Another edition to the wank bank this week for the space geeks amongst us, with the news that some big -fuck-off-shiny telescope has discovered a ‘mirror earth’ 600 light years away from us.
Firstly - what a waste of a telescope. Our gaff is located in a position where I can see into many windows of many houses and I could use just such a thing to indulge my voyeuristic tendencies that at this point in time, extend only to noticing that the teenage girl next door was taking pictures of herself in the bathroom the other night.
True story too, I could see the flash going off from our kitchen. Thankfully, even though the glass was frosted, I could tell she was clothed so I was not forced to trawl the internet to find the images which might have been upsetting to her parents. It would’ve been a tough job but hey, look after your neighbours and all that…
Secondly - naturally I’m skeptical because if it really is a mirror earth then there’s every chance there’s a mirror me on it living a life equally as unexciting as mine (as detailed above) and surely that can’t happen in the one reality, can it?
Apparently this mega scope has also spotted some 2000 new candidate planets which really does put our inconsequential existence into perspective doesn’t it? The sci-fi industry love this shit though because equally as many scripts of TVs / movies about life revolving around those planets are now being written as I type.
Oh and this mirror earth is closer to the sun than we are, so it’s warmer, for longer. Thus even its mirror Wellington is a better one because it does not blow like 50 Bastards, all of the time, nor is it constantly like Pearl Harbour outside (nasty nip in the air).
Ironically this week marks the 70th anniversary of the Pearl Harbour attacks which all sadness aside, are a reminder that modern armies just don’t do surprise attacks any more, not on that scale.
Today’s war zones are just one big game of who can hit who the hardest and no bugger surprises no bugger, just like Nam; Charlie and we spent all damn day and night looking for each other and the only real surprise was that occasionally, we bumped into one another.
Maybe we should’ve had a telescope.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Life Lessons, From The Bouncy Seats
Conversation turned to trampolines in The Club the other day, partly because Lancey has just gotten his clan one.
Not a trampoline the likes of which we had back in the day mind, no this is one of those can’t hurt you ever, can’t have fun jobs. Which got to us discussing just how those death traps on legs from days gone by, provided us kids with a rite of passage into later life, something Lancey’s spawn will now miss out on thanks to the Big Limp Dick Safety Brigade.
Who didn’t learn a valuable lesson from getting their nuts crunched and pinched when falling through the springs on a trampoline? Not to mention failed flips, mistimed landings from nearby structures or launches into pools that came up short.
Every kid had at least one incident of being catapulted off the damn thing by an older kid bouncing twice as high as every other bugger. That usually ended in a mistimed attempted landing on the frame from a great height, thus crunching the gnads and grazing the ankle / shin / thigh when landing half in the springs and half off the frame.
If you were really lucky you finished that particular artistic move with a face plant on the grass below. I can still hear the laughter now…
Who didn’t find out the hard way that laying underneath it whilst your older brother depth charged the hell out of the thing in a stress test that was never tried in the factory because it was presumed that such a load would ever be heaped upon it and even if so, who would be silly enough to sit under it if it was?
Well we were of course and a couple of those in the head and back learned us didn’t it.
What about the valuable lesson we were all given on the importance of maintaining balance whilst sitting in the corner awaiting your turn only to fall forward or worse, backwards, off the thing when some bugger got a little eager and upset the structural balance by jumping in early, making the ‘no more than two’ rule Mum always dropped on us a very valid point.
I lost count how many times I got ejected by clothesline, flying drop kick or throw to the imaginary ropes that failed to stop me from the copious Royal Rumbles we ran on ours. Dodgeball was another big favourite at our house, until some hard out fired the thing at point blank range whilst you were mid flight and took your legs clean out from under you. Many an emerging facial pube was removed in the resulting face to spring action that inevitably led to.
Ours had a particular design flaw too that meant if you bounced hard enough, on just the right angle, the leg would pop out from the frames which lead to a monumental collapse of epic proportions. I can still see my sister hurtling off it at an acute angle after just such a structural fuck up.
Not that some of us have stopped learning from the humble trampoline. Bruiser has lost two in as many years in a perfect example on how impossible it is to anchor the bastards when you live high above the common folk in the valley below.
One of them very nearly made it down there too only to be swallowed the bush on the hillside directly below his place mid flight. It will be found one day like a forgotten plane wreck leading those who located it to question “How the fuck did this get here?”
The other came to rest through the rear window of the Audi owned by some Asians down the road. Their response to that was to chain the bent and broken frame in their front yard till someone claimed it. Of course that didn’t really pan out because we all know how Asians are with answering their door when knocked on; they don’t. How the hell did they think that was going to work?!
So Lancey’s lot will experience none of this and miss out on some of life’s cruellest, but essential lessons. They will instead be bored with it after about five minutes and move back indoors to the gaming consoles.
No one ever got a gaming console to the balls.
Not a trampoline the likes of which we had back in the day mind, no this is one of those can’t hurt you ever, can’t have fun jobs. Which got to us discussing just how those death traps on legs from days gone by, provided us kids with a rite of passage into later life, something Lancey’s spawn will now miss out on thanks to the Big Limp Dick Safety Brigade.
Who didn’t learn a valuable lesson from getting their nuts crunched and pinched when falling through the springs on a trampoline? Not to mention failed flips, mistimed landings from nearby structures or launches into pools that came up short.
Every kid had at least one incident of being catapulted off the damn thing by an older kid bouncing twice as high as every other bugger. That usually ended in a mistimed attempted landing on the frame from a great height, thus crunching the gnads and grazing the ankle / shin / thigh when landing half in the springs and half off the frame.
If you were really lucky you finished that particular artistic move with a face plant on the grass below. I can still hear the laughter now…
Who didn’t find out the hard way that laying underneath it whilst your older brother depth charged the hell out of the thing in a stress test that was never tried in the factory because it was presumed that such a load would ever be heaped upon it and even if so, who would be silly enough to sit under it if it was?
Well we were of course and a couple of those in the head and back learned us didn’t it.
What about the valuable lesson we were all given on the importance of maintaining balance whilst sitting in the corner awaiting your turn only to fall forward or worse, backwards, off the thing when some bugger got a little eager and upset the structural balance by jumping in early, making the ‘no more than two’ rule Mum always dropped on us a very valid point.
I lost count how many times I got ejected by clothesline, flying drop kick or throw to the imaginary ropes that failed to stop me from the copious Royal Rumbles we ran on ours. Dodgeball was another big favourite at our house, until some hard out fired the thing at point blank range whilst you were mid flight and took your legs clean out from under you. Many an emerging facial pube was removed in the resulting face to spring action that inevitably led to.
Ours had a particular design flaw too that meant if you bounced hard enough, on just the right angle, the leg would pop out from the frames which lead to a monumental collapse of epic proportions. I can still see my sister hurtling off it at an acute angle after just such a structural fuck up.
Not that some of us have stopped learning from the humble trampoline. Bruiser has lost two in as many years in a perfect example on how impossible it is to anchor the bastards when you live high above the common folk in the valley below.
One of them very nearly made it down there too only to be swallowed the bush on the hillside directly below his place mid flight. It will be found one day like a forgotten plane wreck leading those who located it to question “How the fuck did this get here?”
The other came to rest through the rear window of the Audi owned by some Asians down the road. Their response to that was to chain the bent and broken frame in their front yard till someone claimed it. Of course that didn’t really pan out because we all know how Asians are with answering their door when knocked on; they don’t. How the hell did they think that was going to work?!
So Lancey’s lot will experience none of this and miss out on some of life’s cruellest, but essential lessons. They will instead be bored with it after about five minutes and move back indoors to the gaming consoles.
No one ever got a gaming console to the balls.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Don't Tase Me Sister
This is a promotional picture. Not from underwear website, but Taser, the people who make, well, Tasers.
I think what it's trying to say is: "Yes, ladies can wear what they want without fear of harassment but if you're going to walk around with your nungas hanging out of an open neck shirt then you're going to need a Taser to ward off the fellas who think you're right up for a bit of motorboat action".
And they would be right.
Still, you can Tase the physical but your two pronged 10,000 volts can't touch the wankbank girls.
I think what it's trying to say is: "Yes, ladies can wear what they want without fear of harassment but if you're going to walk around with your nungas hanging out of an open neck shirt then you're going to need a Taser to ward off the fellas who think you're right up for a bit of motorboat action".
And they would be right.
Still, you can Tase the physical but your two pronged 10,000 volts can't touch the wankbank girls.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Electing the Phallus
Well another Election has come and gone and what a shambles it turned out to be.
Not the actual running of the thing because that’s always well run, Iraq this ain’t. But the result was as predictable as the pool comp we sometimes run here at work which Almo will always win, unless he monumentally fucks it up. Which he did last time actually, so go figure.
Turn out on Saturday was its lowest ever and say what you will about the disenfranchised youth of today it doesn’t take four years of completing a political major to work out some folk just couldn’t be arsed voting in a one horse race.
You should see what it’s like round here trying to get a lady godiver out of the masses when they know full well that A-Fed is going to win it all anyway…
They had a couple of the young Mensa members on the news the other night actually, explaining just why it was they didn’t vote. They came up with some truly inspiring gems of spiritual enlightenment too, like “I don’t really care eh” and ‘I had better things to do” which some might argue that it’s the kind of answer only the gifted could come up with. Maybe. I would argue that from the Occupational Overuse Syndrome that had set in on both their right hands, that they were complete wankers.
Now I skipped my Seventh Form Formal because ‘I had better things to do”. But then that was several hours of trying to suppress an erection in a hired suit at a tacky-but-wishes-it-was-swanky location, the ticket to which cost far too much to not include any alcohol whatsoever.
I didn’t actually have better things to do. My mother wouldn’t let me go. But that’s irrelevant.
Mrs ClubDes and I called into the local polling booth – not to be confused with the local pulling booth because that’s a whole separate blog – on our way to my sisters wedding. Thus we were right glammed up in our number ones which solicited the very humorous, but not entirely unpredictable “Glad to see you got dressed up to vote” joke from the guy who had probably sat there checking out women's chests all day.
“Please put a tit - I mean tick - on each form…”
Attending weddings are great. Except that bit before hand where you have to think about what you’re going to buy the happy couple because even if they have a gift registrar here and there, who really knows what they want. We went with towels because you can never have enough towels. Or pillows.
I briefly contemplated gifting my blister something that would spark a memory of our childhood which inevitably got me thinking about a salt and pepper shaker that her mother used to have. It can best be described as a monster porcelain penis with a separate ball sack, because that’s what it was.
It was a white gloss finish with green cartoon love hearts on both twig and berries. It stood about eight inches tall with a girth wide enough to bring a tear the eye of anyone who looked at it which was everyone, because it sat on our MANTLEPIECE for all to see, all of the time.
Needless to say I didn’t subject her new husband and future nephews to the emasculation that is a foot long cock with bovine testes in the living room.
Speaking of giant phallus, how chuffed are you that the million or so who didn’t vote on Saturday helped get these cocks back in power:
Not the actual running of the thing because that’s always well run, Iraq this ain’t. But the result was as predictable as the pool comp we sometimes run here at work which Almo will always win, unless he monumentally fucks it up. Which he did last time actually, so go figure.
Turn out on Saturday was its lowest ever and say what you will about the disenfranchised youth of today it doesn’t take four years of completing a political major to work out some folk just couldn’t be arsed voting in a one horse race.
You should see what it’s like round here trying to get a lady godiver out of the masses when they know full well that A-Fed is going to win it all anyway…
They had a couple of the young Mensa members on the news the other night actually, explaining just why it was they didn’t vote. They came up with some truly inspiring gems of spiritual enlightenment too, like “I don’t really care eh” and ‘I had better things to do” which some might argue that it’s the kind of answer only the gifted could come up with. Maybe. I would argue that from the Occupational Overuse Syndrome that had set in on both their right hands, that they were complete wankers.
Now I skipped my Seventh Form Formal because ‘I had better things to do”. But then that was several hours of trying to suppress an erection in a hired suit at a tacky-but-wishes-it-was-swanky location, the ticket to which cost far too much to not include any alcohol whatsoever.
I didn’t actually have better things to do. My mother wouldn’t let me go. But that’s irrelevant.
Mrs ClubDes and I called into the local polling booth – not to be confused with the local pulling booth because that’s a whole separate blog – on our way to my sisters wedding. Thus we were right glammed up in our number ones which solicited the very humorous, but not entirely unpredictable “Glad to see you got dressed up to vote” joke from the guy who had probably sat there checking out women's chests all day.
“Please put a tit - I mean tick - on each form…”
Attending weddings are great. Except that bit before hand where you have to think about what you’re going to buy the happy couple because even if they have a gift registrar here and there, who really knows what they want. We went with towels because you can never have enough towels. Or pillows.
I briefly contemplated gifting my blister something that would spark a memory of our childhood which inevitably got me thinking about a salt and pepper shaker that her mother used to have. It can best be described as a monster porcelain penis with a separate ball sack, because that’s what it was.
It was a white gloss finish with green cartoon love hearts on both twig and berries. It stood about eight inches tall with a girth wide enough to bring a tear the eye of anyone who looked at it which was everyone, because it sat on our MANTLEPIECE for all to see, all of the time.
Needless to say I didn’t subject her new husband and future nephews to the emasculation that is a foot long cock with bovine testes in the living room.
Speaking of giant phallus, how chuffed are you that the million or so who didn’t vote on Saturday helped get these cocks back in power:
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
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.
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.
Anyone For Tennis?
There are some lovely looking ladies in world tennis…..but these are not them:
Oh well. I only watch women's tennis for the articles anyway…
Oh well. I only watch women's tennis for the articles anyway…
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