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Oct 28

FUBAR dog.

Posted on Thursday, October 28, 2010 in Family, Humourarse, Strange and Unusual

What do you get if you cross a sheep with a rat? A reep maybe. Or a shat.

Apparently it’s none of the above. Apparently you get one of these:


It’s a cross between a Bichon Frise and a Shitsu, what I might call a Scut. Certainly not a dog, that’s for sure.

When it was placed in my charge for the weekend, I accepted gracefully for the sake of the entertainment of Puppychild, but swore to take the piss out of it at every available opportunity, as you do. I bathed it, and made it look like a drowned rat and laughed at it, and laughed at it again when it re-appeared the next morning fluffier than a tumble-dried tampon.

Since introducing it to Laughingboy however, I’ve changed my mind. It respectfully pawed his chest and snuffed in his ears and made Laughingboy giggle and put up with the wild thrashing arm-flaps that ensued. It fell asleep on the kid’s chest and ignored the grabby wetness of a six month old baby with great temperance. My estimation of it went up several notches.

Then, when it came with me to the bathroom while I pee’d and curled up to scratch its itch by my feet; as if to say ‘If you run out of bogroll, I’m always here in emergencies…’ I fell another 10% in love.

Should my friend return on Sunday looking for her dog (?) only to have me tell her it’s dead while I sneakily hide it in the shed… you wouldn’t judge me, would you?


(Yeah, it was me that put the hairclips in its barnet. Not because it’s cute, but because the poor pissant can’t see for its messed up fringe.  I can identify with that.)

Sep 19

Jehovah’s Witnesses – My Dirty Little Secret

Posted on Sunday, September 19, 2010 in Family, Humourarse, Strange and Unusual

There are many places in this house that escape my cleaning routine.  I may visit them twice a year, maybe not at all; the greasy crevice between the oven and the cabinets being one such place for instance.  Euughh.

Another would be the place behind the giant shoe-box underneath our bed, apparently.

I spotted the glossy magazines while searching for spare change this morning, they grabbed my interest as a very strange place to keep magazines, so I pulled them out to have a better look.  I turned page after page in total shock at both the images, and the fact that each page was so well-worn and crumpled by such apparently sweaty eager hands.  I felt so confused and dirty at having found TAT’s little secret, and wondered what I should do with it.

See, I understand that a lot of men hide porn from their wives and I would be delighted if these magazines indeed were porn, but they weren’t porn at all, they were five different issues of WATCHTOWER, a Jehovah’s Witness rag that usually finds its way into the recycle bin around here (away with your claims of oozing purity!  I reserve the right to be a total fuck-up, thank you very much!).

So what am I to do?  Am I to throw the magazines on the coffee table in fury during a dramatic confrontation with TAT over a dirty-great-big fry-up one morning?


…and so on and so forth.

No, that seems too much like hard work.  Instead I shall tell all his friends so that they may look upon him with great awe and ridicule, for that is what it is all about, for God is a woman and likes wine and has a sense of humour about these things.

(I hope!)

See you in Hell.



Jul 24


Posted on Saturday, July 24, 2010 in Humourarse, Quickie

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Objective case.
Objective case who?

Jul 16

How to be eaten

Posted on Friday, July 16, 2010 in Family, Humourarse

I’ve never been on a diet. Diets fall into that category of things that need willpower, but I’m happily squatting in the quitter section of the ‘life is too short’ category, close to the ‘fuck that!’ department. It’s happier over here where mirrors and doctors are banned.

I do have a Wii fit though, the melding of fitness and gaming is genius even if it does sit for months on end gathering dust. I used it to gauge my weight in my seventh month of pregnancy, just to throw it off guard a bit. It turned my avatar into a Pillsbury dough-girl and scorned my girth.

Then I used it again shortly after giving birth and realised that it’s not as stupid as it looks. It told me that if I wanted to, I could re-do the body test carrying an object, and it would give me its weight too… something like a pet, or a baby maybe?

So I did, and it congratulated me. I was impressed.

A few weeks later I re-took the tests, and after I’d bitch-slapped it for still claiming I was in the ‘overweight’ category, I found that thanks to breastfeeding, Sir Fartsalot had gained almost exactly the same amount of weight that I’ve lost. Ooooooh.

My child is eating me. I adore the chubbiness that is my thighs recycled.

Atkins my arse. The cannibalism diet is working well for me.


Jul 6

Nerds in pieces

Posted on Tuesday, July 6, 2010 in Family, Humourarse

I’m one of those rare people who has the patience for jigsaws. They’re a brilliant invention, perfect for manual dexterity and logic exercises in kids, great for distraction from addictions, a box full of tiny bits of cardboard.   Individual quiet ‘yippee!’s for when each slots into its impossibly detailed place.

I got a 500 piece jigsaw of a bunch of Alsatian puppies for Puppychild recently. Who am I kidding… it’s really for me. She watches with mild amusement at the torture I seem to love so much but soon goes back to her kennel to thread beads. She’ll be there for that final twenty pieces, we have an understanding.

One of TAT’s spurious friends was visiting last week and asked if I was going to glue it to a frame, a lot of people do that. They don’t understand the point of jigsaws.

Jigsaws are one of the few things you can make which are designed to be smashed up again. Yeah you can leave it on the dining room table for months but people eventually get pissed off that they’re not allowed within five feet of it, so all those long hours piecing the whole thing together will have to be undone, destroyed and wept upon, preferably during a seance. That’s the whole fun of it!

Here for your amusement is a cat-in-the-box just in case you’ve mentally diverted from all the nerdy jigsaw talk:

Apr 22

East meets Breast – Boobquake Day

Posted on Thursday, April 22, 2010 in Humourarse, Little known facts, Rantings, Strange and Unusual

I can understand how women baring too much skin could cause earthquakes, after all, if we can cause cow’s milk to sour and a pestilence on the spuds, it naturally stands to reason. That’s why I wasn’t surprised at all when I read the following quote;

“Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes …” Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, senior Iranian cleric

I am therefore outraged that Blag Hag, an irresponsible and reckless blogger in Indiana has decided to put millions of people’s lives at risk by staging a national ‘low-cut top’ day on Monday 26th April that she calls ‘Boobquake Day’.

“On Monday, April 26th, I will wear the most cleavage-showing shirt I own. Yes, the one usually reserved for a night on the town. I encourage other female skeptics to join me and embrace the supposed supernatural power of their breasts. Or short shorts, if that’s your preferred form of immodesty. With the power of our scandalous bodies combined, we should surely produce an earthquake. If not, I’m sure Sedighi can come up with a rational explanation for why the ground didn’t rumble. And if we really get through to him, maybe it’ll be one involving plate tectonics.”

Disgraceful, endangering people like that.

She’s on the facebook and the twitter, and is brazenly flaunting her boobs in everyone’s face which is all well and good when you’re all sprightly and perky, but what if you look like this lady:

I am afraid.  Allāh will not like it. Not even one little bit.

Apr 5

Smell ya later

Posted on Monday, April 5, 2010 in Family, Humourarse, Rantings

My pet hate of the day is the farting air-freshener.

TAT brought one home last week and as much as I bitched and moaned about his having been duped by Godawful fake smellies and the fact that the refills are thrice as expensive as the gizmo that farts them, he set it up anyway.

It’s like a big stupid white dildo on the shelf there, reminding visitors that we stink.

I hate it.

Whenever I walk into the room it farts at me.  This is okay during daylight, but at night it’s a whole different story.  I reserve the right to wander into the kitchen at 3am for my nightly fix of chocolate biscuits and milk without having the bollix scared out of me by a farting air-freshener.  It sounds just like a cat, hissing violently at me as I walk past.  It gets me every time.  Sometimes it sees me coming and farts directly into my eyes, scaring me and blinding me in one fell swoop.  Other times it waits until I’ve just passed it, then hisses at me behind my back, causing me to scream in blind panic in my sleepy state and whirl round jiu-jitsu style to face my combattant feline attacker.  Then I just feel stupid.

I moved it to the shelf above the TV yesterday.  That didn’t work, it just farted on my TV dinners.  This morning it got moved to the computer table and messed up my mouse’s mojo with its sticky effluent.

Tomorrow the farting air-freshener faces death by pressure cooker.  Pine fresh my arse.

Sep 3

Dance, bitch!!

Posted on Thursday, September 3, 2009 in Humourarse, Strange and Unusual

I just found this and had such a good time with it, I thought I’d share it.

Maxi Cane has written a savage article about men’s versus women’s magazines and who they do (or don’t) exploit.  He mentioned a few magazines he’ll be reviewing, and that led me to google FHM, my once favourited rag.  I don’t really buy them, because there’s so much to be had on their website.

If you are (ahem) one of the few who only read FHM for the articles, you might be aware of their reviews e.g. their 100 greatest websites ever! which led me to something too odd for words:

#99 – Boss a chicken around

Now call me easily entertained, but when I click a link and find a guy in a chicken-suit sitting on a couch who suddenly stands up to face me, I get a bit edgy.  I’m told to enter a command into the dialogue box at the bottom, so I did.


The dude in the chicken suit waved.


The chicken began to do a Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.  He was very good!

“Thanks :)”  I said… I felt bad.  I felt I had to step back and think of some oddball things for him to do.

Poor bastard.  Some people just have the weirdest jobs!!!

Aug 25

Who says football isn’t entertaining?

Posted on Tuesday, August 25, 2009 in Humourarse, On the box

I’m in a sitting-room with five men, our bellies full of battered cod and chips, our glasses full… the telly’s on and a reminder suddenly pops up on the screen to tell us that ‘Match of the Day’ is about to start.  Half of us cheer, the other half are of no discernible opinion.

Various tense moments of recent soccer matches play out to choruses of groans and ‘oooh’s and ‘yay’s from the lads, and I bite my nails.  I wait for Manchester United highlights to hit… I wait for my moment.  I am prepared.

Gary Lineker waffles as the screen changes and Man United appears for the highlights.  I watch the body language of the lads carefully and wait to pounce.  A dude runs towards the goal with the football along the outside of the field, he passes it to his buddy in the middle, who passes it back to the first bloke, the ball gets closer and closer..

“G’WAN!!!”  the lads shout in unison.

Several defending lads try and fail to grab the ball, it gets closer and closer to the net.  Nearly…

“PASS IT!” scream the lads.

The goalkeeper starts to look nervous.  Nearly…

The ball only a few feet from the net, my time has come to screw things up.

“Hey lads, isn’t there a bloke on this team called Dimitar Berbatov?”  I ask coyly.

“Yeah s’right” their eyes remain glued to the screen, their attention un-broken.

“Is it me or does that name sound like someone’s farted in the bath?!?”

I sit back with satisfaction as wine is ejected from nostrils and the goal on the TV is entirely missed while grown men giggle like schoolboys.

Ha.  Fart humour.  Gets ’em every time.


Dean Windass.

It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.

Jun 25

Who needs a babysitter?

Posted on Thursday, June 25, 2009 in Family, Humourarse, Quickie, Strange and Unusual


Tourist culling at Grandad’s house is about to get interesting.

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