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.

Perfectly Normal In My Opinion

From: DG Macca

Sent: Friday, 12 August 2011 12:41

To: Club Des

Subject: Perfectly normal in my opinion



http://www.stuff.co.nz/oddstuff/5434945/Man-sacked-for-washing-himself-with-own-urine



What's wrong with the world? Bloody reporters putting a spin on perfectly acceptable behavior.



From: ClubDes

Sent: Friday, 12 August 2011 12:43

To: DG Macca

Subject: RE: Perfectly normal in my opinion



Have they what. They should try three consecutive tours of Vietnam. We bathed in each others urine just to confuse the hell out of Charlie. Worked too, all that time and we never saw him once. Did offload an awful amount of ordinance in his general direction though…



From: DG Macca

Sent: Friday, 12 August 2011 12:37

To: ClubDes

Subject: Again…Perfectly normal.



http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/blogs/aunt-and-uncle-agony/5432754/Hubby-has-photos-of-another-naked-man



Is it normal for a man to have naked pictures of himself aroused on his cellphone and his laptop as well as a picture of another naked man??? I found a few of him in this state 4 years ago and he told me it was normal and I was being stupid even though I clearly told him I was really upset by it.



Now I have found a whole heap more, as well as a picture of this other naked man. Am I really just being a bitch or should I feel a bit off?



The dates of these have been taken at different times while I have been at work. The worse thing was I came upon the discovery this time as my 2 year old was playing with my husband's phone and the photos were found this way which made me look on the laptop.



I don't know what to do as he is going to throw it back on me and what if our kids wake up and find him like this while I am at work.



Regards

Confused



From: ClubDes

Sent: Friday, 12 August 2011 12:41

To: DG Macca

Cc: Almo

Subject: RE: Again…Perfectly normal.



Well if that makes a man abnormal then they better make room for you and I in the funny farm then cause we’ve got loads!



Of each other mostly but I kept the ones Almo sent me. I’m not usually into ‘small’ men but I could see he’d gone to a lot of trouble with the lighting and the courtesy trim. The nipple tassels looked new too.



From: Almo

Sent: Friday, 12 August 2011 13:24

To: ClubDes; DG Macca

Subject: RE: Again…Perfectly normal.



Honestly, I can’t believe they posted this article about my girlfriend and I. The only thing that makes me rest assured is that they’ve altered the story to make out that we’re married, so as to protect our identities…. apart from that I’m pretty pissed off.



On a side note, it’s not gay to put a wig on an aroused, naked man and pretend he’s a woman. How can that be gay? You’re pretending he’s a woman!



From: ClubDes

Sent: Friday, 12 August 2011 13:29

To: Almo, DG Macca

Subject: RE: Again…Perfectly normal.



Exactly. I did the same thing to DG Macca at your Mums place that time, spooned him whilst he slept and called him Susan.



So not gay.

Breaking All Sorts Of Rules...

I must apologise for my lack of recent postings; I have been in the middle of some pretty serious time travel and didn’t get back till early next week.

My thanks to one D G McPherson from Lower the Hutt* who wrote listing my inaction, several times in fact, often fluctuating between threats if I don’t post soon, ridiculous claims of having “boned 500 hot babes” whilst I hadn’t and the occasional candid Polaroid, which was a nice touch I thought.

It’s not like I haven’t had anything to write, because you know me, I always do.

Case in point, the girl I know who has just got married and whose new husband has taken her last name as well as his. Which is fine, I can talk, I did something similar. But hers is hyphenated on account of her parents having done the same thing so now the dude has three last names...

Now all emasculation jokes aside, that’s not really right is it? And don’t even get me started on the guy at work who took his wife’s last name and replaced his completely.

But for all round awkwardness you can’t beat the encounter I had across the road the other day with a neighbour, the father of a boy that Junior that hangs out with on occasion and who met me at the door with what looked for all the world, like an erection in his track pants.

Not as in a ‘hang your coat on this’ tent types, but more one of those ones you tuck to the side in the hope that by the time you make it to the front door from your bedroom it would’ve disappeared.

Only it didn’t and here I am, almost a month later, not sure what was the more disturbing; the fact that it hadn’t or that he shook my hand when he got there. And what was he doing in the bedroom to get one whilst three teenage boys were in the house anyway?!

And to think this all came about because some inconsiderate prick had parked his car on the opposite side of our tight little road, directly across from our driveway meaning I couldn’t reverse into it without conducting a 73 point turn.

The driveway that is, because backing into his motor would’ve been dead easy and the day the passion wagon finally gives up the ghost I am going to bumper boat the shit out of his and every other poorly parked ride.

So, forced to park ours further up the road I had done so in front of Mr Inappropriate Arousal’s house. I had gone up to the door to tell him that if it was in the way I would move it but then I’m old school like that; I respect the unwritten rule that says although technically the front of house parking space is free to all, it remains the domain of the geezer in said gaff.

Note that nowhere in that particular gentlemen’s agreement does it mention that it’s ever cool to come to the door with a semi.

Maybe the real reason for my absence (not to be confused with abstinence but there’s every chance it’s to blame for that too) is the trauma of having witnessed that. Now if I really could time travel I think I’d rewind that particular clock and complete that 73 point turn...

*Lower, the skanky sister of Upper the Hutt, cousins of Jabba and distant relatives of the most famous of all The Hutts; Pizza.

Very creative DG Macca, very creative.

Birthday Book

January is a very high volume birthday month here at ClubDes and I love leaving birthday wishes on the crew’s Stalkbalk pages. How I haven’t yet got a job writing birthday card’s is beyond me...

Hixie:

Happy Birthday brother. Geez it seems like only yesterday we were doing that thing in your bedroom that we pinky promised we'd never tell anyone about and we both agreed was most definitely not gay because it was like, a practise, and didn't really mean anything. But that's what your early twenties are all about really, a time of discovery. Have a good one big boy.

Braddles:

Happy Birthday Braddles. I came round to wish you it in person but you weren't home so I took the liberty of letting myself in and I've left you a little something in the toilet. Oh and I love what you've done with the wardrobe, it was so easy to find the things I wanted to try on. Nice one!

TBag:

TBag I dunno if it was because I knew today was your birthday but I had a dream about you last night and yes, it was sexual. Something special, especially the bit with the beads, but definitely sexual. Please don't tell anyone. Happy birthday big boy.

Lancey:

Oi, Lance. Pause the BBW porn you love so much and check your Facebook for once in your life cause we're all wishing you a happy birthday, you douche!

Lancey: Dude!!!! it's SSBBW but yeah thanks for the well wishes. I look forward to a ceremonial Tea Bagging when we start back at work. As always, you steady the rim while I work the woody. We'll leave Big Gay Ray's ginger nuts out of it shall we?

DG Macca:

Thanks heaps everyone for your b-day wishes.

ClubDes: I didn't but then I sent you some pretty A grade porn by post, only half of which was homemade. Enjoy :)

DG Macca: FANTASTIC!! I shall add it to the collection of pics which I have been taking from outside your bedroom window for the past 6 months... (I like what you've achieved with the clippers by the way).

ClubDes: You're welcome. You know me, I'm old school; I always feel one should courtesy trim if one is going to expose one’s self via the bedroom window, Cock Roulette or mailed Polaroid.

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.

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...

Birthdays; Then & Now

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

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

Still, it was the thought that counts I suppose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It will be the shit.

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

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

Better Work Stories? I've Got 'Em.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See? We really do have better work stories.

Free Wheelin' Wayne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

A Life Less Ordinary

If you ever want to take a look into the world of a life less ordinary then visit your local supermarket at some ungodly hour.

It is a microcosm of the freaks and geeks of this world who you might not otherwise see. Oh how they must have collectively rejoiced when supermarkets decided to open all night. Finally they could shop in peace and be left alone to count the grains of rice in each packet to see which was the best value for money.

I had to nip down and get some milk the other night and it was as if I had passed through some trans dimensional portal into the twilight zone on the drive down. Which I don’t think I did but hey, anything is possible when I’m alone in the passion wagon, distracted ever so slightly by my rocking to a beat from my playlist that I destroy with my unstoppable flows.

Mind you this was the time of night when the shelf packers are on duty and they’re hardly members of Mensa; one nearly wiped me out with a trolley despite my sticking to the same path all the way up the aisle and another lost half his trolley load of boxes in a fuck up of spectacular proportions. The cause of which was a relatively minor issue – the dude had all the stacking skills of an infant.

Then there are the customers. Now I’ve been disappointed on occasion to find my favourite item is out of stock but I have never quite felt the need to launch into a swear fest over it like the guy who couldn’t find his favourite jar of jam. Or the lady who appeared to be quite attractive until she went through her receipt line by line, checking that every item was in the bag and fair enough too, because those bloody checkout girls, they’re always stealing your stuff.

The funny thing is that once, long ago, I used to daydream about living a life where I would frequent supermarkets at bizarre times and would meet funky chicks there. Not funky as in unclean, but crazy girls. Not crazy like mental, but odd and not odd as in spastic, but quirky. Well they would have to be to be shopping at that time wouldn’t they?

I also had this warped idea that if I visited enough of them I could meet a sheila in some obscure second hand bookshop that only three people knew about and frequented. When that failed I took to the internet pretending to be the kind of guy who did his shopping in the wee small hours and frequented second hand bookshops.

It worked too. I started corresponding with a 17 year old girl who did the same and we ended up sending each other poems composed from our favourite bits of movie dialogue. Eventually we professed our love to each other through gratuitous use of emoticons. She lived in Shannon and seeing as I had no car at that time, borrowed some money from my flate mate and bought a bus ticket there.

When I arrived I was disappointed to find that she had lied to me; the supermarket in Shannon closed at 6pm, there was only one second hand bookstore and she was actually a he. We made love so as to not waste the bus fare but it was awkward, to say the least. Why can’t people just be honest?

Woodville has a lot of second hand bookstores, as DougalMac and I discovered whilst passing through on our way to the girls wedding last week. And going by the titles they have on display I’m guessing there are a good few folk who can’t wait for Woodville to a) get a supermarket and b) have it open 23 hours a day so they can do their shopping...

A Man And His Boat

Resident house ninja, ginja smacker and man of notoriously low standards, DG Macca, has this summer, bought himself a boat for no other reason he tells me than because ‘it’s a chick magnet’.
He, like so many of us here at ClubDes, is married with children, but that hasn’t stopped him spending the last two weekends cruising up and down the main drag asking young, attractive girls if “they want to come and be surrounded by sea men all day” and if so, “would they mind trying on the bikinis he has back there”, size extra small.

Unbeknown to them he has meticulously taken to the supportive straps on said bikinis with a razor blade and made them so flimsy that approximately 12 seconds in the wearer will suffer a multiple wardrobe malfunction. Oh yeah.

Now I’m not one for boats myself. It has something to do with the fear I have of the big, far-more powerful-than-we forces of Mother Nature and open water is about as impressive as it gets. I have been on boats before, many times, but I’ve been bricking it almost every single minute of every single journey, so as alluring as the slim chance of the aforementioned wardrobe malfunction actually happening is, I won’t be taking up the offer from DG Macca to be his first mate.

Not on the seas anyway, but on dry land, well that is a different story. Why this very weekend he and I are going to spend the day in his boat, whilst still on the trailer, with our tops off, getting pissed and making false mayday calls.

To create a fully authentic experience we’re going to lower the motor into a bucket full of water and let it run all day long and Mrs Macca has promised to come out every couple of minute and squirt us with the hose so as to mimic sea spray. Brilliant.

And most definitely not gay. Because we are both straight.

DG Macca, his budgie and his boat. So hot right now...

The Hamster Sells Out

I've always had a lot of time for Richard Hammond and not just because he's a small man who likes wearing pink shirts.

Here's a guy who has possibly one of the coolest jobs on the planet; test driving some of the coolest cars on the planet. Here's a guy who not only totalled a rocket powered car but lived to tell the tale, proving that he might very well be the smallest of the three Top Gear presenters, but he has the biggest ticker. Here's a guy who during severe flooding in 2007, left his Porsche 911 - in which he had been stuck in traffic for 13 hours - to run home for his daughter's birthday. He ran 16 miles (26 km) in two-and-a-half hours (from 3am to 5:30 am), arriving home before his daughter woke up.

And here's a guy who despite owning several muscle cars and the aforementioned Porsche, prefers to cycle his way around cities. Yet despite all this awesomeness, is now appearing in the latest Telescum ad flogging off their new network as if it somehow compares to test driving all the very cool things he's actually test driven.

Now I relaise that overseas celebrities make a bit on the side by advertising products that they wouldn't usually promote in their home country, but surely at some point a fella as awesome as The Hamster has to put his hands up and say 'I ain't promoting this, it's shit'. It is after all just a phone network. Getting into a jet powered dragster capable of achieving 370kmp is exciting, a cellphone, no matter how much streaming porn you can watch on it, is not.

He's wearing overalls and everything too, making it look like he's actually going to 'test drive' something that could potentially explode into flames at any second. A cellphone won't do that, not even at a petrol station, despite what the petrol companies will have you believe. It simply doesn't emit enough of an electrical signal to cause a spark. Static electricity does however and getting in and out of your car while you fill up is more likely to cause the sucker to explode. Remember that the next time you scratch your nuts in your parachute pants whilst at the servo.

So what if Telescums XT network is super fast? That's not much of a brag coming from a company who's broadband service is one of the slowest in the developed world. They're also waxing on about how XT will allow you to access the internet quicker and in more places than ever before, all on your mobile phone, which is just the best place to view anything isn't it, with its miniscule screen? How often do you find yourself alone with your mobile wishing you could surf the Net? Fuck all? I thought so.

I don't know about you but I pretty much get my internet fix in about 20 minutes at the PC. Sure its a big place this world wide intraweb but who regularly looks further afield than their favourites most of the time? There is only one thing that keeps your interest when you're bored silly on the Net and its tits and arse. Now there is a selling point for Telescum; 'XT will bring you T&A quicker than ever before'.

Imagine the geezer next to you on the bus watching porn on his new XT mobile. It'd probably be okay if its straight or even girl on girl, but if its that kinky cake fart stuff that DougalMac is into then its going to be just downright objectionable. I couldn't help but wonder something similar whilst driving behind an SUV the other night; they had TV screens in the back on which the kids were watching some cartoon. How distracting for others driving would it have been if it was an interacial gangbang? Imagine claiming that as the cause of your crash on the insurance claim.

The world doesn't need XT and its faster internet and we don't need cellphones that seem to be getting bigger not smaller. Whats the deal with that? I thought the endgame in mobile phones was a Zoolander phone? I had one once and all it caused me was grief. It was so small it didn't reach my ear and motuh at the same time so to speak I had to move it between the two. I never heard anything as I did anyway - the sound of people laughing at me drowned out everything else.

So despite The Hamsters endorsement I aint buying it and hopefully you won't either. This is why cassette tapes are making a comeback; life just gets too complicated real quick.

Not your finest hour Rich, not your finest hour.

Why Seedy Santa Only Comes Once A Year

I've come to realise as an adult just why it is that Christmas comes only once a year; because it's a mission and a half to put up freakin Christmas trees!

I did ours the other night and I haven't been that ball deep in foliage sweating like a rapist since ‘Nam. Which I've had a few flashbacks to recently but then I always do this time of the year what with the high humidity, the hot nights and lots of Asian students about, all of whom I strongly suspect of having a hand grenade or AK47 concealed on their persons.

Why just the other day DougalMac and I were enjoying each others metro sexual company down at the lagoon and I was reminded of a similar idyllic setting we had encountered in Da Nang in '68. We'd come across a water hole amongst the hills and had taken to bathing. There we all stood, soaping each others backs all the while hoping that whoever held our single bar of soap didn't drop it, when out of the reeds snaked an advanced patrol of VC.

Quite why they didn't open up on us there and then has always been a mystery to us but we'd like to believe it was because that even they, with their narrow little eyes and communistic ideals, were moved by the poignancy of several hardened men taking the time to gently soap each other in a brief reprise from the madness of war.

Either that or they were awestruck by the length and girth of Lancey's M60 – and I don’t mean the one he'd left on the bank besides the pool.

Yep, someone was watching over us that day. Perhaps it was 'ol HeyZuez himself. He's the reason we have a Christmas after all, not that we should joke about it like Tui did last week with yet another of their billboards. Despite the harmless humour of it all - and it was one of the funnier Tui efforts in quite some time - somebody complained about it. That somebody was a Christian, proving yet again that a small religious minority in this country can't handle the jandal, quite possibly because they know that we know that their religion is a sham.

Not that complaining about Christmas is restricted to Jesus and his home boys, some folk have decided they don't like the giant Santa that has stood in central Auckland for the last 50 years because he has a long crooked index finger, which makes him look ‘seedy’. Now let’s get one thing straight, if he was bumming Rudolph whilst a topless Mrs Claus watches on then it could be claimed he was ‘seedy’, but a crooked finger...

Don’t you sometimes wish Christmas could be like it was when you were a kid with no responsibilities? My grandparents lived in an old Victorian house with ceilings as high as a P addict and every year Granddad would get in a real tree that only just fitted in the room. That sucker - the tree, not Granddad - would soon be covered in decorations, candy canes and so many lights that half the town had to sit in darkness whenever we switched them on. It seems over the top now - says the guy who just struggled to erect a 5 foot plastic tree from China - but that is what people did back in the day.

They didn’t do shopping malls packed to the brim though. Apparently Christmas shopping means only one thing at this time of the year; hard out five fingered discount time as professional shop lifters hit the shops en masse. Who knew there was such a thing aye? I mean we were good back in my College days but we would never have called ourselves ‘professionals’ but we would've practiced more if we knew we could make a career out of it!

I remember once spending almost an hour in Toy World once waiting to pinch as many G.I.Joes as my mate Brent’s bomber jacket would hold. I made like I was buying them for my little brother and even went to go so far as to joke with the owner that ‘they all look the same to me haha’. The fuck they did. I was hard core and I knew what I wanted and the moment the guy went out the back to check something I had more plastic down my pants than a lezzo with a strap on.

It almost went pear shaped though. No sooner had I got out the door than those Joes not tucked into my pants fell out the arse of Brent’s jacket and onto the pavement. Luckily the stores window display shielded me from view and I was able to kick them out of sight of the shop before picking them up and legging it all the way down the main street. I must’ve made quite the sight; a pubescent boy in an over sized jacket running down the street with G.I.Joes in hand and a small erection.

Now that’s seedy.

China; Land of the Fugazi

Those sneaky sneaky Chinese. They might be cute, cuddly and ready to please but it only took about five minutes for old habits to kick in didn't it?

The little girl who sang at the opening ceremony was fake. The fireworks at the opening ceremony were fake. I think the whole freakin Olympics are fake. I don't think they're being held in China at all. I reckon it'll turn out to be like an episode of Lost and all the world's athletes have been kept on some island with giant panda bears whilst the fake Olympics took place. But then there’s no real surprise in that, China is fugazi central, they even make fake components to be used in fake appliances. When that blows up in your face you can buy fake medication to treat your not so fake injuries. No stone is left un-turned when it comes to faking it in China.

It can have its advantages though. I'm reminded of this one time, back in 'Nam, that DG Macca, Lancelot, Big Al and I were on covert sneak peak insertion near the Cambodian border and we stumbled across a platoon of Chinese crack troops all locked and loaded. They hadn't expected to see any G.I that close to the border and were actually all tucking into some flied lice and Cream of Sum Yung Gui when we came across them. Needless to say shit got real serious real fast, but luckily for us their AK-47s were fake.

Not everything that comes out of China is fake. Many of the world’s biggest labels, such as the adidas hoodie I'm wearing as I write this, are made in China. The irony is that a lot of the fake copies of the worlds biggest labels come from China too. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be that the guys who produced the real stuff also had a hand in making the fugazi's too because there's a lot of money to be made in both that's for sure. Although quite what the Chinese will spend it all on is open for interpretation. Better haircuts? I don't think so.

Still, if any of our athletes at the fake Olympic Games need an emergency replacement pair of sneakers they can pop next door to the factory of ten year olds making them and help themselves.

Communist bum chums Russia seemed determined not to let their rent boy China have all the attention this month though. They decided to up and invade Georgia which is one of those little break away countries that you'd never know about unless they were invaded or were home to the world's most prolific serial killer. Unfortunately for the poor Georgians it appears as though the Russian AK47s are very real and they're getting a right fisting.

Team America has taken notice though and put the Russians in their rightful place by telling them they've all been naughty little boys. In fact, as soon as Michael Phelps has won his eight gold medals they're sending him over to sort it all out in a classic Yanks vs The Reds confrontation, the likes of which the world hasn't seen since we taught that Chinese platoon how we like to party like it's 1969.

So that leaves only one unanswered question. If Michael Phelps has size 14 feet and his arm span is bigger than he is tall, how big do you reckon his chopper is?

Neither Russian nor fake, apparently, is brunette model Dasha Astafieva, rumoured to be the latest bit of totty for one Mr Hugh Hefner. He likes what he sees so much that he’s reportedly invited her to come be his fourth concubine, much to the shock of his three resident blonde hand maidens. They don’t want another girl in the house quite possibly any more than Astafieva wants to play with a couple of walnuts in a stocking every fourth night but hey, you do what you have to do to get by these days.

Just like these poor kids, who have to stand together for the entire month of August otherwise shit just won’t make sense…

Coloured Tampons? WTF?!

Sometimes I look at my two cats and wish that they were big enough for me to mount and ride them, like He-Man did his. Just imagine getting around the place astride a giant cat. That'd be awesome.

Speaking of giant pussies, do you remember sitting and giggling through your first Sex Ed class back in intermediate or college? It all went so well until the moment they whipped out the visual aides and every guy sat there absolutely terrified from the moment the huge floating vagina appeared on the teachers flip chart board. Geez it was like something out of Star Trek wasn’t it? And if that wasn’t scary enough it was soon followed by a giant flaccid dickie which was so big it left most of us boys feeling deeply inadequate for several years after having seen it.

I thought of this the other day when I saw an ad for coloured tampons. WTF Ladies? Coloured tampons seem to me to be a tad unnecessary; I mean they're all going to come out the same colour aren't they, so what’s the point? Do you really want to be shoving something dyed bright orange up the ol’ sprinkler, because last time I heard coloured food dye was great for causing hyper activity in kids but shit all else and yet, here you are with a whole box of coloured goodness in your hand?!

Its all part of a disturbing trend I’ve noticed that is the making traditionally what was always unnoticeable – women’s sanitary items - highly ‘in your face can’t bloody ignore it’ noticeable. I wonder if its women who come up with these marketing ideas for other women or is it fellas? Is it some bizarre reverse psychology thing where chicks are trying to be liberated by giving other girlies the option of coloured over just plain white, or is it just guys having a laugh?

Like the three stack able boxes of the damn things on the window sill in our carzie. And just in case you haven’t noticed them, some genius has decided they look best when all brightly coloured in ‘funky retro patterns’. Now lets get one thing straight right now; the only time tampons come close to being mentioned in the same sentence as the word ‘funk’ is when somebody wants to refer to the smell an old used one that just won’t flush is making. And I’ve seen a lot of those.

Right up till the day I went flatting I had never really seen a tampon. I'm sure my sister must have had them but she was very discreet, unlike my first few female flatmates who seemed to take great delight in leaving theirs un-flushed most of the time. I did the same with my cables admittedly, so maybe it was their way of saying ‘thanks for that’.

See I lived a fairly sheltered life growing up and the only naked women I saw for a long time was my mother - she of the retro beaver - and my sister who, like all sisters do, started bathing alone from about the age of ten. I did wonder why for many a year until the memorable day she attempted the streak past my bedroom at bath time only to trip outside my door. That was the day I discovered, much to her embarrassment and to my surprise, that my little sister was little no more. She was my mothers daughter too, of that there could be no doubt, for she too had a huge minge-on. But I try not to think about it.

We had a couple of Martina Navratilova’s take us for Sex Ed too. Real vintage lezzos. Both were married but they were as camp as a row of tents and everyone knew it. Early on in the piece all the girls were taken away to a separate room for a 40 minute period whilst we were left to discuss the fertility merits of boxers vs. tightey whiteys with Ms Man. When the girls finally came back into the room there was a definite mood change in the air and whatever was said whilst they’re gone none of us fellas ever did find out, but we never scored so much as a sneaky feel off any the girls for a good six weeks.

Still, it could have been worse I suppose. I could’ve gone to an all boys school like DG Macca where they only got to see the one flip board diagram in their Sex Ed class and it wasnt the giant set of beef curtains either....

Prank Calls, Homespuns & Sexy Scones

Have you ever wondered if people knit anymore? I hadn’t because I assumed that it was a dying art from an era when times were simpler and gay meant happy, like the meat pack raffle and whipping up a batch of scones.

But there are still a few practitioners of knitting out there. Why just today I witnessed an elderly lady who clicked her way through a homespun whilst sitting in the waiting room we happened to share. Isn’t funny how knitters are their own biggest fans? She was clad in a knitted purple ensemble that included matching beret, cardigan and skirt. She looked like Grimace. What was Grimace anyways? I always thought it was the McDonalds way of appealing to the sexually confused, like all things purple. Barney the dinosaur is purple. Say no more.

See knitting was always on a hiding to nothing back at the start of the nineties with the advent of The Warehouse and the cheap synthetic jerseys they sourced from China and other such shitholes of the world. But the straw that broke the camels – or rather the ewes – back was David Bain and his wearing of several of the most ghastly homespun’s ever made. He didn’t actually have a choice in wearing them; the Filth had taken his clothes for evidence when they found him at his place. The homespun’s were from the Sally Army who they couldn’t even give them away to anyone not facing multiple counts of murder.

But the rest of us had a choice and we weren’t going to be caught dead in a homespun like his. Ever. Nana’s up and down the land who ‘never liked the look of that Bain boy anyway’, probably because he was wearing something like the kiddie fiddlers on Play School always did, stopped producing homespun’s almost overnight. The wool industry was nearly wiped out then and there. Farmers had to do something with their sheep other than sharing them and ever since have rooted only their own flock.

I’m bringing scone making back. ClubDes fights back! At least half the world’s problems could be solved if folk took the tine to whip up each other a batch of scones rather than a batch of P. Turning out a dozen scones takes only 20 minutes from prep to table, that’s a couple of handbag snatch and grabs that the Killer Beez wouldn’t get round to pulling if they were tucking into some cheese scones and not some Asians purse jammed full of cash.

I once made fellow metro sexual DG Macca a batch one night after he popped round to my gaff for a spot of man talk. There was no popping down to the mall and paying $6 for a coffee and a dry-as-a-nuns-nasty muffin from Muffin Break for us. Not wanting to look like a couple of poncey bummers sitting in a cafe we stayed in, ate hot scones with lashings of jam and shared manly stories. To finish the evening off we spooned each other on the couch. Thankfully our respective wives have never found out about the spooning bit – we’ve managed to keep that on the down low.

Not everything retro should come back though. Prank phone calls on the radio should not come back because it’s just not funny anymore. Prank phone calls as a TV show should never have made it to fucken air because visually it doesn’t work! I’d wager that you could dub prank phone calls over a porno, play it in prime time and it still would not work. People would put the mute on, clearly. Making a half hour TV show out of You Tube clips is just as bad. Who funds this shit?

I know a thing or two about prank phone calls. I was quite good at them back in the day. My mate Willy G and I would fire up the prank call when wagging school back in college. I would do all the standards – Chinese takeaway, Indian dairy owner, Scandinavian shit stirrer – whilst he would do the fresh Maori. He could only do the one but he did it really well actually, probably because he was a fresh Maori.

The call of mine they still talk about is the time I rang the local McDees and booked a 25 kid birthday party for my mate Shontell. They were very thorough, took all the happy meal orders there and then, all the desert orders, all Shontell's contact details (I had planned ahead) and never once questioned why a 14 year old wanted a Maccas party. Maybe they were getting over the fact that it was a dude with a chick’s name? The call itself was never actually that funny and it did cross my mind to abandon it more than once as it was getting a little mundane, so much so that I forgot about it the minute I hung up the phone.

Little did Willy G and I realise it would be the call that kept on giving because three weeks later Maccas hit his Mum and Dad up with a mega bill for a party they never attended. Who knew they would have actually charged for a no-show aye? Apparently they’d cooked the food and everything. It was a well prepared party I’ll give them that. I don’t ever recall admitting to Shonny that it was me that made the call but I think he knew, there was a distinct distance between us after that and I seem to recall he called me some very hurtful names. Very hurtful indeed.

Maybe I should have whipped him up a batch of scones to make it up to him? Or a David Bain homespun even.

Cold, Hard Trading Cards

It has been a few days since I last cracked a fat over anything but thankfully the wife I never had, DougalMougal, has made me see the error of my ways and reminded me that with great power comes great responsibility. Well he didn’t say that in so many words. Or any of those words actually, in fact I made that entire bit up.

I’ve actually been busy finishing the biggest bag of Twisties I’ve ever seen. No not really but actually that’s not so far from the truth. My son, ClubDes Junior, is collecting the rugby cards you find in the chippie packets these days and shit has been getting serious. I’ve eaten so many potato chips I now bleed when I poo. Those cards are playground currency I tell you and they’re more valuable than cold hard cash. The kids won’t even accept cash for them actually, the only legal tender they recognise is a 5cm square bit of plastic with some meathead on the front.

It wasn’t long before Junior soon became a Don of the playground with his mega collection, thanks to my pimping the crew at ClubDes for their cards from the packets they’ve been getting out of the vending machine in the hall. What started out as a harmless bit of helping out the boy though has quickly become a race to see whose kid can get the full set first between me and the Hard Out Harry parents of the Saffa he’s best mates with.

Initially their Mum was having none of it because her boys were ripping through the packets and not actually eating the chips and if there is one thing that rips the undies of a Saffa it’s wasted money, but as soon as she got a sniff of competition then shit really kicked off. Typical bloody Saffas. I wonder if they’ll consider a winner takes all competition to see whose cable contains the most chip fragments, theirs or mine.

All of this reminds me of my school days spent collecting trading cards. Back in my day you got bubblegum with your cards. It tasted like crap and lasted about all of four chews and was made from jandal cutoffs but we didn’t care because it was all about the cards. Batman, Ninja Turtles, WWF, Rugby League – you name it we collected it. The token Indian boy at my school, because there really weren’t that many back then, always got the whole set first because his Dad owned the local diary and he bought boxes of the stuff from wholesalers. You see that’s the secret to buying trading cards, as I would later learn whilst in the early days of my inauguration to the world of comic book shop geekdom, because each box is guaranteed to contain a full set plus rare cards.

There was no flogging rare shit off on Trade Me back then either, you begged, borrowed or stole your way to a whole set in those days and I stole anything that wasn’t tied down. I remember fleecing all the girls in 2nd form of their Neighbours cards, not because I collected them but just because I could. I was exempt from the suspicion of the theft too on account of being a fella and no fella would have been caught dead with Neighbours cards. Who collects Neighbours cards, I mean really? My sister did and she got the whole set too.

I reckon my violating of the girls collections stemmed from the fact that I had been burnt before with trading cards. Karma had paid me a visit earlier in ’86 when me and Willie Gee went halvsies in the Soccer World Cup collectors set. There were 52 playing cards to collect and through our collective resources we scored the lot, including the four very rare ace cards. Once we had the set we took turns in holding on to them for a week, laying them out, admiring them, that kind of thing. We were too young back then to know how to have a jimmy but you can bet if did we would have over them, they were that good.

Only they went missing onetime whilst on Willie’s watch and I never ever saw them again. It was very nearly the end of a beautiful friendship. They were good cards too dammit and I’d be living of the profits of having sold them cards today if I had them, not that I’d ever sell them. But they’d be my retirement plan. Willie lives up in the Coromandal these days cultivating the ganja. I bet he sold those cards for a bag of fertiliser or something. I got mine back in later years though when I pinched half his G.I.Joe collection.

Ah well. That’s life and you’ve just got to get on with things really. As I write this Junior only needs three cards to collect the set while Saffaboy needs only the one. It’s gonna be a close call. Maybe I should break into their house and steal his…

The First Rule of BlogClub...

DougalMougal was giving me gip today for not having posted anything on the blog in over a week. Honestly, the more that guy speaks the less I want to sleep with him. But he’s quite right; you can’t not write anything for ages and try to pass yourself off as a blog, it's the first rule of BlogClub.

I’ve actually spent the entire week trying to open a new and improved pack of AA batteries, one of the ones where the new ‘easy tear’ tab is anything but easy and usually starts off by coming away from the pack at the slightest hint of pressure, thus rendering it completely useless and almost entirely impenetrable.

How many ‘easy to open’ packs do you actually find, well, easy to open? How is opening a box of muesli bars difficult anyway, it’s not exactly the Krypton Factor is it? Remember the good old days of bottled milk where all you had to do was jab your dirty index finger through the foil top to get to the good stuff? Now you’d be lucky to open your milk with anything less than several knifes of varying bluntness from the kitchen draw and a small Asian family. Tiny powerful little fists.

At times like these I am always amazed to think that somewhere, somehow, someone is actually getting paid good money to develop shit like this. Do they live an existence where they genuinely think they’re helping people I wonder, or are they just loving the fact that they getting paid some easy, easy money? All the others down the same packaging chain – the testers, the makers and the marketers – all share in making the same easy money. So it seems everyone on that particular merry go round is making easy money except you and me, the poor bastards who spend several hours fidgeting with the useless plastic seal tab thingee that cost us our hard earned money.

It’s a bit like unhooking a girl’s bra for the first time, except there was something worth getting to in that particular package. Speaking of milkers, Lindsay Lohan, the last great hope for those that fancy a bit of celebrity fire crotch – Bruiser, I’m looking at you brother – has gotten hers out in a photo shoot that pays homage to Marilyn Monroe’s last sitting. They are impressive, as I suspected they always were. I only suspected that since she’s been 16 mind you. To think that when she was like, 12, would just be wrong. If I can figure out how to post a link to them here I will, then we can all have a wank over them:

Lindsay's Nungas

Speaking of freckles, when the hell did the Hi5 line-up change? I just happened to come across the latest K Mart waste of space in my letterbox and couldn’t help but notice the effeminate fella is now a pimply ginga. As the young blondes I’m currently stalking on Bebo would say: WTF?! I think the Asian girl has changed too but you never can tell, they all look the same.

It’s like movie stars who play a memorable role like James Bond. Daniel Craig should be barred from playing anything else until he’s no longer James Bond because it breaks the illusion and it just gets on my tits. Worst is that dude who plays Cyclops in the X Men movies and turned up in the Superman Returns flick. Now that’s not even an honest mistake, that’s just taking the piss because Marvel comic characters do not cross over into DC comic movies, that’s not cool.

Neither is checking out a chick from afar that turns out up close to be a dude. Like some guy I know but who's name escapes me did earlier this week. Never trust a man with a pony tail, or parents who let their kids have hairdos that make them look like the other gender. The highlight of my weekend was asking 'Hows it going boys?' to the two on our doorstep selling fundraising chocolate, only to find that the youngest was called Abby. Great, now I've given some poor girl a complex all because Mum saves money by sending both kids to the same hairdresser.

So anyway, once you’re done having one over Lindsay Lohan – did I mention the shaven haven? – You might like to check out the slideshows I’ve added on the right. They should work for all bar the four of you that read this at our work.

Hey I might not have written anything in a week but I never neglect the blog. It's the first rule of BlogClub.