sweet dreams are made of these...

Yesterday, as has become my habit in recent years I attended the Boxing Day sale at DJs and Myer city stores !!!
I'm not one of those savages lined up from 3am, thermos of coffee in their rucksacks, noses pressed against the doors, slavering like crazed weasels at the thought of saving $30 on a towel for the bathroom. I tend to saunter in around 10-ish, go directly to the Manchester section and scoop an entire set of designer bed linen, (duvet cover, fitted-sheet and 4 pillow slips), which lasts me a year. I’m not terribly fussed about getting the exact print I want: I’m simply after quality stuff at stupidly low prices. The week before the sale I do a little reconnaissance work, check the ranges, sizes, prices, study the store layout and acquire a target…it’s a surgical strike, not a day out for me.
Inside 30 minutes I had selected and purchased the 2008 linen for the workbench, a subtle Ralph Lauren print, normally $900, mine for $270…mission completed.
Beetling out of the store, the treasure clutched to my chest to keep it away from the cloying fingers of the hordes of Chinese barbarians…I saw it.
In a corner of the Ralph Lauren section, not necessarily for sale though, stood the most magnificent stressed-leather armchair I’d ever laid eyes on. It was a prop really; a non-related, same-brand item designed to reassure the buyer of RL products that this was the kind of world they now belonged to.
I had to sit in that chair…
I did sit in that chair…
I wish I hadn’t sat in that chair…
As soon as my ass hit the seat I was gone. My mouth watered at the prospect of sitting there for eternity whilst a parade of increasingly larger, increasingly higher-definition plasma TVs passed before me. The chair enveloped me, hugging my form to its padded, leathery bosom, caressing me in ways other chairs have promised but never delivered.
‘Excuse me, sir…you can’t sit on that chair…it’s a display item.’
I had been spotted by one of the David Jones sales trolls.
‘Huh…what…I want this chair…how much for the chair…please sell me this chair.’
‘It’s not for sale, sir…it’s a display item only.’
‘I don’t care…I want to buy it…can you find out how much it is ??’
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘Yes, I heard you the first time. Please go and find a supervisor or something…I need to have this chair…it’s XMAS…let’s negotiate…everything has a price…sell me this chair you cunt.’
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘And I want the ottoman too.’
Eventually the troll found a supervisor and we resolved the issue.
‘It’s not for sale, sir… it’s a display item only.’
‘Yes…I know that, you simple-minded fuckwad…I was just being silly with your sales-troll…I just want to know where I can get one like it.’
‘Try Ralph Lauren Furniture…it’s on loan from them.’
‘Thank you.’
So, today I went online, found the RLF website, located the armchair of my dreams and spent 30 minutes drooling on my keyboard. It’s called ‘The Writer’s Chair’…and its NOT just a display item and it IS for sale.
FOR SALE: $6999…
And $2399…for the matching ottoman…
CUNTS !!!

a xmas tale...

In the XMAS/NYE period of ’88 I met a very attractive, blonde surfy-chick at the Coolangatta Airport check-in queue whilst returning from a rare, financially successful, weekend’s bourbon/cocaine binge on the blackjack tables at Jupiter’s Casino. Sadly, ‘rare’ describes the financial success of this particular trip, rather than the frequency with which these self-destructive junkets tended to occur. Anyway, flushed with funds, still buzzing like a turtle from the narcotics and sporting a newly purchased ten-gallon hat which I’d hoped advertised some mighty gambling prowess, if not a sense of style necessarily, I boldly struck up a conversation with this girl. By the time we’d reached the counter I’d convinced her to keep company in the seat next to me on the flight. A double martini and two lines of coke later in the Qantas Club, I’d discovered her name was ‘Caroline Clay’ (‘Everybody calls me Cass…’) and that she was a 24 year-old real estate agent from Surfers Paradise, heading to the bright lights of Sydney to seek her fortune. Thirty minutes later, maybe somewhere over Port Macquarie at 28,000 feet, as I held a glass of champagne in my right hand and she held my wing-wang in hers, I generously offered her free accommodation for life, which my new ‘girlfriend’ graciously accepted with all the dignity manageable in the performance of a hand-job.

Upon landing in Sydney, we raced back to ‘our’ place for some thrilling first sex, after which she got dressed and headed into Kings Cross for some nightclubbing. I declined the invitation to go with her as I was not a dancer of any note and besides that had work the next day. She returned home at 7-00am, just as I was getting up, greeted me with a kiss, the offer of a blowjob which I gladly accepted, and was fast asleep when I left for the office. Ten hours later, when I got home, she was still asleep. I proceeded to cook my dinner/her breakfast, after which we had thrilling second sex, followed by cuddles and some thrilling third sex. At about 11-00pm I indicated I was going to bed, whereupon she had a shower and got ready to apparently go nightclubbing again. In a repeat of the previous evening, she cruised back in around 7-00am as I was getting up, we did a few quick laps of the rack and she was fast asleep before I left the apartment. This bizarre ritual went on virtually unchanged for five days, the only variation being the increasing degree of haggardness with which she greeted me each morning. By the sixth morning she looked ten years older than the girl I’d recently met; all the clubbing was starting to take its toll.

I inquired of Cass as to what she intended doing about getting her real estate career started in Sydney but the questions went unanswered. The nightclubbing however went on and her youthful visage came off accordingly.

I became a little suspicious…

One night, as she departed in the now familiar 11-00pm taxi, I decided to follow her from a safe distance in my car. She went straight to Kings Cross, alighted on Macleay Street and disappeared through a heavy, wooden door which may or may not have hidden a nightclub. I waited out the front for about five minutes, contemplating whether to go in and see what she was doing or simply go home and get some sleep. I was just about to drive off when Cass reappeared on the street, unsurprisingly (had I given it even the slightest thought) dressed in a denim mini-skirt, pink blouse tied off below her bongos and white, six-inch pumps. Superb; I was dating a hooker.

Now I should mention that I have nothing against hookers or hooking in principle. Having worked for eighteen years in the money market, I‘ve witnessed with my own eyes, amongst other various body parts, the miraculous sex-for-money-led economic recovery that took place in the 80s/90s. I say ‘to each their own’ and if franchising the comfort of your orifices is your profession of choice…well pucker-up then, Peckerhead…but having my ‘girlfriend’ fuck the indiscriminate orts and leavings of the sexual buffet for money (or for free come to think of it) is a ‘whorse’ of an entirely different colour.

Angry at being taken for a fool and slightly unnerved by the thought of five days worth of memorably unprotected sex, I slunk home to bed. The following morning I passed on the blowjob, scuttled off to the clinic for a complete check-up, which rather miraculously turned up nothing terribly disturbing other than elevated cholesterol, and spent the day preparing a break-up speech for later.

That evening, I gave Cass the speech, which spoke entirely of my inability to commit daily to a relationship and nothing of her ability to commit nightly to misdemeanours; I simply didn’t have the heart to let her know I knew. She took the news stoically, fortified mostly I’m sure by the reassuring words concerning her immediate future and partly by the shot of heroin she took shortly before I got home.

She thanked me for ‘everything’ and asked if she could move her meagre possessions out the following day, while I was at work. I agreed, passed on the offer of break-up sex and went to bed. When I got up, she wasn’t yet home from the previous night’s clubbing, however upon my return from work that evening, I saw that she’d made good on her promise; all her things were gone.

As I looked around the house, I felt a tinge of sadness, a sudden emptiness, though not because I was sure I’d never see Cass again, but rather because the cunt had taken most of my possessions with her when she went. In fact, she must have hired a fucking truck to fit it all in; TVs, stereos, tables, chairs, clothing, shoes, sports equipment, cutlery, crockery, paintings. All of it…everything that wasn’t bolted down; she must have spent the entire day there, with help, removing the contents of my apartment.

The ensuing insurance claim strangely failed to mention I’d left a heroin-addicted prostitute unattended in my place for a day...

(This story was first published a while back on Lombay's splendid site. I'm in the process of salvaging certain articles for posterity and dumping them on TWG. Aplologies to anyone from the old days who might have suffered through it before...)

come again...

Have you ever wondered why the 75% of chicks that apparently achieve orgasm from plain, simple fucking ever even have them ??
From a biological perspective, what is the point of the female orgasm ??
Obviously my people need a bio-mechanism for getting the good stuff out of the gene-vault, up the insemination-device and into the egg-chamber. Not to bore you with specifics but there’s a precise set of muscle-spasms required to achieve this result…and as luck would have it, it turns out to be insanely pleasurable for us.
Then again, if sex was painful, how often would your people be able to talk my people into having it ??
Anyway, the male orgasm is absolutely required for the act of reproduction to occur in Nature; the attendant ecstasy is just a fluke.
But why do chicks have orgasms ??
Well, one school of thought is that the neural pathways, which necessarily include the body’s pleasure-receptors, are laid down very early in the embryonic development, irrespective of gender. What my people get, your people get.
Basically, you chicks get a free ride on the Orgasm Express courtesy of the freakish anatomical symmetry which occurs very early on in life.
So, all those jollies you’re getting are pretty much on our tabs, ladies.
How about taking the time to stop and thank my people.
Then again, I suppose you probably think the free set of useless nipples my people get when you’re given yours is a fair exchange of perks…

good dyke, bad dyke...

I am a huge fan of lesbians: I have all their movies…
However, as with almost everything…there’s good and there’s bad.
There are good lesbians, like the ones that wash their cars naked then turn the hose on each other before settling down for a scorching session of smoo-smooching…
And there are the bad ones, like Terri and Sharon Arnold, who…besides being a pair of hideous moose-pigs, form part of a new movement whose members claim their inalienable right to ‘have’ children irrespective of sexual inclination, age, fertility or financial capacity.

This is not a post about the morality of same-sex unions; I don't give a rat's-ass what you do in the privacy of your own padded dungeons. It's about selfish, short-sighted, stupid minorities...and the idiot firemen who inseminate them...

ladies and gentlemen of the jury...i ask you...

Honestly, do these look like the faces of car vandals...

shit happens...

These two adorable things are my fearless Bengals...Roni and Reji. They're looking for their favourite pot-plant, which appears to have vanished. They loved that pot-plant. Specifically, they loved pushing it over that ledge then watching me clean up the mess...

This is the pot-plant in question...a bonsai which I have lovingly grown from a twig into the thriving mass of leaves you see before you.

In order to ensure the plant's safety, it was moved onto my balcony, where it enjoys full afternoon sun and a wonderful planty sort of life...

This is kind of what my neighbour's car looks like. I'm not sure what sort of car it is, since it always has a protective cover on it. I guess he must really love it though.

Almost as much as I love my Bengals.

Maybe even as much as my Bengals loved their pot-plant...

If only he hadn't insisted on parking under my balcony, which is not really a parking zone anyway...and if only Roni and Reji hadn't gotten onto the balcony, where they're not really allowed to go...and if only they hadn't recognized their favourite pot-plant and pushed it off the balcony...this probably wouldn't have happened...

australian story...

My dear old Dad turned seventy-five last week !!!
He came out to Australia from Yorkshire in 1952, crammed into the hold of a leaky Greek deathtrap called ‘The Patris’, arriving in Sydney alone with the balance of his starting kitty as a ‘ten pound POM’.
Dad quickly found work as an apprentice carpenter, earning the princely sum of eleven pounds a week, out of which he had to house, clothe, feed and entertain himself…while at the same time save a deposit for a house some day.

Over the next 5 years, he scrimped and saved every penny until he had almost 300 pounds, which, combined with a 2500 pound loan from The Commonwealth Bank, enabled him to purchase a tiny hovel in the working-class suburb of Petersham.
He would complete his 12-hour day at work, come home to a dinner of fried kippers and chips, then spend at least 6 hours using his newly-acquired carpentry skills renovating his hovel in the evening. After three years he sold the place for 3700 pounds and with his capital appreciation bought a dump in Newtown.
By now a fully licensed tradesman and earning 18 pounds a week, he continued to work hard, eat his kippers and renovate by candlelight into the wee hours of the night. Over the next 4 years Dad found time to meet my Mom, marry her, have Me…and replace virtually every fixture and fitting in our little dump, eventually selling it for 5000 pounds and a small profit in 1964.
My parents used this money to buy a run-down terrace in Surry Hills, still both working 11 hour days to pay the bills for our soon-to-be-growing family, as well as finance the improvements Dad would again make to our house. He would come home exhausted, Mom would have his kippers and chips ready, then he would retire to some un-renovated part of the house and hammer and saw and sand and scrape and paint away the best years of his life…
The following year my sister was born, further adding to the financial strain, however both my parents continued to work the standard blue-collar day, after which Mom would look after her children while Dad transformed the terrace into a livable home. They had modest plans to sell the terrace and use the money to buy a semi, starting the whole process all over again in what was then unfashionable Bondi…
However in 1966, my Grandfather won the Opera House lottery and gave my parents $50K, so we fucked off the renovating crap, moved to a big house in The Eastern Suburbs with a pool, tennis court, two cars and lived happily ever after…although Dad still eats kippers.
Happy Birthday Dad…

and completely unrelated to sex...although it is fucked...

Amazingly prominent on the front page of yesterday’s SMH (aka…the-rag-formerly-known-as-a-newspaper), mixed in with the hard-hitting stuff on Ben Cousins’ rehab drama, Brittney’s custody drama and some Bollywood cunt’s fan-mail drama…was a not-too-insignificant piece (of public-relations-issued-drivel) concerning our beloved ‘Telstra’ and their hard-working executives.
It seems that a measly 66% of shareholders think the company executives are a little too well-rewarded for their steering of the corporate ship into historically shallow waters.
We know this because they held a vote on the subject.
Sadly for the 2/3 of the voters who told the executives to jam their ginormous bonuses up their collective asses, this was a ‘non-binding’ vote, which is to say it was not really a vote at all.
It was a sham.
‘Telstra chairman Don McGauchie said The Board was very disappointed by the vote…’
However, since it was a non-binding vote, they would get over the disappointment and get back to gouging the shareholders, buying boats and making poor business decisions.
‘He said the board would carefully analyze the figures and give them full consideration in future remuneration planning.’
However since they were non-binding figures, The Board would eventually just do the same thing again next year since there was fuck all anyone could do about it anyway.
‘He said Telstra's board believed the remuneration plan was fair and reasonable and would not have proposed it if it did not.’
Which is also a fair and reasonable assessment of their supreme arrogance and explains why they get the big bucks and you, the shareholders, get falling stock-prices and non-binding voting rights, you silly cunts.

So, basically fuck you all very much for buying our stock, now let us get back to ripping you off and you can get back to the Ben Cousins’ Story…

orgasms anonymous...

Continuing with the theme of sex-addiction, I’ve been wondering whether it’s the kind of affliction that actually benefits from a group therapy situation?
With alcoholism, sufferers can gather in a room, stand up and do the ‘Hello, my name’s Wally and I’m a stinking drunk’ thing. The other group-participants all do the ‘Hello Wally, we’re all stinking drunks too’ thing…then they scare each other sober with tales of the various lives they’ve left in ruin through their abuse. Obviously, there is no alcohol available at these meetings…
Drug-addicts can congregate in a circular arrangement to confess the use of various substances they once thought gave ecstatic pleasure and find solace in the knowledge they’re not alone in their ultimate, self-inflicted agony. Obviously, there are no narcotics available at these meetings…
It’s the same at the Gamblers Anonymous support sessions. Penniless losers huddled together, inextricably bound by their mutual bankruptcy, coming to grips with the notion that the money was the least problematic of their losses. Obviously, there are no pokies in the room as far as I’m aware…
But sex-addicts…fuck me…everything they need to give themselves a carnal overdose is right there in the room. There’s a whole group of fellow pecker-fondlers and snatch-fillers just itching to rub themselves up against someone or something in the mindless pursuit of orgasm. Imagine it; a dozen or so sex-mad fruit-loops, all having a whinge about how much they adore getting their rocks off, while not ten feet away sits a like-minded audience of whimpering friction-hounds, moaning with a multitude of unfulfilled desires, ready to tear their clothes off and go for it right there on the floor.
You’d need to have them all wearing oven mitts and stuff tennis balls in their mouths to stop it turning into an orgy…

it's a fucking miracle...

Right…listen up plonkers.
I’m sick to death of needy bloggers holding the rest of the world hostage to their brittle emotions. It’s all about heat and kitchens. Get cooking or get fucked !!!
If you don’t like a comment, DELETE IT !!! That’s what that button is there for.
If you don’t like a specific commenter, BLOCK THE CUNT !!! That’s why you have administerial privileges.
Threats to close your blog, only to re-open it an hour later wear thin after a while, as I hope this little exercise illustrates. Thanks to an ‘Unnamed Angel’, who convinced me that ‘TWG’ was far too important a body of work to sacrifice on the altar of blog-politics, I will now rise from my own ashes, all Jesus-and-Phoenix-like…to resume taking the piss out of stuff.
Because that’s what I enjoy.
And if you don’t like it…FUCK OFF !!!
And if you have a pesky troll who leaves nasty little pieces of troll-poo on your pristine blog, either deal with it, cut your fucking head off…or send them here and I’ll pick their tiny troll-wings off one by one.
And as ‘Rackorf’ would tell you…harden the fuck up !!!
Now, who wants some…

look no further...

Right...well...in news just to hand...

Apparently I'm the utter, utter cunt I'm looking for.

I'm not entirely sure what I did...but it must have been terrible, therefore I have cut my own fucking head off and will shortly be taking a dump in my neck...

and it wasn't curiosity that did it...

When I find the utter, utter cunt responsible for doing this to my Kitty Kat, I will come over to your blog, cut your fucking head off and take a large dump in your neck...

bicycle bicycle bicycle...i want to fuck my bicycle...

‘A man who admitted having sex with a bicycle in a Scottish hotel has been placed on the sex offenders' register for breach of the peace. Robert Stewart admitted to the crime Friday in Ayr Sheriff Court and is to be sentenced next month, Britain's Telegraph reported Saturday. Stewart was discovered last October by two maids who entered to clean his room during a stay at the Aberley House Hostel in Ayr, Scotland. "The accused was holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex," a sheriff's spokesman told the court.

We live in an age of intolerable double-standards.
A chick on stage, attempting to stuff everything from ping-pong balls to the space-shuttle Columbia into her snatch in full view of a paying audience…she’s an exotic entertainer.
Yet a man showing his bicycle a little affection in the privacy of his hotel room…he’s branded a sex-fiend.

Go figure…

in a perfect world...

A recent post by Angry Betty over at ’48 DDD’ got me thinking about grief.
Not the grief associated with a death in the family; the grief a man gets when he comes home later than promised from a night out with the boys.
What man hasn’t stealthily tried to break into his own home at 4am, get undressed and slide unnoticed into the bed, only to find the handbrake sitting there, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation ??

‘WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN ???’
‘Out with clients.’
‘YOU SAID YOU’D BE HOME BY TEN... IT’S FOUR O’FUCKING CLOCK.’
‘Sorry baby…they wouldn’t let me leave. It was awful.’
‘SO, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING UNTIL NOW ???’
‘Nothing…just drinking…talking…watching sports on TV.’
‘BULLSHIT !!! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH BEFORE YOU GO OUT…WHY CAN’T YOU TELL ME YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE…WHY DO I HAVE TO STAY UP TILL ALL HOURS WORRYING…ALL I WANT IS THE TRUTH…WHY, WHY, WHY…’

OK, beeotches…how does this sound ???

We ring as we’re leaving work (you remember work, right ??)…we say we’re going to the pub to get lashed. Then we’re going to leave the pub around 10 (the same time you’re expecting us home) and have a curry coz we’re so drunk no decent restaurant will let us in. At midnight we’ll be thrown out of the curry joint, so we’ll head to the casino and dump a week’s wages on the tables, making that weekend away to The Blue Mountains you were planning a complete financial wash-out. Angry at losing all our money, we’ll head off to the lap-dance emporium to wallow in self-pity, stuff money into strippers’ g-strings and have shaving cream rubbed into our suits. When our credit cards are eventually declined, we will drive home, stopping briefly for a lamb-kebab with extra garlic hummus, after which we will crawl into bed, pester you for sex, then fall asleep and snore for the rest of the evening…

And do you want to know why we don’t tell you all this before we go out; why we say we’ll be home at a reasonable hour in a reasonable state when we have no intention of doing either.
Because you say you can handle the truth…but you can’t.
Because you say you want the truth…but you don’t.
So it’s easier just to go out, have a splendid evening with our mates, come home with eyes like smashed ‘Jaffas’, ignore the grief and deal with it the next day.

That’s what a real man does…

hey santa claus you cunt...

For all you South-Westies looking for the perfect gift to send your kids in prison this XMAS, check this out.

You might have to save the image and blow it up for proper viewing.

As opposed to Sydney's South West, which is NOT worth saving but SHOULD be blown up...

just another month in...

Can anyone tell me which three words complete the following sentences taken from pieces in The SMH over the past month ??

Three men have been sentenced to life in prison and a fourth man to a maximum of 30 years in jail for a double fatal shooting in…

A seven-year-old girl has had surgery after being badly hurt in a hit-and-run in…

Police are investigating an apparent road rage incident which culminated in a shot being fired into a car in…

Police say a 6-year-old boy was inside a home during a fatal shooting in…

Police have charged a second man over an execution-style shooting in…

A man and a woman wanted by police were arrested in Western Australia last week over the shooting double murder of a boxer and his friend in…

Detectives are appealing for help from the public while investigating the shooting murder of a respected Aboriginal man in…

Hands up everyone who said 'Sydney's South West'...

and extra rudeness will be rewarded...

We've never had a competition here at TWG, however a recent post by my good e-friend 'Miss Smack' has inspired me. It seems there's a new job in the pipeline since she's just finished typing up the ten-million page report for 'The Govt Inquiry Into Some Stuff Which May Have Happened Somewhere' and rinsed out all the coffee cups.

We don't know the new employment details except that she received a phone call from someone who said:

"I'm ringing to formally offer you the position of_____ at______.

If you can't work the gist of the competiton out for yourself then I suggest you go and check out Kitty's photo on the post below. Actually, you should do that anyway; apart from anything else, the original photo is the major prize on offer in the competition.

I'll start.

My answer is: 'IMAX screen cleaner, Darling Harbour XXX MegaCinema'...

on the kouch with kitty kat...

It turns out that one of my favourite commenters is currently being treated for sex-addiction (SA). Personally, I find the affliction, with all its attendant faux-sluttiness, an enormous part of her charm but hey…
Anyway, I got to thinking; what sort of treatment do these hapless tragics receive?? Sex-addicts are shunned as malingerers by society for the most part, victims of a non-disease that just about everyone else seems to suffer in silent dignity. Of course, pieces of celebrity shit such as Michael Douglas have turned SA into little more than a doctor’s note absolving serial philanderers from their marital crimes.

So, in the interest of raising public awareness of SA, and with the permission of my friend Kitty, I’d like to reconstruct, from official notes, her initial consultation with her old shrink: Dishy Therapist.

Kitty: 'Hi there Doc, I think I’m addicted to sex?’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I really, really love sex. I love doing it, thinking about it, talking about it…anything to do with it.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I’m obsessed with it. I fantasize about men, women, groups, toys…I flip myself off at least five times a day.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I watch porn and post pictures of myself in my underwear on my blog.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘I have lesbian affairs with young mothers at my kid’s day care centre.’
DT: ‘And what seems to be the problem?’
Kitty: ‘Look, I need help. Are you going to treat this problem or not?’
DT: ‘Yes, of course. Please get undressed and lie down on that couch.’
Kitty: ‘Fuck me…I thought you’d never ask…’

PS...I had to break into DT's office and steal the photo from his filing cabinet...

if anyone needs me...

I'll be sitting in that chair for the next 10 days...

these are wingnuts...

And so are these...

By now, most of you are probably aware of the tremendous shit-fight going on between two certain chick-bloggers out there. It’s bitch-eat-bitch, a no-holds-barred cyber-jelly-wrestle…sadly minus the jelly (unless you count what’s passing for their brains at the moment).
In one corner, wearing the blonde hair extensions and carrying a large martini, I give you ‘Steph’; the most innocuous, guileless, agenda-less diarist in The Realm.
In the other corner, wearing the grotesque mask and apparently flush out of mood-enhancers, may I present ‘Shelley’: the newest fruit-bat hanging from The Blog Tree.
Our guest referees at ringside are ‘Uber (No Loony Bin Can Hold Me) Mouth’, ‘Miss (This Has Nothing To Do With Me But I’ll Get Involved Anyway) Smack’ and ‘The (You Live In My Head) Troll’.
At the heart of the hair-pulling is a well-reasoned allegation put forward by ‘Shelley’ which, if my take on things is correct, suggests that ‘Steph’s’ stupendously voluminous-yet-vacuous blog is nothing more than an elaborate Trojan Horse, used either by her or her even-more-vacuous-if-it-can-be-believed commenters to hack into an even MORE underwhelmingly dreary blog…namely that of ‘Shelley’s’ herself.
Presumably this ingenious cover also includes a further ‘red herring’; the diabolically stupefying ‘Big Brother’ blog which ‘Steph’ slavers over like a drooling baboon, daily for 4 months of the year.
Not to be outdone on the Idiot-Meter though, ‘Steph’ has countered with threats of bringing in a high-priced legal team to look at possible issues of libel and defamation. This poses the litigiously novel contention that one fictitious entity can ruin the reputation of another fictitious entity, which almost certainly has potential ramifications for ’Superman’ if he ever thinks of calling ‘Superwoman’ a paranoid-delusional supercunt.
No doubt ‘Steph’ will be happy to claim damages in special invisible money should this jurisprudential wonder ever fly…

warning; long post ahead...

OK, I know this is a bit slack but I was trawling through the wreckage of RADAR and found this piece. It was written two years ago but the cunt editors mangled it beyond recognition, so here is the original...

How often have you heard it said: ‘Australia is a big fucking country’.
Big and bad.
It’s invariably described as such by men who seem to know about these things. Men with deep, rich, impossibly sincere voices that make them sound both ancient and experienced enough to have witnessed the Earth’s formation first-hand. Men like John Laws and Sir Richard Attenborough.
They will inevitably drone on for an Ice Age about Australia’s history as the harshest, meanest, toughest, driest, most dangerous, most spectacular, most stupendously diverse motherfucker of a continent that ever poked its nose above sea level.
It has deserts the size of China, ice-shelves bigger than North America (if you count our frozen property holdings in Antarctica), ancient wetlands vast enough in which to drown New Zealand (not a bad idea either…), rainforests of towering hardwood giants and supernatural Eucalypts and mighty rivers which carve their way from rugged inland mountain ranges created at the dawn of time, to the boundless and bountiful oceans that surround this largest of all the islands on Earth.
Mother Nature, we’re reminded has done a remarkable job in creating a raw, brutal, yet handsome landscape of which we can be truly proud…
But what the fuck kind of drugs was Mother on when she handed out the animals ??
Australia got absolutely screwed !!
OK, not necessarily to begin with and not necessarily across the board, but we eventually got stuck with the most boring, useless, harmless collection of decidedly non-deadly mammals in the world; Europe notwithstanding. Yes, they’re cute, cuddly, unique and superbly adapted to their respective environments – one or two of the monotremes can even lay eggs, the clever cunts - but as far as we humans are concerned, there isn’t a dangerous, snarling, razor-toothed beast amongst the lot.
Where are all our killer mammals ??
According to an SMH article, ‘killer mammals have been rare on all the continents, with only 45 big kinds existing on the planet during the past 65,000 years’. OK, fair enough, they were quite scarce, but we haven’t got ANY of these murderous fur-balls around anymore.
Not one !!!
Apparently we used to…
Apparently, ‘the carnivores that called Australia home millennia ago included six species of killer kangaroo (oooh… how terrifying), 13 kinds of Thylacine (sounds like a type of hand-cream) and eight species of marsupial ‘lions’ (the apostrophes apparently necessary so that these mysterious, extinct beasts are not confused with actual lions). Even historically, our mammals were a pretty lame bunch, although they were plenty more ass-kicking than the present mob.
We have no big, savage cats around whatsoever. Today there are no living descendants of our marsupial ‘lions’, which were thought to have hunted fake antelope, quasi-zebra and the fabled miniature-hornless-pseudo-water-buffalo. When these prey were not available, marsupial ‘lions’ dined on tofu with sun-dried tomatoes, and a group of them were known as a gay pride.
We do have a large rat though; we call it a kangaroo. Whilst it can give a full grown man a nasty scratch which could conceivably get infected, there is little chance of one chasing down a victim, tearing its throat out with large, retractable claws, biting off its head and gnawing on the stump for a few hours.
And what of the bears ?? Did we get any Grizzlies, any Browns, any Blacks ?? Did we fuck; even our Antarctic land mass is a polar bear free zone. We couldn’t even manage a panda or two…
We did get a bunch of ferocious koalas though. These mighty hunters, during the two hours a day they manage to stay awake, may strike fear into the heart of the nation’s gum trees, but you are far more likely to be bored to death than gored to death if you ever came face to face with one in the forest
Wild dogs anyone ?? How about a Big Bad Wolf ?? Perhaps a hyena; laughing, serious or otherwise…
Nope, we got screwed again there. Our most famous wild dog was the Tasmanian Tiger, a mammal so ridiculously designed it actually went extinct voluntarily rather than live with its shame. The last known ‘Tassie Tiger’ is thought to have hung itself with a rope plaited from the hair of its own tail, whilst held in captivity in Launceston Zoo…
All we have left in the canine carnivore cupboard is the dingo, a lean, mean scavenging machine that specializes in plundering road-kill. I wouldn’t back fifty dingoes to last one round in the ring with an African Honey Badger .
We don’t even have any vegetarian behemoths capable of crushing a person to death by accident, like an elephant, rhino or hippopotamus; in fact our biggest danger probably comes from our giant, flightless birds, which have very nasty tempers. A flightless bird…good grief…could anything be more pointless ??
Perhaps a fish that can’t swim ??
Look, I know Australia leads the world in man-eating sharks; our sharks are first class, they excel. They are often the size of ocean liners and armed with teeth that can chew through concrete. We also have the most excellent crocodiles in the world, up in the far north of the country, most of which are capable of snapping a submarine in half with their jaws. There are some wonderfully toxic jellyfish around, however these lethal blobs of protein are rendered completely harmless when faced with a protective shield of panty-hose.
Actually, our aquatic/amphibious animals can be very proud of their ability to kill victims quickly, savagely or painfully, but we have a real problem with the specific lack of land-bound mammalian terror.
Snakes, spiders, scorpions; we have billions of the things. And it’s not that I don’t respect reptiles or insects as proper fauna, or doubt their capacity to drop a wombat at fifty paces, despite the fact that you can’t dent one of those fuckers with a stick of dynamite and a shovel.
It’s simply that if I had to be killed by an animal on land, I think I’d like to die with some semblance of dignity. There would be a certain degree of satisfaction, although an undeniably large amount of pain involved as well, in being dragged from my tent in the dead of night by a 1000kg mass of fur, claws and teeth, torn to shreds and devoured bone by bone.
There’s nothing classy at all about dying alone in your sleeping bag, the victim of a poisonous bite on your helmet…

why don't hot guys ask me out...

Does everyone know my little buddy, Kelly ??
She’s over on ‘Cheaper Than a Happy Meal’, moaning about dying alone, her ex-husband, getting too much attention from boys, her ex-husband, her boobs, her ex-husband, mozzies, eyebrows and of course...her ex-husband.
Sometimes, along with her delightful post-teen posts, she likes to paste pieces of her pasty face on the post…
Little does she realize that as well as musing about whether she does indeed have ‘the hottest vadge in the place’, I have also been keeping these photo-snippets of her gorgeous little face.
And now, with the help of ‘Clip Art’…I unmask her for all the world to see…

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…’

a fool and his mercedes...

I know it’s not great blogging…but I was out with some old friends/colleagues from the money-market last night and this story resurfaced.
Many years ago, in or around 1990 perhaps, I owned a beautiful convertible sports car. A gleaming white, 1975 Mercedes 350 SL soft-top, one of only several manual transmissions in the country, mint condition, complete with custom, leather ‘Recaro’ racing seats and built-in speakers in the headrests.
It was a collector’s item; I dream about the car even to this day.
Of course, I was too young to realise what a treasure I had and by the time I’d finished with it years later, the classic ride was basically scrap metal.
Anyhows…
One evening, after driving home utterly hammered and too drunk to navigate the final hazards of the underground car park, I left my beautiful Mercedes on the street with the top down.
In the morning, suffering a Force 10 Hangover and down about One Million Brownie Points, I thought I’d take the girlfriend down to Balmoral Beach for that gayest of meals…the Sunday brunch.
As we went down to the car, instead of riding the elevator to ‘CP1’, we got off at ‘G’, by which time my girlfriend realised what I’d done and was yelling ‘Are you fucking mad leaving it on the street with the top down.’
To which I replied, ‘Don’t be a cunt, there was no chance of any rain.’
‘But it could have been stolen,’ she continued as we approached the car.
‘But plainly, as you can see…it wasn’t, so shut the fuck up.’

A six-pack of cinnamon doughnuts to whoever guesses what happens next…

the stealth vespa...

For good order, this dreamy machine on the left is my pride and joy: The Stealth Vespa.










It's black...like my heart.
It's got a retro design...like the rest of me.

In some ways, The Stealth Vespa encapsulates my whole philosophy on life, which is:
1. Fuck traffic.
2. Be cool.
3. No baggage.
4. Fat assed passengers need not apply...

kristal please...and could i have three for my friends...

Before you lot read this and form yourself into a lynch-mob, remember I’m not necessarily talking about YOU in particular.
From your recent responses to related pieces on both ‘TWG’ and ‘BimboWorld’, it looks as though most of you are either sufficiently independently wealthy enough (the ones with toilet paper) or made of too much moral fibre, to be paying for cocktails with the furry cheque-book.
HOWEVER…
There are a number of your people, predominantly regular Establishment-goers, who have drink-schmoozing down to a fine art; specifically, successful-but-currently-out-of-work (last 3 years) modules, aspiring-but-currently-out-of-work (last 5 years) actresses, OAs, PAs and their honest-but-dreary cousins…the typists.
From their perches well above the bar-room savannah, these 8”-high-heeled-hyenas carefully observe their unsuspecting prey, mentally pre-selecting a suitable suit by the flash of his platinum Amex.
Once this is done, there only remains a simple ambush to be performed down at the watering-hole.
I’ll post shortly on the best strategies for defence without seeming like a tight-ass…

a community disservice announcement...

Over at ‘BimboWorld’, the ravishing and worldly Steph has whipped her adoring fans into a frenzy that promises to see many more potential rapists pepper-sprayed for daring to buy a chick a drink in a bar.
TWG supports this cause wholeheartedly.
For too long, the offer to purchase a cocktail has masqueraded as an act of generosity, gallantry, perhaps even innocent sociability, whereas in truth, at best it is nothing more than a well-calculated carnal bribe.
Add to this unspeakable evil the fact that in all likelihood it will be heavily laced with Rohypnol and the next ‘Mojito’ you down could well be a ‘Trojan Cocktail’, laying waste to your stoic Friday-night-defences and allowing an entire army of BMW-driving account directors into your pants…

a love story...the end...

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

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

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

a love story...pt II...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a love story...

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

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

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

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

From the SMH today...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

dear 'uber'...

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

The Challenge:

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

The Response:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

howzat, sherlock...

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