Dance, bitch!!
I just found this and had such a good time with it, I thought I’d share it.
Maxi Cane has written a savage article about men’s versus women’s magazines and who they do (or don’t) exploit. He mentioned a few magazines he’ll be reviewing, and that led me to google FHM, my once favourited rag. I don’t really buy them, because there’s so much to be had on their website.
If you are (ahem) one of the few who only read FHM for the articles, you might be aware of their reviews e.g. their 100 greatest websites ever! which led me to something too odd for words:
Now call me easily entertained, but when I click a link and find a guy in a chicken-suit sitting on a couch who suddenly stands up to face me, I get a bit edgy. I’m told to enter a command into the dialogue box at the bottom, so I did.
“Wave”
The dude in the chicken suit waved.
“Dance!”
The chicken began to do a Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. He was very good!
“Thanks :)” I said… I felt bad. I felt I had to step back and think of some oddball things for him to do.
Poor bastard. Some people just have the weirdest jobs!!!
Who says football isn’t entertaining?
I’m in a sitting-room with five men, our bellies full of battered cod and chips, our glasses full… the telly’s on and a reminder suddenly pops up on the screen to tell us that ‘Match of the Day’ is about to start. Half of us cheer, the other half are of no discernible opinion.
Various tense moments of recent soccer matches play out to choruses of groans and ‘oooh’s and ‘yay’s from the lads, and I bite my nails. I wait for Manchester United highlights to hit… I wait for my moment. I am prepared.
Gary Lineker waffles as the screen changes and Man United appears for the highlights. I watch the body language of the lads carefully and wait to pounce. A dude runs towards the goal with the football along the outside of the field, he passes it to his buddy in the middle, who passes it back to the first bloke, the ball gets closer and closer..
“G’WAN!!!” the lads shout in unison.
Several defending lads try and fail to grab the ball, it gets closer and closer to the net. Nearly…
“PASS IT!” scream the lads.
The goalkeeper starts to look nervous. Nearly…
The ball only a few feet from the net, my time has come to screw things up.
“Hey lads, isn’t there a bloke on this team called Dimitar Berbatov?” I ask coyly.
“Yeah s’right” their eyes remain glued to the screen, their attention un-broken.
“Is it me or does that name sound like someone’s farted in the bath?!?”
I sit back with satisfaction as wine is ejected from nostrils and the goal on the TV is entirely missed while grown men giggle like schoolboys.
Ha. Fart humour. Gets ‘em every time.
Dean Windass.
It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.
Who needs a babysitter?
Tourist culling at Grandad’s house is about to get interesting.
A fishy encounter
(This post is brought to you in association with Maxi Cane’s Filthy Butt Fun Competition)
-o0o-
“‘Morning love, here’s your coffee… did you have fun with your girl’s night out last night?”
“Umm… yeah.” I felt sick.
“What’s up? You’re so pale… over indulgence?” The Accidental Terrorist tried to hug me, but I backed away sheepishly.
“Sort of, not exactly, uhh… I sort of… have a confession to make. You might want to sit down.”
“Ok, fire away, don’t worry, you can tell me anything.”
“Right. Here goes. I… I… I ate pussy last night. I promise I won’t ever do it again, things just got a bit out of hand, I was careless… I didn’t think of the consequences… I’m so sorry!” I babbled away, my voice trickling into a fit of guilt-ridden tears. There was a moment of tense silence.
TAT’s face broadened into a smile. “You did what? Run that past me again?”
“I ate pussy… it was my first time, and my last, I promise. I hope you’re not too angry?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re doing strange things to my trousers here, of course I’m not angry.”
“What?”
“Would you do it again?”
“I don’t think so… I thought you’d be repulsed by it.”
“Babe, never, you know me, I’m always up for experimentation… here, give me a kiss – (x) – Wow.. I can still taste it off your lips… mmmmm.”
“Really?”
“Really. If you do it again, can I watch?”
“Umm… of course… you can eat it too if you like, I just didn’t know you were that open minded!”
“Thanks babe, that sounds like a potentially great night out! So tell me honestly… did you enjoy it?”
“I really did, that was until I got a whisker caught between my teeth.”
“That happens!”
“No, I mean a real whisker… a Calico I think, judging by the colour of it.”
*several minutes of confusion follow*
“Eh? Wait. What?”
“Yeah. That’s definitely the LAST time I’m eating in that place. The few beers put a wicked goo on me for a curry, so we stopped at the first place we found. I was halfway through the meal before I realised I was eating someone’s cat, and I felt so guilty and disgusted, but now I’ve spoken to you about it and you seem so enthusiastic, I don’t feel so bad- if it means that much to you I’d do it again!”
*TAT leaves the room rapidly and empties his breakfast into the loo*
Men. So fickle!
Still just a rat in a cage
RAGE.
I woke with it this morning out of the blue, an uncontrollable hatred for everything. A coffee stain on my pillow. TAT playing his Xbox live and chiming out random macho statements, cursing in front of the kid while she patiently waits for the use of the television. Puppychild has drawn a picture of a queen with scribbly hair and oversized eyelashes and a big ‘M’ on the front of her dress… she proffers it up to her daddy and he just grunts, it’s breaking his concentration. I want to break his fucking face through the plasma screen.
There is a troll with gnarly knuckles grinding his teeth inside my ribcage and it won’t let me enjoy the beautiful day outside… instead it makes me sweat and itch and it shows me the unpacked boxes and piles of clothes and dirty dishes and it tells me that I’m a worthless person and I want to swallow drain-cleaner just to feel a different emotion, even if just for a few minutes. Blind panic and sleepiness, balled-up energy festers with no discernible function, like a plasticky mess left over from a volatile chemical explosion. Pure useless rage.
What exactly is the point of P.M.S? How is it constructive in the grand scale of reproduction? I’m picturing a woman standing at the mouth of her cave, blindly wielding sticks and rocks about and screaming abuse at passing strangers. Only the hardiest of men would fancy applying for access to those ovaries. Maybe that’s it? Perhaps by going slightly mental once a month, it prepares a mate for the turmoil to follow… the anguish of a screaming colicky baby is not for the fainthearted, neither is the sweet smile of its mother and the perkiness of her lovely boobs, for a wicked demon with a stash of verbal hand-grenades hides underneath. The best mate, the strongest man will know to wait it out, to pat it on the back until it burps, to wait out the storm and know that the rough must come with the smooth. No pussies need apply.
It’s quite clever really. It’s like I say to TAT… just because I have PMS it doesn’t mean you’re not a gobshite.
I met my pet on the internet
Nah, not TAT… I met him in a bar-room brawl in Finglas.
English ‘Dangerous’ Dave is the most socially unpredictable person in Wicklow Town if not the world. Instantly friendly without a malicious bone in his body, he’s a sort of hero of mine. To speak to him, you’d be reminded of Captain Jack Sparrow, that slightly ‘touched’ sort of free-spirit who acts as a magnet for free-floating loopers such as myself. When I meet him out and about, I pry him for lyrics he’s written (usually by the seashore under a full moon under the influence of God-knows-what) because they’re familiar, funny, and always original; made extra cool by ‘is fick Landon accen’.
This music video below tells you exactly what I’m on about, and it’s a testament to the fact that even though a chap has no money, it doesn’t mean he can’t write, produce and sing on his very own video on the internet. He’s got great friends and he’s loved, and that’s all he cares about. Watch all the way through, it’s pretty damn funny with some excellent effects given their financial restraints, and the song ain’t too shabby neither, guaranteed to stick in the head.
‘I met my pet on the internet’
Dangerous Dave and the Side Effects
(‘Avin trouble wif de lyrics? Here ye go:)
This is a tail, about a young man, looking for, companionship, on, the, in, ter, net.
I was looking for some fun, a little one-to-one
When I saw her ad, she was BAD, she had to be had.
We never met before, ‘coz she’s from Dublin 4
Me I live in Wicklow, I thought I’d say a quick hello.
She’s my pet, I met her on the internet
Her profile, an’ it drove me wild (x2)
I was lookin’ for a Leopard, but I got a German Shephard.
She’s a little moaner, ‘coz I’m her seventh owner.
She’s my pet, I met her on the internet
Her profile, an’ it drove me wild (x2)
She’s never alone with her mouldy old bone
That thing it keeps on minging, me I keep on singing. (x2)
She’s my pet, I met her on the internet
Her profile, an’ it drove me wild (x2)
It seemed just fine and dandy, not to mention bleedin’ handy
Three clicks, one bitch, washed down with a bottle o’ Brandy.
But now I’ve sobered up,
I’ve realised I’m not ready for a pup…
So I left my pet on the internet, I left my pet on the internet
I left my pet on the internet
I left my pet on the internet… I’ll never forget… MY PET!
Keep an eye out for Dave’s dad who makes a brief appearance somewhere around 2:46 in the song – the chap with the tambourine. Seriously, there’s something in the water in that town.
Take Pwiicautions
The Wii small hours this morning found TAT, his dodgy Italian friend and me surrounding the TV set, psyching ourselves up for a Wii game of tennis or two.
Various screenshots flashed in front of our eyes as the characters were being set up and the controls configured, the final screenshot advertised that gaming might be made more comfortable with the use of Wii jackets.
“Why’s that?” … I asked… ”is that so you don’t crack someone’s skull open when it gets in the way of a back-hand shot?”
“Nah, it’s so that when you let go of the controller accidentally, it won’t break when it hits the wall” guessed the dodgy Italian friend.
“Maybe it stops your hand getting sweaty or from cramping up, y’know, ergonomics and all that. Is that a word?” I fought with the rubbery cover and dirty thoughts crossed my mind as I did so, but I didn’t voice them. That’s New Year’s resolution no. 16.
“Nope” said TAT “you’re both wrong. It’s to prevent S.T.Wiis!”
Groan.
An experiment which involves lace and farming equipment.
This post is an experiment, borne of curiosity and a deep-set worry regarding the condition of my hormonal balance.
Problem:
Upon visiting Red Lemonade’s site, I found a link to a ‘Blog Gender Analyzer’, entered my blog address and discovered that I am in fact a man. This troubles me deeply, as I had not noticed my manhood before, the whole childbirth thing threw me off scent just a tad. Irregardless, I scored a whopping 76% in favour of the testicular division, and found myself reaching for the Black Bush (not metaphorically, silly, the whiskey!) to help me ponder this fact. I have to take it seriously, you understand.
Solution:
I will attempt to girlie my blog up a bit in order to re-align myself.
Apparatus:
Girly words. I cannot put pink pictures on my blog because I hate pink. I think the default colour for girls should be orange.
Method:
The writing of a potentially tedious post about wedding dresses:
-(o)(o)-
What’s all the fuss about?
I announced rather bravely recently that I’m getting hitched in April. The fact that I’ve done sweet Fanny Adams about this since kind of worried me a little bit, so I decided to take the plunge and start looking for wedding dresses… that endless mire of advertising was daunting, it seemed like an epic task was about to follow.
100% bogroll wedding dresses: source
The first place I looked up was Oxfam Bridal on South Georges Street in Dublin. The website had all the contact information I needed, but no pictures of dresses in stock, and a rather alarming plea for desingers to donate samples. I pictured a room with three or four dresses, dog-eared and stained from a night of untold pleasures - I expected to find reams of net curtain in one corner with a measuring tape and some pinking-shears. I fixed an appointment by email which was answered promptly… I felt welcome and I grew curiouser.
As soon as I’d dropped Puppychild into playschool on the dreaded day, I threw the taxi’s roof-sign on the car and zipped into town in the bus-lanes (naughty K8). The shop was easy to find, but was in disguise as a regular Oxfam store which held all the familiar knick-knacks and unwanted treasures and that ever curious home-ish smell. There was no sign of ‘Oxfam Bridal’ bar a poster.
I was greeted and ushered up some stairs hidden in a back room which opened up into a large open plan filled with whiteness. It was the Davy Jone’s locker of wedding dresses and it was far prettier than I expected. A peculiar thing happened in my brain and something clicked - a sudden urge to wear a princess dress decked with diamonds and lacey bits and pretty white ribbons woke within me, an urge which I’d completely forgotten about.
I was suddenly three years old again.
I tried on two dresses. The first was simple, but had a see-through coat which owned a flowing trail instead of the dress, and apparently I couldn’t mix and match this pretty coat – it belonged to a dress more suited to Bette Midler who I most definitely ain’t. *sigh* Oh well, move on.
The second was everything I didn’t think I wanted. I can’t describe it here or post pictures of it for fear of jinxing the TATster, but when I climbed into it and wrestled with its many layers and got all laced up and tweaked and fiddled, it just… became something else. My jeans and jumper suddenly looked like a discarded skin on the floor, the shell from some old life.
A princess with unbrushed wind-swept hair stood before me and the sight caught my breath; I felt like Sarah, that character in the Labyrinth when she finds herself thrown into an unexpectedly beautiful but slightly disturbing scene, except that I certainly didn’t want to go smashing any mirrors anytime soon.
“This is the one. I’ll take it.”
I couldn’t stop staring at the pretty image, it felt like it was made for me. It suddenly occured to me that I should look at the pricetag! Here we go! It’s that typical story… the catch. I wondered suddenly how far I was willing to rise above my €500 limit and searched nervously for the tag.
€375 it read. This money would apparently buy goats for a family in Africa and a rake of books for schools and some farming equipment too, I think. This is a brand new dress we’re talking about here, with many many layers of prettiness. A perfect dress, for €375.
Random Fact… apparently they get a large volume of men buying wedding dresses in this shop. Do with that information what you will.
Oxfam Bridal is a blessing. I know there may be an element of luck in this story, but seriously… what’s all the Wedding Dress fuss about? I laugh in the general direction of those ladies who fork out €2,000+ for a Wedding frock.
I laugh all the way to Thailand and back.
-(o)(o)-
Conclusion:
*re-entering of updated webpage into Gender Analyzer*
We think http://www.cackaloo.com is written by a man (92%)
Experiment failed.
Noelie McDonnell – Nearly Four
I heard this song recently on the radio and fell madly in love with it instantly. It’s the best caption of toddler-hood I think I’ve ever seen, so I’m putting it here so I know where to find it!
Have a listen of it if you need cheering up today.
The kidnapping of K8
