what women want...

It’s taken forty-seven years of trial and error…but I’ve finally worked out what women want.
Forget good looks, forget gigantic brains, forget fabulous humor, forget kindness, generosity, charity or the power of life and death…forget all that shit they write in their profiles on dating sites.
It’s all bullshit; they want boats !!!
Are you listening to me ??
WOMEN WANT BOATS.
And it doesn’t have to be the ‘Arctic P’ either, although I suspect you’ll need something a little more up-market than a tinny.
Just your basic, entry-level speedboat will to do the trick.
Of course, you’ll also require a plentiful supply of cheap champagne and some strong sunshine in which to drink it, however once these three ingredients are combined, virtually any man can have his very own bikini-clad headrest.
So, my advice to the rest of you desperate ‘Unfuckables’ is do what you have to do…rob a bank, sell your organs to Arabs, find yourself a better-paying job…but get a fucking boat.
I wish I’d done this years ago…

we must learn from our mistakes...

Popular opinion amongst cosmologists holds that if aliens were to visit Earth they would be vastly superior in intelligence to the local inhabitants.
Obviously this wouldn’t be the case if they set their shiny little saucer down on Cunt Point Rd, however for the remainder of the planet it’s probably a fair assessment.
Long story short…the reasoning is along the lines that any aliens smart enough to build a spacecraft capable of traversing the incalculable distances involved in such a trip must be way smarter than most of you cabbages.
Another fair assessment; then again anyone capable of calculating the impact of a 0.15% increase in interest rates on their mortgage probably has 50 IQ points on most of you too.
There is also a widely-held belief that these mega-brained aliens would be coming in peace to share their accumulated wisdom with us and that our lives would be greatly enriched by the contact.
DON’T BE DECEIVED !!!
If you consider our own history, particularly the last five hundred years or so, try to recall one instance of an ‘inferior’ culture benefitting from contact with a supposedly ‘superior’ culture.
I’m quite sure the Mayan Indians could have done without the help of their educated Spanish benefactors. Likewise, I doubt many Australian Aborigines now celebrate the first day they encountered their enlightened British saviours ?? Not a lot of African nations these days rejoice in the improved quality of life brought by the Dutch as far as I’m aware.
And so on…
What I’m saying is that if a flying saucer sets down in your backyard, a hatch opens and a Little Green Thing walks down the ramp…SHOOT THE FUCKER !!!
Don’t say ‘HELLO’ to it, don’t listen to any of its crap about coming in peace, don’t extend your hand in a gesture of inter-galactic friendship. It will not teach you how to run your car on water, or explain how women think, or reveal where flies go when it’s raining…so just SHOOT THE FUCKER !!! Right between however many eyes it has…
Then get some really toxic shit, such as anthrax dust or a crate of Muslims, stuff the flying saucer full of it and weld the hatch shut.
History will thank you for it one day…

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...