I recently saw a sign outside of a church that proclaimed:
THERE’S A LOT OF HEAVEN CRAMMED ONTO EARTH
That’s, awesome! Because that basically means that one of the angles went up to god and they had the following exchange:
Angel - Hey God mate, um, so I wanted to raise something with you, um, thing is there really is a hell of a lot of heaven up here in heaven, I mean practically everything in heaven is heaven; it's a god damn administrative nightmare!
God - (Pick your own god like voice, I personally prefer to ignore the traditional deep and manly for a good solid gay Latino boy voice) Sorry man, I know, I never expected so many people to end up, up here, geez so many people are just so darn good, barely a bad thing could be said about any of them, so we have expanded a lot. Tell you what, why don’t just cram a lot of heaven onto earth?
Angel – um, Earth really? Not Randlton in south east of universe 179, they're really crying out for some heaven. Or maybe Lievendtonalvle in the deep bluder of Universe 745, they don’t even have Internet porn yet; we could give them some heaven?
God – Ugh, um, maybe don't question my wisdom angel, I'm fucking god!
Angels – Yes, yes I'm sorry
God - Besides Randleton didn't kill the son I sent them like I told them too, they made him a celebrity instead, can you imagine, a self centered everything come easy pretentious celebrity? Do you know what a brat he is now? I'm having a he'll of a time trying to get him to clean his room.
Angel - Sir you're god, why don't you hire a cleaner, I'm sure we can get you a Mexican or something!
God - It's about discipline! It’s about fucking respect! You can't let your kids think just cause they're Son of God everything comes easy.
Angel – I'm sorry. You’re right god.
God – I’m right? Thanks so much, your support and understanding means a tremendous lot to me, without it I just don’t know how I would handle the doubt (under breath – seriously where do I find these idiots) I’m FUCKING GOD you tool, OF COURSE I AM RIGHT!
Angel – Sorry, sorry, um, well just one more thing I guess, when you say cram some heaven onto earth, are you sure we don't wish to be more careful and perhaps gently place a bit of heaven, isn’t cramming a bit of a haphazard way to distribute stuff?
God - Oh my god you are a fag aren't you, just stuff a pile into the vortex and stick your foot in and cram it in good and deep.
Angel – But, but it’ll wrinkle!
God – Holy shit, it's fucking heaven! It doesn’t matter where it goes, how much it wrinkles, it’s fucking HEAVEN! They’ll deal with it. You know what, I bet they'll even put up a sign somewhere to commemorate it.’
Angel – You really think so? A sign? Where, like a billboard or something?
God – I reckon probably outside a church somewhere.
Angel – Wow, now THAT would be cool. But I just can’t see it happening.
God – Tell you what, if I am right you pay for my internet porn for a month, if you are right I’ll pay for yours.
Angel – You’re on.
God – (walking away, under breath) What a moron, I’M fucking GOD! Of course I am fucking right, anyway Hell fucking Yeah, free Internet porn for a month, suck on that Lievendtonalvle!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
This blog has sex AND murder
I was just in the most filthy disgustingly stinky public toilet in the world. True story. Fun times.
It is a toilet close to where I live in the car-park of a grocery store and I believe in a good year it still doesn't get cleaned. The grocery store has good fresh fruit though.
I knew this toilet was going to be epically gross before I even entered, as it always is, but I was busting and there was no other option other than a tree and you get fined for that, unless your a dog. Damn dogs, they get all the luck. The bad news, as I was soon to discover, was that another VIP guest behind the velvet rope of this toilet was clearly so disgusted that they would not sit to do their number two, and instead of going home they chose to attempt to projectile poo from a good foot from the bowl, and it turns out they are really bad at this activity. REALLY bad, I mean come on guy, practice on the ring attached to your garage for a while before you try and join the pros.
By the way violence is never the answer..... unless the question is 'What's the worst kind of diarrhea?'
The hot fudge on top of the sundae was actually on the floor though, ah the beautiful garnish of a fresh used condom.
So I think it's safe to say someone has just had the... BEST sex of their life.
It made me realize something a shower is the same as a murder weapon, find either after a 17 day hike in the rain-forest with an overly enthusiastic botanist and you’re going to use it.
Which all goes to say doesn’t anyone ever care that the outside of the condom doesn’t want AIDs either?
It is a toilet close to where I live in the car-park of a grocery store and I believe in a good year it still doesn't get cleaned. The grocery store has good fresh fruit though.
I knew this toilet was going to be epically gross before I even entered, as it always is, but I was busting and there was no other option other than a tree and you get fined for that, unless your a dog. Damn dogs, they get all the luck. The bad news, as I was soon to discover, was that another VIP guest behind the velvet rope of this toilet was clearly so disgusted that they would not sit to do their number two, and instead of going home they chose to attempt to projectile poo from a good foot from the bowl, and it turns out they are really bad at this activity. REALLY bad, I mean come on guy, practice on the ring attached to your garage for a while before you try and join the pros.
By the way violence is never the answer..... unless the question is 'What's the worst kind of diarrhea?'
The hot fudge on top of the sundae was actually on the floor though, ah the beautiful garnish of a fresh used condom.
So I think it's safe to say someone has just had the... BEST sex of their life.
It made me realize something a shower is the same as a murder weapon, find either after a 17 day hike in the rain-forest with an overly enthusiastic botanist and you’re going to use it.
Which all goes to say doesn’t anyone ever care that the outside of the condom doesn’t want AIDs either?
I am one desperately dangerous dude
I don't have a violent bone in my body. One time a piece of chicken gristle stormed into my body via my throat and not one bone attacked it, or even stood up to it, it's now embedded between my stomach and spleen. Even now my bones bring it chicken soup when it's sick, then again I guess that is forcing cannibalism, I do have the odd silly bone.
Over my years I've held the odd weapon. As a teenager I sourced some Ninja stars and a couple of knives, plus most nights at some point I'll hold a fork, and you can do some serious damage to a scrotum with one of them. I had a potato gun, I had cap guns and briefly in Czech republic I bought a very illegal in Australia BB gun. It said on the box for ages 11+ and I WAS in that age range, so I felt totally safe.
Still as of today, and I assume forever, I have never been in a fight or performed an act of violence. It's almost impossible for me to even imagine a reason that could make me want to hit someone (except Sydney bouncers like this one - http://youtu.be/8TyfGqDdrbM)
I could never even hold a deadly weapon. As a teenager I always assumed if they tried to force me in the army they’d force me right back out when I treated the weapons like they were covered it smallpox. There is literally nothing you could do to even get me to hold a loaded gun. The best case scenario if it goes off is it misses someone by 364 degrees, and actually come to think of it my body would take more than 1 degree of a circle, and then there is up and down, but up has air and that's been excellent to me, and down has dirt which is my seventh favorite brown thing (chocolate and related products, brown haired ladies, pants from the seventies, wood, brown eyed girls, grizzly bears, dirt, then of course the obvious poo....rly designed helmets).
Still ok, a bullet could go many places, but one of them is in my flesh, or even in my bones and they don't deserve it, they’re not violent. It could even go into other people, and only some of them deserve it (mostly pop stars and boyfriends of girls I find cute).
Some people say holding a gun makes you feel strong, powerful, invincible, good at scrabble and other manly things, but I don’t care about those things. No guns for me please no sir no siree (apparently this phrase is a crap score in scrabble, no spaces allowed, stupid game). I'll take a fork over a gun any day.
So last Saturday I arrived at the gun range.
I was in Bathurst 200km west of Sydney. A couple of things you might like to know about Bathurst
- It was Australia’s first inland settlement, born in 1815, and now 196 years later, spurred on by small amounts of gold, freezing weather yet no skiing and Australians desperate fear of living more than 20 minutes from a beach, the population has swelled to nearly 31000!
- It is now most famous for a car race that attracts 70000 people and just two competitors, Ford and Holden. Each company has about 100 cars each and fans are either passionately Ford or Holden, and that's retarded. It's like supporting golf based on the ball manufacturer “I can’t wait for the Masters this weekend, I’m a Nike man myself” “Oh really, I want you to die, Titleist is way better, you motherfucker”. These are the people who if turn on a random TV channel cheer out loud if there is no commercial on, regardless of how crap the show. In fact these are the people who make it so the lead in show on TV affects the viewers for the next show. You don’t have to be loyal to a network you tools, pick up the remote and watch whatever you want.
- My fan, and friend, Andy Day of the Day brothers identical twin organization grew up there and invited me to come shoot his guns at a gun range.
- Supporting Ford or Holden in the Bathurst 1000 is as stupid as getting in a fistfight over which is the better condiment, salt or pepper.
- I like Nike balls better; they feel softer off my golf club, yet I wear a Titleist cap to the gym.
Upon arrival at the range there were various people shooting various guns at various targets and I felt immediately and overwhelmingly humble. It is surreal and scary to stand behind a row of young men (all men, women don't come here, they don't like how the ear-muffs mess up their hair) all shooting guns, knowing they could turn around and kill you, or fuck up and kill themselves. Especially as we drove in via a Vietnam Veterans memorial park, while I read a newspaper story about the Norway massacre.
Before I could jump in myself there was the little matter of the “new” safety test. To make sure that it was ok for the company to hand me a deadly weapon I first had to sign a form promising that I wasn’t a wanted criminal, that I never had an apprehended violence order taken out on me, and that I had no intentions of shooting anyone. Then I had to read a form with the rules on it, and promise to obey them.
Even thought the rules were far more stringent than I suspected they would be, with rules on never having the gun ever point anywhere other than directly towards the targets when loaded, and never being anywhere other than in a locked box when not on the range, and no shooting anyone in the face, it still felt a little light on safety to me. Then I realized that literally everyone else here was in possession of at least one fire arm, and had way better skills with them than me. Anyone’s ability to be dangerous here would last about three seconds.
Having been certified as being safe it was now time to learn how to use a gun. This took place on top of a garbage bin and broke twelve of the rules I had just learned, especially as the owner accidently left in on the bin for ten minutes, with no one watching it, in a place where any one could pick it up. Anyone’s ability to be dangerous here could be catastrophic.
It was time for me to shoot. I was lead to a small Russian semi-automatic 22, already in place in the firing box, pointing forward. Forgetting everything I had just learned I was coached in loading and preparing the gun, and stringently watched by an expert as I fired my first rounds. Pow (heart thumping) pow (deep swallow) pow (holy crap I am worried about violating even the slightest safety check) pow (please don’t accidently shoot myself) pow.
I was nervous as all hell firing my first shots. But the gun was pretty tame, yet powerful feeling, and surprisingly all of my first five rounds hit the target near the centre. I could actually be good at this.
I noticed a distinct unwavering feeling of having metal in my heart as I went through the rounds, getting use to using the gun, and feeling my nerves dissipate and my confidence rise.
Andy Day had pulled out the big bad boy Smith and Wesson 357 magnum revolver to my left, and as I shot the 22, I could feel the big boy shooting with a bang so intense you felt it in your whole body. Soon, as my skills grew, it was my turn with the big man, and wow it had kick and power. I was starting to like this. I was feeling that supremacy people who like guns say they like so much.
Over the course of a couple of hours I began to get more and more use to loading, preparing, dismantling and firing various guns. It was hugely fun. As I got better and better I began to unleash rounds faster and faster, feeling bullet shells flying all around me, and sometimes hitting me in the face. I did, for a rare time in my life, most certainly feel like a bad ass.
I began to shoot with my imagination running wild, disappearing into my mind and imagining many an old west/ modern action movie scenario. And it was now that I realized I had reached complacency, I'd dropped my safety standards, woops, plus I now badly wanted to run around doing rolls on the ground, jumping over car bonnets and firing at random targets in every direction. It became clear to me right then if I was going to continue to fire these things it would only continue to be fun if it continued to get more and more dangerous. So I put down my gun, and thought “I’ll probably never pick up one of those again, now who wants to play laser tag, cause I really, really want to shoot someone in the face right now, just for the fun of it”.
I am now someone who knows what it feels like to fire a deadly weapon. If war breaks out tomorrow I'm ready. And if I survive the first few weeks I'll almost certainly get complacent and shoot myself in the penis, but at least that’s way more smarter than passionately following a two horse car race.
Over my years I've held the odd weapon. As a teenager I sourced some Ninja stars and a couple of knives, plus most nights at some point I'll hold a fork, and you can do some serious damage to a scrotum with one of them. I had a potato gun, I had cap guns and briefly in Czech republic I bought a very illegal in Australia BB gun. It said on the box for ages 11+ and I WAS in that age range, so I felt totally safe.
Still as of today, and I assume forever, I have never been in a fight or performed an act of violence. It's almost impossible for me to even imagine a reason that could make me want to hit someone (except Sydney bouncers like this one - http://youtu.be/8TyfGqDdrbM)
I could never even hold a deadly weapon. As a teenager I always assumed if they tried to force me in the army they’d force me right back out when I treated the weapons like they were covered it smallpox. There is literally nothing you could do to even get me to hold a loaded gun. The best case scenario if it goes off is it misses someone by 364 degrees, and actually come to think of it my body would take more than 1 degree of a circle, and then there is up and down, but up has air and that's been excellent to me, and down has dirt which is my seventh favorite brown thing (chocolate and related products, brown haired ladies, pants from the seventies, wood, brown eyed girls, grizzly bears, dirt, then of course the obvious poo....rly designed helmets).
Still ok, a bullet could go many places, but one of them is in my flesh, or even in my bones and they don't deserve it, they’re not violent. It could even go into other people, and only some of them deserve it (mostly pop stars and boyfriends of girls I find cute).
Some people say holding a gun makes you feel strong, powerful, invincible, good at scrabble and other manly things, but I don’t care about those things. No guns for me please no sir no siree (apparently this phrase is a crap score in scrabble, no spaces allowed, stupid game). I'll take a fork over a gun any day.
So last Saturday I arrived at the gun range.
I was in Bathurst 200km west of Sydney. A couple of things you might like to know about Bathurst
- It was Australia’s first inland settlement, born in 1815, and now 196 years later, spurred on by small amounts of gold, freezing weather yet no skiing and Australians desperate fear of living more than 20 minutes from a beach, the population has swelled to nearly 31000!
- It is now most famous for a car race that attracts 70000 people and just two competitors, Ford and Holden. Each company has about 100 cars each and fans are either passionately Ford or Holden, and that's retarded. It's like supporting golf based on the ball manufacturer “I can’t wait for the Masters this weekend, I’m a Nike man myself” “Oh really, I want you to die, Titleist is way better, you motherfucker”. These are the people who if turn on a random TV channel cheer out loud if there is no commercial on, regardless of how crap the show. In fact these are the people who make it so the lead in show on TV affects the viewers for the next show. You don’t have to be loyal to a network you tools, pick up the remote and watch whatever you want.
- My fan, and friend, Andy Day of the Day brothers identical twin organization grew up there and invited me to come shoot his guns at a gun range.
- Supporting Ford or Holden in the Bathurst 1000 is as stupid as getting in a fistfight over which is the better condiment, salt or pepper.
- I like Nike balls better; they feel softer off my golf club, yet I wear a Titleist cap to the gym.
Upon arrival at the range there were various people shooting various guns at various targets and I felt immediately and overwhelmingly humble. It is surreal and scary to stand behind a row of young men (all men, women don't come here, they don't like how the ear-muffs mess up their hair) all shooting guns, knowing they could turn around and kill you, or fuck up and kill themselves. Especially as we drove in via a Vietnam Veterans memorial park, while I read a newspaper story about the Norway massacre.
Before I could jump in myself there was the little matter of the “new” safety test. To make sure that it was ok for the company to hand me a deadly weapon I first had to sign a form promising that I wasn’t a wanted criminal, that I never had an apprehended violence order taken out on me, and that I had no intentions of shooting anyone. Then I had to read a form with the rules on it, and promise to obey them.
Even thought the rules were far more stringent than I suspected they would be, with rules on never having the gun ever point anywhere other than directly towards the targets when loaded, and never being anywhere other than in a locked box when not on the range, and no shooting anyone in the face, it still felt a little light on safety to me. Then I realized that literally everyone else here was in possession of at least one fire arm, and had way better skills with them than me. Anyone’s ability to be dangerous here would last about three seconds.
Having been certified as being safe it was now time to learn how to use a gun. This took place on top of a garbage bin and broke twelve of the rules I had just learned, especially as the owner accidently left in on the bin for ten minutes, with no one watching it, in a place where any one could pick it up. Anyone’s ability to be dangerous here could be catastrophic.
It was time for me to shoot. I was lead to a small Russian semi-automatic 22, already in place in the firing box, pointing forward. Forgetting everything I had just learned I was coached in loading and preparing the gun, and stringently watched by an expert as I fired my first rounds. Pow (heart thumping) pow (deep swallow) pow (holy crap I am worried about violating even the slightest safety check) pow (please don’t accidently shoot myself) pow.
I was nervous as all hell firing my first shots. But the gun was pretty tame, yet powerful feeling, and surprisingly all of my first five rounds hit the target near the centre. I could actually be good at this.
I noticed a distinct unwavering feeling of having metal in my heart as I went through the rounds, getting use to using the gun, and feeling my nerves dissipate and my confidence rise.
Andy Day had pulled out the big bad boy Smith and Wesson 357 magnum revolver to my left, and as I shot the 22, I could feel the big boy shooting with a bang so intense you felt it in your whole body. Soon, as my skills grew, it was my turn with the big man, and wow it had kick and power. I was starting to like this. I was feeling that supremacy people who like guns say they like so much.
Over the course of a couple of hours I began to get more and more use to loading, preparing, dismantling and firing various guns. It was hugely fun. As I got better and better I began to unleash rounds faster and faster, feeling bullet shells flying all around me, and sometimes hitting me in the face. I did, for a rare time in my life, most certainly feel like a bad ass.
I began to shoot with my imagination running wild, disappearing into my mind and imagining many an old west/ modern action movie scenario. And it was now that I realized I had reached complacency, I'd dropped my safety standards, woops, plus I now badly wanted to run around doing rolls on the ground, jumping over car bonnets and firing at random targets in every direction. It became clear to me right then if I was going to continue to fire these things it would only continue to be fun if it continued to get more and more dangerous. So I put down my gun, and thought “I’ll probably never pick up one of those again, now who wants to play laser tag, cause I really, really want to shoot someone in the face right now, just for the fun of it”.
I am now someone who knows what it feels like to fire a deadly weapon. If war breaks out tomorrow I'm ready. And if I survive the first few weeks I'll almost certainly get complacent and shoot myself in the penis, but at least that’s way more smarter than passionately following a two horse car race.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Things not to text to strangers
Here is something that you should never text message to a stranger
I want to rip your clothes off
and pull you into me from behind
fucking you in the ass
deeper and harder
hearing you scream
as you think of the Tasmanian logging industry
my vodka infused natural lubricant
will overcome every doubt
in your moistest of brain juices
like the aggregate of every bull
and every Paris Hilton wanna be
like an orgy in a vat of duck fat
You'll be dripping with sweat
like a Persian monkey on steroids
and I want to catch every drop
in a bed pan
and watch you sponge bath yourself with it
like a menopausal old woman in a nursing home
You don't know me
but we already share the same STDs
And now a poem by Dave
The beginning of time
The end of innocence
The beginning of pressure
The end of presence
And the little girl is told to hurry
Up and not be a child anymore
So someone like me can take advantage of her
And just moments later
Just snippets of time
And she is too old already
And its moved onto after
And I feel it too
I really do
Cause its too late for me to
Choke in a bathtub
Or to put a shotgun in my mouth
In a wilderness shack
I’m already beyond that
And I haven’t even begun
But I still want to make
A red stain on a fresh white sheet
And I still want to force the overwhelmed
Into a crumpled heap
And my hands and my eyes
Threaten to expose my desperate disguise
I’m empty inside
The beginning of everything
The end of the wrong path
The beginning of gold walls
The end of the relaxed past
I feel it too
But I need to
I want to rip your clothes off
and pull you into me from behind
fucking you in the ass
deeper and harder
hearing you scream
as you think of the Tasmanian logging industry
my vodka infused natural lubricant
will overcome every doubt
in your moistest of brain juices
like the aggregate of every bull
and every Paris Hilton wanna be
like an orgy in a vat of duck fat
You'll be dripping with sweat
like a Persian monkey on steroids
and I want to catch every drop
in a bed pan
and watch you sponge bath yourself with it
like a menopausal old woman in a nursing home
You don't know me
but we already share the same STDs
And now a poem by Dave
The beginning of time
The end of innocence
The beginning of pressure
The end of presence
And the little girl is told to hurry
Up and not be a child anymore
So someone like me can take advantage of her
And just moments later
Just snippets of time
And she is too old already
And its moved onto after
And I feel it too
I really do
Cause its too late for me to
Choke in a bathtub
Or to put a shotgun in my mouth
In a wilderness shack
I’m already beyond that
And I haven’t even begun
But I still want to make
A red stain on a fresh white sheet
And I still want to force the overwhelmed
Into a crumpled heap
And my hands and my eyes
Threaten to expose my desperate disguise
I’m empty inside
The beginning of everything
The end of the wrong path
The beginning of gold walls
The end of the relaxed past
I feel it too
But I need to
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.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Driving Dave
Cars are things that men use to show off, to go fast in, to feel powerful and virile, and are things women, and I, use to get places.
Actually according to two minutes of research I just did on the Internet men like cars because they crave power, and because they feel cars are an extension of them, or part of them, or something. Really? If you want power and an extension of yourself, why not just play with your arm, and then start a dictatorship (why do you think dictators always have a signature salute? And also start ‘arms races’!)
I’ve never had any love for cars. Truth be told I’d rather have the ugliest car in the world than a Ferrari, and actually I do really want the ugliest car in the world, because I like to handicap my relationships with women by being pretentiously weird. To me cars are just things to get me places. Except for the past two years when I haven’t had a car and have been using trains/ buses and walking to get places. (By the way, really fat people, walking is that thing you do to get from the toilet to the fridge, well you can also use it to get places, it’s awesome, give it a fighting chance).
The thing is not just one thing but several things:
- I don’t care about macho stuff.
- I don’t like to drive, being the passenger lets me think about things other than ‘what the fuck is this guy doing?’
- I have just spent the past two years jumping back and forth from left side of street driving to right side, and it messed with my head so much I have no idea where I am supposed to look anymore.
- When you lend someone a car and they really enjoy it and then you take it back for three weeks, don’t drive it once, and then hear about how much harder life was for borrowee in said time you feel bad for taking it back.
- I want to be thinner and a walk to the shops helps me avoid the gym by fooling myself ‘It must be four blocks to the shops, that’s the same as 45 minutes on a treadmill right? Pass me that pizza’.
So what happened was I signed up for three classes at the prestigious acting school NIDA right here in Sydney, where I am back living, and I realized something: I need to take a train and a bus to NIDA, in rush hour, and it was going to add probably 2 and a half to 3 hours times 3 to my week for 8 weeks, which is possibly up to 72 hours wasted staring at office workers who have contempt for my casual life-style. I decided instead to ask for my car back, and drive to class.
My eight weeks of classes ended this past Monday night, so I finally had some free time two days later to go and pick up my car. Yay. I can finally get places I no longer need to go, hoorah.
This was my first drive in anyway in 9 months, and my first drive in my own city for over 2 years. I was kind of nervous to be honest.
Here is a bunch of things I observed:
- Your lights don’t turn on themselves, in an old car, unlike other people’s cars that are new and expensive or old and still aren’t turned on by me (resist a sex joke, resist a sex joke, good boy, for once, David).
- You have to really concentrate to drive, damn it, I hate concentrating, it’s like trying to eat while playing ring a ring a rosie (which I do all the time).
- At one point I nearly got as fast as 70km per hour (in a 70 zone) holy crap it felt fast.
- The fact that felt fast really shows just how much I really don’t concentrate on the driving when other people drive me.
- Someone asked me to spell bureau yesterday, which finally reminds me why the hell that word randomly appeared in my I-phone notes for this blog; there is an hour of tedium I won’t get back.
- It’s tedious driving; you have to think about what you’re doing and not on trying to think of funny words that rhyme with slinky.
- I had to go backwards to park, I hate backwards things and thoughts and people and directions, will my torture never end.
- Stinky, blinky, finicky, krinky, funky, twinky ha ha, words that kind of rhyme with slinky are hilarious!
For those of you like me let’s now play the game of annoying people for no reason. Here is how it works, change the word ‘understand’ in a sentence with ‘got’ at a time where it doesn’t work as an exact synonym for. Here is one for you:
“I got a car!” you say.
“Oh awesome” they reply, strangely not asking for more information.
“Why, most people have understood cars for years” you say back with desperate hurt in your voice.
‘What sort?” they ask, after a long, long, uncomfortable silence.
Cars are awesome.
Actually according to two minutes of research I just did on the Internet men like cars because they crave power, and because they feel cars are an extension of them, or part of them, or something. Really? If you want power and an extension of yourself, why not just play with your arm, and then start a dictatorship (why do you think dictators always have a signature salute? And also start ‘arms races’!)
I’ve never had any love for cars. Truth be told I’d rather have the ugliest car in the world than a Ferrari, and actually I do really want the ugliest car in the world, because I like to handicap my relationships with women by being pretentiously weird. To me cars are just things to get me places. Except for the past two years when I haven’t had a car and have been using trains/ buses and walking to get places. (By the way, really fat people, walking is that thing you do to get from the toilet to the fridge, well you can also use it to get places, it’s awesome, give it a fighting chance).
The thing is not just one thing but several things:
- I don’t care about macho stuff.
- I don’t like to drive, being the passenger lets me think about things other than ‘what the fuck is this guy doing?’
- I have just spent the past two years jumping back and forth from left side of street driving to right side, and it messed with my head so much I have no idea where I am supposed to look anymore.
- When you lend someone a car and they really enjoy it and then you take it back for three weeks, don’t drive it once, and then hear about how much harder life was for borrowee in said time you feel bad for taking it back.
- I want to be thinner and a walk to the shops helps me avoid the gym by fooling myself ‘It must be four blocks to the shops, that’s the same as 45 minutes on a treadmill right? Pass me that pizza’.
So what happened was I signed up for three classes at the prestigious acting school NIDA right here in Sydney, where I am back living, and I realized something: I need to take a train and a bus to NIDA, in rush hour, and it was going to add probably 2 and a half to 3 hours times 3 to my week for 8 weeks, which is possibly up to 72 hours wasted staring at office workers who have contempt for my casual life-style. I decided instead to ask for my car back, and drive to class.
My eight weeks of classes ended this past Monday night, so I finally had some free time two days later to go and pick up my car. Yay. I can finally get places I no longer need to go, hoorah.
This was my first drive in anyway in 9 months, and my first drive in my own city for over 2 years. I was kind of nervous to be honest.
Here is a bunch of things I observed:
- Your lights don’t turn on themselves, in an old car, unlike other people’s cars that are new and expensive or old and still aren’t turned on by me (resist a sex joke, resist a sex joke, good boy, for once, David).
- You have to really concentrate to drive, damn it, I hate concentrating, it’s like trying to eat while playing ring a ring a rosie (which I do all the time).
- At one point I nearly got as fast as 70km per hour (in a 70 zone) holy crap it felt fast.
- The fact that felt fast really shows just how much I really don’t concentrate on the driving when other people drive me.
- Someone asked me to spell bureau yesterday, which finally reminds me why the hell that word randomly appeared in my I-phone notes for this blog; there is an hour of tedium I won’t get back.
- It’s tedious driving; you have to think about what you’re doing and not on trying to think of funny words that rhyme with slinky.
- I had to go backwards to park, I hate backwards things and thoughts and people and directions, will my torture never end.
- Stinky, blinky, finicky, krinky, funky, twinky ha ha, words that kind of rhyme with slinky are hilarious!
For those of you like me let’s now play the game of annoying people for no reason. Here is how it works, change the word ‘understand’ in a sentence with ‘got’ at a time where it doesn’t work as an exact synonym for. Here is one for you:
“I got a car!” you say.
“Oh awesome” they reply, strangely not asking for more information.
“Why, most people have understood cars for years” you say back with desperate hurt in your voice.
‘What sort?” they ask, after a long, long, uncomfortable silence.
Cars are awesome.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Time for me to man up
This week I decided to do something that goes against every instinct I have – that’s right I decided to do something manly.
Manliness for some reason is not my forte. Things like quirkiness, silliness, and giddy with girlish glee come to me as easily pants come off a nudist (the manliest of all fetish groups), but things that men do simply do not inspire me in any way.
There is a retarded saying that gets thrown around a lot ‘boys will be boys’. Thanks genius. It is a completely pointless saying that adds absolutely nothing to society, and it is one of the few sentences that if you swap the word ‘boy’ with anything else - still works. Consider these examples:
- Boxes will be boxes
- Salmonella will be salmonella
- Genocide will be genocide
All remain as useless, and as innocent and lovely as the saying ‘boys will be boys’ yet that’s the one that stuck. Try replacing boy in these sentences with random words that I will in no way pick specifically to support my point:
Boy bands suck. Replace ‘boy’ with ‘great’ and you get:
Great Bands suck.
No they don’t, they’re great.
By the way former boy bander Lance Bass wants to start a boy band reality show, he was quoted as saying ‘time to get back to what I was born to do, making the world a far worse place’.
Try this one:
Catholic Priests have a reputation for molesting young boys.
Replace ‘boys’ with ‘IPads’
And you get:
Catholic Priests have a reputation for molesting young IPads.
That’s just stupid, I mean for starters the Catholic Church has been around for centuries, where as IPads are very new, and this makes both the word ‘young’ redundant, and the word ‘reputation’ historically false. Plus why would they molest an IPad? They have so many better uses (Access to facebook to stalk former ‘play things’ to make sure they haven’t spoken up yet).
Point is whoever coined the phrase ‘boys will be boys’ was an idiot. And yet he makes a good point. Because - boys often act ‘instinctually’ boy like. I wasn’t one of those; I was always far more concerned with re-coining flawed phrases than traditional young boy activities like fighting, playing with trucks or circle-jerks.
Still sometimes even I have to man up, and this week was one of those times, I had a major kitchen appliance on the frits (a word meaning ‘not working lets sulk and eat fritters’) and I had to man up and take action. That’s right, my dishwasher broke so I bought a new one and had someone else organize a plumber to come install it. ‘Goooo Dave MAN!!!’
Having a dishwasher installed is not as simple as it may seem. First I had to prepare my apartment. The dishwasher had been broken approximately a week; we are a household of three men in their adolescent twenties and thirties, with immature jobs like writer, IT programmer for the Reserve Bank of Australia, and Anesthetist. So there was no way any of us could figure out how to wash a dish in that week. But once again it was left to me to man up, I bought ‘washing dishes for dummies’ the audio book, and I did in fact figure out how to wash the dishes, which by now included every single thing in the kitchen, including plastic knives and forks, and several ripped up cereal boxes. It only took 4 hours.
Next I had to face yet more idiocy. The plumber called me at the ungodly hour of 8am! Damn you. And why did he call me then? To tell me that he’d be at my place in three hours. Basically - ‘Wake up, wake up, I need to tell you that you can have three hours more sleep if you want to’ thanks plumber. (For the record god now only operates between 11am and 7pm, the rest of the time he is playing with his IPad).
The hardest part was still to come of course. I was going to have to make conversation for an hour or two with a plumber.
‘What is a plumber exactly?’ I hear you ask. Well a plumber is someone who went to a career counselor and was asked:
‘What do you love?’
‘Other people’s toilets, especially crawling behind the urine covered floor of broken ones’ came the reply.
‘Good news, we have two options for that, heroin addict or plumber?’
‘Would I have to eat plumbs?’
‘Nope its all crawling behind the urine covered floor of broken toilets all the time’
‘Yippeee’ and a plumber was born.
I HATE making conversation with tradesmen, and not because of the toilet thing, but because these people are real men. The real reason they take this job is because when they were kids they liked to fight, play with trucks and circle-jerk, and these boys graduate from that into adults who get into fights, drive trucks and circle-jerk, I mean know how to fix things.
Talking to these people panics me for some reason. I just know I am going to be caught out.
‘Fixed anything lately?’ they’re bound to ask me.
‘Yes of course…….. I have penis, um, clearly, um so I, yeah, I fix stuff all the time, I had this wooden thing, that um, had one of those metal spiral things’
‘A screw?’
‘Yeah and I, um hammered it’
‘You hammered a screw?’
‘No no, of course not, I mean………. I’m sorry, I’m a fraud, I’m not a real man, I have never fixed anything, I can’t even fix myself a sandwich, I don’t get it, you keep broken sandwiches around? Why don’t you just buy a new one!!!!!!’
This particular plumber was pretty good. He was very quick to laugh, and he laughed with his whole face and with eyes shut in a way that would have been adorable on a girl (like me). So I set my game plan to turn everything back to a joke, even as he sometimes tried to turn the conversation to manly things. At one point he showed me how to empty out a flooded, broken dishwasher (you pour the dirty water all over my floor) and other times he would mention things about pipes, and glue and other things I know nothing about, but I got through those by being rude and pretending to not hear him, and eventually all was saved, and the dishwasher was installed. We plan to test it out only after dirtying every dish in the place and then playing a game of ‘I hope my roommate puts some of that disgusting pile in the dishwasher soon so I don’t have to’. And I was free once again to spend my time thinking mostly about non-manly stuff.
For the record here is a list of things I can comfortably discuss in more detail and with more enthusiasm than fixing things:
- Barbie dolls
- Toilet paper
- Types of microwave popcorn
- Types of tropical fish
- The symbolism inherent in every afternoon cry
- What it feels like to have a pap smear
- Interesting ways to fit the word rash into a sentence (for example I don’t say I have a pile of vomit on my carpet, I say I have a ‘rash’ of vomit on my carpet)
- Manly fetish groups
Manliness for some reason is not my forte. Things like quirkiness, silliness, and giddy with girlish glee come to me as easily pants come off a nudist (the manliest of all fetish groups), but things that men do simply do not inspire me in any way.
There is a retarded saying that gets thrown around a lot ‘boys will be boys’. Thanks genius. It is a completely pointless saying that adds absolutely nothing to society, and it is one of the few sentences that if you swap the word ‘boy’ with anything else - still works. Consider these examples:
- Boxes will be boxes
- Salmonella will be salmonella
- Genocide will be genocide
All remain as useless, and as innocent and lovely as the saying ‘boys will be boys’ yet that’s the one that stuck. Try replacing boy in these sentences with random words that I will in no way pick specifically to support my point:
Boy bands suck. Replace ‘boy’ with ‘great’ and you get:
Great Bands suck.
No they don’t, they’re great.
By the way former boy bander Lance Bass wants to start a boy band reality show, he was quoted as saying ‘time to get back to what I was born to do, making the world a far worse place’.
Try this one:
Catholic Priests have a reputation for molesting young boys.
Replace ‘boys’ with ‘IPads’
And you get:
Catholic Priests have a reputation for molesting young IPads.
That’s just stupid, I mean for starters the Catholic Church has been around for centuries, where as IPads are very new, and this makes both the word ‘young’ redundant, and the word ‘reputation’ historically false. Plus why would they molest an IPad? They have so many better uses (Access to facebook to stalk former ‘play things’ to make sure they haven’t spoken up yet).
Point is whoever coined the phrase ‘boys will be boys’ was an idiot. And yet he makes a good point. Because - boys often act ‘instinctually’ boy like. I wasn’t one of those; I was always far more concerned with re-coining flawed phrases than traditional young boy activities like fighting, playing with trucks or circle-jerks.
Still sometimes even I have to man up, and this week was one of those times, I had a major kitchen appliance on the frits (a word meaning ‘not working lets sulk and eat fritters’) and I had to man up and take action. That’s right, my dishwasher broke so I bought a new one and had someone else organize a plumber to come install it. ‘Goooo Dave MAN!!!’
Having a dishwasher installed is not as simple as it may seem. First I had to prepare my apartment. The dishwasher had been broken approximately a week; we are a household of three men in their adolescent twenties and thirties, with immature jobs like writer, IT programmer for the Reserve Bank of Australia, and Anesthetist. So there was no way any of us could figure out how to wash a dish in that week. But once again it was left to me to man up, I bought ‘washing dishes for dummies’ the audio book, and I did in fact figure out how to wash the dishes, which by now included every single thing in the kitchen, including plastic knives and forks, and several ripped up cereal boxes. It only took 4 hours.
Next I had to face yet more idiocy. The plumber called me at the ungodly hour of 8am! Damn you. And why did he call me then? To tell me that he’d be at my place in three hours. Basically - ‘Wake up, wake up, I need to tell you that you can have three hours more sleep if you want to’ thanks plumber. (For the record god now only operates between 11am and 7pm, the rest of the time he is playing with his IPad).
The hardest part was still to come of course. I was going to have to make conversation for an hour or two with a plumber.
‘What is a plumber exactly?’ I hear you ask. Well a plumber is someone who went to a career counselor and was asked:
‘What do you love?’
‘Other people’s toilets, especially crawling behind the urine covered floor of broken ones’ came the reply.
‘Good news, we have two options for that, heroin addict or plumber?’
‘Would I have to eat plumbs?’
‘Nope its all crawling behind the urine covered floor of broken toilets all the time’
‘Yippeee’ and a plumber was born.
I HATE making conversation with tradesmen, and not because of the toilet thing, but because these people are real men. The real reason they take this job is because when they were kids they liked to fight, play with trucks and circle-jerk, and these boys graduate from that into adults who get into fights, drive trucks and circle-jerk, I mean know how to fix things.
Talking to these people panics me for some reason. I just know I am going to be caught out.
‘Fixed anything lately?’ they’re bound to ask me.
‘Yes of course…….. I have penis, um, clearly, um so I, yeah, I fix stuff all the time, I had this wooden thing, that um, had one of those metal spiral things’
‘A screw?’
‘Yeah and I, um hammered it’
‘You hammered a screw?’
‘No no, of course not, I mean………. I’m sorry, I’m a fraud, I’m not a real man, I have never fixed anything, I can’t even fix myself a sandwich, I don’t get it, you keep broken sandwiches around? Why don’t you just buy a new one!!!!!!’
This particular plumber was pretty good. He was very quick to laugh, and he laughed with his whole face and with eyes shut in a way that would have been adorable on a girl (like me). So I set my game plan to turn everything back to a joke, even as he sometimes tried to turn the conversation to manly things. At one point he showed me how to empty out a flooded, broken dishwasher (you pour the dirty water all over my floor) and other times he would mention things about pipes, and glue and other things I know nothing about, but I got through those by being rude and pretending to not hear him, and eventually all was saved, and the dishwasher was installed. We plan to test it out only after dirtying every dish in the place and then playing a game of ‘I hope my roommate puts some of that disgusting pile in the dishwasher soon so I don’t have to’. And I was free once again to spend my time thinking mostly about non-manly stuff.
For the record here is a list of things I can comfortably discuss in more detail and with more enthusiasm than fixing things:
- Barbie dolls
- Toilet paper
- Types of microwave popcorn
- Types of tropical fish
- The symbolism inherent in every afternoon cry
- What it feels like to have a pap smear
- Interesting ways to fit the word rash into a sentence (for example I don’t say I have a pile of vomit on my carpet, I say I have a ‘rash’ of vomit on my carpet)
- Manly fetish groups
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Natalie Portman’s Vagina
TV Host: Welcome to ‘Everything Placenta’ the show where we talk about placenta, because why not, it exists, it’s important to the creation of humans, and humans grow up to be people, and some of them are pretty nice, so that’s important people, stop being so queasy and prejudice, what did placenta ever do to you, I’ll tell you what, it allowed you to exist!!!!!!
I am getting a word from my producer Steve to stop berating the audience, so I’ll move on.
Oh yeah, on a lighter note, today is the best day ever! I mean the absolute best, like the awesome. Shut up Steve I am getting on with it. Today is the bestest day ever, but only because something happened yesterday, Natalie Portman gave birth you guys, wow. Hasn’t it seemed like she’s been pregnant for about twelve years?
We have been given a very special interview……
I told you I didn’t want to say that Steve!
Put down the cue card, I’m not saying that.
Ok fine, you wanker, ok…. Ugh… I once charged a bull, but it turned out its battery was already full (silence) see Steve you tool, and I am full of charge to welcome a very, very special guest Natalie Portman’s used placenta!!!!!!!!!!
(Huge applause as a crystal vase filled with Natalie Portman’s used placenta)
TV Host: Thanks for being here, Natalie Portman’s used placenta
Natalie Portman’s used placenta: Thanks for having me, just call me Plenty, not because I’m placenta, but because I’m famous so I’m making…. Plenty of cash!
TV Host: Ha Ha, we should get you writing our introductions!
Plenty: Anytime TV Host
TV Host: Ha Ha, I’m not famous….. (awkward silence) so anyway, how did this all begin for you?
Plenty: Well this one day I just opened my eyes and I felt hazy and disorientated, I had no idea where I was, so I felt around myself and was like eeeeewwwww, what is this white disgusting salty goo all over me?
TV Host: Ha ha, I think I… know what that was?
Plenty: It was pretty traumatic and gross actually TV Host, to tell the truth I was so grossed out that I started puking my guts out only, thing is, when you’re placenta the puke just attaches itself onto you and becomes you and you grow more and more the more you puke.
TV Host: Sounds like the Blob?
Plenty: I later found that wasn't goo but seminal fluid and it was literally the thing that gave me life, I guess I owe it a huge apology!
TV Host: So then what did you do?
Plenty: Well once old mate seminal fluid dripped off me I had a look around and thought ok, it ‘s small and cozy, moist some of the time but not always, and it smelled wonderful ALL THE TIME, and it was so nice that I thought “this is the greatest place on earth” and then I thought “where is the greatest place on earth?” Then it hit me “the greatest place on earth would be inside Natalie Portman’s vagina!”
TV Host: It would be pretty amazing in there!
Plenty: Hell Yeah, after that I couldn't stop singing, “I'm in Natalie Portman’s vagina, I'm in Natalie Portman’s vagina” it was awesome! But then, and I hate to say this, but after a few months, even being in the most wonderful place on earth, it started to get tedious.
TV Host: But you had company?
Plenty: Yeah, this kid started growing around me and at first I was excited but it turned out he was a real brat, he was all “don't you know who I am? My mum was in ‘Star Wars The Phantom Menace’ what have you ever done?” and we ended up having huge fights so I tried to stay silent most of the time.
TV Host: What did you do to pass the time?
Plenty: Well, in the final few months, occasionally the head of an Academy Award would come and play peek-a-boo with me for ten or fifteen minutes, then Natalie’s whole body would shudder and the head of the Academy Award would disappear for a few days…. I looked forward to those days.
TV Host: Awwww, that’s really sweet. So how did it all end?
Plenty: I was having a huge fight with the brat, that idiot thought ‘Your Highness’ was a great follow up to ‘Black Swan’ and I said she needed to follow up with something that WASN’T really crap and instead make more movies like ‘Garden State’ and so we’re screaming at each other then the kid goes “Fuck this place and fuck you” and he just squeezes his way out this tunnel, I tried to follow so I could tell him that doing a movie with Ashton Kutcher is always a bad idea but that sex movie was a disgrace to your mum’s talent but then I found myself sitting back and enjoying a once in a lifetime experience, yep I was literally slowly oozing out of Natalie Portman’s Vagina.
TV Host: Oh my god it sounds AMAZING. What have you been up to since then?
Plenty: Oh you know, I've been doing all the talk shows, I have a photo shoot with Vanity Fair tomorrow lifes...
(David Tieck bursts on the set)
TV Host: Sorry sir, you can’t be here, Steve get this idiot off the set.
David Tieck: Did that thing just say it just oozed out of Natalie Portman’s Vagina?
TV Host: Yes.
David Tieck: Oh my god I need that inside of me.
Plenty: Oh my god what’s happening, put me down, put me down, what’s that a spoon? Don’t put that in me, oh my god, oh my god, nooooooooooo, aaagghhhhaaaghghh!!!
I am getting a word from my producer Steve to stop berating the audience, so I’ll move on.
Oh yeah, on a lighter note, today is the best day ever! I mean the absolute best, like the awesome. Shut up Steve I am getting on with it. Today is the bestest day ever, but only because something happened yesterday, Natalie Portman gave birth you guys, wow. Hasn’t it seemed like she’s been pregnant for about twelve years?
We have been given a very special interview……
I told you I didn’t want to say that Steve!
Put down the cue card, I’m not saying that.
Ok fine, you wanker, ok…. Ugh… I once charged a bull, but it turned out its battery was already full (silence) see Steve you tool, and I am full of charge to welcome a very, very special guest Natalie Portman’s used placenta!!!!!!!!!!
(Huge applause as a crystal vase filled with Natalie Portman’s used placenta)
TV Host: Thanks for being here, Natalie Portman’s used placenta
Natalie Portman’s used placenta: Thanks for having me, just call me Plenty, not because I’m placenta, but because I’m famous so I’m making…. Plenty of cash!
TV Host: Ha Ha, we should get you writing our introductions!
Plenty: Anytime TV Host
TV Host: Ha Ha, I’m not famous….. (awkward silence) so anyway, how did this all begin for you?
Plenty: Well this one day I just opened my eyes and I felt hazy and disorientated, I had no idea where I was, so I felt around myself and was like eeeeewwwww, what is this white disgusting salty goo all over me?
TV Host: Ha ha, I think I… know what that was?
Plenty: It was pretty traumatic and gross actually TV Host, to tell the truth I was so grossed out that I started puking my guts out only, thing is, when you’re placenta the puke just attaches itself onto you and becomes you and you grow more and more the more you puke.
TV Host: Sounds like the Blob?
Plenty: I later found that wasn't goo but seminal fluid and it was literally the thing that gave me life, I guess I owe it a huge apology!
TV Host: So then what did you do?
Plenty: Well once old mate seminal fluid dripped off me I had a look around and thought ok, it ‘s small and cozy, moist some of the time but not always, and it smelled wonderful ALL THE TIME, and it was so nice that I thought “this is the greatest place on earth” and then I thought “where is the greatest place on earth?” Then it hit me “the greatest place on earth would be inside Natalie Portman’s vagina!”
TV Host: It would be pretty amazing in there!
Plenty: Hell Yeah, after that I couldn't stop singing, “I'm in Natalie Portman’s vagina, I'm in Natalie Portman’s vagina” it was awesome! But then, and I hate to say this, but after a few months, even being in the most wonderful place on earth, it started to get tedious.
TV Host: But you had company?
Plenty: Yeah, this kid started growing around me and at first I was excited but it turned out he was a real brat, he was all “don't you know who I am? My mum was in ‘Star Wars The Phantom Menace’ what have you ever done?” and we ended up having huge fights so I tried to stay silent most of the time.
TV Host: What did you do to pass the time?
Plenty: Well, in the final few months, occasionally the head of an Academy Award would come and play peek-a-boo with me for ten or fifteen minutes, then Natalie’s whole body would shudder and the head of the Academy Award would disappear for a few days…. I looked forward to those days.
TV Host: Awwww, that’s really sweet. So how did it all end?
Plenty: I was having a huge fight with the brat, that idiot thought ‘Your Highness’ was a great follow up to ‘Black Swan’ and I said she needed to follow up with something that WASN’T really crap and instead make more movies like ‘Garden State’ and so we’re screaming at each other then the kid goes “Fuck this place and fuck you” and he just squeezes his way out this tunnel, I tried to follow so I could tell him that doing a movie with Ashton Kutcher is always a bad idea but that sex movie was a disgrace to your mum’s talent but then I found myself sitting back and enjoying a once in a lifetime experience, yep I was literally slowly oozing out of Natalie Portman’s Vagina.
TV Host: Oh my god it sounds AMAZING. What have you been up to since then?
Plenty: Oh you know, I've been doing all the talk shows, I have a photo shoot with Vanity Fair tomorrow lifes...
(David Tieck bursts on the set)
TV Host: Sorry sir, you can’t be here, Steve get this idiot off the set.
David Tieck: Did that thing just say it just oozed out of Natalie Portman’s Vagina?
TV Host: Yes.
David Tieck: Oh my god I need that inside of me.
Plenty: Oh my god what’s happening, put me down, put me down, what’s that a spoon? Don’t put that in me, oh my god, oh my god, nooooooooooo, aaagghhhhaaaghghh!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)