On the drive home, I did some reflecting (I was too busy listening to the music during the funeral to reflect then like I was supposed to).  And thought long and hard about something that was said during the service.  Thinking during the drive home made the most sense as my wife and child were in the car, it was pissing it down with rain, the car was aquaplaning all over the place, so it made sense to get lost in my thoughts and not pay any attention to the road while driving too fast.  Luckily we all made it home in one piece, although my underwear was a little on the stained side. 

Anyway.  What I was reflecting on during the drive was that in every funeral I have been to (not many…you know, I am not some serial funeral goer to..er or something weird) the same line was said.  And I wonder if it happens at every funeral.  The line was “…was loved by everyone”. 

OK, so I am not too sure if it is mentioned on death row or anything because I am quietly confident that the average serial killer is maybe not so loved by everybody.  But regardless…I had a thought about it and realised mine has to be different.  Maybe a few truths instead of the standard lines.  Not that the standard lines are lies…you know..before you think I am being horrible about the dearly departed amongst us. 

Instead of the “Sy was loved by everyone” line, I am thinking I could have:

Sy liked to wear socks when his feet were cold. 

He was also not overly loved all of the time. 

At times, his wife wanted to shove a mildly hot poker in a place that isn’t his mouth.  For those in the audience too stupid, we mean in his arse.  She found him annoying.  Selfish.  Arrogant.  A bit of a twat.  At times, he wished to flush one of his cats down the toilet when it cleaned it’s arse while sitting by his head…but never had an issue with using the cat to scratch his own arse.  He would eat his daughters yoghurt’s…but only the ones she really likes…because they are also the ones he really likes.  He would then tell his wife that she had eaten all 6 yoghurt’s that day.  Being a young child who couldn’t talk, she could not defend herself.  The world will be a better place without him.  Although cadburys may find that their profits go down because he ate so much chocolate. 

We wont miss the bitter idiot.

Fair?  I dunno.  If you don’t know me well…it’s all lies I tell you!  If you know me well…sod off.  You aren’t welcome around this post.

In unrelated news, I just had a large coffee.  Yeah I get that you didn’t need to know that.  I just like to share.  It is important in life.

Just last week for instance, I realised I needed to cut my toenails, so I did that.  And then shave my armpits, chest, legs, arms…actually, I should probably mention that I have had a sex change.  I am now a female goat called Hoshui.  I am very much looking forward to being milked!  Oh…hang on.

You see?  It isn’t that I am a slacker, I have been genuinely busy.

I have also continued to do that pesky running thing getting ready for the marathon.  That may be the real reason for my continued absence.  I am really not that good at it.  I am more of a bouncing bomb than a streamlined image of awesome.

Which leads me galloping along to this months weeks post.

I went for a short run last week and got me one of these:

Oh, I should probably mention that it isn’t pretty, so if you are scweemish, look away now.  If you aren’t scweemish…you are a hero.  Go get a gold star and a lollipop!

Huh.  I should have really put the disclaimer above the image eh?  Well, ya seen it now.  Stop moaning you big wuss.  You don’t have to have it attached to your foot do you!?  You haven’t been walking around like someone just jammed a lamp post up your arse have you?  Exactly.  And no, I haven’t had the lamp post treatment either.  But walking was an issue regardless.  Sitting down on the other hand…noooo problem at all.

Now I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking “Holy crap…with feet like that, he must have a face like a smacked arse!”.  Well, you could be right.  And if you spent some time stalking me on facebook, you would actually find out.  Or, you could save that 3 minutes of your life and go boil an egg.  Of course, if you underboil the egg, just like looking at the the photo of me on Facebook,  you will be violently ill.  You have been warned.

That is the thing about feet isn’t it.  Had I had not shown you my dirty sweaty ugly foot, and left you to imagining that people who write websites are all sexy and stuff, you would probably think that I currently look like this:

And then in a few years when I am older, I will look like this:

Yeah yeah, I know guys…but we spend so much time looking at the lovely girls of the interweb, I figured I should put something up for the ladies, so it was those two photos or a love poem.  And my poetry generally centres around the size of my little guy.  Not that romantic, and I don’t think they are interested anyway.

But instead of the two images above, after looking at the image of my blister soaked foot, you get the idea I look like this:

Hey, don’t knock it.  The guy never wore shoes, and you know what his name is don’t you!  What do you mean no?  It’s Gandhi for bloody hells sake.  And no, I don’t know why his man boobs look a little weird.  OR why he doesn’t have a laptop.  Actually, for someone that people think is awesome, the dude REALLY needs to sort his crap out.  I mean what is that?  A friggin crayon he is writing with?  And why does he have that sulky face going on?  Enlightened my left buttock.

But anyway.  I digress.  Back to my foot.

So yeah, a small blister.  But it doesn’t end there.  I got home and decided I would lance it.  So picking up my rustiest pin, I jammed that tetanus soaked metal in the side side of the blister.  Hooooooly crap!

Lets just say there was a little pressure in there.  I tried to take a photo of it, but you wouldn’t get the full effect.  The juice (is that the right word?  I mean it wasn’t puss.  Nor blood.  Nor a signed autograph of Madonna.) that came out squirted about 2ft high.  I am actually not lying here or embellishing (I embellish?  Ah come on…you lie!).  It was frankly disgusting.  But having just come back from a run, I was thirsty so spent the first few seconds trying to drink it like it was some weird sicky drinking fountain.

I recommend not doing that.  When you are there, drinking your own foot juice, and a family member walks in the room…well…YOU try explaining it.  It was bad enough that I got it in my eye so as my wife walked in, I was stood there half naked, licking my lips and winking ferociously.

Now I have your attention, I shall tell you what they have been lying about.  This time.

You know how women always say “Wow, you are SO crap in bed!  The last time I was that uncomfortable, the doctor was taking one of my teeth out without the aid of anesthetic or the correct tools!”.  They do say that to you; right?  It isn’t just me?  Surely they all use the dentist line on all men?  Anyway…  today I read that researchers have confirmed that the G Spot does NOT exist. 

I knew it.  I just bloody knew it.  I knew I couldn’t possibly be THAT bad in the sack, and it was the woman’s fault for not finding me attractive rather than my uncomfortable fumbling that seems to make them use the words “I feel dirty” or “I cant wait until the pool boy comes back” or “come near me again and I call the police”.  Why would they say it exists if it doesn’t?  That is the typical example of dangling a carrot knowing it will never happen (or the company I work for promising a payrise is another way of saying it).  I once spent a good 4 minutes looking for the G Spot.  Granted, looking in my CD collection seemed to annoy her a little.  But now I know it is all one big lie, I don’t feel guilty anymore.

I could just go on about the lie that women feed us, but I will just get depressed, so if you get the urge, the news story is HERE.

But in a directly related in fairly no way whatsoever kind of way, it is things like this that lead to some people having to take things a little   further in life which leads to getting arrested.  And no, for once, it wasn’t me.  It was this unbelievably good looking chap:

Easy ladies…although I do not know if he is married, some of you are, and I cannot have your marriages destroyed when your husband catches you drooling over…well…I don’t know.  What is he?  He isn’t a man.  Nor a woman.  He seems to be part lemon peel and part Chippendale.  And by Chippendale, I mean Chip and Dale the chipmunks.  OK, so I know it is rude to talk about how ugly someone is, and I myself am not what you would call devastatingly good looking (or maybe you would…call me! *wink*) but what the hell happened to the top of his head?  His ears are at waist height and look like they have been drawn on.  It also looks like he had a sex game with an industrial strength vacuum and the top of his head came off worst.  I just don’t understand how he was allowed out in the daytime when there are children around.  Think of all the lost sleep through nightmares.

So naturally, he would be the ex-mayor of one of our county towns.

Oh, and he likes to break in to your house and steal your underwear.  You can decide what he does with them once he has them.  (hint:  You wouldn’t want to wear them when he has finished.)

He stole from a lot of women, which lead one woman to put a hidden camera in her bedroom to see if she could catch who was doing it.  I also know this woman and didn’t know anything about the camera, so expect my sex tape to be unleashed to the world any time soon.  Damn her.  Had I known, I would have got a production team in.  And shaved my arse.  I won’t lie.  If you buy the video, or steal it from some P2P site…it had been cold.  I didn’t have time to go leaving my bare arse in the open to shave it.  And my back isn’t always that hairy…I was growing it for a film part.  And the woman prefers it when sex is over in 48 seconds and that the man makes noises like a distressed seal.  So you know…don’t judge me too harshly.  OK?

The moral of todays post?   Watching kids TV while trying to write a post reeeeally doesn’t bring out my best side.

Yeah that is enough about that.  Lets be honest.  It is a new year, but what has changed?  My underwear sure hasn’t.  Yeah sure, the itching it starting to get a little annoying like last year, but it will pass.

Instead of talking about what may be ahead, I need your help.  I lost something.  Two things actually.  One minute they were there, and then bang.  Gone.  No note, no goodbye…not even a forwarding address.  So where the hell have they gone?

It started a few days ago.  It was a little cold outside.  Minus 4.  Not what you call warm.  Unless you are an Eskimo.  Or confused.  Or just plain stupid.  I am not gonna put that past some of you.  Especially you.  Yeah, you know who you are.  Weirdo.

But anyway.  It was on the cold side but with the fear of snow (and in this country, that means doom.  Nothing good comes of it.  The country stops, and I still haven’t worked out why the yellow snow tastes different to the white stuff), I decided I should do as many runs as I can before a week of ice lands and my training schedule matches my mental intellect.  So severely lacking then.  So I went out for a 2 hour run. 

It was during this time that they went.  They were there when I walked out of my door, but when I got back…gone.

You would have thought that I would have noticed them leaving, but it was pretty cold.  I first noticed they were gone when I got back, wiped the ice from my face and said to my wife “Flong thruy herv a flask”.  It seemed my facial muscles had frozen from the cold.  What I mean to say was “Going to have a bath”.  So off I went.  Waiting for the bath to run, I slowly and sexily stripped off my clothes in front of the mirror admiring myself while winking and playing peekaboo with my underwear I decided I had a few minutes to kill, so I should probably give myself a good scratch.  You blokes know what I mean.  You women don’t get it.  Or maybe you do?  And you do the same?  And you know…that has not created as nice an image in my head as I had hoped when I said that!  If I was to walk in to the bathroom and see my wife having a good scratch, I probably wouldn’t say “Heeeeey baby!!” but would be more inclined to say “Hey, the supermarket is open 24 hours…want me to go get something for that?” and then sleep in the spare room that night through fear of catching whatever I have imagined she has.

But I am getting away from the story here.  So.  Back to my manly scratching.  I reached down…and they were gone.  And little Syhad shrunk, which scared the hell out of me…I mean hell, when there ain’t much there, the last thing you want is to realise that you lost 50% more.

Yup, I had regressed to pre puberty.  I coughed.  Nothing.  I gagged myself to get a little more coughing power.  Nothing.  I tugged…well, we wont mention that.  Where the heck have they gone?  I had a bath…nothing.  I am quietly confident that they have headed north rather than packed their bags, but I cant count that out.  My voice is now more Mickey Mouse than the uber handsome man that I misguidedly imagine I am and when I talk to girls, I fumble my words, sweat profusely and come across like a complete dick.  So.  Nothing new there then.

But I am concerned for their wellbeing.  So if you were to say be sitting on a beach and a very handsome pair of testicles are sitting there drinking pina coladas…well…they aint mine.  Mine will be ugly, sweaty and drinking some higher than average alcohol content beer while leering at everyone near them.  So if you see them..drop me a line.  There is a reward and a pack of jelly babies in it for you!