I give up.  What the hell do you buy a woman for Christmas?  I had great ideas last year and the year before that, but there are only so many times I can buy her a toy reindeer that poops out chocolate raisins before it starts to get very old for her.

So being the ingenious dude that I am, I went a hunting online (me and shops…well, I get a little touchy in shops. So online it is.) and what did I find?  Every single site sells the same damn stuff.    The problem is that most of the stuff is going to end up in divorce.

Armed with Google, I searched for “gifts for her that isn’t a crapping reindeer”.  What did I find?  An ironing board cover.  Now OK.  Everyone needs an ironing board cover for their ironing board.  And this one had a naked man on it. 

Sounds great.  Except that if I get her a gift that involves being folded up in a dark room until she needs it, and then covers it with clothes and begins burning the hell out of it; well I just think I am going to hear “ahh…that is lovely.  You got the receipt still right?” on Christmas day.

So what do I buy her?  Name a star after her?  Again, if I give her a gift that has a certificate with her pet name on it (numbnuts), she is going to get annoyed with that too.

Maybe some clothes would work.  Well, except that I wouldn’t be able to get her anything.  In fact heed my warning any men reading this.  Do NOT buy them clothes.  Why?  Well, how often do they put clothes on and say to you “How about this one!” and you say “Oh yes.  That is spiffing my little bunch of fluffiness”….and they walk out the room and change.  So basically whatever you choose they are going to change with something else.

So then.  Give her money!  Except that you are then seen as unoriginal in the eyes of her friends when she says “oh, he gave me money because he knew he couldn’t get the perfect gift”.  From that day forward I get told what a loser I am.  And ya know, I already know that without being reminded and then having to really pull the rabbit out of the hat on Valentines to make up for it.

I then ventured to the “adult fun” section of the “gifts for her” sites.  If I go buying her something from this section, all I am going to hear is “So this gift is about you then!” which yeah OK…but I already bought the battery recharger, so hell, I may as well get the gifts.

So I am left with the choices of: 

A sweet talking bear (because nothing says “I got you a bear because there was nothing else to buy!” like a bear that says “I wuv you wunny bunny”)

Digital luggage scales (nothing says “I want you to move out and fly back to South Africa” like digital luggage scales)

Chocolate scrabble (Do you spell “lard arse” before she eats it?)

Or a hot polar bear to keep her warm (because every woman wants ANOTHER cuddly toy)

But I am not making it up!  Examples HERE.

So any ideas people?  Come on…inspiration is required in the next day before I look a total loser next week!

Well it isn’t because of the clean always breathable air.  Nor the always friendly government.

China is like the very centre of the Bermuda Triangle.  Except that it is nowhere near Bermuda, and is not even mildly triangle shaped.  But apart from that, pretty much spot on.  Strange things happen there with the people and animals.  They seem to just be a little “different”.  And I don’t mean “Got 2 heads and smell of guacamole” different.

A few examples:

A Chinese man’s wife was in a coma.  Now he tried the usual things that would bring someone out of a coma such as medicine, telling her he left the toilet seat up and saying he had taken a loan out for a lifetime subscription of “Rubber Duck Monthly – The magazine dedicated to the little yellow guy you just can’t have a bath without”.  None of them worked.  So what did he do?  He nibbled her toes.  She woke up!  OK, so she can’t talk yet, but then I think he has refrained from nibbling the other foot because when she gets her voice back, she is going to say “STOP BITING MY FOOT YOU PERVY GIT!”.  Original store HERE.

Another Chinese man got to his car to find out that his car battery was flat.  But because he was carrying lots of shopping and had a copy of Rubber Duck Monthly under his arm, he couldn’t push the car to the garage.  So he did what any ordinary guy would do.  He pinned leads to his eyelids and pulled the car.  The bonus of this is that he didn’t have to spend valuable time blinking which meant he could read the article on “Super Bathtime Ideas With Gertrude The Little Yellow Duck” in his magazine.  He had a few other things he did, but you can read it all HERE.  Of course, if reading “stopping electric fans with his tongue” is something that bothers you, do not eat while you read the story.

But it is not just the men.  You cannot separate the men from the boys in China like other countries.  In England, we have kids who eat ice cream and go crazy at the ice cream headache.  But in China, you get shot through the eye with an arrow.  And live.  The arrow only stopped when it hit the back of his skull.  OK, so why didn’t the FRONT of his skull stop it.  But hey, that is not for me to say.  He survived for one reason.  It missed his brain.  I guess when you stand in front of an arrow, you could be accused of having a smaller than average brain.  But the best part of the story?  “His parents have been warned he still faces a risk of infection”.  Yes.  Infection.  The biggest worry just after an arrow goes through your head and almost kills you.  I suggest going HERE just for the X-Ray image alone!

I am fairly sure that Jeebus is in China too.  He has obviously turned water in to alcohol there.  This is because a man took his kids to a restaurant and they gave them alcohol instead of water.  But naturally, this was an upmarket restaurant, so they offered a handsome apology of a discount and a free cabbage.  Huh?  A free cabbage?  OK, so I am not the most travelled human in existence, but if someone offered me a free cabbage, I would offer them a free punch in the chops.  But if you want confirmation that I am not making it up, HERE it is.

Now this next one…well…yeah.  The weird disease that I was once married to once told me that US men wear their heart on their sleeves whereas us Englishmen are just plain sexy.  How about just having your heart on the outside of your chest?  Really. I think the strangest part of this story is how they block out his eyes to hide his identity.  Ummm…his heart is on the outside of his chest.  I am mildly confident that people might recognise him by the way..well…HIS HEART IS ON THE OUTSIDE OF HIS CHEST!

And finally lets talk animals.

Two dogs and a cat have joined swimming clubs.  The dogs even have their own shower cubicle.  Well DUH!  How many people want to have a shower when some wet mutt is either shaking his coat and spraying you in river dirt, or every time you bend over for the soap, he…well…tries to violate you.  Or at least while washing your hair, he buries his snout in your joy department and has a good old sniff.  And if you haven’t washed that bit yet, you might be a little self conscious.  You can read about the Cats and Dogs HERE and HERE.  What next…a 4 legged chicken when you crack an egg?

So there you have it.  I had another 16 possible entries I could have written about, but at some point you have to stop the post and start watching TV.  Either way, I am thinking of moving to China.

Environmentalists are fun.  I think it may be due to the fact that you can’t have the word without writing “mentalists”, which in certain respects just fits the bill better than a garden gnome fits someone with mad crazy gardening skills.

They (the mentalists, not the garden gnomes) called in the police after a heinous crime against nature.  Some poor trees were being felled, so they acted.  They wanted justice.  They wanted the person or persons behind this brought to justice.  They wanted to put a banner up saying “We are great!  We saved the day!” on a sign made from plastic using machines powered by coal of nuclear power…or pretty much everything else they are against.  In fact, why aren’t they just naked or only wearing clothes made from leaves which committed suicide by falling off of the tree?  Or sent to the moon…without the space suit as it is made from man made materials.  Nor a spaceship for that matter.  So just a large explosive charge inserted somewhere and see how far they go.

But I digress,

The police were called.  A manhunt ensued.  And they caught them.  Oh boy did they catch them.

The beavers that is.

Yes, the evil “fellers” were freakin beavers.  How awesome is that?  They went after nature itself!  Although I am a little upset that during the hugging of the trees marked for felling by the evil beavers that one didn’t fall on the mentalists and knock any sense in to them.

Of course, being the nice guy I am, I have the perfect solution for them after going after the poor beavers.  It is a fair and just solution.  It happens to involve an enclosure of 36 very wild wolves and the mentalists.  (You know, I am sure I am supposed to be saying “activists” and not “mentalists” but the latter really just fits.  Unless you think they act like a bunch of numbnuts, in which case they can be activists.

I love China.  And I don’t mean the “nice plates you only bring out at Christmas” variety of China.  I mean the country.  OK, so “love” is maybe not the word, but they have some great people which will be the basis for my next post.  I was going to do it on this one, but it involves doing some research…so you can wait!  In China they really do want people to go in to an enclosure full of wolves and write some notes.  I know you agree that the mentalists should indeed be going in there.  Who better to hug a hungry hungry hippo wolf than a person who wouldn’t let any harm come to them or the tree they live in?

 

No beavers were harmed in the writing of this post.  Sadly, the same goes for the mentalists.

Original beaver story can be seen HERE.  Hungry hungry wolves can be seen HERE.  Coz you know…I know you like to read that stuff.

Lets go for a little “Social Commentary”.  I figure it is something I haven’t done before, and with the boring as hell action packed day I had a few days back, I think it is worth sharing.  And by “worth sharing”, I mean “If I had to go though it, so do you”.

So.  My fascinating day.  I was sent on a course which was in central London.  I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking “Just WHAT could you have to go on a course for?  You are already omniscient, so why would you need to go?”  Well, I hide it a little too well from my co-workers.  So well in fact, that I am known as the department dribbling idiot.  I still get given training manuals with pop up pictures.  Aaaanyway.

Armed with my man flu (which I STILL have…I really do think I may actually be ill this time!), I crawl out of bed and make my way to the train station and start the exciting journey of having a nap on the train.  Then I got to the tube. 

Dressed in tasteful jeans and a tee, my head shaved and looking like an unemployed wreck due to my eyes being red from my cold and that I got up before 11am, I got the “He is going to steal something” treatment from a man who thinks he is WAY more important than he is.  So, to give me the “I know what you are going to do” thing, he stares at me and then moves his laptop bag further away from me.  Yes, that is right…if you shave your head and don’t wear a suit, you are a thief!  I was quite shocked to realise this due to my clean criminal record and that I had no plans to mug anyone.  But I am sure he went to the office and bragged about how small his penis is that he stopped a mugging.  Good effort young freak!  Good effort indeed!

After holding myself back from mugging 15 people because of how I was dressed, which was taking over my mental ability to be a normal citizen, I get to the training center.  Or “Lobotomy Lab” as was written on the door.

There is always “one” at these courses.  And no, it wasn’t me.  In this case, we were all given a nice little card to write our names on in big chunky pen so others in the room could see our names.  It felt like speed dating, but it was a room full of blokes and one woman…who also had a cold and was dribbling snot everywhere.  It was like sitting near jabba the hut after a pepper sniffing competition. 

So everyone put there cards on the desk facing out so people could see each others names.  Except the “one”.  He faced it inwards. 

Why?  Does he not know his own name?  I guess that as he got his driving licence out to help write down his name that indeed he really doesn’t!  I though about referring to him as “Blank white dude”.  But back to the course.

Armed with a notepad and a pen, I listened intently to the nice gent running the course and took down invaluable notes for a later date when I may wish to go back through the paperwork.  Below are the contents of the notes written during my 8 hours in the room:

Indeed. 

Reaching the end of the day, I say goodbye to the fellow coursers, and make my way to the train to get home.  On the trains in the UK, it is frowned upon to talk constantly on your phone.  Why?  Because it is freakin annoying and people just do not want to hear about whatever the hell it is that you did today which means nothing to us.  Unless you are dishing out the winning lottery numbers for the next draw, just don’t use the phone. 

But alas, there was someone on the phone.  Although to his credit, he kept quiet and you could tell he wasn’t a fan of talking on the train.  But to the woman opposite him, he was the devil.  She started huffing and sighing and getting more and more agitated.  At one point I thought she was going to turn in to a chupacabra and empty his body of blood.  Finally, after a few minutes he gets off the phone. 

And she gets a sandwich out. 

A cheese and something else sandwich.  Toasted.  It smelt like someone had thrown up in to a plastic bag and sold it as a tasty snack.  Holy crap it smelt bad.  And it didn’t go away.  She ate the whole thing and then the smell permeated around the carriage abusing peoples nostrils.  I know it is not something you want to think about, but at some point in the future, that 50something old woman was going to commit a heinous crime in her toilet at home.  That smell actually got off of the train with me and walked me to my car.  I realised that as soon as I was to get home, I was going to need to exfoliate my entire body with bleach to get rid of the smell. 

So there you have it.  From being looked at like a mugger to smearing toilet bleach over my body all in the space of 13 hours.

 

One year ago, I started this little part of the internet on blogspot.  It was a place for me to write down what I felt like without a care in the world. In May it became the site as you see today.  With a funky domain name and photos of smiling children and puppies.  (Note to self.  Find photos of smiling children and puppies).  Since May when I started using the current tracking code, the site has had in excess of 17000 unique hits (most of them me using as many IP addresses as I can) from 132 countries (I travel a lot) and a couple of thousand comments have been posted (again, mostly be me because I am so lonely). 

As time went on, I tried to make as much unique material as possible and on reading back, there was some real weird stuff going on. 

I read somewhere that the average blog lasts 6 months before the writer becomes bored and gives it up, or at least starts posting less and less until the death rattle of an inactive login is heard like a mouse farting in the woods.  Of course, I put average in italics because this site is anything but average.  I can only of dreamt that it would hit that kind of level of impressiveness.  Instead it managed to stay in the doldrums of needing a special amount of therapy before you can enter.

At 6 months and again at 9 months I hit that phase of thinking about giving it up.  It seems that it goes in 3 monthly cycles!  Here we are 3 months later.

I quit.  I have had enough.  No more.  Game over.  Do NOT insert 50p to continue.

Some things take up a lot of my time and use a lot of my effort.  Therefore it is time to stop it.  I just can’t carry on.  So for me, as of today I will no longer skydive naked without a parachute as part of the Royal Lemmings Anti-Parachuting Society.  If people want to see me jump out of an aeroplane naked, they will have to be disappointed.  It makes my fun department shrink because of the cold, and people laugh at the man with women’s parts floating (like a missile) down to earth without a parachute attached to him.  I can no longer do it.

Sorry…kind of went off at a tangent there.  Where was I?  Oh yes.  This site.

This site will carry on as it is now.  I will post as and when I can and try to keep you as entertained as is possible considering all the personal trauma I have going on in my private life at the moment.  For instance, I currently have man flu.  I am sooooo ill.  I have a sore throat and my nose is like a leaky dam.  You women have NO idea just how ill we get.  I have decided it is worse for us as we are strong masculine types (well, some of us…some of us barely get by being called a man.  That’ll be me then.)  And because we are so impressively hard, the virus tries harder and we are more ill.

For my readers who comment, I thank you for sticking your thoughts down on the posts for me to read and joining in the conversations that occur after the post. 

For those that visit daily/weekly/monthly but do not comment through fear of showing you are funnier than I am, again, thank you for taking the time to let my words abuse your eyes.

So here is to the next year and hopefully many more.  I want to say that I have some awesome ideas for the site coming up. 

But I don’t. 

It will move along the same as it has up until now.  As new things come along, I will work with them.  If you think that there is something that you think would be suited to the site that you think I could do, then speak up.  At the end of the day, you come back to read this stuff so I must be doing something right.  That or you just love looking at a train wreck!

Thanks.

Sy.  Age 1.

PS – It is almost Christmas.  Do let me know if you want my paypal details to send me vast quantities of cash so I can buy myself wonderful gifts of alcohol.  I figure if each reader sends me £1, I can get that £2 beer offer they have on at the moment!

 

Image of birthday cake filched from Google Images.  If it is your photo…damn cool cake!  Oh, and if you want me to remove it, I shall…think about it.  OK, fine.  I will.

Of all of the reasons in life that a woman can use to turn a man down for a night of hot passion, the “I might kill you” line has to be the best.

An 82-year-old Italian man who took a Viagra pill scared his wife so much she called the police.

Giovanni di Stefano, from Palermo, was so excited his wife thought he would have a heart attack and dialled 999.

Terrified wife Carla, 69, told police: “He is 82-years-old and so I thought so much love could have lethal consequences.”

Just how much “love” was this woman going to give him?  Actually, what was she going to “love” him with?  A bat?  A knife?  A tender kiss on the neck as she rams high explosives in to his behind, then lights the fuse and zimmer frames the hell outta dodge leaving him as a pile of chunky kibbles…with an erection?

In my 33 years on this little globe we call home, I have heard many many excuses.  Most of them seemed to be aimed in my general direction just after I say “Sooo…wanna sleep with me?”.  Lines of “If you were the last man, and I was the last female…you know…go away from me you grubby little man or I will call the police” were often stabbed in my heart.  I used to practice my chat up lines in my bedroom.  I would line up all my teddy bears and over a cup of imaginary tea I would use my best lines.  I would ask Barbie (look, don’t ask why I had a barbie…I am in touch with my feminine side OK?) if she fancied coming back to my place for a little jiggy jiggy.  Her cold lifeless eyes would often look at me with a cold emptiness.  Then she would say “Ken is a much better lover then you!” and that was it.  Actually, the only one that ever accepted my proposal was my girl gremlin toy.  She had a pull string and after asking her if she fancied “eating after midnight”, she would say “Yuuum yuuuuum”.  I assumed that meant yes as they both start with a Y.

But when it comes to spurning my ongoing quest to get me some good loving, my wife is the best at this.  She has excuses coming out of her ears.  Actually, once the excuse was that she had liquid coming out of her ears.  The only reason we have a child is because I persisted so much that she lost her voice…so when she couldn’t answer, I pounced. 

Of course, my wife will disagree with me on that.  She will say “Shut up you whinging git.”  And sadly, she will be right.

That is not to say I haven’t offered her the female version of Viagra.  “Alcohol” I believe they call it.  It worked wonders in my younger years.  These days I find the only thing that stays hard is my ability to stay awake when I partake in this wonder drug.

Today I discovered that finding material for this site can be at times a little harder than you realise.

How do you make a post out of spending the day with my 4 month old where all we did was blow raspberries at each other.  And they weren’t even great raspberries.  They were the making of.  Mine were of course first class, but I feel that at 4 months old, my daughter just wasn’t giving it her all.  I think with enough practice she will maybe be as good as I am, but we wont know for a long while.

But then, if I was to write a post on what actually happened today, I would use the word dribble.  And that is about it. 

Near the top of the site by Georgie B, he says and I steal quote

“There are days where I would love to inhabit my seven year old daughter’s version of reality. Today is one of those days.”

I on the other hand managed to spend the day actually AS a four month old.  The only real differences were that I didn’t drink breast milk and didn’t shit myself at will in to my underwear.  Granted I was tempted (not the breast milk) but just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Maybe it was because unlike her, I have to wash my underwear rather than stick it in a bin and have it disposed of.

So for a while I decided that I want to become a child again. It’s a great life.  You get to spend all day with a bottle in your mouth which is something that I would love to do, but the Dr said something about liver damage if I was to continue down that road.  There is no such thing as a toilet routine.  I can pee on the bed, on another person…in fact anywhere I please and it is not frowned upon.   In fact they are happy that you are going.

The best part is that you sleep during the day and no one is bothered.  Actually, it is seen as a good thing.

The only thing I have an issue with is that I have seen too many episodes of Jerry Springer and watched a fully grown man want to be dressed up as a baby and it scares me a little.  I just don’t think I am cute enough to be a baby and my IQ is just a little too low.

Lets be honest here.  If I put the following outfit on, would you come back to this site again?  I think not:

 

Yes I know.  He is indeed a real looker.  I am pretty sure he feeds himself too looking at the breasts on the guy. 

I am also sure he is the best evidence I have seen for staying as an adult and not trying to regain my childhood.  Oh, and for electric shock treatment.

For my readers in that part of the world…Happy Turkey Munching Day.  Or whatever it is you call it.  And be thankful for whatever it is you are supposed to be thankful for. 

But most of all, enjoy that sodding great turkey you are going to eat.  I am surpemely jealous and can’t wait until Christmas over here to get my taste of the goodies.  In the mean time, send me leftover turkey sandwiches please.  None of that brown bread crap, just the white fluffly soft bread full of preservatives!

 

So soon?  Yes, that is not only a phrase that my wife says to me, it is also said when I find that I already have enough material for the “you were searching for what?” posts.  Same rules different content…the words in the ” ” are the phrases entered in to google to find this simply awesome site.  I was going to write about..erm…well…you know what…I had no material that I thought was post worthy, so to keep me going until originality enters my brain (see you in 2009 then), this is what you are getting!

Dear Sy: “The wheel may be turning, but is the hamster actually dead?”

Uncle Sy Says:  I ate it.  I digested it and an amount of time later, I flushed it.  It is about as dead as it is going to be…and I am confident that if you powered up a defibrillator, the walls are not going to look pretty if you try to bring it back to life.

Dear Sy:  “How much did you think the woolly mammoth weighed?”

Uncle Sy Says:  Oh yeah sure.  No way.  Nice try, but NO WAY.  I am going to end up with emails about being sexist or fattist (and I am pretty sure I am already!).  Like a need a woolly mammoth emailing me complaining that I think it’s arse looks big in that dress.

Dear Sy:  “How does the Internet stimulate the brain?”

Uncle Sy Says:  Porn is VERY stimulating.  Oh sorry, stimulate the brain?  This site. Yes, that is it.

Dear Sy:  What is your “Internet surfing technique”

Uncle Sy Says:  Hanging upside down from a chandelier in a plastic mac using yellow rubber gloves with electrodes in them and a screen like that in Minority Report.  It works for me as the rush of blood to the head helps me concentrate.

Dear Sy:  What is the best way to watch a “goat cow porno“?

Uncle Sy Says:  Hanging upside down from a chandelier in a plastic mac.  The rush of blood to my…well anyway…you shouldn’t be watching things like that you freak.

Dear Sy:  What do I do if my “hamster is almost dead“?

Uncle Sy Says:  How almost is almost?  If in the next 20 minutes, I recommend warming up the oven.

Dear Sy:  I read about “children who have been given strange“.  Have you tried it?

Uncle Sy Says:  Strange?  Is this like LSD but a little different?  How do you take it?  You know what…it sounds like you had a little too much strange so don’t answer.

Dear Sy:  I want to see “55 old ladies that like to pee“.

Uncle Sy Says:  I want to see what happens if they turn up the juice on the electrodes I taped to your head.

Dear Sy:    I want to enter a “ball squeezing endurance contest“.

Uncle Sy Says:  Dear Mr Dickless Wonder.  Your application to enter this years contest is rejected due to you not having a pair.

Dear Sy:  “How can i get the gross taste out of my coffee maker”

Uncle Sy Says:  Stop using decaff and get some real coffee.  Be a real man goddammit.  What are you?  A pregnant fairy?

Dear Sy:  “does a blind person see any thing”

Uncle Sy Says:  Well, I am guessing by the fact that they are blind that the answer is an impressive NO!  Although I have posted this in braille so they can read something stupid.  That would be your question then.

Dear Sy:  “mammoths how can you tell a male from a female”

Uncle Sy Says:  The male is called Gabriel.  Holy hell…the square fits the circle with you doesn’t it.

Dear Sy:  “is a hamsters wee cream white in colour”

Uncle Sy Says:  Lets just say if you saw that, he finished early and there will be no baby hamsters anytime soon.

Dear Sy:  “if a hamster shakes then dies, what is wrong with it?”

Uncle Sy Says:  It is dead.  I mean come on…honestly.

 

if you enjoyed reading this…or even if you didn’t(!), be a good reader and help me out.  Below is a “Share This” button.  If you have a reddit or Digg or whatever account, could you hit the link for me?  It makes me happy.

Note:  Parts (well, all considering the drivel I write) of this post will make absolutely NO sense at all unless you happen to know the track Thunderstruck by AC/DC.  If you don’t know it, or if you fancy a little refresher, HERE is it.  Just the intro words are all you really need, but hey, it is such a great song, stick about and listen to the lot.

My wife and I have a “bedroom” rule.  This rule is that she always sleeps in the wet patch.  Now, I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking “Gee, is sex all he thinks about?”  Well, no…this isn’t about sex.  The wet patch I mention is where she makes clay models in bed.  Coz you know…doesn’t everybody?  And that is where the wet patch on the bed comes from.  Her splashing water on her clay model.  So if you could maybe sort your dirty mind out for a minute I would really appreciate it.

We used to do it together.  We were a regular Swayze/Moore double act in the clay department.  But my artistic approach to life is a little on the “complete and utter rubbish” side.  So while I was making a tea cup fit for a bin, she was off modeling the Sistine chapel to scale.

Yes there were people worldwide who were supremely jealous of our bedroom habits.  I was always happy as I was always in the nice warm dry part of the bed.

Until yesterday, when it all changed.

Waking up to the muffled noises of a child waking up, I picked up 4 months old worth of small person and gave her a bottle of the finest house white which my wife had prepared (prepared?  I don’t know…grew?  created?  Either way, it came from the fun parts that I am not allowed to touch anymore).

Gulping it down as if she had been starved for 12 hours (it had only been 10…such a drama queen), she finished the bottle in one mighty go, and settled down laying face down on my chest and went to sleep.

And then it happened.  In the distance I could hear a sound.  Someone singing.  It went “Na na naaa naa na na”.

And then again.  “Na na naaa naa na na”

And again.  “Na na naaa naa na na”

Every time it got a little louder.

And then as it sounded like it got closer, it changed.

“Na na naaa naa na na – Chunder!”

And again.  “Na na naaa naa na na – Chunder!”

And once more.  Each time sounding closer and building to a conclusion.

And then, with one hefty move which normally is only seen in a hollywood movie, it came to a conclusion.

You’ve been….CHUNDERSTRUCK.

I was covered.  The bed was covered.  I looked like the Stay-Puff man (without the smile).  My already English whiter-than-white-no-sun-touched-for-thirty-three-years body was now a different shade of white.

Looking up at me, my daughter smiled a smile of “Ah.  That’s better!”.  And then my wife rolled over, looked at me dripping with regurgitated breast milk, and said:

“Has she been sick?”

“No honey, I am trying out a new all over body, bed and floor cream.”