Men…women lie to us.  Yes I know.  I was as just as surprised as you are when I found out. 

Now I have your attention, I shall tell you what they have been lying about.  This time.

You know how women always say “Wow, you are SO crap in bed!  The last time I was that uncomfortable, the doctor was taking one of my teeth out without the aid of anesthetic or the correct tools!”.  They do say that to you; right?  It isn’t just me?  Surely they all use the dentist line on all men?  Anyway…  today I read that researchers have confirmed that the G Spot does NOT exist. 

I knew it.  I just bloody knew it.  I knew I couldn’t possibly be THAT bad in the sack, and it was the woman’s fault for not finding me attractive rather than my uncomfortable fumbling that seems to make them use the words “I feel dirty” or “I cant wait until the pool boy comes back” or “come near me again and I call the police”.  Why would they say it exists if it doesn’t?  That is the typical example of dangling a carrot knowing it will never happen (or the company I work for promising a payrise is another way of saying it).  I once spent a good 4 minutes looking for the G Spot.  Granted, looking in my CD collection seemed to annoy her a little.  But now I know it is all one big lie, I don’t feel guilty anymore.

I could just go on about the lie that women feed us, but I will just get depressed, so if you get the urge, the news story is HERE.

But in a directly related in fairly no way whatsoever kind of way, it is things like this that lead to some people having to take things a little   further in life which leads to getting arrested.  And no, for once, it wasn’t me.  It was this unbelievably good looking chap:

Easy ladies…although I do not know if he is married, some of you are, and I cannot have your marriages destroyed when your husband catches you drooling over…well…I don’t know.  What is he?  He isn’t a man.  Nor a woman.  He seems to be part lemon peel and part Chippendale.  And by Chippendale, I mean Chip and Dale the chipmunks.  OK, so I know it is rude to talk about how ugly someone is, and I myself am not what you would call devastatingly good looking (or maybe you would…call me! *wink*) but what the hell happened to the top of his head?  His ears are at waist height and look like they have been drawn on.  It also looks like he had a sex game with an industrial strength vacuum and the top of his head came off worst.  I just don’t understand how he was allowed out in the daytime when there are children around.  Think of all the lost sleep through nightmares.

So naturally, he would be the ex-mayor of one of our county towns.

Oh, and he likes to break in to your house and steal your underwear.  You can decide what he does with them once he has them.  (hint:  You wouldn’t want to wear them when he has finished.)

He stole from a lot of women, which lead one woman to put a hidden camera in her bedroom to see if she could catch who was doing it.  I also know this woman and didn’t know anything about the camera, so expect my sex tape to be unleashed to the world any time soon.  Damn her.  Had I known, I would have got a production team in.  And shaved my arse.  I won’t lie.  If you buy the video, or steal it from some P2P site…it had been cold.  I didn’t have time to go leaving my bare arse in the open to shave it.  And my back isn’t always that hairy…I was growing it for a film part.  And the woman prefers it when sex is over in 48 seconds and that the man makes noises like a distressed seal.  So you know…don’t judge me too harshly.  OK?

The moral of todays post?   Watching kids TV while trying to write a post reeeeally doesn’t bring out my best side.

 

Well.  Here we are.  2010.

Yeah that is enough about that.  Lets be honest.  It is a new year, but what has changed?  My underwear sure hasn’t.  Yeah sure, the itching it starting to get a little annoying like last year, but it will pass.

Instead of talking about what may be ahead, I need your help.  I lost something.  Two things actually.  One minute they were there, and then bang.  Gone.  No note, no goodbye…not even a forwarding address.  So where the hell have they gone?

It started a few days ago.  It was a little cold outside.  Minus 4.  Not what you call warm.  Unless you are an Eskimo.  Or confused.  Or just plain stupid.  I am not gonna put that past some of you.  Especially you.  Yeah, you know who you are.  Weirdo.

But anyway.  It was on the cold side but with the fear of snow (and in this country, that means doom.  Nothing good comes of it.  The country stops, and I still haven’t worked out why the yellow snow tastes different to the white stuff), I decided I should do as many runs as I can before a week of ice lands and my training schedule matches my mental intellect.  So severely lacking then.  So I went out for a 2 hour run. 

It was during this time that they went.  They were there when I walked out of my door, but when I got back…gone.

You would have thought that I would have noticed them leaving, but it was pretty cold.  I first noticed they were gone when I got back, wiped the ice from my face and said to my wife “Flong thruy herv a flask”.  It seemed my facial muscles had frozen from the cold.  What I mean to say was “Going to have a bath”.  So off I went.  Waiting for the bath to run, I slowly and sexily stripped off my clothes in front of the mirror admiring myself while winking and playing peekaboo with my underwear I decided I had a few minutes to kill, so I should probably give myself a good scratch.  You blokes know what I mean.  You women don’t get it.  Or maybe you do?  And you do the same?  And you know…that has not created as nice an image in my head as I had hoped when I said that!  If I was to walk in to the bathroom and see my wife having a good scratch, I probably wouldn’t say “Heeeeey baby!!” but would be more inclined to say “Hey, the supermarket is open 24 hours…want me to go get something for that?” and then sleep in the spare room that night through fear of catching whatever I have imagined she has.

But I am getting away from the story here.  So.  Back to my manly scratching.  I reached down…and they were gone.  And little Syhad shrunk, which scared the hell out of me…I mean hell, when there ain’t much there, the last thing you want is to realise that you lost 50% more.

Yup, I had regressed to pre puberty.  I coughed.  Nothing.  I gagged myself to get a little more coughing power.  Nothing.  I tugged…well, we wont mention that.  Where the heck have they gone?  I had a bath…nothing.  I am quietly confident that they have headed north rather than packed their bags, but I cant count that out.  My voice is now more Mickey Mouse than the uber handsome man that I misguidedly imagine I am and when I talk to girls, I fumble my words, sweat profusely and come across like a complete dick.  So.  Nothing new there then.

But I am concerned for their wellbeing.  So if you were to say be sitting on a beach and a very handsome pair of testicles are sitting there drinking pina coladas…well…they aint mine.  Mine will be ugly, sweaty and drinking some higher than average alcohol content beer while leering at everyone near them.  So if you see them..drop me a line.  There is a reward and a pack of jelly babies in it for you!

Well.  Thank christ that is over.  I hate Christmas.  I mean really…think about what I have to go through.  All the meaningless crap.  The worthless TV.  All the hard work.  For me, this is:

I get up early and go and get my daughter from her cot.  My wife made us all a breakfast so tasty that I cried a little when I finished it, and I watched my daughters face as she saw all the presents.  I got gifts which are of use to me because my wife is pretty damn great.  My wife loved the presents I got her because I paid her and begged her to like them.  Then I cooked a meal of all the things I enjoy eating, drank a few beers, wine and whisky and go to bed after enjoying my fill and my daughter sleeps all through the night.

Bloody hell I love Christmas.  But what about the rest of the year?  Well, it’s been…interesting.  365 days of stuff.  And by stuff, I mean interesting.  To me.  To you…do you really care?  Lets find out.

I followed my new years resolutions to perfection.  Kind of.  OK, so the one about finding a reality TV show that doesn’t make me want to hurt myself in ways that you normally only see on those “adult” films where you say

Oh god no.  Not that.  In there.  NOOOO!  That is for frying eggs with.  I can’t stop looking…make it stop.  If not for me, for her.  Or him.  Why is she standing on that?  DON’T STAMP!  Oh, I just threw up a little in my mouth. 

But then, setting myself an impossible task like finding an acceptable reality TV show was really never going to end well for me was it.

But my other resolutions have gone well.  I did the customary one about 3/4 of the world do.  The whole “get fit and lose weight” thing.  I did well.  Between January and August, I managed to pile on loads of weight and the only exercise I did was giving a hearty laugh to anyone who said “Why not get on an exercise bike you fat lazy worthless idiot?” OK, so it was only ever my wife or Mum that would say that.  Everyone else would say “Wow…you are looking….well??” and then they would turn to their other half and mention something about hiding the food and the dog.  I usually followed with the words “Hey, pass me that beer.  And that chocolate.  Aaand the playboy mag.  And the loo roll.  Right.  I will be back in about 4 minutes!”.

You would think with all the reading exercise that I would have burnt off the calories from the beer and chocolate.  But it seems you need to work out for more than 1 minute 17 seconds in order to make a difference.

It all kind of went to pot on the 11th August.  Someone jokingly said I should do a 10K race for Cancer Research…and for some inexplicable reason, I agreed.  What an arse.  I gave up beer.  I gave up good food.  I almost gave up living.  But the up side?  Screw you Mr and Mrs New Years Resolutions!  I knocked that one right out of the park.  I am now fit(ter) and thin(ner). 

This has caused some side effect resolutions which I never EVER thought were attainable to somehow come true too.  These are:

1) Holy crap I am good in bed now.  Yes.  Really.  My wife confirmed this when just a few weeks back she said “No honestly sweetie…I almost woke up that time! Keep trying!”.  Hey, “almost” is as good as “did” for me.

What?  I need more than 1?  Look…did you see what I wrote?  She almost woke up when I was laying down my best moves.  AND she told me to keep trying.  An offer of more good loving?!  I don’t think I need to write any other side effects.

Then there are the weird things that happened this year.  I must be getting old.  I found a new love for the old cheesy rock music.  Journey’s Don’t Stop Belieivin is an example.  It’s cheese.  Actually, it is past cheese.  By the time people worked out how full of cheese it is, we had all moved on to the cognac, cigars and moved to another room to watch the late movie on TV.

But why look behind when you can look ahead?  So I have created the New Years Resolution for 2010.  It is pretty simple.  It is to make to the other end alive.  Actually, to make it to midnight on April 25th alive.

Morbid?  Not really.  Lets look at it this way.  At the end of February, I run my first ever Half Marathon.  Then a month later, I run another.  Then on April 25th, I run the London Marathon.   To train for that one, I was training on Christmas Day.  It’s really gonna hurt come April.

(On a side not that you will ignore,  I run the marathon for the charity Children with Leukaemia…it is not too late to sponsor me.  Make it your resolution to help others…and start with sponsoring me!  The links on the right hand side of the site.  Or those who get the site feed via email etc, it is HERE.  Anyone from any country can sponsor me using any currency.  Go on…it’ll make you feel good!  Or think of it as your way of saying thank you for the time and effort and cost that goes in to running this site.  You aren’t going to are you. *sniff*)

So happy new year and all that.  Be good.  And if you can’t be good…welcome to real life.  Now.  Come on.  Lets hear what your resolutions are.  Yeah, even you who don’t normally comment.

I had a slight problem over Christmas.  With my car.  It wasn’t, for a better word, behaving so well.   For a not so better word, it was being a complete git.  You see, last year it went through a phase where the key would not turn in the ignition barrel.  Like the steering lock was on.  But it wasn’t…obviously.  Otherwise it wouldn’t have been a problem, would it now.

To resolve the problem on the times it did it, I would take the key half way out of the barrel and then…well…crack it as hard as I could with my hand.  After a few attempts, the key would generally turn fine, and I would develop a suitably impressive bruise on my hand which looked like I had been in a fight with a horse or something, and got a sexy wound to show it.  And then, after whacking the key over the period of weeks the problem went away and the key turned everytime I tried to start the car.

Deciding that I had blatantly forgotten it’s Christmas present (which I had.  I wanted to get it a skirt, but…well..I didn’t want to ask it what size I had to get.  I mean, it has a big arse.), it decided to start giving me crap again.  Bless it.

But this time it was different.  It was the same as before, but the car was being a little more stubborn.

Let me show you the exhibits from the crime:

Exhibit 1 – The friggin large can of WD-40 I wrote about a while back.  Yes, I still have it.  And it is still 99% full.  At least I found a new and novel approach to using it which I will cover later.  I would say more about how much I hate that I still have it, but the WD-40 police came knocking last time I mentioned them.  Well their PR company did.  And if they are reading this….GO AWAY ALREADY!  There is nothing bad here apart from the smell of my feet.  I mean holy hell…I washed, but what is up with that smell?  I should go see a doctor.

Exhibit 2 – My car key.  Yes, I get that there are other things attached.  If you think I am going to remove the key from the fob just to please you, well you can just shove it where the…you know, I am just going to say it is my car key.  I think we were getting off on the wrong foot there for a second.

Exhibit 3 – Worked out what it is?  A nut?  Nope.  A sponge?  Nope.  A painting of Tom Cruise wearing an itsy bitsy bikini?  Nope.  Exhibit 3 is infact the ignition barrel from my car, and not a carton of yoghurt like you were thinking.

Exhibit 4 – The car seat.  This exhibit is of no use.  I had to lay the items somewhere to take the photo.  If exhibit 4 had been my bare chest, you may have been offended, thus the seat it is.  It is a pretty seat.  It has patterns, and leather at the side and allows me to sit down.  Very clever invention indeed.  Oh…and that shadow to the right of the barrel?  Umm…I don’t know what that is, and in no way is it what you think it is…I don’t do things like that in the car.  So I should probably ask the guy I bought it from just what the hell he was doing.

So how did these three things come to be laying on the seat of my car posing for a photograph?

Well.  Let me set the scene, as it is important.

It was cold.  It was snowing.  I had a coat on.

There.  I think you get the mood of the evening.  I shall continue.

With plans for myself, Mrs Sy and child Sy to go out to friends for the night, I attempted to start the car, but the return of the stuck barrel was on my back like a poo throwing monkey.  It wasn’t having it.  I sent Mrs Sy and child Sy back to the house to keep warm while I had a chat with the lock.  40 minutes later, I sprayed WD-40 in to the lock.  For a laugh.  Coz it really wasn’t working well for me.  It didn’t work.  Surprisingly.

Then, I decided to hit it harder than I ever had, and ka-chiiiing.  Key turns.  Engine starts.  Wife and child return to the car and we drive in a foot of snow 40 miles to friends.  “It’ll be OK tomorrow” I said to myself.

I was wrong.

The next day I returned to the car to remove the ice, snow and the unbelievable large bird crap from, the car.  I am not kidding.  It looked like a Great Dane had taken a dump from 50 feet above my car.  Do they have pterodactyls where we visited??

The shock and horror of finding the key not turning again was to be expected, so I gave it the grief I gave it the night before.  Nothing.  An hour later of bruised painful hands, I decided it was a really bad time to let the AA membership run out and not renew it.  For those of you not in the UK, the AA is Automobile Association, and not Alcoholics Anonymous.  The car not working hadn’t made me swallow a bottle of whisky or anything.

I started to get a little annoyed.  By a little, I mean “Physical violence is the only way forward for this bastard bloody metal crap ball of worthless shite of a car” annoyed.

So I reached for the can of WD-40.  No, I didn’t spray it down the barrel hole.  I put the key in the ignition….and beat the crap out of the key with the can of WD-40.  Yes.  I took that highly pressurised contained, and in the confined space of the car, I repeatedly beat crap out of the key.  For about 2 minutes.  I was semi expecting an explosion, in which case I would have sued WD-40 for not telling me that using the pressurised can for violence against a car barrel would lead to a small explosion.  But luckily for me…and them…I didn’t die.  As you can tell by me writing this.

Giving up, I decided to go back inside the house and admit my defeat.  So I pulled the key out.  And the barrel came with it.  Ah crap.  So there I am.  40 miles from home, no car recovery cover and I have the car barrel in my hand.

Those of you who have never stolen a car before, or don’t know how to…I wont explain how easy it was to start the car at this point and has been ever since without the need of a barrel.

Those of you that do steal cars…you are very naughty indeed….and no coming round to get my car.  Especially as you now know what the seats look like now.

Now.  What else can I use that goddamn can of WD-40 for?

Ah yes.  Christmas.  The time when the TV shows an abundance of crap adverts (compared to normal?).  But this time of year it seems to be every other ad is for some fragrance or another.  I now feel I need to wear something or other that I shouldn’t be.  It is for women.  But it has an ad where Charlize Theron ends up in her birthday suit.  How did the marketing people know that would work for me?  Coz, well, it does.  And now I feel the need to walk around naked wearing nothing but high heels.  It isn’t fair.  Last time I did that, I got to spend a week in a special room and they did tests on me to find out “why is this dude so friggin nuts?” as they put it.  OK, so I did it at a funeral.  I thought it was going to be mine when I realised what I was doing.   People can be touchy.  I have given up the Pro Plus since those crazy young days.

Earlier I saw an ad for “I am King” by Sean John.  In unrelated news, who the hell is Sean John??  And should I care?  And why in the ad is he wearing a tux while riding a jet ski along the water while whoever narrates it sounds like they are on 400 cigarettes a day?  And why does he think we care?  And why does he think he is a “king” when he is closer to “arrogant idiot full of self importance”? And why when I write “arrogant idiot full of self importance”, do I think of myself?  Aaanyway.  Moving along.

But with this, I have decided to release a fragrance.  I know I did a post about this before. I would hunt it down and give you a link, but I honestly cant be bothered.  Call me lazy, hell call me sexy.  Just call me.  Someone.  I am sooooo lonely. But that post was different.  In this one, I have taken whatever the hell his name is, and have exclusively created “I am Donkey”.  The tag line?  “Because you smell like an ass”.  Originally, I was going to call it Donkey Kong, but I believe there is some trade mark and figured they wouldn’t want me saying donkey kong made you smell like an ass, whereas wearing Sean John seems to make you look like an arse.  In my ad for it, there will be a field of donkeys all covered in their own faeces and the voiceover will say “I am Donkey…the new fragrance for people with low self esteem”.  It’s a winner I tell you.

But anyway.  These stupid ads.  Why do they do the ads in a foreign language?  I am in England.  It is pronounced Fragrance.  Fray-Gran-ce.  Not Free-groun-ceh.  Speak English already.  All I hear is “Puke.  The new Free-groun-ceh by give-an-cheek.  Who the hell is that?  And if I go to the shop and say “I want my wife to smell like kiss-my-cheeks, well, it is not going to end well for my shopping trip is it.  I like online shopping, but being banned from my local shopping centre for telling the naughty looking young lady to kiss my cheeks? 

Maybe when it comes to that dude with two first names (you just know his surname is Peterfranklingsonton or something) I don’t understand the whole riding a jet ski wearing a tux as I am not as “hip” as I thought I was.  In fact, I have recently found out I am less Ghetto and more Sesame Street.  And I don’t mean in the “That cool cookie monster” way.  I mean more that annoying tall git.  No not Dolph Lungren.  I mean Big Bird. 

OK, so I am 34.  I am not old.  But I am seemingly in that inbetween age between not knowing just what the hell a teenager is saying or considering slipping in to slippers and a pipe territory.

But anyway.  It’s Christmas.  Have yourselves a great one, unless you don’t celebrate it.  There is five pounds of donkey crap to the first person to wish me a Merry Christmas…and I want presents.

See you in 2010.

I read a news story this morning that said “Researchers find that exercise is no aid to period pain”.  I am sorry, but even being a man, I can promise you that exercise most definitely DOES help with period pain.  Whenever my wife hits that time, I ALWAYS go out and exercise.  I feel so much better for it instead of having a varying range of things thrown at me and being told I should drown myself in a large vat of peanut butter because I am a worthless specimen of hero man piece of human garbage.

But that is researchers for you.  Full of crazy crap where they don’t really look at the real facts.  Had they asked men for their comments, they would have heard all of them say “Yup, pubs help.  Exercise helps.  Locking ourselves in a different room and hiding under a cover quietly crying so she can’t hear helps.”

So if some “researcher” out there who don’t seem able to see the whole picture wants to do a little more research, how about you do it on the age old question of:

Why is my boy cat a complete bastard?

Yeah I know I have given him some bad press recently.  In fact I cant think the last time I said something nice about him.

This wont be the post where I do either.

I mentioned a little while ago where he is waking me up at night licking the ghost memory of his once impressive testicles.  Compared to last night, that was a walk in the park.

Let me set the scene.

It’s the middle of the night and I am asleep.  It is very dark in the room…because, you know, I am not 5 or something and need a nightlight.

Yeah I think you get the idea.

I wake up to a noise.  It sounds like someone has swallowed a squeaky toy and as they try and force it out, they are suffering for a touch of noisy flatulence.  It is about this time I realise that Yogi is lying next to me.  No, my wife’s name is not Yogi, and no I was not cuddling my lifesize Yogi the Bear Adult Sex Toy.  Yogi is the cat.

His convulsing body prepping itself for the removal of what I was soon to find was the bones from the ribs he had got out of the bin while we were asleep, and then came up to the bed to show me what he had partially digested.

Realising I was out of time, I moved my head just as he emptied out alllll over the quilt.  Launching him on to the floor, he ran off…to a pile of my clothes.  And carried on.   Thanks.

This wasn’t enough for him though.  So on chasing him down the hall, he stopped momentarily to continue on the stairs.  I didn’t see that as I went back to the room to clear up. 

It was to much surprise that after clearing it up, I went downstairs for a drink.  Well I almost got that drink.  Instead, 5 steps down, the insides of my toes got acquainted with the squishy mess that he had left for me as a parting gift.

I hate him.  I hate him with a passion.  It is 30 minutes since he chucked up on my bed, and now I am washing cat vomit from the bottom of my feet and on the floor where I had left foot marks walking to the bathroom muttering to myself about cooking him for Christmas dinner and throwing up on his grave to see how he likes it.

In unrelated news, I am selling a boy cat.  Just under 2 years old.  He is in good condition, loves cuddles with you at night and is very affectionate.  He is in a good state of health, and I am only getting rid of him because I am going to impale him on a friggin stick soon I am not an affectionate person, and he needs more love.

Any takers?

So the site turned 2 years old a few days ago.  I completely missed it.  I didn’t get it a card.  Nor a cake (and I like cake!).  When I logged in this evening, it looked at me unloved.  I tried to explain that I don’t care, but it wasn’t having any of it.  So I bought flowers.   Honestly, this site HAS to be a woman.  If it was a bloke, the conversation would have gone:

Man: Umm…you forgot my birthday.

Other Man:  Shut up you whinging idiot!

Man:  Sorry dude.  Beer?  My shout.

And that would have been it.  No flowers.  No chocolates and no being reminded everytime I log on for the next 6 months.  So anyway.  The site is 2 years and some days old.  Whoopeedoo.  I would write some spiel about how it has changed since it turned one, but it hasn’t.  I would say I have great plans for the future.  I do.  But not with this site.  So they aren’t worth mentioning.  But I still have you guys.  The readers.  I would share the love around, but some of you are married while others are plainly not my type.  So instead, lets talk about something completely different.  Here we go.

I once filled in a bit of paper which I selected A,B,C,D to a few questions (I would give you more information, but honestly, I wasn’t paying attention then…how the hell will I be able to tell you 6 years later?) and at the end, a smart little cookie was able to tell me that my best way of learning was by doing, not by watching/listening. 

I am not too sure I needed to do a test to find that out.  If I think about my favourite things, I am 100% ALWAYS more inclined to do, than to watch or listen.  Yeah sure, sometimes watching is all you have (or listening if you are a young man with some raging hormones and the couple next door are going at it so you have your ear pinned to the wall.  Not me obviously…but someone must.  Right?) , but the practical….MUCH more fun.  Unless of course it is open stomach surgery on a man that has been eating live worms…I mean I have limits.

Therefore, with this in mind, 3 days of lectures followed by an exam was never really going to end well for me.

Not that I wasn’t paying attention or anything, but on the morning of day 3, I missed a complete module because my mind was elsewhere.  As were my notes.

I am not kidding.  There was an hour where he (the lecturer from hell who spent more time talking about his colon than ITIL – Look it up if you are insanely bored) was supposed to be going over something I had NO idea about.  And in 3 hours time we had the exam.  Do I come back to work with my tail between my legs because I failed, or come back and bask in my reflective glory at how I passed an easy exam?  So yeah.  My notes had some numbers on.  Times.  Times from my training runs.  Times I need to do set races (10K, Half Marathons etc) in order to get the time I want for the marathon.  My head was alive with thinking.  Just none of it was about whatever the hell thing he was talking about.  Until I heard the words “…and that should be what you need to know come the exam!”.  At that point I thought “Shit!  What did he say?  I should probably get a coffee.  And some packs of those complimentary biscuits they leave out.  Jammie dodgers maybe.”

So yeah.  Passed the exam.  Me.  A braindead halfwit.  Says something about the exam!  Or my ability to just choose B for every answer!

And that’s all I got for ya for now because…well…I wont lie, you are looking awful.  You should get more sleep and stop reading this crap.  It’s almost Christmas afterall.  You need to look your best for the parties, and well…I think it is a little late for you, but you can at least make a little effort.

My nuts hurt.

I mean that figuratively, but if you ever want to know about any aches and pains I have in my groinal area, you are gonna have to let me know.  Or maybe I will just blurt it out while talking about the story of Snow White or something.

But they hurt because someone (not mentioning any names, so lets call him God) tied me down and took a good run up before giving it to me in a way I was not ready for.  Yes, all that “He giveth…and he taketh away” crap that gets pelted out seems in this case to be bang on the money.

What a git.

So why have I just called God a git?  Because he is.  Granted, I am not completely in agreement that he exists, but if he does, the naughty little deity is toying with me and my emotions in a way that really doesn’t make him so “supreme beingy” and makes him more “supreme gittious”.

Let me set the scene.  I was surfing.  I was on my favourite site.  The lights were off the tissues were close at hand and I was enjoying some alone time with my laptop.  And then the ominous noise of the key being put in the front door arrived.  Rapidly pulling my trousers up Scrambling to change the website so my wife wouldn’t see my laptop on the page I was going to get her Christmas present from, I landed on a page that had the headline “Alcohol ‘protects men’s hearts‘”

What??!!!  So let me get this right.  I start this get healthy BS, and “He” makes my second favourite past time healthy.  You gotta be friggin kidding me.  So I read on because I figured it was a joke. The very single next words on this news story? 

Drinking alcohol every day cuts the risk of heart disease

Every bloody day?  Holy crap.  Someone put a cigarette out on little Sy because I am now not in enough pain.  This was followed by

Female drinkers did not benefit to the same extent

So lets get this right.  Me and the wife can go out.  I can get healthy by drinking a shedload of my favourite hop and barley induced beverage…and she has to drive as drinking for her isn’t really that healthy.

I hate you God.

In utter disgust, I needed cheering up so went to my favourite quirky news site.  God…you are starting to take the piss. 

This is what I read:

Beer lovers are being given the chance to take the plunge in a health spa pool – filled with 42,000 pints of lager.

Spa bosses in Starkenberg, Austria, claim that beer can treat skin conditions, blood circulation and can even help cure wounds.

The spa – part of a local brewery – contains seven 13ft long pools filled with beer which you can even ask to be served chilled or heated.

OK, so him upstairs decided that I should get healthy, run marathons and give up the “unhealthy” stuff in life which has resulted in me not drinking at all at the moment.  And as a thank you, he makes beer the healthiest drink on earth and then gives it magical healing properties. 

I am just waiting for the news story that reads “KFC increases penis size” and I am going to get a bloody long ladder and go and have a chat with him.

What a git.

 

Should you feel the need to read the two news stories, they are HERE and HERE.  Don’t take it to heart…he doesn’t like any of his children.

I am hoping this site doesn’t turn in to “Adventures in ExerciseLand”, but at the moment…that is about all I do.  Well, that and abide by the not going within 400ft of Megan Fox.  I don’t understand why the court were so harsh.  So I sent her a token of my love.  In some cultures, roadkill is seen as a good luck charm.  But not her.  Noooo…Miss Stuffy took me to court.  Typical.

So instead I decided to carry on that damn exercise thing I have been doing.  And on Sunday I had another 10K race.

I wont bother going in to how it went because…well…you don’t care.  But what you might care about is the bit of me that was attacked with a cheese grater.  Or that there was a man dressed as a large pair of testicles (or was it just a reality TV star?  I mean reality TV stars are about as much use as testicles are to a…hmmm…married man?)

Yes, in blisteringly cold wet and windy weather, I put on those ridiculously short shorts that us people wear and did the race. 

But I had not worn these shorts to run outside yet.

And the rubbing action of me and my fat stubby legs getting some flesh on flesh action made me a little sore.  Down there. 

And by “down there”, I don’t mean in Slovakia. 

I don’t understand why.  I train 6 nights a week and no sore bits.  Well, apart from my muscles saying “Give up…this is getting really old already!”.  So why the shorts done this to me I don’t know.  But.

At the end of the race as I walked along, I thought “hang on…what the hell…” and realised that while I was not looking, someone had come along and played with the squishy soft bit on the inside of my legs.  It looked and felt like my wife had found out about my cheese fetish and had gone to town with something that the makers of Brillo pad would patent. 

I was going to take a photo to show you, but you know…there are people under the age of 100 that read this site, and they don’t need to see my sweaty grated inner bits.  Plus, when I was taking the photo, my wife walked in the room and asked me what the hell I was doing. 

Trying to explain that I am trying to take a photo of my inner thigh without getting the twins in the shot was starting to become hard work.  Especially as I was bent over, nuts in one hand, camera in the other…well, you have a think about it.  If you can come up with a suitable excuse, let me know.  She still isn’t talking to me.  It didn’t help that she saw my Internet history and had seen that I had been to www.hairylovespuds.com/upload – A site which is NOT what you are thinking.  It is about those crazy potatoes that people find in bags they buy in the shops that look like they have hair.  But you try explaining that to a woman who had walked in the room to question my browsing habits and saw what she saw.

Ummm…I also don’t know if that link in the previous paragraph works or not.  I made it up…but if you read this at work, as I am at the moment…don’t click it.  If it exists, that could appear in your search history.  And saying “Oh, but I clicked it in a post about a man taking a photo of his sore inner leg while trying not to get his testicles in the way!”…well, it isn’t going to end well for you.  Is it now.  Exactly.

In unrelated while being completely related news…. The updates may be even LESS frequent from now on.  I got accepted to do the London Marathon in April.  So I have a LOT of training to do in order to do it in the 3 hours 30 minutes I want to do it in.  So I might set up another site in the same  “silly” style as this, but based purely on the training.  If you want to read it…if I even do it…let me know.  I wont be advertising the site on here.

If you want to see the dude dressed up as the love spuds, go to http://gallery.sussexsportphotography.com/gallery.tlx?containerid=112951 and you can look it up yourself.  If you want to see the pictures of me…What number was I?  I will give you a clue.  Between 1000 and 2000.  Good luck with finding me then!  The prize for the person that finds me is the gift of wasting all of that time you cant get back!

I have become that which I hate.  That which most people hate.  I have become an “Oh…you are one of those…you should do this instead.  It is WAY better for you” people.

You know how an ex-smoker is the worst of the non-smokers?  For us “never smoked” awesome types, smoking is seen as a mild annoyance done by people who aren’t quite as ugly as me and feel that putting something in their mouth, setting fire to it and sucking on it like a lolly is..well…it doesn’t matter.  Unless of course you are one of those “OH MY GOD!  A SMOKER!” types who see smokers in the same light as I see vegetarians.  Yeah, those naughty vegetarians and their carrot munching wrongness.  It is wrong.  Plain and simple.  And disgusting.  And it only makes you sexually attractive to donkeys.  Sorry…where was I?  Oh yeah…ex smokers.  They will tell all the smokers why they shouldn’t, how bad it is blah de blah de blah.

Or the ex-drinkers.  So OK, these are the worst of the “ex” list because honestly, why would ANYONE want to give up drinking?  It makes no sense at all.  I would rather make my pet rabbit watch the film “Halloween 3” than give up drinking.  Which if you haven’t seen it…please don’t.  I mean holy hell…it is supposed to be a horror.  It really is.  I am so scared I might have to lose 90 minutes of my life watching it again one day that I have poked my eyeballs out and have placed them in a bowl of sweet Thai chilli sauce.  What a crock of crap.

There are plenty others.  Ex druggies, anyone who finds religion (I mean really…) and even ex sex addicts (Please…someone explain to me why ANYONE would check themselves in to some clinic because they enjoy sex in an effort to have less.  You want less sex?  Just get married!.  There is no such thing as just too much.  You know…unless they are a nun.  Or Joseph Merrick.  Yeah that dude should have never considered such an addiction.) and the many others.

But me?

I have become one of those “You should work out more!” types. 

Since I decided to take up this exercising malarkey, I have become one of those obnoxious pretentious idiots that thinks that you should do more exercise.  Don’t eat that bacon sarnie, lets go for a run.  Put down that cigarette and lets go for a run.  Stop praying, lets go for a run.  I don’t know where Mecca is, so lets go for a run.  Take that needle out of your arm and lets go for a run.  Your nose is decomposing from the coke…lets go for a run.  You want to have MORE sex?  Fine.  But once we are finished we are going out for a run.  Don’t watch Halloween 3… If you press play, you better run.

Do I want an alcoholic drink?  Absolutely.  We can go for a run tomorrow.