Monday, January 31, 2011

A WEE Bit Of Toilet Humour

God I hate myself for putting two puns in one title. Even one is too many.

Ok, so today's blog might have to be a quick one.

Or a long one. It all depends on how fast I write in the ad-breaks of Jeremy Kyle. *

But the important issue of the day was brought up during a conversation I was having a few weeks ago at a bar (I seem like an alcoholic, I know. I’m really not).

It was the act of going the bathroom at a bar, or anywhere for that matter. And how girls/ladies/whatever you’d like to call yourselves, always go in a pack. Stalking the bar as thought it was an African savanna, all having each other's backs, eyes never still (Except to look at the totally hot guy by the bar like OMG I think he like, looked at me. Does he like me? OMG I should totally talk to him).

Upon entering the serenity of the bathroom (I personally like to imagine a light Bach piece playing and the gentle smell of lavender in the air) they pamper themselves and compliment each other (“OMG look at you, you're so thin”, “That dress looks good on you!", “Oh thanks it's new”, “ Yeah, it really makes your boobs pop!”, “Oh thanks, they're new” etc, etc, etc).The atmosphere is pleasant and when the time comes for business you can retire to your booth and quietly await its arrival.

Male toilets are a very different atmosphere.

First, you almost always go alone (don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea).
Second, NO talking. Seriously, what are you going to say. “Hey bro, nice penis”. NO! Eyes ahead, I don’t care how much you dislike tiling. At a urinal, you fucking love tiling. You're like, "Holy shit look at this grouting, man they must have put some time into this". But you don’t say that, remember.

No one likes that dude that comes bursting into the toilet, slaps you on the back and starts talking to you like you're old pals.

When you have to go into the male bathroom there is no personal bubble, just a metal wall staring back at you. You try standing away from people, but someone will always push in and you’ll be stuck with someone attached to your shoulder for the duration of your time at the urinal.

But sometimes, like when you're drinking, you don't care. There's that drunken visit, the one the feels like half an orgasm. The visit that lasts for at least two minutes and you need to hold onto the walk for support.**

I have a lot more to say on this matter, I may address it at a later date but I don’t want to do one of those numbered lists of rules you see occasionally floating around the internet.

Until next time.

Also, wish me luck please, Hugh (my creative partner) and I are showing off our book tomorrow. Hopefully I return with good news.

*Damn you Jeremy. I both hate you and love you. Your collection of not only the ugliest guests in the world, but also the ugliest audience is a constant reminder that you don’t have to be beautiful to be fucked up. That stereotype is portrayed on too many MTV shows and needs to be stopped. But more on my love/loathing of JK (yeah I abbreviated it so what?) another day.

** On a side note, my dad told me that at beerfest they have handles by the toilets to hold on to. Genius!

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Just For The Record...

I have never had a sexual encounter with The Wiggles.

I mean, I’m sure as people they are nice enough, and in adult situations they are probably more than capable.

In fact,  they are probably quite good; all enthusiastic, turning it into a game. And even if you weren't that good*, they would still make you feel like a million bucks... aside from the feelings of shame and guilt you'd feel for just having had a romp with four men that play with kids for a living.

Dorothy would of course stay at home. I don’t care who you are I don’t want a dinosaur at a Wiggles orgy. Although, as a heterosexual male, it would be a little reassuring to have a female in the room**.

Captain Feather-Sword would have to leave his feather sword at the door; I don’t need that thing ruining my rhythm.

And Jeff would have to drink a serious amount of coffee before he was allowed in. You don’t want to be in the middle of some sort Wiggle-based pterodactyl maneuver, look over and find you have to yell “Wake up, Jeff!” around a mouthful of Captain FeatherSword. That's got to be seven kinds of messy.

So again, just reiterating, there was no Wiggles orgy.


The main reason I say this is that after I posted that picture yesterday of me covered in multi-coloured Wiggles jizz paint; I was questioned as to why.

The tale goes a little something like this***.

It was a dark and stormy night in Ponsonby, a suburb of Auckland in New Zealand, for the 14 of you not from New Zealand (I love that stats page thing on blogger by the way. I can watch my views, albeit slowly, climb and also see where in the world those people are reading from).

An African-themed 21st was taking place. I, being lazy and currently too poor to afford a costume, wore a t-shirt with a tiger on it. This was deemed a lazy costume choice. I was told it wasn’t good enough then was offered the option of losing the shirt and getting painted. Because recently I have been exercising more and eating right-ish (2 chicken tender crisps from BK and a pizza from work yesterday, oops) I thought “Woo shirt off!” Alcohol may have also played a part in this decision.

I was then tastefully painted with a few handprints on my torso and looked pretty tribal, that is if the tribe was preparing for a rave.

Is that guy tastefully dressing for the rave down in the big mud hut?
 I hear the Village Elders are playing a set.

After a period of time people wanted to add to the piece of artwork that was my body. A mixture of too many people figure painting, and having to run down a very rainy footpath to get from the kitchen, which housed my precious booze, to the room in which general partying was taking place meant that the paint never dried, and that it smudged... a lot.

What happened to that guy? Did he get raped by the Wiggles (No, remember we covered that).
And remember, Motorboat for Kidz; the gift that keeps on giving.

So that’s my tale, and you will notice no Wiggles were ever involved.

Until tomorrow dear readers. Remember to hit that follow button.

*Notice how I said you, cause lets face it I’m pretty good.

** Although the fact that she is a dinosaur may negate that fact. Like if your female dog walks in while you're having sex.

*** It doesn’t go exactly like this because, as I said yesterday, my mental state was impaired by the introduction of alcohol.

Saturday, January 29, 2011

How Clever Am I? Clever Like A Fox.

I don’t want to sound cocky but Im a pretty deep and meaningful person.

I mean my writing is full of symbolism and poetic devices.

Sadly some do not realise this, namely my good friend Beka (read her blog if you haven’t, but do it after).

The following is a text conversation we had last night while I may or may not have been under the influence of alcohol. But I think it proves my point quite nicely. Red text is what  I have addent retrospectively. 

Me: "So how many views are you up to?" I am quite competitive with beka, knowing she is on more than me (like she is right now for instance) makes me quite sad.
Beka: "lol I didn’t check. On my way to soccer atm. I hate rain, if you couldn’t tell."
Me:"Haha Nah I liked your one today I lolled." Aren't I nice
Beka: "Haha coming from you that’s pretty good. Are you really boycotting pants…?"
Me:  "Nah h’ve just had to reason to reason to put them on everyday. I figured I’d make the title somewhat relevant to me and the rest will be non sensacal shit."
Beka: "You do? Really?" 
Me: "Well I follow a narrative structure but it is certainly not a traditional one."
Beka: "I don’t know if it showed but I enjouyed it all the same."
Me: "I try. Like todays post was an allagorey for democracy."
Beka: "Okay okay point taken, oh wise one. I shouldve sifted through the prattle for meaningful messages."
Me: "How can it not show? The undying battle symbolises our relentless struggle to free ourselves. The vampire is the soulless nature of consumerism. The werewolf our transformation and hunger. Need I go on?" Obviously, duh!
*moments past it could be minuets, it could be hours. I think it was like 30 seconds*
Me: "I kinda wanna continue making up symbolism now."My impatience stems from both being quite drunk and the fact that I had a piece of paper that I'd written bullet points about the symbolism.
Beka: "Do it. Just uh broadcast the symbol more obviously for us art students."
Me: "Nah just to you. Okay so the gun represents freedom from the oppression but its also a violent symbol showing the violent change that needs to take place. Following me so far?!??!?!!" It is actually quite hard to get that level of punctuation on my phone. I must of sat there for at least 5 minuets for that.
Beka: "How can a gun represent freedom?!" It really can't and shouldn't! unless your George Bush.
Me: "Because while both creatures want to win the fight they are both immortal and therefore crave the FREEDOM of death. Dig?"
*again time passes, not sure how long. Probably not long. *
Me: "Am I moving to fast for you?" I am a condescending dick apparently.
Beka: "Sorry, had to go win a football game in the rain. I follow you now. Are you high btw?" 
The text here should really read "No, but i am a bottle of Rose down and been sipping on a delicious punch know as jungle juice.
Me: "Non no I am not but I did start drinking recently. So whats next to analyse?" 

The texts in here didn't make much sense. But thats because I looked like this at the time.
For the record the heart on my chest is for charity. A Charity we made up called "Motorboat for Kidz".

Beka: "I was showering. You’ve yet to be so eloquent in your blog that I aspires to be you dear. Try harder, harder I say." Challenge accepted!

So as you can clearly see I am quite wise.

Friday, January 28, 2011

The Pant Boycott: Day 13

Welcome back.

I hope you came back.

You did, didn’t you? It wasn't a mistake, you didn't hit back to many times and end up here.

 I knew I didn’t say penis or get my tits out enough in the first one. I was trying to be classy, like Jason Statham or Bond, cool, so you want to hang out with me, but cultured, so you’d be like, “oh that guy look at him all sophisticat, drinking red wine I’d say that’s an expensive wine not the cheap stuff cause he can probably tell the difference.” and when I said an adult word you knew shit was about to get real.

So, important topic of conversation. Something that has been made famous recently, by a series of movies that I don’t care to talk about here. (Don’t worry you’ll know the movies, and if you don’t where have you been under a rock and then I’ll ask if I can join you under there because it would make me feel good to have never heard of these movies/books.)

It is the eternal battle between pseudo-scientific creatures, namely Werewolves and Vampires.

The fact of the matter is neither would win in a fight to the death because you have to have special shit to kill them. I mean you could rip the guys head off and hide it but it’s a “fight to the death” no a “fight to the, oh shit where did my head go, oh that vampire dude hid it underground”.

I may be looking at this sort of fantasy animal/human/undead battle a little to in-depth but the only real way to truly officiate this sort of death match would be, assuming we are using some sort of arena, to place a gun in the middle. The gun would be loaded with a bullet, and the bullet would be made of silver, melted down from a cross, blessed by St. McClane, Patron saint of ass-kicking and that guy at McDonalds that lets you order a BLT bagel even though its after 10.30am.  I am pretty sure that’s the sort of bullet that would cause most ‘fantasy’ creatures to explode like they do in Blade, even that big ass dog thing from ‘Never Ending Story’.

If its not some sort of arena based battle well then I just don’t know why you asking me.

Feel free to argue with me but I am pretty sure my logic is flawless.

And also follow me, they count as votes to make me king of the Internets and when I become king of the internets we can dress up all old timey have cake and mead.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

My First and Possibly Last Blog

Hello everyone.
How ever do you do?

Welcome to my blog. Come in, you can leave your shoes on, I don't mind, really.  What? Oh yea, so, I like to keen a half eaten hamburger on the couch. Shut your face.

Did I already screw this up? I’m sorry I love you guys really *please like me face*.

But okay a blog and I’ve got one, now to use it.

I am writing this cause it seemed like a good idea at the time, like a lot of bad decisions I make in my life. And after reading so many blogs I wanted one, why do they get to have all the fun, I just did a degree in writing stuff shh your stupid face face. All I need now is talent and the ability to sit still enough to actually write something funny yet meaningful, like if Will Ferrel was in a remake of green mile playing the big black guy.

So now that I have finished uni and need to find a big persons job that requires me to put pants on every freaking day, instead I’m spending all day on the floor of the living room reading blogs and watching bad tv. But reading blogs has inspired me. There are some ridiculously funny and talented people out here on the Internet and I would like to sit amongst them, or maybe at the kid’s table*, but at least I’m still at the same dinner party right?

So, welcome! Enjoy.

*I do not want to sit at the kids’ table if it means I’m not allowed booze. I will however sit there if it means I get chicken nuggets and chips, cause they are totally better than your stupid fish thing with capers that look like rabbit poo.