I’ve just received an email from Jodie, an American friend of mine.
Now, I know some people myopically don't like Americans, period, but I’m quite fond of many Americans.
I like the way they do weird things like carry out research that shows that 40% of American woman have thrown footwear at a man. (Does this explain why American women like shoes with sharp stiletto heels?). And that 90% of Americans believe in divine retribution (although nearly half the female population will try to exact their own via airborne shoes) while 82% believe in the afterlife (this can be used to explain airborne shoes).
The plaintive email I received from my friend, obviously sent out in bulk to this lady’s many acquaintances, was a comment by an American commentator that said:
“ I am sorry but after hearing they want to sing the National Anthem in Spanish -- enough is enough.”
I found this astonishing! Americans still fervently sing their national anthem?! What *are* they?!
Here in New Zealand we don’t do that sort of thing. Over time, we’ve substituted for the embarrassing ordeal of singing the national anthem, the performance of the Kiwi version of line dancing - the haka. But even this is under review since the latest haka done by rugby players has them pulling their fingers across their throat in a throat-cutting gesture.
I really can't see this haka gaining wide acceptance. While sometimes appropriate, it simply wouldn't be politically correct at events such as parent/teacher meetings.
Americans sing their national anthem?! Can you picture a crowd of Kiwi rugby enthusiasts singing the New Zealand national anthem?! The result could only be rude.
I mean, the words are sure to be subverted to something like
“God of Nations with smelly feet,
Isn’t bondage love so sweet,
Feed our vices, we entreat,
God defend our free love.”
But the Yanks stand like a lot of pussies at public events and *sing* their song! Geez, the last time I did anything like that was at primary school when everyone had to stand and sing "Mary had a little lamb."
Which reminds me, I never did find out if Mary had a ram or a ewe, whether she milked it (note I didn't say wether she milked it), shore it, or was just raising it for Christmas dinner. Us country boys like to learn the technical facts, you know...
But as much as I like Americans, they can be darn confusing to non-Americans. I once met an English guy who told me how an American prostitute had really confused him.
"We went upstairs," he said, "and had a bit of old narsty, and she looked up at me and said, 'Are you through?'”
Then again, the Yanks and the English, despite Prime Minister Blair’s every good intention, still rub each other up the wrong. To insert into the writing some rare social commentary on my part, I must say that it is the Englishman's authority position, as arbiter of elegance, speech, literature, etc., that makes him so awesome to certain Americans and so infuriating to others. The American immediately senses in the Englishman’s habits the notion of superiority, though he is seldom able to see, in his own opposite habits of flamboyance and overstatement, an anxious uncertainty as to whether he might not actually be inferior.
And things are not helped by events like the time an American was drunk on a train in Britain. The drunken Yank scandalised the passengers in the compartment by picking his nose, scraping the fur off his tongue and putting it under the seat, reaching into his fly and elaborately adjusting his genitals, etc.
For a while an Englishman watched him coldly from the seat facing, before finally saying, "Do you suppose, old chap, that you could conclude the entertainment with a rousing good fart?"
Of course, I’ve learnt that there are some things you never remind Americans about. One is Cuba. Americans get awful upset if you tell them that not far from their shores lives the longest reigning dictator in power currently, if you don't count Martha Stewart.
President Bush, who recently had a health check up and is pleased it showed that he didn’t have any venereal diseases caught from sitting in Clinton’s chair, is now threatening to invade Cuba. It seems that he’s just discovered that Cuban schools have some of the best mathematics teachers in the world. So he now has an excuse to invade - Cuba has weapons of maths instruction.
Ah, poor old George Bush. Every year is a little harder for him, thanks to Viagra.
But for all their differences, Americans are the same as everyone else.
For example, like every other woman, an American woman also never knows where to look when eating a banana.
And every American guy has also, at some stage while taking a pee, had the urinal flush half way through and then raced against the flush.
And we’ve all had an uncle who tried to steal our nose.
Ah yes, it’s a small world.
--
Allan
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Sex and confusion
It seems that sex and confusion go … er … hand in hand in the experience of looking after pets.
I remember that, when I was about five years old, we used to have a pet cow called Nellie. I don’t remember all that much about Nellie except that she was very BIG, and one day she was sent off to visit a bull. I wasn’t really surprised about this, actually. After all, she’d been alone in a paddock for heaven knows how long and I figured that she was probably in need of some company.
Anyway, after that she got a bit fat and the day came when my mother earnestly took me out to see Nellie have her baby.
As an experience, birth was all a bit much for a five-year-old. All I can remember thinking is that I knew that kangaroos keep their babies in a pouch, but that was a *really* strange place for cows to keep theirs.
Now, after my story about the sexing of Scrooch, friend Sally has told me about her axolotls (pronounced Ax-oh-lot-uls), otherwise known as the Mexican Salamander or the Mexican Walking Fish.
You may have seen these weird fish-type things. They look like a cross between a fish, a lizard, and Kermit The Frog, and have these rudimentary legs, mainly because they, like politicians, are a backward step in evolution. They are descended from terrestrial salamanders.
Sally has two axolotls and, in usual pet owner fashion, wasn’t sure which was male and which was female. So one creature was named Python and the other was called Monty. As it turned out, Python laid the eggs and Monty made the sperm. So, given standard sexual practices, it follows that Python is the female and Monty is the male. OK. That problem was solved.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the term “standard sexual practices” when it comes to axolotls, because Sally tells me that axolotls have a reproductive system that most women would give their eyeteeth for.
Axolotls have a weird mating ritual where the male puts “packages” of sperm around the tanks and then “leads” the female over them. The female then picks up the ones she likes and inserts them into herself with her back legs.
Think about it! No longer any need for headaches as the male doesn’t come anywhere near you and, not only that, but having done his business alone, he then takes you shopping! I can see some women salivating at the thought of it all.
Sadly, the whole sex thing is a lose/lose situation for the male axolotl. Not only does he get no nooky and have to take her shopping in a situation worse than accompanying her into a lingerie store, but Sally says that a breeding female axolotl gets quite hungry and when you are blind and in a three foot tank, the male gets a chunk taken out of him at times. Thus, it’s probably quite understandable that Sally’s Monty is skinny, looks a bit put upon – and has a chunk out of his tail.
I can only say that if I were Sally’s Monty, I would welcome the site of her cat Eugenie sitting on the thick glass lid, and maybe even hope that the lid would slip one day and Eugenie would put me out of my misery.
Then again, it could be worse. Monty could be one of the eggs that Python has just laid. Sally says that she now has to decide whether to leave Python’s newly-laid eggs in the tank or remove them. If she removes the eggs, most of them will not survive. On the other hand, if she doesn’t remove them, Monty and Python, having the average fish’s two second attention span will, as Sally puts it, “forget the miraculous event ...and eat the buggers.”
Sally says that she has toyed with the idea of removing Python and Monty from the tank, but that will only mean she then has to find space for *another* tank of weird creatures.
I have great sympathy for Sally. And even more for Monty!
So, the more pet sex stories I hear from my friends, the more I’m convinced that I must write a book on the subject. I think I’ll call it “Sex and The Single Pet Owner”.
I remember that, when I was about five years old, we used to have a pet cow called Nellie. I don’t remember all that much about Nellie except that she was very BIG, and one day she was sent off to visit a bull. I wasn’t really surprised about this, actually. After all, she’d been alone in a paddock for heaven knows how long and I figured that she was probably in need of some company.
Anyway, after that she got a bit fat and the day came when my mother earnestly took me out to see Nellie have her baby.
As an experience, birth was all a bit much for a five-year-old. All I can remember thinking is that I knew that kangaroos keep their babies in a pouch, but that was a *really* strange place for cows to keep theirs.
Now, after my story about the sexing of Scrooch, friend Sally has told me about her axolotls (pronounced Ax-oh-lot-uls), otherwise known as the Mexican Salamander or the Mexican Walking Fish.
You may have seen these weird fish-type things. They look like a cross between a fish, a lizard, and Kermit The Frog, and have these rudimentary legs, mainly because they, like politicians, are a backward step in evolution. They are descended from terrestrial salamanders.
Sally has two axolotls and, in usual pet owner fashion, wasn’t sure which was male and which was female. So one creature was named Python and the other was called Monty. As it turned out, Python laid the eggs and Monty made the sperm. So, given standard sexual practices, it follows that Python is the female and Monty is the male. OK. That problem was solved.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have used the term “standard sexual practices” when it comes to axolotls, because Sally tells me that axolotls have a reproductive system that most women would give their eyeteeth for.
Axolotls have a weird mating ritual where the male puts “packages” of sperm around the tanks and then “leads” the female over them. The female then picks up the ones she likes and inserts them into herself with her back legs.
Think about it! No longer any need for headaches as the male doesn’t come anywhere near you and, not only that, but having done his business alone, he then takes you shopping! I can see some women salivating at the thought of it all.
Sadly, the whole sex thing is a lose/lose situation for the male axolotl. Not only does he get no nooky and have to take her shopping in a situation worse than accompanying her into a lingerie store, but Sally says that a breeding female axolotl gets quite hungry and when you are blind and in a three foot tank, the male gets a chunk taken out of him at times. Thus, it’s probably quite understandable that Sally’s Monty is skinny, looks a bit put upon – and has a chunk out of his tail.
I can only say that if I were Sally’s Monty, I would welcome the site of her cat Eugenie sitting on the thick glass lid, and maybe even hope that the lid would slip one day and Eugenie would put me out of my misery.
Then again, it could be worse. Monty could be one of the eggs that Python has just laid. Sally says that she now has to decide whether to leave Python’s newly-laid eggs in the tank or remove them. If she removes the eggs, most of them will not survive. On the other hand, if she doesn’t remove them, Monty and Python, having the average fish’s two second attention span will, as Sally puts it, “forget the miraculous event ...and eat the buggers.”
Sally says that she has toyed with the idea of removing Python and Monty from the tank, but that will only mean she then has to find space for *another* tank of weird creatures.
I have great sympathy for Sally. And even more for Monty!
So, the more pet sex stories I hear from my friends, the more I’m convinced that I must write a book on the subject. I think I’ll call it “Sex and The Single Pet Owner”.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Films, foibles, and fantasies
(Sent to a few lady friends)
Hey, it’s going to fine weather all next week! Darlink, my heart bleeds for you, stuck inside at a desk all day. It must be terrible to have a boss so adept with superglue.
Ah well, this weekend you can enjoy all the sunshine and get an all-over-tan. OK, just a mild shading on the few bits of skin you dare expose to the winter sun.
Me, I'm stuck inside finishing the revision of my 1996 kid's book on Western Samoa.
Whoops! On Samoa. They changed the name of their country from Western Samoa to just Samoa in 1997, much to the chagrin of their American Samoa neighbours.
I was so taken with one quote I found while researching the revision that I just had to use it in this edition: "Someone once said that if relaxation was an Olympic games sport, Samoa is where you would go to train."
Anyway, I have now put that book to bed (hey, I don’t have any kids to put to bed and you are so far away...) so I will now start on my book on Sir Peter Blake. Ah well, at least he won't object to anything I write about him. And the kids will just love the fact that he was murdered by pirates. Of course, I can think of better ways of pleasing kids, but ...
Tonight I might well watch a film on DVD. I started to watch a Woody Allen film last night called “Scenes From A Mall”. I have to say that, as a comedy, it was about as funny and enjoyable as shopping at a mall. I could do better.
Indeed, I might just give that a go. With modern technology being what it is, and Peter Jackson's investment in film production in New Zealand, the country is all set up to take great advantage of the forthcoming trend to downloaded entertainment. I was reading the other day that the experts reckon that there is going to be an increased cash flow of billions of US dollars in the downloaded entertainment field in the next decade. Now, I'm not greedy. A mere million or two would be fine for me.
And that doesn’t count the fact that New Zealand is going to digital TV and the TV companies will be looking for content for their many digital channels.
So I'm going to get my little camera out and start taking little movies of my exciting life. Then I'll turn it into a film. Hey, I've just written a book on Peter Jackson. He has proved that horror comedies can sell.
--
Allan
And in reply to an email I got from sending this out…
Rachel sweetie.
You want to star in the horror comedy I’m making of my life?!
Darling, I’m sorry to say, but that is impossible. In order to do that, you and your terrible tyke would have to come up here and be a big part in my life or vice versa.
As it is, separated as we are by the Cook Strait and several million grass grub munching the South Island’s pasture, you can only have a bit part.
What do you mean, which bit? Well, with the distance between us, it certainly wouldn’t be my best bit!
But look on the bright side. You are freed of the threat of being flashed by paparazzi … or even me. And you can walk out of the bathroom wearing little more than underarm deodorant without worrying whether I will be waiting there to film the adult scenes of my movie.
Besides, life as a film star is just so tough. I mean, if you deprived your son of his television for disciplinary purposes, you’d be sure to be portrayed as an out-of-control freak in at least two tabloid newspapers. And if your G-string slipped into an uncomfortable region and you were photographed pulling it back into place, I hate to think what the tabloids would say!
So, unknown as you are, you are free to have a battle of wits with your son - even though he is unarmed - with no concerns except for the thought that what you think is latent rheumatism may be him and his mates experimenting with a voodoo doll.
However, when you want to become truly famous, just let me know and I will grab my camera and catch the next aeroplane down to see you. You do have an electric blanket on your bed, don’t you?
--
Allan
Hey, it’s going to fine weather all next week! Darlink, my heart bleeds for you, stuck inside at a desk all day. It must be terrible to have a boss so adept with superglue.
Ah well, this weekend you can enjoy all the sunshine and get an all-over-tan. OK, just a mild shading on the few bits of skin you dare expose to the winter sun.
Me, I'm stuck inside finishing the revision of my 1996 kid's book on Western Samoa.
Whoops! On Samoa. They changed the name of their country from Western Samoa to just Samoa in 1997, much to the chagrin of their American Samoa neighbours.
I was so taken with one quote I found while researching the revision that I just had to use it in this edition: "Someone once said that if relaxation was an Olympic games sport, Samoa is where you would go to train."
Anyway, I have now put that book to bed (hey, I don’t have any kids to put to bed and you are so far away...) so I will now start on my book on Sir Peter Blake. Ah well, at least he won't object to anything I write about him. And the kids will just love the fact that he was murdered by pirates. Of course, I can think of better ways of pleasing kids, but ...
Tonight I might well watch a film on DVD. I started to watch a Woody Allen film last night called “Scenes From A Mall”. I have to say that, as a comedy, it was about as funny and enjoyable as shopping at a mall. I could do better.
Indeed, I might just give that a go. With modern technology being what it is, and Peter Jackson's investment in film production in New Zealand, the country is all set up to take great advantage of the forthcoming trend to downloaded entertainment. I was reading the other day that the experts reckon that there is going to be an increased cash flow of billions of US dollars in the downloaded entertainment field in the next decade. Now, I'm not greedy. A mere million or two would be fine for me.
And that doesn’t count the fact that New Zealand is going to digital TV and the TV companies will be looking for content for their many digital channels.
So I'm going to get my little camera out and start taking little movies of my exciting life. Then I'll turn it into a film. Hey, I've just written a book on Peter Jackson. He has proved that horror comedies can sell.
--
Allan
And in reply to an email I got from sending this out…
Rachel sweetie.
You want to star in the horror comedy I’m making of my life?!
Darling, I’m sorry to say, but that is impossible. In order to do that, you and your terrible tyke would have to come up here and be a big part in my life or vice versa.
As it is, separated as we are by the Cook Strait and several million grass grub munching the South Island’s pasture, you can only have a bit part.
What do you mean, which bit? Well, with the distance between us, it certainly wouldn’t be my best bit!
But look on the bright side. You are freed of the threat of being flashed by paparazzi … or even me. And you can walk out of the bathroom wearing little more than underarm deodorant without worrying whether I will be waiting there to film the adult scenes of my movie.
Besides, life as a film star is just so tough. I mean, if you deprived your son of his television for disciplinary purposes, you’d be sure to be portrayed as an out-of-control freak in at least two tabloid newspapers. And if your G-string slipped into an uncomfortable region and you were photographed pulling it back into place, I hate to think what the tabloids would say!
So, unknown as you are, you are free to have a battle of wits with your son - even though he is unarmed - with no concerns except for the thought that what you think is latent rheumatism may be him and his mates experimenting with a voodoo doll.
However, when you want to become truly famous, just let me know and I will grab my camera and catch the next aeroplane down to see you. You do have an electric blanket on your bed, don’t you?
--
Allan
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Sexing The Single Pussy
A new pussy has come into my life.
A young pussy, admittedly, but a lovely pussy all the same.
It’s a cute ginger tabby that seems to have adopted me. I have no delusion that it is my naturally attractive persona that attracts him to me. His is a cupboard love - when he comes to visit, I give him food and milk.
Scrooch, as I call him (I nearly called him Rover but if he and a dog came when I called him, life could get exciting…) Scrooch is at that cute stage when he will attack anything that swings enticingly and invitingly above him. So I never go naked in the house when he’s visiting.
At least, I think Scrooch is a he. Friend, Shirley was visiting when he last came to visit and I introduced him to her.
“Is it a male or a female?” she asked.
“A male,” I replied. Then I added: “I think.”
Shirley put on this knowledgeable look that comes from having read the 1947 Girl’s Book Of Caring For Pets” and said: “I’ll find out.”
So she swooped down, picked the cat up and felt between its back legs.
Now *that* gave Scrooch cause for concern. He looked at me as if to say: “Do you know where this human is squeezing me!?” and wriggled in protest.
“It’s a girl,” said Shirley, putting the offended cat back on the ground.
I offered Scrooch some jellimeat, and thankfully the transexual cat decided that it would forgo its indignation for food and started tucking in.
Scrooch was a she?! Nah. That cat didn’t strike me as a she cat. I looked at it eating up large and found myself wondering whether Shirley’s animal sexing abilities were all that good. After all, the 1947 Girl’s Book Of Caring For Pets probably didn’t even mention sex, or else it inferred that animal birth was all a matter of immaculate conception. And it certainly wouldn’t have told her how to distinguish between male and female genitalia by feel.
“Are you sure it’s male?” I asked doubtfully, “From the rear end it doesn’t look like that to me.”
Next second the poor cat was hauled up away from its jelliment and Shirley was again poking and prodding its nether regions. I could have sworn that cat was tossing up whether to spit out the food in its mouth and attack; or chew it up, swallow and just fart in self defence. Instead, it just did a quick swallow before wriggling in Shirley’s arms to escape those probing fingers.
“It could be a male,” said Shirley as she sadistically, if carefully, squeezed delicate parts of the poor cat’s personage. “On our cat, it’s balls were as large as an elephant’s.”
I restrained myself from asking her how she knew how large an elephant’s balls were and, as the cat’s tail started a slow wicked wagging, said: “If you don’t put him down, he gonna slice you.”
Shirley looked warily down at the lithe young cat in her hands and obviously decided that even if he had balls, she didn’t. So after one last squeeze, the cat was placed back down near its food. I have to say it was a tribute either to his nice nature or his greediness that Scrooch went back to eating, rather than starting to slice into Shirley’s nearby ankles.
A few minutes later, when Shirley and I had sat down to have a cup of tea, she looked down at the little ginger furrball now stretched out happily in front of the LPG heater and said: “Come to think of it, it must be a male. All ginger tabbies are male”.
It was right about then that the cat stopped cleaning itself and looked up at her. Now I’m pretty good at reading animal’s expressions, and I’m pretty sure I know what Scrooch was thinking:
“And you think of that AFTER you’ve given me sore balls?!”
A young pussy, admittedly, but a lovely pussy all the same.
It’s a cute ginger tabby that seems to have adopted me. I have no delusion that it is my naturally attractive persona that attracts him to me. His is a cupboard love - when he comes to visit, I give him food and milk.
Scrooch, as I call him (I nearly called him Rover but if he and a dog came when I called him, life could get exciting…) Scrooch is at that cute stage when he will attack anything that swings enticingly and invitingly above him. So I never go naked in the house when he’s visiting.
At least, I think Scrooch is a he. Friend, Shirley was visiting when he last came to visit and I introduced him to her.
“Is it a male or a female?” she asked.
“A male,” I replied. Then I added: “I think.”
Shirley put on this knowledgeable look that comes from having read the 1947 Girl’s Book Of Caring For Pets” and said: “I’ll find out.”
So she swooped down, picked the cat up and felt between its back legs.
Now *that* gave Scrooch cause for concern. He looked at me as if to say: “Do you know where this human is squeezing me!?” and wriggled in protest.
“It’s a girl,” said Shirley, putting the offended cat back on the ground.
I offered Scrooch some jellimeat, and thankfully the transexual cat decided that it would forgo its indignation for food and started tucking in.
Scrooch was a she?! Nah. That cat didn’t strike me as a she cat. I looked at it eating up large and found myself wondering whether Shirley’s animal sexing abilities were all that good. After all, the 1947 Girl’s Book Of Caring For Pets probably didn’t even mention sex, or else it inferred that animal birth was all a matter of immaculate conception. And it certainly wouldn’t have told her how to distinguish between male and female genitalia by feel.
“Are you sure it’s male?” I asked doubtfully, “From the rear end it doesn’t look like that to me.”
Next second the poor cat was hauled up away from its jelliment and Shirley was again poking and prodding its nether regions. I could have sworn that cat was tossing up whether to spit out the food in its mouth and attack; or chew it up, swallow and just fart in self defence. Instead, it just did a quick swallow before wriggling in Shirley’s arms to escape those probing fingers.
“It could be a male,” said Shirley as she sadistically, if carefully, squeezed delicate parts of the poor cat’s personage. “On our cat, it’s balls were as large as an elephant’s.”
I restrained myself from asking her how she knew how large an elephant’s balls were and, as the cat’s tail started a slow wicked wagging, said: “If you don’t put him down, he gonna slice you.”
Shirley looked warily down at the lithe young cat in her hands and obviously decided that even if he had balls, she didn’t. So after one last squeeze, the cat was placed back down near its food. I have to say it was a tribute either to his nice nature or his greediness that Scrooch went back to eating, rather than starting to slice into Shirley’s nearby ankles.
A few minutes later, when Shirley and I had sat down to have a cup of tea, she looked down at the little ginger furrball now stretched out happily in front of the LPG heater and said: “Come to think of it, it must be a male. All ginger tabbies are male”.
It was right about then that the cat stopped cleaning itself and looked up at her. Now I’m pretty good at reading animal’s expressions, and I’m pretty sure I know what Scrooch was thinking:
“And you think of that AFTER you’ve given me sore balls?!”
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Literary brilliance
Theresa, a friend of mine who is bravely teaching little kiddlies in Japan, has told me that there are not enough books out for ESOL (English as a Second Language) classes.
And she asked me if I have written any ESOL books.
Well, I must admit I haven’t. I mean, there are only 2000 main words you are supposed to use in those books and a verbose chappy like me would be in real trouble restricting himself to that small a vocabulary!
But, I like a challenge (hey, I’m a friend of yours, for starters), so I decided to try my hand at writing an ESOL book for adult readers.
I think I’ve done a brilliant job. It’s below.
===================
The Kiwi is a bird.
Do not look in a tree for a Kiwi.
The Kiwi cannot fly.
It would fall out of the tree.
Look on the ground for a Kiwi.
Look at night.
The Kiwi only comes out at night.
But it does not go to parties.
It just jives around on the ground.
It eats grubs. It eats bugs. It goes poos a lot.
People from New Zealand are called Kiwis
New Zealanders cannot fly.
New Zealanders fall out of trees.
New Zealanders can be found on the ground at night.
If they are drunk.
New Zealanders do go to parties.
They go to parties after games of rugby.
Where they try to score..
New Zealanders don’t usually eat grubs.
New Zealanders don’t usually eat bugs.
Unless they are playing rugby.
And she asked me if I have written any ESOL books.
Well, I must admit I haven’t. I mean, there are only 2000 main words you are supposed to use in those books and a verbose chappy like me would be in real trouble restricting himself to that small a vocabulary!
But, I like a challenge (hey, I’m a friend of yours, for starters), so I decided to try my hand at writing an ESOL book for adult readers.
I think I’ve done a brilliant job. It’s below.
===================
The Kiwi is a bird.
Do not look in a tree for a Kiwi.
The Kiwi cannot fly.
It would fall out of the tree.
Look on the ground for a Kiwi.
Look at night.
The Kiwi only comes out at night.
But it does not go to parties.
It just jives around on the ground.
It eats grubs. It eats bugs. It goes poos a lot.
People from New Zealand are called Kiwis
New Zealanders cannot fly.
New Zealanders fall out of trees.
New Zealanders can be found on the ground at night.
If they are drunk.
New Zealanders do go to parties.
They go to parties after games of rugby.
Where they try to score..
New Zealanders don’t usually eat grubs.
New Zealanders don’t usually eat bugs.
Unless they are playing rugby.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
A country boy visits the city
Gidday.
How the bloody hell are ya?
I was over in Wellington in me motor today. Geez, they sure have lots of motors over there. I tried to do a turn in Ngaio into a driveway leading to parking at a cafe thingy only to find some dozy city joker sitting in the driveway (in his motor, of course) looking blankly back at me.
There I was, stuck in the middle of the road like a cast ewe, with these fellas and sheilas in cars all streaming around me as if mechanical chicanes were part and parcel of motoring in the big smoke.
So I went up the road to a servo to turn around and even that wasn't easy because the forecourt was so small thanks to Wellington having damn all flat bits because of them thar hills.
Well, I got a clean turn into the driveway to the park, although the gutter was deeper than the pothole down by Blairlogie Homstead and knocked all the sheep shit off the mudflaps. You should have seen the number of cars in the carpark. There were more there than at a Wainuioru School petday.
But I slid me motor into a vacant space - the lady in the car next to me gave me this weird look when she straightened her driver's mirror … dunno why she doesn't just get wide bullbars like me - and I went back up to the cafe thingy. Man, that café place was weirder than a Spiritualist meeting at the Eketahuna RSA.
It had this sort of schoolroom look - all these wooden desk-like tables and wooden chairs in every corner. The walls didn't have a single farming calendar on them, either. They just had these paintings stuff on the wall. One of them paintings was about a metre by two metres and had paint splotched all over it. It reminded me of the wall of old Peter Johnson's implement shed after his six-year-old daughter had found the paint shed open.
I went up to the counter thingy. They seem to keep the food in plastic cages in case it escapes, but I didn't see no movement in there. Then one of them waitress people served me. Geez, she had so much make-up stuff on she looked like Peter Johnson's daughter after she'd finished painting the wall.
They had this thing called a blackboard menu. Heck, talk about cheap. Even the fish and chip shop in town has a sign-written menu.
The girl suggested I try a panini. I've never had a pan of ninis before, so I said I'd give it a go.
Then I sat down and twiddled me thumbs until the nosh arrived. They must have got it wrong because I got something like an anorexic McDonald's hamburger with weird stuff inside it. But I was so hungry I could have eated a horse. Well, a Shetland pony, anyway.
The hamburger thingy was OK but the bacon in it was all stringy and got caught in my teeth. I was getting it out OK with me pocket knife when a waiter guy brought over a tiny stick and said to use that. It worked real good and it was great for cleaning the fertiliser out from under me fingernails, too. I've kept it for the next time I eat bacon.
After I'd finished eating, I just sat and watched the folks there. Geez, them city slickers can be posh. There was this posh-dressed sheila (looked nice but she was so old you could forget breeding with her, even with IA) sitting there with lots of bits of toast on her plate. (Yeah, bits of flippin' toast in a posh cafe thingy). And she was spreading this brown stuff that looked like a cowpat from a heifer that had been in the lucerne paddock, all over her toast and eating it!
I dunno who she was but she was brave to eat that stuff. Then again, I think she was foreign because I heard her tell the counter sheila she was Patay.
These foreigners eat all sorts of weird stuff. No good honest feed of sheep brains fritters and veges for them. No, they eat muck like sooshee and keebabs. And you've got to have a good stomach for that stuff. I mean, after that hamburger thingy I was farting real good. The cafe emptied pretty fast after that. Must have been the end of the lunch hour them city workers all have.
Anyway, after that I headed home. The motorway was interesting. It was like being in the middle of a stampede of milk-bound cows heading for the milking shed.
But finally I got out of the city and into the country. Man, was I glad to be back in the real world.
--
Allan
How the bloody hell are ya?
I was over in Wellington in me motor today. Geez, they sure have lots of motors over there. I tried to do a turn in Ngaio into a driveway leading to parking at a cafe thingy only to find some dozy city joker sitting in the driveway (in his motor, of course) looking blankly back at me.
There I was, stuck in the middle of the road like a cast ewe, with these fellas and sheilas in cars all streaming around me as if mechanical chicanes were part and parcel of motoring in the big smoke.
So I went up the road to a servo to turn around and even that wasn't easy because the forecourt was so small thanks to Wellington having damn all flat bits because of them thar hills.
Well, I got a clean turn into the driveway to the park, although the gutter was deeper than the pothole down by Blairlogie Homstead and knocked all the sheep shit off the mudflaps. You should have seen the number of cars in the carpark. There were more there than at a Wainuioru School petday.
But I slid me motor into a vacant space - the lady in the car next to me gave me this weird look when she straightened her driver's mirror … dunno why she doesn't just get wide bullbars like me - and I went back up to the cafe thingy. Man, that café place was weirder than a Spiritualist meeting at the Eketahuna RSA.
It had this sort of schoolroom look - all these wooden desk-like tables and wooden chairs in every corner. The walls didn't have a single farming calendar on them, either. They just had these paintings stuff on the wall. One of them paintings was about a metre by two metres and had paint splotched all over it. It reminded me of the wall of old Peter Johnson's implement shed after his six-year-old daughter had found the paint shed open.
I went up to the counter thingy. They seem to keep the food in plastic cages in case it escapes, but I didn't see no movement in there. Then one of them waitress people served me. Geez, she had so much make-up stuff on she looked like Peter Johnson's daughter after she'd finished painting the wall.
They had this thing called a blackboard menu. Heck, talk about cheap. Even the fish and chip shop in town has a sign-written menu.
The girl suggested I try a panini. I've never had a pan of ninis before, so I said I'd give it a go.
Then I sat down and twiddled me thumbs until the nosh arrived. They must have got it wrong because I got something like an anorexic McDonald's hamburger with weird stuff inside it. But I was so hungry I could have eated a horse. Well, a Shetland pony, anyway.
The hamburger thingy was OK but the bacon in it was all stringy and got caught in my teeth. I was getting it out OK with me pocket knife when a waiter guy brought over a tiny stick and said to use that. It worked real good and it was great for cleaning the fertiliser out from under me fingernails, too. I've kept it for the next time I eat bacon.
After I'd finished eating, I just sat and watched the folks there. Geez, them city slickers can be posh. There was this posh-dressed sheila (looked nice but she was so old you could forget breeding with her, even with IA) sitting there with lots of bits of toast on her plate. (Yeah, bits of flippin' toast in a posh cafe thingy). And she was spreading this brown stuff that looked like a cowpat from a heifer that had been in the lucerne paddock, all over her toast and eating it!
I dunno who she was but she was brave to eat that stuff. Then again, I think she was foreign because I heard her tell the counter sheila she was Patay.
These foreigners eat all sorts of weird stuff. No good honest feed of sheep brains fritters and veges for them. No, they eat muck like sooshee and keebabs. And you've got to have a good stomach for that stuff. I mean, after that hamburger thingy I was farting real good. The cafe emptied pretty fast after that. Must have been the end of the lunch hour them city workers all have.
Anyway, after that I headed home. The motorway was interesting. It was like being in the middle of a stampede of milk-bound cows heading for the milking shed.
But finally I got out of the city and into the country. Man, was I glad to be back in the real world.
--
Allan
Thursday, October 26, 2006
I was talking to a lady recently who, in an attempt to make her life jollier, bought herself a ring. Unfortunately, she didn’t tell me where she was going to wear it. I mean, it could be worn almost anywhere these days. There is a middle-aged lady at the video shop I go to who wears one through her lips. I just hope she never kisses anyone with braces.
Some women wear a ring through the nose. No bull!
Others wear them through the navel. I have a theory about that but since it is a bit … er … naughty, I won’t go there.
And some women wear them even further down! I’ve always thought that, in this case, if the guy has a Prince Albert, there’d surely be sparks when they made love!
Hopefully my lady friend is going to wear her ring on her finger. But which finger? Indeed, on which hand?
If she is truly wicked, she’ll wear it on her right hand. That way, when the lack of it on her left hand encourages a man to make advances, should he go too far and she slaps him with her right hand, the ring will leave a lasting reminder that he was naughty. After all, they say that diamonds make an impression.
And I can only commend her on her other self-bought birthday present – a water blaster. These have such a multitude of uses. As well as the more common uses, they are great for keeping the kids in check, and, since hers also has a low power option, she could use it like one of those water jets a dentist uses to clean one's teeth. Plus, she coud make the water stream half water, half whisky and *really* enjoy the experience.
I suggested to her, however, that she doesn’t use it to wash the cat unless her sons have some cricket pads she can wear in the process. Also, there is the added danger that she may accidentally use the full power squirt. This, I have been told, tends to leave the average tabby looking like a Siamese. And be about as rowdy for a short period of time.
You know, with all this good advice that I give, I should write "The Bachelor's Guide To Everything Females Make So Complicated". I can see I’m going to have to put that on my To Do list…
--
Allan
Some women wear a ring through the nose. No bull!
Others wear them through the navel. I have a theory about that but since it is a bit … er … naughty, I won’t go there.
And some women wear them even further down! I’ve always thought that, in this case, if the guy has a Prince Albert, there’d surely be sparks when they made love!
Hopefully my lady friend is going to wear her ring on her finger. But which finger? Indeed, on which hand?
If she is truly wicked, she’ll wear it on her right hand. That way, when the lack of it on her left hand encourages a man to make advances, should he go too far and she slaps him with her right hand, the ring will leave a lasting reminder that he was naughty. After all, they say that diamonds make an impression.
And I can only commend her on her other self-bought birthday present – a water blaster. These have such a multitude of uses. As well as the more common uses, they are great for keeping the kids in check, and, since hers also has a low power option, she could use it like one of those water jets a dentist uses to clean one's teeth. Plus, she coud make the water stream half water, half whisky and *really* enjoy the experience.
I suggested to her, however, that she doesn’t use it to wash the cat unless her sons have some cricket pads she can wear in the process. Also, there is the added danger that she may accidentally use the full power squirt. This, I have been told, tends to leave the average tabby looking like a Siamese. And be about as rowdy for a short period of time.
You know, with all this good advice that I give, I should write "The Bachelor's Guide To Everything Females Make So Complicated". I can see I’m going to have to put that on my To Do list…
--
Allan
Friday, October 20, 2006
How’s the weather your way today?
There was a fine patch this afternoon so I popped out to Riversdale. I'm pleased to say that there was not a tsunami in sight.
Now I'm doing some research on Irish jokes for a little project I have on hand. Found some good ones, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Father O'Malley, the new priest is nervous about hearing confessions, so he asks the older priest to sit in on his sessions.
The new priest hears a couple of confessions, then the old priest asks him to step out of the confessional for a few suggestions.
The old priest suggests, "Cross you arms over your chest, and rub your chin with one hand."
The new priest tries this.
The old priest suggests, "Try saying things like, 'I see, yes, go on, I understand and how did you feel about that?'"
The new priest says those things.
The old priest says, "Now, don't you think that's a little better than slapping your knee and saying 'No shit?!? What happened next?'"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Did you hear about the Irishman who locked his keys in the car?
Had to call the AA to get his family out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two Irishmen were out duck-shooting. They had their guns and dogs and walked for hours with no success.
Dropping into the pub on the way back they listened with envy to all the other hunters who had obviously been very successful.
"Where do you think we went wrong?" asked one.
His friend thought for a minute.
"You know, I think it must be that we're not throwing the dogs high enough."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the moment my back yard looks like the Waitomo caves. The Wharehouse is selling 8 solar lights for $20 so I decided to add some light pollution to the Masterton sky and bought some. Very pretty. I think I will hold a Winter Solstice party and we'll all dance naked in the light of the solar lights. That should scare hell out of the moths!
You know, I should be in advertising. There was a song playing on radio just before. It was called "I’m Flying Without Wings"
Well, as soon as I heard it I had a brilliant idea for a TV advertising campaign.
You'd see an Air New Zealand air hostess singing “I’m Flying Without Wings” as she jauntily boards an aircraft.
I reckon it would be a piece of cake to sell it to Tampax.
Well, enough from me.
--
Allan
There was a fine patch this afternoon so I popped out to Riversdale. I'm pleased to say that there was not a tsunami in sight.
Now I'm doing some research on Irish jokes for a little project I have on hand. Found some good ones, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Father O'Malley, the new priest is nervous about hearing confessions, so he asks the older priest to sit in on his sessions.
The new priest hears a couple of confessions, then the old priest asks him to step out of the confessional for a few suggestions.
The old priest suggests, "Cross you arms over your chest, and rub your chin with one hand."
The new priest tries this.
The old priest suggests, "Try saying things like, 'I see, yes, go on, I understand and how did you feel about that?'"
The new priest says those things.
The old priest says, "Now, don't you think that's a little better than slapping your knee and saying 'No shit?!? What happened next?'"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Did you hear about the Irishman who locked his keys in the car?
Had to call the AA to get his family out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two Irishmen were out duck-shooting. They had their guns and dogs and walked for hours with no success.
Dropping into the pub on the way back they listened with envy to all the other hunters who had obviously been very successful.
"Where do you think we went wrong?" asked one.
His friend thought for a minute.
"You know, I think it must be that we're not throwing the dogs high enough."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the moment my back yard looks like the Waitomo caves. The Wharehouse is selling 8 solar lights for $20 so I decided to add some light pollution to the Masterton sky and bought some. Very pretty. I think I will hold a Winter Solstice party and we'll all dance naked in the light of the solar lights. That should scare hell out of the moths!
You know, I should be in advertising. There was a song playing on radio just before. It was called "I’m Flying Without Wings"
Well, as soon as I heard it I had a brilliant idea for a TV advertising campaign.
You'd see an Air New Zealand air hostess singing “I’m Flying Without Wings” as she jauntily boards an aircraft.
I reckon it would be a piece of cake to sell it to Tampax.
Well, enough from me.
--
Allan
Friday, October 13, 2006
I feel that I must warn you of a matter of great concern for the people of New Zealand. Indeed, for the citizens of the world.
Electricity generating wind farms are going to cause an ecological disaster.
We all know that propellers make things go along, as is evidenced by propellers on boats and aeroplanes. So it logically follows that all the propellers on wind farm turbines are pushing the Pacific Plate ever faster across the surface of the Earth. Soon Easter Island will be a suburb of Wellington and the people of Hastings will be digging their toes into the beaches of Rio De Janeiro. Auckland, of course, may inherit the US problem of illegal immigrants from Mexico.
Furthermore, with the ever-increasing number of wind farms in New Zealand, the movement of the earth’s crust can only be speeding up, as is evidence by the number of volcanic eruptions that are occurring, since these eruptions are the equivalent of the bow wave of the moving Earth’s crust.
Here we are worrying about tsunamis when we really should have people on the beaches to give us warning before the country crashes into islands.
And it’s going to play hell with road speed enforcement. If the country is moving at 100kph, is a driver whose speedometer reads 100kmh actually doing 200kmh? Or, if he’s driving the other way, is he actually not moving? Will we have to introduce a system where, while you get a ticket travelling one way, you get a credit cancelling it when you are coming home? Life is going to get very complicated.
So it is with a glad heart that I see the people of Makora in Wellington are trying to stop the building of a wind farm in their area. Admittedly, their objections are based on misplaced concerns about noise and visual ugliness, but these are a mere trifle compared with the true danger of these infernal machines.
While I know that windfarms are an important source of revenue for electrical generation companies, we can’t have the Earth’s crust water skiing over the planet’s molten interior. So we have to do something.
After considerable thought I believe I have the solution.
The propellers on the Palmerston North wind farm are pointed towards the west, so the movement of the Earth’s crust will be to the East. The logical thing, therefore, is to ensure that all the wind turbines at Makara point to the West to counter the movement created in Palmerston North. And, just to be safe, the turbines should be mounted upside down.
Isn’t it marvellous how the intellectual hothouse of New Zealand society allows vital discoveries like this come to the forefront and save our planet?
Thank you.
Electricity generating wind farms are going to cause an ecological disaster.
We all know that propellers make things go along, as is evidenced by propellers on boats and aeroplanes. So it logically follows that all the propellers on wind farm turbines are pushing the Pacific Plate ever faster across the surface of the Earth. Soon Easter Island will be a suburb of Wellington and the people of Hastings will be digging their toes into the beaches of Rio De Janeiro. Auckland, of course, may inherit the US problem of illegal immigrants from Mexico.
Furthermore, with the ever-increasing number of wind farms in New Zealand, the movement of the earth’s crust can only be speeding up, as is evidence by the number of volcanic eruptions that are occurring, since these eruptions are the equivalent of the bow wave of the moving Earth’s crust.
Here we are worrying about tsunamis when we really should have people on the beaches to give us warning before the country crashes into islands.
And it’s going to play hell with road speed enforcement. If the country is moving at 100kph, is a driver whose speedometer reads 100kmh actually doing 200kmh? Or, if he’s driving the other way, is he actually not moving? Will we have to introduce a system where, while you get a ticket travelling one way, you get a credit cancelling it when you are coming home? Life is going to get very complicated.
So it is with a glad heart that I see the people of Makora in Wellington are trying to stop the building of a wind farm in their area. Admittedly, their objections are based on misplaced concerns about noise and visual ugliness, but these are a mere trifle compared with the true danger of these infernal machines.
While I know that windfarms are an important source of revenue for electrical generation companies, we can’t have the Earth’s crust water skiing over the planet’s molten interior. So we have to do something.
After considerable thought I believe I have the solution.
The propellers on the Palmerston North wind farm are pointed towards the west, so the movement of the Earth’s crust will be to the East. The logical thing, therefore, is to ensure that all the wind turbines at Makara point to the West to counter the movement created in Palmerston North. And, just to be safe, the turbines should be mounted upside down.
Isn’t it marvellous how the intellectual hothouse of New Zealand society allows vital discoveries like this come to the forefront and save our planet?
Thank you.
Monday, October 09, 2006
(As the academics put it: Part of this email discusses the etymology and application of a selection of words that, to varying degrees, can be considered vulgar or offensive. As a necessity, this entails the use of said words, and it is strongly advised that, should you find such words distressing or inappropriate, you do not read on beyond this point.
For the rest of you, enjoy...)
===============
Gidday,
I'm now back on my feet. Well, on my computer chair, anyway.
A nasty bug attacked me. I'm pretty sure it wasn't bird flu because I didn't grow feathers or anything, but if the bark-like cough I got is any indication, I shouldn't have patted that dog a few days ago!
No, the dog wasn't a Rottweiler. It was a Labrador. Labradors let you keep your hand. Admittedly, it's a well-licked hand by the time you get it back, but it's still attached.
I tell you, I was terribly sick. I was so hot, I only needed to stand under the fire sprinkler to get a cooling shower.
But now that I’m feeling a bit better, I’m back into the essential things in life like reading my horoscope.
And my horoscope for today was very interesting today. It said: “If you want to increase your income, you have to have more faith in your creative abilities. Conventional wisdom says that artistic types are destined to starve, but this is completely wrong. There are plenty of examples of folks who earn a nice profit from their handiwork. Why should you be any different? Put your imagination to work.”
So, how can I ignore this advice? With this encouragement I immediately sat down and started to write this great novel in which Muhammad didn’t die but shifted to Utah in America and had 93 children to 74 wives. However, I thought a book like this might upset a few people and I’d hate a suicide bomber to come to my front door. After all, loud noises annoy the little old lady next door.
So I decided to write a book about swearing, instead. I’ve read that learning the art of swearing is one of the hardest things for people who speak English as a second language. And lots of international pupils come to New Zealand and have great difficulty learning New Zealand swear words and how to swear properly, I read recently.
So I'll write a book on swearing. How about that?! A book completely full of swear words! Billy Connolly would approve!
Having started looking at the subject, I find that it is actually very interesting. Swear words are very versatile. They can be used to insult, or used affectionately or even admiringly. For example, someone may say that a person is a stupid bastard and that’s an insult. But someone can also admiringly be called a clever bastard.
And the actual meaning of a swear word is often lost in general use. For example, if someone is fucking good, he or she may not necessarily be a good lover.
Indeed, that word "fuck" is very interesting.
Here’s the book entry for Fuck.
Fuck – Although the narrow definition of the word “fuck” is to have sexual intercourse, fuck has now become probably the foremost swear word in New Zealand. It is, however, a very old word. Indeed, records from as early as 1278 list a man called John Le-Fucker. Since people in those days usually had names to do with their occupations, ones mind boggles.
It is known that the word “fuck” was in common usage by the 16th Century because, in 1598 it appeared in John Florio's dictionary called “A World of Words”. It later became a vulgar term and was even banned from the Oxford English Dictionary.
In 1928, in his book “Lady Chatterly's Lover”, DH Lawrence was the first author to use the word accurately and in context in a serious (non-pornographic) book. Not that this helped him much since the book was banned for over thirty years. However, in the early 1960s, several court cases established the right of publishers to publish the book. And with the book’s publication came the first time the word “fuck” had been legally used in print.
Not all people are happy to use the word in print, however. It is often shortened to just 'Eff', as in the phrase “effing twit’ used to describe some stupid person.
In his book “The Naked and the Dead”, cowardly American author, Norman Mailer used the word 'fug' instead of “fuck”. But he got his own. Not long after his book was published, the famous US wit Dorothy Parker met him at a party, and said to him, “So, you're the young man who can't spell fuck”
Fuck has been recognised as one of the most versatile words in the English.
It can be used as a verb both transitive (John fucked Janet) and intransitive (Janet was fucked by John).
It can be an action verb (Janet really gives a fuck), a passive verb (John really doesn't give a fuck), and adverb (Janet is fucking interested in John), or as a noun (Janet is a terrific fuck).
It can also be used as an interjection (Fuck! Janet’s two months late!). It can even be used as a conjunction (Janet is easy, fuck she's also stupid). [Political correctness should perhaps see that read: “John is easy, fuck he's also stupid”.}
As you can see, “fuck” is very versatile. It can be used in many situations.
It can be used in greetings ("How the fuck are ya?"), fraud ("I was fucked by someone on EBay."), resignation ("Oh, fuck it!"), trouble (“Hell, I'm fucked now."), aggression ("FUCK YOU!"), disgust ("Fuck me."), confusion ("What the fuck...?"), difficulty ("What the fucking shit does this mean?!"), pleasure (“This is fucking nice!), displeasure ("Fucking shit man..."), lost ("Where the fuck are we?"), disbelief ("UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE!"), denial ("I didn't fucking do it!"), perplexity ("I know fuck all about it."), apathy (I don’t give a fuck.”), suspicion ("Who the fuck are you?"), panic ("Let's get the fuck out of here!"), and directions ("Fuck off.").
It can also be an anatomical description ("He's a fucking arsehole."), or used to tell the time ("Its five fucking thirty.")
Lastly, it has been rumoured to have been used by many notable people throughout history:
"What the fuck was that?"
--Mayor of Hiroshima--
"Where did all these fucking Indians come from?"
--General Custer--
"Heads are going to fucking roll!"
--Anne Boleyn--
"It fucking does look like her!"
--Picasso—
"Where the fuck is all this water coming from?"
--Captain of the Titanic—
"Fuck a duck."
--Walt Disney--
"Light-fucking-rain my arse."
--Noah—
Ah yes, book writing is lots of fun sometimes…
For the rest of you, enjoy...)
===============
Gidday,
I'm now back on my feet. Well, on my computer chair, anyway.
A nasty bug attacked me. I'm pretty sure it wasn't bird flu because I didn't grow feathers or anything, but if the bark-like cough I got is any indication, I shouldn't have patted that dog a few days ago!
No, the dog wasn't a Rottweiler. It was a Labrador. Labradors let you keep your hand. Admittedly, it's a well-licked hand by the time you get it back, but it's still attached.
I tell you, I was terribly sick. I was so hot, I only needed to stand under the fire sprinkler to get a cooling shower.
But now that I’m feeling a bit better, I’m back into the essential things in life like reading my horoscope.
And my horoscope for today was very interesting today. It said: “If you want to increase your income, you have to have more faith in your creative abilities. Conventional wisdom says that artistic types are destined to starve, but this is completely wrong. There are plenty of examples of folks who earn a nice profit from their handiwork. Why should you be any different? Put your imagination to work.”
So, how can I ignore this advice? With this encouragement I immediately sat down and started to write this great novel in which Muhammad didn’t die but shifted to Utah in America and had 93 children to 74 wives. However, I thought a book like this might upset a few people and I’d hate a suicide bomber to come to my front door. After all, loud noises annoy the little old lady next door.
So I decided to write a book about swearing, instead. I’ve read that learning the art of swearing is one of the hardest things for people who speak English as a second language. And lots of international pupils come to New Zealand and have great difficulty learning New Zealand swear words and how to swear properly, I read recently.
So I'll write a book on swearing. How about that?! A book completely full of swear words! Billy Connolly would approve!
Having started looking at the subject, I find that it is actually very interesting. Swear words are very versatile. They can be used to insult, or used affectionately or even admiringly. For example, someone may say that a person is a stupid bastard and that’s an insult. But someone can also admiringly be called a clever bastard.
And the actual meaning of a swear word is often lost in general use. For example, if someone is fucking good, he or she may not necessarily be a good lover.
Indeed, that word "fuck" is very interesting.
Here’s the book entry for Fuck.
Fuck – Although the narrow definition of the word “fuck” is to have sexual intercourse, fuck has now become probably the foremost swear word in New Zealand. It is, however, a very old word. Indeed, records from as early as 1278 list a man called John Le-Fucker. Since people in those days usually had names to do with their occupations, ones mind boggles.
It is known that the word “fuck” was in common usage by the 16th Century because, in 1598 it appeared in John Florio's dictionary called “A World of Words”. It later became a vulgar term and was even banned from the Oxford English Dictionary.
In 1928, in his book “Lady Chatterly's Lover”, DH Lawrence was the first author to use the word accurately and in context in a serious (non-pornographic) book. Not that this helped him much since the book was banned for over thirty years. However, in the early 1960s, several court cases established the right of publishers to publish the book. And with the book’s publication came the first time the word “fuck” had been legally used in print.
Not all people are happy to use the word in print, however. It is often shortened to just 'Eff', as in the phrase “effing twit’ used to describe some stupid person.
In his book “The Naked and the Dead”, cowardly American author, Norman Mailer used the word 'fug' instead of “fuck”. But he got his own. Not long after his book was published, the famous US wit Dorothy Parker met him at a party, and said to him, “So, you're the young man who can't spell fuck”
Fuck has been recognised as one of the most versatile words in the English.
It can be used as a verb both transitive (John fucked Janet) and intransitive (Janet was fucked by John).
It can be an action verb (Janet really gives a fuck), a passive verb (John really doesn't give a fuck), and adverb (Janet is fucking interested in John), or as a noun (Janet is a terrific fuck).
It can also be used as an interjection (Fuck! Janet’s two months late!). It can even be used as a conjunction (Janet is easy, fuck she's also stupid). [Political correctness should perhaps see that read: “John is easy, fuck he's also stupid”.}
As you can see, “fuck” is very versatile. It can be used in many situations.
It can be used in greetings ("How the fuck are ya?"), fraud ("I was fucked by someone on EBay."), resignation ("Oh, fuck it!"), trouble (“Hell, I'm fucked now."), aggression ("FUCK YOU!"), disgust ("Fuck me."), confusion ("What the fuck...?"), difficulty ("What the fucking shit does this mean?!"), pleasure (“This is fucking nice!), displeasure ("Fucking shit man..."), lost ("Where the fuck are we?"), disbelief ("UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE!"), denial ("I didn't fucking do it!"), perplexity ("I know fuck all about it."), apathy (I don’t give a fuck.”), suspicion ("Who the fuck are you?"), panic ("Let's get the fuck out of here!"), and directions ("Fuck off.").
It can also be an anatomical description ("He's a fucking arsehole."), or used to tell the time ("Its five fucking thirty.")
Lastly, it has been rumoured to have been used by many notable people throughout history:
"What the fuck was that?"
--Mayor of Hiroshima--
"Where did all these fucking Indians come from?"
--General Custer--
"Heads are going to fucking roll!"
--Anne Boleyn--
"It fucking does look like her!"
--Picasso—
"Where the fuck is all this water coming from?"
--Captain of the Titanic—
"Fuck a duck."
--Walt Disney--
"Light-fucking-rain my arse."
--Noah—
Ah yes, book writing is lots of fun sometimes…
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
At the moment I am not performing too well, since I am being attacked by some nasty bugs.
In fact, I've felt so bad these last few days that yesterday I actually went and saw the doctor. He cheerfully told me that prostate infections are notoriously hard to get rid of and patients often gets relapses - one of which I am suffering from at the moment.
So he has put me onto the antibiotic equivalent of a small atomic bomb and I should be either cured or buried in no time flat!
The result is that these antibiotics are now having a major skirmish with the bugs in my system and I feel like the battlefield! I'm just worried that they're going to start digging trenches in me soon!
Whatcha mean, "Typical! Men are always terrible patients"?) I'll have you know, I'm really sick here. I can't even hold my Playboy steady. Then again, can you? Er ... we won't go there.
I mean, it's so bad that I dropped the lid of my brand new two-cup teapot and broke it! Aaaaaaaargh. Do you know what trouble I had finding that teapot?! Now I'm going to have to go turn Inside Out inside out to find a new one.
Or maybe I'll just go to the Wharehouse. Oh, this is all too much for a sick bachelor. I think I'll just turn to drink.
~sigh~
But seriously, don't worry about me. ~sob sob~ I'm just looking for sympathy. I mean, it's terrible when you have a bug that you can't pass on!
--
Allan
In fact, I've felt so bad these last few days that yesterday I actually went and saw the doctor. He cheerfully told me that prostate infections are notoriously hard to get rid of and patients often gets relapses - one of which I am suffering from at the moment.
So he has put me onto the antibiotic equivalent of a small atomic bomb and I should be either cured or buried in no time flat!
The result is that these antibiotics are now having a major skirmish with the bugs in my system and I feel like the battlefield! I'm just worried that they're going to start digging trenches in me soon!
Whatcha mean, "Typical! Men are always terrible patients"?) I'll have you know, I'm really sick here. I can't even hold my Playboy steady. Then again, can you? Er ... we won't go there.
I mean, it's so bad that I dropped the lid of my brand new two-cup teapot and broke it! Aaaaaaaargh. Do you know what trouble I had finding that teapot?! Now I'm going to have to go turn Inside Out inside out to find a new one.
Or maybe I'll just go to the Wharehouse. Oh, this is all too much for a sick bachelor. I think I'll just turn to drink.
~sigh~
But seriously, don't worry about me. ~sob sob~ I'm just looking for sympathy. I mean, it's terrible when you have a bug that you can't pass on!
--
Allan
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I have just been to Hamilton on a truly exciting visit.
I drove a Ford Transit van up there. One that runs on diesel.
Perhaps I’ll rephrase that “runs”. You see, if my Honda Accord could be called a speedy rabbit, the Ford Transit would be the equivalent of a turtle – with severe arthritis.
If there were any manned speed cameras out there, the drivers behind me would have got clean away with speeding because the speed camera operators would have fallen asleep waiting for me to pass.
On the other hand, the van was quite at home doing 30kmh on the many road works sites I encountered. Gee, they are working on the road so much removing corners that Auckland is going to be miles closer to Wellington by the time they’ve finished.
This large number of roadworks does have advantages for women, though. Because any lady who wants a man who can make the earth move for them only need wander down to the nearby road works site. And talk to the earthmover driver.
Ah, but it was exciting driving the van, even if it was slow. Getting past big trucks on passing lanes was thrilling. You’d be about halfway past and the “Road Narrows 200m” sign would suddenly appear. Two hundred metres later, you’d be just alongside the truck’s driver’s door. And the road is getting narrower. And so are your bowels.
But, while I’m not sure whether there are any 18-wheelers in the ditches beside a passing lane or two between here and Hamilton, I don’t think I hit any of them.
I did pass a Britz camper van and the driver did seem to get a bit upset about that. So much so that he sped up to catch me and then pulled out to pass me on some 30kph road works. He didn’t succeed because just then we came upon a man holding a big STOP sign.
Me, being basically a pain-in-the-ass, suggested to the guy holding the sign that he might like to talk to the tourist in the campervan about sticking to the speed limit on road works.
The STOP man grinned and said “Good idea”, then waved me on. He then stepped out in front of the campervan to stop it and approached the driver to have a nice polite word. I later noticed that the campervan driver, some way behind, was keeping pretty well to the road works limit after that. I’m not sure what the road worker said to him, but it could have been something involving physical retribution from his rellies in tribes further on if the campervan driver desecrated more of the roading network the road works guy’s people are claiming as part of their Treaty settlement.
Of course, this all goes to prove that there are times when looking like Hone Heke in a particularly unpleasant mood can be very socially helpful.
Once I arrived in Hamilton, all should have been well. Unfortunately, this wasn’t so because of what my doctors says is a prostate infection I have been battling for a few weeks. I suspect the stress of the driving exacerbated things, because I suddenly came down with a burning fever and was in no condition to do anything but lie prostate. Or is that prostrate?
Whatever, I was burning up. Hey, being hot stuff is one thing, but having one’s body on fire is no fun!
However, a good night’s sleep brought my temperature down but I was still not very useful for tasks like loading vans for the next two days.
So I just comatosed and listened to Reece’s two-year old son, Dominic, causing chaos in the household. Young Dom is a real cutey. When I first met him, I said to Reece that Dom was going to break a few girls’ hearts when he got older and Reece grinned and said, “Well, he got a kiss from one of the little girls when I picked him up from daycare today”.
Which is rather cute and no real problem … until the day arrives when Reece has to pull them apart…
Hamilton is an interesting city. I didn’t see much of it because I wasn’t feeling well enough to explore the sin spots, although I did call in on the Museum just before I left. It was closed. They mustn't have seen me coming. I mean I'm one of the best historical specimens you'll ever find!
But, that’s their loss. I was thinking of offering them the exclusive rights to display a fascinating collection of 1960s male underpants, stains and all. Well, if they don’t want them, I’ll just offer them to Te Papa, instead. I’m sure Te Papa will be interested. I can see their banners now:
“A Brief Introduction To The Sixties”
“Underpants -The Greatest Let-Down Of The Sexual Revolution”
“Why Not Y-Fronts?”
After that, there is my collection of ties. There is the one with which my Uncle Herbert hung himself. A real mystery, that one. We all thought that Uncle Herbert couldn’t knot a tie, that Aunty Agatha used to do it for him. So how did he tie that slip knot? And shut it in the top of the doorway? Sadly, we haven’t been able to ask Aunty Agatha about it. She and her boyfriend are still touring the world on Uncle Herbert’s life savings.
And then there are the ties with the naked women on them. Of course, many of those have been ruined by the bikinis that my ex drew on them but …
This trip has given me new ideas for future career paths for me. I’m seriously considering becoming a rainsayer. Everywhere I went for the past few days, I’ve brought rain to the place. And all this without a single rain dance. Maybe it was just that my high body temperature raised the ambient temperature quickly, thus starting a precipitation generation process.
Or I could become a Hamilton parking meterperson. You get to wander down the main street vindictively brandishing a big piece of chalk and wearing a Stetson hat. I’m not sure why the Stetson hat. Maybe the metermaids didn’t like wearing a bowler hat.
I’m glad to say that the meter person I saw simply ignored me. I was sitting in Reece’s car pretending to be the driver while Reece went into the bank. He actually got some money from the bank and didn’t even take in a gun. I’m so in awe of the youth of today.
The reason that Reece wanted the money was because he was buying a car. It is quite a nice car, except that it has one of those huge exhaust pipes that look like the backside of a guy who’s spent too long in jail.
Reece bought the car to replace the Nissan he presently owns. That Nissan has a motor with more capacity than Julia Roberts has mouth. And it is about as expensive to run.
The car is a Subaru Legacy, still not a small car but apparently Reece likes large women. So he needs a big car. This preference of his for BBW is a bit of a nuisance, actually. I mean, if he likes large women, I can forget sending him a copy of my Sex Positions calendar as a birthday present. I'd feel terrible if he got hurt should they try the woman-on-top positions. He, on the other hand, probably wouldn't know if he was coming or groaning.
But, I’m now back home to my own little cluttered flat and a happy little old lady next door. I think the old sweetie missed me. With me no longer at my computer, she would have learnt not one new swear word all week.
But, now that I’m back, with my computer refusing to post messages to Internet newsgroups, her education continues. *^!”(^#!*<+*# computers!
It’s nice to be needed.
--
Allan
I drove a Ford Transit van up there. One that runs on diesel.
Perhaps I’ll rephrase that “runs”. You see, if my Honda Accord could be called a speedy rabbit, the Ford Transit would be the equivalent of a turtle – with severe arthritis.
If there were any manned speed cameras out there, the drivers behind me would have got clean away with speeding because the speed camera operators would have fallen asleep waiting for me to pass.
On the other hand, the van was quite at home doing 30kmh on the many road works sites I encountered. Gee, they are working on the road so much removing corners that Auckland is going to be miles closer to Wellington by the time they’ve finished.
This large number of roadworks does have advantages for women, though. Because any lady who wants a man who can make the earth move for them only need wander down to the nearby road works site. And talk to the earthmover driver.
Ah, but it was exciting driving the van, even if it was slow. Getting past big trucks on passing lanes was thrilling. You’d be about halfway past and the “Road Narrows 200m” sign would suddenly appear. Two hundred metres later, you’d be just alongside the truck’s driver’s door. And the road is getting narrower. And so are your bowels.
But, while I’m not sure whether there are any 18-wheelers in the ditches beside a passing lane or two between here and Hamilton, I don’t think I hit any of them.
I did pass a Britz camper van and the driver did seem to get a bit upset about that. So much so that he sped up to catch me and then pulled out to pass me on some 30kph road works. He didn’t succeed because just then we came upon a man holding a big STOP sign.
Me, being basically a pain-in-the-ass, suggested to the guy holding the sign that he might like to talk to the tourist in the campervan about sticking to the speed limit on road works.
The STOP man grinned and said “Good idea”, then waved me on. He then stepped out in front of the campervan to stop it and approached the driver to have a nice polite word. I later noticed that the campervan driver, some way behind, was keeping pretty well to the road works limit after that. I’m not sure what the road worker said to him, but it could have been something involving physical retribution from his rellies in tribes further on if the campervan driver desecrated more of the roading network the road works guy’s people are claiming as part of their Treaty settlement.
Of course, this all goes to prove that there are times when looking like Hone Heke in a particularly unpleasant mood can be very socially helpful.
Once I arrived in Hamilton, all should have been well. Unfortunately, this wasn’t so because of what my doctors says is a prostate infection I have been battling for a few weeks. I suspect the stress of the driving exacerbated things, because I suddenly came down with a burning fever and was in no condition to do anything but lie prostate. Or is that prostrate?
Whatever, I was burning up. Hey, being hot stuff is one thing, but having one’s body on fire is no fun!
However, a good night’s sleep brought my temperature down but I was still not very useful for tasks like loading vans for the next two days.
So I just comatosed and listened to Reece’s two-year old son, Dominic, causing chaos in the household. Young Dom is a real cutey. When I first met him, I said to Reece that Dom was going to break a few girls’ hearts when he got older and Reece grinned and said, “Well, he got a kiss from one of the little girls when I picked him up from daycare today”.
Which is rather cute and no real problem … until the day arrives when Reece has to pull them apart…
Hamilton is an interesting city. I didn’t see much of it because I wasn’t feeling well enough to explore the sin spots, although I did call in on the Museum just before I left. It was closed. They mustn't have seen me coming. I mean I'm one of the best historical specimens you'll ever find!
But, that’s their loss. I was thinking of offering them the exclusive rights to display a fascinating collection of 1960s male underpants, stains and all. Well, if they don’t want them, I’ll just offer them to Te Papa, instead. I’m sure Te Papa will be interested. I can see their banners now:
“A Brief Introduction To The Sixties”
“Underpants -The Greatest Let-Down Of The Sexual Revolution”
“Why Not Y-Fronts?”
After that, there is my collection of ties. There is the one with which my Uncle Herbert hung himself. A real mystery, that one. We all thought that Uncle Herbert couldn’t knot a tie, that Aunty Agatha used to do it for him. So how did he tie that slip knot? And shut it in the top of the doorway? Sadly, we haven’t been able to ask Aunty Agatha about it. She and her boyfriend are still touring the world on Uncle Herbert’s life savings.
And then there are the ties with the naked women on them. Of course, many of those have been ruined by the bikinis that my ex drew on them but …
This trip has given me new ideas for future career paths for me. I’m seriously considering becoming a rainsayer. Everywhere I went for the past few days, I’ve brought rain to the place. And all this without a single rain dance. Maybe it was just that my high body temperature raised the ambient temperature quickly, thus starting a precipitation generation process.
Or I could become a Hamilton parking meterperson. You get to wander down the main street vindictively brandishing a big piece of chalk and wearing a Stetson hat. I’m not sure why the Stetson hat. Maybe the metermaids didn’t like wearing a bowler hat.
I’m glad to say that the meter person I saw simply ignored me. I was sitting in Reece’s car pretending to be the driver while Reece went into the bank. He actually got some money from the bank and didn’t even take in a gun. I’m so in awe of the youth of today.
The reason that Reece wanted the money was because he was buying a car. It is quite a nice car, except that it has one of those huge exhaust pipes that look like the backside of a guy who’s spent too long in jail.
Reece bought the car to replace the Nissan he presently owns. That Nissan has a motor with more capacity than Julia Roberts has mouth. And it is about as expensive to run.
The car is a Subaru Legacy, still not a small car but apparently Reece likes large women. So he needs a big car. This preference of his for BBW is a bit of a nuisance, actually. I mean, if he likes large women, I can forget sending him a copy of my Sex Positions calendar as a birthday present. I'd feel terrible if he got hurt should they try the woman-on-top positions. He, on the other hand, probably wouldn't know if he was coming or groaning.
But, I’m now back home to my own little cluttered flat and a happy little old lady next door. I think the old sweetie missed me. With me no longer at my computer, she would have learnt not one new swear word all week.
But, now that I’m back, with my computer refusing to post messages to Internet newsgroups, her education continues. *^!”(^#!*<+*# computers!
It’s nice to be needed.
--
Allan
Monday, September 11, 2006
Yesterday (or was it the day before?) I bought a fancy jug. My other one had a severe case of acne. Actually, it was foot rot or something because the plastic had gone so crumbly that it was starting to leak.
So I bought a fancy glass jug one that allows you to see the water boil.
It's fascinating.
I've spent more time watching the water boil than watching TV for the past couple of days.
What I want to know is what is causing those bubbles. I mean, the only equivalent bubbling in water that I know of is when one sits in the bath and farts. So you can see why I'm a bit concerned...
But, enough of this intellectual discussion. I gotta make myself a cup of tea. Firstly, I'll get a subtle swirl in the water, then little tiny bubbles will come up from the bottom of the jug, then ....
Ah yes, it’s the little things in life that provide the entertainment.
So I bought a fancy glass jug one that allows you to see the water boil.
It's fascinating.
I've spent more time watching the water boil than watching TV for the past couple of days.
What I want to know is what is causing those bubbles. I mean, the only equivalent bubbling in water that I know of is when one sits in the bath and farts. So you can see why I'm a bit concerned...
But, enough of this intellectual discussion. I gotta make myself a cup of tea. Firstly, I'll get a subtle swirl in the water, then little tiny bubbles will come up from the bottom of the jug, then ....
Ah yes, it’s the little things in life that provide the entertainment.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
According to a report in the newspaper today, reserach has shown that sex is good for you.
Then again, I’ve been telling women this for years, but they just won’t listen. ~sigh~
According to this research, not only is sex fun, but a vigorous workout beneath the sheets will help you shed weight, and can also help ward off colds, heart disease, and depression.
Surprisingly, it can even lower your blood pressure.
This has all been discovered by Stuart Brody, professor of psychology at the University of Paisley in Scotland. This guy decided that research should be fun, and looked at sexual activity and changes in blood pressure when volunteers were stressed by being asked to speak in public or do mental arithmetic.
The mind boggles! Did this Brody guy get the subjects to speak in public and then rush back stage for a bit of nookie? Or did they do everything on stage?
This all raises interesting questions. For example, when you have sex in such a way that it raises your blood pressure and stress levels, such as on-stage or when being filmed for an adult version of New Zealand Idol, if the act of sex lowers blood pressure and stress levels, does this mean that when it’s public sex, it all cancels itself out? So you end up no better off?
Whatever, it's obvious that a bit of quiet non-public nookie has many advantages. Not the least of which is you’re less self-conscious about things like the pimple on your posterior.
The importance of this latest research, though, is that it reveals that not only does sex lower your stress levels and give you healthy blood pressure levels, but also that the effects can last for at least a week
One good bit of nookie on the Saturday, and you’re set until the following Saturday. This is so much more effective and much more fun than going to the gym. And the press-ups seem so much easier to do, as well.
This being the case, my fertile mind sees an opportunity to establish a new health and fitness business that taps sex for its health benefits.
While there are already some rather tacky sex businesses out there, they are really only in the business of entertainment, and not focused on the health benefits.
I see an opportunity here for a serious business of health-promotion through nookie. One that uses the services of dedicated personal trainers. What do you mean, with or without whips? We are not getting into alternative medicine, thank you!
But please don’t tell your local brothel owner about my idea. He’s sure to steal it and do something tacky like advertise: “Let our girls lower your blood pressure while raising everything else.”
Then again, do I really want to get into the sex business? It's a tough business. The sort of business where a man would have to be really hard to get anywhere.
No, I think I’ll just moonlight. I’ll just selflessly provide my assistance to a special lady and, with pure angelic kindness on my part, help her gain all the health benefits that are lying there waiting.
That's it. The perfect seducton ploy. Just convince a lady that you are just a delightful form of health insurance.
Then again, I’ve been telling women this for years, but they just won’t listen. ~sigh~
According to this research, not only is sex fun, but a vigorous workout beneath the sheets will help you shed weight, and can also help ward off colds, heart disease, and depression.
Surprisingly, it can even lower your blood pressure.
This has all been discovered by Stuart Brody, professor of psychology at the University of Paisley in Scotland. This guy decided that research should be fun, and looked at sexual activity and changes in blood pressure when volunteers were stressed by being asked to speak in public or do mental arithmetic.
The mind boggles! Did this Brody guy get the subjects to speak in public and then rush back stage for a bit of nookie? Or did they do everything on stage?
This all raises interesting questions. For example, when you have sex in such a way that it raises your blood pressure and stress levels, such as on-stage or when being filmed for an adult version of New Zealand Idol, if the act of sex lowers blood pressure and stress levels, does this mean that when it’s public sex, it all cancels itself out? So you end up no better off?
Whatever, it's obvious that a bit of quiet non-public nookie has many advantages. Not the least of which is you’re less self-conscious about things like the pimple on your posterior.
The importance of this latest research, though, is that it reveals that not only does sex lower your stress levels and give you healthy blood pressure levels, but also that the effects can last for at least a week
One good bit of nookie on the Saturday, and you’re set until the following Saturday. This is so much more effective and much more fun than going to the gym. And the press-ups seem so much easier to do, as well.
This being the case, my fertile mind sees an opportunity to establish a new health and fitness business that taps sex for its health benefits.
While there are already some rather tacky sex businesses out there, they are really only in the business of entertainment, and not focused on the health benefits.
I see an opportunity here for a serious business of health-promotion through nookie. One that uses the services of dedicated personal trainers. What do you mean, with or without whips? We are not getting into alternative medicine, thank you!
But please don’t tell your local brothel owner about my idea. He’s sure to steal it and do something tacky like advertise: “Let our girls lower your blood pressure while raising everything else.”
Then again, do I really want to get into the sex business? It's a tough business. The sort of business where a man would have to be really hard to get anywhere.
No, I think I’ll just moonlight. I’ll just selflessly provide my assistance to a special lady and, with pure angelic kindness on my part, help her gain all the health benefits that are lying there waiting.
That's it. The perfect seducton ploy. Just convince a lady that you are just a delightful form of health insurance.
Friday, September 01, 2006
An artist friend of mine who I've only met via email sent me an email when I was in a silly mood. A serious mistake. I should be a politician. It's so much fun to take another people's words and turn them around and make them mean something entirely different...
---------------------
> Big sis tells me you have been trying to send some of your entertaining
> correspondence to me but it has been "bouncing" back.
I thought she was your *little* sister?!
You mean you are the younger, voluptuous sister?!
> Well, that is because I am the best bounce in town.
Darling, I am getting many mental images here - some disturbing, some not so disturbing. There is the angelic image of a little child bouncing happily on your knee as you pull a face because it has just filled it's pants. And a more horrifying image of a man bouncing on you in the missionary position.
(Reminds me of the joke - that you've probably heard:
At a sexual techniques class, the teacher arrived and said the class would be discussing sexual positions that day. She asked the class how many positions they knew. Most were too embarrassed to speak but one woman said, "Twelve."
The teacher nodded approval, but as she got ready to call on another hand, there was a loud call from the far back row of the 150 seat auditorium, "A hundred and one."
The little teacher looked over her thick glasses but couldn't make out who had spoken. So she called on a guy down in the front row who replied, "Seven."
Once again from the very back was heard, "A hundred and one."
The teacher ignored that and called upon a very shy lady halfway back in the class. At first the lady acted like she wasn't going to answer. Finally she said, "Only one, Miss."
"Well, that is unusual, young lady", the teacher said. "And what position would that be?"
"With the man on top and woman on the bottom," she replied.
And from the back of the room came that same voice, "A hundred and two!" )
===============
But, to get back to these images, the third image that I get from your comment about you being the best bounce in town is a rather unsettling one of you being tied spreadeagled between two rails and children using you as a trampoline.
You really should be careful what you write to us imaginative men of words!
> I have been keeping
> pretty nocturnal hours in the gallery trying to finish a commissioned
> portrait that is due to be sent to England on Monday and with the deadline
> looming I have had to stay focussed on that.
A commissioned portrait, huh? Well, if it's of Prince Charles, I hope that you have painted him in a dunce's cap. Geez, that guy is thick! (As has been demonstrated only this week by his release of his arrogant, undiplomatic, and ideological diaries of his visit to China!) Thank God the monarchy is no longer anything but a symbol!
> But. Now I have hung up my brushes for a day or two
But, darling, what about the nude portrait of me you were going to paint? I thought a nice one of me standing looking at a pornographic picture would be a novel idea. Of course, you would have to paint it landscape to fit all of me in the picture...
> Because I don't do things by halves, I have celebrated by having a bit of a
> soirée which has just come to an end
Not only do you have the temerity to use a fancy word like soirée which I had to look up to be sure it didn't mean the disgusting thing I hoped it meant - instead it is "An evening party or reception" ~sigh~ - but you even had the ostentation to use the accent correctly! Geez, these artist types!
> How have you been?
Missing you! Broken-hearted because I no longer had this psychic link with your heart because you were putting it into your painting. I have been bereft, inconsolable, forlorn, melancholy, cheerless, desolate, and dolorous and I have some sort of bug that is making me feel miserable. Whatcha mean, I'm a moaner?! You asked!
However, now that you are back in psychic contact and I have been put onto antibiotics by the doctor, all is getting better. In fact, by the time I get around to selling my latest project at the Martinborough Fair, my "2006 Calendar Of Sex Positions For The Adventurous", should any lady customers want personal tuition on one of the more difficult positions, I should be able to oblige. Not at the Fair, of course. (I'll bet that gave you an interesting image!)
> Are you surviving the new year?
Survive is about the operative term. My books aren't selling! My motorcycle courses are going wrong. The queue outside my flat of women wanting my sexual attentions has dwindled so much it only reaches the next block and not the Dairy down the road so they can't pass a whiskey along to me to keep my ... er ... spirits up.
> Did you make resolutions?
Yes, to stop sobbing so much. It isn't working.
> Are you sticking to them?
Am I sticking to what?! Women? Good God, darlink! What do you think I am? An anti-woman limpet mine? Listen I only make women go off with a bang. I don't blow them up. (And we will leave blowjobs out of this, thank you!)
> Why not?
I don't blow women up because, (a) it's messy and (b) it's much more fun to have them come than go. Anyway, why all these questions about my sex life? You voyeur, you~!
> Why?
I don't know why you're a voyeur! I'd suggest that you look into it, but that would only make matters worse.
> Anyway, if you are off to Martinborough Fair for another dose of sunburn I
> suggest you wear one of those handkerchiefs with a knot in each corner. Not
> a good look but it obviously works as nobody would wear one otherwise.
Darling, the knotted handkerchief is the plebby English look. I have a cowboy hat that I can (and usually do) wear. It accentuates my blue eyes and makes women putty in my hands. Then again, have you ever tried making love to putty? It's no fun, I tell you!
> Oh dear, have you every tried to type with tiddly fingers?
> It is not easy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I make your fingers go all tiddly?! Well, I suppose that's better than you making some part of me go tiddly. A man really can't do much when some part of him is tiddly.
> I am still alive. I am still well and I hope you are in the same condition.
Oh yes, I'm still alive but I'm not sure about my chances of staying that way after you've read this email...
> Keep the correspondence coming in. I love it.
Darlink, in the flesh (and even with clothes on!) I am even better than my correspondence. You really are going to have to pop over here and meet me. Admittedly, petrol has just risen in price, but I could teach you to ride a motor scooter while you are here and you could become fuel economic.
Your sister says she wants me to teach her to ride a motorcycle. I might add that every time I try to pin her down (Er ... I'll rephrase that!) ... get her to make a day for a lesson she suddenly goes very quiet. It's obviously all just a fantasy for her. Then again, I'm used to women having fantasies involving me. It's when they involve a sharp knife and my genitals that I worry.
Well, enough from me before I say something outrageous...
Remember, I'm right here waiting (just look under my bed).
Love,
--
Allan
---------------------
> Big sis tells me you have been trying to send some of your entertaining
> correspondence to me but it has been "bouncing" back.
I thought she was your *little* sister?!
You mean you are the younger, voluptuous sister?!
> Well, that is because I am the best bounce in town.
Darling, I am getting many mental images here - some disturbing, some not so disturbing. There is the angelic image of a little child bouncing happily on your knee as you pull a face because it has just filled it's pants. And a more horrifying image of a man bouncing on you in the missionary position.
(Reminds me of the joke - that you've probably heard:
At a sexual techniques class, the teacher arrived and said the class would be discussing sexual positions that day. She asked the class how many positions they knew. Most were too embarrassed to speak but one woman said, "Twelve."
The teacher nodded approval, but as she got ready to call on another hand, there was a loud call from the far back row of the 150 seat auditorium, "A hundred and one."
The little teacher looked over her thick glasses but couldn't make out who had spoken. So she called on a guy down in the front row who replied, "Seven."
Once again from the very back was heard, "A hundred and one."
The teacher ignored that and called upon a very shy lady halfway back in the class. At first the lady acted like she wasn't going to answer. Finally she said, "Only one, Miss."
"Well, that is unusual, young lady", the teacher said. "And what position would that be?"
"With the man on top and woman on the bottom," she replied.
And from the back of the room came that same voice, "A hundred and two!" )
===============
But, to get back to these images, the third image that I get from your comment about you being the best bounce in town is a rather unsettling one of you being tied spreadeagled between two rails and children using you as a trampoline.
You really should be careful what you write to us imaginative men of words!
> I have been keeping
> pretty nocturnal hours in the gallery trying to finish a commissioned
> portrait that is due to be sent to England on Monday and with the deadline
> looming I have had to stay focussed on that.
A commissioned portrait, huh? Well, if it's of Prince Charles, I hope that you have painted him in a dunce's cap. Geez, that guy is thick! (As has been demonstrated only this week by his release of his arrogant, undiplomatic, and ideological diaries of his visit to China!) Thank God the monarchy is no longer anything but a symbol!
> But. Now I have hung up my brushes for a day or two
But, darling, what about the nude portrait of me you were going to paint? I thought a nice one of me standing looking at a pornographic picture would be a novel idea. Of course, you would have to paint it landscape to fit all of me in the picture...
> Because I don't do things by halves, I have celebrated by having a bit of a
> soirée which has just come to an end
Not only do you have the temerity to use a fancy word like soirée which I had to look up to be sure it didn't mean the disgusting thing I hoped it meant - instead it is "An evening party or reception" ~sigh~ - but you even had the ostentation to use the accent correctly! Geez, these artist types!
> How have you been?
Missing you! Broken-hearted because I no longer had this psychic link with your heart because you were putting it into your painting. I have been bereft, inconsolable, forlorn, melancholy, cheerless, desolate, and dolorous and I have some sort of bug that is making me feel miserable. Whatcha mean, I'm a moaner?! You asked!
However, now that you are back in psychic contact and I have been put onto antibiotics by the doctor, all is getting better. In fact, by the time I get around to selling my latest project at the Martinborough Fair, my "2006 Calendar Of Sex Positions For The Adventurous", should any lady customers want personal tuition on one of the more difficult positions, I should be able to oblige. Not at the Fair, of course. (I'll bet that gave you an interesting image!)
> Are you surviving the new year?
Survive is about the operative term.
> Did you make resolutions?
Yes, to stop sobbing so much. It isn't working.
> Are you sticking to them?
Am I sticking to what?! Women? Good God, darlink! What do you think I am? An anti-woman limpet mine? Listen I only make women go off with a bang. I don't blow them up. (And we will leave blowjobs out of this, thank you!)
> Why not?
I don't blow women up because, (a) it's messy and (b) it's much more fun to have them come than go. Anyway, why all these questions about my sex life? You voyeur, you~!
> Why?
I don't know why you're a voyeur! I'd suggest that you look into it, but that would only make matters worse.
> Anyway, if you are off to Martinborough Fair for another dose of sunburn I
> suggest you wear one of those handkerchiefs with a knot in each corner. Not
> a good look but it obviously works as nobody would wear one otherwise.
Darling, the knotted handkerchief is the plebby English look. I have a cowboy hat that I can (and usually do) wear. It accentuates my blue eyes and makes women putty in my hands. Then again, have you ever tried making love to putty? It's no fun, I tell you!
> Oh dear, have you every tried to type with tiddly fingers?
> It is not easy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I make your fingers go all tiddly?! Well, I suppose that's better than you making some part of me go tiddly. A man really can't do much when some part of him is tiddly.
> I am still alive. I am still well and I hope you are in the same condition.
Oh yes, I'm still alive but I'm not sure about my chances of staying that way after you've read this email...
> Keep the correspondence coming in. I love it.
Darlink, in the flesh (and even with clothes on!) I am even better than my correspondence. You really are going to have to pop over here and meet me. Admittedly, petrol has just risen in price, but I could teach you to ride a motor scooter while you are here and you could become fuel economic.
Your sister says she wants me to teach her to ride a motorcycle. I might add that every time I try to pin her down (Er ... I'll rephrase that!) ... get her to make a day for a lesson she suddenly goes very quiet. It's obviously all just a fantasy for her. Then again, I'm used to women having fantasies involving me. It's when they involve a sharp knife and my genitals that I worry.
Well, enough from me before I say something outrageous...
Remember, I'm right here waiting (just look under my bed).
Love,
--
Allan
Saturday, August 26, 2006
I have had to go and buy myself a new teapot. My previous one took exception to being dropped on a concrete floor, albeit covered with lino. It ended up in little pieces except that the spout was intact. I couldn't help thinking that it looked like a teapot that had been attacked by Lorena Bobbett.
So off I went to the Wharehouse. But they only had metal teapots. Yeeeeech! Then again, maybe their buyers live in modern houses with concrete floors. But tea doesn't taste the same out of a metal teapot. Oh, the irony. (Er, excuse that. I just couldn't resist it.)
So I wandered off to Farmers and they only had big teapots. Bachelors like I only need a little teapot. Otherwise we slosh when we walk. And, before too long, walk rather strangely.
So then I went along to Inside Out. Inside Out had a Closing Down sale in progress. They kept telling me that it was going to take them three months to close. All I can say is that those doors must be very heavy! Anyway, with the sale going on, a lot of stock was on trestle tables on the footpath outside the shop. So the shop truly was Inside Out.
Now, the only small teapot on sale in the shop had a lid without a knob on it. A knob is very important. Just ask any housewife who knows her jollies.
So I pointed this out to the lady in the shop and she said that the reason the lid didn't have a knob on was because it was a Herb teapot.
I just had to point out then that I wasn't a Herb but an Allan and did she have a better-named one.
She just laughed. It's terrible when the legitimate concerns of a customer are treated so frivolously like this. So she pointed to a larger teapot and said: "There's this one."
I said it was too large and she said she liked a large one. I was tempted, truly tempted, but I didn't say anything...
So, faced with Hobson’s choice (or is that Herb’s choice) I bought the one with the funny lid. I have just used it and I have discovered that if you put your finger on the lid to stop the lid falling off as you pour, your finger gets burned. Do you too get the feeling that one has a Herb’s choice here? Get burned by the teapot or by the tea as the lid falls into it.
~sigh~ All this buying of domestic equipment is just so difficult for a mere bachelor like me.
--
Allan
So off I went to the Wharehouse. But they only had metal teapots. Yeeeeech! Then again, maybe their buyers live in modern houses with concrete floors. But tea doesn't taste the same out of a metal teapot. Oh, the irony. (Er, excuse that. I just couldn't resist it.)
So I wandered off to Farmers and they only had big teapots. Bachelors like I only need a little teapot. Otherwise we slosh when we walk. And, before too long, walk rather strangely.
So then I went along to Inside Out. Inside Out had a Closing Down sale in progress. They kept telling me that it was going to take them three months to close. All I can say is that those doors must be very heavy! Anyway, with the sale going on, a lot of stock was on trestle tables on the footpath outside the shop. So the shop truly was Inside Out.
Now, the only small teapot on sale in the shop had a lid without a knob on it. A knob is very important. Just ask any housewife who knows her jollies.
So I pointed this out to the lady in the shop and she said that the reason the lid didn't have a knob on was because it was a Herb teapot.
I just had to point out then that I wasn't a Herb but an Allan and did she have a better-named one.
She just laughed. It's terrible when the legitimate concerns of a customer are treated so frivolously like this. So she pointed to a larger teapot and said: "There's this one."
I said it was too large and she said she liked a large one. I was tempted, truly tempted, but I didn't say anything...
So, faced with Hobson’s choice (or is that Herb’s choice) I bought the one with the funny lid. I have just used it and I have discovered that if you put your finger on the lid to stop the lid falling off as you pour, your finger gets burned. Do you too get the feeling that one has a Herb’s choice here? Get burned by the teapot or by the tea as the lid falls into it.
~sigh~ All this buying of domestic equipment is just so difficult for a mere bachelor like me.
--
Allan
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Are you awake? Has daylight saving affected you so badly you are now a walking around feeling like you have jetlag? Join the clan!
Hey, I went into the Wharehouse today to buy a third wheel for my trailer. Well, it could be useful if the car broke down...
And while I was in there I saw a sign that said "Buy Two And Get One Free". Now, that sort of sign should be outlawed. People of Scottish heritage like me are rendered helpless by those signs. The items being referred to were CDs so, since I like buying CDs to listen to while I work, I wandered across and found three that looked OK. One was a New Zealand Christmas CD but I thought: "Why not?!"
Another was the best of Savage Garden (I think the band members were rose enthusiasts) and the last bore naked women all over it and was called Lounge Deluxe. So I bought it. For the music only, of course.
Then I went looking for the trailer wheel. I couldn't find it and neither could a Wharehouse staff member. So she went looking to see "if there are any on the computer". Why they put them on the computer I know not. Why put them there? Why not just put them on the shelves with the rest of the stuff?
Anyway, after the lady had gone away to peer on top of the computer, I had another look down the Car Accessories aisle and, hey presto, there hidden away in a nondescript cardboard box was what they called Trailer Jacks.
So off I wander to the checkout to buy the stuff. After I'd paid my money, I had a sudden thought. "Did I get one of these CDs for free?" I asked. I know the Wharehouse by now.
"No", says the checkout lady.
"But they were buy two and get one free."
"You'll have to go and see the service centre," I was told.
So grumbling mightily I headed to the Service Centre where the nice lady fluffed around equaly mightily for five minutes and I got a $3 refund. "You made 3 cents on that" she said, "since the CD actually costs $2.97".
I tried to look duly grateful but I was thinking: "I've wasted all this time for $3!" That Scottish ancestry has a lot to answer for at times...
So I went home and put the CDs on to play. Of course, the New Zealand Christmas one won't even play. The CD player just keeps searching for the start of the tracks! And guess which one it was. Yes, the $2.97 one.... ~sigh~ It's gotta be something to do with daylight saving!
But there is a bright side to the story. The CD by Savage Garden is a very nice CD indeed. A sort of mix between easy listening and classical. Great background music when one is working.
And the naked lady one? Very modern New Age-type music. And not an orgasmic moan in it. Bugger!
--
Allan
Hey, I went into the Wharehouse today to buy a third wheel for my trailer. Well, it could be useful if the car broke down...
And while I was in there I saw a sign that said "Buy Two And Get One Free". Now, that sort of sign should be outlawed. People of Scottish heritage like me are rendered helpless by those signs. The items being referred to were CDs so, since I like buying CDs to listen to while I work, I wandered across and found three that looked OK. One was a New Zealand Christmas CD but I thought: "Why not?!"
Another was the best of Savage Garden (I think the band members were rose enthusiasts) and the last bore naked women all over it and was called Lounge Deluxe. So I bought it. For the music only, of course.
Then I went looking for the trailer wheel. I couldn't find it and neither could a Wharehouse staff member. So she went looking to see "if there are any on the computer". Why they put them on the computer I know not. Why put them there? Why not just put them on the shelves with the rest of the stuff?
Anyway, after the lady had gone away to peer on top of the computer, I had another look down the Car Accessories aisle and, hey presto, there hidden away in a nondescript cardboard box was what they called Trailer Jacks.
So off I wander to the checkout to buy the stuff. After I'd paid my money, I had a sudden thought. "Did I get one of these CDs for free?" I asked. I know the Wharehouse by now.
"No", says the checkout lady.
"But they were buy two and get one free."
"You'll have to go and see the service centre," I was told.
So grumbling mightily I headed to the Service Centre where the nice lady fluffed around equaly mightily for five minutes and I got a $3 refund. "You made 3 cents on that" she said, "since the CD actually costs $2.97".
I tried to look duly grateful but I was thinking: "I've wasted all this time for $3!" That Scottish ancestry has a lot to answer for at times...
So I went home and put the CDs on to play. Of course, the New Zealand Christmas one won't even play. The CD player just keeps searching for the start of the tracks! And guess which one it was. Yes, the $2.97 one.... ~sigh~ It's gotta be something to do with daylight saving!
But there is a bright side to the story. The CD by Savage Garden is a very nice CD indeed. A sort of mix between easy listening and classical. Great background music when one is working.
And the naked lady one? Very modern New Age-type music. And not an orgasmic moan in it. Bugger!
--
Allan
Thursday, August 17, 2006
My friends say my replies to their emails can often be entertaining ...
Part of the email I received
> Working, puppy-sitting, cafe for dinner with some friends, reading,
> household executiving, popping up to Paraparaumu to see mama, oh, and
> the odd vino thrown in as well.....
>
> and you?????
My reply
Well, I'm not puppy sitting. The SPCA gets so silly when you sit on 'em, but how else do you keep them from being so boisterous?
I don't think I'll go to a café for dinner. Their menus are always in French and when you order something exotic you end up with a plate of wedges, or a bacon and egg sandwich or something.
I won't be reading, either. Well, other than what I write.
As for household executiving... I've given that sort of thing up. I've always said that a dusty carpet discourages ants, especially those that suffer from hay fever.
But I'd like to see you popping up to Paraparaumu. Or is that *hear* you popping up to Paraparaumu? I dunno why you don't just get your car tuned. And you have a mother? Never admit that to a man. If they are at all interested, they immediately have to deal with the idea of a mother-in-law!
Finally, if you are going to partake of the odd vino (and some of them can be VERY odd) just don't drink and drive. Drink *before* you drive or after it, but not while driving. Those cup holders in a car are never big enough to hold the wine bottle, which is a real nuisance when you want to put it down to give the fingers to a policeman.
But, it sounds like you are going to have a fun weekend.
Me, I'm just going to sit at home finishing and assembling my Hot Air Balloon book. Don't writers have an exciting life?!
--
Allan
Part of the email I received
> Working, puppy-sitting, cafe for dinner with some friends, reading,
> household executiving, popping up to Paraparaumu to see mama, oh, and
> the odd vino thrown in as well.....
>
> and you?????
My reply
Well, I'm not puppy sitting. The SPCA gets so silly when you sit on 'em, but how else do you keep them from being so boisterous?
I don't think I'll go to a café for dinner. Their menus are always in French and when you order something exotic you end up with a plate of wedges, or a bacon and egg sandwich or something.
I won't be reading, either. Well, other than what I write.
As for household executiving... I've given that sort of thing up. I've always said that a dusty carpet discourages ants, especially those that suffer from hay fever.
But I'd like to see you popping up to Paraparaumu. Or is that *hear* you popping up to Paraparaumu? I dunno why you don't just get your car tuned. And you have a mother? Never admit that to a man. If they are at all interested, they immediately have to deal with the idea of a mother-in-law!
Finally, if you are going to partake of the odd vino (and some of them can be VERY odd) just don't drink and drive. Drink *before* you drive or after it, but not while driving. Those cup holders in a car are never big enough to hold the wine bottle, which is a real nuisance when you want to put it down to give the fingers to a policeman.
But, it sounds like you are going to have a fun weekend.
Me, I'm just going to sit at home finishing and assembling my Hot Air Balloon book. Don't writers have an exciting life?!
--
Allan
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
When I get bored, I entertain myself by going onto a dating site and sending funny introductory messages to appropriate-looking women on the site.
Usually you don’t get any reply. Sometimes they get all nasty because the sensitive things think that you are poking fun at them. ~sigh~
Sometimes you get a reply and you can make some great friends.
Sometimes it gets downright strange.
I came upon a profile for a lady who, in the space for what she wanted in the way of a man, wrote:
“No bullies, no red-necks, no right-wingers.
Apparently you don't exist, so I shall leave this space in peace.
Feel free to sit for a while and meditate.”
I couldn’t resist that. So I sent her a message:
“Ahem...
I've finished meditating. Now what do I do?
Geez, I've always loved forceful women. Especially when they are someone else's girlfriend.
Your profile was ... er .... unusual. So I just couldn't resist sending you a message.
Oh, and the "Block" button is the third line down..”
--
Allan
That’s when the fun started. Because she actually replied:
"Hi there,
Thanks for contacting me. Accidentally I deleted your letter, because it was hidden in amongst the junk mail, and I was in a mood for a clean-out of my inbox, so I don't recall what you said, but I'm sure it wasn't as mindless as the usual approach.
I no longer dare to imagine there is any soul mate out there in the ether for me, but am always delighted to encounter a kindred spirit or even an articulate stranger. Hope you are having a good day.
cheers
--
Kate
I couldn’t resist that! I replied:
"Darlink, have faith. There is a soul mate out there for you.
He’s probably just hiding.
Of course, he may be a sole mate rather than a soul mate in that he wears your shoes … and your knickers, bras, short skirts and anything else he can fit into while cross-dressing.
However, itwais a not a good start that you deleted my email. I spent ages writing that. Well, at least 30 minutes. Would you go for 15? OK 10. Alright, I just dashed it off hoping that it was enough to make you laugh and hit the Reply To The Message button. I succeeded!
My next task of course, should I decide to accept it, is to get you to write again. Geez, this dating site stuff is really hard, you know!
Now what can I tell you about myself to make you decide that I’m so scrumptious you just have to come out and pretend to have a coffee with me, all the while staring rapt into my blue eyes.
Maybe I should tell you that I’ve won Lotto? But, while that would be a great way, its not true. ~sigh~
Maybe I should say that I am a lovely guy, fun to be with, and a great lover? Nah, you’d want references. ~sigh~
Geez, this is all very difficult.
I know, go to my website at http://www.capitalletters.co.nz That way you are sure to be astonished at how creative I am and want to meet this man to watch him drink his Earl Grey tea out of the saucer.
Or you could just email me back with some scintillating news from your no-doubt-exciting life. Yeah, that’s a better idea! I await your reply with excitement.
--
Allan
Then things got really weird. She wrote:
Reply To Your Message
Hi, thanks for your message, this is my standard reply to intelligent, cultured people who are not of the far right political persuasion. Anyone else gets a more pithy (but still polite) response including the advice to: "go back and read the profile"!
Very nice to hear from you. You sound like my sort of person, and since you have contacted me clearly you think there might be a chance we could be kindred spirits, but I better say right now I'm only looking for friendship at this stage.
I'm getting rather tired of men here wanting to escalate into a big romance within a few hours of first starting to email each other on this site.
There's a tempting fantasy dynamic here on the online dating world, and if we buy into that, such unreasonable expectations tend to kill the possibility of any sort of amiable acquaintance developing.
I have a photo but I don't share it until I'm comfortable with how our conversation is going. Sorry but that is my strict rule, born of some experience of revealing personal details before establishing I'm dealing with someone trustworthy. The conmen and tricksters on here are very very clever, so please don't take my caution as a personal insult. The lack of a photograph and immediate supply of identity details apparently outrages some men, so it is also useful in helping me weed out the ones who are only seeking sexual relationships. Anyone genuinely interested in a friendly interaction will be willing to wait to see my face, as they'll be engaging with my intellect, and if they can't do that there is no hope of any other sort of relationship developing as I believe attraction is firstly a cerebral thing.
If I find someone who seems compatible as a friend I exchange photos and then would talk on the phone before arranging to meet in person for a coffee. That would be rare but does happen and I have friends I have met here, and I did have a more serious relationship once too.
Sorry to be so heavy on my first message to you. I don't want to waste your time or mine.
All the very best to you in finding your hearts desire, and if you wish to chat further, please feel free to message back.
I don't live in Wellington, I'm just here for the arts festival.
Cheers
--
Kate
Hey, who could resist that?! So I replied:
"Good God, darlink, that pre-recorded first message is enough to make a guy don his fireproof suit, sharpen his sword and hang his trusty crucifix around his neck in anticipation of bearding the dragon in her lair!
And the insults! Me, cultured? You think I'm growing moss or something? I do not live in a test tube. I live in a (rather cluttered) two bedroom flat that is also my office and entertainment centre (Now, now! I meant entertainment as in watching movies on DVDs ... although I like the idea of the other!)
As for kindred spirits, I don't drink 'em. I'm a problem enough when I'm sober.
Whatcha mean, you're only looking for friendships at this stage? Huh. When you get to know me and throw yourself at my feet in passionate lust, I'm gonna remind you of that! And then walk away with the nearest blonde. Of course, depending on which wig you are wearing, that may be you, but...
And you have a photo but you won't reveal it until you've got to know me? Huh, I know what is going on here! I was reading in the paper today that Catherine Zeta Jones worked anonymously as a chef recently while studying for her next part. I'll bet you're Dolly Parton. Or maybe Marilyn Munroe isn't dead!
Yep. You’re probably Marilyn Munroe. I mean, the neuroses seem to be about the same.
I mean, me a con man? Or, if it comes to that, me, clever?
Well, look, I'm sure that I can manage to talk to you without going insane from wanting to (a) see what you look like (b) take you out for a coffee or (c) make mad passionate love to you (somehow I think the latter may involve signing a five page disclaimer, anyway). No problem to me. I mean, it gives me time to do (a), (b), and (c) with all the hundreds of other women on the site who are not so repellent of my charms.
So let's start off this conversation with a lovely discussion of the arts. I've been hearing a lot about lap dancing recently. Did it eventuate from Lappland? Is that the one they do with Poles?
Hey, I love these intellectual conversations.
--
Allan
I awaited any reply with interest.
I’m still waiting….
Usually you don’t get any reply. Sometimes they get all nasty because the sensitive things think that you are poking fun at them. ~sigh~
Sometimes you get a reply and you can make some great friends.
Sometimes it gets downright strange.
I came upon a profile for a lady who, in the space for what she wanted in the way of a man, wrote:
“No bullies, no red-necks, no right-wingers.
Apparently you don't exist, so I shall leave this space in peace.
Feel free to sit for a while and meditate.”
I couldn’t resist that. So I sent her a message:
“Ahem...
I've finished meditating. Now what do I do?
Geez, I've always loved forceful women. Especially when they are someone else's girlfriend.
Your profile was ... er .... unusual. So I just couldn't resist sending you a message.
Oh, and the "Block" button is the third line down..”
--
Allan
That’s when the fun started. Because she actually replied:
"Hi there,
Thanks for contacting me. Accidentally I deleted your letter, because it was hidden in amongst the junk mail, and I was in a mood for a clean-out of my inbox, so I don't recall what you said, but I'm sure it wasn't as mindless as the usual approach.
I no longer dare to imagine there is any soul mate out there in the ether for me, but am always delighted to encounter a kindred spirit or even an articulate stranger. Hope you are having a good day.
cheers
--
Kate
I couldn’t resist that! I replied:
"Darlink, have faith. There is a soul mate out there for you.
He’s probably just hiding.
Of course, he may be a sole mate rather than a soul mate in that he wears your shoes … and your knickers, bras, short skirts and anything else he can fit into while cross-dressing.
However, itwais a not a good start that you deleted my email. I spent ages writing that. Well, at least 30 minutes. Would you go for 15? OK 10. Alright, I just dashed it off hoping that it was enough to make you laugh and hit the Reply To The Message button. I succeeded!
My next task of course, should I decide to accept it, is to get you to write again. Geez, this dating site stuff is really hard, you know!
Now what can I tell you about myself to make you decide that I’m so scrumptious you just have to come out and pretend to have a coffee with me, all the while staring rapt into my blue eyes.
Maybe I should tell you that I’ve won Lotto? But, while that would be a great way, its not true. ~sigh~
Maybe I should say that I am a lovely guy, fun to be with, and a great lover? Nah, you’d want references. ~sigh~
Geez, this is all very difficult.
I know, go to my website at http://www.capitalletters.co.nz That way you are sure to be astonished at how creative I am and want to meet this man to watch him drink his Earl Grey tea out of the saucer.
Or you could just email me back with some scintillating news from your no-doubt-exciting life. Yeah, that’s a better idea! I await your reply with excitement.
--
Allan
Then things got really weird. She wrote:
Reply To Your Message
Hi, thanks for your message, this is my standard reply to intelligent, cultured people who are not of the far right political persuasion. Anyone else gets a more pithy (but still polite) response including the advice to: "go back and read the profile"!
Very nice to hear from you. You sound like my sort of person, and since you have contacted me clearly you think there might be a chance we could be kindred spirits, but I better say right now I'm only looking for friendship at this stage.
I'm getting rather tired of men here wanting to escalate into a big romance within a few hours of first starting to email each other on this site.
There's a tempting fantasy dynamic here on the online dating world, and if we buy into that, such unreasonable expectations tend to kill the possibility of any sort of amiable acquaintance developing.
I have a photo but I don't share it until I'm comfortable with how our conversation is going. Sorry but that is my strict rule, born of some experience of revealing personal details before establishing I'm dealing with someone trustworthy. The conmen and tricksters on here are very very clever, so please don't take my caution as a personal insult. The lack of a photograph and immediate supply of identity details apparently outrages some men, so it is also useful in helping me weed out the ones who are only seeking sexual relationships. Anyone genuinely interested in a friendly interaction will be willing to wait to see my face, as they'll be engaging with my intellect, and if they can't do that there is no hope of any other sort of relationship developing as I believe attraction is firstly a cerebral thing.
If I find someone who seems compatible as a friend I exchange photos and then would talk on the phone before arranging to meet in person for a coffee. That would be rare but does happen and I have friends I have met here, and I did have a more serious relationship once too.
Sorry to be so heavy on my first message to you. I don't want to waste your time or mine.
All the very best to you in finding your hearts desire, and if you wish to chat further, please feel free to message back.
I don't live in Wellington, I'm just here for the arts festival.
Cheers
--
Kate
Hey, who could resist that?! So I replied:
"Good God, darlink, that pre-recorded first message is enough to make a guy don his fireproof suit, sharpen his sword and hang his trusty crucifix around his neck in anticipation of bearding the dragon in her lair!
And the insults! Me, cultured? You think I'm growing moss or something? I do not live in a test tube. I live in a (rather cluttered) two bedroom flat that is also my office and entertainment centre (Now, now! I meant entertainment as in watching movies on DVDs ... although I like the idea of the other!)
As for kindred spirits, I don't drink 'em. I'm a problem enough when I'm sober.
Whatcha mean, you're only looking for friendships at this stage? Huh. When you get to know me and throw yourself at my feet in passionate lust, I'm gonna remind you of that! And then walk away with the nearest blonde. Of course, depending on which wig you are wearing, that may be you, but...
And you have a photo but you won't reveal it until you've got to know me? Huh, I know what is going on here! I was reading in the paper today that Catherine Zeta Jones worked anonymously as a chef recently while studying for her next part. I'll bet you're Dolly Parton. Or maybe Marilyn Munroe isn't dead!
Yep. You’re probably Marilyn Munroe. I mean, the neuroses seem to be about the same.
I mean, me a con man? Or, if it comes to that, me, clever?
Well, look, I'm sure that I can manage to talk to you without going insane from wanting to (a) see what you look like (b) take you out for a coffee or (c) make mad passionate love to you (somehow I think the latter may involve signing a five page disclaimer, anyway). No problem to me. I mean, it gives me time to do (a), (b), and (c) with all the hundreds of other women on the site who are not so repellent of my charms.
So let's start off this conversation with a lovely discussion of the arts. I've been hearing a lot about lap dancing recently. Did it eventuate from Lappland? Is that the one they do with Poles?
Hey, I love these intellectual conversations.
--
Allan
I awaited any reply with interest.
I’m still waiting….
Saturday, August 12, 2006
I got one of those silly emails that ask you to do something then send it to your friends.
Normally I just delete them but this one was fun!
------------------------------------------------------
This is fun. Hope I receive it back from you. Read through the comments below about your friend and then make sure you read the instructions at the bottom. Have fun!
1. What time is it?:
Sunset. I know that because the birds have settled into the tree over the drive and are pooping on my car.
2. Full name:
Allan Robert (Captain Spunkbubble) Kirk
3. What are you most afraid of?:
That my ex might forgive me and take me back.
4. What is the most recent movie that you've seen in a theater?:
In a theatre! Geez, I know some pictures are boring and the health service is hard up but, hell, that’s a weird way to save on anaesthetic.
5. Have you ever seen a ghost?:
Of course not. I’m no peeping Tom!
6. Where were you born?:
Lower Hutt somewhere. All I can remember is the light at the end of the tunnel.
7. Favorite food?:
Pavlova, but the cream topping doesn’t agree with me. ~sob~
8. Ever been to Alaska?:
Is this baked Alaska we’re talking about?
8 1/2. Do you have any desire to go to Alaska?:
The country?! Where it’s cold?! I have a motorcyclist friend in Alaska. *He* wants to come down here and visit *me*.
9. Ever been toilet papering?:
My toilet doesn’t have wallpaper. Just as well. Sometimes it would peel off!
9 1/2: When you dream, is it in color or black & white?:
I dream in colour, in smell, and in taste. Which is no fun if you have a nightmare about falling into a sewerage pond.
10. Loved someone so much it made you cry?:
Big boys don’t cry. But one woman has raised a sniffle or two
11. Been in a car accident?
Hasn’t everyone. I’ve been in motorcycle accidents too. They’re much more fun. You can discuss who was at fault after you’ve flown in through the windscreen.
11 1/2. Caused a car accident?:
Of course not. It was the fault of the load in the back that I looked at just as the guy in front stopped at a set of lights…
12. Croutons or bacon bits?:
What strange food are we talking about here? I’ll go for oysters. They put lead in your pencil and an aged author like me needs all the lead he can get.
13. Favorite day of the week?:
The one with a y in it
14. Favorite Restaurant?:
Ooh, this is hard (as the girl said to the sailor). Does a soup kitchen qualify? If not, I’ll go for Café Cecille.
15. Favorite Flower?:
You expect me to know the name of a flower?! How about a red hot poker. Now why did a full blooded male think of that flower…?
16. Favorite sport to watch?:
I don’t really watch sport but if women wear kilts the true Scots way, Scottish netball sounds interesting.
17. Favorite Drink?:
Tea. Earl Grey, of course.
18. Favorite ice cream?:
Kiwifruit icecream (as long as they’ve peeled the Kiwifruit first, of course.)
19. Disney OR Warner Brothers?:
They both turned down the opportunity to fund the Lord Of The Rings. I’ll go for New Line Cinema.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant?:
My place and an Irvine’s Snack meal
21. WHAT Color is your bedroom?:
With or without the light on? Green if on. Blackly grey if the light is off
22 How many times you failed your driver's test?:
None. No driver tester would want to get back in the car with me again.
23. Before this one, from whom did you get your last e-mail?
I don’t know who he was but he said he could make my thingy so big I’ll probably need the next size of underpants
24. WHAT DO you do most often when you are bored?
Bored?
25. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest?:
People reply to emails?!
26. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond?:
Ooooooh. That’s nasty. In order to protect my male bits from attack, I refuse to answer that question
27. Who is the person that you are most curious to see their responses?:
Charlize Theron. Does anyone know her email address?
28. Favorite TV shows?:
Either the one where someone gets murdered, they shoot off guns all the time, and make
deep and meaningful statements in moments of crisis, or the comedy with these friends and they get into these funny situations and brilliantly think up funny one liners all the time and… I usually see a bit of those when I turn the TV on to watch a DVD.
29. Ford or Chevy?
Well, Harrison Ford is OK and Chevy Chase is OK but Kate Beckinsale has better boobs than either of them.
30. What are you listening to right now?:
A very laid back jazz album by Chris Rea. Yep, THAT Chris Rea
31. What are your favorite colors?:
Skin tones. Preferably female ones.
32. How many tattoos do you have?:
Do scars count?
32 1/2. Does your mom know about your tattoo (s)?:
If scars count and she does, then there *is* an afterlife!
33. How many pets do you have?:
Living with me or in their own home?
34. If you could go anywhere, where would you go?:
Around New Zealand again. If you’ve ever been here, you’ll know why.
35. What would you like to accomplish before you die?:
To get to know my youngest daughter.
37. What characteristics do your friends have to have?:
Patience and a good reading ability
RETURN DIRECTIONS: Now, here's what you're supposed to do... and please do not spoil the fun. Copy into a new email, delete answers and type in your own. Then send this to a whole bunch of people you know INCLUDING the person who sent it to you. The theory is that you will learn a lot of little known facts about those who know you. Remember to send it back to the person who sent it to you.
==========================
Ah yes, isn't email fun at times...
Normally I just delete them but this one was fun!
------------------------------------------------------
This is fun. Hope I receive it back from you. Read through the comments below about your friend and then make sure you read the instructions at the bottom. Have fun!
1. What time is it?:
Sunset. I know that because the birds have settled into the tree over the drive and are pooping on my car.
2. Full name:
Allan Robert (Captain Spunkbubble) Kirk
3. What are you most afraid of?:
That my ex might forgive me and take me back.
4. What is the most recent movie that you've seen in a theater?:
In a theatre! Geez, I know some pictures are boring and the health service is hard up but, hell, that’s a weird way to save on anaesthetic.
5. Have you ever seen a ghost?:
Of course not. I’m no peeping Tom!
6. Where were you born?:
Lower Hutt somewhere. All I can remember is the light at the end of the tunnel.
7. Favorite food?:
Pavlova, but the cream topping doesn’t agree with me. ~sob~
8. Ever been to Alaska?:
Is this baked Alaska we’re talking about?
8 1/2. Do you have any desire to go to Alaska?:
The country?! Where it’s cold?! I have a motorcyclist friend in Alaska. *He* wants to come down here and visit *me*.
9. Ever been toilet papering?:
My toilet doesn’t have wallpaper. Just as well. Sometimes it would peel off!
9 1/2: When you dream, is it in color or black & white?:
I dream in colour, in smell, and in taste. Which is no fun if you have a nightmare about falling into a sewerage pond.
10. Loved someone so much it made you cry?:
Big boys don’t cry. But one woman has raised a sniffle or two
11. Been in a car accident?
Hasn’t everyone. I’ve been in motorcycle accidents too. They’re much more fun. You can discuss who was at fault after you’ve flown in through the windscreen.
11 1/2. Caused a car accident?:
Of course not. It was the fault of the load in the back that I looked at just as the guy in front stopped at a set of lights…
12. Croutons or bacon bits?:
What strange food are we talking about here? I’ll go for oysters. They put lead in your pencil and an aged author like me needs all the lead he can get.
13. Favorite day of the week?:
The one with a y in it
14. Favorite Restaurant?:
Ooh, this is hard (as the girl said to the sailor). Does a soup kitchen qualify? If not, I’ll go for Café Cecille.
15. Favorite Flower?:
You expect me to know the name of a flower?! How about a red hot poker. Now why did a full blooded male think of that flower…?
16. Favorite sport to watch?:
I don’t really watch sport but if women wear kilts the true Scots way, Scottish netball sounds interesting.
17. Favorite Drink?:
Tea. Earl Grey, of course.
18. Favorite ice cream?:
Kiwifruit icecream (as long as they’ve peeled the Kiwifruit first, of course.)
19. Disney OR Warner Brothers?:
They both turned down the opportunity to fund the Lord Of The Rings. I’ll go for New Line Cinema.
20. Favorite fast food restaurant?:
My place and an Irvine’s Snack meal
21. WHAT Color is your bedroom?:
With or without the light on? Green if on. Blackly grey if the light is off
22 How many times you failed your driver's test?:
None. No driver tester would want to get back in the car with me again.
23. Before this one, from whom did you get your last e-mail?
I don’t know who he was but he said he could make my thingy so big I’ll probably need the next size of underpants
24. WHAT DO you do most often when you are bored?
Bored?
25. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest?:
People reply to emails?!
26. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond?:
Ooooooh. That’s nasty. In order to protect my male bits from attack, I refuse to answer that question
27. Who is the person that you are most curious to see their responses?:
Charlize Theron. Does anyone know her email address?
28. Favorite TV shows?:
Either the one where someone gets murdered, they shoot off guns all the time, and make
deep and meaningful statements in moments of crisis, or the comedy with these friends and they get into these funny situations and brilliantly think up funny one liners all the time and… I usually see a bit of those when I turn the TV on to watch a DVD.
29. Ford or Chevy?
Well, Harrison Ford is OK and Chevy Chase is OK but Kate Beckinsale has better boobs than either of them.
30. What are you listening to right now?:
A very laid back jazz album by Chris Rea. Yep, THAT Chris Rea
31. What are your favorite colors?:
Skin tones. Preferably female ones.
32. How many tattoos do you have?:
Do scars count?
32 1/2. Does your mom know about your tattoo (s)?:
If scars count and she does, then there *is* an afterlife!
33. How many pets do you have?:
Living with me or in their own home?
34. If you could go anywhere, where would you go?:
Around New Zealand again. If you’ve ever been here, you’ll know why.
35. What would you like to accomplish before you die?:
To get to know my youngest daughter.
37. What characteristics do your friends have to have?:
Patience and a good reading ability
RETURN DIRECTIONS: Now, here's what you're supposed to do... and please do not spoil the fun. Copy into a new email, delete answers and type in your own. Then send this to a whole bunch of people you know INCLUDING the person who sent it to you. The theory is that you will learn a lot of little known facts about those who know you. Remember to send it back to the person who sent it to you.
==========================
Ah yes, isn't email fun at times...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Hey, I've just read on the news that the Duke of York is coming to New Zealand to visit next month. Whether or not he will have his 10,000 men with him I am not sure but, since New Zealand has 20,000 more women than men, I suspect that Kiwi women may be hoping he will...
Just so that you know, according to the news reports, the Duke will be laying a wreath at the national war memorial and the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior in Wellington. This means, of course, that the grand young Duke of York will be marching his ten thousand men up one of them Wellington hills to lay the wreath and then he'll march them down again.
So I'd suggest to any single Kiwi woman who is reading this with gleaming eyes at the thought of the opportunity to have her way with a hunky soldier that she should lie in wait somewhere about half way up that there hill. Because, by the time all of them soldiers have got all the way up and back again, they'll be so stuffed they'll be of absolutely no use to you!
Now don’t forget, and thus miss your opportunity! I have been told that these ten thousand men have admirable characteristics for ladies. Apparently, when they're up, they're up.
Although, sadly, when they are down, they are down.
And, worse still, when they are only half way up... Well, it's either a matter of changing position, or else it’s the time during the march to grab them quick.
See how good to you I am to you in your search for relationship bliss?
--
Allan
Just so that you know, according to the news reports, the Duke will be laying a wreath at the national war memorial and the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior in Wellington. This means, of course, that the grand young Duke of York will be marching his ten thousand men up one of them Wellington hills to lay the wreath and then he'll march them down again.
So I'd suggest to any single Kiwi woman who is reading this with gleaming eyes at the thought of the opportunity to have her way with a hunky soldier that she should lie in wait somewhere about half way up that there hill. Because, by the time all of them soldiers have got all the way up and back again, they'll be so stuffed they'll be of absolutely no use to you!
Now don’t forget, and thus miss your opportunity! I have been told that these ten thousand men have admirable characteristics for ladies. Apparently, when they're up, they're up.
Although, sadly, when they are down, they are down.
And, worse still, when they are only half way up... Well, it's either a matter of changing position, or else it’s the time during the march to grab them quick.
See how good to you I am to you in your search for relationship bliss?
--
Allan
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
You know how some men boast about how good a lover they are? I wouldn't do that.
Well, not much.
OK, a little.
Hey, look, I’m a brilliant lover.
One lady once told me: "You sure know how to press my buttons".
Always eager to learn new sexual techniques, I went looking for buttons on the next lady but didn't find them. So I just went back to erogenous zones, instead. Second best, maybe, but it seems to work.
I try hard at foreplay because I have to make the most of it. After all, physically, I’m not all that exciting. Women tell me I have a nice butt, but keeping one’s butt facing the lady while making love involve such bodily contortions. And my body isn’t as supple as it once was. Especially when I’m excited.
I have to admit that, at 57 years of age, time has taken its toll on my body. I no longer have hair on the tippy top of my head. Even my chest hairs have slipped. About a foot or so down my body. And they’ve gone all curly. Must be the vitamins I take.
It can’t be the Viagra. That straightens things out
Anyway, me mate says to stop worrying about my hair. He says that I'm concentrating on the wrong kind of growth when it comes to attracting women. Instead, he's told me to take a different kind of vitamin. I think he called it a Viagra vitamin.
I'm not sure what that's going to do to my chest hair, though.
Well, not much.
OK, a little.
Hey, look, I’m a brilliant lover.
One lady once told me: "You sure know how to press my buttons".
Always eager to learn new sexual techniques, I went looking for buttons on the next lady but didn't find them. So I just went back to erogenous zones, instead. Second best, maybe, but it seems to work.
I try hard at foreplay because I have to make the most of it. After all, physically, I’m not all that exciting. Women tell me I have a nice butt, but keeping one’s butt facing the lady while making love involve such bodily contortions. And my body isn’t as supple as it once was. Especially when I’m excited.
I have to admit that, at 57 years of age, time has taken its toll on my body. I no longer have hair on the tippy top of my head. Even my chest hairs have slipped. About a foot or so down my body. And they’ve gone all curly. Must be the vitamins I take.
It can’t be the Viagra. That straightens things out
Anyway, me mate says to stop worrying about my hair. He says that I'm concentrating on the wrong kind of growth when it comes to attracting women. Instead, he's told me to take a different kind of vitamin. I think he called it a Viagra vitamin.
I'm not sure what that's going to do to my chest hair, though.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Today I was writing about Jane Campion, the film director, as part of a series of books I’m writing on famous New Zealanders. As you may know, Jane made the film "Angel At My Table" about New Zealand author Janet Frame.
In the process of my research, I discovered to my surprise that Janet Frame received two hundred electroshock treatments in her eight years in mental institutions. But it was her writing that gave doctors second thoughts about whether she belonged in a hospital, and she was released just in the nick of time, having been short-listed for a lobotomy.
Well, this all got mentioned in the book, so then I had to define lobotomy in the Glossary as most kids wouldn’t know what a lobotomy is.
Looking up lobotomy proved to be fun!
I came upon a site that was very anti-psychiatry but also full of useful information.
Lobotomy is “a surgical incision into the frontal lobe of the brain to sever one or more nerve tracts, a technique formerly used to treat certain mental disorders but now rarely performed. Lobotomy refers to the surgical cutting of nerve connections between the frontal lobes and the rest of the brain. The frontal lobes are unique to human beings and are the seat of the higher functions such as love, concern for others, empathy, self-insight, creativity, initiative, autonomy, rationality, abstract reasoning, judgement, future planning, foresight, will-power, determination, and concentration. Without the frontal lobes it is impossible to be "human" in the fullest sense of the word; they are required for a civilised, effective, mature life. Depending on the amount of damage done, the effect can be partial or relatively complete. In a complete lobotomy, the patient becomes obviously demented with loss of all higher mental functions.”
The “fun” bit was that the lobotomy technique was invented by Portuguese neurosurgeon Egas Moniz in 1935 who used to stab a long, thin blade into the brains of his victims through holes drilled in their skulls. In an ironic testimony to the failings of the technique, Moniz was shot and paralysed by one of his lobotomy victims in 1939 and, in 1955, was beaten to death by another.
Ah yes, writing kids’ books is a real education….
I mean, all of Jane Campion’s movies are erotic films, either erotic dramas or erotic thrillers.
I discovered her signature on one website. Surprise, surprise, the lower zones of her writing indicate a vivid erotic imagination!
Ah yes, it’s fascinating writing kids’ books.
In the process of my research, I discovered to my surprise that Janet Frame received two hundred electroshock treatments in her eight years in mental institutions. But it was her writing that gave doctors second thoughts about whether she belonged in a hospital, and she was released just in the nick of time, having been short-listed for a lobotomy.
Well, this all got mentioned in the book, so then I had to define lobotomy in the Glossary as most kids wouldn’t know what a lobotomy is.
Looking up lobotomy proved to be fun!
I came upon a site that was very anti-psychiatry but also full of useful information.
Lobotomy is “a surgical incision into the frontal lobe of the brain to sever one or more nerve tracts, a technique formerly used to treat certain mental disorders but now rarely performed. Lobotomy refers to the surgical cutting of nerve connections between the frontal lobes and the rest of the brain. The frontal lobes are unique to human beings and are the seat of the higher functions such as love, concern for others, empathy, self-insight, creativity, initiative, autonomy, rationality, abstract reasoning, judgement, future planning, foresight, will-power, determination, and concentration. Without the frontal lobes it is impossible to be "human" in the fullest sense of the word; they are required for a civilised, effective, mature life. Depending on the amount of damage done, the effect can be partial or relatively complete. In a complete lobotomy, the patient becomes obviously demented with loss of all higher mental functions.”
The “fun” bit was that the lobotomy technique was invented by Portuguese neurosurgeon Egas Moniz in 1935 who used to stab a long, thin blade into the brains of his victims through holes drilled in their skulls. In an ironic testimony to the failings of the technique, Moniz was shot and paralysed by one of his lobotomy victims in 1939 and, in 1955, was beaten to death by another.
Ah yes, writing kids’ books is a real education….
I mean, all of Jane Campion’s movies are erotic films, either erotic dramas or erotic thrillers.
I discovered her signature on one website. Surprise, surprise, the lower zones of her writing indicate a vivid erotic imagination!
Ah yes, it’s fascinating writing kids’ books.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Being a motorcycle safety expert who appears on TV can be a problem at times.
More than seven years ago I was interviewed by TV1. It was an interesting interview. They actually had the interviewer interviewing me from the pillion seat of my very rare Bennelli Jarno motorcycle as we rode along. The cameraperson, a rather gorgeous lady, lay in the back of the TV1 stationwagon driving ahead of us to film us as we tootled along at about 30kmh talking.
Then they wanted shots from the bike itself, so they put the camera lady on the back. To hold the camera steady, she rested the camera on my shoulder and leaned into me. The weight on my shoulder was no problem. But those seemingly ample breasts of hers pressing into my back sure as hell made concentrating on riding difficult!
In the process of this filming ride, we went past a 50kmh speed limit sign. When the interview was aired on TV what should come up but the 50kmh speed limit sign …and was that speedo needle, also visible, sitting on 70kmh?
Then they did some shots from the side of the road of me riding past.
An interesting experience but that was yesterday’s news.
But was it?
Last night, the fifth item on TV1 news was a story about speeding motorcyclists in Otago, some doing nearly 300kmh. And they showed one such speeding motorcyclist. Trouble was, as numerous phone calls today have proven, the film of the “speeding” motorcyclist was archival footage and it was of me, on my unique motorcycle in my unique golfball crash helmet (special dimples on it to aid air flow) and wearing my impossible-to-miss special blue and white leathers.
Yep. That “speeding” motorcyclist was me tootling along at about 60kmh.
I have since rung Bill Ralston, Head Of News at TV1 and, after he stopped laughing about the idea of a motorcycle safety expert being the “speeding” motorcyclist, he promised to make sure that they use that particular piece of archival footage more carefully next time. Harrumph!
Well, in need of some light relief after that, I then went to NZDating today to check whether any deliciously wealthy good-looking widow had sent me a message (zippo again. ~sigh~). On the opening page I noticed an advert for a 34 year old Argentinian now living in Auckland.
You know me, with my wickedness I just couldn’t resist it. So I sent her a message:
===========================
You know, sending messages to foreign-type people on dating sites ain't easy. I mean, what do you say.
I know, I’ll tell some jokes:
Q: How does an Argentinian commit suicide? A: He jumps off his ego
Or:
The President of Brazil was sitting in his office wondering who to annoy next when his telephone rang.
"Hello! Mr. President," said a man with an Argentinian accent. "This is the Argentinian President. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you!"
"Well, Mr President," the President of Brazil replied, "This is indeed important news! Tell me, how big is your army?"
"At this moment in time," said the Argentinian President after a moment's calculation, "there is myself, my cousin Jorge, my next door neighbour Carlos, and the entire football team from the pub - that makes eight!"
The President of Brazil sighed. "I must tell you Mr President that I have one million men in my army waiting to move on my command."
"Oh!" said the Argentinian President, "I'll have to ring you back!"
Sure enough, the next day the Argentinian President rang back. "Right, Mr.President, the war is still on! We have managed to acquire some equipment!"
"And what equipment would that be, Mr President?" the President of Brazil asked.
"Well, we have 2 combine harvesters, a bulldozer and Iglesias’ tractor from the farm."
Once more the President of Brazil sighed. "I must tell you, Mr President, that I have 16 thousand tanks, 14 thousand armoured personnel carriers, and my army has increased to one and a half million since we last spoke."
"Really?!" said the Argentinian President "I'll have to ring you back!"
The Argentinian President rang again the next day. "Right Mr. Brazilian President, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We've modified Carlos' ultralight with a couple of rifles in the cockpit and the women’s spinning circle team has joined us as well!"
The President of Brazil was silent for a minute, then sighed. "I must tell you Mr Argentinian President that I have 10 thousand bombers, 20 thousand MiG 19 attack planes, my military complex is surrounded by laser-guided surface-to-air missile sites, and since we last spoke, my army has increased to 2 million."
"Oh my heavens!" said the Argentinian President, "I'll have to ring you back."
Sure enough, the Argentinian President called again the next day. "Right, Mr.Brazilian President, I am sorry to tell you that we have had to call off the war."
"I'm sorry to hear that" said the President of Brazil. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Well," said the Argentinian President "We've all had a chat, and there's no way we can feed 2 million prisoners."
Nah, it's all too difficult. I think I'll stick to Kiwi women. They are so much easier to offend.
--
Allan
===================
With any luck she’ll not know enough English swear words to reply to me.
More than seven years ago I was interviewed by TV1. It was an interesting interview. They actually had the interviewer interviewing me from the pillion seat of my very rare Bennelli Jarno motorcycle as we rode along. The cameraperson, a rather gorgeous lady, lay in the back of the TV1 stationwagon driving ahead of us to film us as we tootled along at about 30kmh talking.
Then they wanted shots from the bike itself, so they put the camera lady on the back. To hold the camera steady, she rested the camera on my shoulder and leaned into me. The weight on my shoulder was no problem. But those seemingly ample breasts of hers pressing into my back sure as hell made concentrating on riding difficult!
In the process of this filming ride, we went past a 50kmh speed limit sign. When the interview was aired on TV what should come up but the 50kmh speed limit sign …and was that speedo needle, also visible, sitting on 70kmh?
Then they did some shots from the side of the road of me riding past.
An interesting experience but that was yesterday’s news.
But was it?
Last night, the fifth item on TV1 news was a story about speeding motorcyclists in Otago, some doing nearly 300kmh. And they showed one such speeding motorcyclist. Trouble was, as numerous phone calls today have proven, the film of the “speeding” motorcyclist was archival footage and it was of me, on my unique motorcycle in my unique golfball crash helmet (special dimples on it to aid air flow) and wearing my impossible-to-miss special blue and white leathers.
Yep. That “speeding” motorcyclist was me tootling along at about 60kmh.
I have since rung Bill Ralston, Head Of News at TV1 and, after he stopped laughing about the idea of a motorcycle safety expert being the “speeding” motorcyclist, he promised to make sure that they use that particular piece of archival footage more carefully next time. Harrumph!
Well, in need of some light relief after that, I then went to NZDating today to check whether any deliciously wealthy good-looking widow had sent me a message (zippo again. ~sigh~). On the opening page I noticed an advert for a 34 year old Argentinian now living in Auckland.
You know me, with my wickedness I just couldn’t resist it. So I sent her a message:
===========================
You know, sending messages to foreign-type people on dating sites ain't easy. I mean, what do you say.
I know, I’ll tell some jokes:
Q: How does an Argentinian commit suicide? A: He jumps off his ego
Or:
The President of Brazil was sitting in his office wondering who to annoy next when his telephone rang.
"Hello! Mr. President," said a man with an Argentinian accent. "This is the Argentinian President. I am ringing to inform you that we are officially declaring war on you!"
"Well, Mr President," the President of Brazil replied, "This is indeed important news! Tell me, how big is your army?"
"At this moment in time," said the Argentinian President after a moment's calculation, "there is myself, my cousin Jorge, my next door neighbour Carlos, and the entire football team from the pub - that makes eight!"
The President of Brazil sighed. "I must tell you Mr President that I have one million men in my army waiting to move on my command."
"Oh!" said the Argentinian President, "I'll have to ring you back!"
Sure enough, the next day the Argentinian President rang back. "Right, Mr.President, the war is still on! We have managed to acquire some equipment!"
"And what equipment would that be, Mr President?" the President of Brazil asked.
"Well, we have 2 combine harvesters, a bulldozer and Iglesias’ tractor from the farm."
Once more the President of Brazil sighed. "I must tell you, Mr President, that I have 16 thousand tanks, 14 thousand armoured personnel carriers, and my army has increased to one and a half million since we last spoke."
"Really?!" said the Argentinian President "I'll have to ring you back!"
The Argentinian President rang again the next day. "Right Mr. Brazilian President, the war is still on! We have managed to get ourselves airborne! We've modified Carlos' ultralight with a couple of rifles in the cockpit and the women’s spinning circle team has joined us as well!"
The President of Brazil was silent for a minute, then sighed. "I must tell you Mr Argentinian President that I have 10 thousand bombers, 20 thousand MiG 19 attack planes, my military complex is surrounded by laser-guided surface-to-air missile sites, and since we last spoke, my army has increased to 2 million."
"Oh my heavens!" said the Argentinian President, "I'll have to ring you back."
Sure enough, the Argentinian President called again the next day. "Right, Mr.Brazilian President, I am sorry to tell you that we have had to call off the war."
"I'm sorry to hear that" said the President of Brazil. "Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Well," said the Argentinian President "We've all had a chat, and there's no way we can feed 2 million prisoners."
Nah, it's all too difficult. I think I'll stick to Kiwi women. They are so much easier to offend.
--
Allan
===================
With any luck she’ll not know enough English swear words to reply to me.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
I have a motorcycle. A sports-style motorcycle. As is common on these bikes, the petrol tank rises sharply in front of the seat to make a wall directly in front of the rider's groin.
I pranged off the bike once. Ran into a ditch at about 120kmh. The bike stopped dead. I went forward, then over the handlebars.
I staggered to my feet unhurt. Or was I unhurt? I had a VERY sore groin!
Two days later and my ex was enjoying sex immensely. She'd never done it with a black man before. Black penis, black balls. Even when it didn't hurt any more.
And in case you were wondering, it caused not major damage. I fathered a child some years after that...
I pranged off the bike once. Ran into a ditch at about 120kmh. The bike stopped dead. I went forward, then over the handlebars.
I staggered to my feet unhurt. Or was I unhurt? I had a VERY sore groin!
Two days later and my ex was enjoying sex immensely. She'd never done it with a black man before. Black penis, black balls. Even when it didn't hurt any more.
And in case you were wondering, it caused not major damage. I fathered a child some years after that...
Friday, June 30, 2006
You will be pleased to know that I am now even better looking than I was before. I have new glasses.
Well, not exactly new glasses. I kept the old frame. Well, I may have an old frame but it's perfectly serviceable. It bends in all the right places, and is hard and stiff in all the right places. So why not keep on using it?
So, new lenses later I can actually see better than with the cheapie ones I bought from the Wharehouse a while ago. Isn't technology wonderful?
Now, what else can I get improved? (That is a rhetoric question!)
According to the news today, the Manawatu and Wanganui regions are sinking, according to scientists at the Institute of Geological and Nuclear Sciences.
Of course, it’s all caused by these Massey University lecturers in the Manawatu stamping their feet when something doesn't suit them. Look what they are doing! It’s time someone told them that there is a difference between putting your foot down and stamping. Just as there's a difference between being laid back and being laid. (Just in case you didn't know.)
And I do hope you realise just how good for your health I am.
Researchers have found that a spell of hearty laughter causes the tissue that forms the inner lining of the blood vessels, the endothelium, to dilate, increasing blood flow in the same way as a bout of aerobic exercise.
The finding adds to evidence that a laugh a day may help keep a heart attack away. Michael Miller, of the University of Maryland, who has studied the healing power of laughter for a decade, said: "The old saying that laughter is the best medicine definitely appears to be true when it comes to protecting your heart."
So, if you manage to get at least a small giggle from my missives, I’m doing great things for your heart. Of course, exercise does good things for your heart as well. But I do not, however, expect you to use this as an excuse for running away from me laughing…
I mean there is no excuse for this. I don’t have bad breath and I don’t have body odour. To avoid this, I liberally use deodorant (and it tastes terrible!).
Did you know that deodorant was invented in 1881 by an unidentified man in Philadelphia? He sold it commercially, using the brand name "Mum".
Geez, but is this Freudian. A deodorant called Mum. “All you need is a bit of Mum and it’s no sweat”. I don’t think I’m going there any further…
They invented the roller ball deodorant after getting the idea from a ballpoint pen. Now *that’s* a worry. My ballpoint pens spray ink in splotches everywhere. Is my deodorant doing that? Great big blobs clogging up my underarm hair…? I’m not going there any further, either!
You have to be careful staying smell-free, though. Some deodorants apparently contain aluminium (now *that* is taking the protective shield thing a bit too far) and the accumulative affect of aluminium is thought to cause memory loss and damage to the central nervous system.
Well, I have just been into the bathroom to check my deodorant out but when I got there I couldn’t remember what it was I was looking for and my hand kept shaking too much to read the label anyway.
So there you go. Wherever it was we were going.
Well, I think I’ll pop out and do some shopping. Now, did I apply any deodorant this morning?
Well, not exactly new glasses. I kept the old frame. Well, I may have an old frame but it's perfectly serviceable. It bends in all the right places, and is hard and stiff in all the right places. So why not keep on using it?
So, new lenses later I can actually see better than with the cheapie ones I bought from the Wharehouse a while ago. Isn't technology wonderful?
Now, what else can I get improved? (That is a rhetoric question!)
According to the news today, the Manawatu and Wanganui regions are sinking, according to scientists at the Institute of Geological and Nuclear Sciences.
Of course, it’s all caused by these Massey University lecturers in the Manawatu stamping their feet when something doesn't suit them. Look what they are doing! It’s time someone told them that there is a difference between putting your foot down and stamping. Just as there's a difference between being laid back and being laid. (Just in case you didn't know.)
And I do hope you realise just how good for your health I am.
Researchers have found that a spell of hearty laughter causes the tissue that forms the inner lining of the blood vessels, the endothelium, to dilate, increasing blood flow in the same way as a bout of aerobic exercise.
The finding adds to evidence that a laugh a day may help keep a heart attack away. Michael Miller, of the University of Maryland, who has studied the healing power of laughter for a decade, said: "The old saying that laughter is the best medicine definitely appears to be true when it comes to protecting your heart."
So, if you manage to get at least a small giggle from my missives, I’m doing great things for your heart. Of course, exercise does good things for your heart as well. But I do not, however, expect you to use this as an excuse for running away from me laughing…
I mean there is no excuse for this. I don’t have bad breath and I don’t have body odour. To avoid this, I liberally use deodorant (and it tastes terrible!).
Did you know that deodorant was invented in 1881 by an unidentified man in Philadelphia? He sold it commercially, using the brand name "Mum".
Geez, but is this Freudian. A deodorant called Mum. “All you need is a bit of Mum and it’s no sweat”. I don’t think I’m going there any further…
They invented the roller ball deodorant after getting the idea from a ballpoint pen. Now *that’s* a worry. My ballpoint pens spray ink in splotches everywhere. Is my deodorant doing that? Great big blobs clogging up my underarm hair…? I’m not going there any further, either!
You have to be careful staying smell-free, though. Some deodorants apparently contain aluminium (now *that* is taking the protective shield thing a bit too far) and the accumulative affect of aluminium is thought to cause memory loss and damage to the central nervous system.
Well, I have just been into the bathroom to check my deodorant out but when I got there I couldn’t remember what it was I was looking for and my hand kept shaking too much to read the label anyway.
So there you go. Wherever it was we were going.
Well, I think I’ll pop out and do some shopping. Now, did I apply any deodorant this morning?
Monday, June 26, 2006
Have you heard that a pig’s orgasm lasts 30 minutes? If so, you probably now want to come back in your next life as a pig.
But think about the following before you put your order in with the Reincarnator Almighty.
Firstly, pigs have no sweat glands. Yet a pig’s body is made up of one half to two thirds water. So, with no sweat glands, your body is going to retain that water and wobble around like Dolly Parton minus a bra.
Also, pigs live in social groups and are so communal that they even sleep together, huddled in a nest. And they mate up. So it is therefore quite possible that pigs have mothers-in-law. This means when you have that 30 minute orgasm, not only is the rest of society is going to hear it – you kinky pig, you - but your mother-in-law is also going to be listening in!
I don't suppose it's much surprise that pigs spend much of their time foraging and rooting. So would I if my orgasms lasted for 30 minutes.
But there is a definite downside to being a pig as is shown by this story.
A farmer walked into a bar with his pig and ordered a drink. The bartender could not help asking the man why his pig had a peg leg.
"Well, you see," said the farmer, "this is an amazing pig. Why, two years ago, my son was chopping wood in the field when a tree collapsed on him, pinning him to the ground and making breathing difficult. The pig, which was in the area, ran to get assistance and, squealing loudly, led us to my son to rescue him."
"You're right,” said the bartender, “that is an amazing story. But why does your pig have a peg leg?"
“This is no ordinary pig," the farmer continued. "One night while we were sleeping, our barn caught fire and the pig managed to squeeze through a little hole in the wall and circle our house, squealing as loud as it could to wake us up. We were able to save all of the animals."
"Wow! Incredible! But why does the pig have a peg leg?"
"Wait. Once, our home caught on fire. The pig managed to run to the next house over and wake the neighbors, who were able to save us and help put out the fire."
"OK. OK. The pig is amazing. But why the peg leg?" the bartender demanded.
"An amazing pig like this. You can't eat it all at once."
On the other hand that 30 minute orgasm is an attractive thought:
Farmer Brown's pig had gone into season, so he decided to mate her with Farmer Jones's County Fair award-winning hog.
So Farmer Brown called up Farmer Jones to ask if he can bring the pig over to mate.
“Sure,” said Farmer Jones.
So Farmer Brown put his pig in the back of his pick-up and headed off to Farmer Jone’s farm. The pigs were put together and they went at it for ages. Even when they were parted they had the steamy look in their eyes.
Anyway,Farmer Brown dragged the pig out of the pen, put her into the back of his pick-up and headed home.
But as he drove, he got to wondering. "How do I know if she's pregnant?"
So when he got home, he called Farmer Jones to ask him. Farmer Jones, experienced in the ways of pigs, said "That's easy, when you see her tomorrow morning, if she's rollin' in the mud, she's not pregnant, but if she's eatin' sweet grass, she is."
So the next morning, Farmer Brown looked out his window to see his pig rolling in the mud.
"Damn!" said Farmer Brown and called Farmer Jones to ask to do it all again.
That was OK said Farmer Jones so Farmer Brown piled the pig into the back of his pick-up and headed to the other farm.
This time they went at it for nearly and hour, with lots of gruntin' and groanin'. And when they were done and Farmer Brown put her into the back in the pick-up and headed home, she again still had that steamy look in her eyes.
Next morning, Farmer Brown looks out and sees his pig rolling in the mud, again.
"Damn!" So, once again he called Farmer Jones and asked again. Again he put the pig in the back of the pick-up and drove to the other farm. This time the two pigs went at it for over two hours, whoopin' and hollarin', mud flying everywhere.
When they were done, the female pig got put in the back of the pick-up and Farmer Brown drove home.
The next morning, he was very tired, so he asked his wife to see what the pig was doing.
She came back a minute later and Farmer Brown asked, "Well, is she rollin' in the mud, or eating the sweet grass?"
His wife raised her eyebrows and said, "Neither. She’s in the front seat of the pickup and BEEPIN' THE HORN !!!!!!!!
But think about the following before you put your order in with the Reincarnator Almighty.
Firstly, pigs have no sweat glands. Yet a pig’s body is made up of one half to two thirds water. So, with no sweat glands, your body is going to retain that water and wobble around like Dolly Parton minus a bra.
Also, pigs live in social groups and are so communal that they even sleep together, huddled in a nest. And they mate up. So it is therefore quite possible that pigs have mothers-in-law. This means when you have that 30 minute orgasm, not only is the rest of society is going to hear it – you kinky pig, you - but your mother-in-law is also going to be listening in!
I don't suppose it's much surprise that pigs spend much of their time foraging and rooting. So would I if my orgasms lasted for 30 minutes.
But there is a definite downside to being a pig as is shown by this story.
A farmer walked into a bar with his pig and ordered a drink. The bartender could not help asking the man why his pig had a peg leg.
"Well, you see," said the farmer, "this is an amazing pig. Why, two years ago, my son was chopping wood in the field when a tree collapsed on him, pinning him to the ground and making breathing difficult. The pig, which was in the area, ran to get assistance and, squealing loudly, led us to my son to rescue him."
"You're right,” said the bartender, “that is an amazing story. But why does your pig have a peg leg?"
“This is no ordinary pig," the farmer continued. "One night while we were sleeping, our barn caught fire and the pig managed to squeeze through a little hole in the wall and circle our house, squealing as loud as it could to wake us up. We were able to save all of the animals."
"Wow! Incredible! But why does the pig have a peg leg?"
"Wait. Once, our home caught on fire. The pig managed to run to the next house over and wake the neighbors, who were able to save us and help put out the fire."
"OK. OK. The pig is amazing. But why the peg leg?" the bartender demanded.
"An amazing pig like this. You can't eat it all at once."
On the other hand that 30 minute orgasm is an attractive thought:
Farmer Brown's pig had gone into season, so he decided to mate her with Farmer Jones's County Fair award-winning hog.
So Farmer Brown called up Farmer Jones to ask if he can bring the pig over to mate.
“Sure,” said Farmer Jones.
So Farmer Brown put his pig in the back of his pick-up and headed off to Farmer Jone’s farm. The pigs were put together and they went at it for ages. Even when they were parted they had the steamy look in their eyes.
Anyway,Farmer Brown dragged the pig out of the pen, put her into the back of his pick-up and headed home.
But as he drove, he got to wondering. "How do I know if she's pregnant?"
So when he got home, he called Farmer Jones to ask him. Farmer Jones, experienced in the ways of pigs, said "That's easy, when you see her tomorrow morning, if she's rollin' in the mud, she's not pregnant, but if she's eatin' sweet grass, she is."
So the next morning, Farmer Brown looked out his window to see his pig rolling in the mud.
"Damn!" said Farmer Brown and called Farmer Jones to ask to do it all again.
That was OK said Farmer Jones so Farmer Brown piled the pig into the back of his pick-up and headed to the other farm.
This time they went at it for nearly and hour, with lots of gruntin' and groanin'. And when they were done and Farmer Brown put her into the back in the pick-up and headed home, she again still had that steamy look in her eyes.
Next morning, Farmer Brown looks out and sees his pig rolling in the mud, again.
"Damn!" So, once again he called Farmer Jones and asked again. Again he put the pig in the back of the pick-up and drove to the other farm. This time the two pigs went at it for over two hours, whoopin' and hollarin', mud flying everywhere.
When they were done, the female pig got put in the back of the pick-up and Farmer Brown drove home.
The next morning, he was very tired, so he asked his wife to see what the pig was doing.
She came back a minute later and Farmer Brown asked, "Well, is she rollin' in the mud, or eating the sweet grass?"
His wife raised her eyebrows and said, "Neither. She’s in the front seat of the pickup and BEEPIN' THE HORN !!!!!!!!
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