Sunday, February 7, 2010
Why am I walking funny?
I had an arthroscopy on my right knee a few months ago. Not a huge operation, but they do anesthasise you for it, leaving you fully knocked out. For some reason my surgeon felt it was necessary to give me a set of pictures of the inside of my knee (I hope that's what the pictures are of). It would explain why I walked a bit funny after, should it be what it looks like it is. Which is of course a knee operation. That's all it looks like.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Translating Double Dutch into Engrish (1)
After more than two decades of speaking fluent English I still get caught out using the occasional inappropriately incorrect word. This can make for some excellent entertainment at my expense. Fortunately there are plenty more non-English people that have made dicks out of themselves. This makes me feel better, so I thought I’d share.
It’s only a letter (or two)
In the Netherlands foreign TV programs are subtitled which is a great way to learn a language. However, when hearing words that sound similar, it is quite important to distinguish the difference.
In my earlier English speaking days I accused someone of being a Pacific bastard. He was not at all offended. Puzzled, yes. Offended? No. I should have read Alexis’ lips more thoroughly when she called Blake pathetic in ‘Dynasty’. Consequently, for years I was under the impression that ‘the Love Boat’ was named after a pitiable princess (the Pacific Princess).
I’ve also thought for years that “the bold and the beautiful” meant “the people without hair and the good looking people”.
I was hobbling around with a crutch after an operation, when someone asked how it was going. “Not too bad”, I said. “Though I just found out I’ve had my crotch on the wrong side the entire time since my operation!” Lucky I realised my mistake as soon as I said it so I could correct myself, before anyone started spreading the rumour that I’ve had a sex change and now carry a dick on my arse.
Last week I told my friend that I don’t ever want to become a lonely 50-something year old sphincter. Even though I don’t consider myself an arsehole and I don’t strive to become one at 50, spinster would probably have been a better definition of what I was getting at.
I have described my mother to people as a “freak of nature.” I meant she loves nature, not that she has got two heads.
One of my colleagues has a German girlfriend who sighed she was knocked up. Really? He said, his mind going a million miles per minute. Turns out the reason she was so casual about it was she muddled up the meaning knocked up and knackered. PHEW!
Another colleague’s Asian friend went to the bakery and asked for fellatio bread.
Englishish
My friend Esther and her family moved from the Netherlands to New Zealand when Esther was eight. Her parents, both Dutch, had decided that from now on they would only ever speak English to each other. The fact that their English was far from great didn’t matter. They resolved that problem by literally translating words and expressions they didn’t know. As long as it sounded English-ish, that was good enough. The problem was they expected everyone else to understand too.
One time her parents had to go to a party, mum was getting ready and was all dressed up. Dad was impatiently waiting by the car. When she finally came out of the house, dad looked at her, dropped his jaw and exclaimed: “o my, you look like a cow dressed up like a little sheep!” She gratefully accepted the compliment, all smiles, neither of them realising that what he was meant to say (a mutton dressed as a lamb) is not exactly a compliment.
He has also gone to a shop once asking for bastard sugar (icing sugar) and another famous exclamation of his is “ooooo, now the monkey comes out of the sleeve.” In English you’d say “now the cat comes out of the bag” but I’m unsure whether anyone ever made that connection, other than his cringing kids.
Right word, wrong language
Esther’s aunty came over and wanted to buy a cot. She didn’t know the English word for cot so used the Dutch word instead. The Dutch word for cot is ledikant which is pronounced lady cunt. Can you feel where this is going? “Yes, I am looking for a lady cunt. Do you have a lady cunt? I want a lady cunt!” Suppose I don’t particularly like a gentleman cunt either.
Similar thing happened to a Dutch lady’s friend that came over for a holiday. They went to a busy restaurant in Rotorua where she ordered some lemonade. Limonade is what she was actually after, which is the Dutch word for cordial. To make sure she would get her cordial, not the fizzy lemonade as we know it here, she shouted out to the waiter as he walked away: “NO PRICK IN MY LEMONADE,PLEASE, I DON’T WANT ANY PRICK IN IT!” (prik being Dutch for fizz).
Even professionals that should know better use certain sayings in the wrong circumstances. There is a very popular singer named Anouk; she’s world famous in the Netherlands. She sings in English and has a beautiful love song called “Lost”, in which she adoringly describes how fantastic someone is. “I get lost in your eyes” she sings, accompanied by a weeping guitar melody. This is then lovingly followed by: “your voice makes my skin crawl.” Poor bugger has probably taken a vow of silence and slit his vocal cords to be on the safe side.
Set up
There’s nothing better than taking advantage of people who are trying to learn a new language. The funniest situation that springs to my mind is when I was living in Australia, and was going out with a local guy by the name of James ( AKA Sock Guy but that’s another story).
He wanted to surprise me with a bit of Dutch he had learned from two backpacking Hollanders that were working for him. One evening he grabbed my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said: “jij hebt dikke benen.” After I’d finished choking and wiping the tears from my cheeks I thanked him and asked what he thought he had just said to me. A bit uneasy he replied: “Well, it means that you have got gorgeous eyes, doesn’t it?” Jesus, those Dutchies must have been rolling around wetting themselves with laughter after they taught him that. All the respect to them for pulling it off with a straight face! He had just said “you have fat legs” with a face as if it was the biggest compliment in the world…
Another one that fits right into this slot is my colleague’s Cambodian friend that was living in Auckland. She spoke no English and complained she was having trouble getting off crowded buses. She didn’t know how to say “excuse me” so made arm gestures trying to get people to move to the sides. Often this wasn’t noticed or understood which meant she was unable to get off the bus on time. Her mischievous friend explained that she should say “kiss me, kiss me” as she was trying to get off the bus: this means “excuse me” and people will move to the side. She did exactly that. People still didn’t really move to the side for her, and one man with an apparent sense of humour actually gave her a peck on the cheek after which she indignantly slapped him. Weird rude Western people!
To be continued…
It’s only a letter (or two)
In the Netherlands foreign TV programs are subtitled which is a great way to learn a language. However, when hearing words that sound similar, it is quite important to distinguish the difference.
In my earlier English speaking days I accused someone of being a Pacific bastard. He was not at all offended. Puzzled, yes. Offended? No. I should have read Alexis’ lips more thoroughly when she called Blake pathetic in ‘Dynasty’. Consequently, for years I was under the impression that ‘the Love Boat’ was named after a pitiable princess (the Pacific Princess).
I’ve also thought for years that “the bold and the beautiful” meant “the people without hair and the good looking people”.
I was hobbling around with a crutch after an operation, when someone asked how it was going. “Not too bad”, I said. “Though I just found out I’ve had my crotch on the wrong side the entire time since my operation!” Lucky I realised my mistake as soon as I said it so I could correct myself, before anyone started spreading the rumour that I’ve had a sex change and now carry a dick on my arse.
Last week I told my friend that I don’t ever want to become a lonely 50-something year old sphincter. Even though I don’t consider myself an arsehole and I don’t strive to become one at 50, spinster would probably have been a better definition of what I was getting at.
I have described my mother to people as a “freak of nature.” I meant she loves nature, not that she has got two heads.
One of my colleagues has a German girlfriend who sighed she was knocked up. Really? He said, his mind going a million miles per minute. Turns out the reason she was so casual about it was she muddled up the meaning knocked up and knackered. PHEW!
Another colleague’s Asian friend went to the bakery and asked for fellatio bread.
Englishish
My friend Esther and her family moved from the Netherlands to New Zealand when Esther was eight. Her parents, both Dutch, had decided that from now on they would only ever speak English to each other. The fact that their English was far from great didn’t matter. They resolved that problem by literally translating words and expressions they didn’t know. As long as it sounded English-ish, that was good enough. The problem was they expected everyone else to understand too.
One time her parents had to go to a party, mum was getting ready and was all dressed up. Dad was impatiently waiting by the car. When she finally came out of the house, dad looked at her, dropped his jaw and exclaimed: “o my, you look like a cow dressed up like a little sheep!” She gratefully accepted the compliment, all smiles, neither of them realising that what he was meant to say (a mutton dressed as a lamb) is not exactly a compliment.
He has also gone to a shop once asking for bastard sugar (icing sugar) and another famous exclamation of his is “ooooo, now the monkey comes out of the sleeve.” In English you’d say “now the cat comes out of the bag” but I’m unsure whether anyone ever made that connection, other than his cringing kids.
Right word, wrong language
Esther’s aunty came over and wanted to buy a cot. She didn’t know the English word for cot so used the Dutch word instead. The Dutch word for cot is ledikant which is pronounced lady cunt. Can you feel where this is going? “Yes, I am looking for a lady cunt. Do you have a lady cunt? I want a lady cunt!” Suppose I don’t particularly like a gentleman cunt either.
Similar thing happened to a Dutch lady’s friend that came over for a holiday. They went to a busy restaurant in Rotorua where she ordered some lemonade. Limonade is what she was actually after, which is the Dutch word for cordial. To make sure she would get her cordial, not the fizzy lemonade as we know it here, she shouted out to the waiter as he walked away: “NO PRICK IN MY LEMONADE,PLEASE, I DON’T WANT ANY PRICK IN IT!” (prik being Dutch for fizz).
Even professionals that should know better use certain sayings in the wrong circumstances. There is a very popular singer named Anouk; she’s world famous in the Netherlands. She sings in English and has a beautiful love song called “Lost”, in which she adoringly describes how fantastic someone is. “I get lost in your eyes” she sings, accompanied by a weeping guitar melody. This is then lovingly followed by: “your voice makes my skin crawl.” Poor bugger has probably taken a vow of silence and slit his vocal cords to be on the safe side.
Set up
There’s nothing better than taking advantage of people who are trying to learn a new language. The funniest situation that springs to my mind is when I was living in Australia, and was going out with a local guy by the name of James ( AKA Sock Guy but that’s another story).
He wanted to surprise me with a bit of Dutch he had learned from two backpacking Hollanders that were working for him. One evening he grabbed my hand, looked deep into my eyes and said: “jij hebt dikke benen.” After I’d finished choking and wiping the tears from my cheeks I thanked him and asked what he thought he had just said to me. A bit uneasy he replied: “Well, it means that you have got gorgeous eyes, doesn’t it?” Jesus, those Dutchies must have been rolling around wetting themselves with laughter after they taught him that. All the respect to them for pulling it off with a straight face! He had just said “you have fat legs” with a face as if it was the biggest compliment in the world…
Another one that fits right into this slot is my colleague’s Cambodian friend that was living in Auckland. She spoke no English and complained she was having trouble getting off crowded buses. She didn’t know how to say “excuse me” so made arm gestures trying to get people to move to the sides. Often this wasn’t noticed or understood which meant she was unable to get off the bus on time. Her mischievous friend explained that she should say “kiss me, kiss me” as she was trying to get off the bus: this means “excuse me” and people will move to the side. She did exactly that. People still didn’t really move to the side for her, and one man with an apparent sense of humour actually gave her a peck on the cheek after which she indignantly slapped him. Weird rude Western people!
To be continued…
Saturday, January 16, 2010
I want bitty!
The Ministry of Health is currently running a campaign to promote breastfeeding. The idea is to make the general public more accepting towards mothers flopping out a tit in public. To put some force behind this concept some genius came up with the brilliant plan to advertise bus shelter-sized “daring” posters that feature different women pretending to breastfeed.
That’s right, pretending. We are after all in prudish New Zealand so we can’t take too much of a liberal approach. The photo shoot was directed in a way that even the slightest bit of boob remains unseen, safely tucked away to the extent it takes away all credibility. The result is laughable and fully defeats its purpose. Have a look for yourself...
Look at this baby's desperate looks at its mum, exhausted after fruitless efforts to suck milk from her cardi. Bitch, what a tease!
Apparently Indian mothers' nipples grow under their armpit. Hmmm,Curdled mother's milk.
And if the size of this kid didn't give away the fact that it's really way too old to be sucking on its mother's tits by now, the fact that her nipple seems to be have reached navel level surely should be a hint, you would think!
Not bitty now, bitty later!
That’s right, pretending. We are after all in prudish New Zealand so we can’t take too much of a liberal approach. The photo shoot was directed in a way that even the slightest bit of boob remains unseen, safely tucked away to the extent it takes away all credibility. The result is laughable and fully defeats its purpose. Have a look for yourself...
Look at this baby's desperate looks at its mum, exhausted after fruitless efforts to suck milk from her cardi. Bitch, what a tease!
Apparently Indian mothers' nipples grow under their armpit. Hmmm,Curdled mother's milk.
And if the size of this kid didn't give away the fact that it's really way too old to be sucking on its mother's tits by now, the fact that her nipple seems to be have reached navel level surely should be a hint, you would think!
Not bitty now, bitty later!
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Edible WHAT?
I love going to Davis Trading: a wholesaler in just about anything under the sun from faraway places. There is a plethora of choices in strange, exotic foods that you can buy there. At times it can be quite the challenge trying to figure out what it is that is dried, frozen or canned based on the picture alone (unless, of course, you are literate in fluent funny symbols).
There are speciality foods for sale from Italy, Greece, Turkey and the Middle East, but predominantly the products are from Asia. Nothing is funnier than laughing at Asians trying to translate their lingo into English. Hence the several websites (e.g. WWW.Engrish.com). I have found a few funnies myself, just by going into that shop. Confusion arose when I found the following product in the frozen section. I have been wondering ever since what on Earth it could be?
Should it be POM, not Pod, it being pickled freeze-dried Englishman? That would make "stinking" a pleonasm but obviously English grammar isn't the overall strength of our Asian globemates.
Is it an abbreviation for Part Of Dick?
Is it another word for toe cheese?
Is it a fragrant tasty small herd of sea mammals?
Cat and rat are also three letter words...
Any suggestions?
And no, I am not going to buy it and try it!
There are speciality foods for sale from Italy, Greece, Turkey and the Middle East, but predominantly the products are from Asia. Nothing is funnier than laughing at Asians trying to translate their lingo into English. Hence the several websites (e.g. WWW.Engrish.com). I have found a few funnies myself, just by going into that shop. Confusion arose when I found the following product in the frozen section. I have been wondering ever since what on Earth it could be?
Should it be POM, not Pod, it being pickled freeze-dried Englishman? That would make "stinking" a pleonasm but obviously English grammar isn't the overall strength of our Asian globemates.
Is it an abbreviation for Part Of Dick?
Is it another word for toe cheese?
Is it a fragrant tasty small herd of sea mammals?
Cat and rat are also three letter words...
Any suggestions?
And no, I am not going to buy it and try it!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Female and the Fuckbuddy; a modern day fairytale...
Just got out of a relationship, too busy to date, not yet met someone who’s worth your while? Whatever one’s reason, the conclusion is as follows: until you find yourself a similar superb soul whose character completes you, and who is equally as eager for you to occupy their vacant half, you’re a single person by default.
Although the lifestyle and state of mind of being single has plenty of advantages, there’s one noticeable deficiency which is impossible to ignore. If you have a persistent itch, it needs some thorough scratching and it always seems to feel so much nicer when someone else does this for you.
One-night stands aren’t exactly the answer because let’s face it: you never know what you’re gonna get. That friendly guy you’ve been chatting to for the last blurry hour could turn out to be an evil psychopath… who knows where you’re going to end up, and in how many pieces? Or what if after a few “test the water” dates he can’t help but fall hard for your charismatic character and wonderful whit, and all this after you made the mistake of bringing him to your place? Now he knows where you live! He could turn into the world’s most desperate stalker, and you get to try and wriggle your way out of that one… not really worth it, was it.
Another hit and miss that frequents the one-night stand table of terrors is to meet someone charming, lovely and funny followed by the disappointment of finding out why this person never ends up being anything more than that: a one night-never again-stand. Shallow as this may seem, when set out for some significant scratching you’re not exactly in the mindset to guide someone through the “how to use and what to do with it” manual.
And no matter how nice someone may be, it is a huge turn off. Especially once the excuse of young and inexperienced no longer applies. Any self respecting twenty five-year old (at the very, very latest), is expected to have a certain level of expertise in what he/she is doing, and if this is not the case, that’s just inexcusable. If you were too shy to bloom in the bedroom up until now, please resort to the Internet and educate yourself, don’t set out expecting someone else to do it for you… It brings a whole new meaning to the expression “sex crime” and should be punishable.
Last but not least is the plethora of possible diseases hanging over your head, which can be caught from promiscuity even among the precautious, especially so when your Friday night friend has been a slapper that has done some significant sleeping around in the past.
The safest solution and possible answer to all issues described above is to go steady with a fuck buddy. A special friend, a buddy with benefits, a pal with a purpose. A person that you know and get on with, yet not to the extent that you wish to establish or maintain a relationship with them. The great advantage of this situation is that satisfaction is guaranteed; you already know you like what you’ve got (otherwise one of you would have archived the other in the “never again” library of lovers, probably somewhere in the horror section way out the back). There are no strings attached, and you both know where you stand. It sounds almost too good to be true. And perhaps it is…
One inevitable problem is that the green eyed monster always seems to raise its interfering little head at some stage in the piece. Despite the fact that neither party is in love with the other, somewhere in this relationship the unspoken expectation is established that the “agreement” is exclusive, it usually being the female having upped the stakes this way.
Monogamous fuck buddies…. Of course from here things can’t go any other way but pear shaped. Generally speaking in fuckbuddiage the male has no scruples when it comes to openly seducing someone else… sometimes even blatantly in the presence of his long term female friend with benefits – and he can’t understand what the problem is. “She knew what the story was all along; I thought we had an agreement?” This in theory is exactly how it should be. However, whereas the male seems more comfortable with fuckbuddiage and is acting exactly according to its etiquette, it appears the female participant often seems to develop contradictory feelings as this “relationship” continues.
Why is that? Perhaps we females are just not laid out to have shallow sexual relationships based on physical attraction alone. Even though from the beginning it’s highly obvious this guy is absolutely not the one, it’s almost as if over a period of time your perception of Mr Buddy gets warped. Suddenly you catch yourself thinking about this person while before you never used to. You find yourself keeping your personal grooming up to tip top standard “just in case” whereas at first you couldn’t care less if the state of your Brazilian currently resembled the Amazon jungle. It was only Buddy anyway.
Worst case scenario: you’re secretly living in hope that one day he'll wake up and realise you are the one true love of his life! You are not only fooling yourself, it also restricts you from opening up and allowing someone new into your life that could be far more worth your while. Instead you are staring yourself blind at the wrong person.
Of course this is not the standard for everyone; there are plenty of women who could happily carry on for as long as it lasts without getting emotionally involved. One way that seems to make this work is to make sure the Buddy of choice is an outsider to your social environment. You only meet up when you want to, and are totally oblivious to what he/she does outside those get togethers and who with. Therefore nobody gets jealous, and nobody gets hurt.
Personally, I think a fuck buddy relationship is the answer for a limited period only, and after your trial period has run out it’s either time to move in or move on.
Although the lifestyle and state of mind of being single has plenty of advantages, there’s one noticeable deficiency which is impossible to ignore. If you have a persistent itch, it needs some thorough scratching and it always seems to feel so much nicer when someone else does this for you.
One-night stands aren’t exactly the answer because let’s face it: you never know what you’re gonna get. That friendly guy you’ve been chatting to for the last blurry hour could turn out to be an evil psychopath… who knows where you’re going to end up, and in how many pieces? Or what if after a few “test the water” dates he can’t help but fall hard for your charismatic character and wonderful whit, and all this after you made the mistake of bringing him to your place? Now he knows where you live! He could turn into the world’s most desperate stalker, and you get to try and wriggle your way out of that one… not really worth it, was it.
Another hit and miss that frequents the one-night stand table of terrors is to meet someone charming, lovely and funny followed by the disappointment of finding out why this person never ends up being anything more than that: a one night-never again-stand. Shallow as this may seem, when set out for some significant scratching you’re not exactly in the mindset to guide someone through the “how to use and what to do with it” manual.
And no matter how nice someone may be, it is a huge turn off. Especially once the excuse of young and inexperienced no longer applies. Any self respecting twenty five-year old (at the very, very latest), is expected to have a certain level of expertise in what he/she is doing, and if this is not the case, that’s just inexcusable. If you were too shy to bloom in the bedroom up until now, please resort to the Internet and educate yourself, don’t set out expecting someone else to do it for you… It brings a whole new meaning to the expression “sex crime” and should be punishable.
Last but not least is the plethora of possible diseases hanging over your head, which can be caught from promiscuity even among the precautious, especially so when your Friday night friend has been a slapper that has done some significant sleeping around in the past.
The safest solution and possible answer to all issues described above is to go steady with a fuck buddy. A special friend, a buddy with benefits, a pal with a purpose. A person that you know and get on with, yet not to the extent that you wish to establish or maintain a relationship with them. The great advantage of this situation is that satisfaction is guaranteed; you already know you like what you’ve got (otherwise one of you would have archived the other in the “never again” library of lovers, probably somewhere in the horror section way out the back). There are no strings attached, and you both know where you stand. It sounds almost too good to be true. And perhaps it is…
One inevitable problem is that the green eyed monster always seems to raise its interfering little head at some stage in the piece. Despite the fact that neither party is in love with the other, somewhere in this relationship the unspoken expectation is established that the “agreement” is exclusive, it usually being the female having upped the stakes this way.
Monogamous fuck buddies…. Of course from here things can’t go any other way but pear shaped. Generally speaking in fuckbuddiage the male has no scruples when it comes to openly seducing someone else… sometimes even blatantly in the presence of his long term female friend with benefits – and he can’t understand what the problem is. “She knew what the story was all along; I thought we had an agreement?” This in theory is exactly how it should be. However, whereas the male seems more comfortable with fuckbuddiage and is acting exactly according to its etiquette, it appears the female participant often seems to develop contradictory feelings as this “relationship” continues.
Why is that? Perhaps we females are just not laid out to have shallow sexual relationships based on physical attraction alone. Even though from the beginning it’s highly obvious this guy is absolutely not the one, it’s almost as if over a period of time your perception of Mr Buddy gets warped. Suddenly you catch yourself thinking about this person while before you never used to. You find yourself keeping your personal grooming up to tip top standard “just in case” whereas at first you couldn’t care less if the state of your Brazilian currently resembled the Amazon jungle. It was only Buddy anyway.
Worst case scenario: you’re secretly living in hope that one day he'll wake up and realise you are the one true love of his life! You are not only fooling yourself, it also restricts you from opening up and allowing someone new into your life that could be far more worth your while. Instead you are staring yourself blind at the wrong person.
Of course this is not the standard for everyone; there are plenty of women who could happily carry on for as long as it lasts without getting emotionally involved. One way that seems to make this work is to make sure the Buddy of choice is an outsider to your social environment. You only meet up when you want to, and are totally oblivious to what he/she does outside those get togethers and who with. Therefore nobody gets jealous, and nobody gets hurt.
Personally, I think a fuck buddy relationship is the answer for a limited period only, and after your trial period has run out it’s either time to move in or move on.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Crap Christmas Card?
The holiday season is approaching, great. I'll happily have the days off, don't get me wrong. But I don't have anything with Christmas or the tacky obligations that come with it, least of all Christmas cards. The compulsory exchange of cards between each other with the exact same message on it every year. It is very impersonal and I refuse to take part in it.
At least a birthday card is bought, written and sent especially for you, somebody remembered it is your day and made that effort for you alone. Christmas cards get sent out in bulk to absolutely everyone in a person’s address book, work environment and neighbourhood, just because that is expected. There is an unwritten protocol when it comes to the Christmas card process that everyone seems to follow.
Step one is to find the corniest tackiest most revoltingly tasteless card possible.
Christmas trees, religious imprints even though you’re not (does Christmas even have anything to do with the bible?) a picture of a fat Santa Claus, snowmen, candy houses and candles. The tackier the better. The one that tops them all is the "personalised" photo card. Christmas tree in the background, the family on the couch, painfully grinning like retarded madmen because the self-timer is taking so long. Of course the family pets are not to be excluded, preferably wearing a Christmas hat or even funnier: antlers! O, the joy, what a crazy family we are.
I’m sorry but they deserve a slap for that, friends or not.
Step two is to write a personal message on these cards. Usually the card itself is already pre-printed with the compulsory “season’s greetings” or “merry Xmas and happy new year” message. This is handy and a huge time saver, because now all that needs to be filled in is the name of the sender. How’s that for a heartfelt genuine act of thoughtfulness! If I would participate in this commercial crap (which I refuse) I would hold on to each year’s cards, in the next year draw two arrows between the “from” and “to”, and send it back to the original sender. The year after that they can just white out the arrows and send it to me again. Brilliant.
The final step of the entire process is to send your horrendous card to absolutely every single person that you are even remotely acquainted with. Friends, family, neighbours, colleagues that you see every day, vague acquaintances, pub mates, the paperboy, the bus driver, your GP, everyone.
Fortunately every now and then you find a gem between the (s)crap. One of the better Christmas cards I have seen was a torn scrap of cardboard, folded in two, which said:
Money's short
times are hard
Here's your fuckin'
Christmas card.
Refreshingly different to merry Christmas, is my opinion.
Another beauty that definitely left its mark was the one pictured below: concept, production and design by my friend Nico. Warning: do not view on a weak stomach. Do NOT watch up close to try and decipher what it is. Keep looking, you'll get it...
COPYRIGHT BY N.J.K
At least a birthday card is bought, written and sent especially for you, somebody remembered it is your day and made that effort for you alone. Christmas cards get sent out in bulk to absolutely everyone in a person’s address book, work environment and neighbourhood, just because that is expected. There is an unwritten protocol when it comes to the Christmas card process that everyone seems to follow.
Step one is to find the corniest tackiest most revoltingly tasteless card possible.
Christmas trees, religious imprints even though you’re not (does Christmas even have anything to do with the bible?) a picture of a fat Santa Claus, snowmen, candy houses and candles. The tackier the better. The one that tops them all is the "personalised" photo card. Christmas tree in the background, the family on the couch, painfully grinning like retarded madmen because the self-timer is taking so long. Of course the family pets are not to be excluded, preferably wearing a Christmas hat or even funnier: antlers! O, the joy, what a crazy family we are.
I’m sorry but they deserve a slap for that, friends or not.
Step two is to write a personal message on these cards. Usually the card itself is already pre-printed with the compulsory “season’s greetings” or “merry Xmas and happy new year” message. This is handy and a huge time saver, because now all that needs to be filled in is the name of the sender. How’s that for a heartfelt genuine act of thoughtfulness! If I would participate in this commercial crap (which I refuse) I would hold on to each year’s cards, in the next year draw two arrows between the “from” and “to”, and send it back to the original sender. The year after that they can just white out the arrows and send it to me again. Brilliant.
The final step of the entire process is to send your horrendous card to absolutely every single person that you are even remotely acquainted with. Friends, family, neighbours, colleagues that you see every day, vague acquaintances, pub mates, the paperboy, the bus driver, your GP, everyone.
Fortunately every now and then you find a gem between the (s)crap. One of the better Christmas cards I have seen was a torn scrap of cardboard, folded in two, which said:
Money's short
times are hard
Here's your fuckin'
Christmas card.
Refreshingly different to merry Christmas, is my opinion.
Another beauty that definitely left its mark was the one pictured below: concept, production and design by my friend Nico. Warning: do not view on a weak stomach. Do NOT watch up close to try and decipher what it is. Keep looking, you'll get it...
COPYRIGHT BY N.J.K
Wax on, wax off...
I have been single for a couple of years. Overall I don’t have a problem with this: I’d rather not be in a relationship than be stuck in an unhappy one. Being a happy social person I lead a happy social life, and have the freedom to do as I please, when I please.
Even better; I have all the freedom in the world to leave what I don’t feel like doing. This explains why the bathroom floor is a bit sticky, there's plenty of food on the stove top, the garden flourishes with flowery weeds, and periods go by when I haven't touched a vacuum cleaner for weeks. The state of the carpets isn’t exactly on my high priority list.
However, at times it is highly necessary to clear out the cobwebs. And in order to confidentally find a friendly helper to assist you this means your own rugged rug requires some rigorous reduction! Once you've comfortably settled into a steady relationship, such things don't tend worry you as much anymore. Smoothing everything out once every six weeks will suffice to avoid tripping over. In winter you don’t tend to bother at all.
But when you find yourself set out to make a positive impression, this is a matter of life or death! There's nothing worse than scoring a hot guy after having charmed the pants off him all evening, only to come to the dreadful realisation that your welcome-mat has vegetated into a neck breaking obstacle since the last time you mowed the lawn. For weeks you intended to do something about that, tomorrow.
Unfortunately when at the point of having downed two bottles of wine you tend to forget about minor details such as these. They slip your mind until the moment just before you (think you) are about to seductively and elegantly (stumbling and tripping over) drape your clothes off your body (extract your body from your clothes). Then sudden realisation hits of bushy bodily bits and this now seems to be the world's biggest disaster. From that moment on you are unable to focus on anything other than this mohair merkin, and how you are going to manage to make it disappear, or at least seem less severe.
In a blind panic several scenarios run through your mind, some more useless than others.
• Run to the bathroom for a quick shave in your inebriated state. Say you had to go for a long, difficult, rancid crap which then made you sick as an excuse for what’s taking you so long.
• “Accidentally” walk into every light in your proximity. You have, after all, had a bit too much to drink. Then ask him to wear gardening gloves because you find that a real turn on.
• A “Silence of the lambs” type tuck-away technique.
• Hide under the blankets and pretend you’re asleep by snoring loudly and drooling. Meanwhile send yourself an emergency text message from a distressed friend after which you wake up and leg it. He’ll understand and will be impressed with what a good friend you must be.
The stupidity of it all is that there generally is no reason for such agonising anxiety. The majority of men don’t exactly frown in disgust upon a few neglected millimetres of stubble. Male friends I have discussed this with admit they couldn’t care less, a few (GAY! GAY! GAY!)exceptions aside. But we do care, we care a lot! Weeks later we still cringe, hunched in shame when thinking back about stubbly shins and grizzly groins, and that that bloke surely must have noticed, and now what will he be thinking???
That is why as soon as you think you may have the slightest chance to pull a nice Brad, the hedge clippers come out to vigorously chop most of the bush back to the roots. Whatever is left over is most effectively removed with the help of hot wax. HOT WAX? Who the hell thought of that marvellous idea? Smear a hot sticky substance on the most vulnerable area of your body, and subsequently tear it off with a quick hard yank. Repeat that over and over until most of it’s gone. Now that you're enthusiastic and have really gotten into the swing of things, pull any missed hairs out with a pair of tweezers. That gets rid of the hedgehog for approximately two weeks if you're lucky. Two weeks, and then the whole torturous drama can be repeated.
The ironic aspect of the entire ritual is that when you have maintained yourself accordingly, you NEVER seem to run into anybody worthwhile inviting to your place for a cup of tea at 3 AM.
From this we can only draw one conclusion. When, as a pitiable lonesome sad single miss you intend to lure a helpful, hilarious, hunky hot mister into your den, the best chance you’ll have is to make sure you are as hairy as possible, wear your oldest, biggest, most ragged pair of knickers, unmatching smelly socks with holes in them, and preferably a few well proportioned zits on your arse. Because under those circumstances you'll be sure to meet a great guy (and most likely remain single for another while longer).
Even better; I have all the freedom in the world to leave what I don’t feel like doing. This explains why the bathroom floor is a bit sticky, there's plenty of food on the stove top, the garden flourishes with flowery weeds, and periods go by when I haven't touched a vacuum cleaner for weeks. The state of the carpets isn’t exactly on my high priority list.
However, at times it is highly necessary to clear out the cobwebs. And in order to confidentally find a friendly helper to assist you this means your own rugged rug requires some rigorous reduction! Once you've comfortably settled into a steady relationship, such things don't tend worry you as much anymore. Smoothing everything out once every six weeks will suffice to avoid tripping over. In winter you don’t tend to bother at all.
But when you find yourself set out to make a positive impression, this is a matter of life or death! There's nothing worse than scoring a hot guy after having charmed the pants off him all evening, only to come to the dreadful realisation that your welcome-mat has vegetated into a neck breaking obstacle since the last time you mowed the lawn. For weeks you intended to do something about that, tomorrow.
Unfortunately when at the point of having downed two bottles of wine you tend to forget about minor details such as these. They slip your mind until the moment just before you (think you) are about to seductively and elegantly (stumbling and tripping over) drape your clothes off your body (extract your body from your clothes). Then sudden realisation hits of bushy bodily bits and this now seems to be the world's biggest disaster. From that moment on you are unable to focus on anything other than this mohair merkin, and how you are going to manage to make it disappear, or at least seem less severe.
In a blind panic several scenarios run through your mind, some more useless than others.
• Run to the bathroom for a quick shave in your inebriated state. Say you had to go for a long, difficult, rancid crap which then made you sick as an excuse for what’s taking you so long.
• “Accidentally” walk into every light in your proximity. You have, after all, had a bit too much to drink. Then ask him to wear gardening gloves because you find that a real turn on.
• A “Silence of the lambs” type tuck-away technique.
• Hide under the blankets and pretend you’re asleep by snoring loudly and drooling. Meanwhile send yourself an emergency text message from a distressed friend after which you wake up and leg it. He’ll understand and will be impressed with what a good friend you must be.
The stupidity of it all is that there generally is no reason for such agonising anxiety. The majority of men don’t exactly frown in disgust upon a few neglected millimetres of stubble. Male friends I have discussed this with admit they couldn’t care less, a few (GAY! GAY! GAY!)exceptions aside. But we do care, we care a lot! Weeks later we still cringe, hunched in shame when thinking back about stubbly shins and grizzly groins, and that that bloke surely must have noticed, and now what will he be thinking???
That is why as soon as you think you may have the slightest chance to pull a nice Brad, the hedge clippers come out to vigorously chop most of the bush back to the roots. Whatever is left over is most effectively removed with the help of hot wax. HOT WAX? Who the hell thought of that marvellous idea? Smear a hot sticky substance on the most vulnerable area of your body, and subsequently tear it off with a quick hard yank. Repeat that over and over until most of it’s gone. Now that you're enthusiastic and have really gotten into the swing of things, pull any missed hairs out with a pair of tweezers. That gets rid of the hedgehog for approximately two weeks if you're lucky. Two weeks, and then the whole torturous drama can be repeated.
The ironic aspect of the entire ritual is that when you have maintained yourself accordingly, you NEVER seem to run into anybody worthwhile inviting to your place for a cup of tea at 3 AM.
From this we can only draw one conclusion. When, as a pitiable lonesome sad single miss you intend to lure a helpful, hilarious, hunky hot mister into your den, the best chance you’ll have is to make sure you are as hairy as possible, wear your oldest, biggest, most ragged pair of knickers, unmatching smelly socks with holes in them, and preferably a few well proportioned zits on your arse. Because under those circumstances you'll be sure to meet a great guy (and most likely remain single for another while longer).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)