnows closing the gap on the big boys seems complete arse now doesn’t it? Putting 50 points on someone doesn’t make for a riveting competition no matter which way you look at it.

Of all the minnows in the Rugby World Cup the one country that I probably have the softest spot for are the Canadians.

My father – he of the abandon his only son when he was 10 fame – lived there for a long while. He sent me a Canadian flag once and I’ve still got it somewhere because it’s a wonderful reminder of the loving bond between a father and son, is a flag of somewhere I’ve never been to.

Around the same time our family (on Mothers side) was accosted by a bunch of Canadians who had taken to a bit of family treeing and worked out that they were related to us. And this before the days of the interweb so who really knows what they found.

My grandparents being, well, grandparents lapped that shit up and it wasn’t long before the recollections of things like Christmases past were altered in the telling to include a mention of the Canadian branch of the family.

I think they mus have thought they were coming to tame the natives when they came over too because they bought with them trinkets, like badges, all of which had ‘Alberta, Canada’ plastered all over them. Because everybody loves wearing a badge of somewhere they have never been to.

Bruiser, Coops and I had a Canadian maths teacher in 6th form who wrote on the blackboard in reverse order to any other teacher, ever. He’d start on the far side and move backwards so when you arrived late and started copying down what you though was the first block of work it was, in fact, the last.

By the stage you realised what was going out he had rubbed the first bit out (the furthest bit of the board) anyway so you were stuffed. Of course we never read what we were copying so how were we to know it didn’t make chronological sense?

He also had the very amusing habit, depending if you were the one coming in late or not, of writing and explaining panels of mathematical theory only to decree that it was all lies and we should ignore it. At which point he’d put an ‘x’ through the lot. Good times.

There was also the small issue, being in NZ, of him not being able to pronounce anything in Maori, for example our classmate Irihapiti which as read out from the roll each week as Eerie hap eye tie. Later just shortened to Eerie.

Not too mention the four foot two Asian in the flared trousers (short backward square to you cricketers) who’s name was Kan Hau but you know how it is with Asians, last name first and all that but not on the roll. So the convo went a little like this:

Teech: Hau? Hau Kan.
KH: Kan sir, here.
Teech: Pardon me?
KH: Its just Kan sir.
Teech: But on here it says Hau.
KH: Yes sir, that’s my first name. But in Korean we say last name first.
Teech: So your name is Hau Hau?
KH: No its just Kan.
Teech: So it’s just Kan Kan?
KH: No its just Kan.

Everyone had to change seats by this stage as most were wet.

I even had a pretty serious case of the lusties for a girl I went to school with who had spent time in Vancouver, of all places and was into ice hockey, big time. I don't remember exactly but I'm pretty sure that my attraction probably had something to do with he-who-shall-not-be-named (Father) was also living in Vancouver and that's just messed up.

These days my connection to the land of the maple leaf and sauce is through the original draft dodger, T-Bag. He’s loving it over there and no doubt sharing the Rugger with the locals. The Canucks even had their first win the other day, against Tonga and I’m not sure if the party will still be going, but if it is you can bet our man Borlase will be right in the thick of it.

He certainly won't be reading this because in an ironic twist of fate, he can't, not at work anyway:

Freaks, Geeks & A Sexo

One of the best weekends away I had with a bunch of strange men – the others were a disaster that I’d rather not speak about – was Coopsies stag do. The theme for which was ‘Freaks, Geeks and a Sexo’.

Coops, being the groom (and a sexo) was of course, the sexo. The rest of us were, well, self explanatory really but we made quite the sight, especially as we got changed at the top of the Rimutaka Hill and stayed in costume the whole weekend. Coops was the star of course, resplendent in his leather vest, chaps, bikers cap and studded dog collar.

Some of us stayed in costume that was. I saw more male genitalia that weekend than I have the entire time my arse has faced South but that’s what you get really when you mix men in raincoats (and only raincoats) with alcohol.

Mind you, when a couple of them decided to try teeing off with a golf cub in the hands of one and the tee held between the buttocks of another, even before the drinking really starts, you know you’re in for a special, special weekend.

I was reminded of freaks and geeks when I finally got round to watching ‘The Social Network’ the other day. I know it came out some time ago but that’s just how I am with movies, I treat them like I do the hot girl across the street who so wants you to check her because she knows how hot she is. I don’t play that game. I am immune to their power and I never look. Not while they’re looking anyway.

Likewise I very seldom go and see movies when they come out despite their hotness. Besides it works the same anyway; once you’re one of the first to see it you try and tell everyone about it only you can’t, because they haven’t seen it and by the time they do, you’ve forgotten all the little details anyway. Just like the hot girl across the street.

The Social Network is a film about that social network, Facebook and how it came to be. It’s full of geeks because it’s the story of one major poindexter making a website that apparently is quite popular. Only the geeks in this make believe version look way better than they do here in the real world. How does that work? Two of the principal characters are The Winkelvoss twins, who in the film, are ironically played by just the one good looking guy. Very convincingly too, I might add.

Now grown twins, especially men, freak me the fuck out. I don’t know what it is but to me there’s something spectacularly scary about two guys being the exact copy of each other and these two aren't just doppelgangers; they're ex Olympian rowers too, so they’re huge carbon copies of each other.

I have the same fear about what it would be like if you met your body double face to face. Six degrees of whatever aside, these things aren't suppose to happen because it's just too damn freaky. I did meet mine once and it was grotesque; he was into the Venga Boys...

Twins are supposed to be cute and depending what kind of websites or magazines you like to read the articles in / on, sexy. I never did understand the whole twins fantasy though because at the end of the day they’re sisters; they’re not going to want to be with each other in that way any more than you want to be with your Mum, in that way.

At least I don’t think so. If I knew some sexy twins I would even be willing to take that particular experiment to test the theory. Oh sure, it would be pleasant, but I wouldn’t enjoy it.

So long as it was the Winkelvoss boys, they're some freaky geeks them two *shiver*.

That's a huge bitch...and your brother too.

35 Not Out

I must access a different Facebook because for the life of me I don’t understand how shit like this happens:

"A blindfolded sex adventure with a mystery "woman" ended in shock for a young Wellington man – who removed his mask to find a tall man.

The distressed 19-year-old later told police that, until he slipped off the blindfold as he was leaving the eleventh-floor room at the Bolton Hotel in Wellington, he believed his tryst had been with a woman called Sam whom he met on Facebook.

Police investigated and found that the man who hired the room at the five-star hotel on May 17 had been a guest there about 300 times.

Witness statements filed in court said a very upset young man had gone to Wellington Central police station just after 11pm on May 17.

He told police he had met someone on Facebook whom he thought was a woman. They arranged to meet at the hotel and he was to wear a blindfold so he could not see "her" perform a sex act on him. As he was leaving the room he took off the blindfold and discovered "she" was a he.

The next day police also searched the Taupo home where ‘Sam’ lived with his mother. A detective said 21 pairs of mens underpants found in a drawer were in an assorted range of sizes.

In another drawer was a uniformly sized set of underpants. Police also found a green blindfold and what was described in court documents as pornographic publications."

Even DougalMac, the man of notoriously standards made the astute observation that there had to be an awful lot of guys who woke up to this story with a new look at life. And to think they thought ‘Sam’ was a kinky bitch because ‘she’ kept their undies...

Now I know the image of this is not something you or I want to dwell on, much, but I can’t help but question just how this guy fooled so many. For a start there has to be some talking, definitely some touching and I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure, but I’d think I’d know if it was a fella treating my body like an amusement ride. I think.

I guess it comes down to how you see and use Facebook. If you’re prepared to be friends with anyone then I reckon you deserve to be sucked in (and off) by a six foot dude who likes to give mystery blowies.

I don’t even list things like my DOB on Facebook which on one hand is extremely security conscious of me and protects identity theft – cause who wouldn’t want to be this cool aye – but then has the downside of no one knowing that it was my birthday the other day.

Not that I want to go around announcing it but a celebrationary shake of the hand or slap on the bum is always welcomed at work. By me anyway, the girl down the hall is not so keen on it. Imagine then my disappointment upon realising that it was my own anal retentiveness for online security that ruined the chance of friends actually knowing it was my birthday. What a dick.

Still, it could’ve been worse. I remember Coops older sister, who I flatted with for a few years, giving it till about 8.30am on a Saturday birthday before she started calling her mates asking if there was anything they’d forgotten?

So I’m 35 not out. Yay me.

Bruiser remembered. He always remembers.

Boring Sports # 4 - Mixed Martial Arts

Mixed Martial Arts competitions are apparently quite popular these days. Apparently. Not only do I think MMA is a boring sport but when I see footage of two grown men doing this to each other for long periods of the bout I find it quite disturbing:

You’d never catch us ninjas doing that. Let’s face it, you’d never catch us ninjas full stop. For instance look around the room you’re sitting in, there are three ninjas hiding there right now. Can’t see them? Told you.

MMA for the uninitiated is a competition that brings all the popular martial arts together in one massive knock down throw down. It’s a Jean Claude Van Damme movie without the bad acting and slow mo spin kicks. It’s primal and most of the time brutal and just like boxing that’s what makes it so popular.

The fighters are not your standard pin up variety; they’re tough, full of sinew and almost to a man sport broken noses. The women are not much better except that is for Gina Carano who can, quite frankly, beat the shit out of me anytime she wants. You may recognise her from American Gladiators, I recognise her from the many ‘wife beats husband’ fantasies I’ve had involving her.

Now I know a thing or two about martial arts. Aside from the whole ninja thing Coops and I used to partake in a spot of it back in the day. He was quite good; I just liked the outfit and the weapons. Mostly just the outfit.

We had a ‘sensei’ and I do use the term loosely, who reckoned he attended many a MMA type event, a ‘fight to the death’ kind of thing. I won’t name him because he still kicks about today and is and always has been a complete nutter. Whilst I would eliminate him were it to come to him seeking me out there is always that element of the unknown when dealing with a mad man.

He used to ‘go’ to these tournaments and we’d not see him for a fortnight. Upon his return, unscathed it should be noted, he would regale us of just how far he got in the tournament – semi finals usually – and just how brutal it was. Something I could never understand though was if it really was a ‘death match’ competition, how he always survived despite not being the winner? Alarm bells, as they say, were ringing.

Of course, we had our suspicions that he’d not been to such a competition at all and had actually been staying down at his parent’s rural retreat in Nelson. We suspected this but never said anything because we were only 16 and clearly idol worshiped the man. Not to mention he was a screw loose, with easy access to weapons.

Needless to say that story, like MMA bouts, had a predictable ending; gradually we got too old for the bollocks of it all and moved on. Luckily for him there was a whole bunch of teenage boys afterwards that took our place and there always will be. MMA might be cool when you’re young, dum and full of cum, but to everyone else, it’s just boring.

Oh and those who think they’re ninjas stuff it up for those of us that actually are. Three in your room remember…

Gina can smack this bitch up any time she wants...

Happy Birthday Coops

Happy Birthday Coops. I know I’m a week late and you probably thought I forgot but I hadn’t, it’s just that our history runs deep so I’ve been busy doing the things we used to do, in celebration of your special day.

I started by trying to find the skin flick we watched that one time in the wee early hours of the morning at my house. You know the one, with the anal beads? Back then that was some kinky stuff, especially for a couple of 16 year olds like us, but not these days. Do you know just how many hits you get when you do a Google video search on that particular key word?

Then I consumed a six pack of Double Brown because that’s the only beer cheap enough for us to buy back in the day with your fake ID. I struggled to get through it because, quite frankly, it’s shit and it makes me wonder if the guys at the bottler that sold it to us picked us for a couple of kids all along but were just happy to get rid of the stuff.

I cycled from my house to yours like we always used to do. Quite the effort these days given we live 35 minutes by car and a major motorway away now, not the 10 we used to. Still, I managed to nick enough milk and newspapers from letterboxes like I always did to make the trip worthwhile. Oh and I stoned Bollocks house on the way. Turns out he doesn’t live there any more, shitto.

You weren’t home when I eventually got there but I let myself in and tried on some of your clothes, just like back in the day. They were too big, still, but I wore them anyway because you always had cool labels where mine just said ‘DEKA’.

I played Uno and chess, by myself, but still managed to trash talk myself the whole time. I watched all the Arnie and Hot Damn Van Damme movies in chronological order and even spent 45 minutes hidden in the back yard waiting to ambush you like I always did when we played war. Not surprisingly you never found me; yep, I’ve still got it.

Finally I took that long list of ours that had every girl from school on it we rated and that if they played their cards right, would get a bit of Coops & Deso. I looked them all up on Facebook and guess what? That list is now not as long as it used to be.

Naturally at that point I finished things (and myself) off with that love beads movie again.

So there you go big boy, a birthday celebration and a half.

I was always borrowing Coops' clothes.

Pre Dinner Txt

Coops > Me: Yo, what time do you want us to arrive and what should we bring?

Me > Mrs ClubDes: What time do we want the Coopers to arrive and what do they need to bring?

Mrs ClubDes > Me: 5.30 and nothing.

Me > Coops: 5.30 and an eight inch, ribbed, double ended dildo. And it has to be black. Any other colour and don’t even bother turning up.

One Day Royal Wedding Tat

There was a box on the doorstep again today. There’s always a box on the doorstep at our place.

Mrs ClubDes is addicted to one of those websites that offer great deals for just one day. You know the ones, how could you not, they’re fucken everywhere. Why even Trade me have started one now too, because having you buy a garage load of second hand tat just isn’t enough for them it would seem.

These sites tap into a distinctly Kiwi bit of our subconscious; that we’re getting a bargain and on that particular day and that particular item, we are. Because we love the bargain, the mate’s rate, the cashie and hey, if it’s fallen off the back of the truck then it probably wasn’t meant to be there in the first place.

Me misses loves a two for one bargain too, especially at the supermarket. Now I do my fair share of the grocery shopping and not just because I’m a metro sexual man, but because I hate the thought of spending more than we really need to. When I go shopping we get everything we need and under budget. When she indoors does it we get double what we need and we’re over budget. Her theory being that we’ll save money next week. We never do.

Now I was quite shit at Economics at school because let’s be honest, it’s a shit subject. Coops and I did it because it sounded like manly subject, did Economics, but it was a waste of a year in terms of learning anything. In terms of a laugh it was epic because we had a teacher who was well worth a wind up just to get a reaction.

He was a small man so that straight away meant the duster went to the top of the board at the start of class, every time. The hilarity of him having to jump to reach it with his finger tips never got old. He was the kind of guy who I always suspected would be quite the fella to know out of class, but a stickler for shattering dreams in it.

He did have our respect on one hand though; he was reportedly playing economies of scale with the good looking economics teacher who was well high on our list of teachers we’d let take advantage of us if they were so inclined. It was a short list.

So how I came to be good with money is a mystery. I suspect my mother has something to do it because she spent it like nobody’s business. Had there been a One Day Sale or Trade Me back in the day she would have kept both sites running. She would buy bulk everything, even if we didn’t need it simply because it was bulk, so it had to be cheaper. Right?

Wrong motherfucker, as I said to my mother several times. Well, not really, but I was thinking it. The one day sales and two for ones work because they entice you to buy something you wouldn’t have. Yes it might be a bargain but you weren’t really looking for it so the sneaky buggers have taken your money without even really trying.

Still, at least it’s not Royal Wedding rubbish which has really cranked up production with the big day only a week away. Are you sick of it yet? I wonder if when they get to that bit in the service when the dude calls for anyone who sees any reason for them not wed some bugger stands up and shouts “Yes, ‘cause we’re fucken over it already!”

Kate Middleton is a good looking girl though and in terms of the Monarchy she is definitely bring sexy back. She looks great on a pizza too which is not something you can say about every girl. There’s even the Kate and Wills teabags which is great for those who have ever wanted to be tea bagged by a couple and not forgetting the Princess Kate doll too, of course, which must have the sexual deviants whipping out their ten quid and willy all in one swift movement.

Actually, I wonder if I can get one of those on One Day Sale...?

Something In The Water?

It is a little known historical fact that during the Second World War the English troops had an additive blended into their tea leaves that was supposed to suppress sexual arousal and thus keep the men focused on making war, not love. True story.

They tried the same thing on us in Nam but we Long Range Recon types were too busy drinking our own pee to have time for tea. Besides, Charlie could smell both a mile away.

Now we don’t knowingly add anything to our char here at ClubDes but there must be something in the water because a few of our regulars have spawned recently and it’s a beautiful thing.

In fact there’s so much of it going on we’re even contemplating opening a Daddy Day Care and bringing these kids up, old school. Hey, it worked for us fellas and let’s face it, we’re awesome.

So, introducing then, the newest members of the ClubDes Massive:

1. Coops & Nat

Welcomed baby Eva into the world last month. Here is a pretty fair representation of what will happen at the end of her one and only date and that’s even before she gets to the letterbox...


2. Skids & Stace

Two brilliant minds, albeit one with misguided football loyalties, combined to produce Angus aka The Chose One on account of his birth date being exactly 10.10.10. Signs of the boy’s genius have already started to surface; he is already claiming to have invented the question mark.


3. Big Gay Ray & Natties

Already have the one bundle of joy in Paige and now have the wonderful news that a little brother too, is on the way. They’ve even decided to name the young fella after my junior which is a nice touch. Sadly ‘Big' or ‘Gay’ probably won’t feature in the names of any kids we have in the future...

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.

Compression Suits, Corduroys, Roman Sandals & Me

I saw a guy out walking today; he was clad head to toe in a compression suit.

Compression suits are all the rage amongst anyone who thinks they look like a superhero when out exercising, or just some dick out walking on a Sunday. Sports stars wear them of course, but then they’re paid to and because they’re all the rage they cost a shitload, which makes them even more sought after. No surprises there.

The idea of a compression suit is nothing new. I’ve known guys who’ve worn wetsuits under their rugby gear and back in the day lycra bike shorts were all the rage, especially for wearing under shorter shorts thus making it visible to anyone who cared to notice, that you were wearing them.

Elite players at the time claimed that bike pants supported the quadriceps and hamstring muscles and thus reduced the chance of injury. I reckoned they stopped your balls from popping out of the short over shorts and that was the real reason them fellas wore them. Still, I had to have some.

My parents were never going to buy me any; in fact they took great delight in purchasing the shortest football shorts they could find and this at a time when long shorts were back in vogue. They weren’t the slash up the side numbers that gay joggers love to wear, but they were fucken close to it.

To this day I can’t imagine where they found such short smugglers but knowing my mother she probably had them custom made. So I took matters into my own hands.

My favourite pair of track pants back then was a pair of the adidas numbers that had stirrups, oh yeah. I loved wearing them despite being oblivious to the fact that they left nothing to the imagination in the meat and two veg department. Although to be fair, my produce department never really blossomed till I was about 20 so girls back then really would’ve had to use their imagination.

Despite my love of them, the need far outweighed the means and so I took to the trackie daks with scissors, thus creating my own pair of thigh warming, ball hugging under shorts. Incidentally Coops had done the same with an old pair of his, so we both looked like a right couple of gay German footballers in our cut off adidas track pants.

We thought they were the shit too. My parents, rather predictably, did not.

They were furious, which I found odd because they hated the stirrup track pants with a passion and often threatened to throw them out if I was caught sneaking them to school to wear instead of my corduroys, again.

Yes, corduroys. Yet another humiliating, spastic garment my sadistic mother made me wear to school so that I could be laughed at even more than I was as the only kid wearing roman sandals...

Their punishment? They took away the short shorts and made me wear only the cut offs which, without the stirrups to stretch them out and down, made the top half of a pair of super tapered adidas track pants tighter than a man’s anus. So much so I could’ve worn nothing to football from the waist down, painted the whole crutch area black and still would’ve revealed less, then I did when wearing the cut offs.

In retaliation I took to my last remaining pair of track pants, of the parachute pant type, and made knee length shorts out of those. They looked fucken ridiculous but thanks to their puffy exterior and warm, fleecy inner lining I had my dignity back, somewhat.

As for the original cut offs I told my parents that someone had stolen them from my bag. They hadn’t of course and I kept them hidden away only to wear on occasions when I longed for the touch of the over locked inner seam against the underside of my scrotum.

Which, if we’re being honest here, is the real reason we fella’s like to wear things like compression suits; it’s the feel of them up against the wife’s retired wedding present that really gets us going and not this bullshit about them aiding recovery. To wit - do we wear them when recovering? No we do not.

Maybe that’s the reason why the walker had such a big smile on his face...

Grandad's compression suit was way ahead of it's time...

Marie vs. Miley

The thought of Miley’s camel toe got me to thinking just how we fellas got our jollies before female musicians decided that nip slips and pole dancing was more important to their act than power chords and catchy lyrics.

It just so happened that whilst watching J2 – quite possibly the most boring music channel ever – I was given just the reminder I longed for; Marie Fredriksson.

Marie was the lead singer of Swedish twosome Roxette and my god did she have it going on. Sure, her spiky, sometimes mullet like hair made her a bit boyish, but that was okay because her band mate, Per Giselle, was a bit effeminate for a fella. So between the two of them they had the whole androgynous look covered really.

Coops and I spent much of the early Nineties rockin out with our cocks out to Roxette and we weren’t alone. How many of you spent many an afternoon in front of the mirror lip synching ‘Fading Like A Flower’ imagining that Marie was singing it to you and you alone...?

You might very well laugh at the thought of loving Roxette now, go on, I don't care. But I’m willing to bet my left one that if 'Joyride' came on the car wireless it wouldn’t be long before you caught yourself whistling the chorus too.

Marie was a top class lady, especially on stage where the only skin she bared was not that of a magnificently waxed crutch, but a bit of thigh, a bare foot or two and the occasional flash of décolletage*.

And you know what? That’s all we needed because her rhymes were bottomless and her flows unstoppable, everything else was a bonus really.

Miley, you would do well to learn from Marie, you nubile young thing you.

*Look it up, you tit.

Marie and Per - fruity Swedish rockers.

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.

I Am The Punisher (Just Don't Tell Anyone).

One of my life long ambitions is to be a vigilante.

And by vigilante I don’t mean like a lentil growing, tofu eating, seldom bathing hippie that goes around poking holes in spy stations. What a bunch of winners those guys turned out to be. The irony is of course that they got off the charges which just reinforce my belief that this country is crying out for some vigilante justice.

Why someone hasn’t does this already is beyond me. Maybe not here in NZ but in some far off country where guns come in cereal boxes, like the States. There’s plenty of gun toting nut bars over there but yet none of them has identified the niche market that is the borderline psycho crime fighter.

I on the other hand, have always wanted to be one since the day I took the online ‘Which Marvel Character Are You?’ test. It was quite thorough and I was pleasantly stoked to find that at the end of it I was ‘The Punisher’. Stoked because not only is the Punisher too cool for school but he doesn’t wear a costume. Well, not really. The man is a spandex free zone.

Your standard hero is hard to mimic. There are just too many variables, manly reality, standing in your way. Sure, there’s a guy called ‘The Human Spider Man’ on account he free climbs some tall buildings but he doesn’t swing from them on account of his ability to shoot webbing from some mysterious area above his wrist, so he just doesn’t cut it.

But then there’s guys like the Punisher, or girls like Elektra, who, if we were going to be fan boy honest, does have ‘powers’ but it’s not those that we fan boys get a woodie over...

The best thing about being a bad ass vigilante is I don’t think the cops would bother with you. Oh sure, they’d make like they were but if you started knocking off gang bangers, p heads, kiddie fiddlers and douche bags that throw full beer bottles at elderly women out walking, then you’d be doing them and society a favour.

Now I have a few mates in the Five-O, like Coops and when I start cleaning up the streets I’ll be leaning on them for some Intel. They’ll be my insiders. They’ll put two and two together of course and realise it’s me doing the business but it’ll be like Commissioner Gordon and Batman; an ask no questions homo erotic relationship.

I’ll need some hardware of course but I’ve got that covered too; DG Macca has some pistolas so he’ll be my weapons expert. He and I also managed to smuggle back a small arsenal from our time in Nam and so what he can’t get me I can machine with my bare hands, in Bruiser's garage, which is good because that shit can’t be traced.

I’ll need some wheels and although the passion wagon is built for speed its sparse interior, lack of airbags and side impact beams doesn’t make for a ramrod of a ride. It’s also white, which as we all know, is the colour of surrender. I’m torn then, between pinching the father-in-laws big fuck off shiny Merc, or beating up the wife’s car and painting it as black as a black man’s cape.

Finally I need a look and I was going to go for the whole Punisher thing because the white skull on black is classic ‘don’t fuck with me’. Just like a pirate. But then I saw one of the geekiest poindexters I know buying one before me at Armageddon and I may not be exactly super hero physique, but this guy has no damn right to be wearing one. The tit.

So I guess I’ll be pulling on the mantard and doing an Elektra. Ah well.

I make this shit look good. Real good.

Your Dreams Are Free - But Boring

The other day I talked Coops into lending me his entire Police uniform which I proceeded to wear whilst walking around my neighbourhood.

My reasons for wanting to wear it were quite clear in my mind; I assumed, quite rightly as it turns out, that the mere presence of a man in uniform would totally eliminate crime in my ‘hood. So there I was, walking around like I owned the place, as big as shit.

Nobody asked me if I was a cop, they didn’t need to, I had the uniform and the mirrored aviators, so there was no question that I was. But it’s an important point I make because a week later I strode into Coopsies home station expecting the admiration of every bugger in the place.

When they finally worked out that I wasn’t actually a copper and it was his uniform I was wearing (whilst impersonating a Police officer) the shit hit the fan. He got a censure and I got drop kicked out of the station.

Now that’s gratitude for you huh? You try and help someone out and all you get is grief. Only it never actually happened. It was only a dream I had one night last week. Admittedly it was pretty weird, as far as dreams go, but it was still a complete work of fiction.

That morning I awoke, thought to myself ‘what a weird dream’, had a wank in the shower and went to work. I wanted to tell people about it but I didn’t because I knew that it was, as far as weird dreams go, complete arse and no one would get it.

But then that’s true of all dreams and yet how many times has someone tried to tell you about something that never actually happened to them in the first place? If you’re really unlucky you might get to hear about a dream that someone else they know had...that’s twenty wasted minutes of hearing about something that never happened to someone you haven’t even fucken met!

So please don’t tell me about your dreams, especially if you are a crazy cat collecting, lonely DVD lady.

Except the kinky sexual ones. Those you can tell me about.

Name Calling Never Hurt Nobody

My son has recently joined a Cub group. They sent us an email the other day telling me that this week they'd be going kayaking. My knee jerk reaction was 'The fuck they are...' but then that's my reaction to most things. Once I had calmed down I soon realised that that's why things like Cubs and Scouts exist; to give red blooded young boys the opportunity to do the things their lame metro sexual Dads don’t, like kayaking.

I probably wouldn't think to take my boy kayaking because a) we don't have a kayak which is somewhat essential and b) unfortunately I've become one of those limp wristed Dads who stops to think what might happen to his only child if things were to turn to shit. I haven't gone so far as to buy one of those trampolines with the safety nets around the outsides mind you; I mean what’s the point in those aye? Falling off the trampoline whilst being suplexed by the big bastard from next door is a rite of passage, if the good lord didn't mean for us to fall off trampolines then he wouldn't have made them with four foot high legs.

We had a massive trampoline as kids, my sister and I. It was so it could have quite possibly been Olympic standard size and man did we get some hang time on that sucker. The first incarnation had on it some heavy duty canvas, made from the same stuff Granddads tents were always made of. Heavy duty army issue stuff that whilst somewhat water resistant, actually absorbed the rain like a sponge. It held strong right up till the day it tore during a mid arseplant of mine. Still, even right up till the end it was hard core enough to break my fall so that I only cried like a girl for a little bit after it happened.

We have one out the backyard these days too and I am pleased to report that it has no safety sides and is regularly used for an all in neighbourhood royal rumble. Wrestling doesn't seem to have caught on with my son’s generation quite as much as it did with mine. Maybe it has something to do with that ridiculous rumour that it's all choreographed. We never once choreographed any of the summer slams that used to go down every morning before form time in our third form year. See that's how friendships were really formed in our formulative years, by being tagged in by a guy who had just super slammed some unsuspecting class mate.

Occasionally things got out of hand. Like the time Big Rob slammed equally Big Brent up against the column heater on the back wall of the classroom. Who would've thought that the combined weight of two strapping young 13 year olds would have been enough to rip it off the wall aye? How could they have not considered that when designing prefab classrooms I wonder?! That particular move bought the entire male population of our class a written warning and a school lifetime wrestling ban. Not that it stopped the rivalry. Coops and Brent, often best mates, were often wrestling with each other in a way that only a psychologist who specialises in homoerotic behaviours amongst young men could explain.

It usually started or finished with name calling. Coops was known as the 'Kung Fu Man' on account of his martial arts interests while Brent was the 'Aussie Bumfucker' on account of his being Australian. This moniker was almost always followed by a physical gesture that can be best described as a squatting man inserting an eight foot dildo in his anus, just in case anyone in earshot was unsure as to the meaning of the term 'bumfucker'. Coops was always an expressive young man with his gestures and still is to this very day.

Brent's unfortunate nickname was right up there with Daphne Blackballs. She was an older girl that lived in our 'Hood back in my younger years who was very dark skinned. Being the multicultural lot we were back then and accepting of all colours and creeds we were quick to point out the obvious. She had quite the potty mouth too as I recall, but that might have been down to the fact that every time we saw her we teased her over the colour of the male genitalia she didn't actually have.

But I was amused and quietly chuffed to learn that some things don't change. My son and his mates were calling each other pet names at their cub meet the other night. I couldn't quite work out who Patricia was because there were no girls in the room, until he told me afterwards that that was their nickname for Patrick.

Admittedly there were no Kung Fu Men or Daphne Blackball's, but poor old Zach is called Zach Efron which in this day and age is as good a burn as it gets no matter what the age.

Algebra + Economics = Rubber Fist In Anus

Funny isn’t it, that when the price of petrol rockets up it’s always because of just the one reason, but yet there are thousands of reasons offered as to why it never drops in price just as quickly. Dang, that’s whack.

It’s a bit like getting money out of the IRD when it’s owed to you. They purposely try and bore you into submission by having you fill out a huge mountain of paper based bureaucracy, in triplicate, in the hope that you’ll get pissed off and forget about it. But when the role is reversed and you owe them money then shit gets real simple; pay up or we kill you. Geez even the mafia are discreet about the ramifications of not paying what is owed by the time it’s owed.

I was once overpaid by Income Support back in the day when my life revolved around reading the morning paper cover to cover just in time to do the same with the evening paper. By then it was all old news so I often wonder why I bothered but hey, what else was I going to do? I was unemployed for all of a month after I left college and in between reading the papers, masturbating my brains out and coming up with funny voices so as to ring up the talkback and pretend I was someone I wasn’t in order to pass off my extremist views on pressing social issues like the use of apostrophes in public signage, I collected the dole for a short period.

The government gave me a $110 in the hand each week, no questions asked. I had bugger all rent to pay because I was still living with the old man. Man I was living the dream. Well, not really, but I did buy a lot of comics with what I had left over after paying my rent and buying my papers. Life didn’t get any better than that.

Then I got a job and forgot to cancel my dole the first week I was working and subsequently got overpaid. Seeing as I was now a high roller, earning $12 an hour at Hallensteins I decided to play hardball when they rung me to tell me I owed them and arranged repayments of $2 a week. Fuck that told them – when you mess with bull, you get the horns.

I paid back all of it bar about $4. I couldn’t be arsed walking down the road to the grotty welfare office to pay the money so I never did. They kept ringing and I kept ignoring them because I was hardcore. Unbeknownst to me they passed the massive debt of mine onto Baycorp and that was the end of my credit rating for six long years. Four bucks for crying out loud! It probably cost more for the letter and envelope they sent me the debt collection notice on! But I blame myself. Not for the first time I had failed to heed dear old Grandma Eve’s advice when she always said ‘Smarty gave a party and no-one came’.

Maybe that’s the reason I hate game shows. I don’t know about you cats but I take no delight in watching someone win free money on TV. In fact quite the opposite, I would like to see a game show where they take money off you – IRD style - if you don’t get the question right. Now that would make for interesting viewing. Certainly better than the NZ version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire where they seem to ask extraordinary hard questions like ‘How do you spell RSVP?’.

See money management is not something they ever taught me at school. They spent an exorbitant amount of time trying to teach me how to math with letters – something that no prick ever used after they left school – but not essential life skills like how to avoid having the financial equivalent of a rubber fist shoved up your jacksee. Economics seemed like a good place to have learnt that shit but I did it for two years and I can’t remember what the hell I did there the entire time, other than take the piss out of Mr Moriaty, an intelligent yet small man who didn’t like me or my wingman, Coops.

Of course we didn’t help matters by doing things like placing the duster just out of reach – even if he jumped – atop the blackboard before the start of each lesson, or making outrageous claims that just couldn’t be left unchallenged like that it was we that had invented the question mark. He disliked Coops particularly, but that was probably because Coops countered everything he said with a very open ended, but insightful “But what’s the point?”

It was of course a rhetorical question. There is no point of learning economics because the Arabs own and run everything and Asia consumes everything. Lesson over. That’s why the price of petrol goes up like a rubber fist up the chocolate starfish, but never down.