Whenever I log on to Facebook it tells me I’ve been poked by someone, but I have no idea if it’s recent or if it was in 2008.
I’m always unsure what to do. I don’t want to poke them back – what if poking isn’t cool anymore? But I also don’t want to appear rude and ignore their virtual prod.
This is just one of the reasons we need an online manual of Facebook etiquette.
In such a manual we would learn that updating your status during a date is akin to rearranging your man-junk (what a friend likes to call a cabinet reshuffle) for all to see, even if it is to say ‘Nathan just told a funny joke’ (which, if I’m honest, would be breaking news… but even so).
This guide could also go a long way to stopping those cryptic ‘I’m so sad :(’ statuses followed by an ‘I don’t want to talk about it…’ when long-face-enquiries come forth – because, if you’re glum, no one wants to then reply ‘Well, why the fuck did you tell us then?’
There is nothing more despicable than the attention-seeking status update.
In some ways Facebook is a game –SimPersonality, if you like.
Remember when you first joined and felt a right loser coz you only had five friends. So you searched your friend’s friends list and if you vaguely recognised the person it was a like lovers reunited in a field of daisies.
Hell, even the postman would be there liking your liking of ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’.
A friend of mine created a personality by thinking of the most normal name he could and finding a picture online of an unremarkable face – he’s got loads of friends and he doesn’t exist.
I reckon an eighth of the profiles are just people’s pornstar names (that’s your first pet’s name plus your mother’s maiden name).
But in some respects it is more real than reality.
Just think of the last time you discovered that someone had unfriended you. It’s kind of the final word on that relationship, and brings new meaning to the dumper’s cliché, “We can still be friends”.
One of the first things I learnt in school was how to answer the phone politely; maybe my kids will learn that when becoming FB friends for the first time you should post a nice message on their wall enquiring about their wellbeing.
Showing posts with label penis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label penis. Show all posts
Stag Night
After a table dance in front of twenty people, having thrown the G-string I was wearing into the crowd, I climb down and think, “I could do this every weekend!”
Maybe an hour ago I was in the back of a minibus taxi, struggling fishnets up my legs, wondering just how confident I was with my sexuality.
It’s a common sight in Cape Town on a Saturday evening – men on the verge of marriage, dressed in women’s clothing, a beer mug handcuffed to their arm.
Strippers and strip clubs seem so 20th Century. Honestly, it’d feel like cheating to have some big-breasted Russian poking her nipples into my eyes – so it’s me dressed for success, deliberating over which bog-door to go through.
Some guys think it’s funny to grab my arse and ask for a blowjob. They get a bit freaked when I cup their nuts in my hand and tell them it’ll cost a tenner. There’s a flicker of doubt and they think maybe this is my ‘coming out’ night and not a bachelor’s party.
But after the fourth pint and a few Jagermeisters, appropriately having a Bavarian sausage platter for dinner, I forget about the pink wig and sexy nightie. Out the corner of my eye I see a table of German tourists staring at me and think, “What the fuck are they looking at?”
It’s kind of like being a moderately famous soap opera actor. Strangers ask to have their picture taken with me. Groups of girls buy me shots at the bar. It’s easy to see why some people get addicted to being the centre of attention.
At Quay Four in the Waterfront, a woman gets aggro with me for cutting in on her and some guy on the dancefloor. I think she’s just a bad sport until my mate informs me that the ‘woman’ is actually another guy in drag – the only difference being he’s not on his stag night.
Welcome to Cape Town.
Later in the night a bouncer won’t let us jump the queue at a club. I kick up a stink, and what normally would get me a black eye and maybe a broken rib gets us in.
We meet up with my fiancée, Lucy, on her hen night. She’s wearing angel wings and ‘cock-boppers’. We drunkenly relay tales from the last few hours.
I’m fat with a beard and just make a really ugly chick, but Lucy says the next morning she found me in the stockings and pink wig a strange turn-on.
Maybe I should do this every weekend.
Phallic Symbols for Dicks like Thimbles
Is there a better way to advertise your small penis than with the purchase of a 4X4?
When I was a kid there was no such thing as a luxury SUV. A Land Rover was an average car on the inside, just big and powerful enough to climb over rocks and Third World natives. Politicians drove Mercs, and only gung-ho game rangers and Indiana Jones wannabes tooled around in such metal monstrosities.
But nowadays it’s necessary for every little big man to own one; as though he expects it to drive out when he opens the zipper on his trousers.
It’s all there on Top Gear – the self-conscious small-man-syndrome sufferer; the grumpy, pube-haired geriatric; and the guy stuck in a mid-life crisis with the long, varsity student locks. Prime examples of the ‘my car is a penis’ candidate.
I suppose it’s not as scary and much less invasive than a penis enlargement, and most men know they’d get arrested for showing off their nob in the company parking lot.
You’d never see Dirk Diggler driving one of them. In fact, I’m sure pornstars are more prone to buying sports cars; secure in the scale of their naughty bits.
And these guys handle their large, unwieldy cars about as well as they’d handle a gigantic portion of man-mutton – uncontrollably straddling lanes, unable to fit it in a parking space, and ramming it up your arse on the road.
While they’re struggling to control their oversized substitute for a phallus, they don’t realise their purple-headed pygmy is actually controlling them.
The truly insecure will even force an overabundance of automobile on their wife. Even more heartbreaking than watching a woman struggle to parallel park one of these giants is the knowledge that she’s suffering for her husband’s Lilliputian love-muscle.
Man’s selfish insecurity is responsible for most of this world’s ills – war, colonisation, unprotected sex – and now, as he carelessly pollutes with his unnecessary gas-guzzler, Man can add the destruction of the environment to that list.
If only the humble, fuel-efficient, compact car could be advertised as the well-hung man’s preferred mode of transport. Maybe then marketers could do something useful for a change and save the world.
When I was a kid there was no such thing as a luxury SUV. A Land Rover was an average car on the inside, just big and powerful enough to climb over rocks and Third World natives. Politicians drove Mercs, and only gung-ho game rangers and Indiana Jones wannabes tooled around in such metal monstrosities.
But nowadays it’s necessary for every little big man to own one; as though he expects it to drive out when he opens the zipper on his trousers.
It’s all there on Top Gear – the self-conscious small-man-syndrome sufferer; the grumpy, pube-haired geriatric; and the guy stuck in a mid-life crisis with the long, varsity student locks. Prime examples of the ‘my car is a penis’ candidate.
I suppose it’s not as scary and much less invasive than a penis enlargement, and most men know they’d get arrested for showing off their nob in the company parking lot.
You’d never see Dirk Diggler driving one of them. In fact, I’m sure pornstars are more prone to buying sports cars; secure in the scale of their naughty bits.
And these guys handle their large, unwieldy cars about as well as they’d handle a gigantic portion of man-mutton – uncontrollably straddling lanes, unable to fit it in a parking space, and ramming it up your arse on the road.
While they’re struggling to control their oversized substitute for a phallus, they don’t realise their purple-headed pygmy is actually controlling them.
The truly insecure will even force an overabundance of automobile on their wife. Even more heartbreaking than watching a woman struggle to parallel park one of these giants is the knowledge that she’s suffering for her husband’s Lilliputian love-muscle.
Man’s selfish insecurity is responsible for most of this world’s ills – war, colonisation, unprotected sex – and now, as he carelessly pollutes with his unnecessary gas-guzzler, Man can add the destruction of the environment to that list.
If only the humble, fuel-efficient, compact car could be advertised as the well-hung man’s preferred mode of transport. Maybe then marketers could do something useful for a change and save the world.
Don't Touch Me On My 'Culture'
You can say what you want about our president, but the man certainly is virile.
With the wife-count sitting at three, he has no less than two fiancées. And on top of all that his extra-marital philandering is public knowledge.
God only knows how many kids he has, and I think the official count is somewhere around 22.
Zuma has excused his actions, saying, “That’s my culture!” and also mentioned that many western, monogamous politicians have mistresses.
The thing is, if you’re defending polygamy and attacking extra-marital affairs, how do you explain your own cheating ways? The reason we always see Zuma with that fat grin on his mug is because he somehow manages to have his cake and eat it.
Maybe it’s because his current wives really only care about the money and status that they don’t mind. Maybe being a woman within a polygamous culture makes you a bit more thick-skinned when it comes to your man sticking his dick into anything with a heartbeat. Maybe JZ actually is so damn charming that he manages to talk himself out of accountability for his indiscretions.
But playing the culture card is something I have a bit of a problem with.
Middle Eastern cultures allow family honour killings. Acts like virginity testing and female circumcision are excused as ‘part of our culture’.
In Mali, if a man leaves town and is worried his wife’s going to fool around, it is culturally acceptable for him to sew her vagina closed.
And why are all these ‘cultural’ beliefs patriarchal? Why isn’t it a case of ‘what’s good for the gander is good for the goose’? In this age of equality, why can’t a woman be let off the hook for infidelity as easily as a man is?
Am I being racist or ethnocentric for believing that it’s wrong for a man to be able to have as many sexual partners as he likes, while women must make do with just the one useless lump? It’s not the act of polygamy that I have such a beef with, it’s the unfairness of the whole set-up.
When you think about it, saying that men are allowed to do certain things but women aren’t is as bad as saying that whites are allowed to do certain things but blacks aren’t.
It’s as bad as excusing racism and intolerance as just part of our South African culture.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
With the wife-count sitting at three, he has no less than two fiancées. And on top of all that his extra-marital philandering is public knowledge.
God only knows how many kids he has, and I think the official count is somewhere around 22.
Zuma has excused his actions, saying, “That’s my culture!” and also mentioned that many western, monogamous politicians have mistresses.
The thing is, if you’re defending polygamy and attacking extra-marital affairs, how do you explain your own cheating ways? The reason we always see Zuma with that fat grin on his mug is because he somehow manages to have his cake and eat it.
Maybe it’s because his current wives really only care about the money and status that they don’t mind. Maybe being a woman within a polygamous culture makes you a bit more thick-skinned when it comes to your man sticking his dick into anything with a heartbeat. Maybe JZ actually is so damn charming that he manages to talk himself out of accountability for his indiscretions.
But playing the culture card is something I have a bit of a problem with.
Middle Eastern cultures allow family honour killings. Acts like virginity testing and female circumcision are excused as ‘part of our culture’.
In Mali, if a man leaves town and is worried his wife’s going to fool around, it is culturally acceptable for him to sew her vagina closed.
And why are all these ‘cultural’ beliefs patriarchal? Why isn’t it a case of ‘what’s good for the gander is good for the goose’? In this age of equality, why can’t a woman be let off the hook for infidelity as easily as a man is?
Am I being racist or ethnocentric for believing that it’s wrong for a man to be able to have as many sexual partners as he likes, while women must make do with just the one useless lump? It’s not the act of polygamy that I have such a beef with, it’s the unfairness of the whole set-up.
When you think about it, saying that men are allowed to do certain things but women aren’t is as bad as saying that whites are allowed to do certain things but blacks aren’t.
It’s as bad as excusing racism and intolerance as just part of our South African culture.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
Would You Touch My Brand New Boobs?
Standing in a luggage shop and my mate turns to me and says, “Nice fake boobs over there.”
I have a look, but can’t see who he’s talking about.
“Over there,” he insists, “Can’t you tell.”
Actually, I can’t. But it did make me wonder aloud, “Do women with breast enhancements mind men gawking at their rack?”
“Like a new pair of shoes,” matey says, “it’s flattering if one notices.”
I suppose he could be right. I once met an elderly lady, not a granny but a woman in her late forties, who, after a breast enlargement, encouraged people to “touch them, feel how firm they are!”
Many men obliged, but I thought it would be a bit weird to feel up some guy’s wife in front of him. The husband didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was standing by grinning with some kind of idiotic pride as a group groped.
I’ve always felt sympathy for very beautiful people. A lot of the time their beauty defines them, and as they get older and it inevitably crumbles their sense of self-worth falls apart too.
It is interesting to note that most cosmetic surgery practices have an in-house psychologist. This is to evaluate whether the reason behind the punter's facelift or liposuction will help with their insecurity or if there is a deeper problem.
Those with body dysmorphic disorder see themselves as fat or ugly no matter what, and will return to a surgeon again and again. The resident head-shrink is there to spot such customers and hopefully make some cash on a sideline business.
Part of the patriarchal conspiracy behind Barbie is that Ken has no junk at all. This is so that women will accept men with little or no pleasure package – merely a neat haircut, a nice wardrobe, and a chiselled chin.
Men are still sometimes insecure, because He-Man’s furry boxers clearly hid a bit of a bulge… and Skeletor was all-boner. But I have yet to encounter a man straight off the operating table extending the offer of touching his artificially-engorged cock.
Maybe it’s just the circles I move in.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
I have a look, but can’t see who he’s talking about.
“Over there,” he insists, “Can’t you tell.”
Actually, I can’t. But it did make me wonder aloud, “Do women with breast enhancements mind men gawking at their rack?”
“Like a new pair of shoes,” matey says, “it’s flattering if one notices.”
I suppose he could be right. I once met an elderly lady, not a granny but a woman in her late forties, who, after a breast enlargement, encouraged people to “touch them, feel how firm they are!”
Many men obliged, but I thought it would be a bit weird to feel up some guy’s wife in front of him. The husband didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was standing by grinning with some kind of idiotic pride as a group groped.
I’ve always felt sympathy for very beautiful people. A lot of the time their beauty defines them, and as they get older and it inevitably crumbles their sense of self-worth falls apart too.
It is interesting to note that most cosmetic surgery practices have an in-house psychologist. This is to evaluate whether the reason behind the punter's facelift or liposuction will help with their insecurity or if there is a deeper problem.
Those with body dysmorphic disorder see themselves as fat or ugly no matter what, and will return to a surgeon again and again. The resident head-shrink is there to spot such customers and hopefully make some cash on a sideline business.
Part of the patriarchal conspiracy behind Barbie is that Ken has no junk at all. This is so that women will accept men with little or no pleasure package – merely a neat haircut, a nice wardrobe, and a chiselled chin.
Men are still sometimes insecure, because He-Man’s furry boxers clearly hid a bit of a bulge… and Skeletor was all-boner. But I have yet to encounter a man straight off the operating table extending the offer of touching his artificially-engorged cock.
Maybe it’s just the circles I move in.
[If you found this post thought-provoking or mildly amusing, drop a blank email at chickenpost.addiction@gmail.com and get future links sent right to your inbox!]
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