A Valentine's For Homophobes

A valentine’s message to all the homophobes out there who are against Gay Marriage brought to you by the FCK8 campaign.  Help http://FCKH8.com #OccupyValentines for Gay Marriage: http://clicktotweet.com/u9d11

MDNA: Madonna, Give me all your luvin'

The Bitch is Back!  Madonna is releasing her new album MNDA (yes it’s the name for ecstasy but I am sure if you ask her it will mean something different) within the next two month or so, but she did release her first single of the album today.  Check out Give me all your luvin'!

Too Gay for Ugliness!

It is well known and documented that I am generally unpleasant and bitchy when I am not surrounded by beautiful things, running water, air-conditioning and flattering lighting.  Case and point would be that court case (of which we do not speak) that I had to attend in the Johannesburg CBD.  Every day of the week (for months) I dragged my ass there and had to walk across a road that the fire department had to hose down every morning because homeless people would piss and shit on it during the night.  Every day I sat in a courtroom with little to no air-conditioning or flattering lighting, had to buy food for lunch (and sometimes dinner) from places you just knew was infected with all variations of hepatitis, and the only water I could surround myself with was carbonated and bottled.  I wasn’t happy then, and I am not happy now.

Road rage is something I suffer from and my most recent episode caused me to have an epiphany.  You see I was driving back home from work when an old lady cut me off.  She didn’t use her indicator lights before she cut in front of me (which fucking drives me insane) and she was driving way under the speed limit.  When I honked my horn at her she proceeded to stick her wrinkled and liver spot covered hand out of the window and flipped me an arthritis encrusted bird – twice!  She had done exactly the same thing to me three months earlier, as I recognized her deathmobile (a 1974 Toyota) and her geriatric middle finger.  So I did what any normal person would do - I contemplated killing her!

For a brief moment I considered where exactly I would have to bump her car in order for her to veer violently into oncoming traffic.  I knew it would have to look like an accident or else my insurance would not pay and I am far too pretty for prison and didn’t want to be charged and convicted of vehicular manslaughter.  As I was considering my evil plot of revenge and murder by car, I looked around me.  I was surrounded by hawkers, beggars, dirt, broken paving, weeds, trash and dust.  I was in the middle of Uglyville.  Then I realized, maybe the old lady wasn’t the real cause of my anger, it actualy was the hideous road.

For just under three years I have been driving the same stretch of road to work.  It is ugly, straight and there is nothing inspiring or aesthetically pleasing about it.  Sure some days there are people collecting money at the traffic lights for whatever cause or charity they represent while dressed in costumes.  Some days it is delightful and other days it is not.  Just this morning I drove past a bunch of students collecting money for their college.  The one guy was either dressed as a zucchini or a squid; I couldn’t tell which it was because the costume was that badly made.  I sometimes give them money, if they are cute, and on such a day the road seems less dreadful.

Then there are those days when straight guys insist on publically embarrassing their soon to be married mates and I do like watching heterosexuals making fools of themselves in public.  Last week I drove past one such spectacle.  The guy was dressed in nothing but a diaper and a cowboy hat begging for cash at a traffic light.  He was build like a Greek God.  I did slow down and gave him a donation because I wanted to see his biceps up close and express my sympathy and regret over his lifestyle choice.  He would have received a bigger donation had it not been for the diaper and the fact that he wasn’t gay, but I digress…

Any self respecting homosexual will tell you there is nothing more unsightly than an unkempt bush and on my stretch of road there are plenty.  My city seems to have an aversion to pulling out weeds, trimming bushes and general beautification.  So my road remains ugly and it ruins my day daily!  Would it destroy the national budget to plant a few trees, a flower or two or God forbid just clean up a bit?  Would it kill my city council to even consider lifting up their fat asses from their comfy chairs, for which I as a tax payer pay for, and put forth an effort to make my city attractive?  I ask these questions daily while breathing in dust and dodging hawkers, taxis and old women drivers.

Sure, I know the economy is in the shitter and the price of crude oil is having her period, but this is all the more reason to make an effort to gayify our environment.  I don’t deserve to be depressed by my commute to work and back, and neither does my fellow road users.  The only reason I get road rage is because I drive to work surrounded by hideousness.  It is my God given gay right to have my stretch of road beautified!  So this is what I am going to do.

First thing tomorrow morning I am calling up my Mayor’s office and demanding they fix this madness.  I don’t care if they have bigger problems at hand like municipal strikes, pot holes, prostitution and drug dealers.  Even whores and drug dealers deserve a pretty work environment and most people in my city drive 4X4 vehicles and recycle anyway.  If they get pissed off at my demands my response will be simple.  I will merely ask them “How was your drive to work this morning?” and I will ask them this every day until they get a restraining order.

How long it will take for my hideous piece of road to get its facelift, I do not know.  But I will be driving to work from now on with seeds in my car; seeds for flowers that I will be throwing out of my car’s window ever couple of feet.  It’s not littering if it’s natural and the world could do with more daisies, poppies and sunflowers!  Hopefully my small concerted effort will shoot sprouts, the flowers will grow and bloom into something spectacular.  One day my commute to work and back will bring a little smile to my face and perhaps to others too.

Till next time.

Take it up the ass like a good Right Wing Evangelist Christian

There seem to be a few evangelist pastors out there who clearly are experts on gay male sex.  After all they seem to know a great deal more about gay sex than I do.  Especially surprising to me is the resilience the male sphincter muscle (aka your asshole muscle) has according to them.  Apparently you can shove a whole baseball bat up there, your BlackBerry and a gerbil.  If I knew this I would not have wasted so much money on grocery bags all these years and I could have carried my shopping home in my rectum all along.  Reflecting on the most recent comments of Pastor Patrick Wooden I could not help but wonder, is there anything gay men will not shove up our asses.

 Pastor Wooden seems very preoccupied with the gay male anus, as all gay men are.  After all it is in that general area where we like to keep things neat, tidy and in some cases bleached and pierced.  But, in Wooden’s defense, the anus is a wonderful organ.  It is resilient and can stretch when needed.  You don’t even have to be gay to have experience this phenomena.

If you have ever been constipated and finally had that bowel movement that sets you free, you probably have experienced that glorious sensation.  You know that feeling when you push and push and you feel it is just too big to come out.  Finally, as the monster turd crowns and you feel like your asshole just is not big enough and about to exploded, it makes it’s way through and takes its final plunge leaving you relieved, proud and semi euphoric.  Well, gay anal sex is not completely unlike that.  Apart from the turd being a cock and instead of it coming out it goes in.

Like any good homosexual I am also partial to some ass play.  I, like some gay tops, also can be “ass curious” at times.  But I can honestly say I have never shoved a baseball bat up my rectum nor have I attempted to insert any live stock or rodents.  Mostly, because I do not understand the logistics of it and I don’t condone animal abuse.  I mean honestly, how exactly do you force a little gerbil into a dark crevice if it doesn’t want to go in.  Doesn’t it have teeth and sharp little nails?  Or is that part of the fun?  I’m sure PETA would have a lot to say on this issue and clearly Pastor Wooden have some experience in this area.  But to get back to my rectum…

Inserting foreign objects into our rectums is something that gay men do.  As per definition a foreign object is anything “originating elsewhere” or simply put “outside of your body”.  Look it up.  So it can be pretty much anything including someone else’s penis, which is predominantly what gay guys prefer.  In my case we have a drawer in our bedroom with preferred foreign objects that we like inserting in our rectums.

The drawer contains nothing particularly out of the ordinary for a professional homosexual on the go, a dildo, vibrator, and a butt plug, to mention but a few.  My father-in-law this past December accidentally opened this drawer thus destroying any illusions he may have had of his son and I being celibate and not engaging in anal sex.  He emerged from the ordeal pale as a ghost and dramatically quiet for the rest of that day.  He’s probably still traumatized and digesting what he had seen.

Using foreign objects that you can buy from any sex shop or online to enhance your sexual experience is one thing, but what if you don’t have the time or money.  Well, like any resourceful homosexual will tell you, there are a plethora of everyday household objects that you can safely use.  Let’s turn our attention to your kitchen.  Fruit and vegetables like bananas, cucumbers and carrots are perfectly safe.  You won't get any nutritional value but you will have fun.  Butternuts on the other hand are not safe nor are any frozen items, fish or cutlery.  The broom closet is pretty self explanatory as most closeted right wing evangelist pastors will tell who have lost their anal virginity there.

When it comes to the bathroom and the bedroom wardrobe it could get a little dicey.  Firstly, it is not good hygiene to insert anything into your ass that you will not be able to get out again later, having to wash your face with or have to put in your mouth.  Secondly, electrical items and anything bigger than your hand and arm could pose some serious medical repercussions and should always be used with extreme caution.  It is also extremely important to remember that KY conducts electricity extremely well, as I can attest to from personal experience, and electrocution does not enhance an orgasm it does quite the opposite and it's not sexy!

My BlackBerry is the one item I have never considered inserting into my rectum and people who do clearly have no respect for their phones, themselves or other people and should be ashamed of themselves!  Honestly, what if you get a very important call, a Facebook message or are re-tweeted?  Are you going to phone, message and tweet that person back apologizing by saying “I was busy stimulating my prostate, and thank you for calling me at exactly the right time – you really hit the spot for me right then!  It was the best orgasm EVER!”  It is just wrong people!  Don’t do it!

Contemplating the good Pastor’s recent comments and especially the part about gay men’s rectums being mutilated resulting in some gay men having to walk around with butt plugs and diapers, I consulted with a medical professional.  My pharmacist told me it was bullshit!  Sure with regular abuse and inserting very large objects the sphincter muscle can get damaged and deformed over time, but for that to happen the person must have been doing some seriously fucked up shit to themselves.  Surely this is not the norm.  To conclude on this, any person who walks around with a butt plug up his ass for a whole day has some serious skills, would be noticed and possibly would need diapers later in life.

Whether Pastor Patrick Wooden spoke from personal experience or secret desire I guess we will never really know.  His fascination with gay anal sex and brevity of knowledge on the subject does however slightly impress.  But, I am sad to say Pastor Patrick Wooden, there are some things gay men will not put up our asses and your dick ranks number one on that list.  Even though I do admire the fact that you are so very adventurous with your own anus, I will never be as able a power bottom as you are.  Your accomplishments are awe inspiring!

Till next time.

Killer Pussy Behaving Badly

Most of my regular readers know that hubby and I share our house with a prolific serial killer.  She’s a ruthless, indiscriminate and sadistic destroyer of lives and animal families.  Her name is Katja aka Killer Pussy!  We have learned to live with the carnage, the guilt and the shame.  Hiding corpses, cleaning up crime scenes and the occasional lies we have to tell our neighbors about not having seen their missing birds, bunnies or small dogs have all become part of our daily lives.  Even though the “missing posters” haunts us and we are fast are running out of places to hide, bury and dump the bodies, never before had it crossed my mind that our innocent little ball of fur might be suffering from a behavioral problem.  Well, that was until recently…

This year killer pussy is turning two.  Being all cute and cuddly she crawled into our hearts from the first day we brought her home.  But under all that cuteness hides a terrible monster.  Even as a kitten she exhibited signs of being an extraordinarily talented hunter.  She made her first kill at four months old.  She started off small with flies, moths, baby lizards and then small birds.  At six months old she caught, tortured and killed her first adult bird and with that massacre her blood lust started.

For the last two years it has not been uncommon waking up in the morning to a dining and living room looking like the Manson clan had a slaughter party in it.  During the last two years I have innumerable times unsuspectingly stepped in pools of blood and/or on disemboweled birds, mice and, most recently, fish.  It’s not the best way to wake up and nor is it conducive to a good morning appetite.  You can’t exactly go from cleaning up blood, innards, feathers and severed heads to having a cup of coffee and a bagel for breakfast all in an hour of each other.

Recently killer pussy decided to broaden her killing repertoire to include aquatic animals as well.  You see a couple of months ago hubby and I bought and installed a pond in our backyard.  It was one of those rare butch moments we occasionally have.  The initial idea for the pond was that my frog, which I obtained in a rather suspect manner (illegally), could have a place to breed.  The frog ignored the pond like the Pope ignores gay marriage.  So we decided to buy some water plants and fish to make it pretty.  It was a good and aesthetically pleasing idea at the time.

Two months past and killer pussy showed little interest in the pond or its inhabitants.  At first we had about eight fish living in the pond and then one Saturday afternoon we had a tragic pond cleaning accident which killed them all.  The pond of tranquility turned into the pond of horrors not unlike the holocaust.

With the fish dying, one after each other, floating to the surface killer pussy started seeing the pond in a whole new light.  Perhaps she never noticed the fish before, or maybe they just seemed too boring to peak her interest.  However, with the unintentional extermination that occurred she now knew the pond was once teeming with life and she would bide her time and strike once life was restored.

The cleaning accident was a chemical one, and we had to wait a week before we could again introduce other fish to the pond.  When we received the all clear eight new fish were released.  For a brief few weeks tranquility was restored and all was well.  Then one morning while feeding the fish I noticed their behavior had changed.  They seemed nervous, scared and refused to come to the surface to eat.  Then I noticed that one of the water plants was almost completely destroyed.  Killer pussy had taken up fishing and four fish were confirmed to be missing!

Still in denial that killer pussy had killed half the pond’s population, I wanted to believe the fish were taken by birds.  Then we woke up one morning horrified to find a pool of blood and scales with one fish head on the dining room table.  It was a fish head that I recognized; it was one of our pond fish.  It was like a scene out of the Godfather except it wasn’t a horse’s head and it wasn’t in our bed!

Still semi asleep I tried to reprimand killer pussy.  However, midway through the reprimand she gave me that big eyed “but you love me” look and I was instantly manipulated into killer pussy’s spell of submission and the reprimand ended in a cuddle.  As this was happening hubby stood watching my bad parenting and obvious weakened defenses that were no match for killer pussy’s charm.

When he finally had enough he took her to the pond, gave her a proper reprimand and as further punishment banished her from the normal morning routine withholding her favorite breakfast catnip cookie, which she loves.  Shocked that she received her first hiding ever and enraged that we dared to withhold her only earthly decadent pleasure she proceeded to throw an epic tantrum.

Properly pissed off, killer pussy made her way to the pond determined to kill every last living thing in there.  I knew she was angry but I underestimated her determination to make her point.  One hell of a raucous broke out in the backyard.  I could hear water splashing, rocks falling and our other three cats moaning.  As I made my way to the backyard I was not prepared for what I was about find.

I saw killer pussy wet and neck deep in the pond, all the water plants were uprooted and our other cats hiding in the foliage audibly trying to convince enraged killer pussy to stop the madness.  Evidently killer pussy decided that seeing as she got a hiding already and was deprived of a cookie she might as well finish what she started and she almost did.  The other three fish survived, but they were not unscaved.  I never thought fish could be emotionally traumatized and could suffer from post traumatic stress disorder but our fish now do.

The pond has since been covered with netting, the fish sometimes refuse to eat and the pond of tranquility has now become to pond of imminent terror.  Every so often killer pussy will still sit on the edge of the pond terrifying the fish while trying to locate a weakness in its defenses and I am sure one day she will find one.

For now the fish are stressed but safe.  Having developed a taste for cold blooded animals and the fish just out of reach, killer pussy has now focused her attention on the next best thing – frogs.  One of my frog’s offspring got murdered the other day and killer pussy hissed and growled at me as I tried to save it.  As killer pussy demonically warned me to leave her alone while she murdered the frog, I did momentarily consider buying her  a muzzle, like the one Hannibal Lecter had, but then realized I would have to put it on her and decided against it.  After all, I don’t need the drama or the scars.

Whether killer pussy is suffering from a behavioral problem or if killing is just in her nature and something she does really well, I do not know.  But one thing I do know is the killing is not going to stop any time soon and no cat psychologist in the world will be able to convince her to stop either.  So we will continue hiding corpses, cleaning up crime scenes and lie to our neighbors in the hope that one day she may just stop.

Till next time.

The Cure for Homophobia

Finally there’s a cure for Homophobia and it is 100% effective.  It’s free, has zero calories and can be taken up to 6 times a day.  Have your prescription filled today!

Censorship isn't Freedom: Stop SOPA!

There is a big hype on the internet about the US government trying to censor, or even shut down sites with user generated content. Eg, Twitter, Facebook, Reddit, and Gadgetzz and even Blogs would have to turn commenting off.  Risk of Jail for Ordinary Users.  It becomes a felony with a potential 5 year sentence to stream a copyrighted work that would cost more than $2,500 to license, even if you are a totally noncommercial user.

The Stop Online Piracy Act, commonly known as SOPA.  Generally speaking, this legislation is intended to help content creators like movie and music companies to combat the overseas Web sites that host illegal downloads.  Sounds fairly harmless, right? Couple of problems with that.  First, it was apparently written by people without a basic understanding of things like DNS entries and IP addresses.  Long story short, it wouldn’t stop people from accessing the sites Congress (and big media) want to block.  For added fun, it would give those big media companies – and just about everyone else – a whole raft of legal tools allowing them to harass hosting companies, search engines, social media sites and little old bloggers like you and me.

Censorship isn’t freedom.  SOPA needs to be stopped.

The Day I Almost Died

There comes a time in every man’s life when he is faced with his own mortality.  Unfortunately these moments come at the most inopportune times and they are unattractive, unsettling and offensive.  Regrettably for me I had two such moments all on the same day.  Once at a very small airport on an Island called Nosy Be in Madagascar and the second more protracted one on the international flight back to Johannesburg all culminating in just over 12 hours of unadulterated hell.

This past December hubby and I agreed to take our annual holiday and spend it in Madagascar.  We both had a hellishly busy year and needed to get away to place that was remote, tranquil and quiet.  We decided to go back to Sakatia Lodge, a place we visited back in 2009 which met all the requirements for the relaxing break we so desperately needed.  We decided to stay for 12 glorious days, and glorious they were, at least up until day 11 that is.

You see, for the first 10 days we lounged around, I read three books, we swam, snorkeled, scuba dived and went horse riding.  It was utterly fabulous!  Then came day 11.  I woke up not feeling my normal gay self.  There was a distinct discomfort in my abdomen and I had a slight fever.  Naturally, I thought I was constipated seeing as I am full of shit most of the time anyway.  But, even though I was in some pain we went ahead and did a day trip and we were also scheduled to do quad biking in the afternoon.

The day trip was pretty much overshadowed by me being in pain, having difficulty walking and secretly wishing that I could have a bowel movement to ease the discomfort I was feeling.  I ended up in three rather dodgy public toilets, each time sitting down waiting for the dump that never came.  By late afternoon we made it to the quad biking.  By that time the rational side of me knew it probably wasn’t a great idea, but seeing as it was our last day in Madagascar I was determined not to ruin anyone’s fun and try to have some fun myself.  Sadly, it was not on the cards.

You see, when you have the apocalypse happening in your innards going up and down hills on a quad bike for two hours is not as much fun as one would think.  I was in pain, being shaken about, getting dirty and sweating profusely.  It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t fun.  It felt like it would never end.  But two and half hours later it did end and after taking the boat back to the lodge and consuming a large number of laxatives I finally made it back to our bungalow, stripped down to my underwear and lay on the bed in front of the fan reeling in pain.

The lodge manager eventually brought me a handful of pills:  a strong laxative and something for abdominal and ovarian cramps and spasms.  It did help somewhat and I made it down for dinner even though I didn’t eat anything, but I did have a couple of gin and tonics.  At exactly 4 o’clock the next morning, an hour before we needed to take the boat that would take us to the taxi that would take us to the airport; I woke up in excruciating pain.

I was crawling on the floor unable to stand upright.  I thought I was going to die!  A couple of pain pills and thirty minutes under a warm shower, I managed to get dressed, get on the boat, then into the taxi and got to the airport.  Then the real hell started.  Our flight to Antanarivo was cancelled due to the plane’s engine having some kind of problem.  We ended up being delayed for four hours waiting for another plane which could take us directly to Johannesburg.

In the mean time the pain I was experiencing grew exponentially worse to the point that I was actually hyperventilating, sweating and unable to stand up straight.  This placed me in a very precarious situation.  If I looked too sick the airline could prevent me from boarding.  After all which airline would knowingly welcome a medical emergency 30 thousand feet up in the air over the Indian Ocean?

All I could think about was that I didn’t want to pass out and wake up under a mosquito net with a Catholic nun patting down my sweaty brow with a dirty wet towel while praying for me, with the sound of chickens and goats outside, while hubby is being molested by a priest and the natives rummaging through our luggage.  Luckily my tan and Botox sufficiently concealed how sick I was and standing and sitting in the airport with my hands placed on either side of my ribs made me look more annoyed that our flight was cancelled rather than me being in pain.

After what felt like an eternity our plane finally came and we boarded.  The plane took off and 15 minutes into the flight I turned to hubby and said “I don’t think I am constipated.  I think I need to go to a Hospital!”  He had a look of total helplessness on his face and from that point on his job became to give me a pain pill every 20 minutes and to pray for a tail wind.  The 3 hours and 26 minutes flight was utter hell.  I was in pain, couldn’t breathe and was alternating between having a fever, chills and sweating.  At that stage the cabin crew knew there was a problem but choose not to get involved.

As we were making our final approach to Johannesburg I was never as happy to see that smog filled skyline.  I was almost home and I was going to live.  The plane landed and within an hour I was in hospital.  First they thought I had appendicitis and then after numerous blood tests, X-rays and a CAT scan I was finally diagnosed with double pneumonia.

Relieved that we found out what was wrong with me, I was ready to go home and have a shower.  As I was collecting my stuff to go home the doctor looked at me with a very perplexed expression on his face and said “No! Stop!  You are a very sick man we are admitting you to hospital now.”  To which I responded “Ok, but I’ll go home, have a shower, get some stuff and come back.”  To which he rather abrasively responded “There are showers in hospital!  You are NOT leaving”

Then there was the HIV issue “I know this is a sensitive matter” the doctor said “Are you immune compromised?” he asked.  “Well, I smell like shit, I am in pain, can’t breathe and have been in transit for the last 12 hours in my condition, the only thing that is compromised right now is my fucking patience!  AND NO I am NOT HIV+!” I responded and then proceeded to ask him whether they always assume that all gay men who come into hospital with pneumonia have HIV.  In retrospect I guess I was a bit hard on him, but then again I was not in a good place at that moment.  I was admitted minutes later.

I was in hospital for 5 fucking long days, had blood drawn 17 times and had 12 injections.  The day of my discharge I had a particularly rough morning.  The student nurse who tried to fix my IV ended up bursting one of my veins.  I completely lost it!  I phoned hubby sobbing pleading with him to come and fetch me.

After composing myself and returning to my room, my doctor came and just as he asked me how my evening was I lost it once again but this time spectacularly so doing the ugly cry with snot dripping from my oxygen tubes that were stuck in my nose.  Like an emotionally disturbed child I was sobbing holding out my bruised and battered arms pointing at each of them while being completely incoherent.  He ended up discharging me but under strict conditions.

The doctor told me to monitor my temperature every 4 to 8 hours, I had to return for more blood tests, was to get bed rest for at least one more week and if I had any breathing problems or if the pain increased I was to return to hospital immediately.  In the sternest voice I have ever been spoken too he conveyed all of these conditions and ended with saying “If you do not follow this you could die!”

I have been home now for a couple of days and am feeling better.  They say it takes some time to recover from pneumonia and I can attest that it is not fun.  I will not be going out in public for at least a couple of more days, my arms and hands are still bruised making me look like a heroin addict.  At least I made it home, am alive and maybe someday I will look back at this experience and think it is funny.  But for the moment it really isn’t very funny at all!

(Disclaimer:  This blog post was written entirely in bed while medicated.  I'm in no position to operate heavy machinery and I suspect I should not be blogging at the moment either!) 

Till next time.

Pinky & the Brain: Aquatic Domination

This funny video was the brain child of Jacques Vieira of Sakatia Lodge who would come to us every morning and ask "So boys, what's your plans for today?" to which hubby would answer "The same thing we do everyday..."

Then there was our Quad Biking trip around Nosy Be island.

The best for last, our dive - truly spectacular!

Grey Hair! What the F...

Denial n denying; statement that thing is not true or existent; disavowal.  This is how the Oxford Dictionary defines the state I have been in since I left my hairdresser’s yesterday.  What was supposed to be a carefree and relaxing day bleaching my hair and making me all pretty and blond for our island holiday turned out to be a “life event” so horrendous, so horrifying I can barely bring myself to write about it without sobbing uncontrollably into my Bloody Mary.  Yesterday I discovered my first grey hair(s)!

Yesterday started out like any other normal day.  I slept until 8am (I am on holiday after all), had a quick breakfast while maintaining my social media presence and catching up on all the GLBT news from around the world.  Then got dressed and made my way to my hairstylist’s salon, completely oblivious to the fact that my world was about to be turned upside down.

Seeing as I was bleaching my hair I arrived at the salon early as it normally takes a good 5 to 6 hours for my hair to turn platinum blond.  My stylist decided to cut my hair first as I still had some blond bits from the previous bleach in my hair.  As he cut my hair I noticed a patch of hair on my fringe that didn’t seem to grow out.  There was no regrowth just a blond patch.  “It must be my natural highlights” I thought, I remembered having them as a child and how nice of it to make an appearance again now.  I was wrong.

Just as my stylist was about to start applying the bleach to my hair, he inspected my blond patch.  As he was inspecting it I thought he too was admiring my natural highlights.  Then he looked at me and I could tell something was amiss.  “Dude, I don't know an easy way to say this.  You are starting to go grey.” he said.  He called his assistants who also had a look and they confirmed the news I was dreading.  So I had a closer look myself.  “MOTHERFUCKER!” I screamed in my outside voice in my head.  They were right! If it wasn't for my botox everyone in the salon would have seen how shocked I really was.

 Mother nature, the cruel bitch that she is, crept up on me like horny dog wanting to hump my leg and snuck in a whole patch of grey hair while I slept.  “I am only 34.  I am too fucking young to be going grey!  This is the last fucking time I will allow my natural hair colour to grow out.  Nothing good ever comes of it anyway!  NOTHING!” I thought.

Traumatized and depressed I sat at the salon for 4 hours while my hair was being bleached.  The grey took off 2 hours of the total bleaching time.  It’s not the sort of consolation that makes me happy, but hey, being old I guess an extra two hours to do something else is helpful.  Life is short and over far too soon.

It was clear that I have passed my prime and the only way I now will be able to maintain my dignity and the farce of a youthful appearance will be with chemicals, toxins, medical procedures and prayer.  This must be why people become reborn Christians:  Once the grey hair start appearing and you enter into this phase of life, you realize how close you are to old age and seriously need to start thinking about the hereafter.  “Jesus Christ, Mary and Joseph!  I cannot believe that I am getting old!” I thought on my drive back home.  I was not happy, but the worst was yet to come.

 Later that evening I needed to attend to my man hair in my genital area.  A couple of days earlier I had a full body wax and all my man hair that was not covered with a G-string was ripped from their follicles.  Even though my beautician is completely willing and capable to give me a “crack & sack” wax, I always prefer to tend to that area myself.  As I stood in the shower inspecting myself, deciding whether I was going to go completely hairless or not, the unthinkable happened.  More grey hair!

“SON OF A BITCH!  My crotch and balls too?!!  MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!” I screamed as lightning struck (it really did and I don’t just say this for dramatic effect).  As I sat on the shower floor crying like an emotionally disturbed child while staring at my old dick and balls, all I could think about was “Do you get like a hair dye for pubic hair or will normal dye do the same thing?”  At the end I decided to shave off my pubic hair, all of my pubic hair.

I always knew this day would come, but I thought I had more time.  More time to enjoy colouring my hair out of luxury instead of necessity.  I am getting old and now for the first time there is proof.  I choose not to think about it because it upsets me too much but, in time, I guess I will accept this cruel turn of events and maybe one day I will be able to laugh about it.

Next week hubby and I are flying to Madagascar for a well-deserved island holiday; 12 lazy days of sun, sea, snorkelling, scuba diving and reading a few good books.  12 days of forgetting that we are getting old and going grey!

Till next time.

Happy holidays my dear reader.

May you have a wonderful festive season and a FABULOUS new year!

Baby, It's Cold Outside

"Baby, It's Cold Outside" gets a gay makeover by Mister Chase and Chris Salvatore.  You can download the song from Itunes or Amazon.  All proceeds will go to organizations to help our youth in need. Programs such as Crisis Intervention and Suicide Prevention, as well as furthering equal rights for the LGBT community.

10 Rules / Tips for Christmas

Here are a few rules / tips for Christmas

1) You are going to gain a few pounds deal with it! That's why we have new years resolutions.
2) Don't dress up your pets! They may look cute, but trust me they will resent you for the rest of the year.
3) No matter what gifts you get, look surprised and happy! You can always recycle that gift again next year.

4) Every family has a pink elephant, the aunt that got really fat, the bastard child or the odd face-lift! Christmas dinner is neither the best time nor the best place to introduce this into conversation no matter how dull the conversation is.

5) If you plan on "Coming Out", don't do it in a Santa's costume. This will not soften the blow and it will ruin Santa's wholesome image.
6) No party tricks! It may seem a good idea in your head but in reality you will make an ass of yourself.
7) Always wear underwear! This is essential and not just for Christmas.8) Be nice! We may not like all of our family, but the nice thing about Christmas is that you only have to see them once a year.
9) Don't drink and drive! I treasure all my blog readers and I don't want to loose you!
10) The most important rule of them all - BE FABULOUS!!!

(Wishing Everyone a Blessed Christmas.)