Stuck Down A Chilean Mine With The Girls Of The Playboy Mansion

An unlikely scenario I’ll grant you, however I have been inspired to seek wealth and fame in a, somewhat, unconventional manner by 33 dirty, smelly, hairy and quite frankly, scary looking Chilean miners who, bored and unsuccessful in their chosen careers as gold miners, decided to make the underground sequel to Brokeback Mountain. Yes, I too have heard the rumor that Samuel L. Jackson will play the lead role and will utter the line “I’ve had it with these mother f@#$ing Chileans in this mother f%$#ing mine”.


Yes, feted by Hollywood and the worlds press these before, unknown, men are now celebrities, media darlings and quite wealthy and all it took to achieve this was a few months spent in a dark hole; quite frankly, speaking as a man, I have often wanted to spend several months in a dark hole where Mrs. The Ranting of a Twisted Man can’t harass me.

Not wanting to be called a copycat (or ending up as someone’s bearded girlfriend) I have decided to forgo finding 32 other men to share the experience with and have cunningly decided to persuade the girls of the playboy mansion to join me; bikinis optional.

Problem 1. The girls, bless their ample hearts, are not known for their powerful intelligence and explaining to them that Chile is a place and not the sensation they feel when running naked through the mansion in an effort to escape Hugh and his Zimmer frame will be difficult.

Solution 1. The world famous Playboy mansion Grotto is certainly dark and while perhaps not dingy, will adequately suffice; once I have sealed the entrance with the mansions yearly supply of champagne, condoms and implants it will be virtually impregnable; well perhaps not impregnable but it should remain impenetrable for at least one, maybe two parties.

Problem 2. Hef, no doubt, will be wondering after a few days where his girls have gone and I (and probably the rest of the world) and no desire to find out what havoc a randy, Viagrafied Hugh will inflict; neither man nor beast will be safe and even supposing he kicks his little blue friends, I do not want to be responsible for the demise of the Pfizer pharmaceutical company.

Solution 2. A tricky one, and to solve this I will need the help of as many people as possible, male or female, it’s not important. If you’re idea of a hot date is to spend three months with an eighty something Adonis of love who answers to the name “daddy” then please visit www.iwanttobehhughsplaything.com and sign up.

Problem 3. As mentioned in problem 1, the girls are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, and while the idea of playing nonstop twister and assuring them that, yes, your boobs look real, appeals in the short term, I fear that my interest may wane after awhile, in fact I am concerned that after a week I may actually prefer to be with those 33 dirty, smelly and don’t forget, hairy Chilean miners.

Solution 3. A rethink of the entire premise…

….leads to

Stuck On The Toilet With A Copy of Playboy Magazine

Perhaps not quite the same ring to it, but at least I will be famous….on You Tube anyway.

Open Letter to My Followers

I’d like to start with an apology for my unexplained absence. I’m sure all three of you have been wondering where the hell I have been these past months and why I haven’t been making those court enforced payments, well let’s just say that my life has reached a crossroads and I have decided to make a dramatic change.


If you follow me on Facebook then you may already have a clue; if you don’t follow me on Facebook, then you are leading a shallow, empty unfulfilled life and you need to get with the program.

As of today and after an extraordinary amount of time lying on the toilet floor in an alcohol induced, mind altering, state of altered reality and elevated consciousness; I have decided to forgo my former life and transform myself into a black hip hop artist named Dil Do Ahm Awavin; (in the air, in the air, like you just don’t care)

Before you say, “It’s been done! Where’s the originality! You suck, and my personal favorite, Get him!” ,let me explain in further detail.

You have heard of a certain Mr. Joachim Phoenix trying this recently, hence you may be confused and making rash assumptions about plagiarism and copyright. If you didn’t hear about this, then please ignore this paragraph. Mr. Phoenix’s amateurish attempt did not work, because a) it was not real and he wasn’t 100% committed and b) he tried to transform himself into a WHITE hip hop artist and as we all know, white hip hop artists have no street cred. As a BLACK hip hop artist I will be able to say fo shizzle ma nizzle, without getting my azzile kicked and the rest will just follow. NOTE; THIS IS NOT A STUNT, THIS IS FO REAL.

My transformation has thus far not been easy; I have run into problems being accepted into the hip hop community and discovered several unforeseen pitfalls. For instance, asking for and buying a “Big Bag of Crack” resulted in the inhalation of enough plaster of paris to ensure that I will never use my bottom again; calling supermarket checkout operators, “my ho’s”, will not see you elevated to the head of the 12 items of less queue. My other dilemna has been finding a handgun, because as you know, no rapper or hip hop superstar can be without their 9mm, semi-automatic handgun at any time. Now finding a piece can be difficult, and what you should never do (so I have learnt) is to never ask an Asian sailor, at the docks on a dark night, if he hook you up with a glock; this may result in being offered a rather large “woman” with a rather large Adams apple.

These are the trials and tribulations I must go through in the name of my art.

So for now, I, Dil Do Ahm Awavin, am working on material that will find its way onto my new album. The first track will be filled with a biting political and social commentary on the need for the Monarchy in our society, set to the rhythm of “My Old Mans a Dustman”, it will be da bomb. Anyone with rhyming words for Queen please email me directly. So far I have Jeans, Jellybeans and between her knees.

The World Soccer Cup - Or, how to annoy every European in 4 words.

Being a male, I can watch almost any sporting event and feel some sort of testosterone induced rush, after all that’s why we men were invented…to participate, watch and celebrate sports, the baby making part of it is just secondary, just ask Rosie O’Donnell , Melissa Etheridge or Brad. There are two exceptions to this.


The first exception is golf, the only sport in which I feel sorry for the ball. Let’s face it, a “sport” in which the person playing needs to have someone follow behind carrying their bag is, in my world, shopping.

The second exception is soccer, I’m not going to call it football, even though I risk offending most of Europe and South America, mainly because I don’t care if I offend them, in fact if I have offended some Europeans, I will be quite pleased.

A “sport”, where for ninety minutes twenty men run around a field while two others stand motionless, and walk off at the end after a “riveting” nil-nil draw has got problems in my mind. My interest was briefly piqued in the early nineteen eighties, when rioting was introduced to the game as a pick me up, however one or two deaths has seen that fall from favor.

However, despite the extreme boredom factor, I find myself strangely drawn to the, once every four years, celebration of mediocrity that is the Football World Cup. Being a New Zealander, my interest is slightly more heightened that it would normally be, since we are actually in it. The last time we were invited to play with the grownups the only hair I had was on my head, so as you can imagine that was a long, long time ago. How well are we doing? Well New Zealand has drawn two games, which apparently makes us pretty damn good! God only knows just how the country would react if we were to win a few times.

So for the next four weeks or so, be prepared to watch tears, agony, sorrow, and grown men dry humping each other; and that’s just the Italian team.

 

I wanted to include a picture of the actual world cup here, however, FIFA have threatened to send David Beckham around to talk to me, and there are some things that I will just not put up with.

The Oil Slick That Ate Louisiana

If you’ve been reading my blog, you may have deduced that I am quite partial to conspiracy theories and may even be ever so slightly guilty of starting a few.


I don’t deny this, in fact I embrace it. If it wasn’t for folks like me, god only knows what tripe the world would believe in. To put my suspicious mind into perspective, not only do I not believe that man walked on the moon, I do not actually believe there is a moon and before you point out that glowing thing in the night sky, I utter just two words. David and Blain. If he can hang upside down, while setting himself on fire and making love to 12 women simultaneously he can quite easily project his left ass cheek into space.

So can you imagine my delight when BP, allegedly, decided to pump all of their oil into the Gulf of Mexico. A conspiracy theorists dream, the kind that wakes me up at night in a cold sweat.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not taking sides in this. I am quite hairy and I don’t shave my armpits, but I am definitely not a member of Greenpeace, or any other environmental group and in fact I quite like oil, oil is my friend. It makes my car work, it cooks my fries and if it wasn’t for oil, The Sopranos would have just been a bunch of guys having a bad hair day, but having said that I’m also not a fan of BP. I can’t help but think that there is a better way for them to giveaway free oil in an effort to curry favor with their consumers; it isn’t very convenient to have to drive to Louisiana and park my car on a beach somewhere.

So my initial reaction is to not jump on the bandwagon of rationality and blame British Petroleum for the biggest oil slick since, well since the last biggest oil slick.

I could blame the left, another obvious choice. What better way to convince us to drive Flintstone era human powered cars or, gasp, walk. Then again I could blame the right. That’s another easy one. Drive up the price of oil without having to go to war with anyone. I could even blame Bono, after all it’s been five years since he made a charity record and clearly he missed a trick when it came to saving Haiti.

But no, none of the usual suspects are to blame for this balls up.

After viewing countless numbers of satellite pictures over the last few days I can now categorically state, for a fact, that the Catholic Church is indeed the guilty party. How do I know this? Just take a look at this picture and lo and behold, there smack in the middle is Pope Eggs Benedict.

Who else could have pulled off such a stunning PR coup? Who else needs such a stunning PR coup? Now that this news has broken, millions upon millions will flock to the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico to witness this miracle and all of the church’s recent “transgressions” will be forgotten for a hundred years or so.


Don’t forget where you heard it from first!

Performance Enhancing Drugs and Why They Should Be Allowed.

Recently it has come to light that the world and Olympic 400m champion, LaShawn Merrit, tested positive for steroids found in a common penis enlargement product.


Being completely secure in my masculinity and unaware that such products exist or are even needed by men, my first reaction was “You dirty, rotten, cheating bastard!” All I’ve had to impress the opposite sex with was what God gave me. What chance do us “average” guys have in the face of such stiff competition! My second reaction was, “Idiot!” clearly Mr. Merrit has interpreted the phrase performance enhancing drugs, incorrectly. Oh dear, so much for the college scholarship!

It was only after watching a little track and field that it became apparent why poor LaShawn felt the need to self medicate. I will demonstrate by showing a picture of the Italian men’s sprint relay team.

Clearly the inadequacy he felt while lining up next to these Italian stallions was too much to handle. In fact South African sprinter, Caster Semenya, was so humiliated by having to compete against these manly men that he decided the only option left was to become a she.

Personally I believe that the use of penis enlargement products in men’s sprinting, cycling and swimming has reached an epidemic level. I challenge any male to sit through any one of these sporting events and to not wonder, just for a second, that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to open up the junk email folder and do something about the, well err, junk.

Who knows where this pill popping, potion swilling, and needle sticking frenzy will end. Picture if you will, the 2100 Olympics in Kabul, 100m men’s final. There, lined up in the starting blocks, 10 of the worlds “biggest” and most “developed” athletes, the likes of which we have never seen. The gun goes! The crowd explodes! The competitors stand up and it’s over; with one giant thrust of the pelvis.

The only stumbling block I can envisage is whether the advancement of lycra technology and its ability to stretch can keep up with the chemistry.

Of course there are downsides to this type of behavior. Take for example this picture of Bulgarian gymnast, Katarina Ivorbigun at her last competition. Needless to say, the jig is up for Katarina.

Yes, perhaps limit’s do need to put in place, but to me watching a ripped, muscular athlete cross the finish line as their biceps explode, seeing the marathon completed in under 5 minutes or the shot-put replaced with tank throwing is my idea of sport.

Tiger's Wood (If They Could)

I promised myself I was going to steer clear of the whole Tiger Woods debacle, unfortunately my common sense has let me down, again. I was aiming at being invited to the Wood’s family thanksgiving celebrations this year; however now that any further Wood’s family gatherings are looking decidedly unlikely, I decided to give it my best shot.


I’d like to start off by saying that I don’t blame Tiger entirely for the mess his life has become. Let’s face it, if 50,000 people were screaming at me “Get in the hole” I might just for a second or two interpret that in an entirely inappropriate way. The fact that the man standing next to him is a New Zealander does not help; I will demonstrate with this simple mathematical formula. Kiwi man + lush green turf = sheep + sharing, erm, shearing, erm, never mind.

It is quite clear to me that Tiger, unfortunately, had nowhere to go but down. Let’s look closely at the facts. Insanely wealthy, Winner of multiple golf majors, Beautiful blonde, and blue eyed Swedish wife. The only accomplishment left was to get nailed to a crucifix at Easter and while the world might be ready for the first Black President, I think we have a while to go (approximately another 2000 years) before the first black Christ will be accepted.

Of course the real reason Tiger decided to play the back nine is entirely down to his complete lack of a decent nickname. Let’s face it, “Tiger”, just doesn’t have the same ring as some of the better nicknames, such as, The Great White Shark, Golden Bear, Spaceman, Huckleberry Dillinger. Of course the fact that Tiger was unaware that The Big Easy was already taken by Ernie Els shows yet more poor judgment.

So Tiger, just in case you’re reading here’s a few suggestions. The Rough Hunter, The Stripper’s Pole, or the more obvious, but slightly less commentator friendly “Pussy” Woods. Of course, the one I would go with is simply this. Tiger “I Am An Idiot” Woods. You have to admit, there is a certain ring to it.

Ash - The New Great Plague

I’ve learned something interesting this week. Apparently, despite having flown to the moon, mankind has yet to figure out a way to fly through dust. Not only do I find this very difficult to believe, I believe this may be biggest conspiracy since JFK and Elvis flew into the World Trade Center.


You might be thinking that no one has anything to gain from this. Well that’s where you are completely wrong and oh so naive.

Right now, in boardrooms all over the world, cigar smoking, brandy swilling airline executives are sitting back in their chairs have a riotous laugh fest! That’s right, it’s time for the semi monthly, Association Of Airlines, Let’s Stick It Up Our Passenger’s Rear Ends Party. This is an actual event, I promise. In fact I dare you to try and prove otherwise. If you do, clearly you are either in league with these people or have never flown economy.

Here’s why I know this to be true.

I won’t lie; I have a deep mistrust of scientists, mainly because they are a lot smarter than me and talk with big words that I don’t understand, but asides from my deep seated prejudices, my reasoning is simple. If we can build a giant, 27 kilometer long tunnel under France to find out how the universe was created (By the way, i've always known this, but this finally proves the French actually believe the Universe originated in their ass!), then surely we can figure out how to fly under, over, around or through a dust cloud. The large hadron collider (thank you Mr. Wikipedia) costs approximately 9 billion dollars to build, or in simpler terms, about half the price of 4 hour plane trip; so don’t tell me the airlines can’t afford to do it.

I would also like to point out, that for many, many years we were able to build and design aircraft that were quite capable of dropping nuclear bombs and then fly home in time for dinner. You think, just maybe, those nuclear bombs may have thrown up one or two dust particles, buildings, cows and communists into the air.

Of course, being the creative free thinker that I am, I have in fact, come up with a solution to the problem which will cost very little. In fact I’m so convinced this will change our world forever, I am giving my idea away for free.

Cast your mind back a few years and you may remember mankind’s last great near death experiences. First it was the bird flu and then the swine flu. Since I have not seen any flying pigs recently I am assuming we overcame the impending catastrophe. These little killing machines are tiny, microscopic bugs and apparently all we needed to keep them from entering our bodies was one of those ridiculous looking facemasks.

So here it is.

Add on a pair of trendy sunglasses and we could easily tackle the biggest eruption, snow storm, bird strike, hurricane, locust plague, Naomi Campbell outburst, etc, etc.

So while you are sitting in some godforsaken airport lounge somewhere, cursing Iceland for existing and for giving us Bjork, you may as well walk up to the check in counter, demand to see Mr. Branson, grab him by the beard and tell them the problem is solved!

Global Warming - The Descent To Hell Or The Worlds BIggest Water Park

Apparently good ole planet earth is not looking so hot. In fact she is starting to look a bit like a crack whore on a Sunday morning. Bedraggled, dishevelled and in desperate need of a hit .

It's bad news for those of us with water front properties and even worse news for the solace seeking mountain folk of the world who are about to be overrun by property developers. Ah yes, I can see it now, Trump Towers Everest, with glorious 360 degree views of the sparkling ocean and the worlds steepest back nine.

From what I gather, Greenpeace, the Worlds scientists and Al Gore are all telling us to change our ways. Easy for them, since Greenpeace are in tight with the whales, the worlds scientists will be on the first space ship out of here and Al Gore will simply become a large floating land mass. Personally, I say bring it on. I'm sick of the cold, I hate driving an hour to the beach and with Israel and much of the middle east under water, we will finally have peace on earth.

Of course, I am a realist and there are a few downsides to the rise in temperature and the worlds oceans. Unfortunately the ocean is not our friend. There are things in it that want to eat us and we tend to drown quite easily. Even more concerning though are the jet skiers. Jet skiers are mean and inconsiderate, so just wait until we have nowhere to go to get away from them. I've seen Waterworld, it's not a nice thought and quite frankly relying on Keven Costner these days is a waste of my valuable time.

But never fear, I have a plan! It's cunning, it's inexpensive and, without tooting my own horn too much, it's sheer brilliance wrapped up in a shiny parcel.

Old people. Lots of them. Go to any seaside community and you will find them in droves, hell Florida alone has over a half of the worlds octogenarians within a well timed heave of the sea shore. Imagine it, huge floating rafts of old people. They won't mind, much, and besides old people generally can't fight back, unless you count that annoying guy on Discovery Channel who was in a Vietnam war movie in the eighties; stay away from the gunnie he knows how to use a gun. The best part of this plan, are the old people around the outside of the raft will be able to scald those annoying jet skiers to their hearts content, with scathing comments such as "I know your mother, wait until she hears about this." and "keep it down, we're trying to sleep.". The only flaw in this plan, is that by the time we need to take to the rafts, I will actually be part of it.

Oh but think of your kids, and your kids kids, and your kids kids kids etc, etc. The planet is for them, it's their future. Oh the humanity. Oh the the horror. Yep, it's the classic liberal argument, do it for the kids. Well I've got news for you folks, I am thinking of the kids. Let's face it, those ungrateful sods are going to put all of us into nursing homes, never visit and send crappy Christmas cards once a year, signed by your "loving" family.

I am not going to turn off my lights, power sucking 200" television set, 5 computers and buy a battery powered mobility scooter masquerading as a car so that they can play Xbox all day and listen to Miley Cyrus. I have worked hard for years and if I want to destroy the planet then I will, so there!

Besides do these kids look unhappy.

Depending on who you talk to, and to be honest, I don't really care, the first water parks were created by a guy named George Millay in the 1970's and I think he was onto something.

So to summarise.

The Earth is going to hell in a hand basket. Don't just sit there and watch idly. Be part of history. Insist on plastic not paper, rev your car unnecessarily while waiting at red lights and this Christmas, make sure you cut down a living tree and buy an extra string of lights just for the heck of it!