K8 the GR8

In Hong Kong, a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her adulterous husband, but may only do so with her bare hands. (The husband’s lover, on the other hand, may be killed in any manner desired.)

A car dealer in Missouri, US, boasts that his auto sales have quadrupled since he began giving away a free hand gun with every sale.  He claims his inspiration comes from Senator Barack Obama.

And…

I’m going to a Christmas party on Monday night. 

There’s something wrong with the way my brain works.  It won’t let me censor the stuff that comes out of my mouth, seriously, here are a few verbal ejaculations that I’ve produced recently to prove that I need help:

To the guy in the pizza house: “Yes, I’m sure I can fit a 9 inch in…”

To a mechanic at a tyre changing shop: “I’m not sure, I haven’t had my fluids checked for a while.”

To a passenger in my cab: “Yes that Parkinson fella is a master debater, isn’t he?”

To a lady who commented on my car-seat covers and recommended leather coverings: “Ah you know… it’s all the same on the whole.”

To a friend who grabs her car-keys and asks me: “Are you coming?!” 
“No, I have a wedgie.  Oh… right… yes.”

To a young lady in my cab who commented on how she liked to see women fighting for male-oriented roles: “Yes, male taxi drivers are a hard bunch to stay on top of, alright…”

(Also on a related note- does anyone know of a good foundation to disguise blushing?)

Tenacious T has memed me with the ‘6 words’ meme again.  Here’s a perfect opportunity to stick it in…

Lack of sleep breeds brain farts.

My, but aren’t Irish men horny on Sundays?!  I made €32 on tips alone, just by flirting behind the wheel today, as opposed to €8 yesterday and €12 on Thursday.  What’s so special about Sundays?

KA-CHINGGG!!!

I heard a snippet of news on the radio that made me giggle:  Apparently when Bertie told his co-workers he was going to throw in the towel, they “wept openly”.  Grown men?  Politicians?  I don’t think so.  I think Bertie pre-empted it.  I think he ate an extra-hot vindaloo and washed it down with five pints of Guinness the night before, then stuffed his pockets with onions the next morning before work.  It was the gas that made them cry… the gas.  Either that, or politicians are damn good actors!  Oh wait… right, never mind.

I heard a most excellent song on the radio today… several times, in fact.  It’s a version of House of Pain’s ‘Jump!’, which is a song that sparks the dancing flames into almost everybody when they hear it.  It is possibly the no.1 best song that one could hear in a nightclub and I love it.  This version is in flagrante as Gaeilge.

You Oirish readers out there know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s Des Bishop, fair play to him… he’s learned the language in 4.2 minutes and has now taken on the coolest song known to mankind.  Here’s a link to the song on Donncha O’Caoimh’s site, Holy Shmoly.  (Don’t listen to this video if you are over the age of 50.  You will hate it.  Especially you.)  I can’t find the radio version, but I’ll buy the single if it’s released because it’s a pretty darn excellent version.

Thing is though, everything the Irish try to coolify ends up being naff in some way.  I’m eternally proud of their efforts and of the language itself, but somehow there is nothing that will entice us to relinquish that final little bit of British rule… the English language.  This song might just be enough to entice our schoolkids into pricking up their ears regarding the old Gaeilge, but that’s because they’re Irish.

As for the rest of the world… they don’t know that ‘Léim’ means ‘jump’!  All they hear is: ‘LAME, LAME, LAME, LAME, LAME!’  *sigh*  Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the definition of irony.

On a different note, a good blogger buddy of mine has been censored.  Yes!  Censored!  Read all about it here: Brianf; the hate monger blog  (Oh my lord!  Somebody else is on to us!  Kill it!  Kill it!)  Seems as though Bush -the big bad rookie himself- has found some more bitches.

Propaghandi?

On another different but equally irking note,  I read this on Going Like Sixty’s site: Bloggers are being sued out there… read all about it!  I’m pretty sure that this sueing pillock is only after a domain name, but like I say… I’m naive.  The offending site is at Neurodiversity.  It makes for interesting reading.

Bloody hell… I only came on here to write about my extra tips!  Wine is excellent blog lubrication I find.

To finish up, I would like to quote a rather insightful spam I received today;

Humph. Someone has to force me to read this post. It’s too big and boring. Brevity is the sister of talent, remember that.

Thank you, Adriana Naked Lombard xxx, I shall remember this to the end of my…

 post.

I’m officially a big fat hypocrite.  I used to love whingeing about taxi drivers, saying what wankers they were to push me out of a lane or cut me off.  I joked when people told me I’d be the same… I swore I’d remain considerate, but no, today I fell over the edge. 

Drivers dithering at the lip of a slip lane are asking for me to overtake them.  People sitting at filter arrows across from me seem to want me to cut them off, it’s not my fault.  Taxi drivers are just on auto-pilot most of the time… I am, even after only three days.  I’m too busy concentrating on the radio, my destination and other car’s bumpers for me to remember to be nice. 

So on behalf of all the taxi drivers in Ireland, we’re sorry, but if you’re dozy, we’ll just keep right on trucking.  We have to.  Feel free to bully back, it makes a nice break from the routine!

I found a video for you.  I hope it works.  It’s a rather inspiring story about an adopted African boy:

Thanks Kelly :)

I’m a girl surrounded by chocolate who’s blog is one year old today!!!

I’m going to throw my CPU into the big ball pool at fun-zone to celebrate.

I had two budgies until recently.  The blue one was a male called Waldorf, and the yellow one a girl; Sunny.  Sunny flew away when I accidentally left the window open two days ago.  I wandered around the road a bit to feel like I was doing something constructive, knowing all along that she is most likely fucked.

Waldorf was very quiet yesterday.  Today though, I see that he’s bought in a 6 pack and now appears to have a tiny hash plant and an ugly leather chair in his cage.  That didn’t take long. 

I’m writing this post just in case Sunny has found her way into a house somewhere and has found an internet connection.  If she finds this post maybe she’ll be more inclined to come home and kick his ass. 

I don’t understand politics, mainly because I’ve never tried to.  It’s not something that upsets me much, at least it didn’t until I started reading blogs and found I had to skip over the political ones - my brain just can’t process the sattire or the original point.  No offence to political sattirists, it’s just the way I am.

I do, however, understand children very well, and it wasn’t until this morning when little Sally next door came in to play with Puppychild that the truth suddenly hit me.  The parallells between the infant world and the political world were right in front of me all the time!

To demonstrate this theory, for this next part I will assume the position of both a child between the ages of two and five, and a political bigwig.

~*~

- If you are doing something interesting, I will butt in and do it with you until I am better at it than you are, unless you get bored with it and go on to do something else.  At this point I will change too and continue proving I am better than you are, until such a time that I fall asleep or a body of greater power comes along and stops me.

- Hello, I see you’re new to this neighbourhood!  See this kid/country here?  This is my friend.  You can’t play with us until you provide evidence that you have a stash of Smarties/Weapons of Mass Destruction.  That’s just how it works.  Ok?

- If you push me, I will not ask you why you pushed me, I will just go ahead and push you back.  I will continue fighting with you for no underlying reason until such a point where a body of greater power intervenes or one of us starts crying.  If there is no body of greater power around, then I guess we are both fucked.

- Hey!  Where did you get that ball/space exploration equipment?  That is MINE.  Not going to give it up?  Fine, I’ll just ask my mum to go and buy me one, and if that doesn’t work, maybe I’ll just draw a picture of it and put it against my bedroom window so you’ll think I have one, then you won’t want yours any more!  HA!  No wait… easier yet… I’ll get the other kid down the road to steal it for me.  Yeah.

- Where did you get that money?  What?!  You found it on the ground?  Well, then it’s my money, because I dropped it yesterday, and no, I won’t tell you where because I don’t have to prove myself to you.  Not going to give it up?  FINE!  I’ll tell my mom/the media!

- So you want to play our game?  I don’t know whether or not you’re allowed - you’ll have to ask the leader.  What do you mean he already told you to ask me?  I’m not the leader so it’s not my problem… go ask… somebody else, OK? ‘Bye!!!

- If you see a tree full of apples and think it’s pretty, you’re wierd/left wing.  Me?  I see a tree full of apples, I get my dad to chop it down and bring it home.  I’ll then pick all the apples, shout; ‘I’m going to turn you into poo!’ and eat every last one without sharing with you, just because I can.  And you know what else?  If I feel sick afterwards I will come and throw up all over you because it’s your fault for not stopping me.  So there.

~*~

There you have it.  My stab at politics.  I know now, that when I read a headline in the papers like:

“Ahern insists he will stay on until 2012″

I’ll know to translate it roughly as…

“Bertie needs a nap.”

Beat that, Marx-y baby!  I finally understand…

 (Actual letter from a little girl on a Quantas flight) 

Why medicine cabinets were invented:

Serious tempatation:

This cereal tastes different somehow…

…and the overall ‘Little Bollix’ award goes to:

… Who’s the most likely candidate for a thrashing from the fashion police of them all?

I found a most excellent book today on the ‘please take me I’m free!’ bookshelf in the Murrough recycling centre.

It’s called ‘211 Things a Bright Boy Can Do’, by Tom Cutler.  It’s not as old as it looks, in fact it was only published in 2006, but there is still very much an old-school sort of style to it.

The book answers questions on ‘How to be a real man’, gives excellent science experiments, teaches you how to give speeches and behave at parties, explains tricks and cons, has pretty decent recipies… it even has an ‘everything you want to know about…’ section. 

I’ve been pouring over it for the last while and have found that there is way too much good material in there - it’s just too hard to pick my favourite questions.  So instead, I thought I’d post some of the questions here, then answer which ones take your interest in following posts!

1 - How to light a fart
2 - How to appear more intelligent than you are
3 - How to impress a girl on a budget
4 - How to cure a hangover
5 - How to drive a nail into a plank with your bare hand
6 - How to win money in a casino without cheating
7 - How to blag your way in philosophy
8 - How to do a five minute show with just a blade of grass
9 - How to make a boomerang actually come back
10 - How to fold an origami gift box
11 - How to make a glass harmonica
12 - How to stop a train with your bare hands
13 - How to cook for a girl
14 - How to tell when a girl fancies you
15 - How to judge a woman’s bra size at a glance
16 - How to walk through a postcard
17 - How to get by in Pidgin English
18 - A guide to DIY funerals
19 - How to make a pair of trousers from pub beer towels
20 - Four diversions with a banana

And… if you find the above of some interest, I might even make this book a prize for future caption competitions… YAY!