Hell hath no fury II

Whilst the last story seems to be true (wide coverage in the dailies and an eBay item suggest some basis in reality), I rather hope this one isn't...

Jake lay dying while his wife held a candlelight vigil by his side. She held his fragile hand, tears running down her face. Her praying roused him from his slumber. He looked up, and his pale lips began to move slightly.

"Becky, my darling," he whispered.

"Hush, my love," she said. "Rest, don't talk."

He was insistent. "Becky," he said in his tired voice. "I have something that I must confess."

"There isn't anything to confess," replied the weeping Becky, "Everything's all right, go to sleep."

"No, no, I must die in peace, Becky. I . . . I slept with your sister, your best friend, her best friend, and your mother!"

"Shhh, Darling," whispered Becky, "I know, I know. Let the poison work."

Enjoy...

Hell hath no fury...

This eBay item caught my eye - a £25,000 motor car (a rather spiffing Lotus Esprit) for 50p.

There is, inevitably, a hilarious backstory that has a particular resonance for me. I'm sure my wife would extract her revenge on me by trashing my cars (before progressing to my soft and squidgy bits).

• The preening wideboy standing by the car is a "shock jock" at a radio station called "Kerrang".
• The Lotus is (was) his pride and joy.
• He was interviewing one Jodie Marsh*
• Flirting outrageously on air, he declares that he'd leave his wife and children for her.

Only problem is that his wife is listening at home...

And he registered the car in her name...

Oh dear...

* Jodie (for those of you who don't live in the UK or are lucky enough to have not had her thrust down your throat by tabloid editors wishing to show quasi-pornographic photo's) is an ex-lapdancer, Z-list celebrity (for no obvious reason other than a propensity to display way too much flesh in public) and MAW (model/actress/whatever).

Enjoy...

I've gone off sex...

I've gone off sex.

I have been off it for about three minutes now and I'm at my wit's (or is that wits'?) end.

This has been happening on a regular basis and sometimes the three minutes can run consecutively. They may amount to even as much as an entire hour.

I have tried bungee jumping, water skiing, sleeping, reading purient posts in the blogshere (mainly about anal sex), writing purient posts on this blog (mainly about anal sex), going on holiday, avoiding tsunamis (I never much liked sushi bars anyway), watching blue movies, making blue movies, driving fast cars very fast, falling in love, parachuting, farting Tubular Bells, and even on occasion chatting to my colleagues.

None of it does it for me!

Am I obsessed and in need of counselling?

I draw the line at drugs, meeting Jeffrey Archer, snuff movies and paedophilia so, no nonsense suggestions there please. So, boys and girls, what to do when one is BORED??????????????

Teamwork...

"We're a team - and that means you do exactly what I say..."
Michael Caine, as Charlie Croker in The Italian Job.

Work continues to be painful in the vein of "opinions are like arseholes: everybody has got one..." I just people would trust my experience on stuff rather than questioning it for several weeks then concluding that we should do what I say but only:

1. to shut me up;
2. because I've always got it right in the past; and
3. because it will be my fault if it goes wrong (thanks)...

In the meantime, they are conspiring to create more fuck-ups than Wayne Rooney in a brothel.

So, with no time for originality, you will have to settle for somethinfg regurgitated. It is a joke that haunts me a little, as I have slept with enough women (to be clear, I paid for the majority of them) that I am not sure that I'd recognise them all:

A man standing in line at a check out counter of a grocery store was very surprised when a very attractive woman behind him said, "Hello!"

Her face was beaming. He gave her that "who are you look," and couldn't remember ever having seen her before.

Then, noticing his look, she figured she had made a mistake and apologized. "Look," she said, "I'm really sorry but when I first saw you, I thought you were the father of one of my children," and walked out of the store.

The guy was dumbfounded and thought to himself, "What the hell is the world coming to? Here is an attractive woman who can't keep track of who fathers her children! "

Then he got a little panicky. "I don't remember her," he thought but, MAYBE.... during one of the wild parties he had been to when he was in college, perhaps he did father her child!

He ran from the store and caught her in the parking lot and asked, "Are you the girl I met at a party in college and then we got really drunk and had wild crazy sex on the pool table in front of everyone?"

"No", she said with a horrified look on her face. "I'm your son's second grade teacher!"

Perhaps, I'll tell you about a long-lost (and unrecognised) college fuck-buddy who had moved in next door and my wife had befriended...

Enjoy...

Is she just using me?

Women!

They just want one thing from us men. Sex.

All of last week, I was in bed early, awaiting my wife who was downstairs messing around in the kitchen (what do they do in there all day long?). I'd slipped into bed naked save for a dab of cologne.

When she finally came to bed, I would snuggle seductively next to her, only to have her harrumph, turn over and go to sleep. Doesn't she see the effort I make? The sexy new boxer shorts? The new chinos that show off my pert (even if I do say so myself) buttocks to perfection? Did she look at my hairy legs in those shorts as I bent over, washing the car? No. Not a word. Not a single compliment!

Then, on Saturday night, I'm in bed early having had the kids run me ragged. I'm tired, I want to go to sleep. And there's my wife, late to bed, climbing in next to me, dressed in nothing but a push-up, half-cup bra and thong, rubbing herself up against me expecting sex! I mean; the cheek of it.

And not just lights-out, missionary-position, lie-back-and-think-of-England sex. She wants swinging-from-the-chandalier, bend-me-over, roger-me-stupid, fuck-me-up-the-arse-and-call-me-a-whore type sex. Well, I complied but reluctantly (only for the love I have for this woman, you understand).

Now I feel dirty, used. What should I do?

Pander to my wife's unnatural desires? Or go to sleep? ;-)

Enjoy....

Pigs on the rampage...

I have been neglecting this blog. Not out of a willful lack of interest but a chronic shortage of time. I have been plunged into a morass of shit by my colleagues, who, I have decided, would struggle to arrange a panic on a doomed submarine...

So, to keep you busy, I will pass on something that landed in my inbox....

Letter written by a heartbroken man to his estranged partner:

Dear Audrey:
I know the counsellor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking.Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride's cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending that I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.

Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says... "There's no one like you, Audrey." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close.

Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation. She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice-skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Jugs you wouldn't believe and an arse like a tortoise shell. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought,
"Hey, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial".

What does a perfect body mean anyway? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes. But you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Audrey does? I doubt it. And I'd never really thought of that before. I don’t know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'd tossed her about a half a pint of throat yoghurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless thirst, but something else. Some niggling feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there, Audrey, to watch. Do you know what I mean?Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Audrey, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you. Do you remember Carol, that single mum we met at Pontins last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagne. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story. Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us.

And all of a sudden she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity unit. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad too, 'cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Audrey ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity unit for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex aid."

Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky's just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good counsel about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Audrey, she really is. So we're drinking in a hot bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry. And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing and that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fuelled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how that, even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you?It's true, Audrey. In your heart you know it. Don't you think we couldstart all over again? Just wipe out all the grievances and start fresh? I think we can.

If you feel the same way please, please let me know.

If not, perhaps you'd contact me anyway and let me know where the Sky remote control is?

John

Enjoy...