How to be eaten
I’ve never been on a diet. Diets fall into that category of things that need willpower, but I’m happily squatting in the quitter section of the ‘life is too short’ category, close to the ‘fuck that!’ department. It’s happier over here where mirrors and doctors are banned.
I do have a Wii fit though, the melding of fitness and gaming is genius even if it does sit for months on end gathering dust. I used it to gauge my weight in my seventh month of pregnancy, just to throw it off guard a bit. It turned my avatar into a Pillsbury dough-girl and scorned my girth.
Then I used it again shortly after giving birth and realised that it’s not as stupid as it looks. It told me that if I wanted to, I could re-do the body test carrying an object, and it would give me its weight too… something like a pet, or a baby maybe?
So I did, and it congratulated me. I was impressed.
A few weeks later I re-took the tests, and after I’d bitch-slapped it for still claiming I was in the ‘overweight’ category, I found that thanks to breastfeeding, Sir Fartsalot had gained almost exactly the same amount of weight that I’ve lost. Ooooooh.
My child is eating me. I adore the chubbiness that is my thighs recycled.
Atkins my arse. The cannibalism diet is working well for me.
Nerds in pieces
I’m one of those rare people who has the patience for jigsaws. They’re a brilliant invention, perfect for manual dexterity and logic exercises in kids, great for distraction from addictions, a box full of tiny bits of cardboard. Individual quiet ‘yippee!’s for when each slots into its impossibly detailed place.
I got a 500 piece jigsaw of a bunch of Alsatian puppies for Puppychild recently. Who am I kidding… it’s really for me. She watches with mild amusement at the torture I seem to love so much but soon goes back to her kennel to thread beads. She’ll be there for that final twenty pieces, we have an understanding.
One of TAT’s spurious friends was visiting last week and asked if I was going to glue it to a frame, a lot of people do that. They don’t understand the point of jigsaws.
Jigsaws are one of the few things you can make which are designed to be smashed up again. Yeah you can leave it on the dining room table for months but people eventually get pissed off that they’re not allowed within five feet of it, so all those long hours piecing the whole thing together will have to be undone, destroyed and wept upon, preferably during a seance. That’s the whole fun of it!
Here for your amusement is a cat-in-the-box just in case you’ve mentally diverted from all the nerdy jigsaw talk:
East meets Breast – Boobquake Day
I can understand how women baring too much skin could cause earthquakes, after all, if we can cause cow’s milk to sour and a pestilence on the spuds, it naturally stands to reason. That’s why I wasn’t surprised at all when I read the following quote;
“Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes …” Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, senior Iranian cleric
I am therefore outraged that Blag Hag, an irresponsible and reckless blogger in Indiana has decided to put millions of people’s lives at risk by staging a national ‘low-cut top’ day on Monday 26th April that she calls ‘Boobquake Day’.
“On Monday, April 26th, I will wear the most cleavage-showing shirt I own. Yes, the one usually reserved for a night on the town. I encourage other female skeptics to join me and embrace the supposed supernatural power of their breasts. Or short shorts, if that’s your preferred form of immodesty. With the power of our scandalous bodies combined, we should surely produce an earthquake. If not, I’m sure Sedighi can come up with a rational explanation for why the ground didn’t rumble. And if we really get through to him, maybe it’ll be one involving plate tectonics.”
Disgraceful, endangering people like that.
She’s on the facebook and the twitter, and is brazenly flaunting her boobs in everyone’s face which is all well and good when you’re all sprightly and perky, but what if you look like this lady:
I am afraid. Allāh will not like it. Not even one little bit.
Smell ya later
My pet hate of the day is the farting air-freshener.
TAT brought one home last week and as much as I bitched and moaned about his having been duped by Godawful fake smellies and the fact that the refills are thrice as expensive as the gizmo that farts them, he set it up anyway.
It’s like a big stupid white dildo on the shelf there, reminding visitors that we stink.
I hate it.
Whenever I walk into the room it farts at me. This is okay during daylight, but at night it’s a whole different story. I reserve the right to wander into the kitchen at 3am for my nightly fix of chocolate biscuits and milk without having the bollix scared out of me by a farting air-freshener. It sounds just like a cat, hissing violently at me as I walk past. It gets me every time. Sometimes it sees me coming and farts directly into my eyes, scaring me and blinding me in one fell swoop. Other times it waits until I’ve just passed it, then hisses at me behind my back, causing me to scream in blind panic in my sleepy state and whirl round jiu-jitsu style to face my combattant feline attacker. Then I just feel stupid.
I moved it to the shelf above the TV yesterday. That didn’t work, it just farted on my TV dinners. This morning it got moved to the computer table and messed up my mouse’s mojo with its sticky effluent.
Tomorrow the farting air-freshener faces death by pressure cooker. Pine fresh my arse.
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.
