101 Methods for Mouse Masturbation

stuart-little-2-1Scientists have made a brilliant discovery that may help overweight people lose weight by converting sugar into heat rather than storing it as fat. To quote New Scientist magazine “Bruce Spiegelman at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute in Boston [has] shown that foreskin cells from mice can be changed into brown fat cells. When injected… the cells burned sugar that would otherwise have been stored”.

Awesome. Fabulous. I’ll just go get myself some teeny little tweezers shall I? I mean, how exactly does one spank the mousey, as it were?

Now fatties are expected to carry one of those little plastic pet-shop cases packed with 3 bucks a day (“buck” being the term for a male mouse – duh!)? At the end of each meal you pull out another unfortunate future miniature eunuch and tug one off?

What happens if it’s a little chilly that day? Shrinkage could seriously hamper my progress.  So, how exactly do I warm the little fella up? I just don’t know that my thumb and forefinger are really all that nimble. I mean, I don’t want to break anything. For that matter, I’m not overly keen on getting a palmful of Mus Musculus* spunk either.

No thanks, I think I’ll stick with the tried and true method of a little 2-fingered post-meal assistance, like any self-respecting woman.

Jewish rodents need not apply.

* scientific name for the common house mouse.  Bet you didn’t know that before you started reading this piece of intellectual genius now did you?

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Don’t Kiss Me You Freak

kissIt has been quite some time since my last post… been working up a storm of late, hence my slackness…  so I’m taking a quick moment to write something short and sweet.

I’m a consultant which means I either work from home or work at various client sites.  At present I’ve been at a particular client (who shall remain un-named) for the past 4 weeks.  I’m working on a small project of 4 people which means we’ve got to know each other reasonably well.  As well as is humanly possible in 4 weeks – presuming we’re not 17 and falling in crush for the first time where we spend every waking second in paroxysms of mutual obsess-erbation.  Presuming we’re not doing that.  Which we’re not.  Jeez!

Yesterday was the last day for one of the team as he’s going off to get married on Saturday.  Charming gent.  Genuinely happy for him.  Until. He.  Kissed.  Me. 

Not in a nasty way you sickos.  I was saying goodbye and congrats and good luck and all that when he leaned in for a cheek peck.  In the middle of the office at 4pm on a Thursday.  You know, a full office!

It’s just not right.  Call it excitement at the thought of the impending wedding, or 4 weeks honeymoon in Europe or just a touchy-feely kinda chap… whatever!  I don’t care.  You just don’t kiss someone in the middle of the office – that you’ve known for 4 weeks.  It’s weird.

Now I’m all paranoid that when I finish up here the week after next, everyone’s gonna be kissing me.  I can barely muster up physical affection for my husband who I love and wanna shag, let alone people who are essentially complete strangers!

People are freaks, man.  Them not me.

Tuesday Timeshift: #3 Tell Me You Love Me (TV)

Well, if I didn’t know any better, I would almost swear that these couples are actually screwing!  Tell Me You Love Me is all about ‘The Sex’ – who’s getting it, who’s not, who’s using it, who’s abusing it.  It’s from HBO, so you know it’s gotta be good, but interestingly it’s Creator, Cynthia Mort, was also Producer on Will & Grace and Roseanne.  Unusual mix!

There are four core stories. Dave (Tim De Kay, Carnivale)  & Katie (Ally Walker, Profiler) – daily life, kids and exhaustion has left them sexless; Carolyn (Sonya Walger, Lost)  & Palek are desparately trying and failing to fall pregnant;  May & Arthur are older, more stable yet still the past looms over them;  and finally Jaime (Michelle Borth) & Hugo and Jaime & Nick (Ian Sommerhalder, Lost), who struggle with the issues of the young, identity, self-worth and commitment. 

In Michelle Borth, Mort has found quite a good talent.  She’s gorgeous but she also has a wry charm and an intelligence that brings warmth to the screen without turning Jaime into a saccharine sweet victim of her own beauty.  Perhaps this is the finest thing about Tell Me You Love Me, the writing.  It’s unflinchingly honest, brutal and true.  Each character, even some of the small bit parts, are plump and layered.  Mort clearly knew each character intimately. 

To be frank, this material is completely removed from the comedy of Mort’s past  – it’s angry.  That’s not to say it doesn’t have light moments, it does.  But these are the stories of couples in pain.  Although, that said, there is at least one wacky sidekick, in baby-hungry Carolyn’s sister Mason,  to lighten the tone from time to time!  My only complaint, if you can call it that, is that it suffers from classic American casting, everyone is so damn gorgeous… it would be nice if just once, someone who was just “pretty” could pick up a role or two!

The sex plays such a powerful role in Tell Me You Love Me.  When it aired in the US there was controversy about the graphic nature.  But it doesn’t feel gratuitous most of the time.  It’s truthful.  It hasn’t been shot to look like perfect sex, or hooker sex for that matter.  There are squelches and awkardness and squashed boobs and hanging balls.  But it is still sexy for all that.  Maybe because of that.  Perhaps it’s a voyeuristic thing?  Either way it’s powerful and quite beautiful.

Tell Me You Love Me aired on HBO last year (2007) and has not been picked up for a 2nd season.  No matter, it’s still worth watching.  It is addictive and engrossing and it’s a shame not to continue their stories but time invested in season 1 is not time wasted.  I imagine, due to the very confronting sex scenes, that it will be buried in Australia in  a fairly tragic timeslot.  So crank up TiVo and put it on the case! 

Is it well-written?  Yes it is.  Is it beautifully shot?  Yes it is.  Is the sex hot?  Yes and is.  But if you don’t want to question you’re own relationship, probably best if you steer clear of this one!

Mind the Gear Stick, Love

My first car was a 1989 lime green Honda Civic given to me by my parents when I was 17, before I even had my licence.  Yes I know you’re all groaning because mummy and daddy gave me, what was at the time, a reasonably newish car.  Trust me, it was as comfortable as driving a Model-T round Le Mons for 24 hours and I’m sure Dad got it for free – or near to.  It had air-conditioning which didn’t work and the tape deck, yes tape deck, had a sticky play button, which meant  I could only listen to tapes SOME of the time.  Car is so green and little that everyone calls it “the aphid”.

Day One.  Still on my L’s.  Dad takes me for a burn around downtown Winston Hills where a half-blind woman, with all the steadiness of an angsty teen who’s just sucked down a quarter of gorilla biscuits, obliviously pulls out of her parking space directly into my lane.  And me.  Well, my passenger door. Ace.  Dad’s worried that it freaked me out and I might be upset – I’m just pissed at the old bag… and so begins a life-long hostility for anyone over the age of 60 behind the wheel.

Day Five-teen.  Got licence.  Terrified of driving alone but unwilling to admit that to a soul including self.  Faining excitement, I get in the car and drive off, merrily waving goodbye to mum and dad.  I make it about half a klick down the road, pull over into an empty car park and sit there for about an hour reading a book.  At which point it’s been a respectable enough length of time to head back home and tell everyone what fun I had.

Day Ninety Five.  New boyfriend.  He has a car too but his is much crappier so we take mine everywhere.  By which I mean, we take it everywhere we can find that has some semblance of privacy in order to shag madly.  We’re young, our parents are christians, it’s first love and for both of us, our first sexual foray – the front seat of an ’89 Honda Civic parked in the back streets of Eastwood is the best we can hope for.

Day Three Hundred and Sixteen. Picking up Andrew from his place.  Approaching traffic lights at a brisk pace when I belatedly realise the light is red.  Gracefully slide into a very tidy 360 in the centre of the intersection, barely scraping the mudflaps of an oversized semi trailer. Nice!  Andrew tells me “I’m a bit of a crazy driver but I do seem to be in control most of the time”.  I take it as a compliment.

Day Eight Hundred and Twenty Three.  Sharing an aging fibro 3-room house in the suburbs with an old friend from school.  Can’t afford rego.  Again.  Lime green paint is now a muted beige in places.  Most panels are more putty than metal.  Car dismally succumbs to rust in the front driveway. RIP.

Fanny Farts are measured in “hectometres”

It’s been a couple of weeks since my last post but in my defence I was on the other side of the world!  Back this week, I was lying in bed the very early hours of this morning unable to sleep.  Just thinking in that leapfrog kinda way… bouncing around from one thought to another.  It came to me that if fanny is used by Americans to mean arse – so what then do they call ‘fanny farts’?  I really had no idea.  So I started googling. I fully acknowledge that there’s something odd about sitting in the pre-dawn darkness googling “fanny fart” however dear friends, my curiousity needed to be sated.

It seems Australians and Brits are in agreement on the use of ‘fanny fart’ whereas Americans use, most commonly, QUEEF.  According to the interweb, it’s onomatapaeic.  I can see that.  Or hear it, as the case may be.

Other terms used less commonly:

  • Queeb
  • Queve
  • Bonqueefa
  • front botty burp
  • Breath of Vulva      (this one’s just creepy if you ask me)
  • muff guff
  • pussy fart
  • varts (seems oddly inappropriate – perhaps because it’s not crass enough – yet somehow it works)

Interestingly, in Canada a ‘quief caker’ is someone who overly enjoys having a vaginal fart in their mouth…  I can’t begin to… you know what, I’m just gonna leave it alone!

And in other parts of the world:

  • FRENCH – pet vaginal
  • ITALIAN – scoreggia vaginale
  • GERMAN – misen furz
  • SPANISH – moreno (mostly used as an insult)

Most of these literally translate to vaginal fart. It’s hard to find ‘euphemistic’ terms in other languages, most likely because it’s difficult when you aren’t a fluent speaker. 

In my hunting, I came across a number of other terms which amused me no end:

German
einen furz loslassen – to “cut the cheese”
der Analhusten  – anal cough (fart!)
der Pups – fart
bierficker – literally ‘beer fucker’.  Apparently a bierficker is someone with a small penis.  Huh?
der hinterlader – literally “breech loader”.  What it means though is ‘he who receives’, if you get my drift!
moesen saft – translates both literally and figuratively as ‘cunt juice’.

French
putain de merde – literally “whore of shit” – but means Holy Shit or Fucking Hell
se faire chier – literally “to cause someone to shit” – it means “to piss off”
tarte de creme – a term to describe semen dripping out of a vagina post-coitus – interesting that they have need for a term dedicated to describing this…
couler en bronze – I guess it translates to something like ‘to hang a shit’ – literally it’s more like ‘to slip a turd’

Italian
porca puttana – means ‘fucking hell’ but literally it translates to ‘pig whore’
testa di cazza – dick head but literally ‘head of the small head’
gnocche – cunts – next time you’re in an italian restaurant take care not to mis-pronounce your order!

Latin
perfututum – ‘totally fucked’

So there you go – my trip around the world of ‘le vulgaire vagin’…

Oh, and yes, apparently the speed of fanny farts can be measured in ‘hectometres’….  I read it on the internet so it must be true.

Sex Toys are Not for the Faint-Hearted

I had the fabulous fortune to be rescued from extreme mortification this week.  We left Sydney on Saturday morning to go to NY for a couple of weeks holiday.  While we’re away, Joe is house-sitting for us.   

Very early Saturday morning we woke and got ready to leave, trying to be quiet as church mice as Joe was asleep downstairs.  As we were making the bed I had a thought.  Perhaps we should ensure that any truly personal items were not left where they could inadvertently be stumbled across.

What exactly do I mean by personal items I hear you ask?  Although, more likely, you’re saying to yourself, please don’t tell me, I just don’t want to know!  However in order for you to understand the depth of my mortification you need the truth, the whole truth. 

I’m talking sex toys.  Nothing kinky or over the top… just your standard normal healthy couple kinda stuff!  Think fluffy handcuffs & the like…

So I whisper to Matt that perhaps we should move them somewhere less stumble-upon-able… he agrees and heads to their usual hidey-hole to move them.  A couple of minutes later he walks back out looking just a tad concerned and dramatically whispers to me “I can’t find them”. 

Seriously.  What the fuck?!!!!!  We immediately begin tearing the place apart.  Looking everywhere.  But nothing. Nowhere.  

Then Matt has an idea. 

He goes to our suitcase. Our fully packed, already padlocked and ready to go to the airport… you know, THROUGH CUSTOMS and an xray machine, suitcase… and there, buried in the “extra space” top pocket are all the items. Nicely packed away from our last holiday.. one where we didn’t have to go through customs clearly!

Dear god in heaven.  Can you imagine?  A burly ex-marine, long since turned to fat, standing over us drawling in nasal bronx-ese  “Excuse me sir, can you please open the bag?” and we in our ignorance nervously but ignorantly acquiescing only to bring about our own fatal embarrassment?  Not an experience I’m keen to have…

Thank god we remembered beforehand!  Although it would have been a much better story if we hadn’t huh?!!

 

A Valium & a Quick Shag

I’m someone who struggles with getting to sleep at times… it’s a bitch but most of the time I deal.  Recently Matt, who usually falls asleep about 30 seconds after his head touches the pillow, has been a bit stressed and was sleepless.  So he visited the doctor who prescribed him some valium. 

Never having gone down this route before I was a little curious… and who am I if not someone who is willing to steal another persons prescription narcotics, I mean really?  And by steal, I mean that I asked if I could have one and Matt said yes.

So here we both are, 10 minutes later… a little relaxed but still not terribly sleepy, when something surprising happens.  We find that we’re both a bit keen to make creative use of this free time…

Now call me crazy but I can’t say I’d have imagined valium to work as an aphrodisiac?  There’s nothing on the box to that effect, no-one ever mentions that as a side-effect and to be frank, we’re expecting sleep not sex! 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had sex on drugs before (I’ve certainly have done no such thing mum, sheesh!), but it was not like that at all.  It was oddly floaty… limbs feel disconnected from the rest of you and your head was just, nowhere.  Weird.

Valium is a strange beast…