The Daily Shiznit

2007-04-22T12:40:00.000-07:00

The Female Beast

Not one to shy away from controversial remarks, I'm just gonna say this and stand by it forever. Or until someone deconstructs my argument on every level in a logical and biting critique. Or until someone just tells me I'm full of crap. With conviction. You heard it here first folks: women are animals.

Now ladies, ladies, ladies - don't get your panties in a twist. I am a female. Surely this means I can get away with statements like this right? I'm one of you! I care! I was prompted to make this call recently when a male friend asked me the age old question:

Guy: What, oh wise Karen Fantana, what is it that women really want?
Me: What do women want? I'll tell you what women want. And you're gonna like this.
Guy: I hope women don't just want us to listen to them because I'm going to the cinema in 5 and I can't listen to your crap for long.
Me: Shut it. Women want only one of two things. 1) To be touched and 2) To be fed.
Guy: So, women are like dogs? A good scratch and a good feed?

Okay so we're not like dogs. That would be quite offensive. It's a little more sophisticated than that, but we are animalistic. Seriously try touching your girlfriend by stroking her hair, rubbing her feet or her shoulders. If you are living in the Appalacian mountains and your girlfriend is a dog then I'm not sure why you're still reading. If you're testing a human woman then I promise you will get an instant result of gratification and deep love.

If you don't get this result and find she does not in fact want to be touched then try feeding her. You can take her out (Olive Garden, the Outback Steakhouse or any 'eatery' on an industrial estate are off the menu) BUT it works better if you go into the kitchen and 'whip' something up. Like chocolate fondue. Or anything with melted cheese on it. She will be in the palm of your hand and her heart will be yours.

So to review: it's touch or food. It's that simple.

This little admission struck a chord with my male friend. "You're so right!" he tells me, "because when I was managing a strip club in Spain I would come in with lollipops once every week and the girls would go wild over them and me! They loved it!"

Me: See? What did I tell you. If you can't touch (they are strippers after all) then feed.
Guy: Wait. Maybe this just means that strippers just want lollipops. Not that women just want to be touched or fed.
Me: Maybe so, maybe so. But if a lollipop falls in a strip club and the base is pumping so no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
Guy: What the hell are you talking about?
Me: Dunno. I'm full of crap to be honest.
Guy: True dat. You wanna hit the Olive Garden and catch a late movie?

Karen Fantana

2007-03-28T15:19:00.000-07:00

Ze Feelings

Face it. You've lost that lovin' feeling.

Okay when I say you, I mean me. But I say it in the hopes that someone out there feels the same way I do too. Jesus, what am I, penning a pop song?

Let's get back to what I like to call "the feelings." The Feelings (TM) are not the foreign impulses that overcome you when you decide to opt out of running over that kitten/squirrel/handicapper. No, "the feelings" are pre-pubescent-reminiscent (and okay for me, also very post-pubescent) sexual tinglings. And I might as well point out right now that if you are experiencing sexual tinglings by running over kittens or "cappers" then you've got much bigger problems than wasting time reading my blog.

I was reminded of "the feelings" because I recently experienced them as an adult, and were brought on not by watching Laybrinyth for the 45th time, NO, they were brought on by a real live boy. When, who was the last thing that gave you The Feelies?

For me, one or a combination of the following things gave me "the feelings" (and the beauty about my list is that it will be so different from yours, and no one can or should have to explain why weird things give them the feelings. Unless again it's kittens. Then you do have some essssplaining to do):

1) The movie Labyrinth - Bowie. In tights. With make-up. I think a simple ? sums that one up.

2) Kittens - JUST JOKING!! Hahahahhahaha.

3) The book Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret - Are you there Mom? Dad? Seriously, don't come in right now. I'M READING. Leave me alone!!!!

4) Austin Powers - Don't get it either. Could be the Brit Teeth.

5) Yule Brynner in The Ten Commandments. Combination of things at work here. The sandals + an open skirt + neato braid coming out the top of this bald tanned head. Dunno. Works.

6) The green man on crossing lights. I don't feel like I can or ever will be able to explain this, but let me tell you, navigating my way through a modern city is fu-un.

The Feelings (TM). They come from many un-expected people and places. When you get that lovin' feelin' back, embrace it people.

PS - Seriously, did you believe No. 6? Jeesh. Check yourself.

Karen Fantana

2007-03-25T08:32:00.000-07:00

Flarting With Disaster

No, that's not a typo Captain Pedantic. I have finally come up with a verb for the way I engage with the male species. I'm a terrible flirt. And I don't mean that I flirt more than is necessary. What I mean is I SUCK at flirting. See I don't flirt, I flart.

Def: FLART: - 1) The act of mangling words, distorting your face, putting your foot so far down your big gob you're eatin' knee, cracking lame jokes, calling attention to random sweat patches that have appeared on your person in an attempt to attract the opposite sex.
2) a.k.a. Flirting gone wrong.

I wouldn't be worrying about my shortcomings in this area, however as the years roll on I wonder, "Am I actually getting worse at this? Could I possibly be screwing up the first step in attracting el Mano, thus never getting the date, thus never having a relationship, thus never getting married, thus being resigned to eating single cheese slices and watching the movie SINLGES (oh the Alanis Morrisette Irony of it all), SINGLE-Y for the rest of my life?

If you think I'm over-reacting, here is a snippet of recent flarting:

BOY: Well this weather sure is getting a little crazy huh?

ME: I studied piano at a Japanese music school for ten years.

BOY: Oh right...wow, that's uh, that's impressive.

ME: Yes I'm very good.

BOY: I don't doubt that. So this weather....

ME: I tan well.

BOY: Oh that's nice. I don't tan so well, I'm British. Ha ha ha.

Me: I do.

Aaaaaaaaaannd I don't really need to finish that conversation do I? DO I? Do you want me to finish that or are you adequately embarrassed for me, and almost mildy embarrassed yourself?

I take comfort in believing that flarting in front of men is a common condition. I pray one day another woman will tell me that she too has flarted many times. But dear god, once the flart is out there, boy does the stink linger. You've really got to do something spectacular and / or slutty to recover from these episodes. And no, I don't know what I was thinking when I was speaking. I appear to be making some random statements of fact in order to impress. Because having a handle on Japanese music techniques and having good pigmentation and solar tolerance is important to men.

I can still smell my own rotten verbal stench. Fack.

Karen Fantana

2007-03-16T04:20:00.000-07:00

The Gripes Of Wrath

Never one to be irreverant and 'of my time' I'm only just catching onto the multifarious mantras of the eighties. Like 'Beat It!' Boy did I have great night in last night.

Or 'Girls just wanna have fun'. Good god, we DO! I've operating under the assumption that 'Girls just wanna have an ok time.' Life is looking up people.

Okay, so I'm embracing eighties 'live it up mentality' but there's still some things in this world bothering me. Important things. And in hommage to a great band of the eighties I must shout, shout and let it all out. For these are the things I can do without. I give you THE GRIPES OF WRATH (yes that clever second reference to another genius band of the eighties took me all morning. But it is killer non?).

You'll be glad to know that THE GRIPES is going to be a continuing thing (there's a lot of shit we can do without people) so I'm starting off with food related type things. Now to get to the most pressing issues of the day... I'm really sorry to get political on yer ass, it's been a while:

1) THE FAKE GRASS IN SUSHI SETS. Can we stop with this now? Does this add any aesthetic value whatsoever? And it doesn't even resemble grass. Have you ever caught anyone pick out that green plastic fence and go "Oh my God, I can't believe that's NOT grass!! HAHAHAHA. I'm so stupid.'"
Am I to believe the Japanese can't craft something a little more authentic? Hello Miyagi. This surely is a travesty.
Lastly, the faux grass is cutting my fingers to shit.

"Would you like some soy with your sushi?"

"Uh no thanks. I think my gushing flesh wound should salt this bitch up quite nicely."

2) PRODUCT RANGE DIVERSIFICATION. Especially in confectionary. Please, just stop. If you ever meet anyone at a party who tells you they're in product development, bitch slap them straight accross their shiny and freshly micro-dermal abraised face ASAP.
Give yourself a Kit Kat, give yourself a break you say? A Kit Kat AND a break I say? Well that sounds mighty nice. Maybe I would if I could find said original Kit Kat. 'Cause all I'm seeing is fuckin' Grandaddy Monster Size Kit Kat-o-Mint Jelly Bitch Bites. TM.
I don't see no original Kit Kat red. So screw you, confectionary industry.

3) WAITERS WHO INSIST I TRY THE CHEAP ASS HOUSE WINE BEFORE THEY POUR. There is nothing, nothing more depressing than acting posh when you're fucking poor. This is a perfect example. Can anyone out there pinpoint exactly when the service industry adopted this pointless excercise? My elbows are sticking to the laminated checkered table cloth, I'm probably pissed already - why do I want to taste what we all know is the most low rent alcoholic beverage in the joint? If you went into the storage and room and emptied out a bottle of vinegar and ketchup and mixed it up I would probably give you the same reaction. And now all my friends are staring at me awkwardly to see what face I could possibly come up with that would adequately describe the piss they are about to imbibe.
Waiter, I really can do without this.

Yeah so there's only 3 food related gripes I need to get off my chest right now. But trust me, there's more where that came from. What, oh children of the 80's (or any decade really), can YOU do without?

Karen Fantana

2006-12-14T05:38:00.000-08:00

What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?

In my humble opinion, the answer to this question posed in the classic English sea shanty was never quite satisfactory to me. If you're not a seventeenth century explorer or pirate and haven't heard this little diddy, here are a few of the suggestions for dealing with drunk blokes in the song:

1. Shave his belly with a rusty razor
2. Put him in bed with the captain's daughter
3. Put him in the long boat till he's sober

Shaving your bedmate's belly with a rusty razor is just well, mean. I do however understand why a gal might feel like getting back at her man when he is too pissed to do his duties. But gangreen ain't gonna help anybody.

And I doubt many of us ladies own a long boat or know any sea captains. So what is a gal to do when her man is pissed and flacid? Sorry - I hate to use the word flacid so willy nilly but that's what I mean. For once.

I've taken it upon myself to suggest a few fun activities when your man is flacid. See, I did it again.

1) You may want to take this time to sit on his face. Just puttin' it out there.

2) It is a perfect opportunity to ask him to 'define the relationship'. Seriously, men love that question.

3) Give him an ultimatum (men love these too): get it up, or get out. Men can also get it up when under immense pressure.

4) Pillow fight! Then ask him if he finds your best friend attractive.

5) Shave his belly with a rusty razor. Shit, that actually is a good idea. The man was selfish and put beer before you and sex. He is stupid and deserves gangreen.

Karen Fantana

2006-12-04T07:12:00.000-08:00

Every Time A Bell Rings

If you haven't already purchased a goat from Oxfam to bestow on a needy third-worlder this Christmas, you needn't worry. You still have time to do your bit for society this year. If you are in an unsatisfying, dead-end relationship, well Christmas has come early for you my friend. Because the Yule Tide season is arguably THE best time to break-up with a loved one.

How is that giving back you ask? Well think about it. You'll be freeing up thousands of lawyers' billable hours to do more worthy work (insert guffaw here) in four years time, not to mention saving yourself hundreds of thousands of dollars and putting less strain on the mental health industry when you seek help as you feel yourself being nagged into an early grave.

I digress - this was supposed to be a hap-happy Christmas themed post. Okay, so breaking up is hard at the worst of times, but doing it now can save you a lot of aggrovation and hardship. Here's why EX-MAS is the most wonderful time of year to break up:

1) Like good rational beings we turn to the drink to get us through the 'merriment.' When you cut the cord, there will be dozens of office parties, wine 'n cheese 'dos, egg-nog chugging fests for your loved one to drown their sorrows.

2) And this really is an extension of no. 1, with so many Christmas parties going on, your partner is bound to find solace in the arms of another drunken reveller in no time. And once they've had break-up sex but only because they were hammered and missing you, well it's too late. The deal has been sealed. What a gift.

3) Stating the obvious - breaking up = one less chump on your Christmas gift list. Actually I would keep their name on there with the words "cold hard curb" next to it as gift just for shits and giggles. And to keep you motivated.

4) Family is everywhere this time of year. You can't escape them. Perfect for them, bad for you. Can you stand the thought of sitting through another 'Aunty May's Annual 108th Thing I Can Make With Cremated Ham' buffet? Didn't think so.

5) Speaking of ham, we all know women like to eat through the pain. Cut your missus out of your life and send her packing with the six pound fruitcake you just got from Aunty May. Kills two birds with one stone.

There's five good reasons to do some bad-good this season. If you were thinking of waiting until New Years Eve to do the business, well I applaud you. Not many people can pull of the 24-style countdown break-up. But if you want to make it easier on yourself, start the clock ticking right now.

Karen Fantana

2006-11-24T05:34:00.000-08:00

Talk To The Hand

Recently after performing on a stage, attempting 'comedy', I asked a couple of male buddies in the class for some feedback. Feeback was thus:

"Can't tell you much dude, didn't hear a word you said as I was staring at your erect nipples the whole time."

Now whilst I didn't appreciate the objectification (well maybe a little bit), I did appreciate the frank discussion that followed. Ladies this just in, but apparently men (and by men I mean a whole sample of two of them in my pub) are concerned when nipples aren't in their erect state. Conversation was thus:

Boy 1: It really puts me off when ladies' nipples go flacid.
Boy 2: Yeah man. I worried I'm not doing my job when even the nipples lose interest.
Girl 1: Boys, boys boys. You needn't worry. Nipple erectness is not an adequate indicator of sexual pleasure. It could merely mean it's a warm room.
Universe: I am going to implode right now as you have just blown wide open everything I thought I knew about, well, me.

First of all, and not to sound too Seinfeldian, but what's the deal with men and nipples? Correct me if I'm wrong ladies, but unless you have weirdy ones, we don't really focus on that area of our bodies. There's no maintenance involved with them, you can't do much with them (milking and sustaining another human being's life aside) and here's the shocker of all shockers guys: they aren't in fact that sensitive. Yes it is true they can detect subtle changes in temperature (and for some women, seismic changes in the earth's mantle core) however, I'll say it again: nipples aren't that sensitive. Insult 'em. Call 'em names (insert nipple joke here). They don't care.

What's more, most women could care less about what you're doing with them. It's what's goin' on down south that counts. You are unlikely to ever hear the following converstation between women:

Girl 1: So how was last night with Mr. X?
Girl 2: Well he had a terribly small penis and the sex was disasterous but that's okay because his attention to my nipples was outstanding!
Girl 1: Lucky you!
Girl 2: Indeed.

A lot of women (myself included) also find to much nip action annoying, and sometimes rather unsettling. Looking down seeing a grown man suckling at your teat is waaaaaaay to maternal and baryard-like an image when you're gettin' it on. And no woman wants to feel like a heffer when she's gettin' it on.

I'm a little concerned with the prediliction men have for the nip these days. When once cunnilingus used to be the badge of pride amonst men, now it seems it's the poor cousin to her two ugly stepsisters. And I'm not talking high school grope action. I'm talking suckling of teat. Step away from the nips right now.

Do us a favour. Remember those two long limbs attached to your upper body? See those two funny looking paddles with what looks like five fingers attached? Those are your hands. Reacquaint yourselves with them, and gently, GENTLY place them on the woman's body. And detach your mouth from the nipps for a second. If you really feel the need to use it grab a beer. Cause we're outta here.

2006-11-20T11:21:00.000-08:00

This Is How We Do It

What's all this business we keep getting about 'streamlining' and 'improving' communication? It suddenly struck me how boring my life would be if everything we said or did with each other wasn't laced with mixed messages or open to interpretation. Getting straight to the point? How boring is that?

How does this script sound to anyone:

Boy: Hi. I like you.
Girl: Well that's nice because I too like you.
Boy: Excellent. Would you like to come back to my flat for a glass of wine and a shag and then I shall never call you again?
Girl: I would indeed. I thought what we have going on here might play out that way. That saves me so much hassle. Thank you boy.

I like dance we play with words, texts, phone calls heck even sign language. It's called flirting. The problem is some of us (ME) make it look like an uglier dance than the rest of you. Texting, emailing, and if you're a big enough loser, MSNing, leaves so much room for misinterpretation. But me I manage to screw things up the good old fashioned face-to-face way.

For instance, whilst I was attempting to flirt with a French man the other day I suddenly realised just how truly bad I was. The guy wasn't sure what the word "clench" meant. Flirting problem number one (at least for me) happens right here: timing. Why, who, WHO would choose the word "clench" as a flirting opportunity?

Flirting problem number two (and quite and obvious one): saying or doing the wrong fucking thing. Now how would any normal person illustrate what to clench means? Well they'd probably clench their fist together non? Not me. I turn around, I wedge my dress into my butt cheeks and clench. But not as tightly as my jaw as I type and replay that in my head.

Flirting problem number three: follow-through. If by some act of God I execute a well timed, well said flirtatious act, I usually can't capitalise on it. I'll tell a 'hilarious' joke at the beginning of the night and then it's pretty much a dead calm afterwards.

Luckily ze French man appreciated my brazen approach and congratulated me on making the clench crystal clear. He also offered to help me yank out my dress from the depths of my ass which I thought brilliantly solved my follow-through problem.

I really hope I can more effectively communicate if he were to ask me say to explain the word canal. Somehow I think not.

2006-11-13T06:52:00.000-08:00

Sealed With A Squelch

Would it be wrong of me to start asking all the ladies out there who are peeing on the toilet seats to please start leaving the seats up then for other seat pee-ers?

There is nothing worse than sitting down on the toilet blind and then suddenly notice you've sat in a pile of someone else's wee. Sitting in a stranger's wee is one thing, but if you're in the toilets at work and realising you've just in a potential co-worker's wee well it's just awkward. It seems to me either there is a fundamental flaw in toilet design or women are starting to act like men, marking their territory, wizzin' everywhere. The seat is there for a reason. If you're just going to eschew the seat and go freestyle, well my advice would be to go use the men's room. At least there won't be a lineup and you can wizz freely like you so desperately want to do.

Who are these women who hover and pee on the seat? Are they French and used to peeing down a hole and unaccustomed to the support? I can kind of understand why you are opting out of sitting down. It's a toilet for god's sakes. It's germy for sure. But I firmly believe that if as a gender we all park and ride then everyone is going to be much happier.

2006-11-08T00:49:00.000-08:00

P is for Emotional Trauma due to Part-time Parenting

A girl learns from an early age that she best be looking out after her nether regions because any mishap in that area will mark her in the scarlett-letter, burn her to the stake, 'she's a damn whore!' kinda way for the rest of her life.

My experience happened earlier than most. I was six. And I managed to piss myself at school. And because I was even then fighting mixed messages from my mother who told me never to do anything half-assed, I created a deluge. I was wearing woolen tights, which meant that during a Canadian winter I was a virtual up-side-down urine pop.

It wasn't the pissing myself in front of my classmates nor was it smelling of wizz for an entire day that stayed with me. It was what the teachers made me wear that haunts me. My primary school had a special 'outfit' for accidents 'just like these'. Only noone oddly enough really ever pissed themselves. Except the poor kids. I dunno - you work it out.

No the accident outfit was a one-piece green jumper. And everyone knew it was THE PEE SUIT. It was actually pea-green, and in it I could smell the stench of a thousand lack lustred bladders that came before me.

I don't blame my parents for not coming to pick me up and save me from THE PEE SUIT. They did work a fifteen minute drive away after all. Fifteen minutes or twenty-seven years of trauma. Not much to work out there. And to any working mother I would say 'Don't worry. We only blame Dad for being so cheap.'

But still, do you know how embarrassing it was to get handed your clothes in a hermetically sealed plastic bag at the end of the day? It's like getting fired from the appropriate world.

I guess on some Oliver Twist level the whole experience hardened me. The nicknames I got weren't actually that inventive as pointing and shouting 'PEE SUIT!' was hilarious enough in and of itself. But the alphabet, like my relationship with my parents, will always be amiss by one little letter. L.

2006-10-20T05:46:00.000-07:00

The Gift of Giving Crap

How is it that virtually no human being receives a gift they actually like beyond the age of 12?

It's astonishing. We grow up, we make money we can spend. The realm of gifts expands beyond trading cards and cuddly toys. Yet all we seem to give and get is crap.

I know what you're thinking: "Hey, that's not true, I got a really cool ____ from my wife."

No you didn't. You got a breadmaker didn't you? And it sits in the garage. And one day if you dust it off, and you rub it really hard (not too hard there cowboy) and you put some yeast in it it might bake you a new, better gift giving wife. Or at least a tasty gingerbread one so you can bite her little bad gift giving hands off.

Gifts inherently are supposed to make you feel happy. Overjoyed. Especially the unexpected ones, because who likes getting free shit they didn't ask for? Everyone. Gifts which you're expecting are the worst. Especially if they're not the usual panties from your Granny. So my mom tells me she has posted me a present for my upcoming birthday. It arrives and I think 'Oh that's nice. I could leave it until my birthday or I could open it now. I shall open it now. I could use a nice pick-me-up. It's like an overseas hug.'

And then I opened it. It was a pleather, diamante studded faux- Burbury belt. WTF?

Perhaps the most depressing thing about getting bad gifts from someone you know and love is the realisation that they don't know you at all. And perhaps they never will. No one other than a chihuahua turning tricks on Hollywood boulevard would wear this belt. I wanted to hang myself with it.

When you think about it, why bother giving great gifts anyway? Leather fades. Ipods break in about a day. Flowers die. Give 'em crap. Because depression? That's the gift that lasts a lifetime.

2006-10-11T00:48:00.000-07:00

It's Me Or The Sprinkler

Stand up. Just do it. I'm getting all 'interactive' on your ass and conducting a little survey. Now move your hips back and forth, ever so slightly. Juuuuust back and forth like you ain't go nothing else on your mind, just swinging your hips. Whistle a little bit.

Now - was that hard? I didn't think so.

Sorry I just needed you to go through that little excercise with me to prove that the act of making love on the part of a man isn't that physically demanding. So my last bed-time buddy starts weezing and sweating like a banshee all over me when we're gettin' it on. We're talking mega-weezing, mega buckets of sweat. And the last thing a gal wants to feel when she's in bed with a guy is that it's like, work for him you know?

Yeah I guess we girls have it easy. All I basically have to do is lay prostrate for about a minute and a half. Oh yeah, I'm fantastic in bed.

No maybe I'm being harsh. Sweaty weezing-sex is still sex. And at least I'm getting some. But come guys - what happend to the art of performance here? Maybe it was me (although I'd like to think not as I looked hot). No I know what the problem is: Men and Priortizing. You've GOT to put your knob first.

How come I get sweating and weezing, when four hours earlier you're at a club on the dance floor, arms akimbo and you're giving your best Running Man and The Sprinkler? And with gusto no less! The worst is you've got that squinty look in your eyes biting your lower lip calling out to everyone as if to say 'check ME out, yo.' I'm standing there watching, at first laughing because yes, you do look like an idiot, and then my smile slowly fades as I realise that I'm going to get the worst sex of my life later on. And now all of my friends have seen your sex face.

Come on guys, for the love of St.Peter - prioritise.

2006-10-02T13:10:00.000-07:00

GPS'd Off

I don't normally discount statistics. When somone quotes something to me in numbers, hands up to you my friend that statement must be correct.But I really distrust the number of reported infidelities amongst couples these days.

Why? Well for one, to have an affair requires a certain amount of privacy and anonymity during the day. And I get the feeling that your 'better half' knows where you are at every single fucking minute of every single day. They've got you tracked better than the last dough ball on the plate at Pizza Express.

How do I know this? Well in my last office job we were in cubicles or 'pod formations' where you're invariably forced to listen to your co-workers' conversations. And usually, they are about Jack. Shit. My boss would call his HIS partner at timed intervals during the day to track her progress.

"So have you planted those bulbs in the garden yet? How was that? How did that make you feel? Mmm hmmm. Mmm hmm. Mmm hmm."
And hour later "So what are you making for dinner? No we had fish last night. And? And? And?"
An hour later,"So where are you now? Do you need me to pick up anything on the way home? I'm leaving at 5:30 is that good for you?"

It's the conversations like these that suck your soul out - are couples TRYING to drain any possible remaining element of surprise and delight out of their relationships?

And just when you've left the office and find yourself on a dreary train ride home, with all of the other monkeys that have left at their aforementioned times,you are forced to listen to this coversation:
"Hi honey it's Greg 'no balls' here, the train has just left the station."

I mean come on, your partner, Greg, knows when you are leaving every, single, day.

Then twenty minutes later you get "Hi honey, yes we're pulling up to the station. Yup we're allllllmost there. Here we are. We're getting there. Yes we are, yes we are!" I mean what is with the constant tracking? And doesn't the phone call at the station negate the demand for the approach phone call? And couples, do you know how fucking irritating it is to have your progress narrated to you?
"Weeeeeeeeee're just pulling in. Annnnnnnnnnd we're stepping off the train onto the platform. Annnnnnnnnnnnnd I'm just being pushed off the track to my untimely death by a very attractive blonde here honey. Honey, I gotta go."

I've digressed a little but let me tell you why I don't trust the stats on known infidelity. Known infidelity means that eventually, you get caught out. When the hell is a woman ever going to catch her husband cheating when she can track the micro-second his dick has hit the porcelain for a post-lunch Ribena piss?

It is unlikely you will ever hear this side of a phone call: "Mmmmm hmmm. Yup, no I'm just coming up the street. I'm checking some chick's ass out. Uh huh. I've just hit the driveway. I'm looking at the car. I'm looking at the trash - they didn't take the trash away- and I'm looking in the window. And I see you. Fucking the trash guy. Yup, no that's me. Hi honey, I'm home!"

2006-09-27T01:07:00.000-07:00

When Heads Meet Butts

Allow me to continue on the theme of social etiquette for a moment. I may have been to hasty with my claim that restaurants are potentially the most fertile places for awkward social situations to arise. I am reminded of the time I tried to give up the much beloved, and yet much feared KISS GREET.
In Canadia, we do not not kiss greet. We hold steadfast to the handshake, and even that's getting a little to intimate for our liking. Most times is a casual head nod of recognition or a 'hey'. 'Man'.
When I started living in Britain, I must admit, I was surprised you guys were on the kiss greet system. It just seems so, European, so French. But no - you're all over this shit.
The problem with the KG Integrated System of First Social Contact is that although the moves are pretty standardized: you lean in, you air kiss cheek one, you air kiss cheek two; somehow, no one in this country ever gets it fucking right.
And what's more, it is possibly the worst way to interact with a total stranger. Why must we offer up our bodies for a blessing of saliva, bad breath and body odour? It is a strange baptism. I didn't try to give up because I'm a retent or anything, I gave up out of necessity.
As I said, a number of things can go wrong. The most dangerous is the cross sparring of heads when one of you goes for the left side when the other is going for the right. Then you get a broken nose when you merely wanted to say hello.
Also, I could be wrong on this, but we are all on the understanding that it's AIR KISS only right? Right? How many times have you given air and received a big, fat, sloppy wet freaking labrador suction lock? I've ended up with hickeys from women for god's sakes.
There is just too much room for error for my liking. And I'm not saying I've got this thing locked down either. I've kissed earlobes. I've whispered sweet nothings. I've cupped the back of peoples boyfriends' necks. One time, I just blanked out, I went in for the KG and I ended up
kissing some guy's knob. I swear to god.
And even when you do think you've got it down, you meet a Dutch person. Those crazy bastards are on not one, not two, but three fucking kisses.
Even the inevitable wait before you are going to have to kiss greet someone makes me anxious.
Are we as a nation, that un-coordinated, that awkward we can't nail the system we've been practicising for a few hundreds years? Cripes, even Tim Henman threw in the towel quicker.
I'll tell you one sportsman (and Frenchman I might add) who has the whole thing down: Zinedine Zidane. A quick headbutt would put me and everyone else in this country out of their misery.

2006-09-14T11:32:00.000-07:00

My Side Of The Story

Look, I'm sorry for all the butt talk. I realize it's not everyone's favourite topic. I realize it doesn't get most people fired up. You know what does though? The touchy subject of social etiquette.

I don't care how old you are, what culture you're from -animal or human kingdom - everybody has a fucking opinion on the matter. And you can bet your bottom dollar I do too.

I let most perceived 'faux pas' pass by. But it all changes when money is involved. Take eating out with whoever. I really think the restaurant is the most fertile ground for strange social etiquette to rear it's ugly head. And I'm not talkin' some blind date scenario. Quite the opposite- you can have relatively normal friends, and boom - they make a clucking noise at the waiter to indicate they're ready for the bill or some shit.

Recently I've discovered some odd dining behaviour on the part of a female friend. She cannot go to a restaurant without ordering what she believes to be the best dish on the menu. Completely indecisive. This is a word of advice - never dine out with indecisive people. A menu in and of itself is a list of choices. It's like taking an overeater to the Twinkie factory.

So to avoid possibly ending up with a sub-par meal, she will do anything to do some embarrassing re-con. You can't make eye contact because they're too busy watching shit come out of the kitchen. I've been there when she has asked fellow diners to rate their meal on a scale of 1-10. What, suddenly I'm in a fucking focus group? I thought I was going out to eat. Not work. Eat. A nice meal.

When did eating in restaurants become a fucking chore?

Then she started asking people at our table to share things. Like, "I'll get the salmon, and you get the goat cheeks and we'll share."Okay, maybe couples can share. But what is the fucking problem with eating your own meal?

Or it can even get down to a weird sub-side-dish sharing level. To that I say - just, say, no. Happiness lies not in a side of nutmeg-infused-cardamon-squash-brulee.

2006-09-12T13:40:00.000-07:00

Ring of Truth

I harp on about the women and esthetics, beauty, treatments, therapies, what have you, but I think men are spending an inordinate amount of time on this shit too. Like just when did we become so interested in our bodies?

Recently a male friend of mine felt he needed to undergo colonic irrigation. Lord knows why. People can be convinced of anything - even lettting, no paying for a stranger to stick a tube up your ass. I asked him why he was having it done and he tells me:
"Did you know the human bowels carry 7-10 pounds of fecal matter!!"

So I say "You're full of shit!". Sorry - no more shit jokes. No actually I said "Um, isn't that what they're supposed to do?"

And then he tells me "Yeah and the therapist," (or Shit Technician as I like to refer to them) "told me I have piles."

Now being Canadian, this wasn't a term I'm familiar with. So I say "Piles of what? Shit?"

I mean piles. PILES. That word kills me. It's so blatantly disgusting, and, well un-British. Surely Haemorroids is the way to name it.

But back to my friends' piles. I'm thinking, how do you even know if you have piles? How does one self-diagnose this? The thought of poking your finger around there is just nasty. The whole assal region is just not an area I'm comfortable with. My nipples I'm fairly cool with. I salute them every morning. My hoo-ha I'm on fairly good terms with. Put it this way, when I see it, I'm very, very nice to it.

Come to think of it, I don't even think I've ever seen a human butt hole. I guess for most of my life I've always liked to think of that part of my body as an anatomically smooth, non-descript part, like a Barbie or Ken doll. You know how Barbie as the nice, smooth, round mounds for breasts, and Ken's package is just a bump in his built-in skin coloured pants? I guess I've pictured it as a plug hole or something. Maybe it's even plastic in my head.

So I feel guilty and think maybe butt-hole health is something I should be concerned with. I summon up the courage in the shower one day to do a little primary exploration. And since I've never felt it before I'm not sure what it's supposed to feel like, but let me tell you, it's fucking disgusting. It has like, sinews and shit. SINEWS. It was like going to a Halloween party when you're a kid and the parents make you go blindfolded through a tactile house of horrors and make you feel peeled grapes and tell you they're eyeballs? Okay well this was nothing like feeling eyeballs, but I was like a blind person down there, and it was horrifying.

I'm not sure if I'm naive, or if everybody is on top of this, well, shit. Their bodies. I thought I knew anatomy. So I convince myself I have piles and head to the chemist for the fantastically named remedy....

Vagisil.

2006-08-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

Some 'Topical' Advice

You want to know how to make someone feel even more embarrassed buying suppositories for piles in a drug store? Name the
product ANUSOL.

I'm sorry, but was it really smartest marketing decision to put the word 'anus' in a butt hole cream product? How the hell did that name make it through a pitch to anyone? It sounds like it was a bad joke that stuck. Like two guys came out of a marketing brief meeting for a new haemorrhoid product and were like "shit, what the hell are we gonna call this thing? Anusol? Hehehe." And deadline comes up and that's all they've got.

But I mean at least road test the thing past a couple of people. Know your market. Ass lumps are a sensitive area.

2006-08-03T14:24:00.000-07:00

Broke-Butt Mountain

There is a certain scene in the film that I reckon made women accross the world just a little bit antsy in bed with their man.

Remember when Heath Ledger, let's call him Cowboy Number One, has come home from work to the wife and kids. If you haven't seen the movie (or watched your boyfriend's reactions while he watched the movie) Cowboy One has already discovered his love for Cowboy Number Two, but is still fighting it. Of course wifie doesn't know, and they get down to it when the kids are all tucked away in bed.

So they're getting it on and bam! Cowboy flips his wife over and they're doing it 'doggy style' as some people like to call that particular position. I have to say I was a bit shocked with the manner in which he so matter-of-factly turns her over. Of course he has to do it that way because he can't stand looking at her boobies.

Now what do you reckon the chances are I'm ever going to be able to do it 'doggy style' with my boyfriend in the near future without thinking 'oh lord, is he visualizing hair and nipples on my back???'

On the other hand, I probably needn't worry. In fact, maybe I should play with him a little bit. You know, maybe I could douse myself in Old Spice and put a fake beard on the back of my head or something. Or a Bush mask with a Cowboy hat or something. Could make for an interesting roll in the hay...

2006-07-30T06:26:00.000-07:00

Russian Roulette

Now I'm not one to endorse stereotypes, but Russian women? They love pussy.

Remember Tatou? They were all over each other. And men out there, you wouldn't know this, but every esthetician I've ever been to has been Russian for some reason. I don't know if waxing limbs is something momma teaches you out there but damn those women are skilled.

I go to the same woman to take care of my hoo ha. To get the 'ol bush trimmed. Men probably think that going to get the pubic hairs yanked from their root off your pussy is a nice little Saturday experience. Like we show up, there's 'essential oils' wafting in the air, you're walking around in a terry cloth robe, chattin' with the other ladies in the salon. All very nice, all very painless. Maybe like, when the wax gets poured, my Russian is all soothing tones and gives you a little freebie massage and poof! My bush just magically disappears. Maybe little kittens lick the wax remnants off. I dunno what you think goes on.

Well let me just tell ya. It bears no fucking resemblance to that scenario. And the waxing? It hurts like fuck. The things we do for you.

And oh my Russian. My Russian. While she is good, damn that girl is moody. I never know which Svetlana I'm gonna get. And this is an important relationship,which, like the pussy, needs to be maintained. You're in the doggy position for half your conversation for fucks sake. You are at her total mercy.

Last time I was in she was borderline abusive to me.
"You no have boyfriend now no? Hair is too long. How come you let it get so long? What is wrong with you? You not like the sex? You Lesbninan? RRRRRRRIP. Legs in air!!!! RRRRRIP."

So I figure the last thing I need on a Saturday is this shit, so I try and put an end to the relationship and sign myself up for laser hair removal. And I show up for my first session, and I'm all psyched 'cause there's no rrrrrip sounds going through my head. And I get called into the 'therapy room' and goddamn, the 'hair removal technician' is Russian. And fuck is she angry. And you just have to put up with it. At their total mercy.

You know when you're at a restaurant or some other service industry you wouldn't pu up with shit from the waiter. Or your hairdresser. The waxer? Can't say nothing. And what woman would? Let's be honest, bitch is pointing a laser at my fucking pussy!

Legs up? Yes 'mam.

2006-07-28T05:30:00.000-07:00

Weapons of Mass Digust

I have a theory. People living in the city are starting to act a little crazy. A little animalistic. But, perhaps, that's because when people live in close, tight contained spaces like animals, they're gonna start to behave like animals.

The tube is a like a little micro-cosm for this sorta behaviour. We're jammed in there like little rats in plastic lab tunnels. However, I would like to point out, we are not rats. What is it with some people. They get in the tube and they treat it like it's their own personal space. So I'm sitting down on a Saturday, reading my paper, and Joe Sweaty Man gets in the carriage and starts doing stretches. He's doing lunges in front of me. And he is wearing short shorts mind you. And then he turns around, butt to my face, and bends over to touch his toes. This guy is so close I have the vein imprint marks from his ball sack on my forehead. He's using the bars and hanging upside down like a fucking monkey.

I get it on some level. You don't have a lot of time, you gotta do some stretching during your commute. Stretching - fine. Ball sack in my face - not fine. Not human behaviour.

People are doing some very private things very publicly in the city. The other morning on the way to work, girl sitting accross from me is brushing her hair. Her very long, stringy-ass hair. With one of those big fucking brushes the size of canoe paddles. And she's brushing and I can't help watching her. And then you know what she does? She looks at her paddle, and she rips out all of her hair from the brush, gathers it into a ball, and throws it on the carriage floor. And this giant hairball is dancing around now like a fucking tumbleweed of dead human cells. Brushing? Fine. Your fucking hairballs? Not fine.

And you know what? These aren't crazy people. These are normal people acting like animals. And where do we draw the line? What can I like change my tampon on the tube now? Is that okay? When it's been eight hours it's time to change up. Here's a novel idea - why doesn't Ken Livingstone install tampon receptacles in every tube carriage. But I figure even the way it's going now, people would dispense with the dispensers and throw those tampons right onto the platforms between stops like little bloody bombs. It's all ready a minefield of human sweat, hair, breath, skin cells and ball sacks. I can see it now: guy arrives into the office, is at the coffee station pouring a cuppa. Co-worker comes in and says "Oh hey Joe, leeeetle embarrassing, but you got a tampon stuck to your back. Sugar?"

2006-07-25T06:42:00.000-07:00

Parents Gone Drunk

So my Dad's 60th Birthday party is coming up and I am gonna go to this thing better equipped than 007 in a Russian space lab during the Cold War. That's right - I've got my digital camera/video and am hooked for sound. You know why? Because I am going to be there to capture those all important moments when the 'rents lose all composure and are drunkity drunk drunk.

It could just be my parents, but the amount of shit that comes out these people's mouths is priceless. One moment you're discussing patio furniture, dip recipes and obituaries, and the next they're telling you they have no idea how you ended up the only one in the family with brown eyes and 'isn't that funny?'. Isn't it.

And it all happens so fast. You have to be ready - finger on the trigger. You must get that shit on tape. The next day they'll be talking doilies and bar-b-ques again it'll be like it never happened.

And parents don't drink like your average college student. They're sneaky about it man. They have a way of sipping without appearing to have guzzled. It is a honed technique. There's also the drive by you must be ready for. You know, when a parent breezes past you at a party and whispers something god awful and cringeworthy in your ear like 'You know Ted Bundy just had an affair with the pool man who is dating your aunt Sheila's little friend with just the one arm and one leg. Poor thing.' It's drive by - you could be in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation when they drop this bomb in your ear and you just have to pretend like they just asked you to refill the chip bowl.

'Girls Gone Wild'? Shit. That has nothing on the hilarity ensues when Parents Get Drunk. The beautiful moments are the ones when they make The Drunk Soliloquay. So be ready for it. Here's some hints: they usually start off with either:

"You know if I was Mr/Mrs X, I wouldn't be so quick to..."

or

"You know your father/mother..."

or

"You know that you're adopted right?"

Get this shit on tape because when you're getting shit on for being irresponsible, or late, or because you have too much debt you have the comeback. Two words: Dad's Sixtieth.