don't say you weren't warned...

The unseasonally warm weather this week produced a plague of unwanted vermin in Cunt Point. As part of a community service announcement, but mostly coz I'm a lazy fucker, I exhumed this piece which appeared in RADAR last year.

City-bound motorists using the Kings Cross Tunnel at 7:15 am today were treated to a very unusual sight. In the breakdown lane they would have noticed Sydney’s coolest Vespa parked on its stand. Right next to it was Sydney’s un-coolest Vespa rider, suit pants around his ankles, peering anxiously into his underwear.
Let me explain. I was scootering to work this morning, having just accelerated smoothly up the hill from Rushcutters Bay, when I felt something stirring in the vicinity of my upper left thigh.
Figuring it was just the wind playing tricks, I scootered on... until it happened again. I reduced speed to see what effect it had on matters. It had none; in fact the 'wind' was now beginning to move across to my upper right thigh.
As I entered the tunnel I suddenly realised there was an intruder in the ‘house’, panicked and started belting myself in the upper thigh region with my left hand in an attempt to kill whatever it was, whilst still guiding the scooter (at about 60kph) with my right hand.
Inevitably, I succeeded in simply giving myself a decent whack in the genitals, which winded me, made my eyes water and forced me to pull over to the side of the road.
Jumping off the Vespa, I yanked down my suit pants, hooked both thumbs into my Calvins, drew them gently away from my torso and peered fearfully inside (which is the overall sight any passing motorists would have been afforded). Out flew a moth with a 10-foot wingspan.
The moral of this story: Never hang your damp underwear on the line overnight during Bogong season...

no fingers for a while, girls...

I'm going to be away for the rest of the week.
Very important stuff to do in Singapore and Hong Kong, banker-business, very high-brow, nothing to interest the average blogger.
Please don't make a mess while I'm gone.
If anyone needs me, I can be paged at 'Madam Chang's Whoopee Parlour and Opium Emporium' on Ordchid Ave.
Ask for 'that rude, round-eyed foreign cunt' and I will get your message...

be careful what you wish for...

Kelly’s cute little neuroses-laden post about her trip to the gynaecologist got me thinking about vajajays (as she calls them). Firstly about hers…well sorry but I did…then about vajajays generally.
Finally, about an hour later when I’d finished thinking about all the vajajays I’d ever seen, or wished I’d seen, or hoped to see some day…I got to thinking about the gynaecologist’s lot in life. On the face of it, no medical pun intended, the Poon Doctor would appear to have the best job in the world; a hundred bucks an hour to look at vajajays all day long…

Until you consider the type of vajajays he’d be looking at.
Erk !!!
Wave after wave after wave of The Vajajays From Hell !!!
Chicks in all sizes, shapes and ages, every one of them asking the same questions, over and over:
‘Excuse me Doctor, can you tell me what this gigantic cauliflower-thing growing on my left curtain is ??’
‘Excuse me Doctor, have you ever seen stuff so green and luminescent like this leaking out of anyone before ??’
‘Excuse me Doctor, can you pinpoint the source of the mysterious blue-cheese aroma emanating from my girly bits ??’
‘Excuse me Doctor, is it normal for spiders to make their homes in here ??’
Shudder !!!
No, this passing parade of poon would be anything BUT the final line-up of contestants on ‘Australia’s Next Top Vajajay’.
After all, what are the chances of a supermodel strolling into a gyno’s office, pulling her pants down and saying, ‘Excuse me Doctor, it’s tight, trim, taut and terrific. It’s clean, fresh, perfectly pink…and I just wanted you to see it…’

five things...but more to come...

Five things I’ve discovered reading some of the splendid blogs being hosted by The Girls of the Internet:

1) On average they each consider themselves to be 50kg overweight (whether they are or not).
2) On average they spend 22 hours a day blogging, presumably with a doughnut in one hand while they type with the other.
3) On average 97% of their blogging involves moaning about their weight, describing the doughnut they’re currently eating, whining about exes and carping on about the lack of available men to date.
4) On average they haven’t had sex for 12 years, although if you discount the numbers for ‘Steph’, the average drops down below 10.
5) On average, they all believe 1, 2 and 3 have no bearing on 4, which can apparently be explained by that age-old idiom, ‘All boys are stooopid…’

Right…who’s first…

i want to tell you something...

I have about one hundred pornographic DVDs !!!
They are so revolting that I’m embarrassed to keep them in my apartment, so they’re stored in the wine cellar, along with the Shiraz and Cabernet Sauvignons. The wine is mine; the DVDs are not.
About a year ago, I came home to find a package on my doorstep. Without bothering to check the details, I carried the large box into my apartment and opened it. To my utter delight the box was filled to the brim with pornographic DVDs. To my complete dismay, as I perused the inventory, every single DVD was either ‘foot porn’, ‘granny porn’, ‘hairy beaver porn’ or ‘tranny porn’.
To the best of my knowledge, I hadn’t ordered these items.
A quick check of the invoice attached to this festering fetish festival, sent from Delaware, USA, indicated that my neighbour had ordered the stuff. I know this man as Roger B. His wife is Catherine B. Nice couple…
I live in Unit 1/XXa Cunt Point Rd. Roger and his wife live in Unit 1/XXb Cunt Point Rd; it’s our block’s sister building, right next door. The addressee on the invoice was clearly marked ‘Roger B… Unit 1/XXb Cunt Point Rd’.
So, I was now in possession of a large parcel of my neighbour’s mail-order porn; the question was…what to do about it…especially as I had opened both the box and the invoice ??
I suppose I could have taken it over to Roger’s place, knocked on his door and with a straight-face said, ‘Hello mate, I think this is yours.’ I might also have just crept over in the dead of night, leaving the open package in their building’s foyer, with both the contents and clearly marked invoice in full view. I could have written Roger a little note, between us guys, suggesting he come over to my place when he had a spare moment. Or I could have thrown the whole lot in the garbage.
Of course, I did none of these things; I kept it, even though I was determined never to watch any of the weirdo shit that it contained.
That was a year ago, and the thing is…he must know what happened to his package. A simple check with DHL would confirm the delivery error. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.
I guess I’ve watched about twenty-five of the DVDs by now; the rest are still in their plastic wrappings. These days I’m pretty ambivalent about ‘foot porn’, will never understand the attraction of ‘granny porn’, am quite a fan of ‘hairy beaver porn’ (albeit the East European’s accompanying hairy armpits and legs are a bit much) and although I can’t say I’ll ever order any ‘tranny porn’ myself, I admire their solid work ethic.
Roger and I see each other once or twice a week. Not socially, just around the buildings, as we’re leaving for work or coming back from somewhere. He even has a Vespa but it’s not as cool as The Stealth.
We always do the neighbourly hello.
He says, ‘Hi Fingers, lovely day, how’s the scooter going, are the cats OK…’
Secretly he’s thinking, ‘Fingers, you fucker…I know you’ve got my porn, cunt.’
And I say, ‘Hi Roger, lovely day, how’s the scooter going, is Catherine OK…’
And he knows I’m secretly thinking, ‘Yeah fucker, I’ve got your porn…what are you going to do about it, cunt…’

my hero...

Well, as some of you clever readers guessed, I got to the car only to discover it had been gutted !!!
Some utter fuck-pig, in an exquisitely deft piece of spannersmanship, had removed both my ‘Recaro’ custom seats, leaving just an empty space, the gear-shift, the small padded ‘rear seat ledge’ and the steering wheel.
‘Serves you right, you stupid cunt,’ said the girlfriend joyfully in an attempt to brighten my mood.
‘Bothered,’ I replied in an inspired moment of feigned disinterest.
‘Well how are we going to go for breakfast now, Fuck-Head??”
‘Watch and learn, Jizz Face.’
We had a cute habit of making up names for each other.
With a Mc Guyver-like improvisation, I went back into the unit and retrieved two wooden chairs from the balcony, which were then placed inside the empty Mercedes cabin.
‘Voila, Dog Breath !!!’
‘Let’s take a taxi instead.’
‘No. I refuse to let these fuckers beat me. Let’s go.’
And go we did.
Obviously not the ideal method of transport safety-wise, I drove carefully off down the road for the two-km trip to Balmoral. About 100 metres into the journey…I got this…
‘Seriously Fingers, are you ever going to grow up?.
‘Probably not.’
‘It’s not funny. You’re thirty years old; you’re a grown man. It’s a very unattractive quality, Shit For Brains.’
‘Yes I know. That’s why I have this car; to attract skanks like you in the absence of any common-sense on my part. Seems to work though, eh Gold Digger.’
‘You have absolutely no respect for things…a lot of people would do anything for a car this beautiful and look how you treat it…you’re pathetic…I hate you...I don’t even want to go to breakfast anymore……’
‘Darling, could you please do up your seat-belt for me. I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
And with a huffy ‘Whatever’ she did up her seat-belt.
‘Thank you. Now, you were whining about something. Please continue since I have no radio anymore.’
‘Fingers it’s not good enough…you can’t just keep doing shit like this…it’s embarrassing for you, embarrassing for me…I’m tired of explaining to my friends why my boyfriend is such a fuck-up…’
At this point in the conversation, we had just started our descent down Attunga Rd, which may the steepest hill in Sydney. Having had enough lip from the handbrake by this time, I braced myself against the steering wheel and tapped the footbrake lightly.
Now, who can tell me what might happen to a person under the following conditions:
This person is travelling in a vehicle going in forward motion.
This person is sitting in a chair which is NOT bolted to the vehicle chassis.
This person is wearing a seatbelt.
The vehicle slows suddenly.
The seatbelt works perfectly.

Remember Newton’s Third Law of Motion: The third law states that for every force there is an equal and opposite force. Or for all you Harry Potter morons…if you push on something it pushes back on you.

And so, as my girlfriend slid gently forward into the clutches of her seatbelt, it grabbed her, absorbed the momentum, then pushed back, propelling her in the opposite direction (just as Newtown promised me it would).
The chair tipped backwards but kept travelling forward after falling out from under her, until it came to rest against the dashboard, whilst my girlfriend slid gently into the back of the vehicle, coming to rest against the padded ‘rear seat ledge’.
‘I’m sorry, darling…what were you saying ?? Something about my being an embarrassment to you…’