A Christmas present for you

One of my downfalls in life is that I'm possibly too romantic. When I'm dating somebody, I go out of my way to spoil that person, whether it's with compliments about her cooking or being honest about her weight. It's what makes me special and the many women I've dated can appreciate that about me, despite what they may actually say.

But when it comes to Christmas, I step it up to another level. A level so high, that it is higher than the previous level, which is at a lower level to which the level I've stepped it up to is now levelled lower in levelness. Yes, that much.

And this audacious new level is with Christmas presents. I'm not happy until I've found the perfect gift for my partner. Whether it's a new vacuum cleaner or even a fancy new ironing board, I will insist on getting the best for her (at a reasonable price (preferably at Argos)).

I have learnt from the mistakes of my past that what a woman asks for isn't always what they want. I once dated a woman who kept on dropping obvious hints that she wanted a pearl necklace but on Christmas morning, after giving her the ideal gift she had been asking for, she seemed quite upset and after a shower, left without even saying good-bye.

So this year, I'm avoiding the whole "my wheelchair is so old, the brakes keep failing on hills" hints, and I'm blazing a new trail of Christmas shopping.

My first plan of action was to do research as to what women want and it's amazing what internet search engines have to offer. Time and time again it seems that the overwhelming thing that women want is to share their man with another woman in a sexual way. In order to be thorough I literally watched hours and hours of the research.

Now that I knew what my girlfriend wanted, I had to set about making it happen. This was going to be trickier than I thought as our local pizza delivery person is a man and my girlfriend's best friend is fat.

After going back to the research material I also had to eliminate the plumber and the dwarf, who had been given special alien powers, as our local dwarf just sits on street corners and cries a lot.

I finally decided that the best place to get a woman to join my girlfriend and myself in bed would be one of my work colleagues, but as you can imagine, it's difficult to approach the subject tactfully, so I sent a group email to the five best looking candidates at the office.

Dear relatively decent looking work colleagues

For Christmas this year I have decided to give my girlfriend a surprise threesome, but I'm currently one person short. So I'm giving one of you the opportunity to be involved in this lovely gift. Obviously there are five of you and I can only choose one, so in order to increase your chances of being the chosen one, can I ask that you submit some sexy photos, preferably naked, to me by noon tomorrow.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours faithfully
Muppet

PS - Does anybody have the email address of that temp Helen, who worked here a couple of months ago?

PPS - Not the one with the lazy eye.

Amazingly enough, nobody replied to what I requested. Well some did reply, but not in a sexy way at all and even though there was some dirty talk, which scored some points, they forgot to include photos.

So as Christmas gets closer and closer, I still have a vacant position available.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Behind enemy lines

At my current work establishment, we have unisex bathrooms. HR explained to me, during my induction, that this does not mean a "wank room". It's like any normal toilet, except both men and women can use it... separately - HR pointed out to me, rather rudely.

But this gives me the unique opportunity to look at what goes on in the amazing world of the "ladies". For years men have wondered why women take ten times longer than men to "pop to the loo" and why women's toilet queues are always so long. What's going on in there? If I'm in the pub with a lady friend and before heading on home, we both decide to go to the toilet, why am I done well before her? Why doesn't she just go in, piss and come out again. In theory she should be done even sooner than myself, as statistically women's bladders are smaller than men's bladders.

One of the main reasons why men are so quick is that when we go to the "Gents", we don't have to drop our trousers to our knees and sit down. We just unzip, whip out Mr Scabby and piss against a wall. Sometimes we piss against a urinal or close to a urinal. Then we simply zip up, go to the mirror, which is above the basin, smooth our hair back, give ourselves a wink and then leave.

So obviously the main reason why women are taking so long is because they have to adjust more clothing and they have to sit down or hover, depending on the cleanliness of the toilet, as it's been explained to me in the past.

The thing is that if you're sitting or hovering above a toilet, you might as well have a shit while you're there. This makes sense, but will obviously add time to her overall toilet experience. So the next time you've been waiting for your Mrs outside a public lavatory for a while, don't shout at her when she finally comes out, just ask her if she had a good dump. She'll appreciate that you're knowledgeable about her womanly ways.

But is this the only secret to women's toilets? I can now confirm that there's more. Women's toilets also have magazines! And it's not even wank mags, as you'd expect. It's things like Cosmopolitan and Vanity Fair. Stuff with lots of pictures of skinny chicks, wearing ridiculous outfits. This makes sense as women are obviously shitting all the time and they don't understand sport, so there's no point in having newspapers in there.

Then there's one final thing that's in a woman's toilet, that isn't in a man's toilet and at first I didn't know what to make of it. My initial thought was that it's some kind of foot operated bin, but there was already a bin in the toilet that didn't need to be foot operated. Why would you need two bins, as this foot operated one is much smaller that the other one? Maybe it's not a bin at all. Maybe it's some kind of make-up storage device. But why would you store your make up right next to the toilet? Why wouldn't you have it by the mirror?

To investigate I pushed down on the pedal with my foot and looked inside, but the pedal only opened a small lid that didn't allow enough light into the unknown storage device to let me see what was inside. So I got down on all fours and pushed the pedal down with my left hand, while my right hand dipped into the bin to have a good rummage around. My fingers explored the lower reaches of womanly secrets and made contact with something squishy. I got a good handful of what was in there and removed it from the device for inspection.

Now I'll admit that I've made mistakes in the past and I've done things that I've later come to regret and quite frankly, since the unisex toilet incident I don't quite remember what they were. All I can say is that if you are in a similar situation as to what I was in, please take my word for it. Women are not secretly hiding strawberry jam sachets next to the toilet.

Pain in the...

Last weekend I took my fiancee up the Eiffel Tower.

It was something I had wanted to do for quite a while, but never had the opportunity to do it until now. The problem was that films have glamorised it over the years and they suggest that when in the area, everybody does it and I didn't want to be the odd one out.

As I approached it, I was a bit apprehensive, as it was cold and the smell of shit in the air was quite off-putting. I was worried about getting shit on myself and that the smell would linger afterwards.

I was told beforehand that it's not a quick in and out job and that it takes a long time going up there, but I had no idea it would take as long as it did. After about thirty minutes of squeezing and nudging, it seemed like I wasn't getting anywhere at all. After another very patient 30 minutes or so, I eventually was able to pop my head into the bottom of the shaft. Once my head was in, it was quite a smooth ride up, even though I was crammed in the passage against all kinds of foreign objects.

Once up there, there was acres of space, but I didn't stay for long as there were literally hundreds of people waiting to come up after me.

All in all I would say it was an enjoyable experience, but it was tiring. My fiancee hasn't been able to walk properly for the last couple of days due to our little adventure on the weekend and even I'm feeling a bit sensitive down there.

Sad cake

This week I received an email, addressed to the whole company, about a former colleague who used to work for us.

Dear All

Some of you may already know that Jane Smith passed away on Sunday.

Jane worked here until last year. Her warm nature and positive, happy disposition left an impression on many of her colleagues, who maintained their friendships with her. Jane was only in her 30s and so her fight with cancer was both untimely and very sad.

Her funeral, for close friends and family, will take place on Saturday. She requested that donations go to her Hospice.

I will start the collection and pass a card around so you can send wishes to her family. Please drop me a line and let me know if you would like to make a donation.

Regards

This is sad news. Although I never worked with Jane. The people who did work with her, all have fond memories. I'm sure that the few that don't have fond memories of her, chose to keep quiet about it, even though she probably wouldn't find out about it anyway.

This morning, I received a follow up email addressed to the whole office.

To celebrate the life of the lovely Jane, I have brought cake to the office. Please help yourselves and think about Jane while you eat.

Three points.

One: Since when do we celebrate somebody's death?

Two: I didn't know Jane. Am I allowed to have cake?

Three: Do I have to think about her while I eat the cake? I would prefer to have happy thoughts while eating cake. I worry that if I had to eat the cake while thinking about cancer, it would put me off cake.

After the stampeding hooves of the womenfolk settled down after the email, I headed towards the kitchen to see if anything was left.

There was indeed a few slices of carrot cake left. The chocolate cake had already been surrendered to cancerous celebrations.

So ignoring point two above, I grabbed a slice of carrot cake and OH... MY... GOD! Carrot cake has never tasted this good! It was perfect! I don't know if it was the ghost of Jane who was filling the cake with ghostly goodness, or if the cook who made this knew Jane personally and decided to bake the best fucking cake ever, in her memory, but WOW!

After finishing the slice, I took a wander back to the kitchen, hoping that there might be some slices left, but some other crafty mourners beat me to it. Cunts!

But now I had a craving like a heroin addict, but unlike a heroin addict, I didn't crave heroin, so in other words, I was nothing like a heroin addict.

I could just go to the person who brought the cake in and ask him where he bought the cake, but then he would know that I ate the cake, despite not ever knowing Jane, yet I felt that I already had very fond memories of her.

Plan B - Get the person who brought the cake in to spontaneously tell me where he bought the cake. I started following him around the office and sat at his table during lunch. This was awkward as he has a small office to himself with only one chair in it.

Plan C - And before you start judging me on this, I'm the first one to admit that this was wrong on some level. I did some research on the internet and the started forwarding sunbed vouchers to everybody at work (except the person who brought the cake in). I realise that this is a long-term plan, but I don't want to be fat. That would be gross.

Irresistibly smelly armpits

Men's armpits have always needed a disguise, as women do not like the natural sweat smell of men. Even after they have a shower women still insist that they put chemicals on their armpits in order to mask the scent of work.

Deodorant and anti-perspirant manufacturers have had variations of scents. The two biggest pit-o-flages are the scents of either spice or musk. Men have accepted this and on most mornings, the average male has sprayed the scent of an old spice or a muskrat on his pits, in order to appease the delicate female nostril.

But back in 2008 Lynx introduced a new deodorant/anti-perspirant called Dark Temptation which was described as, "A chocolate-smelling fragrance because women like chocolate, they will find men who smell of chocolate irresistible." This makes sense. If women like stuff, get men to smell like the stuff they like.

In 2009 they introduced Instinct which is described as, "a spicy scent of leather." In other words, they were trying to capture the smell of a new pair of leather shoes.

So what fabulous products can we expect in the current year? As I have studied the female psyche and boobs, here are a few of my suggestions.

Sink - The sweet smell washing-up liquid and carrot remains.

Iron pride - Women love ironing clothes and the scent of a freshly ironed man's shirt will make her feel at home.

Mow - The scent of a freshly mown lawn always seems to build up a sweat with my woman, while I watch her from a lawn chair, drinking my beer.

Linoleum scrub - Those stubborn stains on a linoleum floor are so hard to remove, but when a woman is down on all fours, scrubbing with all her might as the powerful smell of ammonia engulfs her, she can be intoxicating.

Breezer - Without too much product placement, it's the smell of a fruity alcoholic drink, with just a hint of vomit.

Hypnotise - Women will fall to your feet as the powerful smell of Rohypnol engulfs their sexiness (may need some kind of skin testing on men first).

Interior design time

I've been living in my new house for almost a year now and my bitch thinks it's time to update our kitchen.

As I'm a man, I don't know much about kitchens except that it's used to make dinner for my bitch when she tells me she wants dinner.

The problem with our current kitchen is that it's quite spacious, but there's very little counter space.

The kitchen roughly looks like this:

(click on the pic to make it bigger)


So my bitch sent the above picture through to me along with the below proposed changes.




That seems like a clever idea, but looking at the picture it seems that a lot of space was going to waste, when in fact we have a table and chairs in that space. So I have added to her picture in order to get a better understanding of the space we have.





That seems like a fair reflection of our kitchen and our eating area.

But it also shows that we still have a bit more space to play with.

As we're already putting an extension in the kitchen, it makes sense to utilise the space appropriately.





Having two bars in a cramped space is a bit depressing if you're just sitting around drinking, so let's add another feature.






Of course having two bars and a beer fridge means that one's bladder is going to fill up quite quickly and you don't want to be too far away from the action when the strippers get into their act.





Of course having a toilet plumbed in and paying for strippers every night isn't going to be cheap, so I'm going to have to start charging my friends. I'm sure they'll understand.





I consider myself a realist and like to prepare for things.

I'd be naive to not have this kind of cupboard.





So I have expanded on my bitch's little womanly thought and I'm left with probably the coolest kitchen in the world ever.






She's lucky woman to have me in her life.

Flat-pack crap attack

Have you ever tried to assemble flat-pack furniture? Have you ever been able to correctly assemble flat-pack furniture? Have you ever looked at the manual that your flat-pack furniture came with and been able to make any sense of it? Have you ever been able to make your completed unflat-packed furniture look like the picture on the cover of the flat-pack furniture box?

If you answered yes to more than one of the above then you are what is known as a lying cunt.

In my previous flat-pack adventures I have made an ashtray from a table, a spice-rack from a cupboard and a non-combustion engine from a breadboard.

But I am a man and will never admit defeat to mocking furniture, so I have bought more furniture that needs to be assembled, with my manly man hands.

I bought a garden chair that was already put together, but the operational manual had eight pictures to show how to operate the complex device. As you can tell by the very confusing pictures, assembling this unit wasn't going to be easy.

I tried matching each picture in the manual with what was in front of me.

Picture 1:



This looked familiar. I think I have a match.



So far so good.

Picture 2:



Hmmm... let's go with this:



That doesn't look quite right, but it's the closest match I could find.

Picture 3:



What the fuck is happening here? It looks like a fatter version of the previous one, but now it's somehow shooting arrows.

Is this the right one?



No! No! No! That doesn't look right at all! Where's the shooting arrow?

Picture 4:



OH MY GOD! That looks like a chair! How the fuck did that happen?

I've got this:



I try sitting on it. I'm seriously not comfortable and my legs feel cramped. The back support is very limiting.

I head back to the instructions and turn the page.

Picture 5:



This looks a lot like picture 4, but it's shooting an arrow. How is this possible?

Picture 6:



The chair is getting thinner somehow and arrows are attacking one another.

Picture 7:



WHAT? Arrows attacking one another and it's shooting a giant arrow away from itself?

I check the box for arrows. Nothing!

I try to line up my chair to look like the picture above. I think I'm close.



When I sit on it, I can feel the arrows. I must be close.

Picture 8:



What? That looks nothing like a chair! It makes no sense!

I need to stay calm and think this through.

A short history in spanking

I grew up in the evil old South Africa where all white people were racists and the minority white government treated its citizens like they lived in the 1950s.

Corporal punishment was used in all schools to prevent children from misbehaving, or talking to one another if a teacher was talking, or if we weren't standing in a queue in single file, or if the teacher was having his/her period.

This was just standard procedure back then and I never really thought, "Hey, wait a minute. I'm a ten year old boy, who is currently being caned on my pert buttocks, by an adult, just because I didn't do my homework. I wonder if this is wrong on some sort of level?"



Once I finished school I was no longer subjected to corporal punishment, because as an "adult" I no longer needed physical violence to motivate me to do my homework.

But then in the 1990s something very strange happened. A bunch of hippies got together and said, "Dude, why are adults molesting children in schools?" And the government said "Look at me. I'm a government." Not really but the government abolished corporal punishment in schools anyway.

So now only parents could beat up their own children in the privacy of their own homes or in public.



But soon public child beatings became frowned upon by mister general public, even though it was perfectly legal. Parents started to feel ashamed of beating their children in their local supermarket, even if their children were annoying.

So naughty children were only being beaten up at home and only by blood relatives or an evil step-mother/father.



With the invention of Oprah, spanking children became almost obsolete in western culture. Naughty children were now free of physical violence for not doing their homework or answering back, which is ironic.

But as the children beatings were being diminished, adults spanking became more and more popular. This wasn't the same type of spanking. This was spanking for sexual gratification.

Grown men were paying women to spank them. Sigmund Freud, who was a German sex offender, believed that sexual gratification through spanking was due to an adult trying to relive childhood memories about one's mother.



But then it wasn't just men who wanted to be spanked. As television started to show more and more realty TV shows, there wasn't anything else to do at home, besides read a book or get your partner to blindfold you, tie you up and give you a good spanking.

Spanking wasn't punishment anymore, but a reward for being sexy.



In short, we can see a curve in the timeline.
1980s - Naughty boys ages 6 to 18 - spanked for being naughty.
1990s - Dirty old men ages 30 to 60 - spanked for being dirty.
2000s - Hot young ladies ages 18 to 29 - spanked for being sexy.

So now we've reached 2010 and I'm considered in the wrong for wanting to spank little girls for their own sexual gratification, when we can all see where we're going.

Parents in playgrounds are so closed minded.

Unique Clique

Hollywood has so often forced teenage stereotypes cliques down our throats that we feel that we ought to belong to a group of people in order to express one's individuality.

The standard groups are:
Jocks
Geeks
Nerds
Punks
Preps
Sluts
Goths

But there are many people out there who don't fit into any of these categories. One of these people is my friend Brian. Brian always felt like an outsider. He could never quite fit in with the stereotypes. He was unique for not be able to express his individuality in a group of friends who were just like him.

Until one day he heard about a new clique that had been born. They didn't fit into any of the above categories, because they were different to everybody else, just like Brian.

Overjoyed that Brian would finally be able to fit in, he did some research on the internet about their style and unique look that they all look like.

He went clothes shopping and the next day at school joined up with his new clique.















Poor Brian didn't know the difference between an ostrich and an emu and looked quite silly.

Hardcore marketing

Shopping on Amazon is amazing! It tells you what you want without you knowing that you want it.

The other night I was shopping for a cook book to read and when I clicked on the product, Amazon suggested a few other related products that I might be interested in. People who enjoy reading a good cooking book, might also enjoy a Star Wars paperback and three pairs of Aviator sunglasses. Yes! I would like a Star Wars paperback and I would look so cool in Aviator sunglasses!




On the other hand, my yahoo email account seems to be bombarded with poor related market advertising.



I know! Why would Yahoo think I need to improve my golf swing?

Being enraged

My fiancée deserves the best man leading up to our wedding, so I've done some research on what it means to be engaged.

Engaged:
- Involved in conflict or battle.

So now I have an idea of what I've let myself into. I was living under the illusion that being engaged would mean nice romantic things like flowers and chocolates and alcohol and Rohypnol and love. Good thing I haven't ever bought her any flowers and chocolates.


Further research revealed the following:



So basically being engaged is like going to war, but you're not allowed to have a poo.

That's the worst kind of war.

Why buy the milk, if the cow is free?

There comes a time in every muppet's life when he or she has to stop having fun and has to settle for whatever slag he or she is currently stuck with.

My time is now.

I've been stuck with my slag for what feels like eternity and as all the women and some men at my work have refused to sleep with me, I decided to make a respectable woman out of my slag.

In order to surprise her with my romantic proposal, I had to cleverly set the scene. Firstly I had to make sure that she wasn't expecting a proposal. I did this by telling her that I hated her. Secondly I had to book a romantic holiday away, with her parents, which her parents paid for. This was more elaborate as I don't like using blackmail. Thirdly I had to buy her the most expensive, the most beautiful, the most desirable engagement ring in the world. I thought that two out of three wasn't too bad, as I headed towards Argos to buy some braai tongs and an engagement ring of about the same value.

For those of you who don't know about the magical land of Argos, I will describe it to you. It's magical! They have everything you could ever think of at the end of a conveyor belt. It's obviously a magical conveyor belt because it supplies limitless amount of magic everyday. Most of my house is Argos. From my broken wardrobe to my broken digital camera. It's all Argos! And the prices are so cheap, you would think that these products are shit and would break easily, but don't think about that. Think about the magic.

Before any of you judge me on my love for Argos, I would like you to see some reviews for the ring I bought:
- "this ring is beautiful very simple but stylish. fits perfectly and looks very nice. Am very glad that i made this purchase"
- "it was easy, and easy to fetch from my argos. they had it in my size. i loved it"

So off we headed towards Turkey, known as the most romantic country in the world, according to some guy with a knife, I met in Turkey.

We stayed a week in Turkey, experiencing their culture, which is apparently discos at midnight and eating their strange foreign food, which appears to be chips and spaghetti. On the day before we were meant to return to the UK, I attempted to book a boat tour for the two of us to go on, which would whisk us off to twelve small deserted islands scattered throughout the Mediterranean Sea. It turns out that this boat tour cost more than £20, so I booked a two island tour instead.

As we set-off, our drunk captain and island tour-guide set the romantic mood by flirting with me and made me touch him. My soon to be fiancee and I giggled to each other as the sun beat down on our bronzed torsos and children threw-up over the edge of the boat into the cascading sea.

Our first and second last stop on the tour was to an island that was so deserted that there was no jetty, so our drunk captain dropped anchor a couple of miles offshore and told us to mind the sharks while swimming to the island.

I romantically clung to my slag's back as she swam towards the idyllic little island. The ring was in my pocket and was creating some kind of chemical reaction with the sea-water which in turn was burning my skin. Thankfully after only about fifteen minutes of jewelery burns, my slag dragged me onto the rocky beach. Although tired from clinging onto her back, I insisted that we go explore the island, in order to find a romantic spot where I could either secretly propose or throw rocks at tourists.

There wasn't much of a beach, and the rest of the island was either swamp or jungle, so after evading the swamp we headed towards the jungle, where I went down on one knee and tied my shoelace. Further into the jungle we stomped until our bronzed torsos were covered with the mosquitoes. That's when I told her that we're getting married.

She cried as I sprayed mosquito repellent into her face. Her screams of joy could be heard from nearly three miles away, as our boat captain fired random shots at the island with his rifle, thinking that we were being eaten by a Turkish Bigfoot.

After a leisurely swim back to the boat, mostly because my fiancee couldn't see where she was swimming, she lifted me back onto the boat. In order to retell my romanticisms to my grandchildren or some other young children one day, I asked our captain/tour-guide what the name of this beautiful little, deserted, swamped, mosquitoes filled island was. He looked at me with his big beautiful blood-shot eyes and said, "Eez Rat Island."

Ah, the rat! One of the world's most romantic rodents.

We then set a course for the last stop on our magical voyage, but never quite made it as our tour guide told us that the other island was shit and then he jumped into the sea.

Scatroulette

Kids have it so easy nowadays. Everything seems to be handed to them on a plate. (Are these clichèd opening lines for a blog?)

Anyway, while watching South Park recently, a website called chatroulette was mentioned as a place you can go to make new friends. The idea behind this website is that you log-in with a microphone and web-cam and you are randomly assigned to other users who are also logged in. You therefore might end up chatting to a plumber in New Zealand or a king in Nigeria. South Park however made out as though it's mostly made up of dirty old men having a wank.

As I was home that Saturday night, ignoring all the phone calls and texts messages from hot women begging me to come out and play with them, I decided to log-in to chatroulette, to see if I could make a friend.

It turns out that South Park wasn't exaggerating. Cock after wanking cock flopped past my screen as I searched for a friend who didn't just see me as a piece of meat. I almost felt sorry for these losers who had nothing better to do than wank to pictures of random strangers on the Internet. How sad does your life have to be to do this?

Anyway, after about three weeks on chatroullete I finally met somebody who wasn't having a wank. It was a couple of young girls of about thirteen and we chatted pleasantly for a bit.

Sad muppet: Hi
Young girls: Hi
Sm: Where you from?
Yg: Oz. U?
Sm: UK.
Yg: Show us your cock.

WHAT??!! How can two sweet, young, innocent, girls have said such a disgusting thing? How had society become so openly sexual to young girls that they demanded to see cock on demand?

Did I grow up in a different universe? When I was thirteen, I couldn't just switch on a computer and demand to see cock. I had to steal alcohol from my dad's liquor-cabinet. Sneak out of my room late at night. Head towards the crime-ridden part of town. Find a homeless man living in a dark alley and bribe him with the booze before I got to see any cock.

I was so upset I almost didn't show them my cock.

The youth in Asia

Assisted suicide is considered illegal in most parts of the world. There are cases where husbands are being sent to jail after increasing their wives' pain medication, which lead to their death, even though they were in the last stages of an irreversible disease.

I am a firm believer of assisted suicide and have often in the past tried to help out where I can.

I guess the difficult part is knowing where to draw the line. Does one weigh up the amount of pain the person is in against the possibility of a cure? Some people might have given up on life, but their close friends and family keep holding on, waiting for a miracle.

I don't want to come across as some do-gooder hero, but I have previously dated women who eventually took their own lives. Many of their friends and family later told me that they wouldn't have been able to do it, if it wasn't for me.

Many people would find it offensive if the person you've just started dating took their own life and the first time it happened I was upset. Not just about the two theatre tickets I bought, but on an emotional level too.

The second time it happens, it's not so much of a shock and you learn to only buy the tickets at the box office on the night of the show.

By the fifth time, you kind of expect it, but it's still off-putting watching a woman stab herself in the face over dinner, knowing that she hasn't paid her half of the meal yet.

Has this put me off looking for romance? The answer to that is a simple no. I believe in love. I believe in romance. So if you're reading this and you're single and you also believe in love, why not drop me a line and we can get together and who knows where things will go.

To be fair, I have an idea, but I might be wrong.

I've been framed!

I've recently discovered an easy way to make some alternative income.

In the UK there's a show called You've been Framed, which is one of those funny home video type programs, which shows clips from every day people and pets doing funny things or hurting themselves, usually by sitting on white plastic chairs that always break.

Unlike the American version, which rewards the top three videos with cash prizes, the UK show pays £250 for every clip they use in the show. So all one needs to do is to scan through all of one's home videos, find some funny ones and upload them to their website.

I have done this, but I didn't get a reply or any money. I suspect the reason for this is that my videos of unknown women sleeping at night, isn't very funny. So in order to get some money, I'd have to make some funny videos.

After watching the program a few times, I noticed that the majority of clips are:
- People breaking white garden furniture.
- Stupid animals hurting themselves.
- Small children falling down.

This was a problem for me, as I don't have any garden furniture. I don't have an animal that constantly runs into glass doors and I don't have any small children.

I didn't know where to get white garden furniture or uncoordinated animals, but I knew that small children are likely to fall down a lot in playgrounds. So I grabbed my trench coat and video camera and headed towards my local primary school.

To make sure that the video was as plausible as possible, I also had to make sure that the kids didn't see me and preventing them from playing up to the camera. I therefore hid in some trees, with just my lens popping out between the leaves, to record the children running around and waiting until at least one of them falls down.

I had only been filming for a few minutes when a very rude lady came up to me and asked me what I was doing. I didn't have time to go into all the details, as there was limited time before the kids would go back into the school again, so I just told her that I'm filming the children in order to sell the videos on the internet.

I don't know what she heard or how drunk she was, but all of a sudden she started to scream like a mad thing. She made so much noise that all the children came over to see what the fuss was about. It ruined my filming and I had to leave, which is a pity because when I was about a block away I heard lots of sirens coming from the school, which means I missed filming something very dramatic.

At least I know not to film from the trees again, due to all the crazy people out there. I think next time I'll try to sneak into the boys toilets and film from the window.

True Romance

I have recently done a survey, which looked at the differences in how men and women view relationships.

There appears to be five distinct groups of relationships and the different sexes view them differently.

Being Single:
Women - The majority of women, when going out to clubs or pubs, are desperately trying to meet a life partner. Quite often they just end up having a one night stand, but even after he's told her that she's fat and smells and thrown her out of his apartment after sex, a small part of her feels like he was a nice guy and that she could change him for the better.

Men - The majority of men go out to clubs and pubs with their mates to get pissed. If they're able to pick up a slag at the end of the night, all the better.

The short term-relationship
(First date for women. Two years for men.):

Women - Throughout the first date, she will be measuring him up as her life partner.

Men - Throughout the first date, he will be measuring up the size of her breasts.

Women - She will want to connect with him on a spiritual level.

Men - He will want to connect with her while level after too many spirits.

Women - She can't wait to tell her friends that she thinks she's found the one.

Men - He can't wait to tell her friends that he thinks they could have some fun.

Women - Stops looking at other men as potential partners.

Men - Stops looking at other women, while his girlfriend is looking directly at him.

The long-term relationship
(Women - Second date until engagement. Men - A minimum of two year, to life):

Women - They will attempt to sculpt him into the perfect partner. If she feels that he drinks too much and stays out too late with his friends after work, she will attempt to break his spirit with constant reminders of their love.

Men - They will attempt to drink too much and stay out late with his friends after work to escape her constant nagging.

Women - They drop subtle hints about marriage.

Men - They will drop subtle hints about threesomes with her hottest friend.

Women - They only look at other men to compare their inferiority to their beloved.

Men - They only look at other women because they want to fuck them.

Being engaged

Women - Their thoughts about planning for the big day are all consuming. They can't focus on simple tasks like being nice or driving.

Men - They have a license to sleep around before they have to settle down.
Although his fiancee doesn't say it, she expects him to sleep with at least one stripper at his bachelor party.

Being married

Women - Their life ambition has been fulfilled. She can now sit back and get fat and watch soap operas.

Men - Their lives are over.


* The above survey does not apply to all people. Some women are lesbians and some men enjoy romantic comedies.

What is your purpose in life?

It's one of the big questions. Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Am I here to make the world a better place? Should I go to India and feed the starving street children?

I have recently discovered that this is all bollocks.

To discover why you're here, you need to understand your body. A few months ago a cricket ball smacked me in the head and I broke my nose as well as cracking my skull. An ambulance was sent out to ask me how much pain I was in. (The ambulance didn't actually ask the question. One of the medics in the ambulance asked the question. If an ambulance had asked me questions I would have thought that I had broken my head.)

Anyway I told the ambulance, as well as the medic, that out of a rating of ten, my pain factor was a three. So this is the yard stick of measuring one's self worth. My brain box bone was broken and I was in mild pain.

Skip forward to a few months later and I was doing some odd jobs around the house, like cleaning out the loft with my ears and painting the ceiling with a cat's tail. Very odd, now that I think about it. So while I was crawling around the loft in the dark I walked into a beam, testicle first.

If an ambulance and a medic had been dispatched to ask me the pain measurement question, I would have told them that my pain factor out of ten, was ten. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. My eyes were watering. I felt like vomiting.

So on a pain factor, I have discovered that one of my testicles is more than three times more important to my body than my brain.

So I have learnt that if I go to India one day and I happen to meet some starving street children, I shouldn't feed them. I should fuck them.

Designing paint colours

My girlfriend and I bought a house together last year and I think it's a nice house. It's very house shaped and has a garden and there are rooms and stuff.

However, when we went out to dinner and talked about the house to friends, my girlfriend kept on telling people that there's still a lot of work that needs to be done to it. More specifically, she said that the rooms weren't really done to our taste. Yes, OUR taste. I don't remember us having this conversation, but I'm sure we had it because she tells people that we are planning on painting soon. Yes, WE will be painting soon.

Anyway "we" decided that we will go to one of these giant paint shops and choose some paint for our bedroom. Our bedroom looks fine to me, but apparently "we" aren't happy with it. So "we" had to change it.

So what colour were we going to choose? Red, blue, green, yellow or black? I think those are all the colours but the paint shop apparently has something like seven hundred different colours to choose from.

As I live in a democracy, the choosing of the paint would be a shared decision between my girlfriend and myself.

This is how a democracy works. My girlfriend ignores all my thoughts on what colour I'd like and then tells me what colour we're going to have. I told her that this wasn't really fair so she said that she will narrow the choice down to three colours and then I can choose any colour out of the three colours she chooses. This doesn't seem like much, but it's better than nothing. So I agreed to these terms.

She then chose three whites. I pointed out to her that she's chosen three whites, but she looked at me as though I'm an idiot and told me that they are three different shades of whites. They even had three stupid names to help distinguish them. The three colours I had to choose from were "Pearl necklace 3", "Fresh corpse 7" and "Incestuous sperm 2".

I was unable to distinguish between the three colours, but felt that it was important that I showed the girlfriend that I was taking my decision seriously. So I put on my serious face. Commented about how each colour would go with the carpet and finally and proudly said, "Pearl necklace 3". She then went to the paint counter and ordered "Fresh corpse 7".

I don't know what she would do without me.

Friendly satisfaction

Recently one of my closest friends came to me with a confession.

He told me that something had been weighing him down for a while and said that he needed to confess to me that he had done me wrong.

He told me that he had been having drinks with my girlfriend, a few weeks ago and the conversation inevitably turned to sex and she shyly confessed to him that she had never had an orgasm in her life.

He suggested to her that she should get me to do other things with her, but she tried to change the subject. He said that he then tried to slow things down and said that things can just start off with a sensual kiss and the next thing he knew she was kissing him. Soon clothes came off and and they ended up having sex.

He then smugly confessed that at least she had finally experienced an orgasm.

It was at this point I lost my composure. I had been trying to keep a straight face throughout his confession but I finally lost it. I started laughing and and through the tears explained to him that she had been using that same line for years.

I told him that he shouldn't feel too bad as at least four of my closest friends, my boss, my brother and my grandmother had fallen for the same line.

I almost felt bad for him. Some people are so naive.

Invictus spoiler

Clint Eastwood's latest film, Invictus, is a remake of of his very own spaghetti western film, High Plains Drifter which was originally released in 1973.

It's a simple story about good (The Springboks) versus evil (The All Blacks).

High Plains Drifter story is as follows, and with some simple Invictus editing:

The story depicts the efforts of a small mining town (edit - mining country) to defend itself against a group of rogue gunfighters (edit - The All Blacks) with the help of a mysterious outsider (Eastwood) (edit - The Springboks), referred to as the Stranger. The town hire the Stranger to protect them.

The Stranger rides into the fictional mining town of Lago. When he enters the saloon, he is followed by three gun-toting men (edit - Australia, Romania and Canada) who taunt him. When one man swivels him around, he shoots them dead.

When he lies down to sleep, he remembers a scene in which a man is brutally whipped. It is revealed later in the film that Marshal Jim Duncan was whipped to death by gunfighters. Various indications throughout the film suggest that the Stranger is some sort of reincarnation or embodiment of Duncan's spirit (edit - spiritual guardian of the game of rugby).

The next day, Sheriff Shaw (edit - President Nelson Mandela) tells the stranger he will not be charged for killing the three men. Meanwhile, the townsmen discuss Bridges and the Carlin brothers (edit - The All Blacks), who are due to be released from prison that day.

Bridges and the Carlin brothers are released from prison and make their way to Lago. They begin on foot but kill three other men (edit - Ireland, Wales and Japan) on the way.

Lago is painted red (edit - green and gold) and the name changed to Hell (edit - Ellis Park) before the gunfighters return. With the town painted red, and a picnic (edit - made by Suzie) and welcoming banner set up for the gunfighters.

When the gunfighters arrive, they encounter almost no resistance at all (edit - Scotland and England). However, the Stranger kills the gunfighters.