Is There Anybody Out There?

I have neglected my blog of late. I'm surprised (and somewhat disappointed) that the squatters haven't moved in and turned it into a dirty porno site or something. I also thought Blogger might take it away from me since it was apparently abandoned, but I don't get away that easy. I'm going to try and be a better blogger. By "better" I mean post more often, not actually be better at blogging. No, like as not you are stuck with the same old poo jokes, stories of misfortune and sometimes foolish bravado. It's been a long couple of months, if you have any sense you left long ago, never came back and so are not even reading this. Ready? Comb your hair, pull yer pants back up and stick th'kettle on....

Now I have always been wary of the Swiss and their claims of neutrality. If they are so neutral why do they need to arm themselves with multi-functional knives? It may be one of the richest countries in the world but it is hardly rich in the natural resources an enemy might covet. Admittedly, I know little about Switzerland but I do know that I cannot remember ever hearing about the price for a barrel of crude cuckoo clocks or toblerone's reaching all time highs and affecting the global economy. One thing that I will give the Swiss is they know how to make a good Swiss Cheese, my 15th favorite cheese (I will post about the other 14 another time).

If I were that way inclined and were looking for a good piece of cheese to have sex with, Swiss would be the one since it already has the holes, half the work is already done for you. True, you may need to do a little modification and enlarge the holes slightly (yet another use for your Swiss Army knife) but all in all there would be considerably less mess to clean up afterwards. I'm wondering if there is a name for people who like to have it off with cheese. There must be one for food fetishists although I have no idea what it is, why would I? I don't mess with cheese although I was once slightly aroused whilst peeling some carrots in the nude and who doesn't get embarrassed when eating a banana in public?
I do have to admit that I can see how someone might get drawn into this kind of thing, the excitement of shopping at the supermarket, browsing furtively for just the right piece, not too many holes - it might crumble, good weight, nice firm feel to it. Adrenalin pumping you take a quick look around, has anyone noticed? That fat bald twat of a deli manager seems to be watching you out of the corner of his eye. Does he know? No, he can't....Maybe he does it too? Can't be the only one, must be millions of us.... Right, nice bottle of wine....Have the right change ready for the girl at the checkout for a quick getaway...Why is she smiling like that? Shit, she's onto me...What if I do buy a lot of Swiss Cheese? It's nutty and delicious and a treat to eat....Getting nervous, blushing, sweating, hard on, can't stop thinking about it....lovely cheese, me and you alone, fuck 'em, I don't care if they do know, I'll shop at Whole Foods from now on... Fuck though, it's much more expensive and kind of out of my way and there's always a long line but I must have you.... The wife, the kids, the job...all gone, all for you....See what you are doing to me? I'm gonna learn ya, ya dirty little fucker. Wait 'til I get you in the car.....

Then you get spotted with your dick in a piece of cheese by the young retarded lass that Safeway gets to use for free ('cause it's "work experience") to collect the trolleys from the car park and she starts screaming 'cause she's confused and a crowd gathers round, the bobby's come and take you away with the cheese in a zip lock bag, exhibit A. You make the front page of the local paper and have to register as a sex offender although no one got hurt and all the local kids throw Dairylea triangles at your house and call you Mayor McCheese.... Was it really worth it? Ostracized, an outcast, a pariah, it's all over.

I bet you love it in every hole don't you, you filthy slut

You can see all that happening right?
What were you expecting after almost 2 months without a post?

It's Official....

Sweaty arses are IN.... They must be given the number of people looking for them on the internet these days. So far this year "Sweaty Arse" is the number 1 search term used by visitors to the LB.
No fewer than 25 people you would not want to have coffee with have found this blog by using "sweaty arse" in their Google search. LB comes in at #6 on Google and it is my aim to make it #1, hopefully by mentioning sweaty arse as much as possible in this post.

Russell Grant - Makes His Own Soup

It's not just the 25 hits that I got from "Sweaty Arse" though, it's all the related searches that confirm the current frenzy over musky moisture in the crack region. Here they are to back up my argument...

Arse Sweat
Avoid Crack Sweat
Sweat Arse
Sweaty Arse Crack
Big Sweaty Arse
Help For Crack Sweat
Stop Sweaty Arse
Less Sweating On Arse
Hot Sweaty Arse Crack
Sweaty Arse.Com

DO NOT SMELL YOUR FINGERS!

How To Stop Crack Sweat
How To Stop a Sweaty Arse
Sweat Crack
Sweaty Arse Fucking
Sweaty Arse, Cunt
Sweaty Balls Sweaty Arse

Wear Yer Wellies....

Now as regular readers will know, I am no hypocrite. I would not make fun of nor mock the afflicted in a desperate attempt to hide my own sadness or mask my own shortcomings. For most of us who are honest and married with no need to try to attract members of the opposite sex, a sweaty arse is an occasional irritant. There is no point hiding it or denying it. We all know because we suffer too. Every labourer, every desk jockey sat in a shiny vinyl office chair, every hardworking doctor, nurse, pizza delivery person and plumber, pregnant housewife and peanut vendor, politician and panty thief gets the odd sweaty arse. Especially when the weather warms up a tad (like today). And what about the humidity? Talcum powder sales in Tennessee must go through the roof in summer. Chafing must be rife. Don't hide from it people, be loud, be proud, stick your bare sweaty arse out of the window and yell "I itch like hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore!" Don't worry, the cops will understand, in a recent US Weekly survey cops were named as having the sweatiest arses amongst all of the emergency services. Border Patrol agents in New Mexico were second, Coastguard helicopter pilots third.

Finding the cure for a sweaty arse is like trying to find a pube in an afro or a funny joke in a Larry The Cable Guy special. It's never going to happen. Get real. Don't waste your time, go and sit in the kid's inflatable pool with a six pack and a copy of The Enquirer, educate yourself. Live a little, treat yourself to some silk undies, sateen if you are poor, avoid cotton and spicy foods.

I cannot close this post without mentioning my two favourite search terms this week, they are "Hot balls, frequent urine" and "See her tits in funkytown". I'm ecstatic that these folks found my site in their search for masturbatory pleasure and hope that before they quickly left the site, they at least scratched their heads and said to themselves "What the fuck....?"

The question I have is are their any of you still out there, reading today who found this blog by way of your search for info on your perspiring posterior and stayed? It's unlikely as the bounce rate was 89% and most visitors to LB don't come back ever again....fucking quitters.

One final thing, how can I do a post about about sweaty arses without this.....

You Know You Want It........

Superhero Streetfight

Once again, our filthy Hollywood "street entertainers" in their ragged, stained and in all likelihood stolen costumes are keeping things real down on the boulevard. Many millions of tourists hit Hollywood Boulevard every year expecting to see movie stars and/or be discovered by a director out scouting for the next big thing. It's more likely that they will see a mentally ill, piss soaked specimen who claims to be Clark Gable and yells at traffic and/or be offered some free "headshots" that it turns out, require you to be naked and an animal lover.

I have written before about the anti-climax that is Hollywood Boulevard. Store after store selling the same cheap, tacky t-shirts that shrink after one wash, plastic Oscar statues that proclaim the unimpressed receiver "World's Best Tea Drinker" and postcards with pictures of stars taken 10 years ago. To the credit of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, they have spruced it up a bit but if you ask me, the best thing they could do would be to get rid of the star impersonators. The impersonators themselves, like to be called '"actors", what they really are is "out of work actors". I was there last week and there were no less than 3 Capt. Jack Sparrow 's all vying for the tourists money by having their pictures taken with a very confused kid. I did not see Chewbacca, he has not been there the last few times I have been by, quite possible incarcerated due to his antics recorded here and here

The latest incident that I am aware of, and I don't know when this was recorded, has Spiderman and Batman attacking some guy for reasons that are not clear. This video has given me an idea for a new attraction down on Hollywood Blvd. Rent one of the many shuttered and closed down stores, put a wrestling ring inside and some seating and charge tourists to come in and watch Ultimate Celebrity Fighting. I am sure that I could easily get $10 per person, maybe 50 people per show, 8 shows per day. That's 4 grand per day, open 7 days...28 grand per week minus rent, wages and operating expenses ( a mop, some disinfectant and band-aids) I could probably clear about 15k a week. Not to mention the merchandising, tacky t-shirt sales, dvd's and plastic Oscar statues.... This time next year Rodders we'll be millionaires...

Sausage-Fest

Just What The Doctor Ordered....(me not to eat)

Lovely.... What a great start to the day. Nothing says Sunday morning like a frying pan full of sausages. Not the weak Americano kind, no, Farmer John can kiss my hairy English arse. These are the kind of sausages that made Britain Great. It's a little documented fact that Sir Geoff Hurst ate a plateful before scoring a hat-trick to defeat the Germans in the 1966 World Cup Final and what did he do right after the game? That's right, he had some more but this time on toast with Daddies Sauce.

It's no wonder that the European Union tried to restrict the contents of British sausages. Several of the other member nations reportedly filed a complaint that the sausages gave us Brits an unfair advantage in the marketplace. The UN have so far refused to intervene, mainly because Kofi Annan enjoys 2 or 3 with some Heinz Baked Beans and a slice of fried bread for his tea on Fridays.

I like to think that eating sausages has made me the strapping, virile man I am today, few who know me would argue. Even Mrs. Waring admitted, before rushing out of the kitchen (presumably to masturbate) that she was extremely turned on by the sight of me, in my string vest and best Sunday boxer shorts standing turning the sausages in the pan. I made a mental note that the next time our sex life gets a bit stale to throw a few in the pan and suggest doing it in the kitchen while they cook. On second thoughts though, that might not be such a wise decision, I might begin to associate the smell of cooking sausages with sex. It's hard enough not to be self conscious while eating one, olfactory stimulation might just be a bridge to far... Maybe the answer is to cook them in advance then just pretend to cook them while she watches through a hole in a piece of plywood.

All this talk of sex is making me hungry....

Dinner For One

Tonights choice of curry house turned out to be a poor one. After getting off work at 7pm, I was hungry and didn't fancy the old stand by, a bag of Funyuns and some big cans of beer.
I have been trying to eat well and lately have been stopping by Safeways to pick up some salad or some cooked chicken. I didn't feel like that though and since I am still 0 of 8 towards my free deli sandwich (0 of 8 what? Million dollars?) I am boycotting them until they lower the bar on their BS free sandwich gimmick. I must have been in that fuckin' store 10 times over the past 5 weeks and I still only have 0 of 8 towards my free sandwich. They don't even specify what 'kind' of free sandwich you get. Is it pimento loaf? If it is I don't want it as I don't care for pimento loaf. Jam would be preferable but it probably wouldn't be that good. I have been tempted to call the 800 number to clear things up but I'm not sure it would be worth the hold time listening to some shite soft jazz version of Love On The Rocks. Do I actually have a choice of free sandwich? I wouldn't think so. They have, I am sure, a large pile of ready made sandwiches piled high with the end bits from a loaf of processed, compressed chicken parts that they couldn't sell. In fact, I'm not sure I even want my free sandwich, should I ever atain the "Diamond Elite" level of Safeway Club membership that allows me to claim it. Maybe the cash equivalent (0.0001 cents) would be more edible.

So, I decided on the other old stand by, a curry. Foolishly I passed up a curry house that I know to perfectly good in favour of an untried establishment which I failed to notice until I left, was located next to a feed store. In I go, it looked okay, it was clean and didn't smell much. There was nobody else there which is always a good sign because it means that the service is quick. I order a big Kingfisher and some lamb dish, taar something or other. When it arrived, quickly, the first couple of mouthfulls were rapidly washed down with the Kingfisher. This was going to be a long meal. I usually don't mind spicy, hot flavourful food. This however was the hottest, sourest, stuff I have ever tasted. I sat there with sweat running down my brow as I ate. I looked like a dog chewing a caramel. I know because I caught sight of myself in the classy mirrorred wall that I was facing. While watching myself eat, I noticed that behind me was a bar with a TV in the corner. The waiter was watching a show on Animal Planet in which a dog appeared to be having it's spleen removed. Nice! I don't even know for sure if dogs have spleens. If they don't, maybe that's why this one was on telly and the waiter was so interested in watching it. It may have been a miracle dog....

So, it was a tough meal and the first time in my life that I have been unable to finish a curry. I think that I should be okay to retain my membership of "Hard Man Curry Eaters of America" as it was the dog's fault, not mine.

I'm not going to lower the tone of this post by getting into the goings on in the bathroom suffice to say that it could do with a coat of paint. I had barely closed the door of the van when the pressure valve opened and overpowered even the smell of rotting fruit (that's where that apple went to...) and sour milk (don't know where that came from.)

As this week's random act of kindness and in the interest of serving the community, I shall be leaving a note inside the microwave in my hotel room. "Avoid The Heritage of India", hopefully somebody will find it before they go.

Saints On A Plane

I usually do not get many takers for the middle seat next to me on airplanes. Maybe I look intimidating, maybe I stink, maybe people take one look and think “fat bastard, no way am I sitting there”, maybe it’s the joke plastic dog turd that I place strategically on the seat next to me to ward off would be invaders of my space. I don't know, but whatever the reason, I'm not complaining.
For those who don’t know, Southwest Airlines do not have assigned seating, fine if you are one of the first on board, horrid if you are one of the last. I make sure I am always one of the first and usually get lucky with two seats to myself. Every now and again though, on a full flight I am forced to try and make myself small so that somebody can squeeze into the unlucky middle seat. Yesterday, it was an elderly Hispanic woman who smelled like she had recently taken a bath in pine sol floor cleaner, shake ‘n’ vac and a whole bottle of highly concentrated ‘Eau De Auld Lass’ perfume. The shit she was wearing had to be toxic, it made my eyes water and my nostrils itch. If Bin Laden got his hands on a bottle of this stuff who knows what damage he could do.

So she gets settled in and after rooting around in her ridiculously oversized handbag for a while, pulls out a tatty paperback entitled “The Miracles of The Saints”. She immediately turns to the index and I notice that several words have been highlighted, one of which was “skin rashes.”

Now I have never claimed to be a good catholic, to do so would have been a lie and would therefore have nudged me a little bit closer to hell. I stopped going to church when I was about 10 and never paid attention in Religion class at school (although I wish I had), and so only know very little about the saints and the various causes to which they are patrons. I know all I need to know to get by in a casual conversation about St. Christopher, St. Francis and St. Patrick, should I ever find myself in that position. If the conversation was to turn to even a slightly more obscure saint, I may as well get my coat.

So, sitting next to this overpoweringly perfumed old lady turned out to be an edumacation as I tried to read her book without her noticing. I learned that St. Jude is the patron saint of impossible causes. I learned that St. Bernadine of Sienna is the patron saint of people with respiratory problems. Naturally this aroused my interest and has led me to research further. What surprises me most is that many saints patronize multiple causes. I did not know this. I also learned that the patron saint of skin rashes, amongst many other things is St. Anthony the Abbot. In fact I learned that no fewer than 5 saints patronize skin rashes, so if you have a skin rash you are somewhat spoiled for choice when it comes to choosing a saint to pray to. You can pick from Anthony the Abbott, George, Marculf, Peregrine Laziosi or Roch. A tough choice! It can be hard to think about anything else though when you have an irritating rash that won’t stop itching can’t it? So to assist those of you who may be afflicted, I am happy to provide you with a quick rundown on the candidates….

• Anthony the Abbott – Also the patron saint of Swineherds, Basket Weavers and Amputees. Lived alone in an abandoned fort in the desert for 20 years. Was a good fried of St. Paul the Hermit and is often depicted with a pig which he used to rub against when his rash acted up. Marks out of 10 – 5
• George – Also the patron saint of England, Syphilis, Leprosy and Boy Scouts. A popular saint, supposedly killed a sheep eating dragon but was tortured and beheaded by Palestinians. May have been homosexual, often depicted holding a huge lance. Marks out of 10 – 3.

Swallow My Lance...Filthy Animal

• Marculf – Also the patron saint of Scrofulous Diseases and Hot Pockets. Little is known about Marculf but apparently if you touch his relics your scrofula will go away. Invented microwaveable pastry snacks and founded the Hooters chain of restaurants. Marks out of 10 – 7.
• Peregrine Laziosi – Also patron saint of AIDS sufferers and open sores. Got into a fight with St. Philip Benzini after spilling his pint and calling him a queer. So-called hard man who claimed to have cancer of the foot but it got better all of a sudden the night before they were due to amputate it…soft bastard. Marks out of 10 - 5.
• Roch – Also patron saint of Diseased Cattle, Knee Problems, Tile Makers and Dogs. Supposedly born with a birth mark shaped like Elvis on his chest. Caught the plague and went into the forest to die where he made friends with a dog after eating a big red mushroom with white spots on it. Was arrested and jailed in France for being a spy. Often depicted with a dog licking his “plague spot”. Marks out of 10 - 6.

Come on lad...Give it a quick lick. Good boy....

Hopefully this helps make your choice easier. I know many of the regular readers of LB suffer from a nasty rash every now and again, if praying to your choice of saint from above doesn't work for you, try applying some spray on "I Can't Believe Its Not Butter". If that doesn't work either, take a leaf out of Roch's book and have the dog lick it off.

Taxi's

Up until a few weeks ago I had never been in a taxi in the States. I don't know why I found this mind numbingly boring fact interesting, but it seemed odd that in 12 years I had never had the need for one. I have been very lucky in many respects, owning my own transportation is one of them. I had been in airport shuttles, which are kind of the same but with less pressure and stress. There are usually other people on board with you and it's easy to start up a conversation to pass the time, unless they are non English speaking types, in which case it's becomes more of a game.

So, I'm now working up in Northern California. As I live in LA, this involves weekly air travel and taxi rides. I have to say that the standard of hackney carriages in San Jose is woeful, every single one I get in stinks and many scare the shit out of me, the drivers are, perhaps unsurprisingly horrible and are possibly the source of the smells that seem have been absorbed by the headliner in every last vehicle. I usually like the smell of curry, as you know, but there is a time and a place for it. The backseat of an 89 Crown Victoria is not the one.

Monday morning. I get into a cab, not one of my own choosing though, you are directed to the first one in line by an airport employee, presumably to avoid fighting between cabbies. To disapprove of the chosen vehicle or it's driver is probably more trouble than it is worth so I just get in. Immediately the smell is like a punch, full in the face. A mixture of cabbage, socks and old bologna. A faded magic tree swings from the rear view mirror, it's pine fresh scent long since spent. I try to lower the window for fresh air but it's either broken or locked and I immediately start to feel ill. I give the driver my location and ask him how his morning is so far. "Very good, very good" he says. I decide to offer an observation on the weather, "A bit nippy this morning" I say. "Very good, very good" he answers again. "How is traffic?" I ask. "Very good, very good"......fuck! I give up.
As we approach the freeway entrance, someone cuts along the right side of the cab and makes a left without stopping, he bangs on the horn and yells "You are fucking cowboy!!" then he turns to me and repeats for the sake of clarification, "Fucking cowboy!!". I notice that his turban is not on straight, I am surprised and curious, I always thought that they took great care when applying turbans. I have never noticed a crooked turban on anyone before, but it was early on a Monday morning so I suppose he could be forgiven.
We get on the freeway and as we speed up I notice for the first time that he has a semi violent twitch which seemed to occur every 20-30 seconds and which caused him to pull the cab to the left every time one hit. Coupled with the smell, now amplified because he had the heater on full blast, the sudden lurches to the left were causing me to feel extremely car sick. How can they let this fucker drive a cab? I ask him if he could open a window, the fucker opens his window like two inches and tells me "broken...it is broken....will not go more down." Great....

Luckily, being a holiday for much of the country, traffic was light and the horror only lasted 15 minutes before we arrived at the office. Swallowing big gulps of fresh air I got out of the cab and shakily handed over the fare...."keep the change mate" I tell him, "have a good one, drive safely". "Very good, very good" I hear him saying as I slammed the door shut and on legs like snapped candles ,walked towards the building. I would be passing on breakfast....