Hog on the Run
Monday, February 28, 2005
You want how f*#$!?g much?
Me and Sidekick sometimes fill an empty afternoon with the perusal of Show Homes. Round our way, crafty developers are forever chucking up a variety of rabbit hutches charming new-build houses.
It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.
You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."
I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."
And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.
The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.
On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.
"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.
She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.
Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Art for your eyes 
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Trade Descriptions
Yes, I have one of those hit count things which basically tells me if anyone reads this rubbish, and where(ish) in the world they are. My apologies, therefore, to whoever it was from Iran (!) who searched Google for this and came here. Sadly the snippet has changed. When I first tried it the short, er, teaser entry in Google for Hog on the Run read "hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special." An open invitation you might think.
Dear reader, you must have experienced such disappointment. Please accept my deepest sympathies, and my sincerest hope that you find the bosoms you are looking for.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Strangers are just friends we haven't met
It's a necessity to listen to music during the drive to work in the morning, an activity of such vital importance that I would be unable to work up to full consciousness without it. The primary reason for not carrying a passenger is that we might argue over which band to listen to, and the rage I'd be spun into by not being able to listen to The Killers, or Fugazi, or Dean Martin if I bloody well want to is simply not worth braving. But it isn't just the listening, oh no. It's the singing too, "singing" being a term I use to loosely describe my bellowing and hooting along with any given track.
This morning it was The Beastie Boys.
Okapi: (braying) "Let me get some action from the back section,"
(I'm trailing cigarette smoke from a lazy hand, window rolled down, all is good and right in my motorised world.)
Okapi: (bleating) "We need body rocking, not perfection."
(I am forced to stop by the car in front of me, lights, who stops for lights? I notice a man standing next to the car, on the driver's side.)
Okapi: (ullulates) "I wanna do the freak until the break of dawn,"
(Oh shit on a stick I've locked eyes with him)
Okapi: (howling) "Tell me party people is that so wrong?"
(Godamn it cut out the "singing"! You could still escape with a scrap of dignity intact.
But it's too late. I cannot look away, it's like my eyeballs are held in place by iron rods. Hapless witness stares back, mouth slightly open, face bewildered.)
Beasties: "The ship is docking,"
(No point in stopping now, it's just one more person seeing me make a right twat of myself.)
Okapi (bitterly, fixing pedestrian with a jaundiced expression suggesting I shout at complete strangers daily) "INterlocking!"
Beasties: "End up-rocking,"
Tortured onlooker actually steps back slightly, and raises a hand as if to fend me off.
Okapi: (triumphant now, made righteous by refusal to end the blood-curdling horror) "electro-shocking!"
Innocent bystander: looks bemused, but chastened.
After a final parting stare, I swivel forwards as if nothing had happened.
And drive away.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Me Again
Mouchie Speaks On Social Matters
Boots the Feral
While I understand the need to help those cats that haven't got monkeys waiting on their every whim, I was disgusted to see how these moggies were forced to give up their lusty-bits. I know my night yowling days are long since gone, but the monkeys are sick! They are obsessed: note how the whole "neutered" angle is pushed again and again, ugh, neutered, what a filthy term.
"Boots the feral is provided with everything a cat could hope for -
food, water, love, and shelter. And as you might expect, he has also
been neutered. There isn't a day that goes by when he is not grateful
for all he has. "
That's right. Boots also adds, " Yes, I was overjoyed the day they
trapped me, chopped me baws off, then offered me a light snack as
recompense. Kitty Treats more than repay me for the loss of my
Tom-hood. Thanks, guys. Really."
The real truth about us
Don't get me wrong. It's just hard to maintain the pretense when I know exactly how superior I am to you. Yes, you.
Monday, February 14, 2005
The Chip Effect
It's a long lasting tradition in our house to take adverts too seriously. This is generally explained as the chip effect, owing to a long ago comment about a McCains Oven Chips ad showing the sundered potatoes feverishly exercising in order to get fit enough to be oven chips. An aspiration indeed, and I think it was Schpickley's sister who complained, "As if chips would really do that." Bloody good point. To further illustrate this phenomena, I give you:
Kinder Bueno: why would anyone want to eat a chocolate bar that gets some sort of erotic charge out of being consumed? It's disgusting, and reminds me of the cow in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe who, rather foully, wanted to be eaten. I like my chocolate dark, chocolatey, and entirely devoid of any voice demanding that I enjoy her creamy centre. Lick my ripples, fer chrissakes....
Bakers dogfood. Sidekick says "Isn't it a bit shortsighted to put two Dobermans in charge of a top secret dog food store?".
Those goddamned Tesco trolleys. What possible difference would Tesco doing loans make to a trolley's life? People would still shop wouldn't they? Especially if they'd just taken out a loan, right? Flippin' dumb-arse trolleys.
Prawns wearing woolly hats and scarves, with tiny mittens just visible, in what I think was an Iceland commercial. Okay, they were frozen prawns, but it made me want to play with them. Believe me, not everyone finds it funny when you put prawn heads on all your fingers and then make them "talk", some may even find it puts them off their food. Particularly humourless ex-boyfriends. (They have very high voices and tend to sing, if you are going to try it*).
Maybe I'm just taking it too literally.
*Prawns on Fingers, not humourless ex-boyfriends
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Forget Everything and Remember
Schpickley-Aye and me decided to enter our massive intellect into a pub quiz.
(For why Schpickley Aye? She does not know, but it had some significance when she drunkenly signed up to Blogger. She can remember posting a medium-sized rant to losthog, but it never appeared. Apologies, therefore, if you received a blog post that made little or no sense.)
For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.
In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.
When we skulked back to the car (knuckles dragging the ground and making "uh-hunk, huh grunt" noises as you'd expect), I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?
One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Tasty Victuals
I think it has something to do with nostalgia, because I remember my Mum having a set of recipe cards that were disturbingly similar, but whatever,
these pictures made me laugh until I was near hysterical. Tears, snot, the works. Slept well that night, let me tell you. Apart from the dream about Rosy Perfection Salad.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Hello?
Is this thing on?
Ha! I despise you.
My monkeys don't think I can do much except eat, sleep, barf and produce turds but they are wrong, so wrong.
Just the other day I left a two foot long streak of crap on the carpet while carrying out a booty rub. Damn, it was itchy. The best thing is there's only one piece of carpet in the whole house, but I managed to paste it freely with my poop within 20 seconds flat.
The bigger monkey remarked, " She can get a fair speed up, can't she?". Too right. A cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.
You can just see the evidence here.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
NuStyle
It's a triumph of style over substance, but I've made the change. No more blogger template. Queue endless twatting about with text colours and trying to change the background picture. Fun - geek style. Keeps me occupied for hours.
Bosomy
This morning, in between the usual foul language, tripping over stuff, including the cat who is permanently underfoot, drinking the coffee helpfully provided by Sidekick, washing while still unconscious, I mistakenly grabbed a lethal combination from the wardrobe - a push up bra and a fitted shirt. Which gapes.
I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.
When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.
Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter.
The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.
Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.
(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Filth
I'd just like you to know the most suggestive word ever: stimubation. Say it, roll that bad mother round your mouth. I couldn't say what it means (think of the children) but it sounds nasty.
Now use it in conversation.
Monday, February 28, 2005
You want how f*#$!?g much?
Me and Sidekick sometimes fill an empty afternoon with the perusal of Show Homes. Round our way, crafty developers are forever chucking up a variety of rabbit hutches charming new-build houses.
It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.
You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."
I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."
And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.
The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.
On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.
"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.
She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.
Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.
It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.
You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."
I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."
And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.
The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.
On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.
"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.
She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.
Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Art for your eyes
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Trade Descriptions
Yes, I have one of those hit count things which basically tells me if anyone reads this rubbish, and where(ish) in the world they are. My apologies, therefore, to whoever it was from Iran (!) who searched Google for this and came here. Sadly the snippet has changed. When I first tried it the short, er, teaser entry in Google for Hog on the Run read "hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special." An open invitation you might think.
Dear reader, you must have experienced such disappointment. Please accept my deepest sympathies, and my sincerest hope that you find the bosoms you are looking for.
Dear reader, you must have experienced such disappointment. Please accept my deepest sympathies, and my sincerest hope that you find the bosoms you are looking for.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Strangers are just friends we haven't met
It's a necessity to listen to music during the drive to work in the morning, an activity of such vital importance that I would be unable to work up to full consciousness without it. The primary reason for not carrying a passenger is that we might argue over which band to listen to, and the rage I'd be spun into by not being able to listen to The Killers, or Fugazi, or Dean Martin if I bloody well want to is simply not worth braving. But it isn't just the listening, oh no. It's the singing too, "singing" being a term I use to loosely describe my bellowing and hooting along with any given track.
This morning it was The Beastie Boys.
Okapi: (braying) "Let me get some action from the back section,"
(I'm trailing cigarette smoke from a lazy hand, window rolled down, all is good and right in my motorised world.)
Okapi: (bleating) "We need body rocking, not perfection."
(I am forced to stop by the car in front of me, lights, who stops for lights? I notice a man standing next to the car, on the driver's side.)
Okapi: (ullulates) "I wanna do the freak until the break of dawn,"
(Oh shit on a stick I've locked eyes with him)
Okapi: (howling) "Tell me party people is that so wrong?"
(Godamn it cut out the "singing"! You could still escape with a scrap of dignity intact.
But it's too late. I cannot look away, it's like my eyeballs are held in place by iron rods. Hapless witness stares back, mouth slightly open, face bewildered.)
Beasties: "The ship is docking,"
(No point in stopping now, it's just one more person seeing me make a right twat of myself.)
Okapi (bitterly, fixing pedestrian with a jaundiced expression suggesting I shout at complete strangers daily) "INterlocking!"
Beasties: "End up-rocking,"
Tortured onlooker actually steps back slightly, and raises a hand as if to fend me off.
Okapi: (triumphant now, made righteous by refusal to end the blood-curdling horror) "electro-shocking!"
Innocent bystander: looks bemused, but chastened.
After a final parting stare, I swivel forwards as if nothing had happened.
And drive away.
This morning it was The Beastie Boys.
Okapi: (braying) "Let me get some action from the back section,"
(I'm trailing cigarette smoke from a lazy hand, window rolled down, all is good and right in my motorised world.)
Okapi: (bleating) "We need body rocking, not perfection."
(I am forced to stop by the car in front of me, lights, who stops for lights? I notice a man standing next to the car, on the driver's side.)
Okapi: (ullulates) "I wanna do the freak until the break of dawn,"
(Oh shit on a stick I've locked eyes with him)
Okapi: (howling) "Tell me party people is that so wrong?"
(Godamn it cut out the "singing"! You could still escape with a scrap of dignity intact.
But it's too late. I cannot look away, it's like my eyeballs are held in place by iron rods. Hapless witness stares back, mouth slightly open, face bewildered.)
Beasties: "The ship is docking,"
(No point in stopping now, it's just one more person seeing me make a right twat of myself.)
Okapi (bitterly, fixing pedestrian with a jaundiced expression suggesting I shout at complete strangers daily) "INterlocking!"
Beasties: "End up-rocking,"
Tortured onlooker actually steps back slightly, and raises a hand as if to fend me off.
Okapi: (triumphant now, made righteous by refusal to end the blood-curdling horror) "electro-shocking!"
Innocent bystander: looks bemused, but chastened.
After a final parting stare, I swivel forwards as if nothing had happened.
And drive away.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Me Again
Mouchie Speaks On Social Matters
Boots the Feral
While I understand the need to help those cats that haven't got monkeys waiting on their every whim, I was disgusted to see how these moggies were forced to give up their lusty-bits. I know my night yowling days are long since gone, but the monkeys are sick! They are obsessed: note how the whole "neutered" angle is pushed again and again, ugh, neutered, what a filthy term.
"Boots the feral is provided with everything a cat could hope for -
food, water, love, and shelter. And as you might expect, he has also
been neutered. There isn't a day that goes by when he is not grateful
for all he has. "
That's right. Boots also adds, " Yes, I was overjoyed the day they
trapped me, chopped me baws off, then offered me a light snack as
recompense. Kitty Treats more than repay me for the loss of my
Tom-hood. Thanks, guys. Really."
The real truth about us
Don't get me wrong. It's just hard to maintain the pretense when I know exactly how superior I am to you. Yes, you.
While I understand the need to help those cats that haven't got monkeys waiting on their every whim, I was disgusted to see how these moggies were forced to give up their lusty-bits. I know my night yowling days are long since gone, but the monkeys are sick! They are obsessed: note how the whole "neutered" angle is pushed again and again, ugh, neutered, what a filthy term.
"Boots the feral is provided with everything a cat could hope for -
food, water, love, and shelter. And as you might expect, he has also
been neutered. There isn't a day that goes by when he is not grateful
for all he has. "
That's right. Boots also adds, " Yes, I was overjoyed the day they
trapped me, chopped me baws off, then offered me a light snack as
recompense. Kitty Treats more than repay me for the loss of my
Tom-hood. Thanks, guys. Really."
The real truth about us
Don't get me wrong. It's just hard to maintain the pretense when I know exactly how superior I am to you. Yes, you.
Monday, February 14, 2005
The Chip Effect
It's a long lasting tradition in our house to take adverts too seriously. This is generally explained as the chip effect, owing to a long ago comment about a McCains Oven Chips ad showing the sundered potatoes feverishly exercising in order to get fit enough to be oven chips. An aspiration indeed, and I think it was Schpickley's sister who complained, "As if chips would really do that." Bloody good point. To further illustrate this phenomena, I give you:
Kinder Bueno: why would anyone want to eat a chocolate bar that gets some sort of erotic charge out of being consumed? It's disgusting, and reminds me of the cow in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe who, rather foully, wanted to be eaten. I like my chocolate dark, chocolatey, and entirely devoid of any voice demanding that I enjoy her creamy centre. Lick my ripples, fer chrissakes....
Bakers dogfood. Sidekick says "Isn't it a bit shortsighted to put two Dobermans in charge of a top secret dog food store?".
Those goddamned Tesco trolleys. What possible difference would Tesco doing loans make to a trolley's life? People would still shop wouldn't they? Especially if they'd just taken out a loan, right? Flippin' dumb-arse trolleys.
Prawns wearing woolly hats and scarves, with tiny mittens just visible, in what I think was an Iceland commercial. Okay, they were frozen prawns, but it made me want to play with them. Believe me, not everyone finds it funny when you put prawn heads on all your fingers and then make them "talk", some may even find it puts them off their food. Particularly humourless ex-boyfriends. (They have very high voices and tend to sing, if you are going to try it*).
Maybe I'm just taking it too literally.
*Prawns on Fingers, not humourless ex-boyfriends
Kinder Bueno: why would anyone want to eat a chocolate bar that gets some sort of erotic charge out of being consumed? It's disgusting, and reminds me of the cow in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe who, rather foully, wanted to be eaten. I like my chocolate dark, chocolatey, and entirely devoid of any voice demanding that I enjoy her creamy centre. Lick my ripples, fer chrissakes....
Bakers dogfood. Sidekick says "Isn't it a bit shortsighted to put two Dobermans in charge of a top secret dog food store?".
Those goddamned Tesco trolleys. What possible difference would Tesco doing loans make to a trolley's life? People would still shop wouldn't they? Especially if they'd just taken out a loan, right? Flippin' dumb-arse trolleys.
Prawns wearing woolly hats and scarves, with tiny mittens just visible, in what I think was an Iceland commercial. Okay, they were frozen prawns, but it made me want to play with them. Believe me, not everyone finds it funny when you put prawn heads on all your fingers and then make them "talk", some may even find it puts them off their food. Particularly humourless ex-boyfriends. (They have very high voices and tend to sing, if you are going to try it*).
Maybe I'm just taking it too literally.
*Prawns on Fingers, not humourless ex-boyfriends
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Forget Everything and Remember
Schpickley-Aye and me decided to enter our massive intellect into a pub quiz.
(For why Schpickley Aye? She does not know, but it had some significance when she drunkenly signed up to Blogger. She can remember posting a medium-sized rant to losthog, but it never appeared. Apologies, therefore, if you received a blog post that made little or no sense.)
For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.
In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.
When we skulked back to the car (knuckles dragging the ground and making "uh-hunk, huh grunt" noises as you'd expect), I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?
One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.
(For why Schpickley Aye? She does not know, but it had some significance when she drunkenly signed up to Blogger. She can remember posting a medium-sized rant to losthog, but it never appeared. Apologies, therefore, if you received a blog post that made little or no sense.)
For the record, out of 27 teams, "Hogs on the Run" came a smashing 23rd. Perhaps we have trouble with memory retention, but we remain blissfully unaware of the name of whoever won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984, or who the oldest footballer ever to make a debut on the national team was. Shame, one of the prizes was described as "other bit and bobs". Note the lack of a plural there, had to be something good, I reckon. But we did get the question about horses right, and the one about who played Dirty Harry. And, most importantly, we were not last.
In lieu of entertainment, we spent our time doodling pictures of spaceships, beasts, cowboys and genitals on a spare bit of paper. Good to see we've matured nicely over the years.
When we skulked back to the car (knuckles dragging the ground and making "uh-hunk, huh grunt" noises as you'd expect), I noticed that a strange slimy streak of matter appeared to have oozed, like ectoplasm, from the metal and glass. It glistened sickeningly in the street light. I goggled at it for some time before I realised someone had egg'd the damn thing, and it wasn't anything we needed to call TV's "Most Haunted" in to inspect. Which led us to wonder who the hell carefully packs an egg, takes that egg into town, nestled deep in a soft pocket, chooses a car, unwraps the precious chicken ova, aims and throws? Did it offend them like a politician might? Perhaps it was a drive-by egging?
One single egg, mark you. I hope they chose correctly, and did not regret the decision later, when they were eggless. At any rate, it seemed like a judgement of sorts - fare crap in Pub quiz, receive eggs. On your windscreen and bonnet. So there.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Tasty Victuals
I think it has something to do with nostalgia, because I remember my Mum having a set of recipe cards that were disturbingly similar, but whatever,
these pictures made me laugh until I was near hysterical. Tears, snot, the works. Slept well that night, let me tell you. Apart from the dream about Rosy Perfection Salad.
these pictures made me laugh until I was near hysterical. Tears, snot, the works. Slept well that night, let me tell you. Apart from the dream about Rosy Perfection Salad.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Hello?
Is this thing on?
Ha! I despise you.
My monkeys don't think I can do much except eat, sleep, barf and produce turds but they are wrong, so wrong.
Just the other day I left a two foot long streak of crap on the carpet while carrying out a booty rub. Damn, it was itchy. The best thing is there's only one piece of carpet in the whole house, but I managed to paste it freely with my poop within 20 seconds flat.
The bigger monkey remarked, " She can get a fair speed up, can't she?". Too right. A cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.
Just the other day I left a two foot long streak of crap on the carpet while carrying out a booty rub. Damn, it was itchy. The best thing is there's only one piece of carpet in the whole house, but I managed to paste it freely with my poop within 20 seconds flat.
The bigger monkey remarked, " She can get a fair speed up, can't she?". Too right. A cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.
You can just see the evidence here.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
NuStyle
It's a triumph of style over substance, but I've made the change. No more blogger template. Queue endless twatting about with text colours and trying to change the background picture. Fun - geek style. Keeps me occupied for hours.
Bosomy
This morning, in between the usual foul language, tripping over stuff, including the cat who is permanently underfoot, drinking the coffee helpfully provided by Sidekick, washing while still unconscious, I mistakenly grabbed a lethal combination from the wardrobe - a push up bra and a fitted shirt. Which gapes.
I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.
When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.
Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter.
The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.
Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.
(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)
I was getting odd looks all day, the whole look down, look at face, look down routine. I spent my time clutching at my chest as if suddenly suffering from angina, while secretly thinking hey! I got breastage worth checking out! Special.
When I arrived home I thought I'd have a look at my bazoombah display to see what the fuss was about.
Side view. Through the tiny gap in my shirt, I appear to have one strangely enlarged boob, while the other pales into insignificance. Actual melons on view: two. Visible norks: one only. More distressingly, this happens on both sides. The viewing angle doesn't seem to matter.
The ribbon decorating the centre of the bra, which looked so damn perky when I bought it, droops sadly between the uneven valley of my pasty cleavage, in the gloom it looks less festive than slightly sinister, like a dribble of tomato soup.
Gah. Foiled again. I can only hope my mutant boobs haven't scarred anyone for life.
(Blogger spellcheck wants me to replace "boobs" with "bob's", and "breastage" with "barracudas". I refuse.)
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Filth
I'd just like you to know the most suggestive word ever: stimubation. Say it, roll that bad mother round your mouth. I couldn't say what it means (think of the children) but it sounds nasty.
Now use it in conversation.
Now use it in conversation.
