Ello John! Got A New Motor?

Perhaps unsurprisingly, no one was willing to meet the reserve price on a 1999 VW Golf that once belonged to Pope Benedict that was being sold on eBay. Reportedly, several bids passed the $204,000 mark, but none met the asking price.

Would you buy a used car from this man?

The metallic gray, pimped out VeeDub was being auctioned off by an online casino company which bought the ride from a German bloke in 2005. Apparently they posted Kraut registration docs that proved the car was previously owned by Josef Kardinel Ratzinger, or Joey Rats as he is known in Vatican circles.

Rollin' on 22's, pumpin new shit by NWA, sippin' on gin n juice.

The reason the car didn't sell? Who gives a fuck! All I know is that if it was his predecessors Austin Maxi that was up for auction it would raise millions. Can you imagine the credibility you would have pulling up to the Catholic Womens League jumble sale in that? A real gash magnet for sure. You would have your pick of the Ladies Crown Green Bowling team. They would be lining up to ride in a car once owned by a real, genuine almost-a- saint. Imagine the thrill of turning the dashboard jesus to the windscreen and getting a hummer in JP the II's backseat.

You would get your money back in no time at all. Once you inform the papers of the image of Jesus in the grain of the walnut dashboard you could name your price for "miracle rides" exploiting the weak and terminally ill. The elderly and infirm? A trip to ASDA should do the trick, that way you could have them carry your shopping for you as well.

To their credit, the casino company said that they were going to give 40% of the proceeds to (an unamed) charity.

The Vomiting Little Person

You need some spare cash to rent out the upstairs bar at the club where I work, and plenty of it. $10,000 to be exact. That is how much it costs to rent the place out for a private function such as a birthday party. We get a lot of “industry” parties, (if you don’t know what I mean by “industry” I would like to shake your hand!)

We get a lot of plastic people who “host” their show off parties there, thus becoming a “promoter” for the evening and thereby throwing their ego’s around just like they throw their money around. Despite the obvious high society aspirations of the “host’s”, these types of event still end up attracting people who under normal circumstances would not be welcome. I’m talking about the friends of a friend’s sister’s cousin type people who somehow either mysteriously appear on the guest list or tag along as the “+1” that the “host” felt obligated to put on the invitation. This is not to say that all these people are bad guests, most of the time they are better behaved and nicer than the fuckin’ egomaniacs that are there just to be seen, but oftentimes it is painfully obvious that these people do not get out much, if at all. Such was the case with ‘The Puking Midget.’

The event was a combination birthday/ cd release party for some no name girly group. Most of the people were friendly enough, except the “promoter” who was a wanker. Lights too bright, lights too low, not that one this one, it’s too stuffy in here etc. etc.
The crowd of about 300 was behaving itself, no fights, no one giving any lip, everybody enjoying themselves. The DJ was shite, he wasn’t so much a DJ really, more like a guy who played records, mostly those released by Lil John. I’m digressing here…

I had to look several times to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. I wasn’t quite sure, I kept getting glimpses through the crowd on the dance floor, but finally I got a clear look and I had been right. Somebody had let a fuckin’ kid in here! It was supposed to be 21 and over and those bastards on the front door had let a child in! No doubt the parents had greased their palms with a c-note. Surely it would have been cheaper to hire a child minder for the evening? Well, as long as the little bastard wasn’t drinking I wasn’t going to fuck with them. I moved over to where their table was and was horrified to see the child knocking back champagne, from the bottle no less. I was about to intervene when I noticed with horror (and morbid fascination), that it wasn’t a kid at all. It was a woman!!! A fully grown (estimated) 3 foot 8 inch woman!!! The odd thing was, she did not have the features usually associated with little people. Big peanut shaped head, stubby little arms and legs. Her body and features were perfectly proportioned to her size. This was a little confusing as she wasn’t bad looking, but was too short for even a stand up blow job. I was fascinated and decided to stick around for a while to observe her habits.

She had a camera and was taking pictures of everyone, probably even me. I would give a fuckin’ fortune to see those pictures. Tons of snaps of peoples mid sections or of faces taken at such a steep angle that you would be able to see right up their nostrils. Priceless.

She was hitting the booze pretty hard, the champagne had been replaced by a bottle of Grey Goose and she was drinking it neat. It was time for a dance….. She was like a Tasmanian devil, a little whirling dervish, darting around the dance floor and humping folks’ legs like she was a Jack Russell. She was a treat to watch, cutting a mean rug and tearing up the floor like nobody’s business. Several big people had to go and sit down after straining their backs trying to get down low and bump and grind with her.

It was inevitable. It had to happen sooner or later. Her tiny system could take no more. The mixture of booze, the dancing, the heat…. I saw her tiny cheeks bulge and watched as she scampered between people’s legs, making a beeline for her table. She reached up, grabbed the ice bucket and puked up her tiny ringpiece. Sadly, I would have to throw her out, house rules. Ironically, I could have literally “thrown” her out, as in picked her up and launched her into the street but unfortunately, here in California, many people have no sense of humour and a lawsuit would no doubt have followed, so instead I politely let the big people she was with know they would have to take her home. They obliged, all apologies and smiles and left.

Closer examination of the ice bucket afterwards revealed perfectly proportioned tiny carrots and what appeared to be straw mushrooms. We couldn’t be sure.

Tales of Urban Bohemia

I am, as I type, attempting to drink away the pain and misery of an uncomfortable afternoon spent in the dentists chair. 2 hours of root canal fun. Maybe the chinese food from Panda Express beforehand was a poor choice. Not only did I have to deal with trying to focus on my happy place while the sadistic bastard drilled gleefully away at my poor tooth, but I also had to concentrate on not farting or at least not following through on one. A simple guff could always be blamed on the obese latina dental hygenist whose breath, even with the face mask on, smelled like she had eaten an overripe chimichanga for lunch. Once you draw mud though, the game is pretty much up. So that, in a nutshell, was my day. No prostate exam today as my regular dentist was on a golfing holiday in Thailand, besides the last one was clear. This is not what this post was meant to be about though, so I will get down to the meat of it.

Speaking of meat, I just walked into the marital bedroom where Mrs. Waring has just consumed two Slim Jims (meat content = zero) and a bottle or two of cider whilst watching The Simpsons. Already the air is thick with a spicy musk. A night on the sofa beckons for one of us. That is not what this post was meant to be about either, so I will cut to the chase.

Transexuals. Chicks with dicks. Ladyboys. Or, to borrow the words of Alan Partridge, "Fascinating creatures..... Looks like a lady, but really it’s a man. I don’t find them attractive, it’s just confusing."

A few too many drinks and it could happen to the best of us....

For those of you who don't know, I work in Hollywood. Not the movie industry "Hollywood", the real fuckin' Hollywood. The dirty, nitty gritty, 'Blackpool with palm trees' that is a huge disappointment to millions of Japanese tourists every year. I have a weekend job as a bouncer in a club. You get all sorts in there, and that's okay. It's fuckin' Hollywood, it is Disneyland for freaks, misfits, weird (and wired) fuckers from all over the world. We get a few ladyboys in, they are regulars. Asians. From a distance even when sober, if you didn't know then.... you just wouldn't know. Up close, you twig pretty fuckin' quickly that something isn't right but when drunk, stoned or pilled up, the same rules do not apply. I have seen with my own eyes, many a poor unsuspecting fucker dancing with them, necking with them, copping a crafty feel of their tats..... Call me a cruel bastard, but like a foxhunter I will call it sport.

I don't discriminate, I always greet them with a broad smile and a pleasant "Evenin' lads!" They wink and smile back. They know I know the score, they enjoy the sport of it as much as I do.

Anyway, a couple of weekends back, we had a lot of disgruntled Israeli punters in the house. An Israeli DJ, booked to play, had cancelled at the last minute. One particular gentleman, who thought he could buy his own private bouncer (he was right), was throwing his money around and tipped me handsomely to remove any would be tresspassers from the tables that he had payed handsomely for. He was a cunt. A right twat. Snapping his fingers at me and giving me orders, never a please or a thank you, but he kept giving me money, so he had credit with me. I will put up with a lot of shit to put groceries on the table or pay the kids tuition. So I smiled and put up with is particular brand all night.

At one point, he motioned me over. 2 girls and one guy had sat, uninvited at one of his tables. Thinking I was doing as he bade, I told them, politely, to fuck off. Sensing trouble they quickly obliged, not wishing the contents of their pockets to be discovered. Israeli guy then admonishes me for getting rid of the girls as it turns out he only wants guys kicked out of "his" area. I let him know that it will not be a problem and he kisses me on the cheek (bastard) and gives me some more money so I let him off.

A short while later, I return from dispatching a drunkard into the street to find our three lovely "lasses" sitting at the tables and being courted by Yossi or whatever his fuckin' name was. Part of me, the human part, wanted do him a favour and whisper in his ear that he was messing with blokes. Another part of me, the mean part, wanted to do the exact same thing, not to do him a favour, but to watch his disgust and self loathing unfold before I would have to throw him out for punching them. But another part of me, the part that knew that he was probably flashing his money around and would no doubt pay for all three of them to take a limo back to some fancy hotel room and get in the jacuzzi with him, won. Tonight he was going to buy more than he bargained for so I wandered over to watch the go-go dancers for a while. When I got back, the four of them were gone.....

Tales From Urban Bohemia may become a regular feature here, depending on material. It is a true story. It really is. Next up......The Puking Midget.

Equine Fromage Frais

Ok, I know using a funny search term as the basis of a post is the easy way out, but the door is open and I'm going through it.

I'm both saddened and ashamed to say that this particular Google search was initiated by someone in Britain. If, by chance, you are that someone and you just happened to return and are reading this, (because surely my blog will now be the #1 search result for this term instead of #4), please feel free to use the comments section (or email me if you are shy) to explain just why the fuck you would be searching for "my horse has nob cheese".

If your horse really does have nob cheese, and I do not wish to know how you discovered it, do the poor beast a favour and hose the fucker off. Or call a fuckin' Vet.n Try not to resist touching it's dick. You may just find things out about yourself that you would rather not know. Also, I should let you know that you have let down the entire country, I though only Germans and Arabs were into that kind of thing....

This Weeks Sponsors

Jimmy hats fo' yo' hangdown.

I am a big believer in keeping it real, that is why I am proud to be associated with this weeks sponsor, Black Power Condoms. I don't use them myself, I don't see it as the man's responsibility to protect himself (or his bitch) against the HIV or the clap. That kind of thing is best left to your ho. If she don't want to get pregnant, then she should be the one carrying the rubbers. Like I said, I believe in keeping it real.

I don't enjoy looking down and seeing my length coated in black rubber either, and Mrs. Waring assures me that she feels the same way, although I did catch her looking wistfully at a picture of Sammy Davis Jr. the other day. I will have to monitor that situation closely.

Anyway, they gave me a free pack in return for pimping their product and after one half hearted attempt at a posh wank (I think it was the shock of seeing a black penis in my hand that caused me to lose interest and give up), I used the rest of the pack as balloons for the kids Easter party.

The packaging is a little disturbing. The black panther looks a little startled, possibly by the ferocious look on the womans face as she hunts for sexual gratification, the kind she can only get from a man who is wearing a black rubber johnny.

Aren't brack people funny?

Love Is.......?

A free donut?

First off, let me point out that it is barely 20:30 (military time) on a Thursday evening. Tomorrow, morning I need to be wide awake and in the shower by 05:30 (also military time). I am already 2/3 the way through my second bottle of wine and things are getting a bit jibbery wongery, so excuse any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes. Not that I give fuck anyway.

I tend to stay loyal to my people.

That is why I frequent the same donut shop whenever I need donuts. I am not a big eater of donuts, mainly because one is never enough and I can never eat just one. 20 minutes later I am fuller than a fat ladies shoe and in dire need of a shit thanks to all the sugar. All that said, I buy donuts weekly for my 'team' and for meetings. This week has been particularly heavy on the meetings so this morning at 05:55 (again, military time) I entered 'Happy Donuts' with a smile and an order for 4 dozen mixed. This brings my total this week to 9 dozen or 108 individual donuts. This represents $40.50 in revenue to Happy Donuts, which given that the cost of goods sold to them is approximately 2 cents per donut, equals $38.34 in profit. They should be called 'Fuckin' Ecstatic Donuts'.

Anyway, 'Happy Donuts' is owned by a nice young asian couple. I don't know their names yet. I have been bad. Usually, I attempt to get someones name on our first meeting, but at that time in a morning all I want is a cup of coffee, pleasantries can be exchanged later. So, this young asian couple, let's call them Bob and Joan, just bought 'Happy Donuts' as a "going concern" from the previous owner. A filthy, disgusting, chain smoking slope who went by the highly unlikely name of "Dave". This guy was a disgrace to the donut trade. Dirty fingernails, always scratching his balls and his scalp, spitting into the rubbish bin and so on. To make a long story short, he was exactly the type of man you would hesitate to buy a donut from, but the donuts were not for me and my 'team' were non the wiser as they happily ate their way through a maple bar and thanked me for being such a benevolent boss as to bring them donuts. On the inside, I was smiling.

So, "Dave" sells what was simpy known as 'Donuts' to "Bob" and "Joan", who promptly changed the name to 'Happy Donuts', no doubt in an effort to rid the place of its demons. They have done a great job, cleaning the place up and have perfected the art of service with a smile, especially "Joan", who always seems extra pleased to see me.

Now, I believe, or prefer to believe, that no one else on earth craves the white mans junk more than your average asian chick. They don't have much to play with when it comes to their own race. Most coloured lads are more interested in the white chicks, just to prove a point, and don't give a fuck about the yellow girls. Hence their fascination with men of my, shall we say, calibre. "Joan" is apparently no exception, despite the presence of "Bob". Her eyes dart immediately to my crotch and a playful smile wanders across her lips as she bids me "Good Morning".

So, this morning, while "Bob" was warming up a ham & cheese croissant in the microwave for another customer, "Joan" whispers "I give you free apple fritter" and winks at me somewhat covertly. I whisper back "Thank you" with a seedy smile and a dirty grin, "keep the change." The change was only 5 cents so it was money well spent as far as I was concerned.

"Joan" isn't much to look at. Probaly doesn't weigh more than 110lbs in a wet pair of panties, but there is something there. Something undefinable that says "I ruv you rong time Mr. Eddie", that I can't resist.

Next week I will attempt to see what 10 dozen will get me. Hopefully something a little sweeter than an apple fritter. A happy ending to my happy donut maybe?

Dentists, Cell Phones and American Idol

I haven’t posted since Saturday. This is not good. I have wanted to post, had ideas to post but just never got around to doing it. It’s already Wednesday and I am wondering where the week is going to.

It isn’t just posting that is suffering, I don’t seem to be getting much accomplished at work either. Paperwork is piling up on my desk to the point where it usually gets knocked accidentally into the bin, at which time coffee is accidentally spilled on it rendering it useless. My desk looks nice and clean and organized for a few days and anything really important will no doubt find its way back there.

Today has been a fuckin’ waste. I had grand plans for today. Today was gonna be the day that I got on top of things, got organized and set myself up for a relatively relaxed end to the work week. Naturally, things did not pan out the way I had visualized they would.

Most of the morning spent in the fuckin’ dentist’s chair. Bad news is I need a root canal. Good news is, he said my prostate felt just fine.

Balance of the morning at the fuckin’ Verizon store exchanging a new cell phone which does not want to send picture messages. Got a new phone after standing there for 45 minutes listening to the poor assistant trying hard to explain to an angry, poorly educated and extremely ugly Armenian girl why her bill was $600. She seemed to be struggling to connect all the international calls she claimed she didn’t make to Armenia with the relevant charges on the bill. Anyway, I got the phone exchanged, should have checked it at the store, didn’t, got back to work and found that I am still unable to send pictures of my balls to my daughter’s kindergarten teacher. It’s probably a good thing really.

All this, when I should have been at work being productive, put me in a bad mood for the rest of the day, and made hard work of dealing with imbeciles and being empathetic.

Lastly, American Idol, I don’t watch it. I don’t watch any of those shows. I physically can’t. I would like to suggest a spin off though, possibly on pay-per-view, as I believe the demand for it would be worthy of such an event.
‘Farting Idol’, why not put peoples flatulence to the vote of the American people? Get America’s finest parpers, quackers, queefers and honkers up against each other in a weekly TV spectacular. They can fart along to their favourite tunes, rip an arpeggio or two, squeak out messages in morse code or simply go for broke with the best rip snorter they can muster up. You could have an outtakes special comprised of people who followed through or drew mud while over exerting themselves. This is a fuckin’ winner.

Tell me you wouldn’t pay to watch this and I will call you a liar…..