All The Single Ladies

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no Beyonce tragic. At least not yet, thing is I'm celebrating what my housemate would refer to as "a single girl's dinner" If you're not familiar with the idea, check out the image below.

Oh, hang on, not that one. You might want to try that again.
See, much better - and interestingly family-appropriate to, just for something different. This was my pre-dinner, house-cleaning energy booster, and I'll have you know that pork rinds are a complete, nutritionally balanced snack. Just ask the packet.

High in protien, low in sugar, gluten free aaand a source of dietary fibre. Yeah right and I'm fourth in line for the fucking throne. Interestingly no mention of sodium content or fat, but I'm sure sliced pig fat is low in both of those nasties.

Right now I think every single ounce of moisture has been sucked from my body. No shit, I'll be sleeping in the kitchen sink tonight, with the tap running slowly to replenish my H2O content.

Anyway I just thought you might care to know that I now have a fridge full of very bacony beef bolognese (what is it with me and pork products?) and I've scrubbed my house from top to bottom. It's becoming something of a Monday night ritual.

Even to the point where I've got a uniform to go with it. Okay, I dunno if it qualifies as a uniform exactly, but I've discovered the joys of scrubbin' the house in my undies.
Yeah - that's right. I'm serious about keeping the fucker clean... Can't you tell from that expression? Oh and once upon a time I used to think all Oroton made was handbags and sunglasses. Turn out they do some seriously sexy, but insanely overpriced, man-knickers too. Whadda ya reckon? Yay or nay?

Anyway, frippery aside, I'd like to get a little bit serious if I can. You see, Movember is into its final week. This means that after the end of this month the cookie duster comes off and the muttonchops return.

But I have a wee little problem. FUNDS! I need you all to contribute. Just quietly I'd hoped to scrounge up $500 for Beyond Blue, the depression initiative and the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia, and yet I'm not even halfway there. Please, jump onto this link here and make a donation. It can be as big or as small as you like.

And now my pledge: If I can raise $500 for Movember I promise I will buy everyone who contributes a beer, as my way of saying thank you!

And in case you were wondering how the mo was going, why not check it out for yourself:

I know. I'm such a hot little bad boy, huh? Remember to check out my MoSpace and rate my mo while you're there. I'll expect nothing less than five out of five!

So - what are you waiting for? Help me make a difference to the state of mens health. I'm going to dash off and find some pants, and when I get back I'd better be gearing up to buy you guys a beer or two! Cheers.

http://au.movember.com/mospace/70359

People Are Cool

I really mean that. Some people are just really super fucking cool!

Other people, well I'm never so sure.

Take my little corner of the globe: Melbourne, Australia. Specifically the Fitzroyish Carltonish area which is full of bohemian, arty, chilled out, fun, exciting kinds of people. I mean, where else can you find a bunch of uni students perched on a couch that they've hoisted onto their very unstable looking verandah (on top of mind you, not under it) drinking micro-brewery beers and turfing water balloons at passers by on the street? Well, just around the corner from my house in fact!

Then there's the graffiti, amazing incredible works of art adding colour and vibrancy to what would otherwise be a dull, boring, inner city concrete jungle.

Then there's the things you see. Just last week as I plodded home from a hot and stinky day in the salt mines I was coming down my street past one of the old cobblestone laneways. Who should be lurking within but about a dozen uni students, all relieving themselves up against someone's wall. Further than that, about half of them then sprung out into the gridlocked traffic with their cocks still out, causing a sea of honking, cheering and applause to spring up from the otherwise humourless commuters.

Then there was the day the Housemate and I returned from a late-night cooling ale session to find one of the local homeless gentlemen from the area standing in front of the house next door. He had his bagfuls of shit scattered around him and was swaying dangerously too and fro whilst humming loudly to himself.

Oh, and his pants were down around his ankles.

"Do you think he's trying to take a piss there?" The Housemate asked.

"Nah" I replied "If he was, he probably wouldn't have bothered to drop his strides."

And with that we unlocked the door, gave him a wave and stepped inside, only to find he'd vanished less then a minute later.

But my all time winner occurred just yesterday. I pulled up out front of my house at the head of a line of parked cars, my idea was to only be 20 seconds then I'd just pull into the left-turn slip lane and be on my way without having to wait ten minutes to get waved into the oncoming traffic.

Anyway, I pulled up, backed back a little to straighten the car and headed for the house. As I passed the car behind mine, which I didn't realise was occupied, I hear a: "Excuse me" from the passengers window. I looked in the direction of the voice and spied a dirty looking bleached blonde woman in the passengers seat of a fairly tired looking VR commodore. "How the fuck're we supposed to pull out of here now?" she enquired.

I looked behind her car and pointed. "Maybe you could reverse into the five-feet of vacant space behind you." I advised and kept walking. I'm sure she was trying to thank me for my driving tip, but I could make it out over the strains of the rabid, psychosis-tinged shit-fit that she was having.

Man, I'm going to miss this part of town when I move.

Ready To Roll

Right now I’m a ball of pure energy. You know why? Because I’m a sucker that’s why, also because I’m gullible and at times, over enthusiastic.

You see it all started last week while I was in the supermarket. One of the items on my list was fabric softener, Now, I’d just like to make it clear that I’ve never really understood the need, but being the modern, trendy, metrosexual cream-puff that I am I’m prepared to give it a shot.

And just so you know, growing up on the farm I never once saw the Motherload using fabric softener in the house. If anything I think out clothes were washed with a scoop of concrete mix, to toughen us the fuck up.

Anyway, supermarket: detergent aisle. I’m scanning all the softeners with their white peach and soothing lavender fragrances and thinking there’s a major missed opportunity for one that smells like diesel fuel, or maybe sweaty construction worker. God only knows I’d happily dry myself off with a towel washed in that gear.

So, the closest I could find wasn’t actually a fragrance at all, it simply said Energising on the label, which is good enough for me. Fast forward to yesterday and I’m stuffing my sheets into the washing machine, adding detergent and the afore-mentioned softener. For those who don’t know, all laundry additives in Australia now come in super concentrate form which means smaller packages and stronger products. Something to do with the environment. If you want to know more pick up a bottle of Omo and have a read.

Of course, I’m a forgetful Jones, so instead of the recommended three drops of softener, I add in waaaay too much. Ah well, no big deal.

Well, I was right. It wasn’t a big deal until I’d pulled the sheets off the clothes line and stuck them on my bed. By the time I’d finished I was just about ready to pass out from the waftyness of it all.

That was nothing though. After leaving the house for a few hours I came back to house that reeked of pure energy. I’m not kidding, as I unlocked my front door and attempted to push it inwards the scent in the air was so strong it just about kicked the door back into my unsuspecting face.

Being my bed and all, I was going to have to sleep in the fucker too, that was its own adventure. As I tucked myself snugly into bed I was overcome with the urge to find a park to jog around, a mountain to climb and a cycling track to negotiate. I guess they weren’t kidding, that stuff sure is energizing, unless of course it was just the sheer olfactory overload. Oddly enough as I attempted to drag my arse out of bed, I found the opposite effect to be true. There was no energy to be had. Then again that could be related to the fact I was up half the night, gasping for breath over the stench of energy.

The point of all of this is to inform you that my brain was pushed into overdrive last night and I started thinking about some things. You know this and that, boring shit mostly like: will my tie match my socks for work tomorrow.

But most importantly I started thinking about the 2010 Balls Out Road Trip. If you’re not familiar with the concept yet, have a look-see at the archives, I’m too lazy to link. Anyway 2010 is going to be HUGE! I have some incredible stuff planned, but it isn’t just going to be about me this year. I’m not going to do it alone.

For BORT 10 I want everyone involved. It’s likely that this will be the last trip I run in my faithful old Calais, so we’re sending the girl off in style by crossing the Nullabor! If you’re not an Aussie the Nullabor is a big fat stretch of desert in the middle of the country that isn’t much good for anything other then road trains, red dust and errant wildlife.

Oh, it also happens to be rather stunning, with some great iconic little towns along the way – and this is where you guys can lend a hand. First of all, the Calais isn’t exactly suited to a bush bashing adventure in its current form, so Aus residents, if you happen to know where I can get my hands on a bullbar, stone flectors and a rear suspension lift kit for a VS commodore with IRS I’ll be most grateful.

I’m also going to need a couple of additional 17x8 inch rims, roof racks, driving lights, radio communications equipment, truck mudflaps and anything else that’ll make my car look like a feral pig-dog!

That’s not all though – More than anything else I’m going to need a co-driver (or two or even three) someone who can navigate, drive, stomach utterly shit food, and hold a camera. I’m opening expressions of interest from today so if you reckon you’d be up for it, send me an email with a run sown of what’d make you an ace roady partner. If you happen to reside overseas and reckon you could make it over here then you’re more than welcome. Plus it’d give a nice international flavour to the whole affair.

So there you have it, BORT 10 takes its tentative first steps. Jump in now and help me make it something truly spectacular, I’ll even bring all the energising fabric softener we could ever need!

That Girl

Hers was the name on everyone’s lips. I’d heard about her but hadn’t met her. Busy social schedules will do that I suppose.

So far I knew the bare minimum about her, except that she had perhaps everything I wanted. She owns an incredible property portfolio in all the right parts of town, has a successful career, a great car and the attention of every man she passes.

And last night she walked into my life. I’d already rehearsed a few possible scenarios in my mind. The one where we met, became instant friends and spent a lifetime of spur-of-the-moment shopping trips and sunset cocktails together. The one were we met, uncovered the seething jealousy beneath the surface, and became sworn enemies.

It didn’t cross my mind that I might not be important enough to neither adore nor despise. I had nothing she wanted, nothing she craved, nothing she needed. We just happen to have a few mutual friends.

When she walked into the room I suddenly understood the fascination. Everything was as it should be. Petite figure, knockout curves, flawless hair, perfect complexion, gorgeous features. To add insult to injury, after a day at work she’d arrived with flawless makeup and not a single crease in her tailored linen culottes.

Okay, so I wasn’t expecting her to turn up covered in brick dust or grease, but no one, and I mean no one can wear natural fibers for eight continuous hours and still look like their clothes are freshly pressed. Hell I can’t even manage to put on a pair of trousers without creasing them in the process.

We couldn’t be more different if we tried. Her with her summer scent and chilled white whine, and me smelling from a day in the salt mines, drinking a lukewarm domestic beer with shit hair, shit clothes and my shitty jealousy.

To make things worse, she knows exactly what she has. Every set of eyes in the room was directed at her as she breezed in and set down her handbag, tossing her hair over her shoulder and flashing her perfectly straight, white teeth.

Looks like the old cliché rings true: Men want her, women want to be her. Again, she’s fairly familiar with this concept. As such she has the world’s most wonderful man, but refuses to love him. He’s always kept at arm’s length for the moments he might be useful.

The change in his face and body language when she arrived was remarkable. Her subtle flirtations, irresistible. For months now he’s been pining for her and for the same amount of time she’s been drawing him in with one and casting him out with the other.

He doesn’t care though, such is her alluring power. I find it cold-hearted, but I’m pretty sure she thinks it entertaining. What could be better then having a relationship with the perfect man, and pausing it every time something newer, and more captivating crosses your path?

So I left the group. Took my wounded ego home to bed, disheartened at being ignored by her and jealous of the attention she received. She’s everything I’d like to be and nothing I am, and no one noticed me as I snuck out. Too entertained by her vivacious nature.

So now I get to grin and bare it. This won’t be the last time she walks in and captivates everyone’s attention. It won’t be the last time I’m left feeling lesser for just being me, and not being more like her. I’d like to say that I’m better than that though and that it’s the last time I let it erode my soul.

But it won’t be the last time. For as long as she stays the way she is, I’ll continue to have the bitter taint of jealousy on my tongue.

Sunday Sunshine

The people I know are normal. No really. They are.

Take this weekend just past, for instance. As Melbourne warms up, the urge to get out in the sunshine becomes stronger and stronger, so a group of my friends decided to do just that.

Champagne Sundays are fast becoming a bit of a tradition. As soon as the weather turns nice we’ll hit the beach or a local park with a list of necessary ingredients. Namely: Champagne, sausages and a travel barbeque. From that point on the world is our oyster.

I arrived fashionably late, as usual. Not only did I hit the road late but I neglected to account for the rush of traffic headed beachward for the day. Never mind, timing is everything as they say and just as things started to turn good I was ready and waiting to jump in on the action.

Amongst the attendees was a pair of poofters from the periphery of the social spectrum. A couple of guys who are great fun to watch from a distance, but tedious to deal with in an extended stretch.

One has a voice like the hyenas out of The Lion King and a screeching laugh that can be heard seven suburbs away. His partner in crime looks for all the world like a mannequin coated in wet lacquer, resplendent in fire engine red finger nails with a trout pout to put Pete Burns to shame.

The pair do so love a drink, and with a dozen bottles of champagne on hand, that was exactly what they did. It didn’t take long for the booze and summer sunshine to take hold and the boys got very merry very, very quickly.

Before too long Trout Pout had the Hyena pinned to the ground in an awkward wrestling hold, with his chest flat to the ground, a knee in his back and his head turned through 180 degrees, yanked by the hair, while a bottle of champers was unceremoniously tipped down his neck.

From that point it was game on. The Hyena recovered quickly and without pausing emptied the contents of his wine glass all over Trout Pout. Thankfully it was only a plastic cup, as stage two involved burying the champagne flute into Trout Pout’s face.

No drink was safe from that point on as the Breaker Brothers began their merry jig of alternately pouring glass after glass of booze down their throats, or over each other – or anyone else who happened to be in the vicinity.

Every so often they’d take a little breather and Trout Pout would soak a slice of bread in champagne to give to a swan, while the Hyena tried to stuff as many cheese slices and strawberries into Trout Pout’s clothing without him noticing.

While this was going on the barbeque was sizzling away with a batch of rissoles. On standby, a pack of sausages, ready to complete our lunch. Or they would have been, had the terrible twosome not gotten their hands on them first.

I’m all for a good food fight. Hell there’s nothing more awesome when the mood is right, however when 90 percent of the people there are sober, drenched in someone else’s spilt grog and planning on heading out that evening it becomes slightly less funny.

Well, actually it would have been slightly less funny, except I managed to avoid the chunks of sausage mince being hurled from one end of the park to the other. I swear, there’s comedy, then there’s two screaming queens wrestling in the dirt, trying to slap each other with a raw snag.

For shits and giggles nothing else comes close. They even pulled the classic “Wait. WAIT… I’ve got something in my EEEEYE!” routine, before wailing on each other twice as hard with a fresh string of chipolatas. Comedy Gold, I kid you not!

Eventually we did manage to leave the park, tidied up our mess, picked up as many empty sausage casings as we could find and headed to The Laird Hotel while the perilous pair picked chunks of sausage mince out of their ears, hair, bum cracks and anywhere else it may have ended up.

And that my friends, is poetry in motion.

Gifted

This is just a quick little note to let you all know that my faith in humanity has been restored. Some people are just fucking lovely, you know! There's some good souls out there after all, and here I was thinking that the entire planet was populated with arrogant, self-righteous arseholes like me! Sometimes it's nice to be wrong.

I'm going to jump all over the place here, so don't think it's not because I don't love you as much as the guy before you if you get mentioned here. I think you're a dead-set fuckin' awesome bloke either way - this way just helps protect the folks who use a reader!

Anyway. Jimmy from Sydney came to town the other day. He's a non-blogging kind of fellow, but I cooked him dinner all the same (okay, I ordered cheap chinese from around the corner) and when he rang my doorbell he was carrying these:

Bless him. If there's one thing I loose my shit over it's fresh flowers, plus I can count on one hand the number of times I've been given roses! We both laughed and carried on about how, for a pair of gay men, our flower arranging skills sucked the big one, but we got over that quickly enough and stuffed the greenery into a vase, added water and plonked 'em on the kitchen table to make any passers by jealous!

The next gift comes courtesy of one of Adelaide's star bloggers. I'm thoroughly pissed that I missed the chance to meet the man in person, however he was terribly understanding and gifted me anyway.

Now he and I may or may not have a little something going on that involves swapping photos of underwear (and missing underwear) so in keeping with the theme he got me: 
So Yani, I'm sorry I never got the chance to grope you in person, but I hope you're happy with the results. I know I am! I'll model 'em for you next time you're in town, I swear.

The third and final gift has been on my want list ever since I saw it modeled by its creator. Thankfully, when I put in my request he happily obliged.

Last week, Gay Wallaby dropped by work for what was our first, but very brief meeting. Sadly I didn't get to demonstrate his gift in person, but he has been supplied with photos!

So, what has captivated my attention so? Two words: COCK RING, not the pierced knob kind though, just a wearable jigger . Now the following photo is an active demonstration of the ring in action (you have been warned), and incredibly for something that was manufactured without a single measurement I think GW managed to size me up perfectly. He's obviously been paying attention to some of my previous posts!

So that my friends is how my faith in humanity was restored in three easy steps! Of course there's still plenty of work to be done, so if you think I'm worthy you ought to throw me some free shit. You never know your luck, it might just end up being world famous blog fodder, or at least end up photographed at the end of my dick!

Mo Turning Back

Picture this if you will: One Mutant sitting at home on his stoney lonesome, with the Housemate in Phuket and the Husbear in Brisbane. It’ll be just like those Home Alone movies, except instead of creating all kinds of hilarious mischief by myself I’ll have the assistance of on oversized cavoodle called Kanon.

So, for the next fortnight I’ll be taking the Housemates designer dog down to the local doggy park and fraternizing with the locals and their fur-children. Joy! I can just picture it now, Kanon and I will bond, we’ll share secrets, we’ll give other makeovers and we’ll sit on the couch, watching Family Guy DVD’s and sharing a bag of doggie-chocs. Excitement She Wrote!

I’ve also got an important event on over the coming month: Movember. If you’re not familiar with the concept, Movember sees guys from all walks of life growing a moustache to raise awareness and funds for The Prostate Cancer Foundation and BeyondBlue, The National Depression Initiative.

I’ll keep you all posted on my progress and I’d really love it if you could show your support by making a donation to the cause at http://au.movember.com/donate/your-details/member_id/70359/ .

Of course, growing a mo is not without its challenges. For starters I’m gunning for a big-arse 80’s Aussie cricketer handlebar mo. Of course my growth patterns will dictate the eventual outcome and my missing facial hair follicles will most likely see me looking more like Gomez Adams.

Then there’s the issue of my multiple chins. The facial fuzz I keep at the moment helps make it look like I have a defined jawline, sadly that’s just not the case and this will be the first time in about five years that I have a naked face, oh the humility I’ll suffer!

Then there’s the Husbear related issue. In the two years I’ve known him, the Husbear has never seen me clean shaven. Not even once! With him away for the start of Movember he’s absolutely seething that he’s not going to be around to watch it come off. For him it’s a kind of perverse experience. He wants to watch me shave, he even asked if he could do it for me.

I’m not silly enough to let him anywhere near my face with a razor though, but I do have to SMS him photos as soon as it comes off. Demanding little bugger that he is.

The Housemate wants in on the action too. As she’ll return two weeks into the event and the mo should (hopefully) be quite well developed by then she’s requested a day-by-day photo diary of my progress for her return. She’s also prone to just about wetting herself at the prospect of me looking like a 15 year old again. Considering she knew me when I was 15 the very thought mortifies me. If she decides to do another series of photos of me in my ‘awkward phase’ I swear the cavoodle and I are running away from home!

I know that you guys are an understanding bunch, and that you want to see me succeed. If you feel as strongly as I do about the causes involved, donate now! I’m counting on you guys!

Another big issue just about to lob, is Halloween. American readers may find it inconceivable, but Halloween is simply not the done thing in Australia. Although there’s always someone gunning to celebrate it one way or another, and my local, the Fox Hotel is doing just that.
There’s a whole theme night with prizes for best dressed, plus The Blow Waves will be performing, and despite the fact I’ve been told numerous times that I need to see these guys perform, the very best costume I could possibly come up with will be the ever reliable hole-filled sheet. Not a winner. I may just stay in and fend off the one or two trick-or-treaters who are likely to come by and will be promptly given an asparagus spear and told to fuck off.

Unless of course they’re particularly hot, in which case they’ll be invited in and ‘treated’ the best way I know how. Extra points to anyone who turns up as a zombie with a penchant for arse eating, as opposed the usual brains request.

I happen to have a bunch of buddies ripping it up tonight at various parties across the city, but seeing as I sit on the outer edge of most of those social circles as the ‘token homosexual’ I never scored an invite. I guess the risk of me turning up as Frank ‘n’ Furter was just too great.

Then on Tuesday there’s the jewel of Victoria’s Spring racing Carnival, The Melbourne Cup. The horse race that stops the nation is always good for boozy shenanigans. If you find yourself at the Flemington track you’ll be treated to a plethora of scrubbed-up, champagne-fuelled bogans. Men who don’t know how to behave appropriately and women trying to cross the green in stilettos. Fun to watch, but only for a maximum of ten minutes.

The alternate option is to grab half a dozen bottles of Yellowglen’s finest twelve dollar sparkling, a Woolworths roast chicken and head to a mate’s place for a quasi-posh luncheon. That way you can still watch the hoards attempting to get home on public transport, without the sun burn and uncomfortable fascinator required of the attendees.
As for me, well with the two biggest Cup fans I know away from Melbourne for the day, I’ll most likely be sitting on the couch, watching the race in my knickers and becoming intimately acquainted with a cask of white. Classy lass indeed. Worse than that though, I’m working on Monday, which is utterly ridiculous when you consider that 99.9 percent of Melbournians take the Monday off for a four day weekend, and no one will be coming near the place… Oh the joy of it all.

So, you know – that’s my haps for the next week-slash-month. I bet I’ve thrilled the fuck outta you, right? Oh hell yeah!

Nice To See Mutton C

You all now my mate Stevie B, right? He’s the guy with the blog Nice To See Stevie B which, when you think about it, makes a whole lot of sense really.

Anyway, he likes to come across as this mild-mannered, all-American muscle cub who spends carefree summers in Denver, cruising around topless in his Jeep Wrangler and iPhone-photographing himself with wreckless abandon. But he has a secret. A dirty little secret.

Stevie, I’m sorry for blowing this wide open on the internets, but the world needs to know.

I spotted this yesterday and finally all the pieces clicked into place, you see Stevie is a super hero. How do I know?

Nice to See Super B

Click for enlargification

That’s how. Ever the shameless self-promoter Stevie has decked out his crime-fighting Škoda with the tell-tale Super B logo, no seriously – that says Super B – they just fucked up the spacing.

Looks like your cover is blown Stevie m’lad. It had to happen one day, I notice you’re not clever enough to iPhone youself in front of that one are ya?




What, nothing to say? Yeah – I though so.

All my love, Mutton C.

Silence

Holy stinking dog shit Batman, did I ever get put in my place the other night. First of all though, to put things in perspective, I’ll give you some background.

I’m what you’d call a classic ‘loud guy’. You know that prick in the movies who’s trying to whisper to his girlfriend except he does it at the top of his lungs? Yeah, I’m him.

I grew up in the country, on a farm, isolated from neighbours and often working at the opposite end of a paddock or cattle yard to anyone else, which meant shouting was the only convenient means of communication.

As a result, my move to the city hasn’t been entirely smooth. I don’t have an ‘inside voice’ so when I’m contained within four walls my voice tends to bounce, carry and reach everyone in the room, regardless of whether it’s supposed to or not.

The other thing about me, as you’re probably well aware is that my vocabulary is rather tinged with vulgarity. I won’t stop short of swearing or being offensive. I don’t particularly care who’s in earshot. I’m not being rude, it’s just another aspect of that raised in regional Australia thing shining through.

So anyway, back to my story. On Monday night, as I was headed home from work I stopped via the supermarket and picked up a load of stuff to cook the Husbear a ripping meal. He usually joins me on Mondays as the Housemate is at the beach, I have the house to myself and don’t need to tip-toe about the place when she goes to bed at 7:30pm.

Anyway – the light of my life calls me to find out the plan for the evening. I told him I had a fat slab of Atlantic salmon ready and waiting for him, followed up by a fat slab of tube steak, should he feel so inclined.

He ummed and ahhed and professed that he really felt like a feed at the Irish pub around the corner from my joint. I voiced my disapproval but relented, shoved my salmon in the fridge and went about tarting myself up to a point where I’d be fit for public consumption.

Before long he’d turned up and we were seated at Pugg Mahones waiting for stuffed chicken breast and crumbed calamari. With a pint in hand, we started in on a bit of conversation to fill the awkward silence before our meals arrived. That’s when the trouble started.

As usual I was delivering biting social commentary and guffawing at my own jokes. One of the wait staff breezed by, a young guy, all clean cut and runtish – right up the Husbear’s alley. I pointed him out, something along the lines of “Check the twink waiter, bet you’d love to throw one up him?”

But instead of merriment and mirth, I copped the filthiest fucking look in history, followed by a lecture about how there are some things I should just keep to myself instead of sharing them with the entire room. Hmmm, catty. I scoffed at the suggestion and pointed out that everyone else was too busy shoving a steak down their neck to pay any attention to anything I might blurt out.

You see, the Husbear is one of those self-loathing homos that thinks the world at large will want nothing to do with him if he publicly admits being a dirty old cock-huffer. Foolish lad, clearly I get by without any dramas.

Anyway he went on to mention how he just wanted a nice quiet dinner. Well, what the fuck did he think he was going to get if he ate with me at home, a Tijuana brass band in one ear and a bus load of English soccer fans in the other? Fuck me swinging!

Perhaps the most painful part was when he said: “You should know what I’m like by now” Oh, really, should I? I reckon I’ve got it pretty sorted, but you know what, if we’re going to play that game I reckon you ought to have a bit of a handle on what I’m like too. I’m loud and obnoxious and yeah, I’ll pull my cock out at a moments notice, or did you miss all of that over the last two years?

I decided I wasn’t going to be responsible for ruining his ‘quiet dinner’ and did my very best Shut The Fuck Up on his arse. Then of course he starts protesting that I’m too quiet, uh, you think? Man was I steamed. I was still talking to him, but I didn’t want to waste any unnecessary words so I kept my responses short and barely audible.

Around us the rest of the pub was filled with gossiping old ducks, rowdy construction workers and two-pot screamer uni students who’d hit their second pot and were, well, screaming. That’s what you do in an Irish pub, you fill it with the happy noise of nonsense conversation. I tried my very hardest to tune into a conversation, but wouldn’t you know it, I couldn’t make out a single word over the roaring din.

As you can imagine there was no additional flippantry, we just finished dinner and went home. The Husbear politely declined my invitation to stay the night, although I can’t possibly imagine why, I was done with my cock-blocking antics for the night and was ready to turn on a whole heap of lovin’. Oh well his loss, I’m sure he’s learnt his lesson though: No one puts Baby in a corner.

Motherfucking Loganberries And Stuff

Seriously guys, WTF? I haven’t posted anything here for an eternity and yet my stats are at their highest ever. Don’t check in every five minutes… Add me to a reader and come back when the stench of festering old news has passed.

Right, well I’ve been kicked in the cunt by a few concerned readers who need their regular Mutant fix and I’m going to get right onto that, I promise. Just as soon as I’m done fucking the collection of randy men who have gathered at my door in the arse.

Because that’s how they like it. They’re mainly wogs, they invented it, so why not huh?

Anyway I’ve been trying my hardest to be all, like, on the down-low. I don’t get much opportunity to read your shiz no more. I’m trying but it happens about once or twice a week. That means a bulk blog-fest and a few less comments then usual, but you’re still getting read and I still laugh and your crazy-town lives, so chillski, mmmkay?

So I’m very seriously approaching a point where I’d like to tell one of my employers to go roger themselves with a rusty rasp. Problem is, they provide an income which I sorely need, and I like some of the boys and girls on my team. Looks like I might stay put for the rest of eternity then. Eventually I’ll learn how to handle the constant arse reaming, right?

Socially I’m a bit of a cunt. I’m all: “Yeah, we should totally catch up,” or “Okay, Wednesday night I’ll come watch you get tied up, humiliated, pissed on and skull fucked.” Then when the moment comes I’ll do my best “Can’t make it, sorry – You’ll just have to blow me some other time.” Two jobs. 12+ hour days. Volunteer work. Broke-arsed-ness. You name it; all of these things are ruining my life like a cheese grater to the gonads.

On the other hand I refuse to be dragged down. Huzzah for drugs and chemically induced optimism! So I’m gearing up for summer. I’ve just received in the mail, the Charles Atlas Dynamic Tension program. It looks fucking good and if I get the promised results I should be the world’s most perfectly formed man in a matter of weeks. Plus I’ll look shit hot in leopard-skin posing trunks. Score!

I’ve also equipped myself with the ultimate summer weapon… Wax strips. I’m usually okay with the bits of my body that have fuzz, because there aren’t a lot of them. One thing I do not like is my pubic zone. You know all those crass teen movies that make fun of pubic afros? Yeah, funny right? No because I actually have one. I swear the fuzz from my zone extends halfway down my thighs.

That shit ain’t going to look no good in budgie smugglers at the beach this summer. Its gotta go! Problem is, because I’m such a huge sook I can’t bring myself to bring the torturous wax strips near my appendage. What happens is I accidentally mummify my coin purse? What’ll I do if I miscue and seal my arse shut? The complications are frightening, yet I cannot venture out in short shorts with yeti pubes from hell!

Maybe someone should just come and drink rum with me until I pass out, then wax me while I’m numb. I’ll even pay you. In dark rum, of course.

Other thoughts troubling me right now: We’re already half way through Rocktober which means the rockstar facial hair has gotta make way for a clean-shaven start to Movember. What do you think, should I or shouldn’t I?

I’m back looking for a secondhand car under $20,000 that’s going to help me pull the laydeeboyz, err wait, no bears I need a car that’ll help me pull the bears! Make a suggestion, and make it cool. I don’t want to hear ‘Why not buy yourself a Camry and go cruising for octogenarian cock at the bowls club?’ Because that shit will not be happening!

Before the end of this year I WILL have a tattoo. I have the design in mind, but I can’t draw for peanuts, so would anyone like to help create the eyesore that’ll mar me for the rest of my life?

Early next year I’m going for my bike license, well learners permit, so I need suggestions for a decent 250cc (or otherwise learner legal) bike. I’m more cruiser style than sport bike and retro appeal works. Any ideas?

Finally, the Husbear and I are fast approaching our second manniversary (hi Honey… love you!) he’s a special little tiger so I want to get him something good. Any thoughts?

Right… that ought to fill the awkward silence nicely, and you’ve got plenty of homework to do so get commenting!