I work with a girl who just told us she is pregnant. Yesterday, she went outside for a cigarette. Three times. Someone brought up the fact that, you know, she’s pregnant and went out for three cigarettes. Her response?
“Oh, well, I used to smoke so much that if I just totally gave up all at once it would be bad for the baby, so I have to, like, wean myself and the baby off them”.
She’s probably right. Having a fucking idiot for a mother is likely to be much more harmful to that kid.
If ever I need a transplant of any kind, or want to rid the world of poverty/racism/child abuse/gang warfare/misuse of apostrophes, just know that I will not post a picture of my cause on Facebook, promising that ‘1000 likes and I’ll get a free brain transplant, save 12 Mongolian orphans and have fairies shoot out of my asshole’. Why? Mainly because the odds of ‘liking’ a picture leading to a free organ or world peace are similar to those of you buying a guitar and becoming Jimi Hendrix. The intent is there, but you’re too lazy and/or stupid to actually do anything with it.
If you would really like to help any cause I may ever have, you can do so in a tangible way that I promise will get results. Take your misplaced sense of altruism, and just give me all your money. And your liver.
“I never sucked on me old lady’s tit when I was a kid – grew up on that stuff”.
– Charming Foxton local giving us some history about Foxton Fizz.
Having worked making coffee for the last three years or so, there are some things I feel people should know when they order. Not because I am particularly passionate about coffee (those people are weirdos), but because in the last three years, it has become apparent that most people have NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY ARE DOING. Especially the ones who think they do.
– If you’re a trim milk drinker, fuck that. 70% of the time, shit ain’t trim.
– If you ask for half strength/decaf/soy milk with your coffee, you may as well get orange juice because that other shit is not coffee either.
– Don’t stand there and watch me make your drink. It doesn’t get it made any faster. What it does make is me want to punch you in the face.
– No one, repeat NO ONE, needs a bowl-size coffee. ‘But I need more coffee!’ I hear you cry. No no no. What you are really doing is drowning yourself in lactose.
– When I give you your drink, and you ever feel tempted to ask me if there is sugar in it, just think back to two minutes ago when you ordered it. Did you ask for sugar then? No? NO? Then no, there is probably no fucking sugar in your drink.
– There is NO SUCH THING as a muggachino, a cuppuchino or a baby chino. ‘Chino’ is not some weird code word for coffee. It doesn’t have anything remotely to do with coffee. So unless I’m wearing chinos while I make your drink, shut the hell up.
Honestly. Go to bed an hour earlier or something. Or just order a long black and get out.
Because wolf whistling is the most delusional form of ‘flattery’ I’ve had the misfortune to encounter.
We can see you. You are making a sound to deliberately get our attention, so we will…so we will what? Run over for a sexual marathon in your bulldozer? Meet you back here tomorrow so we can share your mince and cheese pie(s)? Please let us know so we can shave our legs in preparation.
On a related note, yelling things out from your sweet ride as you drive past a girl does little to impress her. Not least because we know that car belongs to your mother. Please, slow down after you yell your unintelligible flatteries, so that we can jump in that family sedan and compliment your silk boxers, your mum’s Glade car deodoriser, and the Tweety Bird seat covers.
Maybe if you’d stayed at school a bit longer you would have picked up on the nuances of social norms. On the bright side, there will always be girls handing out fliers outside Mermaids who will succumb to your ‘charm’.
I shudder to imagine the days when I am middle aged, and getting whistled at by socially retarded, self-proclaimed ‘playerz’ is genuinely flattering, not just vaguely disturbing.
Well it happened to me. Brilliant.“Want to have a threesome?” is not an acceptable pickup line. It’s hardly an acceptable line anywhere, ever. These two and the hooner must be friends. Where do these geniuses learn this shit? And where is this place? Is it invisible to normal people? Like some kind of perverse Hogwarts?
Mainly what I would like to know is the degree of success these paragons of human wit and charm have with this tactic. I have a sneaking suspicion the only threesome they’ll be having is with their computer and a box of tissues.
I was recently propositioned with use of the word ‘hoon’. Now, I don’t know about you, but ‘hoon’ is a verb that should only be used in reference to cars, and even then, usage is not advised if you have an age or an IQ above 16. Also, don’t ever send me shit like that in a text message, because by the time I have stopped laughing and wondering whether your mother dropped you on your head, the ‘moment’ you thought you were creating will have passed, and the cold hard reality that you are going home alone will hit you like a sack of shit.
There are few words that are acceptable synonyms to use when talking about sex, and while I have not carried out extensive market research on this subject, I feel many other women would agree that they do not want to be boned, banged, rooted, bonked, nailed, screwed or pounded (why the FUCK does it sound like I’m building a house right now?) (I actually just googled ‘sex euphemisms’ – I feel ill). I won’t compile a list of appropriate terms, but just know that if I did, ‘hoon’ would not be on it. Nor would ‘ram’, ‘slam’, or anything similar. Just as I am not a construction site, I am not a car, and if this comes as a shock, look forward to having a hoon on yourself until you figure shit out.
I’m also really fucking sorry I used the term ‘propositioned’ up there.