Electing the Phallus

Well another Election has come and gone and what a shambles it turned out to be.

Not the actual running of the thing because that’s always well run, Iraq this ain’t. But the result was as predictable as the pool comp we sometimes run here at work which Almo will always win, unless he monumentally fucks it up. Which he did last time actually, so go figure.

Turn out on Saturday was its lowest ever and say what you will about the disenfranchised youth of today it doesn’t take four years of completing a political major to work out some folk just couldn’t be arsed voting in a one horse race.

You should see what it’s like round here trying to get a lady godiver out of the masses when they know full well that A-Fed is going to win it all anyway…

They had a couple of the young Mensa members on the news the other night actually, explaining just why it was they didn’t vote. They came up with some truly inspiring gems of spiritual enlightenment too, like “I don’t really care eh” and ‘I had better things to do” which some might argue that it’s the kind of answer only the gifted could come up with. Maybe. I would argue that from the Occupational Overuse Syndrome that had set in on both their right hands, that they were complete wankers.

Now I skipped my Seventh Form Formal because ‘I had better things to do”. But then that was several hours of trying to suppress an erection in a hired suit at a tacky-but-wishes-it-was-swanky location, the ticket to which cost far too much to not include any alcohol whatsoever.

I didn’t actually have better things to do. My mother wouldn’t let me go. But that’s irrelevant.

Mrs ClubDes and I called into the local polling booth – not to be confused with the local pulling booth because that’s a whole separate blog – on our way to my sisters wedding. Thus we were right glammed up in our number ones which solicited the very humorous, but not entirely unpredictable “Glad to see you got dressed up to vote” joke from the guy who had probably sat there checking out women's chests all day.

“Please put a tit - I mean tick - on each form…”

Attending weddings are great. Except that bit before hand where you have to think about what you’re going to buy the happy couple because even if they have a gift registrar here and there, who really knows what they want. We went with towels because you can never have enough towels. Or pillows.

I briefly contemplated gifting my blister something that would spark a memory of our childhood which inevitably got me thinking about a salt and pepper shaker that her mother used to have. It can best be described as a monster porcelain penis with a separate ball sack, because that’s what it was.

It was a white gloss finish with green cartoon love hearts on both twig and berries. It stood about eight inches tall with a girth wide enough to bring a tear the eye of anyone who looked at it which was everyone, because it sat on our MANTLEPIECE for all to see, all of the time.

Needless to say I didn’t subject her new husband and future nephews to the emasculation that is a foot long cock with bovine testes in the living room.

Speaking of giant phallus, how chuffed are you that the million or so who didn’t vote on Saturday helped get these cocks back in power:

Elections and Erections.

So the national erection has come and gone and just like ‘ol Grandad it will be another three years before we have another one. It struck me whilst taking part and later watching the drama unfold, that the national erection is quite possibility the only event untouched these days by gratuitous sexual exploitation. I watched almost five hours of election night coverage and there wasn't even so much of a see through white blouse.

Hardly surprising given the subject matter I suppose, I couldn't imagine that even at celebratory post election bash they would be much chance of pulling. Not that I've ever been to one but it seems the average age at these things is 50ish, but hey who knows, all the swingers I know are 50+ so maybe it’s one big car key party and as more and more young people get involved you can be rest assured it will be only a matter of time before its wall to wall T & A. How else will they keep their attention otherwise?

It would've been wall to wall cock over at the Erotica Expo, the second biggest show in town this weekend. We did plan to go, but I only just managed to extract myself from bed to vote, let alone spend a couple of hours walking around the Events Centre trying to make like I didn't have an erection the whole time. Incidentally, one of the best ways to hide a stiffy whilst standing is to lean back against a wall and rest one of your feet half way up the wall, thus creating a casual, but cool stance that hides even the fullest woody. How many guys were up against the wall at the Expo I wonder?

My dodging the sexpo wasn't due to me being frigid at the thought of handling an eight foot strap on dickie or perving at those that use them in the course of making their living, far from it. But I've had a cold all week and unlike those that call in sick as soon as they get the slightest head rush when getting out of bed in the morning, I tried to work through it for far too long.

There's nothing quite like having a cold when the weather is great outside. If feeling like shit wasn't enough then it's hot everywhere just to remind you what you're missing. Just to top it off I spent too long outside last week when I wasn't sick and got sunburnt for my troubles. So now I'm burnt, sick and miserable, trying to crack a fat over the election coverage because I’ve missed the sexpo. What a winner.

I was genuinely surprised not to see the name 'OBAMA, Barack' on my voting form on Saturday. I looked everywhere and it clearly wasn't there so I wrote it at the bottom and ticked it. I hope they've counted it. It did seem like America's election earlier in the week was the world's election didn't it? Maybe all them uptight types who think we're too Americanised really have a point. Right up till the final days of our election I couldn't help but notice that we we're still getting more coverage from the States than we were of the Helen and John show.

Obviously them electing a cheeky darky was groundbreaking stuff but let's face it, Mr Sulu from Star Trek could've been running against McCain and have won it I reckon and he's a fictional character. George Takkei, the homosexual Asian man who played him probably wouldn't have done so well had he run as himself though. It's a uniform thing really.

Sarah Palin was the only deviation from the bullshit that gushed from the Republican War Machine but even she knew she was on a hiding to nothing with Grandpa McCain and eventually started putting the boot in - or at least the high heeled stiletto, the kinky bitch. Palin’s presence in the American campaign show wasn't a complete loss though, at least not for the porno Palin lookalikes who were quick to put on the dark framed glasses, tailored suits and do ‘Joe the Plumber’! Google that one if you dare.

Back at home it was the end of an era with the Teflon Don - Winston Peters - getting the boot. Winnie was always good for a laugh but he backed the wrong horse in appealing to the Grey Power crowd like he has done all these years. The problem with having a rent-a-crowd whose average age is in the high 70's is that they're more likely to cark it between elections than your average punter.

For the record I voted Green and not because I like hairy women and retro minge. It was really the only vote I could make on good conscience because you wait, in three years time we’ll be gagging to get rid of John too and the cycle will begin again...

The Blue Thunder Root

Now, I love my wife, but if she were to up and tell me one day that we would be spending some family time standing around the local roundabout waving placards with her name on it just so she could get elected to parliament like the local National candidate did this past weekend, then I suspect Mr Jug Cord would have to pay a visit.

There are just some places you don’t expect to see advertising hoardings and a manic roundabout is just one of those places. How many votes is she going to get by distracting people there anyway? She might get the odd pity vote given that she has wheeled out everyone in the immediate family even dear old Dad who had to prop himself against the ‘Remember to Indicate’ sign, but I think, on the whole, no one is going to give a flying fuck.

KFC have learnt that lesson. Their six foot ‘Now Hiring’ window erection has failed to attract the ‘eligible for the minimum wage’ audience it targeted. Granted it’s big and bright enough for the text generation to see it, but they’re too busy texting whilst navigating the roundabout to see it.

My neighbour’s son is just such a genius. He starts his rotary turbo up several hours before he plans to depart and leaves it rumbling in the garage whilst he nips back in to have a quick jimmy over how sweet it sounds. I had a mate who used to do the same thing with his motorbike. He reckoned the manufacturers recommended it. Fuck me it does.

Now it’s not like we're talking about Granddad’s old black and white telly that actually needed half an hour for the cathode ray tube to warm up before you actually saw anything; no a motorbike or car for that matter is a highly engineered piece of kit – it’s made to go as soon as you turn the fricken key. Quite frankly if the guy who was selling me a motorbike told me it needed half an hour warm up time then alarm bells would be ringing my friend.

Did you see the doco on Mechaphilia the other night? Fantastic stuff. Mechaphilia is the sexual attraction to machines. There are only 12 known sufferers in the world, or at least bold enough to admit publicly that they like sticking their willy up the exhaust pipe of their motor. Not that there seems to be much suffering going on either, it looked like they were quite enjoying it given the blurred out images that these guys post on the world wide intraweb every day.

The programme focused mainly on one guy in The States (where else aye?) who likes to jizz all over his 1970s VW Beetle, or any car for that matter. His claim to fame was that he had given the original Blue Thunder helicopter a quick shafting the day he was left alone with it on a sightseeing trip. Unfortunately the Blue Thunder chopper no longer exists as it crashed in the early nineties, quite possibly because the avionics were filled with mans milk, who knows? Needless to say it was only a matter of hours before the British film crew had footage of him whacking one out over their four wheel drive.

Perhaps as a wind up they took this guy to a huge car show to gauge his reaction, needless to say he cracked one the whole time and proceeded to perform some pretty heavy frottage on anything with four wheels. How his old corduroys contained his excitement I’ll never know but it was certainly there on show for all to see.

I suspect my neighbour is a closet Mechaphiliac. In fact most boy racers would have to be wouldn’t they? Deep down I can imagine they’d all like to jam the ‘ol chopper between the seats and lube their ride. Both my neighbours – mother and son – like to toot as they leave, every farken time and they come and go and they come and go a lot. Perhaps it’s a signal that they have infact left. Perhaps they don’t actually talk to each other and thus communication is by car horn only. Perhaps it’s a sign that the streaming porn can start and / or the Mechaphilia postings can begin?

Perhaps they’re just annoying bastards.

How To Win An Election.

You know summer is well and truly around the corner when masses of nubile young women take to the streets in the early evening, running, whilst wearing very little. Consequently its around this time that the reported instances of young male drivers having accidents due to "sun strike" skyrockets. Now I've heard firm, perky nungas called a lot of things in my time but 'sun strike' is a new one on me too.

Not that all the running eye candy on show at this time of year is solely for the benefit of the heterosexual man. I passed a particularly buff individual who was so cut I was tempted to pull over and offer him the box of plasters form the medical kit in the boot. He was running with his top off, not because it was hot enough too, just because he could. See running at this time of year is not so much about getting fit as it is 'me me me, look the fuck at me'!

It's also about now that we non runners dust of the barbecue and begin the enjoyable task of chiselling off the crud that has been caked on the hot plate since the last time we used it. We did ours on the weekend, although admittedly Mrs ClubDes did ours - I was out running with my top off.

We had some friends over and talk eventually turned to politics like it does in election year, the only time anyone in this country talk’s politics. Even then the discussion was decidedly un-political in that we focused on personality, not policy. Why is it that here in NZ we are more concerned with who is coaching the All Blacks than whom is running the country?

National seem destined to win and would have to do something monumentally stupid to fuck it up. Still this is politics, there's plenty of time for that to happen. They all have that smug bastard look about them and have even started talking about life after they've won the election. Now if there's one thing I hate it's a poor winner.

Now I'm not advocating one party over another - I lament the fact that we are remarkably devoid of plausible political alternatives in this country - but I hate the thought of one pack of wankers inheriting a victory that they never really earnt simply because they're offering the biggest bribe. Is 'who's going to give me the best tax cut' really a responsible way to choose your next government?!

One of my social study teachers ran a class election back in my college days. Isn't it weird how all the male social study teachers were strangely effeminate? On recollection all of ours were real pink jersey wearing types and my god did we roast them for it. None of them ever had any control over the class and Bruiser and I would take to playing games like who could call out the rudest word without getting caught, or the natural progression from that game, who could summon the teach with the rudest name. The art of it was to be just loud enough for him to know that you were calling him yet at the same time stifling the delivery just enough to muffle the fact that you had just called him 'greatbighardcock'.

Anyhoo, the whole class election thing really kicked off. I led the B'Stard Party, so named after a Rik Mayall character on TV at the time. Seeing as how I had the biggest chopper I naturally had all the lads behind me. Or it could have been that our campaign was built on the promise that we'd take the party logo stickers off the pink bits of the Penthouse centrefolds that doubled as our party posters. Yeah it might've been that. We campaigned for shorter skirts on the girls and longer lunchtimes, you know, standard stuff. The girls had split into two cliques and as is always the case when that happens with sheilas, shit started getting personal.

After an initial ballot we boys just about had the numbers to rule alone, but not quite. The bigger of the girls cliques, lead by the chick with the biggest mouth funnily enough, were a close second, close enough to rule out the other clique. Because neither side had enough to rule outright we had another ballot, one that 'ol bigmouth thought she'd win easily because the girls would side with her in a show of vaginal solidarity.

Only she thought wrong. Her slagging off the other clique came back to haunt her and she went down in flames and being the graceful loser she was - this was the same girl that would fake debilitating injuries in the final stage of every 100 meter race she wasn't winning on every athletics day - packed a sook and never spoke to me again.

The irony is that same girl tried to add me as a friend on Facebook the other day. My response? Delete! Oh and we removed the party logo stickers too. What can I say? We were a political party that stuck by its pre election promises....

Barack Bin Laden?

Man I can’t wait for the general election in October when I can finally vote for Barack Obama. Oh yeah, I feel so black right now.

What? He’s running for the American Presidency and not the New Zealand Prime Ministerial ship? So I won’t be able to vote for him? Well you could’ve fooled me because he’s on the bloody news every night; if not in person then it’s some Gaylord waxing on how he’s the first black Ron Jeremy and from his sack will flow the freedom seed. Or something to that affect

I can understand it must be a big deal if you live in America and give a shit, but we don’t, on both counts. But this is what happens when news programmes here in New Zealand staff themselves with lazy pricks who, rather than go out and find real stories, fill their bulletins with crap from the overseas networks so that they can spend more time at home beating up their girlfriends. Honestly, I think I got more of an education back in the day watching Zippy and Bungle pack a sad with each other.

Did you ever wonder why it was that Bungle always wrapped a towel around his waist to after a shower and wore jammies to bed, but yet walked around in the buff the rest of time? I didn’t at the time because I was only about eight, but now I do and I’m thinking he must have had a stiffy the whole time. Why else would he have had the towel on? Hey – we’ve all been there, been a little too attentive with the soap whilst washing a certain part of the anatomy and then tried to explain it away when the missus catches you as ‘I was just washing it…’.

The same thing happens with Formula One racing highlights. Ever since Formula One coverage got bought out by Sky and not TVNZ, we’ve had the English highlights package on the network news which is always about Lewis Hamilton, the UKs answer to Barack Obama, only he does car, not Presidential races. Admittedly he’s won a few races over the two seasons he’s been competing, so as far as the Poms are concerned its game over, call the competition off, there’s only one man in it. The fuck there is.

John Key, National leader, born and raised in middle class New Zealand and quite possibly whiter than the underside of my scrotum compared himself to Barack Obama this week. I never knew that John Keys smoked marijuana? How else would you come up with that kind of self comparison? It would have been more laughable if we weren’t all sniggering at that jammy bugger Winston Peters finally getting a little dose of karma up the jacksie. Winston reminds me of a guy I used to work with, who found shit hilarious when he was dishing it out but couldn’t handle the jandal when he had the piss taken out of him. I can’t stand guys like that.

That said though, credit where credit is due, Winston Peters is a survivor. Sgt Zeke Anderson was a survivor. Survivors are winners. He was very good at it but it helped that he had a certain amount of natural ability. If there was one thing he didn’t like it was dopers, because if you were a doper you were getting high and not listening to him which meant you were going to get him killed. And he wasn’t going to let that happen. A lot of good men died in Vietnam but Sgt Zeke Anderson was not one of them. He was a fictional character in a TV series, but I served with a lot of men like him.

A figure once put as high as 23% of Americans believe Barack Obama is Muslim and therefore – following the six degrees of separation rule – somehow tied to Al Qaeda. Down in the redneck states, the ones who put sexy in dyslexia, there is a percentage who thinks that ‘Obama’ and ‘Osama’ are just a little too close for their liking. And I can understand where they’re coming from too, a kid in my class at school was named Hitler Tampon and he was always getting grief about his name.

Funny then, what with all this kerfuffle that Barack would choose a running mate with a last name that does little to ease the situation. Thousands of people waving ‘Barack Biden’ placards are just going to piss off the illiterate voters of America more who are probably reading the signs as ‘Barack Bin Laden’.

Local Body Erections?

It’s local body election time in J Town. That time of year where some of the saddest campaign hoarding's ever pop up, only to be pulled down just as quickly by some of the saddest individuals ever.

As amusing as it is to see them all torn down every morning, it’s not so cool to see the old folk volunteers who turn up later in the day to erect them again. There are certainly no frills when you start at the bottom step of local body politics, especially not when Grandad has to re-erect your woody for you each morning. And Bill Gates has a lot to answer for. One of his most heinous crimes is rolling out a software package that makes anybody think that they’re a half decent desk top publisher. My eight year old son could do a better job at putting a poster together compared to some of the efforts on show this election.

How effective are campaign hoardings anyway? I mean really. Has anybody in the history of the world ever decided to vote for some cooze on the basis of their picture having been stapled to a fence? I doubt it. But some folk really get into it, a couple of peeps in J Town are driving around with bumper stickers that read ‘Bring Back Jack’. Who the fuck is Jack and what ever happened to bumper sticks that actually meant something like “My Other Ride Is Your Mum” or “Fancy A Bum - You Might Like It”?

They all look so depressing, that’s the problem. I got the candidate info pamphlet in the mail the other day. I tried to read it because you know me, I like to make informed decisions but I think I‘ve had more fun watching my cat defecate in the neighbours garden. But then that’s what you get when you have 57 Christian Scout Master Rotarian's all preaching the same thing. Sure, there were a few hippies chucked in for good measure and possibly one ethnic minority but it’s not much of a selection is it? No wonder we New Zealanders don’t get into politics half as much as we should.

Here’s a good reason why we should though. Some Maori bird up North has taken a national treasure claim to the Treaty of Waitangi Tribunal. Her idea of a national treasure? Her husband of one year, a Tongan over stayer who is being deported because a) he overstayed and b) he’s been convicted of assault on – wait for it - his wife. What a lovely couple aye? She hopes by having him classified as a treasure, the Government will not be able to legally deport him. Now instead of kicking the claim to the kerb like any self respecting Government department should, the Tribunal is allowing it to be heard! So you and I, the taxpayer, will be funding the several days it takes for this genuine grievance claim of the indigenous people of this land to be heard.

Is it any wonder then that in this country we have people with the mentality to hold up banks with a screwdriver, because our politicians put more effort and money into being politically correct, than being accountable and proactive towards the health, education and criminal justice systems of this country? And it all starts with us not paying enough attention when it comes to voting in the guy who decides whether its two or three ply that will be on the roll in the local library’s shitter.

A screwdriver. To hold up a bank no less. I mean come on - guns for show knives for a pro it might be, but a screwdriver?! What's the guy going to do if you don't give him the money? Unscrew the legs from your desk? Open a tin of paint for you? Geez, it doesn't get much more hardcore than that.

So I really should take more notice of our local body candidates, for like it or not, they’ll eventually move up the ladder to national politics and if they reach that stage, it’s too late to vote the buggers out.

My decision then will be based on the simplest of criteria. I’m going to vote for the candidate with the best nungas. A decision made easier when 90 percent of the candidates have moobs. Now that would make for interesting campaign hoardings – topless candidates. The men aren’t going to fair so well but I’m betting the women won’t have their hoardings torn down every night. Unless they’re well stacked and then all the perverts will pinch them. The really shy ones won't take the hoardings though, they will just park up alongside them several times a day and have a jimmy in the car.

It’s a strategy that worked well last time round for one of our incumbent councillors who just happens to be a reasonably attractive young lady who has just the slightest hint of closet naughtiness about her. Or is it that just my imagination? I’m sure ever picture I saw of her last election was of her in a tighty whitey and thus at least half of the eligible voters in the ward, all the males, voted for her main policy points. There were two of them.

So there you go. All the scientific proof you need to show that even if sex doesn't win you a local body election, it certainly makes it a hell of a lot more interesting.