Trust in me...

The A to Z Challenge continues after our second pause. 

Today's letter is the letter T and The Motto is

Trust

Today's Insult


Turd  - the alternative to Shite.

When you call someone a Turd as an insult, its probably a level 1 insult.  Level 1 being the first rung of the ladder and the most mild of insults.

You can even order Turbs, Nerds and The Total Absurd for Kindle at Amazon.com.  Best 8 bucks you'll ever spend!

Monday Music Moves Me's theme is One Hit Wonders

How to Fondle the Proxy Penis

Happy Wednezday, Plonkers...

Here are 12 things you may wish you didn't know....

You touch 15 Cocks a Day!

Indirectly, but still.  It's by touching things recently by someone who's just touched their junk.  We're pretty grossed out at the thought of indirectly groping someone's cock, let alone 15!  Every time you touch a doorknob just imagine how nmany knobs you're fondling!  Not too different from fiving out wristies on Oxford Road...


Porn Doesn't Pay

Ever thought about quitting your desk job for a bed job?  That in your next life you'd be making a killing mining for Marmite down the next Jenna Jameson's holiest of holeys?  Forget it, Plonkers!  Not only is it almost impossible for a straight bloke to get a break in the adult film industry, the slary male porn stars earn is positively pitiful.  Still, STDs and living on the breadline aside, there's something to be said for nailing your dream job.


The Floating Island of Crap

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch is almost half the size of South Africa!  The world's largest landfill is completely unregulated, an island of plastic bottles, busted computers, manky toothbrushes and used connies.  And its there to stay.  Blah!


The Interwebz Never Forgets

Everything you've ever posted online is still there, somewhere, in the formless cornucopia of bits, bytes and feeds on the net.  Google can rat you out if the authorities ask for your info!


You're Taxed to the Max

Up to 60% of what you earn goes to the government.  That's tax on your salary, 14% VAT, carbon tax, tax on petrol and the e-toll system, which could chow R1000 a month if you commute between Jozi and Tswane!  The NHI is coming and as if that isn't enough, a one per cent tax has also been propsed to keep your favourite state broadcaster afloat.  And that on top of a fucking recession!


What Polony is really made of

The manufactuerers claim there's nothing substandard about he meat they use but when you're munching on that slimy pink tube, you're eating everthing they can't use in other products, ears, eyes, snouts and even testicles - all minced together and set in a fatty jelly made by boiling a pig's head.  YUMMERZ!

Shite in yer Nose

You don't smell anything with
out molecules binding to your olfactory receptors, so next time you're exposed to anal acoustics in a crowded lift know that you're ingesting little particles of poop.  When you flush a toilet, faecal matter is flung up six meters from the bowl, so chips your toothbrush!  And all air freshener does is mask the methane - shite that smells like lavender is still shite - just more insidious.


I See Stupid People

A staggering 41% of Yanks believe the rapture will happen by 2050.  Yes, almost half the population of what's still Earth's most powerful country are convinced that soon the faithful will be spirited away while they're sleeping, stuck in traffic or molesting altar boys.  These are the same people who aren't sold on global warming, probably because they think they'll be gone before the fallout.


Piracy Police are Pending

You've been scavenging the interwebz for everything your cap allows since you first learnt an mp3 isn't a form you have to submit to SARS.  But soon you may have to settle for what you've already managed to plunder.  Copyright companies in the US and UK have teamed up with service providers to monitor usage and South Africa looks set ot join the piracy pooping.  Downloading the latest Dexter might have Big Brother knocking at yer door.


Childbirth is Horrific

The miracle of life is also on of its biggest horrors.  Most men just don't have the stomach to handle the lumpy, blood-soaked terror that emergest from your lady's lovely Love Garden after your baby comes out or the turd she's bound to let slip as she's pushing out your progeny.  Add to that vaginal tearing and the manky placenta and you'll have to work hard to view her as sexy again!


Planes carry minimal fuel

As if breathing the same air as that Asian couple wearing masks over their mouths for 12 hours isn't enough to make you want to bring  your own oxygen tank, aerooplanes carry just enough fuel to get your there.  next time you need to make a detour, hoe its not a major one.

Glee is more successful than The King

The tune-spouting troupe from Fox's hit TV show have had more Billboard Hot 100 hits than Elvis Presley!  I shite you not.  Now on in its third season and pumping out an average of five power-pop rehashes an episode, expect these adolescent dethroners to leave The King's previous record of 108 entries in a trite trail of synth and slick productions.

Put that in yer pipe 'n smoke it!  

Do you know of some other facts of life that are better left obsure?

When I Were A Wee Lass...

Janie, Mum and Daft Scots Lass

I have been dedicated a lot of time to writing recently. 

No Plonkers, unfortunately not for the blog but I decided about three weeks ago to do a Biography.  Certainly not with publishing it in mind, but more of a journal type format to pass on to my kids and grandkids about funny stories of their daft old Scots Granny, who loved to laugh, swear and be silly. 

I have tons of stories to tell, not only from when we were living in Scotland with our large, extended dysfunctional family, but our adventures of when we immigrated to South Africa.  How our wee family had to adapt to a new culture, a new climate, a new country and all the exploits we got up to in the process.

Like I said, I have so many funny stories about all the brilliant and embarrassing stuff I've done in my life so far.  I don't want them to go unremembered.  Is "unremembered" actually a word?  I think not.  Anyhoozer, I thought I'd scribble stuff down and have it printed, bound and one day on my death bed, hand it to my grown up, married daughters or grand children to read and hopefully enjoy.

I've started incorporating a lot of the adorable stuff my girls did as toddlers that I kept in a journal.  If you're a parent, you'll know the slide-splittingly funny stuff toddlers say and do that make cleaning up those teething nappies worthwhile. 

Oh you know the nappies I'm talking about!  The ones where the sloppy shite has literally exploded out the back of the nappy, saturating the white terry babygro to a muddy light brown.  The shite has ventured further north into babies now shite-matted hair.  The paint-stripping quality reek that emerges from your bouncing baby is enough to turn any fucking bulimic green! 

Added to that, your Precious has slept through the entire explosion and has been marinading in the stench and excrement for the last hour.  The congealed shite has you peeling the babygro off your babes delicate skin like a fucking banana.  Any attempt to wipe off the shite becomes Mission Impossible.  You run a warm bath in which to dunk your Munchkin in the middle of the night.  This has her completely confused and frustrated and will undoubtedly swap her days into nights - AGAIN! 

You actually consider calling the fire-brigade to haul in their heavy duty, high-powered hose to complete the job, but I don't think they do domestic house calls for this sort of thing in the wee hours of the morning - in the dead of winter - when it'll freeze the nips off any Hooker!

After playing patta-cake and singing her every lullaby you know, you finally crawl back into bed.  The entire fiasco stole two hours of your precious slumber down-time and all you can think about is sleep.  Then, lying there try to fall asleep, you notice that YOU smell like the inside of a fucking Arab's sand-shoe AND you have shit embedded under your fingernails.  

Any mum would just say "Fuck It, I'll worry about that tomorrow".

Oh yeah, we laugh about it now, but it wasn't in the least bit funny when we were wearing our pajama top as a gas mask and covered up to our elbows in mustard chunky cottage cheese baby shite.

Sorry I got a bitty side-tracked.  

Yes, my Biography will also have an entire Chapter dedicated to "Conversations with Megan" and "Conversations with Kaylin" and yeah, I've mentioned a lot of these dialogues here on my wee bloggy.  It includes things I've noted over the years that I didn't want to forget because I knew, when the girls were big enough to appreciate it, they'd love to read all about what they were like as wee yins and how they made their Mum cackle like an old whore with a carrot up her bum.

I already have 25 000+ words down and that's just the stuff I've nicked from my blog.  I now have to start putting it all together so that it makes sense and has more of a fluid story-line.  I also want to get the time line right, you know in chronological order so that the reader doesn't get confused by my jumping around.  I tend to do that when I talk and I tend to write like that on the blog but I think it might be a wee bit confusing, especially for someone who doesn't know ME.

I'm actually really excited about it.  Not that I think its gonna be anything spectacular for anyone other than my family to read, but because they'll at least tap into my personal jokes and idiosyncrasies that most people find really odd and a wee bit crass. 

Och well...nevertheless I'm still excited about it.  I'm still toying with the idea of using photos to go alongside the stories in the book.  I have endless gigs of photos that I've kept from when we got our first digital camera way back in 2000 besides, I will never be able to choose just one or two images per chapter.  My pictures would be another fucking addendum on its own.  Mmmmmm still not sure what to do there.


So, do you think I'm completely daft for embarking on this project?  Its definitely not a small task and not one that I'm sure I'll be very successful at. 


Who gives a rats arse, right?