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...