Well this is pretty much the best website ever...

http://www.employe-du-moi.org/journal/edm_rubrique.php3?id_rubrique=124

Well this is pretty much the best website ever...

http://www.employe-du-moi.org/journal/edm_rubrique.php3?id_rubrique=124

Time to leap off the bandwagon.

From SMH Online:

Give Socceroo snoozers a break: Iemma

NSW Premier Morris Iemma has urged employers to go easy on workers who turn up late for work tomorrow after watching the Socceroos' late-night clash with Japan.

Mr Iemma says workers should be given a break because it's been 32 years of frustration and disappointment for Australia in the World Cup.

Note to Morris Iemma: I don't care about your opinions on sport, you populist cunt. Stop trying to be Bob Hawke.

Note to SMH Online: Kindly stop milking the world cup for every possible story / angle - I am already sick of hearing about it.

Also, if you must publish such stories, could you at least illustrate them with more attractive photos than this one:


Harry Kewell rates his teammate's toupe out of ten

That's all

Margaret Pomeranz is senile and gives out too many five-star ratings

"Squirters"

Female ejaculation has long been a source of fascination for me. Maybe this is just because the concept is so foreign, or perhaps it's because I am, deep down, just a hardened pervert.
That said, I would like to think my interest in this physiological occurance is mainly academic. Specifially, three things about it intrigue me:

1) What is the... point of it?
2) Can female semen impregnate you?
3) Why was I never taught about this in high school?

Up till now, I have never actually seen an incidence of "squirting" and been forced to rely on anecdotal evidence about the phenomenom from friends. As you'd expect, such "evidence" is not particularly reliable, with one friend claiming 10% of women are... capable, and another bragging that he can make them do it three times out of four. In fact, that same friend even offered to capture on tape his girlfriend's next squirting adventure, and show it to me. Putting the ethical ramifications aside, I think this could be quite interesting, though I'll be sure to have an empty stomach when I watch it.

I was planning on ranting on about squirting for another few paragraphs, but I think I've exhausted the subject, so I may as well let you all know about my latest celebrity sighting.

Well, maybe using the word "celebrity" is a bit generous, seeing as his vehicle has been taken off the air, but I just happened to see Conrad Coleby at St Jeromes Laneway festival on Sunday. Conrad Who? you ask. Well, of course, he was the guy who plays played Adam "Roacutane" Wilde in my ex-favourite show headLand.



Conrad Coleby: Most likely not a squirter

Unfortunately his headLand co-star Matthew Walker was nowhere to be seen, so I didn't pay much attention. However if there are any Conrad Coleby enthusiasts out there, you'll be pleased to know he has lost the awful moptop haircut they made him wear in headLand. Also he is surprisingly short, and, judging from the way he was striding purposefully away from the stage Broken Social Scene were playing on, has appalling taste in music.


[Endnote: I just realised that the name "Conrad Coleby" sounds like it belongs in the credits of a porno film. Possibly one also starring "Casey Donovan". Hee!]

Though I'll try to win your affections with false modesty...

The email I never got:

Fred,

It's awkward to write this, but you invested so much time in getting to know me, you deserve closure.

["Closure", I can hear you thinking. "While we're in the boardroom, why don't you just go ahead and tell me that you're reshuffling your priorities or downsizing me from your life"]

But I make no apologies for my vocabulary. After all, the only reason you were interested in me is that you were looking for somebody "sweet and kind, but not too bright". And indeed, I used flattery to hide my lack of intelligence. The fact that this worked (for a while, at least) is, I think, a poor reflection on you.

However my aim in writing this wasn't to make character judgements, so I'll get to the point. I just wanted to give you an explanation for why I refused to let you get to know me better. Basically, I was worried that if you got to know what I was really like, you'd lose interest. So, I kept up my facade, in the vain hope that it would provide an allure. It worked for a while, then - of course - you got bored. You started asking questions, and I climbed into my shell.

That's it, really. I know there's something inherently immature about telling you this in letter form, rather than face to face. I guess there always was something of the giggling teenage girl to me. Perhaps this accentuated our age differences - me acting younger than my years and you acting older.
Still, I hope we can keep in touch.

Signed.

n.

Oh Danna

Liberal MP Danna Vale - who was last heard spruiking plans for a Gallipoli theme park on Victoria's Mornington Peninsula - has once again grabbed headlines for an equally ludicrous reason.

Danna Vale has backed moves for parliament to retain power of approval over the controversial abortion-inducing pill.

Mrs Vale argued that such a move would stop Australia from aborting itself out of existence and ultimately becoming a Muslim nation.

Ah the good old Liberals. When will they learn that scare tactics don't work? Oh, wait...

She goes on to preface another point by saying:

"I've actually read in The Daily Telegraph..."

I didn't really have an opinion on RU486 before this story dropped, but now I firmly hope that the amendment gets passed, just so I can buy one then go back in time and get Danna Vale's mother to take it.

Oh, and if the fact that she is a half-witted slag isn't enough of an argument to have Danna Vale retrospectively aborted, it should also be mentioned that she uses the word "guesstimate". There, case closed.

Another Wasted Sunday

It was a majestic night. One which was not tainted by the buzz of insects, the drone of late-night television, or the idle chatter of children. Instead, it was left to wallow silently in its own brilliance.
It had rained that day, and the puddles that were all about were glowing with the light of the full moon, as if they were the eyes of a newborn kitten caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

Celeste Jacobs was, on this very night, out for a midnight walk due to her recent inability to gain meaningful sleep. The bush track she was walking down was a personal favourite of hers, and she knew every twist, every sudden fall, every crevace of it as though it were an extension of her own body.
Celeste was looking greatly appealing on this mild night. Her saucer shaped eyes were surrounded by the sort of smooth skin that is reminiscint of a ripe peach. If her skin was a peach, then her mouth was made up of two succulent strawberries, arranged so as convey a feeling of thoughtful yet harmless expression. Framing her face was a mass of golden curls, that simultaneously brought to mind images of 50’s movie divas, and also freshly made fairy floss.
Tonight, this beautful head was filled with the warm, innocent memories of younger years. Celeste’s minds eye was flashing from one image to another. Firstly, she was flying a kite with her friend Kate, then she was indulging in a piece of cake whilst surrounded by friends and family at a birthday party.

All of a sudden, Celeste was dragged from these pleasant thoughts by the wretched, yet inimitable sound of a panting beast. The sound was eerily familiar to the noises which had used to accompany the aftermath of an amicable backyard swimming race in the family pool. This similiarity sent Celeste spiralling off amongst another crop of happy memories. After several minutes she was rudely wrenched from these reminiscences by a dischevelled old man who was poking at her back with a kitchen knife. On closer inspection, the man turned out to be Gloomy Jim, an unhappy nomad who had recently moved into the unoccupied cake store behind Celestes’ Spanish style villa. Many townsfolk had ironically remarked that Gloomy Jim was hanging around like a bad smell. (A comment which was especially witty because as well as being an unwelcome presense, Jim had obviously not bathed for quite some time).

Now, with every movement of the knife into her body, Celeste was uttering a low moan, not dissimiliar to the one a hungry pet makes when it has just been presented with a tasty offcut of beef, courtesy of the local butcher.
Gloomy Jim was revelling in the chaos. His knife-weilding antics were the most fun he had enjoyed in a good while. He remarked to himself that if Celeste truly was a peach, as the texture of her skin suggested, then he was whipping up one hell of a fruit salad.
(Jim allowed himself a quick chuckle at the subtle irony of this statement, then plunged his kitchen knife deep into the girl's pancreas.)
After a good ten minutes of similar behaviour, Jim reasoned that there was nothing more that could be done with the knife. He placed it down, and set to work with his hands.

He tore the young lady apart as if he were a young child greedily attacking a carefully wrapped present from Santa at Christmas. After a while, all that remained of young Celeste were thousands of postage stamp sized pieces of flesh, that resembled the confetti commonly thrown with love and abandon at a wedding party.
Afterwards, (as often happens when evil people have committed some sort of atrocity or murderous act) Gloomy Jim was struck down with a sudden twinge of guilt. His mind, which had previously been as clear as the night sky he was under, was now rapidly filling with clouds of self-doubt.
Perhaps, he pondered, that young girl had more to offer the world than the frantic minutes of satisfaction I gained from rendering her lifeless on that bush track tonight.

Ah well, Gloomy Jim thought to himself as he scrubbed at the rose coloured stains on his forearms, At least she won’t ever again have to endure that sinking feeling one gets as the sun sets on another wasted Sunday.