Friday, September 30, 2016

Fuck Me in the Ass because I love Jesus.

In high schools girls, Christian girls, all across America are saving themselves for marriage. Many of these "virgins" are having anal sex because the Bible does not specifically forbid it. This practice is called "God's Loophole".

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Do I look like a Heroin Addict to you?

As some of you who read my blog regularly know, I was diagnosed with early onset male menopause a couple of years ago.  And yes, that is a legitimate thing.  And no, I have not started growing boobs and getting my period.  People this might come as a shock to you but I don’t have a uterus or a vagina.  My body just started producing less testosterone than it should and consequently I had to get hormone replacement injections.

It’s like getting a vitamin B shot.  Only it’s not vitamin B.  It is hormones.  I had to get a shot once a week and I use to have a nurse at my pharmacy who gave it to me.  Then she resigned and I was left with a conundrum:  Do I find another nurse or do I give the injections to myself.  As things turned out, in my cornucopia of options, there was a third option – my husband.

Look, I probably am one of the few people who are not afraid of needles or injections.  I guess the fact that I have had so many injections in my life probably desensitized me to it.  I have even given myself a few injections in my day.  Both times were out of sheer desperation and both times involved my back going into spasm while I was working away from home.  Both times also involved dodgy medical facilities with questionable hygiene which was the reason I opted to rather inject myself.

When I learned that my regular nurse resigned at the pharmacy I normally go to, I did not think of it as a huge train smash.  I was in no mood to test drive the new student nurse who was there in the interim.  So I asked my pharmacist if I can’t just administer the injections myself.  To which she rather nervously answered “Well, I suppose you can but I don’t recommend it”.  In my mind this meant she was saying “Sure, knock yourself out.  Just don’t hit a vein, ok.

So I bought some syringes, needles and alcohol swabs.  When I got home I tested to see if I could inject myself in my bum but soon learned that it would not be possible.  I did not want to inject myself in my leg muscle, because you know – the vein issue that the pharmacist warned me about.  Then I realized that hubby could do it.  He loves me after all and won’t intentionally hurt me.  Besides, it’s only an injection and it’s not like I would be asking him to perform major surgery on me or give me stitches.

When hubby arrived home that evening I told him about the nurse that resigned and that I did not feel comfortable allowing the student nurse to inject me.  I told him that he had to do it.  To which he responded “Let me get this straight.  You’d rather have me give you an injection who has never done it before rather than have a professional do it?”  To which I responded “Yes, if you love me you will give it to me in my ass”.  Sometimes my husband does not get my sense of humor.

After some negotiation hubby eventually agreed.  So we went into the bedroom.  I drew the correct amount of hormone out of the vial, replaced the needle with a new one and handed it over to hubby.  I then downed a glass of chardonnay and presented my ass to my husband like a mandrill monkey during mating season.  I told him to stick it in me already.  At first he was hesitant but eventually he did and he injected me flawlessly.  There was no bruising and very little bleeding.

It was then that I realized we are getting old.  I mean if the most exciting thing you do on a Friday night is downing a glass of chardonnay and getting a hormone injection from your husband then it is probably a good time to start shopping for a retirement home.  But you are only as old as you feel and since my hormone levels started stabilizing I had been feeling younger, had more energy and certain other areas in our marriage has also greatly benefited.  And yes, I am talking about the sex.

Hubby gave me my shot every Friday and we did this religiously.  The doctor said that I would have had to do this for a year and then we will re-evaluate if further treatment is needed.  The downside of all of this is having had to buy the syringes and needles.  For some reason people always gave me “that look” when they saw what I am buying.  It’s the look that says “I am judging you.  Are you a drug addict?  Or are you dying of something.

For some odd reason I always felt like I had to explain myself in such situations; that I have to reassure those judgmental assholes that I am not a heroin addict.  But I never did.  Out loud that is.  But in my mind I was storming up to them and getting into their personal space, up so close that they can smell my onion breath from the salad I had for lunch that day and I screamed “These fucking needles and syringes are for my hormone injections.  I have fucking menopause.  Mother! Fucker!”  In my mind this was highly effective but in reality I’d probably get punched in the face or kicked in the balls.

One Friday night as we went through our new ritual I accidentally stabbed myself in the finger when I did the needle swop.  So not only did hubby have to deal with injecting me he also had to deal with the blood fountain squirting out of my index finger.  Those needles are damn near lethally sharp.  Had hubby not seen that the needle I stabbed myself with was in fact bent the injection would have been very painful.  We look out for each other that way.

So what if people thought I was a heroin addict once a month when I went and bought my four syringes, four needles and alcohol swabs.  So what if the cashier looked at me with those eyes that has more questions than answers.  It is none of their damn business it was for.  It is however a tad strange that part of our Friday evenings now included syringes and needles, but you know what they say – a couple that inject hormones for menopause together, stays together. Luckily my hormone levels eventually stabilized and there are no more reason for people to think I am heroin addict any more.

Till next time.

Friday, August 5, 2016

What happens when a Go-Go Boy grows old

We all dread growing old (turning 30, 40). But what happens when a Go-Go Boy enters his twilight years.

Friday, July 22, 2016

Almost 40 and Ancient

I am almost forty. It's like I woke up one day and went "What the fuck?! Where did time go?" To most of the young gay people forty is ancient: ancient like you were part of the creation and saw the dinosaur extinction. I think being about to turn forty is more traumatic than actually turning forty. They say your forties is the best years of your life; you know who you are, you're settled in your career and you have disposable income that you actually can enjoy spending. I hope all this is true because if it's not I will hunt that person down, who said this, and threaten to kill them to their face. I won't actually kill that person because I am too pretty for jail and have terrible food allergies. Ok, I just made up the food allergies but still, prison food I assume is really bad.

A lot of things change as you approach forty. You realise that you're no longer in your sexual prime, you're sprouting grey hair (even your pubes which is stark reminder that your penis is old too) and you tend to become set in your ways. It's like you have reached a point in your life where you no longer are willing to tolerate shit from other people, you re-evaluate your friendships and attempt to have an uncomplicated life free of bullshit. In essence you are cleaning house in preparation for the next phase making sure you no longer have excessive baggage.  Because frankly who needs it.

The most obvious reminder that I am almost forty is when I drop off or pick up my son from kindergarten. Most parents there have just started their families and are young. Every time I am there I am reminded that I am one of the older parents. You know the ones that had little oopsies. However, I don't particularly care. We are all going through the same shit with our kids and we can stand in solidarity with just a sympathetic look or a nod of the head. The scary thing is that when my son finishes school I will be fifty six. That sounds ancient to me now but I guess only until I turn fifty. Oh dear god, the thought of that makes my head and Botox hurt.

Being almost forty and having a two year old also comes with both positives and negatives. The positive side of it is that I have more patience and have learned to pick my battles. The negative side is that I have never been a person who yells or even raise my voice, but now I am. I have patience but it is constantly tested. After the forth "No, don't, stop it" I tend to go into angry dad mode and my commands turn into "NOOO! STOP IT!!! I AM GOING TO COUNT TO THREE!", but three always come and everything calms down. Then five minutes later we are at the exact same situation. I am now a screamer.

I have also caught myself saying things like "Just wait until your dad comes home" and then immediately thought 'God I sound like my mother!".  

I am now at the age where I don't take myself that seriously anymore. A good example is when my two year old throws the mother of all tantrums. Depending on my day I will throw a tantrum as well mimicking his. Usually he reacts with total confusions like he's thinking "What the fuck is wrong with you?" normally this reaction causes his tantrum to seize out of pure shock. After all I'm the parent. The good thing is that we both got rid of our frustration in a "healthy" manner and I still maintain a small degree of parental control. I have not tried this in a shop yet. But when it happens I am sure it will have the same effect.  I just hope when it happens the people who witness it have children because they will be the only ones that would understand.

Almost turning forty also meant that I lost a couple of pets that I had since my twenties. In the last year I lost my two cats due to old age. It was sad as I had them for fifteen years. This also reminded me that life is short.

Turning forty has also seen my body go to hell. I got fat. Loosing weight is fucking hard. Diets can only do so much but you need to exercise too. I am not a fan of exercise at all. However, I did start. You see I don't want to fall one day and break a hip. I also don't want the get obese and have to be removed from my house with a crane. So I do my thirty minutes on my stairmaster every day. I despise that machine more than I hate homophobes and I have a mostly hate relationship with it. But the machine that was designed by the devil himself is yielding some results and I continue to torture myself daily.  Its like I am atoning for all my sins of my twenties and thirties.

I am thirty nine and one year away from the big 4 0. In a strange way I am looking forward to it. I have come to accept that I am ageing and that Botox and facial creams can only do so much to reverse the ageing process. I have no wrinkles or frown lines on my face but I am going grey and packed on a few pounds. As I am preparing for forty I hope I will be older and hopefully wiser. I am determined to enter that phase of my life with enthusiasm and glee. Well, I will try to anyway.

Till next time.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

A Cure for Homosexuality. Who knew?

Oh.  My.  God.  Apparently there is a cure for homosexuality and it is to be found in Ghana! Who knew, nobody informed Queer HQ and I sure didn’t get the memo! The Presbyterian Church of Ghana (PCG) apparently is established therapy centers for homosexual “victims” to undergo counselling, rehabilitation and some good old fashioned let’s “Pray the Gay Away”. According to the PCG homosexuality is spreading there like the herpes and they have taken it upon themselves to curb the infection rate with their unique cure. How utterly noble of them, don’t you think? With my homosexuality threatened with a possible cure, and my fagalicious ass quivering with excitement at the prospect of some steamy homosexual therapy, I could not help but wonder just how exactly the PCG plans on rehabilitating the Queers of Ghana or possibly, if they get their way - the World!
Firstly as an experienced professional practicing homosexual I must say I never felt like a victim of my sexual preference. Sure there was that time that I had to concede that I no longer fitted into my sexy leather pants and had to accept that my six-pack was a distant memory. And even though I did cry like an emotionally disturbed child whilst wiggling around on my bedroom floor still trying to force myself into those pretty tight pants, still I did not feel like a victim - I just felt fat! Sure, after that experience I joined the gym and for months was tortured with endless hours of cardio training, lifting weights and running like a gerbil on the treadmill, but not once did I feel like a victim of my homosexuality. So why do the PCG believe homosexuals are victims?

Well, to label people as victims of homosexuality and suffering because of it creates the impression that queers need saving. After all if there is nothing wrong with a group of people why try to fuck with their lives? The only thing that is truly causing suffering for the queers in this world is the utter ignorance and intolerance of people whose target audiences are the uneducated masses resulting in us being forced to suffer their stupidity. I mean really, do you think it is fun for us walking around in our well planned and immaculately accessorized outfit and it not be celebrated. Instead, many queers in countries like Ghana are too afraid to express themselves with their clothes and are burdened with having to tone down their appearance and go into hiding in plain sight. God forbid you look gay in Ghana! But for the queers in Ghana the PCG professes to have a cure, a cure that will miraculously alleviate the symptoms of homosexuality like being fabulous, well groomed and happy. So what would that cure be?
Apparently the PCG will cure homosexuality with the establishment of therapy centers. Oh my... what a well thought out plan. We all know how effective therapy is in converting homosexuals now don’t we. I am a living walking example of the fact that therapy is as likely to make a gay guy straight as it is to make a straight guy gay. Sure you get the odd porn star that is gay-for-pay, the prison inmate that indulges in a spot of prostate thumping, but being gay is so much more than just sex. Something the PCG clearly do not understand. No amount of therapy will take away a gay person’s attraction to the same sex, it will only repress it. Nor will trying to pray the gay away succeed in producing a well adjusted happy heterosexual, it will only result in a self-hating, deeply fearful and inhibited person who will end up pretending to be something he/she is not. As for rehabilitating homosexuals don’t get me started...

What will happen to the gay guys being cured of homosexuality if they fall of the proverbial straight wagon and right onto a penis? Will it be like the AA where there’s a 12 step program and meetings start with “Hallo, My Name is Pierre and I am a Homosexual. It’s been 3 months since I last sucked cock”. And if you do end up with a cock in your mouth will you lose your sobriety pin and have to phone your sponsor? Will they enforce laws further criminalizing homosexuality and threaten gay people into faking being straight? Uganda is again trying to push for the acceptance of their genocide bill, not only criminalizing homosexuality further but could even see homosexuality being punishable by death. Will Uganda also be interested in Ghana’s earth shattering, psychological breakthrough new gay cure? Well I would not hold my gay fairy assed breath. It is an idea dreamed up by an ignoramus that probably secretly yearns to get some dick up his anus. What is Africa coming to?
Sitting here on the Southernmost tip of Africa and looking up north, I am nothing less than ashamed of the continent on which I live and the way it treats its people. People are dying of famine in Somalia, there is civil unrest in Libya and I won’t even talk about Zimbabwe. HIV, poverty and violence are rampant and yet some countries choose to focus their attention on homosexuality. Like it’s the gays’ fault the economy has gone to shit, there are droughts, crime and that there are civil wars. But, like I have said so many times before, this will not stop certain organized religions and their morally corrupt benefactors to savagely exploits minority groups for their own evil gains. Unfortunately for us, the gays make for easy pickings on a continent that seems to lose more of its integrity each passing day. I am so not rushing out to buy a plane ticket to go to Ghana. I am perfectly content being gay and that’s not going away.

Till next time.

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Camping When Nature Hates You.

Camping is a queer concept to me.  I mean really, who in their right mind would willingly submit themselves to the elements if they are not homeless, raised by wolves or competing for a million dollars?  If humans were intended to live in the bush or mountains we would not have evolved to be able to build houses, nice hotels or invented electricity and room service.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do love to do quad biking, horse riding and I do appreciate nature’s absolute splendor.  But this doesn’t mean I want to spend a night in nature, sleep in a sleeping bag in a tent with God knows what crawling over me.  I have been camping twice in my life and this was enough times for me to realize two things:  One, I don’t like “roughing it” and two, I do NOT do camping.
About ten years ago hubby and I decided to go hiking with my sister, brother-in-law and some friends.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We would spend two days hiking up a mountain, walking about 10 kilometers a day (that is like 6.2).  The selling point for me was that we would not need tents as we would be sleeping in what they called “chalets” and they said there was electricity at both “camping sites”.  The only down side, I thought, was that we would need to carry everything we needed in backpacks with us.  Optimism never served well, and in this case optimism would once again dismally fail me.

Arriving on the Friday, the first “camping site” was basically a room with a questionable roof, holes in the walls that you could literally see through and stretchers to sleep on.  No electricity.  No indoor toilet.  That was the very first time I in my life that I saw an outhouse or as they called it - a “long drop”.  I was mortified!  It was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a toilet seat on top of it, smelled like shit and there were steam billowing out of it the following morning.  All I could do, when I eventually had to take a shit, was to go in there, hold my breath and pray that the whole thing didn’t cave in on me.  In retrospect, I think that’s where my fear of public toilets comes from.

The following day we started with the hike.  Ten kilometers is fucking far, especially if you are carrying 5kg on your back.  Needless to say I cursed a lot that first day.  My sister, the drama queen that she is, also had a complete dramatic melt down three quarters through when she had a cramp in her leg.  She was a whimpering mess and wanted to be medically evacuated off the mountain.  Needless to say that didn’t happen.  The rest of the hike she was whimpering out loud and I was crying and cursing on the inside.  Eventually, what felt like an eternity, we made it to the second camp and things only got worse from there.

Again the “camp site” was no Hilton Hotel and by all means worse than the first one, again with the outhouse, cracked walls and stretchers.  With blusters the size of plums on my feet and smelling like a funky monkey, I realized hiking was probably the worst idea I ever had.  All I wanted was to take a long hot relaxing shower.  Then came another shock.

The “camp site” had a shower but it was outside in the bush and if I wanted a hot shower I had to heat the water in a thing they called a donkey on the fire. Like primitive prehistoric men.  I remember screaming “No hot water, no indoor toilet, no indoor shower, no electricity.  Why the fuck did I do this to myself?”   I wanted to get clean so I heated the water, carried the donkey to the outside shower and hubby and I got in and opened the release valve.  First came the searing hot water then in came a snake.  I literally peed myself and that was the shortest and most traumatizing shower I ever had.  They said it was a harmless snake, but at almost a meter long it didn’t look harmless at all.  Besides nobody in our hiking party was a reptile expert.  We could have all died.

On day two we hiked back to the first “camp site”, completely paranoid about snakes,  but this time I was motivated by one thing and one thing only - I wanted to get the hell out of there!  It took us about six hours to reach the “camp site” and we left immediately.  I have never gone hiking again since but I did end up going camping a couple of years later.

My parents’-in-law are avid campers.  They own a caravan and all the camping equipment one would need to survive in the event that the apocalypse should destroy all man-made structures.  They go camping often and they invite us along just as often.  I have always found creative ways to avoid camping and declining their invitations.  That was until the one day about 5 years ago when I couldn’t get out of it.

My in-laws got me to agree to go camping and until this day I can’t remember how they did it.  They promised me that we will have our own fully equipped bathroom and that we would not have to share it with other people.  They also said there would be electricity.  The only down side was that hubby and I would have to sleep in a tent.  How bad could it be, I thought?  What is the worst that can happen, I thought?

On arriving at the camping spot I was delighted to find that my in-laws didn’t lie.  We did indeed have our own bathroom, kitchen and there was electricity.  I needed electricity for my portable air-conditioned, inflating our double bed, electric mosquito repellent, ice machine and emergency light. Once again I have to stress that I don't do the roughing it thing. We helped the in-laws unpack and then set about pitching our tent.  Pitching a tent in your pants is one thing but pitching an actual tent is a whole different story.

Tents are complicated assholes and the instruction manuals that come with them, I firmly believe, are written by people who are high on drugs or drunk.  They make no sense.  After a struggle, some sweat and an averted mental breakdown the tent was semi decently erected.  Our bed was inflated, the air-conditioner was running and mosquitoes were fleeing.  The whole camping spot was set up and I must admit I was rather proud of myself.  Everything was done and as I was standing there admiring our handy work, I thought to myself “So now what.  We are here; we are set up, so what exactly does one do when you are camping?”  As it turns out – not much! You drink.

The only things we had to do were to go down a waterslide and drink.  I broke my rib on the waterslide that day and later that evening I got drunk on vodka jelly shots.  I would have broken my nose too had it not been for the emergency light outside our tent.  You see, vodka jelly shot, darkness and tent ropes don’t mix.  Much later that evening, I sobered up a little and we went to bed and that’s when it happened.  Back then my father-in-law use to snore, the sound of which could scare away wildlife in a five kilometer radius.  His snoring sounded a lot like a mixture between a diesel engine coming apart and a pig choking on its own esophagus.  It kept me awake for a long time.

After eventually falling asleep I was roused from my not so peaceful slumber by something tickling my face.  I brushed it away and dosed off again.  Then it happened again.  “Stop it” I mumbled to which hubby mumbled back “Stop what?
Just then the tickling went down my chin, down my neck and into my t-shirt.  I woke up, reached for my flash light lifted up the collar of my t-shirt and let out a petrified scream as only a twelve year old school girl can do.  I too am like Oscar Pistorius and scream like a woman when I am petrified.  There was a big hairy spider on my chest!  As I stared down at it in utter terror, its beady eight eyes stared back at me while its front feet were touching my nipple.  I felt sexually violated and petrified that it would bite off my nipple after it had finished molesting it.  Pandemonium broke out.  I survived.  The spider did not.  I lost three years of my life that morning and inhaled a whole can of Raid in the scuffle.  I still get nightmares.  We never went camping again after this.

Until such time as North Korea starts nuking the shit out of the world or when the Zombie Apocalypse happens and we are all forced to flee the city and find refuge in the mountains, I do not see any good reason why I should ever voluntarily go camping or hiking again.  No amount of bug repellent, vodka or inflatable and portable luxuries will see me leave the comfort of my home, or that of a hotel, to go and spent a night under the stars with the wild life, spiders, snakes and other hideous and possibly dangerous insect and animals.  Sure Broke Back Mountain made it look sexy, but in reality I would have had no problem quitting Ennis Del Mar as no high altitude fuck can be worth being dragged up a mountain to sleep in a tent and being crawled over and molested by spiders and snakes.  I find no shame in admitting that camping is not for me.  I am a civilized human being. I am not meant to play survivor and submit myself to the elements ever again.

Till next time.

Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Gay Adoption Legal Across the USA

Finally gay adoption has now been legalized across the USA. In South Africa we have been blessed to have had it legalized now for a while. Seeing as my husband and I also adopted our son, I think it could be interesting for all of you to read about our journey. It may give some of you, who plan to adopt, an idea on how exactly gay adoption works, the process, the time frames and both the joys and heartaches.

To read about our adoption journey CLICK HERE.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

The Day I Shit Myself.

A while ago something really traumatizing happened to me. It was a Friday that started off like most of my Fridays do. There were no signs to suggest that my day would have a horrifying start. No sign that this particular morning would be the start of a particularly bad day; such a bad day that it henceforth will be known as “Black Friday”. It has taken me months to muster up the courage to write about it here because I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I just hope you, my readers and Facebook fans, do not think any less of me after reading this blog post. But, before my courage wanes let me tell you about that shitty “Black Friday”.
Fridays are my favorite day of the week. Mostly because I only have to endure 8 more hours of work before it’s officially weekend. Fridays are also the only day of the week that I can honestly say I am almost a morning person, with the emphasis on “almost”. On this particular Friday I followed my usual routine, woke up at 6:15am and proceeded to get my early morning caffeine and nicotine fix. I then sat down in front of my computer to update my social media and scan the interwebs for gay news worthy of sharing with my Facebook fans. It was a normal Friday morning by any means and there was nothing out of the ordinary, but that would soon change.

You see my bowel movements are predictable and they are regular and that is just the way I like them. I usually have them in between the time I spend updating my social media and the time I get dressed for work. On this fateful morning it was not to be any different. As I was finishing updating my social media presence I could feel a slight rumbling in my stomach. This is normal for that time of the morning and it usually is my body’s way of notifying me in advance of having to make an imminent deposit in the loo. Not concerned that the rumbling heeded a sense of urgency, I decided to hold off going to the loo and instead went to the studio to select my outfit for the day. That would prove to be a dreadful mistake.

As I unlocked the studio door the rumbling in my stomach went from a mild loo notification to a more prominent warning groan. But, I know my body (or so I thought), and believed that I still had a good 6 minutes before my loo call. As I was taking my outfit off the clothing rail, the groan in my stomach took on a more ominous tone. It wasn’t long before I realized that the 6 minutes I thought I had would expire earlier than what I had anticipated. So, I took the clothes and, this time with a sense of urgency, I attempted to lock the studio door. Then it happened, suddenly and catching me totally off guard I found myself at the wrong side of the loo count down.

My bowels were about to move and I wasn’t ready for it. All I could do was to clench my ass as tight as I possibly could and pray. It was crunch time! Out of absolute desperation I abandoned the key in the door all the while clenching my ass so tightly I could have made a diamond in there. Rather frantic I rushed into the house and as I entered I realized that only clenching my ass muscles was insufficient. I needed a backup defense system in case my rectum fails me so I proceed to also clench my rectum muscles as tight as humanly possible.

 “Holy Mary, Jesus & Joseph” I thought “this CANNOT be happening to ME!” In my final desperate moments I dropped my clothes on the floor and were about to leap into a sprint. But one thing no one ever told me is that if you are clenching every muscle in your ass and rectum to prevent yourself from soiling your pants, sprinting will nullify all those efforts. So I guess what happened next should not come as a surprise.

To my horror in mid sprint halfway to the loo the unthinkable happened. -I began to shit myself. At first only a little and then the flood gate opened only 9 feet away from the toilet. "I was so close! So damn close!!" I thought. Then a strange sensation overcame me, the sensation you only get when you shit yourself. Apart from your pants becoming heavy, I also experience an euphoria of guilt, disgust and shame combined with relief.  My self-esteem was also as soiled as your pants and I felt ashamed. Very ashamed! The kind of shame you cannot put into words. The kind of shame nobody who haven't soiled their pants would understand.

As the sensation of my own excrement was weighing me down, I went to the only place in my mind that would make my situation remotely acceptable. I went to my favorite place - denial. “Nooo, I didn’t just shit myself. No... not me.” “This didn’t just happen, it must be a bad dream, come on now, on the count of 3 wake up!” But it wasn’t a bad dream. I did shit myself! I shit myself right in our dining room. I shit myself and the proof was in my pants and whether I liked it or not I now had to accept it and I had to do something about it.

So I held my head high, breathed in deeply a couple of times and with my chest out and shoulders back I uneasily walked the remaining nine steps to the toilet, took off my pants and pretended to finish my business in a dignified manner. The last time I shit my pants was during the time my parents potty trained me and I really was not expecting to do it again until much later on in my life, like let’s say in my mid to late 90’s. But, at least when I am 98 I will be wearing an adult nappy so technically I wouldn't actually have soiled my pant.

After I removed the evidence of my hugely embarrassing bowel disaster, had a shower and got dressed. The trauma of my experience hung over my head and I had to share it with someone. So I phoned my husband “Honey, something awful just happened to me. I bet you will never guess what it was!” and I was right, he didn’t. The rest of that day pretty much went downhill from there. It was not my finest hour, proudest moment or fondest memory. May this never happen to you! Shitting your pants really has a way of ruining your whole day! And Black Friday was indeed really a shitty day.

Till next time.

Thursday, March 24, 2016

An Open Letter to Porn Addicts. You Know Who You Are.

If you are reading this you were probably on Google searching for porn and landed on my blog by accident.  But, before you put down the tissues and lube to close this window, I just want to first ask you a couple of questions, if that’s ok?  It’s totally anonymous but you should probably clear your search history when you are done, just to be on the safe side.  I mean, I have seen your search terms that landed you on my blog and you seem pretty messed up.  Honestly, the visuals I now have in my head are going to give me nightmares and will most probably cost me a couple of thousand bucks extra for therapy.

But enough about me, let’s get back to you.  I want you to clarify a few things for me about the stuff you search for on the internet, you know, the things that “help you get off”; the same things that accidentally landed you here.  Look I am grateful for any hits I get on my blog no matter where they “cum” from but some of your search terms just confuse me, and I don’t mean the obvious ones either.  So let’s get started.  Also, if you are not a porn addict, you should totally read this too.

The first thing that troubled me is how many times you search the internet for Clown Porn.  I know that is a “fetish thing” because I blogged about it once before and I am still traumatized by it.  Also, being terrified of clowns and believing there are way too few clown stabbings in the world I don’t understand how this is a fetish at all to start with.  Firstly, clowns should never have sex.  Period!

Clowns belong in the circus and that is why I have not been to a circus, other than Cirque du Soleil, in well over thirty years.  Clowns are way too jovial and wear way too much makeup.  Besides, if a clown was in anyway sexual or, god forbid, ever made a sexual advance at me, I would die.  Literally. Actually I would most probably first pee my pants, run away and then die.  Also, imagining a clown orgy, of any kind, is unsettling on so many levels I would not even know where to start expressing my mental outrage.  If you have a clown porn fetish you should be ashamed of yourself and it is something you should totally declare to your therapist who is treating you for having such a shitty childhood.  Bozo the clown says “Shame. On. You.”  And there is no Bozo the clown who works in porn.  I checked!

The next search term confused the hell out of me.  “Gay fellations anus blogspot”.  Firstly, I think you meant to write fellatio and you need to work on your spelling.  Do you expect Google to correct your spelling forever?  Secondly, in context of that search term I think you wanted to find a blogspot about rimming and/or blow jobs.  And in case you didn’t know, those are two very different things.  Seeing as I am not a pornographer or a sex therapist I am not going to guide you through these two types of oral sex.  I suggest that next time you Google these types of things that you first check your spelling and be more specific.  The only “oral” you are going to get from my blog is “oral diarrhea” that comes mostly from me and of which this particular blog post is a prime example of and, for that I apologize. I'm not a very good blogger. Although I have won awards but the people that gave me those awards were in all probability drunk. But I digress.

Unfortunately not all the porn searches that landed people on my blog were so straight forward.  Some were rather disturbing and resulted in me also having to do a brief internet search.  A good example of this was “adderall and diaper fetish”.  Firstly, adderall is drug used to treat Narcolepsy and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD).  Why you would have an adderall and diaper fetish in the same context, I don’t know.  I mean, do you want to be a chilled out baby?  Do you like shitting in your pants while your on a psycho pharmaceutical induced buzz?

If you suffer from Parafilic Infatilism or as it is also known, Adult Baby Syndrome, you need to see a psychiatrist because grown men are not supposed to shit themselves on purpose.  The only time which that is really ok is if you are in fact a baby.  Sure I have a background in psychology but there is a reason I don’t have a practice: I don’t like dealing with crap like this and if you are a grown man who likes shitting in diapers you really aren’t the type of person I want to associate with anyway or would want to treat as a patient. I don't want to be your daddy!

More disturbing than grown men wanting to behave like babies are some of your searches that deal with Donkeys.  Sure this is sort of my own fault as I have been going on about wanting a gay donkey on my blog and that we would call him our “challenged unicorn”.  But how you managed to sexualize poor donkeys is just wicked and scary.

Normal people don’t search for donkeys having sex with each other and if this turns you on I have serious concerns about the health of your sex life.  Also furry gay donkeys do not want to sign porn deals with people, because they are, you know – fucking donkeys!  Let them be and stop creating a market for gay donkey porn!  They are sensitive innocent creatures who should not be corrupted by your need to get off on them getting off.  They are bloody unicorns in disguise.  They are magical for fuck sakes!  …I apologize for my rant, I just really like donkeys y’all…

The last thing I want to address is how obsessed you are with your anus and the plethora of “anus” searches that landed people on my blog.  I still don’t know how Google links this particular search to my blog but hey, it is what it is.  The new trend some people are into these days, according to my blog statistics, is “fire in anus”.  And no, I am not fucking with you!  I am not sure what they do but it just sounds dangerous and painful.

Are people literally setting their assholes on fire?  Is “fire” a euphemism for something else?  Is “fire in your anus” a new STD?  I don’t know what kinky sexual shit the kids are into these days or what new sex lingo they have but I think somebody should notify the medical fraternity and forewarn them that there may be a few new anal burn wounds coming their way.  I, for one, know that I wouldn’t want a fire in my anus, but hey maybe that’s just me.

Look, I don’t judge a person for surfing porn on the internet; after all that is what most people use it for anyway.  Also, there is nothing wrong with sexual fetishes, although I don’t understand why some people find certain things that I find gross sexually arousing, but hey, we cannot all be the same.  If you want to tie your boyfriend up and do unsanitary things to him, well I guess that is your prerogative.  If you want to wear diapers and dress up in an onesie, it is your choice but just know people will judge you.  So if you landed on my blog due to searching any of the search terms I wrote about today, welcome.  Also, I am sorry that you didn’t find what you were looking for.  You can now take your tissues and lube and close this window.  That will be all. Happy porn surfing you freaks.

Till next time.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Thursday, March 3, 2016

No, I don't want to friend your cock.

I have been on Facebook since 25 June 2007.  That is like a really serious commitment or relationship in the cyber world.  I have been on Facebook longer than what most people’s relationships last; longer than what most people, including myself, stay at the same job.  Through the last nine years I had my fair share of dramas on and with Facebook. It's like having a really needy lover. I have also learned that there are seriously unstable people on Facebook who desperately need to be fucking medicated and in therapy.  They make me lean toward being a misanthropic person as I don't like to deal with fucked up people in real life nor do I want to in the cyber world. Reflecting back on my, sometimes tumultuous, relationship with Facebook I could not help but wonder, are people really as fucked up in real life as they seem to be on the internet.
During the last nine years I have been banned from Facebook twice.  Yes banned! Twice!  Coincidentally, both times were preceded by some rather disturbing hate mail I received from some fanatical religious freaks who took great umbrage at my mere existence.  These were the same assholes who, in all probability, reported me to the gods at Facebook who in return, instead of investigating the “complaints”, rather opted to disable my account.  Both times it took weeks and a torrent of emails for the Facebook gatekeepers to come to their senses and to reinstate.  It was much like being broken up with. It was horribly emotional. The most recent time they threatened to banish me was because I had too many friends.

You see, Facebook has a 5000 friend limit.  I have reached that limit a couple of times at which point I was instructed by a faceless bot message to clean up my friend list OR ELSE.  Facebook can sometimes be a very mean and domineering lover. Do you know how long it took me to scrutinize my entire friend list?  It toke not take days – it took weeks!  The last time I was threatened to clean up my friend list was last year and it took me a whole week to delete just over 2000 people.  My criteria was simple:  If you don’t have a profile picture of yourself, you were unfriended.  If your name is “Gay Love”, “iFuck a Lot” or “BJ King” or anything ridiculous like that you were deleted.  And if you have your private parts as your profile picture you were unfriended.  And this leads me to my next point.  Why do some people think you are primarily on Facebook for sex?

My Facebook profile clearly states “married” under my relationship status.  Surely the people who inbox me on Facebook can’t be illiterate?  I have gotten countless messages over the years ranging from people who were soliciting sex from me, wanting to know if hubby and I were into gang bangs, asking how big my dick is, what fetishes I am into and the best ones were “ASL” (age sex location).  Now if you need to ask me that on Facebook you are either just fucking retarded or super lazy!  I mean honestly, don’t these people read your profile before sending you profanities and wanting to have carnal knowledge of your body?  If I don’t know you chances are good that I also don’t want to play occupy the anus with you especially if we are not even on the same continent. Have these people never heard about fucking Grindr?

And then there are the people on Facebook who firmly believe that their dicks are their best physical attribute.  They are so very proud of their penises that they prominently display it as their profile pictures.  Now if you invite me as a friend and all I can see is your erection that is pointing the wrong way which barely disguises your unkept bush and hairy balls, chances are good that I will not accept your request.  Chances are even better that I will report your profile to Facebook and the message you will get in your inbox from me will read “No, I don’t want to friend your cock!”  I mean seriously, would you walk around in public with your crown jewels hanging out of your pants?  Doing it on Facebook is pretty much the same thing, don’t you think? You should be ashamed of yourself and possibly be arrested or lewd and lascivious conduct. There should really be a law about stuff like this. Just saying.

But Facebook don’t just have overly horny folks on it, they also have the spammers.  You know who I am talking about.  Those people who like to post products on their timelines, obsessively tag you in photos of brands, inbox 50 people at a time with “You can win an iPhone 6S” and those folks who troll groups and pages and post links to websites ranging from pornography to dating sites.  I believe there is a special place in hell for these fucktarts right next to telemarketers, homophobes, Hitler and Robert Mugabe.  I don’t know why Facebook doesn’t ban them.  Most of their profiles are fake anyway and this is why I never accept friend request from girls posing in sexy positions that have a lot of friends but never post anything on their timelines except for spam. Spam like dildos and cock rings. The latter making the song "If you like it you shoulda put a ring on it" pretty indecent. Shame on you Beyonce. Shame. On. You.

The other crowd of the people who occasionally annoy me on Facebook are the folks who clearly need to be in therapy and who are always airing all of their dirty laundry in public.  Sure sometimes it is entertaining reading their status updates in my news feed.  Following their mental meltdowns during the course of eight hours or reading how they are trying to get rid of their one night stands the next morning is quite entertaining.  But have these folks no shame?  Are they not aware that their friends are reading these status updates and are judging them?  Some days while reading my news feed on Facebook I feel so much more normal and mentally stable in comparison to some of my internet friends.  Watching their shit go down in real time feels a little voyeuristic, but hey if they post it who am I not to read it. The little melodramas is like watching a soap on television the only difference being that you can comment and engage with the characters. Not that I do that but I have been very tempted to.

Lastly, I have a certain group on Facebook which I have been trying to close down now for well over three years but with little success.  Apparently winning a war in Iraq is easier than closing down a group on Facebook.  I decided to close the group down due to spam, people using it as their personal sex hookup spot, endless “add me” posts and a few other unsavory reasons.  I have closed the wall, banned hundreds of folks and outright threatened people.  Yet, the group continues to grow and currently have well over 22 000 members.  It boggles the mind.  Why would people stay in a group where they can’t do anything?  Moreover, why the hell would anyone want to join the group either?  The group is called “Gaywarfare” but it should be called “Whores, Orgies & Spam” instead.

Yes, Facebook is filled to its cyber brim with some fucked up people.  Perhaps some folks on Facebook think that I am fucked up as well, the lord knows I too have my moments. The internet and Facebook is the one place where you can truly embrace how fucked up you really are. You can confess all your secrets to your lover called Facebook. You can tell him about all your problems and have a meltdown in front of your laptop and Facebook will comfort you. You can be a hot mess and Facebook will love you anyway. And we will all read about it and secretly judge you while liking your posts. Facebook never said he was the monogamous type. You should really have read his terms and conditions. I think all relationships should have them. If I had terms and conditions which you accepted you cannot later be all like "I did not sign up for this" because you did.

*mental note: start writing my terms and conditions*

Till next time.

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Woolworths is Evil

Recently a friend of mine was betrayed by Woolworth and made us loose all faith in them. It's too hard to explain so read our conversation instead.
Friend: Was very proud of this rare species until I watered it and the white pebbles turned orange because... the red is paint!!! Well done Woolworths, well done.

Me: That's false advertising. You should sue!

Friend: When the power goes out... when the water in our tabs dry up... I always held fast to woolies as the last vestige of civilization... absolutely devastated.

Me: They helped me through my paternity leave. If it wasn't for them I would have starved!

Friend: Heck yes.

Me: And they delivered. If I were you I would write them a strongly worded letter about how spray painting plants is inhumane and how it destroys marriages.

Friend: Absolutely and how I expect woolies vouchers to make up for my pain and suffering.

Me: AND an apology to all horticulturists. Because they are the real victims here.

Friend: True. I now expect all plants to come in exotic CGI quality colors.

Me: That is how they ruin lives. They have an evil agenda and creating unhealthy expectations. I always thought their sugar gauntlet was a way they encourages diabetes for pharmaceutical companies to make a greater profit. I have not yet been proven wrong.

Friend: They are probably owned by the Illuminati too...

Me: ...who hates parents who they force to navigate the sugar gauntlet with greater trepidation especially when you have a sugar craving toddler with you. We should protest and have your plant as our mascot. Think we should call her Jezebel.

Friend: Don't get me started... those bags of "big spender chocolate coins" - the worst.. this is what I found on our carpet.

Me: That's how they taunt us. Even their chocolates are full of lies and deception!

Friend: And apparently these chocolates make kids lose their minds. Found our two year old dancing naked on these empty wrappers. We are yet to locate her pants!

Me: Bastards!  Are we going to spray paint ourselves, in solidarity with Jezebel, stage a violent protest so that the riot police have to hose us down with their water cannons so that we can all be like "see, this is what you did with Jezebel, you assholes!!!"

Friend: Yes, let's take a leaf out of the student protester's book and burn something!

Me: We should burn their newspapers. Also, their newspapers makes one depressed just as you enter the sugar gauntlet and that's how they make us fat - they force us to eat our emotions. First they make us depressed and then they offer us chocolates for comfort. Jesus they are evil! We should totally protest for all the fat people too!

Friend: Count me in!

Me: I will start a Facebook events and call it "Justice for Jezebel".

Friend's husband: And here I was thinking you're a cat person? Get the Claws out.

Me: Don't involve Killer Pussy in this. She has access to nuclear weapons. We don't want to start a war with the Jews!

Friend's husband: I was actually talking to painted cactus's owner... get the claws out and tare open some woolies bags in their entrance.

Me: You are a very supportive husband encouraging your wife to be violent. Once you've open that pandora's box there is no closing it. Just saying. Also, Killer Pussy would be proud.

Friend: Was considering asking for Killer Pussy's help but then North Korea will want to get into the action too...

Friend's husband: I thought the pandora's box was already opened when the pebbles turned orange by the bad paint job from woolies... I am very supportive... I will drive my wife there and sell tickets at the door for the claw bag fight.

Friend: Heathen!

Me: Was just informed that woolies sells Fancy Feast and Killer Pussy wants nothing to do with this. Also she is half Russian and half Jew. 

Friend: Deadly combination!

Me: They suffered under the Nazi's and it's a very sensitive topic in our house.

Friend: I will be sure to bring it up then when I see Killer Pussy.

(We never did protest woolies because we are lazy like that. Also, Jezebel died and it was very sad and she would not want to be remembered as the cause of a riot).

Friday, February 19, 2016

Thursday, February 18, 2016

When a Pussy Attacks

If you landed on my blog through a Google search expecting vaginas you should be ashamed of yourself. This blog post is not about the pussies you wanted to see. Also, there is just one photo of a pussy in this blog post and it is the one you see below. But I digress...

My husband and I share our house with three pussies. They are furry, sometimes cuddly but beneath their angelic and sweat demeanor there lurks a malevolent darkside. A darkside so iniquitous and vicious it’s best strangers approach our kitties with the utmost caution or face the dreadful consequence – being mauled! You see our furry critters are emotional unstable and dangerous little souls and every now and again their tempers and tantrums take me by surprise and I am left wondering, why do I share my house killers.

Our most notorious cat of the three is aptly named Killer Pussy. She is a savagely cruel killer. Remorseless, villainous and diabolical she saunters through our estate seeking out her victims. She has no particular preference, if it has a heartbeat she will kill it. She will also eat anything she can lay her little paws. Sometimes it is disgusting as we often find dismembered body parts strewn throughout our house. She leaves this as warnings to us not to fuck with her. It's a not so subtle threat really.

Her absolute favorite snack, apart from freshly killed meat, is a vitamin and catnip enrich cat treat which she gets every afternoon. I think she likes it because the catnip gets her high. She does have a bit of a drug problem but refuse to go to AA. So when the treats got finished, a couple of weeks ago, and the shops ran out of stock our little pussy was not amused! This sparked a tantrum as only a cat can do. All you cat owners out there can probably relate.

Killer Pussy was clearly going through catnip withdrawals and clearly needed to go to rehab but we could not afford it. Also, there are no catnip rehab facilities anywhere in the world which is a travesty.  Getting back to the point, Killer Pussy ignored us, she would sit in the corner of the bedroom sulking, scratch us when we picked her up and when her passive aggression failed to yield the desired result she went to Plan B – breaking stuff. Two broken plates, a torn curtain and a punctured pool lillo later, the shops eventually acquired her favorite treat just in the nick of time, as I suspect Plan C would have involved murder by suffocation followed by her eating our faces.

Killer Pussy's favorite activities, apart from sleeping, are plotting and scheming about how to break into our pantry (the food room as she calls it), furthering her nuclear ambitions, continuing her ill-suited affair with Kim Yong Un and setting her plan for world domination into motion. (If you failed to follow the last few sentences I don't blame you. For it to make sense you really should like her fan page. She is kinda famous on Facebook and Twitter. Just saying.)

Fur Monster was one of our oldest cats and she didn't like strangers and despised children (little humans). The fact that she was barren for so long and struggled to have kittens of her own may have something to do with her hatred of offspring. Whenever we receive visitors we always had to warn the guests of her violent disposition. Many children have been emotionally and physically scarred by her and many adults have too, with my late mom included.

A few years ago Fur Monster’s sister had kittens and my mom and her housekeeper wanted to see the litter/kindle. They went into my garden cottage while I was out. They didn’t make it past the kitchen. Fur Monster and her sister Sly Monster cornered them and held them hostage, literally, in my kitchen for well over an hour. Eventually I received a hysterical call from my mom saying “Your cats have attacked me! I’m in your kitchen! Can’t. Get. Out!!! Oh dear God have mercy!!! H E L P MEEE!!!” and in the background I could hear the housekeeper praying "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" and the cats hissing and growling. Careful hostage negations followed and both my mom and the housekeeper were released bruised, bleeding, traumatized and forever fearful. Fur Monster passed away two years ago and her ashes are kept in my study along with that of her sister - Sly Monster. I am now a collector of cat ashes as a true cat "lady" should be.

Cute Monster is the middle child and the fruit of Fur Monster’s loins. She’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic and the only thing she does well is eat, fart and sleep. She has never mastered the art of tree climbing and is still trying to learn how to play but without any notable success or improvement. The one skill she recently acquired is the much envied skill of paw-to-paw combat.

Seeing as she doesn’t know how to play nicely she settled for second best – fighting. She picks fights with her mother, her aunt and her adopted sister and she usually loses. Did I mention she isn't that bright? Every other day all hell would breaks loose in our house and it’s a cacophony of hissing, growling, screaming with fur and pot plants flying everywhere. Breaking up a pussy orgy of violence is near impossible and after two prior attempts and some loss of blood later, hubby and I decided to leave them to sort out their own shit. If it involves violence so be it! Most things can be resolved with some gratuitous violence anyway. Just look at America liberating countries through war. So why should our cats be any different.

Apart from eating and shitting in the garden the only thing our pussies enjoy doing together, as a family, is kill things. This is where our youngest comes in Lover Pussy.  And as his name suggests he is a gentle soul and is more a lover than a fighter.  However, he loves hunting and he's fiercely good at it.  He also usually leads the family hunt.  Like a ruthless pride of lions (which I swear they think they are) they stalk their prey on the African plains that is our garden. Many a bird, lizard, moth, butterfly and lady bird family have been broken up at the claws of our feline predators. So when a flock of weaver birds decided our leopard tree was the perfect spot for them to raise their families their fate was sealed unbeknownst to them and the bodies started to piled up!

Last Saturday we experienced the worst massacre since bloodshed Wednesday of 8 May 2007. It started at roughly noon. I heard a commotion in our back garden and didn’t pay it much attention until the commotion made its way to under the dining room table. Killer Pussy caught a juvenile weaver bird and was busy interrogating and torturing the poor thing North Korea Style, while the other two Monsters were watching. I tried to save the bird but Killer Pussy would have none of that and ran outside. We intercepted at the pool and I tried to pry the screaming bird from her fangs but she refused to loosen her grip and punctured two of my fingers.  I considered getting a tetanus shot but then realized the hospital would asked too many uncomfortable questions so I took my chances.

As I realized that the soon to be dead bird was doomed anyway and feeling like a horrible human being I let the murder continue. In the lounge I was close to tears as I heard the bird's screams become fainter as the minutes passed. The bird’s parents, family and neighbors all tried to save its life, but one-by-one they too were killed. At sunset the screaming stopped and our backyard was a scene of utter horror and devastation. There are now only four weaver birds and eight eerily empty nests left. Every day and every night our monsters patrol the leopard tree and soon the surviving weaver birds will be no more. They will be murdered in cold blood and we would have to watch and listen. Clarice have the lambs stop screaming? 

Sharing our home with temper tantrum prone killers, admittedly is not always fun. Especially when you need to clean up their crime scenes. But even though I sometimes pitch up for work with arms, legs and hands looking like I shoved them into the blender, I love my little monsters dearly and can’t imagine my life without them. Our backyard may be littered with the skeletal remains of countless avian victims, the bird population on the plains of Africa may be living in fear but my pussies are a delight to have and one day, maybe just one day, the birds will stop screaming.

You can like Killer Pussy's Facebook Fan Page by clicking HERE.

Till next time.

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