Sex in public backfires on your Nigel
Bulgaria is where the action is. That is, if you stay at the Park Royal Hotel in the city of Elenite. There's a hysterical story in the
London Daily Mail today, about a couple vacationing there who put up with a gun battle between hotel staff and guests--escaping that, they ran to the lobby, where there in full view of everyone, a porn movie was being filmed. According to the complaining vacationers, there were two women and one man "going at it", right there in public, cameras rolling.
I've seen some whacky shit on vacation over the years, but that would pretty much take the cake.
And the
public sex thing can get a bit dicey.
Many years ago, when I was still sexually active, and also btw a complete horndog, I was, um,
busy with a young lady I'd just met. We were getting
up close and personal in the back seat of my Oldsmobile Delta 88 while it was parked in a shopping mall lot. This is late night, see, and undoubtedly the
rocking up and down, steamy windows, combined with the fact that it was the only car in the lot at 4am-- well, suffice it to say that the action drew the attention of the mall security people.
So there's your Nigel, a-bangin' away, when comes banging on the window the security guy's flashlight. It wasn't enough that he caught us--no--he made me and my girl
stand outside the car, au naturele, while he debated calling the real cops. While he was debating, he was a) laughing at my little Percy and b) seriously ogling what my girl had to offer, if you know what I mean. But I
took no shit off of this Barney Fife wannabe, believe me; I asked him if he was proud of himself for checking her out that way and also if he was proud of his high level pretend cop job. He got pissed, told me that this was just an interim job for him, that he was a college graduate. even! And I was like, college graduate, huh? Which one--clown, or barber?
Under the circumstances it was a good thing, I guess, that we escaped
with a just warning, minus our dignity. The girl never spoke to me again after that episode, but ended up marrying some goddamm NFL player, divorced him, and is worth a few million bucks now.
Lesson learned: avoid the public sex, I say! Avoid it!
Where I won the "kiss" game...
So, after years of trying and failing,
last night your Nigel hit the jackpot! That's right--the jackpot. You're reading the blog of a really happy, lucky camper--hard to believe, eh? But true...
Details: there's a
new scratch off game from the Georgia Lottery called
"One Lucky Kiss"--this is where you get one chance out of ten to choose the right square, and if you do, you win! And I did! I was sitting on the couch and I thought, hell, I wanna play that game card I got earlier in the day. So,
I pulled it out, gambling that I'd get lucky, and there you have it, I followed directions, and
damned if I got the lucky kiss, and man was I happy! I've been playing these games for seven years now and never won anything, let alone something this fantastic! Yipppeeeee!
It was really, really hard, containing my excitement. I was like, jumping around on th e couch...then into the bedroom...then back to the kitchen...the whole time, seriously pumped up. I won! I won!
Damn, I'm a happy guy today. And I plan on
playing this game at least once a week, and I sure hope I'll be able to win more, say on Level 2 or even Level 3, eventually. I'll keep you up to date...maybe my luck has turned?
A new store in the neighborhood
Always nice to see capitalist expansion. We welcome the latest addition to the Atlanta suburbs:
Wherein your Nigel almost needs a goddamm wheelchair
I was
at the quack's yesterday; been having a bit of
trouble walking, and was getting worried that maybe something serious was going on.
Doc asks me my symptoms and I freely elaborate: "Doc, I'm just aching. Walking hurts. I have
groinicular pain unlike I've ever experienced.
Penisocally, I'm feeling bad, man.
Cockerspecifically, I'm in trouble. I can't even buff my own scrotum, doc, ya gotta help me, please."
So went the description. Quack did a once over, checking my thighs for bumps and skin tags, and gave a cursory examination to poor little old ignored and unloved Percy. Doc smiles.
I was indignant, and in high dudgeon, let loose: "What's so fucking funny, there, sawbones?
I know it's small and all--and it's hollow, too--but shit, you're supposed to be a professional!"
Mail-order med school grad goes: "Nigel, calm down. I'm smiling because I know what's causing your problem."
Me, nervous all of a sudden. "What is it, doc?"
And he tells me that I have something called
"vasocongestion".
Mystified and a bit frightened, I ask for elaboration. So the quack starts in: "Nigel, your sympathetic nervous system has increased its inputs to the genital tissues, resulting in increased blood flow. As this happened, other fluid outflow muscles constricted, causing less bodily fluid to leave the area than enter, ensuring a high regional blood pressure. And, since this has not been corrected, blood and lymphatic fluid have tended to pool, and the blood became oxygen-deprived. The technical term for this is vasocongestion."
Goddamm
medical doublespeak gobbledy-gook. "Give it to me straight, quack--in plain English."
And the doc goes: "Nigel, you have what's commonly known as blue balls."
I'd never heard of this before and frankly was even more frightened. But he told me the cure: "Nigel, it's simple," he winked. "You need to
get some trim." I looked at him, confused. "Trim?" And sawbones gives my arm a nudge, smiling: "Yeah, boy!
Get ya some trim! And have some fun while you're at it!"
Bewildered, I dragged myself out of the strip center medical office. But I figured, what the hell, if that's what the doctor ordered.
So today, I'm hobbling off to the barber shop to get my hair cut. If this "trim" is the prescription, that should take care of it, right?
Star Trek--the secret porn files
A scene from the recently discovered XXX movie,
"Vulcan Vagina: Spock's Quest".
Bonus pathetic joke I once told the actress who played
Uhura (Nichelle Nichols, pictured getting ready to be molested, above) after I'd wrapped up a radio interview with her while she and James Doohan (who played Scotty) were doing publicity for one of the Star Trek movies:
Q: Why were there no bathrooms on the Starship Enterprise?
A: Because their mission was to boldly go where no man has gone before.
*rimshot*
She didn't even crack a smile. The bitch.
Rain
It's raining like hell here in Atlanta today, thanks to Miss Fay. Enjoy the video!
Fasting, today
I got
all spiritual after yesterday's post regarding the nun beauty pageant and the monk bodybuilding contest...so today, in honor of that soul-washed feeling, I'm gonna on purpose
deprive myself of that which I would not normally deprive myself were I not depriving myself out of sheer deprivation.
See,
I am fasting today.And it's not even Ramadan yet!
That's right, fasting: the
empty plate club. Nothing, nada, zippo. Except maybe some pomegranate juice (it's good for the prostate, see). I anticipate heightened sense of senses as a result of the lack of stimulation. I anticipate, in truth, some frustration as a result of my fast. I have to steel myself for the inevitable urges, but I have will power and will avoid the kitchen, for sure.
It'll be hard, but I'll rise to the occasion and ultimately I believe I will prevail.Wish me luck, shlubbies.
Miss Sister, 2008
I don't know what to make of this, except to simply report it to you--then,
you make up your own mind.
An Italian priest is
organizing a beauty pageant--for nuns. Called
"Miss Sister 2008", it'll start in September, online. The
horny old celibate setting this up is
Father Antonio Rungi. I don't quite know how I'm going to react to the
bathing suit portion of the contest; it'll be, um, interesting to see how that gets handled, so to speak.
What's next?
I vote for
"Buddhist Bodybuilders 2008", which is
Tibetan monks getting
all oiled up and going through pose routines. Our first contestant, Tenzing Norkay from Garze prefecture, is pictured at right. Rumor has it that he's the Dalai Lama's personal choice to go all the way; he's the odds on favorite to win the coveted "Mr. Nirvana" award, which will be presented by Courtney Love at a special ceremony in Seattle in early 2009.
Clean up time...
Goddammit! It's just like Joan Rivers says: you
clean your house, and then 6 months later you have to do it all over again.
Last night, while in the middle of a very important conversation with a friend of mine, I accidentally spilled all kinds of
stuff on the kitchen floor. And I'd just cleaned the damn thing like, on Friday, and have actually swept and washed it since then! I want one of those Swiffer automatic thingamajigs that come out of the closet, robot-like, and mop everything in sight, right away, without having to be told anything except the
command in Spanish that goes like this: "
¡mire! ¡usted! ¡criada! ¡limpie esta mierda!" which translates to
"Look! Maid! Clean this shit up!" See, I assume
all household cleaning devices speak Spanish. Makes them synch up nice with the real world, and all.
Here's my little kitchen floor clean up poem:
I have to clean the kitchen floor
Again! it seems it's always more
The mess I made, the spills I spilled
My cleaning time is always filledIt came so fast this big old mess
It's pretty bad, I must confess
I want it clean like new to shine
The kitchen pride I want is mine
I like my house to be real neatNo dirt to track when in bare feet
This mess I've made, I feel so dumb
You don't agree? Well, buff my scrotum.
Canadian porn
Comes now a story about a
new Canadian porn channel. Called Northern Peaks, it will feature
50% Canadian content (i.e. Canadian-produced porn) from various categories, including pornographic sitcoms and game shows.
Apparently it's culturally important for Canadians to stand apart and away from their southern neighbors, so there's pride taken in the production of anything that's
local and not "American". But to me, there's something funny about the idea that the owner of this channel would make a big deal about the local content issue. Such a point of national pride, don't you think?
But
what, exactly, is Canadian porn, and how does it differ from American porn? Canadians, for the most part, are just like Americans, except
much more bland, and also colder. Ending every sentence with "eh?" and mispronouncing basic words like "about"--they say it sorta like "aboot"--it's a pretty fair assertion that except for a few minor issues, you can't tell a Canadian from, say, a normal white person.
And they're actually pretty boring, regular people, you know? Want proof? At right, Canadian porn stars going at it. It's so fucking cold up there, it's the world's
only porn where people leave their clothes on, to prevent freezing to death. Wild, huh? Eh? That's some
hot boy-girl action, dontcha think?
Here's a
Canadian porno movie script excerpt:Woman: Ooh, baby, I feel it happening, are you ready, eh, you hoser?
Man: I'm just aboot ready to pop, eh?
Woman: Eh?
Man: Eh?
Woman: Eh?
Man: Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh?
See what I mean?
Nigels' date, last night
One of my little quirks is that I'm not very revealing about my love life. But I'm
girding my loins here, and ask you now to sit back, relax, and let me regale you with a tale from
last night's debauched near-love fest, which took place at chez Nigel. A place I humbly call "The Cock Castle."
I met her on a Monday, and my heart stood still. Da do ron, ron, ron, da doo ron ron. Just kidding. No, really, I met her at the local Kroger this past Monday.
I'm buying jarred pigs feet; she's in the pharmacy section, staring at the
boxes of feminine hygiene products. So me being el rico suave, I sidle up to Miss Girl Of My Dreams and say, sotto voice, "So, having
that not so fresh feeling, are we?" Then came the witty part: "How about you spend a 'Summers Eve' with me, baby?" I stretched out the "baby" to sound like Barry White, but while he was still alive (he hasn't been making much noise lately, ya see).
This is one of my standard opening gambits when I see a chickadee, a sweet little petunia to my taste and liking, and more often than not I get slapped. 'Tis a mystery. But this time, she laughed, looked me up and down, and said, "So--
you want a date?"Slackjawed at my success, I immediately revealed
all my personal information to her, including my vital stats, address, bank account and Social Security numbers. We agreed she'd come to the house last night for food, fun, and frolic, and hey presto nonny nio, there she was bright and on time at 8pm.
I took in her perfection while she stood on the stoop. Short and chubby, with that
young Bea Arthur look I love so much, she had dark hair, blue streaks and purple highlights, and was wearing a track suit and
some kind of boots. Army boots? Special Forces? I couldn't tell. She had tattoos and was smoking an unfiltered Camel when I opened the door. My kinda gal, lemme tell you!!
We ate, we drank, we laughed, we cried, we ran the gamut of human emotions. I fired up the video games and we had a
rousing game of Pong. Then, we
played Twister. I'd set the mood early by thoughtfully programming a cool mix tape containing all my favorite seduction songs from all the hep artists who specialize in la atmosphere romantica.
Captain & Tennille. The Osmond Brothers. Jerry Vale. Engelbert Humperdink. You get the idea. That cassette sounded great and along with the incense and candles, your humble Nigel couldn't help but think: SCORE! I'M GONNA FINALLY GET SOME! YES! And no shit, now, little Percy in my pants was stirring, I don't mind telling you, with all the anticipation of the marvelousness to come.
The rest of the night will remain mostly private. I can tell you that at one point I was explaining to her that I was a
"grow-er, not a show-er" and there was much discussion of the efficacy of
Viagra usage. Still and all, a wonderful experience that I hope to repeat.
AND--topping off the evening festivities, she gave me a
discount! It all only cost me $300, which is a significant
reduction off the standard ho' rack rate. So, on a scale of 1--10, I give my night a 7.
My near encounter with death courtesy of Mike Kenn
Dateline San Antonio: KSAT TV reports that a man was approached at a convenience store by some guy who spun the following yarn: "I have $80,000, and will give you $10,000 to donate the rest to charity. But first ... show me some of your own money so I know I can trust you." Idiot victim proceeds to an ATM and withdraws $7,500 from his bank account to show his good faith. Natch, he was then
relieved of his cash at knifepoint.This reminds me of a story I told
on the radio in Atlanta--back in the early 80's, there was a report that
Detroit Lions QB Eric Hipple had driven some girl home from a party. They stopped outside her "house"; at that point she gushingly said to Mr. Smartypants Hipple, "No one will believe that you, Eric Hipple, drove me home! My brother's inside the house--can you let me have your wallet so I can run in there, show him your license, and prove to him that it's really you?" Hipple obliged,
girl jumps out of the car carrying said wallet and all his cash, and promptly disappeared.
So I'm on the air mocking Hipple. Altering my voice to
sound like a retard, I was saying things like
"Fooootball. I play foooootball." Basically, playing off the stereotype of the dumb football player--right? So, to commercials I go, and while they're playing the inside line rings. It's the receptionist, telling me that I have
someone on the line who wanted to speak to me, NOW. Sure, I said, who is it?
And she goes:
it's Mike Kenn from the Atlanta Falcons.Now, Mike Kenn (left) was at that time a starting offensive tackle for the Falcons. He was (and still is)
GIGANTIC: 6'7", 275 pounds, lean muscle, just a huge, aggressive, 5-time Pro Bowler. I'd met him before at charity events the radio station did with the Falcons, and he seemed nice enough, but certainly not someone you wanted to cross. This time, I'd crossed him. Yikes!
Talk about
sphincter-tightening time. I figured that Mike was gonna kill me. So I rolled tape and it went something like this (I played it back on the air after the commercials were done):
ME: "Mike Kenn from the Falcons is on the line, hi Mike, you're on the air--what's on your mind?" (as if I didn't know).
MIKE: "Heard you talking about dumb football players."
ME: (nervously) "Um, yeah Mike, it was a story about how one of the Lions got ripped off in a cheesy scam."
MIKE: (voice rising) "Ok, but DUMB FOOTBALL PLAYERS?"
ME: (terrified) "Mike, calm down, I didn't mean all football players!"
MIKE: (still angry) WELL, WHAT DID YOU MEAN, THEN?"
ME: (crapping my pants) "Um, Mike, this is Eric Hipple we're talking about here. You know--the quarterback. I was making fun of Hipple."
MIKE: (long silence) "Hipple, huh? The quarterback?"
ME: (hoping to go to heaven after he kills me) "Uh--yes, Mike, the quarterback, Eric Hipple."
MIKE: (long silence) "Well..ok then. That makes sense. He
is an idiot. Never mind."
And he started laughing. And I started crying, from sheer relief!
Beijing Olympics logo creation
Full credit to
vincentchow.net for this; I'm just ripping him off--sorry, Vincent, hope your website traffic is mega-shmega, and I hope people visit based on this alone. According to Vincent, this is how China created its Olympic logo.
Michael Vick, financial genius
I see where that dingleberry eating dog abuser ex-football player jailbird and
all around slagheap Michael Vick is in financial trouble. A just released court-supervised report lists his expenses; it adds up to $12,000 monthly. His income? $244 monthly, from a pension payout. Plus, he makes 12 cents an hour working on the chain gang, or
keeping his prison girlfriend in line, or whatever the hell it is convicts do to pass the time.
Wait. That's
$12,000 per month in current expenses--that is, right now, while he's in jail. I understand that mortgage payments don't suddenly stop when you find yourself disgraced, friendless, and stuck in the hoosegow. But check out some of the other things he's claiming cost him cash whilst incarcerated, and keep in mind, now, what's below are expenses for
just one of his homes (in Virginia):
- Telephone: $300
- Food: $1,600
- Clothing: $500
- Laundry and dry cleaning: $75
- Transportation (not car payments): $1,800
- Auto insurance: $550
- Charitable contributions: $800
I don't get it.
You're in jail, Mike. What is with the food and clothing and the rest of it? Here's an idea: while you're busy getting nightly butt-boned in the Big House, how about you
cancel the phone, the auto insurance, the charitable contributions (undoubtedly to the Humane Society); bag the "transportation" that isn't car payments (what is that? Are you taking the subway between cellblock A and cellblock B?), and as for laundry and dry cleaning? Mike, I just bet you look great in those starched prison jumpsuits, and I bet there are some guys out there who think to themselves, jeez, if I were in jail with you, Mike, you'd be my girl...but
lay off with the sartorial splendor, at least till you're released and can once again earn money mumbling your way through incomprehensible radio ads for Air Tran. Hmmm?
Lastly, Mike,
up in doggie heaven right now, my guys Mickey and Zhiran are joyfully drinking toilet water, celebrating this latest comedown for ya...if they were still here, they'd shit on you, too. Then it'd be on to a quick round of smelling each other's pooh pooh, and all the other fun things dogs get to do when they're not being abused by assholes like you. I'm just sayin'...
Nigel Jr. is for real, shlubbies
I've received some emails from a couple loyal shlubbies who expressed surprise that
there is indeed a Nigel Jr. out there in the world. I'm a responsible dad in every way, despite this blog, believe me.
Here's
a photo taken a few years back of young Nigel (left) along with his cousin Connor (right, obviously). They'd just got out of my backyard pool when this was taken. Thank God Nigel Jr. looks like his mother, who is a good looking woman. Why she ever hooked up with me, I dunno. Must be my charm and wit.
An idea to make the Olympics more interesting
I'm a
bit bored with the Olympics, now that horse-face has won his 8 medals. How to make it more, um, interesting? Here's an idea -- introduce an
element of danger to the proceedings! Thoughts?
Athens, Georgia: ain't no Parthenon, y'all
I had to visit Athens, Georgia, today on business.
Who named this place, anyway? Home to the Georgia Bulldogs, recently rated #1 in partying and dementia on the latest AP poll...yet there's nothing remotely Athenian about Athens. Similarly, Georgia has a city named Rome. There's nothing Roman about it, lemme tell you. I've been to Rome, and if the Georgia version was to be considered similar to the Italian version, they'd need to have gypsy children accosting you when you visit the sites. At least, that's what happened to me during my last Italian visit.
What sites do you get in Rome, Georgia? Allow me, your loveable Nigel, to provide you a glimpse:
- Waffle House. Home of the "we don't wash our hands while we cook" experts, the remarkable nature of the gastronomical experience hits you only once you're on the throne, athwart, and bearing down. Many moons ago, I posted a story about how the Scottish government had created a pamphlet advising readers on "Good Defecation Dynamics", and you'll want to peruse this thing well in advance of a visit to the den of diarrhea represented by the Waffle House. Trust me on this.
- Wal-Mart. Again, a previous post. What else needs be said? Re-live and and enjoy.
Our tour of Rome ends just south and east, in the lovely town of Braselton, home of the "we don't hate Negroes, but by God they need to stay in their place." Or at least, something like that.
Can you eat these things?
My
blogging buddy Annie has a post on her site:
"what foods do you like the best?" To the disgust of loyal shlubbies who peruse my drivel and spew from time to time, I've already answered that question. Of course,
we're talking about Vegemite. Now, I realize good old Vegemite is an acquired taste. But one I'm addicted to.
I want to pursue the opposite tack here and reveal
the three foods I hate the most. And I'd love your opinion, really:
Guacamole. Or as I call it, the "Leavings of Linda Blair." Green gunk perpetrated on us unsuspecting continental USA residents by the Mexican government. Intent on re-acquiring Texas, the Centro de Información de Seguridad Nacional (Mexico's equivalent of the CIA) began infiltrating Taco Bells with this grotesque concoction in the late '70s. Its mind altering properties are designed to soften us gringos up, and in turn provide our neighbors to the south the opportunity to swoop back in and re-take, say, Brownsville on a moment's notice. Though why anyone would want Brownsville in the first place is a good question. The saddest day of my life was when Nigel Jr., aged 11, revealed to me that his mother serves this swill up to him on a regular basis at their house; I'm now thinking about petitioning the divorce court judge to re-open the decree and I'll appeal for sole custody based on this one fact alone.
Boiled okra. This...slime...is beyond description. Remember how that alien looked in the movie Independence Day, when they took the shell/armor off in the research lab? That's what this shit looks like. I live in Atlanta, and so must prepare myself gastronomically for any visit to the home of native Southerners. Invariably, this indescribable blechness is served. And don't get me started on the smell. Given how religious people from the deep South tend to be, it's a surprise they eat this stuff. It's biblical, actually, an Old Testament injunction against its consumption, from Leviticus 9:6-7..."Thou shalt not eat boiled okra, or the stem of the okra, or any kind of okra, for lo, it tasteth like shit." So there.
Durian fruit. Thankfully not generally available in the US. When I was a kid living in Singapore we were served this delicacy up, and I didn't sleep for days afterwards. The smell is indescribable; so bad that the fruit is banned from hospitals in Thailand, where it is naturally grown and otherwise quite popular. There are alleged health benefits to durian consumption, though...how about this quote, lifted directly from www.durian.net: "After having consumed the flesh of two durians with a combined weight (not yet pealed) of about 4 kg, I always cough up phlegm from my lungs." Charming.
So what do YOU think?
A fired bartender leads to sadness for Nigel
I'm a nearly broken man.Early this afternoon I received a distressing phone call, and it put me in a funk for the remainder of the day. Seems
my favorite bartender at the watering hole I frequent was
fired by the owner today, on the phone. This bartender, who I'll call Guido, apparently threatened the life of one of the 18 year old
Widespread Panic loving dope smoking patchouli smelling dishwashers in the place. My bartender friend isn't much for hippie nonsense on the job, and lord knows there's lottsa that there, and he's yelled at people before about their
"wasn't it great in '68" behavior in the past--without losing his job. So whatever the altercation was, it must have been spectacular.
So I'm really stuck. This guy was the only guy they had behind the bar there; all the other tenders are women...lovely, young women...with whom it's difficult to have a guy's bar hanging out kind of conversation. Do you know what I mean by that? They're very nice, and I like them, but it's just not the same.
Most importantly, Guido (the bartender) often bought, like,
half of my bar bill on his comp tab. I'd make it up to him in tips. The legend spread; this led to me having a reputation in this place for being a monster tipper (say, $20 tip on a bill that might have been $21 but should have been $50) which in turn and over time made me exceedingly popular in this place, culminating in much free Sambuca being sent my way by all the employees. And I tip accordingly. This will now likely stop. For this, my liver is grateful (it had itself a little party this afternoon) but I'm not sure what to make of it.
So, I'm sad tonight. My life is about to take a big change...hey, maybe that's not all bad, either, eh?
I think I'll take up knitting.
The next time you move....
Moving is tough. In 1993, i lived in
four separate states--including one move from Washington, D.C., to San Francisco. And I did all those moves on my own. Sooooo much fun.
It's difficult to find people to help when you're moving, isn't it? Sometimes,
a little gun play can help. Below, from a series of "Moving Tips":
Photos, of me
I'm always amazed when I visit blogs that contain a lot of current photographs.
Me being both agoraphobic and humanaphobic, well, there's
not many chances to capture la visage du Nigel via the Instamatic. I think the last photo of me, taken voluntarily and by someone other than me, was perhaps 1996. And I believe the lens cracked then, too.
One of the
advantages of being totally alone, as I am now, is there's no visual record of one's increased, slow but sure slide into decrepitivity. There's a photo of me, taken back in my radio days, backstage, 1988, arm-in-arm with Elton John (if I could find it I'd post it, seriously), where I actually look...attractive. As in, women might perhaps maybe look at and go, "hell, if he paid me money, or maybe bought me a Porsche, I might give him 25 seconds of heaven." But
since then, it's been downhill for your favorite misanthrope.
Actually, I lie. There's a photo I just found of
your Nigel getting ready to introduce the Beach Boys on stage back in 1999. Since then though, there ain't shit. Photo at right. I look WAY worse now, no surprise, eh shlubbies? Balder, fatter, grayer, uglier, with pustules and nastiness on full display. Plus, one of my eyes looks this way while the other looks that way. Sorta like Sammy Davis, Jr.
Michael Costa, potty mouth. I love it.
Why we can't have politicians like this here in the US is a mystery to me.Consider the case of one
Michael Costa (right), who's the treasurer of the state of New South Wales (NSW), in Australia. This, by the way, is the home of the city of Sydney, and by far the most populous state in Australia.
At a recent meeting with union officials, Costa said the following--in public, and on the record:
"You blokes can get fucked. You're going to look like dickheads on Monday morning."A few weeks later, after the Labor MP Geoff Corrigan told a caucus meeting how unpopular the NSW Government was, he received a call from Mr Costa, who told him:
"I just want to tell you that you're fucked, you're totally and utterly fucked."Costa continues the
proud and honorable tradition of Australian potty mouth politicians,
including Prime Ministers. Could you imagine John McCain or Barack Obama saying this kind of stuff on the record--let alone, not denying it when it went public?
....except YOU!!
MySpace "music" that plays right away--sucks
...and another thing I hate: when you go to someone's
MySpace page, and they have some godawful
song that starts playing the minute the page loads. Actually,
any song, even a good one, that starts playing the minute the page loads...sucks.
Actually, the people who place them there are the ones that suck.
If I want folks in the office to know I'm
screwing around online and not paying attention to work, then visiting MySpace is perhaps the best way to do that. Unless you turn the volume down, all the way, and who remembers to do that?
Here's what I've done. Instead of placing an mp3 of music,
my page features some rotating mp3s:- the sound of a man screaming, repeatedly, as in he's being stabbed to death. At least, that's what it sounds like. It's bloodcurdling. So when visitors to my page load it up, they're instantly assaulted with this, and it's LOUD.
- sound lifted from a super disgusting porn movie. A woman, quite obviously in the throes of orgasm, courtesy of a horse. You can hear her horse lover, too.
- and, finally, sounds from this website -- I'll leave it to you to visit, and you'll get the idea.
Russians invade Georgia, rednecks go berserk
OK, so now I'm pissed.
Instead of me being somewhat reasonable, I'm back to my old, charming self.
Is George Bush a retard, or what?
Here we have fucking
Russia invading Georgia, and he's busy sucking Vladimir Putin's shrunken, hollow penis at the Olympics (and I don't give one flying fuck about the games, let's be clear on that) -- and he does his old "Putey-pute" drill...fuck that.
Look
, I live in Atlanta, and I'm worked up that the fucking Russians are invading goddamm Voldosta.
Makes me mad. And if they come after where I live, which is the Atlanta suburb of Snellville, well, goddammit,
where the fuck is the US military when we need it? I'm thinking: China, with George Bush. Goddammit. When the
fucking Russians take over Georgia, and all the wonderful things the state has to offer, like boiled okra and fried the fuck possum, well goddammit, the world is coming to an end.
To say nothing of the goddamm Margaret Mitchell House, 10th and Peachtree, where that old twat wrote Gone With The Fucking Wind.
We're gonna let the goddamm Russkies take that, too?
A visit to Beijing
As I'm typing, they're beginning the Olympics opening ceremonies in Beijing. The Olympics, I don't care so much about. China, though, is interesting in so many ways.
In 2003,
I spent a few days in Beijing as part of a visit to my brother's family, who were then living in
Hong Kong. We flew up to Beijing on
Air China, the government-owned airline...first surprise: the plane was spotless, the service fantastic, the food excellent. I don't know what I expected but it wasn't this. I've got to say that Air China is one of the best airlines I've ever flown, hands down beating the snot out of Delta, United, American, Qantas, Air New Zealand, Air France, British Airways, and most others I've flown. Top of my head, the only airline experience I've had that was better was on Singapore Airlines; they're in a whole different category from just about everyone else in terms of what you get
inflight. But Air China: I was really impressed.
Beijing was cold and smoggy but still amazing. We stayed at the
Crowne Plaza Beijing, located on
Wangfujing Avenue; we got upgraded to suites and they were really, really nice. This hotel is
within walking distance of the Forbidden City and Tienanmen Square, so right away we set off, wandering off the main roads towards the walls of the old Imperial Palace. Once inside, my brother's kids and Nigel Jr. ran around like crazy...they laid down in the snow and made snow angels, much to the bewildered amusement of the Chinese tourists who were also visiting. After
seeing everything, we went through a sort of big tunnel and found ourselves exiting right under the
huge portrait of Mao you see in photos of Tienanmen Square (photo, right). Lots and lots of security; police with sub-machine guns, etc., and it was here and at that moment that my 9 year old nephew turns to me and loudly said: "Hey, Uncle Nigel, isn't this the place where they killed all those people?" I
whapped him over the head: "Shut up, you little shower of shit, these police understand English and unless you want us to end up in some godforsaken Chinese hole of a prison, you'll hold your mung coated tongue.
Capice?" He whispers back: "
ok, sorry, but you didn't have to hit me you fucking asshole."
I love my family.
Next day it was a private bus to the
Great Wall. Here's the secret of visiting the Great Wall:
don't go to the Badaling access point. Go to Mutianyu instead (photo at left).
Badaling is crammed with other
douchenozzle tourists and irritating Chinese vendors hawking T-shirts and other assorted B.S. Two reasons it's so crowded: it's the closest access point from Beijing, and you can "walk" right onto the wall.
Mutianyu, on the other hand...was totally empty, devoid of other tourists. Sure, they've got an assortment of vendor stalls, but not anything unmanageable. You can't walk onto the wall at
Mutianyu; instead, there's a
cable car that takes you to the top. There was NOBODY there at all the day we went, and it was sparkling, sunny, and even a bit warm compared to freezing Beijing (this was November). The Wall itself is awesome. Standing on it and looking out to Inner Mongolia, you see it meandering up and down hills and valleys until it disappears into the distance.
The kids loved how we got down from the wall. Sure, we could have gone back on the cable car, but us Howle-Raines types are
adventurous! Think Indiana Jones, but drunk most of the time (the adults, anyway). See, at
Mutianyu, they have a
wheeled toboggan track that curves down the hill--you get in your own personal toboggan, and gravity takes care of the rest. Hold on tight! The ride lasts a minute or so and it's really fun! A photo of the view heading down the track is at right.
There'd be no way in hell they'd offer something like that here in the U.S;
the safety Nazis would freak.
Last stop in Beijing was the
Summer Palace (photo, left). It was freezing and foggy and eerie there, but also extraordinarily beautiful. The buildings of the palace, spread out over about 3 square kilometers, shrouded in mist and fog and overlooking Kunming Lake, are classically Chinese and really breathtaking.
A great visit to a fascinating place....I highly recommend it. By the way, in China, they don't call Chinese food "Chinese food". They just call it "food". Remember that,
shlubbies, if you visit.
Vegemite--nectar of the gods...and now, for breakfast, too!
Vegemite is the greatest stuff in the world...an Australian concoction available only there, marketed by the Kraft cheese people. It's a paste made from yeast and it's mmmmm good. Chock-a-clock with Vitamin B and salt. And now, it's for breakfast, too! YAY!
Are you an asshole?
Jean-Paul Sartre famously said that
"hell is other people".
Depends on who the people are. I'd love your input, but here's my first, tentative stab at my list of
certified assholes:
- Sean Hannity
- Jesse Jackson
- Jackson Browne
- The Jackson Five
- Jack Black
- Whoever the idiot is who invented Crocs
- Both my ex-wives, and all my ex-wives' family members
- Most of my family, to be honest
- "S" (oh, she knows who she is...)
- Me
Take the "Are You An Asshole?" test here.OK, that'll do it! Till next time...
To The Lovely Girl Across The Table: a thoughtful poem
To The Lovely Girl Across The TableHappy hour you've had some drinks,And things are heating up.She tells you what she really thinks,While you stare in your cup.She's mad she's glad sometimes she flirts;Your mind is elsewhere now,Somewhere inside your body hurts--You have to leave, and how.It's urgent now you feel the pain!The pressure's on your mind.Leaving you'll have much to gain,You're not the shrinking kind.So now it's time to take that stand--You know when that time is.Man up my boy, take things in hand,And go and take a whiz.The End. A Samuel Coleridge Production
Please read this
Those of you who know me from this blog will be surprised, perhaps, at this post. But I implore you to take as much time as needed to read this article:
http://tampabay.com/features/humaninterest/article750838.ece
It's the
true story of a little girl in Tampa who was "raised" without so much as any kind of human contact at all , didn't know how to play with toys, couldn't talk, couldn't do anything-- found by Child Protective Services weighing something like 46 pounds in conditions so deplorable that one of the first investigating officers had to leave the house upon entering to throw up in the front yard -- then how she was adopted by an amazing family who already had their own special needs kid (who, you'll learn, is an incredible little man in his own right).
My description here cannot do the story justice. Make sure you check out the multi-media features included as they give you more insight into this tale of human tragedy and hopefully, eventually, maybe, human triumph.
I'm a crumpled, weeping mess right now, and you will be, too, once you're done reading.
One more reason to hate my pool
Out on the deck this morning, right by the pool, and I find this
gigantic, huge, slithering, coiled up thing sunning itself by the skimmer closest to the sun chairs. Yes, friends, it was a snake. A big, nasty, disgusting, crawling on its belly reptile.
I hate fucking snakes. Snakes, spiders, creepy-crawly anything, frogs, slugs, toads, butterflies, and all manner of God's marvelous creations: keep them wide the bloody hell away from me.
I spotted this thing, and I must say, it was
just as well I was wearing a brown swimsuit. After wadddling back inside to clean myself up, I returned outside with battle plans in mind. How to get rid of Satan? Call 911? I rejected this out of hand, because I didn't want to deal with Shinquaneesha laughing at me on the other end of the phone. A broom? Too...close. Yelling at it? Do snakes have ears? Spraying it with Windex? Why not, it works for everything else, and at least the snake would be squeeky clean. Nope, rejected that, too.
So finally I hit upon the idea of turning the hose on this thing with the nozzle bored down tight so the water would hit it hard, in a nice continuous stream. Added advantage: I could do this from 20 feet away. The snake wouldn't even see me, let alone be within striking distance.
So whammo! A water bath for Beezlebub! And this snake didn't like it one bit, uncoiling,
moving REALLY FUCKING FAST (shit, the thing could outrun me; thank God I was nowhere near it) off the deck and onto the grass where it promptly disappeared down a hole right next to the deck. Great. So now I have an anaconda living under my pool deck.
Sometimes I wonder
why I ever moved out of my apartment. It had all I neededd: one room, a kitchen, a bathroom, bookshelves, cable. And no flaming snakes.
Welcome to Beijing
If you're handicapped (or should I say, "differently abled"?), the Chinese have a special welcome for you at the forthcoming Olympics.
Many years ago, when I was still sexually active, and also btw a complete horndog, I was, um, busy with a young lady I'd just met. We were getting up close and personal in the back seat of my Oldsmobile Delta 88 while it was parked in a shopping mall lot. This is late night, see, and undoubtedly the rocking up and down, steamy windows, combined with the fact that it was the only car in the lot at 4am-- well, suffice it to say that the action drew the attention of the mall security people.
So there's your Nigel, a-bangin' away, when comes banging on the window the security guy's flashlight. It wasn't enough that he caught us--no--he made me and my girl stand outside the car, au naturele, while he debated calling the real cops. While he was debating, he was a) laughing at my little Percy and b) seriously ogling what my girl had to offer, if you know what I mean. But I took no shit off of this Barney Fife wannabe, believe me; I asked him if he was proud of himself for checking her out that way and also if he was proud of his high level pretend cop job. He got pissed, told me that this was just an interim job for him, that he was a college graduate. even! And I was like, college graduate, huh? Which one--clown, or barber?
