The Booziest Tart to ever Grace this Planet!

Livers are evil... and therefore must be punished!

2008-01-08T00:05:00.000+02:00

It's a new year, can you actually fucking believe it?! I know I am still struggling to come to terms with this small yet rather significant fact. The scary thing is that everyone keeps telling me the older I get the faster the years are going to roll on by - which I suppose is really wonderful news for the very senior senior citizens who are, in effect, living on borrowed time. But for me, this is just plain depressing... Basically what people are telling me is that as I walk the line to becoming a fully fledged G one day, the walk is either gonna get faster or the line a helluva lot shorter, mmmm....

Which has lead to me the conclusion that you might as well enjoy every step you take. And yes, this means totally over-indulging during the festive season - might as well welcome the new year in with a bang ;) Besides, my liver is an evil little devil and therefore, from time to time, must be reminded who is boss. Now if I could just rid myself of the guilt I feel for this punishment then maybe I wouldn't be sitting here, one week into 2008, booze free for the month of January.

Whoever invented the word "detox" should be shot!

Oh and what is it with everyone and making new year resolutions??? I personally find this to be the most pointless exercise around. Nobody keeps them. And if you are resolution inclined, why not make easy ones like "I will not be a complete knob this year" etc. That way you are sure to keep them (us humans love the easy stuff) which means you'll be a fucking ray of sunshine bursting with pride at your newly achieved objective and the rest of us sods who couldn't really give a fuck won't have to listen to you whine about it in the first place... it's just simple mathematics people.

100 CANNOT come after 99!

2007-11-29T01:46:00.000+02:00

So I kinda have this deal with The Pilot and Fifty, mmm ok wait in saying that it isn't really a deal more like them being cruel and mean to what can only be described as one fucking fantastic chick!

You see I have a slight shoe problem. And it is slight, I think most of my tarts (and now it would seem my boyfriend too) exaggerate this and make it sound like I eat, sleep and breathe shoes. Admittingly so, I love them. Nothing quite cuts the grade like an awesome, beautifully made pair of shoes. A great pair of shoes can make you feel like Clarke Kent does when he puts on the Superman outfit....

So this little "bet" came about because I am currently sitting on 99 pairs of shoes AND have a birthday coming up relatively soon to which these two thought they would buy me my 100th pair of shoes as a gift. At first, I was touched, deeply moved actually... The support for my hobby and goal of owning 300 pairs of shoes was astounding. How blessed am I, I thought...

... NOT AT FUCKING ALL.

These two bloody shoe loving supporters in disguise were secretly deciding that my 100th pair of shoes should be none other than a pair of crocs. But wait there's more - to add insult to injury, they were going to be pink and... I'd have to wear them on my birthday. Like fuck I am!

Most people would ask what the big deal was - pink crocs, ok so they ain't exactly THE most desirable shoe but nothing wrong them. To these people I say, go get your fucking heads checked. Crocs are the most hideous things ever made and yes, I know they are comfortable but for fucks sake people, have some class / catch a clue!

So this is the dilemma I know face...

The itch to reward myself with a new pair of shoezies is fast becoming a rash. But how do I go about buying a new pair of shoes, my 100th pair, and not show them off like a proud mom? For if I do this, I know those excuse for shoes are on their way and that sends me into a complete panic. I can feel the cold sweat break on my brow as I write this... The desire to be schneaky and lie telling the Pilot they are an old pair is there but I would, oddly enough, feel guilty. Bugger!

Leaving your Mark

2007-11-29T01:32:00.000+02:00

You know the saying that says everyone has a story? Well so do scars. In fact, scars have the best stories... They are filled with tails of drunkeness, naughtiness, stupidity and the general juicy facts of a person's life.

My scars could literally tell 1000 stories, mainly due to the fact that I have so many. What can I say: I get drunk and fall down alot ok? Don't judge me.

My favourite scars are the rather peculiar ones I have on my feet, which miraculously found their way onto The Pilot's feet as well... infectious buggers! ;) These scars will always remind me of the exact moment when I walked into The Pilot's parentals house wearing open sandals and his mom commented: "OMG you have exactly the same marks, in the same place, as The Pilot".... Mmmmm, yes well 10 000 000 points to the Einstein that can guess how they got there!

Do you believe?

2007-11-01T10:47:00.000+02:00

Religios are the worst kind of people.

We all know that the world is made up of a variety of religions - some with a central character called God, others Mary, some Allah etc. We all know that there is freedom of choice in this world and that we all have the right to believe in what we deem fit... So how come Religios don't seem to understand this? Especially the Catholic and Christian ones - man these people are just waiting behind every door to shove more Bible punting crap down your throat.

Personally, I don't believe in God and think the Bible is a load of crap - after all it's a book, and a very subjective book at that! I do, however, believe in a higher power or as I like to term it: "The Universe". My family understands and accepts this and allows me to follow my beliefs.

So my question is this: Why can't others?

Is it really so bad that I think churches are depressing, refuse to get married in one in the long distant future... Am I the Devil Woman, The Eternal Sinner, A Lost Soul etc if I don't go to church, punt my religion down people's throats until they can't breathe anymore? Religion is important to a lot of people but quite frankly I sometimes think it is just used as an excuse, a crux.

I think having faith in something is far more important - however you choose to direct that faith is entirely your decision. A free decision, a decision that no one has the right to critise or mock.

The Boat Race

2007-09-07T01:12:00.000+02:00

Oh. Sweet. Jebus.

I am, in Lyman's terms, f.u.c.k.e.d. Properly actually...

And this is the reason why...
In an effort to determine the quickest throats in the agency, we will conduct a departmental Boat Race to determine the fastest consumers in the agency @ agency drinks this afternoon.
Each dept has a team of 5 representatives to participate in the challenge.

Teams must be comprised of a 60/40 gender split.
5 vs 5 in a beer drinking relay.
Each drinker has to complete his/her beer and place empty beer can upside down on their heads to indicate completion – once this is done, the next drinker may proceed.
The first team to complete all 5 legs will be awarded the title of Boat Race champions.
Along with this prestigious title, the winning team will be richly rewarded with a worthwhile prize.
Judges will be present.

Naturally, my work colleagues have heard the ghastly (and very untrue) rumours concerning my drinking habits and ability. In fact, these rumours have led them to believe that not only can I drink beer *gag* but I can down it in like super-fast-quick-quick-lightening speed. They think I am the champion of shebeen drinking - the thirsty leper that sits and dops all day long. Fucking awesome!

Now you might say, well so what's the big deal? The big deal, my dear readers, is that I am not only part of the boat race but I am our team leader. The big deal is that everyone is counting on me to show them how us uncultured tarts drink. The big deal is that I am fucked or will be at exactly 5:01pm today ;) Thank fuck for all the funneling done in first year...

... If you'll excuse me, I have to go mentally prepare for the drinking challenge ahead. Wish me luck!

It's Getting Serious!

2007-09-07T00:22:00.000+02:00

Can anybody tell me why on God's green earth reaching 3 months in a relationship constitute said relationship as being serious?! Anyone?...

I personally just don't get this. Don't get me wrong reaching 3 months is a great and tastic milestone (if you're with the most fantastic man like I am) but in my mind it in no way can mean that the relationship is serious, can it? I mean, whatever happened to the days where the "serious" word got dropped into conversations with your tarts once you had hit like a year... I just don't think that 3 months can be classified as serious, and on that note I seem to be the only thing that thinks this.

Everytime a new tart hears about my 3 monther (which was yesterday) the first thing out of their mouths is "oh so it's getting serious" What in zi fuck are they on about? I dunno, maybe things have changed since I got together with my last boyfriend... then again, maybe everyone has just plain lost their minds!

What, no more adrenalin?

2007-08-17T10:09:00.000+02:00

I think my adrenal glands are empty... No seriously, I think they have packed their bags and taken a holiday!

I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised after all the amount of overtime they have been putting in. You see, I've had one of those weeks. One of those weeks where you just don't have time to eat, let alone spare 20 minutes in the morning to blow-dry your hair (the result of which has lead me to the conclusion that non blow-dried hair really isn't a very tit look for me). My week has been manic and has left me feeling a bit flat - ever had that?

I find it all very odd...

The worst part is that I had to cancel drinks, lunches etc with so many tarts that I fear next week might see my adrenal glands being kicked into overtime again, but on the social front. Which is great for me, but not so fantastic for my bank account and my liver!

The Aftershock of a Phone Call

2007-08-16T11:45:00.000+02:00

Ever have one of those phone calls that when you hear your cell ring and see who's calling you, your eyes grow with complete surprise (and maybe a bit of horror) and for a split second you ponder whether or not you should answer that call?

Well I just have. About 15 minutes ago.

My Ex phoned. Now this ex, we'll call him Trainer Man, and I were together for 2.5 years - I ended it after realising that I just didn't love him anymore. We stayed in contact, on a very sporadic basis, and from time to time he drops me a text or a call to see how I am or as he so oddly says: "I like to know what is going on in your life"

But I digress...

The point is Trainer Man called me 15 minutes ago. He ran into The Parental Unit known as "Mom" and he thought of me. So he called. I can't quite explain how I felt chatting to him - I think weird is the best description, with a bit of freak mixed in there as well...

Apparently he is moving in with the New Girl (who I oddly enough went to Varsity with - such a small big world we live in) and the plans are slowly but steadily progressing towards Marriage Lane. This, I find extremely fucking hilarious but fair is fair. Anyhoo, I was nearing the end of the convo, quite chuffed with the way the whole thing had gone, and then *BAM* he asked to see me. For a casual drink or cup of coffee. This really took me by surprise. Now normally I would brush him off and make up some excuse, but for some reason I didn't this time... Well that's not enriely ture, I just didn't brush him off immediately. Maybe it's because I have The Pilot in my life (who is absolutely deevine). Maybe it's cause I felt like he doesn't have another motive, then again... who knows?!

So strange, one day you're at the office and the next you're being asked to see an ex to have coffee or a glass of vino with him on Sunday!

...Behind a Glass Wall of Emotion

2007-08-16T03:12:00.000+02:00

Love. It's the stuff that great songs are written about...

... What I find so odd is that we so happily and merrily sing along to these songs of love but yet it is probably the hardest thing to have to tell someone. Ok, so maybe not the hardest but certainly the scariest. Think it has something to do with our (read: my) fear of rejection. The fear the the other person won't love you back. Fuck, I sound like a writer for Mills & Boon being briefed on the next book.

Generally I have a policy that I like to stick to when it comes to "I love you's"... it's always worked for me in the past and has meant that I have never had to plunge head first into the pool. Basically, my policy is that I won't tell a guy that I love him until he has said it to me first. The feminist in me believes this is a load of bullshit as women today should be able to express themselves where and when they feel like it. The girl in me still wants to protect herself.

Some of my fellow tarts think this policy of mine is mental - after all us tarts are liberated etc. The thing, as much as I view myself as an equal when it comes to men, I'm not entirely sure I want to stand up and be counted as one. I think being feminine is a beautiful thing and is something very powerful...

Reason for this post is that I think I am getting to that stage with The Pilot. I'm not entirely sure if I love him yet but I know that I am definitely past falling in love with him. He makes me smile from the inside out... and that is a beautiful thing!

Celebrating time well spent...

2007-08-06T11:46:00.000+02:00

So today is The Pilot and my 2 month anniversary- I know, it sounds absolutely pathetic that one would "celebrate" a 2 monther but in my books this is a very fucking hard (and wonderful) thing to have achieved. Normally I don't make it past the 6 week mark or should I say they don't make it past the 6 week mark. I get annoyed or pissed off or start feeling claustrophobic and Bob's your uncle I gracefully show them the front door.

But not this time.

This time, 8 weeks later, I'm happy. Fucking giddy is more like it and the thought of having an anniversary to celebrate is giving me that warm fuzzy feeling - kinda like the feeling you get after having a glass or three of Gluwine. Tastic.

I think it's really cool that today we will be celebrating the last 8 weeks. Feels like being rewarded for achieving something great. Think this anni is also an important one as we never celebrated the first one and the next two we shall be celebrating apart as The Pilot will be on contract in Africa for 2 months...

So although I feel a bit trivial in telling everyone what a fantastic day the 6th August is, I can't help but want to hold on to that warm fuzzy feeling for as long as possible!

Thank you for NOT Smoking

2007-07-31T10:42:00.000+02:00

So tomorrow I take the massive leap from one side of the abyss to the other.... and I am fucking petrified. Mmmm, ok so maybe that is a slight exaggeration, after all how can giving up smoking be petrifying I ask myself? Well, quite fucking easily actually. Smoking for me is my crutch - it is to me what chocolate is for most tarts. It's my coping mechanism...

Apparently as a little boozy tart in the making, I used to have a coping mechanism that was pink. More specifically, it was pink and white with a big sheep in the middle of it. Yip, my blankey went everywhere with me. I was one of those kids who used to sit in front of the washing machine and howl like dog, all the time watching my beloved blankey being swooshed around in this big mixing bowl of water and soap. It was rather traumatising...

I wonder if this experience has made me fearful when having to give up my crutches / coping mechanisms?! Of course, I know the health benefits of giving up smoking, every ignoramus knows them, but I am truly nervous. How will I get through a stressful day at work? More importantly, how is my left hand going to feel when I go out boozing and she is just left... hanging there really - nothing to hold, nothing to occupy her with. I mean they say idle hands are the devil's playground so does that mean that my left hand has the potential to become evil? It's all very thought provoking...

Then of course there is the smoke I have on the way to work. This little Charlie Johnson is a major part of starting my day - clears my head and helps me focus. What am I to do from tomorrow morning whilst I drive to work? Sing? Enjoy the sights and sounds? My Talented Brother has suggested that I drive with my middle finger extended as that way my hand will have somthing to do and the car trip to work will be so interesting that I won't care / notice that I ain't huff puffing away. Mmmm, I think this might be a solution but could aggravate my road rage further - prolly not a good idea then...

I didn't smoke for three years. Three fucking years. How the fuck I managed this I have fuck all clue but I find myself racking my brains for the solution... and nothing, not a damned fucking thing comes to mind as to how exactly I went about doing this. Most people would answer willpower... well you know what - fuck willpower, I want an easy solution dammit!

Tomorrow I will technically be a non-smoker. From tomorrow I will sit with the non-smokers when going out to eat. Tomorrow... is going to be a fucking bitch! BUGGER!

Swedish Penis Adventures

2007-07-30T09:13:00.000+02:00

So The Pilot and I are going to start a business.

Personally, I think it could be highly lucrative. I am technically going to have more responsibility than The Pilot and hence I have proposed that we split the profits 60 / 40. The 60% being for me of course. After all, I will be the one in charge of the marketing, branding and general PR. His role is kinda a more hands-on one and therefore you could say that he is the labourer... Or as I like to call him, my bitch. He did, however, prefer the term bread winner...

This little business idea was the result of a tart who I shall don Issues. Now Issues, deny as much as she has, has the hots for my boy. The Pilot and I saw Issues on Thursday night when a whole crew of us went to jam it up to Prime Circle. Issues has the most annoying habit of forever asking me where the fuck The Pilot is - last time she wanted to rub herself against him. Mmmmm, yes cause like that's so gonna happen! But I digress.... the point is that Issues has now become a personal joke between The Pilot and I. Hell, she even sparked our business idea!

Basically, The Pilot and I figured that since he already had one fan (and it would seem some more at my office and Crystal Girl on Sat) that we were sitting on a untapped resource of monumental proportion, our very own gold mine so to say...

The idea? I'd pimp my boyfriend out, for an astronomical fee, to women who clearly can't keep their eyes off of him.

I, of course, would earn oodles of commission and he would be a busy boy. A very busy boy. We'd both be happy and rich. So am excited.... Keep your eyes open, Swedish Penis Adventures could be making an appearance at your party soon! ;)

Cuts like a Knife

2007-07-26T09:52:00.000+02:00

Fuck. Me

I can't believe it.

I am still in shock and am fighting the urge to pinch myself and yell: wake up, it's just a bad dream. But it isn't a bad dream - it's real. As real as me having to listen to the Parental Unit known as "Dad" cry on the phone...

The fragility of life amazes me and its times like these when I find myself wondering why it takes someone close to you to pass away for you to realise how precious life truly is. It makes you realise that each day is a blessing.

I still keep looking at my phone, willing it to ring, willing it to be my Mom on other end telling me it was all a bad joke. I know this won't happen but right now I'm not sure how to deal with the news my ears heard literally 20 minutes ago...

So strange to think that I won't ever hear his voice again or that my Dad won't be able to go out on the piss with him. In case you're wondering, my Dad's best mate died last night. He was like a second godfather to me (in a non-Mafioso kinda way)! The most gut wrenching thing about the news is how my Dad has been affected. It just breaks my heart, actually it shatters it!

My Dad's mate will leave a massive gap in many peoples lives. So wrong and unfair... And I can feel the dread building up inside me knowing that his funeral will be sometime next week. Funerals freak me out. Don't know why, they just do. The whole ashes to ashes and dust to dust thing makes me nervous...

So this blog post is dedicated to MM (Dad's mate) who lived his life to the fullest, who taught me so many things (particularly how to drink whisky) and who most of all, will be missed every day!

Dikhololo

2007-07-24T10:55:00.000+02:00

Ever have one of those weekends where excessive boozing is pretty much all you do? And by excessive boozing I mean downing voddies at 10 in the morning, drinking while taking yourself on your own very private game drive, boozing and shooting some Jose's before climbing on 250cc quads.... Ever done that?!

I have.

In fact, it's all I did this weekend past. Went away with The Pilot and some of his shacked up mates, although we had a very unique and original individual with us who is currently flying solo. Fifty was legendary! Keep on eye on Facebook for Fifty's video...

The weekend was fucking amazing and just what I needed. I even got to meet The Pilot's alter ego... Ranger Pilot. He's actually very knowledgeable. Very impressive. I actually learnt some things in my drunken haze!

Now you might be asking yourself just how much boozing was done on this Dikhololo weekend... And the answer is as follows:
6 x bottles red wine;
1 x bottle voddies;
1 x bottle Jaggie;
1 x bottle Sherry (gag);
1 x bottle Amarula;
1 x bottle Rum;
1 x bottle Jammies;
1 x bottle J&B;
2 x bottles White Wine;
.... And this was between 7 of us mind you. Plus there were the beers, the Hunters, the Spins and the Jose's...

All in all I think a legend has been born and the history books of our livers were most certainly re-written! :)

Cooking with Gas but NOT in the Kitchen!

2007-07-20T00:24:00.001+02:00

Today is one of those days when you sit and ponder how the fuck you are going to get through all your work before hitting that looming deadline of 2pm!

So far the stress of this is causing me to consume massive amounts of siggies... which basically translates into me smelling like a walking and talking ashtray. Yipee. The one comforting thought is that I originally had 13 things on my "to do" list and am now only left with 3 which I suppose isn't that bad but still...

Friday's are reserved for chilling. Taking a slight breather from work. It's the day you give 5% and bust your balls the remaining 4 days of the week so you can do whatever your little alcohol filled heart wants. Today, this is so not the case. Bugger!

The only thing keeping me going is that I am off to the bush this weekend with The Pilot and some mates who are all couples. Mmmm, this begs me to ponder whether I am turning into a coupley kinda person... Who know the type of person who only does weekends away with other couples. No, can't be. I just fucking refuse. After all, I am only now starting to get used to the idea that I have that proverbial someone special in my life. It's a totally weird yet oddly enjoyable feeling...

Five times from Sunday... and then some!

2007-07-18T02:09:00.000+02:00

Apparently my mate, Schmo, hasn't had a shag in 8 months!

Fuck. Me.
(this is where he would probably drop to his knees, begging and pleading whilst yelling: yes phuleez)

I find this concept of being shagless very hard to grasp. Especially when the said unshagged individual is a guy! Don't get me wrong, I understand that everyone goes through what I like to term "dry patches". Patches of fruitlessness. Patches that have actually lead to a mate getting blue balls - although I am pretty sure that his no fucking period was way longer than 8 months.

But besides the whole dry patch thang, how on God's green earth do you go that long? Do you forget what a good roggering feels like? Maybe... What I can't seem to quite understand is how in today's modern society where, let's face it, Tequila and fuck loads of Jaggie Bombs practically guarantee even the most unfortunate looking peoples a night of romping, do you not manage to come right???

I understand that you won't be tapping that every night but seriously. All one would have to do is fork out a little cash - in the case of Schmo - schmooze some tart at like The Mandog or gawd forbid Casa and fucks your uncle, you're getting laid. Would only have to be done like twice to relieve the feeling of being a sexual reject, right? Plus if you take all the right precautions nothing serious would happen either, except that you might start becoming confuzzed as to what exactly her name is...

... although, thanks to post-its, that shouldn't be a problem either!

Mos like Jean Pant 'n Takkies

2007-07-17T01:38:00.000+02:00

I find it completely fucking fascinating how dress codes vary amongst companies. I mean do the big chiefs sit down one day with a list of clothing in front of them and decide which items to effectively knock-off the list?!

The Ex Company was anal retentive when it came to dress codes. Seriously. They were overly anal. My poor wardrobe and my fucking bank account suffered oodles amounts of trauma when I first started there. The funniest thing is that as time went on the list of forbodden clothes grew. Casual days become an oxymoron and rather pointless all together.

The New Company, however, is the exact opposite. I fucking love it. Wear whatever the fuck your little heart desires. Be you, even if that means rocking up in a pink skirt, orange top, blue takkies and purple hair. After all, we're part of the creative industry and thus everyone is expected to be totally insane...

Must say that I don't think I will ever let the casualness of my work attire sink to that extent but I find it so comforting to know that if I wanted to come to work in my jean pant and takkies it would be totally acceptable!

First Day on the Job

2007-07-16T01:36:00.000+02:00

It's like having to start your first day at school all over again...

My nerves kicked in at around 8pm last night and, of course, as expected I hardly slept. Having to start your new job and facing the first day that you anticipate so much for 4 weeks brings with it a fair amount of angst!

The drive to my new place of growth and development was probably the worst. By this stage the nerves had taken over and I felt like a Learner Driver being unleashed on Jozi's roads for the first time.

The most amazing part is that I work with such fantastic people. Had a massive bunch of flowers waiting for me on my desk. My entire office is made up of tarts. Something which worried me a little as generally tarts (who are not my direct awesome mates) don't get on with me so well. Never had a problem with the opposite sex though. But the tarts here are nothing short of tastic! The dirty talk has already started and they all seem like my kinda peeps.

With half of my first day almost completely gone, I am ecstatic. I have this little theory that all you have to do is get through the first day, the first week and then your first month before it's all smooth sailing and you have 100% of a clue as to what needs to get done.

So I am excited and can't wait for this little career journey to start. Fire up the engines on all cylinders!

My very own Cheschire Cat!

2007-07-13T01:07:00.000+02:00

I are grinning like a major phat cat today! Actually, I'm fucking purrrrrrrrrrring...

Yesterday I felt a teeny tiny bit sad about leaving The Company. Today, this couldn't be further from the truth. I am walking on sunshine with a grin that would match Bon Jovi's recently whitened smile. Loving it!

Am ready, eager and just generally fucking elated that my little cup of ambition will soon be over flowing. I can't wait to get my hands dirty, to get back into an industry that I not only love but am blind-sidedly passionate about.

Can't. Fucking. Wait.

For now, I have to sit here like a useless clown and look "busy". This in itself is extremely hard to do when you are working out your last hours at The Bacon Making Factory. Actually, it's rather painful...

But as any boozed up tart would do in my situation, I stepped out. Yip, stepped out of the office that shall no longer be the baine of my existence! I stepped out and had be a delicious glass of Merlot and a siggie. Fan-fucking-tastic! Now I get to ponder the remaining three hours away slightly pissed and overly content!

Slowly Turning off the Power..

2007-07-12T01:39:00.000+02:00

This is my second last day at The Company.

Weird. Happy, but totally weird...

Always thought that the day I walked out of these walls I would feel like a free tart. A tart whose life sentence of slavery had been lifted. Yes, I thought I would feel pardoned...

But now as I sit here T minusing one day before I gleefully walk out these doors and onto bigger, brighter things (aka the drinking hole down the road) I feel something completely different. I almost feel sad. Not sad because I'm leaving (that I am fucking ecstatic about) but sad because... ah well, fuck I dunno really. Just have this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Know what I'm talking about?

Maybe it's because the end of an era is upon me? Most would argue that this era has generally been a highly frustrating one that has turned me into a bitch with a huge mother fucking cause. This may very well be true but still...

You spend majority of your time at work, you pore your heart and soul into it and then it's over. You just walk away. Leave everything and every project you worked on hanging in the breeze as you sail on.

In fact the more I examine this feeling of weirdness the more I am starting to realise that I might be suffering from separation anxiety. Or maybe it's just anxiety. I know I definitely feel anxious looking at the piles of paper I will be shredding for the rest of day!

A Proverbial Dilemma of Monumenal Proportions

2007-07-11T11:33:00.000+02:00

So things with The Pilot are going tastically. In fact, there going so tastically that he asked me to go away with him next weekend to Mabalingwe - never been but apparently it is gorgeous. Awesome, I love gorgeous things!

Naturally, I jumped at the opportunity - he might even take me flying while we're there. YAY! (Note to self: Do not press any funny / pretty looking buttons whilst pondering what exactly it does!)

Of course once my ecstatic euphoria had slowed down to a more normal pace, I had that little niggling feeling that I was forgetting something important... Ever had that? What I realised later was that I am suppose to be doing a 21km next Sunday, watching The Parental Unit known as "Dad" host his first live jazz and blues jam session and something else on Friday (I still can't remember what this is though).

Now I am proverbially stuck in a rock and a hard place... Beautiful weekend away with The Pilot or running which translates into copious amounts of sweating and supporting the man who helped make me the boozy tart I am today! Mmmm...

Past experience has taught this tart that such a situation is not a welcome one. They generally end very badly with me feeling like I am being fought over like that last piece of doubly delicious triple decker chocolate cake!

This time, however, things are different.
This time I know exactly what I wanna do.
This time The Parentals like The Pilot so much that the Dad's answer to my proverbial dilemma was... Fuck the run! And don't worry bout us or me on Saturday. Just means I'll have more Jamies for the rest of my customers!
This time I realise what truly awesome Parentals I have and just how much I love them.
This time... my bags are packed and I'm ready to go!

The Meaning of Life Divulged!

2007-07-10T10:46:00.000+02:00

The wheel is turning, but the Hamster, eish she is dead!

2007-07-06T01:13:00.000+02:00

It would seem ladies and gents that I have officially run out of steam.

The little light that lights up when you switch the kettle on just doesn't wanna come out and play anymore. Nah-huh!

I am finding this very strange and am pondering if this might be the eighth wonder of the world. I have no idea why I feel this way. I just have no little electrons running around my body. I'm flat. As flat as everyone once thought the Earth was... The really weird thing is that the past 2 days have been the best and made me smile from the inside out! So technically I should be walking on sunshine, skipping to my Lu, running down the streets of Phillie but right now, Living la Vida Loca just isn't working for my fragile liver (this is a medical fact - I have a fragile liver - I know, wicked hey?!)

Maybe I am being over-worked? Or underpaid? Or am just in a pity-party mood... Mmmm, yes I think that's it. Now if I could only find my hip flask all would be right with this boozed up tart's world!

Meet the Rentals...

2007-07-03T03:47:00.000+02:00

Oh. Jesus. Christ...

Tonight I am officially meeting The Pilot's parents.

Normally, meeting the parents isn't such a big thing for me... Actually, the idea of meeting the parents doesn't really seem like too much of a big deal. Couldn't comprehend why all my tarts would stress about being put in an intimate environment (aka dinner) with your new squeeze next to you and his rentals on the other side of the table staring at you with those scrupulous eyes, judging you... *gulp*

I used to laugh this idea off like it was a relatively decent joke. Today though I am not fucking laughing. Today I will be running the gauntlet and what I envision is worse than any hell some bible punting tosser could dream of.

I have a very vivid imagination and so at this particular point in time it seems to be running away with me. Running away at such a pace that I think Nike might need to invent some new trainers to cope! Firstly, I have visions of having my life (and most likely me) being open to complete scrutiny. Interrogated like a war criminal - fucking awesome!

So in my mild state of panic (this includes the melodramatic panic of what the fuck I am going to wear and can I really wear those shoes?) I googled meeting the parents in hope that some genius out there on the worldwide web would have some calming and insightful tips...

Things to Remember on a first visit:

Be polite and show respect - Mmm, not very helpful but I suppose useful to remember
Don't have a hangover from the night before - Tick :)
Don't ever refer to sex and your partner - Yes because I would so love his parents to know all about our little shenanigans
Don't ask if you can sleep together at their house - Hahahaha, you must be fucking kidding me? Um, excuse me Mr The Pilot's Dad, do you mind if I shag your son shitless in your guest bedroom? Ja, somehow I think that one was a no-brainer... So tick :)
Take small gift with you that has been researched - Do chocolates count as research?
Refer to the parents formally unless invited otherwise - Tick :)
Do not drink alcohol unless invited - Fuck that sucks. What a bullshit tip... Next!
Never attempt to smoke, even in the garden or yard - Awesome!
Never refuse food and drink. Accept graciously - I would never dream of rejecting drink. I love drink! Bring on the drink...
Do show humor and character but not too much - Mmm, so what their really saying is show restraint right?! Restraint - I can be restrained ;) *giggle*
Do think through some basic questions they may ask - NEXT!
Do not be evasive about your work or career - This will definitely not be a problem, I love my career! Tick :)
Dress well and look presentable - Five fucking ticks :) :) :) :) :)
Avoid any form of bad language - Does fuck count as bad language? I kinda think of it as descriptive language... Fuck, no more saying fuck from 7pm onwards. Fuck - this is a tuffie!
Think of the entire situation as a small interview - Oh great, awesome, totally fucking kiff!

... I am officially fucked!

Pandora...

2007-06-28T10:44:00.000+02:00

Once again, another legend is born!

Jozigal says:
Ok, what else is interesting?

BoozyT says:
Me

BoozyT says:
I'm taking your slight silence to mean that you concur with my interestingness?!

Jozigal says:
Well I was thinking besides me...

Jozigal says:
Insane!

BoozyT says:
And it's fucking great! We're fucking great, no scratch that (yes scratch it - scratch the crap out of it!) we're fucking awesome!

Jozigal says:
I concur...

Jozigal says:
So dude, I had another fucked up dream last night...

BoozyT says:
Did I kill you this time?

Jozigal says:
Dreamt that I had a BF, and his name was Johan, although in the middle of the dream I forgot his name and then D told me that I look happy and that he wasn’t...

Jozigal says:
And then I asked him if I should fix it for him, bcoz I can, and then I woke up...

BoozyT says:
Ok, that's fucking weird noodle!

BoozyT says:
I wonder what all of these mean?

BoozyT says:
And why Johan as a BF name - think next time you need to choose something sexier

Jozigal says:
I know, although this guy was hot!!!!!!!

BoozyT says:
The thing is he might be hot but you have to ask yourself whether or not you wanna be screaming out JOHAN in a moment of passion - just sounds off putting!

Jozigal says:
I never do... Not my thing screaming out names...

BoozyT says:
So you're not a screamer then?

BoozyT says:
Actually, don't answer that! *lol*

Jozigal says:
Didn’t say that...

BoozyT says:
Just think that next time you need to pick a way hotter name - hot dream men need hot names! It's Dream About Sexy Hot Steamy Men 101!

Jozigal says:
Like the one in that email from yesterday...

BoozyT says:
No, you clearly just scream out: Oh fuck me George - oh no sorry, I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to God... Please continue fucking me - thanks!

BoozyT says:
Oh fuck me 5 times from Sunday phuleez. Jee-sus he was gorgeous!

Jozigal says:
I also did a Tarot on myself last night and it also said that there is some union on the way

Jozigal says:
Maybe I get to have a trial BF for a while again...

BoozyT says:
A union, mmmm that sounds fuckable?!

Jozigal says:
That’s always fun...

BoozyT says:
Trial BF are the best - all the shagging, none of the issues!

Jozigal says:
I know...YAY

BoozyT says:
YAY for fuckable trial BF's - bless their um *cough cough*

Jozigal says:
Well we shall see...

BoozyT says:
His cock-a-doo-dil-do... Yes you shall noodle

Jozigal says:
Not nearly near the dating range yet, but your never know...

BoozyT says:
Exactly - lightening could strike and often when you least expect it. Is weird like that, mmmm even shagging buddies are hard to find these days *dramatic sigh*

BoozyT says:
Times are tuff!

BoozyT says:
Hahaha – almost wrote tits are tuff

Jozigal says:
Yes, well at least someone is showing interest...

Jozigal says:
so don’t complain, and The Pilot is crazy about you!

BoozyT says:
BS - you have loads of peeps showing interest they just never manage to cross the finish line and are therefore, according to sound tart theory, not worth the fuck anyway

Jozigal says:
Uhm... Where?

BoozyT says:
Everywhere - you don't notice them but I do - that's why I am your BFF (best fuck finder)!

Jozigal says:
You’re full shit...

Jozigal says:
There has been one, and that was The Baron Man

BoozyT says:
Exactly - great BFF I was there (har har har - oops) I promise that from now on my BFF face will be on constantly!

BoozyT says:
Dude, I think we have another bloggable fuckable MSN here.... again!

BoozyT says:
We are legends! BU JA KA SHA

Jozigal says:
Will copy later.... just a bit busy... besides you can’t put this in your blog.... I sound pathetic....

BoozyT says:
You never sound pathetic - I on the other hand sound like a sex starved nympho!

Jozigal says:
well,. once you’ve opened Pandora’s box, there’s no closing that MF...

BoozyT says:
Especially when it's filled with Spandex, Durex, Playtex and Lube-ex!

BoozyT says:
It's every pimple filled horny freaks dream! Lucky us!

BoozyT says:
Just re-read the last sentence and technically you have named my poen... Pandora!

Jozigal says:
No I didn’t name your waaahhhaaaa - you mentalist!

Let's go Frolic...!

2007-06-27T02:03:00.000+02:00

Oh. My. Sachel.

I am like a giddy little kid, a horny teenager and a tart who knows her birthday is 2 sleeps away! ALL ROLLED INTO ONE!!!

Besides the fact that I am in a walking-on-sunshine mood, the freezing cold fucking weather has brought something that I think every kid (and possibly grown-up tart) should have the pleasure of enjoying...

... SNOW!!!

Last time I saw snow I was 14! That was awesome - did some skiing and besides getting wrapped around one of the ski poles (very, very long story) I loved every minute of it. Mmmm, ok maybe that is a slight exaggeration - I did moan constantly about how cold I was but cut a boozed up tart in the making some slack?!

So snow - how totally fucking awesome is snow? Like TOTALLY! Snow has the same hold over me as ice-cream. I see it. I want it. Must have it.

The problem so far is having to control my urge to go and frolic in it, especially when said gorgeous snow is in front of potential client's offices...

Doing the Facebook thang!

2007-06-25T10:09:00.000+02:00

I don't think there is anyone on this planet who hates Facebook - mmm, ok well maybe Crombie who is of the opinion that MySpace is a brazillion times better. I'm not so sure I agree with her on this one. Granted, I did delete my MySpace account as I kept getting these arb and totally scary and ludicrous requests from mofro looking people....

That's what I love about technology - don't like: DELETE, think you're a fucking nutjob: DELETE...! Awesome!

... Facebook though is proving to be a little problematic at the moment - especially when all your exs from high school days and varsity and and and start sending you friend requests. Now one could argue that these are completely innocent and bare no cruel intentions per say but I am not entirely convinced. Back in the days I was a real fucking spoilt rich girl who thought the world of herself and um ja pretty much just me hey.

But life has a funny, and sometimes hard, way of teaching you the true meaning of it. It's a lesson I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Without a doubt, I am a better person for it but I have to ponder why my ex-boyfs feel compelled to re-connect? I firmly believe that exs are exs for a reason and never again shall them or I meet (unless it's at a club followed by an awkward hello and them offering to buy me a drink or 3... then great, otherwise...)

And I mean it's not like you can reject the poor bastards because well this tart has kinda done that once already and I feel sorry for them. I mean how much of a beating can their ego's really take? Then again, I am completely open to the fact that I think I am overly-fabulous and as such am reading too much into these little requests (tend to read too much into most things)...

Mmmm, the Facebook ponderation continues!

Drinking and driving... OR... Driving and drinking

2007-06-25T01:18:00.000+02:00

Dear Universe

Lately I have noticed that you have been tyring to put the fear of Sheeba into me. Firstly, let me just say that this is working... And it is something I do not appreciate for the following reasons:

I have always, since the beginning of boozy tart's time, pushed the boundaries. Whether those be the boundaries of a "legal" and "safe" level of drunkenness or seeing just how quickly we could get from Mansfields to Bourbon Street, I have devoted much time, energy and financial resource to my trade. Therefore, the effort to de-boozyfy said self is just not fucking appreciated. I are the way that I are...
I fucking get it! Enough with the god damn signs already. Yes, I know drinking and driving is me playing roulette with my life in a moving object but I preferred it when I didn't have to hear that little voice that came over loud speaker and said: You've had too much. No more drink for you. Can't drink and drive, must be responsible. I don't particularly like this little voice. I understand why it is there but still, it's fucking annoying. If possible, can you bring back the one that screams: Let the good times roll - she's fucking awesome!
I am a responsible fully functional adult... mmm, ok so maybe fully functional is a bit of an exaggeration but cut a boozed up tart some slack would ya?! I have a reputation to maintain and going quietly into the night is not one of them. Stop dicking around with me...
At the current rate, I am spending approximately 10% of my nett salary bribing polisie peoples. This is good drinking money that is being squandered. As previously mentioned, I fucking get it! And as such, would really appreciate you not radioing in to police HQ and informing them of my back-route whereabouts.

I realise that on many occasions I have put my life and those of fellow best tarts in danger but we always made it home ok - a bit shitfaced and tired from smashing pies into them but home and all there! In addition, I have apologised numerous times and thanked my angels, Brit and Tit, in writing!

Universe, I want you to know that I have taken major note of your signs and as I write this have taken massive steps to re-direct my current drunken and possibly out of hand behaviour but I would really appreciate it, if just for one night a weekend, you could quieten my conscious?

As the Parental Unit known as "Dad" always says, everything in moderation... If we both agree to apply this principle, I see no reason why we can't co-exist very happily. We could be the first to strike a mutual understanding - an understanding that would allow for this little voice to stand up and be heard when I am indeed bordering on being a puza'd tart and having to possible maybe kinda face bribing another polisie man if I drive as well as allowing me to be me - in every sense of the word.

All I am asking for is just one night a weekend where the little voice doesn't kick in thus enabling me to go to my happy place! I am willing to agree to this night occurring when I do not have any sort of car keys in my position (as a show of good faith on my part).

I am sure you will find this proposition very fucking reasonable and as such eagerly await your reply.

Much love, BoozyT.

In summary...

2007-06-22T06:33:00.000+02:00

...Getting to work at 5:30am and having to think, is just plain criminal!

It don't matter if you Black or White... Really?

2007-06-21T07:55:00.000+02:00

Well fuck me George and call me Sunshine...

Every time you think that this country can't get anymore fucking pathetic with its colour issues, some fucking buffoon manages to move the bar just that much further!

The Parental Unit know as "Mom" told me this morning that some fucking bureaucratic official with too much power and shit for brains has decided that unless our Olympic team meets his colour quota, ain't nobody going nowhere! He even went as far as saying that he didn't give two fucks from Sunday where they get the athletes from - fuck they could even get them off the streets of Alexander for all he cared...

What. The. Fuck.

This guy deserves a job with Mugabe. He is fucked in the head and a total fucking nutter!

Whatever happened to being rewarded for personal achievement, for talent, for fucking hard work and dedication to a sport that you not only love but are passionate about? A sport you are willing to build a career on!

Oh well sorry there Sunny, but you're white and therefore well SORRY FOR YOU! It makes me so angry. This whole fucking fix SA's colour indifference is Apartheid all over again - only this time it's the Whites who are being ostracized...

Don't get me wrong, I am by no means a racist. I have Black mates (who I love and adore - Obes you're my man). I was brought up to not see the colour of a person - after all it isn't a deciding factor in anything really. Recently though, SA's new laws and fucking wanker-offs like this guy are teaching us all to view everyone with a colour attached to them. My question to them is how exactly are you suppose to fix the rift between Black and White if all you are telling us to focus on is the very thing that divided this beautiful country in the first place?!

It's fucking comments like this that make me wanna scream at this monkey and ask him why exactly he thinks half of our professional athletes leave SA and go play abroad? Why half of our doctors, nurses, teachers etc are immigrating? Mmmm, I fucking ponder...

How can South Africans ever expect the racial divide that still exists in this country to come to an end when clearly things are not based on whether or not you deserve them, but rather on the colour of your skin!

Walking through Glass Walls

2007-06-21T07:36:00.000+02:00

Apparently I am quite a guarded tart...

When I was first told this I took major offense but upon further examination realised that it was true. I can't help it really. I have been hurt in the past and all that jazz which does seem to have left a mark or stain if you could call it that. So I took a vow per say to always protect myself - never ever letting anyone climb that "wall" unless I had deemed them worthy. And by this I mean that they have passed all the little tests and paces I usually put people through before allowing them to enter the most private and personal space of me...

The really strange is that this guardedness only ever comes into play with men. When I meet potential new mates, however, there is no wall. I am as trusting and naive as a new born Bambi. Men are a completely different story! A mate once asked me why this was and to be honest, I have no fucking clue. Maybe because in my mind they are the ones that can hurt you right down to the bone. No matter how ugly / bitchy your best tart gets with you, I don't think it cuts you in quite the same way...

Recently I have met someone who is slowly but surely forcing me to drop my guard inch by inch. In fact, he is turning my walls into glass ones and has this freaky ability to see right through me i.e. he knows when I have started to raise that wall again. It must be the panic in my eyes. You see I am just one of those tarts who never has and probably never will be comfortable with being vulnerable. I like to be the driver, the controlling force.

But this is all changing...

With The Pilot and heaps of support from Crombie, I am slowly learning that it's ok not have to defend yourself every 5 fucking minutes and that no one is perfect all the time (yay!). The really fantastic thing is that I feel like I am evolving... turning from a dinosaur to a butterfly - heck it could even be a revolution! So for the first time in a longtime, I am willing to see how things with The Pilot pan-out: if they do, great guns (as I kinda really like this one) and if not, well then at least I did more than dip my toe in the water...

*chuckle* Walls - wouldn't wanna live behind one forever but maybe, just maybe, allowing someone to turn them into glass and see straight through isn't such a bad idea...

Black... Just Black

2007-06-20T08:15:00.000+02:00

So yesterday I felt inspired...

Actually I was bored and thought that my blog needed a bit of a blogging spring clean... This lead to me spending about 20 minutes fiddling and fussing with different colour combinations to make my blog more visually appealing. After all, first impressions are everything - aren't they?!

After settling on a rather funky combo of orange and purple (the colours that shall, one day, be used on my straight jacket) I pressed "save" and wham bam it was done. I mean what is life if it doesn't have a bit of colour in it! The problem is that I get bored. Not easily, but when I am bored the motivational juice that pumps through my veins dries up and I start feeling like the Kalahari. Mmm, not good...

This lead me to the conclusion that I should stick with what I know / like and just make minor tweaks. You know, a tweak here and there but not perform a major overhaul of this extension of moi. So yes, I reverted back to black... Swapping a few colours round until I was happy (this is very uber important).

I read somewhere that people who wear black are hiding... Hiding from what I have no fucking idea but apparently they are hiding nonetheless. I completely disagree with this little statement. I think black represents something sophisticated, charming and very expensive (hence the reason why every car on this planet should be black - Henry Ford was a genius!)...

Heidie Ho there Lube Girl!

2007-06-20T03:36:00.000+02:00

This post is dedicated to Crombie, who clearly, understands me in a way nobody could ever hope to!

Below is a rather colourful conversation that took place today. It demonstrates my ability to think like a guy. God bless MSN. The result of this little convo was approximately 50 used tissues, puffy eyes and an office that thinks I am all kinds of fucked up! I hope you enjoy as much as I did!

Jozigal says:
Hey, are you interested in going to the playtex factory shop with me and the sister on sat

BoozyT says:
Mmm, why, are we shopping for sexy toys.... Do you want to make sexy times?

BoozyT says:
I hear t make on helluva lube!

Jozigal says:
hahahahaha

BoozyT says:
Sounds like fun, count me in dude!

Jozigal says:
... dude, you are so bad.... No shopping for underwear....

BoozyT says:
I said nothing about underwear - I said sexy times. Since when do sexy times ever require underwear...

BoozyT says:
Ok but seriously what are we shopping for then?

Jozigal says:
Underwear....

Jozigal says:
Playtex.... bras.....

BoozyT says:
But you just said we weren't shopping for underwear

BoozyT says:
Oh ok - I finally get it. AM on page 500 now too!

Jozigal says:
not lube.... Underwear....

BoozyT says:
DUH! I was thinking of Durex!

BoozyT says:
Pat the special child!

Jozigal says:
Fuck you are hilarious!!!

Jozigal says:
People are looking at me like I’m insane, g myself silly, in front of my PC....

BoozyT says:
Dude, I can't believe I sat here thinking that it was a strange girlie bonding thing to do... I know, lets all go shopping for lube! YAY!

BoozyT says:
So am I, have just spat snot across my computer! Damn blocked sinuses

Jozigal says:
This is too much....

BoozyT says:
…For one chicken to handle... I'm sure all the boys wished you said that!

Jozigal says:
Cant believe you said yes, you’re in, thinking we are going shopping for Lube....

BoozyT says:
Well I trust you and figured since I had never been in actual sex shop before that it would be entertaining... We could look at vibrators and panties with no holes in them... Mmmm, no wait... Yip, I'm fucked in the head!

BoozyT says:
Did think the request was a little odd but then again maybe not... After all we want sexy times!

Jozigal says:
dude this is the funniest ever!!!

BoozyT says:
I know, am crying some much that I can barely see the keyboard

Jozigal says:
Dude, check your email....

BoozyT says:
I are checking

Jozigal says:
just sent email...

BoozyT says:
And it's empty - all by myself, don't wanna be all by myself (unless it's with a vibrator and some freshly bought Lube!)

Jozigal says:
no check again.... keep checking dammit...

BoozyT says:
Got it!

BoozyT says:
Dude WTF are talking about - its next week Thursday!

Jozigal says:
oh ok.... no worries... then....

BoozyT says:
Silly monkey... Almost wrote do you want to spank my monkey!!!!

Jozigal says:
Yes, I think so...

BoozyT says:
Don't worry, I don't even have a brain anymore. It's all about lube and spandex!

BoozyT says:
My mind she is in zi gutter...

BoozyT says:
So what time we doing Durex?

BoozyT says:
Har har har, I mean Playtex!

Jozigal says:
At about... mmm I think 11

BoozyT says:
Sounds good to me. Allows for some sleepy sleepie time!

BoozyT says:
We can always do lunch or a movie afterwards... After all that lace I think I might need to see something masculine looking...

BoozyT says:
Mmm, that doesn't sound right

Jozigal says:
yes, I agree... Just think we should go check it out...

Jozigal says:
nice underwear for a nice price....

BoozyT says:
No totally

BoozyT says:
Awesome, actually need some new underwear to make sexy times with

Jozigal says:
stop that!!! I cant laugh anymore....

BoozyT says:
I can't help it - it's like WORD VOMIT!

BoozyT says:
My up-chuck reflex is outta control...

BoozyT says:
Soon I will be discussing the bonus points one can hope to achieve by combining a good ja-goo-ga-leigh and lube!

Jozigal says:
The hot trainer just read that whole bit and he just pissed himself laughing...

BoozyT says:
OMG!

Jozigal says:
He thinks you’re fucking hilarious....

Jozigal says:
And wants to set you up with one of his mates...

BoozyT says:
I can't believe you let him read this...

BoozyT says:
Oh... really? Mmmm, which one? And more importantly how old is he???

Jozigal says:
Dude, I had to explain myself pissing myself alone in my office....

Jozigal says:
He is 30, good looking etc...

Jozigal says:
your mojo is in over drive!!!

BoozyT says:
You could have just said that your imaginary friend slipped and fell. That’s totally believable! I'd believe you!

BoozyT says:
Gawd bless MOJO... MOJO, OH MOJO HOW I LOVE THEE... LET ME COUNT THE WAYS... OMG 1...OMG 2... OMG YES YES YES!

Jozigal says:
I’m sure you would, but this seemed funnier!!!

BoozyT says:
Sounds like a prospect... Mmmm... Although Pilot Boy does it for me at the mo

Jozigal says:
great....

BoozyT says:
I'm always keen to meet new peeps. I particularly enjoy watching them as t spit out their wine because I am such a hill-are-i-us individuals

BoozyT says:
Tell him to find some one for you and then we can go double blind dating together! YAY FOR SEXY TIMES! Although I do like my Pilot Boy quite a bit...

Jozigal says:
... Ok, Ill tell him.

BoozyT says:
I think it would be fucking funny evening... Just for shits, giggles and lube!

BoozyT says:
I'll bing the lube and you can bring the sexy times...

BoozyT says:
I have problems!

Jozigal says:
yes, you are disturbed...

Jozigal says:
I like it!!!

BoozyT says:
But devastingly attractively disturbed...

BoozyT says:
I like it to und I like you! In complete non-lesbian up the fanny kinda way

Jozigal says:
yeah what ever you were way too keen to go Lube shopping with me...

BoozyT says:
Whatever! Spandex, Durex, Playtex - they all sound the same! And most importantly: THEY ALL MAKE SEXY TIMES!!!!

Back from a Jet Plane

2007-06-19T01:27:00.000+02:00

So firstly I must apologies for pulling a Houdini the past couple of days but alas this little tart needed some R & R and by that I don't mean Red Bull and Rum but the good old rest and recoup story. I had literally burnt my tarty ass at both ends of my non-existent yet ever present candle.

As I do when I need said R & R, I retreated to Cape Town. This in itself is an absolute irony and a slight oxymoron but nonetheless there is something about being by the sea that feeds my soul. Something every tart needs, especially when you live and breathe the rat race for a living! Of course this is where I should probably tell you that the said R & R never really happened except for the 16 hours of sleep I managed to get on Sunday. But I suppose in my own non-alcoholically challenged way my liver (and my soul.. yes yes very important) got some of the rest it has been begging me for lately. Although I probably shouldn't have drunk so many Tequilas or Voddies and Red Bull but I still believe that these active ingredients played a vital role in this tart having a successful catch up session...

... And by this I mean pass out drunk and sleep for 16 hours!

Viva la Town that is la Cape!

Hi, my name is... What? My name is... Who?

2007-06-12T08:35:00.000+02:00

Fuck. Me.

I have never in my whole life of being a boozy tart had my Puza face on for such an extended period of time!

No seriously, I am even starting to worry that I am turning into the dreaded individual who has to attend a certain kind of meeting once / twice a week and discuss her feelings about being absolutely boozed with a circle of complete strangers. This is one circle of trust that I really hope I never join.

The problem is that this dreaded circle of trust has apparently been in my family for generations. Yes, my family really loves this circle. Particularly my uncle and nonna, oh and great-grandmother on the Parental Unit known as Mom's side. So it's rather distressing and then not...

They say that the first step to "recovery" is admitting you have a problem... Well I have a fucking problem:

Why are there only 2 days in a weekend?! I mean what bloody genius woke-up one day and decided that everyone should work 5 days and have 2 days off. It just isn't working for me (or my liver) and I think I seriously need to petition some higher being to change this...
I am at work! Always a big problem when working out your final days at The Company
My alcohol induced state can be blamed on two sole individuals. The one being Crombie (who I love to tid bits but duhling seriously I worry when we drop 3 bottles of vino like its 2l of Coke). The other one is a new addition to my life and one that is proving to be highly addictive. He is, in fact, the main culprit and thus is entirely responsible for my new found um... mmm... how to put this; habit?

So now that I have admitted my problems and been totally and completely brutally honest, I have been saved....

Saved from having to search the web for said meetings. Saved from having to attend said meetings. And saved from joining that circle of trust!

Mmm, if you ask me - I think its been a highly productive day!

MOFRO Seek and Destroy Mission

2007-06-08T10:42:00.000+02:00

Crombie's boss is the biggest fucking mofro on the planet!

The man is a jackass. He has bum fuckage problems and therefore feels the need to be a completely uptight tosser. Whats even worse is that this mofro fucker rather kinda fancies himself. Problem is he's the type of guy you bag and do it for your country. The universe was not kind in the looks department.

So Mofro has been a real fucking bastard to Crombie as of late. You knows what the man's problem is - maybe he shoved a pencil up his bum and forgot to remove it or he's having troubles with the Mrs. Whatever the fucking problem is there is absolutely no need to become a wanker to the one employee who bends over backwards for you (oh now really darling...)

I spit on this Mofro's shoes. I spit in his ghastly, so 19-fucking-20's curly ass hair. Although my main problem with this is that he might very ask me: spits or swallows babyeeee... ggggrrrrr!

The crazy bag lady or was it the drunken skunk?

2007-06-05T03:33:00.000+02:00

Fuck. Me.

I was the crazy bag lady who was as pissed as a fucking bergie on Cape Town's streets last Friday. Drunk as a fucking skunk I was. Unable to remember where the hell we'd parked my car (or my bloody mind for that matter). The real clincher though, was when I walked around the Engen garage up the road from Crombie's place talking to myself...

Wait, let me elaborate! Firstly, I was under the influence of copious amounts of Olmeca, Jose and Sauvignon Blanc. Secondly, at 2am you're fucking hungry - especially when you haven't eaten the whole day. Solution? Stop off at your friendly Engen kitchen and grab some chow. Simple enough. Well not really. Not really because I was convinced Crombie was with me when in actual fact she was slumped over rat-faced in my car. This meant that I ambled around the Engen shop asking "Crombie" what exactly "she" wanted to eat, totally unaware that I was in fact talking to myself...

Since I believe that everything in life happens for a reason, Crombie and I desperately tried to figure out the reason for my crazy bag lady moment... The only we could come up with was to entertain the Engen staff. Nice!

In the words of the M People...

2007-06-05T03:27:00.000+02:00

... I'M MOVING ON UP!
MOVING ON OUT!
TIME TO BREAK FREE... NOTHING CAN STOP ME! YEAH!

Yip this tart has finally managed to secure her passport and visa out of this little bacon making factory and onto to bigger and definitely far more fantabulous things!

I am glowing with joy. Overwhelmed by pride. And most of all am so fucking happy to be getting the fuck out of The Company.

Sometimes I guess it is just time to cut your losses and walk away. I have been waiting for this day for months and I must say the freedom and weight-relief I feel when I walk into my soon-to-be-ex-office is awesome. I feel like running down the passages, naked and screaming!

My new job is fucking fantastic and my new boss, well she is just short of the best thing since sliced bread!

So now I sit and wait, patiently, while the days here tick tock away and the while sitting here and thinking: So long suckers, you can kiss my tight, perky little but-tocks adios! Woo fucking hoo!!!

It’s a mystery why I’m still single…

2007-05-31T01:35:00.000+02:00

This is a comment that was made by our very own home-grown Speedo god! I couldn’t believe it when I read this. My mouth almost smacked the new edition of COSMO right off my lap.

How can a man this gorgeous be single?

Granted, I was utterly ecstatic when I found this tid bit out – no girlfriend means I can still live in pathetic hope. It truly baffles me how he can be single. Ok so maybe he isn’t a nice guy but then again who really gives a fuck, right?! I mean some of my exes have been real assholes and as good looking as they may have been, not one of them resembled him.

So why is it that some of the best looking men around are seemingly unattached and clearly quite torn up about this?! As a single tart in this town, its quite standard to find that we are all rather chuffed with the prospects that being single bring you. Of course this does mainly apply to good looking, rather belter tarts. Am sure the fat n ugly types are gagging for boyfriends. Why then are the hot men of this town not content to enjoy the freedoms and joys that singledom has to offer.

Now I know being involved has its perks but it definitely isn’t the end of the world if you aren’t. Fuck. That. I get more action than some of my involved friends (this is a very sad state of affairs mind you).

One thing I can say is that if Mr. Speedo God is looking for a girlfriend, he can most definitely give me a call! Cause I so definitely would…. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and 5 times on Sunday!!!

Apologies, I seem to have sustained an injury while on duty!

2007-05-30T01:12:00.000+02:00

Ok, I just don't fucking get it!

Just when I thought that things at The Company couldn't get any worse I fucking get reprimanded on Friday for fucking having a personal conversation that quite frankly had fuck all to do with Tame B. Of course being the ass licking pet that she is - she listened, with great intent and gusto. Thus she overheard my conversation to a good mate. I was discussing how my Puza face had been eagerly placed on last Thursday by the usual suspects. I was, however, off work last week Thursday as I was sick (and currently still am). So I got hauled over the coals by Miss-I-have-a-carrot-stuck-up-my-fucking-virgin-fanny, sidewards! Now I can understand where she might be coming from but she had no fucking right or authority for that matter to take what I view as a rather pathetic attempt at showing that she is the "boss".

What really fucked me off about the whole thing is that she subtly hinted that this convo of my mine, this PRIVATE fucking convo of mine, was going to hamper my reputation at The Company.

Fuck. Me.
I'm sorry buckwheat, I don't think I heard you correctly - say what?!

She then continued down the fast lane to fucking me off by then telling me that it was also going to affect my chance for promotion and get this; for a fucking reference too!

Well Fuck me George and call me Sunshine. I never knew. But thanks for the heads up. Please move towards the nearest fuck off exit and return to sucking R's cock!

This fucking woman is not only totally delusional but in need of a good fucking shag! And bloody driving me round the bend at the same time. She is the devil that wears cheap, tie-die crap found at some second-hand store in Melville! ARG!

But... breathe... being the optimistic tart that I am, I decided to look at this on the bright side. The bright side? The Universe is telling me to get the fuck outta there as fast as I can cause clearly my fan-fucking-tastic personality and the fucking amazing job I do there isn't appreciated!

Anybody hiring?

Climbing into bed with Father Time...

2007-05-29T02:12:00.000+02:00

Crazy B used to tell me that younger men were the way of the future. I, of course, used to deny this. A mix of disbelief and amusement adorned by face. Could one of my closest tarts be a bona fide kiddie fiddler? Mmm, maybe but definitely not me. I like my men like I like my vino: older and slightly more mature (although this in itself is a paradox).

However, lately I have been completely disproving this little theory of mine...

You see, lately, the men I have opted to um "spend my time with" have been of a younger gene pool than moi. I feel horrifically guilty about this. I feel like an absolute cradle snatcher. So this whole feeling like a sugar mommy thing got me a thinking - why should I feel guilty? I mean my Achilles Heel is currently banging a married woman, with 2 kids and she is 13 years his senior. Now that's something to feel guilty over.Not my little swim swim in the youngens pool. But still, I find myself feeling... oddly uneasy with this whole have a younger man thing.

I suppose when I am like 500 years old, having a man of around 22 will make me feel like a goddess and boost my ego from here to like... fuck who knows. I just know that I would relish every minute of it.

But that's then and I'm talking now! For now, I just can't seem to get over the age thing...

The really fucking crazy thing is that men never grow up so technically whether you date a 50 year old or a 22 year old shouldn't matter cause in reality they are both only 10!

Puza Thursday

2007-05-25T08:43:00.000+02:00

Fuck. Me.

Note to self: Don't drink so much bloody vino every fucking Thursday!

(and I know I drank vino last night cause I have that funny post drinking wine after taste in my mouth that doesn't disintegrate no matter how many times you brush your teeth... Know what I mean?)

I say this every Friday when I feel like my head has been used to pry open some burglar bars but I know, deep down, that come Thursday next week my puza face will be applied and then its show time babyeee! Of course, it doesn't really help that Crombie and I chose Thursdays as champagne celebration day - although I think it was an evil plot by my mate to get me fucking sozzled every week (I am very entertaining when drunk *chuffed, slightly embarrassed grin*)

So today, as you might have guessed, I still have my Puza face on from the night before. It has also been brought to my attention that not everyone knows what a Puza face looks like. Hee hee hee, let me tell you... it ain't fucking pretty! But for all of you social retards who don't know what a tart looks like when she has too much Puza and is left to suffer a painful hangover the next day; here's a little snapshot:

So to the other Fab 4 members: muchos grazes mia amici - once again I am properly fucked!

Serious as Cereal...?

2007-05-25T02:59:00.000+02:00

I heard this saying for the first time today and I must say that I took an instant liking to it. Serious as cereal - yip, definitely think it is the next "EISH" of SA. Just hasn't been discovered yet.

Now as an avid cereal lover (particularly Frosties) I think this phrase should be given the necessary respect it deserves. It is actually quite similar to moi - at first it looks rather frivolous and retardedly special but once you scratch the surface and realise the potential, it's mind-blowing.

Serious as cereal has the potential to be applied in a variety of situations; e.g.

Guys I am as serious as cereal, I have had way too much to drink. Take me home now. (enter in Scottie)
Pulling a "sickie" and then being told that your sens of humour the next day is not appreciated as well dagnabbit you are suppose to be sick. Perfect time to turn around to your fucking boss and tell her not only to go fuck herself up the kazoo with a wha-wha brush but that you are serious as cereal about being sick.
Any form of apology.
When trying to get your point across or informing some of the idiotic people I share this planet with, that you know something they don't know and in about 5 minutes you are going to educate them with something so devastatingly fantastic that the news has to be as serious as cereal.

This will be the next big thing... Serious as Cereal! ;)

Girls who like Boys who like Girls who...

2007-05-22T02:03:00.000+02:00

... And so it begins!

After watching Trust The Man last night I was left with a rather sad view of the male species. Sad because men really have descended from apes, they constantly think about shagging (which most definitely has its fucking advantageous) and even go so far as to wank themselves off while you're lying in the bed with them. Although, I must be fair, the women in this movie are equally sad and even more pathetic. The one refuses to fuck her hubbie and the other one can't stop, secretly hoping that her craving for his sperm will produce the one thing she desires the most - a bouncing bundle of joy! The really strange this is uber brudey girl's man consistently thinks about death; coincidence? I think not... I would wanna die too if I knew my astounding shagging capabilities were only being used to produce the dreaded sound of pitter patter...

I guess what I am trying to get across, in a rather typically blonde way, is that I don't get the whole relationship thing. I mean as little ones who hear (and eventually dream of it - maybe this is the root of the problem) that boy meets girl. Girl likes boy, Boy likes girl. They have dinner. They shag senseless. They live happily ever after whilst riding off into the gorgeous sunset on a white horse...

But rarely does this happen - especially the horse part. I fucking hate horses. Really I do. Such pointless animals. As Crombie would say we need to start making hamburger patties outta them...

Things I Hate About the Ex-Newbie

2007-05-17T03:38:00.000+02:00

This post is dedicated to old newbie of my team. This guy has got to be the most fucking irritating dork to ever exist. The man's inability to think for himself has got to be his most enduring quality! I am at my wits end when it comes to this... this... fuck I don't even know what to call him but he drives me insane!

The ways I hate the ex-newbie:

He hums everytime he gets busy. Fucking. Hums. Since we work for a bacon making factory, this equates to me having to listen to his fucking humming for 8.5 hours a day. That's a total of 42.5 hours of humming a week. For fuck's sake can he not just shut the fuck up? Would an hour of peace and quiet be too much to ask????
He is incapable of saying no. Somehow his brain just doesn't comprehend the use of the letter 'n' with that of 'o'. Or maybe he's just fucking thick? Either way, it drives me mental.
He's cocky. But not jock cocky. No no no, I know how to handle jock cock. He's cocky in that geeky wanna-be-hardcore kinda way. Think he has hunk-a-phobia. I mean really, if you looked like Brad Pitt or Wentworth Miller then by all means gloat and be a cock. But if don't; sit down, shut up and fuck off!
He has no balls. Absolutely. No. Cahonies. None. Zip. Zero. If you told ex-newbie to actually go and grow some (or even grab some for that matter) the poor Matilda would look at you like a rabbit in headlights...
He calls me by my nickname. Now I'm sorry but only my familia and my friends call me by my nickname. Since he doesn't fall into those two categories, he should be addressing me in the proper manner. I swear if he calls me by that name again I am going to ram my clutch pencil down his throat, sidewards!
He is fucking irritating. Really fucking irritating (Super-H can vouch for this).

Generally, when I dislike people, they know about it. For some reason though, this buffoon just doesn't get it...

... Anyone know a good hitman?

Bubbles up... and away

2007-05-16T07:46:00.000+02:00

So it seems that Crombie's and my little idea of Champagne Thursdays has been stolen! Ok so maybe stolen is a slight exaggeration but nonetheless it has been copied, branded and now advertised as something else. The fucking cheek! I mean they should at least be paying licensing / royalty fees to us.

I must admit, however, that the idea of adding another Champagne day to the week is utterly thrilling and has thoroughly wet my boozy appetite! So maybe it isn't such a god awful idea. Technically, Crombie and I came up with it, which by deduction, would mean that it is a fucking tastic idea and all tarts should start scheduling into their diaries with haste & gusto.

When you get thunking about it, what do you really do on a Sunday that could be classified as suave 'n savvy?! Nutting really. All that is about to change. Now, you can sip French bubbles listening to chilled-out French music (have no idea what the hell this sounds like but I am sure that it will transport you back to the cobble-stone streets of Pari) with the knowledge that you, as an individual tart on this massively enormous planet, are doing fuck all but celebrating.

(According to the image below you can even look all Pari-like - viva la veuve!)

Celebrating what you might ask?

Champagne Sundays, but o' courze!

Conclusion...

2007-05-16T07:40:00.000+02:00

Tasting Etiquette

2007-05-14T09:08:00.000+02:00

My first post of the week is dedicated to something that makes this tart a little more "off the wall" than she already is... It is a subject I hold very dear to my heart. It has been the third companion on Crombie and my many debaucherious night's out.

Being an I-tie and all it was written in the stars that this extraordinary subject and I would get along famously. In fact, we were destined to get along so famously that The Tart's family owned one of these puppies and started producing some of zi best stuff I have had the pleasure of consuming - on countless occasions!

The subject? My third companion? The lord of debauchery? Who else but a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc or was it Merlot, mmmm maybe even the evil bastard known as Chenin Blanc?! Whoever it was, wine has got to be the best thing ever invented / discovered since sliced bread!

Now apparently one isn't suppose to glug the stuff straight from the bottle while singing "come and Rescue me" to Crombie. Nope, there is a proper tasting / drinking etiquette. Who knew?! The whole etiquette thing was developed to help you embrace the different qualities each wine offers. Fuck. Me. Wine has qualities? Fan-fucking-tastic!

This news got me so excited that I did what any tart would do given the situation. I googled. God bless Google! According to Google, if you're going to be tasting a number of wines, your judgment will remain clearer if you spit rather than swallow!

Now I wonder what other areas of life this could be applied to, mmm....

If you think I'm sexy...

2007-05-11T11:13:00.000+02:00

I think every tart has been called this at least once in their life. I get called this constantly and although some tarts would think it was a major compliment, I can't fucking stand being told I am sexy. Not sure why really, just kinda have a negative connotation attached to it. To try and get over myself (I am apparently riding on a fucking high horse at the moment - yipee kai yeah mother fucker!) I looked the word "sexy" up in good old dictionary (when was the last time you used one of these things? Rather archaic). So "sexy" is defined as follows:

concerned predominantly or excessively with sex; risqué.
sexually interesting or exciting; radiating sexuality;
excitingly appealing; glamorous

Ok so after reading those I have kinda blown my own little discomfort with the word right outta my own fucking window but let's just pretend that I still hate the word... I mean having some random bloke call you sexy is kinda like having someone call you vivacious - I mean what the fuck? Why not just say, my fuck you look amazing and so full of life. Vivacious sounds far too much like curvaceous for this tart's liking. So the use of this word is most definitely not a good thing!

Then, of course, you get sent a mail which contains photies of fellow tarts and dudes who, by definition, would rate themselves as "sexy". After reviewing these, you will see that above definition doesn't even begin to capture the sexiness these creatures contain...

Fuck. Me.

Like I said boys, sexy... Just. Don't. Do. It.

I'm a sucker for...

2007-05-11T02:22:00.000+02:00

Men. In. Suits.

But not just any old linen / pinstripe / classic black suits. Oh no. I'm talking the expensive kind. The good quality kind. The kind that when you rip off a few buttons in the heat of the moment, you feel the fabric's pain.

I've always loved, actually worshipped would be the right word, a man in a good suit. Mmmm, mommy! They make me want to do crazy, wild animal things to them.

The only thing better than a man in a suit? A fucking hot man in a suit. Fucking hot men in suits is my kryptonite... (and no that isn't a typo or grammatical error. It means what it says).

Crombie is different. Hairy baboons who can sing the night away do it for her. Actually, hairy baboons who can sing the night away like Joe Niemand do it for her. My guys have to be clean-cut, *cough cough* and you guessed it: dressed in a suit! So when I stumbled across this little comic, I couldn't help but think of the Crombster...

Noodle, all I can say is thank fuck we don't have the same taste in men! :)

Secret Hiding Places

2007-05-10T01:33:00.000+02:00

Did you ever have a secret hiding place as a snot rag? A place that you could disappear to and tell the world to fuck right off in the process? I'm not sure if I did but I do recall quite a few hiding places I had as a tarty teenager... Ah yes the joys of youth and all the stupidity that comes with it.

The Tart and I had these hiding places down to a tee when it came to booze, smokes and I think condoms too but that could have been another corrupt mate! The great thing about these hiding places is that they were interchangeable. You could change them to suit whatever mood you were in or even better yet what shoes and shit hot outfit you were tarted up in for the night. Fan-bloody-tastic. I used to think that my hiding places were fucking genius and that no one, not even the almighty Parental Unit, would ever uncover the depths of my sneakiness. Today, however, whilst munching on some tasteless pasta salad the truth was revealed and I was left completely dumbfounded. Left thinking why on God's green bloody earth I had not managed to think of that?!

The hiding place? A girl's platted hair
The treasure? Miniature bottles of Jack, Vodies, Gin (and the list goes on)
How? Scheit loads of ribbon, elastics and very thick hair...

I am still absolutely devastated. To think my long hair could have served such an honourable purpose. Fuck.

Supersize Me

2007-05-07T11:58:00.000+02:00

I am officially scared for life. My reputation for being a well-dressed, fashionised tart is ruined. My name is smut *loud sobs* And to think this is all a result of wearing that god awful creation. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So Mrs-S-To-Be finally got married on Saturday and this poor tart, who fro once kept her fucking mouth shut and took the news that I would be wearing that dress with grace and poise, had to wear my maid of honour dress. Now the design was totally gorgeous - loved that - the problem, however, came in once I found out what the bloody hell the fabric was! Yip, I was told that I would be wearing satin. But wait folks, it gets better! Not only was I now going to be wearing the worst fucking fabric on the planet but it was going to be a dusty, dirty salmon pink. Yay for me - I could hardly contain my excitement.

But I decided that I would gush over the dress, telling my friend just how gorgeous I thought it was and a fantastic fabric and colour she had chosen (vomit bag aisle 5 phuleez!) My deepest fears were realised on Saturday morning when I had to climb into my tent. And I say that with just cause. You could literally have fitted the entire Mandela family in it. Now one would think that the fucking thing would be made to perfection, after all it was made for me right? Mmmm, maybe not... My dress dilemma only got worse though... There were 3 burn marks on the side of it, the zip was a gaudy white and it hadn't been finished!

To make sure that this tart is not over-exaggerating a dreadful and painful situation, let's recap my extra special maid of honour dress, the dress that will forever be in my mate's photos to mark her memorable day:

It was the size of a tent and could fit a family of 10 in it. This meant I couldn't lift my arms higher than my fucking elbows for fear of flashing a bit tit. Grrrrreeeeaaat!
Satin apparently stretches. Mmmm, so was now wearing even bigger pink sack. Charming!
That's how many fucking burn marks this thing had on it.
The stitching near my waist hadn't been finished and so my over-sized plush family of 10 house starting coming undone. Super.
The bloody dressmaker cut the dress too short. I tried changing my shoes but alas the ones I had originally chosen were just too perfect to punish and have hide in a shoe box. So I looked like a midget who had recently had a massive fucking growth spurt.

Man did this tart look shit hot or what?! Especially loved the looks I got from The Westcliff's Function Manager - yes, Andrew I knew that I looked like a complete fucking tosser. 'Preciate it. Since I was brought up to look on the bright side of things I figured that the whole pink cream puff thing I had going on wasn't that bad. I mean all in all, I guess you could say it was a rather "successful" day!

Can't wait to see the official photo's - yip, am just dying with anticipation.

The Fairest Sirs of All...

2007-05-07T10:20:00.000+02:00

Before I begin this blog I must apologise to Fab 4 members 3 & 4 for being such a scheit tart and only blogging about the best damn wedding I have ever had the honour of attending. Sorry boyz, my bad...

Anyhoo, the point of this post is to gush non-stop about how fantastic my boyz (which is pronounced in the same fashion as Jerry Mansfield called Joffers his boy) wedding was. The Crombie and I had the best mother fucking time ever, well after we eventually managed to find the place that is - apologies Crombie. It really wasn't this tart's fault - the maps were outdated, there were no signs and I just don't have the fucking patience. In the end we made it; heels, dresses and slightly sweaty faces.

I must admit that I didn't quite know what to expect as this was my first gay wedding ever but I should have known with D&R on top of things (in a totally non-sexual way) that it was going to be a day / night to remember. And man was I right.

The ceremony was one of the best one's I have ever been too. Especially since their vows actually meant something. They focused on promising to grow with each other and that their marriage wouldn't be one of entrapment or restrictions. Not the usual bullshit of obeying your partner - I personally hate that fucking vow. Nope, D&R had me in tears when they exchanged vows. So fantastic to see two such beautiful people celebrating their love for one another.

After scoffing down the most deevine nibbles we got down and dirty - on the dance floor that is. In what I fear was a vein attempt to try and warm my toes up (I had been unable to feel them since about 8pm that evening) Crombie and I got everyone all riled up to do some major tail feather shaking. Of course, poor R was having a mild shit fit with the Dj who clearly took his job of being the boogie master at a gay wedding a little bit too seriously / far. I mean he even played YMCA for fuck's sake. Even D tried to get him to play something more contemporary which resulted in this Boogie Master asking what the fuck contemporary meant. Mmm, right, okay, nuff said...

Either way it was a fucking cracker of a day - something that I will certainly never forget and hold very dear to my heart (just like my boyz...)

The Teaze...

2007-05-02T01:57:00.000+02:00

Firstly I must apologise for being totally absent as of late on the blogging world but life is just bloody mental at the moment plus I kinda have the excuse of being on leave (well yes maybe but not really so just nod your heads and forgive this tart, k?!)

Anyhoo, we had Mrs-S's-To-Be's bachelorettes party on Friday - which was a total smash hit, naturally - but the shock of the whole thing wasn't the drinking or strange looks we got from fellow party-goers out on the town that night. Although the looks came from a very conspicuous bunch of people. Actually these individuals, I have decided, are the lowest form of human currently occupying space on my planet! However, I was horrifically educated. This tart is by no means a prude (god forbid) but the shock and pure horror I was exposed to on Friday night was enough fro me to want to buy a Bible!

My little "night of education" started when we decided to take the Mrs-To-Be off to Teaze-Hers for a night of tarty fun with a slight twist of debauchery. Hahahaha. We definitely got more than we bargained for. First of the all, the male strippers are hardly anything to look at and I think that dear old Lolly needs to address this issue if he wants to attract tarts like me. Presently, the clientele consist of fat, old women who are clearly celebrating the joys of being divorced. Nuff said!

But besides the lack of eye candy, the things one can pay these boys to do is just plain sad. Now obviously you have the tame options such as pole dancing, body shots (note to self make sure you wear sexy underwear when this occurs. Lucky for me I was. Also, avoid the short stripper as he tends to get a bit um *cough cough* over-excited - couldn't get the bloody man off me!) and then the usual shows (which brought back ghastly memories of the ladies nights Bourbon Street used to host - gag). The interesting part happens when you are ready to start paying R350 plus. What exactly does R350 buy you, you might ask? Well, this will get you the Full Monty - yip, ball sack and all is what you get. Up and close and personal like. My favourite little package that they have (although this is kept very hush hush and we had to stroke the one stripper's ego to get this outta him) is the option of jerking them off. Oh yes, that's right tarts - for a mere R500 you can jerk some guy off while all your fellow tarts watch. What a fantastic bonding experience. I just couldn't believe it - totally fucking shocked doesn't even begin to cover this... The funniest things is that the booth next to us opted for this little number, whilst some of them were eating as well. Mmmm, yummy. When you order you food from your little "stripper boy" do you ask fro some penis on the side?

At this point I decided it was time to leave as the levels of sad-individuals was now reaching a desperate point. So we paid, thanked all the boys (for god knows what exactly) and then decided to take a looksie at Teazers. After all, it's just hoo-hoo's in small knickers parading around for a whole heap of men, right? Wrong! Now I was one of those tarts who thought Teazers was just a strip club - a totally above the board strip joint and wouldn't have given two fuck's if my boyfriend had gone. Hee hee hee. Fuck me, was I wrong... Teazers is nothing more than a glorified whore house. I still can't decide what stunned me more: the completely starkers tart, spread eagle, fingering herself in front of three male counterparts or the tartier whore on the table next to her, also spread eagle (with all her bits and bobs on show) letting some balding 40+ year old muff dive her! Like I said, glorified fucking whore house!

So after my little investigatory night out, the third deal breaker was born. Any future love interest that even so much as contemplates popping into the Teaze, will find himself swiftly kicked in the balls and told to fuck right off...

Your Sick Voice

2007-04-27T10:37:00.000+02:00

Ah yes, we have all done it - you know pulled a sickie for the name of shoe shopping, lunch with the fellow tarts or my personal fave, due to a fuckingly enormous hang-over. Whatever your reason, you've had to make that call. The one that tests your ability as a wanna-be actress (and the Oscar goes to... *drum roll*....)

Some tarts have this down to a tea - luckily for me, I happen to be one of them. I manage to get away with murder *chuffed, smug grin* I truly believe that the art of your sick voice lies in your ability to make it sound like you are dying a slow, painful, tortuous death. This tart is blessed with the ability to turn on the water works in a matter of seconds. Often I find myself "sniffling" and "snotting" into the phone with my boss on the other end of the line, feeling oh-so-sorry for moi but I can still hear the slight hesitation in his / her voice. This is the exact moment I choose to realise my secret weapon. A couple of sobbing tears later and Bob's your uncle. I'm booked off work, told to take it easy and just rest up.

With technology becoming such a major feature in all our lives, the art of the sms is starting to lend itself to a rather unusual way of usage. No longer shalt thou have to call in sick. Oh no that is so circa 2000! Nope, today, you simply type your little sob story text and away it goes. Of course it may help adding some graphics or even better: sound! Just imagine your boss receiving this text, waiting for it to open and the first thing it does is sneeze, cough and then vomit. Badda-bing-badda-boom. You're home, free.

Now that's what I call a fucking tart saver!

The 100th Post

2007-04-27T10:32:00.000+02:00

FUCK ME!!!

I can like to believe it. I have officially subjected my avid readers to 100 rants, raves, stories about my piss-ups, hook-ups, major fuck-ups and just general menacing behaviour...

*the crowd goes wild*

Yes, yes, thank-you, thank-you. *Sigh* You are too kind ;) I'd like to take this moment to thank all the peeps in the my life you have been the inspiration behind many of these posts - without some of you my life would be void of any colour. Of course there are those of you that add too much colour to my life and hence drive me round the bend to the nearest drinking hole. I luff you all longtime fi' dollar.

(An arb post I know but what exactly is a tart suppose to do when she realises that she has turned a century, in posting terms of course!)

I gots a new toy!

2007-04-26T03:53:00.000+02:00

I am THE most excited tart in the world! Like a kid in a candy shop, I find myself drooling over my new toy (much to the disgust of the new “newbies” or “matlidas” as their known around here)…

I think my new toy totally adds to my swanky tarty image and I absolutely love it – yay for me. *victory dance*

Now for you slightly twisted people out there I am talking about my new phone and NOT a vibrator. Although if I was going to purchase a new vibrator it probably be something utterly tartish and equally distasteful… Mmmm maybe something in platinum or re-he-he-he-lly blinging kinda gold. The type of blinging gold that makes people sit up and take notice! In saying that though, if you are using your vibrator in public you are a sick, sick puppy and need to go for therapy!

If I did buy a new a new vibrator I would feel inclined to give it an exotic name like Antonio or Fabio or something equally as appealing as the Italian soccer captain. You know something with a bit of Latin / Mediterranean oomph *wicked grin*…

How many Camels are you worth?

2007-04-25T01:43:00.000+02:00

I’ve been noticing a fucking shit load of self-worth, value-your-self-cause-you’re-someone-special-sunshine articles floating around lately and it got me a thunking…

How can you really judge your self-worth? Can you perhaps say that because you live in a swing dig house and drive a swanky car you are worth something? Some of exs might be nodding their heads but generally the answer is no. We’re all taught that, from a young age, self-worth is a characteristic that you can’t measure or see (unless of course you have fuck all self-worth and persist with compliment digging – such a fucking irritating habit and one that is bound to be a dead giveaway.)

Anyhoo, like I said this got me a thinking – how come some tarts have too much self-worth (thus by definition making them cocky bitches) and others have less than a straw to try and grab onto? Is it a product of our upbringing, you know growing up in a loving home with your parents instilling this confidence about who you are in you? Or is this something we learn as we get older…

I mean just how many Camels is this tart worth?
(the ideal /correct answer here is that I am priceless... Either way I am so fuckign worthy!)

Wednesdays are the Thursdays! HUH?

2007-04-25T01:42:00.000+02:00

It’s official: the Wednesdays of 2007 have become the Thursdays of 2006. ARG!

Last year every fucking Thursday was a nightmare of a day – I contemplated many excuses to avoid getting out of bed and facing the world on Thursdays last year. The excuses ranged from having gangrene to breaking a toe, to a muscle spam (and no, not THAT kinda muscle spasm) and even phoning in work to tell I had died and hence would be unable to attend for the bazillion years! Fortunately 2007 rolled in and the bad Thursday rolled out. This is why the Crombie and I celebrate Thursdays this year with oodles of bubbles (yay for champers and all things alcoholic!0.

Lately it seems that my luck is running out.

I am no longer able to avoid hating a particular day of the week. Right now its Wednesdays. Wednesdays blow much like a granny with false teeth and soft gums (although if you’re a dude I’m sure a soft gummy suck isn’t the worst…). For us tarts, however, the mere image of this is just enough to send me searching for my hip flask!

How am I feeling today you might ask…

2007-04-25T01:41:00.000+02:00

Keeping it Clean

2007-04-18T01:46:00.000+02:00

Apparently I swear a lot.

In reality I swear whole fucking heaps of lot…

I can’t help it, its just part of who I am – deal with it. I mean honestly, you can’t blame this tart for being a passionate loud-mouthed Italian now can you? That’s like blaming Mussolini for killing people – oh no wait he did do that…. Mmmm, ok well what about blaming Schumi for being such a totally wicked Formula 1 Driver? You. Just. Wouldn’t. Do. It! Unless of course you were a BMW fan, in which case you suck balls and therefore have no opinion.

Personally I have absolutely no problem with my vocabulary and think I have a rather colourful array of expressive words to choose from. It’s not my fault that prudish people who don’t have a life can’t see this. For instance, I have been coordinating the arrangements for Mrs-S-To-Be’s bachelorettes and pamper party with BB over the past few days – thank fuck for technology because the thought of having to thrash out details such as these over the phone or god forbid through our postal system would be a nightmare of monumental proportions! The thing is BB works at Standard Bank. Standard Bank doesn’t approve of my colourful language. In fact they disapprove so much they even took the time to send reply emails stating that my mails had been rejected... due to inappropriate content.

I’m sorry wwwwhaaaaattttttttt? Rejected? What do you mean rejected??? Nothing I have ever done or said has ever been rejected… I mean what kind of word is this!

Eventually I realised that I was fighting a battle I was certain to lose and the pure frustration of not being able to communicate with BB was enough to make me clean up my act per say (Gawd I sound just like the parental unit known as ‘Mom”. Gag). So I de-dirtied myself, tried to keep it clean and tidy and guess what…

…My fucking mails bounced!

Now excuse fucking me but if you keep it tidy, you keep it tidy. I played by the rules and still they insist on rejecting me. I ask you with tears in my eyes: What has the world come to? Whatever happened to Freedom of Speech and all that jazz that the ANC fought so long and hard for, mmmm?! Never one to give up (and of course simply to prove a point – am not sure to whom though) I tidied up my act even more. My mails were so clean that I could have sent them to BB via a virginal punani!

FINALLY: Houston we have lift-off!

If I’ve learned one thing from my whole email crisis with the bank boys is that de-dirtying yourself is really hard work. Pain stakingly, back breaking, sweat enhancing work. Something this tart just isn’t up for in the future!

A Tart’s “How NOT To” Guide…

2007-04-17T09:42:00.000+02:00

We have all, at one stage in our many drunken nights out, sent someone a text message. Normally you shrug it off as a ‘nnnnaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh’ situation, happy with the knowledge that is was just a really bad dream. As you emerge from your room though, hung-over as shit, your room mate / fellow tart etc informs that you did actually send that god awful sms. As the oh-so-familiar feeling of dread sets in (this is usually while I am sipping away on a hot cuppa black mocha) you come to understand just what a tit you have made of yourself. FUCK.

You generally have two options at this stage:

1. Pretend in never happened and put it down to your fellow tart still being utterly shit-faced and therefore totally delusional. Maybe contemplate having her committed to mental asylum for inflicting such terrible news on a good mate…

Ooooorrrrrrr…

2. Climb back into bed with the covers pulled way over your head and contemplate how on God’s green earth you are going to explain this should you ever bump into that person or any of his relatives or friends again. This is my personal favourite – I usually find that I land up praying for a swift and just death; although that could mainly be due to the hang-over, mmm…

The type of drunken texts that you usually send get worse and worse as the evening and Tequila wears on. Great for entertaining your tarts, not so great for you!

For the not-so socially adept, these are the type of drunken sms’s I am gabbing on about (with help from an email I received from Crazy B yesterday):

1. The "Fishing" Text:
This text is normally along the lines of: "So wot u up 2 later?" or "U out tonight?", or simply "Ocean?" Despite appearing innocent at first, this type of text is far from it. Sent at 3am, this generally should be translated as: "I’m drunk, horny and haven't pulled tonight. Where is my back up shag? I wanna come round and jump your bones right now!" Typical response rate is around 10%, if you are lucky and this does, of course, depend on how many back-up shags you have. The determinates of a successful "fishing" text are alcohol levels in the person receiving the text, how filthy they are, and your marginal propensity to sleep. A "fishing" text is at its worst when sent to an ex. Just don’t do it! Best thing to do is remove his number from your phone, or, simply put "No" after / before his name in your phone book as a gentle reminder to avoid embarrassing yourself.

Apparently the Aussie's have got this sorted. You can ring up a company before you go out and have a specific number barred from your phone for the night! Awesome! To think I might have saved myself so many embarrassing nights out. Dammit…

2. The "T9" Classic:
For those of you tarts not up on your phone lingo "T9" refers to the predictive text facility found on most mobile phones. Such a programme, whilst useful during the day, can wreak havoc whilst texting under the influence of alcohol. My personal favourites:

"In supermarket. Fucking Steve."
"Fancy a dual?"

This last one is also classed as a "fishing" text since, as you may have realised, "dual" should say "fuck".

3. The "Friend Locator" Text:
The only type of text to be sent without sexual motivation (or so a tart can hope). Picture the following situation:

You've just met some hot dude and your mates have fucked off to leave you to it. At which point he realises your chat-chit is a load of crap and he makes an excuse to go find her friends. You are now left alone to fend for yourself. You reach for your mobile phone and attempt to call your friends several times before realising they will not be able to hear the bloody phone ring. Great! Your solution is to send the following message:

"Wher u? Dick on dance floor" Or some other incomprehensible crap.

Response rate: 0.01%

4. "Declarations of Undying Love" Text:
No doubt the most embarrassing of the drunken texts. Recognise any of the following?

"I love u!"
"Love you millions"
"Why can’t all guys be as fit like you!"
"Missing you!" / "I miss you so much!"
"I’m so into you right now."

It should be noted that for no apparent reason the number of kisses on the end of the text increases to some exponential figure i.e. from like x to x x x x x x x x x x x x x

5. "Family” Texts:
Doesn’t happen to many tarts but for those who accidentally text the parents, it can be disastrous. Normally, the parents will have had a phone conversation with you prior to going out so they are on your mind slightly. Parents most likely to receive messages are those who are dangerously
close to the hot prospects in your phone book. For example: "Dad" will be located near "Dale"
alphabetically. My personal favourites:

"I’m c*nted where are you?"
"U wanna stay at mine tonite?" (ooh dear)

6."Sex” Text:
This is just never a good idea under any circumstances and no matter how many Tequilas, Whiskeys or JaggieBombs you have consumed. Don’t do it - it’s just not clever.

7. "The Send to the Wrong Person” Text:
Unfortunately this typically occurs when you are bitching about someone or saying you fancy someone. Their name sticks in your head when you're about to send to it... and BANG! Wrong person gets the very message they are the subject of. Although this does have it advantages, because you can do the double bluff. Want to make your ex jealous? Easy, send a message to him that was meant for your fictional new hot lover. Even worse than sending a drunk text, is phoning the person (my bad! See blog entitled “Mistaken Identity: *bashful grin*)

8. “Singing” Texts:
Ever caught yourself texting song lyrics? Shocking really isn't it! This tart has one gone step further and actually sang to Crombie’s voicemail, pissed a coot! This has now been turned into a ringtone – charming. Again, just don’t do it!

9. The "Reminder" Text:
Normally sent just after 2am to yourself. The "reminder" text is just that. You have realised just how pissed you are and that in the morning you will remember nothing. You therefore send yourself reminders for the morning. Examples:

"Say sorry to Kelly"
"U lent Crombie R40"
"Check your camera"
"Key is under bin"

Lately, however, I have been unable to set these reminders as half the bloody time I don’t remember what the fuck I am doing and most importantly where the fuck I am!

Moving on Out…

2007-04-16T11:30:00.001+02:00

This is the new official non-official mantra of The Company.

Everybody I know has either resigned or is the process of vacating. The strange thing is that I too find myself putting my little job feelers out there and seeing what wonderful big fish bite! So exciting and terrifying at the same time.

What blows my mind more than anything when it comes to The Company is how they can be surprised when six people resign in one day?! Especially Biker Boy who has only been here for like 5 months. I mean ching ching the fucking warning bells should not only be having a major strobe fit by now but the media should have been alerted too! Of course Top Managements’ take on these resignations is probably why everyone is getting the fuck out while they still can…

The great thing about looking for another place of work to grow and force my fantastic tarty personality on new unsuspecting colleagues is that I don’t give a rats fat ass about the Tweedle Twins dropping a strop or anyone else’s bullshit cause in a few months time it ain’t gonna be my fucking problem anymore. And THAT is the MOST liberating feeling any employee could possibly possess!

A Tart’s Dilemma

2007-04-16T01:06:00.000+02:00

AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!

I am normally the most decisive tarty individual on the planet, except of course when it comes to menus. Menus strike fear into every fiber of my being – sssssssssoooooooooo many choices and all that pressure as everyone else at the table stares at you hunger struck and waiting for you to complete the order so everyone can eat. HATE. MENUS.

But besides the point…

The point is that I am due for an upgrade – on my phone that is, not me personally. Now this sounds like a really simple task – pick a new phone and show everyone how coolio thou are. Of course the dilemma kicks in when you have a choice of 20 phones and they all sound relatively cool and look quite stylish. I have managed to windle down the list to four phones but just can’t seem to reduce it any further. In other words, I am stuck – fucked for choice really…

My options?

Nokia N70 Music:
Generally I am not a fan of Nokia phones. I find them dull and the idea that any Joe Schmoe is able to pick my phone up and use to it to his little heart’s content appeals to me on the same level as a lobotomy does. Although in saying that, this little Nokia looks very swanky and has some really cool features when it comes to music.

Sony Ericsson W660i:
Now this little puppy is Sony E’s latest in Walkman phone technology and looks fucking awesome – am especially leaning towards the red / maroon option. Can even post blogs from this little puppy – brilliant! Have never had a Sony before and the idea of something new kinda has the whole OOOOOOOOO AAAAHHHHHHHHHH factor for me. But dunno…

Sony Ericsson W880i:
This is the more high-tech zootier version of the W660i. Has exactly the same features plus all these businessy things as well. Way cool, especially for an aspiring tart like myself. The drawback? I have to pay in R800 in order to get it. Mmmm…

Samsung D900:
I currently have a Samsung and have loved every single minute of using it over the past 24 months. Plus it has survived numerous and highly dangerous accidental drops. So as you can well imagine I am tempted to stick with what I know – although in saying that it sounds so bloody boring that I fear I might be turning into Pecan! Shock, Horror! Plus the guy at MTN recommended this one outta the whole lot – io mean gee thanks, like you’re so NOT helping me right now…

AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! What to do? Which one do I choose? I know fully understand why the parental unit knows as Dad has always said that being spoilt for choice really is a fucking bitch! Dammit!

The Wedding Date

2007-04-13T10:45:00.000+02:00

What is it with soon-to-be-married people making sure that all the single folk who shall be attending their wedding have a date? Mmmm – anyone? Personally the mere thought of having to find a date, let alone one that will most definitely look shit hot on my arm, is a rather daunting prospect. Most of the guys I know probably won’t ever speak to me again (I have a slight problem with being polite when it comes to breaking things off)…

My most recent encounter with this dilemma came in the form of the invite to my close mate’s wedding. I am her matron of honour – such a gad awful phrase as just sounds as ancient and boring as playing chess – and therefore am required to bring someone. But not just anyone you see. This someone has to be so delectable that the camera will want to fuck him five times from Sunday. It’s bad enough that I will forever be etched in my mate’s wedding photo’s wearing the most hideous dusty pink satin (yes you read that correctly) dress but if my so called date for the event isn’t super duper panty dropping material then her photo’s will be ruined! Talk about pressure.

Luckily I am blessed with the gift of the gab and I think I have managed to argue my case for single tarts around the world. My argument was simple, to the point and in the end I am hoping that my dear duhling friend has seen the light at the end of the shot gun ;)

After all, how can I possibly play spin the empty champagne bottle under the table at the reception if I appear seemingly attached?

The Tart and The Ugly

2007-04-04T03:33:00.000+02:00

So I’ve decided that since technology is progressing at a rapid, fantastic rate that we should start having soapies on blogs… This first episode of blog soapie is inspired by Crazy B’s recent encounter with Cockhead who couldn’t quite understand why his past exhibit of rapist behaviour had her running…

Queue Music: Dum did um, da di um dum, dum dum dum

The Tart and The Ugly

Enter The Tart, talking feverishly out loud (cause that’s how all soapie characters roll…)

I just can’t believe this fucking tonsil! Un-bee-lieve-able. What part of fuck off doesn’t he understand. I mean I gave him a chance, even tried to be nice but he just doesn’t seem to understand the concept…

Walks to the window, lovingly looking at her Petunia’s whilst letting out a sigh of massive frustration.

Abruptly her room door roars open.

The Tart shocked and completely dazed from this massive invasion on her inner thoughts, gasps. Frozen with shock at the mere site of the figure standing in the door frame, she quickly scans the room for possible exit signs… She recognises the grotesque figure straight away – her disgust evident.

The Tart, I am just here to pledge my undying love for you. I know that you have rejected me in the past which has tortured my soul beyond hell but I cannot, actually I refuse, to not have you in my life…

The Tart motions to speak but before she can utter a word, Cockhead is kneeling in front of her, begging like the dog he is…

Now I know you said to never ever under any circumstances contact you again, unless my brother had run off with your cousin whilst actually confessing his undying love for your sister but I just had to see you one last time. I had to tell you that I am so desperate to have you in my life that I defied your wishes and am prepared, if you’ll have me, to be your (Cockhead takes a large, dramatic gulp of the seemingly stale and cold air) friend… Speak my love!

Pushing Cockhead away The Tart begins pacing – mainly because she is still trying to find that allusive escape route but also to confuse the poor fucker standing in front of her. Perplexed she says….

Don’t you fucking get it?! I mean do I have to spell it out to you, you, you, you complete imbecile of a man. Well if that’s what it takes: I – Want – Nothing – Zip – Zero – Nada – To – Do – With – You! Understand now? Still not – ok maybe I should try this in Afrikaans then: Fock Off!

Cockhead suddenly makes a grab for The Tart but before he manages to stick his grubby little paws on her, the glass door explodes and there in the midst of glass flying stands a figure…

Ass – hole (said in heavy Chinese / Japanese / hell any Asian accent) you no need to The Tart bother. I here to judo chop you here from tomorrow!

The Tart can’t believe who this valiant rescuer is – she almost faints when she says his short, marshal art’s physique. Finally she manages to say his name, in only the faintest of whispers.

Jackie Chan!

Cockhead looks terrified, suddenly realizing that his chances of survival are slim, he decides to be the true chicken he is and bolts for the door with Jackie hot on his heels….

Queue Writing: TO BE CONTINUED…

And go music: Dum did um, da di um dum, dum dum dum

Rant and Slate

2007-04-03T03:33:00.000+02:00

Jesus fucking Christ.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

In my whole entire 24 years of being a fabulous tart I have never had to deal with such mother fucking idiotic pieces of scheit! Planet Fitness has got to have the highest ratio of idiots to clients in the whole fucking universe. This company actually ceases to amaze me - they fucking send me a god damn message threatening to bloody negatively list me aka blacklist because they haven’t received their fucking payments for my gym contracts…

If they did actually bother to check their fucking banking records they would see that Momentum has been debiting my fucking account for the past 6 months! But oh no that would actually mean they had to work!!! Of course when I phoned their retarded helpline – this should be renamed as help implies assistance with your query and all these morons are capable of doing is putting you on hold indefinitely and then getting back to you with a slightly less than intelligent um – they told me they don’t even have me on record….

WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! YOU FUCKING MENTALIST SPECIAL RETARDS!!!

Ineffectual fuckers!

Planet Fitness’ entire fucking HR department should be put in front of a firing squad and stoned to death for being so utterly useless at their jobs! And that goes for their fucking futile god dam finance department who clearly has never fucking heard of checking anything!

Planet Fitness: The most incompetent bunch of fucks alive!

Hangover's Credo!

2007-04-02T11:50:00.000+02:00

This was Crombie and me on Saturday...
Man oh man did her couch prove utterly useful and oh so comfortable!

Mistaken Identity

2007-04-02T11:45:00.000+02:00

Well I had a rather fucking bad hangover on Saturday brought on after a major night out with Crombie and the other two Fab 4 members! Debauchery was in the air like no-other… Of course Crombie and I hooked with some random hotties at the bar where we proceeded to get rather shit faced (what’s new) and we eventually managed to lose Fab 4 members 3 & 4…

So we awoke, absolutely devastatingly hung over, and decided to give the boys a ring to discuss where exactly they had disappeared to and if they got the Windhoek’s we bought for them (still not sure if this was the brand they wanted). Anyhoo, I went through the usual motion of swooping into my phonebook and dialing R’s…

Ring, ring… Ring, ring:

Crombie und I: WASSSSSSSSSSUP! Hey dude hows the head today?

R: Hey you. Not too bad actually – why do you ask?

Us: Well after we couldn’t find you last night we figured that you had disappeared home drunk. But thanks for such an awesome evening – and you were totally right the men there were just deevine! But seriously dude what time did you leave cause Crombie and I couldn’t find you guys anywhere to say goodbye…

R: Huh? Who’s Crombie…

Us: hahahaha - funny dude! You are hungover! *lol* Oh by the by did you get the Windhoek’s – said to Crombie that I wasn’t sure if they were even the right brand but figured you wouldn’t mind as we had hooked up with some serious talent at the bar which we apologise for ditching you guys over but figured you wouldn’t mind as it was eye candy…

R: Um, no I didn’t get the Windhoek’s – don’t actually drink Windhoek’s. Glad you had a good time – was deejaying at that point in the evening so that’s probably why I didn’t see you.

(This is where I was thinking since when does R fucking DJ???? But shrugged it off as a side I just didn’t know my friend possessed…)

Us: Anyway dude, what you guys getting up to today? Definitely reckon that we hit Sudada again soon though…

R: Sorry where?

Us: Su – da - da, you know the place we threw name at last night... Hullo wakey wakey??!!!

R: *clearing of throat cough* Um I think you have the wrong R hey…

(Me: Oh FUCK! At this point I actually turned to Crombie with a blank face not knowing who in the fuck this guy was mouthing who is this freak? Eventually the little light bulb in the corner went kaching: this R was one of the guys I shagged in Cape Town – whilst the phone was only inches from my god damn big mouth I said that out loud! Yes I know what a charmingly retarded buffoon I was!)

*silence from the other end of the phone*

Me: Oh shit – sorry man. Bit hungover and actually possibly still drunk. Well R number 1 here’s hoping that you have a great day – excuse us we are now going to phone R #2 aka the right R…

R: Hey no worries – was good to hear from you! Have a wicked day as well…

I mean what kind of toolish tart behaviour is that?! Why I even have this guy’s bloody number in my god damn phone is a mystery… I just couldn’t believe that I had just had a convo (particularly that convo) with the R I shagged 4 months ago and then told him to politely vacate! Great – Karma you suck balls you know that don’t you bitch?! ARG!

Eventually we managed to get hold of the right R – the Fab 4 R who of course spent what felt like 50 hours laughing his ass off at my stupendously blonde phone call. Am still reeling with total embarrassment!

These are the Gods in their Towels…

2007-03-29T10:06:00.000+02:00

Axe has finally come up with the answer to every pimply unpopular wanking-off teenage boy’s deepest aspiration They have literally come up with a new product that could possibly solve some sad poor lonely soul from years of feeling unloved.

With this new you-can-look-like-you-shag-shitless thang some tit of a teenager will actually start believing that he is a stud, a god, sent back in time to change the future of some lucky lucky ladies! Gawd, I can already see him, standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in his Axe attire, practicing his moves so as to perfect his mojo.

Mmmm, that would actually make for a fuckingly hilarious movie! I can see it now, the teaser campaign, the hype!

The Poster…

The title? Shag Action Deception!

Deduction

2007-03-28T03:14:00.000+02:00

…Red Bull just doesn’t taste the same without Vodka!

The Ultimate Spirit Crusher

2007-03-28T03:12:00.000+02:00

I think the weirdest thing any tart can experience in life is the convo… You know the one that starts off with a clearing of the throat followed by a we need to talk! These are always administered by some nervous version of the male species who is rightfully waiting for you to squeeze the last little bit of manhood he could possibly possess out of his shrinking testis!

Personally, I hate these conversations and try and avoid them like the plague. I would rather fake having HIV than having to face one of these little chats. The last time I had one of these talks I was settling down on the guy’s couch to watch Van Wilder – who would have thunk it that the situation would so rapidly deteriorate that we would turn to each other, mid way through popcorn making, and utter those heart crushing words. Luckily for moi I managed to beat him to the break-up finish line. Go tart!

Recently though one of my most deevine tarts has had to go through this pain staking activity and my heart goes out to her. Don’t worry babe – the sun will shine again!

Of course to the little fucker that is responsible, I hope you have mother fuckingly ugly children!

New Liver Aisle 5 Phuleez!

2007-03-27T02:21:00.000+02:00

In the whole history of this tart’s relatively boozed up life, the past 4 days have got to be at least in the top 3 for being utterly shitfaced! Crazy B was up from the Mudder City and man did we fucking party like it was 1999!

The weekend was kicked off in true tart style with drinks at The Baron (where Crazy B had the life altering experience of meeting Pecan – totally thrilling) and then MyGrillMyBar, and of course what would a night out be without a pull in to Jozi’s very own “upmarket” meat market. Yip, Manhattanening we did go – even landed up with VIP’s for the rest of the year (I love it when Karma is kind)!

Now generally one would imagine that a good night out on the piss in this town would leave anyone with enough of a fucking hangover to stay away from the bad man known as alcohol – right? Not a fucking chance, at least not according to this tart! In fact as the weekend wore on so did the need to consume copious amounts of alcohol e.g.:

Crazy B had never been to Sun City so I decided that it was high bloody time that we changed that so to be different we decided to stay just outside of Sunnies at a place called the Authentique French Guest House. Mistake numero uno! Firstly this fucking place is located in the middle of fucking nowhere about 45km from the City of Sun and Debauchery. Secondly you have to drive through three bloody shanty locations before you even see anything that resembles a white face or a fucking sign for that matter. But the ultimate cherry on the cocktail was then having to attempt to drive down the most fucked up dirt road I have ever had the misfortune of trying to navigate. My pooooooooor car!!! *quiet sob* As you can well imagine I was not impressed!
Enter the need for drink # 1, 2 and 3!

After much debate and a few frantic phone calls we managed to book ourselves into the Cascades! Man were we gonna be pimping it for the weekend. Call for drink # 4

By this stage of the day we were so liquored up that I don’t even remember ordering drink 5 through to who the fuck knows but I do remember that they consisted of the most awesome apple n mint cocktails followed by a few more drinkies that had been stashed / stocked in our snazzy mini bar (god bless hotels!). The rest is a major blur but I do recall copious amounts of double vodies and red bull (we figured since we were pimping it in major expensive style that we might as well drink like we had no budget *lol*).

The above lead to a barman asking Crazy B and I if we were still there (ah, like duh man!), Crazy B pissing against some massive 4x4’s car tire (I have photographic evidence of this), climbing into the porter’s baggage birdcage in short mini-skirt, pretending to drive Harley and a few Quad bikes’ as well as flagging down the driver of the Miss SA LandRover!

Bee-ute-a-ful!

What a classy bunch of drunken tarts we are!!!

The Reason

2007-03-16T01:36:00.000+02:00

This is exactly why I will never ever have children!

… and Karma shall reward you!

2007-03-16T01:35:00.000+02:00

At the beginning of this week I decided it was time to try a new mantra – you know test the waters of something that I had never experienced before…

My new mantra? To be the bigger tart and by bigger I don’t mean compete with JLo for the biggest ass in the world award. By bigger I mean the nicer, better tart - the kinda tart that doesn’t sink to fucking annoying people’s level of retardedness and blow her fuse cause some people just don’t know how to fucking drive in this town!

Lately my Karma hasn’t been too fantastic. Case in point: I had a bloody car accident on Friday with a fucking pregnant lady – I mean have you bloody ever?! So I figured that maybe if I tried to turn over a new leaf as far as Karma was concerned she might, just maybe, kinda reward me a bit…

AND IT WORKED!!!

*victory dance*

How exactly did Karma reward this tart?
… With free entrance to Jozi’s premier meat market of course!
*wicked chuffed grin*

Lucky Number 13!

2007-03-13T09:54:00.000+02:00

Today my Crombie biatch turns the big 2-4! Yip, one year away from having to permanently strap on her big girl panties and pretend to be all grow’d up – I say pretend cause if Crombie actually does grow up this tart will be utterly devastated and have no choice but to sign her up for at least 10 sessions of shock therapy! Are you listening schnoodle…?!

I even sang happy birthday to Crombie, in what I can only imagine to be utterly awful and ghastly at like 7:20am in the morning! She was kind enough though to not turn this little singing exhibition into a god damn ringtone (thank fuck, praise be to the universe) For this act of kindness I send Crombie loads of birthday hugs.

But more importantly is that I have a fantastic pressie waiting for her in my car – I love giving my tart’s birthday pressies! Sometimes they like, sometimes they don’t (those that don’t never live very long though… mmmm, nudge nudge wink wink Crombster!)

But even more importantly is the drinking that shall be undertaken to celebrate what can only be described as the best mother fucking day in March!

Lots of these little puppies will be had indeed – maybe even a few bottles of bubbly. Mmmm, actually while we’re celebrating we might as well just throw in the bar. Maybe even some of the barmen too (provided of course they get the birthday girl’s nod of approval)!

So to the Crombster:
Chicken you rock my world! You are the voice of reason when mine blinds me from seeing what a complete fucking flirt I am when all boozed up…

Luff you like a fat kid loves cake…
Have an utterly awesome (and totally wicked) tarty day!

Inspiring Tourism

2007-03-09T04:05:00.000+02:00

Ok so when I first saw this advert I nearly pissed myself. I think this city should be given a medal - a medal for creativity, inspiration and possibly tying their city to something that EVERYONE spends their life chasing (if you are lucky enough, like moi, you never have to look or chase very long!).

This little tourist promoting piece of hard copy advertising got me a thinking: how we would advertise our very own concrete jungle? Am sure that the mere mention of crime alone would cause a few tarts to um cream their panties per say... I can just see it:

For the most panty creaming experience... Come to Joburg!

Hahahaha - this tart would so give up beautiful shag-stag men for a month to see that. No, no, really I would...

Conversations

2007-03-08T01:20:00.000+02:00

I have just had one of THE most boring lunches of my life. Seriously. I would rather sit with my Nonna and watch her make gnocchi, breathing in her really old stale Italian mamma smell again, than sit through one more lunch like that...

Am not sure it if is because everyone might be bored of the others company or whether we have just gotten to the point where we have absolutely fuck all to say each other. Mmmm, option 2 might not be such a bad idea especially with regards to Tame B. This woman talks more about her fucking annoying family and crazy-ass cousin than an obese person spends dreaming about cake!

It’s actually quite unnerving having a lunch like that – every one is present and accounted for yet nobody says a word. Ever had that? I never quite know what to do in situations like those cause it isn’t a comfortable silence – does one say something? My usual answer is yes and normally transforms itself into something completely blonde and tartish *proud grin* Or do you cherish the hush – I had the whole silence is golden thang drilled into me as a snot rag!

I like conversations, in fact being Italian has taught me to embrace using my mouth *oops, did I say that?!* I meant talking ;) Either way, lunchtime was so mentally non-stimulating that I now find I have heart burn from eating my chow so damn fast! Bugger…

That’s Amore!

2007-03-07T08:34:00.000+02:00

Love at first sight - Concept or Fact? Truth or Fiction?

I’m not sure I will ever be one of those tarts that believes in something as close to a fairytale as this age old philosophy. I just don’t think I buy it, I mean boy sees girl, girl sees boy, the world stops and enter love first sight.

I think I am far too much of a realistic to believe in something like this.

Now LUST at first sight I can do, any day of the god damn week. Let’s face it with some of the men out and about in this town as of late, there is just no way that you wouldn’t come across one individual every 2 – 3 days (am allowing maximum exposure time for those who are not as socially adept as moi) where the desire to shag them senseless doesn’t wash over you.

Love though is different. It’s more complicated. Tricky even. Crazy B I think is in love at the moment and I must admit then when she first told me about The Yankie the realist in me just thought: Oh brother (apologies Crazy B).

The notion / idea of love at first sight is just too abstract. I need something more concrete. Proof. I have loved and been loved many a times but I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that after knowing someone for 2 weeks you can talk marriage and gawd forbid THE FUTURE with them?! Far too young for conversations like that – mmmm, yes maybe when I am 35 I can start thinking about becoming a monogamous tart; you know settling down and all that jazz. Although after describing it as enthusiastically as I have, I think I’ll pass.

I have many a times been told that I am missing the best feeling ever (this is where I got extremely confused as I thought they were talking about the big O, but after some detailed and debated explanation I was on the same page as the rest of my tarts). Their argument: Love is the thing that… lifts you up to where we belong (sorry being a silly stupid tart now)… the greatest songs of all time (fuck I hate that saying) are about – oh yes cause Eminem was so totally feeling the love when he wrote all of his hits *ba hum bug*

My tarts have apparently given up on me and resided themselves to the fact that I just don’t believe in fairytales. What they don’t realise is that life has taught me that the only happily ever after you will have is the one you create for yourself. The stories we read as kids about true love and happy endings (not to mention 7 dwarfs – have you ever seen 7 dwarfs, cause I sure as fuck haven’t) are just that: stories, tales, nothing more than fables to give us hope that we will find someone someday (ah gawd listen to me, I sound like The Mom) who will witness our lives…

After all this debate and being called a cynic and aloof I did some searching – I started looking for these songs about great love that my tarts kept using as their frame of reference.

And eureka, I think I finally understand what the big fuss is about – this song must surely encapsulate all the feelings that love at first sight induces…

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

That's amore

When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine

That's amore

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling

And you'll sing "Vita Bella"

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay

Like a gay tarantella

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fagiole

That's amore

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet

You're in love

When you walk in a dream but you know you're not

Dreaming signore

Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli

That's amore

When the moon hits you eye like a big pizza pie

That's amore

(That's amore)

When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine

That's amore

(That's amore)

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling

And you'll sing "Vita bella"

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay

Like a gay tarantella(Lucky fella)

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fagiole

That's amore

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet

You're in love

When you walk in a dream but you know you're not

Dreaming signore

Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli

That's amore

(Amore)

…NOW That's amore ;)

Return of the Panty Creamer!

2007-03-06T11:57:00.000+02:00

Today is the happiest day of this tart’s life!

It’s Tuesday – the most utterly useless bloody day of the week – and I am glowing like the sun has crawled up my ass and decided to have a mini-supernova!

Today is the day that THE most deevine specimen of male species (besides Ryk in a SPEEDO – *shivers of pleasure down the spine* the man is a god, nuff said) is returning to our small screens today!

Wentworth Miller – besides the shocking first name but when screaming out of pure pleasure I am sure one could find a more appealing name or phrase to yell – is back! My distaste for Tuesdays shall just be applicable to the day time. This fine specimen of panty creamers has made my day, actually scrap that, my fucking year!

Oh bestill my beating heart!

P.S. NB message to all my tarty mates:
Unless you have just severed a leg (or arm or any other appendage for that matter), have severe cock lock (and I am talking pain here tarts) or are too absolutely shitfaced to drive (yes Crombie, that means you), you may not under any other circumstances mentioned above phone, sms, miss call, or even contemplate engaging in any form of communication with me. This type of behaviour is completely forbodden between 8:30pm - 9:30pm. Every Tuesday has now officially become Wentworth Miller time babyeeeez!

Wanna Play with my Choo Choo?

2007-03-05T11:24:00.000+02:00

The Tart is up here in Jozi town which as you can imagine I am completely über loving! As of course is customary when one’s fellow tarts visit my concrete jungle I have to show them the sights. And by sights I mean all the men, men, men, men, men, men. Luckily for me the males that were out on parade last night were of rather fine specimen (which is unusual as of late), particularly the guy that hit on me whilst his girlfriend was parking the car – I reckon this dude has got his shit all worked out!

During the major paruzzing that occurred, The Tart mentioned to me that she would just love it if I took her to the Dodgy Roger. I was of course utterly shocked that she even knew about such a scheit hole considering she had been living in the Mother City for the past umpteen years… I mean who knew that the Dodge had such far reaching legendary capabilities!

So what started off as a rather peaceful beginning to a drink or 2 at the Roger quickly turned into every tarts nightmare (not surprisingly, considering our surroundings)… Yip, we were approached, and I say approached because this dude literally looked like a cat stalking its prey – fuckingly charming for us! This individual could clearly not read the pure distaste and what can only be described as disgust on my face when he had the cheek to ask us to join him and his equally as minging mates… I was taking a major page outta Crombie’s book and doing my best to bare my teeth and be as nonchalant and rude as possible. This fucker, however, was on his own personal seek and destroy mission. Brother!

After 5 minutes of conversation with this fuck-witt, he eventually used the what-does-you-do-for-a-living-card (a most valid sign that it is definitely time to cut your losses and move on to greener more willing pastures) to which it emerged that he made trains. Well fuck me I thought – how utterly bloody fascinating, please can I drop my panties right now! Oh phuleez Mr Train Man! ARG! How utterly lucky and in love I felt at that moment… *gag* He even made the little choo choo motion (at this point I was starting to have violent, yet completely justified, visions of smashing my glass into his face and THEN seeing if he could do those retarded movements. Ass.)

Eventually our Spoornet worker got the hint and fucked off, but not before trying to plant his choo choo seed with some other unsuspecting tarts that had the same amount of disgust on their face. After rejection numero two set-in (hilarious) our 007-spread-your-choo choo-out-there-cause-you-will-eventually-get-a-bite skulked off after the first tart he saw wearing a shirt… What a lucky, lucky lady!

The Fantastic Four

2007-03-02T08:54:00.000+02:00

I met THE most fantastic men last night! Absolutely fuckingly brilliant men… Naturally, as is the story of my life, they’re gay which in a way makes them even more gorgeous…

Crombie and I had the pleasure of high tailing it to The Peech Hotel in Melrose last night to get very fucking happy on very smooth and relatively expensive champers! Yay for us! Yip, we got were officially the first tarts to drink bubbly outta beer glasses (watch this space as I am telling you babes it is the way of the future – bigger glass filled with bubbly = more time drinking = less time waiting at the queue at the bloody bar = happy Clicquot day for everyone!).

Sitting with the two boys and the Crombster I realised that we were indeed the most fantastic people at this Veuve do – what an utterly um fantastic thing. Finally people as fabulous as the chicken and I – who knew?! Joy to the world…

So besides getting absolutely shitfaced on champers and then driving up and down fucking 16th Ave in Houghton looking for no. 7 (do people NOT believe in numbering their god damn houses anymore – Jee-sus!) a brilliant Champagne Thursday was had by all – The Engen even got a visit from Crombie and my twins: Drunk Us! Now there are some tarts that any man would give up his unborn children for *wicked grin*

Just a Love Machine

2007-03-02T08:43:00.000+02:00

I recently found myself lying in a ditch, flat on my back, looking up at the clear blue sky and pondering… why me?!

What was I doing in this ditch? Simple.

I was basking in the proverbial hole I had just dug myself. Typical I thought and then I started to realise that it was all bullshit. This tart had not asked the Shoe Gods, the Booze Gods or the Gods of Debauchery for this so why the fuck I had dug myself into this fucking hole shall forever be one of the great mysteries of the universe!

This hole was all due to me waking up one Sunday morning, hungover as all fuck – possibly reeking like a bum who has been living off Black Labels for the past 5 years, and realised that I was officially involved in a love triangle! Me, the booziest fucker, oops Freudian slip I so totally meant tart! Now this love triangle is what I call extra fucking sticky because it involves the ex of a good mate’s. As all tarts know, exes are just plain fucking off limits – unless of course he looks like Brad Pitt in which case sorry for your mat, I mean if the bitch was stupid enough to let Brad Pitt go then she shouldn’t mind if you have a go. One can always use the excuse that you were just making sure that he was over her or making sure his um apparatus is still fully functional and ready to go – yes actually I think she would be greatful, what a mate!

But I digress...

Anyhoo, this ex basically confessed his undying love for moi one drunken Saturday evening. At the time, my tarty ego clouded my judgment and I found myself trying to justify why I should let him take me for dinner – I mean it was just dinner and a girl has to eat, plus it would be free, and even though is way below my set of standards (every tart has their par) I thought, maybe I shouldn’t be so shallow?… Mmmm.... That was until Crombie managed to sort me out with a slaps and a: Dude, what the fuck?! I was now faced with having to turn another man down and use the friendship trump card – you know the one that every half decent tart keeps up her sleeve?!

So that’s how the love triangle started – me, Mr Ex and My Mate. You see it is even more complicated as Mr. Ex and My Mate are still exceptionately good friends and dated for 5 years… Thank fuck I wasn’t physically attracted to Mr. Ex – stunning guy but just no fireworks *sigh* So I let him down as best as I could and I think I have managed to escape a head-on collision between this love triangle and my fabulous life…

I felt insanely bad about all of this as after all I am an incredibly stunning tart (I refuse to use the word nice, I mean what an ineffectual word – nice is how you describe your in-laws, when being PC of course) until Crombie made me repeat the following:

It is not my fault that I am beating men off with sticks
It is most definitely not my fault that I am shit hot
It is not my fault that I get drunk and then my stunningness gets misinterpreted
It is not my fault that Mr. Ex thinks I am the shizzle…!

*sigh*
It really is a tart’s life, tough at the top and suffocating at the bottom!

Satan’s Spawn

2007-03-02T01:43:00.000+02:00

It’s official – the parental unit known as “Mom” is Satan personified. The woman has no heart, not one once of sympathy for drunken behaviour. Not one! I was in physical pain this morning. The after effects of Veuve were clearly marked by my smudged mascara across my face and inside out peejays. You would think that she would understand that a tart needs her beauty sleep (read: recovery form drunken debaucherious night out) cannot be achieved with the measly 4 hours I got…

The woman dragged me out of bed at bloody 4:30am this morning to go to gym. The cracker is that not only did I actually go, with paramount swearing, but I did a 30 minutes weight training session AND (yes there’s more…) a 40 minute walk. All I could think about was: left, right, left, right…

Although I love my Mom scheit loads she is officially an evil, evil woman. The anti-Christ, the domestic version of the devil Wears Prada, the Armageddon of my life!

The after effect of her bloody “good intentions” as she put it is that I am officially deeply fucked (DF) and incapable of… Oh fuck it I am just incapable today!

Catfight!

2007-02-15T03:29:00.000+02:00

Tarts bless original advertisers and retailers who think outta the god damn box for once! WOO HOO....

No Johnny Bravos’!

2007-02-05T00:48:00.000+02:00

What is it with the men is this town? All the hot pieces of ass have just poofed and disappeared! I mean it is depressing enough that Super H and I are left with just one piece of office eye-candy (of which he is a 7 outta 10 so technically he isn’t really a bona-fide panties-off kinda hottie but like I said times are tough and so are the pickings…)

This new observation of Super H and I is just so depressing that I find myself thinking of G n T’s as soon as I wake up in the morning *melodramatic sigh* Can you imagine how dreadful that is? The pure torture. But seriously:

Where have all the good looking men gone?
And where are all the gods?

Where's the street-wise HerculesTo fight the ugly ones?...

…Tarts need hottie heroes

We're holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night

He's gotta be strongAnd he's gotta be fast

And he's gotta be fresh from the night

We need some hottie heroes!

We’re holding out for a hero 'til the morning light

He's gotta be sure

And it's gotta be soon

And he's gotta be hotter than life!!!

Sing it girls’ cause that is the new official unofficial credo of our kinds living here in Jozi town. I don’t think I have ever been so depressed…

I mean it ain’t like we are asking for a lot – think Super H and I came to conclusion that even a 7.5 outta 10 would be good; although these days judging by the males species that has been seen populating our town, a 7.5 would be the fucking catch of the century!

If only they made more like this… Oh phuleez Jebus, make me blessed receiver of one of these:

*wolf whistle*
Panties off!

The Golden Fee-shez

2007-02-05T00:45:00.000+02:00

So if you were any kind of über tastic tart then you would have been at 88 Lounge this Saturday to celebrate the month of loooooooooove with the totally mind-blowingly tastic boys who go by the name of Goldfish! These boys totally rock my world and make my body wanna move from the nails in my baby toes to the longest hair on my head!

Man these dudes kick ass!
Am in love me thunks! *dreamy sigh*

As I upload this blog I can already feel my body contorting in weird patterns, accompanied with my feet tap-tapping away to the rhythms of these jazzed-up DJ’s!

Now all I have to do is educate my office on these modern geniuses so they stop looking at me like I am having a retarded fit!

It’s a tart’s life!

Blocked

2007-02-01T10:15:00.000+02:00

Can you force yourself to write?

I try, but it feels as if I am doing my damn-dest to push against a wall that just won’t move. Not even an inch! Maybe this wall is a hallucinogenic type of wall; now you see me, now you don’t type thing…

My problem is that lately, I find myself staring at a blank page, a white screen; whatever the medium; grasping. But grasping at nothing really. Minutes pass, hours even yet still nothing flows from my mind.
I’m not quite sure if this strange turn of affairs is due to be having bloggers block (who knew such a thing could happen?) or just not having any major news or tarty opinion about anything… Both situations are very unnerving and have led me to one conclusion:

Whoever the fuck said that no news was good news, was a fucking idiot!

Lights, Camera, Action!

2007-01-26T07:48:00.000+02:00

I have been smodel-fied today! The light above my little corner in zi office went out like a few weeks ago and as is the case with most things in Africa i.e. that we operate on African time, the light guys came to fix it today (8 weeks after it retired)…

What they failed to mention when they gave me the wonderful gift of light is that I will be subjected to massive amounts of dazzling illumination that sees me sitting at my desk with sunglasses on! So pulling a Paris!!!

What’s even more hilarious is that everyone who walks past me gives me this weird look and for a moment I can see they are actually contemplating asking me if I realise that I am working, indoors, with dark sunglasses on! The training manager even gave me a sympathetic smile. Great, so now she thinks my imaginary boyfriend beats me up, just tastic!

The incandescent flood lights make me feel like I am on set for something exciting; all I am waiting for is someone sitting in a blue chair to yell:
“PLACES PEOPLE!”

Inherent Bitches!

2007-01-25T11:30:00.000+02:00

I have come to the conclusion that all girls are bitches – I’m talking from the darling oh-so-annoying age of 6 up to the years of ancientness! I used to think that tarts were equipped with this character trait as a form of survival in this big big world but recently my viewpoint has shifted. Some girls are just plain fucking bitches and no matter what goes right in their lives or how successful or happy they should be, they feel the need to tear your fucking life apart because fuck it they have nothing better to do!

Now normally I would be one of these girls – having had to survive 12 years in an all girls’ school (something which I still believe my parentals should be punished for) and coming out as an awesome tart takes bitch skills which can only be equated to climbing Killie! I do however draw the line on being a two-faced fucking bitch when it comes to my closest friends – of course as is the case with life, not everyone shares my opinion!

Even worse than having to deal with someone so evil that not only does she deserve to be slapped five times from Sunday but she makes Meryl Streep look like an angel in The Devil Wears Prada, is her fucking accomplice. This fucking mindless buffoon is just that – doesn’t think to question any of the information she is “privy” to hearing, nope she just laps it up like the little lappie the lap dog that she is! This is the worst kind of bitch as you can’t even argue with someone that is just so clueless (I’m almost certain that I have just described Paris Hilton, without of course stating: “that’s so hot” IDIOT!)

P.S. This posting is dedicated to Pecan:
Go fuck yourselves up the kazzu with a wha wha brush!

I got the Hippie Hippie shakes…

2007-01-23T09:25:00.000+02:00

Ah the sixties… Now I don’t have a fucking clue as to what they entailed besides The Beatles, polka dots, possibly the beginning of the Tie Die era and god forbid men not only with long hair but in insanely bright suction tight bell-bottom pants! Cringe!

A recent email though has flung me into having to find out what the fuck tarts wore back then… I have discovered much to my utter thrill and excitement, that the sixties saw the introduction of an item that every tart around the world should be grateful for. An item that should have at least one shelf dedicated to it and be available to its tarty owner in a variety of colours and fabrics! Yip, this fashion can’t-do-without is the mini-skirt! Such an ingenious invention – it has secured me many a free night out!

Now my investigatory dive back into the decade of afro’s and spots is not without its purpose… Our Company is having a big celebration do next month to give us all a congratulatory pat on the back for pulling off some huge fucking rabbits outta hats last year. Relevance? Well this shenanigan has been themed (I loathe themed parties by the by): its Austin powers era babybee aka the sixties!

When I first found this out I was devastated, gone was the elegant image I had in my head looking all glam and shit-hot whilst sipping on champers. Instead I was now facing paisley prints, platforms and just generally unappealing clothing… But that was all before Super H and I came to the conclusion that we could get all dressed up, using the mini as our founder for inspiration, looking like our favourite things in the whole wide world: hoors!

Short mini-dresses complete with fake eyelashes and heavy eye make-up? What more could a tart ask for?!

The Pimp Daddy of Cape Town!

2007-01-22T01:42:00.000+02:00

In all my life I have never had to read something as disgusting as Crazy B’s email informing me about how Cricket Boy has been behaving! The man is nothing more than a bastard. Actually bastard is too good for this fuck-witt, he is like the pond scum that feeds off the waste that seeps from the portable loo’s located in the townships!

The way this Mac-Daddy carries on you would think the fucker is P-Diddy. Of course according to him, and only him, his bling bling is down low… This asshole has the fucking nerve to not only hook up with one chick after the other, whilst dating Crazy B, therefore by definition making him a cheating cunt, but hooks up with another chick at the same club Crazy B is waiting for him AND THEN ASKS HER TO JOIN HIM IN HIS FREE HOTEL ROOM THE NEXT DAY ONCE THIS HOOR HAS LEFT!!! The fucking cheek – I swear if I lived in Cape Town this boy would have approximately 5 minutes to live.

I just don’t get men – why can’t you just be honest? Call something what it is from the get go… Either you turn into stalker material because it was the best shag of your life and hence you get these weird fucked up ideas of actually calling it a relationship where the words ‘us’ and ‘we’ are thrown around like ‘I’ and ‘me”! Or worse, you dick fantastic tarts around more than you wanked off in your entire hormone-filled pimply arse teenage years! Make up your fucking minds and while you at: grow some fucking balls!

So here’s hoping that Cape Town’s very own blinging Pimp contracts something, I’m thinking maybe something along the lines of an STD – which seems more than far to me. After all it would serve the fucking idiot right and remind him that sometimes sticking your wandering cock into every nook and crannie that presents itself is not always the best idea!

Relationships…

2007-01-17T09:45:00.001+02:00

In typing the heading for this posting I was all inspired to get into this heated topic and share my thoughts, you know really hash it out… That excitement has, however, disappeared and to be perfectly honest, I just couldn’t fucking be arsed! But for blogging sake and because the thought of actually having to work is making me sick, here goes…

Relationships: there’re complicated, a right royal pain in the fucking ass and just generally require loads of energy and time…

Recently everyone has been giving me their 2 cents worth as to why I am still single (never mind the fact that this current state of affairs has only been so for 2 weeks). Oh the shock, the horror, the terror I strike into happy smug married people’s lives *gasp* This is when I wish I had balls cause if I did I would tell these fuckers to derelick mine!

The one piece of advice (if you actually dare to call it this) is that I should be going for older, more mature men. Now excuse fucking me but I have a grandfather and secondly: eeuw! Of course this tart eventually learnt that what they meant was someone from the age of 28 up. This is apparently where I have been going wrong for all these wasted years of my youth – who knew?! But in my past few experiences I have found that men, unlike wine, don’t get better with age!

But, as my parental unit known as Mom always says: Lightening could strike! Although at the moment it would seem that it prefers to strike garage motors and thus leave me stranded than actually strike down a hunk of a specimen right in front me!

Non-Smoker

2007-01-16T02:37:00.000+02:00

So I have officially been demoted… Or is promoted? Mmmm, guess it depends which way you look at it ruh-hee-hee-here-ly but basically today is the day of new beginnings. The day my lungs will no longer have to fight to savour the intake of fresh oxygen. No longer will they be clogged with tar and nicotine, forced to deal with the blackness within – ok so this is starting to sound a bit like something written on the set of Days of Our Lives *dum dum dum*

No seriously though, I have quite smoking. Probably for the 50th time in the space of a year but this time I swear I am committed, I SWEAR! I wanted to get that point where I hated, ok that is a slight exaggeration, having a smokey Joe – my goal was to achieve this unthinkable event by the end of January…

Of course, the non-smoking universe had other plans for me...

This D day, as it came to be known in my mind, managed to somehow creep up on me like a crouching Tiger waiting to maul his prey to death (ok I have no fucking idea as to why I am using all these morbid images – maybe I am still in the grieving period over the loss of my ciggies…).

My first day as a non-smoker hasn’t been that bad. I mean I don’t know why people kick up such a fuss really, no withdrawal symptoms experienced at all, barring having the following experiences / wishes:

1. Throw cup of steaming hot coffee at irritating work colleague, smile whilst watch them scream in terror;
2. Tell Tame B to fuck right off and to derelick my balls (if I had balls);
3. Take out unidentified annoyance on keyboard, the space bar is especially appealing;
4. Swear countlessly at computer – very fucking stupid machine, I hate Bill Gates…

So all in all it has been a relatively normal day – withdrawal symptoms my ass!

Road Tripping with my favourite Ally

2007-01-12T11:59:00.000+02:00

So this weekend sees the Crombster and I off to the Vaal, not for the weekend – so last season, but for the night. We both figured fuck it why not and are calling it a fucking day at 4pm to go throw name in probably the most hilarious place to do so. Seriously you should try it sometime – makes for incredible memories, that is, of course if you can remember…

Last time Crombie and I took a road trip like this, we were paralletically hammered driving back from fuck knows where in the middle of the night (or was it the morning – I seem to remember light but that could possibly have been other cars… mmmm, the mystery continues…) totally fucking lost, did I mention we were wasted? Anyways we eventually discovered that Crombie’s car comes with auto-pilot. The amazing thing about this auto-pilot thingie is that it is Top Secret 00 type of stuff – no one is ever suppose to know that a Fiat comes with such an amazing driving device, all for the reasonable price of an economy car. Talk about value! Of course, Crombie and I felt it was our duty to spread the word – but once we started getting really strange looks from everyone we began to realize that perhaps telling people we had both passed out at the same time (while Crombie was in fact driving and NOT the Fiat) was probably not such a good idea… Who would have thunk it…!

I digress (as usual)… So this time we have decided to keep it tidy and under control cause neither of us feels like being fanny raped by some big bitch called Martha!

Wedding Season

2007-01-12T11:58:00.000+02:00

What the fuck is going on in the world… It’s like everyone woke up this year and decided to get hitched and tie the knot! People are losing their single minds left, right and bloody centre. Case in point is that I now officially have three weddings to go to in the space of six months – one of which I happen to be the maid of honour aka chief bridesmaid and it scares the living Be Jesus outta me. I can’t ever imagine getting to the point where you decide that this person next to you is the one you wanna wake up to every day, shag for all eternity (what a wrenching thought) and watch them get all wrinkly and old – PASS!

The fucking frightening thing is that I find myself getting to an age now where my involved friends (most of whom are on the verge of taking the proverbial plunge) out-weigh my single ones. I mean, how the fuck did this come about? What happened to the notion of being 18 till we die? Free and unattached for life? I guess I must have simply missed the wedding memo…

Thank fuck for Crombie, who is not only my single Jozi partner in all debaucherious crime, but who has sworn that she will get married at least 7 times. Each wedding will be themed with one of them being the Rocky Horror Show! Now there’s a wedding to look forward to!

I want, I want, I want!

2007-01-10T03:57:00.000+02:00

Ok all credit to Apple for being the coolest kid on the block. I think I might have the female version of penius envy after seeing this little baby!

All I can say is: GIMME, GIMME, GIMME!!!

Elementary, my dear Watson…

2007-01-10T03:56:00.000+02:00

For most people the notion of being told to fuck right off is a very simple, possibly brutal, concept to grasp. But nonetheless it does not command major thought or insurmountable levels of understanding… Right? Well not in Cockhead’s case. The man is just simply plain fucking ignoramusly stoopid!

Crazy B hooked up Cockhead a while ago when she came to visit me in Jozi in November. Instantly we took one look at each other (that’s Cockhead and I) and the dislike was evident. Mainly because I could see that he was a complete fucking wanker and total waste of human space. A true oxygen thief. Nonetheless he seemed to make my best mate happy and so I kept quiet. That was, of course, until he turned all psycho on her and started to give her a play-by-play of what their married life would be like! Um, huh, what, sorry but can we fucking pause and rewind!!! The dude just lost the plot…

Through all of this he still came down to Cape Town and went to the same New Years bash that we did. Crazy B got a bit toasted and so he was of course the first to jump at the offer to take her to the car where she could sleep off the booze. As the über tart that I am there was just no fucking way on God’s green earth that this was going to happen. Of course this little plan totally screwed up his idea of a romantic evening with my past out mate! He got a bit abusive with me, I contemplated kicking him in the not-worth-mentioning-nuts (note to the boys: tarts talk) but then realized that I loved my shoes too much. So I did what any Italian would do and kicked up such a commotion that the parking guards would have thought I was being raped!…

But I digress slightly…

Basically, Crazy B told Cockhead to fuck off, lose her number and never to bother contacting her again. Simple enough instructions. Think a fucking illiterate starving child who spoke alien could have understood that. But oh no, not this buffoon… Low and behold if he doesn’t send Crazy B an email wishing her happy birthday for tomorrow! I mean Jesus H Christ man save what little fucking manhood you have and move the fuck on! Has he never heard that song Walk on By…?

Fuck off isn’t code for please oh please contact me, send me flowers and whilst you’re at it ask me to marry you! It is the one phrase that whether you come from Venus or Mars has no room for misinterpretation! It means what it says, period.

This guy has got to be the thickest fucking example of the male species that I have ever had the misfortune of having to meet. What a toss, what a wanker and most of all: what a fucking idiot!

All Grow’d Up

2007-01-09T03:40:00.000+02:00

It is official, Super H and I are all grow’d up and technically have to act like responsible adults from today forward *gulp* Ok well at least where tax is involved. Until this very moment tax was a word I had heard often, normally accompanied by the occasional “stronzo” by the parental unit known as dad, but I had never quite grasped the concept of what it really entailed. Tax to me was like what the Universe was to Arthur Dent…

Even when I was welcomed, read shoved, into the working world in 2005 I just shrugged of the tax thing as something my rentals had to deal with. I mean, me deal with this tax thing – surely they must be mistaken… Me? Tax? Ba hum bug! Of course this living in ignorance thing had to end eventually, as all great fairytales do *sigh*

So today Super H and I took the bold leap into grow’d up hood together – we filled out our tax registration forms and with some luck we should be registered tax payers within the next few weeks. Who knew that filling out such simple looking forms would turn into such a fucking mission and test the mathematical skills of Super H and I to their limit – fucking around aside, this was a job for The Calculator and of course a few consultations later with our Pay Roll Lady and we were on our way… Shwabang!

Apparently, this tax man person gives you money back – INCREDIBLE! YAY 4 SARS! I think I’ll go buy those Jimmy Choo's now…

Rat Bag

2007-01-09T02:34:00.000+02:00

So Audi Boy turned out to be a bit of loop, one more loop and he would have been a complete fucking fruit loop, complete with crazy ass bird on the front of his box. Men like him should carry warning stickers on them so super tarts like me know when to just fucking walk on by and not waste any more time than we already have…

Now when I first met Audi Boy, I thought he was great – breath of fresh air and all that jazz. Well the only breath he proved to be was one of utter dishonesty and pure bullshit. Like Coward the cowardly dog! In the beginning I got the whole “I will never be dishonest with you” speech, which I listened to with a somewhat doubtful ear, as well as how he thought I was just so über fantastic (duh) but the little voice in my head (the one that just knows when a guy is spinning me a line was by now screaming its pretty little head of and running around the room aka my head bumping into to countless inanimate objects – drove me crazy) told me otherwise and for once I did the unthinkable, I shoved that little voice into a purple (don’t ask) straight jacket and told it to shut the fuck up! Man am I sorry…

After all the scheit happened with Audi Boy I took a moment over my crisp glass of champers to ponder the relationship that I had just lost (although I clearly wasn’t too involved as my antics in Cape Town go to prove…) and came to the enlightened conclusion that the man simply has no follow through… ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NONE! It amazes me that his golf handy-cap wasn’t too shoddy. If I had been an alert, sharp tart on the look-out I would have picked this small inability up about a month ago when he just couldn’t follow through after foreplay…

FOUR!!!