Monday, April 30, 2007

The E-Spot: Is She Frigid?

The E-Spot is a column where I give the lovelorn advice. Today, get your tissues out for a lovely guy with a sad dilemma.

By the way, this is a made up letter, a spoof as it were, although I did get one in a similar vein the other day. What I want to know is what would you reply if you got a letter like this and you were a renowned agony aunt like myself?

Dear Emma,

I have been going out with a lovely girl for nearly six months now. She is an awesome cook, has a knockout figure and also gives great head. So what's the problem, Emma? Well, I am not all that selfish and I want to give her an orgasm but whatever I try she just stares at the ceiling. All I am doing is the stuff they do in porn films. I cum on her tits and she does not even get excited. I have done her anally a lot but she just says it is boring. I do not know what to do. In these films those girls just get so excited sucking on a penis but my girlfriend does not seem to get off on it, and seems to be doing it just to please me. What should I do? Should I dump her?

Porn Aficionado

Dear Porn Aficionado,

If only all men were as thoughtful and considerate as you. She does sound like a bit of a hopeless case, but fear not, brainwashing is always an option. Just play her the video below a couple of dozen times a day, and I think that eventually these facts about what sex is really about will penetrate her skull. But if in the end she doesn't show any enthusiasm for your perfectly formed member, then by all means give her the old heave ho.

Best of luck,

Click Here for more great videos and pictures!

And for the rest of you out there, feel free to give Porn Aficionado more advice about how to coax his lady love out of her frigid state. Also, do please send your problems to and I promise to sort you out (let me know if you want your identity kept confidential).

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Thanks, but you can keep your pubic lice

I was out at the pub with those crazy Germans again last night. Actually, I spent most of the night at a corner table with a young attractive German blonde called Karin. So, we're deep in conversation, when this guy comes up to us, and after cadging a fag off Karin, asks if he can sit down. So we start chatting. Turns out he's from Colorado, vacationing in Baltimore.

Karin is really into his hair, which is that kind of curly almost ringletty type hair like that guy from American Idol, whatever his name is:

"Wow, what beautiful hair. It's wasted on a boy," she says, stroking and stroking it. He was purring like a kitten.

It was the end of the evening and, quite frankly, I was a bit tipsy. When I got to the pub I'd decided I wouldn't drink, and the next thing I knew, I'd imbibed seven glasses of wine. Next time I'm going to try reverse psychology - I'm going to tell myself I must drink alcohol and then will hopefully find myself with an insatiable longing for orange juice.

Anyway, because I was drunk-ish, I said to this guy (Mark? Matt?) "What's the craziest thing you've ever done sexually?"

"I went out with a Swedish woman once. I love European women. I like you two."

"Right. The craziest thing you've ever done is sleep with a Swede? Ever had a threesome?"

Matt, quick as a whippet, came back with, "No, but I'd like to. Would you two like to have a threesome with me tonight?"

"I dunno. Do you want to?" I asked Karin, who was still drooling over his hair. She nodded, in some kind of daze. I swear, she was hypnotized by his hair.

"Hang on," I said to Matt. "Where are we going to have this threesome? Are you going to pay for a hotel room?"

"Yeah, sure, the Black Cat Inn is right around the corner."

I immediately began having fantasies of some five star hotel and stealing the bathrobe and all the little shampoo bottles, and rolling around on a king size bed with Karin, while Matt showered us with ....

"Hang on," I said. "Isn't the Black Cat Inn a motel?"

"Yeah, I guess so. Hotel, motel, what's the difference?"

As if he needed to ask! Everybody knows that the only free gifts you're likely to take home from a motel are the pubic lice off the stained polyester sheets.

At this point, as they say in The News of the World, I made my excuses and left. (The News of the World is a UK scandal sheet in which an undercover reporter is always 'investigating' say, a sado-masochistic orgy, in order to 'expose' these degenerate excesses, but never (or so he claims) actually has sex while he is on the job. At the point he is offered it, he always says, "I made my excuses and left.")

And today, while I lovingly nurture my hangover, I can't help wondering about the differences between men and women. Do men really not care where they're doing it, as long as they're doing it?

Footnote: By the way, I wasn't actually going to do the threesome, I was just playing along...just in case any of you are concerned about my moral welfare!

Monday, April 23, 2007


Look, I'm all for people being self confident. But, my feeling about this woman is that, yes she's confident, but is it just me or is she just a little too confident about her, er, assets?

Other deep and meaningful questions:
Would you do this woman?
If so, would you need to be paid?
If so, how much?

These photos are from Ice's blog. Where she finds these crazy pictures, I have no idea, but as far as I'm concerned, she's a blogging genius.

Friday, April 20, 2007

Who owns your Private Life?

In the old days (let's say, ooh, five years ago), one's private life was, well, private. If you were gay, and worked in a conservative environment, you might keep the fact to yourself. And if you liked your wife to attach electrodes to your nipples during sex, you'd keep it under wraps. Whatever your particular kink, you kept it locked up and usually didn't chat about it.

But suppose one day you thought, sod this for a game of soldiers, why should I be ashamed of who I am? and then you decided to start a blog. I'll use an anonymous name, you tell yourself, and I'll be totally free to talk about how I hate my mother in law and how I like to wear my wife's stockings, how I hate my boss's guts and how I shagged his wife at the office party. And soon you're on a roll, so liberated, so free.

When I started blogging, my friend Daisy said, "Oh no, soon you'll be posting nude photos of yourself on the Internet." Well, I laughed, of course I did, I had not so much as used a digital camera in those days. And actually I have not posted any nude pictures on the Internet, as yet, but it is certainly a slippery slope, because as soon as you start blogging you start letting down your guard. And it really is liberating. And here's the thing, blogging is sad, of course it is. Here I am trying to make my fuck boring life look interesting. Here I am pretending I have something to say. But on the flip side it is the ultimate form of self-expression, because it is totally free of censorship and you can express yourself in a way that no job will let you do.

And therein lies the rub. There you are, all free, and maybe now there are some dodgy photos of you up on some site in your birthday suit, or you're wrapped in cling film or wearing a harness or whatever the hell your kink is. But suppose your boss is checking up on you. Googling your name and not liking what they find?

Because there have been quite a few incidents where people have been fired for doing such things outside of work, such as an Ohio teacher who was fired last month after his private nude photos were posted online without his knowledge and then discovered by administrators. Not to mention Michelle Manhart, who was demoted from Air Force staff sergeant to senior airman and then reassigned to the Iowa National Guard, for posing in Playboy without first obtaining the Air Force's permission.

One's initial reaction to these sort of incidents is outrage! Invasion of privacy! More than anything else, the Internet has made the private public. But I would say, and maybe this is harsh, if you are going to make your private life public on the net, there will be consequences.

To what extent do you think employers have the right to police their employees? If they read on someone's blog that Employee X is taking coke or indulging in kinky sex, at what point does it become the company's business? Catawumpus, who started this discussion on her blog, believes that if these activities do not affect the employee's ability to do their job, then the employer should back off. But I would say it is a bit of a gray area. What if clients see unsavory images of the employee or kids see their teachers in unsuitable poses on the net? How much say should an employer have in telling you how to conduct your private life?

And I suppose that is the irony of it all. The Internet has made it so much easier for employers to police employees. I do say that when you work for a corporation, often you do sell your soul to the company, and yes, they own you and tell you how to behave until such time as you are no longer useful to the company and they hit the eject button. In Japan, in exchange for being a corporate slave and emotional robot, they do keep you on at the company your whole life (or they did until recently), so that is a fair exchange. But in Western society, I have always seen working for a corporation as being a bit of a contract with the devil. But it is not just in large corporations, most jobs require you to act in some way that is contrary to one's nature. It just seems sad that now bosses are trying to blot out the one part of our individuality we have left: our right to express ourselves when we are off the clock. What do you think?

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Pieces of You

I wrote this story today. Would love to know what you think.

My dear Louise, will you marry me? Will you give me your body, your heart, will you let me penetrate that secret, private part of you? And most of all, will you let me take you away from Brendan, that awful husband of yours?

You don’t know this, but I saw him hit you once. It was in the depth of night, in your remote cottage, which looks so cheery during the day, all covered in white roses, dancing prettily in the sun. White blooms against dark pink bricks, a pink that so accurately matches the inside of your lip, the lip he punctured that night. He was raging, his face flushed. Oh, I know you will say he had been drinking, but is that really an excuse?

There you were, so fragile, so breakable, your hair a blonde halo around your head, eyes wide, taking his abuse. I saw it all through the window. You will probably say, why didn’t I knock at the door, make myself known? Well, to tell you the truth, I wanted to, especially when he slapped the side of your face. Your scream drilled through me. I almost lost it, ran in to save you from the monster. I was about to, but I held myself back. Your white fingers going up to your lip, blood splashing onto your pale blue nightgown, all the fury seeping out of his eyes, and now he was crying. Crying! After what he’d done to you. And then you leant your head back, exposing your precious neck, a neck as bendable and delicate as a daisy stem, and you kissed him with hunger. How could you kiss him, smear him in your blood, and how could you let him kneel before you, lift your gown and bury his face between your naked thighs? How could you, Louise? How could you do such a thing?

Then your blue-gray eyes lost focus, growing cloudy, and he pulled you to the ground. I could watch no more. I turned and fled.

My dear Louise, is there anyone who knows your little eccentricities like I do? How you stumble bleary eyed down the garden path some mornings, wearing mismatched shoes, before driving off in your ancient Mini? Or how you put two artificial sweeteners in your tea, a manifestation of some unfounded anxiety about your looks?

Does anyone know the real you like I do? They all think they do, because they’ve heard your voice, soft as kitten fur, as you read your books out on the radio. Because they’ve seen you, all dolled up on some TV program, talking about how you write four books a year, and that it’s not so hard, all you need is discipline. How I laughed when I thought of all the times I’ve seen you tear up sheaves of typed paper, how I’ve seen you reach for those cigarettes you never smoke in front of Brendan, and smoked three or four, one after the other, tears running down your face in frustration. Why do you lie to your public, to all those desperate housewives who devour your romances, one hand down their knickers, idly playing with themselves as they imagine themselves ravaged by some long haired hunk who is keeping them prisoner in his castle in Monte Carlo?

I know that you don’t have time to reply to all my letters, but the ones you sent me are kept under my pillow. I know them all by heart. Right from the beginning there was a connection, wasn’t there? I told you I loved your books and you wrote back that you were always so surprised at how many men read them. But what should be so surprising about it, my sweet? As soon as the first line is read, time stands still, the tale unfolds. One is helpless but to read and read. Normal life is suspended. And I don’t like it, don’t like it one bit when I hear you say, “Oh, my books are pure fantasy. Love like that doesn’t exist.” And I want to scream at the radio, “Well of course it doesn’t, because you are living with a big hairy brute, who is at least twenty pounds overweight, and so what if he is some high flying banker, he takes his clothes off and leaves them lying there for you to pick up, and leaves half drunk glasses of whiskey standing on every surface, their dark orange color reminiscent of urine samples. And now answer me this: Does he ever buy you flowers? And I don’t mean the bedraggled kind you get from the petrol garage, that I’ve seen him insult you with once or twice.

Do you think it’s presumptuous of me to ask for your hand? I don’t, since I feel I know you so well, after all. I even know how you smell. I snuck into the cottage a few months back and stole a pair of knickers from your laundry basket, pink cotton with green polka dots. There was one perfect golden hair stuck to the crotch. When I pressed the knickers to my face, they smelt of the sea. I still have that hair, and the knickers still smell, faintly, of you. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe it is the memory of the smell that still lingers, all consuming.

It hurt that time you wrote, “Please do not write to me again. Your letters are long and incoherent, and I feel you want an intimate relationship with me, where none should exist. I have had problems with stalkers before and have, on occasion, had to involve the police.”

I believe that letter was a prank, a joke, for we both know all the feelings we've shared, the jokes we’ve told, the plans we’ve made. The list of places I made, of where we would travel to together, once every piece of you was inside of me, all the pieces stacked together like one of those Russian dolls.

I would screw the last doll down so tight. It would be dark in there and you would be safe.

Just pieces of you, surrounded by pieces of me.

So will you marry me, my darling? If the answer is yes, just leave your door ajar.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Twenty Germans in a Jacuzzi

I have always basically kept my faith in human nature, despite numerous encounters with lecherous men. I refuse to believe that all men are wolves in sheep's clothing. But maybe it is time I changed my attitude.

I get this naive attitude from my mother. When I was a child and we lived in London, my mother put a card up in the newsagents advertising for 'German Lessons,' and was surprised when she had many men phoning up wanting not so much to learn about der, die, das, as about Geschlechtsverkehr (German for sexual intercourse, literal translation 'genital traffic') ie. they thought she was a prostitute. This came about from the long held tradition in England (don't think it goes on any more), of prostitutes advertising their services in code. I know Greek lessons is anal and French lessons is fellatio, but I'm buggered if I can remember what German lessons is a euphemism for (answers on a postcard). In any case, she got very irate and I kept hearing her shouting down the phone, "This is not for sex lessons. I am teaching the German!"

In the end she did get some clients, all male, all who fell in love with her, and all who were using the German lessons as a way to woo her. She had a hell of a time getting rid of them when they became too amorous. She even found it difficult to get rid of them at the end of the hour, and so I had to dress up as a grown up (I was ten or so) in high heeled shoes and a hat, go outside, ring the bell to our flat and pretend I was the next person coming for a lesson.

Anyway, my mother is too nice to men and I think I am too. I definitely don't fall into the sycophancy camp. I don't worship men or think they are great, I just don't immediately think every man is only out for one thing, when frankly, they usually are.

Here is my dilemma. I hang out with this group of about twenty Germans. We ostensibly meet in a pub every week or so to 'practice our German' but obviously it is just an excuse to get hammered. Whoever said Germans were boring has never met this bunch. So anyway, there is this one middle aged guy, let's call him Richard, who is a bit of a pain, the kind of person who is always trying to touch you, but it is not quite in a sexual way, so you can't tell him to knock it off.

Anyhow he is having all the Germans round to his place on Friday. Apparently we are all going to make sushi. I don't know if Sushi lessons is a euphemism for something (answers on a postcard), but I am going to assume that we really will just be doing things with rice and fish. That isn't the issue. The issue is getting there. He lives about half an hour away from my house by freeway. Now, nobody laugh but in three years of driving I have never been on the freeway and I'm not going to start this Friday. I have an Austrian friend, Myriam, who is even less Americanized. She has lived in Baltimore for two years and does not even have an American license. But she has offered to drive me to this get together (she has an International driver's license).

Now, firstly, I don't hold much hope of Myriam getting us there, considering she has never driven on a US road, but apparently she is a world traveller and has driven in South Africa and God knows where, so that is okay. But I don't know her all that well. All I know is that she is one of those gorgeous women who has wasted her life dating losers and alcoholics in the hope that she could save them. The upside of this is that she is a teetotaller, because her last boyfriend was an alcoholic and to make him stop drinking she decided she would too (result: he is still an alkie, she only drinks cranberry juice). She's one of those women like in porn films, the sexy repressed secretary who always wears no makeup and has her hair scraped back from her face, but has this hot little body, and if I was a guy I would be dying to awaken her latent libido. And here's the thing:

Richard said to me and Myriam, "Oh do bring your swimsuits, we will all be going in the Jacuzzi." And now, you tell me, how am I going to avoid the hands of various lecherous Germans in the Jacuzzi when we are all crammed in together, especially after a bottle or two of Jaegermeister? And what if Myriam decides to have a few drinks, and do one of those secretary to nympho transformations from a porno film? They say 'It's always the quiet ones,' and it usually is. Like that line from that Leonard Cohen song:

and Bethlehem inflamed us both
like the shy one at some orgy.

Because Richard also said, "Oh don't worry about getting drunk. There are plenty of beds at the house for you to stay the night in."

And while I would like to think he is just being incredibly friendly and offering us a place to stay, the fact is that we are some of the most desirable chicks in the group, simply because a lot of the other women are in couples (I mean I know I am married but I don't go to these meet ups with my husband so I think they think I am easy game). I just get kind of a funny feeling about all this. I have been in a few situations where you stay over at a guy's house and he 'pretends' to have got lost (in his own house) on the way to the bathroom, and he tries to get into bed with you and says, "Sorry, my mistake." Etc. etc.

I just don't have a good feeling about this. I mean, I am sure it will be a right Roman orgy all right, just, do I want to be in the middle of it with no way of escaping because I'm too chicken to drive on the flipping freeway?

All answers gratefully received.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

That new baby smell

The other day I said to my husband:
"I think I'm pregnant." There had been a condom malfunction incident a couple of weeks ago, but we'd been trying to put it out of our minds.

And he kind of went green, and we sat down on the sofa and stared into the distance. I sensed that he was trying to find the silver lining in the cloud. I know I was.

I laughed, a little hysterically. "I mean, I hope to God, I'm not."

"Yeah, so do I, because you really couldn't cope with having another kid."

"You're right," I said (we have two). "Let's hope I'm not."

And yes, thank God, it now turns out that I'm not pregnant, and now it's time to get serious. No more playing Russian Roulette with condoms that burst. It's time to get my tubes tied and put an end to the possibility of having more kids.

Actually, I think he's going to get a vasectomy too. Although maybe the doctor will refuse to do it because he is only twenty-eight! No matter...if John does want to remarry I believe vasectomies are reversible.

There is just absolutely no way I could be pregnant, because after that ohmygodcouldibeohfuck incident I know that I really don't want to be pregnant. It's just so weird being an animal (like we humans are) and a slave to instinct. When I see friends' babies I just feel all gushy and warm. Everything about a baby is so totally - perfect - I suppose it's sad that I will never have one again. But not that big a deal. I mean, I can still hug other people's babies. Smell other people's babies. What do they put in babies? They're like a drug. God, the small of's so good.

See, I kind of want one, I'll always want one, being an animal and all, I'm just going to make sure I don't ever have one.

Monday, April 09, 2007

Best for Stress Relief

You know how you sometimes have one of those days when masturbation won't take the edge off? I'm not a fan of using artificial substances to calm oneself down, but sometimes one needs a little boost. Know what I mean?

I've got to admit it, tequila really makes me lose my inhibitions. I was just at a virtual orgy over at Homme and Femme's
and yes, I did drink some tequila and it all went to my head (as well as other places).

By the way do come over to their place if your feeling thirsty, horny or both. I must admit I don't often drink it as I do things like black out and end up not even remembering who I had sex with. So these days I stick to cherryade. Bit like that Squeeze song:

And by the time I'm sober I've forgotten what I've had
And everyone says it's cool to be a cat it's cool for cats


Sunday, April 08, 2007

Afternoon Delight

We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Put a video on for the kids on Saturday afternoon and gone upstairs for a shag?

Haven’t we?

It’s become enough of a ritual in our house that the kids know that when mummy and daddy are ‘resting’ they shouldn’t come bother us unless it involves blood, guts or vomit. And if one of them does come up and I’m wearing a nurse’s outfit and fishnets, John answers the door and deals with the pressing problem of “Sausage hit me, what shall I do?”

But you expect adults, especially parents, to applaud your efforts to keep your marriage alive. But they don’t. Take my friend Daisy, who has a six year old daughter, but who's had no luck getting pregnant with her second child. She’s an obsessive thrift shopper and, I guess, wishes she had a three year old to buy stuff for, because she’s always buying cute outfits for Sausage, but also stuff for Scarlett and me. And she’s always dropping round at odd hours with bin bags full of thrift store stuff for us, which I'm very grateful for. Usually.

But this time John and I were in mid-session when we hear the doorbell. I say, “Oh, it’s probably Jehovahs. They’ll shove off in a moment.”

But it was Daisy, with ten tons of thrift store finds and she wasn’t going away anytime soon. And she kept ringing the doorbell. So John puts on his clothes, goes downstairs and opens the door.

Daisy says, “Bad time?”

He says, “Kind of. We were having a shag.”

Then I hear her get all flustered like he’s just said, “We were having a gang bang upstairs with six Latvians and a horse.”

“It’s just that I wondered if Emma wanted to come to this dinner party I’m going to later.”

So I scream down the stairs. “Yeah, I do. Why don’t you have a cup of tea until we’re done?”

But she was already haring out the door. We thought it was quite funny that she was embarrassed, but actually it was good that she went, because I think I would have found it a bit inhibiting, having her sitting in the front room while we finished off.

Anyhow, later I go round and see Daisy and she says, “You know Emma, I think you should find another hobby instead of sex.”

Daisy’s always talking about sex like it’s a well, and that hers has almost run dry now. For her, sex was great in her twenties, but now she’s kind of lost interest in it. She’s kind of sick of it. Which I don’t get at all, because for me it’s the exact opposite. I don’t think I enjoyed it, I mean, really enjoyed it, until I turned thirty.

“Come on, it’s a great hobby,” I say. “It’s quite energetic and it’s also free.”

“But aren’t you getting a bit obsessed with it?”

“Obsessed? I think three or four times a week is pretty normal.”

“Three or four times a week! I’m lucky if we do it once a month. But seriously Emma, I think you should look for something else to do. I know, what about taking up painting again?”

“Yeah, I might.”

I was a pretty good painter once, and I do sometimes think of starting it up again, but I know that Sausage would just mess up all my paints, so I’m holding off for now.

“I mean, what’s the point of all this sex? There’s no end product.”

I laughed. “Like obsessively buying clothes and plate sets is any more productive.”

I wouldn’t mind if Daisy was a puritanical American, but she’s an Argentinian for God’s sake! She should be laissez-faire about bursting in on her friends having sex.

Frankly, I think sex is one of the most productive things you can do. You usually end up in a good mood afterwards, and more relaxed, with a sunnier outlook on the world. I don’t think there’s anything to beat it. Apart from having a really good meal with excellent wine. That’s pretty much up there with the great sensual pleasures.

But frankly, I don’t get some people’s attitude that it’s a waste of ‘productive’ time. What do you think?

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

I demand to have some booze

Old Sergei Korovin (a Russian painter dude), had it straight when he said: "There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades." He also said, "When someone is asked his opinion of another person, the answer is often, 'I don't know, I haven't drunk with him.'"

How true his words are. Or, let me put it like this: I don't get how people get by without drink.

When I was a youth (or rather lass), at University, I was a pretty heavy drinker. I would quite frequently do 11am until closing time around 11.30pm (taking it slow, mind, with stops for burgers. Also, I wasn't on my own).

Times have changed and I cannot drink as much, but I still say the best times of my life were on alcohol. Oh, people will say, what about giving birth? Well, okay, granted, giving birth was a pretty good experience, but it was painful. Frankly, I could have done with a drink (joke).

There are some people who don't drink. Apart from those who are ex-alcoholics my question is: why? Don't you think life is quite dull enough not to liven it up with the odd pint or gin or whatever you fancy? Sometimes the teetotaller will say, "Oh, I like to stay in control." To which I will also say, "Why?"

When I was a lass, I did frequently get into arguments while drunk, about what, I no longer remember. The last really bad drunk incident I had was a couple of Christmases ago. My husband dropped me and the kids off at this woman's Christmas party. I was in a bad mood and I started to get drunk. I didn't even particularly like this woman (I'll call her Jill) but I violently disliked her husband (I'll call him Bill).

So the guests are all chatting and Bill goes and gets his guitar and acts like some Kids' TV presenter on speed, jumping up and down and saying "Who wants to hear me do Jingle Bells?"

"Oh go on then," someone says eventually, when it becomes clear he isn't going to go away.

So he plays fucking Jingle Bells so badly I could have done better, his voice is bloody awful, he has no rhythm, but because it's Christmas I decide to smile at him.

Then someone makes the mistake of clapping.

He goes on to play one song after the other, one worse than the next, grinning like an idiot. I so want to punch him. Eventually he clears off.

I have a few more drinks and listen to Bill telling someone about how he taught himself Bengali at eighteen.

Now, I know that some of you might think that was incredibly enlightened of him, doing that, but it began to bother me that this godawful bore from Virginia had, for no good reason, decided to teach himself Bengali.

Now, admittedly, as luck would have it, he did eventually end up working in Bangladesh (where they speak Bengali), and marrying a Bangladeshi woman, but he didn't know that initially, and I just reckoned that made him a prat. I could just imagine him at some hoedown in Virginia saying, "I speak Bengali, what do you think of that?"

Anyway, I was getting drunker and drunker, and my kids were out of control and beating up on Bill and Jill's kids.

I can't remember what set me off, something Bill said about wanting to do a PhD in The Linguistics of Sub-Saharan Africa, or something equally up his own posterior, but I do remember suddenly telling his wife in a very loud voice that "Bill is the most pretentious fucking arsehole I've ever met in my life. He's the worst kind of bore. Someone who thinks he's entertaining when he's so not. And someone should take those guitar strings and garrotte him with them." Or something to that effect.

The wierd thing was, Jill didn't argue in his defence. Or even act shocked or appalled. I think she knew he was a total bore, but what was she going to do about it? To be honest, even I realized I'd probably overstepped the boundaries of politeness, but because I had no car with me, I could not leave.

The irony of the situation? Bill, who I am sure heard the whole outburst, offered to give me and the kids a lift. I made stilted polite conversation about Linguistics in Sub-Saharan Africa all the way home.

And now let's turn to you, who I am hoping are a bunch of foul mouthed drunks. Let's have it, your most memorable drunken outburst.

Monday, April 02, 2007

If you go down to the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise

I was walking in the woods yesterday, minding my own business, when I did come across some very tall ladies taking tea. They were mighty fine ladies, having been whisked into this century, or so it did seem, from some time in the past, with their puffed sleeves and upswept hairdos. Quite breathtaking, they were. And how clever they were, too, to have all these little men in red hats running around doing their bidding. The ladies just had to jangle their bells and the little men would jump into action.

These dwarves were forever gardening and making cupcakes and brewing tea and generally scurrying about making themselves useful. It fair made my heart sing, seeing their little community so happily going about its business. Ah yes, thought I, what an upstanding place our planet would be if the men of this world took their rightful place and lived only to serve women, as did these dwarves, instead of wasting time in games of combat, in the growing of huge thumbs manipulating Xbox Controllers, in the viewing of Internet pornography, and in the displaying of masculinity through the remodeling of bathrooms, the visiting of strip clubs and the playing of golf.

As far as I knew, I had not had a hallucinogen slipped into my morning coffee, and thus what I was viewing was indeed reality, and long did I idle near this group of elegant ladies who were taking tea and discoursing in a most civilized fashion. Until, alas, chaos ensued.

It seemed that after all, the dwarves were not so happy with their lot. Suddenly, to my dismay, they formed a cluster and started that most modern of phenomena, a protest. There was much waving about of banners. As with most protests, I don’t think that even the dwarves themselves knew what they were protesting. But they were generally angry little red faced dwarves. And the ladies blew their whistles and tried to resume order in their perfectly ordered world, and thank goodness, eventually they managed it.

I left the scene much bemused and scratching my head, quite perplexed and in need of a stiff drink. And what do you, gentle reader, make of it all? Who were these fine ladies and these fine dwarves? Aliens from another planet or spies or, well, I would love to know how you would interpret these strange events?