It’s been said that I’m a little slow sometimes.  I don’t contest that, infact I wholeheartedly agree that things dawn on me long after everyone else has worked it out.

But my beloved Eileen Dover has fallen off the face of the internet!  I’m frankly distraught by this.

More so, because in the place of Eileen, is the photo of a drag-queen whose makeup has clearly been applied by a shovel.

Cruella on Crack.

Sad times..

Come (on) back Eileen!  I miss your sparsely made-up face and filthy mind.

What the fuck?

Is it me, or would the idea of fish appearing to be in your toilet cistern (tank) just freak you out entirely? I’d never be able to flush, just in case something went wrong and I drowned all the little fishies!

What a pointless, tacky invention. ….I’m dreading the day that these start appearing in British restaurants (believe me, it’ll happen). You just know it’ll result in drunk people throwing up in the actual fish tank, rather than for toilet bowl, just for shits and giggles (no pun intended!)

Fish-n-Flush

Click here to watch the riveting demo vid.

Have The T-Shirt’s recent post has inspired me!  With the dismal cloud of Christmas looming over us, I’m going to follow in her footsteps, and make a list for Santa!

This isn’t a list of presents I’m going to buy other people, nor is it a list of presents I’d like.  It’s a list of (mostly unrealistic!! things I would love to have for Christmas (if I had a magic lamp, and a totally hot genie)..

- I’d like a dressing room.  Yes, an actual room.  A whole, enormous room dedicated mostly to shoes.

- I’d like a disgustingly enviable collection of shoes, of which at least 60% should be made by Jimmy Choo or Gina.

- Obviously, I’d need a bigger house in which to accommodate my enormous shoe collection.

- I’d like two Shar Pei puppies, who would absolutely, definitely, not eat/bite/annoy my little bundle of fluff (that would be my erm, cat.)

- It would be wonderful to not be allergic to my little bundle of fluff, whom I love dearly, but brings me out in a bugger of a rash.

- I want an extra button in my car, which, when pressed – emits a deafening voice that says “Stop driving up my ass, you incompetent dickhead.”

- Oh, and another button which (somehow) bitch-slaps any incompetent dickheads (particularly those driving 4×4s, who seem to think they can railroad my car off the frigging road..)

- Screw it, I’d like a super fast, super speedy, kick-ass, midlife-crisis car.  I don’t know what kind…  A sexy, dirty-hot one! :)

- I’d like to actually want to give up smoking, let alone have the willpower to do it.

- I’d like to just be qualified to teach, now, without having to actually train to do it (obviously all the knowledge would be stored somewhere in my brain, without me having to learn it).

- I don’t ever want to see a child suffer.  I want all the children I teach to come to school in warm, clean clothes, after a good nights sleep and a proper breakfast. I want to see parents who actually give a shit.

- I want my own childcare business, with wonderful staff, and plenty of money behind it.

- And a great big stack of cash.

- I’d like the finances, and the guts, to travel the world.

- I’d like to put my old boss out of business, and be able to laugh a great big “fuck you, lady.” right in her face. :X (Yes, I realise that makes me a massive bitch, but she totally deserves it.)

- I’d like my best friend to just not make a massive mistake, and to either get married and have it work out, or not get married and be ok with that.  Either way would be quite satisfactory, thank you!  Oh, and if he has to get married, could I please not look like a total dickhead in my bridesmaid dress? Pleeeease?

- I’d like the prospective-mother-in-law to not be such a racist assbag.  Or, if that’s slightly impossible, to just come with a mute button, so I can stop her mouth making so much pointless noise all the time.

- I’d like to have a steamy, kinky threesome with Alan Rickman and Mel Gibson (I’m aware he’s an ass, but my God, I would totally violate that man).

- I want to no longer be reliant on medication, for anything at all – to be healthy, without help.

- I want to live in France, with a vineyard at the end of my garden, and a filthy-hot gardener with a tight little bum and some polished abs, to erm.. garden?

- I want a baby.  And for the other-half to actually want a baby. Now. Or at least in the next year or so..

- I would love multiple orgasms. On a daily, is not half-daily basis.

- I’d like someone to say ‘Thank you’ for working so hard to make a difference to childrens lives.

- I want gambling to just disappear completely.  It ruins too many lives.

- I want an apology from a whole host of people, and forgiveness from a whole host more.

- I want fifteen minutes with my Granddad, to tell him how much I love him, and to ask him if he thinks I’m doing the right thing.

- I want a Happy Christmas, this year, just once.  No tears, no arguments, no stress, no fuss.

The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other.
- Burton Hillis.

- Oh, and I want a totally hot, six foot tall Santa to appear on my doorsteps on Christmas Eve, so I can sit on his lap and tell him what I really want for Christmas. ;-)
(That’s such a sordid fantasy, I know, haha).

What’s on your list?

Visit Have The T-Shirt – you’ll love her as much as I do (I promise!).

Haha :D

Smart Kid!

I want one!

Afterall, what do you do with your lower arms if you cuddle face-to-face?  Which, for the record, I just don’t.  Solves the problem!

The Cuddle Mattress

“Foil the spam robots crawling your blog for email addresses with SpamPoison.” The icing on your electronic cake. The Guardian, UK

Who knows if Spam Poison actually works, but I’m sure as hell going to give it a try.

Interested? Click here and link back to the page. Supposedly;

These links will redirect email harvesting bots to trap sites that will feed it with an almost infinite loop of dynamically generated fake email addresses, mostly on known spammer owned domains! This will render their harvested lists practically useless and of no commercial value.

Thanks to the ever-sexy Googlemail, Spam is a rare occurrence in my inbox. However, as a woman who has, err, been around a bit.. I’m fully aware of the importance of taking extra precautions. Think of it in a similar way to giving that dorky bloke you met in a bar last week, a fake phone number*. He’ll leave a message on someone else’s answer machine, and bask in the glory while he tells his buddies that he “totally got the number of this bird!”. When, bless him, in actual fact he’s ended up with what is now commonly known as a flirt divert number (made famous by our very own Radio 1 DJ, Scott Mills), where – when he leaves his message of undying love, it will not be me who hears the message – but the entire base of listeners (undoubtedly laughing at his failure to get a real piece of data from some random chick in a bar).

I’ll feel a small sense of “Ha!”, knowing that some dirty little spam robot trawling sites across the blogosphere, will fail horribly when it comes to mine. Poor little spam robot.. (Or poor little me for so dutifully believing the drivel published by The Guardian)

* Not that I would or have ever done such a thing. Obviously. I’m far more likely to just trample the poor bastard’s ego there and then.

The money shot – arguably the most highly featured ejaculatory scenario in porn. What is it with this visual?

Men may enjoy seeing some scantily clad (if at all) Lolita kneeling before them while they shoot their load all over her submissive little face, but quite frankly – I don’t.

I’d love to say I have high enough morals to find this degrading, an insult to women. In reality, I just find it.. *yawn*.. boring.

Ms Naughty highlights that this is an opinion shared by many women:

They, like me, wonder why on earth a man would have fabulous sex for half an hour and yet withdraw at the last minute and masturbate to orgasm.

They, like me, can’t help but wince when they see the woman kneel before the man and smile subserviently at him while he deposits globs of semen in her eye.

They, like me, roll their eyes at all the worshipful fuss made over a few spurts of bodily fluid.

They, like me, wish they could see the man’s face as he reaches orgasm, because male facial expressions are primarily what most women experience when their man is in ecstasy.

So why are we still subjected to this scene in nearly every piece of supposedly erotic media?

It’s not the actual visual that I find stale and boring, it’s the notion that the money shot provides ‘closure’ for any pornographic sequence..

While the woman’s enduring carpet burn on her knees, smiling and licking semen from her lips (which have undoubtedly been subjected to infinate amounts of botox), I can almost visualise her thoughts..

“Thanks. Wait! What?!?@#!? That’s it? Are you fucking kidding me?”

And there we have it – the male orgasm remains the be-all-and-end-all of even modern porn movies.. It’s over, as they say, when the fat cock shoots.

* Link to Ms Naughty’s blog post.