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.

image source

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.

image source

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