Working my arse off - hopefully...

I'm trying to get back in shape having gained about a stone over the last 5 years. Fuck me, it's boring. No food and either sweating my arse off in the gym or pounding the streets in my running shoes - where's the fun in that? Now, I might have once been a tuned athlete but that was in a team sport - I always had someone else there to motivate me.

What I need is this:

WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM FOR MEN
A man was ordered by his doctor to lose 75 lbs.
As he wondered how in the heck he would ever do that, he ran across an ad in the newspaper for a GUARANTEED WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM.
"Guaranteed. Yeah right!" he thought to himself.
But desperate, he called them up and subscribed to the 3-day / 10 pound weight loss program.
The next day there was a knock on his door, and when he answered, there stood before him a voluptuous, athletic, 19-year-old young lady dressed in nothing but air and some Nike running shoes. She introduces herself as a representative of the weight loss company, and shows him a sign around her neck.
The sign read, "If you can catch me, you can have me!"
Without a second thought he took off after her. A few miles later,huffing and puffing, he finally caught her and had his way with her.
After they were through and she left, he thought to himself, "I like the way this company does business!"
The same girl showed up for the next two days and the same thing happened. On the fourth day, he weighed himself and was delighted to find he had lost 10 lbs. as promised.
He called the company and ordered their 5-day / 20 pound program.
The next day there was a knock on the door andthere stood the most stunning, beautiful, sexy woman he had ever seen in his life, wearing nothing but Reebok running shoes and a sign around her neck that read, "If you catch me, you can have me."
He was out the door after her like a shot. This girl was in excellent shape and it took him a while to catch her, but when he did, it was worth every cramp and wheeze.
For the next four days, the same routine happened. Much to his delight, on the fifth day, he weighed himself and found he had lost another 20 lbs, as promised. He decided to go for broke and called the company to order the 7-day/ 50 pound program.
"Are you sure?" asked the representative on the phone. "This is our most rigorous program."
"Absolutely," he replied, "I haven't felt this good in years."
The next day there was a knock at the door and when he opened it he found a muscular guy standing there wearing nothing but pink running shoes and a sign around his neck that read,"If I catch you, you're mine."

Now that would get me motivated...

Enjoy...

Indestructi-porn...

I'm indebted to Scary Duck for pointing me to an extraordinary article that "Gentlemen's Literature for Relaxation" (a.k.a. wank mags) seem to barely degrade at all.

He found that magazines, newspapers and old bits of wood thrown away up to 46 years ago were in almost perfect condition, with pornography lasting the best of all.

He displayed a 1979 copy of the men's magazine Playboy which was in near mint condition, and said its thick wax coating could be the reason for its longevity.

"The best preserved was the pornography," Mr Ximenes said. "It was a bit ironic."

Now this has some important implications. We should all buy as much porn as possible - it will lock up carbon and help us to reach our Kyoto targets.

It also means that, as Fark concludes, "porn will be this civilization's gift to the next civilization." Excellent! Stuffy professors in 3005 discussing whether Miss June has silicone tits. I can't wait.

Enjoy...

Post script:
Boing Boing points out that the kaolin in the paper (the ingredient that gives the paper its shine) is mildly radioactive - so my environmental plan of porn saving the world may be a little off base.

Even more worrying is what is happening to us when we rub our genitals on the paper. What? you don't do that? Well, clearly, I don't either, but I may have a friend who does...

Hair today, gone tomorrow...

Sorry, I've been meaning to post this for a while but I've been sidelined on other things... Last night, I noticed my wife had shaved her pussy (she usually is a bit "brazilian") and that reminded me. Well, actually, it reminded me to bonk her brains out - but it also reminded me of this interesting recent Economist article about the sexual development of hair.

Quite fascinating...

However, the author suggests that pubic hair did not become evolutionarily redundant because of smell. I thought that it had a lubricating function as well, stopping the skin from chafing so easily.

Nevertheless, it makes some interesting points particularly on beards:

"The theory here is that sexual selection has kept facial hair in men, presumably because this advertises their male hormones. But why, then, do so many men, in so many cultures, shave them off? ... perhaps, shaving is popular because facial shape in humans is a sexually dimorphic characteristic. Men tend to have squarer jaws than women, and they shave to highlight this. If so, this would explain the trend for emphasising the edge of the jawline with a fringe of hair. But moustaches are a mystery, to evolutionary biologists and to practically everyone else.

Finally, I came across this hooker joke that tickled my fancy:

Tony Blair started jogging near his home in Chequers. Every day, he'd jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner. He learned to brace himself as he approached her for what was almost certain to follow.

"Fifty pounds!" she'd shout from the curb.

"No! Five pounds!" Tony would fire back.

This ritual between Tony and the hooker became a daily occurrence. He'd run by and she'd yell, "Fifty pounds!" He'd yell back, "Five pounds!"

One day, Cherie decided that she wanted to accompany her husband on his jog. As the jogging couple neared the working woman's street corner, Tony realized she'd bark her £50 offer and Cherie would wonder what he'd really been doing on all his past outings. He figured he'd better have a darnn good explanation for the 'Boss'. As they jogged into the turn that would take them past the corner, Tony became even more apprehensive than usual.

Sure enough, there was the hooker. Tony tried to avoid the prostitute's eyes as she watched the pair jog past. Then, from the sidewalk, the hooker yelled, "See what you get for five quid?!"

I can't help but feel that Cherie gets the shitty end of the stick from all and sundry. I should feel sorry for her but I do wonder if she isn't her own worst enemy sometimes.

Enjoy...

Who am I to judge?

Bad things happens to men who use escorts.

No, I don't mean they get divorced, arrested or catch social diseases. Well that does happen but I was talking about something else - their moral compass gets put seriously out of kilter.

Take relationships.

Now, to be clear, I'm not looking for any female company, as I am aiming to remain faithful but, were I currently single (and having experienced commercial sex), I'd really struggle with the whole dating thing. I mean, look at it:

• the embarrassment of the first approach (will I be shot down in flames?);
• the struggle of the first date (where do I take her, what have we got in common?);
• the first kiss (have I interpreted the signs correctly?);
• the first sex (what does she like, is she just faking it?);
• the longer term relationship (is she only with me till she finds something better, am I with her till I find something better?).

God, it's so random.

Compare that to calling an escort, where there is no effort required other than a shower and a visit to the cash-machine. You will get laid. There is no relationship.

And let's not get started on sexual compatibility. The thought of spending weeks getting some scrumptious piece of totty into bed only to find that she thinks "doggy style" is perverted beyond the bounds of human decency would fill me with dread. I might have read both Debrett's Etiquette and PJ O'Rourke's Modern Manners but I still don't know the acceptable way of asking a young lady if she will provide OwO, CIM, DATY and A-levels (unprotected oral sex, come in mouth, cunnilingus and anal sex, for the uninitiated) on the first date. With an escort you can ask the question on the first phone call (if phrased correctly).

Now this isn't a paean for the use of commercial sex but it illustrates why it fucks you up.

But it goes further.

Perhaps the worst thing is that one starts to think every woman would have sex for money. We have an extremely attractive Polish cleaner. I'd sit and watch her leaning over to polish a table and think what it might cost for her to polish my knob (hmm, three interesting usages of the word polish). Not, notice, "I wonder if I could chat her up and get some rumpy-pumpy for free".

More than that, I started to believe that I can price where any girl could extract money to sleep with me. I used to catch myself looking at a girl and thinking "Hmm, £300 per hour and a bit more if she offers some of the more exotic services..." That said, in my sexual frustration that preceded my use of escorts, I'd "price" women in pints of beer (as in how many pints would I have to have downed before I'd be unfaithful with her).

And yes, I realise that pricing women was a very bad thing (unless I plan to go into the brothel business as a second career).

One is reminded of the (perhaps apocryphal) story about Churchill and a young lady to whom he'd been chatting for the evening:

"Madam," he said, rather drunk. "Would you sleep with me for 1,000 guineas?"
"Why, Mr Churchill," she replied, blushing, "Do you know, I do believe that I would."
"Well madam, would you sleep with me for 5 guineas?"
"Mr Churchill! What kind of lady do you take me for!" she stammered in indignation.
"Madam," said Churchill, puffing on his cigar, "we have already established what type of lady you are. We are now merely haggling over the price."

Enjoy...

Spammers can just fuck right off...

Sorry, I have had a few spam comments (I delete them the second I see them). I wish these fuckwits would get a life. If no-one has any objections, I've turned on this word verification function. This means that you have to type in a randomly generated word which prevents automated systems from adding comments to the blog (since it takes a human being to read the word).

God, you'd think they wouldn't be so desperate as to infect my backwater of the Internet. It's not like I'm a massive traffic site. Perhaps I ought to keep a log and publish a list of people who were sufficiently stupid and pathetically incompetent enough to believe that Money Factory would assist in their business dominating the Interweb thingy. Tossers...

If anyone hates this, let me know (but you'll have to leave a comment to do it...)

Enjoy...

Hiatus...

A number of things are conspiring to keep me from blogging. Firstly, I am busy as a beaver (and sadly I mean the furry, dam constructing animal, not the beaver I like) at work taking on more responsibility. Secondly, that business move involves me moving out of my cosy (and private) office back onto the moshpit of the trading floor. Thirdly, I have been trying to get fitter and than involves spending time in the gym. Finally, it is the shooting season and I seem to be blasting away with more abandon than ever before.

So, I will need to find time and space to get my posts back up to speed. Given I can't blog at work (too many pying eyes) or at home (I am dead if I get caught), I will need to snatch moments here and there to being you news from chez Salvatori.

In the meantime, enjoy...

Katrina...

There is an old MI5 adage that every civilisation is only four meals away from anarchy. We are seeing the horrifying proof of that statement played out in front of our eyes in downtown New Orleans, courtesy of the global media.

My heart goes out to those caught up in the devastation. It makes me very grateful for the basics of life.

Stay safe.