Lovely Lady Lumps - 2005's 'small and humble' mammories.

Oh, she's back. Fresh from showering us with her body juice, she's now back singing about humps and lumps and exactly what she can get a guy to spend on her because they are so 'lovely'.

Oh boy. Is this song for real? Not only is it annoyingly repetitive ("My hump, my hump my hump my hump. My hump my hump my hump, my lovely lady lumps"), but why should we have to endure a song all about Fergie's tits and arse? Which I'm sorry, aren't even that good anyway - I wouldn't do her in a (literal) pink fit.

I'm no prude, but this is not the kind of thing I want to be hearing on my radio. Obviously, since the BEP are such a sell-out now, they are catering expressly for the 13 year old market, who can now skank around telling all and sundry about their lumps and humps at the shopping centres.

It concerns me that Jungle Boy actually downloaded their new album, and has a thing about her. If you get a chance, check out this week's issue of No Idea - and the pic of her. She's a MAN! And she sweats like a man too! I apologise friends, but I couldn't find that pic anywhere.

I did however, find some pics that supported my MAN theory:


Man.


Oh yes, lovely 'lady' lumps there. Sure you can't get them any further up your chin??


Here she is, accepting the award for best male Carmen Electra impersonator.


Pick which is the father of Britney's baby

So tell me, does this song annoy you as much as it annoys me? Does it make you wanna smash your car radio in frustration, hurting your hand and causing a 10 car pile up change the radio in your car whenever it comes on? Or maybe you like it, and want to get sprayed with Stacey-juice up the front of the stage at the BEP concerts? I don't know, you tell me - or any other song that drives you insane?

Martie & the Teevees....

No, unfortunately, not the little box of malted chocolate sticks. It's not even the name of my new band I've hastily put together to play a few gigs to drunk teenagers. Even better. I've got a new baby:



Me and Toadie from Neighbours are going to get a whole lot better aquainted. Yee-fucking-har.

My newest asset is the product of an intensive three week search, in which time I learnt that time is actually flying past me at the speed of light, or something akin to not owning a DVD player yet. Sometimes I can be such a technophobe, that I actually wonder if I'm not a 70 year old living in the body of a twenty some year old woman. Fucking scary.

But now, I'm so down with the lingo of plasma and high definition and wide screen and rear projectors, that I could sashay on down to the Good Guys and get a job, just like that. And maybe even the chance to crack onto that nerdy guy with the coke bottle glasses. I'm so hot for him.

Like, did you know, if your TV is only 'AV stereo', it means that if you don't have a DVD or video hooked up to it, then it will only play mono sound out of one speaker? I didn't know this until this weekend. Thank fuck the dodgy most accomodating salesman pointed me in the direction of a 'full stereo' Teev, or there would be a code red tonight. Like, close call dudes!

Unfortunately, Teevee (it's new official name) won't be arriving until next week sometime, so I'll just have to make-do with my little 34cm on top of the dryer for now. Not that I'm watching anything but 'Australian Princess' at the moment anyway (I'm sure that bush chick, given half a chance, would trade Teevee in for a 'sweet ute'). Not a chance, sweetcheeks. He's all mine! The only thing left to do is work out where I'm going to house the little bugger. Back to the Ikea catalogue for me, I feel.

And while I'm at it, check out the newest apple of my eye, sure to be taking its place in Cucina di Martie very soon:



I am jizz-filled already.

I'm doing it for the love of vodka, I swear...

Lemme get it straight - I'm only doing this because this vodka comrade tagged me, and I too, cannot resist the Big V or chocolate either. And possibly because even though I have a fuck off attitude, I think it would rude if I got tagged and didn't do it. But fuck off anyway. With love, of course xxx

Seven things I plan to do before I die

1 - Travel to England / Europe to study the history & complexities of the Royals & Aristocracy.

2 - Learn how to speak French

3 - Have a 69 on my 69th Birthday

4 - Meet Jonathan Brown

5 - Live by the sea

6 - Lose enough weight to become totally fabulous & buy a Tiger Lily bikini. Parade in front of the Ex-Fucker & anyone else that has been cuntish enough to give me shit over the years. Lots. (Petty I know, but these are MY seven things)

7 - Master the art of skipping

Seven things I can do

1 - Spend money

2 - Visualise interior design concepts and decorator ideas, albeit with no formal training

3 - Throw a right hand punch or hook. Hard.

4 - Drink as much Vodka or Baileys as I like, and not have to do wee. Excellent skill for crowded bars and vomit-y toilets.

5 - Send totally incomprehensible text messages when I'm drunk, but be able to decipher them when I'm shown them the next day

6 - Be generous to the people I love

7 - Enjoy my own company

Seven things I cannot do

1 - Forgive easily

2 - Tell the Ex-Fucker to fuck off for good

3 - go without showering twice a day

4 - Skip.

5 - Stand to see any animal suffering or in pain

6 - Say no to microwave popcorn

7 - Fashion my hair into a 'style'

Seven things that attract me to the opposite sex

1 - Dark hair

2 - Someone who understands emotions

3 - Looks good IN underpants

4 - Looks good in jeans

5 - Able to make me laugh

6 - 'Gets' women's problems!

7 - Can treat me like a princess, but can treat me also like an equal

Seven things I say most often

1 - Fuck off

2 - What the fuck

3 - I hate skipping

4 - I don't know what's wrong with your computer (insert name of incompetant colleague here). I don't work in IT

5 - Check out the mancandy over there

6 - Look at my new shoes

7 - I'll have a vodka, lime and soda, thanks

Seven celebrity crushes

1 - Jonathan Brown

2 - Tony Lockett

3 - Oliver Platt

4 - John Cusack

5 - Chris Chaney from The Living End

6 - Vince Vaughan

7 - Sam Worthington

People who need to do this

I'm breaking the chain here! So it's all bad luck for me, but I will leave you with seven 'tips', so you can have good luck. It's up to you if you want to continue...

Seven tips to get through life (thus far) by Martie

1 - Never forget what your parents did/do for you. And if they didn't do much or anything at all for you, learn from their mistakes and don't repeat the past with your own kids

2 - Don't leave your underpants on the front lawn after a big night. Especially when your Mum is the first up the next morning

3 - Never take anything at face value. Trust your instincts

4 - Learn to accept critiscm, but don't take any shit from anyone

5 - Drink Vodka

6 - Lobby for microwave popcorn to get its own food group

7 - Don't let people think they have control of you. (IE - Ex Fucker). Tell them exactly where to fuck right off to, and don't weaken to them.


Now, if only I could take my own advice re: No. 7....

Questions and Answers with Martie

***Just for you Hambo, I have turned on word verification in the comments. I am up with de times, mang!!1!!

Okaay, just for a bit of fun and because I'm feeling particularly cheery today, let's have some question & answer time. In which I will attempt to answer all your questions that you, dear readers, have emailed to me over the years months I'm making them up as we go along period of time I have been blogging, in an attempt to reveal more of the 'true' Martie.

1. Why is your blog called 'No Talent Time'?

Well, I'd been reading blogs and other such sites on the intermanet for ages before I decided I'd 'ave a go at it. And most of it was pretty bland, boring stuff like; 'I got out of bed and went to have a shower but ran out of shaving cream, so had to go to shops looking like shit, and per chance ran into my ex-boyfriend and' oh, whoops, that was my actual morning this morning, but you get the idea.

If you look around, majority of good and amusing bloggers are actually seriously creative people, who write 'stuff' for a living, or are (past)students of the humanities kind. I myself work in the dreary, staid world of financial services, where the most creative I get is putting a spin on company guidelines to make them sound more plausible to clients, or making up a good excuse as to why you can't speak to so-and-so right now, because he's a) in the conveniences b) in a meeting c) has a client with him or d) out of the office (that old chestnut). And no, fuck off I'm not a receptionist, but we have to answer the chain of phone calls that may come our way. Fuck yeah. So anyway, when I decided to join the big bad blogging world, I decided that I too would be lumped into the shaving cream catergory because I lost my creativity a while ago, so there was no point in trying to advertise otherwise.

Either that, or it would have been against some stupid copyright law to call it 'Young Talent Time', which would of course also been a misnomer, because I'm NOT young, and even though my 'going out age' is a 'young 22' just so I can trick those 19 year old boys into buying me drinks because they think it'll help 'em get into my pants, I feel that telling you my blogging age is 22 would not foster an honest relationship with you, dear readers. And now it's time to draw a breath and move onto the next question.

2. So what is your real age?

Fuck off. I'm not actually going to tell you that. Let me just say that I'm probably too old for Jonathan Brown, and too young to go to over 28's. Although I'd hardly knock either of them back. Spank me daddy...

3. Your profile pic is a bottle of alcohol. Guess it's safe to assume you like a tipple every now and again?

Fuck me. Sandra Sully with the late news there, buddy. Naturalmente, Vodka, lemonade and lime is my drink of choice, but the last few times I've been finding it is too sweet, and will now usually just settle for vodka lime & soda. Actually, who I am I kidding - I will settle for anything, I am a vodka slut. And I'll never pass up a glass of Bailey's on ice either. If I absolutely must, I can have a fairly decent go at polishing off a large number of lemon ruskis (s'cool in the late 1990's, that there were WAITING LISTS for them), as they aren't bad on a hot summer's day, and nothing beats a pot of Carlton draught down the pub with a chicken in pyjamas counter meal.

4. Is there anything you won't drink?

Bourbon. Ironic then, that I'm now kissing a bourbon drinker, isn't it?

5. Speaking of which, have you and the Jungle Boy done it doggie style yet?

No, and this damn well pisses me off. My lovely fellow blogger passed on some invaluable tips, because it appears that Jungle Boy is deficient in the kneeling on bed variety, but so far, no luck. I don't understand. The distance between my asshole and ass cheeks certainly couldn't have gotten any longer (not with all the lunges and kickboxing I've been doing lately) and I've done it with smaller dicks than his, so it must be some sort of logistical problem that I can't explain and it's DRIVING ME CRAZY, MISS DAISY. I need to work on my spacial awareness more.

6. You'd obviously never make it as a transport company operator, or warehouse manager, with logistics and stacking not your forte. So, what did you want to be when you grew up?

It was teaching all the way. You might say that I enjoyed school, and I got along well with my teachers, when I wasn't been thrown out of Home Eco (fucking pointless subject) for sticking my finger up at the teacher behind her back or being suspended for fighting. My Uni preferences read something like this: 1 - Commerce 2 thru 10 - teaching/early childhood education, etc. Excellent careers counselling there, Mr Careers Counsellor.

7. So you like kids then? When do you see yourself having them?

Kids? Can't fucking stand them. No, but something like that. I worked as an after-school care co-ordinator as my part time job at school (fuck retail. I hate customers more than I hate kids). I then did heaps of baby-sitting and finally some nannying when I was at Uni. Great kids I had too, but I realised all the running around after piano and ballet and school and tennis and the cooking and the homework just wasn't for me. Yet.

I'm way too selfish at the mo' to have kids - I like having my own space, and I'm just getting used to depending on myself, so having another human solely depending on me would just not be fair to either of us. I also want to do a bit of travelling before I start popping them out, and of course, there is the small matter of FINDING A BLOKE to have them with. I'm a little bit of a traditionalist in that I'd like to be married for a couple of years before I have them, and since there's no chance of me marrying anyone for at least 1000 years, I think it's pretty safe to say that I'm not going to have any before I'm 30. Which kinda doesn't fit in with my original life plan, but then neither does anything else I'm up to, so I guess that's the cards life has dealt me, or whatevs.

8. The cards life has dealt you? Are you into all that cosmic stuff?

Ummmm, I get the Tart to get my horoscope for me on Telstra pocketnews on her mobile, because it only costs one cent, and it gets sent almost similtaneously, which I think is great value for money. Otherwise, unless I'm checking out what NW or No Idea have got in store for me this week, I don't place much value on 'that cosmic stuff' at all. I'd much rather ring up a $4.95 porn line, rather than a $4.95 horoscope line.

9. You're into porn then. What sort of collection have you got?

Well actually, I don't really have much of a collection at all now; I lost most of it in the 'custody' batter with the Ex-Fucker. And most of what I've got now is either only 'R' rated or is totally old-school, and getting around on VHS. I have to buy a DVD player first, then start building up my collection again.

Most of my porn comes from snippets on the internet, from a wonderful site that provides free photo sets and video clips. You sometimes have to wade through bad Bon-Jovi-hair-esque 80's porn, but that only prolongs the inevitable and increases build up, and is usually worth it when you find a video clip of a hot foursome or a naughty cheerleader or something. I stay right away from dildos and all other paraphanelia like that. I just can't get off on the insertion of plastic/metal things, even if they are humming like a bitch and have clitoral attachments. Which is bad, because Jungle Boy thinks it would be hot. Okay, okay, I will work on my dildo/vibrator indifference.

10. Wow. You seemed totally unhinged and a touch Latham/Rivkin-esque during this interview. Are you going to go on to commit suicide or bag out innocent supporting members of your party family blogging community or total randoms that you pass walking down the street?

Um no. Although I may capitilise on my fame and get into the porn industry, or live the quiet life in a teepee in the country. (Wendy Matthews, you fucking wank. And if you find a snake under your blanket - KILL IT. KIIIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLL. I used to like "the day you went away", but now...)

Um, where was I? No, there'll be no suicide for me, although I totally cannot stand asian women with old Australian guys it makes me want to vomit for all the disgusting creepy-ness I'll-supply-you-with-a-feed-for-the-rest-of-your-life-if-you-suck-my-shrivelled-pruny-old-cock-for-the-rest-of-your-life of it. And anyway, mail-order is more Russian, isn't it??


So, ding my friends, that is it on what was possibly the first and last Martie expose (you'll just have to imagine the little inflection on the end of that 'e'). Feel free to leave any questions you might have in the comments box, and we'll see if we can't saddle up the old girl for another round.

Next Stop: Federal Treasurer

I don't want to turn this into a "I'm renting and now I'm poor" type of a blog, but seriously, I'm renting and now I'm poor. In fact, I'm just working out how I'm going to stretch $150 over two weeks, which includes petrol for the Love Chariot (TM) and a week of holidays.

Okay, I admit. Poor isn't 3rd world poor where there is like only rice and dubious drinking water and bloated bellies. My belly is big enough, thank you. I am still able to afford relative luxuries like my kickboxing sessions and hot pink keys for my apartment. It's just that, having gone from a relatively good income each week to the bare minimum in spending money takes a bit of getting used to.

I'm still in the mindset of seeing a cool top, or some shoes, and just buying them. Now, I have to sigh, and fondle them for a few minutes, then walk on, with just the memory in my head. Imagine going to the Vic Market and seeing 100 cool things to buy but walking away empty handed because 'you're on a budget'. Oh, boo hoo!

In an end to self pity, I've decided to make budgeting fun! That's right. Fun, kids! Fun for me was discovering a pack of 4 pocket-sized notebooks with colourful plastic colours, for $2.99. Pink, Green, Blue and Purple. How exciting. Just like the alternative 'Four Colour Pens' they used to make way back, when the standard blue, red, black and green didn't do it for you. *Sigh* I miss those pens.

I started with purple. I think I'm going to save the pink one for a 'special' budget. I've already budgeted up to the end of January. (Let me tell you, Santa's not going to be 24-hour Christmas shopping at Chadstone). There's a page for every week, and I've accounted for every last dollar. There's allowances for savings (although that might turn into shoe money, see how we go), petrol, phone, spending and if I'm really good, I can order my lunch on Fridays!! Hurrah! See, it's fun already. I only have to learn how to stick to it.

Perhaps cutting out $8 hot pink keys would be a good place to start.

I spray the Mortein on my undies...

Shock Horror! Do not adjust your computers - I'm real! I am finally getting around to posting. Yes I've been a bad blogger (applications to spank me at end of post), and no, I haven't left y'all for a couch. Although the couch I ended up getting ($120 from St Vinnies) is quite lovely and I'd love to show you a picture, only I can't get the mofo' internet to work in the Palace yet. Damn straight, this moving business is harder than it looks.

I've also been working like a mofo for the last week - just so I could take some annual leave. Stupid boss. However I'm finally on holidays - and I'm not chasing down fridges or plumbers or light bulbs or spider spray anymore. So I'll finally have a bit of time to fix internet connection, and in no time I'll be posting like a biatch again.

Spider spray, you might ask? Yes, for all the big fearless woman girl of the world that I am, I am shit scared of spiders. In fact, I'm so scared of them that I'm not even going to use google image search to post a pic here, because I'd be too scared to look at the pictures it brings up. 'Luckily', my apartment also seems to be spider HQ. I am sure there's a nest of them somewhere. I thought I might be able to turn it into an advantage: might get some hotness pest exterminator dude around to eradicate my 'problem', however, 'cos I've now signed up for the poverty line, my main weapon of defence is this:

It seems any old chemical spray stuff will do. God knows what I'm going to do when I actually work out HOW TO USE THE FRONT LOADING WASHING MACHINE AND TRY AND DO SOME WASHING MYSELF.* Bless you mum, for your washing machine, and your hillshoist.

And bless you all for being so patient and still coming by here, and Hambo, there is a European pillow with your name on 'round here! I promise you regular updates or you can all have a suckle of my zipple. One at a time though.

* If anyone has any tips on how to use these puppies, please let me know. I've only ever used the bad-water-wasting upright ones. I put my clothes in the other day, and eventually got it to spin around, but I can't get any water in it.** I mean, I know their meant to be water-economical, but that's just ridiculous.
(**Before you ask, yes, the taps are on...)

Oh, how I want to be at Moorabbin.....

Day one of Martie's move is happening tomorrow!! Hurrah. And you know what that means?? A celebratory vodka after all my hard yakka? Actually no, tomorrow I'm not actually moving anything. It means - I've got the day off work!! Ding!

But that's not the most exciting part: My beloved St Kilda is playing for a spot in the GF - I've got deja vu' from last year. GO BOYS!! Except for you Milne. You can just fuck right off. You were a fucktard at Springvale, and you're a fucktard at St Kilda and if I ever see you at the Tudor again, I will tell you that you are a fucktard to your face.

Oh, sorry, ranting a bit there. Back to the topic at hand. How is my itinerary looking for tomorrow? Well, I'm going to be a busy little Martie...

9am (or thereabouts): Get up. Put washing on.

10am: Go to bank, get bank cheque

11am: Go to real estate agent. Pay some mofo's mortgage my way to the poverty line first month's rent.

11:30am: Go looking for a COUCH.
Of course, I want something like this:



But inevitably, on my budget, I will end up with something like this:


I think I will have to make use of some folding chairs in there until I save a bit more money...


Scared is not normally a word in my vocabulary. But I am a bit scared. I'm at the Mothership's tonight, to (attempt to) clean up my room so I can get my bed out, and I found a whole lot of Ex-Fucker stuff. Valentine's Day cards, photos, letters and the like. And I'm kinda scared that I'm doing this without him. This was always our dream, always what we wanted to do.

However, I've got to look forward, and I will be strong, and I am getting on with my life. I'm totally head over heels with the Jungle Boy, and I think it's more a sentimental thing than anything else. I'm also a little sad because I am leaving the olds (as much as they piss me off sometimes). Sure, I've done it heaps before, and I've not been here for the last nine months, however, it now seems final, and I seem grown up and old, and the next thing you know, I won't be able to wear sparkly masks to crappy nightclubs anymore and I'll be rootin' a young'uns in the over 28's carpark....Ughhh. Drama. Queen.

I think my excitement is winning out though. My utilities are connected tomorrow, I've got my VERY OWN PHONE NUMBER (Ok, clearly I'm not getting out much) and I've got a intercom-buzzy-thing to play with. I'm jizzy already.

But I need a COUCH. I need a COUCHY COUCH COUCH COUCH.

Can you see me (and obviously, the 'girls') reclining on this?:


Or perhaps something a little more refined like this?:


Or can you see Jungle Boy & I getting up to some ac-tionnnnnnnne on this?:


Decisions, decisions. I hope the Salvos have some of this gear tomorrow!!!

And just wait until I get around to buying a new bed...

And finally a community service announcement for all: Try to stay off the roads on Saturday. I've hired a moving van:

Should prove to be very interesting.

Oh when the Saints, Oh when the Saints.....

Greetings My Pretties. Much profuse apologies abound, I have been MIA for a while now. But it's not because I haven't been up to no good - because I have....

I wish to announce that all the microwave popcorn was in vain - Jungle Boy & I are very much on and very much happy and it's all

again. Hurrah!!

But that's not the most OMG LOLZ XTINA XCITEMENT bit. Oh no. Who wants to come to my housewarming??? Cos I've finally gone and got myself my own apartment! Ding to that people.

Best part about it; There'll be no Ex-Fuckers, no flatmates with undie-stealing-and-chewing-dogs; no flatmates that know Toadfish from Neighbours (fortunately or unfortunately); and no houses that have dogs who have the run of the house and leave stinky smells everywhere.

I'll finally be an independant woman (*cue Destiny's Child* Throw your hands up at me people!) So it's been all fridges and couches and bond and rent and moving vans and cleaning and other more uninteresting shit like that for the last week and a half.

Promise cross my heart, needle in my eye and other painful stuff that normal programming with recommence soon. I might even do an expose on moving home - I know you're dying to see my moving van! And even better, I hope to have my own internet connection in this place as well! So there'll be no more waiting until my boss goes out to read stuff, or pissing off the olds by staying at their place until the wee hours looking up blogs and porn doing research.

So be prepared for Martie's Moving Disasters and other such stories. Meanwhile, I shall leave you (but not for so long this time) with a picture of my new apartment:



Ahh no. It's more like this:



But I can dream though, can't I?

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

Country Victoria Checklist

Add this one to the passport:

Halls Gap - Ding!

Jungle Boy & I went took a leisurely drive through the countryside, stopping along the way to get lost in Ballarat (those one way streets are motherfuckers, trust me); then travelling on down to the Grampians for the night.

We stayed and played here:

It was hot.

We awoke to kangaroos on our doorstep on Sunday morning; took a walk up to the waterfalls (very romantic) and then on the drive home, passed through this town:

"........"


You can just imagine a conversation with a resident:

"So, where do you live?"

"Moyston"

"Sorry??"

"Moyston"

"Oh....."

Seriously, we sniggered all the way home. All 3 hours of it.*

Next stop on my sex in the suburbs wishlist: Richmond. Stay tuned.




*Because we're all allowed to indulge in childish behavior sometimes

Sex or Uno?????

Sorry dear readers, I feel it is my duty to inform you of something that you may already be aware of, but that I need to clarify for you just in case.

I am not cool.

That's right, y'all are now down with the fact that I'm not part of the cool group and I'm a little bit boring and staid and should stay at home drinking tea and playing Uno and stuff. Oh yes, I am the Uno master.

Apparently I have been deluding myself for the last 20+ years, because it's only just come to my attention that I'm totally uncool. So, why don't I belong *sad pathetic face*?

It appears that I have no status with the cool kids because I HAVEN'T FUCKED A GUY IN A CARPARK BEHIND A BOTTLESHOP OUTSIDE THE OVER 28'S. I'm also not rated because I DON'T PICK UP A DIFFERENT GUY FROM THE OVER 28'S EVERY WEEK AND FUCK THEM.

Gee, funny that. A) - I'm not Over 28. B) - All the guys at the Over 28's are like, 70 and desperate & C) - I wouldn't fuck one of them even if I was 70 and desperate.

Yep, have recently found out that a couple of ex-friends have been 'doing the rounds' and well, I'm not invited because I'm not going to join their wild orgy in the hastily booked motel room out the back of 'da club'. Please, if you told me that this hotness:

and this hotness:

were naked in a seedy motel room waiting for me, I'd be there, with bells on. And not much else. Hell, I'd even consider the carpark for my boyz! But I'm not going the daisy chain with dudes that drink the wine/beer/water with a straw.

I mean sure; I'm a bit of a porn freak; I'm on a mission to have sex in every Melbourne suburb, and yes, I have had sex in Albury, but hey, I still have SOME morals. Getting gravel rash is not included.

I guess I will have to do without those friend and accept the fact that I'm not cool.

So, anyone up for a game of Uno????

Things that annoy me that are dumb and stupid

This has been annoying me for a while; and it is something that is so ridiculously stupid that I am even annoyed at myself for being annoyed at it.

Dove Products. (as in the soap)

When Dove first burst onto the Australian market, way back when (I can't be bothered researching EXACTLY when, so suck me), I was personally offended. Who were these newcomers, muscling in on Palmolive, Lux and others, taking up the supermarket shelf with their 1/4 MOISTURISING CREAM???????

Mind you, I'd never used soap to wash myself with up until six months ago anyway, so I don't know why I got all worked up about it. And really, should a teenager really be caring about brands of soap and their market positions anyway?

It's just that their ads were/are SO annoying. They just wanted to push their 1/4 MOISTURISING CREAM in our faces, and had some cunty commercial chicks pretending that they were all gooey about how good their skin felt, etc, etc. I think I remember that my little baby brother and I used to produce amateur plays to mock those stupid ads. Who said I'm not creative?

Anyway, you may be wondering what my stupid dumb annoying point is?? Guess who's now using Dove like a bitch?? Yep, that's right, I can't live without the shit. I've even started using their soap in the shower! Mmmm, gentle exfoliating beads.

I've got very sensitive skin, and therefore most stuff on the market makes me look like I've got face dandruff even if I only use it for a day. However, somehow, my face is TOTALLY DIGGING THE 1/4 MOISTURISING CREAM, FUCK IT.

It has to be soap karma. I mock Dove commercials, now the only thing I can wash my face and body with is the stupid stuff. For some reason, this annoys every single fibre of my being and I'm constantly trying to wean myself off it, but everytime I do, I run back to it like a dog with its tail between its legs. WHY DOES THE WORLD WANT TO PLAY SUCH A CRUEL JOKE ON ME???

I'm now even hooked on this:

Fresh Radiance Brightening Moisturiser (BET THERE IS MORE THAN 1/4 MOISTURISING CREAM IN THAT PUPPY)

and I'm getting excited about these:

For what girl can resist tiny little cute facial PILLOWS???


Somebody stop me, before I move onto their hair products.....it will never end....

DIE CRAZY FROG DIE

Friday Afternoon Stress Relief.

Can you guess what I've been doing all day??





Tip: Go for the nads.....

Just get straight to the point

Text msg from the Ex-Fucker:
"Can I tell you something?"

Me, wary:
"Ok. What?"

Him:
"My cock is hard"

Me, sighing:
"Why?"

Him:
"Becos I need a pussy"

THE FUCK?
That is all I am, just a pussy.

And I still can't see that I'm better off without him.
This shit is doing my head in.

Travellin' Sex Show

"....and we had sex there, and we had sex there and we had sex everywhere".

A friend of mine recently returned from an overseas jaunt with her man. Apparently the whole thing was just a big bonking junket, so they could have their sex passports stamped. Mountains and public monuments and hotel lobbies, their list was endless, and damnit, there was no accompanying slideshow. Bummer dudes.

It was one conversation that I hesitated on - my list of sex-travel stories is fairly modest. Oh, alright then. It's shit. Check this out:

Metropolitan Melbourne:
Hampton
Sandringham
Black Rock
Beaumaris
Cheltenham
Brighton
Bentleigh
Moorabbin
Glen Waverley
Heatherton
Mordialloc
Mentone
Brunswick
Eltham
Watsonia
Tullamarine
Melbourne
Southbank

Country Vic:
Lakes Entrance
Torquay
Portsea
Lorne
Mallacoota

Interstate:
Albury
Adelaide

Overseas:
NIL!

What I find most amusing in a sad tragic sort of way is not that I've never had sex overseas - IT'S THAT I'VE DONE IT IN THE NATION'S BONKING CAPITAL - ALBURY*!!

However, it's a very depressing sort of list and doesn't exactly paint me in the whoa! adventure! light, does it?

So to cheer myself up, I've come up with a list of all of the strange places that I've done the deed:

* Back carpark of Tulip Street, Sandringham sporting ground. With the radio on for ambience. With the RACV answering our distress call after running of said radio runs the battery flat and the car doesn't start.

* Carpark of Le Page Tennis club, Cheltenham. Memorable for orgasming twice after head, and breaking my brother's sunglasses.

* Carpark at Beaumaris Yacht Club. Look up from back seat, and there's some creepy dude looking in the window. Drive away. Very fast.

* Out the back of Tullamarine airport, near the aircraft viewing area. Just past the country club on the grass, next to the empty field. 'Cept it wasn't empty. A cow poked it's head through the wire right next to the window. Then we got bogged and had to push the car out. The cow thought it was hilarious. Luckily we didn't have to call the RACV again.

So, as I am somewhat financially challenged, Overseas and Interstate are out of the sex passport. But I've decided that I will, ahem, make my mark on all of the suburbs of Melbourne. A bit of variety never hurt.

Keep an eye out for me in YOUR suburb....



* I have no actual data to say that Albury is the national bonking capital. But seriously, what else would you do up there???????

Secret life of randoms...

Lying in bed last night, I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard my mobile buzzing. Being a complete text message whore, I forced my arm out of the nice warm covers and grabbed my phone and pressed read:

"luv to c u"

Who was this late night paramour? I didn't recognise the number, so I text back:

"That's good, but who is this?"

At this point, all sorts of scenarios began running through my head: It was the ex-fucker playing a stupid prank on me; it was someone who genuinely had the wrong number; it was some kids playing a prank to a random number or it was a murderer who had managed to get hold of my mobile number and was standing outside my door and his reply would be "The person who's going to kill you" then would come bursting in with a machete and hack me to pieces.

Overactive imagination, I know.

Anyway, my mobile buzzed again and I jumped 10 feet in the air:

"Remba u sad ur sux"

No self respecting murderer is going to murder the English language like that, no matter how bloodthirsty they are, so I relaxed a little. But fuck me, it was obviously some WTFOMG teen being a smart ass, so I decided to have a little fun:

"WTF? Are you illiterate?" (All the while laughing at the irony of using WTF in a sentence where you pose the question - are you illiterate?!!)

No reply. Damn. The illiteracy thing was a bit heavy for them.

But it got me thinking: I couldn't really get mad at them, because I used to do exactly the same thing when I was young and dumb. I remember back in the good old days when mobiles weren't around and we would dial random numbers in the hope of getting an answering machine, then we would leave a message along the lines of:

"thanks a lot for last night it was really great we should do it again soon" or similar.

Inevitably, a whole lot of 14 year girls would giggle at the end, so hopefully the recipient or the recipient's partner would realise it was a (stupid) joke. Hopefully. Now I'm stressing, hoping we didn't break up any relationships or anything. Please, I beg for your forgiveness if you are reading this. We only said that you had a nice looking dick because saying 'dick' was funny. C'mon, we were 14. It's not like any, err, most of us had ever seen a dick before...

Of course when I discovered text messages, I started up a complete text msg relationship by accident with a complete random. But now that I've 'grown up' and I actually VALUE money, I'm a little less hasty with the buttons, if ya know what I mean.

Do you reckon that it's sad that I sometime dream about accidently texting someone, and finding out they are your soul mate, then marrying them, then....

Fuck. This is all too chick flick for me....

Martie goes to the snow

Whoa! It's been a fucking long time since I've posted. I'd like to tell you that I was whisked away to some tropical island; unfortunately I have just been busy and lack of internet access at home is killing me! Killing me, I tells ya.

So ding everyone, I went to the snow instead. Now, I was an absolute snow VIRGIN - never touched the stuff before in my life! So now I'm a snow bunny? Think again!

What I supposed was a weekend of skiing, ended up more like this:

Friday.

12pm: Meet at wonderful snow trip organiser's house. Chuck food into cars. Carefully place alcohol into cars. Set off.

1pm: Stop at pub and fast food mecca. Buy more alcohol. Buy some cheeseburgers.

3pm: Stop at another pub. Vodka, lemonade & lime going down well.

5pm: Arrive at lodge. Get started on the Absolut, interspersed with discontinued Cadbury's cream liqueur. Start a game of weird-assed estonial pool using discs instead of balls.

8pm: Sing along to Kevin Bloody Wilson, despite not knowing any of the words. However, my swear vocab is fairly well up to date, so don't need to stress too much. Did you know you can't say cunt in Canada??

10pm: Skip to pub. Drink. Scope the talent. Talk to lesbian sister of lodge manager. Stumble back to lodge.

Back at lodge, watch card games whilst stealing the porno cards to check out the rather huge DICKS on guys. No-one could add up to 21 - perhaps the distraction was too great.

Everything from then on until I went to bed is a blur. I know I was sending the jungle boy pissed text msgs, and I know that trying to get onto the top bunk was the FUCKING FUNNIEST THING THAT I'VE EVER DONE! Had to be there, and all that...

And that was just the first day.


Snow? What snow? The most I got up close and personal with the stuff was when we were walking back from the pub on Saturday night, and my friend was showing me how to make snow angels. I made a great snow angel. I might have slept there too, but for the fact that I knew there was a bottle of Baileys waiting for me at the lodge.


Anyone want to teach me how to actually ski????????????

More cherries, babies, prevention of babies & bouncer auditions

Ahoy, dear readers. Much apology for failure of regular posting. Stupid end of financial year. Stupid clients who can't get their shit together until the last minute. Stupid fucking ********* industry. I have been working like a bitch.

But firstly, a big congratu-fucking-lations to The First Family of Spin, who welcomed into the world their daughter recently. Babies are exciting! I like them lots. Only when I can give them back though!

My 'boy' has just returned from QLD. For the last 10 days, we've been sending each other horny-as-a-bitch text msgs, so when he got back Thursday night and came over, I almost didn't make work yesterday! Same deal this morning - we didn't get out of bed until 1pm. Guess he is just making up for lost time and all that! I did have my first orgasm with him though. Fuck. Yeah.

We finally got around to using condoms, after I got a very STERN lecture from the old ladies at work because I had go and get the morning after pill yesterday morning. Mind you, they used the opportunity to MAKE ME BUY SOME MORNING TEA WHILE I WAS OUT. Mmmm, boston bun. Anyway, jungle boy (so because he wears a cammo T to bed) wasn't keen on the condoms. Sigh. I even put them on with my mouth and all. DOES HE NOT APPRECIATE THE SACRIFICES I MAKE FOR HIM??

Well this paragraph will be void of capital letters, thank god. I now have a choice of injections or the implant. Not sure which tickles my fancy just at this moment, although I think it would be kinda cool to walk around with a rod in my arm, sci-fi style.

Have also been trying to piece together last weekend. Got dragged out to a skanky local pub ("Nice of you to invite your mum & dad, Martie" "Fuck, isn't that Grandma over there?" - yes, it was one of those ones). Luckily I was blind before I even went, thanks to my good friends Butterscotch Schnapps and After dinner mint liqueur, who was a late replacement for the absent Baileys. I like to think of it as a refined, dinner-finisher offerer cowboy. Choice!

I was apparently a picture of total chaos, by nearly breaking someone's hand, impersonating the bouncer by putting the ropes up to the dance floor and totally confusing the old dears, and abusing the manager because he didn't have an incident log. All this and I still had time for a sleep in the toilet and a chat with a hot boy. Excellent. I'm sure all the old people were looking wistful and wishing they could get up to some youthful hijinks like me; unfortunately they had more important business to attend to like trying to find a husband/life partner/root.

And, despite what other people may say, there is no subsitute for a real cheeseburger. Fuck. Yeah.

Think it's time for me to go make more hot sex in a far-away land called Watsonia. Or Greensborough. Or wherever the fuck it is. Thank god they invented Melways on the internet. Ciao for now.