Blog Title: Kiss & Blog

Pill.

Link.

Indonesia

Denpasar, Bali, June, 1977.

Everything rots quickly in the tropics, and it smells like it. Barbara was as baffled by this as she had been nervous about everything in her life. Staring unsteadily down the steps from the DC-8 door felt like running headlong into hell, with approximately the same loss of control.

The heat was killer, the humidity worse. Friends had happified Bali, as if it was some paradisical end-place, but the reality was stupifying, all the worse for being that way from the first breath.

"Oh, God", she thought, taking a moment to steel herself for whatever was to come.

She grabbed Jonathon's hand more closely than in years, and smiled tightly at him.

"Ready for the adventure?" she asked him.

He looked back at her, aware of her uncertainty. Twelve year-olds have that kind of karmic calm.

"What's that smell?" he replied.

"I don't know, but I guess we should get going" she said. Avoidance was a way of life.

They walked down the steps carefully, aware of them rocking in the breeze, and of the crowd behind.

"What happens now?", Jon asked.

"I don't know. Just look for your father", she said. "He'll be here somewhere".

Wire Fraud

Whenever the FBI catches a big time criminal, my impression is that the charge they often use is "wire fraud". As a catch-all way to get an arrest, I'm sure it works a treat, allowing the G-Men time to pressure their suspect and troll through the product of their searches.

Of course why Mafia types are replacing real wire with string or rolled-up tin-foil is a mystery. Surely the big money is in running hookers or collecting garbage or providing garbage for people to shoot up.

Pssst. Wanna buy six reels of wire? It's almost as good as the genuine stuff.

Wire fraud got me to thinking about women with underwire bras, and the alleged internet/Oprah "fact" that 85% of women are wearing an incorrectly sized bra. Seems like a rather large oversight to me, by rather a large number of women.

Then I found this and forgot all about it.



How To Put On A Bra 101 - Celebrity bloopers here

Love scrapes

With the spring come the motorcycles, and I guess high gas prices have something to do with it too. Everywhere I look there are young guys on powerful rice rockets, weaving through traffic taunting the cops.

Actually, I totally get their state of mind; bikes are really cool, especially if you're young and male. Where did I read recently that guys' brains only develop fear around age twenty-five? True, in my experience.

The blokes take their sweethearts riding as well. It's like having a two-scoop ice-cream. Not only do they tool around on their pride and joy, but their squeeze is sitting right there behind them, holding on around their waist, grinding herself into them. Lord. Talk about heaven on two wheels.

Trouble is that so often neither of them is wearing a helmet, and only the flimsiest of clothing. Every time I see a girl's bare arms wrapped around the guy, I remember the words of an EMS guy I know, who calls all motorcyclists "organ donors".

*shudder*

Let me see your vagina

The major reason sex works is because men have an insatiable desire to see vaginas.

No matter how many one might have seen in the past, the next one that comes along is the one we want to check out.

Mick Jagger has probably seen 657,335 vaginas, and yet he still wants to see yours.

Pornography and the internet allow me to see exponential vaginas while writing this post. And yet I, too, want to see yours.

This, in summary, is what it's like being a man. A head full of vaginas, and none of them yours.

Yet.

Iceland, Hot Women

An Icelandic man of my recent acquaintance drew my attention to the following fact:

His homeland supplied the Miss World competition with three winners:

Holmfridur Karlsdóttir (1985) Linda Pétursdóttir (1988) and Unnur Birna Vilhjálmsdóttir (2005).

I checked. It's true.

With that record, Iceland has the highest population of Miss Worlds per head of any nation on earth.

I think that needs a personal verification.

Miss Milk...

...made me do it.

Herewith the meme.

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.


"Kill him" said Tynah, committed to demonstrating his unwavering good faith. Bligh was not inclined to do so, but instead administered the most severe punishment of the voyage: one hundred lashes to the the thief, who was then confined in irons until the departure of the ship.

"His back became very much swelled," Bligh recorded with a kind of wonderment, "but only the last stroke broke the Skin."

Living in the moment

For someone new to living in the moment, this is a remarkable coincidence.




When the second-hand breaks, the hour is fixed.

Fashion

Prancing around like jail-house sissies, today's young men baffle me. Do they not realize that - in prison culture, at least - wearing one's belt sub-buttocks exposing the underpants is an invitation to sodomy?

I was reminded of the vagaries of men's fashion by this passage from a book I'm reading about the Battle of Trafalgar.

In response to this need for courtesy and delicacy, wide swathes of English 18th century life became fragile and dainty, in a way that no age in England, before or since, has managed. It became possible, for the first and only time, for a perfectly serious man to attend ceremonies at court in 'a lavender suit, the waistcoat embroidered with a little silver or of white silk work worked in the tambour, partridge silk stockings , gold buckles, ruffles and lace frill.'

Partridge silk stockings and lace frills? I bet they'd go down a treat in the iron-bar motel. Watch for them in the Hollister and Abercrombie summer collections.



Quotation from "Seize the Fire. Heroism, Duty, and the Battle of Trafalgar" by Adam Nicolson.

G-Spot, Directions

This is how a friend once described how to find a lady's G-Spot.

You'll be looking for it on the upper wall of her vagina (as she's lying on her back). It's about three inches in. When it's aroused, it will be swollen, sensitive and very easy to find. Otherwise you should concentrate on stimulating that general area until it becomes noticeable to the touch.



A more complete User Guide, in a style I'm comfortable with:

Congratulations! Welcome to the world of G-Spot models W-1 and W-2 (USA/Canada only) from Finger-Her Corp. This craftsman evolved product will give you many hours of pleasure. Accessories available.

Before playing G-Spot game first time, open box and check contents. Contact our representative immediately if parts look old, or past use-by date.

Warning: Quality control beer-sensitive issues exist.

Place W-1 face upwards on flat surface. (Fig. 1) Carefully remove protective coating and transport grease. Keep packaging in case of return for exchange or repair.

Locate jack V-1. If difficulty encountered, refer Fig. 2, or ask for help.

Determine lubricant status. If no lubricant, we recommend Shagg-Oh Lubricant No 19 from our catalogue. We test our oils in high volume swinger sets.

Insert one finger into V-1, careful not to miscount.

Warning: Inserting more than one finger initially may cause early end to Finger-Her experience. More than one is okay with time. Ask W-1 for multiple digital entry policy. Warranty voided with digitis extremis.

For most W-1 models, G-Spot found approximately three inches (75mm) from V-1 entranceway. Target reached when noticeable reaction occurs, for example an audible moan, "Yes", whimper, cry,"God" etc

Good job!

For advanced gaming, see our product list and upgrade policy.

We here at Finger-Her (G-Spot Division) rejoice in your many happy usages, and remember, as we here always say:

Perfect Practice, Purring Pussy.

On your knees, bitch.

You know it, and I know it: women all secretly want a take-charge man. And even if they don't, it's better to be slagged off as a misogynist arsehole than a lame pussy-boy. A reputation is a reputation.

That might be too stark. Yeah, perhaps Mr Take-Charge need only appear in the bedroom. Maybe women want the caring, sharing gentlemanly type in public life, and the masterful sex-god in private.

I'm thinking it's when the front door closes you want us to change from mild-mannered equal to domineering alpha-male.

I can accommodate that.

Come here honey, I've got something to show you. Now.

Raining cats and dogs

The news is out. I'm a cat person. And my future wife will (probably) be a cat person too.

The appeal of dogs escapes me. That might be because my Aunt Mary's German Shepherds attempted to rape me on every meeting, but other contributing factors exist. There's the embarrassing nose in crutch thing - oh, don't mind him, he's just being friendly - and the unspeakable shit situation.

Why is dogshit invisible to individual dog owners, and appears at fifteen times life size to me?

My nightmares consist of me falling into a giant dog turd on a Parisian sidewalk while the locals all stand around shrugging and smoking Gauloise. Pull me out of this poodle-pooh you Froggy fools.

At which point I awake in a sweat with the pillow over my head.

Hello, can anyone hear me?

Jennifer interviewed me this morning.

Here if you want to listen.

Selective memory, darling

How I adore the moment a woman reaches into her Pandora's Box of Memories and drags out something from sixty-six years ago.

You know what I mean. Chicks have a place they keep statements made by men; off-hand remarks or drunken pronouncements that are taken completely out of context as stand-alone icons of the relationship. In moments of male vulnerability they can be brought out and fired back at the hapless man like rocket-launched grenades.

An example:

After a long business lunch, followed by a number of cleansing ales at the pub, a mate went home to his bride. He wanted to show her the size of his ardour, but she demurred, disapproving of his beery state.

Had he been home when he said he would, the missus said, she would have been happy to give him the best BJ of his life. To which he replied:

Don't flatter yourself.

If you think that was forgotten as a dumb drunk doozy, you'd be wrong. Wifey embarrassed husband in company for years with that gem.

My suspicion is that women secretly cherish these nuggets of vindictive gold. In quiet moments, they take the memories out of the box and polish them, lovingly rubbing until they glow like fine antique silverware.

Silver bullets. Silver bullets to be shot when least expected.

Perfect Match

Yeah, this isn't an auspicious start.

Hello Sweetie
My name is Jenni I am new to this online dating i
love everything about you and i will like to meet you
and get to know you better i am not here for game I am
looking for a Man to spend the whole of my life
with..I am also a very Romantic type,love to
cuddle,hold hands while walking,...i want you to get
back to me on my private email cos i will be closing
my profile from this site today..You can get back to
me on my personal email address so that we can share
some mail and some pics about each other.....here is
my email... Back End replacemnent....Hope to hear from
you soon..
am in africa due to the nature of my job,and i will
love to relocate for the one i love.

Match dot com

*big deep breath*

The nice folks at Match.com's PR agency (thank you Amy) reached out to me. Not literally you understand, but figuratively, with an offer for a three month free membership. Having never hoisted a profile up anywhere online, I figured it was about time to do so, if only to experience the highs and lows I hear others find there.

(I'm under no illusion I'm special, BTW. Amy probably reads 117,655 dating blogs a day and offered them all the same deal, but a freebie's a freebie, right? In any case, I'm hoping she'll offer me a job working with her in NYC, so don't be surprised if I suck-up horribly to her and all PR Persons generally in hope of currying favour.)

Question: For runaway success, what should I put in my profile? Do women want honesty, humour, lasciviousness or a detailed description of my penis?

Any help is gratefully accepted, and will include an invitation to stay in my NYC apartment when I get that job.

Gift Google

Gift giving is an art. It's an art in which I receive a bare passing grade every time, encapsulated - appropriately enough - in the words of my third-grade art teacher:

Wombat, if you represent the future of art, we've just entered another dark age.

Thusly, I represent the future of gift-giving too.

Presents for women are what I'm talking about. Buying for guys is simple, not even worth analyzing. And that's the difference between the sexes; women analyze the gift for meaning, men don't.

The subtext women attach to a gift creates the problem. Sure, they say that the thoughtfulness alone is enough, but as with everything female, there is always more to it.

Oh, he's a darling, the flowers were just beautiful.

Subtext:

But why flowers and not jewelry, and why jonquils and not roses?

Or

Look what Brad gave me? Isn't it divine?

Subtext:

It's a sexy bustier, but does he think of me as being like that all the time? Does he just like me for the sex? Does he think I'm a whore?

Hereby I have created another business for Google. Men input as dense a description of the woman as possible, stating the nature of the relationship. One's mother has different parameters than one's mistress. Google then provides ten gift choices.

It's a pipe dream because the kind of geek who can write that algorithm will have us all buying Star Wars paraphernalia and I Heart Linux underpants. But who am I to criticize? I'm the Black Plague of gift-giving.

I hate art teachers.

Too bad *

Too bad I can't forget it, and let the whole thing swing. Too bad you won't come with me, and forget it ever happened.

Too bad we're not allowed to say fuck it and move on. That's the way. Too bad they won't take my hand, and agree to see let's see what happens.

Are you worried? Too bad, these things were decided before your time. Too bad we didn't all see the future, that we didn't know that he turned out impotent and bald. Too bad your dreams haven't been addressed by the appropriate authorities, but there's a waiting list you see.

Too bad you didn't think ahead, because things would be different, too bad you fucked up, too bad things didn't turn out, too bad because life's like that.

Too bad you missed the opportunity, too bad someone lesser got the job. Too bad that morons ruined your life, come look at mine, it's not so great. Too bad we couldn't run faster, it's the flight of filth you know. Too bad you missed by that much we needed someone to make that work.

Too bad there wasn't an opening, it's just not what we were looking for. Too bad you're not from around here, it's a, you know, neighbourhood thing. Too bad the reference didn't sound good, that would have clinched the deal. Too bad they took away your clearance, you seemed so nice at first.

Too bad we won't fight for our freedoms, they took them all away. Too bad I spoke my mind once and someone took offense. Too bad I'm held responsible, it's funny how it works. Too bad I thought we were equal. That's not the way it works.











*Excerpt from my personal journal from a while ago. That was my ego talking. Attractive. Not.

Who is my muse?

Writing a job description for my muse is difficult. Where to start? Should she simply be an aid to my writing, as per the classical description, or can I add reasonable non-onerous duties that would make my day easier?

For example, if I'm not writing, my muse could go to the supermarket and do my shopping. This is one of my least favourite chores, and not a great hardship for her is it?

Something I want to do but never get around to is sending hand-written letters. Miss Muse could amuse (haha) herself (and me) by writing witty missives to Great Aunt Peggy and dinner hosts and new (and old) friends. How delightful people would think me if they received personalized notes on stiff card the day after having me for a meal.

One untraditional muse job that might be a deal-breaker is that of WingMan, or I guess WingWoman, since a muse must must always be female. Going out as a lone man is limiting; the stench of singularity is like a force field keeping fillies in their stalls. Go out with a muse, however, and the dynamic changes. Women see me with a woman and her lyre, (all muses carry a lyre, right?) and suddenly I'm like a black hip-hopper wit (sic) a possy (sic) and therefore of interest.

Yo, I'm down for this muse thing, big time, ya know what I'm sayin'? Bitch wanna hang my crib, know what I'm sayin?

Apologies, I got carried away there.

So, annnnyway, any help with the Miss Muse Job Requirements would be appreciated. Dawg.

Walk like an Egyptian

The delightful Miss A asked me to flop on her couch and drink all her booze while she's away visiting family. I hope I didn't make too much of a mess.

You're all out of gin, Miss A.

Plain vanilla sex. With a cherry on top.

A friend of mine asks directly:

What's your kink?

This might work because she's a woman, but I suspect men using that approach might be rebuffed. Or not. Like much of sex for a man, it's about reading the signals a woman transmits - her brainwaves, heatwaves and screamwaves.

I like those screamwaves.

Part of the unknowable unknowns is figuring when she is interested in more than plain vanilla. There is a way to suggest something more interesting, and a time to do so.

Right.

Right?

Fortune cookie, cookie?

Being raised on American television makes one acutely aware of what's lacking in your life. Chinese food delivered to the door, for example, is mouth watering for a kid from the sticks of Australia. (Sorry, Adelaide, I still love ya.)

It wasn't just the fact of food at the door, but those cartons of leftover take-out to be savoured the next day. There is a case to be made for not eating at all on the day of delivery, so as to have the whole lot for day two.

Not until I was an adult did the fortune cookie enter my life. As a piece of American exotica, it has few parallels. Which is why I'm so depressed at the current state of fortune cookie fortunes. Whatever happened to inscrutable messages from Eastern sages? Part of the pleasure of said cookie was interpreting the impenetrable language searching for true meaning.

Thesedays it's like they have been vetted with some arsehole tort lawyer in mind. Life-sucking leeches. I give you my last four, which are interesting only for their banality.

Share your happiness with others today.

Pffft, whatever.

You are offered the dream of a lifetime. Say yes.

Not if my dream is a well constructed fortune cookie saying.

Practice makes perfect.

What? This is supposed to be a Chinese tradition, right, not a Lutheran one?

You have great physical powers and an iron constitution.

Yes, but not for this dross.


At this rate I'll have to start my own business suppling ancient wisdom to these people. How hard can it be?

Play tennis and you'll race the candle.

Forever limp for no-one ask.

Burnt toast, curly hair.

Spend a penny, regret poor aim.

See, mine are way better. Five for two dollar, or one for fifty cent.

Everything I know about women I learned from my cats. A guide for blokes.

Let's start at the butt.

Cats have a tail, a handy device for balance. It also has another use, as a mood indicator.

Women are mostly without tails, except if so attired. (Much to be encouraged.) However, their posteriors do have other state-of-mind tells, some of which I note:

1. Hips.

The set of a woman's hips can show if she's feeling sassy. If she thrusts a rump and attached bone to one side, something's on her mind. If there's a hand jauntily resting there, double the effect.

Sassy * sassy = saucy.

Capitalize, men.

2. Rump.

Speaking of the gluteals, here's an obvious one. If you are standing behind her, and she snugs her rumpage into your groinage, she's got a mood alright. A mood for rude.

If you can't figure this one, you're gay.

3. The Bendover.

Not as simple as you might think. Possibly she is giving you a hundred green lights to do her pussy-style right there and then. However, this gesture can, in the butts of some women, be the equivalent of giving the finger. She's saying, Look buddy, here's my arsehole, that's what I think of you.

Think of this as an ironic invitation to the sex you won't be getting.

Remember, felines and females: it's all the same.

Hypnotist

It is with regret I ignored the advice of my high school career counsellor. I distinctly remember her recommending three life courses: train driver, printer or hypnotist. Unfortunately fate took me in other directions.

The idea of being a train driver had long excited me, because like every small boy, I knew about the Dead Man's Pedal. Way to impress people, by telling them you control thousands of horsepower by not dying. Sadly I have yet to even see a Dead Man's Pedal. The Casey Jones dream is slipping away with every year.

Printer? Should I have been a laser or an inkjet? Next.

The source of my greatest regret is not choosing the hypnotist option. Imagine the life a person so trained would lead. They would, for example, hypnotize all Starbucks persons to exchange the word "Short" with "Mons", the word "Grande" with "Vas" and the word "Venti" with "Vaginal Canal".

I'd like an Americano Venti with room and two Splenda, please, they would repeat as

Yes sir, That's an Americano Vaginal Canal with room and two Splenda.

That's trivial compared to my other ideas. The best of them is to hypnotize every woman I meet into seeing a one-hundred dollar note resting on my right shoe. Upon reasonably close proximity, they would see me, notice the free money at my feet, and bend over to pick it up.

Thusly I get a great look down their shirt, thereby filling my days with visions like this.



What other blogs are saying: A real hypnotist, nice train driver, I think this is about Starbucks, Deb in a shed dreaming of hypnosis.

Scrabble Dating

How I love a good hard long competitive game of Scrabble. Far from being a stagnant amusement useful only to old folks, Scrabble is about battles of will, bluff, creativity and argument. And arithmetic, something about which few people younger than thirty have any knowledge.

What happened to board games anyway? Trivial Pursuit, Risk, Life, Monopoly: they are all fun and entertaining, especially in a well lubricated group.

What happened is that thing called the Internet, I suppose. No-one holds dinner parties that morph into long-remembered games of Risk any more. Invite people around for a Monopoly marathon, and some dimwit will turn on the television, thereby turning off everyone's brain.

I'm wondering why no-one has thought of using board games as the basis for a dating business. Instead of strangers struggling with conversation over coffee, why not have a series of dates, one through five, where the game is the thing. Changing the focus from

"Is she the one?"

to

"If I had an extra 'r', I could make 'catarrh'"

might remove the temptation of making all the usual early-date mistakes.

It has the added benefit of allowing you to see how a person deals with losing, winning, triumph and quite possibly nudity.




What other blogs are saying: Scrabble, board games as art, Life as life, Mr Boardgames.