Y’know, It’s not all that unpleasant when you accidentally poke through the paper whilst sitting on the lav is it fellas?
Oh sure, part of you get’s a fright but part of you wouldn’t mind it happening again.
I know it and you know it. And I know you know it.
Carry on.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Your Dreams Are Free - But Boring
The other day I talked Coops into lending me his entire Police uniform which I proceeded to wear whilst walking around my neighbourhood.
My reasons for wanting to wear it were quite clear in my mind; I assumed, quite rightly as it turns out, that the mere presence of a man in uniform would totally eliminate crime in my ‘hood. So there I was, walking around like I owned the place, as big as shit.
Nobody asked me if I was a cop, they didn’t need to, I had the uniform and the mirrored aviators, so there was no question that I was. But it’s an important point I make because a week later I strode into Coopsies home station expecting the admiration of every bugger in the place.
When they finally worked out that I wasn’t actually a copper and it was his uniform I was wearing (whilst impersonating a Police officer) the shit hit the fan. He got a censure and I got drop kicked out of the station.
Now that’s gratitude for you huh? You try and help someone out and all you get is grief. Only it never actually happened. It was only a dream I had one night last week. Admittedly it was pretty weird, as far as dreams go, but it was still a complete work of fiction.
That morning I awoke, thought to myself ‘what a weird dream’, had a wank in the shower and went to work. I wanted to tell people about it but I didn’t because I knew that it was, as far as weird dreams go, complete arse and no one would get it.
But then that’s true of all dreams and yet how many times has someone tried to tell you about something that never actually happened to them in the first place? If you’re really unlucky you might get to hear about a dream that someone else they know had...that’s twenty wasted minutes of hearing about something that never happened to someone you haven’t even fucken met!
So please don’t tell me about your dreams, especially if you are a crazy cat collecting, lonely DVD lady.
Except the kinky sexual ones. Those you can tell me about.
My reasons for wanting to wear it were quite clear in my mind; I assumed, quite rightly as it turns out, that the mere presence of a man in uniform would totally eliminate crime in my ‘hood. So there I was, walking around like I owned the place, as big as shit.
Nobody asked me if I was a cop, they didn’t need to, I had the uniform and the mirrored aviators, so there was no question that I was. But it’s an important point I make because a week later I strode into Coopsies home station expecting the admiration of every bugger in the place.
When they finally worked out that I wasn’t actually a copper and it was his uniform I was wearing (whilst impersonating a Police officer) the shit hit the fan. He got a censure and I got drop kicked out of the station.
Now that’s gratitude for you huh? You try and help someone out and all you get is grief. Only it never actually happened. It was only a dream I had one night last week. Admittedly it was pretty weird, as far as dreams go, but it was still a complete work of fiction.
That morning I awoke, thought to myself ‘what a weird dream’, had a wank in the shower and went to work. I wanted to tell people about it but I didn’t because I knew that it was, as far as weird dreams go, complete arse and no one would get it.
But then that’s true of all dreams and yet how many times has someone tried to tell you about something that never actually happened to them in the first place? If you’re really unlucky you might get to hear about a dream that someone else they know had...that’s twenty wasted minutes of hearing about something that never happened to someone you haven’t even fucken met!
So please don’t tell me about your dreams, especially if you are a crazy cat collecting, lonely DVD lady.
Except the kinky sexual ones. Those you can tell me about.
Monday, March 22, 2010
You Go Girls...
Emotional news this week that Kiwi women are now amongst the most promiscuous in the world and are on average, shagging 20.4 fellas each.
NB:That’s 20 normal guys and one dwarf - that’s how you get the .4 in all of this.
The girls can now add this new record to their long list of other world beating achievements:
1. Highest teenage pregnancy rate
2. Highest teenage suicide rate
3. Highest rate of binge drinking amongst young women
4. Highest rate of personal debt
Crikey it’s almost enough to turn a bloke gay isn’t it? Almost, but not quite.
Yep, the girls have yet again excelled themselves and we men are apparently intimidated by this sea change in slutiness from us to them. It is even reported that some of us feel threatened by it. To those geezers I say this: Harden the fuck up man.
According to the poll we boys can only manage 16.9 roots on average which means at least four amongst us are double dipping. So clearly some of us are also neither intimidated or feeling threatened by this sexual awakening that seems to have befallen our sisters. Or at the very least someone else’s sister because doing yours is just wrong.
But not uncommon. I once heard a story about a brother and sister who were unknowingly at the same masquerade swinger’s party and ended up having sexual relations with each other. My missus and I are always doing that too; so dissapointing when you've made the effort to get a good costume and shit.
Years before that Bruiser and I went to school with a brother and sister who were abnormally close, so much so that it made even we boys, the suppressors of an almost constant erection and impure thoughts, feel dirty.
So the moral of this story is threefold; don’t do your sister, be a slut or feel sorry for a dwarf because they more than anyone else, seem to be getting the best deal in this whole sorry saga.
Lucky buggers.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Spreken Ze Deutsch?
Sometimes, you have to wait a long time before you talk to someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.
Think about just how many people you converse with during the course of the working day and I bet that like me, you probably get the impression that most of them couldn’t organise a decent shit. But every so often you come across that type of someone who just optimises oral efficiency; a German.
You just can’t beat a good German (the two World Wars aside, of course). Of all the Nordic accents theirs is the one that sounds the most like a well tuned V12 twin turbo engine; humbly reserved most of the time but with the ability to verbally thrash you within an inch of your life should you deserve it.
Others from that part of the world just don’t carry the same authoritarian tone that the Ze Germans have. Sure, the Swedish accent is quite inviting - on a nubile blonde with pony tails - but coming from their fellas it just sounds, well, fruity. The Dutch all sound like yokels and as for Finns / Danes and Norwegians, well, who can really understand what they’re saying anyway.
Let’s face it, Germans, like slavery, get shit done and the next best thing to actually being one (don’t mention the war) is to talk to one on the phone. Try it sometime, its pants wettingly good. But you can't use mine, try instead looking through the phone book for the most German sounding name you can find i.e Schultz, Hitler and give them a call.
Other Germanic things that leave me feeling like a little girl:
Jurgen Klinsmann - Best German ever to have played for Spurs.
Think about just how many people you converse with during the course of the working day and I bet that like me, you probably get the impression that most of them couldn’t organise a decent shit. But every so often you come across that type of someone who just optimises oral efficiency; a German.
You just can’t beat a good German (the two World Wars aside, of course). Of all the Nordic accents theirs is the one that sounds the most like a well tuned V12 twin turbo engine; humbly reserved most of the time but with the ability to verbally thrash you within an inch of your life should you deserve it.
Others from that part of the world just don’t carry the same authoritarian tone that the Ze Germans have. Sure, the Swedish accent is quite inviting - on a nubile blonde with pony tails - but coming from their fellas it just sounds, well, fruity. The Dutch all sound like yokels and as for Finns / Danes and Norwegians, well, who can really understand what they’re saying anyway.
Let’s face it, Germans, like slavery, get shit done and the next best thing to actually being one (don’t mention the war) is to talk to one on the phone. Try it sometime, its pants wettingly good. But you can't use mine, try instead looking through the phone book for the most German sounding name you can find i.e Schultz, Hitler and give them a call.
Other Germanic things that leave me feeling like a little girl:
Jurgen Klinsmann - Best German ever to have played for Spurs. 
Messerchmitt BF 109 - Best German fighter I ever had to shoot down.
BMW M3 - Best German motor I am yet to own.
Adidas football boots - The Germans make the best boots (funny that).
Heidi Klum - Best German bird ever.
The Tiger Tank - The best tank ever, was German.
Michael Schumacher - Mr Formula One, is German.
The Scorpians 'Wind of Change' - Best one hit wonder German band, of all time.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
If I Had A Million Dollars....
Quite possibly the only person not totally sick of the whole Lara Bingle / Michael Clarke shit fest is the guy who spent 54 days rowing the Tasman. But he soon will be when, like so many of us, he finds that the only Google image he’s going to find is a heavily pixellated one of little, or no, masturbatory value.
What a let down.
Apparently Bingle wants a million bucks to tell her story. What farken story? The one about a silly young girl who hooks up with a married man and then takes the moral high ground when he circulates a pic of her in the shower?
I’m betting Bingle doesn’t actually want to sell that story but her agent, who would get a sizeable percentage of whatever she gets for it, does. Funny that.
Anyhoo. Someone will eventually give her the money because this is a story that just needs to be told. I just hope that when they do they demand we get more pics.
With less pixels.
What a let down.
Apparently Bingle wants a million bucks to tell her story. What farken story? The one about a silly young girl who hooks up with a married man and then takes the moral high ground when he circulates a pic of her in the shower?
I’m betting Bingle doesn’t actually want to sell that story but her agent, who would get a sizeable percentage of whatever she gets for it, does. Funny that.
Anyhoo. Someone will eventually give her the money because this is a story that just needs to be told. I just hope that when they do they demand we get more pics.
With less pixels.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
A Real Tale Of Epic Survival
54 days rowing in a seven metre boat, by yourself, across the Tasman Sea? Luxury.
It’s not like this geezer spent 21 days and nights floating down the Mekong Delta on the door from a burnt out Huey, as I did back in 1968.
Not by choice mind you but my god you didn’t hear me crying about it every time that door rolled over and dunked me in the water. It’s a little known fact that the sobs from a well endowed Caucasian man can travel two miles on a clear night. I knew it and what’s more Charlie knew it, so I did my crying on the inside.
After each dip in the Delta I had to reapply the layer of mud and excrement I had smeared on myself to camouflage myself at night. Did I make a video diary of the whole sorry occasion? No I did not. I was far too busy surviving. Sleeping with all three eyes open and the safeties off.
As for a water purifier mine was my bladder; I didn’t have any water to drink other than the thick brown stuff I was floating on, so it was that or my own urine. At least I knew where that had been. The only food I had to eat were the leeches that dined on my permanently submerged nether regions and the odd predatory bird that mistook me for a dead thing.
And oars? I dreamed of oars. All I had was the butt of the captured AK47 that I liberated from Charlie when he came looking for survivors after nailing our bird with a SAM. When I had finished with him and his platoon all I had was three rounds, the truth and the muffled sounds of a Chinese takeaway in the bushes about half a click behind me. Needless to say I got the fuck out of Dodge right there and then.
So my decision to hit the water was through necessity, not some lame publicity attempt sponsored by a watch maker and an internet provider. When I did finally make it back to the fire base no one met me on the beach with a warm bacon and egg sandwich – quite the opposite. I was mistaken for an insurgent and mortared right up till I was close enough for them to make me out as some skinny white guy covered in shit.
Now that is an epic tale of survival. But I can’t really say much more – it’s still classified.
I was in remarkably good shape when I finally came ashore...
It’s not like this geezer spent 21 days and nights floating down the Mekong Delta on the door from a burnt out Huey, as I did back in 1968.
Not by choice mind you but my god you didn’t hear me crying about it every time that door rolled over and dunked me in the water. It’s a little known fact that the sobs from a well endowed Caucasian man can travel two miles on a clear night. I knew it and what’s more Charlie knew it, so I did my crying on the inside.
After each dip in the Delta I had to reapply the layer of mud and excrement I had smeared on myself to camouflage myself at night. Did I make a video diary of the whole sorry occasion? No I did not. I was far too busy surviving. Sleeping with all three eyes open and the safeties off.
As for a water purifier mine was my bladder; I didn’t have any water to drink other than the thick brown stuff I was floating on, so it was that or my own urine. At least I knew where that had been. The only food I had to eat were the leeches that dined on my permanently submerged nether regions and the odd predatory bird that mistook me for a dead thing.
And oars? I dreamed of oars. All I had was the butt of the captured AK47 that I liberated from Charlie when he came looking for survivors after nailing our bird with a SAM. When I had finished with him and his platoon all I had was three rounds, the truth and the muffled sounds of a Chinese takeaway in the bushes about half a click behind me. Needless to say I got the fuck out of Dodge right there and then.
So my decision to hit the water was through necessity, not some lame publicity attempt sponsored by a watch maker and an internet provider. When I did finally make it back to the fire base no one met me on the beach with a warm bacon and egg sandwich – quite the opposite. I was mistaken for an insurgent and mortared right up till I was close enough for them to make me out as some skinny white guy covered in shit.
Now that is an epic tale of survival. But I can’t really say much more – it’s still classified.
I was in remarkably good shape when I finally came ashore...
Thursday, March 11, 2010
What Not To Write On A Sign
You know, signs like this serve no purpose other than to amuse.
Directional they are not. In fact, quite the opposite, because any one reading this sign and who was contemplating having a quick one in the bushes is definitely going to do so afterwards. Its reverse psychology at its best and anyone who has ever raised or cared for toddlers knows how that works.
It reminds me of the time that my Uncle Kev, who was running a camping ground at that time, wrote on the communal black board that served as a message board to all “Can the Person Who Smears Their Shit on the Toilet Walls Please Stop Doing So.”
Needless to say that the very next day every cubicle had shit smeared on its walls.
I rest my case.
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