You ain't no hollerback girl, Mum

Earlier this year, we farewelled The Golden Child, as he headed off to the Land of the Rising Sun to teach English.

He & his best friend detail their exploits here, however I can sum it up for you quite quickly; beer; women; drinking; touristy stuff; sake; bars; missing last train; drinking. I also think there might be some teaching of English in there somewhere, but don't quote me.

In one of his latest posts, he has declared that he is in love with one of his Japanese girlfriends. Halleluja! It's about time the kid got lucky in love.

However, whilst the remains of our family sat around and discussed this latest overseas development; The Mothership was just sitting there with a pained look on her face, unable to say anything. I could see that she was really struggling with something, so I asked her what was wrong...

And The Mothership, bless her little heart, came out with this:

"Martie, he hasn't got himself one of those Harry Juku girls, has he???"



Fuck Me. Even my mother has been bitten by the Gwen Stefani bug. This shit is b-a-n-a-n-a-s

The Weekend in Brief

Oh Yeah.



Saucy



Freaky



HoTT!



Smoochy



Blah



Cured



Hello.....




It's always good when one's best friend comes to visit.

Many thanks to everyone - y'all have fabulous willpower & I'm endeavouring to be exactly like you - just after this weekend...

Martie xxx

Hands up if you can.....

Hands up if you can:

1 - Suck a Strawberries & Cream lifesaver until the very end, without biting.

2 - Eat an Arnotts Chocolate Royal biscuit (you know, the ones with the puffy marshmallow all covered in chocolate), without smashing it on your head first.

3 - Walk past Mrs Fields without succumbing to the temptation of Macadamia Brownies

4 - Resist keeping $2 coins at work so that you are unable to empty snack machine of Malteasers.

5 - Go to Safeway without visiting lolly aisle and purchasing akin-to-lovemaking-chocolates Ferrero Rochers

6 - Withstand the pressure that, cheese, lovely cheese places upon you. Especially when it wants to get jiggy with some corn chips and sour cream.

7 - Eat something other than Microwave Popcorn for dinner.

8 - Walk past the Baileys that is eyeing you off on the bench, without stopping to taste it's creamy goodness.


FUCK!! I AM A CRAP EMOTIONAL EATER

*smashes head*

*with another biscuit*

Too Little Too Late

Ever had one of those moments, where you realise something but it's just too late? Well, welcome to my world, Monday 22nd August, 10:30pm.

Prior to this, I was feeling all:


and



and



and



and



and



Ok, maybe Jonathan Brown and the Vodka are going a little overboard, but hey, we're talking about things that make me happy. BABY GOATS AND LOVE HEARTS AREN'T GOING TO DO IT ALL, OK?


Prior to Monday 22nd August, 10:30pm, I thought I was falling in love with Jungle Boy.

However, due to TWO Ex-Fucker stalking incidents last week, he's now gone all

And by that, I mean cold, not homicidal maniac-y. I mean he's all "I'm not dealing with this; this is too hard; fuck off and leave me alone you baggaged up bitch".

Oh, damnation! Why do I let the Ex-Fucker run my life? If I had spent more time thinking about Jungle Boy, and less time worrying about what Ex-Fucker had to say, I would have realised that Jungle Boy is all

(yes, ghey rainbows even)

and




And now, I'm all


and


So look out anyone that wants to ring me this afternoon.


I'm never going near another boy again.

Me and Posh, are like, totally connected...

I read with amusement the news that Posh Spice has never read a book in her life.

Shoot me down with a bundle of sticks people - this is hardly surprising news, is it not?

Now, don't get me wrong. Back in the days of "Who do you think you are" and "Stop", Vicks (we're close, ok?) was probably my fave Spicey. (Incidentally, they are two of the best songs to do action dancing to, ding). But I refuse to believe that she's never actually READ a book. What about school? What about her kids? What about hers and Dave-o's books? She never even checked them out for proof reading???

Reading further down, it becomes apparent that she's planning on terrorising the world with another Beckham offspring. She's crossing her fingers it's a girl; so she can help her with her make-up, choose clothes with her and help her paint her nails. I'm totally there with her. It's always been my dream to let my (hypothetical) five year old dress up like a mini-britney skank, and help her pile on the make up with a trowel. While I'm at it, I daydream about chucking my little girl in a tanning spray booth, just so she can get that perfecto orange look that seems to be the shit for 5 year olds these days.

Oh, get thee to a sperm donar bank, stat.

But since there's no chance of me having kids this side of a blue moon, how do I feed my addiction of dressing up little girls:

Meet Bella the Supermodel.* Vacant stare into the distance. Boho setting, with 'totally now' beads. She is the Hottness.

Posh is gonna be sooooooo jealous.



*NB: No dogs were harmed during the writing of this post. One dog was seriously pissed off because I woke her up and made her put on stupid beads. Another dog was seriously jealous because I didn't let him put on the beads and pose for a photo. I tried to explain that Posh already has boys, but you know, dogs just don't get it. And yes, that is ORIGINAL carpet.

When you gonna ring it? When you gonna ring it?

Sadly to say, the 2005 Albury sex jaunt has been postponed, due to Jungle Boy coming down with a migraine. I spent the night at his house, but he woke up shit this morning, and stayed in bed. So I thought fucked if I'd be spending my whole day in bed, so I got up, left and went to Chadstone.

Whoops. Two t-shirts, one top, one skirt and a bag later, my disappointment at not being able to spend the weekend with him was satiated. Mrs Fields macadamia brownies also played a part, but let's not get too carried away starring roles, shall we?

Anyway, shopping adventures are not the point of this post. Notice the title? It's part of the new White Stripes single, My Doorbell, from the new album Get behind me Satan.

And fucked if I can get it out of my head. Jungle Boy downloaded it for me the other night, and while the whole album is rather good, I JUST CAN'T GET THIS SONG OUT OF MY HEAD. I THINK I MIGHT EVEN HAVE TO DO MY CARMEN ELECTRA STRIPTEASE ROUTINE TO IT.

Does anyone else get like that with songs? I mean, not the strip tease part (by all means DO though), but the obsessive part? Previously, it was 'Message to my girl' by Split Enz; before that, it was 'All these things that I have done' by The Killers. And before that....well you get the picture. All very good albums, but there just happens to be a particular track where the repeat button gets a good workout. And I never seem to get sick of hearing the song over and over again as I do when crap-o commercial radio over-plays something good.

So, my Saturday night in nutshell now will be yummy take-away mexican and driving around singing "I've been thinking 'bout my doorbell; when you gonna ring it? When you gonna ring it?" And moving my hips as suggestively as possible to Meg White's HOTT drum action whilst sitting in heated car seats. All part of preparation for next weekend I 'spose, when The Tart comes down from QLD, and we go on a sparkly, alcohol-fuelled boogeying rampage round town. Stay tuned.

Yeah, just where have all the John's gone????

Today at work, I had reason to call a rather large national financial group for some further advice regarding a client.

I was put through to a woman that I had dealt with before; we exchanged pleasantries, blah blah blah & got down to business.

As customary, she needed to take some client details; conversation as follows:

Her: "Client's contact name please"

Me: "Mohammed"

Her: "Gee, where have all the Johns gone, hey?"

Me: "........."


*Stunned silence*


I honestly had no reply. None.

Who the fuck publicy announces their racists beliefs anymore? Especially in a professional environment. To someone that they aren't aquainted with, except in a business sense?

Normally able to bullshit my way out of things, I just felt uncomfortable after that, and the conversation continued awkwardly until I was relieved to hang the phone up.

I mean, I'm not begging to suck Lefty-Tim-From-Big-Brother's cock or anything, but tolerance, and especially acceptance of any people should surely be second nature by now????


Meanwhile, in other less confronting tid bits, let's all take a minute to explore and analyse my dad's latest fad saying:

A dog's philosphy, according to Old Man Martie:
"If you can't eat or root it, piss on it instead".

See what I have to put up with?? Notions of sympathy can be directed into comments, thanks.

Anyway, I apologise in advance: posting will be scarce until next week. Apparently, I'm off to Albury to have sex. Sorry, a weekend away. I'm sure you can all imagine my disappointment that I will be doubling up (actually tripling or quadrupling up), and don't you think that I'm happy about it either. It's all about broadening horizons, HORIZONS dammit.

Anyway, look out for naked Martie up in the gateway....

Parking Police

Well. This post contains no alcohol use, sex or nudity. Feel free to boo and hiss as you please.

Following on from Margaret's, ahh sorry, Caz's use of haiku to review The Wedding Crashers, I'm going to have my two cents worth.

Vince Vaughn. HoTTness! (Sorry Snub22 - we can share right??)

Apart from that, I really have nothing to say. Too many unexplained and patchy bits. Too many lines that I'd already seen in the previews. Too much time for fantapants Home & Away 'star'-turned-Ali-G-fucking Isla Fisher. There were funny parts ("I'm going to my room. To paint homo things") but apart from that, I was disappointed.

So, my weekend didn't eventuate much beyond that. I am now however, a danger to society - my PT taught me how to do roundhouse kicks on Friday night.

Today, I thought I'd pop over to Chadstone for a while. Trying to get a carpark in that fucking place is a nightmare. So much so for one person, that they decided that they'd park right in the middle of the road. Thus making it next to impossible for cars to back out of the carparks behind.

I watched some poor bitch try for 20 minutes - in / out & in / out - until she finally got out. I reversed the Love Chariot in, but by that stage, was pretty pissed, so I pulled out my notebook, and decided to leave a friendly greeting on the fucker's car.

They were lucky they didn't get the first draft.


So now, after my community service good deed for the week, and my newly aquired kickboxing skills, I'm feeling pumped. I'm feeling psyched. I'm feeling much like this guy:


A Bounty Hunter. A RENEGADE.

Sexy girls with sexy guns*

Girls! Roll up, roll up! It's time to sign up to join the Army.

That's right Our intrepid Defence Force Personnel Minister De-Anne Kelly has 'gone into battle for us' and we can now serve in support positions of combat units for our country.

Whey-hey!

But hang on - we're still going to be technically banned from holding fighting positions. Oh darn it. I'd love to blow the heads off a couple of Iraqi insurgents and get down and dirty on the chase for Bin Laden. Damn you De-Anne, you haven't made my dreams come true after all.

So what does 'supporting roles' mean anyway? We'll get to wipe the brows of our infantry menfolk after an arduous battle? Bring them beer after a hard day's work? Generally tidy up the trenches ("Don't you bring those muddy boots in here, Private!") Or perhaps even navigate through tough terrain like this:


Fuck me. If I can't even get through the city centre of Ballarat, I've got no hope in making my way through the deserts of Afganistan. Notice the lack of street signs???

And what happens, if say, us women are confronted by:

this crazed madman bearing down on us with an AK-47? What would we do?


"Sorry sir, we're not allowed to fight".


Or would we just pick up our broomsticks and smack him over the head?? ("Don't you bring those dirty desert sandals in here, mister!").

Once again, it appears that womens roles are still undefined. Clearly we'll just have to be the jack-of-all-trades that we currently are anyway.

BECAUSE FUCK ME, APPARENTLY WOMEN IN SUPPORTING ROLES ARE JUST AS LIKELY TO FACE FIGHTING ACTION AS OUR MEN-FOLK IN THE INFANTRY.

So what is De-Anne jizzing herself over anyway?????


*Refers to Redneck-80's-Porn featuring chicks in bikinis holding machine guns, etc, as some form of titilation. If you can name which show spoofed this video, and also the male equivilent they came up with, I might kiss you!!

Dreamweaver

No shit, I have weird dreams. I know some people don't dream at all & I know some people never remember their dreams.

I also know that dreams are supposed to mean something as well. So if you are a dream interpreter, CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THESE DREAMS....

SUNDAY NIGHT:

I dreamt I was having a 'Neighbours' party, while my brother was having a boys only party in another room of the house. The only guests at his party were two brothers that I can only remember from primary school. I can't remember any guests at my party.

I then went to my old school, where I met up with my old boss, and we nearly did the deed under a desk, but I couldn't go through with it because 'I'd get into trouble'.

So then I took a small boat out into a lake in the jungle with my little dog, and there was a sign warning people about deadly purple dragons. Then one of these purple dragon things slithered down off an overhanging tree and bit me six times on the arms. The only way I could live was to RUB ONION JUICE ON THE BITES.

I woke up with my forearms covered in scratches.


MONDAY NIGHT:

I dreamt that I was pregnant and then I went to a Davis Cup doubles match to watch 'The Poo' play for Australia on a tennis court on top of a trendy nightclub's roof.

A group of guys not dissimilar to "The Fanatics" were there, chanting something about 'The Poo' disappointing us all again.




Has anyone got any ideas?????

I'm over Mondays already

Sportsfans.

I'm going to jump on the list-y bandwagon now, weeks too late. But that's ok, that's how I roll. Plus, it's a Sunday night, and I'm all depressed about going to work tomorrow. Work sucks the big one.

Cooked Jungle Boy dinner on Saturday night. I'm no gourmet chef, so it was just marinated stir fry vegies (that I bought and cut up myself) and chicken snitzchel (that I actually crumbed myself). I, nor the Jungle Boy are dead yet, so it must have been ok. Either that, or he was very gracious when he said it was nice.

I'm not known for my culinary skills.

Also bought a USB for my mobile and laptop - now I can take pics and upload them to post for you. I could post one of Jungle Boy's hairy bum, but.....

Tuesday is the Ex-Fucker's birthday. Wandering around Chadstone today, I even bought him a present without realising. How fucked up is my head. I remember four years ago, I bought him a surprise flight to Sydney for the day, then we stayed in the suite at the Hilton Melbourne Airport that night. I miss stuff like that. Yes, despite all that the Jungle Boy is, I miss the Ex-Fucker. Too much.

Have also taken up kickboxing / personal training, in a bid too stop my ass spreading anymore. It doesn't hurt that my trainer, Stu, is fairly HOTT and I wish to do lady push ups to please him.

I miss the Tart, and I miss going out dressed up in silly costumes and drinking and dancing and scoping out the mancandy. One of us will have to get off our ass (and get some money) and have a flying visit one weekend. Never underestimate the importance of a best friend.

Go Vesna. Go!

Finally, my American boyfriend, Vince Vaughn releases his movie The Wedding Crashers on Thursday. Go see it, and secretly touch yourself in the back row whenever he's on the screen. Because that's what I'll be doing.

1000 apologies for such a self indulgent post: however it has been cathartic, and the tears are nearly all gone. Normal programming, with just a hint of ass crack, will resume soon.

Welcome to the Jungle*

Let's take a walk...

We're overseas (for the purposes of the exercise, imagine that you are devine and can walk on water). It's hot, and steamy. There are lots of plants - tall and short, green and flowery. You hear the call of an animal or a bird every so often. You brush back spiderwebs from your face, hoping to christ that there aren't any actual spiders in them.

You are here:


AND THIS IS WHERE CAMOUFLAGE BELONGS!!!!

NOT HERE:


NOT HERE:


AND NOT EVEN HERE:


Dudes, I understand that camouflage used to be HOTT in like 2001 or something, and I understand that some of us are looking at cammo gear retro-lovingly. I even understand if you like the odd poke through Aussie Disposals as I do.

But when I see skanks walking through shopping centres in TIGHT camouflage jeans and teenagers decked out in head to toe camouflage IN THE MIDDLE OF BALLARAT; I feel it is time to move on and put the camouflage thing to bed. You know that you've lost out on fashion when the 'Soufland' Gang get a hold of it (Benny Boy you KNOW what I mean, valvoline??)

However, Jungle Boy will still be permitted to wear it to bed. Cue 'army fantasy sex'.




*If you are someone that got jizzy about the use of a Guns'n'Roses song in the title of a blog, bestill my bogan heart xxx