26 April, 2012

Flight 101 to misery

My one true love.
So last weekend I flew to Sydney to spend time with my dog and a very nice bloke I know.  Here's a picture of him (the dog, not the bloke).  He's possibly the love of my life.  Anyway, I was on the plane next to a couple. 

They were in their late-twenties; she was cute, blonde and perky, he was lanky, broad and an utter wang-jacket.  You see, he wouldn't turn off his fucking iPhone. 

I don't know what it is about people who willfully put the lives of others at risk for the sake of checking their Facebook status, but it really pisses me off.  Here's how it unfolded.

Flight Attendant:  Sir, you'll have to turn your phone off now please.
Wang-Jacket:  Yeah yeah, I will.
FA:  No sir, you need to turn it off now.
[Wang-Jacket ignores her and keeps tapping away.]
FA:  Right now.
[Wang-Jacket hits the button on his iPhone that puts it into sleep mode, but doesn't turn it off.]
FA:  I'm sorry, but you have to turn it right off, not just put it on power-save.
WJ [rolls eyes]: It is off.  See.  It's off.  No picture.  All turned off.  [lets out a frustrated sigh]
FA: Hm.  Thank you.

A minute later, WJ turns to his girlfriend and says "Man, was she a bitch. Fucking cow.  Where does she get off?  That was so rude."

His girlfriend, clearly embarassed says meekly, "well, you should have turned it off." He said "What's your problem?"  She shut her pie-hole.

I wish, at the end of the flight, I'd said "Is that your boyfriend?  Because you could do much, much better."  But I didn't. 

Anyway, the moral of the story is: it's better to have no man at all than a fucking dickwad for a boyfriend.


Assume crash positions.

Use your words, Sweetpea.

So I dated a bloke once who told me about losing his sense of balance.  Here's what he said:

The guy:  I was like a cat without its tentacles.
Me:  Its what?
Guy:  You know, its antenna.  Its feelers.
Me:  Do you mean whiskers?
Guy: Yeah!  That's it.

It didn't work out.

And now, for your delectation, the glorious whiskers of Poppy Sox, the most sinister cat on the planet.

Three flying bats!  Mwa ha ha ha!

18 April, 2012

Mother and son

Last night, I received an email from a woman that read as follows:
Hi ... how are you? Would you like to chat? You are very pretty...
Im looking for nice lady for my son (24yo)... he is into mature ladies, but he is shy. We have very open relationship so i want to help him.
Of course, if you are interested in me... please say ;)
Needless to say, this was somewhat surprising.  Thinking it was spam, I took a look at the profile, and indeed, it was a woman who was bi-sexual looking for boys and girls. 

Now, I've got nothing against our LGBT friends.  Hell, some of my best pals are playing for the other team, but this one is kinda special.  Dangling her son as bait, she's no doubt thinking she might get a bit of girl-on-girl herself.  Yeah, I'm wise to you sister.  Nice try. 

And while it's always nice to know one has more universal appeal than one thought, it ain't gonna happen.  Firstly, I don't like young men.  They've got nothing interesting to say, and they're crap in the sack.  And secondly, I just don't lean in that direction.  Also, I don't like being described as an "older lady".  That's just one step away from "senior citizen". Still, can't blame a girl for trying, I suppose.

Fancy my firstborn?

11 April, 2012

Friends of friends


If you're a racist, you should
probably stop reading now.
And fuck off while you're at it.
So you know Facebook right?  The site that everyone hates, but obsessively checks every five minutes in case they got a "like" for the picture of their squalling child?  Well, I had a very odd experience there last week.

The story unfolded one evening, when a friend of mine posted a cut-and-paste outrage-status about the Australian Government changing ANZAC Day* ceremonies because they were offensive to immigrants.  Now before I go any further, I would like to categorically state that the Government is doing no such thing.  Australians are really tetchy about the ANZACS, we're the only nation that celebrates the days we got our arses soundly kicked.  But back to the story.

In order to put a stop to what was quickly turning into a stream of racist invective by the terminally stupid, I commented on her status that it wasn't true, and there was nothing to fear, and could everyone just chill the fuck out.

Well well well.  Never mess with the KKK.

Before you could say "White Supremacist" there was a torrent of abuse headed my direction at warp speed.  One fellow was particularly enthusiastic, we'll call him Pauline Hanson, although I am tempted to out him.  He called me a drunk, an idiot and a liar. He said I was blind and ignorant. He suggested I should get the vibrator out because clearly I was in need of a good shagging.  His cronies joined in, speculating on the kind of person I must be, and how they were really glad I wasn't their friend, a sentiment, I assure you dear readers, was entirely reciprocated. 

Later that night Pauline posted on my wall "hey [DFF],want my phone number♥"

Naturally, I ignored him.  Then, the next day, this little gem appeared in my inbox.

"Hey [DFF],why not come to [wang-jacket's town],ya wild little thang,and i,ll debate ya all nite long,while ya pull on ur own hair in ecstacy..mwah,princess.

Oh,u can leave ur shoes on so long as uve got the matching stockings and suspenders."
How does get fucked sound, douchebag?  This message sums up the man rather well.  Why, just the spelling and grammar, and appalling use of spaces and punctuation say volumes. What's worse, it put an ugly image in my mind that only a quarter of a bottle of really good tequila and sixteen hours of Doctor Who could remove.
 
Needless to say, he is now blocked.  I did share his message with our mutual friend though.  She was suitably mortified, the poor girl.  But really, one must choose ones friends carefully.
 
Having said that, Dead Fish Floats loves everyone on Facebook, so you know that little blue "like" link on the right?  Click it.  Go on, I dare you.  I double dare you.

*For my international friends, ANZAC Day is a public holiday where we remember our war dead, and honour the memory of the fallen.  It's on the anniversary of the battle of Gallipoli in WW1, where the British sent thousands of Australian and New Zealander men to their death in a blood bath of unprecedented ferocity.  Think the opening scene of Saving Private Ryan times ten.  The final tally of dead, missing and wounded was almost 5,000.  It is also the day we have one of the best Australian Rules Football games - Essendon vs Collingwood.  Interestingly, the mascot for Essendon is "The Bombers", which has far more sinister meaning since the war on "terrorism".

04 April, 2012

The Party Guy

So a while ago I went to a burlesque party.  Yep, you read that right - burlesque.  Now I love burlesque because, frankly, I like showing off and burlesque gives a girl a chance to wear her corset on the outside.  Wasn't missing that one, no sirree.

Anyway, the party was a triumph!  Lots of people went to lots of trouble.  There were beauties everywhere in feathers and satin, masks and towering heels.  And not a few fellas gave it a red hot crack with bow ties and waistcoats the look du jour.  Naturally,  whenever lots of charming, gorgeous folk get together and there's more than a little bosom on display, there's a fucktard trying to hit onto the women and generally being a pain in the crack. 

Meet The Party Guy.

The Party Guy (or PG as he shall henceforth be known for the remainder of this post) is the guy who doesn't care who he hooks up with, as long as he hooks up.  He'll shamelessly flatter and lavish attention on all the women who'll stop for a minute to listen, playing the room, hoping beyond hope that there's a self-loathing lass suffering from morbidly low self-esteem, or a girl who has consumed such a vast quantity of booze that she'd fuck her own grandmother.  Either puts him in with a chance.

This fellow's speciality was flattery.  Now I confess that one of my character flaws is that when I really don't like a fellow who refuses to take the hint, I perversely torture them to see how insulting I can be and still have them running around my stilettos begging for attention - and what stilettos they were.  Here's a sample:

PG: You have the most beautiful hazel eyes.
DFF:  They're not hazel, dickwad, they're brown.  Now piss off.

Undetered, he continued

PG: Oh, I want to be your friend on facebook! What's your surname?
DFF: [Tells him - but isn't telling you dear reader, oh no.  Nice try though]
PG: Oh, there's two of you. Which one are you?
DFF:  Well, there's the one with the picture of the shoes that I'm wearing right now, or there's the blonde.  Which one do you think it is?

Idiot.

The night ended poorly for at least one lass who foolishly got into a cab with PG.  From what I can gather, he tried to jump her in the back of the taxi.  After repeatedly asking him to stop, she got out of the cab at the lights and he drove off, leaving her on the street at 3 o'clock in the morning.  Which makes him not just a douchebag but a first class heel to boot. 

Needless to say, I declined his facebook friend request.

Party's over, dickhead.

29 March, 2012

Babes in History Part 2 - Catherine the Great



Totally bad-ass.
An unfortunate marriage

Catherine the Great was one of the all-time bad-ass babes. Queen of Russia, she was determined, clever and not averse to bedroomly high jinks. However, when we pick up the story, poor Catherine was on rather a sticky wicket.  Her husband, Peter 3 of Russia, was an a man of insufferable habits, who beat his dogs cruelly, and alternated between fits of violent rage and sulky petulance.  He would pace her room for hours, talking inane bollocks to which she was expected to politely reply.  I've been on dates like that, so I feel her pain.  He was a renowned idiot, and his hobbies included playing with toy soldiers in bed (making the appropriate cannon noises), and tossing wine on the footmen.  Perhaps his only saving grace is that he didn't have a clue how to make sexy times, and he and our heroine remained as pure as the driven snow for the first eight years of their marriage.
Kinda funny lookin'

As always, the pressing need for an heir caused all sorts of drama.  Suspecting, after eight childless years, that Peter was shooting blanks, his mamma ordered that he be made to take a bath, and while there, be surreptitiously examined for "abnormalities".  Peter was outraged, he'd never had a bath before, and was damned if he'd have one now.  As it turns out, he managed to avoid them his entire life.  Instead, they circumcised him, which medicos of the day thought might fix the problem. One wonders if, had he understood the consequences, he might have just opted for the tub.

Getting down to business

Unfortunately, circumcision, while purporting to cure any number of ills, will not turn an imbecile into a lothario.  So Catherine did what any sensible girl would do.  She took a lover.  Actually, she took several.  When she finally got knocked up, she managed to convince Peter that it was his.  He really was an idiot.

Ultimately, As happens to all monarchs of breathtaking incompetence, he was overthrown. Not by a neighbouring prince, not by a military dictator, oh no.  He was overthrown by Catherine.

New world order

Catherine busted his chops but good.  With an army thoroughly sick of Peter's inability to do pretty much anything, they got behind our girl and unceremoniously booted him out of office. Rumour has it he was trundled off to exile and quietly assassinated. Catherine took the reins of one of the most successful empires in the history of the world, and handled herself with aplomb.  She handled quite a few others with aplomb too, and kept a happy stable of bedfellows for the entirety of her 32 year rein.  She'd seduce some handsome, hapless young fellow, and shower him with honours and gifts until he lost her interest.  Then she'd take another one.  Such abandon makes my heart sing.  She managed a rebellion by the serfs, was both practical and decisive in her government, and grew fat and happy.  

Contrary to the mythology, which maligns her by suggesting she was killed engaging in an inappropriate liaison with a horse, she died very peacefully at the age of 67 after a really good night's sleep. What a gal.

20 March, 2012

Doctor Feelgood

I’m back. I know I've been awfully neglectful, and I don't deserve you.  I’ve just emerged from a relationship.  God almighty, I had forgotten how much work they are. I also got a second cat.  But here I am my lovelings, and already I have a tale for you.

I had to go to the doctor.  I have a little mole on my arm that I wanted checked out.  I suffer from chronic hypochondria, and a mortal fear of Cancer.  So if I get so much as a freckle, I have nightmares about chemo, and MRIs, and sad-faced medicos looking at me with sympathetic eyes as they deliver the awful truth.  As a result, I get this shit checked out. Pronto.

So I turn up to the doctor’s office, and am ushered through immediately.  The doctor is a portly fellow in his late 50s.  He bears an uncanny resemblance to Graham Kennedy.  A fat, pale, lonely Graham Kennedy.

He takes a look at the mole and says – "oh, it’s just a sunspot.  In all my career, I’ve never seen one of those turn into Cancer."

Phew.

He takes my blood pressure.  “Hm, your blood pressure’s a bit high, anything unusual you think might be causing that?”

“Well,” I said, “I am going through a bit of a messy breakup at the moment, which has been quite stressful.” 

“That’d do it.” He checks my file. “Oh, I see you’re 44.”

“Er, yes.  Yes I am.”

He leans back in his chair, puts his pudgy hands behind his head and gives me the once over.  Then, to my horror, he continues, “I’m single myself you know.  Been through the divorce, the separation, the works.  But you know, now my kids want to stay at my place.  I’m the cool parent.  I’m a bit of a rebel.”

I start collecting my things to run.  But he wasn’t done yet.

“You know, I think we should biopsy that spot.  Why don’t you come back here in a month, when things have settled down for you.  Oh, and here, take one of these.” He handed me a leaflet.  A leaflet for a fucking match-making service.  I kid you not.  On the front it had the usual badly designed marketing guff, but on the back, well, on the back it had an extract from a story in The Australian. 

It reads:
Loneliness Harms Health

WASHINGTON: Lonely people are more likely to get sick and die young, and a team of US researchers may have found out why: their immune systems are haywire."
That's it. Because we all know that when you're single, you're doomed to either develop and unhealthy feline obsession, or die a slow death of emotional starvation.  I know lots of single folk, and not one of them is lonely.

Anyway, I'm not too keen on this biopsy business.  And right now there's a struggle going on between my physical revulsion and my hypochondria.   The hypochondria will probably win. 

Ready for your internal?