I miss Worzel Gummidge :(
I have been told today by two seperate people out of the blue that I need a Christening cake. I had no idea that there was such a thing. I have decided that I won’t bother, but will obsess about this constantly for the next week until the last second when I will change my mind and most likely pay over the odds for something that tastes a bit weird. I know that now, but will do nothing about it because that’s just the way it is. Acupuncture would probably fix this kink in my general thought pattern, but I can’t afford it! I need a new head. That’s what it is.
(image thieved from here)
Winter Year Weirdness
When I pull into a parking space I like to glance quickly into the car parked beside me, this tells me if I can get away with slamming my door against their enamel, as you do.
Today I did just that. Pulling into a space in a crammed carkpark underneath a large shopping complex, I scoped out the black 4×4 with its chaste paintwork beside me and was dismayed to see a little head floating in the back seat of the vehicle. She had big sad eyes and a head on her like a dandelion clock. Someone’s Granny. Awww.
They could’ve left her with an aul’ Woman’s Own or a lollipop or a crochet hook or even a Nintendo, but they didn’t. Not even so much as a crack in the window. She gave me the BDI as I assembled my array and made me feel guilty.
It made me wonder what sort of parent I’d be to my aul’ pair someday, should I be lucky enough. Would I let my mother run naked on the beach in just her nappy? Would I bring them to Lidl high on coke and let them run riot in the aisles and would my dad tug on my hem in Tesco, wheedling for Viagra (not ’till after dinner I said!)?
Then I wondered what sort of child I might make to my kids… would Puppychild read Tolkien to me as she tucks me in in my nineties and let me eat custard lollipops on Sundays? I must be more mindful of this in the future in preparation for Plan B, should my plans to bugger off to Africa eventually fall through. Plan C might be driving into the Grand Canyon high on my first ever shot of heroin… I haven’t really thought that one through yet.
Maybe the Eskimos have it right, but shuffling off in the direction of Wexford waiting for the elements to get me seems a bit rough. I might wander up the Dublin direction and do a Mad Mary on it and dance and sing in my finery or something else entirely.
Haunting a 4×4 in a carpark, though… that plan’s way down the list I tell yeh.
(image from http://deadpandas.blogspot.com/)
Jehovah’s Witnesses – My Dirty Little Secret
There are many places in this house that escape my cleaning routine. I may visit them twice a year, maybe not at all; the greasy crevice between the oven and the cabinets being one such place for instance. Euughh.
Another would be the place behind the giant shoe-box underneath our bed, apparently.
I spotted the glossy magazines while searching for spare change this morning, they grabbed my interest as a very strange place to keep magazines, so I pulled them out to have a better look. I turned page after page in total shock at both the images, and the fact that each page was so well-worn and crumpled by such apparently sweaty eager hands. I felt so confused and dirty at having found TAT’s little secret, and wondered what I should do with it.
See, I understand that a lot of men hide porn from their wives and I would be delighted if these magazines indeed were porn, but they weren’t porn at all, they were five different issues of WATCHTOWER, a Jehovah’s Witness rag that usually finds its way into the recycle bin around here (away with your claims of oozing purity! I reserve the right to be a total fuck-up, thank you very much!).
So what am I to do? Am I to throw the magazines on the coffee table in fury during a dramatic confrontation with TAT over a dirty-great-big fry-up one morning?
“WHAT’S THIS?!?” I might scream… “IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU WANT TO TELL ME ABOUT? AM I NOT MEETING YOUR NEEDS HERE OR WHAT?? ARE YOU TALKING TO STRANGE MEN AT THE DOOR BEHIND MY BACK NOW, IS THAT IT??”
…and so on and so forth.
No, that seems too much like hard work. Instead I shall tell all his friends so that they may look upon him with great awe and ridicule, for that is what it is all about, for God is a woman and likes wine and has a sense of humour about these things.
(I hope!)
See you in Hell.
xx
me
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?
