Fluid Efficiency

Somewhere in the night life of our convoluted city lies a street that masquerades as a hip and hap place where the young and desperate crowd to party and be seen. Night after night soulless social desperados crowd to get their fix. Be it to drown the day’s sorrows in a bar or a knees-up on a dancefloor – all are available! Sometimes at discount.

In the midst of the bargain basement joy-making, uniformed men – and women – of the same bland moustachioed look (and that’s only the women) would descend on what they describe as a raid. Word on the grapevine is: no dowry had winged its way to the lap of the Gods. So since the offering altar is empty, the wrath of the Gods would be to send their cronies to cleanse the world of drugs! Or so they say.

It seems that these people are so short brained to see that scaring people off only reduces the revenue of these places and in turn lower the blooming tax income from selling all the unclean beverages. Their excuse: to eradicate drug use.

Hahaha, I say. Look down the road from the (slightly) upmarket heaven to the cheap and cheerful ambience of the stalls. Just beyond the skin-tone-unfriendly fluorescents one can see dopeheads skulking in the shadows probably waiting on a hapless victim: ready to pounce and devour anything they have or not to offer. And why may we ask? Not worth the time, methinks. Since those shadow-skulkers cannot afford the bail as easily as those stragglers ordering Dom Perignon or Jack Daniels by the bottle!

So, enough of political ramblings. The story here is the dopeheads IN the bars. When the raiders descend on the bar, people can’t leave unless they pee in a pot. To scan for dope! For drugs. But since we are a polite society, one can pee in the toilets instead of in the open. Therefore, a myriad of urine exchange suddenly transpire just beyond the short-sighted vision of the raiders.

A confession from one raided “victim” is that he used another’s person’s bodily fluid in place of his. Of course the authorities are not going to check since they have to check a million pee cups in one night. Some ingenious people plead “can’t pee” and were given water to drink which in turn were passed off as their own urine. Hmmm, none of those moustachioed men are going to voluntarily sniff the cups of pee less they are branded perverts for their fetish. Hence, masses are released and free to fly the raided land and head for virgin territories.

So much for government efficiency!!!

So tip of the day: Put the pee in the cup and substitute it with another if you have sinned. Just make sure that that substitution wasn’t made with a bad one…

Smarter Than Computer?

It just had to happen, didn't it? Just when you have piles and piles of work and files to clear up, the darn PC decides to pack up and die! Couldn't it decide to go back to the microchip heaven when there's no deadline looming like an alcoholic over a bottle of whisky.

Anyway, after throwing a diva fit for Sir Elton, I got a temporary machine for today which incidentally was used by the company bimbo. I'm glad that the IT Department had cleaned up the memory less there is something scary lurking around in the hard drive.

In this day and age, it is surprising how many people are computer illiterate. And these are graduates. The look at the PC and it must be like small pox to them, To use it will compromise their magnetic field and cause severe hysteria in one form or another. So when I proposed a computer course for new poeple coming into the company, people scoffed at the idea. Hah! Now it's proven I'm right. Like always.

I mean, there's a woman in the company with the newest, latest laptop and she doesn't even know how to connect to the net. I'm surprised she found the on button and not used the 7k laptop as a doorstop or weghing scales. Scary stuff huh? Hey, even those hair extension freaks knows how to use PCs and not those graduates! Now, that's scary!

Cinema Unbound

It's Monday and the whole day sort of sucked as one by one the work piled on the table and all memories of champagne and chimichangas are relegated to some dark vault deep in the recesses of my mind...

Trying to escape the drudgery of work and the monotonous dribble of Monday Blues, I booked a seat at the plush Premier Class of the nearest cinema. An evening watching the latest superhero movie while tucking into a tub of caramel popcorn, hot dog and diet cola was so seductive and that was just what yours truly set out to do. That is until Elephant Girl came in with her Weasel bf.

They had to have the seats behind me!!!! Of all the empty seats in the hall...

And to think that the hall was made to be spacious and comfortable. Well, Elephant and Weasel managed to kick and bump into the back of my seat for like 5 millions time before pseudo-settling into their seats. And then the sounds... I dare not turn around less I get the view of them smooching - or worse! The thought turns my stomach. She may have even been eating the seats for all I know...

What a haven for sinners the cinema is. Seemingly religious girls coming complete with head gear, demure demeanour and a man draped on their arm. And booking the back most seats? Hahaha, who are they kidding? Those giggles cannot be the humour they find in the violent scenes of the movie or the fact that the main character was sprouting extra arms - just like their bfs!

The cinema management is also in on this! They switch the air-conditioning to arctic proportions and give these so called cinema-goers an excuse to warm up cold fingers in the solace of someone else's trousers. For heaven's sake! There's a hotel upstairs!!! Oh that's right, they may get caught by the authorities if they did. Not in the dark cinema though. It's a public place. Yeeeeaaaaaahhhhhh riiiiggghhhhtttttt!!!!!!!!

Survival Tip no. 247: Next you are at the cinema and you see a couple coming towards you, throw thumbtacks at their seats so they'll get a poking they deserve!

Attack Of The 50 Ft Extensions Pt 2

Now that things are back on track...

Darrrliiiing!!!!! More on those hairzies. Out last nite chugging my pint of bubbly and who walks in but the next Barbie don’t-want-to-be-but-became-anyway of our lovely little city. I mean Dolly Parton and Lolo Ferrari are one thing but one day you are definitely a 747 runway and the next week you have mountains fit for scaling? Pur-lease! Anyway, let’s leave silicone valley talks for another day but return to the topic.

Barbie came in and her Everests were quickly followed by this mass of hair. Curled, teased and whatever else to the point where it looks like a Kavadi burden. Goodness, her scalp must be screaming for the last millimetres of its life. I mean she had enough hair to make 50 toupees for Phil Collins.

And how her walk has changed under that cloud of dead keratins!

There is now and undulating movement which is decidedly serpentine with a touch of Beyonce. Hmmm, Beyon-sial is more like it. But let’s not get bitchy. Back to our observation.

It is a highly demanding job to have that much hair. When Barbie was followed in by her similarly adorned friends, they have a ritual movement of constantly prepping up their curls with their hands to the point where it is almost a tic - or Parkinsons. Someone should film them and put it all to music. The Blue Danube comes to mind…

Well, with bionic ears, eavesdropping is a breeze. These hair extensions causes less space on the scalp since they attach to your own hair. Therefore, washing is not easy and has to be done gently. The result is a biologically challenged scalp-health – dandruff! Yes peeps, these people with all their gorgeousness have dandruff! Albeit kept in check with chemicals. Wow, with all the alcohol they consume and the amount of chemicals they apply to both scalp and skin, no wonder they look good. It’s embalming brought to a new height!

Oh yes! Let us not forget the hairspray! The budget for that is enough to keep a small third world country fed for a month!

An experiment for tonight: Try to stealthily light up some hair extensions. See the pyrotechnics beat any New Year’s fireworks!

The Lost Days 2

Saturday: So after a debauched Friday night where desperate gatecrashers made fools of themselves at our party, it is a wonderful thing to lie in and pamper oneself at the dermatologist having your face zapped by the pretty assistant, carbon layer popping at each shot of the laser and your doctor telling you that you are losing collagen... Great!

While having my skin heated up, it was great to reflect on the night before...

The club was heaving with bevvies of sweaty bodies dressed in the latest fashion. The women were gorgeous and the men were butt ugly. Hey if the womenfolk can make an effort to put their face on and swathe themselves in fab tops and bottoms, what are them menfolk's excuse? Oversized polo tops? Shirts where the shoulder seam falls down to their waist and trousers under their chins? What the...? Oh yes, that's how the men in this country dresses!

It's no wonder many women complain too many men are gay. That's because they don't notice construction site labourers next to the groomed fags. Puts the "REAL" men to shame. And no wonder many women would just die to "turn" a gay man straight. Let's get the bull dykes turn the straight women gay! But from the word around the mill many have tried. Women have more balls than men! They'll try anything once - even if they don't admit it!

So the pretty assistant zapping me says she'll never go with a woman. Until the right woman comes along that is, my mind added. Especially when her Air-Force man just dumped her unceremoniusly on her skinny behind. Mental abuse over the years. A kind touch from the right woman may just turn her...

But hey! Not all the gays in this country are gorgeous and fab. Some of them wears those armpit high pants and circus tent shirts and walk with their belly ten-miles in front and their greasy face grinning like they are God's gift to men!

Women, you can have these! I'm sure the Fag-Kingdom returns them to Straightland with no strings attached. In fact, they'll probably pay Women-dom to turn these guys "straight"!

The Lost Days

I think it's time for a double entry!

Friday: Being somewhere where you thought you'd never be again allows you to see things through fresher eyes. I was walking the floor and what I see are caricatures of humanity.

1) Men seem to think that growing a moustache suddenly makes them look all distinguished and matured. Somehow the mirrors that they have at home must be like those circus ones. Can't they not see that the largest moustache in the world cannot distract the way you walk like the Hunchback Of Notre Dame; the five-size too big shirt; the oh-not-sexy belly first swagger (ok they have no choice here - either walk that way or liposuction) and not to forget "Oh I have a title so I'll rub my nose and sniff because they will care if I got the sniffles" gesture.

2) Women seem to think they're all encompassingly gorgeous and attractive. You greet them and being lost so far up their butthole, they cannot hear you. So they ignore you. They think you look at them because you fancy them. Purleaze!!! My maid look better than half of these so-called professionals. Us viewing them is akin to watching prancing baboons at the zoo...

3) Somehow if you have children, all the world should celebrate it and no matter how much they jump up and down and create a nuisance, it's okay. The children are there to be seen and heard and no one can tell them otherwise. So let's all not care about other people because we have CHILDREN! We have copulated hard for it and the women-folk has shat them out so it gives us all the right to let them run amok and spoil the rest of the world's day. Right? Because we have children!!!!!!!!!

Attack Of The 50 Ft Extensions

Whiplash? Must be! Don’t these scrawny things realise that their skinny necks can’t handle that bundle of hair! And who started with the idea of adding some impoverished Eastern European spinster’s pit hairs to your own crowning glory. Yeah, right!!! Crowning gory is more like it.

Peepz! Next time you decide to paint the town black, blue or some glorious shade of pink, have a look around. Those kilograms of hair made heavier with hairspray needs to be under lock and key. How fabulous it would be for them to light up their own hair while swishing around their locks around candle-lit tables. Personally, moi would be helpful and put their inferno out with some vodka…

It must be an illness that is catching. Like malaria – or even small pox. One person decides to “try” it and before you know it – presto! – an epidemic of epic proportions has descended on the scene. Women with nice enough hair suddenly sprout extra locks that are decidedly taking a life of their own. The virus jumps from one woman to another until the whole club is lined with an array of hairsprayed curls – lovingly tended by their hairdressers who are gleefully rushing to their new mansion on the hill.

And why not? Each lock of hair costs a harem’s worth of camels. I have personally seen these uptown girls rushing to go to some god-forsaken place in the middle of some freaky industrial estate to buy cheaper – at cost! Lug it all the way home and invite their personal hairdresser to attach those hair to theirs amidst showers of champagne and wine. Lo and behold! The new decadent Rome! All in the front room of your favourite socialite.

When you are out and about tonight, there’s a new game: Spot the hair-ess!

Blog Virgin No More

Pop! There goes my cherry! Blogging-ly speaking, that is! The other thing is a long gone memory. What IS the other thing anyway??? Amnesia...

So here’s my first entry into the world of blog: where it is the equivalent of walking down the road with your tits hanging out. Somehow, blog-ging has the essence of exhibitionism albeit on a higher tech specifications. Call it what you want: online diary; memoirs; thoughts of the day; a day in the life. The bottom line is: it’s a bottom baring thing. Only difference is your face can be totally hidden until some smart alec decides to dig for worms. So here’s me letting my mammaries hang out with poison spurting out of the nipples.

Now, comes the point where certain criteria have to be set for choosing the victim –oops, I mean the topic! Yes, dearies: whose pound of flesh shall we barbeque until it is bien cuit and whose bucket of blood shall we vampires suck dry. Well, they say that every dog has his day: so every one can have their moment of glory basking in the glorious light of my bitchy sun – which incidentally shines out the crack of my pert behind.

This vampire so achingly wants to be in a coffin during the day and go feeding at night but certain things like W-O-R-K keeps popping out. Maybe all should be packed in and traded for the night life. Oh the night delights of this city. How tempting it is for yours truly to go on and on about the delectable juiciness but appetites needs to be whetted and bottoms needs to be whacked. I think the next thing I have to watch is for those hair-extension freaks…

So honeyz, here’s the thought of the day: Bitch about someone before someone bitches about you, coz life’s a bitch and the best thing is to be one too!!!