There’s always somebody worse off than you.
It’s articles like these that turn my whinge level down to a dull peep.
LT Ariyawathi is a 49-year old mother of three from Sri Lanka, who has just returned home after five months in Saudi Arabia where she worked as a maid. The couple she worked for decided to punish LT’s complaints of an overly heavy workload by hammering 24 nails into her hands, legs and forehead.
(Found at Nothing To Do With Arbroath)
“They told me they would slit my throat if I screamed, so I had to keep silent and bear it. What else could I do?”
I love horror films for the fact that they’re purely the product of someone’s deranged sense of fantasy, but there’s always that nagging queasy feeling that there are actually people out there who will happily drive red hot nails into someone else’s body for kicks. Horror flicks are just life, regurgitated.
Of course the worst thing about it is that there are thousands of people in an even worse condition than LT, that’s the real melon twister. My ingrown toenail seems suddenly like a blessing by comparison.
Stop playing with yourself Daddy
‘There’s an app for that’. You know that ad on the telly (there’s an app for that too) for iPhones which shows all the fantabulous (there’s an app for that) things that it can do? I don’t have an iPhone, but TAT does… I’m sure it’s lovely but if it won’t flip sausages while I colour in pictures of Spongebob, I have no interest.
He won’t go to the toilet without it now. We walk past distant gunfire, waiting for our turn on the loo while TAT conquers spy allies. Sometimes he catapaults birds. Puppychild has to thump loudly and tell him to stop playing with himself frequently which is wrong in so many ways.
“It won’t wipe your arse though will it?” I scoff at him when he finally emerges with a burnt matchstick and a pins-and-needles limp. “No app for that, is there?”
It’s all very affecting, this waiting around for TAT and his crapps. I don’t know if there’s a helpline, but I’m pretty sure there’s an easy way to look for one if there is.
How to undermine the Queen
Here’s a really oddball present for someone, should you be stuck with a credit card but no car.
Did you know that you could become:
Lord/Lady, Baron/Baroness, Duke/Duchess, Count/Countess, Viscount/Viscountess, Marquis/Marchioness, Earl/Countess, Sir/Dame -insert your own moniker here-, for the low, low price of $294????
“Imagine… A Life Of Priviledge
-Credit cards emblazoned with “Lord (or Lady) Smith”
-All identification confirming the new royal title.
-Doors opening professionally and socially.
-is no faster way to climb the social ladder.
-A unique and thoughtful gift which can pay for itself.
-A fantastic icebreaker which gains instant respect and credibility
-Unlocking doors which were previously unknown
-A completely risk-free gift”
Risk-free?!?!? If you say so!! The ebony certificate jacket would be worth that alone!
Kisskiss sweetie-dahling
xx
Countess K8 the Gr8
Xtreme Space Hopping – a spectator’s sport
The Events Upcoming section of My Facebook page, otherwise known as the ‘wishful thinking’ section, is best left alone for those who have a life. I ignore most of the invitations, or tick ‘maybe’ just to feel the kick of potential, but every now and then, one event sticks out.
When I heard that a bunch of weirdos were gathering in town to attempt a world record at SpaceHopping I felt I had to be there, if not for the good of humanity alone. Somebody had to be there to point and laugh otherwise our civilization would surely collapse under such a weight of silliness.
I attached my children to my person and marched in from the wrong end, to meet barriers and folk who didn’t understand the plight of a sweaty lady with a baby and a five-year old stuck to her. So, I snapped photos and buggered off to lie around in Merrion Square for a while with my homies where I scored a big red SpaceHopper and a bag of Meanies. Puppychild’s puppy eyes do come in handy when I’m on the scrounge.
I’m sure a big red SpaceHopper will come in handy for something some day!!
Storm in a G cup
I need scaffolding, badly. My boobs were starting to clap with every footstep, it’s not the sort of applause I’m used to. Plus, one morning while getting out of the shower I actually drop-kicked one. I knew it was time for professional help.
Puppychild held Sir Fartsalot for dear life while the boutique assistant rummaged through cabinets full of bra boxes. I shuffled cotton like an Amsterdam pro and called out letters of the alphabet while Puppychild watched in awe, I worried if she’d be asking her schoolteacher some time in the future what words begin with double D.
Anything above a cup size E must officially be classed as industrial when it comes to nursing bras. I watched with dismay as the pretty lacy black numbered drawer was shut and the plain white Fs were dragged out, but even they were no use. She tucked me into a G and sighed with relief. Her work here was done, bar a quick attempt to sell me two of them which was fruitless as I found out how much each bra cost.
€52?!? Is there a milking pump built in? Do I get a slave that’ll follow me around and prop them up for me? No! Oh well. At least I’ve somewhere to put my spare change now.
It could always be worse I suppose.
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.
Robbin’ Robin
A trip to the National Garden Exhibition Centre today with the mammy inevitably led to an urgent case of the munchies and a craving for cappuchino. We sat outside by the waterfall and basked in the warmth of that rare ball of gas in the sky and picked at our sangidges contentedly until suddenly mum exclaimed loudly and made me jump the height of myself;
“Look! Brave robin – hello robin!”
Sure enough, a little red-breasted dude was perched on a nearby chair with his head cocked, watching us sharply. I picked some crust from my sandwich and placed it at the far edge of the table.
Turns out that robins in Wicklow have more gourmet tastes though. Crusts bedamned… he hopped over to the edge of our plates and began to persistently rob bits of egg salad and chopped tomato until his teensy belly was full enough to merit us worthy of a quick song which he sang loudly from table centre. He might have expected a tip, but I’m not sure what the tipping etiquette is for garden birds.
Pass the salt, luvvie?
Eastery Artistry
Easter Holidays. A time to reflect about how much fun school actually is. A time to figure out ways to entertain one’s children without involving the television or the outside world because it’s feckin’ snowing out there for some reason.
I thought about making something chocolaty but given that I’m pregnant, it turns out there isn’t an ounce of the stuff left in the whole house. I thought about glueing eggshells back together but eggshells are flaky things and refuse to stay in tact under the pressure of a five-year-old’s grasp. I’d hard-boil them, but hey, we’re in a recession.
It was Puppychild who suggested an Art Attack. It’s one of her most favourite TV shows, bar Supernanny and Spongebob Squarepants. I showed her the website and guided her through its archives, asking her to pick an art project to do. I expected her to choose something involving fairies or fashion or something pink at least, but no.
She chose the severed hand.
I’m so delighted she’s inherited my sense of the macabre. TAT objected that this art project isn’t exactly Easter related but I disagreed… it does have loose connections to the theme of resurrection, if you think about it.
I put a spell on you…
One of the biggest things I missed about my next door neighbour when she moved away were the snippets of eyebrow-raising advice she used to dole out. Given that witches never really speak about being witches, especially to relative strangers, I felt honoured that she’d envelop me into her circle of trust and tell me of her voodoo shenanigans. After all, there’s a fine line between an open-minded person and someone who’s all too willing to go behind your back and bitch about what a weirdo you are, especially in Ireland.
She loaned me books about rituals. She taught me how to make altars so that I’d have my own personal space to meditate in, a space that meant something only to me. I learned amazing things.
How to get rid of an unwanted live-in houseguest:
Place a witch’s broomstick in the hallway beside the door, and stick a fork into the bristles. Within two weeks, the unwanted guest should be a thing of the past. I may be rough on specifics… maybe the fork needs to be made of a certain type of metal, maybe the broom should be upside-down – it’s not really something I’d try, but her story amused me. A friend of hers did this trick, and within two weeks was separated from her husband. Turns out that she herself was the disruptive influence in the house and her leaving was the best thing that happened for everyone involved. Eerie.
How to nab the house of your dreams:
Whether you’re bidding for a house, or hoping to inherit and battling with siblings, or maybe you just fancy the look of someone else’s gaff (I keep thinking of The War of the Roses for some reason), apparently there’s a fail-safe trick you can do to assure that pile of bricks will someday be yours.
Once a month, given obviously that you’re a female, you need to sneak onto the property, squat, and leak a few droplets of your own menstrual blood onto the soil surrounding the house. I’m not sure what your alternatives are if you’re post menopausal, perhaps crones in covens stockpile menstrual blood in their freezers? It’s an awfully personal question to ask.
I would seriously love to know if this actually works. There’s a beautiful house nearby, a stone-walled three-storey haven surrounded by mysterious woody hinterland with an elaborate tree house just about visible to plebs like me who gaze wistfully from behind a steeringwheel as I pass by every day. If I was caught mid-squat, I’d be scarleh, it’s not like I could pretend I had dropped a contact lens or something. If anything I’d be looking at a two-to-five stretch inside.
It would be kind of worth it if not for scientific experimentation though. Any takers?
Time to put what where our mouth is?!?
I love the way Thai folk get straight to the point. There’s no lying around waiting for others to do the dirty work for them, if you annoy them somehow, they’ll tell you unapologetically. We Irish could do with taking a leaf out of their book.
They’re pissed off with their government too.
“We will curse them, the aristocrats, the powerful people,” screamed Nattawut Saikua, a leader of a That anti-establishment street faction known as the Red Shirts.
“We will curse them with our own blood!”
And that’s just what they did. Thousands of supporters all donated a tablespoon of their own blood towards the cause, which was collected in gallon bottles, then slooshed in a dramatic gore-fest all over government buildings in Bangkok. That’s stylish protesting, that is.
All right, so there’s the dubious question of AIDS – how to test the donators, if tested at all? The Thai Red Cross objected strongly, citing the protest as a waste of much needed blood. Fair enough.
I can’t help but wonder if protesters in this country could do something like this, instead of gathering en-masse in Airports and hiding in buildings in sulky protest to the massive disgruntlement of the general public; would something grotesquely perverse work instead? If not blood, then there’s always the other option…
After all, it could be said that our country’s leaders are for the most part taking the piss.
Why don’t we give some to them for free?
