(SHORT ‘N CURLIES) – #2
I FACT YOU RIGHT IN THE FACE:
A friend of mine sprogged-up recently, and in the “oooh, isn’t he sweet” aftermath of deceit and secret revulsion she committed the Ultimate Crime of harping on and on and on to everyone — including the other girls in our little group, who might otherwise’ve been getting broody and therefore romantically suggestible — about how profoundly, unbearably, reality-fuckingly painful the business of childbirth is. I told her what I now tell you:
Spare a thought for the humble kiwi; beloved freakbird mascot of New Zealanders and 80’s Nintendo Gamers everywhere. At a chickenlike 25cm from arse-to-beak it’s not the most intimidating of creatures; but should you stumble upon one while the poor little bugger is laying an egg you can guarantee a bout of nauseous horror that’ll stay with you for days.
The Kiwi’s egg is a gash-smashing 90mm wide by 140mm long. Not the biggest egg in the world by any stretch (see what I did there?), but proportional to an adult’s body this gargantuan omelette-in-waiting is the Largest Quim Projectile In The Universe. It weighs a quarter of its mommy’s total bodymass.
In the name of Science I have spent a boozy evening Making Numbermaths, and can summarily report the following:
If we accept an average American human adult female stands at 163cm, then if Jane Everyone were to suffer the indignity of spitting out a baby proportionate to the brood of the long-suffering kiwi, she’d need her Naughtybits to include a labial chasm of no less than 58 cm. That’s just under 2 feet.
Sadly, my attempt to make my friend imagine herself as a critically endangered freak-with-a-beak from the forests of New Zealand, whose unkind evolution compelled her to squeeze out a brat the size of a Space Hopper, didn’t have the desired effect of persuading her she had nothing to complain about. Apparently some of the other girls in the room were Kiwi-loving conservationists or something, because they took it in turns kicking me in the bollocks and threw me out of the house.
I don’t understand women.
I was apprehended the other day in the midst of a fun but fruitless HATING on the subject of Paris Hilton. All the usual stuff, you know the score, based round a petty irritation and a whiff of envy that someone can become so fabulously successful despite being skull-fuckingly bankrupt in the talent department.
The intervention which shot-down the HATE came from someone far calmer than I, who reminded me with a shrug that — sorry — people like it that way. They like to imagine the pestilent little slitch in the buff; they like to read about her vulvic cluster spilling from a microskirt at the premier of Shit Movie XII, and above all they like to have a moan about it afterwards.
This, if true, is a ludicrous state of affairs, and in the absence of a tactical nuclear weapon I have devised a discreet and wonderful solution. I wish to generate a Strategic Meme, which will go under the operational title of MAKE PARIS MUNDANE.
Here is how it works: every time you see her on the TV, hear her mentioned in conversation, read about her in a paper or a magazine, or spot her scrunched little face and geometrically impossible jawline cluttering-up the web like a digital used condom, you will turn to the people/co-workers/Avatars around you and declare the following:
“I wonder what she looks like when she’s squeezing out a turd.”
This meme hinges on you, gentle readers. Don’t let me down.
(I accept this plan has a minor flaw in the shape of scatophiles and plopfestishists, who — instead of subsequently finding the very thought of the Pariscite slightly unpleasant, will instead get all hot and bothered about her. Frankly, if the meme succeeds in surrounding the dreary little cow with a host of turd-fixated perverts, I’d consider that a pyrrhic victory).
NEWS FROM THE SPURSPHERE:
I recently moved overseas.
Well, I say “moved”, what I more accurately mean is “Escaped”, following a period of spiralling dreary economic cockrot and social misery in my hometown of London. I rambled about the Thinkspuff behind the exodus in a little more depth over on the SPURSPHERE BLOG, so I won’t harp on here.
We’ve settled for six months on the tiny Mediterranean Island of Menorca: officially Spanish, unofficially Catalan, effectively a small sleepy microcosm of mañana mentality — why do today what you can put off ’til tomorrow? — which the guidebooks call an Existential State Of Supreme Chillaxment, but my fiancée calls Fucking Laziness. I’m pretty sure she’s joking, though she does get pretty vicious when she can’t buy her mid-afternoon can of Fanta Zero because Pedro couldn’t be arsed to open the Supermercado.
People here wave their hands a lot when they’re talking, “road safety” is something Strange And Foreign which has no place in a functioning Island Society, and there are an extraordinarily high number of donkeys. So far we haven’t seen them actually do anything, except stand in scrubby fields and peel back their teeth as you pass by. Admittedly there’s an extraordinary range of drycured sausages here and they can’t all be pork, though for reasons I’m not entirely sure about I think I might have a problem eating donkey. Horse is fine, bring it on. Maybe it’s that donkeys just look too fucking dejected to be guiltlessly guzzled… though for all I know the bizarre meaty bollock-shaped tapas the waiters bring you to keep you in their bars are the mashed gonads of embryonic mules in a puppy and kittenmince sauce. They’re good, anyway. I digress.
In Menorca the men are unusually small, the old folk have beautiful craggy faces like cracked leather, and the young women have nipples like little coils of cigarette ash that nobody dares Flick Off. I know this because they delight in tormenting us tea-sipping oh-so-reserved paleskins by tossing off all their clothes and sitting right next to us on an otherwise empty beach.
Menorca has some of the most stunning coastline in the Mediterranean, the booziest fiestas in the world, the remains of the oldest known prehistoric human settlements in Spain, and more than enough cheap alcohol to fuel my semicoherent ramblings for the next few months.
I wanted to give you guys a quick textual postcard of the place for the sake of context, because what’s rrrreally great about Menorca is that every time you go out Something A Bit Weird happens, — from bizarre and terrifying sealife via comedy German Hikers with walking sticks and sunstroke; from hippies living in caves via the greatest and richest selection of Novelty Roadkill I’ve ever seen. I’ve no doubt that a lot of this glorious Oddosity is going to be clogging-up this blog over the months, and it makes sense to hang a canvas before vomiting purple dyes all over it.
It also turns out that by telling you about my Island Home I’m officially entering the realms of Travel Writing, which — goodness, I never thought of that — makes Everything I Do, Eat, Buy And Smoke a legitimate Research Expense, and is therefore tax deductible. GODS OF SMUG, HEAR ME ROAR.
Anyway: I’m gobbling strange foods, drinking strange drinks, saving shitloads of money, working more productively than ever — despite spending most of my time slowcooking on the beach — and I feel it only fair that I share my adventures in Smirking Cuntishness with you all.
I’m nice like that.
THIS WEEK I HAVE BEEN MOSTLY HATING:
…people — more specifically neighbours — who have ridiculously noisy sex
This isn’t a jealousy thing, though I’ll admit it would’ve been, once upon a time. Once, in the lonely, randy armpit of my past, I would’ve lain awake listening-in to the fuckfrenzy with a smirk, timing the show and muttering encouraging editorials, until the horror of the Sympathy Horn appeared and I was left chewed with envy and lacking for squeaking bedsprings of my own.
Not so now. These days my HATE pours from a far simpler source: the black, oily organ of Crotchety Bastard Needs His Sleep. These days Natalie Portman herself could be pneumatically bouncing atop Scarlet Johannsen’s finest strap-on — beneath a shower of honey, chocolate and money — right outside my window, but if it was happening between the hours of 1 and 7 am and the only thing it’d Raise in me would be an angry snarl and a venomous scrabble for the beside rocketlauncher.
By which I mean: earplugs.
Anyway: like so many of the bleakest and nastiests HATINGS, this one carries extra weight in the sense that the real venom is directed not at the Culprit, but at what the crime tells me about myself.
I’ve reached the age at which sleep becomes more important than perving. I can’t tell you how much I HHHHHHATE that.
FIND ME @:
Send wurdz, thoughts, stories, HATINGS, and batarangs made from cheese to the ONLY CHECKED OCCASIONALLY AND I MIGHT NOT BOTHER REPLYING AT ALL HA HA HA email address:
Or the IT MIGHT NOT GET TO ME AT ALL BUT IF IT DOES I PROMISE TO RECYCLE IT snailmail address:
C/O William Christensen,
515 N. Century Blvd.
Rantoul, IL 61866
(Disclaimer: Secretly, I’m nice.)