I Love You All So Much

Dear Fans and Friends,

(This is a letter written as if I am a celebrity because I feel like I will be soon, why I don't know, just a feeling)...

As 2007 draws to a close, I would like to thank you all so much for buying my CD and my book called Poor Little Self-Centred Bitch Trod On Everyone To Get To The Top, making me very rich and allowing me to have imported chunks of glacier ice in my scotch and allowing me to have very attractive rent boys servicing my every need day and night. Thank you.



To Master Bates who sent me the multi functional sex toy kit...can I just say...



thank you so much! I spent all of Christmas putting it together and it really made my Christmas go with a bang.


I also gave the nanny the day off for an hour last Saturday so I could pose for these loving photos with my kids (what are their names again??)

Also, I know that so many of you have asked for my breasts when you go to have plastic surgery and that the EmmaK Smile® is now the most requested smile surgery in LA. But I do have my off days, just like you. I do have periods too, although the blood is scented with my signature perfume Musk d'Emma.

To prove that I can sometimes look almost ordinary, I give you the photo below. This is a great fun competition, so please can you put a humorous caption beneath it. Prizes include many copies of Poor Little Self-Centred Bitch Trod On Everyone To Get To The Top plus gallons of Musk d'Emma.


And now all there is to say is I love you all so much. If I could I would sleep with every one of you (provided you'd had an HIV test first and wore a full body condom).

May 2008 be full of blessings,

Emma
xxxx

The Evolutionary Function of the Clitoris?

So, there was this anthropologist bloke at Harvard called Frank Marlowe, and all the other anthropologists wanted to gouge his eyes out. Why? Because he had somehow managed to wangle a research grant to study the important subject of Why Do Most Men Prefer Big Tits?

Down the pub his friends would glare at him with barely concealed loathing.

"Look at many tits today did you, for your research?" one older prof sporting knee socks and sandals would ask.

"A couple of dozen," Marlowe would reply, smug as you like.

"Big ones?" another sandal wearer would ask.

"Pretty big, yeah."

"You bastard!" one of the graduate students would cry, lunging for Marlowe's throat. "And here's me, having to slave away on my dreary topic, The Extinction of the Australian Pygmies. I'll kill you!"


Once the grant money ran out, old Frank had to publish a paper to justify his, er, research. So he comes up with an evolutionary theory that in ancestral times there were no calendars and women had no concept of time. Since ancestral man relied on visual clues including hip to waist ratio to indicate good fertility, he was largely left scratching his head when he saw a tasty looking bird with nice hips and a tiny waist. His question was always, "Should I bother shagging this lady if she is old (i.e. over sixteen), and consequently maybe not end up with an heir? How the hell can I tell how old she is?"

The answer, which was staring Marlowe in the face, was this: Small tits don't sag so much over time, so are no indicator of age, whereas big ones do sag with age. Consequently, men were attracted to women with big firm tits because they indicated they were young and fertile. Er, right. Well, I suppose it's a convincing enough theory, only, why, via evolution, didn't small breasted women did out if less men wanted to do them? I'll save you another few years 'research' shall I Frank, it's because (most) men will shag anything (female).

I got this info from a book called Why Beautiful People Have More Daughters (yes, no need to point out that I am beautiful and have two daughters, and I'm sure would have had dozens more daughters had husband not had the snip).

Someone else in the book had done research on why humans are the only mammals to have a bell end on the end of their knobs. It is because human females have always been promiscuous, and the combination of thrusting and the wedge on the end of the penis pulled down and expelled much of the sperm ejaculated by the last guy who'd been inside the lady. Please don't ask me how this research was conducted.



Now then, if there are any evolutionary psychologists out there I need you to do a paper on The Evolutionary Function of the Clitoris. If, as some scientists claim, the tremors of female orgasm suck sperm up to the egg, ergo female orgasm is useful if not essential for reproduction, why in the name of God or whoever invented it, is the clitoris the diameter of a pencil eraser and why does it require considerable dexterity to stimulate it? Did primal man stimulate the clitoris while thrusting and expelling the last guy's sperm or did the cave woman stimulate herself? Answers on a postcard please.

Relight My Fire

I wrote an email to one of my oldest friends, Fiona, the other day, who I met on the first day of University. We've been through thick. We've been through thin. We've held each other's hair back while we barfed after a bender, I helped her though an affair with a married man, a work affair that backfired when the guy kept demonstrating the noises she made during orgasm (without being asked to) in the tearoom where they both worked, and she saw me through an obsessive affair with a novelist and a mixed bag of nutcases. We also shared a flat in London and had quite a laugh.

Back in the early nineties, she was quite into Take That. Now, I thought they were pretty naff back then. But fifteen years on, well, for some unknown reason, they now seem quite cool. Or maybe it's simply that I have recently developed this lust for buff young men. Of course, Take That really aren't that young any more. But the point is this: Fiona, who still lives in England, failed to inform me that Take That had reformed and that they were touring. And now I'm not at all sure we are still friends. See email exchange below:

Dear Fiona,

John (my husband) just said to me yesterday, "Did you know Take That have reformed?" I thought he was yanking my chain. I said, "Don't be daft. If they had, Fiona would have told me and we'd have gotten tickets."


Investigating this awesome news I fear I am about two years too late.

But do you know if they are still touring and when we can go and see them as middle aged hags? I am serious, I would like to go. Who cares if Robbie is too proud to be involved with Gary Songs?

Please look into this, it is very important.

She replied:

I fear I have been hideously remiss in not telling you about this as I work on the Take That website. Yes, 'tis true. They have reformed and had Number Ones with new songs, won a Brit award and done/are doing monster tours etc.

However, in my defence, it is pretty pointless trying to get tickets - the most recent lot sold out in about 1.2 seconds. Seriously, I've had hundreds, nay thousands, of emails from sad mums like us saying they were on the phone for eight hours trying to get through to ticket hotlines to no avail. Also, loads paying £400 for tickets on Ebay only to find it's a con (come on ladies, who knew?!) I suspect the only way you could possibly swing it is to buy tickets for a foreign gig, although this tour is also sold out.

It seems we must dream on for a while but why not treat yourself to the new album (Beautiful World) for Xmas - they've still got it you know!

Fiona
x


Dear Fiona

I will treat myself to the album.

As for getting tickets, couldn't you sleep with Gary Songs, maybe he has a MILF fetish?? ;)

WE WILL MAKE THIS DREAM REALITY

Love
Emma
xxx

Now I find myself feeling like I really have to have those Take That tickets. Any (legal) ideas?

Hands Off My Husband!

So, Friday night, Scarlett says can she go caroling with a group of her friends. As soon as I discovered that I would not have to supervise the event I said, yes, of course. So I take her to a house nearby with what passes for normal decorations, even in middle class suburbia i.e: a see through plastic snow globe the size of a man, with a dancing penguin inside, piped music playing So Here It Is Merry Christmas and two human sized blow up Snoopy's wearing Santa hats balanced perilously on the roof.


Anyway, the mother who answers the door had done a fantastic job of avoiding the fashion police. I was going to say: "This is a citizen's arrest for three counts of screaming fashion disasters, namely 1. knitted red headband with snowflakes on it holding back hair 2. earrings shaped like Christmas baubles 3. red sweater with glittery bits and reindeer motif." Instead I said, "Is it all right if I just drop Scarlett off for the carolling party?"

"Oh?" said Baubles with a frown. "So you're not coming? I think it's going to be great fun."

"Yes, I'm sure it'll be fun, but ..." mind scrambles for an excuse.

Baubles peers at me as I notice screaming fashion disaster 4. bright red lipstick on a ruddy slightly chapped face. "Actually, you look a bit ill. Are you ill?"

The cheeky cow! No, I was not ill, but that was obviously the only excuse that was going to get me out of this. So I said, cough, cough, "Yes actually, I do have the flu, so I'd best be off. Don't want to infect the kids you know!" and hastily shoved Scarlett in the door.

When I got home I noticed that my husband was dressed in a suit and a wine red shirt and looked pretty damn hot if I do say so myself. He was going to his office Christmas party later which I wasn't going to. Later, when he went to pick up Scarlett, he told me that some of the mums had been drooling over him.


"I suppose it was because I was dressed up nice while their much older husbands were lolling about, guts straining against festive sweaters."

"No doubt," I said.

I suppose I should be pleased that I am living with the hottest bit of man meat in suburbia. But I'm not, because I'm a miserable sod.

I wonder if some of these desperate housewives will start popping round with the excuse of wanting to swap some great new cookie recipe when actually just wanting to ogle my husband?

For a laugh, I asked him if he'd do any of those mums, but he said he wouldn't because none of them are attractive enough. But I think what was really putting him off was those sweaters. Go on, I dare any of you to get aroused thinking about a man or woman in one of those godawful sweaters. See, you can't do it can you?

Go Elf Yourself

"Oh Sausage! How many times have I told you not to take pizza from strange squirrels!"

Disciplining kids has never been my strong point, but my four and a half year old, nickname Sausage, has got me so under the thumb that I had to do something to quash the miniature tyrant.

Yes I did try to overlook the dozens of times she has painted on walls. Also the time she drew pictures of flowers in lilac nail polish on my bed.

Excuse: "I couldn't find any paper."

She also outsmarted my mum who was staying with us recently, in a very funny incident. Sausage has this tendency to say to people suddenly, "I hate you! I don't want to be your friend any more!"

So eventually my mum got fed up with it and said back to Sausage, "Well, I hate you too! I'm fed up with you saying you hate me and I'm leaving, right now," and she pretended she was leaving, opened the front door and slamming it behind her.

Sausage proceeded to open the door and say, "Wait, wait!"

My mother turns back, thinking Sausage is going to apologise maybe, but Sausage just says, "Wait! You forgot your suitcases!"

Genius!

But her crafty little mind was not so amusing yesterday when she hid my wallet for twelve hours, driving me frantic looking for it. At six in the evening she 'found' it. When I asked her who had put it there she said, "A ghost maybe?"

At that point I lost my patience and did what any sane person would.

"Right," I said, picking up the phone. "That's it. I'm calling Santa."

Sausage: "Nooooo! Don't call Santa."

"Hello? Is that Santa? He's busy? Well can I talk to one of his elves? Yes I'll hold."

Sausage, pulling at my skirt, "Nooooo!"

"Hello, am I speaking to an elf? Okay, well I need to tell you that Sausage has been misbehaving and she's not to receive any presents this year."

Sausage: "Noooooo! I'll be good. I want presents."

I put down the phone and my older daughter Scarlett said, "Wow, you talked to an elf?"

"Yeah, he had a very squeaky voice. He basically said that if Sausage is not nice between now and Christmas all she's getting is a boiled egg in the end of her stocking."

Amazingly, this has worked. Sausage was very nice all day today and even made everyone breakfast. Still, twelve days to go and I am willing to follow through with the boiled egg should the situation not improve.

Those of you who are parents phone Santa and the Elves with this kind of threat don't you? I feel very smug that I have at last outwitted Sausage.

For now.

Also, to see me as an elf or to go elf yourself go here.

I Dream of the Fat Man

Today I woke from a strange dream where I was having a raging affair with Rab C. Nesbitt. Actually, it wasn’t quite as bad as me being turned on by a fat man in a string vest, because my lover was more the actor who plays Rab, Gregor Fisher, rather than the überslob himself.


I do remember his rather drab brown clothes hanging over a chair (the trousers were those polyester ones that go shiny with wear at the knees), while Gregor sat on my bed naked, his gut hanging between his legs like a pregnant belly, tears coursing down his face as he rambled about how he couldn’t live without me. In this dream I was in love with Gregor too and, I believe, turned on by him, gut and all. Anyway, the point is that I have always considered myself a fairly superficial person, so I was impressed that I had a fat lover in my dream.

I told my husband about the dream and asked, “What do you think attracted me to portly TV actor Gregor Fisher?”

“His bank balance?” he replied.

Blast him! Actually, I think he’s wrong, I truly believe that I have become less shallow.

Now, it’s not so hard to understand how my subconscious cooked up that dream. Firstly, I watched this documentary the other night about an American Fat Camps for kids, which was strangely uplifting. I’d been expecting myself to hate these kids or at least hate their parents for making them this way and keeping huge packs of chips around the house. But I found myself really feeling empathy with them, even the sixteen year old boy who was 350lb. They were all simply sensitive kids who had blocked out their negative feelings about themselves with food. And then the hell had really started, because they’d started getting picked on at school for being fat and consequently eaten more.

Most of the kids dropped forty or fifty pounds by the end of the summer and felt better about themselves, but most of them had put it all back on by the next summer. The saddest girl was Tammy, who was only a bit chubby, 5ft 2 and 145lb, but in comparison to the rest of the girls she was thin, and all the guys were hitting on her. And she said, “When I’m at school no one notices me, no one hits on me. And in a way I like it that boys are after me here, but in a way I just want to crawl back into my hole.” At the end of the summer she had got down to 130lb but still hated the way she looked and told one guy, “I look disgusting.”

The other component which created the sex with Gregor Fisher dream was skim reading a book in a bookstore by Catherine Millet called The Sexual Life of Catherine M., in which an upper middle class French intellectual chronicles, in rather uninteresting fashion, her experiences of sleeping with hundreds of men, one on one as well as in orgies. She didn’t really know why she did it, not did she particularly care. But I did want to know her motivations and actually, I reckon I do know why. She didn’t care what the guys looked like, fat or thin, short or tall, she was mainly into their penises, and manipulating and pleasuring the penis and got an incredible thrill every time she was told she gave the best BJ ever. Her fascination for penises was somewhat obsessional, and she went into detail about all the penises she’d known, the minute differences between them and how each type of penis had to be wanked off with a different technique: the short fat ones, the circumcised, the uncircumcised, the long ones with not much foreskin, the ones with a lot of foreskin etcetera etcetera.

At this point my head began to spin. Are there really different masturbation techniques for each type of penis? Wow, I never knew that, and quite frankly, couldn’t care less if there are. However, this woman is clearly an expert wanker and I bow to her expertise. Her appreciation of the penis simply knows no bounds.

Dear Catherine, we are chalk and cheese. I am a pretty artistic person who appreciates beauty in all its forms, and yet, I don’t think a penis is especially beautiful, nor for that matter, a vagina, and have rarely, if ever, stared at one for long enough to commit its every contour to memory. In fact, I doubt I could pick my husband’s penis out of a line up, nor, alas, my own vagina. Catherine Millet, however, could probably have sketched all the penises from her past from memory!

What was interesting was that she was extremely submissive to men and lived to service them and got great pleasure out of it without expecting or needing any emotional intimacy from them. I had often wondered whether truly subservient women really exist, and Catherine Millet proved that they do. I mean, sure, many men dominate women, forcing them to be subservient to their whims and sexual needs, but I don’t know if women who live mainly to please men sexually are commonplace. If you are a man, have you ever met such a woman who was totally unselfish and in fact got most of her pleasure from satisfying you?


Oh and by the way, sorry guys, I don’t have Catherine's phone number. But I have posted her pic so that if you are ever at an orgy in Paris you will know who to go to for the best BJ. Glad to be of service!

And lastly, have you ever had sex with any odd people in your dreams?

With this ring I end up in ER

Firstly, (drum roll) may I announce the winners of the caption competition (see previous post). All the entries were the dog's bollocks, but of the assorted obscenities these two tickled my funny bone the most:

First prize and a stained dressed goes to Gorilla Bananas for:

Hillary: "Eat it Rover, it's caused him enough problems!"

Second prize and three cigars for each oval orifice goes to Madam Spud for:

Bill: "Oh what a sweet dog, reminds me of a bitch I once had called Monica."

Now then, things seem to be getting very desperate in the UK at the moment. Yes, I know you lot have problems, like you know, your housing market has crashed and many of you have nowhere to live. And I am well aware that some of you have been ripping out your own teeth because you can't afford a dentist. And yes, I know I recommended carving up melons and the like to make your own cheap sex toys in an earlier post. But when I put up that picture of using a bit of PVC pipe to put your manhood in, I was only semi-serious.
I hope I am not responsible for this unfortunate individual in Manchester getting his knob stuck in a piece of metal piping he no doubt tripped upon while doing some, er, DIY. Or maybe it was part of a loving marriage ceremony where he married his penis. "With this ring I thee wed." Whatever it was, don't emulate it. I never thought a skinflint like me would say this, but I will: If you don't know what constitutes a safe homemade sex toy please buy a sex toy from a licenced sex shop.


I'm afraid I simply can't get my head around this. I mean, what do you think this man was doing regarding the bit of pipe he stuck on his penis? No doubt he put it on his flaccid member. And then, after arousal, it was a case of "Oh dear, I didn't realize my penis would swell up like that and hurt like hell. Oh dearie me."

Shakes head and goes off to lie down in a dark room.

Get on your knees and be witty

I swiped this picture from the divine Meva's blog. I'm running it as a caption competition, so send me your funniest lines. The best I could come up with was: "I did not have sex with that dog."


Monica Lewinsky (who now has her own Barbie doll) will be helping me judge the entries. There will be tons of cigars up for grabs. And a few stained dresses too ... so put your thinking caps on folks and send me your entries!!

A Lost Generation

I was at my daughter's school the other day to pick her up from after school Spanish and I felt like all the other moms were judging me. Well, okay, so I did look like a silly teenager, hair all over the shop, scuffed trainers and flared jeans (I know they went out two years ago but if I wore skinny jeans I'd look like a sausage). So I was shying away from them like, "Who are you with your double garage two minivans full time professional mommy who likes to bake cupcakes and is as dull as dishwater, who are you to judge me? I, who is oh so radical...."

When it began to dawn on me, out of the blue, that I am actually not as rad as I was. Or maybe I never was. And it made me wonder if I am part of a trend. A trend of messed up children of hippies who have now become conservative even though they fight it, kicking and screaming. Why else such a swing in American politics to the right? Are not so many right wing politicians in their forties the poor disillusioned hippie kids, expressing their pain, and trying to turn off, tune out and drop in?


How many kids, I began to wonder, were a victim of the hippie experiment, where adults were all about self fulfillment, sexual experimentation and smashing social constructs? And of course, our moms and dads were told, if you got divorced and found a new partner, of course the kids would understand, because you were happy, so your kids would be happy. Only invariably you weren't any happier in the new marriage and the kids were often not happier either.

This dawned on me this weekend when I realized I had become a conservative. What happened was that my four year old, Sausage, went on a sleepover with her friend Sally, at her mom Tiffany's house. Now Tiffany is wild, crazy and free and I love her, but when I picked up Sausage the following day, I said, "Well, she seems awfully tired." Tiffany said, "Yes, well, I put them in a tent in the sitting room in front of the TV and I guess they must have watched DVDs all night. I was woken by them fighting at 3 am and I finally went down and turned off the lights and told them it was time to go to sleep."

Before I had kids, I would have thought, what a wonderfully forward thinking way to deal with kids, to let them camp in the front room and police themselves. But now I just caught myself thinking "What were you thinking, letting two four year olds decide when to go to sleep?"

I was rather shocked at my attitude. Because I knew so many kids when I was small (I lived with my mom, my dad wasn't really around), who danced around to pan pipes all evening, naked or semi-clothed, who sat around chatting with adults until the early hours. Later the kids became teenagers and smoked dope with their parents. The parents were mostly divorced, mostly very liberal, and yet many of the children seemed lost.

And I started to think about how maybe the whole hippie business was a giant mistake. I mean, yeah, it was good that society was shaken up, but it just created a me society. Also, feminism created a me society. Yeah, it has some benefits of course, but didn't it mainly make women more selfish? The funny thing about it too is that I would argue that it hasn't made women happier than when they were tied to the kitchen stove. Freer, yes. Happier, no.

All I'm saying is I think our generation was done something of a disservice. For our parents it was all about, please yourself, find yourself. Only no one thought about what happens when you find yourself and you don't like yourself, as is so often the case.... and what your responsibilities were to the children.