Rock Bottom. I've ripped it a new one.

In my thirty three years on this planet, it's common knowledge I have done some ridiculously stupid shit. Yesterday however, I sank to a brand new low. Even for me.

I haven't told anyone about this until now, mainly because I am ashamed, but I thought hey if I was going to share it with anyone, it may as well be all you hookers. To be honest I feel like a bit of a dick. Like if you took all the dicks in the world & sewed them together to make one big giant dick, I would still be a bigger than that dick.

I know you have all been wondering where in the hell I have been lately. I haven't posted in about eleventy billion years. My lack of posting comes down to two contributing factors, I have been deeper than balls deep in my busy life (work, the motel, my jewellery business, birthday parties, leaving the house to socialise, other stuff) & honest to god I have not been able to think of a single fricking thing to write about. I am an empty vessel.

In my drafts folder, I have at least 20 half assed posts that I couldn't finish. None of them were up to my usual high standard of awesome so I chose to take a short leave of absence.

Moving right along........ a few weeks ago, I bought myself a bicycle. A red raging road demon that is yet to be named. Now I love my bike. I love it so goddamn hard that it actually takes up residence inside my house because I don't want no thieving bastard to thief it. It has also kept me company these last 3 weeks while my husband has been away overseas.

Every morning I get on my bike & I ride the fuck out of it to my place of work or anywhere else I feel like going. I have been experiencing a new sense of freedom I have never felt before. Me & the bike, we are the modern day human/metal framing with wheels version of Milo & Otis.

It has been many years since I have placed my voluptuous sized booty upon the seat of a two wheeled transportation device. But just like riding a bike, it was like riding a bloody bike.

(I specifically chose a bike with a decent sized seat that my ass wouldn't try to eat. I have a constant hungry bum. It's like  my own personal venus fly trap hanging off my backend. Pants, underwear, outdoor seating, you name it, my backside has probably tried to eat it. It's an uncontrollable force)

As many of you know, I work in an office. Working in an office requires me to wear presentable office attire with tidy non tranny makeup, tidy hair & suitable lady shoes. Since becoming a bike rider, each morning I have to dress in workout gear & put my office clothes in my back pack. I don't know if anyone has tried riding a bike in skinny jeans before? Let me tell you something for nothing, you may as well ride your bike with your legs cling wrapped together because it's basically the same thing.When I arrive at my office each morning, once the sweat has evaporated off my face, I get changed into my office clothing & carry on with my working day.

I have been doing this now for 3 weeks. It's not ideal but I've got it down to a fine art.

I'm not sure what happened yesterday morning. One can only assume that I was riding my bike so fast that I created wind. This wind speed velocity caused my left eye to leak non-crying tears. The non crying tears caused my beautifully drawn liquid eyeliner to drip down my face. Even upon arriving at work & changing into my work clothes, it still kept on leaking.

Upon inspection in the work bathroom, & to my horror, the effect of the wind raped leaky eye caused my left eye makeup to look as though it had been drawn on my face by a 2 year old blind child.

I don't bring my makeup to work, because I am not an asshole. So I was left with two choices, I either cleaned all the makeup off my face, letting the world lay it's eyes upon my breathtaking beauty underneath the mineral foundation & mascara, or I could freak the fuck out, panic, then do something stupid.

I don't think you will be at all surprised to learn I went for the latter option.

Do not ask me why I did what I am about to tell you, because I can't quite believe it myself. I have clearly, & finally lost my freakin mind.

I strolled back into my office, grabbed the black permanent marker off my desk, & I drew my motherfucking eyeliner right back on my left eyelid.

With permanent black marker.

Just like a goddamn office MacGyver.

I stood back & admired my handy work in the mirror. No worries mate, good as new. It looked like a replica of my right eye. Right on!!

Once seated back at my desk, I took stock of what I had just done to my own face. Because obviously I am completely insane. Then it struck me that yes, I am a 33 year old adult woman, who had just actively defiled my own left eyelid with PERMANENT marker. Ding dong crazy lady!! Who in the hell does that?

Because I have a 10 second Tom memory, I soon forgot about my pen eyeliner & got on with my day.
It wasn't until I got home & attempted to remove my makeup that I sheepishly remembered what I had done.

In my head I figured that because eyelid skin is magical & delicate, the permanent marker might not be permanent at all. I held my breath as I wiped away the mascara & crusty eye shadow away, only to be disappointed. The pen was indeed permanent just like it said on the pen.

So I did what any normal modern day lady would do, I Googled how to remove permanent marker from skin. I had a few options, Turpentine or Janola. Neither of which I was willing to bosh on my face.

Hence to say, as of right this minute, I have one eye with eyeliner on it, & one fully clean normal eye. My face looks odd. I look like Sloth from the Goonies minus the kickass Superman t-shirt.

I am considering wearing a pirate patch today when I go & meet Blake at the airport. He will think I am just being quirky & weird & maybe a little overexcited to see him. Little does he know that while he was away I fucked up my own face. I am hoping he will be too jet lagged to notice.

To me 14 year old niece Paris, I am not a role model whose examples you should follow. Just sayin'.

Peace out homies!

P.S UPDATE: Somehow during the night, the magic sleep fairies made my eyeliner disappear. OR the story I wish to go with, Simon Baker crept into my room while I slept & licked it off. Holla!

Thank you Simon.

5 reasons why you should come visit me.

It's common knowledge that I am a fun time. But contraire to popular belief, I do not have a bevy of friends at my beck & call. Because of this I am forced to spend my leisure time hanging out with myself or my husband. Don't get me wrong, I like my husband. But a bitch need some hookers to hook with.

I know we repeatedly love each other from a distance in Blogland & various other social networking interweb sites. And while I thoroughly enjoy it, it's just not the same as having you bunch of weirdos right here in the warmth of my Teradactyl wing sized arm flaps.

So, I'm holding out my virtual hand (Teradactyl carni hands KAKAW KAKAW. My hands don't match my gigantinormus upper arm wings) to all you's fullas & sayin hey man, stuck for some shit to do? Come visit your old mate Bex in New Zealand. I will show you a real good time.

Stare off yonder & day dream of how awesome we could be together.........

We could be Pirates together - I live by a marina. Which means there are a shit tonne of spensive marine vessels at my disposal. From a young age, I dreamt of sailing the sevens seas with a rad crew of hoes, hunting for treasure & jewels & just being a bunch of rad dicks. I have one problem though (apart from the fact that I don't actually legally own any of those marina boats & can not drive a boat). I don't have a crew. My crew is a crew of 1.

Rule 1 of being a pirate: You can not have a pirate ship with only one pirate. While I do enjoy wearing many hats in my day to day life, having to be the captain, first mate, galley crew & lookout guy up the big boat pole thingy would prove very time consuming. And I just don't have that much time. Plus I just get really tired between 2-4pm every day & often require a Sims power nap. I couldn't nap without a crew.

I believe if I could prove to Johnny Depp that I am indeed an accomplished Pirate, he may consider joining us on our mad treasure hunt journey which means I could have sex with him in my mind every day.

We could act out the knife fight scene from WestSide Story -While I am not a fan of musicals, I fell in love with Westside Story before I got old & started to hate everything. So by default, as hard as I try, I cannot hate Tony & Maria's epic love story.

Beside my work is an alleyway aptly named Hobo Alley. Jackloads of weird ass shit happens up in there out of my office hours. Sadly I'm never there to witness any of it because I don't live at my office. (You should know that I am about to go off on a tangent now. Tony & Maria will be back soon).

Just this morning I found blood. I pretended not to notice because then my head would make up stories about slasheresque murderers & I would spend all day locked inside my office too scared to come out just in case the murderer came back to cut my face off & use it as his new face so he could get away with his heinous crime. Just like Travolta & Cage. Lets not go there.

This alley ain't like no other normal alley let me tell you. There used to be a friendly hobo alley cat that, to my absolute horror, enjoyed fur jizzing all over my leg every morning, but he went missing. *que creepy x-files theme music.

My work alley is the Bermuda Triangle of alleyways. For example, a couple of weeks ago, I had just lit a cigarette when the courier walked into my office to pick up a bunch of whothefuckcares. Anyway I stubbed my just lit cigarette out & laid it on the top of my cup of tea & ran inside to grab the stuff for the courier guy. I was gone for a whole 30 seconds. And when I returned for my fag & lady tea, some bastard OR POSSIBLY POLTERGEIST (*cue x-file theme music again) had stolen my cigarette & my goddam cup of tea? WHAT THE??!!!!

Because I don't care much for material possession (I'm lying), I never bothered to search for my cigarette & cup of tea. Plus I'm just really lazy & I have plenty more good cigarettes & tea cups inside my office.

Back to the Westside story knife fight...........if you came to hang with me, we would do a midnight stake out at hobo alley. Drunk people come to get a taxi from the push button phone outside my office when the clubs close at 3am. I was thinking we could set up a portable ghetto blaster & play some danger music. Something dramatic preferably, like Firestarter by Prodigy . And then we could pretend to knife fight each other with our flick knives & freak the shit out of the drunk people. And possibly find the cigarette/cup of tea stealing poltergeist bastard. And lay their shit out. For reals.

I promise not to stab you. Just pretend. I am currently in training for a raw egg throwing/catching competition with our local radio advertising company. I have become quite good at hurling & catching the egg from a great distance. Yes I have been practicing. So if I can do that without smashing it, I can definitely not stab you while we pretend to stab each other.

Shooting Seagulls - I fecking hate seagulls. I would rather dowse myself in petrol & light a match than have to listen to their constant hungry squawking. Because I live beside the ocean, I am privy to manic screaming gulls every day of my life. In summer, their squabbling gets so bad, I am awoken by Seagull fight club right outside my bedroom window where the neighboring restaurants rubbish bins are located. Or seagull porn during mating breeding season. This normally begins at 5am.

It's no secret that I want to shoot them all. But it's not a task I can complete on my own. In order to do this I need at least 3 marksmen who can sit on the roof of the motel with me & help me rip these birds a new one. We could use BB guns, or slingshots. Or machine guns. I'm not fussed. And if the Armed Offenders Squad or I love Nature Brigade turn I can bribe Blake to be our alibi. He will tell them we were all inside sleeping & dreaming about Unicorns & rainbow fairies.

You should also know that our NZ Seagulls are deadly & show no mercy. Thank you Kevin for this photo.

 

I was thinking of hiring the naked samurai fatties to do the job for me, but I don't like fat naked people. Plus his sword doesn't look sharp enough for what I need.

 



Wild Striding - Is a sport I made up. It takes a lot of inner strength & elegance to wild stride. Neither of which I have. Basically you have two choices of head wear. You can either be a Horse or a Unicorn. And then you gallop, full tit, past any window where there sits an unsuspecting human. Kinda like a flash mob except pretending to be horses. Most may find this quite immature. I do not. I think it's genius.

If there is one thing I really enjoy doing more than eating chips, it's weirding people out with my weirdness. My issue is that I don't have the confidence to be weird on my own. Plus one lone wild strider just looks shithouse compared to a whole gang of wild striders.

I have a long list of places we could go wild striding. Mainly past any restaurant window. Everyone is just way too uptight & serious about all their life problems. They need to witness the joy of seeing grown women/men gallop around town in equine head wear.

P.S Regardless of the fact that both are equally as terrifying, I claim head Unicorn.

The Magic Horse



image source



The Horse



image source

New Zealand is a really beautiful country. And you should come here at least once during the course of your lifetime. Just because. - We are a bullshit free, safe & friendly nation & every day I wake up, I feel so grateful that I get to live here. We don't claim to have sex with miniature stallions & post videos about it on Youtube like David Bowie & his crazy wife here. (WARNING: There is no actual horse sex in this video but equally disturbing hearing them discuss it. YAK!! Please watch it sans children).

We are a laid back bunch of happy folk who love our rugby team more than fish n chips Fridays.

We have power, telephones & even modern motorcars.

We don't have little goblin folk called Hobbits living in our forests. Nor do we have Orcs. (Thank fuck).

We don't have man eating bush animals lurking in the darkness waiting to rip our faces off, just possums. We also don't have deadly snakes, scorpions, seagulls or spiders. (Thank fuck again).

We have a sense of freedom here that I have yet to experience in any other country I've travelled to.

So if you are considering a vacay, come here. It will cost you a billion dollars but we will take care of you & show you how good life is at the ass end of the universe.

And together we will wild stride into the sunset.

Peace, & love

P.S I am about to go & compete in the egg throwing thing. I am shitting in my pantaloons with nervousness. I have performance anxiety. Especially when it involves lobbing hard shelled chicken periods like an epileptic mountain bear in full attack mode (That's what Blake says I look like). Fuck my life.

P.P.S If there is anyone from the Popo or FBI reading this, I will not shoot any birds, steal a boat or pretend to stab my friends with a flick knife. However, one day I WILL wilde stride. You can bet you fat naked samurai weilding ass I will.

Everybody was Kung-Bee fighting.

Not much has been happening in my hood of late so surprisingly I've had nothing to say. Spring is here, I accidentally watched elephants bone on a nature channel doco & I concocted quite possibly the best apple crumble ever in the history of the universe. And I'm still whackin out my bomb digz earring collection.

Something happened to me yesterday guys that I believe requires some discussion.

It's no secret that I am pretty tough. There's not much in the world I am afraid of. Except for the possibility of my cigarette lighter exploding in the back pocket of my jeans & melting the denim to my ass cheek. I'm also scared of gas bottles, Robocop, the Stephen King IT clown, people dressed in gorilla costumes, slipping on the pedals of a bike & breaking my vagina, & spiders crawling in my ear while I sleep, laying eggs, & the baby spiders eating my brain.

The one major mindfuck terror that stands out from all of the above is BEES. Bees, wasps, hornets. Basically anything that can fly, & sting me at the same time.

Have you ever seen a chubby blond girl fuck kick a bee mid air? My guess is probably not.

Anyone that knows me, mainly my friends, will tell you how scared I am of bees. I once jumped out of a moving vehicle when a bee flew in my window & attempted to rape sting my face. The vehicle wasn't moving fast, but I panicked & did the only thing I could do to escape. I flung the door open & commando rolled the hell outta that car.

I hurt my leg, but I would rather deal with a bung leg for eternity than a swollen bee stung face.

FYI & sorry in advance for this shithouse photo, but I needed to ram home why I hate bees so much & I'm all about using visuals to get my messages across.

This photo haunts my dreams.

This is what a bee face rape victim looks like. 

This is what I see in my head when I am bee fighting, hence why I am so powerful.



Someone told me once that bees are attracted to the colour blue. Personally I think that's bullshit. I think they are attracted to the colour skin. Or the colour rainbow.

I enjoy the ocean, & try to spend as much time at the beach as possible in summer. However, whenever I do go to the beach, I spend the majority of my time there running up & down the beach like a woman possessed as I am chased by a bevy of flying stingy insects. It rips my tits so. dam. hard.

Blake says it's because I always try to fight them. Something within me will not let me just sit & take shit from a bee or wasp with the possibility I might get bitten. FUCK that. So I throw some punches & Usain Bolt it outta there, or I try to smack them with a stick. And if that doesn't work I hide under a towel or go & sit in the car.

I don't know why the flying insect population of the world are always trying to ruin my life?

Maybe in a past life I was a real bitch queen bee. And I made all the other common bees clean my feet. Or maybe I was psycho bee killer that roamed the lands with a cigarette light & an aerosol can burning bees going about their business?

If this is the case, bees/wasps/hornets of the world (cos I know y'all read my blog), I very am sorry for any violence committed upon you in any of my past lives.While I understand you are probably not all about gettin one up on the humans, it is obvious you have two major advantages on us. You have the ultimate superhero power of flight. And you have a prick on the end of your ass that can break through human skin & cause ridic amounts of pain & unnecessary swelling. You should know that I will continue to smoke you at every opportunity if you do not except my apology. I have held out the olive branch of friendship between man & bug, but this is how I roll. No matter how hard I try to mentally will myself to sit & take your shit, my body will not let me. I am an uncontrollable force. For this I cannot apologise.

This brings me to today's story.....

If only there had been a camera in the alley beside my work yesterday.

It's no secret, I'm a smoker. Some people like to masturbate to shark porn or steal sandwiches from babies, well I smoke. The world keeps on turning.......tie me to a pole & stone me if you want. But you should know that I will burn you with my mind powers for being a mean judgemental hater.

Anyway yesterday afternoon, whilst enjoying my mid arvo cigarette break, a fat ass whore bee decided he wanted in on my quiet time. Now I ducked & dived from that little bastard like a fatty blond Mohammed Ali, but due to the bee only weighing 0.1 gram & being able to fly, he matched my rapid movements without missing a beat.

It soon became apparent to me that I was on the shit slide to loserland with this dick bee. He had no plans on leaving me alone until he'd rammed me with his death venom. So I did what any normal panicking human would do........I threw my cup of tea at it.

Alas, to no avail. I had achieved nothing but waste of a good cup of tea.

As the bee continued dive bombing me, I decided to bring out the big guns & attempted to stab him with my lit cigarette. I'm not normally one for burning harmless insects with cigarettes but when needs must, a bitch gotta do what a bitch gotta do. Plus this insect was obviously not harmless.

For another minute we danced together in the alley way. My badly timed & slightly retarded looking stabs at mid air with my fag were wasted effort. And as it came at me one last time, I was overcome with a feeling I have never felt before. Blind poo in pants panic.

One thing I have discovered about me when in the throes of a massive freak out, gravity is my friend.

I must have got at least half a metre off the ground & fuck kicked that dam bee right in it's skull. It flew (not because it could actually fly, but because the force in which I kicked it was basically batman type shit) right outta my personal space & onto the busy road outside my office.

Who knew I possessed that ninja-like power. I do not like losing.

I'm not sure what happened to the bee, but just between you & me, I reckon it probably died. Because I kicked it's ass.

The bad part of this story is, my post fuck kick landing was poorly judged & my old skin bag of meat & bones landed in a dusty heap on the dirty piss stained concrete of the hobo alley. I also put a hole in the knee of my jeans. This doesn't bother me though. It adds to the look I am going for, badass as shit bee killer.

If there is one thing I learnt about me today, that has absolutely nothing to do with what I've just been talking about..........I would never EVER try & force feed my banger the crotch of my purple stocking jumpsuit in a quest to form a cameltoe for photo taking opportunities. This is a yeast infection waiting to happen. And definitely grot.

The Mumble Pants Whore. *shudder

One thing before I go........big juicy love to all those that voted to get their favourite kiwi funny bitch back on the list. Shit yeah!! And Noa you are by far the funniest bitch of all time. It's kinda choice being a part of your elite gang of funny bitches. Merci beaucoup.

Also, because I feel like I need to cleanse your mind of the hungry fanny photo above & I just really really like you bitches, here is some Johnny Depp man poon. (sorry fellas. You will just have to make do with the walking STD above).

Peace & love

.

Breaking News. Well actually yesterday's news but I'm slow. Like a turtle.

WARNING: The word fuck is utilised numerous times in the post. If you are offended by this word, stop reading now. I've been raped by a flu virus. I'm not sorry for the f-bombs.

Remember in my last Olympic news with Bex post, how I had a slight dig at the Belarusian she-man who beat our Valerie at the women's shot put? Well punch me in the throat twice with a bag of marbles, that dudelady has just been done for doping at the London Olympics & lost her gold medal title. Mutha. fucker.

The roid machine, who I have fondly named Ben, was tested twice, before & after the event, both times the tests came back positive for the steroid Metenolone. Naughty Ben!!! Of course Ben is saying that she has been framed & that the tests are completely wrong.

Well guess what my thick thighed questionable gender friend.......that gold medal gangsta chain you be rockin round your sweaty neck cleavage..... we is coming for that shit like a pack of hungry sharks. We will chew it from your neck if we have to. I am not lying.
Ben claims she did not know where the steroids came from.

Maybe while she slept, a magic drug lord fairy biffed some steroid flavoured fairy bread into big Ben's open snoring pie hole. And then she ate it without even knowing because she was too busy wandering the Underworld in her dreams eating small children & kittens.

Or maybe because her English wasn't so crash hot, she walked into what she thought was an London pork pie shop which wasn't a pork pie shop at all. It was a back alley drug den. And then she kept repeatedly falling on a needle filled with roid juice. Which is not like eating a pork pie at all.

Ben, let me refresh your memory. You jacked that shit into your veins buddy! Most people don't forget jamming a needle filled with illegal performance enhancing drugs in their own body. But hey, you got caught up in your undeserved golden glory, so you forgot.

Ben is also claiming that our kiwi girl who got the silver medal, drugged her. He-bitch please!!! You got straight up busted. Life is real tough cuz.

As the story unfolds, Valerie Adams, our million dollar baby shot putting machine, has now been awarded the gold medal. This pleases me. I don't like seeing good people getting doofed by dicks who neglect to follow the rules.

Bummed Out Ben. It sucks being a sucker.

image source

Rant over.

So, I'm still sick. God dam shit fucking sick. Everything went tits up again last Friday night. I was in the kitchen happily constructing a long awaited dinner for my love, glad that I had made it through another working week whilst still feeling slightly below par. Next thing, my face heats up like grandma in the dildo shop & I'm dropping like it's literally a million degrees hot. IN MY FACE. This also included me dropping a whole pot of cheese sauce all over the kitchen floor.

I then proceeded to become delirious & scream out maths timetables & swearwords for the next 6 hours to no one in particular, while my body tried to boil my brain using my skull as the cooking vessel.

I don't remember much of it but I do know that I sweat like I have never sweat before. And I yakked & shat, sneezed & coughed til my brains came out my nose. I was left a weak shaky version of my former self wondering what in the fuck was going on.

Clearly I was sucking hard at life. Somewhere along the line in the last few months, I stumbled on a bad health rock made completely out of shit & festy ball sacs.

It turns out I have a virus. A nasty hell virus that won't shag off & let me get on with ma bizness.

The doctors made me wear this facial horror.

I was not happy. I get they didn't want me hacking my infected spores in the faces of innocent people but seriously, if I am turning into a brain eating zombie, I'm not going down alone.

So when they weren't watching, I pulled my Asian SARS mask down & coughed my ring out. All over everything. Eat my Zombies AIDS every body!!!

Every time I exhaled, my glasses fogged up. So not only did I look like the biggest dick in the universe with the leper mask on, but I couldn't bloody see the high school bitches that were laughing at me on the other side of the waiting room through the condensation on my bifocals. I felt vulnerable & sad.

The good news is, I am on the mend. I am taking a 3 day weekend & I am heading away for some R&R. This R&R 3 day weekend may or may not include staying in a holiday home with 10 other people & getting completely ballsed for my best girls 30th birthday.

I won't be drinking though (Boo). I need this sickness to fuck off. Drowning it in alcohol won't help. But you can bet your sexy asses that I will be fun. It is my duty as best friend of birthday girl to bring the fun Becky.

Before I go I have a couple of things to say.

Apologies for not replying to any of your sexy comments. The zombies aids virus made my fingers fall off so I couldn't type. Luckily the same magic druglord fairies that fed Ben the steroid laced fairy bread managed to re-attach the fingers. And here I am. Ta daaaa!!!

Second of all, I think I need to explain something. One last time. And it's not your fault ok. I get that it's confusing, especially if you've never been to this side of the planet. But for the love of god, look at a map!!

I do not live in Australia. I live in New Zealand. They are two completely seperate countries.

I still love you though.

Lastly, Happy 30th Birthday to my beautiful soul sister Kylie.

You are so much braver than I will ever be.
And I know, out of all the people in my life, you would have sat beside me today wearing the leper zombies AIDS mask so I didn't feel stupid on my own. And when those bitches laughed at me you would have killed them with your eyes.
You make me fun.
You make me cry laugh like a wheezy old cow.
I am happy knowing that when I am 80 & my boobies point south, your boobies will point south too. And we will swing them side to side like church bells & eat dirty bird & laugh about the diabetes that we never got.

I love you so. dam. hard.

Here's to another 20+ years of tomdickery my china xxx

Peace & love folks!!

P.S Apologies for the consistent theme of me banging on about being sick. I promise next week I will be healthy x

Olympic News with Bex

It's been two weeks since my last confession since I last posted. In between turning 33 & my body trying to murder me & being constantly balls deep in busy, I am left with little to no energy when I get home from work. Plus the Olympics is on. I am pretty much non-communicado during the Olympics. Because I love that shit hard.

Here is a list of things I think about the Olympics.

1. Spandex.
Suffocated diddles & lady bangers all over the show. While I don't pay particular attention to the beaves monsters, one finds it literally impossible to not look at the clear outline of ones penis when snuggled tightly in spandex. I look on in wonder at how none of those boys seem overly self conscious that all that stands between their dangly bit & the outside world is a nut hugging piece of cloth. I don't have a problem with it per say. I just don't get how no-ones bothered. If I was an elite sports person representing my country which would never happen due to me owning a pair of uber boobs, I would be covering that shit up. Mainly because my glorious fangina likes to eat my pants sometimes.

2. Funny names.
We have confirmed early on in my blogging life that I am quite immature for my age. While that may be the case, I dare you to say out loud the names I am about to write here & tell me you don't omit a small laugh at at least one of them.

Fanny Babou - swimming, France
Semen Antanov - basketball, France
Andreas Bube - trace, Denmark
Imran Butt - hockey, Pakistan
Yoshie Takeshita, volleyball, Japan
Gavin Smellie, track, Canada
Peter Mankoc, swimming, Slovenia
Carole Peon, rhythmic gymnastics, France
Victoria Poon, swimming, Canada
Werner Muff, equestrian, Switzerland
Dong Dong, trampoline, China
Shitaye Eshete, track, Bahrain

And my all time favourite........Hulk, soccer, Brazil

3. They are all freaks of nature.
I'm not sure what god or whoever invented people (I'm still torn on this one) was on when he invented athletes, but these Olympians are freaks. Whilst watching the woman's 10,000 metre run (aka hellfuckery of the highest order) over the weekend, I had to hold my pillow over my face to stop me from sympathy vomiting for these bitches. It's sick man. Awesome sick. Never in my life so far have I woken up & thought to myself, I might just try running 10,000 kilometres today to see if I'm any good. Because in my world, THAT IS NOT FUN. Same applies for Triathlons (I would rather eat a jar of bees) & the funny duck walk marathon (I would rather be face raped by a camel spider).

4. The Horsey events.
I don't get it. I sat & watched the dressage & I still have no idea what the hell happened. It's a little bit like awkward horse ballet. Then the rider gets all the medals. Which I think is total bullshit.

If I am not mistaken, the devil beast did all the work? Therefore it should get the medal/flowers & stand on the podium doing the ugly crying face while it's national anthem is played.

5. You just won a medal bitch, get happy.
Yesterday I watched the men's lightweight double sculls. Our fullas got 3rd. Right on Storm & the other guy whose name I can't remember!!! Team GB got silver. And one of them cried like a bitch. Because he was sad his seat broke.

While I fully support our competition, especially the Brits cos I got me a whole bunch of British homies, one would think that before the race you would check that all your shit is working? Yes no? Zac Purchase's seat popped off like a midget in a cabbage factory. Hard luck guys. Those Danes road like the clappers & in the end, deserved to win the gold. I'm sincerely sorry you only won a SILVER FUCKING MEDAL AT THE OLYMPIC GAMES!!! Jeeze...... lets drink wine & get depressed y'all.

6. Cry me a river.
Note to self: learn how to cry without looking like I just necked a whole shit tonne of lemons, in case I ever get myself on international TV for being baller at an Olympic sport. This will never happen (see number 3) but it is important to pre plan just in case. Because I ain't going out like this......

I like to call this one 'The Pirate Cry'

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Mace in the Face





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Smelly fingers & Pain in Loins

I just won gold.

Please call me a Waaaaambulance.

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ME SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD.

(said in the voice of Ludo from The Labryinth)

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I like Andy Murray.

He is doing the Pirate Cry as well.



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I would just like to state, for the record, that I would cry too. I have an uncontrollable emotions problem. So it's ok guys, don't feel like a dick about it.

7. Gender Confusion.
I watched the shot put this morning while getting ready for work. Our girl Valerie Adams was competing & I bloody love her. Anyway she ended up getting a silver medal which is awesome, but my issue is that she got beaten by this dude. In the woman's shot put. Tell me I am not wrong?

However, this dude is awesome. Like for real motherflippin kickass awesome. I love all people no matter their gender, race or sexual preference. If you have a dick & like to compete in women's sporting events, fair play to ya. You have a bigger pair of scroti than I will ever have. Literally.

________________________________________

Some much has been happening since we last spoke. A ball point pen exploded in my hand at work without me noticing & I smeared it all over my face like I was about to go duck shooting. No one told me. So spent all day walking around like a cool guy with blue ink all over my mug. Awesome.

For the first time in a month, I felt like cooking a delicious meal for my love. And everything was going well until I was seasoning the dish before popping it in the oven, & the lid came off my salt grinder & salt went goddam everywhere. I couldn't save the food. So instead I chucked a massive wobbly in the middle of the kitchen.

Last week I celebrated my 33rd birthday. However on my actual birthday I was too sick & too busy to acknowledge it. How can someone be too sick yet too busy at the same time you ask?? Well I can. Because in my own way, I too am a freak of nature.

Happy Birthday to Becky.

Cutting my works 50th Birthday cake on my 33rd birthday.

Very sick & slightly ratarsed. Hence the shit eating grin.

I got a swearing tourettes turtle from my lovely German friend Miriam. He isn't a real turtle. And when you press his left turoob (turtle boob) he shouts out all sorts of expletives. She also gave me a bell that I can ring when I fancy a shag from my husband. Ha.

Peace, love & turtle boobies,



And then I hacked up something that didn't look human

At present, I am sitting up in my bed like the Queen of Sheeba. It is Sunday afternoon, & if you were to ask me what I have been doing all weekend, apart from a couple of brief outings yesterday including a trip to a local hardware store to buy some pliers to make my jewellery, I would politely tell you, I've been doing sweet bugger all.

Weekends past have always been filled with a bevy of fun things, as was the plan for this weekend. I soon realised upon waking feeling like a bag of assholes on Friday morning, that my weekend plans were about to go tits up.

Once again this winter, my body proved to be a very unreliable team player & decided to succumb to the dreaded sickness that's been hanging round these here parts. With pounding head & achy joints/muscles in tow, I dragged my sorry carcass off to work.

Somehow I made it through the day without dying. However, when I got home on Friday after work I went straight to bed & proceeded to run a temperature that had everyone around me fearing I was either going to seizure or start stroking out at any given moment. My whole body was on fire. Yet I was shivering cold & talking gibberish like a hypothermic crack baby. Blake tried to be the hero & cool me down with his magic fairy (naturopathic) tricks but to no avail. I was balls deep in sickness & only the good light of Saturday morn would tell how I had feared through that awful Friday evening.

Apart from a slightly tender nose/throat area from the hearty snoring sleep coma I had been in the night prior, I had come out the other side pretty much unscathed.

So I got up & ventured out into the Antarctic Nelson winter cold (in hindsight, this could have been my undoing) with my mum for our weekly fruit & veg gathering at the local market. I felt fine.

When Blake finished work at midday we went out for lunch then went hunting for some pliers. His giant man hand toolkit pliers were not cutting the mustard for me when assembling my earrings so we had to purchase some special pliers for my carnie hands to grapple confidently. We found some. After visiting both Mitre 10 Mega & Bunnings.

While the old gent who works the tool section was away finding me the pair of  pliers I needed, I started to run out of steam. As I sat to rest my weary body, my attention was quickly drawn to a sign hanging on the wall. Please keep in mind that I did not have my glasses on.......

Something dirty was happening at Bunnings Warehouse. They were selling vag?

So I hollered for the husband & pointed it out to him.

Me: "Babe, they sell vag at Bunnings Warehouse?".....

Hubs: "What are you on cracker?"

Me: "No look up there at that sign". *me pointing nicely manicured finger to sign. "It says wet/dry vag?"

Hubs: *looking at sign.... "It says vac not vag you mong. It's a C not a G!!"

Me: "Oh. Well it looked like a G to me".

Hubs: "Anyway if it was vag they would be ripping people off selling both wet vag & dry vag for the same price"

Me: "Ew ok. Too much thought went into that comment but fair point. Where's my goddam pliers?"

And with that, the tool section man hobbled back with the pliers I was looking for. And we went home.

What proceeded that afternoon outing was another night of jacked up temperatures, achy neck, a blazing sore throat & the worst ear ache I have ever experienced in my 32 years on this planet.

Blake had his brother over to watch rugby so I was pardoned to the bedroom like some freak leper to die in private. In between fits of sleep I would howl like a strangled cat causing Blake to come running to my aid. I would do this when I wanted water or snacks. Or just a caring husband cuddle.

He never slept in our bed with me last night. I fear my current feral condition has turned him off me. He told me this morning that I was snoring so loudly, it made him a little bit scared. He felt like he was sharing a bed with a monster who was going to eat his face while he slept. So he slept in the lounge.

I accepted his explanation & proceeded to complain that I felt terrible & my ear was really blocked & how he knows how having blocked ears makes me crazy.

No really, having a blocked ear makes me lose my shit.

When ones ear is overrun by disease & becomes blocked, the acoustics change inside your cranium.
Once normal every day tasks become pure torture. Such as:

• Putting your head under the shower head. The sound in your head I can only compare to that of a torrential downpour on a rusty tin roof.
• Washing your hair. Massaging the shampoo into your skull sounds like someone grating potatoes on a cheese grater.
• Brushing your teeth. It sounds like someone is cleaning out the inside of your head with an industrial sander.
• Eating chips. The inane million decibel crunching is enough to drive even the sanest of people loony.
• Breathing. It's so amplified you would swear Darth Vader is lurking in the depths of your noggin.
• Bending over to tie your laces Every time I do it it feels like my head is going to explode out my head orifices.

And then I coughed up something large from the back of my throat/nose that was not human. It looked like a piece of my brain. Or an alien fetus. All I know is that I am not donating that freakish thing to medical science to be tested because I come from the old 'I don't wana know' school of sickness.

So here I am. It's been a bloody long week with a below par weekend to round it off. And tomorrow a new week begins. I would love to spend another day in bed but I have way too much to do at work plus I have meetings which I am expected to attend. Poo!!

And I missed my nephews birthday party today which sucks. So Happy Birthday Seth! I know you never read my blog mainly because you are 4 & also have good christian parents who would never allow you access to your Auntys online filth tirades, but I still love you little man. And I really wanted to share it with the internet people. I hope you had the bestest party ever! x

Oh yeah, & in my last post I was talkin about my new sideline/hobby. To check out what I'm up to when I'm not here in Blogland, you can click on this Facebook link & it should take you right there.

I hope this post finds you all in good health. If not, then I am sorry for you, but bet you didn't cough up a mysterious alien fetus like me?

Peace, love & fail immune systems

Don't forget your roots

When I first started blogging, I obsessed about writing every day. I smeared my brain plops all up in this blog show & I couldn't get enough of it. I walked the streets of my fair city with a badass strut because people everywhere were reading MY shit?

Stories such as the time I punched a tranny on the bus after she tried to touch me in my special place or that other time I accidentally sharted in my own pants at work. I've put it all out there right from day one.

Also the bad parts of me that I was always too scared & ashamed to share with anyone. Blogging made me brave. Blogging gave my a big pair of juicy balls I always kinda knew were there but were slightly inverted, hiding up in my belly.

Every time I write something & share it with you, I always a little bit lighter. Like I smashed away a few of the concrete birds that are constantly perched on my shoulders.

And when I read all of your comments, I get that feeling inside where I want to squeal like a baby swine & shoot people in the face with magic rainbows. That magic rainbow shooting pig squealing feeling means I'm happy. You strange eclectic mix of Internet weirdos make me for real happy.

One of my Internet weirdo friends I would like to talk about today, is my fellow blogging brother Kevin, The SocialAssassin. I love Kev & his wife Emily. They feel like family. Family I have never met. But one day I really hope to hang out with them in their fine Isle of Wight. Or have them here with Blake & I in NZ. In fact I know we are destined to meet in real life. Any man who hates Steven Seagal as much as I & who has the word 'Ass' in his pen name twice, was totally born to be my friend.

Anyway a month or so ago, Kev ran a Haiku writing competition. Just between you, me & the next guy, I don't even know what a Haiku is even though I aced year 13 English. This did not stop me from submitting 2 entries to the competition.

I feel my prize of third was actually a mercy prize due to my high level of suckage at Haiku writing. However Kev did state he cried laughing when he read me entries.

This Haiku is aptly titled 'Scrotum Delicious'
Ball sacs are not snacks
Salty but not like potato chips
And excellent for fuck punching

And entry 2 'Crouch, Hold, Engage'
Gases released unsuspecting odour omitted
Offending nasal passages with sulphuric fury
Everyday poo particles are shufflin’

This is the prize I was sent from Kev & Emily. And as evident from my shit eating grin, I LOVE it. Thanks again guys x

You should also know that this sign does not live in my cleveage. The boobs just provided a handy shelf for photo taking.

In recent months my posts have become less frequent, mainly because my outside life is like a festy plague infecting my writing time. Plus I just got a new iPad on the weekend (early birthday present yo! Thank you Mama x) & I am love with that badass piece of technology so. dam. hard.

I've also started making my own earrings which I will be presenting to you all in the coming weeks. There will be prizes y'all!! It's so sick I get fanny spasms just writing about it. My new hobby is all based around my passion for piratism & kickass statement jewellery. And how my life dream of sailing the great oceans as a girl pirate searching for treasure, has been overshadowed by busy life/my inability to sail a boat & neck copious amounts of rum.

You gotta understand that I don't even care if my shit don't sell. But I have high hopes that the ladies will indeed like my wares. I needed a hobby aside from writing about scrotum & farts. Because hobbies stop me from ageing, losing my shit skittles and/or killing people.

I had also kinda gotten off track with my healthy lifestyle change & needed to get serious again before I fell into my old patterns of pie-holing cheeseburgers. And when I do have free time, all I've wanted to do is mooch around like a tired old dick & squee all over my iPad.

In short, what I have quickly popped in to say today is I'm sorry for not being around much lately. The business I work for is currently celebrating it's 50 years of operation. I have been in charge of organising some big deal stuff which has been occupying much of my free time.

The other reason I have been absent from Blogland is because of these bastards......

For many years I have been unable to have pretty lady fingers due to my rockstar lifestyle. Playing a guitar is near impossible when you have whore nails. However, I am currently on a sabbatical from the music scene for a couple of years due to my complete lack of desire to entertain drunks every weekend. Like brain eating zombies, they sucked the passion right out of me.

Whilst on the hunt to reclaim my passion for my music, a nail technician friend of mine approached me to ask if I would like to be a guinea pig while she trains with a new acrylic nail product.

Now I am a low maintenance kinda gal, evident from my current hairy leg status. It's winter bitches, my muscly pegs stay warmly hidden within my pantaloons & my husband doesn't seem to notice so go me. Plus I've only ever had lady nails once before when I was 20 & I didn't know any better. Which I promptly chewed of like a house cat with stitches 2 days later because they drove me cray cray.

Being a lady is hard work, especially with my hairy genes insisting on the need for me to own a goatee. I have told them I have no desire for facial hair which they seem to blissfully ignore my instructions. So it was with extreme hesitation that I chose to have a new set of acrylic nails fitted onto my calloused guitar playing man fingers.

While they do indeed look pretty, it took me approximately 2 hours post nail application to remember why I can not stand having talons. There are so many things you just cannot do.

• Wiping Bum. I am an extremely thorough ass wiper. But with claws, the whole process is deadly. It's like trying to wipe your bum with a set of steak knives. I have to mummy-like bandage my wiping hand up with toilet paper & do what I can.
• Typing. Especially on an iPhone. It's so bloody useless. You may as well just mash the keypad with your face because you will probably have more luck obtaining a read-worthy text. And don't even get me started on the constant clackaty clack noise on my work keyboard. It's like an elephant is wildly tap dancing on my keyboard. It has taken my 3 days to type this post.
• Eating chicken. I really like eating chicken with my fingers. This is now no longer an option unless I want a deadly salmonella shit bug lurking under my nails.
• Opening a can of Coke Zero. Can't do it. I have to use a knife & stab it open.
• Kicking ass. While long finger nails do have some merit as a personal self defence weapon, I have no control over the potential damage they can cause, mainly to myself. Although, I do quite enjoy pretending to be a razor nailed Veloceraptor.
• Picking anything up off any surface. Unless you have Jedi mind powers this proves basically impossible. I have just spent 20 minutes on the floor under my desk attempting to pick up a CD that had accidentally fallen face down. The important side of the disc now looks like somebody tried to lick it clean with a tongue covered in rusty nails.
• Flicking the bean aka Masturbation. I do not do this often at all, because my husband satisfies my needs. But if I did fiddle with my lady diddle, I would certainly not be going near it with these death fingers. While I am sure there are many people out there in the universe that do quite enjoy being manually stimulated by bald eagle-like talons, I am not one of these people.
• Dancing. I advise against any hey-hoeing in da club with vigor as it is equal to having a dance off with Wolverine when he's piss mad. I have become a health & safety hazard.
• Inserting a fanny bullet (tampon). You are in luck, I am so not even going to go there.

And with that lovely mental picture I shall bid you all adieu til next time. Please remember that I come to this place for all of you. I write because of you. And the fact that I'm scared my head will combust if I don't get all the stuff out that's stuck in there. Thanks for stickin round x

Peace, love & Wolverine fingers

P.S Roachelle, if you read this, I haven' hurt myself yet. You did a good job.





Motel Etiquette: How not to be a dick when staying somewhere that is not your house.

When I was a small person, one thing my mum used to always say to my sister & I when we were caught being little bastards at someone else's house was 'would you do that in your own home?'. To which my reply would always be 'Yes I would. Except you would growl & when you growl I get scared'. And then I got taller than her & wasn't so scared anymore. That & the fact I could run like Forrest Gump on speed.

Apart from the fact I often challenged my mum's excellent child rearing skills, my sister & I were raised with respect for other people & other people's property.

This meant when we went away on holidays & stayed in motels, apart from helping my dad turn the couch upside down & sift it for lost change (Holla Papa! The apple doth not fall far from the tree. I still do this), we never abused the places we stayed in. Because it wasn't our place to abuse.

As an adult, I have carried this rule on & when I am travelling I am always respectful of any property of which does not belong to me. Sadly, many others do not abide by this same rule. In fact, when staying in accommodation, many people throw all rules & manners out the door.

For those that aren't already aware, my husband & I live at a motel. We have been living there for a year & a half now & we love it hard. My husband works at the motel during the day & we are also responsible for the place after reception closes. Which means one of us always has to be on the premises by 8pm every. single. night.

While this commitment does affect our social life together, it's no great burden because we both have Nana tendency's & often display extreme anti social behaviour. Why go outside when you don't have to right? Plus it's just a shit hot place to live. My back porch looks out over the marina. I get to smell the ocean every morning. Get that up ya.

Because of our current living status, we get to experience on a day to day basis, the perils of bad manners displayed by others who choose to abuse the luxury of staying away from home.

It shits me. It shits me so hard in fact that Blake has to lock me in the house sometimes to stop me from starting a hate riot in the courtyard.

So as per usual, I have taken it upon myself to educate that select group of  disrespectful wanks on how one must behave when staying somewhere that is not their house.

Shitting in the shower is not ok. Ever.
If it weren't so offensive, I would wear it on a t-shirt. Hell, y'all know by now that I would probably wear it on a t-shirt anyway. Do you know why? Because people actually shit in the shower!! I am so not lying. More than one time now, the cleaners at the motel have had to deal with a non-accidental misdirected fecal.

Now I understand first hand that accidents happen *cough cough. Sometimes, we have no power over our angry bowels & one can be left clenching cheeks completely & utterly in vain. In my 32 years on this earth, & with my troubled digestion problem, this has never happened to me in the shower.

I understand that in some countries, taking a dump in the shower may be considered a normal practice. This is not a normal practice in NZ. We do not do poos in the shower.

In the late 1600's, a containment vesicle was invented to house the excrement & urine of a human being. This vesicle is called a toilet. The Shitter. The Shit House. The Throne. ecetera. This is what we are meant to use to rid our body of excess waste.

The only time I would accept this sort of a behaviour is if you were a baby. Babies have no control over when & where they code brown. It's not their fault. Babies don't go out on their own & stay in motels. Unless they have super powers. And for the record I have yet to meet a baby with super powers.

So next time you find yourself with the urge to crack one out, get the hell outta the shower & drop it in the toilet like a normal person. Do not EVER let it go in the shower then attempt to squash it down the plug with your foot. First of all ewwwww you filthy filthy bastard. And secondly, some nice person, a person who is just trying to survive in this harsh world, has to clean up your rancid bowel contents.

I would write you a letter asking you to please refrain from shitting in the shower if you choose to visit our premises again in the future. If I was allowed to. And if I had a voice of reason, which I don't, the more likely scenario would be you getting into your car to go to work one morning & discovering that someone had taken a nasty dump on your passenger seat.

A nasty present for a nasty person.

You do know that we have all your personal details in the database & I could find out where you live right?

All Night Dance Parties
I'm always down for a good party. Actually that's a lie. I hate parties. And I'm always the first to sneak away when the host is in the bathroom. But not before I motorboat the shit out of the party food. Man I love me some party snacks.

Over the last year & a half, I have had to break up a few motel rooms parties. Every so often, we have the pleasure of housing young fishermen/women. I understand that life on the sea is tough & stressful, & when on land you are overcome with urges to drink until you're half dead.

What happens is this select group text all their friends & invite them over to their motel room for a good old shindig.

We don't mind guests inviting guests over. But when these guests & their guests start yelling & screaming & basically being disruptive little assholes, stopping me & other paying guests from enjoying a good nights rest, that is where I draw the line. Game on muthafuckas.

I am lucky to be blessed with a rather large pair of invisible ball sacs. Not only do these assertive scrotum aid me in hushing disruptive motel guests but they also help me vent my rage & lack of tolerance for all that annoys me in life. There is a lot that annoys me. Like musicals, taxi driver pee on the floor of the work bathroom, thigh chafe, bees, people with rancid dirty neck folds......to name but a few.

Heading off the topic here for a moment, I went to the movies last weekend & saw Rock of Ages. What possessed me, I can not say, but 3 seconds in to the first scene, I realised it was indeed a musical movie. Fuck my life.

You know when you witness something so cheesy, the level of inner discomfort is so extreme that you proceed to purge small piles of vomit into your own hand. That is how I felt whilst watching this movie. It was so shit.

Blake looked at me with hateful fail eyes, mouthing 'why' at me every time someone spontaneously broke into song. I talked him into seeing this movie. Therefore the fault lay solely with me.

We slunk down real low in our seats, praying for the visual torture to end.

And when it was all over, just to reassure ourselves that not all was lost on our rainy Saturday afternoon, we tag team throat punched some hobos.

To really driver home just how shithouse I found this movie, I went on the radio this morning to tell the nation what I thought about it.

I will be waiting for the defamation of character law suit with baited breath Tom. You're welcome.

Don't do it. You have been warned.

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Smoking will harm you. But not as much as my hate dagger in your ribs when you smoke inside a motel room after politely being requested not to.
I've had an on/off relationship with cigarettes since I was 15 years old. I hate that I love to smoke, & to date it is the one thing that I just can't shake for good.

When I travel for work, I often stay in motels. If there is a sign anywhere in the motel room that says 'please do not smoke', I don't smoke. Easy.

Some people proactively choose to ignore it. And proceed to get aggressive/offended when charged extra to cover the arduous task of removing cigarette stench from the motel unit.

This really grates my tits.

Please note: If you throw your cigarette butts over the balcony like goddamn Mardigras confetti, I will reign down on you with the intensity of a thousand badly shod wild equine.

Hiding Drugs in furniture that isn't yours is also not ok also.
We have never actually had this happen. If I was in the business of hiding drugs, I would totally do it in the motel. However, as I mentioned previously, my voice of reason is non existent, so I wouldn't really take anything I tell you to do as an actual instruction.

For a couple of months we did have a pot-like stench coming from one of our rooms after a west coast couple had spent the night. Now I have a nose on me like a hound dog, but even my super sense of smell could not sniff out the offending narcotics. That's because there were none. But it was so much fun to pretend there was.

I thrive in made-up-in-my-head dangerous situations.

It turned out there was a blockage of leaves in the pipes in the wall behind the bed. So the owners got it fixed.

I still prefer the drug story though.

Please note: I do not do drugs of any shape or form. Nor do I condone planting a brick of hash in the underside compartment of a motel chair.

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Get your freak on. With the curtains closed.
In 2010, when Blake & I were on a family holiday on the Gold Coast, he spied a couple in the opposite hotel banging the living daylights out of each other, with the curtains wide open.

Now I'm all for holiday porn.  My horn meter has been known to raise quite significantly while away from the stresses of my every day life. The difference between me & the Gold Coast Humpers is that I like to make relations with my husband, without other people watching.

While I'm definitely no prude, I don't find it particularly endearing when I have to pick up a used joey off the floor beside the bed, or remove sheets that have a strangers man seed all over them. If you put your shit in the bin, I don't have to see it. Good rule!

By all means, ride whoever you want, as many times as you like, but for the love of god don't leave your sexual byproducts on display for my viewing pleasure. I don't want to see it. It makes me gag. And then I spew all over the carpet. Then we have a whole other grotty mess to clean up.

It's a vicious dirty cycle.

Any memorable motel adventures you care to share?

Back in my rock star days, many years ago, we used to travel the top of the south playing in various venues, & staying in random motels. One time, I went out partying with the natives. I danced so hard that I danced my room key right outta my pocket. I slept on the floor outside, but not before administering many swift fuck kicks to the front door. My band mate didn't hear me. He was in a Jack Daniels coma. When the sun rose, I was found asleep on the front porch, & there was a large whole in the motel unit door.

I was such a bad ass.

Peace, love, & happy travels