Suggested Audio Jukebox:
[1] Blondie “(I’m Always Touched By Your) Presence Dear”
[2] Daryl Hall & John Oates “Maneater”
[3] Animal Alpha “Bend Over”
I get it. I’m a wrong ‘un. You may just have me bang to rights there y’know. That’s what happens when you stop the breast-feeding too early. Eighteen doesn’t seem like such an outrageous age to cease latching on, you tell me, was I unreasonable with my requests? It may not have gone unnoticed that the fairer sex seem to figure a lot more in the Keeper experience and they have terrible trouble keeping their clothes on to boot. So what have I got to say in my defense? That’s a really nice summer dress you’re wearing, brings out the color in your eyes. That’s right, I can’t go tunneling my way out of this one. I could try but, judging by the clay density down here, I’d say air supplies will be running short fairly soon. I’m as guilty as the sin committed and, therefore, fully deserving of being placed over your knees and having my rosy rump soundly spanked with that cat o’ nine tails tucked into your stocking tops. Hell while we’re doing the whole correction thing, I’m sure there have been other code violations also. Bear with me a moment as I’m under pressure and my performance suffers greatly when the tension begins to mount. Actually nothing much is springing to mind right now but better make that a double thrashing for good measure. You see, boys will be boys and, while girls allegedly comprise sugar and spice, we’re a far more rancid bunch of mammals and deserve every last lashing raining down on us.
Alright love, you can put away the bazooka now. I don’t know, you decide to do the right thing and suddenly the anti-aircraft weapons are out the bag. It just seems a tad excessive to me, after all, I’m just paying one helluva compliment when you think about it. Take the above pictorial for example. Now replace Lustful Linda with Sweaty Hal and it all begins to fall apart in an instant. Besides, have you ever scoured the internet for images of bucks in all sorts of compromising positions? Within seconds, your CPU is running at a crawl, and you have deep emotional scarring to contend with. Perhaps I just need to widen my search criteria or, more likely, everyone is in agreement that women are the more attractive species. I know, that’s frightfully general, but I can’t help thinking I’m onto something here. Granted, there’s The Gosling, but he’s just a freakish one-off. On the whole, we’re a fairly repulsive breed to look at, and not put together with anything like the same artistic flair as the ladies. It’s not our fault, from the very moment we perform those daily stretches, it all starts to go a little ropy.
Say hi to Sexy Sandra by the way. Can you imagine what Sleep Deprived Simon would look like thirty seconds after belching himself awake? That’s right, one nut out of his pajamas and with morning breath so utterly putrid that it would floor a big-boned buffalo from fifty yards. While Sandra is applying her blusher in the bathroom, Si’s dropping off the first of three daily stools and tooting the Zambian national anthem without once parting his lips. And all this before we even get to the cleaning process. For men, this consists of attempting to conceal yesterday’s perspiration with a deodorant stick that claims it offers 24-hour protection but will do well to hold off the stench until brunch. Those two-minute timers on our electric toothbrushes are destined never to chime and we’re damn lucky if a mouldy flannel even reaches our anatomy. As for the fairer sex, well let’s see what Soapy Susie is up to right now.
I think she may have missed a bit. Never mind, at least she has the right idea. Take a look at that smile and tell me she ain’t having a hoot and a holler. What poor Susie doesn’t realize is that Rancid Ralph used that very same bucket to rest his feet against mere moments ago as he provided his fungal toenails with their bi-quarterly clipping. Let’s keep it our little secret shall we? I mean, how could we possibly spoil her moment? Come to think of it, when you’re done with that bath water Susie, I could do with a thirst-quencher to help me swallow my meds. You see, I’m not making this shit up for my own amusement. I suspect I could be really onto something here and we haven’t even made it downstairs yet. Last time I checked, the mail doesn’t bring itself in, and Bone-Idle Boris hasn’t checked his for over a month now. It’s okay Boris, you sit on the sofa scratching your balls and sniffing your fingertips, Doorstep Doreen is all over this.
Looks like it’s going to be a windy one today by the looks of it. Perhaps it would be wiser just to call in sick this morning and find alternative ways to keep ourselves occupied. After all, home is where the heart is. Of course, this means that Facebook will be completely out of the question, as icebergs and sea monsters aren’t the only things that sink ships. Instead may I suggest a more antiquated activity to get the pistons firing? Now this is where the sexes deviate once again. While Hell For Leather Harold is upstairs practising the choke-hold until his temple vein ruptures, Resourceful Roxy has just managed to locate the checkers board and who gives a flying fuck that she has absolutely no idea of how to play it? I’m sure she’ll pick up the rules in no time. They don’t call her resourceful for nothing y’know.
Not that it will be all fun and games. There are a thousand-and-one chores that must be completed and I have to tread carefully here as I can already hear teeth grinding all around me and one false move could see me loitering around the sin bin gates waiting for Repeat Offending Roland to be granted his parole. Don’t blame me, he’s the Neanderthal here, refusing to do his bit around the house and presuming it to be Hand Whisk Harriet’s job. Remember ladies, I’m on your side here. And I’m quite aware that you could argue that there’s something vaguely chauvinistic about the images adorning my blathering. If you ask me, Roland deserves every accusing finger being pointed his way for his thoughtless behavior. That said, I’ve seen his Boston Cream Pie and it isn’t a patch on Harriet’s Better Than Sex Cake. Even the dog agrees. Down boy. Actually, you keep on tugging.
The least Roland could do would be to butter those waffles before they go stone cold but inertia knows no bounds when the Super Bowl is on and he has ten bucks on the Steelers. However, little does this chump realize that the worm is beginning to turn unbeknownst to him. If he thinks he’s some kind of special case, then he’s woefully mistaken as his best friend Piggish Pete has also just upgraded from 99 problems to the ton and his considerably better half Vengeful Vicky has had just about as much of his slothful conduct as she can stomach. It boggles my mind that some men still believe they have a divine right to command the majority stake in a relationship. Whatever happened to fifty-fifty anyhoots? This appears the most common ailment for couples and reminds me very much of the dark ages. Astonishingly, there are still plenty of misogynists out there, acting without anything like the decorum that they should and giving the whole species a bad name in the process. No wonder Vicky has opted for the revolver. One moment, I think the mirror would look far better over by the window.
You might want to hang the phone up before painting the walls with his brain matter dearest. Shrewd thinking on not wearing your very best evening gown however. Stains have been known to be stubborn and, if you need any convincing, take a quick look in the laundry basket and you’ll have Pete on yet another count. May I also suggest something a little more conspicuous than firearms for your murder weapon? Frying pans do the trick if wielded with sufficient rage. Plus you could throw in a one-liner while you’re at it. “Sunny side up” would be fitting and Non-Stick Noreen is currently on her fifth husband with not so much as a solitary autopsy to sweat on. I’ve heard it said that 77% of accidents occur in the home and that doesn’t bode well for Noreen’s latest victim, Dead Man Walking Des.
As long as Noreen follows her plan to the letter, nobody will suspect a thing, and she can move on to husband number six in the hope that her wretched taste in men improves. However, pre-meditated murder is no laughing matter, and it would be wise to have a Plan B worked out, just in case her foul play gets rumbled. This is where it pays to have friends in high places and, thankfully for Noreen, her close friend Mile High Maude knows a thing or two about altitude. For a nominal fee, I’m sure she’ll agree to bail out her bestie, although I’m not entirely sure where she stores her pilot’s license to be honest.
Is it just me or are planes getting smaller nowadays? Anyhoots, it sounds like the perfect crime to me. All being well, Noreen can be in Tahiti by supper time, and it will take at least a week before the dead body starts kicking up a funk. That’s just enough time for her to register with a new doctor and get that check-up she has been denying herself for months now. After years of being told that you amount to less than zero, it’s hard not to start believing it and suddenly any self-respect becomes duly vanquished. If I could round-up all the men responsible for such despicable actions, then I’d have some stern words let me tell you. Regretfully, there never seems to be sufficient time in the day, and I have a 1.30 with Neurotic Nancy that I can’t be late for. Fret not as there will be a nurse present at all times.
I’m pleased to report a clean bill of health Nancy but would advise against wearing any constrictive linen for the next few days as you can’t be too careful nowadays. Right then, about that smear test. And before you go getting my medical license revoked, I would like to remind you that I only have fun and games on my dirty little mind. No offense is intended and, should it be taken, then you’re obviously not reading me right. I grew weary of being PC many moons ago and have never yet become tired of looking at striking art of beautiful women. So shoot me. I sure hope that Vengeful Vicky isn’t eavesdropping right now as I could do with not spending the next six months looking over my shoulder. I’ll leave that for Sun Stroke Sally.
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