Archive for the 'Funny Ha-Ha' Category

Licked by Larry

NS November 29th, 2011

Do you remember the stories I told you about the Guinness world book of car crashes, and the longest night a 19-year-old girl ever spent on a European misadventure? Well, in one of those stories I promised to tell you about the longest taxi ride ever and realised today that I had never got round to it. I figured I better rectify this toot suite, before all the Saturday nights I have spent watching X Factor turns my brain into a chocolate fondant-type pudding that, like Louis Walsh’s common sense, spills into a nonsensical puddle when prodded.

So, the taxi ride.

It began when I decided to be responsible and stop at 6 drinks instead of my usual 9. I fell out of the rowdy American blues bar where I’d been hanging out with my friends since we finished work. I staggered to the curb in my high heeled boots and flagged down a taxi almost straight away. As I slid open the mini van’s door, I realised there were already two gentlemen (I use that term loosely) inside.

“Sorry!” I said, and began to close it, but one of the men said they weren’t going far and so long as I didn’t mind the driver dropping them off first, I could share the taxi with them. Because my suspicion of humanity had not yet kicked in (I was only 23, and a happy drunk), I gladly agreed and hopped into the back seat. I sat beside one of the men, whose name now escapes me, and he introduced me to his brother Larry, who sat on the row of seats behind me.  There was something odd about Larry that I couldn’t quite place so I resorted to squinting my eyes at him whenever we passed underneath a street light. It was a Wednesday,  2-for-1 on whiskey drinks, so this meant that squinting didn’t achieve much besides creating two blurry visions of Larry instead of one.

The man beside me (let’s call him Dick), asked what I’d been out celebrating.

“The invention of alcohol, mainly,” I chuckled. “How about you guys?”

“Oh, Larry here just got out of prison yesterday.”

Gulp.

“Ah, you don’t say! Fascinating.” Cue another nonchalant-but-desperate squint at Larry as we passed under a street light again. I was about to ask what he’d been inside for but the swastika tattoos that littered Larry’s neck like graffiti on a store-front shutter rendered this line of questioning irrelevant.

I turned back around and plastered a small, tight smile on my lips, trying not to freak out or panic. I didn’t have long to contemplate my next move because at that moment Larry chose to scoot forward in his seat, so that I could feel his breath on the side of my face, and proceeded to run his tongue, very slowly, all the way from the base of my neck to just behind my ear. I fought the urge to wipe his saliva off and moved away ever so slightly but kept the polite smile on my face, not wanting to provoke my Hitler-loving travel companion. For a woman who is used to having altercations with sexist assholes on a regular basis, and standing up to them, this required a huge dose of self-restraint.

It was at this point that I realised we’d been in the taxi an awfully long time for a ‘quick trip’ to drop them off and that we’d gone outside the city limits and were quickly approaching the flat, featureless countryside that exists everywhere along the edges of suburban and small-town Indiana. The taxi driver was getting fed up with Dick and Larry’s vague directions and mutterings about their destination being ‘just up here a little ways’ and demanded they either give him an exact address or get out. Twenty minutes later,  the neo-Nazi neck lickers were standing outside the minivan shouting abuse at our Pakistani driver, telling him to go back where he came from while kicking the side of the vehicle and blocking it from turning around or moving forward. When I told them to stop and let us go, Dick lived up to his name and began hurling insults at me too.

This was not amusing anymore. I began to have visions of being marched out into the cornfield at gun point with my poor taxi driver, who looked so perplexed and kept repeating, as if for reassurance of his company’s policy, “I cannot carry passengers who refuse to give an address and who treat me in this manner.”

Finally,  Dick and Larry grew bored of terrorising us and walked away into the pitch black night. I breathed a sigh of relief and looked forward to finally getting home. What should have been a 5 minute ride had taken the best part of an hour and had ruined my buzz. Fascist criminals with twisted world views will do that, I hear.

Unfortunately, the taxi driver couldn’t find his way out of a wet paper bag (this was pre-GPS days) and so we drove around in Nowheresville for another half hour before we found a rural gas station at which we could get directions back to the city. Finally, over 2 hours after I stepped into that ill-fated taxi, I arrived home, less than 2 miles away from the bar I’d walked out of earlier in the evening. I mumbled a brief outline of the situation to Noble Husband, washed my neck several times, and then went to sleep.

The moral of this story is: sometimes it is bloody well safer to walk home (even drunk and alone, at night) than to get a taxi. Oh, and always check fellow passengers for prison tats that may indicate a propensity for douchebaggery.

If I ruled the internet

NS October 16th, 2011

People would use grammar and spelling in a largely correct, coherent manner but, likewise, overwrought pedantry about the misuse of words and the digging in of heels against the evolution of language would be punishable by being forced to eat sweaty socks.

Those who sprinkle apostrophes everywhere in a mistaken belief that they indicate plurality instead of possessiveness would be dipped in wet, gluey newspaper strips, stuffed with sweeties and flogged by errant toddlers with large sticks.

Continually posting pictures of cats doing cute and hilarious things and expecting everyone to lap it up (particularly if you’re a woman and a feminist), while simultaneously berating those who post pictures of kids doing cute and hilarious things and expecting everyone to lap it up, would be seen as the giant hypocrisy it is.

Complaining about changed Facebook settings, while continuing to use Facebook, would result in one’s automatic demotion to Bebo. Repeat offenders would be dropped into the bowels of MySpace, haunted by a never-ending loop of emo music on automatic play.

Cowardly commenters who make disgustingly offensive remarks on forums and news websites under the cover of anonymity would be taken out of their miserable jobs and/or mothers’ basements  and given the attention and cuddles they obviously never received as children. If the cuddles didn’t work, their pockets would be lined with stones and they’d be tossed in the nearest river like a sack of unwanted kittens.

Anyone using the phrases ‘full of WIN’ or ‘epic FAIL’ would be reincarnated as the bottom of a nappy bin in summer.

Porn, in its current misogynistic form, would largely disappear. All at once. I just hope the energy shift resulting from 5.7 million solitary handjobs ceasing mid-stroke isn’t enough to spin the Earth off its axis.

The Daily Mail’s website would be hacked and taken over by immigrant lesbians, fat liberals, paedophile benefit scroungers and French-speaking EU bureaucrats, with a few drunk tarts and feral teens thrown in for good measure.

Defining or qualifying women’s capabilities based on their parental status (like ‘mummy blogger’ or ‘mumpreneur’ or ‘mummy track’), while trying to make it sound cheerful and hip, would result in a 2-year mandatory sentence at Camp Patronising, where all the tables and chairs are 10 times as big as the adults and giant children talk down to them while patting them on their pretty, tiny little heads.

All of the following ‘debates’ would cease to exist: breast v bottle, SAHM v working mother, breeders v childfree, kids in restaurants, babies on aeroplanes, and whether getting drunk or walking home alone is an invitation to get yourself raped by hapless, horny passerby.

No one would ever blog about not blogging.

Tweeting about your ‘homemade’ this and your ‘organic’ that, along with continual photographic evidence of said meals and craft projects — to broadcast to the world how healthy, clever, trendy and environmentally-conscious you are — would be illegal in 39 states and Canada. The punishment for breaking this law would be a diet of foie gras, veal and dolphin-unfriendly tuna served with PLAIN, UNORGANIC VEGETABLES. Yeah, that’s right, bitches. I’m that cruel.

I would be able to accurately convey my intentions and emotions without the use of smiley faces, LOLs or ‘just kidding!’ disclaimers.

I would always end a post with a zingy one-liner or memorable moral instead of just allowing my fingers to fall away from the keyb

Christmas poo and other travesties

NS December 22nd, 2010

I’m not going to write one of those long, boring posts about what I’ve been up to and why I haven’t been able to write, but a booming doula business and a trip to America to see friends, followed immediately by my sister coming to stay for two weeks and the manic lead-up to Christmas means I barely have time to wipe my ass properly let alone concoct long, navel-gazing, ranty or poignant blog posts.

Speaking of ass-wiping, this is something I’m going to be quizzing future playdates on, when Noble Girl has someone over. Just today, I was forced to deal with a toilet full of another child’s excrement and reams of loo roll laid on top, just to make it that much more difficult and unpleasant to flush. To clean up this kid’s Mr. Hanky required 3 plastic bags, 1 pair of gloves, 2 plungers, 1 bottle of spray bleach, 2 sponges and supreme control over not only my gag reflex but my Small Child Swear Word Censor Button.

You guys, I  had to clean shit off the flexible grooves of the toilet plunger afterwards. AND IT WASN’T EVEN MY KID’S SHIT. Nor was I getting paid even child sweatshop-worker wages to do so.

Tell me I’m not a saint and I’ll tell you to go stick a spork in your groin.

Attention all future and potential playdates: an ass-wiping and flushing demonstration will now take place upon arrival, with a quiz at the end. If you fail the ass-wiping and flushing quiz, you will be marched out the door and returned immediately to your parent/guardian/handler/zookeeper.

Happy Christmas everyone! Have a good one. Eat cheese, drink wine and be merry. And if you’re a teetotal vegan, well…happy New Year.

Fight the terrorists with crotch grabs!

NS November 17th, 2010

People are going apeshit in the US about these new pat-down procedures at airports. Apparently, airline passengers are faced with a choice of full body scanner (where an anonymous person in a room somewhere can see under your clothes — big deal!) or a rather thorough pat-down that includes much groping and patting of various damp and dark places on the body.

I am really not bothered about being scanned or patted-down. I’d prefer not to have to do either but seeing as they are a ‘necessary evil’ for the time being, I’m really not fussed which method they use. This is what we must go through as a result of the Bush Years, folks. It’s your own damn moronic faults. You made your GOP-lined bed and now you are being molested on it. Ain’t life grand?

I’ll be in the US in just a couple weeks and will be entering 6 or 7 different airports. I may get to second base several times while I’m away! At least I’ll be getting some action while separated from NH.

Sexy mustard

NS October 18th, 2010

I think of this spoof ad every Halloween when I start seeing all the ‘choices’ women have for costumes in the shops. Personally, I’d go with Sexy Lobster. [NSFW]

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