The Lost Art Of The Secret Santa

I’ve said this once but I’ll say it again: the art of the Secret Santa gift giving in the office is not what it was.

Once upon a time colleagues took the time to find out two things about the co-worker they were buying for; either what they were interested in or what would embarrass them the most. Thus the point of Secret Santa philosophy was fulfilled, it bought work mates closer together.

Now shit has just got silly. No one gives anything as thoughtful as a book of hand drawn sketches of rifles to a gun enthusiast or as amusing as a tube of KY to the 40 year old virgin anymore. Even the mandatory pack of nudie playing cards (guys for the guys, girls for buyer) has dried up quicker than Grandma.

It started when people started giving stress balls and those ridiculous plastic reindeer that shat chocolate covered raisins if you pushed down on their hind legs. A gift that serves no purpose whatsoever because even when you know what they are, who on earth is going to eat reindeer shit?

Personally I blame the advent of The Two Dollar shop and other such emporiums of tat that act as a Mecca for those that just can’t be arsed. A minute, plastic pool table for the desk is neither practical nor functional so why even contemplate buying the fucken thing? Besides if I’m that bored at work a second hand stick mag in the mens will do the trick and it’s well under the $5 limit.

For the completely unimaginative Secret Santa means buying a box of crappy wafer sticks from the Warehouse, or a bag of lollies. For the completely disorganised it’s something pinched from the stationary cupboard or the stapler from Stu’s desk.

What is amazingly to me though is that despite the frugality of the economy these days, no one has yet started giving blocks of cheese, two litre bottles of milk or preserving jars full of petrol. Secret Santa is just not that practical I guess.

Thank fully I am blessed with thoughtful team mates, or at least two of them, for my last two gifts have been AWESOME and have been clearly purchased by someone who has done their homework, realising that I am both a ninja and proficient in handling the AK47:

Not that I would ever use a firearm whilst slicing and dicing my way through a garrison of very bad men because as we all know, swords don’t run out of bullets.

Mind you my last two efforts have been pretty good even if I do say so; a six pack of dirty Rheineck and a good night in for Ron Jeremy last year and this year? A mega can of horse piss aka Red Bull for Candylane because she loves the stuff. Actually I could’ve taken a warm steamy one in a bottle and saved the $5 really for all the taste or nutritional content that rubbish has in it. Next year maybe.

So it might be too late to not give that crappy chocolate cacking reindeer now but give it some thought next year aye?

Speaking Of Which...

Best One Day purchase by Mrs ClubDes ever. Unleash the ninjabread!

Secrets of The Inner Sanctum

One of the occasional tasks that I have to fulfill as a Grand Master of the ClubDes Mojo Dojo is that I need to explain to new grasshoppers just how the Inner Sanctum works.

One recent disciple and converted day walker – let’s call him Blood Fang because it’s only marginally less silly than his real name – questioned the hierarchy. I wouldn’t usually detail this to outsiders but I think I’m amongst friends here so just this once, I will.

Those not familiar with the martial arts should note that a Gi (pronounced Gee) is the garment worn by the ninja who you will never ever see, even though that there are four in the room watching you read this, right now. It should not be confused with a ‘g’ which is a female undergarment sometimes worn by the ninja, but only ever backwards, as a form of self flagellation for straying from the path of pure thought.

Let us then begin, young Fang.

The Inner Sanctum protects me; ClubDes the White from outsiders who would seek to take the short path to the spiritual enlightenment that I have reached. This can best be illustrated thus:

Despite the ‘shoulder to shoulder’ nature of this ancient drawing, do not be fooled Blood Fang; for my spiritual plane is light years above yours and so long as you continue to self pleasure yourself it shall remain a plateau you will forever stare up at it.

The allure of the White Gi and the all round bad ass-ness that it carries appeals to many but few have the plums to even begin to even understand what town to visit to find the street with the house that has the winding path that leads to the door that opens into the hallway that is the path to whiteness.

You have done well young Blood Fang to even reach the level of the Red Gi. Cannon fodder you and your brothers may be, yet you have reached the beginning of a period in your life that spiritually is that so inconsequential that it is consequential.

Naturally you will ask yourself if this is to be your destiny. Instead ask yourself this: Does the naked man fear pick pockets? Does one light a torch to see the sun? Does the weary traveler still find the energy for a wristy at the end of the long day?

Keep walking this path and you may yet find yourself amongst the pantheon of the Black Ninja. Then we shall stand back to back as brothers but only in promotional material. Heed my warning though; many have tried but too few have succeeded. Much anal retention is required before one can truly be black.

Or white.

Boring Sports # 4 - Mixed Martial Arts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Karate vs. Ninja

The problem with people who think that they're ninjas is that they stuff it up for those of us that actually are.

This same rule of thumb can be applied to anyone professing to be a martial artist, like these guys who had their picture in the paper the other day:

Members of South Wellington Seido Karate Club braved the chill to punch and kick their way through a two-hour training session at Lyall Bay yesterday.

Head instructor Tony Gaeta said beach training helped students adapt karate to any situation. If the student was concentrating, the sand and cold waves shouldn't matter.

"If stuff is going to happen it's going to happen to you on the street, and you can't say to your opponent, `Wait, just let me put my karate pants on and then I'll be ready'. You have to be able to handle any environment, and do what you normally do."

No shit Tony. Is that why you all have your karate pants on whilst you're standing in the waves? And when was the last time, exactly, a three foot wave attempted to mug you on the street? And what will you do if you're alone when it does and you're not able to hold the hand of thirty odd other people in a defensive clothesline?

Best not let him know I said that though because it then becomes this whole Karate vs. Ninja thing and I've sliced and diced too many good men just to prove a point...

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?

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.

Breaking Through The Bubble

Hey, which are you sick of hearing about more; me being sick or the Christchurch fucking earthquake?

Personally, for me, it’s the latter although I’m just about over the former too. It doesn’t help that I’ve been in isolation for five days watching wall to boring wall coverage of the quake.

Thankfully I am now out of isolation and the doctors say I’m on the mend but given that I didn’t once think of playing with myself in that entire time I’m not so sure...

Why I’ve even left the room a few times too, with Mrs ClubDes to make a cuppa and always with a surgical mask ala Michael Jackson. I don’t need to wear the mask, so say those that would supposedly know, but given the last guy admitted with my condition died on account of something he picked up whilst staying here I’ll keep it on, fuck you very much.

Despite being in a hospital I feel very strange in wearing one.

I can’t help but feel I must look like an Asian on my walk to work, which is a bizarre thing anyway when you consider that Asians are prepared to bombard their ovaries and testes with the gamma rays from any number of miniature electronic devices they profigate but yet, they stress over a little bit of airborne carbon monoxide?!

Of course being a fully fledged ninja I am well used to wearing a facial mask but then I’m used to being completely invisible when I do so too. Hence my anxiety.

It’s fair to say then that with my isolation and paranoia about cross infection I have become a little, shall we say, unhinged. Last night I ventured out by myself in the 9pm twilight for a simple char run and it all went horribly wrong.

The writing was on the wall when I passed the room where I could see two massive, black feet, face down and sticking out from the end of the bed. Was it a patient, I wondered, or was it some dear old lady getting railed by a six foot four black man, because that really would be alternative medicine at its most inventive...

Then there were the fire doors that were closed, thus blocking my way to the kitchen. Now usually I’m well aware that pushing the green button releases these things but for some inexplicable reason all logic went out the window and I panicked.

For two reasons really; I’m a little on edge as it is but also a good looking blonde nurse was watching what I was doing and possibly all the time wondering just how awesome a guy needs to be to get a Captain Awesome tee shirt issued to him like the one I was wearing.

Naturally I was eager not to disappoint her by failing to navigate a fire door because that would be distinctly un-awesome.

So I doubled round to the second set of doors and they too were closed. They even had a bit of paper stuck on them telling me to use the button but yet, I retreated back into the night and scarpered back to the safety of my room - my bubble - tea less and slightly concerned that my room was only one away from the black man.

Actually, come to think of it, if I’m having thoughts like that then maybe I am on the road to recovery after all...