Smelly cat, smelly cat, what are they feeding you?

I hate a lot of things in life. A LOT of things. I have a mental list ranked in order.

Number 3 on the list of things I hate with a near spontaneous combustible fury, is stinky ass fucks (the non angry translation: people who smell bad).

Please see my friend Ludo. He sums it up in way that I just can not. I may or may not have used him before in a post. He is right on with everything he says. I love this wise hairy ginga beast.

My office is open to the public & whatnot. They rarely come in to my office anymore because I no longer offer anything they need. It's all done in another city in another part of NZ, thank Christ.

However, apart from the revolving door of taxi drivers & their problems that I deal with on a daily basis, every so often I get some homie come in who owes money to a driver, to pay his fare.

And I am not lying, every single one of these people smells like they've rolled in the rotting carcass of a wild boar. I want to pay them to get the fuck out of my office.

I hold my breath & go through the pleasantries of excepting their payment etc. In my head I'm thinking this is dam dangerous work yo.

This afternoon, I had a guy come in who just last week I saw swaying to the beat of his own drunken rat arsed drums right outside my office door while I was locking up for the day. I asked him if he wanted anything to which he replied something I couldn't understand so I carried on my merry way to the car quietly thanking sweet baby Jesus that I didn't have to help him. He was completely wankered.

Little did I know, he wasn't finished with me. He came in today & I tried to be polite but oh my shitballs he reeked. Like a dead animal covered in human feces who hadn't washed their asshole for at least 3 months. OR he'd shoplifted a whole block of Blue Vein cheese a couple of weeks ago & hidden it up his jacksie?

I couldn't even talk to him because if I had of opened my trap, I would have tasted his stench. The whole exchange lasted longer then necessary & when he departed, he left his smell behind. I got mad as hell & lost my shit. What with my taxi driver toilet stinks that I can't escape from. And now the motherfucking smelly hobos coming in to my office!!

I have decided to put up a sign on the front doors of my office. It will quite plainly say, 'If you smell, or intend to make a smell, piss the hell off. No stinky assholes welcome here!! Thank you, from Becky the office lady'.

Now I don't know about you guys, but I accidentally tasted a fart once. Not on purpose of course. And it wasn't like I was sitting there with my napkin on my front, with a knife & fork ready for some fart eating. It wasn't a good time & I got really mad about it because I didn't even know what was happening until it was too late.

EAT MY FART. BE-ATCH.



I had a cold & couldn't breathe in or out my nose. I walked past an old lady in the local supermarket who had obviously just let a sneaky one rip while bending to pick up a bag of oats. Never underestimate the power & fury of an elderly baff. Every odour that spews fourth from their back door orifice smells of death & bad meat.

Anyway, I unknowingly walked straight in to her ass bomb gas cloud. With my mouth wide open. I had, in a round about way, got a mouthfull of her shit dust. Blake laughed so hard I thought he'd willy dribbled in his man knickers, & I choked & pretty much spewed in to my handbag. I could taste her ass in my mouth!!

I wanted to bash her. But because it's illegal to granny bash, I had to just walk away. I was piss mad though & went straight home to brush my teeth/drink some mouthwash. I felt dirty & a little bit invaded. I looked up on Google to see if you can die from eating someones fart. Turns out no you can't.

But what I did find was some heinous stories of people getting a mouthful of fart while doing dirty things with another person. Both funny & disgusting & I will let you guys Google for yourself one day.

Has anyone had this happen to them before?

Happy Weekend bitches & whatever you do, please keep the fart eating to a minimum.

Peace!

For Johi. What is a hoe. What is not a hoe.

I got a friend named Jesus, no I lie, her name is Johi. But she's pretty close to Jesus, especially when she rocks her motherflippin green leisure suit. And if you ever need to know anything about corn or pork, Johi is your gal. She is also a very funny bitch. Check her out yo, I'm sure you will love her sweet country ass as much as I do.

I dream of the day when Johi from Iowa can serenade me with Willie Nelsons version of Blue Eyes Cryin in the Rain, (Johi do you play the guitar?) while smokin some 'Willie Nelson' & learning how to rope me some beef.

I told Johi, & all the girls in the world that it's ok to stab a hoe when you're on your rag. While I don't condone actual stabbing, acting it out in your head is quite fine.

Anyway, she wrote me a Dear Becky message asking me to clarify 'what is good stabbing hoe'.

For you my Johi Jo Jo (I could say your name all day long) & all you other whores needing some confirmation of what I construe a hoe to be, read on. I know all this hoe business is dam confusing but trust me, I'm bang fucking on about this.

You want the down low on the hoe, ask the fool who knows. Word. (did you just rap that in your head?)

THIS IS A HOE. A GARDEN HOE = NO STAB.

ALSO A GARDEN HOE = STAB

(In our defence, she had a meat cleaver in her hand when we got there)

HOE ON WHEELS = NO STAB

HOE ON WHEELS = STAB

(with the heel of her ugly ass hoe shoes. It's easier when they supply their own weapon)

GOLDIE HOE = NO STAB

GOLDIE HOE = DEFINITELY STAB

(seriously this shit writes itself)

FORKING HOE = NO STAB



FORKING HOE = STAB

MAN HOE = NO STAB

(old & undie hoeing, kinda deserves a stab maybe?)

MAN HOE = STAB AWAY

image stolen from here

DIRTY HOE = NO STAB

(ok so in digger machine land, this is called a 'back hoe' & in this photo it's knee deep in mud. Hey I do my research right)

DIRTY HOE = STAB STAB STAB
(She looks ready for a good knife fight)

OLD HOE = NO STAB

  
OLD HOE = STAB
(But do it nicely ok)

In other news, all the Nana's & man Nana's are losing their shit all over the country, because Coronation Street is changing times on our local TV network. 

Coro used to screen Tuesday/Thursday nights at 7:30pm for an hour. TV1 has decided to replace it with Masterchef Australia & instead Coro will now screen Monday to Friday at 5:30pm for half an hour. My parents go apeshit for Coro. As you can imagine, this change has not pleased them either. There is a friggin uproar & bevy of hate mail being sent to TV1. Such comments as.....

"Suck a dick TV1! You are ruining my life" (I actually made this one up, but it's good yeah?)

"Sleep with one eye open motherfuckers. I'm coming for your throat with a hoe". (I made this one up too)

"What an absolutely ridiculous time slot. 'Have a Heart' TV 1, some of us are not even home from work at that time. I'd like to add that those of us who do a hard day's work who are avid "Coro Street" fans, do very much look forward to watching our Tuesday and Thursday night episodes. Who wants to watch 'more cooking programmes', after a day at work and cooking a meal. Definitely not ME! Linda (Coro Fan)"

My mum actually wrote the last one. I personally think she should have let me write it for her.

Me, well I hate Coro Street with a passion but not as much as I hate Ballroom Dancing. And I hate the fuck out of ballroom dancing. The higher power that be TV1 is basically telling all the NZ Coro fans to suck a fuck & this is how it's gonna be.

Speaking of my mum, I got an email from her the other day containing content which both surprised me & cracked my shit up. My mum likes to tell me off for swearing in my blog all the time & has never really gotten her head around my constant need to write about poo & my constant poo problems.

I think I get my vulgar sense of humour from my Dad. However the email she sent me made me realise that I got a faint smack of her deep rooted humour as well.

My mum sent me 2 photo's of shit. No lie. See for yourself.

What I find most humorous about the fact she emailed me photo's of shit, is that she actually stopped, got her iPhone out of her handbag, & made the effort to do this for me. This in itself is a mean feat because her iPhone is usually buried about 10 metres down the bottom of her near bursting handbag beneath all her lady business.

She said in her email, "thought you might be able to use these, lol". Awesome.

Mum I love you hard. And I'm sorry about the Coro drama & that it is inconveniencing you. Next time, get me to write the letter for you. I'm really good at it.

Any of you fullas got some other hoe ideas? Lets make a picture book!! OR when I write & publish my "To All The Girls In The World: How to be your best adult self" book, we can dedicate a whole chapter to hoe stabbing. 

Peace!

P.S If you are a Ballroom dancer, sleep with one eye open. I'm coming for your throat with a hoe.

To all the girls in the world: How to be your best adult self (Part 1)

I'm not going to lie to you. Being an adult frequently sucks the hairy perineum. Don't be fooled by the bright lights, false sense of freedom & allure of having money to buy rad shit.

BIG FAT LIES

Now this may be harder to swallow than a bag full of scrotum sized gobstoppers, but the love you have for Beiber won't save you from yourself, nor will it bail your ass out of jail when you end up being put in detox for a night at the local Police Station for falling asleep drunk on a park bench down your local main street.

Adulthood is dangerous, scary & unpredictable. Failing is not an option hence I why I want to help you.

Me personally, well it's obvious that I turned out to be awesome. But my road to awesomeness has been rocky & scattered with limb tearing landmines. Learn from my mistakes & the mistakes I've witnessed others make. Use this information to be the very best you you can be.

Take Care Of Your Teeth.
When people talk to you, one of the first things they will notice about you (as long as you don't have the biggest pair of tits on the planet) is your chompers.

Cherish your teeth like you would a new ipod touch. When your teeth fall out as a small person, newer, better, stronger teeth grow in their place. If your teeth fall out as an adult, don't hold on to the hope they will grow back again. Because they won't. You have one chance to make your adult teeth work for you.

Here are some things that have the potential to ruin your teeth:

• Drinking too much coffee/energy drinks.
• Performing too much fellatio.
• Candy.
• Smoking crack, ganja & cigarettes.
• Playing rugby.
• Talking smack to the huge ranga that just stood on your foot in The Rock Bar & made you rage.
• Biting the tops off bottles of beer. (you may think this is a good time party trick but when you rip your lips to shreds & chip the bottom half of your front tooth off, you will want to kick you own ass).
• Getting smacked in the face with a piece of 2x4

FACT: Dentists will rape your bank account. And no one will like you if lose some teeth & end up looking like an extra from Deliverance.

Wear Sensible Shoes.
Nothing says 'I appreciate me' more than a good pair of shoes. Your feet will carry you a million miles. Encase them in glorious, practical footwear.

What in the fuck are these?!

I have a 3 point human check. If you fail any one of my criteria, I will more than likely not talk to you. Yes call me a shallow bitch, but every whore is entitled to having standards.

Bitches, wearing 30cm high stilettos is all kinds of bad. Not only does it make you walk like you have ten strands of anal beads buried in your colon, but the long term damage it will do to your hips & spine is irreparable. Learn from Mrs Beckhams, stay the fuck away from the Stilettos. Having gnarled feet that resemble claws of a Vulture will scare people. And spending your elderly years in agony because your lumbar spine is twisted like a pretzel will SUCK for you.

FACT: Shoes maketh the woman. Be a credit to your ancestors & shod yourself with pride.

Stay the fuck away from crack.
Bum cracks - a bacterial playground. No foreign objects or itching apparati (fingers) should venture there. You will not be able to get the smell of bum off your fingers for at least 3 days.
Crack crack - nothing good to say about this one. Touch this crap & next thing you know you'll be hooking your vag on the street corner & your nose will fall off. Desperate times et al.
Sidewalk cracks - where AIDS infested needles hide waiting to stab you in the foot. Shoes really will save your life.
Fire Crackers - if used incorrectly fire crackers will land you in the slammer for arson. Or having facial reconstruction surgery when a series of fire crackers explode in your face. Neither of these things is a fun time.
Cracks in your windscreen - it may look small but your windscreen will soon be lying in your lap if you attempt to finger it. Take it straight to Novus, they will fill your crack in.
Crack in your fingers - don't scratch them they'll only get worse.
Crackers - will make you fat. But dam the Arnotts Cheese & Bacon shapes the the bomb digz.
Xmas crackers - are a motherfucking disappointment but boy do I love the smell.

FACT: Crack in any form will ruin your life. The end.

BULLSHIT.

Don't have sex until your 25.
Please watch 16 & pregnant on MTV. It's all pretty self explanatory.

FACT: Dry humping will not get you pregnant or give you a nasty case of the herps. So go hard, grind away. However, be warned, over grinding could potentially give you chaff. Chaff on your banger is worse than accidentally squirting lemon juice in a paper cut.

Don't shave your face with a blunt razor.
I started sprouting top lip hair at a very early age. Whatever the fuck you decide to do with it, don't shave it. Ladies aren't supposed to shave their face. This is an entirely a male dominated practice. Except the fact that somewhere along the line, one of your great great grandparents mated with a hairy asshole & you growing facial hair is evidence of their mistake.

After deciding it was a good idea, I did this when I was in my early 20's & I cut my face just below my right eye. It bled like a bastard & I had to put a bandaid on it like hip hop superstar Nelly. I told people I got hit in the face with a rabid staple. Now, if I don't keep my facial muffage, I end up looking like this guy.

 MY HUSBAND DIDN'T SIGN UP FOR THIS 

FACT: Shaving/hair removal creaming any sort of lady facial hair will make it grow faster & thicker than a feral rocky mountain wolf dog. Get yourself a good beauty therapist & make her your BFF 4 EVA.

No matter how hard you try, you will never be able to pee standing up.
I have tried, god have a I tried. And unless you are able to hold your wee bag like a penis, there is no way you will ever be able to pee standing up without pissing all over yourself. The same rule applies when attempting to pee your name on the sidewalk. Messy. And embarrassing.

FACT: Stale urine all over your butt skimming skank mini will smell shithouse. But you should know that sanitary pad bins are awesome for ridding of ones soiled underwear.

Don't pash other chicks for male attention.
I have lesbian friends. This is sort of carry on is confusing for them. And apart from the drop kick dudes that find this display of deception an actual turn on, most civilised people are mentally kicking your ass. Don't be that girl.

Katie Perry is full of shit. She never kissed a girl & liked it. It was just a god dam song.

FACT: One word. SLAPPER.

Don't blame others because you're angry & bleeding.
We women have been plagued with one of life's ultimate tests of bitchery. The Menstruation. It ain't a party yo, & the older you get, the more the menses fucks with you. Own it, rule it & whatever the hell you do, never burn someones house down unless they really deserve it. Before your do anything rash whilst struck with the period rage, sleep on it. Mostly you will find the next day you will be a little less psycho(normally after day 2 or 3 of the bleeder).

Here are some things you can do while you are on your rag.

• Punch any male family members in the manovaries. Especially your dad.
• Complain about everything to anyone that will listen.
• Cry. About anything. (I usually cry for the African children or something on Home & Away).
• Impulse buy.
• Stab a hoe.
• Sit in front of the fridge at 2am in the morning & stuff your pie hole with a whole block of chocolate. Then cry about it.
• Listen to 'My Endless Love' by Diana Ross & Lionel Richie over & over again. And cry a motherfucking river.
• Hiss like a feral bitch cat at small children.
• Smoke cigarettes & pop Ibuprofen like M&M's.
• Yell 'PISS OFF!!' at anyone that wants anything from you. This can include your boss.

FACT: Enjoy this time in your life. Next thing you know the menopause will be a knocking on your ovarian door & a whole other bunch of cray cray shit gonna start up in here.

Stay tuned for the next part of this series, featuring such topics as:
The movies always lie.
Don't ever move try to move like Jagger.
Itching your beave in public is not polite.
The art of the lady fart.
Stalking, it's not a crime if he's incredibly good looking.

What's the most ridic piece of bullshit advice you've ever been given?

Peace!

P.S None of this advice or information should be taken seriously. Only the bit about punching your dad in the testes & taking care of your teeth.

P.P.S If you can actually piss your own name on the sidewalk, please email me picture proof.

The biggest disappointment of my childhood life.

When I was young, my sister & I, we went straight up APE SHIT for Barbie. We had the meanest collection in town, courtesy of Mum & Dad/Santa. Our collection was the pride of our playroom. We had the mint set up & if any dirty fingered whore kids tried to touch our stuff, there would be massive tag team smackdown.

The only thing that ripped my little lady nubs about my Barbie selection, was that my parents would never buy me a Ken doll. My endless requests/well penned letters to Santa for the bronzed plastic perfection that was Ken doll, was denied denied DENIED. And it's not like they couldn't afford it. For whatever reason, they just didn't want me to have it.

Hi Ken. Sorry I could never have you. Blame my Mum.

It seemed so unfair that all my girl Barbies lived such a humble nun-like life with absolutely no dick around. I asked for Ken every god dam birthday & christmas. I got a Barbie car, Barbie four poster bed, Barbie Cane Lounge Furniture (remember this was the 80's) & even a Barbie motherfucking horse. I had an elite bitch pack of about 20 Barbies. But no bloody Ken.

I dreamed of a beautiful Ken/Barbie wedding. It consumed every part of my life..

Ken & Barbie 4 EVA

What made this whole 'no Ken' situation even more hard to bare was that Peter Frosty got a Ken doll for his birthday & waved it around in front of my face like he'd just found a golden willy wonka ticket. Even then, at the age of 9 I wanted to smash him in the scrot sacs so dam hard. First of all, because he was a snotty nosed dickslap & didn't deserve such a wonderful piece of man doll. And secondly, fucking Peter got everything including every my little pony on the shelf.

At some stage during those Barbie lovin years, my Grandparents went away on holiday. Somewhere on a plane far far away. All I cared about is what they were going to bring me back. Every night I went to bed & said a little amen in my head to whothefuckever, that Grandma & Grandad would pretty please bring me back a Ken doll from wherever thank you amen.

I waited. In my 9 year old perception of time, it felt like 1 year to each day that passed. Every day I asked my Mum when they were coming back from their holiday. Of course I missed them but lets not fuck around here, the idea of rad holiday presents consumed me. And I was confident that yes, Ken was coming back in my Grandparents suitcase from wherever they went on their holiday & my prayers would be indeed answered.

The night before they arrived, I was so batshit excited that even if you'd heavily sedated me I wouldn't have been able to sleep. I also may have had a little bit of anxious diahorrea. Shit was about to get real.

When they finally arrived at our house I couldn't even go outside & greet them at the car because I really truely thought I was going to yak my Weetbix all over the place. I was finally about to get my hands on the one thing I had wanted for so long & my tummy spazed up knots.

My sister & I sat on the floor around Grandad & Gradma's feet all wide eyed & peeing in our pants for them to get that suitcase open & show us the goods. We got lollies (yep awesome hurry up with the ken), felt pens & colouring books.......& the piece de resistance (cue shining of lights down from the heavens).......another girl barbie. Airline Barbie to be exact. What. The. Fuck

Now because my parents bought both my sister & I up with impeccable manners, I hugged the shit out of my Gran graciously thanking her for my awesome holiday booty. Even though on the inside I was so upset that all I really wanted to go was get on my red bike & go burn every house down on my street.

I walked the asshole walk of defeat to our playroom & cried angry heartbroken tears. You know I was really trying to be grateful because I loved my Grandparents more than chips (& I loved chips hard), but I was so disappointed. I cried solidly for 2 days & probably did some really naughty shit. I was a serial & avid pincher in my youth. It was my defense tool & my sister got it all.

Eventually, like with all childhood disappointments, I got over it & Airline Barbie got her time in the sun. But before I introduced new Barbie to the bitch clan, I gave her a make over. I cut all her hair off. I decided that if no one was going to buy me a ken doll, I would make my own. Even if he had a big pair bitch tits & was dressed in female flight steward uniform .

Essentially, what I actually unknowingly invented that day, was Transgendered Barbie. But he/she was my fill in Ken, at a time in my life when no one would hook a cuz with the real macoy. And dang y'all that Tranny Ken banged some serious Barbie fanny.

It was at this time I realised that the looney & the anxious poo problems had already begun to manifest itself.

Anyone else out there that would've sold their entire family for a toy?

Peace!

P.S Welcome to the new fullas & fullessa's that have joined my bad, mad & extremely vulgar world. I will endevour to crack your shit up/make you snort your morning coffee out your nose atleast 3 times a week.

P.P.S Faux Ken & Barbie did end up getting married. And it was awesome, if not a little awkward for the guests that attended. They obviously didn't feel my kiwi ingenuity. Dicks.

P.P.P.S Peter Frosty The Barbie Doll King is now a loud proud gay man. Go figure.

I murdered people in my head today.

Tuesday has been difficult.

People always tell me I shouldn't stress so much at work, because 'it's just not worth it'. Well they can go fuck themselves.

If anyone would like to step in to my work shoes for a day, I'd welcome you with arms wide open. And if at the end of that day, you told me I shouldn't stress because 'it's just not worth it', I would slice you into a thousand pieces of asshole with my machete death stare.

I HATE YOU SCOTT STAPP WITH YOUR ARMS WIDE OPEN

First of all, someone shat in the work toilet today (not once, but three times) & left me to stew in their stench. But not before stopping by my desk to tell me their life problems & whinge at me because they are too fat & apparently don't fit their work shirt any more. My eyes said piss off but the rest of my face must have said please share your woes with me, while I try not to yak all over my desk because you just left your clearly rotting insides floating in the toilet not 3 metres away from me, WITHOUT using the air freshener.

Now hear this motherfucker.......

Sitting on your ass all day is hard yakka on the body. Especially when your as old as Jesus himself & stuff your chubby gullet with pies all day long.Of course your shirt won't fit you anymore!! And if you EVER come in to my office & shit in that god dam work toilet again, I will come & get in to your car, de-trou & lay the biggest nastiest grogan berry on your passenger seat. This I promise you.

I know the person I am venting at will never actually read this, but I don't care. Like the constipation, it feels good to unload.

Not long after this happened, another one of my lovely male counterparts came in to the office to tell me his bullshit. I need to hear more of that please. Like a good jacksie chaffe, I love me a good long one sided whinge session by a serial moaner. While I sat there listening to him drone on & on about whatthefuckever I fantasized about what it would feel like to split his head open like a ripe cherry with my ruler.

Then he says to me 'god Bex did you drop your guts' (re: the smell coming from old man dinosaurs ass contents currently scuba diving in the work toilet). I couldn't even reply. Because if I had of opened my mouth to say something back I would've spewed fiery hot lava in his face. I just took the imaginary elevator down stairs to under my desk where I hid until he left the building.

I sat under my desk for 30 minutes, singing Yellow Submarine by the Beatles quietly to myself & playing Plants verses Zombies on my phone. When someone came in pretended I wasn't there. It was fun & naughty & I felt safe there. Actually I was on my lunch break. And if I want to sit under my desk & have lunch then I bloody will.

Sometimes, when I'm mopping up the badly aimed man wee off the bathroom floor, I feel a bit sorry for myself. And other times, when I come in to work in the morning & the kitchen rubbish bin has exploded all over the floor because it's so dam full & there's shit splattered all over the underside of the toilet seat (which coincidentally is always kept up. The vagina to dick ratio is severely unbalanced), I weep on the inside.

People ask me what I do for a job. You wana know what I do for a job??!! I am someones bitch. Not just one someones, but many someones bitch. And some days it really sucks a giant fuck. I desperately try to guide these men, gently nudge (nag) them to be tidier & a little less disgusting, but I'm such a huge fail in this department. My fury is no match for the 40+ males I work for.

So tomorrow I am going to close the toilet down. It's going to be out of order accidentlyonpurpose. The only people who will be able to use it will be the drivers I like. They already know they can't shit there & never do because they know how much it upsets me.

And hanging from the counter above my desk will be a sign saying this.....

BECKY'S THERAPY SESSIONS CLOSED TIL FURTHER NOTICE.

IF YOU DON'T RESPECT THIS, PLEASE CHOOSE FROM THE FOLLOWING

MULTI CHOICE OPTIONS ON HOW YOU WANT TO BE CAPPED.

a) Ninja kick to to larynx

b) Running fuck slap finishing with a scissor stab to the left aorta

c) Mighty Mighty scrotum bash with the bathroom piss mop

d) Suffocation by plastic bag filled with ones own poos.

e) Having your hands ran over by Becky's fun work chair called Rachel. With Becky on the chair.

f) Be set on fire

Thank you & good night.

Anyone in your place of work get your shit cranking? Vent away people. I want to feel your angry.

Love, me.

P.S This hater rant is not directed at my bosses just in case you guys read this. And I do like job.

P.P.S I am actually ok now. But my jaw aches like buggery from the angry clenching I've been doing all day. Blake always makes me feel better about the world. He's my happy. Seriously though, if he has a poo tonight I will lose my shit all over the place.

When Scrotum Goes Bad.

First of all, if my niece Paris is reading this,  DON'T!! For the love of Christ don't do it. Turn back. Go & watch Twilight or something.

Secondly, I'd like to give the credit for today's post to my girl Jeri from That's Mrs Bitch To You. She inspired the guts of it with her informative link she passed on for my information.

For those new to my blog, I have been an avid Rugby Scrot hunter for a while now. And I'm failing at this shit yo. Modern sports apparel have made it virtually impossible for testicles to escape it's wrapping for my viewing pleasure.

Now I don't actually dig man testes at all. In fact, aside from the unattractive penis itself (come on ladies, y'all know that dicks are evil & ugly as hell), ball sacks are one of god's ultimate fail creations. No amount of chocolate sauce & teste bling will change my mind. I have never, nor will I ever, meet a man with an attractive scrotum. Mainly because I am married now & Blake says I'm not allowed to touch/lick/cup gently/smash with my fist of rage/be tea bagged by anyone else balls bags except his very own. And even his make me run screaming.

RAM BALLS. SWEET JESUS.

(He doesn't look happy though right?)

My reasons for desperately seeking nut exposure in a rugby game is purely curiosity. All that testosterone right, surely there are a set of giant balls to match? Lets just say, it's on my bucket list to see the beans of a sexy rugby superstar. Because why the hell not, I'm a dirty old pervert & I just want to.

That was until I saw this (again thanks Jeri, you made me vom up my lunch). Please enjoy my photo/musical montage of the naked rugby scrotum fest. And I am not sorry ok. You come here, this is what you get. It's got to be better than a picture of a giant shit in a bush outside my work.

Please note: We do have some very good looking men in New Zealand. However, they were obviously busy working that day & couldn't participate.

You have no idea how long it took me to make that. And how long I had to sit there watching the same pictures of ugly dicks & balls over & over & over again.

But I did it because I love you whores like a good sneaky vag scratch. Even though after watching it, you might think I don't really love you at all because surely no one who loves someone would make them watch that?! I show my affections by giving you presents & showing you pictures of ugly diddles. It's backwards I know but that's how I roll.

It's 7am on Saturday morning & my husband has just been taken to Nelson Airport. Last minute spur of the moment decision. He & his South African boys decided to fly to Wellington for the Springbok game against Fiji tonight. So I'm home alone. With my snot & hacking cough (yep I'm sick again).

I may be sick but I can still motherfucking shop.

Big Snotty Loves!

P.S You can't quit me over this.

Fundie Pants.

Look what I found.....

 Together Forever. in a box - Soft Toy Pee & Poo

I nearly squirted in my pants with excitement. No lie.

I then looked at the price, because clearly this would be something the poo blog queen MUST OWN, & nearly spewed on my computer screens face because woah man who woulda thought that wees & poos would be so expensive.

And who comes up with this riotous hilarity you ask?! The Euros. Those whackydoodaa Euros. Those 'hey there's some sun, lets get our tits out' Euros. The very same 'lets get all mongrel & grow ferocious hairy minge bush' Euros. I love them & I want to go live with them & be their friend. Because anyone who can turn a shit in to a soft toy is motherfucking awesome in my book.

However I won't be doing any of this with my Euro friends.

WHACKO EURO'S HAVING NAKED FUN WITH TIN FOIL

WHACKO EURO MEN HAPPY & NAKED IN A SAUNA

I WILL DEFINTELY NOT BE PARTICIPATING IN NAKED MODEL

 WHACKO EURO SANDY BOTTOM PHOTO (because clearly I would own this shit show)

NOR WILL I BE SWIMMING IN THE DIRTY RIVER WITH THESE

ELDERLY WHACKO EUROS

You bet your ass I'm buying myself those plush wees & poos toys. Just because if I didn't I would be an epic FAIL. The catch is, I can't tell my husband that I bought them for myself because he would be piss mad at me for wasting money on 'stupid things'. He just doesn't understand my craft. So for the love of christ, I need one of you bitches to be an alibi for me.

Here's how it will go.

I will send the pee&poo present to myself to my work address. Then I will bring them home & say 'hey baby, look I got some fan mail. Because HELL to the fucking O, this could SO happen. Completely viable lie right there! If anyone wants to lie with me please send me an email. Preferably one saying how awesome I am & that you are sending me a present from Sweden. Got it?

If, by chance my flawless plan fails, I am thinking of purchasing these.

ANOTHER GENIUS SWISS INVENTION - FUNDIE PANTS

One thing I have learnt while being married to a younger man. Sex will fix anything. Sex & xbox games.

And if he's still doesn't forgive me for being a lying sneaky whore, I will probably get this.

POO IN A CAN aka SPRAY CACAS

And I will be leaving this giant faux shit (that resembles a large coiled beef sausage) on his pillow. Cos that's how I roll. I only offer one chance for forgiveness. Besides I have offered him my vag for life, he should be more grateful.

Right I'm off to get my tits out, grow a mongrel fanny bush & watch me some rugby.

I haven't actually bought Pee & Poo yet. Hands up if you think I should?

Peace out!

P.S To my funny as fuck friend Shane at Wag the Dad (seriously read his stuff. He's an American living life in Germany & he cracks my shit up hard), the sexy Swiss lady bottom photo is for you. My pleasure.

Dear sweet Jesus. Please let us win. From Becky D.

Tonight the Rugby World Cup begins in New Zealand & I am literally fizzing at the bung. I am so excited that I need one of those 'slippery when wet signs' hung up in my office somewhere. Maybe beside my huge fuck off All Black flag.

BOOM! How you like them apples!

For as long as I have been able to yell, I have loved rugby with a venomous passion. My Dad was an avid watcher & participator when I was a little shit bag. I have fond memories of cuddling up beside him on the couch on a Sunday arvo, while Ma was in the kitchen cooking a roast, watching Fitzy, Zinzan, JK & the boys kick some serious ass. Most of the time I fell asleep to the monotonous drone of the commentators voices & missed the entire game. But I was there in spirit, rooting for the mighty Blacks to bring us another win.

20 or so years on, my passion for rugby is as fiery as ever. More so now that I am married to a native of one of our arch rival teams, the Springboks. Nothing gets my shit cranking like a good competition & accompanied smack talk.

Oh but I will if we lose John. Big angry murder tears.

 The South Africans in my life (that live in New Zealand by the way. Dig dig fucking dig), love nothing more than to hate on the All Blacks. In fact, they tell me often that they would back the Wallabies any day over our boys. This makes me piss mad but I try to keep that rage on the inside. At the end of the day they only do it to wind me up & it's only a sport right?

The very same sport that made me howl like a trampled cat when we lost the semi final to France back in 2007. I was inconsolable. My flat mate at the time & I walked home from the Epsom Race Course club rooms holding each other up as we cried our freakin faces off. The whole dam country mourned hard. Over a fucking game. A game that shredded my heart into a gazillion little pieces. Over the last four years I have glued my heart back together but it's on tender hooks bitches.

Tonight I'm going round to my Springbok loving in-laws to watch the opening ceremony & then I am being dropped home to watch the first game, All Blacks v Tonga, by myself. Because I can't watch it with other people. The anxiety, nervousness & excitement means I have to sit on the couch with a bucket in case I blow chunks. This is bad right?

If any of you whores out there don't watch or like rugby, that's cool, whatevs. But here is Becky's top reasons why you should:

The Haka.

EVERY TIME the the All Blacks perform the Haka, a part of my soul stirs so hard that my chest aches & I get a little misty eyed. I know all the rugby haters out there will want to thrash me for confessing that but I say bring it motherfuckers. I donkey kick like a machine! The Haka is a Traditional Maori War Dance. If, like me, you fancy a bit of a karaoke sing along from home, here is the Maori & english words for the mighty haka. Please note that banging it out in English will make you sound like a knob end.

Ka mate Ka mate
It is death It is death 
Ka ora Ka ora
It is life It is life
Ka mate Ka mate
It is death It is death
Ka ora Ka ora
It is life It is life
Tenei Te Tangata Puhuruhuru
This is the hairy man
Nana i tiki mai whakawhiti te ra
Who caused the sun to shine again for me
Upane Upane
Up the ladder Up the ladder
Upane Kaupane
Up to the top
Whiti te ra
The sun shines!

Don't ask me why they holla about hairy men & the sun shining up the top of the ladder either because I'm fucked if I actually know.

Scrotum. Lots of Scrotum.
You've heard this from me before. And mark my word, the day will come when I get to see some Rugby scrot. I had high hopes for a rugby game I attended back in June. Needless to say I did not see any ball bags. Mainly because it was so Antarctic cold that even if there was an accidental scrotum exposure, you wouldn't see it because it would have high tailed it up into the snuggy warm jacksie of it's owner. Either that or fall off from frost bite. Read all about my great hunt for rugby scrotum right here. 

I can paint my whole body black without being accused of being a racist.
I have never done this, because I have a sensitive complexion. But I might just do it over the next month. Having my skin fall off is called dedication to the motherfucking cause. And if my skin does fall off, Corey Jane & Richard Kahui can make themselves available to rub ointment on my wounds. Especially my big gaping vagiola wound. Ha.

Hot Boys.
See for yourself. And go ahead, lick the screen. It makes your tongue feel fizzy. My pleasure.

It's rough & angry. And testosterone makes me fanny spasm.
I can not express enough how much I love watching males smash each others shit up in a good game of rugger. I have tried & failed to enjoy any other male dominated sport. Nothing compares to the biff & grunt of a good scrum & the death blow of a well timed tackle. The only other sport I have time for is League. Rugby League is my second favourite.

Cricket = boring. sunburn. heat stroke. very drunk from boredom.
Soccer = don't get it. small man bottoms ( I like the muscly chunky kind).
Hockey = Apart from the appeal of people potentially getting smashed in the teeth by a tiny hard ball travelling at 200km/hour, hockey doesn't interest me at all.
Men's Gymnastic = Ick. Lycra & suffocated ball bags, no thanks.
Basketball = Not even the tall, big footed Adonises can keep my attention.
Cycling = see men's gymnastics.
Body Building = Faked tanned roid machines. Not my bag at all. If I wanted to see a veiny juicehead I would laminate a side of beef.


It brings the world together.
Any big sporting event does. But for New Zealand in particular, being a mad keen rugby loving nation, we go apeshit for this show. I won't tell you what happens if we lose, because it hurts to much to talk about. Basically everyone gets really fucking sad. And the rugby haters start hating even more than they hated before. And then they get stabbed by rugby lovers. Or their houses get burned down. It's a bad time.

I just straight up LOVE rugby yo!

But not as much as this guy at the bottom of the scrum

getting fingered up the poonani & his cervical spine slammed into the ground

 
Wherever you are in the world, or whatever team you root (he he) for, may the force be with you. And sorry in advance for when we hand your asses to you. I may be quieter than normal for the next couple of weeks due to the fact I will be hard out stalking the USA, Italian, Australian & Russian rugby teams currently converging on my fair city. Blake doesn't mind as long as I don't touch any other dick that isn't his.

What sport makes you fanny spasm?


Peace!

P.S If we lose, I will mourn hard. Again. And I don't wanna talk about it.

Don't make me set my scary zombie face eating off sheeps on you.