To my husband.

WRITTEN ON FRIDAY LAST WEEK.......
Dear Pussbags,

Tomorrow you turn 28 years old. On the inside I am clapping like a retarded seal at the prospect of you getting just that little bit closer to 30. It's a lonely time here on my own.

While I know sometimes I can be mean to you, I hope you understand that because you are the one person who's face I see every day, it's my natural instinct to pummel you with my daily inner shit. Mainly because you are there & you pretend to listen. And all the mean stuff is done with big swollen hearted love. I am the backwards man.

As you venture forth into the ass end of your 20's & the third year of our marriage, there are a couple of things I would like to bring to your attention.


Do not believe everything I tell you. For example, I was lying when I told you your head smelt like AIDS. I don't know what AIDS really smells like & I just really wanted you to wash your dam hair. I was annoyed when you rubbed your dirty head all over my pillow. Have you ever sniffed the inside of your cap? It smells like head & I don't like it.

When you caught me last week like a possum in headlights rubbing my bare jacksie all over your pillow, well lets just say pay back is a real bitch. Especially when done by a bitch.

I want to apologise for everytime I po-face your healthy lifestyle suggestions. But I want to reinforce my opinion on Wheatgrass. I will not drink that green poison. Ever. Not even if I'm shitting needles out my backend. You may claim it's life's elixir, but my man, I will not neck something that makes my poos look like kryptonite.

I also just really like chips. While I have cut back considerably, there will never be a week when you won't see me snuggled up on the couch with a bag of Bluebirds finest. I understand the gullet crunching makes you want to kick a hole in the wall, but I guess that's the risk I'm willing to take.

I really wish Green Day wouldn't change their drum beat 62 times in one 7 minute song. The first time I was impressed. Now it's just annoying. And I will never stop ranting about it every time I hear one of their schizo songs on the radio. Every time.

Your libido gives me the shits. Mainly because mine is pathetic in comparison, and well......I just always like to win at everything.

As you know I have recently discovered the mating behaviours of Antarctic polar bears. I would like to state, that regardless of your constant feelings of neglect, rejected nipple tweaks & attempts at getting all up in my goodies, you have it pretty sweet in that department.

My theory is that if I opened up the beave shop all the time, the excitement level would dwindle. And seeing as we are in this marriage thing for life, we may as well keep it exciting for as long as possible. It's like winning lotto once a fornight three times a week. Whatevs. Huzzah!

All this aside, you are very sexy. I especially like your bum.

Your hair on the other hand really needs to be dealt with. I have my theory's on things, & I believe somewhere along your lineage someone mated with someone of black African decent. Because you seem to have inherited native African hair?

A white man with a tight ringlet fro is a sight to behold. I am afraid of your big hair. Hence why I scarper every time you walk out of the bathroom (post shower) looking like a long lost white sibling of the Jackson 5.

I pray every night to no one in particular that when we eventually decide to procreate, our offspring does not have your hair. Because fuck that for a fun time. If this does happen, you will be on hair brushing duty.

Your constant need to hug me has not gone un-noticed. I make it a challenging. And you like it. Much like a lithe & wiry cheetah playing with it's prey before eating it's face off. I admire your stamina to take my non stop defensive judo chopping to your abdomen. You must really love me a lot.

I love you too baby.

To clarify, here is an updated list of my favourite things from best to bestest.
5. KFC
4. Chips
3. Kylie
2. My Family
1. You

YOU are my best. And I would like to thank you for choosing me. I'm far from womanly perfection & I can be a real pain in the ass. Especially when we drive down the main street & I'm hanging out the car window yelling at the lady wearing her handbag as a backpack. SO. WRONG.

However, as you know, I am a real good time.

Happy Birthday!!

From your wife xx

P.S Seriously though you do have really wide feet. Kinda like Hobbit feet but not hairy (thank Christ!!). If you roundhouse kicked someone in the head I am sure you would kick it right off their neck in one kick. From now on I am calling you Pussbo Baggins.
P.P.S Getting old together is going to be so fun don't you think?
P.P.P.S I also really love your hair. But dang dude sometimes it really reeks.

Why being a male polar bear is shithouse.

So last night I had some alone time & while painting my toenails a gay shade of lilac I ended up watching a goddam nature doco on Polar Bears in Antarctica. What I witnessed was so whackthefucko that I could not NOT tell you all about it.

For the purpose of this self narrated recollection, every Polar Bear will have a name.

Bo-Jackson has just spent the whole of the Antarctic winter curled up in a fetal position trying to keep his bear tits warm. Due to this idle hibernation, he gained a shit tonne of weight. Which, by the way, he is very self conscious about.

It is spring time in the asshole of the world & the monster sun has reared it's fiery head. Bo-Jackson is awake & on a mercy mission to find himself some tail.

So he starts walking. The excess weight he's gained from being a lazy ass bitch for 3 months is making all this walking quite harsh on his knee joints & giving him a nasty case of fur chaffe. Don't be fooled by all the fur. That shit is a pain in the backend when it's moist.

Now finding a bear ho in Antarctica is harder than finding a broken hymen in a nunnery. Bo-Jackson walks for days before he catches the jizztastic scent his bear scrot is longing for. Huzzah, some bear poon!! For some reason I can't explain (mainly because I had to go poo at this vital point), Polar bears have shark-like sense of smell. They can smell a on heat banger from miles away.

Again he walks for days (pimpin aint' easy yo) until he comes across the footprints of his future conquest. Sure enough, 2 miles down the road, he spots her. Rashonda. The bear whore of his dreams. He screams out loud to her  "I'ma gon tap yo ass bitch" (this comes out as more of a raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaooooooor but I totally knew what he was saying).

Much butt sniffing ensues. He could eat her face off & tear her to pieces like an old kitchen tea towel if he wanted to, but considering the severe case of blue balls he's currently suffering from & the fact he's just walked the length of New Zealand to find her, if he doesn't get it in now, he will die. (Who knew polar bears & men use the very same line?).

Rashonda it seems isn't going to make this ride easy for him. She's totally up for some action but she's shy & doesn't want the rest of the Antarctic wildlife community being a witness to the 2 week fuckfest that's about to ensue. She insists that he walks with her about 30 miles up into the mountain. To the edge of the cliff, where Bo-Jackson begins to give Rashonda the rogering of her life, thrashing his head from side to side like he's competing in a retard freestyle swimming gala. Rashonda wants a nice scenic view to gaze upon as Bo-Jackson diddles her like a maniac from behind.

Half way through the throes of furry passion, both Rashonda & Bo-Jackson smell stranger danger lurking close by. He quickdraws faster than a Mexican stand off & decides fuck this shit, I'm gona beat down this lurky wise ass.

The lurky wise ass in question is none other than Wisey McKracken, the infamous A-town murderous bear mafia leader. He wants in on this spring break bone-a-thon.

Now Bo-Jackson is a manly bear. He's not interested in any menage-a-trois bullshit nor does he want to dabble in any homo-erotic sausage grinding. And he sure as hell ain't letting no gangster get up in his lady monsters goon burger.

He lurches forward at Wisey with the fury of a thousand angry killer bears & basically tears Wisey McKracken a new asshole. Wisey is done. Hell hath no fury like a bear hump interrupted. He skulks off bruised & beaten knowing that this spring he may not get it in. However, our man Bo-Jackson does not come out of this ferocious street fight sans injury. He got cut like whore.

Again, he climbs the treacherous mountain side with his lady love & positions are resumed. Just when he thinks he's making headway, Balls Mcgee comes a loitering wanting to smack down with Bo-Jackson for Rashonda's affections.

Flash forward 2 weeks later, Bo-Jackson is spent. He can barely walk. His fur that was once white is now a bloody shade of pink from the mass beatings he's taken from angry suitors fighting for a tango with Rashonda's lady lumps. His face & upper torso looks like he's had a fuck slap fight with Freddy Kruger himself.

His work here is done. He will never see her again.

In 9 months time Rashonda will bust out a polar bear crotchling. Alone. Her baby daddy don't want no part of this shit show. There will be no post coital snuggy time, whispering of sweet nothings & false promises of eternal love for this duo. No one stays for breakfast & if you leave any of your belongings behind, they will be immediately be shat on & buried in the snow.

Rashonda wanders off into the distance walking in a manner that can only be described as 'extremely well boned'. The inner workings of her beef curtains have indeed been well marinated. It was a good time, even though she was forced to witness the infinite mass thrashings to her one night standee that lasted 2 weeks.

Bo-Jackson lays down for a bit to rest his achy mutilated body before carefully easing himself up & starting his slow journey back to his bachelor pad. There is no time to waste. The ice has started melting at a frantic pace. Drowning & being shredded by a tiger seal is not an option.

He looks back at Rashonda's only just visible outline on the distance. And he thinks to himself while licking his weeping war wounds, 'that Spring Break was a good time. I think I'll come back next year'.

The end.

I regaled this whole series of events to Blake when he got home from his mates place. I couldn't believe the lengths that poor fucker had to go through just to get a lay.

It got me thinking about how hubs is younger than me & how his libido kicks mines ass all the time. It's not that I don't find him incredibly sexy cos god knows I do. I just can't get it up (figuratively speakin). Because I'm too dam tired. Have a headache. Bloated. Or just not in the mood.

So last night he gets into bed at 11pm & does that thing he does when he gets all feely strokery & I say to him 'babe I need to sleep. I have to get up early'. He rolls over in a man huff obviously bummed at my harsh rejection. I pat him on the ass & say 'atleast you ain't a polar bear'.

He grunted & immediately started to snore. Which when translated means 'yes dear, I love you more than my xbox & you are absolutely right'.

Love you too baby. Try me again in the weekend x

Peace, love & humping polar bears

Hatin' on: Huggers

If you try & hug me, & I don't know you well or you're not a member of my family, my body will go all stranger danger on your ass & more than likely attempt to stab you through your heart with a rusty bicycle spoke.

Some people are just natural huggers. I am not one of these people.

I have a 1 metre wide circumference 'safe zone' surrounding my body. If you trespass the boundary lines into my circle of trust, my inner alarm starts screaming & my imagination shocks you repeatedly with 1000V electrical death currents. And then you spontaneously combust into flames of shame.

I have a small & elite list of bitches who have permission to come into my personal trust space.

This does not include;

• Reptiles, birds (especially seagulls), cats & small biting insects.
• Texas Chainsaw massacre type psycho killers. 
• Smelly people. 
• Yappy prick dogs
• Hobos
• Anyone with dog shit on the bottom of their shoe
• People who constantly spit up throat bogies
• Drummers (because I will try & have sex with them)
• Ballroom dancers 
• Drunk people
• People with hand herpes, head lice or pink eye
• Anyone who wants to touch me with their feet

Sometimes my own husband hugs me & I stand with rigor mortis-like rigidity with my arms by my sides willing my body to love him back. He hugs me all the goddam time. While there is an insurmountable heap of love inside me for this man, I don't feel the need to engage him in a 24/7 hugfest whenever he saunters past. He knows how I feel about it but continues to hug the snot out of me at every opportunity because, he claims, he can.

I am happy & confident & I certainly don't have affection issues, but I don't hug no bitches willy nilly just because it's a nice thing to do (unless you give me presents). One can only assume that because I resemble a human shaped bean bag, I welcome hugs whenever, wherever.

I have this thing I do. It happens on it's own & I have no control over it. It's called 'exuding warmth'. I am friendly, approachable & when I smile, my eyes smile too. Everything about me screams 'Hug me & I'll muthafucking love it'. No so.

My friends husband hugs me every time we see them. Which is not often hence the joy & elation he must feel at seeing me again. But there is strictly no chest on chest contact. He keeps small distance between our chests then leans in, wraps his arms around my upper arms, & back pats me. BACK PATS ME.

While I pretend that I'm all up in this hugfuckery back patting business, the secret is, on the inside, I'm grinding my teeth down to a cocaine consistency. Don't pat my back bitch. I won't burp for you.

Being a musician (currently on sabbatical), drunk people want to hug me, touch me, throw $20 notes at me like I'm a naked exotic pole dancer & generally get up in my business.

One time in particular post gig at a pub in Nelsons version of the ghetto, a large drunk man approached me in a manner that can only be compared to that of an large angry bull at a Spanish conquistador bull fight. While I was wrestling to dismantle a microphone stand, he unknowingly approached me from behind, wrapped his arms around me, & hugged me with such ferocity as he attempted to rearrange my entire rib cage.

I collapsed to the floor in a heap gripping my abdomen like it had just been gangbashed with a mallet. A deep guttural growl escaped from my throat as I sprung forth like a rabid spider monkey to tear his face right off his skull with my calloused guitar fingers. He had scarpered by that stage. Lucky for him.

If there was any hug left in me at all, it was scared out of me that night by that ratarsed human crusher.

When I was younger, I used to sing for special needs people at their Christmas functions. And while they thoroughly enjoyed my renditions of Jingle Bells, The Little Drummer Boy & Silent Night, they spent majority of my one hour set eyeing me up for a sloppy goon hug or attempting to stroke my beautiful hair like the tail of a prized stallion.

These happy bastards would hug anyone like it's a competition. I will not hug a fully grown man that wears a bib & chews on his forearm all day. The smell of dried saliva makes me gag. Nor will I hug the other guy who spends his days masturbating into his housemates socks & running around the front yard with his pants on the ground.

As you can imagine, every year when I was forced to do this by my mum (she worked in the community homes taking care of the special people), I would welcome this fun time with the same amount of enthusiasm as one would have if they were getting their anus tattooed.

The law says you can't stab/judo chop/knee cap or running fuck kick any person who is not capable of writing their own name. This includes baby's. I just had to suck it up & hug them back like I meant it. Truth is, I kinda dug rockin' out to those goofy buggers. As long as they stayed the hell out of my circle of trust.

If you ever find yourself having to greet me, & I'm wearing a shit eating grin/smiley eyes, & you can't see any potential hazardous weapons either in my hand or within my reach, it's fair to say that you've unknowingly been granted Becky hug access. Get amongst it.

But for the love of fuck (& your own health & well being) DO NOT back pat me.

You likey the hug?

Peace, love & ra ra pa pa pum,

P.S I'm back on the League of Funny Bitches Allstars list hookers! Along with 14 other tres awesome & well deserved fellow shit cracking bloggers. Heartfelt thank yous to everyone that voted for this small town kiwi lass. I appreciate the love x

P.P.S I should also probably tell you now that if we ever meet in real life I will more than likely hug the snot out of you. I really like you guys. Especially if you were wearing a paper moustache.

Taio Cruz you egg, you've obviously never had a REAL hangover.

I hate top 40 pop music. If Top 40 pop music was a person I would gouge it's eyes out with a rusty spoon then take a large dump in it's mouth while it sleeps. Then I would cover it in honey & set a box of angry wasps on it. And then I would drench it in nail polish remover & set it on fire. But not before letting a rabified wolf dog chomp on it's nut sac. There's a lot of hate inside me for crap plastic music.

Check it out for yourself. Be prepared to rage.

I hate the ass off this. My 3 year old niece could write better lyrics in her sleep. Her lyrics would probably make more sense & wouldn't be sending out a message to our already fucked up badly informed crotchling teens that drinking til you vomit is ok. Dick. Not even.

Now Taio, if you read this, I don't know if you've ever had a real hangover. Seriously. Because that video is bullshit. I have never woken up with a Chinese man wearing an angry bear costume in my lounge after a night out on the rip. Nor a bevy of half naked hot bitches sleeping on my lounge floor.

This may have something to do with the fact I am not a rock star. I am. But not a real life one. Maybe you guys have better parties than me? Whatevs.

Anyhow, I've taken it upon myself to regale you on how hangovers really go. For future reference.

First of all, there is no rave dancing & carefree hey ho-ing of arms. Or singing. In fact the only movement I can will my body to make is the gag reflex. And the uncontrollable urge to shit my own pants. That happens all by itself. Especially if I drink bourbon.

The first stage of the ultimate fuck my life hangover is aptly named the Death Spin. Just like a hungry gator death rolling a naive & thirsty beast at the watering hole, your own body will attempt to do the same to you. Your liver is piss mad at you for filling it with poison. Don't even bother trying to put your foot on the floor to steady yourself & stop the world from spinning. Ride this shit out yo. Because you are about to yak like it's a goddam competition.

It's probably a good thing that you are lying down because being horizontal is a perfect position to let the shit tonne of alcohol you've just consumed over the past 12 hours rape your mind/body into unconsciousness. WARNING: for health & safety reasons, make sure your head is turned to the side. No one wants you to actually die. Choking on your own vomit is not trendy.

If you have managed to make it home without being arrested for squashing your exposed boobs up to a pub door while screaming/singing to the angry bouncer 'Hey Big Spendeeeeeeeeeeeer!!' or digging up a native tree from the local botanical gardens & jamming it into a public toilet & setting it on fire, then quietly congratulate yourself. You did good.

The second stage of the hangover I like to call, I'm Still Muthafucking Wasted. This is when you wake up 2 hours after falling asleep & your eye lashes are all intertwined with each other like small Venus fly traps so you can't actually open your eyes at all. You have to feel your way around your house like a partially blind person with amputated legs.

You are normally still fully clothed, with your hot lady shoes on, & you probably haven't even been in, on or near your bed. Typically it's any solid surface in which ones body lands eg: floor.

OR wrapped around the toilet bowl with your head resting on the dirty porcelain bowl rim.

OR if you are my brother in law in his more youthful days, naked & asleep in a fetal position on the floor of the shower.

You realise upon regaining consciousness that you are indeed still shitfaced & you groan inwardly to yourself the age old rhetoric question, 'what in the hell did I do last night?'. You got drunk fool! Stupid drunk. And what's about to unfold is going to suck more than a knob hungry Prosti. You smell vomit. You did that. You smell urine. You did that too. In your own pants!! And if you've really let yourself go during the previous nights festivities, there may be poo in your pants also.

If you are married I would not advise getting into bed in that state. One word. DIVORCE. And three words, NO SEX EVER. Crawl to the shower, clean yourself up. Once in this respectable state you are then clear to venture into your own bed.

The third & final stage is called, I am dead but not really. You spend a whole day of your life lazing around in bed wishing that sweet baby Jesus would take you to heaven & rock you in the bosom of Abraham. Because it's a shitload better than having to deal with the constant head pounding, a tongue so hairy it feels like you've licked clean the carpet inside your entire apartment, the chronic case of I'm-too-scared-to-fart-in case-there's-blowback farts & the urge to yell solids at the smell of anything remotely food-like.

In between bouts of alcohol induced delirium, you manage to sleep off the effects of the poison coursing through your organs, promising yourself that you will in fact never ever drink again. That is a shame faced lie & you know it.

There will be no sexy rap video hookers rolling around in their panties on your bed trying to jam $20 bills up their jacksies. No sir. You are severely mistaken. Hangovers are quite possibly the worst thing a human being can inflict on themselves apart from thigh chafe & sticking things in holes where things aren't supposed to go. And everytime I see the music video on TV I get so mad that my husband needs to restrain me from judo chopping the shit out of his beloved 42" flat screen.

Not only have you lost touch with the reality of a hangover Taio but you are also trying to destroy my marriage by subliminally making me violent.

And your name is stupid. It's like Taco but not. And I like Tacos.

Taio Cruz you egg.

Worst hangover story ever.....123 GO!

Before I go.....It's Funny Bitch All Stars voting time again hookers. This is when I ask all you whores to hook a bitch up with a vote. Cos I want to stay on this list. So if while reading any of my posts you had some shits & giggles, semi dribbled in your lady undergarments or spat a beverage all over your computer/laptop/ipad screen OR if ever you have been out & someone starts talking about poos & farts or flappy vagina lobes & it totally makes you think of me, then know this, I am in you. Under your skin. Like a scabie. You can't get rid of me. And for that I deserve your glorious praise. Plus I sung for you bitches. WITH a paper moustache on.

Seriously though, if you want to show me some love (yes it's optional), go see Oh Noa the Great & pimp my fat but sill sexy ass. (click on pic below, it will take you to Noa-town. You will find the link to the survey there. Find me amongst the stellar line up & love me hard x).

Peace!

Barbie got herself knocked up? By a ken with no dick.

Not much shocks me. Except for this one time when I was waiting in the car park out the back of a bar after a gig. It was 3am & I was waiting for my ride home.

Anyway the car park was filling up with late night revellers as the bars were closing & drunk fucks were spilling out into the streets like spawning time at a salmon farm.

About 5 metres away from me I noticed a young dude & his 'pull' making out on a bench seat, while the 'pulls' hot blond half naked clingon was hanging on to the back of the seat in order to stop herself from face fucking the concrete due to extreme intoxication.

Next thing, & to my horror, peroxide blond slapper ho whips her anus floss panties down, gets into a squat position & proceeds to take a drunken dump. In public. In the middle of town. While her mate continued to suck face with the random guy from the bar, oblivious to the mud currently being laid not 30cm away from her.

Now I may talk about crapping a lot, & by now y'all basically know the inner workings of my shit pipes, but know this, I would NEVER take one in front of people. Not unless you count the old guy who busted into my bathroom mid ass wipe last week. That was an unplanned attack. And totally his fault.

Drunk spaceheads staggered past en masse without so much as glancing in her direction. While sober me was forced to watch her small white moonlit backside excreting onto a grassy patch out back of the bar.

I was dying. From disgust & shock. And I wanted to march on over & kick her up the bare naked slats for being a dirty whore & committing a heinous public shit crime. But taking into consideration what was coming out of her backend, I decided against the vigilante slat kicking.

I had nice shoes on. I didn't want some bitches fecal on them.

When I finally got picked up I regaled everything to Blake in detail. It was at this time we both decided that it would be good if I, A: could take my eyes right out of my skull & soak them in Janola & B: had Will Smiths memory eraser thingy from that movie I can't remember & completely delete that turd laying from my brains hard drive.

Moving right along, watching a girl take a poo in the middle of town wasn't what I intended on posting about today. Don't be a hater. I got carried away.

My in laws just got back from an extended holiday in South Africa. Hubs & I went around to visit them last night & give the kids their christmasbirthday presents. We got Miss 5 a kickass Princess Barbie Pony. Cos goddam Princess Barbie Horse was the BALLS. And she loves the ass off Barbie anything.

After the unveiling of the awesome Princess Barbie Horse, Miss 5 decided to introduce me to her knew toy, Pregnant Barbie.

2 questions.

How did I not know such thing existed?

And secondly. WHAT THE FUCK.

Pregnant Barbie has a rotating abdominal wall. She can be pregnant. Or not pregnant. With a quick slight of hand, it's like a friggin magic trick.

Lift her maternity tunic, pop the top off her belly like the lid of a Tic Tac packet, & HELLO horror movie Barbie baby is laying within her carcass in a position that can only be described as 'fight ready'. Fists & both feet at the ready to bust out some judo chops/fuck kicks to some innocent bystander.

After this I was introduced to the baby daddy Barbie. I had to double check & as expected, Ken had no dick. Just a mound. Now correct me if I am mistaken, but I was sure that mound on mound grinding could not result in a pregnancy?

Immaculate Conception Baby. Just like Jesus.

FYI - Mainly for bitches that like to start a bit of drama, this post is on no way a stab at/reflection of my sister in laws parenting skills. She is an amazing mum. Don't even go there.

Whats the most retarded childs toy you have ever seen? 

Peace, love & no public shitting,

 






P.S In hindsight I wish I had of kicked her up the jacksie. Then I could have got some new shoes. And Blake couldn't growl at me. Amen.

Camping. And why I would rather swallow a beehive whole than do it.

I don't do camping. I like things. Things like toilets that flush & refrigerators that keep your food/wine cold. I am also fond of TV. Not even the allure of the beautiful native bush excites me in the slightest. Cos I don't really give a fuck about trees. And I am a modern woman that feels safer when surrounded by her modern day appliances.

When I was a pre-teen, I was a girl guide. It was non negotiable as my mum was a girl guide leader.

We did a shit load of camping. And I hated it. Sharing a tent with 6 other bitches & a fuck tonne of blood sucking mosquito's whilst sleeping on a yoga mat was not a fun time for me. Nor did I become overwhelmed with glee when being forced to eat freshly cooked campfire food. Everything tasted like it had smoked a cigarette.

I will never forget the very first time I had to take a moonlight shit on a long drop toilet. For those that do not know what a long drop toilet is, it's a toilet that has a large hole dug under the toilet seat where all fecal & urine go. It doesn't get flushed away. Instead it sits & ferments. This fermented shit/piss cocktail omits the most rancid stench for miles which in turn attracts bugs, possums, rats & numerous other bush creatures keen for a taste of human excrement soup.

Most long drops are housed within a tin shack. In the height of summer, when the mighty southern hemisphere sun rapes every living thing, the long drop turns into a goddam sauna of death.

Taking in to account that I am afraid of the dark, & all the monsters that lurk within said darkness, I was quite prepared to take one in my pants instead of putting myself in grave danger of having my ass eaten off by a hungry shit eating rat than put my precious backend anywhere near the seat of a long drop toilet.

I loitered outside the camp long drop, deathly afraid, holding my torch like a ninja sword in order to deter all possums from trying to latch their razor claws into my scalp if they felt the need. The girl guide interrogation squad was called in & they spun me every good reason known to man about why the long drop was safe & that there was no way my ass was going to be eaten off by any ferocious animals.

They were right though. We don't have any ferocious man eating animals in NZ. In fact we have nothing even remotely dangerous in the NZ bush that could even harm a small new born baby let alone a 12 year old girl child. The only thing that could hurt me in that long drop toilet was my own mind. And Jason Vorhees scuba diving in the shit pond waiting to slash my anus to shreds with a dirty machete.

I blame Jason Vorhees for all my childhood dark fears. That fucker just would not die.

I have just returned from a few nights away at my sisters holiday home in Okiwi Bay. It's a 1 hour drive from my city & I love it down there.

We drank. We smoked. We listened to music & we talked/laughed the arse of New Years eve 2011.

We watched the entire first season of Teen Mom on MTV when it was raining & we ate everything bad.

We sat around the kitchen table in a kumbayah circle of trust eating Bread Dip. We talked about how fat our bums were while stuffing our gullets full of caramello cadbury chocolate. Irony is fucking delicious.

I bunked with my friend Amber & my 3 year old niece Kaitlyn & I slept the best I had slept in months.

I checked my iPhone incessantly for text messages & email notifications even though I knew I couldn't get any sort of  cellphone range there at all, agreeing wholeheartedly that yes I am a sick modern world obsessed fuck.

I got into the Okiwi Bay footwear trend of socks & jandals/flip flops/slops & I laughed at the smack talk notes people were leaving on the fridge door.

Okiwi Bay Footwear.

Fridge Smack Talk.

I sat in the middle of a bay while the tide was out & watched fireworks.

Waiting for Fireworks display to start.

I didn't watch or read any depressing news of the world. I escaped from my reality.

And I loved every bloody moment of it.

Now I'm back in my real world with my sexy real world husband ready to beat the ass of 2012. We are excited bout the year ahead.

Except tomorrow I have to go back to work.

And just between you & me, I would rather be locked inside a long drop shit house in the middle of summer with a dirty machete wielding Jason Vorhees.

The winners for Decembers giveaway of the 'I hate your face, especially in the morning' knuckleduster coffee mugs are....................

Ladies please flick me an email to bexstard@yahoo.co.nz with your postal addresses & I will get them out to you as soon as possible.

For those of you feeling a bit blue because you didn't win this time, don't be sad, because holy heathen shitflaps I have another two more knuckleduster mugs to give away for the first month of 2012. Join me on my merry crusade to become the toilet queen of the blog world, comment on my posts for the month & you too could be rocking a hot coffee filled face smasher at the breakfast table every morning.

Are you a camping freak? Or a camping phobe like me?

Peace, love & flushing toilets,

P.S Thank god for flushing toilets, cos it seems my bowels were slightly homesick while I was away having relaxation time. But that's a story for another time. Lets just say, me & the toilet down Okiwi Bay spent a lot of time together. Fuck my life.

P.P.S Can someone please have a fancy dress party soon so I can wear this dick & balls costume. Oh I must.