Lets be honest.  Condoms.  They serve a great purpose. Especially in stopping the “I didn’t use one and now I itch like a dog with a flea infestation” department.  But then, humping a carpet can leave you with the same problem.  Apparently.  Lets not dwell on that part too much though.  It was during what I prefer to call the “Experimental days”.  You know…teenage boy, rampant hormones, lights off…abuse the floor.  Umm…lets move on.  

Anyway.  A strap on condom.  Marketed in the “You are so drunk, this is the perfect thing to stop the passion killer that is trying to get a condom on when completely trashed.  So instead…you strap it on.” way.

But just say you forget to mention this to the woman you just picked up in the bar.

You get her home, you try not to vomit as the room spins and then you try your best moves.

“Oh yeah baby…mmm…lets kiss more…OK, lets move to the bed.  Uh-huh…yeah OK, lets get undressed.  Right.  I am just going to get my strap-on.”

And that ISN’T a passion killer?  What woman is still going to be around as you reach under the bed with your bony white arse bobbing up and down in the air, moving varying amounts of crunchy socks out of the way and reach for the old strap-on.

And lets not forget to mention that if you are so drunk that putting a normal condom on is an impossibility, there is also the chance that you would have more luck of raising a zombie army than the little general.  You would be left looking like a sad elephant with a nose-bag on.  And don’t even go there with the “So drunk I am seeing double” thing.  It’s not an udder you know.

Of course…the idea of strapping your rubber on is to save you valuable seconds between her passing out and you throwing up so it is easier than using a regular condom.  Because obviously strapping something on is far easier.

Is it?  IS IT!!!  So you are drunk and in the throes of passion…you stop…..you try to put a belt on and lock it up at the back.  Yeah I know women can put a bra on with their arms uncomfortably half way up their back…but they do it every day.  

If you are a bloke strapping a condom on everyday, then congratulations. But I just don’t think it is going to happen.

For instance.  What if you are married (or the anti-viagra as it is also known)?  You aren’t getting it daily.  What if you are single?  Nope…not daily.  As ugly as a garden post that a dog just pee’d up against?  Nope…you aren’t either.

So are they expecting you to practice putting this thing on everyday?

And lets not even forget the whole “I am so drunk I cant even get the key in the keyhole” when you get home.  What chance is there of getting the little guy to move in to your rubber lovehome?  None.  That’s how much chance.

But it is better than the alternative.  I firmly believe that there should be no men in the world.  Because we are too dumb.  

Everyone knows the whole men not asking for directions thing.  But these days we have sat nav.  I am confident that several million male sperm holding their mobile phones up trying to get a satellite lock on the way to meet a friend at El Egg (Just around the corner from Fallopian Way) just won’t work.  

For starters they are indoors.  So you cant get a satellite lock.  

Secondly, I am on the dumbest mobile network known to man.  I can get a signal if I hold my phone in the air and do a rain dance, but that stops me from putting my phone to my ear.  And it rains.  So I get wet.  So even the positioning lock from the network wont work because the signal is weaker than an alcoholic in a free bar.

So how do they get there?  Hell, I don’t even listen to my Sat Nav and I refuse to ask for directions because I am too sexy.  

When my wife says “Why don’t you go left.  You know…where the arrow points to the place we want to go”.  “Ahh..this is a shortcut love.  AND DON’T TELL ME HOW TO DRIVE!”.  About 3 hours later we are a few hundred meters away from the original place she said it after going around in circles more times than a dog with no tail.

But back to the sperm.  It’s just not feasible that we start off with such vigour and determination…and then get dumber the

second we actually get to the egg.  20 years later we refuse to listen to anything you say and know the worlds roads like the back of our hand.

So remember ladies.  The next time a guy says “Just gotta strap this on…”, let him.  You may actually be doing mankind a favour.

Ever had one of those conversations where you think “Well.  That was weird!” and then realise that in some strange way, you are on to something?  But it may require a little work first…you know…before the bounds of decency aren’t crossed or you manage to get the majority of the population on board?

A little while ago, I sat with my wife and children in a restaurant having lunch.  There, in my wife’s bowl were lots of fried baby squid.  

While eating beef that came from an animal that deserved to die because I was hungry, I asked her how she felt eating those little babies.

“Well, if I didn’t, there would be too many in the sea.”  She replied.

And that is where the conversation kind of went to pot.

True.  If we stopped tearing those baby squid from the sea, they would grow.  In to big fat squiddies.  They would take over the sea.  Over time, there would be so many that the sea would actually come to a standstill.

Ships would grind to a halt in the sludge like sea which is more squid and less water.  The world would come to a standstill as cargo of oil being transported could no longer move.  The cheap tat that comes from China would no longer make it to our shores.  We would be forced to eat local homegrown produce instead of nicking it from another country.  Local economies would grow as we stop importing stuff and give local people jobs.  People would be happy.  THIS CANNOT HAPPEN.

So it is imperative that we eat squid babies.  For the good of the world.

But then the conversation grew.  It grew in a disturbing way that weirdly made sense.

“So.  Are you saying that as there are too many starving African children, we should eat them?”  I enquired.  In a “I am so much more worldly than you” way.

“Well, no.  They don’t have any meat on them.  It would be futile.”

A valid point.  I mean, I like a rack of ribs as much as the next guy….but without the meat, where are you gaining?

So we decided.  We stop farming squid for a while.  Just while the stocks grow wildly overpopulated.  But not before ships can no longer move because squid utopia would be worrying.  What if they come to land and try to take over?  I mean…I am happy to go one on one with a person with 2 arms.  Even more a person with 1 or less arms.  But a squid army?  They cant be trusted.  They would come to shore.  Talk about living together in harmony with us.  A few months later as we welcome them to the fold, there would be mass murder on a tentacle scale.  That or we would start breeding with them.  And that’s a thought that I really dont want to spend too much time on.    But you know it would happen.  It would be some well known person that gets caught.  “Prince William in Squid Shagging Shocker!” would be plastered on the front page of the newspapers.  Over time, the royal family would become squid.  (Or MORE squid than they are now…)

So anyway…where were we.  Oh yes.  Once they are at a good overpopulation stage (the squid, not Prince William’s squid family), we rip them from the sea.  Bread them up.  Deep fry them….and feed them to the starving African children.  Who in turn will get fat.  Taking care of the “Too many squid spoils the sea” issue.  And of the skinny starved African children.

At which point I get my rack of ribs as we eat the now plump tasty well fed African children.  Because otherwise they would start overpopulating.

You can judge us…but at least we are thinking about the bigger picture.

Following on from the mess that was my open letter to Mother Nature in the last post, a letter I must add that she has NOT replied to (that bitch!), I thought I would continue along my path of things that evolution could do with having a chat with.

(Note to self:  Another reason for the non-existence of God?  Things don’t change for the better when we ask?  Speak to local priest when he is released from prison for undisclosed offences.  Controversial!  Probably lose a few readers with that comment…)

Anyway.  Evolution.  Changing things because it is needed to stop the extinction of a race.  Of bunnies in this instance.

How dumb are bunnies?  I don’t mean your “locked in a tiny hutch for their entire life, only coming out when the smallest child runs out of spiders to pull the legs off of and so goes to the hutch for some good ear pulling action” variety.  I mean those little brown ones you see bouncing around fields as you drive along the road.  

Or Roadkill if you please.

Birds have evolved to understand when a car is coming right at them.  

Sure, you can still get them if you swerve at the right time because it is early and they haven’t had their weetabix yet, but for the most part they have the brains to go:

“oh.  Car.  Fast car. Coming towards me.  Quick mathematical equation….  Fast car + me standing here minus flappy flappy flap of wings = me being scraped up with a spade by some road cleaner fella.” So they do said flappy flappy flap thing of wings and milliseconds later, they are safe.  

But rabbits.  What is wrong with them?  When they were being created, did they line up thinking they were in a queue for a fluffy tail and not brain ability and say “Soft and silly please.”

Let me give you an example of said stupidness.

A while ago, I had an issue with my alarm waking me up.  I turned it off instead of hitting the snooze button.

Hang on, tangent time…hold on to your seats.

Snooze?  What an incredibly STUPID name for an extra 10 minutes sleep between alarms going off.  There are 171475 words in current
use according to the Oxford Dictionary website.

Until I use Honkobonkidangle and then I screw with Oxfords dictionaries and make their website wrong.  That combined with my spoingotubliocombosis means that they are now two words out of date.  I better not get
my chincabuncabangle on the go otherwise they are doomed.  But now that there are 171478 words in use and 47156 obsolete words, can we honestly not think of a better word than “snooze”?  

It sounds like a greeny-brown lumpy yet runny nasal discharge.  Something you would go to the Doctors about. “Hey doc…I got this
greeny-brown lumpy yet runny nasal discharge.  Any ideas?”  “Ahhh yes.  You have a case of the snooze. Here…blow in to this hanky for me.”

Hanky?  I mean really….I could go on forever.

But back to the bunnies.

So my alarm was turned off quicker than my wife when I remove my shirt and I got up late for work.  It meant I had to drive a little
faster to work than normal.  Not a lot….only by about 200%.

Stop judging me.

And because I drive around roads that have signs like “Slow.  Toads in road” – Really!  it is likely that there is a little wildlife on the go.

My drive to work that day became more like Super Mario Kart and less like a nice drive through the countryside on the way to the
office.  All I kept seeing were power-up mushrooms (No, I hadn’t been eating some…) and slower cars to pass.  We wont even mention
the cyclist that waved his arms like a deranged idiot trying to tell me to slow down.  Another 2 inches….soooo close.  I reckon that would have been the power-up that gave me missiles on my car or something.

But the bunnies.  Those little fluffy tailed long eared imbeciles.  I mean come on.  Lets look at the facts here.

Cats – Generally clever enough to not go near strangers outside and after trying to trip me up walking down the stairs, know that coming near me may end their life.  Thus they stay away.

Dogs – Dumbest animal on earth.  But fiercely loyal because they are also clever enough to understand that things wont end well if
they cross me.

Gerbils – Have sex with each other.  Make babies.  Have sex with the babies.  Make more babies.  Babies have sex with the babies. Gradually out-breed any sense or normality and become dumb drones.  OK, so maybe not the best example.

Cows – Tasty.

Pigs – Dirty.

My neighbour – Dumb.  Smelly.

OK, so the whole clever animals thing really didn’t work out as well as I had hoped there.  What was I talking about again?  Oh yeah…bunnies.

But bunnies.  They are either suicidal and in the name of their religion  (Bunnylam?  Bunnistianity? – Another two words for the
dictionary!) run out in front of cars with the aim of stopping them in their tracks…with their heads…or just have no sense of

Left = Safe.  Right = Brains meet tarmac.

I did take out a poor bunny.  I honestly tried to not hit him because I knew that he was going to run out.  But no.  Dear readers….I was forced to eat bunny-chow for dinner that night. And the night after.  And the night after that.

It is like a drug. It tastes SOOOOO good.  I cant stop aiming for them.  

And then the pheasants along the same road became dumber.  And then the deer’s.  And then the cow’s.  Why were they even ON the
road.  Or “Field” as the farmer called it when he pulled me up for driving through the field killing his animals.

You know.  I should stop here.  I don’t think I am painting myself in a good light.

I don’t ask for much.  I have simple pleasures.  For example I want to book out a couple of hours on 8 or 9 weekends a year to watch England rugby games.  It is my passion….by passion I mean “I love sitting there drinking beer shouting at the telly and hating it when my wife’s country come over here and beat us, so I sulk and say how crap they are and how much they cheat.”  Damn South African rugby team and their beating us ways.

So on Sunday after a busy day Saturday, I made plans to book out my couple of hours to enjoy the rugby.  Where I get “my time”.  The time where after all the hard work I do watching my wife look after the kids and clean the house and do all the chores that I stop watching her and give her pointers.  I watch the TV instead.

And that is about where it all went to hell.

On Saturday my daughter went to a birthday party.  At the party she ate more sugar than is exported from…erm…*Google’s main sugar exporter*…let’s say Brazil.  The side effect of this was a night where she spent most of the night not sleeping but shouting “DADDY! *splat*” and I cleaned up another chunk of sugar induced puke.

Therefore, on Sunday morning she was a very tired and grumpy 2 year old.

Daughter number 2 has also taken up hurling her guts up after food and duly did so several times Saturday.

Honestly…the smell in my house at the moment.  But anyway…

Luckily myself and my wife escaped Saturday and woke up Sunday feeling absolutely fine.

At which point, and for a reason that I can only put down to pure malice, she ate a sandwich.  A chicken and mayo sandwich.  That she bought from the shop two days earlier.  And had left out and not put it anywhere near a cold source (lets call it a fridge for arguments sake) to stop it getting a little funky and stopping those “bacteria” chaps from breeding like a spring bunny with quite a penchant for fluffy tails.

“I don’t feel well…”  DONT YOU!?!?!?!?!  Well why ya think THAT is!

And then it was time for the rugby to start.  It was about the time that the national anthems were played that I saw a flash.  Another way of saying flash would be “My wife ran past me so fast on the way to the toilet that I didn’t even have time to put my foot out to trip her up”.  A few seconds later I heard the ominous cough.  Then the splash.  Lovely.  

“I am going to go and lay down” she said…just before running back to the toilet to lose another couple of KGs.

At this point daughter number 1 decided to start a tantrum that lasted the entire first half of the game.  

And then daughter number 2 threw up and fell asleep.  I cleaned that up and tried calming daughter number 1 who was now in the other room screaming her tired head off.

I just want to watch the game….

Then the second half starts

Daughter number 1 tantrums and then goes VERY quiet.  So I now go and check on her.  Fast asleep on the floor in the kitchen.  Being the loving father, I step over her, get a beer and go back to sit down.  As I sit down, daughter number 2 wakes up and is now laying on me to the point I can’t reach my beer, nor excitedly shout at the TV.

As England score, I make a sound like a demented mouse squeaking his dis-satisfaction at the current fuel prices.  This tiny squeak of a noise is enough to wake up daughter number 1.  Who starts crying again.

A few seconds later I hear the footsteps of an escaping gazelle upstairs as my wife runs to the toilet to lose the rest of the sandwich.

I have NO idea what the score in the game is at this point…

Daughter number 1 finally comes and lays on me.  With daughter number 2 already asleep on me.  I still can’t reach my beer.  Now I have two sick unhappy girls laying on me asleep.  

It is OK though because it is a tight game and there is only 10 minutes left…

9 minutes left.

8 minutes left.  Both still asleep….I am gonna make the end of the game!!!

7 minutes left.  That’s warm on my leg…hang on…what is that smell?  Christ….

Daughter number 2 – 6 months old…pee’s and crapped out the side of her nappy.  For a brief moment I thought “You know what…my wife isn’t in the room…will she even know!”  But no.  I can’t do that to my daughter.  I usually smell/am full of crap so it was purely a cleanliness thing for my daughter.

By the time I finish cleaning her and me up, daughter number 1 is grumpy again and the game is already over.

I think it was at about the exact time as the final whistle went that my wife decided to get up.

“What was the score?” she asked.

I gave her a look like a squirrel looks just as I steam around the country lane and he realises he isn’t getting out of the way and the last thing he see’s is his arse making it’s way through his head.  I will tell you about my road kill count another time though.  

I couldn’t answer her question.

The last game is this Saturday.  I printed off the divorce papers this morning…just in case the same happens this Saturday and I miss the game.

As I rapidly approach that time of the year where candles become a fire hazard, I can’t help but think how much last years present was maybe a little more disappointing than I was hoping for, and don’t hold out a vast quantity of hope for what may be given this year.

Last year my wife said “What would you like for your birthday?”

I replied “Look, we have kids, money is tighter than spandex on an overweight person and we should be saving money for more important things. So I want the gift of exercise. Can I have the gift of being able to lay you down on the bed and do gentlemanly things to you every day for a year?”

“Yup, works for me. And to make sure I hold up my end of the bargain, for every day I am not willing to fulfill your present, I will buy you a bottle of whisky!” she replied eagerly. I couldn’t really work out why she was so excited about having my sweaty body writhing all over her for a few minutes a day for a year, but hey…I wasn’t complaining!

So on my birthday morning, sleepy eyed I wandered downstairs. There in the front room…365 bottles of whisky.

“So. Not at all then?”

“Oh no, one of the bottles is for me to help me prepare for the one night you are going to get!”

Awesome. One more night of wordly lovemaking than the year before! And this time she will be drunk instead of asleep!

But you know, I would rather have the gift of not getting any than the gift of some random woman’s breastmilk is the guise of ice cream. Coz you know…you can get it.

Really.

I mean OK, there are some strange things in this world, but ice cream made from some random woman’s breast juice?

And how does it work? Are there battery breasts? Loads of woman in a big room with hardly and room between them, knitting away like mad while some machine sucks them dry?

Are there free range breast milk ice creams where they left to graze in the fresh fruit aisle of the local supermarket during the day and then juiced every night?

Does the farmer come along and randomly taste it to make sure they are giving out fresh enough juice?

And is it just women who supply? Because if you need a load of tits in one place to be milked….well, we have the houses of parliament. The average MP is a complete tit….so an endless supply!

Nope…it’s sent in from various women around the country who suck it out, package it up and send it off. And they go through “Rigorous health checks”. Like what? “Do you have breasts? Great! You’re in!”. And what if you get the ones who watch the drug dealers and start cutting their breast gumph and adding in other things….like…say….REAL milk. THE HORROR!!!

I cant see how it will work. I can’t say I care….because the only way I intend to get a mouthful of breast milk is when my wife falls asleep feeding my child and I jump on the spare one and get involved.

If you want to read about the weird dude with a fetish for boob juice….it’s at http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-london-12569011. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Nothing says “I love you….but I think you should die” like a Christmas gift in the guise of a vibrator loaded with gunpowder, BB Shot and buck shot.  Does it?  I dunno…I mean sure, I once bough an ex girlfriend a Christmas present that made her eyes water, but I am pretty sure that the watering was happy tears, and not because I had just tried to make her explode from inside her…well, I dunno…what can I call it?  I mean some of you may be too young to use some of the words I could use, others of you may be too prudish to let me use something a little more racy.  So lets call it her “oh dear me lovely, that’s me lady department that is!”.  But anyway, she didn’t die from the present I bought her.  Yet. It’s not rigged to go off unt….you know what, lets move on.

So anyway, a guy with less brains than ability to make an exploding device had a little issue with a woman who had obviously dumped him so he got his magic box of tricks out.

According to the news story,

Inside were “cords, cables, small tool kit, drill case with drill parts (the drill was taken apart to use the parts for the vibrator bomb), one black vibrator with gunpowder, BB shot and buck shot inside, trigger attached and battery connector, one pink vibrator with ‘Merry Xmas Bitch’ written in black ink, and one cream-colored vibrator”.

OH. MY. GOD.  A CREAM coloured one?  The goddamn deviant.  I mean sure, pink with Merry Xmas Bitch on it is standard fare in the deviant shop I go to where I can get all my kicks.  isn’t it?  And an exploding black one.  Sure.  But a cream one with nothing written on and no modifications at all?  That’s the most perverted thing I ever did read.

I do have just one slight issue with the whole exploding vibrator thing.  It’s in the delivery of the package.  No, I know where it gets delivered, I mean how was he going to set it off?  Was it on a timer?  Was it set to hear the pleasurable moans of the lesser spotted walrus and go ka-boom?  Actually…. No.  It’s a little worse.

He said that “when the device was inserted into the female he would pull the trigger and it would blow them up”.

So he had a trigger on it because it was a bomb.  Makes sense.  But he had a trigger on a bomb that he was going to pull?  And did he not see the possibility of a little “Splash damage”?  Was he planning on going out in a blaze of being covered in exploding girlie bits?  I mean really…how was he going to do it?  I am going to assume that the trigger was a lead attached to it.  But again, how do you pull the lead and not end up going to heaven at the same time she does….twice.

I have an idea.   I think it was to be done as part of a bizarre sex game whereas he would say “Yeah baby…like that…uh-huh….” and then start backing out of the room slowly, armed with a big long lead.   This would create the following scenario, put together in a drawing I drew on a train home from work last night much to the probable disgust of the woman sat next to me nosily watching what I was doing:

 

Now the next part is the confusing bit.  Does he pull the trigger and send her to heaven or is the lead actually set alight during the time that she reaches that peak moment (apparently women have them.  Can’t say I believe it as I have never seen or heard my wife having one) and she doesn’t notice the slow fizzing sound of the lead burning itself slowly towards her and just as the burning nears her feet she realises it is too late to stop and as the cries of “OH GOD!” ring out, she actually gets to meet him moments later?

And while we are on the subject.  Who invented the “Oh GOD!” thing during sex?  And why do atheists and agnostics also say it?  I mean is the reason a non-believer says it because she is thinking “I don’t believe it!” to go along with her faith, but doesn’t have the breath in her to say that many words?  I just don’t get it.  And why “Oh GOD!”?  Why not “Yeah baby…here it comes…I AM GONNA FAAAAAARRRRTTTT!!!”?  Or “NON_EXISTENT DEITY!!!” Or even just shout out the word “TANGERINES!” as the moment arrives?  Why God? 

Hang on…I think I know.

It’s because both God and the female orgasm don’t actually exist isn’t it?

 

Click HERE to read allll about it.  Excited?  You should be.  It has a VERY fetching picture of the Vibro-exploding-perv on the page.