i never thought i'd be reading this but...

I don’t begrudge anyone a blog; I’m all for it…it’s everyone’s right to get a free page on the internet and fill it with whatever they desire…brilliant, good, bad, indifferent or just plain garbage.
Write whatever you want; it’s not compulsory that I read it.


And you know something…I don’t mind if you’re two-hundred kilograms overweight and want to blame your parents for it rather than eat less and exercise more.
I don’t mind if you’re fifty kilograms underweight and want to blame magazines and television for it rather than go and see a psychiatrist or a nutritionist or just plain stop being a nut.
I don’t mind if you married the wrong man at sixteen and want to blame the twelve children you bore him for having to stay married rather than take your chances out there on Struggle Street.
I don’t mind if your work colleagues hate you.
I don’t mind if you hate your neighbours.
I don’t mind if you’re broke or broken-hearted.
I want you to get it all out…like a Woody Allen movie…just get all that emotional crap off your plate and onto mine so I can feast on the excruciating minutiae of your suffering…
Just please don’t tell me about your sex lives…PLEASE.
Not the blowjobs you’ve given (especially you, Memphis), not the oral you’ve had, not the five-hour marathons that left your snatch looking like road-kill and certainly not your most recent experiences with bum-sex (that means you, Gaylord).
Over the years I’ve had to endure hundreds of posts like these…below are just a few…no names no pack drill…if you recognize your handiwork or mouth-work…or any other work…there’s no need to panic because I’m not going to ‘out’ you.
I just want to make a few observations…


Example 1: Fast forward to last night. Without using the entire strap-on (I just decided to introduce the rubber dong to X’s lovely ass. I first stroked his cock…just to tease him a little. Next, I lubed our new toy and X’s delicious ass and began to insert the toy very gently in and out. I kept the toy right there-in one spot for the time being. I told X to start stroking his cock.

Thanks very much. I was having my breakfast as I read your lovely post. There’s nothing like Vegemite toast and a cup of tea while I try not to imagine your partner being ass-raped with a rubber Maglite while abusing himself like a chimpanzee…

Example 2: He was still damp as he held my head and kissed me in his special and gentle way. In seconds his cock was rock hard as our kissing grew more urgent. I very gently stroked his knob over and over, running all five of my fingers from under the ridge to meet at the top. A drop of pre-cum appeared, glistening on the end of his cock. I flicked it off quickly with my tongue. He cock grew another centimetre. If I am not into him enough to want to lick every inch of his body, to breathe in his scent, to bury my face in his hair, to suck his fingers one at a time, to nibble his lips, to swallow his sweet cum.
Then I wouldn't be giving him head.

Well, isn’t that just all a bit dreamy ?? I’m surprised Hallmark hasn’t made a card expressing that beautiful sentiment. ‘Love is not spilling a drop.’

Example 3: For the longest time, I've been guilty of being a size queen and last night, X did not disappoint. However, while he was sliding in and out my dripping honey-pot, it was his girth that did the magic. Not his length. Now, yes, he was a big boy - probably 7 or 8 inches but it was his thickness that made me squirm.

Confucius say: Only reason woman need wide cock is if she have big honey-pot.

Example 4: He pressed into me, filling me up with his cock and I was alright. My breathing picked up and I felt wonderful. He had me near the edge but I had not climaxed…he couldn’t hold it in and came in me after some hard fucking. He filled me with his seed and I lifted my hips to get him in deeper, though he did spill onto the seat just a little.

This would have been far classier if you’d been doing it in a Bentley rather than a public toilet at the time. You SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUT.

Arrrrgggggggghhhh…my eyes…my poor eyes !!!
For the love of Christ…make it stop…

a blogroll by any other name would smell as bad...

Recently a lot has been written about blog politics; specifically the blog roll etiquette.
Personally I’m indifferent to being added/subtracted to anyone’s blog roll, since the whole process smacks of co-dependency, the need for validation/retribution and the creation of one giant mutual masturbation society online.
Now, as I pass a jaded eye over my own sad blog roll, surveying the carcasses of dead and dying sites, the orts and leavings of the internet feast, a once-proud hotbed of creativity now riddled with apathetic weeds…I’m curious as to which bloggers might still list me on their own rolls ???

Of course there’s always my perennial #1…Kitty, from ‘Shrinking Kitty’, the delusional housewife from The Victorian Riviera, whose primary fun is posting something brilliant (or nude pics) then deleting herself in a frenzy of self-loathing; the e-equivalent of cutting yourself with a razor. It’s a privilege to be listed on her blog roll alongside great works of art such as ‘Random Anorexics’, ‘Run More’, ‘Eat Less’, ‘My Big Fat Greek Ass’, ‘The Unfuckables’ and ‘I Wish Donuts Were Good For Me’.

I’m proud that my blog’s uncompromising style, courageous and without a modicum of judgmental criticism, has enabled TWG to become part of the gay e-landscape. I’ve been somewhat immortalized by Tom Gaylord, the extraordinarily clever, currently straight-jacketed host of ‘Gay Sky Hooker’, who has graciously linked me with iconic blogs such as ‘Sperm My Cumhole’, ‘Suburban Rentboy’, ‘Gay Porn Fanatic’, ‘The Chcokie Choo Choo’, ‘Father Fag Pants’ and ‘There’s a Lamp In My Ass’…from his private room in an unnamed Irish Loony Bin.

Then there’s everyone’s favourite rug-muncher, Spiky Zora Jones over at ‘Bit Player Reflects’, the hippest dyke on the West Coast, the undisputed Captain of Team Pink; and indeed it tickles me pink to see my blog nestling amidst such Sapphic delights as ‘Real Live Lesbian’, ‘In Search Of Lesbians’, ‘Caro’s Wandering Fingers’, ‘Flaps Down For Landing’, ‘Libby the Lab Licker’ and ‘Who Moved My Dildo’.

And lastly…and by all means leastly what higher praise could a blogger wish for than to be flattered by the internet’s most prolific stalker, Memphis Steve from his cunningly self-titled blog ‘Memphis Steve’s Nude Blog’, a place where unspeakable opinions and unpopular beliefs roam freely in a wonderland of as-yet undiagnosed mental illness. It makes my heart glad to see TWG mentioned in the same breath as these giants of liberal thought such as ‘The False Rape Society’, ‘Men Without Penises’, ‘Memoirs of a Misogynist’, ‘All Women Are Cunts Except For Your Mother’ and ‘For All I Know Your Mom’s a Cunt Too’…

the monday roast...

Does anyone else find post-match/game/event sports interviews as dull as I do these days. When was the last time you heard a sportsperson actually say anything interesting/controversial/original while being asked a question by their respective media ?? It's the same across the sports board however this year I believe that for various reasons Rugby league has led the way in stupefying the interview to the point where you need a Rosetta Stone to decode the piffle they have been blathering. This is what I've managed to decipher so far :

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ – ‘I have no idea what the question meant but this is what they told me to say at Media Training Camp.’

‘Our ball retention was lacking…’ – ‘We didn’t catch very many passes…coz we’re shit.’

‘We failed to complete our sets…’ – ‘We didn’t catch very many passes…coz we’re shit.’

‘We let ourselves down in the execution…’ – ‘We’re not a very skillful team really…coz we’re shit.’

‘We didn’t get the basics right…’ – ‘Like I said…we’re shit.’

‘I thought we lacked intensity…’ – ‘We weren’t trying very hard. I hope no one noticed.’

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ – ‘I’m a fucking moron and this is what they told me to say at Media Training Camp to avoid embarrassing myself or the team’.

‘We always expect a tough game from them…’ – ‘They were shit. I don’t know why they bothered turning up today.’

‘The score line didn’t reflect how hard it was out there…’—‘Fuck me I thought we were shit but did you see how bad those cunts were.’

‘It was a very physical game…’ – ‘Wow there was heaps of mistakes out there. I bet that was a really shit game to watch’.

‘We’re just going to give it our best shot next week’ – ‘We can’t possibly win next week. Didn’t you see how shit we were today?’

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ – ‘I have brain damage and this is what they told me to say at Media Training Camp to avoid embarrassing myself or the sport.’

‘There were a lot of positives out there today.’ – ‘Fuck at least we didn’t get beaten as bad as we did last week.’

‘I think we can take a lot out of that performance…’ – ‘We had 75 ½ points head start on Footy Tab and only got beaten by 73.’

‘That’s footy I guess…’ – ‘Fuck we’re a shit team.’

'They took their opportunities better than us...' -- 'We lost beacuse the other side scored more points...even a silly cunt like you must see that.'

‘I was really proud of the way the guys stuck it out today and I’m just looking forward to next week’s game…’ –‘Fuck I hope I still have a job after that…coz I’m a fucking moron with brain damage and I don’t know how I’d earn a living if it wasn’t for footy.’

no thanks...just browsing...

I am a good clothes shopper most of the time; careful, considered, conservative and I’m never swayed by the attentions of fawning sales-staff trying to sell me something I can’t really wear or don’t need.
I never ask for help…preferring to take my time… trying on this and that…then maybe going back to an earlier choice… trying a size up, a size down…a different colour…a different brand…before buying a garment.
If I’m suitably electrified by an item, I’ll buy two or even three of them, in case I wear one out and can’t find a replacement in five years time; this explains the collection of ‘Levi 501s’ I have at home, amassed over a twenty-year period, with waist sizes ranging from 28” (1990) to 33” (2004) which I intend to be able to get back into some day…
Anyway, recently my favourite pair of ‘Nike’ tracksuit pants finally disintegrated in the washing machine after a four-year lifespan spent mostly on the sofa watching TV with me. They were the last of the three pairs I bought in Seoul in 1997 during the Asian currency crisis; $30 each…and possibly the finest couch-potato-wear ever made.
I was gutted at their passing.
However I knew this day would finally come…
So yesterday I dragged myself up to ‘Rebel’, a large sports apparel barn in the local mall, where I hoped to find a new pair of tracksuit pants…or three…to see me safely into the twilight of my TV-watching career.
Spying the tracksuits almost immediately and being a creature of intense habit, I went straight to the ‘Nike’ section and ignoring colour for the moment grabbed a dazzling white size ‘M’ (hopeful much), an ‘L’ (more realistic) and an ‘XL’ (just in case) before poodling off to the fitting rooms.
Unsurprisingly the ‘M’ was a little tight around the waist, not to mention very unforgiving around the crotch. The ‘L’ was a perfect fit around the waist but still a little tight in the crotch. The ‘XL’ was a bit large around the waist, needed the drawstring pulled into the maximum…was still a bit grabby round the crotch…and the legs finished about 20cms beyond my feet.
Unhappy with any of the ‘Nike’ range, I handed them to the slack-jawed, nose-pierced, gum-chewing Westie chick manning (or womanning) the fitting-rooms and went back to the racks to reload. This time I tried the ‘Adidas’ collection; three sizes…in light grey…with the same disappointing results.
I handed the attendant the rejected clothing and went back to the rack again.
I tried ‘Converse’…in beige…
Then ‘Lonsdale’…in red…
Four trips to the fitting room, nearly an hour gone by and I had yet to find a pair of tracksuit pants that felt comfortable enough to lie around in. Nothing would fit; the new cut of tracksuit pants was stylish to be sure and fleecy as fuck…but the obsession with low-rise, hipster-type gym wear had definitely taken its toll on the lounge-factor.
Not to mention the fact they seemed a bit gay for my fiercely straight taste.
Still, undaunted by my failure I decided to check out some lesser-known brands…’Asics’, ‘Everlast’…with the same results. Every tracksuit manufacturer had apparently capitulated and followed the herd-leader into this awful new design; my frustration was starting to show as I literally hurled the three pairs of light-green ‘Diadora’ pants at the pointless stoner still leaned against the fitting-room door.
‘You’re not having much luck there are you, Sir ?’
‘No…I’m having some trouble finding a cut that feels comfortable…in the crotch…the new styles seem to favour a slimmer wearer…and the hip-huggy thing is not really me.’
‘Did you particularly want to get a pair of women’s tracksuit pants ?’
‘What ?’
‘Well, are you particularly set on the women’s’ range or would you like to try on some men’s tracksuit pants ?’
‘Please don’t tell me I’ve been trying on chick’s pants for a fucking hour and this is the first you’ve said anything. Please tell me you haven’t just stood there and folded ninety-nine pairs of women’s tracksuits and watched me go off to get more. Why the fuck would I want women’s tracksuit pants…you fucking spoon ?’
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘Right…so where are the men’s trackies ?’
‘Over there (gesturing to the other side of the store).’
It’s funny because once the silly cunt pointed it out to me; the colours did seem a bit unmanly come to think of it…and there was a rack of leggings right nearby now that I remember…along with one-piece swimsuits if the truth be told…and some very small running shoes…fucketty fuck fuck fuck…

it's a no brainer...

I cannot read a map; in fact I’m one of those retards who has to turn around until I’m facing the direction I’m supposed to be going on the map…and even then I’m pretty clueless. Street directories leave me totally bewildered…and schematic 3-D diagrams such as the interactive ‘You Are Here/Where Are You Going’ displays in giant shopping malls may as well be written in Chinese characters for all the sense I can make of them.
It’s right-brain stuff apparently and I’m just toilet at it; symbols, images, spatial perception, time difference, fantasy, imagination. Yet according to this test I’m doing these are all supposed to be my long suits although personal experience has shown that I can’t do any of them. I can’t read music either, not a single fucking note; I never have and never will. It just looks like rows of barbed wire to me. I can’t complete a Rubik’s Cube and I suck at Tetris.
So, imagine the surprise as I sit here staring at this right-brain/left-brain teaser…
There is an animated figure of a twirling ballerina and she’s going in a clockwise direction as far as I can tell, whereas my two work-colleagues see her turning anti-clockwise. According to them she also changes direction at times but for mine she’s just twirling away, in a clockwise direction, with eternal monotony.
The test indicates I’m heavily right-brain oriented, as opposed to left-brain oriented. If I was a left-brainer that would lend itself towards good math and language skills, knowledge and fact based reality, planning, practicality. But I’m a seriously right-brained person it seems…
Er…WTF ???
I just checked again recently and the dancer is still twirling away relentlessly in a clockwise direction. Meanwhile I have twelve matches here which form five triangles and by moving two of them I am supposed to be able to make three more triangles. I can’t do it but my work-colleagues are making extra triangles fast enough to open a triangle factory, even though I’m the only one here that knows anything more about triangles other than their having three sides. I can name the triangles; isosceles, equilateral, scalene. Give me two sides of a right-angled triangle and I’ll deduce the length of the hypotenuse in my head for you. My work-colleagues would be at their mathematical limits to find the square root of one-hundred with a calculator and three lifelines.
I write a blog; this splendid blog…my work-colleagues are hard-pressed simply to read it…but that cunt ballerina is still just twirling clockwise for me yet she’s performing ‘Swan Motherfucker Lake’ for them.
I’ve even held my watch up against the monitor to double-check that she really is twirling in a clockwise direction; she is. Though apparently she reversed this twice in the last few minutes, according to my work-colleagues, the supposed engineering geniuses who would struggle to assemble two small pieces of wood using one large piece of wood and a saw.
There are several techniques suggested for ‘forcing’ myself to see the ballerina change direction; so far none of them work.
The only difference I’ve noticed so far is that when I open one eye and close the other, then close that eye and re-open the other…the ballerina appears to have very nice tits.
Which may indicate I have no-brain orientation at all…

planes, trains and paedophiles...

One of the really crappy things about being a well-off, middle-aged, single white man from Cunt Point is that when Kevin Krudd and His Merry Wad of Mediocrity decide to hand out free money to every under-performing moron, every pregnant semi-literate check-out chick engaged to her seventeen year-old apprentice sign-writer boyfriend, every card-carrying male member of every violent ethnic minority street-gang, every bone-headed parent with legal proof he/she/they have done their bit and sired the next generation of unemployable poorly-groomed drug-addicts…and every other lucked-out sap with the misfortune to live west of The Anzac Bridge…I didn’t get a dollar of it.
Not one.
And it’s not as though the cash-splash was ever intended to be a social-security net for the nation’s hard-done-bys to help them cope with the tough times ahead as a result of the Global Financial Crisis; no…it was intended to be spent on plasma TVs to prop up the ailing economy. And right away too…
Well, why should all this cash be wasted just on the apparently-needy? I mean of course most of them will eventually piss their bounty up against the nearest wall but who’s to say I couldn’t spend the cash even faster or more recklessly than these wretched, pathetic orts and leavings of the financial feast.
Giving poor people money to spend frivolously is an economic strategy fraught with danger; what if they don’t spend it. What if they simply use it to pay down their credit-card debt, or pay off their mortgage…or worse still…stick it away for a rainy day or their kid’s education??
They might…the unstimulating cunts.
I on the other hand, with more money than I deserve and no dependents to worry about financially other than my champion Bengals and their ongoing health arrangements, would be a lay down misere to have that cash back in the economy quicker than you can say ‘Dunhill sterling silver ashtray’.
It makes far more sense to give economic-stimulus handouts to people like me than it does to risk giving them to people who might actually need them…but like I said earlier…there’s been nothing from those government fuckers in my Cunt Point mailbox addressed to ‘Fingers’ that indicates I’ll be getting anything.

Meanwhile, the really good thing about being a well-off, middle-aged, single white man from Cunt Point is that as soon as this flight from Hong Kong took off, the nice stewardess came over and removed the seven year-old child from the seat next to me. Oh sure…afterwards she said it was more for my benefit, that I’d appreciate the peace and quiet but secretly we both knew it was more to do with Virgin Atlantic’s in-flight, after-dark, anti kid-fiddling policy than it was to do with any nagging concerns for my comfort.
Hey…what do I care; the little shit is gone and I have two seats to stretch out on…

Note to self: get ‘Convicted Paedophile’ t-shirt/baseball cap made for wearing on all future flights…

the last comeback tour...

So, enough about rapist footballers and rapist cabbies; let’s talk about rapist entertainers.
Like John ‘The Voice’ Farnham.
As my good friend ‘Simmo’, music buff and gay FX icon, pointed out to me recently, John Farnham has announced plans for a comeback tour. This makes him a rapist in my eyes because when I forked out my hard earned (well, not that hard…but I still earned it) cash for a ticket to his ‘farewell’ tour in 2002, I assumed he was serious, rather than just semantically pulling my pants down and fucking my ass for a bit.
Yes, I know ‘The Last Time Tour’ was a tour based on an album entitled ‘The Last Time’, in much the same way as Madonna might have done her ‘Material Girl Tour’ to coincide with the release of the ‘Material Girl’ album.
So, theoretically this may not have actually been a farewell tour and I may have been wrong in my assumption. Perhaps I had been unintentionally fooled into thinking this after reading the official ‘John Farnham Serial Entertainer Rapist’ website, which stated, “Farnham-mania has gone through the roof since John announced his farewell tour `The Last Time` on August 19th at the Rod Laver Tennis Centre.”
Obviously this WAS a bona-fide farewell tour, his later appearances at ‘Live With The Sydney And Melbourne Symphony Orchestras’, ‘Spirit Of The North Benefit Concert’, ‘Two Decades Of Whispering Jack: 20th Anniversary Special Performance’ and ‘The Voice Fucks His Gullible Fans In The Ass Again For Personal Gain’ notwithstanding…
Now I like Whispering Jack, and I don’t begrudge anyone the right to earn a living.
I’d be happy to see Farnham still performing live even after he’s been dead for ten years…but when you fleece me out of my money under the pretense of it being absolutely the last chance I’ll ever have to see you perform again…at least have the courage of your convictions and fuck off.
And if somewhere down the track you find you’re short of cash and need to go back to work, have the decency to say ‘Hey, I thought the $10 million I made on that ‘Last Scam Tour’ would have been enough to see me through but it turned out my doughnut bill was closer to $20 million and I need to put my fat, grubby hand in your pocket again.’
Don’t invent a ludicrous story about the raging public outcry for your return, or hide behind pithy quotes like, "I'm tired of being retired.''
It’s not really the ‘Live By Demand Tour’…is it ??
Just like the 'Closing Down Sale' which Cadry's, an Indian rug store in Edgecliff, has been having since 1972 that I know of according to the huge banner draped over its front window...isn't really a closing down sale at all.
It's a standing joke; like the one John Farnham is becoming.
Why not just call it the ‘Hey I’m A Lying Sack Of Shit But I Can Still Sing And I Will If You Come Up With Some More Cash You Dopey Cunts Tour’ ??
At least then I might have a giggle and buy a ticket…