28 June 2007
Nobody, but NOBODY tries to sneak a birthday past here, no matter what side of the mountain you think you're from!
27 June 2007Wednesday's story (unedited) courtesy of http://www.bestrx8.org/ - the home of cheap Viagra prices (only $2.00 per pill!). Pay attention, there are contextuals at the end.
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For 25 marks:
What flavour soup contributed to their garden faces?
or
Was the brusquerie taurine induced?
**UPDATE**
Goddamnit. Just received a way better one about the cake prince who enjoys chatting without low a real vesical bind pause. *sigh*.
25 June 2007Listen very carefully for I shall say this but once and only once. I am dof.
Late one particularly rainy Friday afternoon, last Friday to be exact, an email circulated my department as they are, vexingly, wont to do in this city. Cape Town Friday-Grab-A-Drink-At-3pm afternoons they are not.
This particular piece of communication was a teaser for Monday's little department get-together (read generally hideously boring weekly meeting). Cleverly disguised as a bit of incentive, the instructions were relatively simple: Choose a number between 1 and 100 and send it back. The person who’s figure was nearest to two thirds of the average result would win a prize. Magic words those. Within nanoseconds I was proud and delighted with my carefully considered number and eagerly sent it off, knowing that an entire weekend of Christmas Eves awaited me - the fitful insomnia in anticipation. As Monday dawned, I skipped in, acceptance speech in hand, having practiced my “Oh I *really* did not expect this at ALL! I dedicate this prize to the pursuit of world peace and accept it on behalf of Africa’s starving orphans” face in the windows of Selfridges en route. Cue weekly meeting, complete with three members listening in from New York (oh I do so love an international audience) and flashy presentation slides. Within the first sentence, I felt my face beginning to turn a delightful shade of puce and the rising nausea was making composure maintenance a little tricky. “As we all know, if every one of you happened to choose 100 as their number then the highest number possible to be closest to two thirds of the average would be 67, and the chances of that being the case are very slim.” Obviously. So glaringly freaking obvious. The ascent of the carrots had begun. Cue large colourful graph splashed across screen. There, in all hues known to modern physics,were the results. Results, all dangerously clustered around the left hand side of the chart, of some very serious high brow mathematical calculations. And just to balance it out, on the far right hand side of the screen, in the brightest and highly visible green was a lone bar, extending a mile high and most definitely visible to the New York office, if not from outer space. The Bar Of Great Hilarity. Yes folks, Yours Truly, in all her intelligent glory had chosen a number she thought was “pretty”. No calculations. No lateral thought. Nope, 77.5 just seemed like a friendly number. Except it was 10.5% higher than is even mathematically possible. HeyZEUS.
21 won.
I can assure you I will never be able to glance at Selfridges windows ever again. I am suitably ASHAMED.
24 June 200719 June 2007I'm a little disturbed. Ok make that more than a little disturbed. I’m *horrified* beyond human horrification (it is a word if I say it is).
Ever since yesterday’s list was published, my hits are going through the roof. And it’s not link-love, regular readership or even the curious ones having a little google session to see what crops up. It’s the fact that allofasardine there are all these search terms nicely bundled in one page and the search engines are going ouma-pomp-bevok!
The dilemma is: Do I take it down in it’s entirety? Do I leave it up with a message emblazoned across the top saying something along the lines of ‘Hey you sick f*ck, I bet your mother’s proud, now sod off and don’t you dare darken my doorstep ever again!”. Or do I call myself something else, set up a new blog and move to Panama and take Michael Schofield fairy cakes in his prison cell? (Oops, sorry)
URGH, I can’t stand being associated with such depraved, saturnalian scum-of-the-earth. You people make me sick.
18 June 200712 June 2007I've lost the will to blog. I'm no longer a Granny Wrangler, I'm a freaking PaperCut Wrangler... Which holds a certain appeal, as far as a name goes although I'd be a little hard-pressed as to how I'd typeset the word PaperCut and what on earth would I do with the knickers? A pair of the disposable paper ones they give you when you go for a Brazillian maybe? I digress.
The point is, at the end of every day I trudge home. I'm f*cking tired, even more f*cking grumpy and more often than not devoid of any form of humour. And I *like* making people laugh, be it with me or at me, although the former is generally the more preferred of the two.
I miss Benson & Hedges, I miss Muppet's constant bloody indecision, I miss my little silver 1 Series. I miss running through the wheatfields, I miss chatting endlessly on google chat with my friends who are really trying to get through an honest day's work and could do without the smutty innuendos i throw about mid-spreadsheet. I miss the Farming magazines which I was convinced were copies of Hardcore Hussies & Their Favourite Kitchen Utensils. I miss being made to turn left and go through the village to find a safe turn around point because Muppet thought it was too dangerous to turn right out of the driveway. And I miss the cat crap. Every single little perfectly formed poo plopped on the bathroom mat. I miss it all so much it hurts.
Do you really want to listen to me bitch and moan and churn out reams of profanity, as unclassy as it may be? Do you really care to read my vicious self-deprecating diatribes? Do you give a flying continental f*ck whether or not I was lascerated by the entire population of the 90gsm block of Xerox paper in the stationary cupboard? If I howl and sulk like a spoilt child because I don't get my way in everything I do will you even bother coming back... ever? And most of all, if i neglect my writing from time to time will you forget about me?
06 June 200703 June 2007They're everywhere. Strolling around like regular people. Standing at bus stops. Grocery shopping. Buying super absorbent tampons at Boots. Ordering cappucinos, no espressos, no maybe lattes, no baby, what do *you* think i should have, ok cappucinos but maybe just skinny ones. Catching the Tube in the morning. Everywhere.
Let's face it. Nothing says "i love you possum" quite like causing a stranger to vom in their freshly-colgated mouth before the sun has risen or the Tokyo Stock Exchange closes. Nothing says "aaaaw bubba, i want to make wickle babies with you forever and ever and EVA" like slurping and guzzling eachother's necks inches from someone's face in a crowded sweaty train. Nothing. Nothing at all. Because yes, Coupled Freaks, your very public salacious suck-fests are clearly what dreams are made of. They make our day. They make us want to hug everyone around us and make love to everybody in the carriage. Twice. In fact, if we started now, everyone could be impregnated before we even get to Fulham Broadway. Minus the Chav in the corner - she's already got one up the duff with a foetus queue to rival lunch hour at Home Affairs. But everyone else is fair game.
I do not shitting care how much you sodding 'wuff' eachother. If you're that desperate, wake up 5 minutes early and flip her over for a depraved pre-breakfast rogering but then for God's sake get on with functioning like a normal human being once you walk out of the front door. Keep it in your pants. And here's an idea: instead of groping at eachother's bits the entire way to work, why don't you use your hands to hold the rails because hey, when Retard-Bob the train driver slams on brakes, you'll find you're able to actually stand upright instead of toppling over and continuing your dry humping on my lap. Rocket science, i know.
