Hubby and I hoovered Vodka on the weekend, jeez, hoover aint the word, let's just say we developed flip top heads and poured the worlds entire vodka stocks down the back of our throats. Such alcohol consumption obviously has ramifications, hmmm I love that word, its like someone mummified a ram or some shit, actually its not like that at all, but with my weekend brain fog lots of things are making perfect sense to me, anyway, back to the topic at hand. So with bountiful spirits still trapped on the breath of my cake hole, allow me to unveil my list of things NOT to do when your belly is full of vodka and you unleash it on the world.
1) HIDE ALL PHONES - I can remember ringing friends of ours in London (apparently finances are never ending when your maggoted) the one thing that sticks with me is they laughed, they laughed a lot. Thankfully it was midday where they were so we weren't being that bothersome (as fucken if). Nothing is worse than being sober and having to deal with a drunk on the phone sprouting volleys of dribbly shit peppered with the words 'love' every five seconds. It's like you somehow think you are so close to paralytic that you might die at any minute so you may as well make sure your last words on this planet have you telling someone you love them. Then they can appear on the news, mourning your untimely demise and saying how nice it was that you managed to slur out the words "I love you" before you keeled over, smacked your head on the floor and gargled a mouthful of your stomach contents until your lungs couldn't keep you alive no more. Of course large portions of these conversations no longer exist in my memory so fuck knows what sort of dribbly shit I did utter. Somehow I think your body evaluates your drunkenness and decides to self edit
"Oh yeah this fucko is off his trolley, in fact it's surprising we can operate this mouth at all, systems check, brain please delete all incoming memories, set yourself on hold and please maintain all other functions, please advise immediately if bladder control weakens, over"
Course that doesn't help things, God knows what I organized thru the use of speech and SMS texting, damn me and my multi tasking, seriously, they should have breathalyser testing on mobiles so it won't operate if your too trashed.
2) STAY AWAY FROM BALCONIES - We have a balcony, on a warm night it's lovely to sit out there and watch the world go by. On a warm night when you set your head to flip top and you've clearly over indulged it is dangerous. I would like to hereby apologize to anyone who had the great misfortune of walking down our street on Saturday night. Against a soundtrack of everything from Kate Bush to Jeff Buckley and maybe even some Kylie (lets face it we don't remember what we played, it could have been a static hiss and we would have boogied to it) anyway, against all that we dished out a volley of abuse, including such catchphrases as
"Get the fuck out of our street, your ugly"
"What the fuck are you looking at fucko?"
"If you take a picture right now you will remember the time I told you to FUCK OFF"
How desperately unattractive is that? We also threw the contents of our balcony at passersby, nothing worthwhile or expensive mind you, just things like chewing gum, used cigarette butts and old wrappers.
3) ORGANISE RECOVERY DRUGS BEFORE GETTING TRASHED - There is nothing worse than waking up the day after you converted your head into a funnel for alcoholic beverages, to find you need some herbal remedies to relax your throbbing head and add to your paranoia and no one can deliver. By deliver I mean, supplies are non existant and if they do exist they are below average and not worth sharing, though in the state we were in a heady cocktail of bong water served with a slice of lemon and a friggen umbrella would have sufficed.
I am sure there are other things that need to be added to the list but because of tip number 1 they no longer feature in my collected thoughts. Anyway the end result of this weekend of debauchery is a complete lack of interest in doing it again for a very long time and a resolution that goes something like this, next time put the bottle away and make mouth love to a herbal remedy, it's probably worse for you but the hangover is a fucken treat in comparison.
Monday, February 28
Wednesday, February 23
DAMN SHE'S A SWEATY BE-ARCH
Don't really see the point in having a thing like this without revealing more pointless, potentially embarrassing and slightly humorous things about myself. As the title suggests this one is about getting all sweaty. The sweaty be-arch (street slang for bitch in case you were a bit clueless) in the title refers to me. I am one hell of a sweaty be-arch (is anyone else getting sick of that word yet?) in fact my co workers use me as a barometer. When someone feels hot in our office they will turn to me and say
"Yo fucko, is it hot in here"
and if I say
"Nope"
they will think twice about arcing up the air conditioner, then again, because I'm so sweaty, I will generally encourage them to set it to chill anyway cos I'm bang up for the cold. I've heard stories about David Letterman having his TV studio nut freezing cold, I can sympathize, if I was in a suit, under hot TV lights, I too would want it so cold my nether regions resembled a second belly button. Being a sweaty individual doesn't help when you grow up in South Australia, which actually holds the record for being the driest state, in the driest continent on earth and it can crank out some seriously hot summers. In fact I just got off the phone with my heavenly mummy who's just be suffering through a 39 degree day (102.2 Fahrenheit) and it's been like that for a few days. Still, as luck would have it, that wasn't hot enough for me. Eager to pursue a career in the media, it would figure that my very first job would be in the north west of Western Australia, where everyday is generally over 35 degrees. In fact, I remember one particular day when our temperature gauge was flashing "HHH" because the outside temperature was too hot for it to read. Even more horrifying was the fact that it was well before midday when it happened. Suddenly, as my sweat glands were organising a search party to find all the available water in my body and preparing for its release, I get a phone call from the air traffic tower saying
"Hey fucko, we just wanna know what your temperature gauge is reading cos ours is saying it is 62 degrees (143 Fahrenheit) outside and we think it might be broken"
as a 19 year old, working in the bush (which means country, small isolated outpost, shitsville) that was enough to do my tiny head in. Of course that was before I left the comfort of our air conditioned office to walk home. Here's a tip, in those temperatures, those oh so funky black Raybans we wore in the late 80's tend to heat up so quickly that they actually start to burn your face and your forced to remove them very quickly. So here I am sweating like I'm the living, breathing equivalent of Niagara Falls, my sweat glands are so widely open that I look like I have a billion tiny mouths vomiting salty water all over me, plus I'm practically blind from the glare of the sun. If the walk home had taken any longer than 5 minutes I honestly believe I would have experienced spontaneous combustion in all it's flesh fusing glory. As for the amount of sweating, well lets just say, even when it is freezing cold here in Melbourne (a place recognised for being cold and unforgiving) I can usually be found 5 minutes into my walk taking off my scarf, 10 minutes later removing my beanie, 15 minutes later removing one glove so I can wipe the slick of sweat off my buzz cut head. Ya huh I said buzz cut, there is no thick mop of hair there to add to the warmth, its a zero buzz cut, which means its pretty much a freshly shaved ball that still manages to overheat. Now I know in some circles it is considered horny to work up a sweat, to be all wet and slick, especially when it comes to sex, but with me, I can lean in for a romantic snog (pash, suck face, French kiss, a bit of tongue hockey) with the hubby and I will need to change my t-shirt and have a shower...OK now I am exaggerating but you get the general idea. If I had my way and money was no object (Hello Paris!) I would have someone walk around behind me with a big fuck off air conditioner pointed directly at me, either that or a nice foot bowl full of iced water. Then again perhaps I could go the surgery option and have a few glands severed, burned, annihilated, exorcised, evicted and asked really nicely to piss off and don't come back. Though knowing my luck, that would mean I would be reduced to panting like a dog or all the sweat would combine to force itself out of any available pores which would probably mean I would spend the rest of my life wearing adult diapers and sliding around with a wet arse. Anyway just typing this has got the armpits a bit moist so I'm off to find two sanitary napkins and stuff them where the sweat won't stop dripping.
"Yo fucko, is it hot in here"
and if I say
"Nope"
they will think twice about arcing up the air conditioner, then again, because I'm so sweaty, I will generally encourage them to set it to chill anyway cos I'm bang up for the cold. I've heard stories about David Letterman having his TV studio nut freezing cold, I can sympathize, if I was in a suit, under hot TV lights, I too would want it so cold my nether regions resembled a second belly button. Being a sweaty individual doesn't help when you grow up in South Australia, which actually holds the record for being the driest state, in the driest continent on earth and it can crank out some seriously hot summers. In fact I just got off the phone with my heavenly mummy who's just be suffering through a 39 degree day (102.2 Fahrenheit) and it's been like that for a few days. Still, as luck would have it, that wasn't hot enough for me. Eager to pursue a career in the media, it would figure that my very first job would be in the north west of Western Australia, where everyday is generally over 35 degrees. In fact, I remember one particular day when our temperature gauge was flashing "HHH" because the outside temperature was too hot for it to read. Even more horrifying was the fact that it was well before midday when it happened. Suddenly, as my sweat glands were organising a search party to find all the available water in my body and preparing for its release, I get a phone call from the air traffic tower saying
"Hey fucko, we just wanna know what your temperature gauge is reading cos ours is saying it is 62 degrees (143 Fahrenheit) outside and we think it might be broken"
as a 19 year old, working in the bush (which means country, small isolated outpost, shitsville) that was enough to do my tiny head in. Of course that was before I left the comfort of our air conditioned office to walk home. Here's a tip, in those temperatures, those oh so funky black Raybans we wore in the late 80's tend to heat up so quickly that they actually start to burn your face and your forced to remove them very quickly. So here I am sweating like I'm the living, breathing equivalent of Niagara Falls, my sweat glands are so widely open that I look like I have a billion tiny mouths vomiting salty water all over me, plus I'm practically blind from the glare of the sun. If the walk home had taken any longer than 5 minutes I honestly believe I would have experienced spontaneous combustion in all it's flesh fusing glory. As for the amount of sweating, well lets just say, even when it is freezing cold here in Melbourne (a place recognised for being cold and unforgiving) I can usually be found 5 minutes into my walk taking off my scarf, 10 minutes later removing my beanie, 15 minutes later removing one glove so I can wipe the slick of sweat off my buzz cut head. Ya huh I said buzz cut, there is no thick mop of hair there to add to the warmth, its a zero buzz cut, which means its pretty much a freshly shaved ball that still manages to overheat. Now I know in some circles it is considered horny to work up a sweat, to be all wet and slick, especially when it comes to sex, but with me, I can lean in for a romantic snog (pash, suck face, French kiss, a bit of tongue hockey) with the hubby and I will need to change my t-shirt and have a shower...OK now I am exaggerating but you get the general idea. If I had my way and money was no object (Hello Paris!) I would have someone walk around behind me with a big fuck off air conditioner pointed directly at me, either that or a nice foot bowl full of iced water. Then again perhaps I could go the surgery option and have a few glands severed, burned, annihilated, exorcised, evicted and asked really nicely to piss off and don't come back. Though knowing my luck, that would mean I would be reduced to panting like a dog or all the sweat would combine to force itself out of any available pores which would probably mean I would spend the rest of my life wearing adult diapers and sliding around with a wet arse. Anyway just typing this has got the armpits a bit moist so I'm off to find two sanitary napkins and stuff them where the sweat won't stop dripping.
Tuesday, February 22
PARIS HILTON - WHEN MOBILE PHONES ATTACK
Righto, here is a confession, I LOVE PARIS HILTON. There I said it, well actually I wrote it, but you know what I mean. So here I go, getting ready to explain myself again. It's like you, as a reader, have been cast in the role of some kind of cyber Judge Judy, quick run to the kitchen and find a paper doily (that's a small ornamental mat, usually of lace or linen) to stuff into your shirt collar so you can stare down at me like some kind of twisted, badly dressed, dominatrix who woke up with a cracking hangover and is going through her monthlys. She tuts and sighs through my declaration of love for Paris, looks down her glasses at me and dishes up timely wisdom about how I shouldn't have come in front of her courtroom with such pointless cases for her to preside over. Once that's done I then have to go outside to face the waiting camera's and whinge about how
(adopt Southern accent....fuck knows why cos I'm an aussie but it works for me) "Well I know now I was barking up the wrong tree loving that dirty rich slapper, she done me wrong with her devil may care attitude and her 'look at me, if I didn't have buggery loads of cash, I would just be a B grade hooker' ways"
At this stage I would like it noted that I am not alone on this one. My beautiful hubby Adam shares my love for Paris, in fact, he is more devoted than I am. As soon as we saw the first episode of 'The Simple Life' we were hooked, in fact we went straight to Amazon to order the DVD. As for her 'whoops my clothes fell off while I was coked off my eyeballs and I went home with someone who likes to film his escapades' movies, we asked one of our lesbian friends to lend us her copy, but she is yet to deliver...something about parting with it doesn't sit right with her, go figure. So what is this strange love that we have for her? I think it comes down to a few things.
1) She looks like she is permanently off her trolley, in fact, I'm sure she is so seperated from her trolley that she doesn't even remember what shopping centre carpark she originally came from and a variety of small marsupials have started using her for shelter.
2) She wafts around like some sort of expensive fart, caught in the breeze, I use the word fart because farts know nothing, they inspire laughs and looks of shock and disgust and they never last long enough to make any real difference to your life.
3) She's bullshit rich and she doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself and some animals and thats mostly because they have the same brain capacity as her and even if they actually have more, they can't use it against her.
4) Regardless of what gets thrown at her, she keeps on going, though if you threw a hand granade at her she may find that a bit more challenging.
That brings us of course to the latest news from Paris, someone has hacked into her mobile phone (shock, horror, who knew they could do that?) and stolen all her celeb phone numbers plus her private phone pictures...see below. I feel sorry for her in someways, clearly she is a target but anyone in the public eye is, especially when her only claim to fame is that she is rich and she also does....um.....ok, so she doesn't do much, other than party, pose for pictures and get herself involved in messes like this one. As I said before, who knew they could hack into your phone and steal phone numbers and images. Then again, Paris isn't the sort of person who never loses her phone, so you would think she would use code names and make sure there were no naughty pictures on file. However that would require some pretty serious thinking on her behalf, which clearly is something she ain't very good at. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she was sitting at home in her mansion, surrounded by every whim and fancy she desires and for one brief second she thought about this new crisis and before she could even muster the strength to get upset about it, she remembered she was so spastically rich she didn't have to worry about anything.
(adopt Southern accent....fuck knows why cos I'm an aussie but it works for me) "Well I know now I was barking up the wrong tree loving that dirty rich slapper, she done me wrong with her devil may care attitude and her 'look at me, if I didn't have buggery loads of cash, I would just be a B grade hooker' ways"
At this stage I would like it noted that I am not alone on this one. My beautiful hubby Adam shares my love for Paris, in fact, he is more devoted than I am. As soon as we saw the first episode of 'The Simple Life' we were hooked, in fact we went straight to Amazon to order the DVD. As for her 'whoops my clothes fell off while I was coked off my eyeballs and I went home with someone who likes to film his escapades' movies, we asked one of our lesbian friends to lend us her copy, but she is yet to deliver...something about parting with it doesn't sit right with her, go figure. So what is this strange love that we have for her? I think it comes down to a few things.
1) She looks like she is permanently off her trolley, in fact, I'm sure she is so seperated from her trolley that she doesn't even remember what shopping centre carpark she originally came from and a variety of small marsupials have started using her for shelter.
2) She wafts around like some sort of expensive fart, caught in the breeze, I use the word fart because farts know nothing, they inspire laughs and looks of shock and disgust and they never last long enough to make any real difference to your life.
3) She's bullshit rich and she doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself and some animals and thats mostly because they have the same brain capacity as her and even if they actually have more, they can't use it against her.
4) Regardless of what gets thrown at her, she keeps on going, though if you threw a hand granade at her she may find that a bit more challenging.
That brings us of course to the latest news from Paris, someone has hacked into her mobile phone (shock, horror, who knew they could do that?) and stolen all her celeb phone numbers plus her private phone pictures...see below. I feel sorry for her in someways, clearly she is a target but anyone in the public eye is, especially when her only claim to fame is that she is rich and she also does....um.....ok, so she doesn't do much, other than party, pose for pictures and get herself involved in messes like this one. As I said before, who knew they could hack into your phone and steal phone numbers and images. Then again, Paris isn't the sort of person who never loses her phone, so you would think she would use code names and make sure there were no naughty pictures on file. However that would require some pretty serious thinking on her behalf, which clearly is something she ain't very good at. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she was sitting at home in her mansion, surrounded by every whim and fancy she desires and for one brief second she thought about this new crisis and before she could even muster the strength to get upset about it, she remembered she was so spastically rich she didn't have to worry about anything.
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Monday, February 21
I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY!
First things first, what the hell is FUCKO INC you may be asking? If you weren't asking that, then allow me to force you to think about it and now that you have done that, it's time to suffer through the explanation for it as well. Let's just say, one of my dear, close, potty mouthed friends slipped that word into my mental dictionary a few years ago....thanks so much Claire. I should also mention that Claire was a delicate little flower when she first met me, but 7 years of working together changed her into a carbon copy of me...a constantly swearing, foul mouthed little minx who only stopped mid curse to perve at the passing punters, although conversations could continue while said cursing was being said. Does that make sense? Anyway, I have no idea where she found it or how it arrived in her head but I will forever be grateful for its inclusion in my life. Perhaps I should explain its adaptability to your everyday living. Fucko is a cheesier way of saying that favourite of four letter words FUCK, it can be as loving or as brutal as you wish it to be, it all comes down to the two "P's".
PRESENTATION - How you choose to present the word in a sentence.
PASSION - The passion with which you slip it or spit it out of your mouth.
For example Johnny might say as he wanders into work and greets his beloved co-workers
"Morning you bunch of Fucko's, how are ya?"
and Johnny's co workers might reply with
"Good thanks fucko and you?"
and that would be a delightful display of friends expressing their love for one another with a personalized greeting....sort of.
Then again if Johnny was cut off in traffic whilst driving he might choose to roll his window down and yell
"You fucko! Where did you learn to drive at Fucko headquarters?"
each letter coming from his mouth with a volley of spittle and phlegm that sprays forth in a display of open hostility and hatred. That would be.....well honestly it would show that Johnny really needs to take public transport and maybe indulge in some sort of rest and relaxation workshop, but it would also display the word 'fucko' in its most brutal form.
Now that you have seen the majestic beauty of the word fucko and its many uses may I suggest you make it part of your everyday, slip it in when you are next in conversation and see how your friends react, share it with loved ones or just spit it at the next stupid fucko that rubs you up the wrong way. Anyway I think I have said enough for today, more to come as I allow my thoughts to attach themselves to the keyboard in front of me, then pollute the minds of good, God fearing people like yourselves. Actually if you read this far and you are actually a good, God fearing person, no doubt you are tut tutting me and thinking how lucky you are because you won't have to share a cloud with me in heaven sprouting philosophies about Fucko cause I will be burning in hell with anyone else that ever used the word FUCKO.
PRESENTATION - How you choose to present the word in a sentence.
PASSION - The passion with which you slip it or spit it out of your mouth.
For example Johnny might say as he wanders into work and greets his beloved co-workers
"Morning you bunch of Fucko's, how are ya?"
and Johnny's co workers might reply with
"Good thanks fucko and you?"
and that would be a delightful display of friends expressing their love for one another with a personalized greeting....sort of.
Then again if Johnny was cut off in traffic whilst driving he might choose to roll his window down and yell
"You fucko! Where did you learn to drive at Fucko headquarters?"
each letter coming from his mouth with a volley of spittle and phlegm that sprays forth in a display of open hostility and hatred. That would be.....well honestly it would show that Johnny really needs to take public transport and maybe indulge in some sort of rest and relaxation workshop, but it would also display the word 'fucko' in its most brutal form.
Now that you have seen the majestic beauty of the word fucko and its many uses may I suggest you make it part of your everyday, slip it in when you are next in conversation and see how your friends react, share it with loved ones or just spit it at the next stupid fucko that rubs you up the wrong way. Anyway I think I have said enough for today, more to come as I allow my thoughts to attach themselves to the keyboard in front of me, then pollute the minds of good, God fearing people like yourselves. Actually if you read this far and you are actually a good, God fearing person, no doubt you are tut tutting me and thinking how lucky you are because you won't have to share a cloud with me in heaven sprouting philosophies about Fucko cause I will be burning in hell with anyone else that ever used the word FUCKO.
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