99 problems and assholes are all of them.

It’s no secret to those around me that my love life is as successful as Carnie Wilsons gastric bypass.

Where all my high school friends seemed to land their leading handsome, faithful and income generating men one year post graduation I was left languishing in the world of d grade movie set extras. My imdb filmography resembling the below:

1999 – Missing without a trace (the diary of a serial cheater)

2001 – The pursuit of Happiness (where optimism about his future actually substituted a full time job)

2003 – How High (do you intend on getting before we visit my family today?)

2007 – The fast and the furious (premature ejaculator with anger issues)

2009 – What lies beneath (a criminal record and massive child support liability)

2010 – Still Breathing (though it’s hard to tell because you’re so fucking boring)

So, with my romantic career in tatters on the poignantly empty bedroom floor – I decided to take the once avant-garde now just desperately lame approach of joining a dating site.  At least, this way I can assess my suitors from afar I mused as I sat, hands poised at asdf jkl; now set out with the task of communicating my man registry in under 250 words.

Writers block.

Describe the man of my dreams in under 250 words? How bout I start with a mere five that seem to have eluded me for the past ten years, Funny, Faithful, Employed, Not ugly.

I feel my white flag being raised slowly above shoulder level.  3-4 billion men in this world, chances of romantic utopia zilch I lamented.

Being blessed with innate optimism I push on, disregarding any desire to protect my remaining self worth I type:

MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE ME LAUGH.

PREFERABLY EMPLOYED,  RELATIVELY HANDSOME AND FAITHFUL ARE ALSO VERY IMPORTANT TOO.

Boom. Add airbrushed totally misleading photograph and I’m done.

Now all I have to do it sit back and wait for the barrage of eligible suitors to throw themselves at me.

Oh look – I have new mail.

ItalianStalion86: I have no problems sleeping with a woman your age. Hit me up so we can get down to bizness.

Honey badger applauds you ItalianStalion but I’d rather be pack raped by rabid wolves on the anniversary of my Fathers passing.

Honey Badger Applauds You

Moments later the little red mail flag blinks ominously at me again, appearing strangely like my hazards.  Two messages.  My popularity was unexpected.

Clive1980: lets bang

I respect his brash and minimal approach, so I respond similarly

Cardyff: Fuck Off.

Moving right along.

Blackhoney77: Hello Gorgeous, i like your sexy and gentle smile, when i look into your two eyes i see fire burn with love n passion

Well.  I should really dissect this message prior to responding.  Hes put a lot of thought into his message.

a. He gave gorgeous a capital letter and neglected a capital for the word I.  This can only mean one thing.  His grammar is terrible.

b. He assumes correctly I have two eyes.  Points for his intuition.

c. When he peers into my optical orifices he sees a fire ablaze with love n passion, not love AND passion, love n passion, like r N b or chicken N ribs, such hauntingly beautiful metaphorical imagery.   What a wordsmith.

Cardyff: Hello blackhoney77, 😦 you are in Nigera.  Because we are so far apart I fear I will be unable to nurture this furnace of passion, I also do not wish to die of Aids.

Power down mac. Retrive spoon and Ice Cream.  We’ve seen enough for a day.

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Bus Angst

I have, due to extenuating circumstance  had to catch the bus to work this week.  The car is back tomorrow, which is a relief because public transport seems to be populated by a lot of people deficient in spacial awareness i.e theirs no fucking way you can fit 450 pounds of yourself next the 30cm of space on this seat next to me.   Don’t get it twisted girl,  I’m not usually discriminatory towards additional mass, in fact I’ll even go so far as to select the seat next to the fat dude just so he knows the feeling of a normal two-seater experience (I know, I’m generous and gracious in ways that even I masturbate over)

Aside from asphyxiation by large commuters my bus odyssey’ have been relatively benign – that was up until yesterday’s bus trip.

Almond snickers bar raised to my mouth I bolted for the waiting transit way.  That’s what my particular bus line is called here.  Or because Australians  have an innate desire to shorten and desecrate every functional English word in the dictionary … The T.Way.  See they even wrote it on the bus.

People pictured are not brickmakers.  In fact I've lived her six years and have no fucken clue where this is.

People pictured are not brickmakers. In fact I’ve lived her six years and have no fucken clue where this is.

 

One of the benefits of being one of the last to make it on the bus is often not having to  pay for service.  The bus driver just tends to wave you through in their haste to drag race with the west bus.  See below.  

Drivers fully loaded and ready to drive off the nearest cliff.  He loves his job.

One way ticket to Merrylands.  Where every cliff looks like an opportunity for advancement.

 

I’ve probably saved an accumulative sum of $26.50.  Almost enough to buy a real job so I’m not sitting here calculating pointless facts like this.  I’m digressing.  So I’m standing at the front of the bus, captivated by my almond snickers when my ears perk up to civil unrest.  As with all public disturbances they start off relatively quiet,  mainly because other people are making noise, when they realize  shits going down it’s nature for everyone to shut their pie holes.

“Why don’t you just get the fuck up and give your seat to the old lady? Show some fucken respect”

  “Excuse me? I did give the seat up!!”

“no you fucken didn’t you just sat there, with your bags all spread out like lady fucking Diana, you’re scum mate, you’re a fucken dog”

Aggressor  stands and as a act of defiance offers her seat to the nearest commuter, who was bewildered and slightly mortified because she wasn’t an old lady.

     “You don’t know me, why are you judging me?”

“Yeah and I don’t wanna fucken know you either”

    “Then why are you still talking to me”

“I swear to God, if we weren’t on a bus I’d fucken bash ya”

Firstly, I don’t recall lady Diana just sitting anywhere with her bags laid out on a bus.  The royal reference made me bite my lower lip to stifle my laugh, I should have just let loose,  because by her logic we were on a bus, and its a protective shield from being bashed.

Secondly, as she stood there, one arm raised above her head, gripped to the railing (because lets face it stumbling back and forth when you’re in the midst of a tirade doesn’t earn any respect)  she also clung to what must have been her son, about six years old.  Notably withdrawn and probably thinking what everyone else was thinking “you should have just been a blow job”

As I stepped off the bus and walked away from Australia’s mobile version of The Experiment I thought to myself a few things.

  1. Forest Whitaker’s lazy eye condition is called Ptosis.  The drooping gets worse the longer he’s been awake.

2.And Maybe I should catch the bus more often? Purely for it’s         entertainment value? Or just for more things to write about in my blog.

Shuddering, I quickly dismissed the idea.  As much as perving on other people’s lives arouses me, it’s the lack of air conditioning and redundancy of deodorant that keeps me attached to my car.

I really need to figure out how to wrap up my stories, this kinda just stagnates and dies.

 
 
 
 

Well … this isn’t different

MalaMala-Honey-badger

So I suppose, in order to create a blog that’s fortified with the promise of longevity I should have some idea what the hell I want to write about.

I’m relying entirely on my possibly misguided, definitely narcissistic assumption that people will just find me fucking funny.  That they’ll put up with reading my shit because I can make them chuckle at my misfortune, and that my life, which swings gently between wasted hooker and the desperate to be euthanized on the quality of life pendulum will remind them of how great theirs is.

About a year ago, I watched a 30 minute documentary on youtube about the honey badger. It changed my life for a whole night.

From a distance the honey badger looks like the kind of animal you’d want to turn up to your nieces 6th birthday party, it’s furry, it’s confident, its got swag – but dont let this badly behaved otter duplicate dupe you, it would consume your young limb by limb and then thrash your wife to curb her mourning.   When a honey badger is hungry (and it seems to be in a constant state of deliriously insatiable which is bullshit for all the other animals within close range ) it’s gonna fucken eat.   Even the raging venom of an enraged king cobra cannot keep this badger of nazareth down.  On the edge of my seat, I watch them spar, badger goes down, he rises again.  Then when you think he’s finally succumb after about 20 minutes of inactivity his heads pop up again, and he crawls like your Uncle kenny at 2am on his way to the ‘bathroom’ (via your genitals) to the mangled remains of the cobra to eat again.

Roll credits. Cue stunned silence.

I looked at my best friend, Sgt Owen Fuckingnumi we both knew.  Without the exchange of words, we had found Gods ultimate creation.  We had stumbled across an animal that put it’s middle finger up to every mother fucker who had told him eat a dick just before her tore theirs away from their groin. And we were in love.

And thus was born the reciprocal nickname of Badger.

Often used with affection but moreso to describe an unncessarily hostile agressor.

The irony? I’m nothing like a honey fucken badger.  But I respect the game.