Meet Paul. He's a dick.

WARNING: THIS POST IS NOT FUNNY. SORRY GUYS!!!

This guy right here is the dumbest douchebag I have ever met. And I don't even feel bad publicly shaming him because he deserves it. If I could tie him to a piece of wood & stone him I would but he's no longer located within the region in which I live.

Last summer, a friend of mine got chatting to this dude on a dating website. Anyway he was overly keen & she was totally not really interested in him.

One day when she & I were hanging in her car at the beach, this jeep pulls up beside us with hip hop music blaring out the open windows.

We sat there taking the piss out of him, not knowing who he was, & it turns out it was Paul, the guy she'd been chatting to online.

Now I still don't know if this was a coincidence that he happened to pull up right beside us at our local beach. Or he'd been following my friends car. More then likely the latter.

Anyway, he got chatting to us, & here is some of the things he told us.

Before I go any further, I just need to state for the record, that being a recovering gambling addict (more on this another time but 8 years gambling free yay!!) I can't smell a bullshitter from a mile away. You can't bullshit a reformed professional bullshitter.

• Paul has a brain tumor.
• Paul is in a Hip Hop band signed to a major NZ Hip Hop label Dawn Raid.
• Paul is a NZ Stock car champion, his nickname is 'The Grim Reaper'. And he is loaded.
• Paul is one of the big wigs for Telecom NZ so he can slack off & work when he feels like it.

Yet here he was, chilling at the beach, rapping along to Tupac saying that he was 'practising' for his bands 'performance' they had coming up at one of our local clubs. I knew he was full of shit.

So my friend & I decided to do a little investigating. And surprise surprise, he lied about everything.

Dawn Raid had never heard of him or his band.
The Rock Bar, who's owner I know, had never heard of his band nor do they even have live bands play in their bar. I have friends who work for Telecom that had never heard of him. And I also have family & friends involved with Stockcars that had never heard of him.

Now we could have left this alone but he started obsessively texting my friend telling her that he really liked her & wanted to pursue a relationship with her. She was like no way motherfucker & sent him a carefully worded text telling him that she knew he was lying about everything & wanted to know what his game was.

He text back saying she didn't know what she was talking about & to go fuck herself. First dead giveaway that someone knows they've been busted lying is when they go on the defense.

This doesn't end here. We thought we were pretty awesome cos we'd blown his bullshit stories & exposed him, even though it was only to ourselves, as a big wanky dickslapping liar.

The next day, my friend receives a text message from an unknown number from 'Pauls mother' saying that he had in fact died during the night. Oh no, this prick was not going to leave it at that. So my mate played along saying how sorry she was & asking when the funeral was. She (Paul) replied saying that it was being held at the Stockcar club up north & even named the place.

We waited for his death notice to appear in the paper. It never came. There was no knowledge of him ever being admitted to Nelson Hospital & we rang the stock car club enquiring about the funeral & they didn't know anything about it.

So my friend rang his phone. AND HE ANSWERED IT.

First rule of faking your own death you sick fuck is to never answer your cellphone when someone rings you. The second rule is always wear a disguise when you go out in public. Because if I happen to see you parked near the Supermarket down St Vincent Street I will yell abuse at you out the window.

We moved on, forgot about him. But every time I see a jeep like his I nearly rip my own head off straining to see if he's driving. Apparently dead people can drive too ya know.

That was until yesterday when reading the daily news online, I stumbled across this piece of news. Read it. Enjoy it. Hate him as much as me & my mate do. And everyone else we've told about it.

He is going to get bum rapped in prison & I couldn't be more excited for him.

Peace!

P.S While I do feel very sorry for those people that suffer with mental illness, using it to fuck people over is not ok with me.
P.P.S As of 1230 today I am off to Wellington to hang out with my best whore for the weekend. I won't be taking my laptop with me like last time so I will return on Monday with lots of shit to tell you I'm sure.

We are the champions dead freddy.

Like a nymphette in a diddle factory, I could not be any more excited to write my post today.

On Sunday night, after 80 minutes of shitting my pants, my beloved All Blacks claimed the Rugby World Cup after 24 years of not quite getting there.

For your aural pleasure please play this video while you read the remainder of this post. I insist.

We won the game to France by 1 god dam point. In the last 10 minutes I started to go in to a fuckety fuck melt down mode realising that maybe it wouldn't happen for us this time. Again.

France bought it hard & I literally could not watch. So I went & got under the covers of my bed & listened to the commentary from within the safety of my blanket tent. After 2 minutes I couldn't even listen anymore so I went & turned the TV off, got back in to my bed & flicked my bean played Plants verses Zombies on my phone for approximately 7 minutes as a distraction. Then I went back out in to the lounge, flicked the TV back on, just in time to catch the final whistle & see my team man hugging the shit out of each other. We won. And I had a bit of a bawl, ugly crying face & all.

I'm not ashamed to admit that this rugby world cup has made me a bit of a fuck nut. I've always been into rugby but this time more so, seeing as the ultimate rugby competition was being held in my homeland.We did it. And I could not be prouder.

Here are some fun pictures I stole off the Internet. There will be no dicks & balls this time because the All Blacks didn't get their shit out at all over the entire 6 weeks. They are a classy bunch of dudes. Just quietly I'm disappointed but I guess can forgive them this one time since they are winners & all that.

This is my boyfriend Corey doing snow angels in the confetti. As you do.

This is how we dance motherfuckers.

MAN HUG FEST. WOOP!!

 This game stopped the Nation. I haven't spoken to one person who didn't watch it. Happy days, real happy days.

Now before everyone starts busting out Don't Stop Believing & dancing with their shirts over their heads down the main street, my win high turned to lava spewing rage yesterday morning when I rocked up to work.

Nothing says 'Welcome back to work' like a big chunky honk waiting for me down the alley beside my office & 2 used joeys. Some dirty cum guzzlers had a doof out the back, & left their jiz bags as a present for me. But not before spewing up an entire chicken. Well it's too kind really, & pray to Jesus Christ those whores never come within 100 yards from me for the rest of their lives because I will cut them up.

The condoms are still there because I ain't touching them sorry. However, I half heartedly disposed of the shredded chicken gut yak. I was so mad that I broke the broom. I bashed the shit out of the concrete pretending it was the head/face/balls of the actual human who made my Tuesday morning go from frickin awesome to downright poo. Fuck you man. FUCK YOU!

I have been quiet the last few days, & I promise you it has not been on purpose. I departed my place of work on Friday arvo for a 3 day weekend. It was Labour weekend in New Zealand. That meant no work for 3 whole days.

But while most people went away to their respective holiday homes to jet ski, slaughter marine life, get sunburnt & what have you, me bitches, well I was judgin me some Country Music Awards.

Snigger all you like, this shit is serious. There are 10 million things I would have rather been doing, but my mum, who was also one of the organisers, has ways of getting me to do things I don't want to do. It's a mother thing. I will never understand the magic powers she has over me but I can't say no to her. EVER. Plus I love her & when she asks a favour of me I feel obliged to oblige.

So I sat for the whole weekend listening to such country hits as, 'Jesus & Mama Always Loved Me', 'Where did the corn come from?', 'I like chickens. And Cows. And my cousin', & my all time favourite, 'that ain't straw in my pants, it's the skin Jesus'. I made all of them up except the first one. Can you tell?

No seriously, the guy who won the whole competition sung a Brad Paisley song called 'She's Everything To Me'. The lyrics made me weep on the inside. He was the bomb digz & completely deserved the win.

It won't go down as my greatest Labour Weekend in history (or will it?) but I was just quietly stoked that I am respected enough in the community for my musical knowledge & can decipher between what is shithouse & what is goodhouse. I started singing when I was 7, & I started out doing Country Music. My neighbours took me along to our local club & got me up on stage. I was the business, & nothing ignited my inner child diva more than being able to get up in front of people & show off sing for them. I was good yo.

I competed in country music awards until I was about 21, then realized my musical passion lay within other genres & that making a few hundy every weekend singing rock covers to drunk people, while also getting drunk, was so much more fun. So I retired from the country scene & became a rock goddess.

One thing I had to do (which I hated) was write comment for every single performance. These comments were given out to each person at the end of the weekend. Supposed constructive criticism. This was dam hard. Especially when what I really wanted to write, I wasn't allowed to. Because my mum would growl at me.

Here are a few examples of what I wrote, then translated into what I really wanted to write.

'Well done' = your performance was so shit that I have nothing to write here.

'Your were slightly out of tune for parts of the song' = your were out of tune for the whole song & are definitely tone deaf. You made me ears bleed.

'You looked lovely' = you can't sing so I can only comment on your attire.

'Pull the mic away from you mouth' = you fucking deafened me with your booming man voice & I did not understand a single word you sang because you were gobbling the microphone like it was your last meal.

'Faultless performance' = No really it was awesome. Not lying.

'Always enjoy listening/watching you perform' = This is true. But I couldn't sit through a whole concert without dying of boredom.

'Make sure your guitar is tuned properly before you go on stage' = I would rather chew on a box full of tacks while being maced in the face than listen to you play a whole song with an out of tune guitar.

In all seriousness, there were some amazingly talented performers & I have nothing but admiration for their large balls for getting up there & having a crack. And the kids (toddlers/pre school age kiddies) made me squee in my pants & my ovaries go apeshit. So dam cute!!!

And I would also like to thank the incredibly hot drummer in the backing band for letting me rape him with my eyes the entire weekend. You got me through man & I am extremely grateful for that.

What's your talent? Being able to piss your own name on the sidewalk totally counts.

Peace!

P.S Just so we're clear, there was no actual raping of the drummer because that is not allowed. I only real life rape my sexy husband.  But I am allowed to look. Amen.

Giant Testicles, strained groin muscles & a wallet stuck to my head.

So after my nervous pre-game freak out post on Sunday, it turns out that we won. The anxious shitfest was not in vain.

Cheers for this Kev!! Cracked me up for about an hour x

Please note: totally not rubbing it in Aussies (although just quietly I nearly fist pumped my arm off). I dam well know what it's like to lose & it sucks. Especially when your whole country goes in to mourning. And your big ass country shits all over ours size wise 100 times over. Sincere condolences. Ok I will shut it now.

Right from kick off, I knew that that second place in the final game Sunday coming was ours. With a 60,000+ strong crowd full of shitfaced drunk kiwis, how could we seriously lose? We played a mean 80 minutes of rugby. I don't know what cracker was fired up their asses but god dam it was an awesome game.

I jumped so high off the couch when Nonu scored that first try that I smashed myself in the chin with my own tits. It didn't hurt. Just surprised me a little. I underestimated their bounciness.

I screamed so loud that when my husband got home after the game, I had no voice.
I got tangled in the curtains while hanging out the window yelling my celebratory glee at the boats bobbing with excitement in the marina & smacked my head on the door. That hurt.

I'm a loose cannon. This is why I must watch rugby games by myself.

I nearly burst an aortic valve in my heart because I was so dam proud. SO PROUD. Like if you had of come to me after that game on Sunday night & said 'hey Bex can I tattoo a silver fern on your face?' I would've been all like hell yeah go hard. I was high on happy guys! Word.

So bring on 9pm Sunday night folks when we dance with the motherfucking French. Four years ago, they got rid of us in the quarter final match which no one ever thought would happen. I wailed like Keniki from Grease on that Celebrity Rehab show a few years back when he was coming off the smack. NZ has mourned that bullshit day for the last 4 years.

Taking in to account France's extremely below par performance throughout this entire world cup (how the bloody hell they have got through to the finals who knows. All I'm going to say is that those frogs have some hella luck), our chances at holding that glorious golden trophy are looking mighty fine.

YEEEWWW PIRI! TRUE THAT MY BROTHER!

I've decided to break tradition & actually watch the final with other people. (*cue danger music & gasps from the crowd).We have a fan zone set up down the end of the main street of our city. There is a big fuck off projector screen set up, with equally sized speakers & Ima gon be there. I'm feeling pretty positive (90%) that we have this in the bag. And I want to cheer, celebrate & hug the shit out of some strangers. This could get interesting.

Moving right along (I promise all this rugby talk will all be over after this weekend then I'll go back to talking about poo & prostitutes), yesterday I had a session with a personal trainer. Not an actual session. Because apparently they don't promote social drug taking. Anyway I've lost near on 16kg but over the last month it's been going up & down & not really going the way I want it to. So I thought screw it, one of those sexy CityFitness trainers can give me a reaming. And ream he did. I can't move today. Only my fingers to type & even that's hurting me.

After my gym reaming I went to the supermarket to buy some veg for dinner. Whilst standing in the cue I scratched an itch on my head. As you do. Because I was holding the grocery basket on one arm I had to use the other hand which was also holding my large lady wallet to relieve my noggin itch. Blake didn't want to do it for me because he said I was sweaty.

So I scratched. And upon doing so, got the zip thingy on my purse somehow caught in my hair. And this wasn't just a little bit stuck. It was a whole shit tonne of stuck like a big natty dread lock hanging from the back of my head.

Hubs & I pissed ourselves. Because it was ridiculous. No lie, I had to go through the checkout, pay for my groceries & walk back to our car, with my wallet hanging from the back of my head. We sat in the car for a good 10 minutes crying laughing trying as hard as we could to get this dam wallet unstuck from my hair.

It was funny ok. And just now I tried to take a photo of my purse while holding it up to my head where it got stuck last night & it got stuck again. It's trying to eat my head. I don't understand what it's problem is.

Lastly, have you ever heard anyone say, 'now I've seen it all'. Well bitches, I have seen it all. My friend Emma put a link on Shitbook today that caught my attention within seconds of being posted because it had the word 'scrotum' in the title. And we all know how I feel about the scrotum.

At first I hesitated before clicking on it, thinking that maybe it was one of those spam links where you get fooled into believing you might get to see some girl pushing a goat eating anaconda out her beave or something.

You know what I'm talking about don't you?

Because you know that I know when your facebook account spams me with links like that, you just clicked on that link & tried to watch it. You dirty dirty shithead.

Anyhow, check the link out for yourself if you want but I can totally summarise it for you.

It's a guy named Warren from America with a testicle that weighs 45kg. And his god dam giant nut sac is wearing a god dam hoodie!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I can't stop exclamating!!! This is just too rad!!!!! And fucked up!

THIS IS WARREN. HE HAS A BITCHIN' BIG BALL BAG.

He suffers from a medical condition called Scrotal Elephantitis. And he needs to raise $1.25 million to have the surgery to fix it.

I don't understand how he could let it get to such a grand size without wondering shit guys, I think my testes are broke yo. Ya think Warren??!!!! It looks like a small child trying to stow away in his undercarriage.

Warren finds it hard to use the bathroom & suffers from frequent bouts of depression. And while I feel sorry for him, I don't want him to stop loving himself & his giant man bag because dam that's impressive nuttage. So impressive that it has it's own foot stool. Instead it's not a foot stool. It's a Scrot Stool.

Good luck Warren. I hope you get your balls sorted soon but in the meantime at least it looks gangsta in it's orange hoody. It's important to be trendy.

Enough about me. Anyone stumbled across something completely whack on the world wide web this week?

Peace!

P.S Funk Soul Warrens Testicle.

P.P.S He ain't heavy, he's Warrens Testicle.

P.P.P.S Tonight I'm loving Warrens Testicle.

P.P.P.P.S Achey Breaky Warrens Testicle

P.P.P.P.P.S Cotton Eyed Warrens Testicle

P.P.P.P.P.P.S Move Like Warrens Testicle

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S Party Rock Warrens Testicle

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S My Endless Warrens Testicle

See what I'm doing right there. I could go on forever. Go on, you know you want to.

Dear Supreme Beings.

It's happening people. My crazy has amped up a few notches. I'm so nervous/anxious right now that I am doing what ever I can to keep from exploding from all orifices.

My boys (The All Blacks) have made it through to the semi finals of the rugby world cup. And we are playing motherfucking Australia tonight. The shit is on like it's never been on before.

Now I love Australia. I have heaps of mates there. They are a bunch of good bastards. But when it comes to our nations game, I'm standing right up the front of the pack with my teeth bared like a snarly wolf dog, ready for a Westside Story-type knife fight.

Before I go any further I just need to clarify with you all that I don't normally hump the shit out of sports. Because quite frankly sports & my fat ass don't gel well. Apart from sumo wrestling. I reckon I would be pretty rad at that.

The prospect of losing to Aussie is consuming me. I am having problems sleeping. Everything I eat is giving me the screaming shits. And every time an Australian person (I know a few in my city) so much as looks in my direction, I reach for my flick knife ready to dance (I don't actually own a flick knife but pretending I do is is just as much fun for me). It's nothing personal ya know. Actually that's a lie, it is personal. If we lose, I will die.

I have everything crossable crossed so hard right now that I'm starting to lose feeling in my face.

I am not religious. At all. Obviously. But at times like this I feel the need to turn to something devine & cash in all the good shit I've done in the hope it may give us a better chance of winning. Kind of like a letter to Santa Claus but not. I can't email what I am about to write to anyone because I'm pretty sure Buddha, Jehovah, JC, God & Santa don't have the Internet. It's the thought that counts right so here goes nothing.


Dear Supreme Beings,

Yo homies. The All Blacks need to win tomorrow or I will die. And I'm telling you you do not want me up there blocking your toilets & trying to fight everyone by throwing handfuls of bees in their face. Or setting my pet great white shark on their legs. These aren't idle threats either. I am a dangerous woman.

You may be asking yourselves right now what have I done for you lately? Quite rightly so. Let me point out to you some of the good things I have done in my life.

Crap.

I have nothing.

Um so I am under a lot of pressure right now & have never been very good at thinking on my feet. But you can bet your balls that there is a really long list hidden somewhere in my memory of good things I have done. At this very moment however I am having issues accessing that part of my brain. I'm overexcited. But hey I was thinking that since all you guys are magic & shit you could probably save me the hassle & get in there & have a look yourselves. Just make sure you please do it when I'm sleeping.

I am kind to everyone, even to people I don't like that much. And I like most babies. And I didn't drop kick Pixie the cat today when I was around at my sisters house. Even though she has anal leakage problems & always backs her hairy anus up on to me at every opportunity. I also looked away when we discovered two of my sisters cockatiel budgie bird things were humping. They needed their privacy.

I don't take loss well. The last time we lost 4 years ago, I had to take 3 days off uni to mourn, which I spent hidden in my bed eating chips & chocolate & crying about what could've been. I can't do through this again guys!!

I know you may be busy right now organising some rain for Uganda & shit, but if you could please just take 2 minutes to send some good luck vibes our way (preferably at 9pm tonight NZ time) I would very much appreciate it. I won't be going to church but I will try to tone the blasphemy down & get my mother in law to sing my praises for me every Sunday.

'Sweet Jesus' is a term I use a lot in my blog posts. Call this free advertising. Essentially you owe me.

Peace out!
Becky D

HI EVERYONE. THIS IS MY FRIEND PIRI. PIRI WEEPU.

This here photo has been flying around Shitbook all week. It made me laugh. Piri wears the number 10 jersey for our rugby team. He ain't no pin up boy y'all, although he's a pretty mean ass Maori. He is NZ's equivalent of rugby Jesus. He's on a mish to help us take this world cup. The job is half done folks.

Pray for us.

If we don't win, a horror to which I can not fathom at this point, I am going to video myself singing the Australian National Anthem & post it on my blog. I may also do it with my pants on the ground & a plastic bag on my head in the hopes that it suffocates me. Trust me you don't want to fucking see this.

Before I go, some good friends of mine in Blogland, beautiful Angie from Angie Uncovered & funny as fuck Shane from Wag The Dad fame, have decided to join forces & bitch off against each other. Dudes verses Ho's kinda smack talk type deal. Check it out by clicking on the picture below. They are both extremely funny so it's got to be good.



MY WEEK IN A NUT SHELL:

I got the shits from Pepperoni Pizza. THE END.

Peace & nervous diahorrea!

P.S If you don't hear from me for a few days, you know why.

And so it goes that grief hath befallen on one half of the house of Delport.

My hubs beloved Bokke have lost. And he is gutted. Gutted like a giant Pacific Tuna fish.

My offers of a 'special spooning', free access to my tits for 24 hours or an xbox game of his choice have all been declined. The man is sad.

If anyone even so much as attempts to say 'it's just a game', they will find their lips running fuck kicked right off their head & my foot rammed down their gullet. It's more than just a game for some. Obviously.

My husband has been living in New Zealand for 8 years now. He once told me very matter of factly a few years ago before we got together, that I will never understand what it's like to be South African. They say that that country gets under your skin (as does the rabid AIDS virus if you poon the wrong infected person & don't use a joey) & even though you may leave, your heart will always stays true to the place. At the time I brushed his statement off, telling him he was on drugs & getting quite defensive because he lives in NZ now & should love it just because.

I went to Africa last year. For 6 weeks. And I had the time of my life while shitting my pants the whole time that a crazy native would stab me. I did amazing things I would probably never have gotten to do under normal circumstances & I met some kick ass people. It's true, Africa gets in you. And I've found myself missing the place on various occasions. The smell, the warmth, the awesome shopping, the food, the kindness of the people, the sexy men, the sunset etc.

If you've never been to South Africa, here's some facts you should know.

• They are to date the friendliest most hospitable people I have ever met. They like to drink, braii & jol (party). And they don't need a reason.
• Not everyone has AIDS.
• The native ladies wear their baby as a backpack.

• Not everyone wants to kill you. But it's easier to pretend that everyone does. It's hard to pick who's good & who wants to carve you up for your cellphone.
• It's easy to put on so much weight in 6 weeks that your new husband has to roll you & your big fat ass off the plane when you return home.
• If you are a chubby white woman, to a black native man you are a goddess. Chubby = good breeding stock/healthy & wealthy/fully capable of carrying large vesicles of water on ones head. They will offer your parents a number of cows depending on how hot you are. This is called a labola. Apparently my dad would get shitloads of cows. Go me! Please note that said native men will also gape at you openly like you've had one half of your face replaced by the ass of a pregnant goat.
• Baboons are scary. If you show them your teeth they will try to rip your face off.
• Food glorious food. So much food & it all tastes like a big bunch of fuck yeah is party rockin in your mouth. Their food is rich & flavourful which may also cause you to get the screaming shits if you have a sissy bitch gut that's not used to such awesomeness. Having the shits didn't bother me one bit. I was all for it.
• They have big sharks. That eat seals & penguins. And I like seals & penguins but god dam love big sharks more. The circle of life & all that.
• It's hotter then hell. I spent most of my time in Durban floating in a swimming pool like a beached as whale or raping the air con. It's not a good place to visit if you are 60kgs overweight & get chafe easily.
• All of the animals that can kill you are fenced in. But that does in no way mean that there aren't things that can bite you outside the fences. Like fire ants. Or angry hornets. Or baboons. Or snakes. Or rabie dogs. Or rabie monkeys. Good times.
• They have spiders there. In particular big bitch rain spiders that you apparently never see. I saw 2 in the space of 3 hours. Rarely see my ass. Granted we were staying in the back ass end of nowhere on a pecan nut farm where I used a whole can of bug spray in the one night I was there. Africa can keep it's bugs thanks.

•  They have chutney flavoured chips. They can keep those too.  
• It's breathtakingly beautiful. I'm not one for gushing over scenic views but it's a pretty place yo. Even the staunch can't help but fanny spasm over the scenery.

• There are lots of really really goodlooking men. Those Jappie boys have been smacked to buggery with the golden stick of hotness. And don't even get me started on their sexy accents. Can I get an amen!
• There are hawkers everywhere attempting to jam their wares (mostly stupid shit or stuff that has been flogged) down your piehole in exchange for a small amount of your cash. I hated this. Especially the ones at every bloody intersection. And the missing limbed folk & black women holding babies begging in the middle of the freeway can get you down. I will give them credit though, they know how to make a white ass honky from NZ feel bad for them.
• Being stuck inside a tiny car between two big safari jeeps full of snap happy Asian tourists about 2 metres away from 3 getting piss mad rhino's will make me lose my shit & scream 'I don't want to motherfucking die in Africa!!'.
• Physically disadvantage stump handed people can play rad music too.

•  South Africans think we kiwi's talk like we are narrating a doco for the National Geograpic channel. Being the centre of attention was really good for my already giant ego.
• You are expected to tip every one that helps you. Even the toilet people. I didn't mind because they genuinely appreciate it. And I love me a clean shitter.
• They killed Chicken Licken.

•  It's just straight up bloody awesome country. Go there.

One thing that was clear to me whilst visiting Blake's beloved country was how much those folk love their rugby & their Bokke. The boys in the Springboks team play for the people of their country. The poor depraved people that will never have the chance to experience the glory of being a world class rugby player. And if they lose, their fans don't hate them or bad mouth them. They only love them harder (& blame the ref. Fair call though Bryce Lawrence is a dick). I wish my fellow kiwis would take note & spew forth the same adoration & support for our boys, even when we lose. We are such negative haters when things aren't going our way. We could learn a thing or two from the Saffa's.

Therefore, I have let it slide that he will forever more support the team of his homeland.

One rule I feel should be adhered to by the ex pat South Africans when they become NZ citizens is that if your team loses, you must support the team of your current resident nation. All the South Africans I know living in NZ do not follow this rule. In fact they take great pleasure in NOT supporting the All Blacks.

However, one valid point Blake did make was that if we ever moved to Australia would I support the Wallabies if the All Blacks lost out early in the Rugby World Cup quarter finals. My reply was an adamant NO FUCKING WAY. I would rather have my tongue repeatedly slammed in a door while being buggerised by a baseball bat covered in bee stings. I get it guys. And it's ok really.

End. of. Story.

I hate seeing my husband sad. It wrecks my shit something chronic. Especially when he doesn't respond to any of my 'get happy' offers. That was until last night when I showed him my bum.

It wasn't planned. I just stood in front of the TV, turned around, whipped my pj pants down & showed him my bum. That got him all kinds of happy & once again confirmed for me that yes indeed the male sex are visual creatures.

All I know is that when my husband gets up, pulls his pants down & does a dick & ball dance in my face that he is well happy. God I love him.

As a famous buck toothed gay man who consequently died of AIDS once sang, fat bottom girls you make the rockin world go round.Yes sir, I believe we do.

So ladies, in short, if you find your other half in a funk for whatthefuckever reason, show him your naked bum. If that doesn't work, then ignore his sulky maudlin demeanor cos hey it's only just a game right?

Life is good people. Here's some bum. My pleasure.

What cheers you up when you're feeling mud?

Peace!

P.S Apologies for the shiny sexy lady bum but it was the best I could find that wasn't a photo of some slapper ho trying to insert anal beads up her poonani. Becky does not promote dirty poon photos on her blog.

P.P.S Does anyone else have a habit of always typing AIDS in capitals?

To all the girls in the world: How to be your best adult self (part 2)

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Hot Becky: The early years

I was quite the hussy at junior school. So much so that most of the girls my age hated my guts with the fiery intensity of a thousand suns. I remember clearly one day all the girls (including my friends) followed me around like zombies saying some shit like 'we need a doctor, we are under Becky's spell'. Fucking whores. (this is my historic inner tween rage speaking. I don't really think you are all whores).

They weren't sick, nor had I administered any sort of evil black magic upon them. They were just suffering from what I like to call rampant bitch jealousy.

The truth is, I had something boys liked that none of the other girls had yet. And that something is called BOOBS. I started growing my bitch lumps when I was 10, much to my dismay. I actually thought I had chest cancer & ran over to my neighbours house to get her mum to have a feel & tell me what the foreign lumps were that had invaded my flat chest. She informed these were indeed boobs & not chest cancer. I was gutted.

FIND THE AWESOME AMONGST THE SCARY MASKED PEOPLE.

I'M THE ONE WITH THE POOF FRINGE, BERT & ERNIE BROWS, & A ROCKIN AUSTRALIA KOALA JERSEY. 

(I have protected everyones identity by giving them another face)

According to my chest I was starting to 'bud'. But as far as I was concerned, tits could fuck right off. I was not ready for my body to be taken over by the perils of womanhood. And I was extremely upset at the prospect of not being allowed to run around the back yard in summer with no shirt anymore.

I delayed the bra buying process for aslong as possible but eventually gave in after my mum told me if I didn't start wearing a bra my cha chas would be hanging down by my knees by the time I was 15. Well mum, the bra wearing did not make one shit of difference. My tits are saggier than a well used prosti beave. And I haven't even had a baby yet. Boo.

From about the age of 12, I had a new boyfriend every week. Why you ask? Because I dam well could. They wooed me with rad bmx tricks, soft toys, candy, bags of cherries, pages of fun stickers left in my mailbox (I was an avid collector) & showed off in front of me at every opportunity. They would leave me notes asking me to meet them in the forest at lunchtime or begging me to 'go out' with them/be their folk dancing partner. I lapped this up & worked it to my advantage, much to the disgust of every girl my age.

Please note, 'go out' meant be ones girlfriend. Basically giving them all bragging & hand holding rights.

One boy in particular was named Tim. I had the hots for him hard & this was one of the rare occasions where I had to work it to win his affections.

Every week day after school I used to do a paper delivery around my little country town on my green Raleigh 20 bike. I was so ashamed of this ugly ass bike but my parents refused to buy by me a better faster flashier mountain bike because the old Raleigh was the business & served it's purpose. I used to ride miles on that thing & says little prayers in my head that none of my boyfriends would see me driving my Granny wheels.

THE SHIT BIKE.

Please note that this is not the actual bike because the real bike is in bike heaven.

It was gay. And green. And even though I tried to pimp it out with spokey dokes I was still ashamed to be seen on it. I used to leave it unlocked in the school bike yard on purpose in hopes that someone would thief it. Not even the local badass bike stealer's would take it.

FYI - SPOKEY DOKES. TOTALLY BITCHIN'

One afternoon I was down the road from Tim's house, putting a paper in his neighbours mailbox. It was a covert operation & I used to time the run down his street for when I knew he was at rugby practice. However, this particular afternoon I had noticed a dude on a bike a fair distance away heading in my direction. Initially I thought nothing of it, but once he was 50 metres from me I realised it was my beloved Tim.

Hell to the no was he seeing my hideous green bike. So I picked the fucker up & biffed it over the fence of the house I was currently delivery the paper to. To this day I don't even know how I physically managed this? Those gay bikes weighed about the same as a small car. In moments of desperation you always find the power.

I stood, with my helmet on, & my paper bag hanging around my throat, & waved sweetly at him as he got closer. He stopped & asked me where my bike was, & I told him, 'I decided to walk today'. As you do.

It was at this time that the elderly resident of the house I was currently delivering to chose to come out to the mailbox to ask me why he just witnessed a green bike flying over his fence & inform me that it was now laying in pieces on his driveway.

FUCK. A. BITCH.

Tim rode away laughing at me. And I had to carry my stuffed bike all the way home with my helmet still on & a heavy ass bag full of undelivered newspapers. The next day he went to school & told everyone that I went around wearing a helmet all the time because I'm special & that I tried to kill an old man by throwing my bike at him.

As it turns out, when a boy throws dirt in your face & spreads lies that you are an escaped mental patient from The Cherry Farm (infamous south island mental institution back in the late 80's/early90's), it actually means he likes you hard out. By weeks end, Tim was my boyfriend.

All you need is a little bit of 12 year old tit cleavage & a nice tight t-shirt in gym class.

Has anyone else suffered the bliss of early puberty?

My October giveaway is so cool that I want to keep it all for myself. But I won't because I already have these. All you got to do to be in to win my bloody awesome prize is become a follower of my blog (as in I want to see a little mug shot of you to the right of my posts under 'followers') & comment on any of my October posts. Every comment gets you an entry. Too easy cuz!

Read all terms & conditions here.

WIN YOUR VERY OWN PLUSH PEE & POO!!

Every time you look at these gorgeous creatures, you will think of me. As if you didn't already!

Peace!

Winner Of my kick ass prize for September is............

With all the excitement of spending my entire weekend being a lazy ass whore, I forgot to announce the winner of my True Blood DVD giveaway.

You will be pleased to know that I got my shit together this morning, mainly because I'm being paid to do so at my place of work, & I have some results.

That be this person......

If you haven't read this guys stuff, I suggest you do. He cracks my shit up on a regular basis. A very talented writer, has a mean sense of humour, & he has an equally funny/charming wife. I plan on stopping in for an orgy cup of tea & a scone next time I'm in England. Read his genius shizz right here.

One thing I love about this blogging lark is making new friends. The love & admiration I have for all you guys is big man. Like massively big. You are the sunshine of my life (that's right Stevie, you were bang on with your genius lyrics).

Mr Social Assassin, please email me your address & I will get your loot in the post to ya.

Right I better go do some work. It's Monday in my world. And while I am not totally ready for the bullshit that normally rains down on me on Mondays, I have my fists of rage clenched & ready to punch it in the proverbial.

Peace!