a love story...the end...

The next night, as had become her habit, LF rose from the bed at precisely 4 am, waking me in the process and poodled off to the loo. That afternoon, I’d purchased six-dozen rolls of toilet paper, half of which I’d stacked along one wall of the micro-loo, the other half of which I’d placed in the bathtub next to the loo in the main bathroom.
So, I sat in bed and waited for LF’s return, mentally just daring her to come back with a set of wet curtains and drape them across my thigh.
After ten minutes there was still no sign of her…
Now feeling like a tinkle myself, I slid out of bed and headed off down the hallway to the micro-loo, which I found to be unoccupied. On completion of my urinal duties, I decided to visit the main bathroom and see whether LF was alright. Amazingly, she wasn’t in there either; the rest of the apartment appeared to be in darkness too.
Puzzled, I went into the lounge room; more darkness.
It was then I noticed a faint glow coming from the kitchen…
Figuring LF was making herself a snack, I crossed the lounge floor and entered the kitchen, where to my utter disbelief I found my wife having a pee in the fridge.
Now, I’m well aware of the joke with the similar theme, however this was NO JOKE !!! There before me was the love of my life, stark naked, semi-squatting, her lovely bum thrust through the wide-open fridge door…taking a piss on the vegetable draws.
‘What the fuck are you doing, darling ??’ I asked…more than a little shocked.
‘What does it look like ??’ she replied, completely unfazed.
‘It looks like you’re pissing in the fridge,’ I continued, trying to remain calm.
‘There’s no toilet paper again,’ she informed me, glassy-eyed, unmoved.
‘I see. I’ll just go and get some then.’
‘Thanks…and can you please close the door.’
‘What door…there is no door on the kitchen, darling.’
‘Well just don’t close it or the light will go off.’
‘OK, I’ll just get you that toilet paper now.’
‘Thank you’…

At this point three things became clear:
1. My wife was a sleep-walker.
2. The slightly discoloured liquid I had been removing from the drip-tray under the vegetable drawers with a wettex for the past two weeks…was not quite as harmless as I’d previously thought.
3. I was not going to make myself a salad sandwich.

There is no moral to this story; there is certainly no happy ending to it either. Throughout the remainder of our marriage LF continued to walk in her sleep and piss in our fridge.
Ultimately, it was she who left me, which gives you some insight into what kind of special cunt I must be.
I’ve always wanted to get this off my chest; if only to provide an answer to that age-old question, ‘Fingers…why is there toilet paper next to the milk on your fridge door’…

a love story...pt II...

`
So, where was I…oh yes...the funny bit…

Lady Fingers (LF) and I always used to sleep in our birthday suits.
Just as in our waking lives, for the majority of the night I was restless, disturbed and burned like the core of a nuclear reactor; she was for the most part motionless, content and colder than polar bear shit. One of her favourite nocturnal moves was to plunge an icy hand between my thighs to warm it up, which for a sleeping man, generates a surprise-coefficient similar to that of having your prostate examined with a Popsicle.
Then, a few months into our sentence/marriage, LF also developed a routine of going to the loo for a wee-wee every night. A quick 4am pit-stop, no flushing (in consideration of my light sleeping habits, no doubt) after which she would return to the bed, throw a leg over my thigh and re-attach herself to my body like a heat-seeking limpet.
At first I thought it was cute; even the tiny wet spot created during the docking manoeuvre didn’t bother me. After all, what’s a little puddle of wee-wee between friends…
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again and again and again…
Finally I’d had enough; after yet another dabbing (daubing/drubbing ??) I casually inquired, ‘Is there any fucking danger of wiping your cunt, you filthy animal ??’
LF looked at me a little stunned, eyes defocused, claiming ‘There was no toilet paper.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about; there are mountains of the stuff in there.’
‘Well I didn’t see any.’

At this point I should mention that we had two loos. One loo in the main bathroom and another tiny loo halfway down the hall, a 1.5 metre by 1 metre micro-loo with just a toilet inside.

And at this point we’ll take another break, as I know most of you have very short attention-spans...

look wot i did...am so clever...

Disclaimer: * actually it was my friend 'Ms Smack' who created this lovely shrine *

(She thinks it's going to help her get into my pants...but it isn't...)

a love story...

I’d like to tell you a funny story from the five-year comedy festival that came to be known as my marriage…

A little over twelve years ago I was married to THE most wonderful girl !!! Well, maybe she wasn’t the most wonderful girl…but she was wonderful. OK, perhaps not so wonderful towards the end…but certainly in the beginning. Actually, now that I think about it she was a bit of a horror from day one. No, the truth is she was a lot of a horror from day one.
But that hardly mattered since she was so good-looking; face, legs and bongos to die for…a veritable Sarah-Jessica Parker-clone from head to toe. I was married to a girl who looked like a movie star.
And the sex WAS amazing. OK, perhaps not so amazing towards the end…but certainly in the beginning. Actually, now that I think about it the sex was more satisfactory than amazing from day one. No, the truth is the sex was utterly crap from day one.
Such a shame my living S-JP-doll came with Woody Allen’s sense of self-loathing and body image, which meant that the light was usually turned off when we did it. So what though; after the first few times your eyes are closed and you’re fantasizing about someone else anyway.
Besides, that hardly mattered since she was MY absolute best friend. OK, perhaps not my absolute best friend towards the end…but certainly in the beginning. Actually, now that I think about it she was never a friend from day one. No, the truth is she probably hated my guts from day one.
That would certainly explain why she hung around so long, through all that crappy sex, just to make my life a misery.

Look, I’ve run out of time to finish this story…but I will continue it next post; I promise.
I’ve got an important session I need to attend with my therapist/anger-management-guru/grief counsellor, who reckons I’m making terrific progress and that I’ll be ready to resume normal relations with some of you cunts soon…

bad dog...bad, bad dog...

From the SMH today...

'Two Thai street mutts who became ace sniffer dogs at an airport near the notorious Golden Triangle opium-producing region have been fired for urinating on luggage and sexually harassing female passengers.
The pair, Mok and Lai, had been plucked from obscurity under a program initiated by King Bhumibol Adulyadej to turn strays into police dogs, the Bangkok Post said today.
Although they won plaudits from police for their work in sniffing out drugs at northern Thailand's Chiang Rai airport, near the border with Laos and Burma, so many passengers complained about their behaviour they had to be fired.
"He liked to pee on luggage while searching for drugs inside," Mok's former handler, Police Lieutenant Colonel Jakapop Kamhon, said. "He also liked to hold on to women's legs."...'

Now, as an animal lover (not THAT kind, Mountjoy). I'm all for Thailand turning their strays into police dogs rather than green curries. And I'm not saying that the relevant authorities should have predicted the potential danger in promoting 'Mok' (pictured above) to a sensitive position in the drug squad. Just that I firmly believe a grave injustice has been done to poor 'Mok'; he has been dismissed without any attempt by his employer to correct his terrible work ethic.

Animals with jobs should have the same rights as their human counterparts.

That magical nose of 'Mok's' should have been rubbed in his pee every time he fouled someone's luggage. Sure, he might not have been able to detect much opium with a snootful of his own urine, but at least it should have been worth a try for a dog once considered an ace.

And as for the ongoing sexual harassment; well that's an easy fix.

To 'Mok's' handler, Police Lieutenant Colonel Jakapop Kamhon, I offer the following advice; if you want to stop 'Mok' humping the passengers' legs, simply give him a blowjob each day before work...

didn't mean to leave you out of the fun, jane...

dear 'uber'...

the queen is dead...long live the king...

The Challenge:

Ubermouth said, ‘I have noticed that Fingy so your extra efforts have not been for nothing. I shall devote a whole post to you tomorrow and the showdown can begin...you wanna see cruel?I am QUEEN of cruel!’

The Response:

Fingers said, ‘Listen up, Cruella de Veal !!! Stick to pulling the e-wings off your favourite blog-flies or I'll have you on suicide-watch by sundown...’

In his seminal work on the subject, ‘The Art of War’, that feisty little Chinaman Sun Tzu insisted that one needed to know their enemy, that surprise was a key element of any successful attack, and that total annihilation was the only feasible objective.
I think Sun would be proud of this little warrior today.
I wish I could show you the battleground…now that the smoke has cleared…but alas some crazed hacker has apparently stolen it.
Sadly, all I have are a few measly war souvenirs…trophies I guess…which I’ll put on display shortly.

I arrived this morning to find the battle already raging. ‘Uber’ had launched some sort of Tourette Syndrome version of ‘shock and awe’ against me.
Sensing she was ready for a long, vulgar battle of wits…I made a coffee and ignored her for a bit.
She tried to tease me out of hiding with a cheapish shot over my eastern flank; I responded with some light calibre humour and continued to ignore the threat.
I did notice another army, a small, raggle-taggle bunch of hillbillies under the command of a ‘Captain Smack’, massing-up on my western flank. I hadn’t realised they had joined forces during the night…
Unconcerned, I fired a short burst of tracer-wit over ‘The Captain’s’ head and went back to sleep. Enraged, ‘The Captain’ came at me, yelling all kinds of nonsense and suggesting I’d started the fight. I took out an olive branch and proffered it; later I would thrash him senseless with it however for the moment he seemed stunned to the point of inaction.
Meanwhile, back on the Eastern Front, ‘Uber’ was coming for me in waves…and for anyone familiar with her plight, I don’t mean multiple-orgasms.
Realising this ‘battle’ was not so much WWIII as it was ‘Bozo’s Last Stand’, I put away the intellectual nukes, lobbed a smoke grenade in her lap and…vanished into the gloom.
What follows are the despicable, ruthless, black-hearted e-mails from ‘Uber’ (self-styled Queen of Cruel) to her e-mate ‘Ms Smack’.
They are reproduced with ‘Uber’s’ full knowledge, since she asked ‘Ms Smack’ to pass on her awful, awful messages.

“Listen he (Captain Smack) just emailed me to say that Fingers has deleted his messages from mine and his comments section..............is he that sensitive? Fingers? You have to get a mail to him from me. We were just playing and Captain Smack and I are not a team...........Smack and Crushed are just kinda protective of me and didn’t understand why he was so mean so naturally they were going to defend me. I am their agents after all. “

Oooh, can you feel the evil ??
How about this then…

“Dear Fingers,
Please do NOT feel that anyone is ganging up on you. Smackers and Crushed are just a little protective of me when you are a bit harsh but they think you are a very funny guy, as do I, and no one meant to hurt you or see you leave our blogs.....not for the extra numbers but you certainly do add spice!
With your gaping mouth we thought you could take it and it was all just a bit of fun...certainly on our parts (not that we are a team or a gang or anything).
And you should be flattered coz I am WAY more mean than that ( ask XXX- I am horrid ) so I was actually being gentle and rather complimenting you making a whole post on you and all.
Sorry if we offended you. Come back!
‘XXXX’ (Uber’s real name)”

Boy, that ‘Uber’ really has ice in her wicked veins…
Want some more of her acid-tongued vitriol ??

“Find out if he feels humiliated and then I will remove that post. He has been a turd but you know I ignored it for so long coz I figured it was his wit ( like me) but it got a bit much........but I thought he just went to far but I certainly would never humiliate someone for real ( except fatty coz she was a racist bigot)
Poor guy.
Smack feels bad too ..”

And so it came to be; I had promised to destroy ‘Uber’ by sundown but it turns out I had over-estimated her capacity for evil. By lunchtime I had a full apology and a complete retraction of her original post.

‘The Queen of Cruel’ is dead. In her place, I give you ‘The Queen of Gruel’ for her warm, soft, porridge-like consistency.

OK ‘Uber’…you may commence with the applause.
For you have gazed on the face of Pure Evil…and its name is ‘Fingers’…

howzat, sherlock...

It would seem that Bob Woolmer, former England cricketer and more recently the Pakistan cricket team’s national coach…is definitely dead !!!
He was found ‘dead’ in his Kingston, Jamaica hotel on 18th March, the day after Pakistan lost to Ireland in the ICC World Cup.
Speculation about his ‘death’, which cast a huge shadow over the World Cup, has included suggestions that he committed suicide, that he died of natural causes, that he was murdered by gangsters over a match-fixing scandal, that he was killed by a fanatical supporter with a grudge or that he had been the target of an Al Qaeda fatwa.
I use the terms ‘dead’ and ‘death’ because anyone who witnessed Bob Woolmer's deeds at the batting-crease would be aware of his gift for remaining motionless over enormous periods of time, so it may well prove in years to come that what actually killed him was the cremation which took place on June 1st near his Pinelands home outside Cape Town.
At this stage his family has not decided what to do with his ashes, however given the bizarre nature of the case so far, don’t be surprised if they end up as a perpetual trophy for future test matches between England and Pakistan.
Over the next few days/weeks, or until I lose interest…whichever comes first…I shall devote the entire resources of TWG’s crime investigation unit to demystifying ‘The Woolmer Case’, which up to this point has baffled more readers than one of Mountjoy’s idiotic posts…