Mommy Has A Headache

Kultural Karaoke Konfusion

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 17:43:00 +0000

I had always thought that Karaoke was a universally understood language. Okay so I have only ever done it in Britain but if someone said, "Oh Dave gave a brilliant Karaoke performance Saturday Night," you'd immediately reply,

"Oh really, did he....

...Trip over a cable and smash his head?"

....sing like a cat on heat?"

...accidentally nut the DJ because he was so drunk he fell over?"

or

...short circuit the electrics by spilling his beer?"

The common denominator here being that he made an arse of himself.

Indeed, as I understand it the universal law of karaoke is that you are drunk, usually blind drunk and consequently think you are much better than you are. But you are drunk, blind drunk and you are slurring, dribbling, cannot control your feet, your makeup is all over the shop and you are hilariously entertaining without knowing it.

Not so. NOT SO. After nine years in the States I did something I regret doing. I went to a karaoke party. Now this was some sort of fundraiser for a school but there was an OPEN BAR with some kind of generic wine which I immediately availed myself of. There was also tons of beer. But even with free beer the crowd looked like they were at a wake.

Okay this took part in a church and maybe I really was in the wrong room and this was a wake for someone. They all sat there grim faced with their free booze and sang along under their breath to the karaoke.

Wait, it got worse. My British mate Darren and myself did Don't You Want Me Baby while getting my heels tangled in the electric cables. Unfortunately our crap performance was to be the high point of the evening.

I hope you are sitting down for this and not easily shocked but I saw some things I'd rather not have seen. In short I saw people taking karaoke seriously.

First there were a quartet of lumberjacks singing an acapela version of Rocking Robin. Yes it was in perfect pitch but it went on forever and was about as fun to watch as a Snooker tournament.

When that finished there was a really creepy wierdo who gave a dull rendition of Wichita Linesman. Now I quite like that song but firstly, is that really the sort of song to sing for karaoke and secondly it was such a spine chilling and lonely rendition I had the feeling that he had often sang it to himself in the mirror when he wasn't out train spotting.

Then there was a fifty year old Chinese woman with a flat, creaky voice who looked like a deer in the headlights as she sang without any intonation whatsoever Hit Me Baby One More Time. At this point I had lost the will to live. Did these people think they were auditioning for American Idol or were they just escapees from a mental hospital? I honestly don't know. Even when they were good they were boring. And when they were bad they weren't funny.

It got worse. Like the movie Groundhog Day the cycle of hell kept repeating itelf. The Lumberjacks, Creepy Wierdo and tone deaf Chinese Lady kept going in rotation. The audience did not get more lively. It was still like a wake and I was beginning to wonder if there was even any alcohol in the wine. This was how bad it was: it did not get better the drunker I got. I would have gone up to do another song but frankly I believed my comic talents would be wasted on this crowd so I just made like a banana and split.

And now I ask you dear readers: AM I ALONE in my experience or have you ever seen anyone do karaoke for serious? Is this an American thing? And is it worth me getting in touch with the UN to intervene in this. I mean, I just feel these people need to be educated that karaoke is not a singing contest to be taken seriously. 'Kin hell, I need to get on the blower to Ban Ki-moon about this. It's a national emergency. I just hope this isn't happening all over America...

Serious Karaoke...and I thought I'd seen it all...you live and you learn.

Fat Flyers are the last taboo

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 18:27:00 +0000

You can call them differently weighted, gravitationally challenged, horizontally challenged, horizontally gifted, people of mass or people of substance but whichever way you slice the lard I call them obese.

United Airlines was a voice of reason in the wilderness when they said that obese people should have to pay for a second seat on their airline or be bumped off the aircraft

United says that it decided to adopt the tougher policy after receiving more than 700 complaints last year from passengers "who did not have a comfortable flight because the person next to them infringed on their seat," said United spokeswoman Robin Urbanski.

United's flight attendants, who will have the delicate task of enforcing the new policy, have traditionally sought to find two adjacent seats, free of charge, for passengers who spill over their seats.

That hasn't changed.

"We'll first try to re-accomodate you on another seat on the flight," Urbanski said. "If the flight is full, and that's not often the case these days, you'll be bumped from the flight."

If this occurs, passengers will be forced to either find a flight with open seating or required to buy two seats or an upgrade to a class of service with wide seats.

The wierdest thing they said was:

United said that most major airlines have similar rules in place.

Which must be a blatant lie because there are many many obese people flying in single seats when I have been flying.

A lot of people have left outraged comments such as politically correct monkies like this:

OMG - that is absolutely horrible - talk about profiling! I can't wait for the lawsuits against United - what is wrong with that company? what happened to the "friendly" skies? They should be ashamed!

People always cry oh the prejudice, oh we are being picked on, but the fact is you cannot stuff a cup cake into a keyhole same as those people who try and cram giant overstuffed suitcases into the overhead compartments - something's got to give. Since these obese people do not fit into the seats they shouldn't be in them.

Like Ricky Gervais who is also on my wavelenght on this issue I'm no skinny minny. In fact it's always been something of a miracle THANK YOU GOD that I eat about 4000 calories daily and remain only borderline overweight. The question I am asking is why is bumping fat people off planes discrimination? BEING FAT IS NOT AN ILLNESS. As the politicaly incorrect line we always said at school goes: How many fat Ethiopians have you ever seen? I rest my case.

Ricky Gervais is the hero who said:

"people who have liposuction and gastric band operations are lazy fucking fat pigs".

He also laughs at himself (well you have to don't you?) when he says, "I get up in the morning, look in the mirror, and say to myself, 'Oh, you fucking fat bastard."

He added: "In supermarkets, the really fattening stuff should be behind a really thin door. Shops should be full of salads, but if you want to get to the pies and cakes, you've got to crawl through a little tube."

Bloody good idea!

And please remember, to avoid jumping onto any policitally correct minefields these are the latest PC terms. Watch and learn lads:

My breasts will never sag, they will lose their vertical hold.
I do not get drunk, when I am accidentally over served I become verbally dyslexic.
When I get PMS I become hormonally homicidal.
I don't have great cleavage or a great rack, my breasts are centrally located.
Because I do not work out too much, I am an abdominal underachiever.
I am not a bad cook, I am microwave compatible.
I am not a bad driver, I am automotively challenged.
And please don't ask me to dance, please request a precoital rhythmic experience.

Do you ever find yourself suffering from politically incorrect nostalgia?...I know I do. This is at least three kinds of wrong...yet so right:

Her Imaginary Boyfriend

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 15:13:00 +0000

Yesterday night my husband John, the kids and myself had been invited round to my friend Hannah’s house for trick or treating. But more exciting for me was the fact that I was finally going to meet Ed, her new boyfriend.

Now Hannah has been dating this guy for four months so it is nothing short of a miracle that I haven’t met him yet. At first things were great between them. Unlike her last boyfriend who she found cheating on her she told me he seemed pathologically faithful from day one and declared love by around the first week mark. They shared the same taste in music and generally got along well apart from in the sack. There were problems both in… do you mind if we talk in Tower Bridge metaphors here? Well, there were problems both in raising the bridge (sometimes it took a lot of elbow grease) and …no, once the bridge was raised it could maintain its erectness, but sometimes its erectness would go on forever with no end in sight leading in frustration for ….the bridge. Now I have made that clear let us go on.

I told Hannah that problems in bridge function could (or so I had heard) be cured by using a little blue pill. I suggested a blue themed menu which could be heavily spiced with crushed Viagra. They could start with a hamburger with melted blue cheese on it and finish with blue frosted cupcakes. Hannah said she’d feel bad sneaking the blue pill into his food. What about the direct approach I suggested, there was no point waiting until the bridge stopped functioning altogether before phoning the engineer if she knew what I meant? But Hannah felt that the bridge function problem would only be exacerbated if she confronted the problem directly by giving him say a 500 count box of Viagra for his birthday. His ego might take a battering from which it would never recover, she said.

So despite the ups and downs (sorry) of their relationship Hannah and Ed were happy enough for four months except that I hadn’t met him. My husband therefore started the rumor that he was her imaginary boyfriend and Hannah found that rather amusing.

I had in fact seen Ed insofar as he had left his laptop at her place and she’d shown me pictures of him he’d left on it. Luckily I was able to tell her that he looked pretty good for a fifty year old. But to be honest she seemed more interested in looking at pictures of his ex-girlfriend who was pretty homely looking.

She said, “Is it just me or does she have a moustache?”

At first I thought she was being bitchy but as we scrolled through the dozens of pictures of her it seemed that yes, the ex was indeed rather plain not to mention hairy. Then we had a long discussion about what does it say about a man that he was in love with a plain woman? Did that make him spectacularly unsuperficial or just plain desperate? And what did that say about his relationship with Hannah?

So last night Ed was meant to turn up but when we got to Hannah’s house she said he was in a bad mood and was not coming. My husband smiled at that remark given its bridge metaphor significance and lost no time in answering anyone we met that evening who asked where Ed was with a straight face, “Oh Ed’s not coming.” (geddit?)

So why did Ed get cold feet? Maybe he simply didn’t relish going trick or treating with a bunch of hyperactive eight year olds? Who knows. All I know is that it has still to be proved whether Ed is a real man or simply a manifestation of Hannah’s imagination. What other advice can I give her to fix Ed's mechanical misfunctions? I'm pretty sure she'd be better of with a hologram boyfriend at this stage of the game but she says "He'll do, for now."

In the meantime here is me in my Halloween costume. What’s up with the wig some of you will be asking?

Candy Darling

Yeah I know I look a little more Candy Darling from the Warhol Factory than Marilyn Monroe but … you know me, I roll with the punches.

Marilyn: "Hello Heidi why so glum?"

Heidi: "Oh I've got a beer krug up my bum!"

Knight Rider turns Shrink

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 15:22:00 +0000

No, it's not April Fool's Day I swear. David Hasselhoff, of Knight Rider, Baywatch and America’s Got Talent fame is opening up his brain and allowing you the opportunity to dig deep into his legendary wisdom.

Yes, The Hoff's BRAIN now has an IPhone application called Ask The Hoff which answers questions using pre-recorded responses from Hasselhoff while an animated version of the star is displayed.

If you've ever wanted to access the Hoff's brain and I know I haven't you can now ask it questions about life and receive answers from a man who is known all around the world as the Californian answer to the Dalai Lama. Dr Phil is already quaking in his boots at this usurper into the lucrative screw people over who have emotional problems market and believes the vision of the Hoff wearing Speedos appearing on iPhones may bankrupt his Misery Mining Conglomerate. Dr Phil was even spotted secretly having hair plugs - on his chest - in a desperate attempt to attract the Hoff's demographic which is aging women (and men) in their seventies who think of him as something of a toy boy.

BATTLE OF THE CHARLATANS

Dr Phil is furious that the Hoff is on his turf and that he looks better in Speedos

Who knew there was a market for this?

The application was designed by Hasselhoff’s company Hotstuff Productions (you can’t make this stuff up) and Never Odd or Even LLP which is a UK-based company specializing in iPhone applications. So, if you are looking for help with your life, and wish to have the “expert” opinion of David Hasselhoff, the application will only cost you $0.99 in the iTunes Apps Store.

Do you sometimes feel like you have gone to sleep only to awake in an alternate reality where applications like this actually exist? Normally I do not, but suddenly that is exactly how I feel now that there is an iPhone application where I can ask David Hasselhoff for advice. I only pray Hasselhoff’s advice is intended to be taken tongue-in-cheek. I draw the line at asking an animated “Hoff” which stocks to buy or sell or even something he knows about like whether silicone implants feel better than saline in your hand?

"I know there are moments when everyone faces major decisions in life and need advice from an expert,"said Hasselhoff, "so as the proud owner of not one but two iPhones (I like to be able to make two phone calls at once!), I'm very pleased to announce the launch of my very own iPhone app."

"It's silly and it's fun, but it's the only way to make important decisions at home and at work," commented Paul Smith, creative partner at Never Odd Or Even LLP. "This iPhone app gives iPhone and iPod owners the chance to receive guidance from their favourite bouffant haired Trans Am driving lifeguard."

Got a problem?

Call Hoff.

I am pretty sure I could get better advice from Grover.

Meanwhile I need some questions to ask the Hoff. Please add to the list.

Can your blood circulation be cut off when you wear skin tight Speedos for 24 hours? If so does your penis fall off?

How many hours of makeup and bottles of foundation did it take to get Pamela Anderson to go from skanky to hot?

Does anyone apart from you actually find you sexy?

Is your hair real or is it that silly string type hair you can get out of a spray can for Halloween?

Also, let's think of other people's brains we'd love to plug into. Jordan are you listening?

I Birthed a Closet Organiser

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 15:34:00 +0000

"Ah yes,and here at the end of the tour we come to the desk of the famous writer Emma Kaufmann who wrote many a bonkbuster at this desk. She claimed chaos fuelled her creativity."

If you are wondering where I have gone I really am writing a novel - honest. The upside of writing a novel is it stops me from thinking about food 24/7 and I think I have already lost three pounds. The book is a black comedy murder mystery but I am keeping it very much under my hat at the moment.

Writing a novel is quite good in so many ways because when your husband says, "Why is there only a dried carrot in the fridge?" or "This house is a tip and why have you left sixteen pans in the sink to soak?" you can quite reasonably reply, "Well I was working on my novel and I must have lost track of time."

The top reason why I want to be published is that it will generate the funds to get a cleaner. Although I am not sure I need a cleaner, really I just need an organiser. My clothes were all over the floor in my room and I bought some coathangers from IKEA with the intention really of at some point in the future taking that very strong tape off them and maybe at some point hanging the coathangers in my wardrobe. But really I just threw the coathangers on top of my pile of clothes. There is already a problem in the wardrobe since there are tons of clothes just lying around on the bottom of it.

But then thankfully a solution presented itself. My daughter Sausage whose ambition is "To be a cheer leader or dance teacher or cowgirl," came in while I was lying on the bed reading a book to my other daughter and without me asking her managed to wrangle the coathangers free of the tape and then she actually hung all my clothes on the hangers and hung them in the wardrobe. It was absolutely mind blowing. I cried for three days. I had birthed a Sausage who loved to tidy. Where had she gotten the genes from? I did not know but I was so grateful.

No I am serious it looks like this now!!

Apart from a brief phase in the Brownies where I used to wear turquoise dungarees and do my hair in pigtails and used to make my bed every day I have been a pretty messy person. I do not have the male gene that allows one's room to be full of pizza boxes and old lager cans (well apart from at university) but I have to say I simply feel much more comfortable in a messy house. It is just lucky I am married to someone neat or I might become one of those hoarders like the woman next door who lives with three obese cats and several tons of silk flowers, unopened letters and porcelain dolls covered in shrink wrap.

The fact is the creative person needs to be surrounded by chaos to write. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Are you an anal retentive clean freak who carries around antibacterial wipes or do you simply allow your kitchen to become a petri dish for germs like I do?

Speaking In Tongues

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 13:13:00 +0000

Please don't explode with excitement but I can now reveal the identity of the newest revolutionary sex toy. Yes The Sqweel Oral Sex Simulator is here!!! This new toy has ten tongues and can talk the language of love better than many men.

The blurb says: "The sensational new patent-pending oral sex simulator has a wheel of ten teasing tongues that will lap you to orgasm time and time again. Sorry guys, you're not even needed for oral sex any more!"

As you know I have been road testing this device and a lot of men may be saying:

"Hoorah, no longer will I have to get carpal tunnel syndrome in my tongue while I wait for my lady to finish."

Others of you may be wondering if this is the end of your life because if ladies can receive oral stimulation via machine will your tongue (and by extension you) be surplus to requirements?

Fear not dear lads! The Sqweel is not as good as a real tongue. It is basically a bit of a one trick pony. Whereas the oral sex repetoire can typically include any number of moves - some people like to spell the alphabet with their tongue and this is a starting point. The Sqweel however just licks in one place and even though there are three speeds and it is rather pleasant - let's call a tongue a tongue here - it does not feel like a tongue (even if you use lube) nor really flick like a tongue either.

I have thought of a good use for it though. If you have some wine and turn off the lights you can kid yourself you're having hot anonymous sex!! You could also stage a threesome with yourself and Two Sqweels - that is a hot idea that would not break the bank or lead to the end of your marriage. The possibilities are endless!

The people who guessed the toy correctly were unique stephen who is a muffmaniac who can usually be found at Guess Her Muff and the virginal Sister Christian who is currently being pursued by a Lesbian and a Peruvian Cook. Well you two will have to fight over who wins the bullet vibrator yourselves!

In the meantime, Happy Sqweeling! And do tweet me:

Guess The Sex Toy

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 13:45:00 +0000

If you're wondering what I've been up to recently I'm actually doing some important humanitarian work. I have been sent a revolutionary new sex toy that is NOT named after an animal (dolphin, chipmunk, alligator etc) which is going to be launched onto the UK market on October 13th and - it is claimed - will start an Orgasm Revolution. I will say this for it - it is different to any sex toy you have ever seen. I am meant to be trying it out but right now I am staring at it. It is still in its box and it looks a bit scary. Okay here I go. I'm unwrapping the box. Oh God what is it?

I am not allowed to talk about this product and although the buzz on the streets is that it is 'coming to a clitoris near you' I am pretty sure that males can use this too. As I say I have not taken it out of its package yet. And if you want to get hold of the hottest sex toy of the noughties go here.

Whatever effects this product has on me - and I'm not sure if you want a no holds barred review of this if you do please say - I am not able to muster that much enthusiasm for it. I'd rather people started thinking outside the box a little more and maybe started operating a sex cafe such as this one. That would really get my juices flowing (greasy food plus sex equals Emma's idea of heaven):

This is a really funny video - and so British about sex. Would you go to a cafe that offered a menu of sex as in: Bum Fondling, Nipple Tweaking etc. I think it's a bloody good idea and I'm sure that Bognor Regis could triple its income by introducing such an initiative.

GUESS THE SEX TOY!!

And now let's play Guess The Sex Toy. If you can guess what this revolutionary new sex toy looks like and does you will win a prize. No you will not actually win the revolutionary new sex gadget but I can probably send you an unused Death By Orgasm vibrator that the people from LoveHoney also sent me.

Clue: the new sex toy does not have a phallic shape. Let's get those thinking caps on!

Happy Stalkers Day!

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 15:16:00 +0000

Not a lot of people know this but Hallmark has declared today as 'Stalkers Day'. This is a day in which we celebrate the brave men and women who have laid down their lives to stalk celebrities and in some cases normal people like you and me. They risk being made fun of by the media, as well as incarceration and life sentences in mental hospitals because they simply didn't understand that 'piss off' actually meant 'piss off.'

Celebrities like to pay lip service to their right to privacy but when it comes to status you haven't really made it until you have your own stalker. For a start you get huge amounts of publicity as the colorful tale is aired on every Network about how someone regularly entered your house and rifled through your underpants.

I am embarassed to say that as far as I know I have never had a stalker. I think it's because I never give guys a chance and I am never nice. There was one guy I dated who phoned up a year after we broke up and said he was "still kind of pissed off at the way things ended." Well Mike you shouldn't have sent that letter to me copied from a German porn mag with your and my names inserted as the protaganists. Unfortunately I did not get off on "steck deine Bratwurst in meine Scheide. Ich moechte viel Geschlechtsverkehr mit dir erleben. Oh Mike! Spiele mit meinem Klitzer bis ich explodiere!!" [note to readers it is funny to put that in the online translator - to save you time I have put the translation here: "put your sausage in my scabbard. I would like to experience a lot of sexual intercourse with you. Oh Mike! Plays with my Klitzer to me explodes!!"]

The closest I myself have got to stalking was after I'd broken up with a boyfriend who then moved in with his new girlfriend I'd sometimes phone him and if the girlfriend answered I'd put down the phone. He claimed she knew it was me but I'm not sure how since this was in the days before caller ID. In any case I'm not so sure this was really stalking as this ex-boyfriend and I were also sleeping with each other on the sly but I digress.

Stalking. I don't have the patience. So you want me to sit outside your house in a car with a pair of binoculars staring through your window. Hello! What happens if I need to go for a pee? Do I have to do it in a spare jam jar? I don't think so.

Let's get real here: Stalking is uncomfortable. Stalking is a full time job and I take my hat off to professional stalkers like Ursula Reichert-Habbishaw the 51 year-old mother of four who stalked Richard Gere by phone, fax and email around 1,000 times and showed up at his Greenwich Village office at least 6 times. Why? Because, her words “I want to be with you and share your life.” Luckily Ursula got out of any jail time by taking the next plane home to Germany.

And what about Janet Jackson's stalker Robert Gardner who stalked Janet for nine years, sent her multiple messages and showed up at random events like the 2004 trial for her brother Michael and a Saturday Night Live rehearsal. At the rehearsal, he was caught in possession of a box cutter and a knife. He did it because he believed the two were in a relationship. He finally got the message when Jackson was granted a three-year restraining order.

Hey can't a guy just pray in peace?

The wierdest one is Zack Sinclair who stalked Mel Gibson not because he fancied him but because he was obsessed with the movie The Passion of the Christ. God told the 34 year old drifter from Idaho via his dreams to stalk Mel Gibson.In 2004, he sent multiple letters to Gibson and showed up at his house and church in attempts to pray with the actor. Sinclair was sent to a secure psychiatric facility and given a maximum three-year jail sentence.

These are all great stalkers but frankly I get angry with the sort of stalkers who don't show the proper respect like trainee child psychologist Dawnette Knight who in 2004 sent threatening letters to Catherine Zeta-Jones describing how she would “cut Zeta-Jones into little pieces and feed her to the dogs.” Thankfully Knight was sentenced to three years in jail.

So okay there are a few stalkers who don't deserve to go on the honor roll but there are plenty that do. So please join me tonight at 5pm EST for a minute's silence as we honor these valiant stalkers who have gone mad in the name of love. I hope one day one of them writes a book to share their secrets. But until then I've done my best to compile a guide to Stalking if you are a beginner and want some tips.

Stalking 101

1. Always carry binoculars
2. A threat to 'put your dick through a meat grinder if you don't put it away' may not be an idle one.
3. If underwear is lying on the floor of a celebrity bedroom you are being helpful by taking it home.
4. Before an all night stalking session in your car practice holding your bladder for eight hours on a practice run or things could get smelly.
5. On no account get out of the car and pee in the bushes - this attracts unwanted attention from both the police and the local cat population.
6. Cut roses are an acceptable stalking gift. A cut off finger is not.
7. If he doesn't reply to your thousandth email he is just playing hard to get.
8. 'Piss off and don't ever darken my door again,' means 'I love you but I just don't know it yet.'
9. It is not innapropriate to ask someone to marry you who you have never even said hi to let alone kissed. It is in fact the essence of romance.
10. Celebrities enjoy getting personal gifts like cushions stuffed with your pubic hair or jewelry made from your toenail clippings - go that extra mile if you really want to get noticed.

Any more stalking tips?

Making Money Hand Over Cyst

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 15:48:00 +0000

Hmm, let me just take a good look at these lumps

I am a notorious skinflint. I will buy a two for one offer even if I don't need the item on sale. And although I try and avoid doctors I recently found myself at a dermatologists because my daughter was covered in a measle like rash and no one seemed to want to invite her to play at their house any more. After an hour or so waiting in his consultation room while my kids trashed the room, blew up some gloves and made the chair zoom up and down, Dr Clown decided to honor us with his presence. He looked at my daughter's lumps and told me cheerfully, "Not much we can do. It is called molluscum and will clear up in about five years time. In the meantime, don't worry about it."

Eventually I strong armed him into giving me some medicine for the molluscum and then I thought, while I'm here why don't I get a two for one and get him to look at this huge cyst I have on my head.

I said, "Hey Dr Clown, see this lump? Can I get it removed?"

He looked at my scalp and said, "Oh yes, it is a benign pilar cyst and I can cut it right off. Just arrange a date for surgery with the nurse."

So first of all I tried the medicine on my daughter for a month and the molluscum didn't clear up so I got something off the internet which did clear it up. So he was totally useless once. But he was to be useless many times more.

Secondly I arrived for surgery on the date the nurse had booked to be told by Dr Clown that he couldn't do surgery today because he had to do a consultation first. I said, "But you told me it was a benign pilar cyst and that I needed to come in today for surgery."

He laughed and said, "Well let me look at this. It is I believe a benign pilar cyst and we need to schedule surgery."

So good for him, like a lawyer he was all about billable hours. So while I thought I had gotten a two for one he had actually charged me for a 'consultation' I didn't need. Wait it gets better. Then he actually schedules the surgery and cuts the benign pilar cyst off. A day later Dr Clown called me up and asked me how I was feeling and if I needed anything I should call him. I'm still not sure whether that was a come on or whether I will be billed for that call. A few days later I get a letter from Dr Clown saying,"I am sure you will be relieved to find out that after doing a biopsy your tumor was benign." Kerching. Charge for biopsy. Now I know and Dr Clown knows that the cyst had about as much chance of being malignant as if they'd biopsied a chocolate button. But let that never stand in the way of billing patients. And okay it will be covered by insurance but it is still unbelievable.

I avoid doctors like the plague mainly because they will give you any pointless procedure they can think of and then prescribe anything they can get away with. No one should be surprised that Pfizer was just fined
$2.3bn for mispromoting medicines and paying kickbacks to compliant doctors. At least I wasn't.

So far I am doing quite well in avoiding all contact with doctors. The only doctor I have to see is the yearly gyno visit where a man sticks cold metal up my vagina. Apart from that I don't have to visit any doc because I don't take any pills and don't use contraception since my husband had a vasectomy (well what would be the point?)

Have you ever thought about the so called choices doctors offer you and how totally idiotic they really are? Most if not all drugs are effective insofar as they do one thing and then give you a bunch of side effects potentially more hazardous than the original condition.

Take the so called contraceptive choices we have today. They seem to me like something thought up in a Sex Ed Class for seven year olds. Picture the scene if you will.

Teacher: "Now last week we drew a picture of the womb and Johnny correctly put the cervix in the right place. This week we're going to think of ideas for contraception. Now can anyone think of a way we can make a lady not have a baby?"

Johnny:"Me please miss."

Teacher:"Yes Johnny."

Johnny: "Well what about if we gave the lady synthetic hormones so she wouldn't produce any eggs?"

Teacher: "Oh Johnny that's a lovely idea but that would make women lose all their sex drive, feel nauseous, get blood clots, totally mess up their bodies and cause breast cancer not to mention that it isn't terribly effective."

Sally:"But what about if we put something inside the womb like maybe a T shaped bit of plastic! Then the sperm wouldn't imbed because the body would be too busy fighting this plastic thing as if it were an infection."

Teacher:"That's a pretty good idea Sally. A for effort. But that would cause incredibly heavy aned debilitating periods not to mention a higher rate of ectopic pregnancy which means Sally my dear that the fertilized embryo gets imbedded in the fallopian tube causing you to die."

Penny:"Miss! Miss! What about a condom, like a plastic sheath with the inside smeared with nonoxynol-9?"

Teacher:"A condom would be an excellent choice as it totally kills passion and also, Penny, I have to say the taste of nonoxynol-9 is somewhat off putting.

Good work class. But I think we really need to put our thinking caps on for next week!"

So, what's the point of Pfizer? That they've given a few wrinkly old men erections who probably should have given their penises retirement? After my brush with Dr Clown I'm giving drugs and docs a wide berth. And what about you? Does your doc bill you for as many pointless prodedures and drugs as he possibly can or is this simply a symptom of the US medical system?

Fame Whore seeks forgiveness

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 14:54:00 +0000

Forgive me father for I have sinned. I talked to a FOX Reporter. I did it without a gun being placed to my head. As it was my views were too left of field to be included but I know I did wrong.

They wanted me to tell them that Obama was the anti-christ but I just couldn't do it.

Maybe my blood sugar level was low, maybe my thong was too tight. All I know is that while at a playground with my daughter a.k.a Sausage I found myself talking to a FOX Reporter. Now before you boycott this blog let me just say in my defence that I am a fame whore and will prostitute myself on right wing media just to get my face on the Tube. So the issue was that talk Obama is having broadcast to schools on Wednesday about the innocuous subject of 'work hard at school.' The FOX Reporter filmed me and asked me to talk about whether I thought that Obama was secretly a Nazi and whether he wanted to get to the kids and manipulate their tiny brain stems so they'd immediately go home and scream, 'We don't want no healthcare reform mommy!'

Well I said I thought the broadcast would be utterly harmless.

Big mistake. Huge mistake.

It meant I didn't get on TV. Luckily Sausage (the blonde pushing swing) did (see clip here). She denied all knowledge of Obama. I am so proud of her. No one could ever politically manipulate her (unless of course they offered her an ice cream, then she'd vote for anyone).

Can you forgive me? Please?

Or have you done things for fame you'd rather forget?

Obamagasms All Round

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Thu, 27 Aug 2009 19:38:00 +0000

I know JFK looked like a bullfrog, but he was a sexy bullfrog

One thing that I have never fully understood is people okay women who fancy Barack Obama. He is certainly not repulsive but he has the sexual allure of maybe a Ken doll. It's just that somehow I imagine sex with Obama to be totally politically correct. I'm referring to those rules in religious colleges in the USA where a young man on a date has to ask, "Is it okay if I put my hand on your breast through your sweater?" And if the girl doesn't answer in the affirmative you could find yourself doing jail time. Well it seems to me that Barack would be terribly touchy feely about it all. He would fiddle about for hours until you'd dozed off and then ask if he might enter your portal? There would be no animal sex, no sweat and no odd scratches and bruises that you have absolutely no recollection of getting - the badges of honor of truly spectacular sex.

Ken Doll Obama Style

Indeed, there are two polarities of sex and those polarities are in the red corner dim lights, Barry White CD on the turntable, two large glasses full of brandy and some edible underwear and in the green corner Wham Bam Thank You Mam which may or may include the phrase from the lady after it is all over of, "Oh I didn't know we had started." Personally I am a little closer to the green corner than the red.

In fact the dearth of he-man sex these days is probably the most insurmountable part of feminism. That it doesn't matter how much you want to love the idea of a house husband, a guy covered in flour simply does not give most ladies the horn. Nor does a man who is wet enough to say "Oh, let me get my hands on your mammary glands." (with the possible exception of Morrissey).

Posing about in these two corners there are two polarities of male which can best be summarized by Obama with his bottle of rose scented massage oil and JFK who probably thought 'foreplay' was a dirty word.

I don't think I have ever seen any such hormonal hysteria as amongst the mothers of my acquaintance pre-election who were running around with Obama Mama t-shirts panting, "Ooh I'd do him in a New York minute." I sincerly hope that they voted him in for his politics and not for the way he wore his trousers.

I read a spot on comment somewhere that said: "JFK's libido was like the Strategic Air Command, on permanent alert, meaning he'd spot a woman out the window, in a park, on a street and take her against the wall, while Jackie took to the White House trampoline." That perfectly sums up the allure of dear old JFK.

So what do you think, is Barack a symbol of the new sexless male? Is he a symbol of post-feminist, post-erection slump? Or does he ring your bell?

Chasing the Chocolate Dragon at Nobbin Island - Chapter 1

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 15:53:00 +0000

Now that addiction memoirs are all the rage I am really hopping mad that I'm not addicted to anything (too lazy mainly, scoring drugs is very hard work). So I had a go at writing a sob memoir that pokes fun at the(particularly American) notion of addiction. Can you top that? I'd love to hear of your addiction be it sucking potatoes or scoffing Scotch Eggs.

Dad after a raid on the local Ann Summer's shop

What you will read here may shock you but I can assure you it is all true. You may think you are fucked up but I am more fucked up. You may think you're an addict but I am more of an addict. Addiction is so totally a gene - scientists have so totally proved it - and I have never had any control over it. I come from a long history of addicts. My grandma was addicted to sniffing shoe leather and my grandad abused cough medicine on a daily basis. My mother's addiction was knitting doilies and my dad's wearing ladies underwear in public. This is my story.

Here is Chapter 1 of my tragic tale.

I had escaped from London wearing only some soiled underwear and a PVC mackintosh. Mummy had initially bought me a flat in the King's Road and I was working two days a week at an art gallery which is bloody hard work. But inevitably my addiction reared its ugly head. At the beginning I was just addicted to cocaine but soon I got into crack. Before long I was a nymphomaniac who had to drink a bottle of tequila before she could have sex with random strangers. My mate Sophie told me I needed to get clean so I started going to AA meetings and NA meetings and Sex Addicts Anonymous. Pretty soon I was addicted to going to Anonymous meetings. I got addicted to the smog of cigarette smoke, the cheap biscuits and monotone delivery of the confessions. I'll admit that at my worst I was doing three or four Anonymous meetings a day and would drive for hours a day just to sit on a metal chair and tell my story about how my dad picked me up from school once wearing only a negligee and panstick makeup and how my mum had covered every available surface with doilies including the front lawn. At some point I had to face the fact: I was an addict who was addicted to twelve step meetings.

My flat was already full of squatters who had changed the locks and I'd spent all my money on petrol to drive me to all these meetings. I needed to get away. I needed to go somewhere not only where there would be no drugs or alcohol but somewhere where there were no twelve step meetings. I looked far and wide for such a place. In the end the only place I found was a tiny island near Jersey called Nobbin Island, inhabitants: ten. I knew this was the place I was looking for.

I arrived in Nobbin Island wearing the soiled underwear and mackintosh and took residence of an isolated cottage that had no electricity. I grew my own vegetables and slaughtered my own sheep. Those three weeks were the most peaceful I had ever known. Until one day there was a knock at the door. I answered the door with my hands drenched in blood because I had just been wringing the neck of a sheep. The fat old woman who stood there did not bad an eyelid. Maybe murder was commonplace on Nobbin Island but this old bat who smelt of a nauseating mixture of urine and talcum powder crossed her arms under her formidable bosom and told me her name which was Bessie and that she was just welcoming me to the neighbourhood and that she lived only five miles away and ran the corner shop should I ever want anything. I thanked her and slammed the door in her face, thinking that I had no need of human contact.

But that is the problem for the addict, the gene had once again been awakened and now I craved to taste the forbidden substances of that corner shop. I chewed my home grown kale no longer with relish. I craved E additives and that night the thought of mainlining gravy granuals kept me from sleep.

The next day I walked the five miles to the corner shop and said hello to Bessie. Looking back it was obvious that she had singled me out as an addict, as before I could peruse the shelves, groaning with chemically laced food she told me "I have exactly what you need." For one terrible moment I thought the old granny was going to pull a crack pipe from her netherregions but no, what she did pull from the dusty shelf was the substance that would ultimately be my downfall. It would drive me insane. In time I would crush it and snort it, I would melt it and inject it. At that point I did not know that a month's hence I would be turning tricks with the local cow farmer to secure my drug of choice.

What Bessie held up was a bag of Cadbury's Chocolate Buttons. I grabbed them and hurried home and devoured them in a single afternoon. The next day I was back. I bought two packs, figuring I was cured and that I could control my addiction. A week later I had bought every pack in the shop and now Bessie had her weapon. She started charging me five pounds for a pack of buttons. Soon I had bled my trust fund dry. Soon I was snorting button dust and licking the splintery floor of my cottage for the last traces. When I told Bessie I had no money for buttons Bessie suggested if I serviced Mr Grunion, her 66 year old son and cow farmer she would 'sort me out.' Mr Grunion was a man of bizarre sexual tastes and usually liked to include at least one root vegetable in our love making but I took it like a man.

Mr Grunion was my first trick but he would not be my last

This arrangement went on for some time. I turning tricks in exchange for Chocolate Buttons. I knew I had reached rock bottom when Mr Grunion introduced a marrow into our sex games and I didn't bat an eyelid.

...to be continued

Family Fortunes - The Lube-tastic Edition

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 14:43:00 +0000

I'm sure most of you will know the show Family Fortunes or Family Fued as it is called in the US. You know, they survey 100 people with a question such as "What would a wife not let in the house?" And then they ask the family and someone gives an answer and they see if they can match the answers on the survey.

Usually the rudest thing on Family Fortunes is something like this with a (shock horror) mention of dirty magazines.

Usually Family Fortunes is about as funny as toothache. But I did go to a really funny adult version of it at a gay club once. When you came in they gave you ten questions and you filled out the answers and then the contestants did their thing trying to match the survey's answers. And I one of the questions was what kind of lube do you use and the contestants came out with all kinds of odd stuff like olive oil, butter, bicycle lubricant, Crisco, lard. The whole thing was very amusing although admittedly I was drunk.

So I thought I'd do my own version of Adult Family Fortunes. Firstly I need to know what kind of lube you use and secondly what is the stupidest thing you've ever masturbated with.

In these eco-friendly times a lot of us are making our own sex toys like this dildobrush featured at emunctory. It's unclear whether the man - and I'm pretty sure it was a man - was simply too tight to buy an electric toothbrush or whether this was simply a case of trying to reach the parts other toothbrushes just can't reach. Whatever the motivation I applaud this man's patience. Because for most people the urge to have a wank does not lend itself to sitting down with power tools and constructing a powerful masturbatory weapon.

For myself I would say there is something of a thrill to be had to using everyday objects rather than vibrators and dildos. Sex shops are always contacting me and saying do I want to review sex toys? No I don't. I don't get much out of them and vibrators are downright irritating and remind me of a dentist's drill. For me and maybe I am unusual here, it is much more of a thrill to peruse the bathroom looking for an appropriate dildo shaped object with which to plunge one's indoor plumbing. But sometimes lust overcomes judgment as in the time where I did it with a Deep Heat Stick. Deep Heat is something you smear on tense muscles which gives off a deep burning heat not unlike eating a Vindaloo curry and is meant to relax muscles which have suffered a sports injury.

Before you chastize me let me just say that THE LID WAS ON the stick. At the time of my impatient ministrations I just thought I was feeling very hot and turned on. But it so happened that at the point my vagina felt as if it was baking in a pizza oven sprinkled with chilli peppers that I happened to notice that the lid had come loose and Deep Heat was leaking into my lady garden and I was experiencing a pain not unlike childbirth. So please, no more naysayers saying 'blogging is a totally mindless waste of time.' If I have saved one woman from masturbating with a Deep Heat stick here I believe my work is done.

So, okay, to sum up let's take our survey here.

1. What lube do you use? Not just stuff you buy at the pharmacy but stuff you can find in any kitchen?

2. If you can't admit to having anal sex, what is the stupidest thing you've ever masturbated with?

And if you have any really good bad sex stories remember I am still writing my Bad Sex Confessions book and you can send me your entries here (don't worry I will keep you anonymous).

Work Ethic Minority

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 15:35:00 +0000

Home sales are on the rise again in the USA which means that the economy has stabilized and the stimulus package has stimulated parts that other packages could not reach. Meanwhile, Ireland's Celtic Tiger has given its last gasp and has now become a Celtic Earthworm. Did you know that Ireland recently ran out of money to pay people dole? (I heard that from the horse's mouth, my husband's 21 year old brother wasn't paid dole for six months. "Sorry we've run out" they said, and then just recently they handed him a big wad of cash in back payment. Sweet.) In the UK 35,000 shops are to close and things are generally going down the toilet.

How do they do it? How in the name of God do those Americans do it? How have they stabilized the economy in a year? Hats of to them is all I can say. I've come over all patriotic all of a sudden. It's enough to make me want to straddle a US nuclear warhead and call myself Mrs Bush.

I do remember the recession of 1992 in the UK when jobs were scarce and everyone was going on that there were no jobs. There were jobs. There are always jobs, they're just shit ones. At that time I remember getting a job in a German law firm which was boring as buggery, but what I mean is if people really want a job surely there are jobs they are just not the jobs they want - that's all. The tip of the iceberg is the student (American obviously) who is suing her college for $90,000 because she has spent three months looking for a job and has not found one. The girl says, "It doesn't make any sense: We went to school for four years, and then we come out working at McDonald's and Payless. That's not what we planned." It would be funny if she won the lawsuit though. In the meantime, why doesn't she just grow up. Funny that she thinks the world 'owes' her a graduate job.

I am pretty sure that I am missing the gene that is marked 'work ethic.' I remember once going for a job at a publishing company and they said, "What is your ideal job?" and I said, "Oh, I would love not to work at all, have a big garden, kids running around, picnics al fresco on a long wooden table, lots of wine, you know?" For some reason I didn't get that job! Well now I have that lifestyle so I can't complain. But in one respect I do work hard and that is in that I love to write and work bloody hard at it. You can read most of my hilarious real life slacking off exploits at work in my novel Confessions of a Cake Addict which is out now.

I would have been much better off having been working in the seventies. My mother claims the London economy was so red hot then that you just got any job you applied for. In fact when she was 25 she got a job at a prestigious conservation/art restoration studio in London's Bond Street. She said they just asked her to mix a few colors at the interview and that was it. She was totally unqualified. These days you have to do a conservation course for seven years in which you study mindblowingly boring stuff like chemistry to get a job like that but in those days it was "What does blue and yellow make?" "Green." "You're hired." I wonder if we'll ever see those days again in my lifetime?

And now for a heartfelt plea. You know I am a talented genius. But frankly it's time the world knew too. My Scottish blogging pal Gillian Martin and I have been slaving away writing a side splitting book about parenting called Cocktails at Naptime. An extract from the book is up here. We are looking to interest a UK publisher in it and are about to send it out in its final version but would muchly appreciate you having a look at it and leaving your comments. The more comments we get the better for us. NB if you don't like it please do not leave negative comments (that means you fingers!) So ta very much. Also could we all get together today at 12 midnight EST and hold hands (virtually) and think positive thoughts so we get this book published? Join me tonight, drinks welcome, clothing optional. Thanks so much sweeties.

And what about you, are you feeling the effects of your country's stimulation package? Or were you, like me, born without a Work Ethic and thus part of the Work Ethic Minority?

Is Brad Pitt the pits?

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 20:03:00 +0000

I know Smellorama has been around for donkey's years but I was quite intrigued by the fact that they now call it Odorama and that an Odorama version of cute 80s comedy Gregory's Girl was recently screened in Edinburgh and that some of the smells were bad ones.

In the Odorama screening of Gregory's Girl (check out the mullets!) cards with eight smells on them were handed out. The smells of freshly cut grass, sweaty socks and teenage aftershave then wafted out during the screening.

I would have loved to have been there - it would have brought all the memories of teenage snogging rushing back. Remember ladies if you will the amount of aftershave some teenage lads used to wear - remember going in for a snog and finding that your eyes were watering because your date was drenched not only in acne medication (which I must confess to this day has peculiar erotic associations for me but that's between me and my therapist) but also in a full bottle of either Old Spice or Brut the smell of which was as pungent as cat pee?

Remember the tagline for Brut: "Apply a little Brut Force." You'd never get away with that today. How the mighty have fallen eh? Now Gazza drinks the stuff.

Have you ever wondered what the world would be like if eventually Odorama became ubiquitous and TV and movies smelt as if you were there? Now that would be great in a film like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory which would have me licking the screen and later making frenzied love to a (consenting) Mars Bar.

But what about the actors in the movies? Wouldn't it ruin the fantasy if we actually knew what they smelt like? If you were right up there in Brad Pitt's armpit while he was shagging some willing lovely would you gag at the scent of his terrible BO? I reckon Odorama would be a turn off because Brad Pitt is someone who always looks like he reeks of pheromones - in a bad way.

Other stinky celebs include Matthew McConaughey a self confessed stink bomb and beach bum who sees deodorant as the enemy. He wouldn’t even break the ban when his “Fool’s Gold” co-star, Kate Hudson, complained about his body odor. “She always brings a salt rock, which is some natural deodorant, and says, 'Would you please put this on?’” But her efforts were in vain. “I just never wore it," said Stink Boy McConaughey. "No cologne, no deodorant.” In fact, Matthew defends himself by insisting no other co-stars ever mentioned it!

Here is a list of other stinky celebs and their signature scents:

Colin Farrell: Stale Guinness, fags, vomit
Amy Winehouse: Ashtray, crack pipe
Bono: His shit stinks like everyone elses
Bruce Springsteen: Stale sweat, cheesy foreskin
Johnny Depp: Dead man smell on a musty thrift store coat
Kate Moss: Fags, morning after sewer breath

So do you think we are ready to see more movies in Odorama? What about the 2009 movie Manure featuring Billy Bob Thorton about a manure salesman in which "every surface, from the crops in the earth to the clouds in the sky, has been carefully color-graded and painted the appropriate shade of excrement." Just think if they could have just added the scent of fresh shit too, it would have been a big shit at the box office I'm sure.

And now tell me this: Which celebrities do you think smell the worst and also what movie done in Odorama would make you gag or tremble with delight?

Feck Off and Show Us Your Cankles

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 18:31:00 +0000

If you are bald you can wear a hat or get Elton John style hair plugs. If you have love handles you can become an anorexic. If you have a face like a pug you can get surgery. If you are 600lb you can get your stomach stapled.

But what do you do if you have CANKLES??? (for those still living in 1965 that means when your calf runs into your ankle and has no definition).

Now I don't have cankles, in fact I have very nice ankles. But what exactly do you do if you have cankles?

Do you just ignore the fact that you have lumps of meat attached to your knees? Or do you wear flared trousers year round? I'm really interested in this and urge any cankle sufferers to let me know how they deal with this problem.

July is Cankles Awareness Month and Gold's Gym has taken this special opportunity to offer pointless classes that will get rid of Cankles on their rather daft site, Say No To Cankles and offer this rather silly fashion advice for Canklettes:

-Look for pants in soft fabrics like cotton or poly blends that drape loosely around the ankle. Skinny jeans, which bunch at the ankle, are a no-no.

-Choose cropped or slightly tapered pants that cuff just past the fullest part of the ankle. These will draw the eye to the thinnest part of the ankle.

-Avoid shoes with ankle straps; these only make the ankle look bigger and the leg shorter. Opt instead for wedges and platform sandals that will create a long, lean silhouette. For fall, invest in dark-colored and tight-fitting boots.

-At the gym, wear bright sneakers to draw attention away from the ankle. Sports socks that reach only to the rim of the sneaker will create longer leg lines.

They may as well tell women to wear a burka!

Feck Off you Fecker!

And what about the new physical problem 'the Feck' which is the merging of the words 'face' and 'neck' to describe someone who has little or no chin/jawline definition. Are you a Fecker?

If so, I'm pretty sure you can get fleeced for only a few thousand for a Neck Lift to cure this problem. I read some plastic surgeon's site recently that said that "a neck lift can make a dramatic difference in facial appearance. Small-incision surgery allows recontouring of the neck with minimal downtime under twilight anesthesia. The neck lift is ideal for treating people with conditions such as turkey wattle neck and excess fat, but who are not bothered by jowls and cheek contour problems."

Does your wattle wobble when you waddle? We can help for $5000

Sure I'm laughing at the misfortunes of others but seriously doesn't it make you feel better that you don't have a feck, cankles or a turkey wattle neck? It makes me feel like Heidi fricken Klum let me tell you!

So have I cheered you up and made you feel more physically blessed or do you have one part of your anatomy that you would happily take a chainsaw to?

Fagged Out

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 15:03:00 +0000

Hello, my mother is staying with me and I am now Fagged Out.

Does anyone else have a mother who:

1. Starts talking at 6am in the morning and keeps going until ten at night in a piercing Austrian accent?

2. Gives me a blow by blow detailed description of all the boyfriends I have ever had and what was wrong with each one. For example "I am glad you are not dating that Russian guy anymore I am sure he was part of the Russian mafia." "He was as skinny as a reed, did yoga and was about as violent as a pansy." "Oh no, I can tell you those Russians they are all the same. Violent."

3. Tells you you really need to lose a few pounds

4. Gives a detailed description of every friend you ever had in childhood over and over again. "Do you remember that little black boy Mohammed who was your boyfriend when you were five? You always joked that if you had kids they'd come out like dalmations, all spotted black and white." "Yes mum I do remember him you've only talked about him about a hundred times."

5. Gives you a book called 101 Ways To Drive Your Man Wild In Bed with certain bits underlined such as something about mushing up a banana and putting it up your vagina before intercourse? "I just underlined some of the things that might work for you and John." "Oh thanks so much mum."

6. Tries to get some grease stains out of some chair cushions with nail varnish remover ruining the cushions in the process?

7. Reduces you to a mental wreck after three days.

8. Tells you your father was a chronic masturbator.

9. Goes through your sex toys.

10. Is a good cook but uses all your pots and pans and leaves the kitchen in a bloody mess so that ants are already crawling all over it?

Or is that just me?

Zen and the Art of Mother Maintenance

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 17:12:00 +0000

Well it is the calm before the storm around here because my Austrian mother is arriving for a soujourn on Saturday. We usually end up having a blazing row by day three but this time I will suck Valium and try and generally stay very Zen and not react and generally be very mature. Last time she asked our 68 year old neighbor Lottie if she and her husband still had sex to which Lottie replied, "Oh gosh no, we don't do that anymore!" Apparently Lottie wasn't offended. Maybe she is deaf and thought my mother had asked her whether they still played tennis. In any case, there are sure to be lots of swings and roundabouts on mama's visit. I have given her a project to organize Sausage's sixth birthday party so no doubt it will be a big event. I am hoping for the Alice in Wonderland theme so I can have plenty of magic mushroom tea but other party themes are welcome.

Any ideas how I can stay calm and collected amongst much nervous tension which don't involve firearms?

In other news my romantic comedy Confessions of a Cake Addict is to be published on July 31st by Agora International in English and Spanish. Initially it will be published as an ebook but they may do print later. If you do only one thing for charity this year do this, reach deep into your pockets and buy this book. It will make you laugh! It will make you cry! It will make you hungry.

What's the book about you may ask? Well...

When she's down, Londoner Kate Pickles reaches for cake. While she piles on the pounds she loses hope that she can ever find love. Until, on a whirlwind trip to Vienna she gets involved in the filming of a Bollywood movie, meets the man of her dreams and loses her heart and the pounds in the process. The inspiration for the novel came from actually watching a Bollywood movie being filmed in Vienna, which set my imagination in gear to create the tale of a plump girl who conquers her fears and her dependence on cake.

Mainly, it's hilarious! So buy buy buy. Do you like the cover? It has made me hungry.

Tango Time

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 15:03:00 +0000

Now back in the USA and what a strange sensation. I feel exactly like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz when she segues from the black and white start of the movie and wakes up in technicolor Munchkin Land. Because in Buenos Aires most people wear black, the vast majority of people have black hair, the buildings are mostly black and white, the smog from the traffic grimes everything dark, and it was winter and thus foggy and rainy. So it was a real shocker getting back to the USA and everything so clean, colorful and sunny, a dazzling assault on the senses. Buenos Aires is a slightly melancholy place it is true but I still love it.

On our arrival in Buenos Aires there was the slight indignity of being handed facemasks as we got off the plane. "Who do you think I am, Michael Jackson?" Emma asked which now seems like a joke in stunningly bad taste. After that the tour of Argentina hit all the right notes with Emma ....

This was the beautiful apartment we stayed in:

Going up in the funny lift:

Great cookies

Lots of jews so you need a Kosher McDonalds in Buenos Aires

Sausage as Bluebeard says: "I demand to have a kosher Big Mac or I will put a curse on you!"

Doing the tango

Girl drinking matte

Beautiful buildings and street markets selling funny junk

Dog walkers take twenty dogs at a time

Went to an artist's atelier and painted a portrait of Scarlett

Boat trip on Delta del Tigre river

Don't cry for me Argentina ...I'll be back. SOB.

Black Lung in Buenos Aires

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 12:23:00 +0000

Well twelve days in Buenos Aires and still it is so romantic. It rains today and everywhere around me there are people with hacking coughs and swine flu masks. There is so much pollution dripping from the walls of the streets that I think I have the black lung. I cough and cough and feel surprisingly upbeat.

Staying in an apartment has its charms. I always did live in an apartment in London and there is definitely something charming about being woken at 3am by two people upstairs having a blazing row, the thunderous sound of a toilet chain being pulled, the theme tune from Hawaii Five O suddenly starting up and the general sinister groans of an old building. One man´s meat is another man´s poison and I have to say I love old things. The elevator is about 150 years old and is like a little black cage. I love the high celings of the apartment, the crown molding, the parquet floors etc etc. We are staying in an apartment in Congreso which a friend told me is ´downtown.´ It is a nice enough area. And there is something of the hustle and bustle of a megacity that I have missed living in a small town like Baltimore.

There is such a process of adjustment. It just makes me laugh all those people for example in the USA who say "oh I am fat because of my metabolism or I am just going to accept that I am fat and that´s just the way I am." Being here has shown me just how abnormal being fat really is. I have seen maybe three fat people here and I am pretty sure they were American tourists. Everyone else is pretty slim, I suppose because they walk a lot.

We were looking at various apartments maybe to buy as investments or maybe to move here eventually to which most people scream but why would anyone want to move to a third world country? To which I would reply you can´t help it if you fall in love with a place. Some people fall in love with places like the USA I suppose because it is clean, featureless and as soulless as a plastic manniquin. Others fall in love with the grinding poverty, and old fashioned glamour of a place like Buenos Aires. Of course the real point is that if one has money one can afford a decent place in Buenos Aires. Would you believe that the poshest avenue, Avenue Alvear, featuring Louis Vuitton etc is posh simply because it does not have pavements swimming in dog shit?

What´s not to love about a place without a work ethic that has people eating leisurely breakfasts at 11am on a week day? Yes I appreciate the irony, if one had to live like the average Argentinian it would be hell for someone used to the first world but if one can afford the so called luxury lifestyle which would not actually be luxury it would just what we call average then one would be not so much part of the society but a glorified outsider peeking in. So would one really become a genuine Buenos Airean or just remain a foreign ponce looking to experience some kind of genuine ethnic experience?

Well the kids didn´t like it here much because they had to walk for miles but I rather liked the city, even in winter, it had that chill depressing feel in the air that I have missed from London winters but the upside was plenty of delectable cakes and icecreams. So should I move to Buenos Aires, it just sounds so glam, "I live in Buenos Aires." Yes there are some open sewers that stink and I don´t really want to think of what it smells like in summer. But I am a restless person and maybe I will end up here. I will post my pics when I get back!!

Flap Trimming on the NHS

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Fri, 12 Jun 2009 14:25:00 +0000

Okay, well I am gearing up for my trip to Argentina next week. I have had a Brazilian bikini wax and have stocked up with pills for the twenty hour flight with two kids - I think most of you will understand if I pack a few Valium, no?

I am also packing my binoculars so that I am sure to really get to see all the cultural sites in Buenos Aires such as:

These lads are from some Argentinian rugby team called "Los Pumas". And apparently the polo players are even sexier. Maybe I will 'Do a Barrantes' like Fergie's mum did.

Susan and Hector Barrantes

Remember Susan Barrantes, who got one sniff of polo player Hector Barrantes and bolted to Argentina with him in 1972? What a lark, eh?

If you find you are feeling withdrawal symptoms from my caustic wit while I am in South America don't fret pet - I am writing for a fabulous new site called Powder Room Graffiti. Check out my article on Designer Vaginas about the current mania for trimming one's flaps. My pal MsMarmitelover told me via twitter that she has a friend in the UK who had her flaps trimmed on the NHS, apparently she only had "slightly uneven flaps, not that I saw. She had a phobia about it, so our govt paid for her flaps to be trimmed. Nice eh?" I am sure Electro Kevin will be spitting blood when he hears about this waste of public or should that be pubic funds, eh Kev?

Anyway if I don't see you before I take off do wish me bon voyage!

Emma
xxx

High Infidelity

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 16:54:00 +0000

Infidelity is a complex subject so I'm not going to try and give a few glib answers about why people do it but it does seem to me that people are a lot less enlightened about infidelity these days than you might think. In the old days it was, Oh Mrs Simmons from 93 had an affair and everyone knows her son Jimmy isn't really Mr Simmons' but let's not talk about it. Basically you just ignored the fact your husband or wife was up to no good and let the pain fester like a septic wound until you died because divorce was taboo.

I remember visiting my granddad (83) after being out of touch for many years - a British upper class somewhat overbearing character - in his cottage in England. My grandmother had died ten years before and actually I was pretty fond of her. So we're having a chat about the weather and the price of petrol when I notice there are no pictures of my gran anywhere in the sitting room and there is some other old woman plastered all over the place. So I say, "Oh, who's that?"

He doesn't bat an eyelid and says, "Oh that's Daphne, my lover. She's been my lover all my life." He then goes on to tell me he's been bonking her all these years while I want to put my fingers in my ears and scream, please make him stop! Then he goes on to say after gran died he married this old bird and bought her a flat and they moved in together. All very touching, until she died after falling off a bus. I don't know, I just thought, you jerk. Did you really have to tell me that you are basically going to pretend your wife didn't exist? It really turned my stomach. His attitude was quite modern I suppose: let it all hang out, let's not brush this under the carpet, but he was the type that existed then and exists now, a kind of sociopath who feels no guilt whatsoever for his behavior even though now, looking back I am sure my gran knew what he was up to because I remember her calling him ten times a day at the office and being jealous of other women etc etc.

But my point is this, it takes two to tango and the one who is cheating does so precisely because they know he/she can get away with it. I know so many women, married with kids, whose partners have cheated and they sort of forgive them and then guess what, the guy does it again. I think maybe you can forgive them once but after that you have to simply slash their tires and change the locks.

Like this woman Sally I know who has a daughter and told me recently that her husband has been cheating on her for the ten years they have been married. She said, "He recently confessed that two months after we were married he was with some prostitutes, but that doesn't bother me, that was just blowjobs with condoms."

"I don't get that. How could he do it after two months?"

"Well he'd do it after we'd had rows."

"Still ..." The situation here is it was obvious this guy was a real weirdo if he was doing this so soon into his marriage. Maybe it simply slipped his mind that he was married.

"But recently he got involved with a woman at work, emotionally involved, and that really bothered me. He told me it was finished but then I went round to her flat and found them in there and I confronted them, and I really think that affair is now over. And now I've joined a church and Peter is coming and he's going to get control of his impulses. It's for our daughter - you can't just throw in the towel. He says he's sorry and he won't do it again and I believe he can change."

Well I applaud her faith in human nature but I don't think he will change. Now, I'm not saying I am pure as the driven snow. I had a boyfriend once - for some reason although we were very close we could never commit to each other - who after we split up moved in with another woman and we'd sleep with eachother sometimes and I can't say I felt any guilt. Still, I wasn't the one attached (justifying it to myself!)

So, where would you draw the line? Could you forgive your wife/husband/partner for cheating on you? It just seems to me like it is a slippery slope.

Wanted: One Baby Bird Murderer

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 14:43:00 +0000

Yesterday I walked to school with the kids and Scarlett found a robin's egg on the pavement and was very excited about it. She asked me to take it home and hatch it.

Me "You are joking?"
Scarlett "It would be the easiest thing in the world. You'd just keep it warm."
"How?"
"Under some blankets."
"It would suffocate."
"Then sit on it like a bird."
"Yes good idea. I could build a nest in the front room and sit on it for a week wearing a Tweety Bird costume. Then when it is born I could chew worms and feed them to the tiny hatchling with tweezers. Er, no. Why don't you just take it and show it to your science teacher?"
"Oh mum, you are so mean."

Emma getting ready to sit on the nest and hatch the robin's egg

Then Scarlett came home from school screaming saying on the way home the egg had got crushed in her hands and yolk had come out. She screamed that I had killed the bird. Well I just ignored her and later while Scarlett was out with her dad I found the little one aka Sausage - who can pick ANY lock or get into any password protected computer file yet can barely read and would have been a shoe in for one of those child pick pockets in Fagin's Gang (Oliver Twist) - poking a little key that Scarlett had hidden God knows where into her sister's locked diary. I said, "Why are you doing that? You can't even read, let alone the fact that your sister would not want you to read it." She says, "Oh I'm just going to look at the pictures." After a while she says in a sweet little voice, "Can you read it to me? I want to learn to read." She is an MLB (Manipulative Little Bitch) so before I know it I am reading aloud from Scarlett's Diary. I was amazed at her poetic licence. There were two recent incidents of torture, one human, one animal:

"1. Daddy pulled out six splinters from my feet today but made it hurt a lot more than it should of. He was trying to kill me I think.

2. I found a robin's egg on the way to school. I wanted to give it to mum to take home but she hates animals and said she would not raise it. By the evening the egg had smashed. Mum is the one who killed that robin before it was born."

Let's hope the contents of that diary never get out. Sitting here waiting for Social Services to phone up looking for a Child Torturer and Animal Murderer.

So what do you reckon - am I a bad mummy and should I be punished?

Bruno's Austrian Nuts

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 15:48:00 +0000

If you are feeling a bit down I guarantee you will laugh your socks off at this clip from the MTV awards. Sacha Baron Cohen is now Bruno - a flamboyantly gay Austrian fashion correspondent hoping to make it big in Hollywood.

Seems like a fake "controversy," since everything is fake these days on TV but then why does Eminem storm off?

At last I have an ambition in life, I wanna be Bruno's bitch so bad. And as an Austrian I am highly qualified to assume this position.

I have already written him a job application to this effect (I really did always want a gay son):

Dear Bruno,

The moment I saw you at the MTV awards with your arse exposed I knew that we were soulmates and that we were destined to be together. You are the son I have always dreamed of. I do have two children - who are unfortunately girls - but it has always been my dream to have a gay son. Who doesn't dream of one day watching one's son wearing his first pair of pink spandex shorts and sporting his first set of pink rollerblades? Who doesn't wish for that first ballet recital when your son is the only boy up on stage in a mauve tutu? And then, when a gay son grows up you basically have a free interior designer to obsessively worry about your drapes, carpets and sofa arrangements and to tell you straight, "Mama, that dress makes your arse look the size of a hippo."

But enough crying about what could have been. I was unfortunately born too early for the docs to isolate a gene for gayness so that I could have made sure I produced a flaming gay baby. But the longing is still there and as a fellow Austrian I feel we could be very good for each other. It seems that some people in Hollywood believe you are a no talent guy who's only assets are a pair of tight cheeks but let's prove them wrong Bruno. Let's prove that Austria isn't just a place where men wear Lederhosen and ladies wear Dirndls. Let's show them that Austrian fashion is truly spectacular and unique.

Dear Bruno - Let's change the face of Austrian fashion together

In short, I wanna be your bitch. I'll do anything for you Bruno. I'll made sure your nuts are in good shape, I'll polish your jockstrap and make sure that an unfortunate accident like when you fell onto Eminem's face never happens again. Do we have a deal?

Your humble servant

Emma K
xxx

I will be checking the post with bated breath over the next few days. And what about you? If you had to be someone's personal slave who would it be?

Beardo Wierdos

emma.theespot@gmail.com (EmmaK) — Wed, 27 May 2009 18:07:00 +0000

In case anyone is interested sexual services have not yet been resumed. Husband took the day off today and I thought he would delight me with a cornucopia of sexual gymnastics but no, he just needed to stay home to watch the Man U match. Ho hum, off to straddle a gourd ...

Now, let's talk beards. Of all the things in the world that are wrong one of the wrongest things is beards. Yes I know it is a fag to shave in the morning but doesn't anyone realize that beards make you, at best, look like a woodland goblin and at worst like a Son of Sam serial killer. I'm just sayin. I must admit I have never had sexual congress with a beardo weirdo and unless he regularly shampooed his 'stache wouldn't it be just about as hygienic as making sweet sweet music to a labrador?

The men shown below are not inmates of a mental asylum but are of course finalists in the 2009 World Beard & Moustache Championships hosted this year by the South Central Alaska Beard & Moustache Club in Anchorage. Fair dos, I know there's not much to do in Alaska apart from grow ridiculous moustaches but I'm wondering if these jokers could even get a job in the real world with these Rolls Royce sized moustaches?

If you are a beard fetishist you are very much in for a treat. So here goes, drum roll please:

First Place

David Traver
Anchorage, Alaska
Beard Team USA
South Central Alaska Beard and Moustache Club
Full Beard Freestyle

Second Place

Karl-Heinz Hille
Berlin, Germany
Berlin Beard Club
Imperial Partial Beard

Third Place

Jack Passion
San Francisco, California
Beard Team USA
Full Beard Natural

Other assorted lunatics

Willi Chevalier
Sigmaringen, Germany
Sigmaringen Beard Club
With his superstyled partial beard which NPR's Robert Siegel once dubbed a "hair pretzel" Willi Chevalier practically owns the partial beard freestyle category.

Elmar Weisser
Brigachtal, Germany
Swabian Beard Club
Elmar stole the show at the WBMC 2005 when his tribute to the host city Berlin -- his beard styled to depict the world famous Brandenburg Gate -- earned him the world championship title in the full beard freestyle category.

Am I alone in shunning the bearded? If you're a man have you ever grown a beard and if you did did you find it made the ladies avoid you like the plague? Ladies, have you grown a beard? Or if not, do you have a secret fetish for bearded lads?

For more beardo wierdos go here.