Goodwill Humping

I’m sure we’ve all had our share of salad, a bit on the side or a special friend. At the very least, it’d be safe to assume that we’ve all thought about leasing with an option to buy, having outercourse or CSBF (casual sex between friends).


So how do you define rules in a situation when all rules are being broken; i.e., cheating on your respective partners?

Well, you don’t. I personally like to revel in the wrongness of it all, whilst hoping to never grow up. However, one must be choosy if they’re going to be indulging in huckleberry friendliness without the after-glow of self-loathing.
It’s not about getting back at people, trying to inspire a relationship or spreading an illness. But most of all it’s not something one should do because they feel sorry for the other party.



So, point being: if you’re an old, fat and married dj, please do not take my free spirited attitude the wrong way. Fucking me is never going to happen, no matter how sorry I feel for you.
You will never be Peter Pan to my Wendy... not even Sidney Poitier to my Lulu... think along the lines of Barney Rubble and Wilma Flinstone – he’s short and tubby, she’s hot – they never have sex.

People who like feet.

Okay, so a post on how I’m revolted by foot fetishes is a little like tripping a spastic. Too easy right? However the next post stems from personal experience.

I have a friend, who is into foot-love. Well, let me put it into context – he’s really into joking about foot fetishes.
Little does this know that my revulsion isn’t anywhere near feigned.

A while ago, when I was blessed with the pleasure of working in retail, a little creepy man, who looked like he thought that washing daily was an option, entered the store (think Australia’s biggest telco retail shop).

Anyhow, the little bastard came up to me (like literally came up to me – he stood at about 5’4” – I’m 5’9”) and pretty much was gagging for some action.

I stopped talking to my friend, looked at him haughtily (as one could wearing a wannabe air stewardess uniform) and I said, “May I help you?”

His next move was to pant, “Shoooooooeeeeessss” while he reached down AND RUBBED MY TOES WITH HIS DIRTY LITTLE HANDS.

Not being one to waste time, I screamed, “NO! Don’t do that!” And ran – arms flailing (oh, I know, I’m prone to drama) into the back office.

Sick little cunt.

I just don’t get it. Why not do yourself a favour and get a job as a shoe salesman? Or at the very least restrict your behaviour to your home.

Whoopdeedoo.

I’m surprised to see people still commenting on this thing. Thanks Paul, we all know the East rules – for when you want to nip down to the shops for bread and milk.

So yes, I’ve let my blog lapse for a while; life has been hectic. I’d fill you all in about it, but this blog has never been about me; only the things I hate. So let’s get to it.

My beef with women's corporate wear:
Now that I’m a fully fledged 9-5er, I am lucky enough to observe the horror that is Melbourne corporate wear on a daily basis. I suppose we’re not doing too bad, however some stand-out, commonly repeated atrocities are:

The open-toe shoe with a suit:




What the hell is going on here? Firstly, the open toe shoe with the suit is offensive enough, however on a cold day it is also impractical and stupid. Are these girls lazy? Can they only be bothered to slide on their shoes? Or do they really think that having their scale-y toes with chipped nail-polish on show is some sort of statement?


Summer weight skirts with tights and winter boots:



Again, why compromise practicality and style for… looking like a total dickhead? What’s the point of trying rug up for the cooler weather when you’re wearing a lightweight skirt or thongs? How can that possibly work?


And lastly…bad workplace phonetics-
People who make d’s into t’s – ie, ‘good’ becomes ‘goodtttttt’. Generally the perpetrator is a female and absolutely pedantic about everything, so much so she’s taken to over-pronouncing the letter ‘d’ at the end of a word. My advice? Untuck your shirt and sell your Mazda Metro for a real car.
Yuk.

Coffee in the 'burbs

Today I met a friend for a catch up over coffee - with a difference. The difference being we decided on a location change. We chose the 'burbs; right round the corner and down the street from our old high-school.
The whole experience was a bit of a trip down memory lane. However, we did stop short of totally immersing ourselves into the past; no school uniforms were available at such short notice and eating at the usual wagsville Macca's was out of the question - sorry Ronald, that salad bar bullshit isn't quite enough to entice the likes of me.

So, we found ourselves in this very average bakery/cafe/old person's home. We were sitting next to two older ladies… who were quite similar to this old dear:

Lets call her Gladys.

Oh! just found her friend:

She can be called Ramona.

They were clad in your usual eastern suburbian attire - Laura Ashley, Country Road and enough jewellery and make-up for the entire cast of 'Dancing with the Stars'.

A couple of seats down from Gladys and Ramona were they usual girls wagging from the nearby schools. I remember doing the very same when I was younger... Only I was in my school uniform, didn't have a pair of Gucci glasses or a Diesel bag.

The power of a brand is pretty evident here – I’ll bet there’s some sort of method to the madness, ie; whoever is decked out in the most logos presides as the queen bee for the day.

While you can differentiate between these two groups by their age, one thing they both have in common is the ability to give a mighty fine hairy eye-ball to anyone who doesn’t fit in with their predefined ideas of what’s normal.

Now the cafe we chose was pretty small, and if it wasn't bad enough that we had to put up with the inane chatter of Gladys and Ramona, the uber-coolness of the high school girls and not to mention the occasional dirty looks from both... the coffee was so bad even an American wouldn’t have been able to drink it. Ergh. I’m really sure I didn’t order warm water and nail polish remover.

The question begs to be asked; WHY were stylish and hip Gladys & Ramona (not to mention the plethora of look-a-likes that had emerged) and the uber-cool school girls here? Why were they all sitting in this cramped, boring café, drinking this warm-piss-water like they are the fucking BEES KNEES? Where do they get off living in their sheltered little suburban bubbles and judging everyone else when they can’t even tell the difference between cat’s piss and coffee for christ-sakes?

So, if you're after a dinky place with shithouse coffee and even worse clientele, may I suggest the eastern 'burbs? Only 10 minutes from the city, but a whole lot closer to hell. My rating for coffee in the ‘burbs- 2/10 – saved only by the excellent company of my friend – safety in numbers they say.

I hate Lucy.

About 3 weeks ago I got a Bettie Page (below left) fringe cut into my hair.
I’m not particularly used to having hair on my face – being quite partial to a quiff (ala below spanky lady) and all.



In fact the whole experience of having a blunt fringe has been most similar to having a cat sit on my head. So I called my fringe Lucy.

So what’s gone wrong? Lucy has her supporters, she pulls into a neat-o 40s 'do when asked and we’re having a swell ol' time together. But lately... lately, I want to give Lucy the chop. This *literally* of course would be ridiculous because it would increase Lucy’s lifespan. So I guess I’ll just have to grow her out and give her the flick.

Don’t even get me started on my last dye job…

No.

Public Service Announcement

Wednesday night I got THE worst food poisoning ever from some dodgy-quasi-Japanese restuarant on Little Bourke St. Although most of the details are beggining to blur, from memory it was 3 doors up from the ANZ bank (on the same side of the road), it had a green sign, the name started with the letter 'K' and it made me feel like this




You know... sick as a dog. Erg, this is lame joke is a clear indication of my present state of mind. I'm going back to bed.

Well kids, you've all been warned.

My goat. She got it.

What's with all the twats around that are SOOO insecure that when they dance they have to smoke at the same time? This can cause INJURY people!! Namely to my right hand. I'm gonna get that bitch.

So lets set the scene. Last night... about 12:30am. I'm dancing to The Easybeats, when these people



start dancing next to us. But of course, they're too cool to dance... and since they're not a day older than 16, they're not really that familiar with The Easybeats, making them even more uncomfortable. So what do they do? They light up on the dancefloor and burn the fuck out of my right hand. Fuckers.

No.1. Why even go on the dance floor if you're not going to dance?
No.2. Does anybody even see the irony in smoking whilst 'getting physical'?
No.3. If you're too aware of everyone around you, and you're scared dancing will diminish your 'cool factor' why go out in the first place?

While most indie kids suck and I want to punch their depressed little faces in, I accept the fact that I was in an indie club so I should probably put up with their wieniness. However... going and burning the rocker chick whilst pretending to dance is just passive-aggressive behaviour. It's the sort of pathetic behaviour that's right up there with those losers who talk to you when you're out but they're constantly looking around for someone better to talk to. Or the arseholes who stand on your feet and don't even apologise. From now on I'm going to carry a lighter around with me (even though I don't smoke) just to light peoples hair on fire. Yep, I'm righting the wrongs, one day at a time.

Reasons to hate slappers

too much money and coke makes brandon a fuck-knuckle