Pubes: Nature’s little miracles
This post has been inspired in part by last night’s complete lack of sleep. I’m a fan of anatomy and by that I mean that I couldn’t give two hoots about the subject but I was stuck for an introductory sentence. Legs: they’re smashing. Eyes: what a marvel! Vestigial tail: I don’t leave home without it. Pubic hairs: erm … You know what: when I was thinking about anatomical appendages, organs, and general regions I realised that I didn’t know very much about pubic hairs and when I become aware of a void in my immense knowledge it gnaws away at my soul letting souljuice seep out onto the floor from my kneehole. This then becomes a water hazard and I must keep within a boundary of yellow cones adorned with delightful images of stick figures losing their footing and being impaled on railings to avoid being the cause of some blind moron half-killing himself and firing off a letter to his solicitor. Naturally, this makes getting through doors all but impossible and would render me in the position of one who was slowly starving to death but more rapidly becoming a dry husk through thirst and a major fluid leak if I didn’t act quickly and plug up that void. Act quickly I did. Plug I did. Let me fill you in with what I’ve learned. Pubes: The Early Years During the early years of its life the pubic hair stays inside the body of its host in a protective sac called the "Special Place." This sac is surrounded by a layer of liquid semtex and an organic proximity fuse formed from leftover umbilical cord. To prevent the loss of an important or semi-important limb through explosion it is vitally important that you never touch your "Special Place" until way past puberty. To be safe you should leave it until you reach 24. During the maturation phase of puberty the protective sac breaks down into a non-volatile state and is absorbed by the body for the nutrients. Free from the sac the pubic hairs are able to migrate outwards and finally start to burst through the epidermis. Pubes: Physical Characteristics Pubic hairs are generally curly no matter what your head hairstyle is. They’re also short, measuring in at no more than an inch on normal people. Vegetarians, however, have pubic hair that reaches to their ankles. Many pretend they’re wearing handmade skirts of some obscure natural material and that all the proceeds go directly to villages in East Timor. But they’re not. They’re filthy liars exposing their genitalia rugs at you. There is no scientific reason for the...
Godfrey Bloom
A little while ago here in sporadically sunny England we had a series of polls to elect members of the European Parliament. Thanks to declining standards of education among the tabloid newspaper readers and a still-at-rock-bottom-for-the-second-decade-running low standard of education from the tabloid newspaper publishers, "journalists", and editors, a little party – they must be little otherwise their small minds would roll about inside their heads and crush their bigot gland – managed to win a number of key seats in some key areas. Farmers, yokels, fishermen, and the recently-escaped-from-"special"-hospital placed their webbed hands down on the ballot papers and granted power to the United Kingdom Independence Party. UKIP’s main policy is to make sure that the United Kingdom does not fully join Europe. Their plan to do this by joining a pan-European parliamentary body seems, on the face of it, a little absurd and, therefore, totally expected. What’s even more absurd is that the European Parliament would let them join. Personally, if I had a club – let’s say a timber appreciation club – I’d probably not accept the membership of someone who filled in the box "What do you hope to gain from your time in Mark’s ‘Timber Rocks!’ Club?" with the answer "I intend to steal as much timber as I can for my new shed and then cover my tracks with the knowledge gained from my love of all things arson-related." But my club wouldn’t be democratically-elected. I would be supreme commander and would give myself a title befitting a person of my stature but with the air of mystery or insanity that gives freemasons ideas: Grand Rutting Oak. So, UKIP’s tactic is, apparently, to disrupt parliament enough so that everyone else gangs up and throws the UK out. Inspired. How have they done so far? Well, on his first day "on the job" – to coin a phrase – as a representative on the women’s rights committee, MEP Godfrey Bloom flipped a coin and chose to belittle pretty much all working women everywhere. If his 10 Euro coin had landed the other side up he would have undressed and used an overhead projector to cast a silhouette of his flaccid penis onto the wall during the afternoon’s session so we can all thank God for small mercies. No self-respecting small businessman with a brain in the right place would ever employ a lady of child-bearing age … I just don’t think [women] clean behind the fridge enough … I am here to represent Yorkshire women who always have dinner on the table when you get home. It takes a lot to get me excited...
Cat fur
Cats, according to "experts", moult twice a year. This is, of course, utter bollocks. My cats moult more than twice a year. I can’t give an exact figure because I haven’t counted precisely – as bizarre as it seems I really do have better things to do – and I’m not around them all the time. But my initial findings indicate that my two little darlings moult … every single second of every single day of the year. I’m sorry I can’t be more scientifically accurate here but I’m not a scientist so I do have a reasonable excuse. You might imagine that my cats must look like Mr Bigglesworth but they don’t. They are as large and furry now as they were back when they were as large and furry as they are now. If you think about fur constantly falling out at the rate that the fur of my cats constantly falls out – that’s a large rate, by the way, and definitely in the upper quartile of any graph of cat fur dropout rate and no mistake – then you might also imagine that my cats would have both long hairs about to fall out and very short hairs growing to replace the ones that have just embarked on the path of cat fur seppuku. But this isn’t the case either. The fur on each cat is uniformly approximately five centimetres long (I’ve thrown in a metric measurement just to confuse Americans; I think it’s equivalent to about one hundredth of a rod though.) From this I can conclude: cat fur grows when I’m not looking at it. That probably didn’t warrant a bullet point. My cats love me because my mother had an affair with a merman – possibly – and I’ve inherited the clam gene. By that, I mean that I occasionally have clammy hands. Back off girls! I’m taken. As well as meaning I do everything possible to avoid shaking hands with anyone – although that’s also because I don’t want to pick up any toilet hand infections outside my own carefully-controlled laboratory experiments – it also endows me with the power to remove cat fur from cats with one sweeping stroke of my palm. Actually, that sounds rather disgusting now I’ve read that back. Anyway … my cats think "Ooh, my loose fur is itchy and I need it removed now!", leap upon me, wait for me to finish screaming about retracting their claws before touching bare flesh, forgive me for my tirade, and grant me the priceless honour of rubbing their backs, heads, tummies (but not too close to the naughty...
Pool
I’ve been insanely busy which is very similar to normal busy but has delusions and danger thrown in for free. If you don’t believe me you can ask Joanna, the mechanical hamster that lives among the sentient wax in my left ear. He’ll complain about having a girl’s name and you’ll need to have a good grasp of Swedish and semaphore to comprehend his responses but, if pestered enough, he’ll confirm that my busy levels have been hovering above the insane level for about five days now. That’s over a month in dog years. When I’ve had a smidgeon of free time recently I’ve crawled into the chair in my living room and flicked on the television. Sport helps me relax. Well, watching sport helps me relax. Partaking in sport helps me sweat and I don’t need any help sweating thankyou very much. Damned armpits. Why can’t we sweat internally and then excrete it out later through a nozzle in the belly button? It would rust belly button rings and might persuade women with guts that extend past their waistline to damn well stop wearing cropped tops and these are good things. Why would God invent sweat glands, then invent t-shirts, then invent anti-perspirant deodorant. That. Does. Not. Work? Does that make any sense Joanna? Oh, good point … The sports that currently have my undivided attention during the near-catatonia that follows in the wake of the insane busying are football and pool. The Copa America is taking place over in Peru at the moment and the World Pool Championship is being held this year in Taiwan. If you’re unsure where Peru and Taiwan are then let me explain: they’re on the other side of the planet. Bloody timezones. When Joanna and I take over the world everyone will move to Greenwich Mean Time and a series of space mirrors and space umbrellas will ensure we all get the same amount of daylight and night at the same time. Now, I’ve mentioned the kingly sport of 9-ball pool before. I mention it every time there’s a world championship and every time that the Mosconi Cup takes place: that’s two articles a year I don’t have to give much thought to. As luck would have it I never bothered moving across many of my articles from previous incarnations of this site and my key demographic is the short-term memory problem-ridden, middle-aged male or female with no interest in pool making a "completely new and original" post about pool satisfy both criteria of "making sure people don’t think I’ve died" and "boring visitors to tears" almost perfectly. Rules Of 9-Ball Pool...
Curses!
I have come to the conclusion that one of you swine has scary and evil powers and that you, being a swine with powers both scary and evil, have taken it upon yourself to bestow upon me – me, who welled up with tears just the other day when I trod on yet another bloody slug that had slipped into my kitchen under cover of darkness with thoughts of stealing my electricity or food or whatever the hell giant slugs yearn for in kitchens – a curse! A curse on me! Why? What did I do to you? I’m a nice person really. I help wasps out of my building at work when everyone else is hell-bent on squishing them. I open doors for people and don’t let them go just before their outstretched fingers reach the handles half as much as I used to. When my other half says "Actually, would it be okay for us to drive to another shopping precinct that contains exactly the same shops as this one?" I keep my thoughts to myself and do as she asks. Those girls in my attic? I’m protecting them from the nazis, okay! You might be wondering just what form this curse takes and how I know that it is a curse and not, say, hereditary or one of the wacky side-effects of sleeping with that zebra on my recent trip to Africa. If you are then you won’t be disappointed by the following paragraphs. In another universe this curse might be considered a superpower. There might be comic books created in my honour and movies filmed about me. Chances are good, knowing my luck, that an alternate Ben Affleck (with an evil goatee beard) would get the role and everyone would hate it but the royalty payments would mean that I could weather the abuse and insults from inside my gold-plated castle. In this universe, however, I am now … Breaks Windows Far Too Frequently Man!!! I remember when I first became aware that I had a curse; that was this weekend and it’s to be expected that I’d remember just a few days ago in fairness. However, with hindsight, I now know that the curse first hit me several weeks ago. I had ordered a new 3-piece suite: good quality leather, cream, sofa, chair, and a recliner. It came in from Germany where the cows are apparently softer and the craftsmanship is superior. As promised by the company with whom I had placed my order the 3-piece suite was delivered on the right day and at the right time. As opposite-of-promised by the company salesman...
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