Free Wheelin' Wayne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All That Sparkles...

Shit in my mouth, when did we get rid of Sparkles?

2008, apparently. That’s when the last run was made of one of the best boiled lollies of all time. Snifters are gone too, as are Tangy Fruits which were not only the best thing to suck on at a movie (other than your girlfriend), but made the best projectile for when the onscreen action got a little slow.

The reason for their premature retirement was lack of demand, which is a goddamn lie because there is always at least one prick I want to throw something hard at when watching a movie...

I only found this out the other day whilst mursing Junior who was home with the spews. Eating was not an option for the young fella but sucking on a sweetie was so off to the corner dairy we trundled. Well, we drove. Who walks anywhere these days aye?

Dairies, like servo’s, have become the biggest rip off merchants in town. Once upon a time you could send a kid down to the local shop with a lady godiver (fiver) and it would take them a week to spend it all, but not anymore.

Now I didn’t do a lot in my 5th Form economics class other than wind up our four foot two, flared trousers wearing teacher - the short, backward square Mr Moriaty. But I did pick up that if you sold many more of the same items, only slightly cheaper, than your competition, you’d make the most money. Maybe they don’t teach that in Bombay schools.

Still, there is a sense of comfort that comes with knowing the corner dairy is still the only place where the lady behind the counter will use the same hand to take your cash, wipe her nose, whack hubby off and pass you the unwrapped liquorice strap you just bought.

So imagine my surprise when she told me that they no longer make Sparkles. I stood there dumbfounded amongst the crappy, tasteless, gelatine based candy and wondered just which shitty, foul tasting, rubber based lolly from Guatemala I’d have to buy in its place.

Junior, who was just gagging to get out of the place, quite literally, picked up on a pack of Cola flavoured Mentos. Sure, Mentos is a fine suckle, in its own right, but it’s a sad, sad day when cola flavoured mints have to take the place of Sparkles. Which were the most popular off all the lollies given to Grand kids by Grandparents back in the day.

Anyhoo, they helped do the trick and he’s back at school this week, just in time to complete the 4km cross country run that every kid has been forced to prepare for this term. What is it with schools these days and their incessant need to force exercise amongst the student faculty? It seems as if the ClubDes brethren spend half of their school life’s running or jumping.

Which would be great if they were fatties and were that the case I’d be totally behind the movement if they were, but neither is. My two are about as likely to become morbidly obese in the next few years as I am and I can’t help but wonder what the teachers are doing all this time their students are running? Surfing and saving pornographic images I bet.

So maybe we should give the skinny kids a rest, bring back Sparkles and give them a handful to eat. Because no one ever got fat eating Sparkles.

The departed.

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.

Got Pubes In Pocket

Pubic hair; it’s everywhere.

Like in your pocket, what’s up with that?! You go to pull out some shrapnel and amongst the fluff and minute bits of paper there will be the odd pube or two.

Now some people might be disgusted by that but I’m not; I hold on to mine and even transfer it from one pair of pants to the next because you can never be too sure when you’ll come across someone selling something for 3 bucks five pubes.

I watched a TV show the other week about Kiwi couples getting married. Quite why you would want to make an already stressful exercise like organising a wedding by having some nosy fucken cameras poking about is beyond me, but there you go.

I refused to watch the first episode because it featured the couple that won a radio comp last year to have their wedding paid for, providing they performed the ceremony nude. Tissue box and hand lotion stuff, you would think. But no, the couple covered their bits with bits and had themselves a ‘partially nude’ wedding which is false fucking advertising really and only slightly erotic.

Anyhoo, this particular night I watched two virgins were getting hitched and the highlight of the episode was the bride to be getting a Brazilian in prep for the big night. Another quality TV show this, I tell you.

It was at that point my mind again turned to pubes and why the silly girl felt she had to remove hers?! Did it not occur to her that hubby hasn’t ever seen one so it’s not going to bother him one bit if it’s a massive bush. Now she has to keep the yard work up because he isn’t going to want anything less. Good one.

Then there was the sex scene on ‘The Pacific’ the other night and the guys smooth arse, which would be fine, if fellas waxed in the Forties. They didn’t but Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks clearly didn’t think about that when they sat down and planned this out did they? Fantastically believable special effects, yes. Hairy arses, no.

Speaking of retro vagine, my mother had a perverse attitude to all things shaving, especially where my sister was concerned. Under peer pressure to do something about her hairy legs she asked my mother if she could start shaving them.

My mother’s response was that if my sister was to start shaving she could never stop so why even bother? Which was a bit rich really, coming from the woman who regularly made us both bathe in the same water she had used to shave hers in every other night. The hairy bitch.

And that would have been the end of the matter had I not taken pity on my younger sibling and let her use my disposable razors which was okay because I wasn’t actually growing any facial hair (and wouldn’t for roughly 10 years), despite my pretending to shave every day.

Now there’s a song out at the moment that is quite popular with the young folk, sung by one of those androgynous emo types who favour the kind of hair style that can best be described as having stuck ones head up a cows arse.

It’s a catchy number, I like it, but I’m pretty sure I wrote that song some 20 years before this kid stopped cutting himself to pinch my work. I realise they’re incredibly complex lyrics and I don’t actually have any proof that I came up with them but I seem to recall standing in front of my mirror, tennis racket plugged in and the amp turned up to ‘11’, rocking out to the very same four word anthem; Wataya want from me!

They were the only words I had mind you, because back then I had all the musical ability of a sock. Some would argue that some things haven’t changed despite my professing to be an okay guitar player but at least these days I don’t have to pretend with a cricket bat, or on the nights when I had left it outside by the back door, my diddle.

Okay so sometimes I still do the nude guitar in front of the missus. She hates it which is admittedly why I keep doing it. It’s not enjoyable for me, not in the slightest. Especially now that the ukulele I strummed back then is a full sized acoustic.

Maybe that’s how I end up with pubes in my pocket....?

Girls Who Need A Slap - Part 1

For as long as I care to remember I’ve wondered just what it is about that chick from Twilight that makes her always look so bloody miserable. I figured she just needed a damn good slapping, but then I came across this explanation, in her own words...

“Kristen Stewart claims she looks miserable to stop herself from crying.

The Twilight actress hates the criticism she receives for her downcast expressions on the red carpet, which she believes is an uncontrollable response to the people around her.

She explained: "People say that I'm miserable all the time. It's not that I'm miserable, it's just that somebody's yelling at me ... I literally, sometimes, have to keep myself from crying ... It's a physical reaction to the energy that's thrown at you."

Kristen also insisted most of the negative comments she receives are unjustified because she is passionate about her profession.

She said: "I think it's funny that when I go onstage to accept an award, they think I'm nervous, uncomfortable, and awkward - and I am - but those are bad words for them. I hate it when they say I don't give a shit, because nobody cares more than I do.

"I'm telling you I don't know anybody who does this that gives a shit more than I do."

And you know what? Having read that now I know she needs a bloody good slap.

Silly bitch.

Fundraising Chocolates & Norwegian Fuckwits

It’s been fundraising month at Junior’s school which has meant I’ve been the annoying guy at work trying to bully you into buying over priced chocolate.

I’ve hated what it’s made me become. Not because I want to sell the most, but because for every box I can offload on my colleagues I can rest easy in the knowledge its one less my son has to try and peddle door to door to rain coat wearing, internet surfing strangers.

It’s a strange world we live in where schools, the place you used to learn about stranger danger, now subliminally promotes it by heaping ‘sell at all costs’ activities on kids. Nobody actually says to go knock on some sexo’s door mind you, but it’s implied when they start rewarding kids who move the biggest quota.

Some little shit sold 40 odd boxes last year and apparently he’s on track again to do so this year. You would think the folk he sold that to a mere year ago would have seen him coming this time round, but no. The smarmy bastard.

Needless to say my boy had grandiose dreams of shifting a similar amount. He wanted to not only knock on doors, but stand outside a supermarket selling something that the punters could buy cheaper inside. For me, the protective father yet who wants to give his son the room to grow and experience life, it was a lose lose situation.

So I turned to peddling the shit. Thankfully both I and Mrs ClubDes have wonderfully supportive colleagues and between us we moved enough choc tinnies to appease our offspring, who, it turns out, must share a class with likeminded parents because he has surged to the top of the selling charts in his room.

So that solves one problem. But are you, like me, just a bit weary of the whole chocolate fundraiser thing? It’s near impossible to work through any workplace these days without someone trying to flog you some morbid obesity causing sugar saturated product, all in the name of the children. How much more chocolate can the workplace around you take, for fucks sake?

Norway probably has some room for chocolate. It certainly has a shortage of intelligence, especially amongst the good ol boys that came over recently and nailed a few of our endangered birds whilst on a hunting trip. Makes a change from equally helpless and harmless whales I suppose.

It would appear that the fruity fish eaters knew what they were doing and had prior knowledge of just what they could shoot and what they couldn’t. The wankers made a video while they were here, just to capture for prosperity what a bunch of hard core survivalists they were.

Eventually our Government decided the fuckwits would be charged, but only if they come back to NZ. Yeah, good one. They might be thick but they ain’t that thick. Thomas, Bennie and Bjorn aren’t coming back any time soon and will be laughing about this one in their fire fed hot tubs for quite some time.

But I have a solution.

Let’s send an expedition of our own to shoot a few fat birds over in sleepy old Norge, because it would be rude not to really. Corporal Willie Apiata can lead the touring party now he’s back from ObamaStan and he can take as many of his bad ass mofo mates as he needs to strangle a few Norwegian Blue’s as they sleep in their Norwegian wood houses. Shit em right up.

Now that’s a trip I’d gladly sell more fundraising chocolates for....

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!