So much so I can't even bring myself to find pictures of them...
1. Bruno Mars. We’ve had quite enough of the same song six different ways, fuck you very much.
2. Likewise anything referring to or featuring Mick Jagger. How ironic is it that the guy from Maroon 5 with the ridiculously high voice sports so many tattoos he gives the impression he might in all actuality, be ridiculously hard. He’s not but he looks like he should be. And have you seen the abomination of a song that Mick has lent himself to?! Don't.
3. Flags on cars, even the half bra things that some have wrapped around their side mirrors. Still, it makes for accurate racial abuse when kicking off at someone for cutting you off because they were unsighted by said flag draped across the back window. Maybe we should make them mandatory in that sense?
4. Zara Phillips, her broken nosed, cauliflower eared husband and that woman in that bar. The bouncer mind you is a totally fascinating cat and him I’d like to see more of because we all know we should never underestimate the predictability of stupidity. Go Tindall!
5. Facebook. Even before the changes, it's just shit. It might be better if it let me decide what features I want but you know what? I doubt it.
Showing posts with label Facebook. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Facebook. Show all posts
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
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.
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.Sunday, August 21, 2011
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.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Like White On Snow
How bout that snow aye?
Regular readers of this blog will know that the abnormally large portion of any discussion that we in this country attribute to the weather usually gets right on my tits, but this weeks wintry dump is the exception really. It was, in a word, sensational.
It started out in the media as a ‘one in every ten years’ occurrence and then someone must’ve thought back that far and realised, no hang on, I’ve been here ten years and never seen it this bad so it’s a ‘one in fifty years’ experience. That worked right up until some geezer older than fifty chipped in and now it’s a ‘once in a lifetime’ thing.
All of which is right up there with the school of thought that 73% of quoted percentages are made up, including that last one.
My first encounter with the white stuff was on Sunday night when I was forced to abandon the car halfway up our hill in J Town because it was impossible to go on. Progress up till that point had been only ever in two gears and a real series of short trips what with all the stopping, realigning of the passion wagon and red lining it in an attempt to get some grip.
Thus my three football girls and I had to leg it the rest of the way and despite being soaked through from the pre-blizzard downpour at practice, they still wanted to stop, make snow angels and throw the stuff at each other. That’s my girls.
It didn’t take long for all the kids in the neighborhood to get amongst it either and good on them. My son’s Massive promptly set about making the obligatory snow man and it, like so many others I’ve seen since, turned out to be more brown than white; an ethnic snowie, a half cast. Not at all like they look on movies and shit.
Junior stayed out so long one night we thought he had frostbite in his feet. I suggested that Bear Grylls would pee on his to keep them warm were he in the same situation. Not surprisingly it was not a helpful suggestion to make at that point in time.
Rather disappointingly the snow melted at our place the night before the day I decided I would mould something inappropriate on a neighbours lawn. Hopefully it starts to fall again because I’ve drawn scale plans and everything. It would be rude not to erect a four foot phallus really.
I’ll take a pic when I’m done and put it on Facebook, like every other bugger has. I love scrolling through all your photos of snow on trees and fences and the roof and the road and the car and the hills and fuck me I’m bored where are those ones of your wife in her bikini whilst you were holidaying in Fiji again?
I’m just kidding. Besides I copied those particular pics into a word document for easy access in the future. Admittedly I did post the one snow picture myself but only because it’s awesome as you will soon see.
The downside of this winter wonderland is that it has sadly, revealed us to be the country of soft cocks that we are. A bit of cold and snow and major metropolitan areas simply came to a stand still leaving the residents waiting around like the sheep that the farmers in the wops have to try so hard to save when it’s like this. Farmers on the other hand, are like slavery; they just get shit done.
There are places in the world where the residents live with this for most of the year. No, seriously.
I bet those dicks at adidas will have their trousers filled with white stuff too and I’m not talking about snow. The sudden change of the weather has suddenly meant we’re all whacking off about being cold and nobody is going on about over priced All Black jerseys anymore. Expect them back on the racks at full price any day now.
So enjoy the snow peeps, it’s a once in a lifetime experience. Until next year, that is.
What the frost?!
Regular readers of this blog will know that the abnormally large portion of any discussion that we in this country attribute to the weather usually gets right on my tits, but this weeks wintry dump is the exception really. It was, in a word, sensational.
It started out in the media as a ‘one in every ten years’ occurrence and then someone must’ve thought back that far and realised, no hang on, I’ve been here ten years and never seen it this bad so it’s a ‘one in fifty years’ experience. That worked right up until some geezer older than fifty chipped in and now it’s a ‘once in a lifetime’ thing.
All of which is right up there with the school of thought that 73% of quoted percentages are made up, including that last one.
My first encounter with the white stuff was on Sunday night when I was forced to abandon the car halfway up our hill in J Town because it was impossible to go on. Progress up till that point had been only ever in two gears and a real series of short trips what with all the stopping, realigning of the passion wagon and red lining it in an attempt to get some grip.
Thus my three football girls and I had to leg it the rest of the way and despite being soaked through from the pre-blizzard downpour at practice, they still wanted to stop, make snow angels and throw the stuff at each other. That’s my girls.
It didn’t take long for all the kids in the neighborhood to get amongst it either and good on them. My son’s Massive promptly set about making the obligatory snow man and it, like so many others I’ve seen since, turned out to be more brown than white; an ethnic snowie, a half cast. Not at all like they look on movies and shit.
Junior stayed out so long one night we thought he had frostbite in his feet. I suggested that Bear Grylls would pee on his to keep them warm were he in the same situation. Not surprisingly it was not a helpful suggestion to make at that point in time.
Rather disappointingly the snow melted at our place the night before the day I decided I would mould something inappropriate on a neighbours lawn. Hopefully it starts to fall again because I’ve drawn scale plans and everything. It would be rude not to erect a four foot phallus really.
I’ll take a pic when I’m done and put it on Facebook, like every other bugger has. I love scrolling through all your photos of snow on trees and fences and the roof and the road and the car and the hills and fuck me I’m bored where are those ones of your wife in her bikini whilst you were holidaying in Fiji again?
I’m just kidding. Besides I copied those particular pics into a word document for easy access in the future. Admittedly I did post the one snow picture myself but only because it’s awesome as you will soon see.
The downside of this winter wonderland is that it has sadly, revealed us to be the country of soft cocks that we are. A bit of cold and snow and major metropolitan areas simply came to a stand still leaving the residents waiting around like the sheep that the farmers in the wops have to try so hard to save when it’s like this. Farmers on the other hand, are like slavery; they just get shit done.
There are places in the world where the residents live with this for most of the year. No, seriously.
I bet those dicks at adidas will have their trousers filled with white stuff too and I’m not talking about snow. The sudden change of the weather has suddenly meant we’re all whacking off about being cold and nobody is going on about over priced All Black jerseys anymore. Expect them back on the racks at full price any day now.
So enjoy the snow peeps, it’s a once in a lifetime experience. Until next year, that is.
What the frost?!Tuesday, July 19, 2011
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.
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.Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Its A Dog Eat Dog World
I almost didn’t write this because I don’t want to be one of those people that whacks off about their pets, but we now have a dog.
Now I’m not really a dog person. For a long time the only thing remotely ‘dog’ that I was ever interested in was doggy style, but that pretty much dried up when I got married so it was inevitable I guess that we would eventually get a dog.
Okay so I’ve always like the look of some dogs but then I feel the same about Asian schoolgirls; it doesn’t necessarily mean I want to own one. Some dogs, I admit, are quite smart and quite cute but I have always felt that essentially, your average dog is a dumb animal as it relies on man to amuse it and thus lacks the individuality of a good cat.
We already have cats and the process of getting them went something a little like this: cat one was cute and cuddly for a bit, highly amusing then annoying and by default, boring, so we got another. Once she’d gone through that same evolution process it was time for a dog, or so the missus reckoned.
It probably should be noted that this was flawed logic from the start as both Mrs ClubDes and Junior are allergic to cats. Yet we have two.
At this point I played the Daddy card and said no. Contrary to the grandiose plans of her indoors, our house is not huge nor is our yard and as there was no way in hell I would allow us to get a small dog (the cats of the dog world), we sure as heck weren’t getting an animal that was 90% muscle sinew, 10% dog called Satan.
But then we met Charlie.
Who was actually called Freddie whilst at the SPCA but who calls a dog Freddie, seriously? He was neither mop nor Clydesdale in size, rather somewhere in between and although he was dead scared of me initially – an impression I try to cultivate in everyone I meet for the first time – he was rather handsome and the other two vote holders in the house adored him, so what else was I to do but cave.
So now we have a dog (and have had for a few months now). Someone at the SPCA must’ve seen us coming because he is for the most part, a nutter, so he fits in perfectly in our little corner of suburbia. Oh and sure we’ve had all the wonderful things they never tell you about before you get a dog; the whizzing on the bed, the cacking everywhere, the chewing of everything and the occasional social erection but who hasn’t done those things whilst out on the piss aye?
The twice a day walkies rule that I laid down as being a pre-requisite for getting him fell by the wayside after a couple of weeks, as did the ‘not on the furniture’ rule that Mrs ClubDes decreed. But then we all know rules are meant to be broken, that’s why the wife and I no longer use the safety word…
There is a downside to all this and that is now I am a dog owner I get a lot of dog talk from other owners and requests for doggy dates etc. These are people I remove from Facebook immediately because my feelings on dogs have only changed ever so slightly; I love ours but I have no intention of hanging out with yours.
Or your Asian schoolgirl for that matter.
Charlie, the exhibitionist.
Now I’m not really a dog person. For a long time the only thing remotely ‘dog’ that I was ever interested in was doggy style, but that pretty much dried up when I got married so it was inevitable I guess that we would eventually get a dog.
Okay so I’ve always like the look of some dogs but then I feel the same about Asian schoolgirls; it doesn’t necessarily mean I want to own one. Some dogs, I admit, are quite smart and quite cute but I have always felt that essentially, your average dog is a dumb animal as it relies on man to amuse it and thus lacks the individuality of a good cat.
We already have cats and the process of getting them went something a little like this: cat one was cute and cuddly for a bit, highly amusing then annoying and by default, boring, so we got another. Once she’d gone through that same evolution process it was time for a dog, or so the missus reckoned.
It probably should be noted that this was flawed logic from the start as both Mrs ClubDes and Junior are allergic to cats. Yet we have two.
At this point I played the Daddy card and said no. Contrary to the grandiose plans of her indoors, our house is not huge nor is our yard and as there was no way in hell I would allow us to get a small dog (the cats of the dog world), we sure as heck weren’t getting an animal that was 90% muscle sinew, 10% dog called Satan.
But then we met Charlie.
Who was actually called Freddie whilst at the SPCA but who calls a dog Freddie, seriously? He was neither mop nor Clydesdale in size, rather somewhere in between and although he was dead scared of me initially – an impression I try to cultivate in everyone I meet for the first time – he was rather handsome and the other two vote holders in the house adored him, so what else was I to do but cave.
So now we have a dog (and have had for a few months now). Someone at the SPCA must’ve seen us coming because he is for the most part, a nutter, so he fits in perfectly in our little corner of suburbia. Oh and sure we’ve had all the wonderful things they never tell you about before you get a dog; the whizzing on the bed, the cacking everywhere, the chewing of everything and the occasional social erection but who hasn’t done those things whilst out on the piss aye?
The twice a day walkies rule that I laid down as being a pre-requisite for getting him fell by the wayside after a couple of weeks, as did the ‘not on the furniture’ rule that Mrs ClubDes decreed. But then we all know rules are meant to be broken, that’s why the wife and I no longer use the safety word…
There is a downside to all this and that is now I am a dog owner I get a lot of dog talk from other owners and requests for doggy dates etc. These are people I remove from Facebook immediately because my feelings on dogs have only changed ever so slightly; I love ours but I have no intention of hanging out with yours.
Or your Asian schoolgirl for that matter.
Charlie, the exhibitionist.Friday, April 8, 2011
Father Issues? Not Me.
I had myself quite the cathartic moment this week.
It came to me with the news that T-Bag is off to Canada to be with his good looking missus which is a far better excuse than the one he tried to use in ’68 when trying to dodge the draft for Nam. Back then he wanted to be a Mountie, now he’s just off for some mounting.
It reminded me that my long last father is in Canada somewhere and that I’ve hardly ever mentioned him to you lot. My mother on the other hand, she of the nut bar variety, gets load of mentions on account of her being a silly bitch and because I just couldn’t make up some of the shit she’s come up with.
Like the time she painted the kitchen of our house GREEN. Not just green mind you, but that bright almost fluorescent shade which is always used to demonstrate nuclear waste green. She also renovated the place. It was a state house. Years later my Grandfather bought her a house and to prove the green kitchen was no fluke, she painted the entire concrete floor battleship grey. Now Granddad had been in the Navy but even he struggled to figure that one out.
My father skipped the country when I was about 10 for reasons I’m not exactly sure. I’d like to think that it was because he tried and failed to get custody of me but it’s probably something much less romantic i.e. he’s a douche.
I still remember with some clarity the actual custody hearing itself. It took place in some relic of a town hall time building where the floors were so shiny I could see right up the dress shorts my mother had made me wear. Dress shorts. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. No one wearing shorts is doing so to dress up.
Both paternal and maternal sides of the family were there that day and I was ushered between the two of them as they met with those making the decision. It was quite the intimidating process for a boy my age and I was fair bricking it the whole time. I was asked twice who I wanted to live with and when in the room with my mother I said her and when with my father I said him. Let’s be honest, had Adolf Hitler been there I would’ve given him my vote too.
And speaking of which – have you heard of Godwins Law? It’s brilliant. He theorises that every chat stream / online discussion / forum will eventually lead to someone making a comparison, usually quite outrageously and incorrectly, to Nazi Germany. He’s fucken right too. I do it all the time.
Anyhoo, Father didn’t get custody of me, obviously and did a runner not long after. He was a runner actually, well into his marathons and shit and it’s that which has enabled me to track him across the years over a little thing called the Internet.
All connection to my father pretty much died when my Grandfather on his side of the family did about 15 years ago. Unfortunately he ended up with Alzheimer’s and the end, like so often for sufferers, was a blessing. Before that he had remarried a strictly Christian lady who disliked cursing and burping. Something I found out the hard way.
But then he’d never been the same since my grandmother and his childhood sweetheart had died some 10 years before that. I remember the day because of the way my step father, a man of extraordinary tact broke the news to me after getting of the phone: “That was your dick of a father. Your grandmother is dead. Don’t cry about it”.
The final chapter in this story of happy families starts with Facebook which my my uncle used to contact me and eventually fill me in on my father’s actual story. Turns out he married some world famous psychologist who has forbidden him all contact with NZ and his family. Ha. 25 years ago he shot the gap to escape an over bearing control freak (my mother) only to run into the arms of another. Fate it would seem is not without a sense of irony.
Oh and he’s not actually in Canada anymore, so don’t bother asking after him Timmo.
It came to me with the news that T-Bag is off to Canada to be with his good looking missus which is a far better excuse than the one he tried to use in ’68 when trying to dodge the draft for Nam. Back then he wanted to be a Mountie, now he’s just off for some mounting.
It reminded me that my long last father is in Canada somewhere and that I’ve hardly ever mentioned him to you lot. My mother on the other hand, she of the nut bar variety, gets load of mentions on account of her being a silly bitch and because I just couldn’t make up some of the shit she’s come up with.
Like the time she painted the kitchen of our house GREEN. Not just green mind you, but that bright almost fluorescent shade which is always used to demonstrate nuclear waste green. She also renovated the place. It was a state house. Years later my Grandfather bought her a house and to prove the green kitchen was no fluke, she painted the entire concrete floor battleship grey. Now Granddad had been in the Navy but even he struggled to figure that one out.
My father skipped the country when I was about 10 for reasons I’m not exactly sure. I’d like to think that it was because he tried and failed to get custody of me but it’s probably something much less romantic i.e. he’s a douche.
I still remember with some clarity the actual custody hearing itself. It took place in some relic of a town hall time building where the floors were so shiny I could see right up the dress shorts my mother had made me wear. Dress shorts. Now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one. No one wearing shorts is doing so to dress up.
Both paternal and maternal sides of the family were there that day and I was ushered between the two of them as they met with those making the decision. It was quite the intimidating process for a boy my age and I was fair bricking it the whole time. I was asked twice who I wanted to live with and when in the room with my mother I said her and when with my father I said him. Let’s be honest, had Adolf Hitler been there I would’ve given him my vote too.
And speaking of which – have you heard of Godwins Law? It’s brilliant. He theorises that every chat stream / online discussion / forum will eventually lead to someone making a comparison, usually quite outrageously and incorrectly, to Nazi Germany. He’s fucken right too. I do it all the time.
Anyhoo, Father didn’t get custody of me, obviously and did a runner not long after. He was a runner actually, well into his marathons and shit and it’s that which has enabled me to track him across the years over a little thing called the Internet.
All connection to my father pretty much died when my Grandfather on his side of the family did about 15 years ago. Unfortunately he ended up with Alzheimer’s and the end, like so often for sufferers, was a blessing. Before that he had remarried a strictly Christian lady who disliked cursing and burping. Something I found out the hard way.
But then he’d never been the same since my grandmother and his childhood sweetheart had died some 10 years before that. I remember the day because of the way my step father, a man of extraordinary tact broke the news to me after getting of the phone: “That was your dick of a father. Your grandmother is dead. Don’t cry about it”.
The final chapter in this story of happy families starts with Facebook which my my uncle used to contact me and eventually fill me in on my father’s actual story. Turns out he married some world famous psychologist who has forbidden him all contact with NZ and his family. Ha. 25 years ago he shot the gap to escape an over bearing control freak (my mother) only to run into the arms of another. Fate it would seem is not without a sense of irony.
Oh and he’s not actually in Canada anymore, so don’t bother asking after him Timmo.
My Father and his dress shorts, last seen in Hawaii (true story).
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Auto Reply
One of the big disappointments I now find in this day and age of the social network is when you can’t instantly see a picture of the person you are conversing with, like when you receive an email from someone who is new to you.
Usually this takes place in the constraints of the work environment where it might not be possible for you to access the likes of Stalkbook and begin a life long infatuation with your new found correspondence.
I don’t, incidentally. Oh sure, sometimes I will print off profile pics and put them up on the wall in the spare room that no one is allowed to go into ever, but there’s nothing wrong with that, right?
But how long will it be do you think before it becomes the norm de rigueur that we do send more than just a cheery disposition and fancy signatures to each other?
I for one can not wait so I’m starting the ball rolling this week by initiating this auto reply which will be sent to selected new contacts:
Thank you for contacting me. As my reply to your email counts as official company business and I believe that through the use of smiley icons and colourful text that you may in fact be quite hot, please understand that I cannot reply until you have supplied me a recent photo as proof of identity.
Photos of you at the beach, intoxicated and baring a little too much skin, or posing in the bathroom mirror will be accepted and only ever circulated amongst a select few colleagues.
Please also note that this reply cannot be construed as a reply until said photo has been supplied and should not be considered as such.
This organisation is an equal opportunity replier and even if you turn out to be a BOBFOC (Body off Baywatch, Face off Crimewatch) you may receive a reply.
But only if you promise to talk filthy to me.
Usually this takes place in the constraints of the work environment where it might not be possible for you to access the likes of Stalkbook and begin a life long infatuation with your new found correspondence.
I don’t, incidentally. Oh sure, sometimes I will print off profile pics and put them up on the wall in the spare room that no one is allowed to go into ever, but there’s nothing wrong with that, right?
But how long will it be do you think before it becomes the norm de rigueur that we do send more than just a cheery disposition and fancy signatures to each other?
I for one can not wait so I’m starting the ball rolling this week by initiating this auto reply which will be sent to selected new contacts:
Thank you for contacting me. As my reply to your email counts as official company business and I believe that through the use of smiley icons and colourful text that you may in fact be quite hot, please understand that I cannot reply until you have supplied me a recent photo as proof of identity.
Photos of you at the beach, intoxicated and baring a little too much skin, or posing in the bathroom mirror will be accepted and only ever circulated amongst a select few colleagues.
Please also note that this reply cannot be construed as a reply until said photo has been supplied and should not be considered as such.
This organisation is an equal opportunity replier and even if you turn out to be a BOBFOC (Body off Baywatch, Face off Crimewatch) you may receive a reply.
But only if you promise to talk filthy to me.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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...
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.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
WankBook and The Chef
I read something somewhere recently how some silly bitch was proclaiming that these days The Net is actually a very safe place and the proof is that everybody uses their real name in email addresses and on Twitter and shit.
Clearly she hasn’t be stalked by some nut bar which surprises me in one sense; she’s an editor on a public website, but not on another; she is a complete minger.
Oh and I have a theory on that very premise that I’ll cover in another blog. Not that she’s a minger, because that is completely true, no, more on Twitter and shit later.
Sometimes, just sometimes, when I start to think that she might be right I have to remind myself that there are guys like this out there and guys like me, trolling the net just waiting to mock the shit out of them.
I have blanked out his last name because as you’ll see he may not be the sharpest knife in the draw but like so many borderline personalities he does seem to have access to some and that makes him a little bit scary.
Likewise I removed the name of his friends because it’s not really their fault that he’s their mate is it?
Clearly she hasn’t be stalked by some nut bar which surprises me in one sense; she’s an editor on a public website, but not on another; she is a complete minger.
Oh and I have a theory on that very premise that I’ll cover in another blog. Not that she’s a minger, because that is completely true, no, more on Twitter and shit later.
Sometimes, just sometimes, when I start to think that she might be right I have to remind myself that there are guys like this out there and guys like me, trolling the net just waiting to mock the shit out of them.
I have blanked out his last name because as you’ll see he may not be the sharpest knife in the draw but like so many borderline personalities he does seem to have access to some and that makes him a little bit scary.
Likewise I removed the name of his friends because it’s not really their fault that he’s their mate is it?
Let’s start at the top.
‘Chef’ is not even a real title. Not like ‘Doctor’ or ‘Sir’ which would be used when introducing or talking about someone. I have a feeling Chef Michael introduces himself as such and probably even talks about Chef Michael in the third person. Win-ner.
Now I know a Chef Mike and he's not even a real Chef but that's okay, because his title is a term of endearment. We bestowed it upon him for chrissake, it's not like he created himself a Facebook account using it.
He's a standup guy is our Chef, the real Chef, who does wonderful things with pastry and I suspect does not 'cook alone' quite as much as Fake Chef. And by 'cook alone' I mean wank.
Fake Chef Mike's activities are interesting and his interests scary, although strangely, his interests are not actually listed as activities...so it makes me wonder why he even listed them at all?!
The real clue though that Chef Michael is, in fact a Penis is that he lists ‘Samurai’ and ‘Ninjitsu’ as activities when we all know you’re one or the mother fucken other. Which is it, Samurai or Ninja? You can’t be both Superman AND Batman, you tit.
And no self respecting weight lifting, Samurai Ninja would even feel the need to know what a sniper rifle looks like let alone use one. Swords are much better because they are silent which means you’re more likely to use them. Shits opponent’s right up. Guns for show; swords for a pro.
So let’s be careful out there gang. Because if you ever start feeling a little better about the world wide porn web just remember that the application could be renamed WankBook tomorrow and guys like the curry munching Chef would still fit right in.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Mortality Check
I never thought I’d be quite as pleased to have a discharge as I do today. Oh yes, its home time.
Here’s to at least another two years between hospital visits but with the chances of some bastard giving me swine flu again I won’t hold my breath. Besides, lack of oxygen is what got me here in the first place.
This visit has been unlike my last three, it was, in the immortal words of Big Chris, emotional.
I don’t want to over dramatise things because I hate wankers who do, but my first night in here was about as close to me checking out as I’d quite like to get for a bit, fuck you very much. I like to tell people that it wasn’t that hairy but if I were to be honest – and don’t tell anyone that I am now – but it was the retro minge of close calls.
And you know what my main thought as I lay there struggling to inflate my sad state of a lung sack? That I hadn’t yet put together a playlist of essential funeral songs for the missus to play, should this be it. Yep, priorities - I’ve got ‘em.
Now I’ve been in similar predicaments before and I’m not talking about Nam either. Oh sure, we got into our fair share of shit storm’s there, but there was no chance I was going to let someone with a name that sounds like an empty Coke can blowing down the street and an AK47 take out Noshow.
But when you’ve got little things like, oh, lungs and shit starting to cease what it is they should be doing, then there is a point where you have to man up and make a decision; do I stay or do I go?
Far be it for me to shatter any Mills & Boon dreams you might have about how that moment might present itself were you ever unfortunate to reach it, but here’s how it goes; there are no bright lights, no aliens in spaceships probing your anus (Maxi you will be disappointed), or sadly, nubile maidens in nearly-but-not quite see through cotton one pieces beckoning you into the water.
The chances are that when it comes you’ll have several tubes sticking in you, which always looks so ace on TV, but in reality makes the necessities of life, like sleeping, impossible. There will be a constant stream of people fussing over you the problem, not you the patient and despite all this activity there’s a very high possibility that you’ll be alone.
Nor will there be some gay, Greys Anatomy back ground music track playing but that’s a plus really.
It will be just you and the choice. Like Neo choosing between Trinity and Zion or Batman choosing Rachel over Harvey Dent and you lot know me, I’m a sucker for a good looking brunette so I chose to stay with mine. But it’s not the easier door to open, I won’t lie to you.
Yet open it you must because unless your penis has seen so little action that it’s retracted upon itself thus leaving you with a vagina, or vice versa depending on your gender, you will still have much to see and do. Personally I plan to write at least 4000 more blogs, coach more football and stalk so many more young ladies on Facebook.
Mortality is not something I contemplate too much because that would lead to eyeliner, striped jerseys, Adam Lambert CDs and crying over absolutely nothing, but every now and then you just have to look back and say “Shit in my mouth. That was a close one”.
Here’s to at least another two years between hospital visits but with the chances of some bastard giving me swine flu again I won’t hold my breath. Besides, lack of oxygen is what got me here in the first place.
This visit has been unlike my last three, it was, in the immortal words of Big Chris, emotional.
I don’t want to over dramatise things because I hate wankers who do, but my first night in here was about as close to me checking out as I’d quite like to get for a bit, fuck you very much. I like to tell people that it wasn’t that hairy but if I were to be honest – and don’t tell anyone that I am now – but it was the retro minge of close calls.
And you know what my main thought as I lay there struggling to inflate my sad state of a lung sack? That I hadn’t yet put together a playlist of essential funeral songs for the missus to play, should this be it. Yep, priorities - I’ve got ‘em.
Now I’ve been in similar predicaments before and I’m not talking about Nam either. Oh sure, we got into our fair share of shit storm’s there, but there was no chance I was going to let someone with a name that sounds like an empty Coke can blowing down the street and an AK47 take out Noshow.
But when you’ve got little things like, oh, lungs and shit starting to cease what it is they should be doing, then there is a point where you have to man up and make a decision; do I stay or do I go?
Far be it for me to shatter any Mills & Boon dreams you might have about how that moment might present itself were you ever unfortunate to reach it, but here’s how it goes; there are no bright lights, no aliens in spaceships probing your anus (Maxi you will be disappointed), or sadly, nubile maidens in nearly-but-not quite see through cotton one pieces beckoning you into the water.
The chances are that when it comes you’ll have several tubes sticking in you, which always looks so ace on TV, but in reality makes the necessities of life, like sleeping, impossible. There will be a constant stream of people fussing over you the problem, not you the patient and despite all this activity there’s a very high possibility that you’ll be alone.
Nor will there be some gay, Greys Anatomy back ground music track playing but that’s a plus really.
It will be just you and the choice. Like Neo choosing between Trinity and Zion or Batman choosing Rachel over Harvey Dent and you lot know me, I’m a sucker for a good looking brunette so I chose to stay with mine. But it’s not the easier door to open, I won’t lie to you.
Yet open it you must because unless your penis has seen so little action that it’s retracted upon itself thus leaving you with a vagina, or vice versa depending on your gender, you will still have much to see and do. Personally I plan to write at least 4000 more blogs, coach more football and stalk so many more young ladies on Facebook.
Mortality is not something I contemplate too much because that would lead to eyeliner, striped jerseys, Adam Lambert CDs and crying over absolutely nothing, but every now and then you just have to look back and say “Shit in my mouth. That was a close one”.
There's only ever one door worth opening...
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
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...
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...
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Safety Of The Net
Did you read of the dirty prick that got done this week for attempting to sexually groom a 14 year old girl online?
Only it wasn’t a 14 year old really, it was a NZ Police Detective posing as one and the 45 year old former school teacher polishing his knob at the other end was caught lock, stock and two swelling testicles.
And what a surprise that it was a school teacher involved aye? Then there’s this guy, a Kiwi working in England who likes to stay in touch with his former pupils via Facebook so he can see how they’re doing. Sure he does and hopefully gets them into web cam sessions where he tries to get them naked.
There’s a reason why Facebook automatically locks the accounts of anyone under the age of 18 – and this guy is it. It’s a bit damn scary when teachers tire of trying to get down each other’s pants and decide to try it on our kids instead...
Speaking of Facebook, are you, like me, just sick of seeing new stories about it all over the place that are even remotely interesting? So they've changed their settings, or people cheating on their spouses are being caught in the act. Hey if they're that silly to braodcast it on Facebook so they should get caught. Newsworthy it ain't.
Anyhoo. I applaud this kind of subterfuge by Police the world over. For some reason the internet has become a place where far too many people feel the rules of society no longer apply and they do things that there inner voice would otherwise tell them not to. Like tell a 14 year old girl how to play with herself, ask her for sex 22 times and / or masturbate on Cock Roulette.
I’m even willing to offer my services to the internet Police on this one. I’m prepared to go online and pretend to be a 14 year old boy in order to entrap cougars and young women who might try to groom me for sex.
I’ll fool them into sending me copious amounts of nudie pics on the premise that I’m teaching myself to wank...it won’t be pleasant but I’m prepared to make sacrifices in order to make the world a safe place.
Only it wasn’t a 14 year old really, it was a NZ Police Detective posing as one and the 45 year old former school teacher polishing his knob at the other end was caught lock, stock and two swelling testicles.
And what a surprise that it was a school teacher involved aye? Then there’s this guy, a Kiwi working in England who likes to stay in touch with his former pupils via Facebook so he can see how they’re doing. Sure he does and hopefully gets them into web cam sessions where he tries to get them naked.
There’s a reason why Facebook automatically locks the accounts of anyone under the age of 18 – and this guy is it. It’s a bit damn scary when teachers tire of trying to get down each other’s pants and decide to try it on our kids instead...
Speaking of Facebook, are you, like me, just sick of seeing new stories about it all over the place that are even remotely interesting? So they've changed their settings, or people cheating on their spouses are being caught in the act. Hey if they're that silly to braodcast it on Facebook so they should get caught. Newsworthy it ain't.
Anyhoo. I applaud this kind of subterfuge by Police the world over. For some reason the internet has become a place where far too many people feel the rules of society no longer apply and they do things that there inner voice would otherwise tell them not to. Like tell a 14 year old girl how to play with herself, ask her for sex 22 times and / or masturbate on Cock Roulette.
I’m even willing to offer my services to the internet Police on this one. I’m prepared to go online and pretend to be a 14 year old boy in order to entrap cougars and young women who might try to groom me for sex.
I’ll fool them into sending me copious amounts of nudie pics on the premise that I’m teaching myself to wank...it won’t be pleasant but I’m prepared to make sacrifices in order to make the world a safe place.
My old P.E teacher, Mr Jackson, likes to see how I'm doing these days too...
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Toothbrushes & Invisibility
Have you ever wished that you could go back to school as an undercover brother, like 21 Jump Street style?
I have, but only so I could score all the girls that I didn’t first time round because I was too sexually inept. In that particular day dream of mine it wouldn’t take long for word to get around the female faculty, about me, the new guy, who knows things and by ‘things’ I don’t mean Classics.
Which was a weird subject anyway wasn’t it, Classics. But it did seem to attract all the hot girls so in hindsight I wish I had given away Economics which was a complete sausage fest, for Classics which was full of goddesses learning about, well, goddesses.
Actually I have always had a similar motivation when choosing my super power; invisibility. That way I could follow girls home, sneak into their rooms and watch them undress. And to think people I know say I have a one track mind….
One of the reasons I’d have to go back in time to do the 21 Jump Street thing is because most of those same girls I fancied then have not aged at all well. I know this thanks to the wonder that is Facebook where long held, unfulfilled sexual fantasies can be killed off in a single profile photo.
Thanks to the two degree’s of separation thing I managed to stumble across one of my first true loves the other day. Admittedly the ‘true love’ bit was probably all on my side and I don’t really recall her reciprocating any of it, although we did have a very intimate snack of peanut butter and jam on toast the one time.
Back then I thought Lisa M was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and now that I think about I can’t help but think that by then, she probably was. I asked her out once, but she said no, probably because at that stage we hardly knew each other.
Which was not my first failure at going steady with someone back in the day, nor was it my last. It’s a fault all us fellas have deep in our hard code, that at that age, we all assume girls will fall for some guy they’ve never heard of nor spoken to simply because we have had the lusties from afar for them for ages.
These days society has a name for it: stalking.
I was reminded of these things just yesterday whilst at a funeral. The father of ClubDes founding member and resident savant, Marco, passed away and what a loss to the world he will be. It’s people like him that really did make the world go round and he will be missed greatly.
Funerals usually bring together a lot of old friends and acquaintances and this was no different. The Bruiser and I were reminiscing about one girl in attendance who had quite the reputation of being a floozy back in the day and a quick reference to Stalkbook confirmed that some things never change.
Floozy is a euphemism of course and not me showing my age by using the language of an 80 year old woman. It’s just that I’m conscious a mutual friend of hers and mine might read this and I’d hate to think of them thinking less of me for calling her a slut.
It got me wondering though if she carries a toothbrush in her hand bag. Have you noticed that every bugger devoid of some original idea is trying to reinvent the humble toothbrush these days? The latest advances in cutting edge toothbrush technology are to have made them smaller and in some cases, put a hole in the handle.
The case for miniaturisation seems to be so that you girls can slip them into your little black purses when you're at events where little black dresses are worn and oral hygiene is high on your priority list when looking to work the room. Or score a root.
Which is great news for we the clueless sex, because if the girl chatting you up at your next party disappears to brush her teeth then you know it’s on. Only you won’t really because she won’t tell you that’s what she’s doing; she could be disappearing for a big steamy one or simply trying to get away from you. Who would really know?
Now if only you had that power of invisibility…
I have, but only so I could score all the girls that I didn’t first time round because I was too sexually inept. In that particular day dream of mine it wouldn’t take long for word to get around the female faculty, about me, the new guy, who knows things and by ‘things’ I don’t mean Classics.
Which was a weird subject anyway wasn’t it, Classics. But it did seem to attract all the hot girls so in hindsight I wish I had given away Economics which was a complete sausage fest, for Classics which was full of goddesses learning about, well, goddesses.
Actually I have always had a similar motivation when choosing my super power; invisibility. That way I could follow girls home, sneak into their rooms and watch them undress. And to think people I know say I have a one track mind….
One of the reasons I’d have to go back in time to do the 21 Jump Street thing is because most of those same girls I fancied then have not aged at all well. I know this thanks to the wonder that is Facebook where long held, unfulfilled sexual fantasies can be killed off in a single profile photo.
Thanks to the two degree’s of separation thing I managed to stumble across one of my first true loves the other day. Admittedly the ‘true love’ bit was probably all on my side and I don’t really recall her reciprocating any of it, although we did have a very intimate snack of peanut butter and jam on toast the one time.
Back then I thought Lisa M was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and now that I think about I can’t help but think that by then, she probably was. I asked her out once, but she said no, probably because at that stage we hardly knew each other.
Which was not my first failure at going steady with someone back in the day, nor was it my last. It’s a fault all us fellas have deep in our hard code, that at that age, we all assume girls will fall for some guy they’ve never heard of nor spoken to simply because we have had the lusties from afar for them for ages.
These days society has a name for it: stalking.
I was reminded of these things just yesterday whilst at a funeral. The father of ClubDes founding member and resident savant, Marco, passed away and what a loss to the world he will be. It’s people like him that really did make the world go round and he will be missed greatly.
Funerals usually bring together a lot of old friends and acquaintances and this was no different. The Bruiser and I were reminiscing about one girl in attendance who had quite the reputation of being a floozy back in the day and a quick reference to Stalkbook confirmed that some things never change.
Floozy is a euphemism of course and not me showing my age by using the language of an 80 year old woman. It’s just that I’m conscious a mutual friend of hers and mine might read this and I’d hate to think of them thinking less of me for calling her a slut.
It got me wondering though if she carries a toothbrush in her hand bag. Have you noticed that every bugger devoid of some original idea is trying to reinvent the humble toothbrush these days? The latest advances in cutting edge toothbrush technology are to have made them smaller and in some cases, put a hole in the handle.
The case for miniaturisation seems to be so that you girls can slip them into your little black purses when you're at events where little black dresses are worn and oral hygiene is high on your priority list when looking to work the room. Or score a root.
Which is great news for we the clueless sex, because if the girl chatting you up at your next party disappears to brush her teeth then you know it’s on. Only you won’t really because she won’t tell you that’s what she’s doing; she could be disappearing for a big steamy one or simply trying to get away from you. Who would really know?
Now if only you had that power of invisibility…
Saturday, May 15, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Justin Who?
I don’t know who the hell Justin Bebo is but I’d sure like to smack that cheeky, pubescent grin off his MyFace.
Actually I do know who is, how could I not?! One half arsed trip to NZ and it’s not just the pubescent girls who start acting like, well, pubescent girls. Stuff.co.nz, for example, confirmed my long held suspicions that it is actually Dolly magazine in disguise by acting like it the whole time Bebo was here.
And I know his name isn’t actually ‘Bebo’ but I feel it optimises the generation most likely to be screaming their itty bitty titties off at the mere mention of his name. What are all those tweens going to do when Bebo gets shutdown because it’s haemorrhaging money? They’ll turn to Facebook that’s what which, in turn will undoubtedly lead to an influx of closet sexos who will flock to their pages (and photo albums) before the text generation has a chance to work out just how to turn on Facebook’s complex privacy settings.
But then maybe the Be-bos crowd just don’t care about that shit. Justin’s mother certainly didn’t for it was she that posted clips of him singing on You Tube, the paedophiles’ other favourite free perve. That’s how he got ‘discovered’.
Some producer (or closet paedophile) spotted the clip ‘by mistake’ and tracked down the young blonde boy in about three easy steps. Now at this stage alarm bells should’ve been ringing in the Bebo household, but clearly they didn’t give a monkey’s. Quite the opposite.
Now I don’t know about you lot who have kids, but if my son caught his mother a) filming him singing and b) posting it on the Net he’d David Bain the lot of us and my god I hope it stays that way for a very long time. If, when he’s 18 he wants to hang out with his cock out on Chat Roulette then so be it. But at least it will be his decision and his alone.
Bebo on the other hand, loves the adulation. I had the misfortune of seeing an interview with him on one of those shows that purport to bring you the news but these days seem to be focusing a lot on movies, celebrities and other such bollocks. He sat there preening himself like a rooster and he certainly looked like a right cock the whole time.
I even forced myself to sit through one of his songs just to see what the fuss was and it left me confused how a 16 year old Christian boy could know so much about love and heartbreak when you and I both know that his experience of relationships to this point in time is likely to be confined to his right hand.
Maybe it’s just me. I am getting old and yes, a lot of things seem to piss me off these days. Hell, I even piss myself off from time to time. And maybe it’s just me reacting the same way our grandparents did when our mother got all moist over The Beatles, or how our parents got miffed with our sisters when they went all silly over the New Kids on the Block.
Maybe. Or just maybe I’m justified in thinking that that if some baby faced kid who looks like he’s twelve and sings songs written by middle aged men is truly the most exciting thing in the world, then we’re all fucked.
Yeah and up yours too, Bebo!
Actually I do know who is, how could I not?! One half arsed trip to NZ and it’s not just the pubescent girls who start acting like, well, pubescent girls. Stuff.co.nz, for example, confirmed my long held suspicions that it is actually Dolly magazine in disguise by acting like it the whole time Bebo was here.
And I know his name isn’t actually ‘Bebo’ but I feel it optimises the generation most likely to be screaming their itty bitty titties off at the mere mention of his name. What are all those tweens going to do when Bebo gets shutdown because it’s haemorrhaging money? They’ll turn to Facebook that’s what which, in turn will undoubtedly lead to an influx of closet sexos who will flock to their pages (and photo albums) before the text generation has a chance to work out just how to turn on Facebook’s complex privacy settings.
But then maybe the Be-bos crowd just don’t care about that shit. Justin’s mother certainly didn’t for it was she that posted clips of him singing on You Tube, the paedophiles’ other favourite free perve. That’s how he got ‘discovered’.
Some producer (or closet paedophile) spotted the clip ‘by mistake’ and tracked down the young blonde boy in about three easy steps. Now at this stage alarm bells should’ve been ringing in the Bebo household, but clearly they didn’t give a monkey’s. Quite the opposite.
Now I don’t know about you lot who have kids, but if my son caught his mother a) filming him singing and b) posting it on the Net he’d David Bain the lot of us and my god I hope it stays that way for a very long time. If, when he’s 18 he wants to hang out with his cock out on Chat Roulette then so be it. But at least it will be his decision and his alone.
Bebo on the other hand, loves the adulation. I had the misfortune of seeing an interview with him on one of those shows that purport to bring you the news but these days seem to be focusing a lot on movies, celebrities and other such bollocks. He sat there preening himself like a rooster and he certainly looked like a right cock the whole time.
I even forced myself to sit through one of his songs just to see what the fuss was and it left me confused how a 16 year old Christian boy could know so much about love and heartbreak when you and I both know that his experience of relationships to this point in time is likely to be confined to his right hand.
Maybe it’s just me. I am getting old and yes, a lot of things seem to piss me off these days. Hell, I even piss myself off from time to time. And maybe it’s just me reacting the same way our grandparents did when our mother got all moist over The Beatles, or how our parents got miffed with our sisters when they went all silly over the New Kids on the Block.
Maybe. Or just maybe I’m justified in thinking that that if some baby faced kid who looks like he’s twelve and sings songs written by middle aged men is truly the most exciting thing in the world, then we’re all fucked.
Yeah and up yours too, Bebo!Sunday, March 7, 2010
Asphyxiating Yourself Whilst Performing a Solo Sex Act?!
Whenever I find myself wondering just when the dumbing down of society began, I need only turn on the TV, open a magazine or click on a web page around movie award season as a reminder.
I’ve said it once but I’ll say it again – it’s a sad day when celebrity is the lead news story in an intelligent world. And not just news, but worshipped by people who put far too much time into watching movies when they could be out doing something decent for society and not just lining the pockets of companies that have far too much anyway.
Just like Facebook really. Imagine if everyone who ever joined some ridiculous virtual group or cause i.e. I’m a fan of breathing, went out and actually joined a real group of some substance. Maybe, just maybe, the world would be a little better for it.
Then there are the dresses. Oh how we get moist over who wears what at these things and just who designed the thing which probably costs more to buy than my car. Not to mention the speeches. How anyone listening to one actually lives to tell the tale is beyond me; they’re so full of heartfelt emotion and honest bullshit like just how important this role in this movie was. Why even at this very moment I feel myself imploding at the sheer magnitude of it all.
But there is just one thing that these tits seem to forget; it was someone else’s words they spoke, after being given direction on how to deliver them so forget the wanky rhetoric and just get on with what you’re good at – reading someone else’s genius.
I hope they all asphyxiate themselves whilst performing a solo sex act. Now that would be newsworthy, although quite what a ‘solo sex act’ is I am not entirely sure, I thought just using the word ‘sex’ meant that there was more than one person involved? Anything else is just a wank isn’t it....?
It may come as some surprise to you but I’ve done a course in wanking. It’s called ‘puberty’ and most men my age passed it with flying colours but guess what – no one gave us a fucken award ceremony for it.
Quite the opposite; society shuns a good jimmy which is why I think celebrities feel they have to kink it up, just to make like playing with yourself is that much more pleasurable when you’re famous.
Now we’ve all done some freaky naughty things in the search of an epic wank, whether it is the hollowed out apple, the flatmates undies or the glory hole in the empty box, we’ve all been there. But none are in quite the same league are they, as wrapping a belt around your neck and hooking yourself from a height, trying to pass out through self strangulation.
The only time I ever got close to injury whilst treating my body like an amusement arcade was the time I tried sticking it in an old glass milk bottle full of tepid water. Luckily I got cold feet and extracted myself moments before the suction caused by a tidal body of water in a closed neck vessel caused a suction incident that I would have struggled to credibly explain as an accident at the A & E.
I wonder if there’s a Facebook group called “I’m a fan of asphyxiating myself whilst performing a solo sex act”?
Might see you there...
I’ve said it once but I’ll say it again – it’s a sad day when celebrity is the lead news story in an intelligent world. And not just news, but worshipped by people who put far too much time into watching movies when they could be out doing something decent for society and not just lining the pockets of companies that have far too much anyway.
Just like Facebook really. Imagine if everyone who ever joined some ridiculous virtual group or cause i.e. I’m a fan of breathing, went out and actually joined a real group of some substance. Maybe, just maybe, the world would be a little better for it.
Then there are the dresses. Oh how we get moist over who wears what at these things and just who designed the thing which probably costs more to buy than my car. Not to mention the speeches. How anyone listening to one actually lives to tell the tale is beyond me; they’re so full of heartfelt emotion and honest bullshit like just how important this role in this movie was. Why even at this very moment I feel myself imploding at the sheer magnitude of it all.
But there is just one thing that these tits seem to forget; it was someone else’s words they spoke, after being given direction on how to deliver them so forget the wanky rhetoric and just get on with what you’re good at – reading someone else’s genius.
I hope they all asphyxiate themselves whilst performing a solo sex act. Now that would be newsworthy, although quite what a ‘solo sex act’ is I am not entirely sure, I thought just using the word ‘sex’ meant that there was more than one person involved? Anything else is just a wank isn’t it....?
It may come as some surprise to you but I’ve done a course in wanking. It’s called ‘puberty’ and most men my age passed it with flying colours but guess what – no one gave us a fucken award ceremony for it.
Quite the opposite; society shuns a good jimmy which is why I think celebrities feel they have to kink it up, just to make like playing with yourself is that much more pleasurable when you’re famous.
Now we’ve all done some freaky naughty things in the search of an epic wank, whether it is the hollowed out apple, the flatmates undies or the glory hole in the empty box, we’ve all been there. But none are in quite the same league are they, as wrapping a belt around your neck and hooking yourself from a height, trying to pass out through self strangulation.
The only time I ever got close to injury whilst treating my body like an amusement arcade was the time I tried sticking it in an old glass milk bottle full of tepid water. Luckily I got cold feet and extracted myself moments before the suction caused by a tidal body of water in a closed neck vessel caused a suction incident that I would have struggled to credibly explain as an accident at the A & E.
I wonder if there’s a Facebook group called “I’m a fan of asphyxiating myself whilst performing a solo sex act”?
Might see you there...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Facebook: Modern Day Fountain of Knowledge
Another deeply philosophical discussion takes place on the omnipotent and omnipresent Facebook. Why do we even send our kids to school when there is genius like this to be found all over the Internet?
Friday, January 1, 2010
Another Successful Facebook Story...
My sister and I caught up at our Grandfather's funeral the other week. It was such an emotional time everyone that there who could, promptly went home and added all the other family members as friends on Facebook.
Those that couldn't went back to the rest home and had their incontinence pads changed.
Now my sister and I are not so close that we have long warm showers together, but I would have expected to be higher up the 'look up on FB' list than number 114! After all blood is thicker than water as they say...
Not that I'm bitter about it but I did take the liberty of sending some very candid Polaroids of myself to all her attractive friends (male and female).
That'll learn her.
Those that couldn't went back to the rest home and had their incontinence pads changed.
Now my sister and I are not so close that we have long warm showers together, but I would have expected to be higher up the 'look up on FB' list than number 114! After all blood is thicker than water as they say...
Not that I'm bitter about it but I did take the liberty of sending some very candid Polaroids of myself to all her attractive friends (male and female).
That'll learn her.
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