DIRTY MOUTHED HEADLESS WOMAN

For reasons too dull to explain, I have been of late driving a Nissan Pathfinder. It's another loaner. All I can say is if I had the choice, I'd rather be driving around in a Russian Lada Niva than this hunk of plastic on wheels. Firstly, the genius who designed it thought it would be a really great idea to put the speedometer in the middle of the dashboard. I don't need to explain how dangerous it is to be having your eyes off the road for any time more than absolutely necessary, but after driving it around for a good two months I am still looking for the speedo in it's regular position and having a DOH! moment when I find it's not there. Secondly the front side panels are made of plastic. I discovered this as I was leaning up against it one day and the whole front panel caved in under my weight. Suffice to say there's not a lot of metal between me and an errant semi-trailer...making the airbags somewhat redunant don't you think? Anyways the reason for my little spit about this particular vehicle is that yesterday I nearly rear-ended a car outside my house in it. Hail was forecast for Brisbane and I had to move the damned thing off the road. My street is on a gentle incline and I was facing downhill. A Corolla had earlier squeezed into a space right in front of me and reversed within a bee's dick of my front bumper. Unbeknownst to me, the Pathfinder has a dodgy handbrake. You'd think I would have discovered this before now but I tend to ride the clutch a lot and only use it if parking on a steep hill, of which I haven't had to do as yet. As I was putting the car into reverse and employing the hand brake I realized that I couldn't release the foot brake in order to get the revs up because the hand brake wasn't holding! I was sickenly close to the rear bumper of the Corolla in front of me when I realized I had to take desperate measures. Picture this: left foot riding clutch at point of gear engaging, right foot on brake pedal, head under the dashboard and left hand desperately reaching down to the accelerator to get the revs up and find the balance point so I could get the damned thing moving without risking it rolling forward. Anyone observing this fiasco would have found a car revving unecessarily high then reversing with no sign of the driver in the front seat all the while being accompanied by my special brand of expletives. I made it under the car port with no damage to either party. Then it didn't hail. Fuck this shit. So cheer me up with your near-miss stories if you please! 

THE GREAT SEX WEEKEND

I’ve just finished reading the appalling 'Great Sex Weekend' which appears to have been written for persons who need instructions to breathe. What a woeful waste of a great afternoon! The only way this book could be remotely useful is if you’d spent your entire life in Amish country. Even your average Joe could learn this stuff from M-rated movies with naughty bits. As suggested by the title this book is a step-by-step instructional guide to having amazing nookie all weekend. Apparently the authors are well known experts who have trialled their theories with an army of ‘road testers’ whose feedback is littered throughout the book in an attempt to strengthen the validity of their recommendations.

The book begins by tackling all of the minutiae involved in organizing a weekend away. *yawns* I found myself getting a soft-on. The authors recommend that if you have children and are unable to secure family or babysitters to look after them you should ‘approach a couple that you think might be in a similar situation’ (that is if anyone seriously goes around telling people that don’t have enough sex) ‘Show them the book, tell them a bit about your plans for an intimate weekend and see if they are interested in swapping child-care favours. They can borrow the book after your weekend and maybe even some of the items that you bought to enhance your own weekend getaway.’ Well no thanks. I dare say that nobody is going to want to borrow a half-used bottle of canola oil and a sweaty old shower curtain. ‘Here Janet…have my twelve inch strap on to try with Gary…’ FFS!

Then the fun really begins. ‘Just as your car needs tuning periodically, every relationship needs to be recharged now and then. Your relationship needs tune-ups that not only keep it going but keep it humming. Think of our play-by-play guide as a handy manual to use again and again to maintain a higher level of sexual desire and satisfaction. But don't feel restricted by our advice.’ And therein lays the problem with earnest instructional genres. The author invariably operates under the assumption that people are mindless drones that will follow their advice to the letter and consequently feel compelled to include constant reminders that the reader can ‘pick and choose'. What a tedious waste of page real estate. So for all this ‘freedom of interpretation’ I’ve been granted the authors are still hell bent on spelling out a rigid timetable for this so called ‘tune-up your sex life weekend’. Friday night: leisurely walk, dinner interlude, reminiscing and industrial scrubbing of genitals followed by orgasms but no intercourse. Saturday morning: snuggle before breakfast in bed, more industrial scrubbing of the genitals followed by intercourse in no less than six different positions. Saturday night: swap fantasies during hors d’oeuvres, role play a prostitute pulling tricks over drinks, avoid films with too many gynecological close-ups and root like rabbits in your daughter’s cheer leading uniform. Sunday morning: whisper sweet nothings over breakfast, shower separately, strap on that twelve inch dildo and go for gold in the verbal sex Olympics. I want to (adverb) (verb) your (adjective) (noun). I want you to (adverb) (verb) my (adjective) (noun). Sunday afternoon: scrutinize every detail from the weekend and offer each other a critique.

HER: You just thrashed around for five minutes and fell asleep.

HIM: That’s because you laid there like a log you fat blimp.

Sounds like university to me.

Anyway, it isn’t difficult to believe this book was written by two women. And two very cautious girls at that. By incorporating contrived ‘testimonials’ from third party reports they conveniently avoid having to write anything from firsthand experience which seems a shame. The clichés roll thick and fast.

‘‘I told him that I frequently fantasized that we’re making love outdoors. When we got back from dinner we had sex on a blanket on the bathroom floor with the heat lamp and pretended that we were outside in the hot sun”

“We gave each other full body massages and did food play. He dripped honey down my body saying ‘not that you need to be any sweeter’"

Oh PUHLEEEEASE! It gets worse.

“I overcame my resistance to oral sex when my lover sent me a steamy note that read: ‘Deep pools of viscous you – I long to go there.’"

Is it not enough that we must endure having our privates referred to as small hairy mammals without bringing glue into the equation? Any man that said that to me while on the job would find himself set upon in a combination of a rolling rugby ruck and a SWAT team manoeuvre until I had him in a grip that would neuter a bison…oops...sorry boys.

“My husband and I watched Jerry Maguire and it got me really aroused. When we were spent he told me I was his Sex Goddess!”

“My wife and I danced to Melissa Etheridge. Soon the action moved to the couch. It was really hot.”

I’m sorry but anyone that recommends watching Jerry Maguire or any other Tom Cruise movie as fodder for getting aroused deserves to be damned in hell with ‘show me the money!’ as their ring tone and poked in the both eyes with Lucifer’s trident. And while we're at it: anyone that recommends listening to Melissa Etheridge deserves a similar fate…only in a more hurty place. Last time I listened, Melissa’s catalogue was wholly based on personal suffering and consuming human flesh. Her lyrics feature drowning in desire, shocking and electrifying someone, tasting sweat, quenching her thirst, feeling the steel of red-hot truth and enduring nights of lust and fire while asking to be stripped and cut by the hand of death until she bleeds in Hell. Not to mention slaps and stings and foul night air. Combine those sentiments with an Ovation guitar (which incidentally, sounds to me like dung beetles being bitch-slapped inside a Tupperware bowl) and her music is taken to a whole new carnivorous level. Yep. That's the kinda gear that makes me frisky.

In the chapter on purchasing sex aids via mail order one man happily reports that his mother-in-law discovered the catalogue and pinched it from the coffee table for her own purposes. Bollocks! I would suggest anyone that needed to read this book to obtain advice about sex would not be inclined to casually swap sex tips with their mother-in-law.

Then there is the predictable chapter on recording the proceedings with the aid of electronics. “If you’re concerned that the videotape or photo may fall into the wrong hands and cause you embarrassment, plan to destroy them at the end of your weekend.” Now assuming this book as been written for married couples and not those partaking in casual rooting (Lermontov I’m looking at you!) do you honestly think your husband is going to want to share this with his mates? Here boys…check out my old lady’s wobbly arse!

Now if I have one serious criticism of this book is that it works on the presumption that women never initiate sex and that one day on the weekend should be declared the Sadie Hawkins Day. This line of thinking has become so ubiquitous that I fear it may just be the root of all the problems between the sexes. It has been my experience in long term relationships that men and women equally make the overtures in the initial stages but after the shine rubs off the relationship, it stagnates as each person waits for the other to make the first move. You can understand why. I love it when a man just ‘has to have me’ and is so confident that rejection isn’t even a concern. I’m certain men feel the same way about women seducing them. So what are we all waiting for uh? I reckon we should all just be really honest and confess that the bloom is off the rose…and that we love the intimacy but want an open relationships and be free to love lots of people. Now how good would that be? I guess some of you might think I'm a dirty filthy hippy. Well tough.

Interestingly enough the best advice I’ve ever read about sex was written by a man. I’ll never forget the day I read that chapter for the first time. I wept. THIS was the kind of sex I was missing out on. I’ve yet to find a partner willing to read it nor find a way of expressing it. You know how reticent the male species can be about accepting advice; especially from a woman. Now apart from being a traffic-cop in bed, how else can you get your man to lift his game? I've tried the encouraging approach. I’d appreciate the advice.

SAVING BLUNTNESS FOR BLUNTY

Years ago when I was working for the Once Formidable FM Radio Station all the staff were given a copy of 'Don't Sweat the Small Stuff' by self-help guru Richard Carlson as a Christmas gift. I'm not adverse to this type of genre as they generally contain something useful; be that either for the purpose of piss-taking or serious consideration. Well I had cause to be reminded of one of the chapters contained within that little tome this morning when I was criticized by a young chap on YouTube for playing 'Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover' incorrectly. When I first read his comment I was ready to lash back with full ammunition but decided to find the 'grain of truth' in his criticism before committing myself. One of the lessons in DSTSS discusses the benefits of this technique in that it gives us a chance to learn something we may have overlooked. So after giving his advice serious consideration I found him to be talking out of his arse and told him in so many words. Now I find I’m having mixed feelings about it all. You see I’ve alienated friends before because I’ve opened my big mouth to righteously defend a position. The need to be right and the need to make other people wrong doesn’t always sit well with me (it is appropriate at Blunty though not particularly productive with loved ones) but in the case of the 20 year old self-proclaimed bass expert that I will never have to lay eyes on, I’m feeling both victorious and ashamed in equal measures. So for all the She-Man traits I pride myself on there seems to be no getting away from this distinctly feminine desire to keep the peace and the ensuing internal counterpoint of feelings. I think. URGH.

GET YOUR BOMBAY ROCKS OFF

As a mildly modern, socially responsible type of person, I was quietly confident that I had expunged most ‘isms’ from my attitudes. I don’t indulge in racism, sexism or ageism and I once tried fundamentalism but didn’t like the outfits. Well it has come to my attention that I need to address a new ‘ism’ of which I’m guilty. A prejudice against good-looking people: spunkism. I hate you all! I was browsing through KWOFF this morning when I happened upon an article about the new social networking site beautifulpeople.com which is essentially a dating service for gorgeous guys and gals only. Apparently potential members need to upload a photo of themselves before being eligible to create an account. So in a grand moment of disillusion I think to myelf ‘I must try this!’ (being the glutton for punishment that I am) and sure enough I was rejected with a resounding ‘Nope. Not good enough love.’ Well blow me! Fuck you beautiful people and your inner sanctum! Fuck you all with your glossy hair, symmetrical features and well-turned ankles!

So what are the creators of this website saying? I’ll tell you what they’re saying. They’re saying the rest of us who are short, flat-chested, bald, knock-kneed and unsymmetrical are not worthy of love. We are left marginalised, disempowered and oppressed. I guess that’s nothing new though is it? Botticelli, Raphael, Manet and Matisse all preferred the pretty lasses. How do you think the Venus de Milo lost her arms? Knocked off no doubt in a jealous fit by a woman whose arms looked like a string bag full of camembert. Only great humanitarians like Rubens dared to paint overweight women; Picasso at least made women with flat heads and pointy noses feel good about themselves. Then there’s Michelangelo’s sculpture of David isn't there boys? Ahem.


You have to ask yourself what will our society be like if we continue to judge people by their spunk quotient. Will all the people with wonky noses by forced to live under bridges; will people who have acne have to ride in the last train carriage; are we creating a huge underclass of people with unmanageable nasal hair? Honestly! I believe people that have been denied positions to model underwear because they have beer guts should have legal redress. And be generously compensated.


Now for those of you who have been reading this blog for some time know that this isn’t the first occasion that I have despaired about perfection in others. Back in 2007* I wrote an article chronicling the favouritism beautiful people received at my place of work, specifically a young spunk who enjoyed preferential treatment in that he routinely failed to turn up to shifts and was never admonished. I clearly remember a most astute observation made by Girl Clumsy: ‘The worst thing, though, is when beautiful people are also really nice, or really talented. I mean, come on. If you're naturally stunning, then at least have the decency to be a total shit, or at least dumb.’ You bet your ass! You can only console yourself with being witty, mildly brainy and having a good body for so long folks. Just look at Venus and weep.


*For the sake of nostalgia I have inserted some memorable comments in response to my original whinge below. And don't visit that bloody site!

THE MUSICAL BANSHEE

If there is one thing of which I am certain, a set of tubular bells does not belong within cooey of any studio where a song is being produced unless it’s the theme to a movie about demonic possession. They’re the banshee of musical instruments. No percussion device portends death more than a set of tubular bells; or so I thought until today. Evil has a new face my friends. Available for purchase here are lullaby renditions of Metallica, Nirvana, The Cure, Nine Inch Nails and the like. Seriously. Some of the most depressing rock songs ever have been arranged for music box chimes to put children to sleep. Now chemistry students will tell you that acid and alkali neutralise each other. Well I’ve got news for them. These arrangements are so diabolically depressing that I can guarantee anyone that plays them to their newborns will be seeking compensation from the damage inflicted in about 20 years time. My sad parental predictions are:

Metallica: As a baby the infant Timmy develops a cry so strained you’d think he was dead-lifting a Clydesdale. By two years of age Timmy has painted his very first portrait, a triumph, disturbingly similar to Edvard Munch’s The Scream, but rendered in poo.

The Cure: As a angst-ridden teenager, Timmy decides it’s a really good idea to dress like Nosferatu and sneak into local farms to suck the blood out of cattle. Shortly after he progress onto sleeping in coffins surrounded by empty absinthe bottles and the drained corpses of pale young virgins. Poor Timmy ends up in prison after bludgeoning his girlfriend to death with a bloody big Anne Rice novel.

Nine Inch Nails: After ten years in the slammer, the hardened Timmy embarks on a music producing career and decides that Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson singing a duet of ‘Danny Boy’ whilst jamming syringes into each other’s eyes is gonna be the next big thing. Bless.

Nirvana: Lithium is the drug de jour and Catatonia the 35th state.

STEALING CANDY FROM BABIES

As discussed in this forum before I have a love of all things TULL; which is what happens when people who use big words grow a beard and pick up a flute and a codpiece. Suddenly concept albums about horses seem like a good idea. Named after the inventor of the seed drill, TULL sounds both sexy and agrarian at the same time. Whilst young girls in my day lamented along with Janis Ian's 'At Seventeen' I aligned myself with young fellas despairing about slim-hipped Gold Coast lads slipping their tongues into nubile beach babes. But not for reasons you think. The TULL was a chance for disenfranchised youths to feel superior. Here was music for teens with artisitc pretensions. You couldn't dance to it, you couldn't pash off to it and it was too hard for your garage band to play. Their songs went for 20 minutes so they had to be intelligent! Bugger Dylan. 'Thick as a Brick' bangs on for half an hour and it still makes no sense. It's hard finding people to admit they're TULL fans. Like buying shares in Telstra being a TULL fan is an embarrassing secret not many will admit to. But I have no such pretensions. CHECK OUT MY VIDEO.