About The Penis
There are two toilets in the building where I work. They are next to one another and each contains just one toilet bowl because I don’t work for a big company. Following the traditions of society one is aimed at being used by the female employees and one – the other one – has been designated for usage by non-females. Without symbols on the door a visitor might wonder which was which out of fear of, for example, stinking the place up and stepping out just before someone of the opposite sex steps in. Also just before that person runs out gagging and crying. For some reason people of the same sex just seem to accept that discomfort more easily. There are differences inside the two toilets which hint at their sexual orientation, so to speak. One toilet, for example, has a brighter lightbulb. Could this indicate that one sex has a greater need to look at itself? One toilet has a fluffy pink towel on the back of the door while the other has a towel that is a colour one hint of green up from grey and would be rated as 3H for hardness if it was a pencil. Can you accurately associate colours and rigidness of towels left by cleaners with the sexes of the persons using the bathroom, especially in this day and age and especially if you’d ever met our cleaners? It’s difficult but there is a killer clue though: one toilet – the toilet on the left if you ever visit – is distinguished (if that’s not too fine a word) by possessing an almost-permanent puddle of piss at the base of the toilet bowl. This piece of the enigma leads me to suspect that this toilet may in fact be … the men’s toilet. I should probably explain my reasoning in case the leap to this conclusion’s logic has escaped you. I’m a man and I know that occasionally – just very, very infrequently – it is possible – despite years of experience and partaking in an activity that is both natural and rather simple when you think about it – to not exactly hit the target – a hole about the size of a gorilla’s head – with the accuracy required. I admit it: as a man I have to say that I have in my time peed on the floor of a bathroom. Just a little. Not entirely peed on the floor completely missing the toilet bowl though. I was really drunk once and almost peed in the corner of the living room but a little voice – my dad’s...
Arse
I’ve always believed that variety is the spice of life and mundanity is something vegetarians eat and waste away to. That’s why I’ve always used the Variety Method of backing up my websites. Part of my backup here, some files over there, a dump of the database cunningly zipped under an obscure name and loaded onto a digital camera’s memory card for a laugh in this, et cetera. It’s either because I harbour a hatred of future historians and want to make it difficult for them to recreate my life or I’m teetering on the edge of insanity. Anyway, as you can probably tell, this method has a drawback when I need to restore data. Especially when my Variety Method of backing up not only relates to where things are but also when I perform the related tasks. You might have noticed but in case you haven’t then I’ll tell you: I’ve lost several weeks worth of data. That’s several weeks of comments, several weeks of posts, and several weeks of referral traffic trying to spam numerous gambling websites and, more recently, fake search sites trying to cash in on Google ads. Gone forever are such gems as the recent Who Rules Planet Earth and the 50 Things To Do With Animal Heads articles, both of which were plugged on various other sites and sent a great deal of traffic this way. Gone too is Miss England with its lovely comment from Miss Cornwall too, that one about my garden and its froads, and something about suicide. The one about my new car? Yes, that’s gone too but it was rubbish anyway. The article and not my car. My car is lovely. Even if there are no instructions on how to use the voice commands. Side-note: does anyone know the voice commands for a Sony VoiceDrive CD system? I’ve got ‘CD’, ‘Radio’, ‘Phone’, ‘AM’, and ‘FM’ sussed. ‘Store’ stored my voice and not a preset station like I was hoping. I now can’t get rid of my voice. ‘Tune’ seemed to have some effect too and the car asked me for a directory name. I asked it what it was talking about and it told me my command had been cancelled. I said "Cancelled! Me! You bleeding upstart! I’ll show you the meaning of cancelled!" and an argument then raged on for several hours. A crowd gathered outside my now misted-up car and I regretted using the QuickClear system as many of them were truly appalling specimens of humanity. Under cover of darkness I slinked out of my car (with an electric shock through the fingers as usual) and...
50 Things To Do With Animal Heads
Use the head of a coyote to teach your children that a fall of over a thousand feet is not survivable and that the Road Runner is psychopathic. The head of an earthworm can replace a missing nipple – perhaps yours was removed by a carpet burn, or you required a nipplectomy because you’re lucky like that – or can act as a third nipple for when you play the role of Scaramanga in your weekly, fantasy sex game. A crocodile’s head makes a wonderful, novelty, oversized nutcracker. The indigenous people of Manchester, England revere the heads of African elephants when the ears are flattened out (those of the elephants and not the indigenous people of Manchester, England) as they form great protection against rain. The head of a duck can act as a clothes peg in emergencies. If you’ve ever hosted an evening party and run out of Beluga caviar then you’ll appreciate that the heads of ants makes a perfect replacement and taste far better too. The head of a sperm whale can provide temporary shelter if you are ever mountaineering and your tent blows away. It is hard to find good bellows these days but an anteater’s head and two stout sticks will do the job just perfectly. A llama’s head, still bloody and placed in his bed, may persuade Jeff Minter to produce a first person shooter variant of Attack Of The Mutant Camels. It is easy to fly into a rage after losing a chess match to a 4-year old wunderkind so keep a handful of seahorse heads around for quick repairs. Why not give young schoolchildren a fascination with space by stapling an actual horse’s head next to a poster of the Horsehead Nebula for comparison purposes? The head of a walrus, mounted on a spring contraption over your back door, can act as a natural booby trap for would-be burglars. Achieve instant television fame by burying the heads of chimpanzees under a neighbour’s patio, tipping off the police to a suspected baby basketball cult, and then being interviewed saying that your neighbour seemed really normal and the midnight slam-dunking never really bothered you. Pretend to be The Great Cthulhu with the head of an octopus and make occultists obey your will. A cheetah’s head worn by your partner will allow you to act out your Thundercats fantasies during your weekly sex game. Store cuckoo heads in your refrigerator and set up an instant Swiss clock repair business. If you can’t afford a baseball cap then why not wear a duck-billed platypus’ head instead? The Bee Gees have a phobia of marsupials and...
Intelligent Design Explained Intelligently
You must have heard of Intelligent Design, right? No? Okay, let me explain briefly just what it is: Intelligent Design (I.D.) is a (snigger) "theory" put forward by some (snort) "scientists" to (choking! send help!) explain the universe without resorting to: intelligence, anything they learnt on their degree course, asking another scientist for help, asking a two year-old for help. In a nutshell (one designed exclusively for the Earth Range by Almighty God and not some cheap, evolved knock-off) I.D. proponents argue that sure there’s a lot of evidence to support evolution and yes scientific models of the universe’s creation do seem to bear out pretty well in experiments and okay natural selection does appear to explain the many varied and wondrous shapes that nature has produced over the countless millions and billions of years but maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think, huh, huh? I.D. supporters point out that life is really, really complex and can cause headaches if thought about too hard so doesn’t Occam’s Razor indicate that it’s much more likely that an omnipotent and omniscient divinity thought "Wait! What about a little horse that swims underwater?" Intelligent Design is an offshoot of ‘Paranoid Science’, a branch of reasoning the major tenet of which is "But what if God is simply testing our faith?" Other examples of Paranoid Science’s exhortations into the public sphere over the years have included: God put dinosaur bones on the planet because there’s only room in Heaven for people who ignore the evidence of the eyes that God gave them, duh!, appendicitis is proof of God’s displeasure since evolution should have evolved that dangly bit away aeons ago dumbass!, you don’t believe in angels but dark matter is fine, yeah sure, whatever!, banjo music is proof of a higher power, there is no scientific explanation for it, none! Fans of Paranoid Science (P.S. International Community of Friends) and I.D. (Worldwide IDiots) fear God. Opponents of the two theologically-derived, scientific-sounding claptrap theories fear God-botherers. If God-botherers contented themselves with bothering God everybody would be fine but since God has failed to react to their botherations over the years – further proof that He exists since He would never reveal He’d been listening so explain that away Mister Professor Bees Evolved From Snakes Ph.D! – they’ve moved onto a target that actually does get distracted by the lunacy: everyone else. The IDiots want I.D. taught in schools and they’ve got a prominent supporter in the guise of George W. "The ‘W’ Stands For ‘Woo! Yay! The Missing Link!’" Bush who endorsed teaching the subject on Monday. To be fair, regular scientists would also...
Spooky Horror Tales Of Terror
Writing an article takes time – no, it’s true – and time’s not been on my side recently. I forget what we argued about but ever since then my work days have dragged along like a heavy-set Alsatian with no legs in need of some fresh air and a game of "chew the frisbee" and my recreational evenings have skipped by like a flat stone bouncing off the surface of a calm lake before plopping beneath the surface of sleep. That’s a dreadful analogy; I tend to fall asleep with a ping rather than a plop. Oh well. Writer’s block is an awful thing to suffer from if the action you’re trying to perform is writing. Mud wrestlers can survive day-to-day with acute writer’s block and still live a full and meaningful, dirty thong-wearing, slippery, slidy life. But for a writer it’s Purgatory with the promise of Hell to come. And there’s something even worse than the block; realising fractionally too late that some current event would have been perfect to write about. Would have been. If only you’d remembered it was scheduled to happen. I quite often pass a landmark occasion and think "Buggering shite! I could have prepared a damning indictment of that particular event if my memory wasn’t so full of holes! A pox on it!" So, to make sure I’m not caught out this year I’m presenting the 2005 Halloween Update Special in August. Wrap up warm, grab some hot chocolate, and ignore the rustling behind you as you read these Horrific Stories Of Unbridled Terror! The Locked Door Sharon needed a place to stay and she needed a place to stay quick. That was why she bought the old house without looking it over fully. The estate agent had seemed nice enough but had insisted on guiding her around the place rather than letting her wander. That had been an inconvenience but had seemed nothing more at the time. So it was that she found herself standing in her newly-purchased home without even having checked out all the rooms less than a week later. Damn the local council for finding rare woodworm in the house she grew up in and designating it a national park. It was dusty but Sharon’s asthma had been cured by a brick in a sock years ago in a fortuitous mugging-gone-wrong so that didn’t bother her. She didn’t even mind the cobwebs so much. Sure, she didn’t like spiders but so long as they didn’t bother her she didn’t bother them. Besides they kept the flies away. Flies. She hated flies. The old house – her new home, she...
New mobile phone
For several months now I’ve been leaving my old mobile phone in the car. Switched off. My excuse to all who bothered to care enough to enquire as to the reason for this behaviour was that, well, you didn’t get more mobile than being in a car so that seemed the right place for it. Only you’re not allowed to use them when driving, hence the not-on status. The reality, though, was a combination of other factors: my old "cutting edge" "mobile" phone was not really either, the strain from porting around a brick-sized object weighing slightly less than a sack of potatoes was putting my company health scheme in serious risk of being used and incurring wrath from above, I have no friends who ever want to call me. That last point is totally untrue, of course. So long as you count imaginary friends. Commander Daring, Space Bombardier says it’s perfectly fine. So I now have a brand new phone. It’s a Samsung SGH-Z500V apparently. This may mean something to you. It’s 3G! Yes, three of them. I now laugh at those of you with any number less than three Gs on your phone. There are cameras galore (ga·lore adj. Two of ’em) and it is replete with modern functions guaranteed not to become obsolete until my right to return the phone for a refund has passed such as polyphonic noise reproductivity and MP3 listenablebility and video looky-talky modiness. I am very pleased with its shape and dimensions; small enough to fit in a pocket comfortably yet rounded and just bulky enough to fit in a pocket and extend the perceived size of my penis. It is a clamshell phone too which means when it is off and you open it up you can hear the ocean. Very soothing. Since I’ve finally been dragged into the modern era I am now looking forward to doing the following "cool" and "hip" things: Ignoring Contacts As part of the contract deal to get the new phone I was not allowed to transfer over my old number and there was no easy way, since this ordering business was all performed over the webbynet, to move details (i.e. the address book) from my old phone either. This seemed unusually cruel but possibly a necessary step in today’s War On Easily Memorised Phone Numbers. So, upon receiving my new handset one of the first things I did was transfer over any important numbers from my old phone. I discovered – after filtering out anyone I hadn’t called or seen in the last year – that my address book of several dozen people and...
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