But maybe their job is harder than it looks
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Friday, July 22, 2011
How to lose weight and eat all that you want
Here is my new invention, by which I mean an idea for an invention; I can’t actually invent it because that takes skills I don’t have, like putting things together, building stuff, and making stuff work. Geez those inventor type people are amazing. Remember when if you were an inventor it meant you were really famous and popular? Wow you must be ninety, what was the depression really like?
I’ve had many ideas for inventions of the years. My best was a photocopier that fed the papers you wish to copy in and out of the copier like how it happens on printer. A couple of years later that invention was invented by one of those amazing people mentioned above, and is now standard on almost all photocopiers. That inventor is now a billionaire and is super-popular (I assume) but we both (if by both you mean I) know that I was the real inventor, or idea guy.
I have been going to the gym a lot lately, I have a bet going with a couple of mates about dropping some weight, and I don’t want to drop all the delicious food I like, and that got me thinking, here it is, my invention:
It’s a treadmill that has a computer built in where you type in everything you have eaten since you last worked out, and it just keeps spinning till you have burnt off all the calories you need to burn off.
It would be great for everyone:
- Like eating lots of cheeseburgers? You now spend seven hours a day in the gym.
- Anorexic? You will probably not get carpel tunnel syndrome from excessive typing.
- Small already obese child? The machine will be programmed to call child protective services on your parents while you run.
- Struggle with motivation? It comes with a cage and cattle prong thrusting into your butt device.
- Bulimic and don’t want to do math? Comes with special scale to weigh your puke bucket.
- Celebrity? We’ll provide a small African child to eat food and exercise for you.
- Elderly? You lived through the depression so probably don’t have a weight issue.
Still not convinced? Well consider this:
If you ask someone that old adage about that tree falling in the woods, and that person is deaf, do they actually exist?
If you answer “no” to that question then you are probably nuts, but at least your out there doing things, asking questions, that’s called being proactive, which is just like my machine.
Order now…. And you’re also nuts, because as I mentioned above I don’t actually invent my inventions, but order in two years, when some young whippersnapper will independently come up with my idea (steal it) and become rich and famous, and provide himself a small African child so he’ll never have to use his own machine ever again.
I’ve had many ideas for inventions of the years. My best was a photocopier that fed the papers you wish to copy in and out of the copier like how it happens on printer. A couple of years later that invention was invented by one of those amazing people mentioned above, and is now standard on almost all photocopiers. That inventor is now a billionaire and is super-popular (I assume) but we both (if by both you mean I) know that I was the real inventor, or idea guy.
I have been going to the gym a lot lately, I have a bet going with a couple of mates about dropping some weight, and I don’t want to drop all the delicious food I like, and that got me thinking, here it is, my invention:
It’s a treadmill that has a computer built in where you type in everything you have eaten since you last worked out, and it just keeps spinning till you have burnt off all the calories you need to burn off.
It would be great for everyone:
- Like eating lots of cheeseburgers? You now spend seven hours a day in the gym.
- Anorexic? You will probably not get carpel tunnel syndrome from excessive typing.
- Small already obese child? The machine will be programmed to call child protective services on your parents while you run.
- Struggle with motivation? It comes with a cage and cattle prong thrusting into your butt device.
- Bulimic and don’t want to do math? Comes with special scale to weigh your puke bucket.
- Celebrity? We’ll provide a small African child to eat food and exercise for you.
- Elderly? You lived through the depression so probably don’t have a weight issue.
Still not convinced? Well consider this:
If you ask someone that old adage about that tree falling in the woods, and that person is deaf, do they actually exist?
If you answer “no” to that question then you are probably nuts, but at least your out there doing things, asking questions, that’s called being proactive, which is just like my machine.
Order now…. And you’re also nuts, because as I mentioned above I don’t actually invent my inventions, but order in two years, when some young whippersnapper will independently come up with my idea (steal it) and become rich and famous, and provide himself a small African child so he’ll never have to use his own machine ever again.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
David Tieck…… ACT…tor
The last time I was in a play was about 25 years ago. I played a Native Hawaiian who was part of a posse who speared Captain Cook to death (this was my second on stage murder in my second play, having been in charge of dumping a house on the Wicked Witch in my first play, I never did grow out of my murderous typecasting).
This was really fun because the kid playing Cook was an old friend who was a temporary enemy, and I liked the idea of stabbing him to death at this time. Also I think I was jealous of him getting the lead even though I would have stabbed myself before saying a single line on a stage.
Then again it was also horrible because for some reason playing a Native Hawaiian meant the make-up lady put me in black face with bright cherry red lipstick (I believe it was her revenge for years of mental abuse by the supermarket chocolate isle) and I had to go on stage like that, and then no one showed me how to get it off, so I spent the best part of twenty-four hours like that, and it was epically humiliating.
Fun fact that ex friend became a friend friend again and then the first time I ever heard Smells Like Teen Spirit was in his little brothers room, and that little brother is now a hugely famous electro pop musician, I hated him then (annoying) and now (jealousy), and because of him it took me a many years to appreciate Nirvana. Also because Axl Rose told me via interviews not to like them, and if Axl Rose tells you to do something you do it damn it.
Recently I've been thinking about trying to perform in a play in a positive way. Like enjoying it, and having lines, and not taking out immature vendettas (actually I believe from memory the catalyst for the ex friend period was someone who wasn't a friend daring me that I couldn't de-friend him as a friend, holy lord pathetic, at least I am pretty sure that is the only time I have ever been influenced by another person).
So I started putting some feelers out for audition opportunities, and last night I was invited to a play reading.
What occurs at a play reading? I hear you ask. I thought it was a place to hear the play read by a series of prepared actors, when alas it was actually a place where several things happens:
1. Potential auditioners such as myself get to read random parts of the play at various time.
2. Actors show off how Acterly they can be despite being told not to be acterly.
3. Actors with dyslexia try to come up with as many jokes as possible to self deprecate their inability to read.
4. Numerous actors try to show off how good they are at doing Upper Class British accents even if their character is described as being from Austria or France.
5. Actors such as myself decree that one should only adopt said posh accent if one is directed to by either text or director, and when the time cameth upon my good self to read a character, I decided to conduct my business in my normal Australian accent still tinged with whisks of Americana, yet when I discovered myself endowed with a character an accent arbitrarily came out of my mouth akin to what I would do when mocking the British royal family, or reading something utterly disgusting to humor my friends.
“And then, my lord, she shat her last nights fine dining experience over my face, lathering it in the same manner I lather your fine silver with polish, before shining it to a mirror, so you can watcheth yourself fist a goat in the rectum” Jane Austin.
Speaking of shining silver, Paris Hilton stormed out of an interview today when the host suggested she may no longer be relevant, I was equally outraged, how dare someone suggest she was ever relevant (awesome boobs though).
The play that we read was “An ideal husband” by Oscar Wilde. I shamelessly do not know that much about good ol’ Oscar, other than that I believe he was a hugely admired, and extremely promiscuous homosexual who died of alcoholism in Paris in the early part of the twentieth century, and was keen on the phrases “she’ll be right” and “ya know what I’m sayin’”. Also I have personally kissed his grave, something I like to do with all playwrights before exploring their work.
This particular play, while extremely witty at times, was full of not too interesting characters (at least when cold-read by a variety of unprepared rotating actors) and the story is way, way, way, way too long and repetitive, and probably far less interesting than any random page of Mr Wilde’s hypothetical personal journal (Example: Today I had lots of promiscuous sex. My partner, a beautiful young man, asked if we should lock the door, and I said to him “she’ll be right” but then just as we were getting deep into it, so to speak, a woman burst into the room yelling “what’s going on here” and I was forced to reply “just banging your husband, know what I’m sayin’”).
In the end I decided to leave early and not audition, mostly because even though this was amateur theatre, it still requires the best part of six months of three times weekly rehearsals, and even small parts in the play require learning a minimum of seven million words (rumors had it that the catalyst for Wilde’s death was an actor in a minor role skipping three words in one performance and as a result only saying 6,999,998 words in one performance, creating a depression that caused Oscar to drink himself to death).
I have too much respect (laziness) for my potential director to risk that. Plus the theatre holds only about 22 people, and there aren’t that many performances of the play, which by my calculation means the actors will each rehearse 217 hours for each individual that will see the play, just overstepping my personal 213 hour per viewer standard. And if we don’t have personal standards why even enter the theatre?
In the end I went and gorged on KFC, then went home, had some beers, watched some TV, and polished the hell out of my fine silver, you never know when the next fun times are on their way. Wait, did you, you? Ewww, I don’t have a goat here, Axl Rose just told me “Welcome to the jungle” and I assume that’s his way of saying “your place really is a pigsty, better have a tidy up”.
This was really fun because the kid playing Cook was an old friend who was a temporary enemy, and I liked the idea of stabbing him to death at this time. Also I think I was jealous of him getting the lead even though I would have stabbed myself before saying a single line on a stage.
Then again it was also horrible because for some reason playing a Native Hawaiian meant the make-up lady put me in black face with bright cherry red lipstick (I believe it was her revenge for years of mental abuse by the supermarket chocolate isle) and I had to go on stage like that, and then no one showed me how to get it off, so I spent the best part of twenty-four hours like that, and it was epically humiliating.
Fun fact that ex friend became a friend friend again and then the first time I ever heard Smells Like Teen Spirit was in his little brothers room, and that little brother is now a hugely famous electro pop musician, I hated him then (annoying) and now (jealousy), and because of him it took me a many years to appreciate Nirvana. Also because Axl Rose told me via interviews not to like them, and if Axl Rose tells you to do something you do it damn it.
Recently I've been thinking about trying to perform in a play in a positive way. Like enjoying it, and having lines, and not taking out immature vendettas (actually I believe from memory the catalyst for the ex friend period was someone who wasn't a friend daring me that I couldn't de-friend him as a friend, holy lord pathetic, at least I am pretty sure that is the only time I have ever been influenced by another person).
So I started putting some feelers out for audition opportunities, and last night I was invited to a play reading.
What occurs at a play reading? I hear you ask. I thought it was a place to hear the play read by a series of prepared actors, when alas it was actually a place where several things happens:
1. Potential auditioners such as myself get to read random parts of the play at various time.
2. Actors show off how Acterly they can be despite being told not to be acterly.
3. Actors with dyslexia try to come up with as many jokes as possible to self deprecate their inability to read.
4. Numerous actors try to show off how good they are at doing Upper Class British accents even if their character is described as being from Austria or France.
5. Actors such as myself decree that one should only adopt said posh accent if one is directed to by either text or director, and when the time cameth upon my good self to read a character, I decided to conduct my business in my normal Australian accent still tinged with whisks of Americana, yet when I discovered myself endowed with a character an accent arbitrarily came out of my mouth akin to what I would do when mocking the British royal family, or reading something utterly disgusting to humor my friends.
“And then, my lord, she shat her last nights fine dining experience over my face, lathering it in the same manner I lather your fine silver with polish, before shining it to a mirror, so you can watcheth yourself fist a goat in the rectum” Jane Austin.
Speaking of shining silver, Paris Hilton stormed out of an interview today when the host suggested she may no longer be relevant, I was equally outraged, how dare someone suggest she was ever relevant (awesome boobs though).
The play that we read was “An ideal husband” by Oscar Wilde. I shamelessly do not know that much about good ol’ Oscar, other than that I believe he was a hugely admired, and extremely promiscuous homosexual who died of alcoholism in Paris in the early part of the twentieth century, and was keen on the phrases “she’ll be right” and “ya know what I’m sayin’”. Also I have personally kissed his grave, something I like to do with all playwrights before exploring their work.
This particular play, while extremely witty at times, was full of not too interesting characters (at least when cold-read by a variety of unprepared rotating actors) and the story is way, way, way, way too long and repetitive, and probably far less interesting than any random page of Mr Wilde’s hypothetical personal journal (Example: Today I had lots of promiscuous sex. My partner, a beautiful young man, asked if we should lock the door, and I said to him “she’ll be right” but then just as we were getting deep into it, so to speak, a woman burst into the room yelling “what’s going on here” and I was forced to reply “just banging your husband, know what I’m sayin’”).
In the end I decided to leave early and not audition, mostly because even though this was amateur theatre, it still requires the best part of six months of three times weekly rehearsals, and even small parts in the play require learning a minimum of seven million words (rumors had it that the catalyst for Wilde’s death was an actor in a minor role skipping three words in one performance and as a result only saying 6,999,998 words in one performance, creating a depression that caused Oscar to drink himself to death).
I have too much respect (laziness) for my potential director to risk that. Plus the theatre holds only about 22 people, and there aren’t that many performances of the play, which by my calculation means the actors will each rehearse 217 hours for each individual that will see the play, just overstepping my personal 213 hour per viewer standard. And if we don’t have personal standards why even enter the theatre?
In the end I went and gorged on KFC, then went home, had some beers, watched some TV, and polished the hell out of my fine silver, you never know when the next fun times are on their way. Wait, did you, you? Ewww, I don’t have a goat here, Axl Rose just told me “Welcome to the jungle” and I assume that’s his way of saying “your place really is a pigsty, better have a tidy up”.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Naked girl watching Dave
Around four and a half years ago my best mate Goshie was facing a horrifically disgusting reality. He was turning thirty. Oh god, the repulsion.
He was obviously not looking forward to it at all, seeing as it’s basically the worst day of your life up until then, so to ease the pain he decided that on this particular day he needed to be partaking in his passion, land based game rock fishing. He booked himself a long trip in some of the best land based game fishing spots in the world in Northern Australia, and set of on an adventure of fish pulse stopping, and thirty forgetting fun.
Then he broke his ankle.
This may sound weird, but in rock fishing you NEED your ankle, you are standing on uneven ground all day fighting fish the size of a human that zig and zag in every direction including left, yes LEFT, and left, from memory was one of the two directions he had the most trouble moving.
He had his mate literally piggyback him to the ledge and back a couple of times, a considerable feat on its own (wait did I just unintentionally make a quip about my mates weight?) but he was in too much pain, physical and emotional. So he gave up on the fishing and instead tried to drown his sorrows the only way he could in a remote coastal place where everything even slightly entertaining required the ability to walk, that’s right, he sat around drinking beer all day.
Then he got gout.
In drinking you NEED not to have gout, because it’s some weird disease that Mother Nature coughed up where your body can handle this amount of alcohol normally, but because your injured in your foot somewhere (I believe it has to be the foot) it purposely attacks that injury in a cruel and painful way. It’s Mothers Natures way of trying to get given a really nasty word associated with her (cunt) because she feels like she is way more badass than her reputation states.
Goshie was unhappy, and was forced against all his desires to come home early, in fact as it worked out he flew in on the very morning of his thirtieth eve, a broken man, in the ankle, in the heart, and diseasingly (a word that absolutely should exist, why does everyone have to be ‘riddled’ with disease, rather than ‘broken diseasingly’ you break your arm, you break your toaster, why not your diseasinglyness?)
As his best friend of nearly twenties years it was up to me to save the day. I had one afternoon to throw him the best thirtieth birthday party he could imagine, with absolutely no time to prepare or really think about at all, and knowing half his best mates were still in the North fishing.
There was only one thing for it; I had to get him a pony.
No wait, this is 30, not 28; I had to get him a stripper.
I made a few phone calls, only getting a start well into the afternoon when I discovered he was in town, and rallied a few boys, and found a stripper company willing to send me ‘whatever they could scrape up’.
A few hours later the boys and I sat around talking, drinking a few beers, and trying to have fun, when abruptly the buzzer rang, someone was at the door. I ran down stairs, met a surprisingly cute girl, paid her in advance in cash, then ushered her in to the utterly shocked Goshie.
Ten minutes later she stuck a lollypop in her vagina and then in his mouth. We still have it today! It hangs in a zip lock bag from my wall mounted CD rack and is a proud reminder of a fun night. It’s oozed a bit into the corner, and if you fondle it you will discover a texture that is unlike anything on earth, and that’s cool.
Four years later a backpacker from England who was staying in the weird hostel I call my living room every summer offered to eat it for a hundred dollars, and after we enthusiastically threw cash into a pile filling it to a hundred in mere moments, we all looked at each other with the same look in our eyes ‘seriously dudes, that is part of what makes this home such a wonderful home, we can’t lose that now, merely to watch some dude humiliated and probably being broken diseasingly’ and we pulled our money back out and said out loud ‘this place is a weird utopia, lets not destroy that, and did you guys all also think “broken diseasingly?” because that’s awesome, we all just independently coined a phrase, how magic is that lollypop!’ Also, now that we think about it, the cure to gonorrhea is probably in that bag.
Four months after the day the lollypop entered our hallowed lives and it was my own personal thirtieth birthday, I was broken emotionally, not physically or diseasingly, but being broken emotionally is horrible.
My best mate Goshie of more than twenty years knew it was up to him to save the day. He made a few phone calls, and as much as he tried to hide it, I knew what was coming, and I was ushered into past the hillness with a stripper of my own humiliating me on my own floor. I didn’t get a lollipop in the mouth or my pubes burned with a candle (as Goshie also copped) but I had plenty of stuff done to me with my clothes pulled off and beads taken out of her vagina and rubbed all over my face and my body covered in shaving cream rubbed all over me from her huge fake, scarred boobs. The point was though, two make a pattern, and a pattern in this household create a house rule:
If a person is living in my humble abode when they pass the magic age of thirty, they must, I repeat must, be subjected to a stripper.
This rule, one of many in this household, has had various reactions. Most protest ‘I don’t actually want a stripper guys’ is often cried
‘It’s not for you, you idiot, it is for the guys to watch you humiliated, you don’t get a say’ is boasted back.
One guy, the formable man known as the Green, protested years in advance, and then moved out just before his thirtieth, and now is getting married and is refusing to have a bucks party or even a best man, so NO strippers, ‘It’s not for you, you idiot, it is for the guys to watch you humiliated, what are you, broken diseasingly?’
Greenie escaped, but he was going to be the only one. The rule couldn’t possibly be hand carved into stone until a third took place, and thankfully the awesome ‘The Vibe’, the newest roommate to our crazy world, turned thirty this past Monday.
By the way – Fun Fact: A shocking 33% of teenagers think you can get HIV from kissing! You can only get it from sex with monkeys, or licking newspaper ink, you idiots.
The Vibe new this was coming. We had been talking about it since he first moved in, and had fought through numerous amounts of protesting, and a small amount of trying to figure out a day it could take place where we could have a big bunch of boys and no one particularly religious (or female) would be in the house.
Last week the clouds aligned, and it was the day that would end at midnight with him turning thirty (a horrible, despicable day). We had tried to fire up the boys by telling them that if we had enough coming, and contributing cash, then we’d get a lesbian double act. We spent a couple of fun days looking up all the websites showing the ‘we promise they’re real’ pictures of the girls, and we began our count down of making fun and salivating (mostly making fun – are you going to get a lollypop The Vibe?)
Game day arrived. We still hadn’t gotten any concrete numbers of revelers, which means we still hadn’t made any bookings, and as the crucial hour arrived our numbers seemed pathetically small. Ok, no lesbian double, but we need to order.
I decided to do this online, both because I hate calling up to order pizza, let alone to ask for a girl to come and violate herself, and also because I kind of liked the idea that I could order a girl the way I order a book from Amazon.com. A couple of us sat around, tried to think about what the birthday boy would most be attracted to, and then mostly just thought about what we would most like, and a little while later we had made our order with our top three choices just waiting to hear back with who they were sending us.
So we waited.
And waited.
And ordered and ate pizza.
Then waited.
We had heard nothing. Holy crap. I went against my shyness and called the company up. I got yelled at for trying to order online on the same day, and then meekly complained back that the website should be designed to say that rather than take my order and give me back a conformation, and she barely apologized, but all around it was a fucking disaster. People were due to arrive in an hour or two and we had nothing organized. Holy crap.
We scrambled on the net. I called up another and they had no one. Then, masking my shyness by trying to tell another mate of mine how cool it was to order up a strip strip, I handed him another number and he called up, they said they had someone and it was all booked in, with a request for a curvy blonde. Phew.
The boys began to arrive. We sat around drinking beer, and eating pizza. A couple of girls joined in and we allowed them to, to fill up the numbers, and one housemate tried to get us to not tell his girlfriend what was going on, a façade overthrown by the stadium nature of the way we had set up the furniture, and in the end she joined in too.
The time had arrived. We got the call and me and another mate went to meet her at her van. She grabbed the attention of the eye immediately, wearing a tiny skirt, tight little top, and only after running the eyes up and down her body a couple of times did we noticed her face and the got the real sense of being worn out by drugs and hard living. We also noticed that she was a petite brunette rather than curvy blonde, and having looked on the website further I am now pretty sure she is the only girl that’s on the roster that actually works there.
She climbed out of the van with the line ‘Oh damn I forgot to put panties on’. I walked though the lobby thinking ‘I wish the floor was made of glass’ before ‘oh wait, I don’t need a mirror, she’ll be jamming that thing in my face in a couple of minutes. In the elevator she asked us for drugs and told us a drug anecdote, and told us over and over she had to drag herself out of bed to do this (it was 8pm when we called) I wanted to judge, but look who we were in this transaction.
Now having a stripper in your apartment is a weird thing for a guy. As men we spend 90% of our time trying to get clothes off a girl or imagining what it would have looked like if we had not inevitably failed. Now you have a girl you know is taking it off. It’s like a spending years studying to become a pilot and then discovering you can fly like superman. It just snaps a weird place in the brain, the part where you hold morals, and a great respect for women, and where you remember all your internet passwords.
She went in back to get ready (put on panties – seriously that was all she had to do to get ready), this may sound weird but in stripping you don’t need panties, then she downed a shot of scotch she had requested, put on her music and began.
I won’t give too detailed a description of what happened, that’s not what this blog was about, but here are some bullet points.
- She made jokes about being shy and nervous
- She danced a bit, but mostly on the ground with her showing off her flexibility
- She grinded with the birthday boy as she took off her clothes and had him motor boat her
- She then got very naked
- Made sure everyone got to see what a vagina looks like when the girl has her legs behind her head
- She asked everyone in the room if they had any drugs she could have with her eyes
- She asked everyone in the room if they had any drugs she could have with her vagina (way more vocal that eyes)
- She nicknamed a guy ‘wolfman’
- She made sure to play up to not just the birthday boy, but the sexual deviants, the dude she would choose to have sex with out of all of us, the dude trying to stay in the shadows, and a dude she only saw in an acid flashback
- The then pummeled herself with a dildo, then got birthday boy to do it, then got the dude she would have sex with out of all of us do it
- She ignored a guy clearly taking mental pictures to masturbate to later
- The she abruptly stopped in a shy, awkward way
- She asked for a round of applause
- She went into the kitchen and poached some eggs that she ate with her butt crack
That last one is a lie, but all in all it was a beautiful sight, of course. She did have an amazing body. Yet truth be told it is very much not a sexual thing. It’s more like the Northern Lights over Alaska, beautiful yes, but also clouded by your brain not being able to quite comprehend what you’re looking at.
Also it’s hilarious. You are seeing your friends do things to a naked women that you never thought you’d see, and in front of room of people, and in a couple of examples in front of their girlfriends. It’s hilarious like a bad horror movie; it’s too surreal to take seriously so instead you take it humorously.
After she finished, and as she put on her clothes she asked who painted the pictures on my walls. It is I, and as she walked over to some of them to look at closer she told me about a few of her artistic endeavors as well. She has a passion for painting dead rock stars, something I found immensely cool. She told me an awesome story about how she knew someone who worked at the hotel where Michael Hutchinson of INXS accidently killed himself in a horrible masturbation accident, and how she had pulled a favor to go photograph the room where it happened, and while doing so her Ipod shuffle randomly played an INXS song, and half way through it got stuck. Spooky.
Having bonded over art I gave her a signed copy of my book, something these days I do quite a lot, but there is a weird closeness you feel for someone who has just performed something so intimate in front of you. It reminded me of the first acting scenes I did where my character was in love with my scene partner and how that even in a short time the acted feeling bled into the real me. It’s weird, and warm, and nice, and totally explains to me why so many co-stars end up dating but in a way that doesn’t last. As we chatted one of my other friends came and gave her his business card with the explanation ‘if you ever want to hang out?’
She had a bit of a read from my book, and realizing that my book is titled ‘Losing my virginity 52 times’ she felt the courage to ask ‘was one of them doing it in the butt’ then over the next few minutes she made several out loud confessions to me that she’d never had ‘anything in the butt, not even a finger’.
Her time was up, I walked her out, and in the elevator she again told me she’d never had anything in her butt, only this time (in my imagination) not so much saying it, but asking if I could do it to her. Then the prematurely worn out bits of her face started singing to me ‘you can do her in the butt for some drugs, you can do her in the butt for some drugs’ over and over to the tune of ‘she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes’.
I walked her to her van, said goodbye, and then stayed up with some of the boys till sunrise as we welcomed a new friend into the over-our-best zone of being thirty, by playing each other all of our favorite songs. It was really nice, and somber, and sad, but at least we didn’t have the pain of knowing people wanted to see us naked so bad they’d pay us. I just wish we now had a new souvenir lollypop on the wall, that way we could allow a backpacker to eat it.
He was obviously not looking forward to it at all, seeing as it’s basically the worst day of your life up until then, so to ease the pain he decided that on this particular day he needed to be partaking in his passion, land based game rock fishing. He booked himself a long trip in some of the best land based game fishing spots in the world in Northern Australia, and set of on an adventure of fish pulse stopping, and thirty forgetting fun.
Then he broke his ankle.
This may sound weird, but in rock fishing you NEED your ankle, you are standing on uneven ground all day fighting fish the size of a human that zig and zag in every direction including left, yes LEFT, and left, from memory was one of the two directions he had the most trouble moving.
He had his mate literally piggyback him to the ledge and back a couple of times, a considerable feat on its own (wait did I just unintentionally make a quip about my mates weight?) but he was in too much pain, physical and emotional. So he gave up on the fishing and instead tried to drown his sorrows the only way he could in a remote coastal place where everything even slightly entertaining required the ability to walk, that’s right, he sat around drinking beer all day.
Then he got gout.
In drinking you NEED not to have gout, because it’s some weird disease that Mother Nature coughed up where your body can handle this amount of alcohol normally, but because your injured in your foot somewhere (I believe it has to be the foot) it purposely attacks that injury in a cruel and painful way. It’s Mothers Natures way of trying to get given a really nasty word associated with her (cunt) because she feels like she is way more badass than her reputation states.
Goshie was unhappy, and was forced against all his desires to come home early, in fact as it worked out he flew in on the very morning of his thirtieth eve, a broken man, in the ankle, in the heart, and diseasingly (a word that absolutely should exist, why does everyone have to be ‘riddled’ with disease, rather than ‘broken diseasingly’ you break your arm, you break your toaster, why not your diseasinglyness?)
As his best friend of nearly twenties years it was up to me to save the day. I had one afternoon to throw him the best thirtieth birthday party he could imagine, with absolutely no time to prepare or really think about at all, and knowing half his best mates were still in the North fishing.
There was only one thing for it; I had to get him a pony.
No wait, this is 30, not 28; I had to get him a stripper.
I made a few phone calls, only getting a start well into the afternoon when I discovered he was in town, and rallied a few boys, and found a stripper company willing to send me ‘whatever they could scrape up’.
A few hours later the boys and I sat around talking, drinking a few beers, and trying to have fun, when abruptly the buzzer rang, someone was at the door. I ran down stairs, met a surprisingly cute girl, paid her in advance in cash, then ushered her in to the utterly shocked Goshie.
Ten minutes later she stuck a lollypop in her vagina and then in his mouth. We still have it today! It hangs in a zip lock bag from my wall mounted CD rack and is a proud reminder of a fun night. It’s oozed a bit into the corner, and if you fondle it you will discover a texture that is unlike anything on earth, and that’s cool.
Four years later a backpacker from England who was staying in the weird hostel I call my living room every summer offered to eat it for a hundred dollars, and after we enthusiastically threw cash into a pile filling it to a hundred in mere moments, we all looked at each other with the same look in our eyes ‘seriously dudes, that is part of what makes this home such a wonderful home, we can’t lose that now, merely to watch some dude humiliated and probably being broken diseasingly’ and we pulled our money back out and said out loud ‘this place is a weird utopia, lets not destroy that, and did you guys all also think “broken diseasingly?” because that’s awesome, we all just independently coined a phrase, how magic is that lollypop!’ Also, now that we think about it, the cure to gonorrhea is probably in that bag.
Four months after the day the lollypop entered our hallowed lives and it was my own personal thirtieth birthday, I was broken emotionally, not physically or diseasingly, but being broken emotionally is horrible.
My best mate Goshie of more than twenty years knew it was up to him to save the day. He made a few phone calls, and as much as he tried to hide it, I knew what was coming, and I was ushered into past the hillness with a stripper of my own humiliating me on my own floor. I didn’t get a lollipop in the mouth or my pubes burned with a candle (as Goshie also copped) but I had plenty of stuff done to me with my clothes pulled off and beads taken out of her vagina and rubbed all over my face and my body covered in shaving cream rubbed all over me from her huge fake, scarred boobs. The point was though, two make a pattern, and a pattern in this household create a house rule:
If a person is living in my humble abode when they pass the magic age of thirty, they must, I repeat must, be subjected to a stripper.
This rule, one of many in this household, has had various reactions. Most protest ‘I don’t actually want a stripper guys’ is often cried
‘It’s not for you, you idiot, it is for the guys to watch you humiliated, you don’t get a say’ is boasted back.
One guy, the formable man known as the Green, protested years in advance, and then moved out just before his thirtieth, and now is getting married and is refusing to have a bucks party or even a best man, so NO strippers, ‘It’s not for you, you idiot, it is for the guys to watch you humiliated, what are you, broken diseasingly?’
Greenie escaped, but he was going to be the only one. The rule couldn’t possibly be hand carved into stone until a third took place, and thankfully the awesome ‘The Vibe’, the newest roommate to our crazy world, turned thirty this past Monday.
By the way – Fun Fact: A shocking 33% of teenagers think you can get HIV from kissing! You can only get it from sex with monkeys, or licking newspaper ink, you idiots.
The Vibe new this was coming. We had been talking about it since he first moved in, and had fought through numerous amounts of protesting, and a small amount of trying to figure out a day it could take place where we could have a big bunch of boys and no one particularly religious (or female) would be in the house.
Last week the clouds aligned, and it was the day that would end at midnight with him turning thirty (a horrible, despicable day). We had tried to fire up the boys by telling them that if we had enough coming, and contributing cash, then we’d get a lesbian double act. We spent a couple of fun days looking up all the websites showing the ‘we promise they’re real’ pictures of the girls, and we began our count down of making fun and salivating (mostly making fun – are you going to get a lollypop The Vibe?)
Game day arrived. We still hadn’t gotten any concrete numbers of revelers, which means we still hadn’t made any bookings, and as the crucial hour arrived our numbers seemed pathetically small. Ok, no lesbian double, but we need to order.
I decided to do this online, both because I hate calling up to order pizza, let alone to ask for a girl to come and violate herself, and also because I kind of liked the idea that I could order a girl the way I order a book from Amazon.com. A couple of us sat around, tried to think about what the birthday boy would most be attracted to, and then mostly just thought about what we would most like, and a little while later we had made our order with our top three choices just waiting to hear back with who they were sending us.
So we waited.
And waited.
And ordered and ate pizza.
Then waited.
We had heard nothing. Holy crap. I went against my shyness and called the company up. I got yelled at for trying to order online on the same day, and then meekly complained back that the website should be designed to say that rather than take my order and give me back a conformation, and she barely apologized, but all around it was a fucking disaster. People were due to arrive in an hour or two and we had nothing organized. Holy crap.
We scrambled on the net. I called up another and they had no one. Then, masking my shyness by trying to tell another mate of mine how cool it was to order up a strip strip, I handed him another number and he called up, they said they had someone and it was all booked in, with a request for a curvy blonde. Phew.
The boys began to arrive. We sat around drinking beer, and eating pizza. A couple of girls joined in and we allowed them to, to fill up the numbers, and one housemate tried to get us to not tell his girlfriend what was going on, a façade overthrown by the stadium nature of the way we had set up the furniture, and in the end she joined in too.
The time had arrived. We got the call and me and another mate went to meet her at her van. She grabbed the attention of the eye immediately, wearing a tiny skirt, tight little top, and only after running the eyes up and down her body a couple of times did we noticed her face and the got the real sense of being worn out by drugs and hard living. We also noticed that she was a petite brunette rather than curvy blonde, and having looked on the website further I am now pretty sure she is the only girl that’s on the roster that actually works there.
She climbed out of the van with the line ‘Oh damn I forgot to put panties on’. I walked though the lobby thinking ‘I wish the floor was made of glass’ before ‘oh wait, I don’t need a mirror, she’ll be jamming that thing in my face in a couple of minutes. In the elevator she asked us for drugs and told us a drug anecdote, and told us over and over she had to drag herself out of bed to do this (it was 8pm when we called) I wanted to judge, but look who we were in this transaction.
Now having a stripper in your apartment is a weird thing for a guy. As men we spend 90% of our time trying to get clothes off a girl or imagining what it would have looked like if we had not inevitably failed. Now you have a girl you know is taking it off. It’s like a spending years studying to become a pilot and then discovering you can fly like superman. It just snaps a weird place in the brain, the part where you hold morals, and a great respect for women, and where you remember all your internet passwords.
She went in back to get ready (put on panties – seriously that was all she had to do to get ready), this may sound weird but in stripping you don’t need panties, then she downed a shot of scotch she had requested, put on her music and began.
I won’t give too detailed a description of what happened, that’s not what this blog was about, but here are some bullet points.
- She made jokes about being shy and nervous
- She danced a bit, but mostly on the ground with her showing off her flexibility
- She grinded with the birthday boy as she took off her clothes and had him motor boat her
- She then got very naked
- Made sure everyone got to see what a vagina looks like when the girl has her legs behind her head
- She asked everyone in the room if they had any drugs she could have with her eyes
- She asked everyone in the room if they had any drugs she could have with her vagina (way more vocal that eyes)
- She nicknamed a guy ‘wolfman’
- She made sure to play up to not just the birthday boy, but the sexual deviants, the dude she would choose to have sex with out of all of us, the dude trying to stay in the shadows, and a dude she only saw in an acid flashback
- The then pummeled herself with a dildo, then got birthday boy to do it, then got the dude she would have sex with out of all of us do it
- She ignored a guy clearly taking mental pictures to masturbate to later
- The she abruptly stopped in a shy, awkward way
- She asked for a round of applause
- She went into the kitchen and poached some eggs that she ate with her butt crack
That last one is a lie, but all in all it was a beautiful sight, of course. She did have an amazing body. Yet truth be told it is very much not a sexual thing. It’s more like the Northern Lights over Alaska, beautiful yes, but also clouded by your brain not being able to quite comprehend what you’re looking at.
Also it’s hilarious. You are seeing your friends do things to a naked women that you never thought you’d see, and in front of room of people, and in a couple of examples in front of their girlfriends. It’s hilarious like a bad horror movie; it’s too surreal to take seriously so instead you take it humorously.
After she finished, and as she put on her clothes she asked who painted the pictures on my walls. It is I, and as she walked over to some of them to look at closer she told me about a few of her artistic endeavors as well. She has a passion for painting dead rock stars, something I found immensely cool. She told me an awesome story about how she knew someone who worked at the hotel where Michael Hutchinson of INXS accidently killed himself in a horrible masturbation accident, and how she had pulled a favor to go photograph the room where it happened, and while doing so her Ipod shuffle randomly played an INXS song, and half way through it got stuck. Spooky.
Having bonded over art I gave her a signed copy of my book, something these days I do quite a lot, but there is a weird closeness you feel for someone who has just performed something so intimate in front of you. It reminded me of the first acting scenes I did where my character was in love with my scene partner and how that even in a short time the acted feeling bled into the real me. It’s weird, and warm, and nice, and totally explains to me why so many co-stars end up dating but in a way that doesn’t last. As we chatted one of my other friends came and gave her his business card with the explanation ‘if you ever want to hang out?’
She had a bit of a read from my book, and realizing that my book is titled ‘Losing my virginity 52 times’ she felt the courage to ask ‘was one of them doing it in the butt’ then over the next few minutes she made several out loud confessions to me that she’d never had ‘anything in the butt, not even a finger’.
Her time was up, I walked her out, and in the elevator she again told me she’d never had anything in her butt, only this time (in my imagination) not so much saying it, but asking if I could do it to her. Then the prematurely worn out bits of her face started singing to me ‘you can do her in the butt for some drugs, you can do her in the butt for some drugs’ over and over to the tune of ‘she’ll be coming around the mountain when she comes’.
I walked her to her van, said goodbye, and then stayed up with some of the boys till sunrise as we welcomed a new friend into the over-our-best zone of being thirty, by playing each other all of our favorite songs. It was really nice, and somber, and sad, but at least we didn’t have the pain of knowing people wanted to see us naked so bad they’d pay us. I just wish we now had a new souvenir lollypop on the wall, that way we could allow a backpacker to eat it.
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