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Rants, help and advice, observations, opinions, deepest and darkest thoughts. |
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"Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible." Francis Bacon  ......  ......  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| You've opened up a can of worms with the spare-part economy concept. So, some time in the future you need a new cornea and so you browse the Cornea Catalogue to see what's available. But, you want to see the world through a white, christian eye, and can you make the cell donor a woman, and a virgin too? Goodness knows you wouldn't want any promiscuous male parts inserted into your body. Unfortunately; white, christian, female virgin eyes are too expensive. They have some Mexican eyes. No, she wasn't a virgin. She was a hooker. One of Robert Waltz  's hookers, that is.So spare parts become like Labradoodle categories and so diluted that they're now generic. A sort of, one-size-fits-all generic gene pool of body parts. No, wait, the North Koreans have developed a production line of white(ish), agnostics(kind of), female(allegedly), virgin(probably) cornea's and they come high recommended by the regime's favourite supporter, and founder of Trump's Stumps, the former (and first time, three term) President, Donald Trump. Or at least we think it's him. His hair is slightly darker and his mannerisms are a little different, but it must be him, right? So there you go. You only have to lower your standards a little and you can afford the cornea of convenience. Only trouble is, everyone now looks like Kim Jong-un. Only their hair is lighter and they'er taller. |
| I found this on my computer. It's from an old, dead blog from years ago. Don't men talk shite! It’s difficult for men to understand the many interpretations and intricacies of the simple cuddle, and that’s not surprising when you consider that men only know three variations of the human squeeze whilst women know several hundred, and can put infinite meaning into any one of them. The cuddle is, in effect, a secret female language perfectly understood by women however man might wish to disguise it. Yes, we might only know three cuddles, but we get them wrong. 1. The Post Coital Cuddle (PCC). This is an uncomfortable cuddle for men. Mostly we just want to sleep, or go home, but we do our duty as we know we must and embark on the emotional trap that is the Post Coital Cuddle. Basically we know there are three lines to accompany the PCC. a) “I love you.” b) “That was wonderful.” c) “I have an early meeting.” Women, however, don’t actually need to hear any of these lines because they can interpret our every feeling from just the cuddle. How many times have we pressed our flesh against our woman in an exhausted PCC to be confronted with, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing, that was wonderful.” “No, there’s something wrong. I can feel it.” “I love you.” “You’ve got an early meeting, haven’t you.” It isn’t a question. “Urm, I love you.” It would seem to me (following several months of PCC diary entries during my extensive research) that the PCC is an emotional necessity for women, from which they can stare into our soul and unfathom our every unintentional intention. Men just find it sticky. 2. The, ‘I Love You,’ Cuddle (ILYC). This one confuses men because, well, surely the PCC is an ILYC? It also confuses us because women engage in the ILYC when we least expect it. Whilst we’re shaving, whilst we’re trying to knot our tie, whilst we’re delivering what we thought was a perfectly acceptable PCC! There we are, PCC'ing or little butts off and all she can say is, "You don't love me, do you?" The ILYC is a spontaneous embrace of the most profound implication, and that’s why men will never ‘get’ it. Women are ready for, and prepared to give the ILYC at any time, day of night, in any location. A spontaneous ILYC at the supermarket is not out of the question for a woman, and yes, I mean a sober woman. But men need preparation time for the ILYC, just as we do for the, “I’m sorry,” cuddle. In fact, men often get the two mixed up. It’s a familiar scenario. A woman moves in for the spontaneous ILYC whilst we’re watching football, “I love you,” she announces. “I’m sorry.” Missed it by a fraction! “What?” “That was wonderful?” "Tosser!" "I love you." 3. The ‘I’m Sorry,’ Cuddle (ISC). Easily confused with the ILYC because it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to say sorry at the same time as saying I love you. In fact, to a man "I love you" is secret language for "I’m sorry," which rather makes an apology superfluous. Hell, it's tough being an idiot. However, we know there is a need for this unnecessary third cuddle so we go with it. Women are always ready for this subtle misinterpretation of the third and final cuddle known to man, so although a man might say sorry with an "I love You" cuddle, he ain't getting away with it. How many times have moved in for what we believed to be a perfectly times ILYC, only to hear, "What have you done?" “I love you.” “No, this is an ‘I’m sorry’ cuddle. Do you want to try again?” “I’m, sorry?” “Oh, you’re so sweet. I love you so much.” And there you have it. Don’t mess with women and their cuddles! |
| If there’s one thing that annoys me, rubs me up the wrong way, gets my goat, drives me up the wall, pisses me off big time to the point of total maniacal rant and rave with bulging eyes and steam billowing from my nostrils it’s....... You’ll agree with me when I tell you, trust me. It’s happened to us all, oh yes, we’ve all been on the receiving end of this major misdemeanour, this health and safety catastrophe, accident waiting to happen, moronic, foolhardy, reckless, thoughtless, inconsiderate deed of significant inconvenience. Minding our own business, going about our everyday life when suddenly and without warning we’re thrust into the midst of panic and confusion as mayhem ensues, children are trampled, women collide and grown men cry. The normally sane and passive turn into resentful hate filled victims who bay for the blood of the irresponsible culprit (or would if they weren’t too busy trying to stay on their feet amongst the stampede of concertinaed casualties). Do you know what I’m talking about yet? This may have happened to you on the street, in a corridor, a doorway, or at that most dangerous of locations, the bottom of an escalator. Yes, I’m talking about the 'stationary person!' The person who suddenly, and seemingly without any need or reason, stops dead in their tracks. Just stops for fuck sake, just stops! Why? Does this person get wound up in the morning and then just runs out of energy? Is it like some strange standing still narcolepsy? Some living rigor mortis that only affects the seriously stupid? Tell me, please, what is it that causes this sudden state of motionless madness? Don’t they know the trouble they cause for the poor unfortunates behind them that suffer injury, and worse, have to do the embarrassing side-step-skip-dance thing to avoid falling headlong into the person in front of them? Please, if you’re one of the stationary people, get a fucking move on! No matter where you’re travelling, over land or sea or hill, you’re going to find a humanoid, motionless, standing still. Just when you least expect it and totally out the blue, for no unearthly reason they’ll stop in front of you. A living breathing obstacle, stopped without a warning, no thought or consideration for the mêlée they might be causing. So you’ll hit the brakes, but falter, and balance on tip toes trying to prevent a collision with the person who suddenly froze. Then a thousand bustling commuters will start to concertina, as you assume the posture of a clumsy ballerina. With everyone now watching, you take up that awkward stance. The one we’re going to call the, "I’m Immune to Gravity Dance.” Arms outstretched and rotating, leant forward at the waist, an attempt to counterbalance the center of gravity that’s been displaced. Right foot forward, right foot back, you bend and straighten your knees, like some silent movie version of a tightrope walkers reprise. Then just as you think you’re winning you realise it’s all in vain, as you’re trampled from behind by the concertinaed commuter train. Now you’re lying there, dusty, defeated and alone, just you and the stationary person who’s texting on his phone. The mêlée just keeps on building, more people unable to avert an untimely, yet beautifully choreographed encounter with the inert. The anger level rises, the commuters act as one. They're gunning for the statue, but he hits 'Send,' he's gone. |
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