Facebook.  Ugh.  Facebook.  The site of egotistical maniacs, game players, dinner photo posters and…well…the list is somewhat endless.

My interest in finding out that in the game you are currently playing you have just found an earthworm-monkey hybrid with herpes and you need another game player to give the secret of sphincter to help you escape the castle of carrot is honestly a little less fulfilling than you may think.  My timeline fills with this random rubbish.  Or more recently “What <insert random object> are you?” (If they keep posting that rubbish I will honestly happily insert random objects in to them)  I cant bring myself to do these tests in case I find out I am a blue carrot with links to astrology and am also the country Bolivia.

Why cant my friends all be like me?  All I do is pictures of the races I do.  I don’t photos of my dinner.  I hide behind humour to abuse my friends.  I act like an egotistical maniac.

The most likely answer to that is because they say “Oh God…MORE photos of him running.  We get it.  You run.  You get photos.  You post them up.  YOU ARE STILL FAT!!”.  Because…well…who cares about photos of me running?  Actually, my running friends do.  At least, I think they do.  Oh god…do they?  Maybe they don’t.  Hang on, I will post up a super cryptic post on Facebook to gain more attention.

OK I am back.  I posted “Oh god…I hope you do.  I can’t live knowing you don’t”.  I should get some love from that.  The fools.  I will be covered in “OMG R U OK Hon?” comments like a big sticky thing before you know it.  I will bathe in their love (no not like that) and be wanted and loved.

But there are other issues with Facebook.  Which is sort of what this post is about.  I mean sure, we are over 300 words in and I am only JUST getting to it, but I had written the above and you already read it.  So…erm. Look…just love me already.

Relationships on Facebook.  It is a minefield of confusion and bragging.  I am fairly sure one of my friends once had “Is in a relationship with <HER BROTHER>.  I de-friended her pretty quickly…mostly because she was also an ex girlfriend and now I feel dirty all over.  Was her brother thinking of me and her and…pass the bucket.

My confusion comes in the question of when is the correct time to press that “..is in a relationship with” button?  Is there a good time?  But what if I don’t put that?  Am I lying to her and to my friends as it reads “Single”?  Or should I change it to “it’s complicated” which in general means:

“Yeah, we have sex.  A lot.  But you know…they don’t want a relationship.  But I really do.  So it is awkward.  Should I say single?  I mean, I am.  We are just fumbling about and they made it very clear we aren’t an item.  But secretly I love them and practice kissing my teddy and imagine it is them.”  

But that is like 55 words or something (I put ‘or something’ as I didn’t actually count how many words so you can’t pick me up on it) so just writing “it’s complicated” is easier.  Or not.  Or…oh god…I don’t actually care.  Are you single?  Married?  In a relationship?  Having illegal relations with your dog?  Although if I don’t know your relationship status then what kind of a friend am I?

I am not actually a “Facebook friend” with my girlfriend.  Sure, we live together.  We go on holiday together.  We have pillow talk that is so low brow I wouldn’t even write about it on here as you would think “Seriously…what is the matter with you two?? And you talk about it in the bedroom??”  We even work in the same office together.  Hell, I walked in to the bedroom a few days back and she was laying in bed, had my underwear on her head, and was using my socks as sock puppets to put on a show.  And she farts like a sailor on leave in front of me.  I am also now very aware that if she reads that last bit I am in for a swift kicking.  But…well…when it comes to Facebook, our relationship just isn’t there yet.  Which is why it took the best part of 6 months to change my status to “in a relationship”.  I don’t think anyone noticed. Nobody “Liked” it.  She then changed hers, a hundred women got giddy and giggled and said “DETAILS!” and “OMG! SPILL!”  and “Oh honey that is AMAZING” and probably some other stuff.

I doubt she has replied to them yet, she is still putting that sock puppet show together.  I really hope that was my clean underwear too.

 

 

In other news:

I…er…I am having a holiday for a bit.  Yeah I know…just started the site again.  But like, an actual holiday (is America ready for us?).  So I wont be posting for a bit.  And when I get back, I move house.  So if there is a delay…bear with me.  I am expecting a ton of material to appear from the next few weeks to keep the site going.

 

When I was much younger I was scared of talking to girls.  I would be a jabbering wreck unable to get my words out.  I wouldn’t be able to walk straight and would sweat profusely when around them.  These days I call that excessive alcohol intake.  Fortunately, I am no longer scared of girls.  Although I was once given the advice that just like public speaking, when you talk to them, imagine they are naked and it will be easier to talk to them and they appear less scary.  I cant tell you how much of a lie that was.  Trying to not touch yourself when your a teenager talking to a girl you really like…well, it isn’t so easy.  I stopped the imagining they were naked thing soon after I started due to…well…it doesn’t matter.

But those years passed and with renewed confidence, I would be all go no quit “hey ladies!”  Except that with my new found confidence came abstract failure.  These included:

While walking down the road, I spied in the distance a very pretty girl.   When I say spied, I don’t mean I had binoculars…I wasn’t some kind of perv.  OK look…by “wasn’t” I don’t mean I am now.  God this is hard to explain without you taking it the wrong way.  Anyway,  I was having a super-confident “the girls love me” day so I crossed the road in her direction and started to strut.  I guess the strut was the 1980s to early 90s version of  that ridiculous walk young blokes do now where it looks like they have one leg longer than another.  I swaggered my way, making eye contact…holding that eye contact…gave a cheeky smile.

And being the 80s, dog owners didn’t clean up after their animals.  And some large animal had left a huge steaming great turd on the floor.

And I in one deft move…bang on with my foot.

I carried on walking.  Tail between my legs.  Heart in my throat.  Well aware that my shoe was now a showcase for reasons to limit disease in the world.  I just didn’t see it coming.  That is why I no longer make eye contact when I talk to people…what if there is a hidden dirty great dog turd hiding around the corner?

Then there was the time that I started off really confident.  And then I ran out of things to say.  But I was trying so hard.  And I started to repeat pretty much everything she said.  And then she asked me if I was a little retarded.

And it went on and on.  There was a time…I think I was about 11 or 12.  This girl got on the train.  Started to talk to me.  I just didn’t know what to do.   She was older than me.  Super confident.  I had less cool than Peewee Herman.  So after she asked me a question I said “Guess how old I am”.  Why?  WHY!?!?!?!  I don’t know why.

I would just be clumsy around girls. Pass them a drink? Nope…practically throw it at them.  Give them a hand moving something?  Nope.  Break something.  Mess around and threaten to pick them up? Nope…actually dropped one on her head.

The ground never opened up and swallowed me back then.  But it is all better now.  Girls aren’t scary.  Even the pretty ones.

Well, until a few days ago when a familiar issue came up.

I was being all macho and moving the fridge.  It was in a very tight spot and because it is a fridge that is a little overweight, I couldn’t get my arms around it.  So I got on the floor and pulled from the bottom of it.  All was going well.  Remarkably well.  Especially when I think how crap I am at doing things well.  But then one of the feet got caught.  It wouldn’t move.  So I decided a little brute force was the way forward.  So I did.  With a massive yank….the freezer door came open and smashed me right on the bridge of the nose.

As I sat there, eyes streaming and having that familiar “I think I am about to see blood” feeling, I called out to my girlfriend and in a pitiful voice said  “I just whacked myself on the nose”.  Her response was “You ok?” and never came to my rescue.  I sat there for a few minutes while I regained full conciousness and thought “There is a disturbance in the force”.  I slowly stood up.  I looked around.  There were no pretty girls.  Nor not so pretty girls (that’s polite for ugly).  But there were a couple of packets of grapes that I had not seen before.

I am worried I may be getting the symptoms of Sitophilia.  Google it.

OK fine.  Don’t.  It is basically people who want intimate relations with fruit.

I just cant see another reason why it happened.  I haven’t been able to look at the grapes since.

Well then.  That is Easter done for another year.  How was it for you?  Do anything nice?  Oh really!? that sounds a lot of fun.  Anyway, enough about you.

I have my issues with the Easter Bunny.  He is irresponsible and evil (no kidding, put “evil Easter bunny” in to Google images…the results are frankly frightening) and does nothing to help childhood obesity.  OK fine…I have a sweet tooth and the git brings more tasty chocolatey treats in one night than I eat in a few months.  And then I eat the lot.

But this isn’t about me.  It is about the kids.  Easter is ALL about chocolate and children, with the side issue of religion trying to hijack it for their own reasons.  I mean seriously…I have been employed for the last 22 years and I have 2 daughters and have been married twice.  Some dude gets to take a rest on a cross for a couple of days getting a sun tan, then someone else moves him in to a cave, he has a long sleep and then wakes up all rested and people are still harping on about him for the last 2000 years.  What the hell.  And he “died for our sins”.  I wasn’t born…he needs to get back here and die again for my sins. I just don’t get it. I have worked WAY harder than he did.  He was all dinner parties where all he had was bread and wine and fish.  I hate fish…which means everyone got absolutely battered on wine because there wasn’t enough food and an utter lack of soft drinks from what I understand.  What about the ones driving?

But anyway, that is enough about religion…this post is about Easter and the Easter bunny who is just as annoyed about religion as the rest of us.  So to get religion back, he lobs a ton of sugar in the direction of my kids.  And in return, they go utterly insane for a few days.

I was woken on Sunday by 2 children standing by me with baskets in their hands and telling me it is time for me to get up.  Then they tore the place apart like crazed sloth’s on speed sniffing out any piece of chocolate in the place.  Then my youngest daughter hid in the kitchen downing chocolate as if there was a time limit on how long it will exist for and it will turn in to a pumpkin at 10am or something.  This led to the sugar an E number overload.  For the next several hours I watched the Tasmanian devil spin around the house in a whirlwind of chocolate driven destruction.  She started attacking her older sister who it seemed had turned in to her dealer.  “Here…have a little bit of mine…you like that huh?  Have a little more…it is free…go on” followed by “You want more?  I am going to need you to go and eat the flowers in that vase.  And chew on the table.  Now go take a big poo in Dad’s shoe….in return…I will give you a little more chocolate” and because she was getting the shakes and needed more, well, fortunately my shoe remained poo free. But had I not put a stop on my eldest learning to be a dealer at the tender age of 5, I am afraid as to the extent that she would have gone to get more chocolatey goodness.

She is now in rehab.  Or “No, you cannot have any chocolate for the next month” as I prefer to call it while I wait for her heart rate to slow down, and for what can only be described as a brown paste type concoction of sugar based faeces which was the result of what her body turned that much chocolate in to and the state of it on evacuation.

And that is why I hate the Easter bunny.  Because he makes it allll about his hatred of religion.  And that, my fluffy long eared brethren….IS MY JOB.

I am not easily offended. Especially by nudity.  In fact quite the opposite and I have zero problem if a woman wants to walk around with very little clothes on and if anything I actively encourage it. I know, I am a martyr. What can I say, you are right.

Recently in Germany I was confronted with a sign that read “No shirt, no shoes, no pants…NO PROBLEM!”. I would have taken a photo of it, but…well…read on and you will understand why photography was not maybe high on the list of “Things we actively encourage”.

As I stood there in just my socks feeling decidedly overdressed (hey, they didn’t say “no socks” and I have really ugly feet so while I was completely naked except for my feet, at least I didn’t feel uncomfortable), I found myself wandering about with a load of overweight German men with no clothes on. There were no women.

There was an individual who seemed to be repeatedly scratching himself a little more than I had bargained for…at least I think he was scratching himself. The way he watched other naked men wander around the spa at the same time as having that vigorous scratch meant he was either a little less bothered than the rest of us at the utter lack of naked women in the spa, or he was needing a trip to the Dr to maybe resolve whatever he caught from the toilet seat.
I mean, it is good to share, but don’t share your flaking rash skin on the lounger where your nuts are currently sat ready for the next gentleman to sit down and rest his love marbles on. How does he explain the oncoming rash to his wife/girlfriend? “Oh yeah, I was at this spa and some guy was flaking the skin off of his nuts. Then I sat in it. And I caught what he had”. What woman is EVER going to believe this? It is grounds for divorce based on the utter lie…even though in this case would have been utterly true.

Can I just…you know…for clarification purposes…well…it wasn’t me scratching the dead skin from my body, nor the person later on resting his giggleberries on said other man’s flaked skin. Nor do I actually know if someone caught something. I was an innocent, if not slightly confused bystander looking at the potential for something really bad to happen.

I don’t quite understand where the line gets drawn. I stand in a changing room with other men, all of us feverishly drying our privates as if to get a shine so clear that the sun glows off of them and then spending about 3 seconds on the rest of our bodies. It is generally the done thing. We stand chatting while we swing from side to side while doing things and your mate thinks nothing of bending over right in front of you and as you turn around you are faced with…well…lets just say you hope you don’t find out what he had for lunch. And you then book him in for a back sack and crack wax.

So why…when stood in an outdoor spa with a bunch of guys you will never see again who can’t even speak English and because of the weather, you are all not having the best day “down there”, is it a problem? Of course, for the Germans it just isn’t. But for a pasty Englishman in his first nudist spa, well…I didn’t spend too long in there. Mostly because anyone checking in to the hotel attached…the reception looked straight out over the spa. So as you stand there naked as the day you were born (I had removed my socks by this point, I felt uncomfortable in them…they had a hole in one of the toes) thinking “Bit chilly…looking a little smaller than normal” as you look up and some young girls are checking in and looking out…well…I got an itch. And scratched.

There I was. Standing in a nudist spa. Scratching my balls looking at some 20something year old girls. I didn’t go back in to the spa later…and I repeat…I was not the guy on the lounger nor did I catch anything.

Stop judging me.

A couple of weeks ago I found myself in Germany.

By “found myself”, I don’t mean I went on some magical hippy crap adventure where I spent days surrounded by incense sticks, said “Hummmmmm” a lot surrounded by people blatantly wearing just their pyjamas but honestly believe it is “hemp clothing made by lesbian geese in Norway” or something and I now know that my calling in life is that I should make shoes for underprivileged  mice with 3 legs.  I mean it was a surprise trip for my birthday and I didn’t know until we got there (hint:  We landed in a different country….so I really didn’t know).

And that is where the weirdness started.

We stayed in a health spa near the Black Forest which wasn’t black at all.  Just like the black sea.  Not black.  Just say what it is and don’t lie about the colour.  I mean really.  If you buy a bag of apples, you expect apples.  If you buy a cream to reduce the size of your hemorrhoids, you don’t expect to find that tube actually contains a very potent chilli paste that will have you tearing the things from your body with your bare hands.  But anyway, on checking in we were presented the spa owner.  A man who is best described as “This bloke will turn up with a spade to kill us with in the middle of the night”.  Literally the most scary arsed looking bloke I ever saw.  He wasn’t tall.  Nor built like a house.  But he was wearing dungarees, was foreign….and well…I wanted to take a photo of him so I could send it to loved ones so should I go missing, look for this guy.  But I couldn’t exactly just point my camera at him and take a photo.  So I have put an artistic representation below.  I should mention that the “artist” is me.  Thus…well, don’t expect much.

See what I mean?  Look at him!  If you were checking in to somewhere that outside your window is a vast forest that nobody would find you in, would you question it?  Yes.  You would.

But we had a plan.  A cunning plan.  We asked him for the best walks through the forest.  What he would recommend.  He told us.  We went in the exact opposite direction.  Yup.  Genius.

Of course, there was that small matter of what if he WASN’T a murderer.  Just one of those freaky scary looking blokes who when someone goes missing, the police go straight to him but he always has an alibi because he is actually a perfectly nice man and mother nature decided to make him look like someone who will batter you to death in the middle of the night while you sleep and then drag your lifeless carcass to the forest and bury you.  That would be unfortunate.  But, well, he had dungarees on….yet he was working the check in desk.  Why would he?  I mean sure, there was a load of work going on and maybe he was doing that BUT I DONT KNOW.

Look…fine….maybe, just maybe I looked and saw danger where a perfectly nice German man stood.  My bad.  It happens.  It happens a lot.  Look at Facebook….a perfect example.  People with little knowledge of the real world are given the ability to write things which many will read.  I have several friends who do a “RIP” post for absolutely anyone who dies without actually doing any homework.  But someone died….they need to mention it to look worldly.  One of my FB friends I am genuinely concerned would, had they and Facebook been alive back around the time of WW2 post “RIP Adolf.  A great man trying to bring us all together”.  Because that person really has no grasp of reality…and if they read this, well, they wont even realise.  So I am safe.  Actually, proof…I am fairly confident (I could really be making this up, but then, this is not exactly a journalistic heaven on this site is it) that they actually posted “I am going to miss those crazy glasses!” when Kim Jong-il died.  It wasn’t a joke.

Where was I?  I’ve come waaaay off track.  Oh yeah.  I remember.  Yeah, that German bloke….total murderer.  No doubt in my head.

I’ve seen things man.  Bad bad things.  I went 6 months underground.  But I came back up.  It’s dark down there.  They demanded I stayed…but I pushed my way back.  I broke through.

I wont lie, it stank:

 

So.  Here we are.  I am as surprised as you are.  I was done with the site.  Life moved on.  Then about 2 weeks ago I got an itch.  A familiar good itch…but not one I had felt for a very long time.  It wasn’t an anal itch.  That can stay away forever regardless of the satisfaction of that perfect scratch.  Too far on the first post back?  Are we there yet?  Too soon?  Meh.  We are old friends.

But here we are nonetheless.  Will it last?  Dunno.  Have I got loads of posts lined up?  Nope.  Do I have the urge to write again?  Yup.   Shall we begin?  Sure.  Why the hell not.  Lets be honest, after the anal itch comment, I am not sure we need to worry about first name terms.  But lets anyway.  Hi.  I am Sy.  I will be your writer for however long this little foray lasts.

In have alluded to previously the weird races I enter.  In the last 2 years, I have gradually managed to find more and more extreme races to run.  By more and more extreme, I mean the names have gradually started sounding worse to the point where people I work with are likely assuming I have red hot pokers inserted in to my behind while I carry logs up a hill.

I used to do “The Brighton 10K” and “The London Marathon” and “The Brighton Marathon”.  Names that pretty much said “it is this distance in this place”.

And then it went a little wrong.

I found a race called The Hurt. And then The Brutal10.  And over time it went on and on.  The kamikaze run.  The Nuts Challenge.  The Warrior Run.  The Knacker Cracker. Back 2 The Trenches.  The Zombie Evacuation.  And my marathons got harder.  The Beauty and the Beast marathon.  This was not a play on a popular Disney film.  The beast was the sodding painful hills I had to drag my sorry behind up continuously.  Belle was not there.  She did not mop my sweaty brow.  There was no singing teacups.  It was as un-Disney as…well…I was going to say bestiality, but that film is about a young girl getting it on with a…whatever he is.  Geez…worst comparison ever.

These races have two things in common.  The first is that  I get mud so far up my colon I spend a few days wondering what the hell I ate.  On one race my face didn’t get covered at all but I could taste it.  Yeah, THAT deep up.  My toenails are the colour of bog.  My running clothes smell like an albatross and a poo-loving dinosaur got it on, and the end result was a sodding great bird that took a dump on me from a great height which knocks me out.  And then down comes the albasaur and it vigorously inserts more in to every single orifice in my tired weary body.  I wade through deep water.  Through bogs.  Up hills. I crawl face down through what can only be described as “Come on…where is the Great Dane?  I know he has been here, I can smell it.  And I think he had the chicken.” And yet, I go back for more.

The second thing they have in common is that they remind me of how meek a man I am from the waist up.  Sure, I have a 6 pack.  I have well defined biceps and triceps.  But they are hidden from site by the sheer quantity of fat I have on my upper body. The Michelin Man looks at me and thinks “He has more tyres than me, but at least he is uglier”.    This doesn’t bode well for obstacle races.  After a marathon, I walk a little funny for a few days. My general demeanour is “That dude is walking like he has shat himself”.  I moan a little that my thighs feel like madame whiplash has been stamping on me repeatedly even though I only asked for a light massage.  That is fine though.  Stairs are an issue but I can walk.  But after one obstacle race where I used my upper body for the first time in 38 years, the next morning I couldn’t push a door open.  I may have looked normal on the outside but on the inside I had the strength of a 2 week old kitten who just got put in a cage with a fully grown horny lion.  The lion didn’t have any lubricant.  He wasn’t hungry.

I honestly think that I would consider the pink fluffy run.  There would be no hills.  No water.  No mud.  We would just sit about and talk to other people and have a jolly good tea party.  At the end we would get a medal for good behaviour.  The finishers t-shirt wouldn’t be emblazoned with a skull on fire, it would have Barbie holding up a teacup and would read “I went to the pink fluffy run”.

But until then, I will continue to do the ridiculous races and continue to hurt myself.  Because for me…I am man.

Who at 39 years of age should know better by now.  But at 10 marathons, 10 half marathons and 67 various other length races in the last 4 years…I am going to be creating a clay shape of my colon for many years to come.

There are 346 post prior to this one for you to enjoy read when you are bored and lacking self esteem.

There wont be 1 more post after this one unless someone takes over the site and starts posting.  If you are interested, email me (hint:  there is an email address in the About section)

The site started on 5th December 2007 as a bit of fun on long boring night shifts, but I no longer have the interest to do it.

Right.  I am off to enjoy time with my bunny and cats and kids….I should have probably put the kids first in the list.

Bye bye.

Sy.

Hey, I remember this site!  I used to write stuff on it!  Ahhh good times. 

How they change.  These days I spend my time sat at work doing super important things.  For instance, as I write this, I am eating sweets. 

In my evenings I dress as a fairy princess and sing from the tree tops.  I only sing heavy metal classics.

On the weekend I write children’s stories about murdered teenagers coming back as zombies intent on eating the worlds ant population while singing the theme to High School Musical.

So I don’t really have time for this site thus the long breaks between posts.  But I know, I know…it is blatantly obvious that the list of things above that I say I do is a lie.  There is no way I sit at work doing super important things.  The rest?  Hey, I never tried to tell you I was normal did I?

But I figured I should check in with you lot before you remove me from your feeds and regale you with a story about a guy that couldn’t get it up.  No, it wasn’t me.  Honestly, I can walk past a field of sheep and the little guy wakes u…..you know what, lets not carry on with that line.

According to this: http://metro.co.uk/2013/06/12/man-launches-legal-action-over-eight-month-erection-3838202/

a 44 year old guy who couldn’t get it up had some work done and then couldn’t get it down.  Talk about a guy who never gets a break.  He spent 8 months with an erection. 

Excuse me for being bloody obvious here, but between the ages 14-24, I had a serious lack of blood to my head.  It is why all young blokes are so goddamn dumb.  Pretty girl walks past, you lose 15 IQ points.  Problem is, at that age, EVERY girl is pretty to you.  When you only have a couple of hundred points to start with, it isn’t long before you are a dribbling pile of pointless rubbish who nobody wants to be around.

Or a politician if you will.

Anyway, he also said that his scrotum swelled to the size of a volleyball.

Ummm….I have seen a volleyball.  Heck, I even touched on once (no, stop the clapping and applause, it is embarrassing me) and if mine was to swell that size, I am confident it wouldn’t take me 4 months to see a Dr.  I would John Wayne my way straight to the hospital.  I would walk in, bounce my junk on the table and ask if they can give me a puncture.

‘I could hardly dance, with an erection poking my partner,’ he told the court.

Worst.  Excuse.  EVER.

I cant dance for sh*t.  I don’t blame having a boner for this.  I am a Dad.  I dance like a Dad.  When they are older my daughters WILL be embarrassed at family parties as  I do my white man Dad-dance.  I will think I am hip and shake my booty.  Click my fingers together to the music and make facial expressions like I think my colostomy bag is about to split.  There is no way he can blame his erection for this.  And “Poking my partner”?  Again…when I was 18 if  I danced with a pretty girl…well…you know.  You learn to deal with it.  Stand in a certain way.  Make excuses to go to the toilet. 

Or as the song finishes and you get that few seconds between song that is a “Well…what do we do now?” between you and your dancing partner, I would stick my hand down my pants and rearrange myself ready for the next dance.  Then hold her hand.

But this dude is suing because he got wood.  He wants £6,400 (that is $10,000 US, 4385783475872356387639823475825576 Chinese Yuan and 17 buttons in a market in North Korea) just because he got an erection.  

Honestly…If I could sue every time I realised I cant go out in public until my IQ returns to normal, I would never make it to work.

Well.  That is Easter over and done with.  A holiday about greedy money making corporations trying to kill a poor defenceless bunny.  Sure, religion got on the bandwagon and tried to outdo the poor bunny with the “Our guy got nailed to a cross” thing, but that isn’t realistic.  Thus the bunny story is more likely.

Everyone knows that poor bunnies should not eat chocolate.  Actually, bunnies with money should also not eat chocolate.  So every damn year, the corporations send him thousands of boxes of Easter eggs.  To try to kill him.  And that bunny thinks “I will give it to the kids” but you know, he aint a big fat guy in a red suit that has a load of reindeers to pull him along on a sleigh.  He is a small bunny.  Long soft ears.  Tail to die for.  He has a LOT to do.  And you know, he doesn’t have time to deliver eggs.  Don’t be surprised if you see a bloated constipated bunny on the side of the road with chocolate around his mouth one morning after a heavy night on the town doing lines of carrotcaine and gets home and gets the munchies.  See’s all those chocolate eggs and BAM.  Bye bye bunny.

But you know, apart from the whole Easter thing, it is also time for a couple of weeks off work.  Me and my 4 year old daughter who is off school.  So it is me and her.  Mono e Mono.  And you know what…I have learnt a lot.  In the so far 3 days I have been alone with her, I have found that I know absolutely nothing.  And I am rubbish at playing games.  This can be seen as:

“Daddy, I want to play the 2 pigs.  You be the big bad wolf and I will be the pig.  I am just going to make my house”.  So she makes her imaginary house.  I put on a very good performance as the wolf.  I managed to really make the character mine.  I huffed.  I puffed.  I blew as hard as I could….but it seems that she used bricks.  So I couldn’t blow it down.  Clever girl.  Well played.  My turn!  I decide I have moved in to a nuclear bunker 100m under ground.  Apparently this is not good enough (pretty sure it would have been) so I now have to start again.  I make my house.  She turns up.  Does a very weak wolf performance compared to mine.  Ah-haaa!  I have used bricks too!  But her wolf has a key.  Lets himself in.  Eats me.

Fine.  You want to play like that?  On the next round I too had a key as she once again had a brick house.  Except that according to the piggy…my key doesn’t work.  So she is still safe.  2-0 to her.  Next up I made a house with no doors or windows.  And is made of bricks.  She will NEVER get through that!  I am safe.  Actually.  No.  I am not.  “Daddy, you have a straw house!” a few huffs and puffs later, I am a bacon sandwich.  3-0.  This seems hellishly unfair.

Lets just say I never once got to win.  She won 8-0.

Another instance of an inability to win was the “Tooth fairy” incident.

Laying in bed one morning, she decided that “Daddy, lets play the tooth fairy!”.  A very easy game.  I pretended to be asleep (I pretended the hell out of that.  It was so early that I think I actually went to sleep!) and she used her wand to steal my imaginary tooth and replace it with imaginary money and some imaginary chocolate.  “Your turn!” she exclaimed excitedly.  So she acted asleep.  I did my magic.  She woke up.  Looked under the pillow.  “That is the wrong chocolate!”.  I managed to supply the wrong imaginary chocolate.  “Try again”.  So I did.  “Nooo…not THAT chocolate!”.  I cant even get the right imaginary chocolate.  We played several times before I decided that I am no good at it and we had breakfast instead.

Today we played “Red Riding Hood”.  To cut a long story short.  I got eaten.  4 times.  She got away.  Every time.  I even got shot at one point.

WHY CANT I WIN ANY GAMES!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

But it isn’t just that.

I also don’t drive the car the way I should.  I should be using the brake to accelerate and the accelerator to brake.  Because that is how “All cars work”.

I also don’t know where I live.  “Daddy you don’t know the way home do you.  I know the way.  You don’t”.

And she is costing me a damn fortune.  Go to the shop and it is “I NEED that.  Can I have that?  And that?” “Pick one and you can have that.” “OK.  That.  I want that one.  And I need that one”.  What the….  Regardless of travel costs, money spent at lunchtime and the stresses of work…it seems to be a walk in the park compared to the little madam that seems to have appeared since she started going to school.

It is 2:45pm on Thursday.  We have been alone during the day since Tuesday at 8:30am.  I have another 6 whole days of me and her alone before school restarts.  I am seriously concerned about how much more my self esteem can take getting hit like this.

Where is the chocolate.  Imaginary or otherwise.