cue the 'jaws' music...

As you may have noticed, I haven’t blogged for a while !!!
Nothing sinister in it: I just haven’t felt like it to be honest.
It started off as a small writer’s block, which then developed into creative apathy all by itself…followed thereafter by a personal catastrophe that rendered me utterly disinterested in making anyone’s life any jollier.
So, I didn’t blog…
And I certainly didn’t comment on many other blogs because let’s face it…if I’m not writing then I’m not reading. It’s the same with conversation; if I’m not talking then I’m unlikely to be listening.
But I’ll be back in the New Year for sure.
Meanwhile, with the New Year theme in mind, I’d like to farewell 2010 with a little game I invented a few years ago called ‘Other Peoples’ New Year’s Blogging Resolutions’…or as it’s sometimes also known: What I Hate Most About Your Blog…You Cunt !!!
The idea is basically to list the NY resolutions you think certain other people should make…because I’d rather nail my pee-pee to a burning building than read anyone’s personal NY resolutions themselves. I mean really…like I give a fuck whether you do drugs, smoke too many cigarettes, are fifty kilos overweight, beat your spouse or secretly drink from the toilet.
So, in order to play this game, when you comment, please choose three (3) bloggers and list one (1) resolution you’d like to see each of them make for 2011 with respect to their blogs.

I’ll start the game off…and please don’t feel slighted by omission if you weren’t one of the three I chose…there are no favourites here at TWG. Rest assured that even though you’re not mentioned…I almost certainly still loathe many things about your shitty blog…

OK…let’s start with…Kitty over at ‘Shrinking Kitty’… (OK so I DO play favourites here at TWG…GFY). Not much to complain about over at SK really. Kitty’s blog is plump, pink and perfect…just like its author. So, I’d like her NY resolution to be that she will self-delete her wonderful blog on a far more regular basis; say twice a week to begin with…

Then there’s Spiky over at ‘Bit Player Reflects’ …no prizes for guessing what I’d like her to do with ‘Drive-By Poetry Day’. I make no secret of the fact I despise poetry. I loathe it. Reading someone else’s poetry is like listening to someone talk about a weird dream they had…or an acid trip they once took. Poetry is nothing more than shitty prose, chopped up into supposedly artistic bits with proper punctuation left out for added ‘meaning’. Of course I am probably the only one who thinks like this…

And finally there’s Bam Bam & Frankie over at ‘BamBamBam’ & ‘The Fifi Dangerfield Files’ …yes I know they are two people/two blogs but in reality they are now one. Siamese bloggers joined at the cyber-genitals, messing up the internet with their syrupy romance. I’m not really sure what I’d like these two love-vultures to resolve for NY ?? Certainly they were edgier when single and bitter…but even I wouldn’t be comfortable for their turgid affair to be butchered in the name of better blogging. So, perhaps the two of you could take your juvenile mutual desire for each other’s slippery bits somewhere else…like FB…and get back to your blogging roots…

And on that note…may I wish you all a Happy New Year and may you all get what you asked for in 2011…

seriously...what are the chances...

They say that there is someone out there for everybody !!!
They, of course, are full of shit. These are the same ‘they’ who tell losers it’s lucky when a bird takes a crap on them. It’s just not true.
There may in fact be more than one person for some people…but unless you’re the sort of cabbage who believes in the magical healing power of rainbows, it’s time to admit that for other people there just might not be anyone.
I figure it’s a numbers game mostly.
BFNs !!! The ‘B’ stands for big, the ‘N’ stands for numbers…I’ll let you fuckers work out what the ‘F’ stands for.
Take me for instance; what are the chances that there’s someone out there for me ?? Slim, that’s what sort of chance there is…because as everyone knows I’m an asshole…and a very choosy one at that.
But let’s do the BFNs anyway, shall we ?? And let’s assume that for every disqualifying criterion we remove roughly (ROUGHLY ok) 50% of the available number of candidates according to the theory of normal distribution.
So, say there are 6 billion people on the planet; half of them are disqualified immediately for not being chicks, so that leaves 3 billion; still a pretty BFN.
Of course half those chicks are the wrong age, either too young and protected by the law or too old and protected by nature, so that leaves 1.5 billion.
Half of those are the wrong height, either potential draftees for the NBL or trolls that look like they’ve fallen off a key ring, so that leaves 750 million.
Half of those are the wrong weight, either skeleton-like bags of anorexic bones or binge-eating tubs of lard, so that leaves 400 million.
Half of those have heads like watermelons or faces that are interchangeable with their ass, so that leaves 200 million.
Half of those are dumb cunts with the IQ of a pot-plant, so that leaves 100 million or so.
See, not such a BFN now is it…although it’s still not a bad number but we’ve only got through the shallower, physical requirements for my perfect partner.
Let’s look at some of the deeper qualities I’m after…
Half of those are either God-bothering hand-holders, tree-worshippers, fundamentalist suicide bombers or spend every Saturday night on the roof of their Doomsday Church waiting for a spaceship to collect them, so that leaves 50 million.
Don’t like ‘Seinfeld’…25 million.
Hold their cutlery like baboons…15 million.
Can’t drive a manual car or reverse park…8 million.
Are Holocaust-deniers…4 million.
Eat vegetarian…2 million.
Call partner by a baby name in public …1 million.
Take forever to get to the point in a conversation …500,000.
Believe in astrology…250,000.
Follow celebrity news…125,000.
Overlap plates in the dishwasher…60,000.
Constantly ask how they look…30,000.
Pack too many clothes on a trip …15,000.
Allergic to cats…8,000.
Listen to loud music first thing in the morning …4000.
Laugh at their own jokes when they aren’t that funny…2000.
Like to do Yum-cha on Sundays …1000.
Use baby talk during sex…500
Mess up the car radio stations…250.
Turn into quadriplegics when they get sick…125
Leave wet towels on the bed…60.
Over-zealous light turner-offerers…30.
Spread out like a starfish in bed…15.
Brush teeth in lounge room while trying to talk about their day at work…8.
Read self-help books…4.
Spells ‘definitely’ as ‘definately’…2.
Like to interpret dreams…1.

See, we’re down to 1 person already and she has to actually like me…

you know...maybe man didn't land on the moon either...

Gosh it's been great having the world's hottest blogger back again and commenting on TWG. The one and only 'Steph' of 'Much Ado About Something', the smokingest blonde ever in the entire history of blogging in this country. My goodness she was hot; and not just her either...who can forget the equally stunning but darkly evil side-kick Kylie
They were the salt and pepper goddesses of the interwebs.

OK, so the posts were hardly Ayn Rand...and the stories weren't exactly the adventures of Marco Polo or Aladdin...but who cared ?? Just the thought of these two scorching hornbags tearing around Sydney with their ultra-fabulous friends was enough to have us all wishing we could be them for a day.
And what a tease 'Steph' was too...she'd spice up her posts with a few photos...always careful to blackout the eyes or cut off the heads to protect her privacy and the privacy of her uberhot friends; or as she called them The Supertards.
I always felt sorry for the average 'MAAS' reader because they never got to see the real 'Steph', covered as she was in her giant sunnies, or eyes blacked out...coz boy oh boy was she ever ridiculously good-looking. Luckily, I had become very close friends with her off-blog. We e-mailed regularly...and sometimes, when I'd go in to bat for her on her blog after a hater had taken a cheap shot, she'd blubber her thanks in private and reward me with an uncensored photo of her...or her and Kylie...which I would instantly print out and paper my entire bedroom wall with
Anyway, I think enough time has passed since 'MAAS' went extinct...and I know many of you were huge, huge fans of 'Steph'...so I have decided to release my private collection of photos for your masturbatory pleasure...

Here's one of my favourites. Classic 'Steph' really...and look she's even giving me 'the finger'...coz you know...I'm Fingers.

Or what about this one ?? Brunette 'Steph' with her adorable little doggie 'Lulubelle'...proving that she didn't always have to be blonde to look gorgeous.

And here they are together again. The Captain and Vice-Captain of the All Star Supertards; OMG who wouldn't want to slather themselves in peanut butter oil and slide up and down bewteen these two mega-foxes ??

Let me save you the trouble of fantasizing about that; here's what it actually looks like to get down and dirty with 'Steph' and her A-list party-stoppers. I think this was taken at 'Steph's' last birthday...a champagne-fuelled pillow-wrestle at some top secret nightclub that we mortals can only dream about.

So, hands up everyone who thinks these photos are the nicest present I've ever given my readers here on TWG ?? Hmmm...just counting those hands...that's ONE...thanks Memphis Steve.
Now, hands up those who think I've committed an act of unspeakable cuntery and violated the trust of one of blogging's 'Untouchables'. Hmmm...OK that's a lot of hands. In fact I'd say everyone has their hand up except Memphis Steve.
No, wait...he's got his hand up too; nothing like having an each way bet when it comes to not pissing 'Steph' off.

OK, let's cut to the chase here, shall we.
Firstly, at the conclusion of this post I will be flying off to Stockholm to accept the Nobel Prize for Stupidity.
Secondly, if anyone knows where Memphis Steve actually lives, could you please go round there and hide all the rope, remove all the knives, unplug the toaster and stay with him for a while.
And lastly, I'd like everyone to take a peek at this link; this one here...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/staci_e_cole/

Recognize anyone you know ??
Hey look, it's 'Steph'...
There's blonde 'Steph' and brunette 'Steph'...'Steph' and her Mum...'Steph' and the luckiest dolphin in the whole wide world...they're all there; it's basically a 'Steph Wonderworld'.


Check out page 2...why it's 'Steph and Kylie'...frolicking at the beach party...glamming it up at the local club...and everyone's all-time fave 'Nurse Steph and Nurse Kylie'...


OK, who's got a really big case of the 'what the fucks' ??

Try page 3 then...

Ooooooooh, it's 'Bollinger Steph' and 'Kristal Kylie' chugging bottles of French champagne on their PR salaries as though the world could end at any moment.

OK, anyone whose penny still hasn't dropped...I want you to go and Google 'Staci Cole' !!!

I'll wait here while you do it...

Now...say it with me...OMG...ZOMG...ZOMFG...

More to come on this breaking news story...oh and seriously can someone please go round and check on Memphis for me...

for my mate, bammers...

A close friend of mine is currently going through a painful separation with his wife of seventeen years. The specific details are not important; suffice to say there is the usual supply of pain, suffering, guilt, regret, denial and anger on both sides.
What’s slightly different about this situation is that I’m seeing it played out for the first time in an arena which includes the social media network.
Facebook !!!
A separation is often similar to the wedding for many guests; friends of the bride on one side…friends of the groom on the other. You pretty much get the same seat for both events unless you’ve managed to cross the floor in the meantime.
Female friends of the groom often cross the floor simply due to the irresistible force of Gender Gravity or an acutely overdeveloped Sense of Sisterhood…whilst female friends of the bride only ever cross the floor when they find out she’s been sleeping with their husbands or boyfriends.
Male friends of the groom almost never cross the floor because they are loyal and true to the bitter end…and it provides excellent camouflage in case they want to take a shot at the outgoing wife somewhere down the track…whilst female friends of the groom have almost no reason to cross the floor other than just to hang out with all the girls and talk shit.
On ‘Facebook’, you indicate your intention towards either camp by using the friend/de-friend button, which because of the accompanying changes to your privacy/privilege settings, necessarily gives you a very different view of the action afterwards, once the post-matrimonial fur starts to fly.
Of course some guests remain loyal to both camps…which is terribly admirable and non-judgmental of them…and for which they are duly rewarded by being branded a spy in the event of any leaks between the camps.
But enough of the cyber-politics associated with divorce-watching…the real point of this post is to solidify the combined wisdom, advice and messages of support that one sees on a ‘Facebook’ separation thread into one universally idiomatic masterpiece.

And the truth is that life goes on…despite apparently being too short for some but long enough for others…to heal all wounds and regrets…although you should never really have them…and that as long as you move on…and keep moving…whilst at the same time remembering to stand tall with your head held high and your chin up…that some doors will close and others will open…proving you can never really know what’s just around the corner…although you can always be sure the sun will continue to shine…because tomorrow is another day…and there are plenty of other fish in the sea…

the world cup...and its world saucer...

Unless you follow soccer, which I most decidedly DON’T, the make-up of the eight four-team groups in the upcoming World Cup is a bit of a mystery…and to be honest I’m happy for it to remain so.
But as this gigantically boring snooze-fest draws closer, one of the questions you hear asked most often is ‘Hey which teams are in our group ??’
So, on your behalf I’ve written to FIFA and asked them to re-assign the thirty-two combatants in this year’s competition, combine them in groups that make logical sense and give them names that are easy to remember.

Here are the new official groupings:

Group 1: The WW2 Reunion Party… England, Germany, United States, Japan.
Group 2: The European Economic Bailout Brigade… Greece, Italy, Spain, Portugal.
Group 3: The Worthless Sovereign Bond Society… Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil, Chile.
Group 4: The World Vision Project… Nigeria, Ghana, Cameroon, Ivory Coast.
Group 5: The Drug Cartel… Mexico, Honduras, Uruguay, Netherlands.
Group 6: The Terrorist Cell… Algeria, Serbia, Slovenia, North Korea.
Group 7: The Utter Utter Cunts Club… Denmark, Switzerland, France, South Africa.
Group 8: The Punching Bags… South Korea, Australia, New Zealand, Slovakia.

i have a question for you all...

Apologies for the non-blogging of late; no real excuses other than sheer laziness but since blogging isn't my job I don't really have to explain. Anyway, to tide you over until I resume writing, here's a little cut/paste job from a Facebook thread in which I got heavily invloved.
It took place on a friend's page after she updated the following thought: Georgia Lewis figures it's about time the world admitted that the formation of the state of Israel was a pretty bad idea...
Now, if you know me at all then you also know I have no religious inclination whatsoever; in fact I loathe religion, so any thoughts I have on this subject are not motivated by a hidden personal agenda. I simply detest fanaticism in all its forms.
So, have a little read...the comments are re-published unedited and in the actual order in which originally made. It's a little lengthy but I do owe you, so lap it up while you can. I do not know most of these people and they do not know me, other than Georgia Lewis. Most of them live in or around the UAE from what I gather although I neither know that for sure or care at all.
And then, without necessarily commenting on the rights or wrongs of the original discussion, I'd like you to answer the following question: Am I really a total cunt or just a naughty boy...

Georgia Lewis figures it's about time the world admitted that the formation of the state of Israel was a pretty bad idea...

Adele Schultz
Just reading what happened. At last Israel has shown it's true colours and the world (especially USA) can no longer turn a blind-eye!

David Fingret
excuse me...do you mean the actual formation or the location of the state of israel...

Georgia Lewis
The actual formation of the state of Israel after WWII, hence my use of the word "state". Pretty hard to change the location of sites that have been sacred to Jews, Muslms and Christians for centuries.

Keren Bobker
Don't agree that it was wrong, but handled badly. If you want to be pedantic Jews were in ME for some 5,000 years before Muslims existed.

David Fingret
you're an idiot...that's as stupid as suggesting that if Richard the Lionheart and Phillip II had done their job properly and slaughtered every Muzzie on the planet when they had the chance that none of this would have happened...

Keren Bobker
I do wish people would separate Israel & Jews. The anti-semitism is appalling. The state of Israel does not represent all Jews, most of whom do not support many of the actions of Israel.

David Fingret
BTW...not you keren...for the record i was referring to georgia...

Georgia Lewis
True, it is important to note that there is a difference between being against the actions of the state of Israel and being an anti-semite, but thank you for calling me an idiot...

David Fingret
georgia, your original comment pertained to the creation of the state...a wholly humanitarian solution to the problem of what to do with millions of despised, displaced survivors of the holocaust...no one wanted them...certainly not those hypocritial c*nts in the UK...but sadly for the sake of expediency it was decided to create israel on a useless piece of Crown land which sadly had religious ties to a whole bunch of these savages...jews, christians and mozzies...THAT was the problem...location, location, location...

Georgia Lewis
The events in the last day or so are just the latest in a long, long line of atrocious acts by all sides which demonstrates that an alternative is needed.
A two-state solution perhaps? A new state with no official religion where Jews, Muslims, Christians and anyone else can live side by side? Moving the Jewish homeland to Utah? I'm not claiming to know the answer but I do think that the current situation is unsustainable.

Komal Patwari
Who's David Fingret, and why does he insist on referring to Muslims as a muzzie or mozzie? Since he's a friend of yours I'm inclined to think he probably isn't an inbred farmer from Iowa who plays banjo and probably doesn't even own a passport, but I am often proven wrong about these things.

Georgia Lewis
He is not an inbred farmer from Iowa and I have never seen him play the banjo but given that he gets upset when people level personal attacks at him in cyberspace but thinks nothing of insulting an entire religion and calling me an idiot, then I can see how you may have reached your rather amusing conclusion.

Dave Reeder
david, in fact uk-based zionists were pushing for the state from the end of the 19th century, which led to the 1917 balfour declaration which, simply, stated that the government "viewed with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people" after which it was a done deal. the shaoh merely made it more urgent and the stern-irgun terrorist attacks on the occupying british army after ww2 made us cut and run, leaving the palestinians without sufficient protection.

David Fingret
oh yes...of course...'a two state solution with no official religion where Jews, Muslims, Christians and anyone else can live side by side'...how utterly dreamy...we could put it next to Wonderland, the magical country where Serbs and Croats hold hands and sing songs...or The Happy Kingdom, where the Hutu and the Tutsis run free side by side...forget Utah...i think the state you're imagining is Kansas, Dorothy...


Komal Patwari
Georgia: he sounds like an all-round delight, I'd love to meet him. He must have many friends and live a full, engaging life.

Georgia Lewis
Komal, would you believe he is single? Such a shame you're newly married, it could have been a beautiful thing...

Komal Patwari
Him, single? Surely the two do not belong in the same sentence. It would have started out a beautiful thing I'm sure but would have ended in tragedy when I ate him for breakfast the following morning.

David Fingret
yes komal, just as i don't automatically assume you work as a ticket-collector for british rail or manage a 7/11, you pompous ass...

Komal Patwari
Charming and eloquent - how do the ladies stay away?

David Fingret
dave, acceding to the demands of those loony Zionists was never the answer either...dropping a jewish state into an area where they would be surrounded on three sides by their sworn enemies and on the fourth by water was an insane idea...but the UK saw a wonderful opportunity to give those maniacs what they wanted and find a use for a crappy piece of land they couldn't occupy commercially anyway...so they happily gave the stinking piece of desert to the zionists then even more happily turned their backs on the palestinians when the zionists cut loose...a marvelous piece of handwashing...

Komal Patwari
Which is something the British were very good at (when they ran the empire anyway) - this is not so dissimilar to their approach to the India / Pakistan divide - at the end of it all they drew a horrifyingly flawed border across a map of erstwhile India and set sail with the Kohinoor and an arguably unquantifiable amount of loot while leaving India and Pakistan to deal with the mess.

David Fingret
well, well...there's hope for you yet, Komal...but if you believe that then apart from some colourful nicknames i might have used, what's your beef with my argument...

David Fingret
sadly georgia there is no hope for you...unless one day you are granted your own state where you can rule supreme as lord of your own tribe of idiots...

Komal Patwari
The Indian royals held their own in the idiocy stakes, mind - and given the levels of utter lunacy with which they ruled their states and warred with each other, you could almost argue that they deserved to be conquered. Sadly it has always been the common people that have suffered, a fact especially pertinent to Isralis and Palestinians today. David your colourful nicknames are my only beef with your argument.

David Fingret
must...resist...potentially...funniest...and...most...offensive...exit...line...evah...

Robert Evans
Georgia, what nationality is Mr Fingret, I'm just curious due to one comment he made...

Georgia Lewis
He is Australian...

Irina Ionascu
Oh Georgia, you know how to set some people on fire... :)! Love it! This was almost like watching an episode of Come dine with me :). You rule!

Robert Evans
Ah, ok... Well, not to tar you all with the same brush, as I certainly wouldn't wanna be lumped in with all my compatriots, past & present, and forgive my slightly kneejerk nationalism, but I don't think we're the only 'hypocritical cunts' (note to ed, if you're gonna use it, spell it out mate) out there... seem to remember something about some ethnic dispossessed group or another in Oz down through the years... You must be do proud... Anyway, that's me done & out...

Ramesh Moorjani
In 2006, two U.S. professors John Mearsheimer of Chicago University and Stephen Walt of Harvard University wrote a thesis giving valid reasons that the U.S. unconditional backing of Israel was harming the U.S. in many ways.
They were immediately pounced upon and abused and labeled anti semitic etc. Fox News along with all republican and a few ... See Moredemocratic politicians went against them too.
AIPAC or the American Israel Public Affairs Committee is very strong financially and they lobby extensively for Israel.
Even with Obama as the president, nothing is going to happen.
America will use its veto power again and again. Israel will get away with murder again. No one has the balls to tackle them head on. The capital city of the U.S. is Tel Aviv. Israel doesn't seem to understand that the only way forward is to give something to achieve something.

David Fingret
er bob...may i call you bob...we're a bit egalitarian like that down here...not to rain on your brilliant stereotyping parade but in private FB chat this arvo (that's aussie for afternoon) i did broach the subject of the stolen generation with georgia...and i recognize the nonsensical analogy you seem to be mistaking for meaningful irony...however...and correct me if i'm wrong.. the gist of your comment seems to be 'oh yeah well so are you'...

David Fingret
meanwhile i do like irina's suggestion...setting people on fire...what a wonderfully Indian solution to the problem...yeah c'mon komal let's rumble some more...:)

Georgia Lewis
Really? All Indians are hell-bent on burning people??? And what is with the smiley at the end? Either express yourself properly with words or be quiet.

David Fingret
well georgia, since i'm not a character in south park and can't get away with saying that just for a laugh...i used the dreaded emoticon to downgrade the comment from deeply offensive to just pretty offensive...i only wish there was an emoticon capable of expressing my feelings towards you right now...

Georgia Lewis
Except that with or without the emoticon it is still about as hilarious as dead babies (of any nationality or religion...).

Gary Scott
lol Georgia

David Fingret
hey georgia...since your the expert on FB/SMS etiquette...what's worse...emoticons or grown men using 'lol'...

Georgia Lewis
Emoticons. And grown men calling Muslims "muzzies" and making unfunny gags about burning Indians is up there on the scale of shittiness.

Susan Macaulay
Georgia, I SO love your catalytic comments and lively salon guests, particularly Mr. Fingret who adds such zest to the interchanges in which he chooses to engage. Such a, how shall i say it, genteel conversationalist...

Christopher Saul
I think this must be the most historically ill-informed Facebook thread ever.

Gary Scott
Seriously, lol has to be worse than any crime mentioned here.

David Fingret
spot on ramesh...wow TWO university professors wrote a valid thesis condemning the US tacit support for Israel...well that pretty much settles it then, eh...the objections of Fox, the entire republican party and a few corrupt democrats notwithstanding...let's see you also made the diabolically clever observation about the israeli/jewish/money/power connection and shown wonderful insight in declaring tel aviv the capital of the US...nothing wrong with your well-constructed and impartial view...

David Fingret
well georgia...since acronyms speak louder than emoticons...here's one for you...IDGAS...want a clue...the first four words are 'i don't give a...'...

David Fingret
susan...if there's anything more distasteful than calling me a jew it's calling me a genteel...that's pretty racist, dude...

Georgia Lewis
Call me crazy (FIngret, I'm sure you will, I'm already an idiot apparently...), but I'm more inclined to take seriously the work of two university professors than anyone on Fox News.

David Fingret
chris...well that's what you get when you log into FB to study history...try going to uni next time...you cabbage...

Georgia Lewis
Ladies and gents, we are witnessing the world's first ever descent into madness live on Facebook.

David Fingret
not at all georgia...there's nothing crazy about being inclined to take two university professor's work seriously...unless of course YOU HAVEN'T FUCKING READ IT...hmmm...stephen walt...using ramesh's uncanny ability to connect convenient dots...i'd say he changed his name to honour walt disney...the well-known anti-semite theme park mogul...i'd be betting good money professor walt is secretly funded by the PLO...

Iain Akerman
Fingret... if you'd ever been to Palestine, you'd know that it is not a "crappy piece of land". It is beautiful. The level of ignorance here is quite astonishing...

Adele Schultz
David, do you need a hug? Seems like you lack attention in your life and now you have to get it by winding everybody on Georgia's wall up. Isn't there anybody in your life who you can go annoy rather than pollute our eyes? Oh, don't even try winding me up cause I aint going to respond to your adolecent need for attention.

David Fingret
akerman...if you've been to palestine then you're a fucking wizard because there is no such country mate...it's a region which now contains modern day Israel and Jordan amongst other actual countries...and from what i've read of it they didn't grow too many oranges there successfully prior to 1948...it was ostensibly a desert, asshole...interestingly though the arabic word for palestine is philistine...coinkydink ?? i don't think so...

Georgia Lewis
Some say Palestine is not a country, others say Israel is not a country... In any case, Iain is not an arsehole (can't do the American spelling, it hurts my eyes) and the beauty of a place is not dependent on how many oranges grow there.

Iain Akerman
I didn't say it was a country... maybe if you could read then you could learn something. And Palestinians grow olives. And I'd advise against you calling people you don't know assholes...

Georgia Lewis
He won't take advice, he is always right and everyone else is a cabbage, an arsehole, an idiot, a pompous ass... Surely it is feeding time at his nursing home soon.

David Fingret
oh adele...did you think i'd left you out by accident...not at all baby...your first comment was so vile and ill-considered i chose to pretend i hadn't seen it...people like you make me a little sick...

David Fingret
gosh sorry akerman...i wrongly assumed that your reference to the astonishing level of ignorance in here was aimed at me...or maybe it was but you were using it in the positive sense of the phrase...as in 'he's so astonishingly ignorant i'm starting to wish i was him'...i may not know you individually but i'm well familiar with your phylum...asshole...

Iain Akerman
Fingret... would love to meet you if you ever make it to Dubai. Maybe Georgia can arrange something. Then we'll see how you fare in a face-to-face confrontation. This is a gauntlet, not an excuse for more cowardly bile

Georgia Lewis
Fingret, are there any opinions on the Arab-Israeli conflict that you wish to share in a constructive manner? I know you do not agree with any sort of violence by either Israelis or Palestinians but right about now, no matter how tongue-in-cheek you think you're being, you're coming across as an unpleasant dick.
That's the problem with arguing online. You've got to be a damn good writer for people to realise when you are taking the piss and when you're being deadly serious.

David Fingret
akers...see that's the difference...i have no desire whatsoever to meet you...not for a chat...not for a drink...and not to take up your miserable gauntlet...i was right about the phylum too...you just proved that, asshole...

Keren Bobker
Having read numerous of his little diatribes I am firmly of the belief that this David Fingret is a 'comedy' character. No one can hate everyone and everything that much and not combust.

Iain Akerman
what a miserable coward you are...

David Fingret
oh and georgia...one last comment...doing a little expat stint in the UAE doesn't make you henry kissinger's love child...and writing car reviews doesn't make you joseph heller either...in the immortal words of the sagely adele...tonight you have shown me your true colours

Georgia Lewis
Joseph Heller? Catch 22 versus my groundbreaking piece the other week on the Abu Dhabi Bentley workshop?
Shakes head, reaffirms her belief that the truth is stranger than fiction, gets on with her day...

Adele Schultz
Last comment? YAY, at last! Now best you go wash your dirty mouth out with soap and maybe enroll into a course of anger management... ciao ciao

David Fingret
um adele..i thought you weren't going to respond to my adolescent need for attention...then again i did say that was going to be my last comment...gosh we're both so pathetically weak in our resolve...

Ramesh Moorjani
David, i finally read your sarcastic comments. Frankly, don't think you have too much knowledge of U.S. politics but you pretend to know.
If the U.S. has vetoed over 32 or more U.N. resolutions against Israel, what would you call that ?
Just for the record, i am not Muslim nor Christian so my position is not biased towards any one side.
And may i request you to keep a more civil discourse. That way, everyone will enjoy a healthy conversation, even though your knowledge sucks!

David Fingret
oh crap...i've been over at FB's wailing wall hassling the rabid zionists a bit and they don't like me either...now ramesh, glad you brought up the UN...this is the same august body that has presided over atrocities such as Bosnia and Rwanda, China's treatment of Tibet, Japanese whaling...etc etc etc...the same forum that allowed that PLO madman Yasser Arafat to address it while bearing sidearms in 1974 so he could unleash his slobbering fulminations against Israel...the same chamber that tacitly accepts Ahmadinejad's representative's disgusting calls for the extermination of Israel and Jews in general...please mate, i have less respect for the UN than i have for you...and i'm not the slightest bit interested in its resolution record or the number of US vetos...the whole process is a farcically political balancing act...so in response to your request that i keep a more civil discourse i shall treat you like the UN and ignore you...consider yourself vetoed...

David Fingret
now akers...i've been giving you some serious thought and here's how i see it...we don't know each other and yet we are now sworn enemies...your idea of resolving the conflict is for me to come to Dubai and let you tear my head off which from the looks of your photo and the 20year/20kg advantage you have over me, would be a distinct possibility…however the tyranny of distance combined with social convention means that you probably won't ever get that opportunity...so i get to sit here and snipe away while you get madder and madder...which i guess sorta makes you Israel and me Palestine (Hamas specifically)...how do you like that for an ironic stack of kebabs...i'm betting you wouldn't let Israel and Palestine sort their differences out in the same manner would you...because that probably wouldn't go too well for those peaceful olive farmers at all, would it...you silly ginger baboon...

of course it wasn't all bad...

Now, before you all jump to the conclusion that my marriage to Lady Fingers (LF) was one long, urine-soaked orgy of discontent, I’d like to introduce some balance into the equation by way of a little story about our sex-life.


Soon after I got my first digital video camera I was overcome with a terrible urge to make home- porn!
Having already cut my directorial teeth on the mandatory beginner films, which consisted mostly of interviews with LF, during which I asked penetrating questions such as, ‘So do you have any idea where flies go when it’s raining ?’, while she screamed, ‘Take that fucking camera out of my face !!!’, I then completed a series of fascinating documentaries about our apartment before finally committing the ultimate cinematic indignity and filming our dog licking its own ass.
With no other compelling screenplays on my drawing board, it was an easy leap into the world of Indie Porn.
Deep down I really believe most guys want to try making their own blue movie because let’s face it; we’re clueless dirt bags. I believe that the average male will try to find porn within twelve minutes of logging onto the internet for the first time: though my research is predicated entirely on personal experience.
For most men it’s natural to watch it, so why not try and make it?
And I’m not talking about a grubby, unauthorized peepshow; luring your unsuspecting partner into the bedroom and secretly taping her undressing or performing a series of gymnastically improbable acts, oblivious to the camera whirring unseen in the closet. And certainly not one of those graphically medical, up close and personal ‘twiddle-the-diddle’ clips filmed with vadge-cam and incorporating surround-sound squelching noises.
I’m talking about something artistic; and for mine there’s nothing that showcases that artistry more than a nice, long, slow blowjob. Plus, it’s just about the most thoughtful thing a chick can do for her man! So, I mentioned this to my wife, who enthusiastically (???) agreed to let me film her rendering unto Caesar the comfort of her lips. In truth, we both thought it might be a rather exciting experience; one that would enhance our sex life immeasurably (er...not that it needed it).
So, after some hasty brainstorming with regard to set-location we chose a classic scenario; I would be seated on a chair and she would assume the position on her knees in front of me. We opted for a side-on camera angle, rather than the trendy point-of-view (POV) routine. I knew POV was a trap for young players; you never, ever, ever use POV unless you're hung like a moose. POV fore-shortens things terribly through the lens; the side angle is much kinder. It's why the guy peeing next to you always seems to have a bigger dick than yours. YEAH IT’S TRUE !!! I mean I can accept that some guys have a bigger dick than I do…BUT NOT EVERY FUCKING ONE OF THEM.
Anyway, I set the recording equipment on a tripod, optimized the lighting conditions, grabbed the remote control and took my seat in the director/star’s chair. LF took up her position on the floor, some preliminary adjustments were made to ensure ‘Mr Wibbly-Wobbly’ was looking his finest and the action began…
I won’t go into details regarding the actual length of the scene; suffice to say that duration was the least of my eventual worries. Throughout the entire performance I felt I was managing admirably, whilst LF ran expertly through her extensive oral repertoire with the sort of uninhibited grace I’d come to expect over the years. The finale was predictably spectacular as far as I was concerned; the usual panoply of epileptic spasms and ‘come-face’ grimaces from me, (which incidentally look remarkably similar to my ‘rubber-spider-in-the-lunchbox-face’ grimaces) and some dreamy licking of the lips from her. We could barely contain our mutual excitement at such a great ‘take’ and hurriedly raced over to the camera, hooked it up to the PC and downloaded our first-ever home-porn-movie…
Now, ever the realist I knew in my heart that I wasn’t a genuine porn star but unfortunately, like most young men I’d been brought up on a steady diet of professional work; you know the stuff I’m talking about…

The girl, suitably sweet-looking with just a hint of naughtiness, suddenly dislocates her jaw like a reticulated python preparing to swallow a giraffe whole and clamps her lips around her partner’s dick; a preposterously monumental example of penile super-abundance, seamlessly and somehow impossibly grafted onto the body of a normal male. This is followed by the obligatory bulging of the eyes, the puffing of the cheeks, whereupon the girl commences the act in earnest, a look of sheer terror gradually replaced by one of pure contentment. This is accompanied by an exaggerated, trombone-playing-like flailing of both hands, much lizardly tongue action and the depositing of several litres of saliva in the crotch region, before the salami-sized appendage is magically removed just in time to erupt all over the happy girl’s face.

Well, I wasn’t expecting to see anything on that grand a scale, but neither was I prepared for what unfolded on the screen before me.
There was my wife and there was I…in all our glory, re-enacting what I can only describe as the bit in the pre-flight safety demonstration where the hostess shows you how to manually inflate a life-jacket by blowing through the little valve. She was playing the hostess and I was playing the safety-jacket…

a golden (shower) oldie...but a goodie...

Apologies for the re-hashed post here...but some people haven't read it...and it needed updating and including in this important body of work...so bite me...


Now, while we’re at it, I may as well get all the urinary skeletons out of the water-closet…
My wife, whom I shall call ‘Lady Fingers’ (LF) and I preferred 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 coals in a furnace; she was for the most part motionless, content and colder than polar bear shit. And by cold I don’t mean her general demeanor; she had poor circulation and a core body-temperature of about 75 degrees Fahrenheit. 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.
Also, a few months into our marriage, LF developed a habit of going to the toilet for a tinkle in the middle of the 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, apparently un-wiped, throw a leg over my thigh and re-attach herself to my body like a heat-seeking oyster. At first I thought it was cute; the tiny wet spot created during the docking manoeuvre didn’t bother me. After all, what’s a little bit of wee between friends…
Then it happened again.
And again.
And again and again and again…
Finally I’d had enough; after yet another dabbing 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 toilets. One was in the main bathroom down the hallway and the other, substantially smaller was situated just off our bedroom; a 1.5-metre by 1-metre micro-bathroom with just a toilet and micro-basin inside.
The next night, as had become her wont, LF rose from the bed at precisely 4 am, waking me in the process and trotted off to do her thing. That afternoon, I’d purchased six-dozen rolls of toilet paper, half of which I’d stacked along one wall of the micro-bathroom, the other half of which I’d placed in the bathtub next to the toilet in the main bathroom.
Meanwhile, I sat in bed and waited for LF’s return, mentally daring her to come back with a set of wet beef-curtains and drape them across my thigh. After ten minutes there was still no sign of her…
Now feeling like a wee myself, I slid out of bed and headed off down the hallway to the micro-bathroom, 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 something to drink and feeling like a bit of a snack myself, I crossed the lounge-room floor and entered the kitchen, where to my utter disbelief I found my wife having a pee in the fridge. There before me was the love of my life, stark naked, semi-squatting, her gorgeous ass 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 NOT 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: firstly my wife was apparently a sleep-walker, secondly 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 and lastly…I was not going to make myself a salad sandwich that evening.
I’ve always wanted to get this story off my chest; if only to provide an answer to the age-old question, ‘Fingers…why is there toilet paper next to the milk on your fridge door’…

you won't see this in the ads...

Now, as to the straw that broke our marital camel’s back and led us to this point…
Sadly, the bed-action was a major concern in more ways than one; I could deal with the sex drought we had been experiencing…even though it was threatening to become full-blown climate change.
Ironically it was the increasingly regular Great Floods that threatened to tear us apart; my wife used to pee in the bed…
Specifically, she used to come home after a big night out, full of pills and vodka, then fall asleep and wet the bed. Now, I loved her dearly…and the bed-wetting was not intentional, nor symptomatic of any deep-rooted emotional condition. She just couldn’t control her bladder after a massive night out !!! At this stage I should point out that there are good wet-spots and bad wet-spots in bed. I don’t much like sleeping on either…but given the choice I would much rather lie in a small pool of my own jizz than a lake of someone else’s pee. I suspect most people other than Germans feel the same way.
My wife would fall into bed and literally pass out with a cocktail of date-rape ingredients steadily fermenting inside her, then some time in the middle of the night she would quietly evacuate her bladder.
I imagine that seen from overhead, without the blankets covering her, she must have looked like a little angel lying there so peacefully; like a Snow-Angel…except surrounded by a halo of her own urine. A Pee-Angel if you like. At some point, when her warm little halo cooled, she’d roll over seeking drier, warmer pastures…and I’d wake up with her clamped to my thigh like a limpet.
The next day she would dutifully scrub the mattress with disinfectant after which I would drag it out on to the balcony and let it dry. The Japanese building owners frowned on even leaving beach towels draped on the balconies, yet strangely the matter of our mattress being out there once a month didn’t seem to draw much attention.
Then one day whilst out shopping for groceries with my wife, I saw a potential solution to our problem; adult disposable nappies…oversized plastic diapers…’Huggies’ for Big People.
My wife totally embraced the idea of wearing one when she was off her face in bed, thought it was marvelous in fact and couldn’t wait to try one out. The problem was that what she agreed to when sober was one thing…getting her to put a nappy on when drunk and stoned was another proposition entirely.
Our first live test came a few days later, when my wife rang me at work to say she was going out with her girlfriends and that they would be clubbing and she would be home quite late. No problem…I encouraged her to go dancing with her friends…since it got me out of having to do it.
So that night I waited for my little Pee Angel to come home; I waited and waited and waited. Then at 1-00am I went to bed after first dead-locking the front door and taping her adult nappy to the exterior of it, along with a lovely note explaining what she needed to do before I let her in. There were only two units on each floor of the building and they were on opposite sides, so privacy was never going to be an issue.
At 4-00am my wife staggered home and woke me with her furious banging on the front door, so I got out of bed and went to greet her.
Looking through the spy-hole I could see she was still fully dressed and also utterly spannered, so I put on my best Little Red Riding Hood voice and asked ‘Who is it ??’
She answered in her best Linda Blair voice, ‘You fucking know damn well fucking who it fucking is so let me in you fucking cunt.’
‘Have you got your ‘Huggy’ on like we agreed ??’
‘No I don’t have my fucking ‘Huggy’ on and I’m not fucking putting it on you fucking cunt.’
‘Why not, baby ??’
‘Coz it’s fucking embarrassing and you fucking know it.’
‘No…embarrassing is hanging the mattress out to dry each month. This is what we agreed we’d try instead.’
‘You open this fucking door now you fucking cunt.’
‘Um…no.’
‘OK…I’ll put the fucking nappy on…there I’m putting it on…are you happy now you fucking asshole ??’
‘Darling I can see you through the peep-thingy…and you’re still fully dressed.’
‘Open this fucking door or I’ll kill you.’
‘Put your ‘Huggy’ on and you can come in.’
After about ten minutes of negotiations she took off her clothes and put her ‘Huggy’ on, leaving her club-wear in a pile outside the door. I then opened the front door and she steamed in…giving me the finger as she walked past then ripping off her nappy and throwing it to the floor as she strode down the hall and promptly fell into bed.
In less than a minute she was asleep, by which time I had collected her discarded clothing plus the unused ‘Huggy’ and joined her in the bedroom, where I lifted up her fabulous ass and lovingly put the nappy on as though she were a child; a fifty-two kilogram, unconscious child.
The next morning we awoke to find her ‘Huggy’ full but the mattress completely dry…
‘Oh Fingers this worked perfectly…I’m so glad I put my ‘Huggy’ on last night before I went to bed.’
‘Yes, baby…you were just adorable about it all…’

trials and tribulations...

The upshot of the trial separation was that I was charged ‘in absentia’ with being the same complete cunt she suspected I was from the very beginning. I was vigorously prosecuted without ever being allowed to take the stand in my defence, found guilty by a judge/jury of one, summarily convicted…and subsequently sentenced to an indeterminate period of singleness. I was not even present when the sentence was carried out, though in all honesty, even had I known about the trial and its inevitable outcome, I doubt whether I’d have been able to mount much of an argument against the complaint anyway. I was a complete cunt; guilty as charged…no question of it.
From my perspective, while the secret trial was going on, I wouldn’t say things were any better or worse as such. We hadn’t had sex, either deliciously passionate with anger or even anaesthetically dull with duty for over a century, so sleeping in separate bedrooms was hardly going to make a difference. Absence and abstinence certainly did not appear to make our distant hearts grow fonder or our respective pink bits itchier. About the only lesson we learned from sleeping apart was that we definitely got a better night’s sleep. It turned out to be a case of he/she who sleeps alone may be alone…but at least they slept.
I was snoozing so well in fact, I’d already decided that at the conclusion of the trial separation, assuming things went smoothly and my wife stopped being insane, I would suggest either continuing to sleep in different bedrooms or at the very least get twin Queen-sized beds. That way we could have perfectly obligatory sex whenever one of us could be bothered going over to the other person’s bed then scuttle back to our own bed for a well-earned rest. I’d even promised myself I would go over to her bed for sex a lot more often than I would ask her to come to my bed for sex too, though of course any decision to visit my wife’s bed for carnal relations was based less on any notion of gentlemanly good-manners by committing to the extensive travel and more on the practical advantages of letting her sleep on the wet spot.
Hey, I said I was a complete cunt; didn’t you believe me?
Just why our sex life had withered on the marital vine so markedly has always been a matter of fierce academic debate. I claim that my wife’s horrendously complex and multi-layered issues of self-loathing, poor body-image and low self-esteem had created a metaphorical lasagne of neuroses through which it was impossible for me to cut. She would probably say I was a lazy asshole with a blunt, rusty knife; both arguments have equal merit.
Now, before I go on I’d just like to say that my wife was utterly gorgeous and I was physically attracted to her from the first moment I laid eyes on her. She was a clone of Sarah Jessica Parker, you know, Carrie from ‘Sex and the City’. And I mean the good Carrie too, the one with the lustrous straight hair and stylish shades, not the tired-looking hippy Carrie with the frizzy hair and windscreen-sized sunglasses. My wife had Carrie’s wonderfully expressive face, she had her fabulous toned legs, her sexily tapered waist and her overly generous breasts…she even had the long, aquiline nose.
When we went out in Tokyo where we lived for a time, schoolgirls would come up to us in the street and ask her excitedly for an autograph. They’d giggle hysterically while my wife signed their ‘Hello Kitty’ diaries, jabbering away in Japanese, oblivious to the fact I could understand what they were saying, most of which centred on how fabulous Carrie looked and how apparently disappointing Matthew Broderick (me) was in real life…

one down...four hundred and ninety-nine to go...

It was perhaps a fitting, final tribute to the under whelming strength and passion of our dying marriage that it took almost nine days before I realised my wife HAD actually left me and moved out.



And I want you to remember this next snippet of information for the moment; she often came home drunk/drug-fucked at 4am, marching into the bedroom holding a garbage bin she’d found somewhere, on which she used to climb and stand unsteadily before yelling “I’m trashed” (which I actually used to think was awfully clever/cute) before falling asleep and wetting the bed (full story later). The reason I want you to remember this salient fact is because SHE LEFT ME !!! And with good reason too; which gives you a glimmer of insight into what sort of special cunt I am.
Now whilst I might not have been the most attentive partner/husband in the world, you’d think that her vanishing entirely without my noticing, the makeover equivalent of her shaving her head and my asking if she’d done something with her hair, showed either a total lack of interest or a total presence of indifference on my part…but to be fair there were excuses.
We had both apparently taken our marital vow to spend the rest of eternity boring each other senseless and systematically extracting the very life-marrow from each other’s being so seriously, that what should have taken fifty years of applied apathy and contemptible familiarity to accomplish…had in fact been done in a mere three-and-a-bit.
And I wish I could look back at the mangled wreckage and say that we just drifted apart, as often happens in marriage, but the fact is we were wrong for each other from the very beginning.
I still remember my wife’s first private spoken words; she poodled up to me at the pub after listening to a terribly clever argument I was having with the small crowd we were in…and when they had all left she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re a complete cunt,’ after which we went home and fucked up a storm. Initially, the opposition created a delicious attraction, like two magnets obeying some bizarre law of electrosexual-magnetism. Then, not long after the thrill of angrily rubbing ourselves together in the mindless pursuit of orgasm subsided, we got our first reality check. We weren’t magnets…nor even ships eventually destined to pass in the night; I was ‘Titanic’…elegant, stately, and unsinkable…and she was the iceberg…cold, hard and immovable.
Well, not really…but I had fun writing the analogy so I'll go with it for the moment.
A more truthful version might be that from my point of view I was fun personified, a clown on nitrous…and she was the antidote. Of course my wife might remember it differently; however until she writes her own fucking book the world can just take my word for what happened.
You see we’d been having a trial separation for the previous three months, although we were still living under the same roof. She had moved out of the Master Fun Room into the guest bedroom and taken her belongings with.
Now, when I say trial separation, I assumed it was a trial in the sense of it being an experiment; as in a clinical trial where we would compare the respective quality of our lives with and without each other.
My wife on the other hand decided that it was a trial in the sense of it being a jurisprudential ambush; as in a legal trial where I would be accused of a litany of crimes against matrimony…

And for posterity...and perhaps entering in The Buller-Lytton Fiction Contest...

Unquestionably the key to our dramatic success in failing was the almost metronomic consistency with which we were diametrically opposed throughout the course of our relationship. Initially that opposition made for a veritable smorgasbord of personal attraction served with lashings of spirited debate and deliciously angry, passionate sex. I still remember my wife’s first private spoken words; she poodled up to me at the pub after listening to a terribly clever argument I was having with the small crowd we were in…and after they had all drifted away she leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re a complete cunt,’ after which we went home and fucked up a storm.
Of course some time later, upon discovering we were not in fact metal objects rubbing together violently in the mindless pursuit of achieving predestined orgasms in accordance with the immutable laws of electro-sexual-magnetism…but frail human beings looking for just the barest thread of mutual connection…the opposition began to cancel out the previous benefit of our respective personal polarities, so that when added together their sum was eventually zero.

They say everyone has a book inside them; they’re wrong.
Well, maybe everyone does have a book inside them but that doesn’t mean it’s a good book. It’s just something they say; like telling someone who’s just had a bird shit on them that it’s a sign of great prosperity to come.
It’s not; it’s just bird shit.
It’s just what they say to cheer the person covered in bird shit up and prevent them from cutting their own fucking head off.
Anyway, I’ve decided to try and write the book inside me…right here…on TWG…five-hundred words at a time…post by excruciating post…and I’d like you all to critique it for me as I go because I want to know if I’m going to be prosperous or simply covered in my own bird shit, so be honest, forthright…and above all clever with your comments.
And I promise to reward the cleverest comments by plagiarizing them shamelessly, without any credit whatsoever and using them in the book…
Now, from an operational standpoint, the book is in no particular order…except for the words…and I’m not even guaranteeing that.
What this slavering pre(r)amble amounts to is a warning that should you choose to keep reading you’d be wise to bear the following in mind. Although this is not meant to be an historically accurate record of events, I certainly haven't just made it all up…just some; although I can’t remember which exactly.
This story is based on facts, just not the sort of facts you’d be inclined to swear to under oath in court. And the characters are very real, except that they don't actually exist.
Most of the scenarios which follow possess a reasonable probability of having occurred (well…greater than fifty percent...) however they may have been embellished slightly; purely for entertainment…mostly yours…but occasionally just for my own. As the idiom goes, I won’t let a few facts stand in the way of a good story!!
As for the cast of characters, few of them have ever really existed in the normal sense of the word. Many of the characters are an amalgamation of several other people I've met, rather than a complete person in their own right. I have several excellent reasons for using this mechanism, although I’m not particularly convinced about any of them.
Firstly, by practicing this form of human concision, the storyline will be simpler for you to follow; less convoluted, less strewn with unnecessary distractions such as names. By attributing a cluster of real-life personalities, traits and experiences to just one character, I should be able to shed some cumbersome structure from the plot, thereby making this book easier for you to read. Fuck-knows it will be easier for me to write, which is a reward in itself.
Secondly, I have it on good advice, that in the event of any legal action arising from the book, it will be much harder for potential plaintiffs to identify themselves accurately enough to prove a libel has taken place. Actually, it wasn’t so much good advice as it was free advice, from a lawyer friend of mine who specializes in personal injury claims against publicity-shy, multi-national, fast-food chains. Charming man; works out of his car most of the day and sleeps in it the rest of the time.
And lastly but by no means least, I've never actually had the good social fortune to meet anyone in real life whom I consider even remotely interesting enough to stand alone as a character in a book. And that most certainly includes me.
So there you have it. I've tried to be as truthful as possible concerning the pack of lies I'm about to tell you, so don't say you weren't warned.
Right, now that's all been cleared up, I can get back to my book…
Where was I? Oh yes...

in the beginning...

Many people have asked how I got started blogging. Well, not that many...but a few. OK, no one has ever fucking asked me how I got started blogging...but I'm going to tell you anyway.
It began with a hastily-scribbled entry to a public forum called 'The Heckler' in 'The Sydney Morning Herald', which was both an online publication as well as a hard-copy newspaper. I submitted my piece to the relevant editor by e-mail...and promptly never heard from them again.
Then one morning about a month later I walked into the dealing room at work...and received a standing ovation from my fifty or so colleagues. When I asked what the applause was for they threw a copy of 'The SMH' at me and said, 'See for yourself.'
And there it was; my first published work...


July 23 2003
Pizza, alcohol and masturbation: it's all in the name of good health, argues Fingers.

Like many forty-two year-old Australian males, I worry about getting cancer. The reports are not encouraging; I'm a classic target for cancer of my colon, testicles, lungs, kidneys and many other assorted pink and grey bits. There are carcinogens everywhere I turn.
I'm reasonably familiar with the common, garden variety toxins such as Dihydroxyanthraquinone or Methylmethanesulfonate…and I do my best to avoid other sinister-looking, potentially dangerous, polysyllabic compounds whenever I can…but it's not easy. In many cases research results have been too late to help me. How could I know there was a possibility of contracting arsenic poisoning from walking on my outdoor-timber decking, or that tattooing my tax file number on my ass might cause leukemia?
From the beginning I harboured suspicions about the mystical microwave oven…and of course the mobile phone was always going to turn out too good to be true…but I never thought the blue ‘Smartie’ would become my silver bullet.
For years it's one bombshell after another for ‘carcinophobes’ like me. Sure there's been sporadic relief, such as the study which showed that red wine contained ‘resveratrol’, a cancer suppressant…but on the whole it's been one-way traffic. Now, in the space of a week, comes the news I've been waiting for all my life.
Firstly, a group of Australian researchers has asserted that the more men ejaculate between the ages of twenty and fifty, the less likely they are to develop prostate cancer later in life.
This is all quite thrilling, since the study specifically refers to ejaculation through masturbation rather than actual sex; something previous studies had even suggested could increase the risk of cancer.
Then before I could say ‘pass the moisturiser’ came news from Italy which revealed that eating pizza regularly could help stave off certain cancers of the stomach or digestive tract. The results of a study into Italian eating habits showed that people who ate pizza once or several times a week were less likely to get cancer than those who did not eat it at all.
Suddenly, the point of all those lonely Friday nights became clear. I had always felt a certain degree of shame going home, ordering my mushroom pizza, opening a nice bottle of Shiraz and consuming both before going on to, well, you know…
So imagine my elation in discovering that I have sub-consciously been engaging in some sort of anti-cancer-triathlon of self-abuse.
Perhaps I should be claiming a rebate from my private health insurer. If ‘NIB’ is happy to pay out for my Nike trainers…perhaps it would like to subsidise my DVD porno collection.
Should I be keeping the Dominos’ receipts?
Would Vintage Cellars be allowed to bulk-bill my monthly purchase of a case of reds?
Probably not, but it's a beautiful thought…

if the C-word offends you...you're probably a cunt...

It recently occurred to me that these days the word ‘CUNT’ has lost much of its impact !!! There was a time when it was the King of Insults; chicks would fly into a rage at its mere utterance irrespective of whether it was used specifically in reference to them or not. Dropping the C-Bomb was a potential date-ender, a friendship-destroyer and a marriage-killer…it was once the most fearsome anti-chick weapon in the entire arsenal of verbal mass-destruction. For example…
‘You’re a pathetic fuck-head with a fat gut, bald head and a pencil dick !!!’
‘Oh yeah…well you’re a cunt.’
Game over.
‘Why do you have to be such a selfish asshole all the time ???’
‘Why are you such a cunt ???’
Tears.
‘Why can’t you be more of a man…like my father ???’
‘Why do you have to be a cunt all the time…like your mother.’
The end.
It was the equivalent of using a tactical nuke in a minor border-conflict, it had instant, devastating effect (and consequences); you knew you’d crossed the line just from the horrified look on the chick’s face.
I remember once calling my ex-wife a cunt in Tokyo; she was a bit PMS’d-up, yelling all sorts of vile things at me, throwing stuff around the apartment and threatening to call her Dad and tell him what I’d said.
‘Go ahead and call him, you cunt.’
She did…and she told him what I said…then she threw the phone at my head and said he wanted a word with me.
‘Fingers, why did you call my daughter a cunt ???’
‘Well Roger, it’s like this…yada yada yada…blah blah blah…this this this…that that that…it was either the C-word or a good hard slap across the face.’
‘I see. OK, put that little cunt back on the phone then…’

About thirty years ago, the first time I ever called my dear old Mum a cunt, she grabbed a wooden spoon, chased me round the house for twenty minutes before cornering me, whacking me over the head and throwing me out into the street for the night. Two weeks ago, after I told her I’d been fined for calling a cop something offensive she laughed and said, ‘You silly cunt.’

My oldest, dearest, most favourite blogger in the whole world, Kitty the sewer-mouthed whore-bag, probably out-scores me two-to-one in the CPP (cunts per post) stakes these days. Not to mention some of the delightful banter we’ve had privately on Facebook.
‘Cunty McFingers…you are the cuntiest cunting cunty cunt cunt in the whole world…in fact you are a Mastercunt.’

There was once a time when I knew that if I needed to speak to a senior person at the Commonwealth Bank, all I had to do was call the poor chick manning the phone-tree ‘a useless cunt’ and she’d be forced to refer the abuse to her superior. Now I get Christmas cards from them addressed to; ‘Fingers @ Unit 1, XX Cunt Point Rd, Cunt Point, 2027’…

once more into the breach...

My old school Sydney Grammar, the most super-elite of all the Sydney GPS Silver Spoon Academies, has apparently entered a team in the 2010 GPS Geezer Olympics, a sporting competition for deluded fossils aged fifty and over as at the years end.
Our team will once again wage battle against our traditional foes; the moronic, slab-featured Press Buttons from Scots College, the agriculturally-inclined livestock-molesters from Kings, the pasty-faced preppies from Shore’s Wasp Nest, the Inner-West Scientologists from Newington’s First Evangelical Church of the Blessed Lord and All His Works, the twin God-fondling Evils from Riverview and St Joseph’s Colleges for Abused Choirboys…and the peasants from Sydney High.
Thirty years have passed since I last played GPS sport, a game of rugby if memory serves me correctly. I know we won, though the score escapes me…but my most vivid recollection of that day was the conversation I had with the St Joseph’s prop as I was preparing to feed the ball into the scrum…
Him: ‘What are you waiting for you skinny Jewish faggot ??’
Me: ‘I was just thinking about fucking your mother last night and how much her snatch reminded me of the drain in the changing room showers.’
The game was delayed five minutes while he chased me across three football fields before finally collapsing from exhaustion. Thank fuck !!!
Anyway, back to the present; it turns out my school needs me once more…they require me to swim the 50 meters freestyle race at The Games, an event for which I once held the school record in an imposing time of 26.8 seconds back in 1977.
You should have seen me then…seventeen years old, 52 kilograms, lean, mean and tanned…I would explode off the blocks as though shot from a canon, then streak through the water like a barracuda, taking just one breath around the 30 meter mark before reaching the end of the pool. I was a pure speed machine, capable of one stunningly quick lap of the pool…occasionally followed by an equally stunningly laborious second lap when I foolishly entered the 100 meters. I never broke one minute for that event…but over that 50 meter distance I was The King.
I gave up competitive swimming in 1978 to concentrate on my HSC, where I scored brilliantly, gaining the necessary marks for Law School and a degree, which I then discarded to prostitute myself in the money-market doing a job fit for a monkey. I’ve often wondered whether I did the right thing squandering the natural gift I had for breaking records in the pool, so this opportunity to don the Speedos one last time (not counting those times I’m draped like a louche over the rear lounge on the boat) may provide me with a shot at sporting redemption.
I was last clocked over the sprint distance, in 2005 at Club Med Bali, finishing utterly spannered in a leisurely 35 seconds. This got me into the final of the swimming event where I lined up against a crack field of German pedophiles…and a 150 kilogram Geoff Huegill, who looked like he’d eaten the Geoff Huegill that once held the world record for the 50 meters butterfly.
Drawing the outside lane, three away from Skippy Doughnut Features, I made a fast start before veering to the side of the pool, getting out and running the rest of the way before diving back into the pool at the other end. When Huegill came steaming into the wall and looked up I was already there, faux-heaving from the strenuous effort and waving triumphantly to the crowd…
He was shocked to say the least but came over to congratulate me like a true champion and listen to my astounding tale of this one-off piece of sporting freakery.
‘I don’t know, mate…perhaps the thrill of racing an Olympic champion inspired me to do this ??”
‘Er…I was never an Olympic champion…just a World Championship gold medalist.’
‘Oh yes…sorry mate…I forgot.’
It’s doubtful whether I’ve gotten any faster over the past five years and even more doubtful I’ll be able to pull that trick again at the GPS Geezer Olympics…so at this stage I suspect my only hope of saving face will be to fail the pre-games drug test…

don't be a quitter...

Recently I have begun seeing this new chick; it doesn’t really matter who she is other than the fact she is new and I am sort of dating her.
Unsuccessfully…as usual.




On our first date, things were going smoothly enough and it was refreshing not to be embroiled in the sort of interview-type Q&A session that characterizes most first meetings. We talked of things rather than people, of issues instead of opinions and of ideas in place of feelings. Every so often, I would excuse myself from the table and go outside for a cigarette, returning to find her, as is often the case these days with chicks left unattended for more than two minutes, answering her SMS messages.
No big deal; good time management actually.
On my third such return, whilst tapping away at her little keypad and without taking her eyes off the IPhone screen, she offered the following advice: ‘Fingers, you really ought to think about giving up smoking.’
Naturally, considering how well the date was proceeding, I assumed she was negotiating the future terms of the party I could reasonably expect to have in her pants at some point, rather than just doling out trite medical warnings. That she was telling me I would shortly be fucking her six ways from Sunday as long as I didn’t smell like an ashtray, rather than hinting unsubtly at the damage I was doing to myself with this filthy habit. That she was suggesting my nicotine-free ferret was welcome to jump through her furry hoop anytime, rather than simply dispensing clichéd health tips.
Now, nothing much happened that evening, carnally speaking…however I did resolve to quit smoking before date number two in order to maximize the potential for a game of ‘Mr Wibbly-Wobbly Hides His Helmet’. This of course proved much harder to do than it was to consider doing, so instead I pretended to quit, washed my clothes thoroughly beforehand, swallowed fifty ‘Fisherman’s Friends’ and took no cigarettes with me the next time.
An hour into the date, which was going exceedingly well, I said, ‘So, have you noticed anything tonight ??’
‘I’ve noticed you haven’t had a cigarette yet,’ she replied.
‘That’s right…I was thinking about what you said last time and took your advice,’ I lied without adding, ‘Now, is there any danger of you living up to your end of the deal and smoking my bat ??’
‘That’s excellent…has it been hard giving up??’ she enthused.
’Not as difficult as I imagined it would be,’ I beamed, now extremely comfortable living the lie.
‘Are you using patches or pills ??’
‘No, just brute willpower.’
At this point in time I’d have gladly set fire to my pubes and inhaled the smoke just for a hit.
‘Do you feel any better for it ??’
‘No, I can honestly say I don’t feel any better,’ I answered, quite truthfully as it happens, since the health benefits of pretending to quit had not become apparent yet…

Of course she didn’t put out on the second date, so I feel rightfully vindicated in practicing the deception…and I feel no compunction whatsoever going on with the charade for date number three later this week. I’ve always said that smoking would be totally negotiable for the right chick but giving up the addiction of a lifetime for merely the promise of something which is bound to end in failure anyway…just doesn’t seem like a good risk/reward trade at this point…

the trailer and the tiger...

Crime scenario 1: I am awoken at 9am on a Sunday by two police officers, a male and female from the local station who want to ask me a few questions…



Bloke Cop (BC): ‘Good morning, Sir…is that your boat and trailer outside on Cunt Point Road??’
Me (M): ‘I hope so. Why is there something wrong??’
Chick Cop (CC): ‘Can you please come up to the street and take a look at something??’
M: ‘What’s the problem ??’
CC: ‘Please accompany us to street level, Sir.’

The three of us proceed to Cunt Point Road, where the bloke cop points to my kerb-side trailer tires, both of which are flat as his partner’s chest…

BC: ‘Do you know anything about this, Sir??’
M: ‘I know the tires are flat…and it appears that the actual air-valves have been removed to make the job of re-inflating them a pain in the ass.’
BC: ‘Any idea how it might have happened??’
M: ‘Well the only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t do it myself.’
BC: ‘Are you saying that you believe someone else has done this??’
M: ‘Yes, Columbo…of course that’s what I’m saying.’
CC: ‘Do you have any idea who might want to do this??’
M: ‘Probably one of my fuck-head neighbors who thinks the boat is out of place on this street…or maybe a gang of tire-valve thieves is operating in the area. How the fuck should I know.’
CC: ‘No need to be a smart-ass, mate.’
M: ‘What?? Mate?? Did you just call me ‘mate’?? I’m not your mate…and you know full well what my name is…so either call me Mr Fingers or Sir.’

Since I can’t punch the chick cop’s head in, (mostly because it’s illegal but partially because she probably knows some evil chick cop karate and will put me in hospital), I walk up to the flat tires and kick them as hard as I can.

MC: ‘So, what do you intend doing about this??’
M: ‘About what…about fixing the tires…or solving the crime…or exacting bloody, murderous revenge on the neighbours??'
CC: ‘About fixing the tires.’
M: ‘Well, I thought I might re-inflate them at some stage.’
MC: ‘When??’
M: ‘When it’s convenient.’
CC: ‘No, you need to fix them now, Sir…you can’t leave the trailer in an un-roadworthy condition on the street.’
M: ‘Well I have things to do so it will have to wait until I have time to do it.’
CC: ‘Well don’t be surprised if you return to find the trailer has been booked.’
M: ‘Excuse me?? Listen, Miss Marple…in case you haven’t worked it out I am the victim here of a crime…not that I expect you to commit any of your revenue-raising resources to solving it…but I am still the victim here.’
CC: ‘Well we will be back in a few hours to see if the trailer has been fixed…otherwise we will have to issue a…’
M: ‘Are you some sort of complete cunt??'
CC: ‘I beg your pardon, Sir.’
M: ‘Don’t beg my pardon…you heard what I said…and your big, shiny badge doesn’t mean you have a big, shiny vadge in my book.’
MC: ‘Sir, there’s no need to use that sort of language in front of the lady Constable.’
M: ‘She’s a fucking Cunt-Stable alright…a whole stable of cunts…it’s 9am on a Sunday morning, my trailer has been vandalized and she’s giving me lip.'
MC: ‘Sir, I won’t tell you again about using that sort of language.’
M: ‘Oh go fuck yourself…what a pair of cunts you two are.’

Fast-forward two hours to Cunt Point Police Station, where I have been taken and charged with using offensive language, issued a fine and told I may appeal both in court should I choose to bother…

Crime Scenario 2: Tiger Woods apparently lies bruised in his bed, his wife having allegedly taken exception to the news he was cheating on her and expressed some feelings of her own on his head with his very own one-wood. Meanwhile his car is outside the house nestled against a tree, the windows smashed and another golf club lying nearby. The Florida Highway Patrol is at the entrance to the gated community where Tiger Woods lives, but investigators are told he is unavailable...please come back later…

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…