Breaking All Sorts Of Rules...

I must apologise for my lack of recent postings; I have been in the middle of some pretty serious time travel and didn’t get back till early next week.

My thanks to one D G McPherson from Lower the Hutt* who wrote listing my inaction, several times in fact, often fluctuating between threats if I don’t post soon, ridiculous claims of having “boned 500 hot babes” whilst I hadn’t and the occasional candid Polaroid, which was a nice touch I thought.

It’s not like I haven’t had anything to write, because you know me, I always do.

Case in point, the girl I know who has just got married and whose new husband has taken her last name as well as his. Which is fine, I can talk, I did something similar. But hers is hyphenated on account of her parents having done the same thing so now the dude has three last names...

Now all emasculation jokes aside, that’s not really right is it? And don’t even get me started on the guy at work who took his wife’s last name and replaced his completely.

But for all round awkwardness you can’t beat the encounter I had across the road the other day with a neighbour, the father of a boy that Junior that hangs out with on occasion and who met me at the door with what looked for all the world, like an erection in his track pants.

Not as in a ‘hang your coat on this’ tent types, but more one of those ones you tuck to the side in the hope that by the time you make it to the front door from your bedroom it would’ve disappeared.

Only it didn’t and here I am, almost a month later, not sure what was the more disturbing; the fact that it hadn’t or that he shook my hand when he got there. And what was he doing in the bedroom to get one whilst three teenage boys were in the house anyway?!

And to think this all came about because some inconsiderate prick had parked his car on the opposite side of our tight little road, directly across from our driveway meaning I couldn’t reverse into it without conducting a 73 point turn.

The driveway that is, because backing into his motor would’ve been dead easy and the day the passion wagon finally gives up the ghost I am going to bumper boat the shit out of his and every other poorly parked ride.

So, forced to park ours further up the road I had done so in front of Mr Inappropriate Arousal’s house. I had gone up to the door to tell him that if it was in the way I would move it but then I’m old school like that; I respect the unwritten rule that says although technically the front of house parking space is free to all, it remains the domain of the geezer in said gaff.

Note that nowhere in that particular gentlemen’s agreement does it mention that it’s ever cool to come to the door with a semi.

Maybe the real reason for my absence (not to be confused with abstinence but there’s every chance it’s to blame for that too) is the trauma of having witnessed that. Now if I really could time travel I think I’d rewind that particular clock and complete that 73 point turn...

*Lower, the skanky sister of Upper the Hutt, cousins of Jabba and distant relatives of the most famous of all The Hutts; Pizza.

Very creative DG Macca, very creative.

Chip Off The Old Block

Sometimes, like all Fathers, I wonder if I’m on the right track with Junior.

A couple of recent conversations with his Aunty leads me to believe I am. It has just the right blend I think, of sarcasm, pessimism and mis-information:

Aunty: "How's school going Junior?"
Junior: "Oh, really awesome"
Aunty: "So you like your teacher?"
Junior: "No, she's a dick"
Aunty: "So...You like your classmates?"
Junior: “No, they're all idiots"
Aunty: "So... What's awesome about school?"
Junior: “Nothing. It sucks"

Conversation 2:

Aunty: "Want some breakfast Junior?"
Junior: "No thanks"
Aunty: "Ok"
Junior::"Can I have some cereal please?"

That’s my boy.

Addicted to E (Briefly)

So I must confess that I've watched a little too much E these holidays, particularly anything and everything starring the Kardashian family. I know, I know.

It was kind of hard not to. Like most of the pay per view channels this particular one lacks the imagination to schedule programs that would cater for the fact that almost everyone is home over the holiday period and thus present an opportunity to pick up flagging viewership figures.

But alas no, such forward thinking doesn’t apply when you’re the only pay per view platform in the market. So wall to wall, 24 / 7 repeats of every show it was and the pick of the bunch was the family that really only got big for two reasons; their father represented OJ Simpson and the daughter did a porn tape.

Still, I have a new style icon; Scott Douche-ick. No one wears the Marino wool sweater and polo top combo like Scotty does. Oh. Yeah.

Yes, the guy might have issues in the parental and the ‘being a supportive partner’ stakes, but I’ve already got those so no real losses there. What I haven’t got is the ability to carry off the colour combos and matching sweater skills that Scott has. In fact he is so good at it he may very well be my muse from this moment on.

There’s really actually only one thing that makes me watch this guy with interest and that is he looks and acts a lot like the character Patrick Bateman form American Pyscho (played in the movie by Christina Bale). They even come from the same kind of background. Coincidence?

So a small part of me has kept watching in the hope that Scott – the style icon – does indeed turn out to be Scott the Bateman and in a climactic end of season episode, kills off the entire Kardashian clan whilst listening to Phil Collins.

Now that would make for some interesting TV.

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.

How Do You Know You're Beat Before You Begin..?

When your opponent at a major tennis tournament (and who just happens to be the world’s best player) turns up to play you in drill shorts, that’s how.

This photo doesn’t really do them justice but I’m sure Rafael Nadal picked them up from the skateboarding, not tennis playing, part of the Nike sweatshop.

All he is missing to complete the look of utter contempt towards his opponent is the chain and the cap on a jaunty angle. I suppose he could’ve turned out in jeans but that would’ve been a bit cheeky really.

Oh and Rafa, mate, this whole ‘sign the camera lens thing’ that you top tennis stars do every time you leave the court? It’s getting a bit wanky.

As you were.

Massages, Haircuts & Touching My Bits

So I went to a hair salon the other day.

Not a barber, a salon. Which I am normally dead against – for reasons you know I’m about to go into – but Mrs ClubDes talked me into because she had a voucher. We love vouchers. Vouchers mean you cut the mark up of a good or service down from ‘over inflated’ to just plain ‘inflated’. It’s quite possibly the only form of deflation I like....

Now I like the teat of some lady I’ve only just met in my face as much as the next guy, but aside from that and I’m not a big fan of hair salons. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen every episode of Tabitha’s Salon Makeover. Twice. Or maybe it’s just that I have this thing about other people touching my personal bits.

Like massages. I love them. Strictly above the waist and with everybody in the room but me clothed, but I can never seem to relax enough to let anyone give me one. Needless to say I’m terrible at orgies too.

The last time I did have a massage was with some middle aged Swedish bird who asked me at the end if there was ‘anything else she could do?’ in a way that was distinctly porno.

No, I tell a lie. The last massage I got was from a guy who was very good but he seemed to confuse my telling him at the start of the festivities that I had low body fat percentage so ‘he could take it easy with the pressure’ to mean ‘please, push as hard as you can because I like it rough’.

A friend of mine was training to be a masseuse a couple of years ago and she offered to give both the missus and I one on the cheap. I nearly took her up on it too, only I walked in on her giving another mate one once and either she was lactating or she’d inadvertently dipped her nipples in the lotion as she’d worked the back. I couldn’t quite bring myself to look at her in the eye after that.

Usually the missus cuts my hair. Sure, it takes her about two hours but she cuts it the way she wants, which is of course, the way that I want it and it costs us nothing, except the usual threat to stop midway through when I complain how long it’s taking.

Which just highlights another reason I’m not a big fan of salons in general because when it comes to paying for shit, like haircuts, I’m as tight as a nuns nasty...

But like I said, we had a voucher and my current look (imagine Sawyer off Lost) is beyond the amateur but well meaning cutting skills of Mrs ClubDes, talented as she is. Truth really be told she couldn’t be arsed and I don’t blame her, so off to the salon I went.

And you know what? I kind of liked it. I got a shampoo and a head massage, which turned me on a little and a kick ass cut that was quick and exactly like the four photos I had printed off the Internet and said that Mrs ClubDes had bought in for me as a reference.

I even found myself digging the gay stylists play list he had pumping out across the place and almost joined in the conversation with he and the Sheila next to me about Anne Hathaway who, I fancy a great deal but shall not be doing it with if she continues to show her fruit jubes in every movie she makes from this point on, fuck you very much.

As relaxed as I was at that point I kept that one to myself.

I wasn’t even annoyed when we found out at the end that our voucher was no longer valid; I had had a good time damn it, a scalp massage, a perfect hair cut not to mention not one, but two boobs to the face.

Hell, on that basis I might even go again.

Tabitha can do whatever the hell she likes with my bits.

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.