Sure I do, stupid

When people say ridiculously stupid things it is sometimes hard to be tolerant and patient. I have a tendency to react with no thought for how abrasive the resulting conversation might seem. This lady spoke to me at a bar and the following unfolded;

Lady: “You look like that guy out of that vampire movie, have you seen that movie?”

Conversational Expert: “No. You look like this chick I saw in a porno that I watched this morning. I really enjoyed it. (Grin) “

Lucky not to get slapped, smug grin when watching for reaction probably did not do me any favors either. I did enjoy the humorous awkward pause as she decided that she no longer wanted to talk to the guy that “looked like” someone famous. She even decided that she no longer wanted to stand near me, nor did she feel like she needed a drink anymore. I did not see her again all night in the bar. I do wonder why people say stupid things then are surprised when someone does not swallow it.

JennyCraig; analogies for the crass

I am about to fart this entry out, with some reluctance. I think it is funny. But I've been wrong before, so if you read this and feel like you can no longer look at me in the same light, you were warned. This is juvenile and crass. A very low form of questionable humor.......

It came to mind after I layed one of the biggest and satisfying cables in the history of laying cables. It was during a "Sizzler" phase I was going through. Every young man has a time in his life when all you can eat restaurants are the most important thing going on. We have all been there. So I ate my self stupid, then abluted. The relief was akin to what I imagine childbirth for the mothers of those aliens from Mars Attacks!. They had really big heads and small bodies.

One of the most memorable poos in history was birthed at my highschool in the dorm. Someone, someone with a large appetite and "liberal" scphincter, deposited an unsinkable turd dubbed affectionately "titanic". It could not be sunk. It lasted a long time. There was a full scale investigation into peoples whereabouts and alibies to ascertain the father of this baby. Whoever did this must have an anatomical abnormality they said. They must put things up there they said. This person must be a strange and therefore socially excommunicated homosexual they said. Needless to say the father was never determined. Not at that point anyway. At the tail end of a particularly voilent college party week, one of our mates owned up to this shit from approx 3 years earlier.

It was like a bomb dropping. I think not a day went by that he did not think about that poo. He had to clear his conscience and come clean and claim paternity of the titanic. We did not judge, only cocked an eyebrow and looked at him and conjured imags of this monumental log and imagined how anyone, let alone this diminutive and ugly young man, could possibly have given rise to it. I know that my heart will go on......

Back to my special poo moment, I wondered if I could ever harness the power of a good poo and pitch ideas to the advertising department at JennyCraig weight loss. They likened the wonderful feeling of wieghtloss to removing a big bag of oranges from their daily carriage. Why not use the feeling of dropping off an unussually large nard as incentive to lose fat.

Fat people understand overeating and I assume the associated over-shitting. They will identify readily with this feeling, put down their fried chicken and ponder the merits of experienceing this feeling perputually rather then just post food and beverage binge ablute time. I am yet to settle on a name for this genius campaign, that will undoudtedly rid the world of obesity. With this razor sharp analogy, and redistribution of fat peoples now uneaten leavings, I will effectively be ending world hunger. Delusions of grandour or a stupidly brilliant solution; lets give it a go and find out.

Is obviously photographing a midget for ones own amusement to be considered a social faux paus?

I think the obvious answer to this question is a resounding yes.

An attempted covert photo on a blackberry that turns into an unintended flash and awkward backwards shuffle away could be considered social suicide. Will I forever be known as the guy who takes photos of midgets? Will I be ambushed by an angry crowd of midgets one day and cop a flurry of furious little blows to the lower half of my body?

Time will tell.

Some of “the crazy” is good for the sanity

First things first, apologies for the weakness and general stinkiness of the last entry. Apart from the picture of Arnie (whom I have to say is pretty compelling in a sort of oddly strange way, despite my heterosexual disposition), the entry was lacking substance. I liken it to the contents of a bucket in a Shawshank-esque solitary confinement cell following befoulment by an Indian sumo wrestler. To say it was not easy to swallow would be understating the stanky factor. But there is always room for improvement when rounding the hornberg.

So with this optimistic sentiment in mind, I will move on to a topic very close to my heart: Jon Bon Jovi songs getting stuck in my head. It is really only ever “Living on a Prayer”, or the titular lyrics from “Blaze of Glory”. But this can be maddening. Don t get me wrong, everyone likes a little bit of Bon Jovi. Everyone with rocks in their head and some kind of drunken donkey playing a wheelie bin as an alternative choice of “music”. So with this clear opinion of Jon Bon Jovi’s music stated I thank my friend who, admittedly inadvertedly, began a downward spiral of ooooooooooohhhhhh we’re half way there…… racing through my brain.

I dislike the idea of a lobotomy so I could see only a few possible methods of defeating this demon. The first two involved vast quantities of beer and travel to far away coastal locations populated by naked or soon to be naked women. My happy place had to be over looked for now as I did not have the time, funds or soon to be naked women at this point. I was at work at the time so masturbation was a risky option I did not want to seriously consider. I searched for more viable methods. Beating something or someone smaller and weaker then me with a blunt object was looming as a really satisfying distraction, but like lobotomies I dislike the idea of forceful anal penetration and the loss of liberty. With all mind altering, violent and sexual forms of release discounted I turned to fighting fire with fire> I turned to you-tube and a hard session of back to back Tool film clips. They are crazier then a chick bogan at the tail end of a Melbourne Cup binge fighting her peers for the last cheeseburger at Maccas. Tool did the trick and distracted me and I said good bye to Job Bon Jovi. Until next time anyway.

But this got me to thinking to things like Britney Spears, George W Bush, Russians, extinction, Bjork, trannies and the plethora of unreasonably absurd and weird things that people seem to be preoccupied with and fascinated by. Everyday "normal" people even sometimes go as far as to act in these abnormal ways themselves. People divert from the norm all the time in order to satisfy something, to feel good, to be complete, to function within bounds they deem to be fulfilling. Mediocrity just does not cut it for a lot of people. In order to maintain some type of sanity, it seems people need injections of insanity. Booze, drugs, art, music, extreme sports; something heightened. Maybe the violence I can understand. But none of this really makes sense if you think about it. Why is not eating, sleeping, working, breeding (repeat until dead) good enough? Don’t get me started on religion. I don’t know the answers to these questions, feel free to answer the question if you like. Some part of me wants to accept 42 as the answer but I need something with more. Something more exciting.




Recently I enjoyed a nice little nighty night out to a jazz club. I would say that the average age was around 65. As me and some esteemed colleagues entered the establishment the aura of our youth hung around us like an exotic and widely sought after cologne. Envious old eyes looked us up and down and hungered for something they knew they would never have again. Never. A more romantic notion might be that they simply saw young people enjoying jazz in cultured surrounds and felt the life surge within themselves in the company of such vigorous youth. Nah, they wanted young ass. I am well aware I will one day feel the sting as they did so I”ll choose to look on the bright side.

One of said geriatrics was a trannvestite. An ugly old man dressed as an ugly old woman with bad dress sense. She/him/it was having a dance and a jolly good old timey wimey. I could not help but wonder at the motivations behind such an obviously abnormal act. I really have nothing against it, apart from aforementioned fears of forceful anal penetration. Anyone can do things I do not subscribe to or understand as long as no ones get hurt. I m speaking of mere curiosity and a drive to attempt to understand. Maybe their act of supposed insanity helps them feel sane, or perhaps it is sane for them.

So, readers, from Jon Bon Jovi annoying the fuck out of me I have very neatly and elegantly segued to forceful anal penetration and trannies.

Thanks for coming.

Jentao: Leturn of the Governator

Having had some time to spend around our Thai brethren i have noticed many subtle things about their culture, their reverence of their monarchy and the depth of their history. It is inspiring. Remarkable.

But in the interest of staying true to misty form, I'll dwell on something that threatened to ruin my professional integrity over here. I nearly lol'd on many an occaision. lol. (note to self: avoid using lol or variations of in blog, causes urges of self destruction...)

Imagine for a moment if you will, if Arnold Swarzenegger had been born a thai person. Imagine how he would talk. You would not understand what he was saying but you would know not to mess with him because of his tone and obvious capability to crush you. He would probably be holding a gun or axe, ripped with muscle having recently saved the day in voilent haste, spouting glorious one liners to punctuate his merciless victories.

I was fortunate enough to be around a thai man for around a week who was blessed with the exact thai vocal counterpart or vocal awesomeness of arnold. Thai people are very peaceful and considerate people. But because of my view that this guy sounded like arni, his mundane thai discussions with his colleagues were interpreted as either offers of salvation such as "come with me if you want to live" or quips about how he just dispatched unwitting mercenary enemies, "...And please, dont wake my friend. He's dead tired".

In an interesting twist this guy actaully looked like Chow Yun Fat. That kind of luck would not go unpunished at home. Imagine if you looked like Sly Stallone and sounded like Clint Eastwood. Or if someone looked like Oprah and sounded like Dame Edna Everage. Some one with this sort of cataclismic resemblance on multiple levels would probably have to move to unchartered island and live in a bucket or something. But this guy just walks around, looking like he could karate chop me to death, while he mouths off about how i should "let off some steam". Really he was just directing me to the soup and being a great host. But a few times i really got lost in the fantasy and could have sworn he was playing it up. Thats what happens when you spend too much time around people who do not speak the same language as you. You become as stupid as the american public and start hearing Arni's voice everywhere.



Of course there was no shortage of misty material in south east asia. It is an insane place full of paradoxes and absurdity, mixed with chilli and a sex trade. Consumed over ice. Watch this space for more tom yum hornberg.

Another Prick and the Wall

Of late I have taken to exercising what is left of my body by running up a mountain. Yes I am a hero. It is a really big mountain and I am a really big man for running up it. But I have met the wall and so far it has bested me.

To me the wall is like a hymen. I am like a clumsy teenager bumbling in this mountains pantie zone. I spend time with the mountain, I warm up and put myself into a position to achieve glorious one ness with the mountain. I am confident, cocksure. I think I am pretty cool, moving along up the gradient, following the luscious smell of seduction ever closer to my peak. Then I meet the hymen. The wall that stops me reaching my goal.

I am sure that I will soon come to a nice silky smooth entry that bypasses this wall. But in the foreseeable future I will be forced to soldier on, work harder and prepare for the bloody moment of triumph, but it will hurt. There will be embarrassment on my journey towards defeating the wall. I will get advice from my more experienced peers and calculate my next manoeuvre. I will try again, I will be left limp and defeated many times before I bust the wall.



One day I will look at the mountain lovingly, insert myself into a nice rhythm and stride confidently to euphoric completion. Until that day wish me luck and hope for the best. For I have taken up one of mans greatest challenges, a noble task, a right of passage, one that I hope will leave me wiser. More mature. But until then expect the wall enforced virginal drivel to continue to flow forth in the misty zone.

Not Dean

If I have a son I will not name him Dean. I would feel like I am somehow limiting his vocation in life. He will never be an academic. He could hardly be Dean Dean Rodriguez. People would call him "the Dean", none will know whether he is an actual Dean or whether he is just a really unique specimen of Dean. This situation would be further complicated by Dean fraternising with other Deans, both academic and otherwise. Apologies for this post, i have been busy.

Since my last post the following ideas have popped up and may surface in the future in a variety of incarnations, so brace yourself:

Jenny Craig weightloss; alternate marketing campaigns

Pivotal moments and the merits of flipping coins

Why State of Origin, Flys and 'Ness are romantic

Fireworks and Shappelle Corbys Flatmate

Sleeping Beauty and the lack thereof

In the meantime will endeavor to keep my powder dry and try to find some time to impregnate this blog with something worth reading. Or probably something that is so not worth reading that you will be compelled to read it.

Midgets and Bigjets

I have had some recent run ins with a local midget. My midget story begins in my first week of moving to this new city. I frequented a local gym as I had/have no friends and needed to fill in time and retain sanity. I was lucky enough to run into a midget on this visit, and many after wards, as it seemed I shared a routine with the big guy.

As a nice lead into this yarn, I was at a Halloween party some months before my move. I was being led around as a gimp, dressed in tight plastic strapped up with chains, when I saw a midget dressed as the devil. I searched my memory for any of my friends that knew a midget and came up zero, so his presence was puzzling to me, I could smell some fun. I knew for damn sure I wanted to meet this pint sized Beelzebub fella. I made my master lead me over to him and was greeted with the drunkest surliest little piece of shit I have ever met. He was good at it too. Cut me down straight away and left me disarmed. All I wanted to do was have some chat with a small devil, maybe learn some dwarfy trivia and then be about my business.

It was only after complaining to the host that a little man made me cry that I learnt that he was hired to do just what he was doing; getting shitfaced and teasing people. Only thing was he thought he was a big person and started drinking glasses of rum that ozzie osbourne would wince at as being too ambitious. He thoroughly succeeded at the drunk part of his role.

Despite his obvious handicap of size the extreme amounts of booze initially only served to make him more brazen and frustrating as an antagonist. So much so that he went too far with a big guy dressed as Buzz Lightyear who proceeded to pick him up and throw him like a bag of cement into the pool. That got a really good reaction from the crowd. This cycle went on for while. The midget would booze, harass, and someone would throw him somewhere. Eventually drunkenness got the better of him and he passed out. But only after we got our monies worth out of the little devil. This is an actual photo of him, his name is max and he is a little c*nt.

















Back to the recent midget….. bearing in mind my previous encounter of midgetness I was a little apprehensive and wary being around a new midget. I d been hurt in the past and was cautious. I had no faith in midget kind at this stage. My gym routine continued to coincide with town midget alpha until I started playing footy and the gym schedule changed a bit. I saw less of him. But fate had other plans for us.

Also consider that he was a really ugly middle eastern looking midget. I was worried about sounding racist saying that but I m clearly not against bagging midgets so why stop there, racism here we come! He was greasy and hairy and ugly, big nose and long face. Middle eastern. Maybe even Turkish.

It started out again with a random sighting down town across a crowded street. To him I might have just seemed like any other reverse-midget, about 6 foot 2, cocky and always looking down on him. But this thought was quickly dispelled by a lightning strike of eye contact between me and the midget. It was electric. I couldn’t handle the power, I had to not only look away but turn away and walk away, trying not to run.

This meant that the little fucker knew what he was doing the past few months. There was recognition written all over his smug little fat ugly face. This meant he was knowingly putting himself near me and continuing to do so knowingly. Little shit. Freaked me right out. I had my first midget stalker.

Moral of the story. Stay away from midgets. I for one prefer the company of inverse or reverse midgets, bigjets if you will. You will find them more likely to be your height, be able to reach things for you and not fuckin stalk you for no apparent reason when you are new in town and freak you the shit out.

Vote one: Anyone tall.

Beards: Natures Make-up

This entry is inspired by the much maligned, the underrated, the always special; beard.

I’ve come to the (maybe misguided) conclusion that beards are the best thing in the world. Nearly, the best. They are in my top five. Please feel free to speculate what my top five would be.

I think the fact the beards exist at all is testament to their superiority, from an evolutionary perspective. Of course there are arguments that spring up to antagonise this but I’ll thank you not to post comments of an anti-beard nature around here. This will result in exclusion from the misty zone.

I think modern society’s tendency to shy away from beards is a new thing. Say in the last 25 years. Imagine how long beards were the bees knees for? Say 25 thousand years. That means anyone who argues against beards is in agreement with 0.001 % of human kind. That means you are wrong.





I think the pinnacle of a good beard is a good bit of colour change. I am biased towards a good bit of ginger. Not all ginger, and certainly not in combination with ginger up top (or below for that matter). A nice sophisticated ginger section. Some people prematurely grey in beardal zone for effect. I think it is supposed to attract the female eye to someone who is special and different and therefore evolutionarily superior. Its like a mane. Its like a deer’s antlers. Its like a crabs claws. And its warm and can act as something to wipe your hands on when cooking naked.

Beards are so special that one could argue that they should not be worn all the time. They are nature’s makeup for men. You should use a beard only for a special occasion. Every man looks, and more importantly feels better with a beard. The confidence and invulnerability factor is not essential to the true beard wearer. He doesn’t need it of course, but feels like sharing this inward sense of awesomeness outwardly. Maybe as a warning. Maybe as an invitation.

Paradoxically, the beard wearers allure maybe increased by the removal of his beard. Do not dwell on this seeming contradiction. This merely proves that the beardy bloke is a double agent, posing in the world of “shavers” to gain intelligence and get a break from the hordes of women he would otherwise have to satisfy.

Think about this next time you see a graceful beard wearer and you will agree, I am sure. Either that or you just read the rant of a man drunk on beardy power, blindly charging into the dangerous world of beard politics and popular opinion.

Nomenclature

Ok. This story is one of the reasons I have written this blog under a pseudonym. I think it makes for good reading, but potentially volatile career wise and some people may not appreciate the sense of humour in some cases.

But first of all I felt I needed a name. This little piece of silly was written in a crowded bus after a weeks skiing etc in Queenstown. I felt I was being pretty normal sitting there writing calmly into a PDA, but in retrospect probably looked like some sort of deranged bum grinning manically into my palm occasionally looking around furtively for conspirators.
____________________________________________________________________
Bored on the bus trying to think up names for my possible blog alter ego, this in itself could constitute an entry.....

Dr. Cool McTuff: has all the elements I want but lacks subtlety and technically I am not a true md yet.

Grobag: again, contains some elements that hint at the filth etc that will surely follow, but I have used it in the past and may face legal battles if I re hash.

Porthos: the character always intrigued me, un original but worth a mention.

Padraig Rodriguez: always been curious what a red moustached spic would be capable of; would he use his power for good or silly? Potentially the best or worst of both worlds, would explain a lot if you think about it.....

Pugrand: made it up, sounds sort of like a glorified down syndrome stunt double. "Quick, Pugrand, run in front of that train and narrowly avoid death so (insert short actors name here) doesn't fill his nappy". Cousin to Pigrand, brother of Pugrette.

I think the tween next to me read some of that, she edged away for no reason.

Ultra bored, sorry in advance, but if I am going to have a good mental spew I need a fitting name.
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And that is how to fill in time on a bus. But as usual, I have another tangent to explore. Namely, the name of this entry and the name of this blog. Leads me to a good natured story of whimsy and good old fashioned romance. A tale for the whole family.

I had the good fortune to escort a colleague (an actual colleague, not just someone from my life who would cave in my head with a tyre iron for mentioning this story in a public accessible forum….) to a place that has good food and service and wine. A restaurant. She was charming, I was awkward. We discussed weighty contemporary issues and I felt that I did have a place in my heart for this person. Consider this noble sentiment later on in this recounting and it will sooth your venomous thoughts about my depravity. So the evening continued. I had “borrowed” a work vehicle to allow me to follow social forms when escorting the lady about town. Opening doors, laying my coat in the mud so she could keep her booties clean, that sort of stuff.

So the romance was reaching a crescendo. I was dropping the lady back to her car at our place of work so she could return home to rest and reflect on her night of good clean conversation and ponder the future. But aforementioned romance was creeping in and suffocating us both as we sat and said our respectful goodbyes. I leaned in and almost brotherly pecked the lady goodnight, as a gentleman would. She was understandably flushed and demurely backed away from my advances. So sitting in this dark car park, at work in a work vehicle feeling dejected and more then a little heartbroken I was caught by surprise by this lady.





She pounced like a starving cheetah. This gazelle was, willingly, I’ll admit, caught in the clutches of a wild animal that wanted to gorge. All rational thoughts of security guards and becoming a headline due to my sex related dismissal from work faded from my mind as this gorgeous animal tore me to shreds. In the restricting confines of the work car front seat clothes were efficiently discarded where necessary and a comfortable, though unconventional posture was achieved. A load bearing part of this was my hand on the steering wheel. I felt pretty cool at this stage. It was a very cold night and the car was fogged up to the max. giving the space a “misty” feel. Yes, that’s my link to the title. Very very flimsly I know.

Back to the misty cabin. Things went very well. The “meeting” in the carpark was a success, all parties were happy. I had to take a half time break and take an unpanted walk to seclusion to relieve myself. This, combined with the rocking of the car was starting to make me wary of detection. But I pushed these thoughts aside and resumed my work in the work car in the carpark of work. This was not very late at night, it was silly. But comfortableness with the load bearing steering wheel playing, you got it, the third wheel (!) was achieved once again. Now, as happens in events of this nature, an end had to occur. I am only human after all and this woman was driving me crazy. In a moment of lunacy, as things peaked for me, I moved my hand from the top of the steering wheel to the horn. So, imagine my feelings at this stage.

I felt immense pleasure, gut wrenching surprise as to why my climax had resulted in a really loud horn going off and as I realised what was happening, fear. I had visions of a security guard coming to find two half naked sweaty employees in a work vehicle after hours forced, grinning to give them up to the FBI for questioning. But above all I felt happy and thought this was hilarious. It was an accident, but I think that deep down some part of me must have known that it would be hilarious to adjust my hand at that exact moment and cause the panic.

The look on the ladies face was a twisted reflection of my sentiments. She had more of the fear I think. She was still beautiful, laughing and throwing her clothes on expecting at any second to be invaded by an old man carrying a torch. I was hysterically convulsing with laughter by now, defending my innocence.

No one got the sack that day and the title of a blog was born.

Anonymous Etiquette and Embracing Nihilism

Despite aforementioned resolutions to spare you the mundane details of my life I have decided to include a very hateable polar opposite. A dream sequence. Yes, I am also sometimes annoyed by those dickheads who feel compelled to divulge the details of their dreams and expect some ground breaking insight that will somehow make them stop pissing the bed or whatever their problem is. Having studied psychology I get this occasionally. About half the time I mess with the person who decides to push this particular button. You would do the same. Anyway, I just spent my first night in my brand new chocolate leather bed. Yes it is as cool as it sounds. But I think some Malaysian children must have died during its construction or something as I think it is haunted. I had a very vivid disturbing dream right before I woke up.

The dream took me a couple of coffees to shake off, the mojo of it really stayed with me. The dream involved me looking down at a toddler version of myself listening and feeling an intense sense of anticipation, like I was about to hear some prophetic news that would somehow be pivotal to my existence. This twisted visage of myself, that was really a combination of present day me and toddler me (yes, ugly), informed me (with the backing music as Madness: Welcome to the house of fun) in a solemn speech that all he wanted was to grow up to grow a moustache and a mullet. No shit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6ruVqtPVPA

I woke up and immediately pondered the meaning of this and came to the conclusion that it did not mean shit. It was a nothing dream with no implications. Anyone will tell you I like moustaches, no surprises there. The mullet and toddler thing, fucks me. It doesn’t mean shit. And I can t even remember the last time I heard that song. And this is where I got snagged. The dream didn’t mean anything, it is gone and leaves nothing more then a memory. And I thought, how is this any different from my life and the lives of those around me. I m not really that depressive and cynical. But a real nihilistic mood caught me this morning. Sure it did not manifest in anything more then me walking around the house nude a bit, not caring about anything. I had some coffee, perked up and put some clothes on. The mood passed.

But this nihilism intrigues me. And the only way I think most of us embrace it is when we are in anonymous situations. Then we truly do not give a fuck about anything and this in some ways is a beautiful thing. Of course I am not a nihilistic public masturbator. I nearly typed that I am normal, but didn’t for risk of losing all credibility. But I obey societies rules usually.

That dream may seem like a rickety segue into the filth that follows, but hey. I got to thinking on a regular social situation that comes up in most of our lives, involves anonymity and definitely involves letting go. Imagine a workplace. Say an office with about 15 colleagues or so. Everyone knows everyone, at least a bit. You are not anonymous usually. But in the bathroom when the cubicle doors are shut, you and the person next to you are anonymous. You start out a little shy, letting it all out slowly. Maybe a little sneaky squeaky one sneaks out. You might even have to cover your mouth to stop a burst of laughter. I’ve heard of people going to extreme lengths to ensure they avoid all audible noises. Taking the cake are the stories where a standoff has occurred. Neither wants to unload for risk of exposing themselves as a loud and therefore disgusting toilet user. Longest stand off I’ve heard of is nearly an hour. Imagine the hellish packages these two must have been anticipating (and the pain of resistance) to go for so long without doing their stuff. And these were blokes, imagine the female reactions, feel free to comment.




This stand off situation is best avoided by a Hiroshima effort as soon as you get in there. Blow the friggin base out of the toilet as soon as possible, end the war. Pre-emptive strike. Maybe even groan a little or whistle if you are particularly impressed with yourself. This will make your colleague feel relaxed and facilitate an economical dunny session. But, back to the point, the anonymity is the key here. All this flawless etiquette logic goes out the window if you both finish up at the same time and wink at each other while you are washing your hands. Try it out both ways and see which one ends well.

I feel really good about sharing this insight with the world. I feel like I have somehow contributed. Imagine how many people will be relaxed during work toilet sessions because of this. Millions.

No sex in this entry. No booze or drugs in this entry. Just a creamy shot of my brain juice for you to swallow down. It is running down your chin………

My day did improve.

Me one, kittens nil.

Darkness and Drama leads to Masturbatory Madness

This is the first of many. It isn't the answer to all the questions you have. You will learn more as this sulphorous burp of an entity takes form and becomes who knows what. I feel I should voice some sort of disclaimer at this point, but this would be futile.

I resolved not to make this blog an irreverent retelling of events in my daily life somewhat like a diary; but, here we are. . . . . . .

Boo Hoo, I am having a shocker. As we do when things don’t go quite right we reflect on times when things have really not gone down the way we want. I am in that place right now. In so doing I have brought to mind, somewhat painfully, sometimes hilariously, events from my past that were relatively catastrophic social, mental or personal disasters to make myself feel a little better about todays trivialities.

I’ll wade into the filth straight away and set the benchmark high. I masturbated a lot at college. I had a girlfriend but I also had unlimited hardcore porn on tap. Not just run of the mill in out in out porn, but witty, funny social commentaries that allowed me to learn life lessons and enjoy the show. And how I watched.

By far my most memorable, if not my most enjoyable, porn viewing moment occurred on a day that was like most others of that era. I rose, slightly hungover from a snake-pit session, around mid morning to waddle naked through the hallways of our college blocks to the communal shower. I enjoyed a relaxing shower while listening to music that flowed from my room down the hall. It was about this time that I felt I deserved a bit of, “me”, time. Still wet and naked I headed to my esteemed colleagues room down the hall (opposite and at the opposite end) whom I knew to be a motivated and conscientious physio student who would surely be attending his lectures like a good young man. Being owned by a good student, this room was equipped with a plush computer, perfect for blasting high quality hard core entertainment my way. I found some suitable material and settled into a nice rhythm. It is probably a good time to also point out that we were on the second floor of a series of 2 x 8 room blocks arranged in a square around a central quad.

I have quite lazy eyes, not like dope fiend lazy but pretty chilled out. Sitting naked in my friends room, slowly rocking myself to climax, I m pretty sure my eyes nearly popped out of my head that day when I heard him trying the knob on his door. I could feel the cogs of his confusion turning; he left his room unlocked like usual but now it was locked and he could hear a nasty American college slut asking him to do unthinkable things with his big fat cock. He got a little vexed. He huffed and puffed about how he knew it was me and how he was going make me pay for deflowering his innocent bedroom. I did some quick mental arithmetic at this point and this is what I got:

Me + nude + porn + capture + angry moustached mate = naked erection male beating and massive, possibly career ending embarrassment. The vision was motivating.

In a moment of supposed clarity I saw my escape. So out the window I went, bare arse naked, aroused and very, very scared. I lowered myself out the window, which under the strain of my engorged weight broke, shattered, showering my naked self in glass on the fall down to the quad below. This scene sees me holding a broken window frame, naked, bloody and still hard lying spread eagle in the quad. I rallied and ran around the other stair well into my room and slammed the door. Safe. Undetected. Of course my esteemed colleague knew full well it was me which he screamed at my door for a good ten minutes. After I deflated myself and surfaced we had a mature discussion about why I shouldn’t beat it in others rooms and how windows cost money and that an erection does not give one a licence to kill. I eventually came (to see the point of his argument)…..



Back to reality. I have matured (?) and grown into a monkey doing a job like everyone else. It has been 8 years since I was last caught in a compromising position touching myself. I wonder if that is an appropriate measure of success? Why do I feel like a part of some niche group therapy session; “Public Wankers Anonymous”.

But I digress; the day is still young and hopefully with luck will improve. Fortunately for me there is still time for telling new stories, sharing new ideas and new spurts of thick creamy insight.