Tuesday, 6 August 2013

This is a thank you to my friends….and Hubert.

I openly and happily admit to being a creep. I’m not ashamed of being totally weird and highly inappropriate at the best of times. I have little to no filter and I’ve always pictured my inner policeman as being on a rather long vacation reading a rather large book, however I fear that Charlie's recent description of “your inner policeman is dead”, may be far more accurate. 

Small child: Mum, whatever happened to Uncle Terry, the policeman? 
Mother: Hush child, you know we don’t speak of that. 
Small child: But Mum, I miss his funny moustache and blue hat. 
Mother: Enough now. Go and colour in... 
Small Child: Mum how come he hasn’t come over in forever and why is Aunty Mertle always crying? 
Mother: *silence* 
Small Child: Mum why are you quiet? Why do you look like Aunty Mertle does when someone asks about milk? 
Mother: *tic* 
Small child: Mum?....Mum….Mu-uhmmmmmmm 
Small child: *blinks* I wonder if elephants can wear pants?

I pretty much wear all of my weird on my sleeve for the world to see and am damned proud to have friends around me who not only accept this weird but complement it so well; kind of like how gasoline complements fire or how sudden shocks complement a heart condition. 

With all of that said, knowing me or being a friend of mine will eventually mean that you become privy (whether you want to be or not) to the random thoughts I’m having like “Do you think sexual misadventure is covered under a life insurance policy?” or “Does blue have a taste?” and “Do you think the size of someone’s nostrils is directly proportionate to the size of their lungs?”. I have questions and those questions need answers people. 

I like to know things. So when I send you shit like this because I’m having a bath and have just finished Hubert’s naming ceremony… 

And all I receive back by way of response is: 

Charlie: *has heart attack* That was incredible
Charlie: This 
Charlie: This is why we’re friends

It makes me happy to know that I’ve got friends who get me. 

So if you find other people who are just as bat-shit as you, or at the very least understand that your strange and their strange is complementary, then keep them. Collect them like the colourful and mental butterflies that they are. Catch them in a giant net made of candy and caviar and lobsters, and also probably some net, and keep them. Don’t keep them in jars though, that’s less good, unless there are lots of air holes and a little twig for them to stand on and some grass so it feels a bit homier and some water for when they’re thirsty, then that should be totally fine, but most importantly make them friends for life! Because life is exactly what we’d all get if we didn’t have our crazy friends around.

Friday, 28 June 2013

Grease me up, I've got a word baby to deliver.

So, for those of you who actually read this blog, you may have noticed that posts from old Facey have been few and far between lately. I've been suffering with the worst case of word constipation ever. No, I'm not going to use the phrase “writers block” because well for one thing I don’t think that “block” gives quite a vivid enough mental image for you. Yep, I’d rather you be thinking that I’m sitting here with a really sore creative gland because it’s busting at the seams with shit, clearly because I've eaten far too much word fibre, and now I’m kilning the literary equivalent of my own house brick.  

You’re welcome.

I've found myself in a particularly strange head-space of late that hasn't really been an environment conducive to producing Because Carrots blog post material. I've had lots of thoughts, lots of ideas and lots of things to say but none that really fit comfortably in the vein of the material that you see gracing the pages here. I’m sure ‘gracing’ is the correct term to use anyhow.

So in lieu of a usual post from myself, and no this absolutely doesn't count as a “normal post” because so far at least I've only sworn once, you get to play an active part in helping me apply my mental enema. So thanks, thanks for allowing me to have a place to push firmly but gently onward whilst spreading my brain cheeks for me.

And if this doesn't work I’m going to find me some fucking glitter to write with.

Thursday, 27 June 2013

Shave the Whales...

So I’ve got this thing, right where when my friends are leaving my house and it’s night, I ask them to text me when they get home to let me know they’re home safe. It’s a thing. And sometimes I ask for it in the form of a limerick, or a haiku, or a joke, or whatever. Just to keep things interesting, you know? So this evening I asked Rapunzel to text me a joke when she got home and she asked if it could be an interesting fact instead, which was acceptable.

Half an hour later I received this:

When I replied that I was glad she said estimated because wouldn’t that be the most shit job in the world? Her reply was as follows:

So now all I can think of is a group of marine biologists standing around on a deck discussing the logistics of this:

Marine Biologist 1: Morning lads!
Marine Biologist 2 & 3: Morning.
Marine Biologist 4: Have you had a look at today’s schedule then?
Marine Biologist 1: Not yet, why?
(Marine Biologist 4 silently passes a piece of paper over)
Marine Biologist 1: ... they can’t be serious.
MB4: Oh yes.
MB2: “Whaling for research” again?
MB3: You knew this was a risk when the company was bought by the Japanese.
Marine Biologist 1: Well yes but I never thought it would come to this. What, are they just making up shit for us to do to justify the “research” part of it? So then they can kill them?
MB2: Basically, uh... yes.
Marine Biologist 1: Well I’m not having it! I never became a marine biologist to have any part in killing sea creatures! I quit! (storms off)
(The three remaining biologists look at each other)
MB2:  Well that tears it – he was the only one who knew how to drive the submarine.
MB3: I don’t suppose...
MB4: What?
MB3: We got any scuba suits?
MB2: If you try to make me do this I’m quitting as well.
MB3: Relax, I wasn’t thinking of you.
(Marine Biologist 3 looks over at the deck where a work experience kid is mooching about, looking extraordinarily like a young Ricky Gervais)
(All three of them grin wickedly)
MB3: Hey kid!
Work Experience Kid: Yeah? Hi! Have you got something for me to do?
MB3: You want to be a Marine Biologist, is that right?
Work Experience Kid: Oh yeah absolutely, life’s dream and all that. What’s going on?
MB2: Well you know it’s not all swimming with dolphins and getting world cup tips from an octopus...
MB4: There’s a lot of dirty work involved as well
Work Experience Kid: I know I know... I’m, you know, prepared to do my share. Chip in. Get my hands dirty.
MB3: We’re glad to hear you say that, we really are. We’ve got something that is big and important and you know, we thought we’d give you a chance.
MB2: You look like an intelligent kid, we wanna see what you’ve got.
Work Experience Kid: Fantastic! What do you want me to do?
MB4: You fancy working with whales?
Work Experience Kid: Oh brilliant! Yes!
MB2: Come on let’s get you kitted up...

(Fifteen minutes later)
MB4: OK you’ve got your scuba kit and gear, and there’s a microphone in your helmet so you can talk to us back on the boat and tell us what’s going on.
Work Experience Kid: Great! I’m so excited about this.
MB3: Righto, you’re all gassed up and ready to get in the net with the whale.
Work Experience Kid: ...I’m sorry?
MB2: Oh don’t worry it’s been sedated...
Work Experience Kid: Oh ok... so what am I doing?
MB3: We need to study the whale reproductive system, you see.
Work Experience Kid: Yep, right...
MB4: We need to measure how much volume the whale ejaculates...
Work Experience Kid: Ok, yep... what?
MB4: We need YOU to measure...
Work Experience Kid: .... you’re not serious!
MB3: It’s for science!
Work Experience Kid: But I don’t want to wank off a whale!
(All three Marine Biologists share a glance)
MB2: ... what?
Work Experience Kid: That’s disgusting! And probably illegal!
MB4: ...I guess you’re not serious about this as a career choice then.
MB2: I really thought this one had the right stuff... (shakes his head sadly)
MB3: OK well get out of the suit then... I’m sure we can contact the uni and get another student flown out... one that’s a bit more committed to the cause...
Work Experience Kid: (hesitates) No, alright, I’ll do it... (squares his chin bravely) I'll do it for Science!

(Ten minutes later)
Work Experience Kid: OK I’m in the water with the whale! His... thing is enormous! I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this?
MB3: This is a world first, kid! You’re a research pioneer! However you decide to do it is going to be how people will test this in decades to come!
Work Experience Kid: ... don’t say “come”!
MB2: Just keep us in the loop, don’t forget to relate every single step you’re taking there, we’re taking notes, this is for posterity!
Work Experience Kid: Alright... I’m swimming underneath and up to the top of his massive knob and I’m hanging onto the sides of the net... I think if I kick my flippers against his helmet that’ll do the trick... I’m kicking... I’m kicking AND OH GOD IT’S GETTING BIGGER!!
MB4: Just keep going lad! You’re doing great!
MB3: Just keep on it lad!

MB4: You’ve done great lad, that’s brilliant! We’re hauling you up now, don’t worry, everything will be fine, you’re a hero! (flips off microphone)

MB2: Do you think we should have told him we just needed him to measure it’s balls?
MB4: Nah fuck that. This shit's going on YouTube.

Wednesday, 5 June 2013

It would appear I've been desserted...

Yes, I know that's the incorrect spelling but to be fair, you've no idea what I am about to say. I could well have been desserted. You never know. Don't judge me!

Returning to at least the approximate vicinity of my intended topic... I feel I have been abandoned to rot in sugary solitude by my inspiration. My counterpart Facey McBones may well be suffering from the same thing. Winter is upon us, friends, and the plummeting temperatures are sapping the creativity from my bones.

... You know what though I'm liking that metaphor more and more. In my day I have supped upon the dry and tasteless scone of writer's block and plunged face-first into the warm, gooey, chocolatey pudding of inspiration. On occasion I have even been attacked by the ballistic cupcakes of self-realisation.  Once when I was drunk I threw up the overly rich shortbread of shame and regret. But that's another story.

If perhaps actual desserts were involved I'd be happier. Each emotion or scenario should come with its own dessert. And why not? People tend to cry when cutting onions... so it can therefore be assumed (shut the fuck up, Science) that onions are the direct cause of sadness. And if onions then why not other foods? Conversely, if this is true - and I'm assuming it is - then we could potentially avoid certain scenarios by the avoidance of the associated dessert! (Science, I told you to shut up.)

The heartbroken could dry their eyes and go on their merry way if they simply avoided icecream.  Imagine how much happier we'd all be if once a month women left the chocolate in the cupboard and forgot their PMR (Pre-Menstrual Rage)? Victims would be totally fine after car accidents and suchlike if so-called-helpful people would stop giving them hot sweet tea for shock! WINTER WOULD CEASE TO BE COLD IF YOU BASTARDS JUST STOPPED MAKING NOURISHING STEWS!!!

... OK that's it Science, I'm getting the bat.

Sunday, 14 April 2013

She's Bulgaria and owls need skincare products too

Ok, so I'll be the first to say it. I don't get technology. I'm not ashamed. And yes I'm not unaware of the irony in posting this on a blog on the interbuttz but you know what, I don't get the internet sometimes either. I don't understand the procedure for booking flights on the internet and how that's supposedly faster than using a cave wall and a charred stick. I don't - and I'm saying this in full acknowledgement of the far-too-much-money I spend on inappropriate items I don't need on eBay - I don't get online shopping. I don't really understand how Facebook is supposed to be some sort of tool for keeping in touch with the people in your life that are supposed to be important enough for you to make some sort of fucking effort to get off your arse and call them once in a while. 

Most of all I don't get my phone. I accept that the phone has evolved. I have made peace with the concept that they can now perform multiple tasks. I took to text messaging initially like a duck to astrophysics but I'm ok with it now. I have come to terms with the fact that a telephone can now quite conceivably be lost in your pocket, whereas less than my lifetime ago it could quite conceivably be used to beat a shark to death. That is if you were to have one with you whilst out swimming, which would never happen because they were anchored to the wall by a cord. BY A CORD, MOTHERFUCKERS.

I understand and live with the idea that you can now use a telephone for texting, calling, videocalling morse code cameras torchesgamescalculatorsinternetfacebookmusicplayers etc.


Because it's all kinds of fucked up! It makes sentences that should not be! And the manufacturers and programmers keep telling me that it's getting more intuitive but you know what it's not. It's getting more arbitrary. It's getting hypocritical. It's like having a retarded nanny that's telling you that smoking is inappropriate whilst it's fisting a Canadian goose wearing fishnets.

And some are relatively harmless and slightly amusing, I'll grant you. I was talking to a friend about Facey and apparently instead of being hilarious she's been promoted to being Bulgaria. Not sure if the phone meant the country or the Womble but either way I don't think it was a compliment.  During a conversation about skincare products the other day it was decided (by my phone) that the "sensitive STIFF is marketed to OWLS with skin conditions". Whilst the mental imagery conjured up was entertaining - REALLY?! I'm unconvinced I need to know about a world where scabby leprous owls are being treated with sensitive stiffs... O_o

And it's not just me. I've been called a B*Tchaikovsky by Facey. Other friends have fallen prey to it. I've been told that someone can't text me for a bit because the boss has just gotten back from lynch (may or may not have been a typo). In a forum where the phone makes you tap out the letters of a profanity one by one almost every damn time because it refuses to recognise such vulgarities, I have sent MY MOTHER a message informing her that my recently-delivered sister was not up to visitors to see her and the new baby because they were removing her epidural and she was then going to have her first SHIT. I thought she was having her first SHOWER but apparently my phone knew better.

But auto core cats stew. You cache annoys them. Even if t your hardest is going to taken. And Swype doesn't help mates. It enables airboats and fair eggnog too.  Technology doesn't have a vats intestacy in improving out luau skills as a culture. As a whole we're moving away from the weekend word. Video calling and text soak is neutering the langue.  And lolcats have add lid to August fork.  How do we stop this Shiplake bastard is Aston of our mother tongue? Is theft any hope? Or attach we slowly devolving to Cavendish low grunts and chat timings over a blazibg mammoth carcass in the living ruin?

... for duck's sake. You know wet I mean.

Tuesday, 9 April 2013

Clearly this conversation is a shoe-in...

As far as ridiculous conversations that progressed from an auto-correct fail go, this has to be both the strangest I've had and the most impressive, if only because it illustrates how well-read we both are under the lunacy...

Facey McBones:
Hey noodle. You still ok for me to come
over after work today?

Charlie Blowfly:
Yep looking forward to it

I plan to poke you with socks and things

Wtf phone – how is me poking her with
socks going to help?  What happened to
the sticks?

Facey McBones:
Apparently not as terrifying as socks

Charlie Blowfly:
Few things are in my experience.

Facey McBones:

Charlie Blowfly:
... my experience may be limited.

Facey McBones:
I thought it might

Charlie Blowfly:
Of sticks. I have lots of sock-related

I’ve read all the classics.

Facey McBones:
You’re beginning to veer slightly into
obscure land here m’dear

Charlie Blowfly:
A Tale of Two Socks

The Taming of the Shoe

Facey McBones:
Oh Christ

To Kill A Stockingbird

Charlie Blowfly:
ROFL well done

Facey McBones:

Charlie Blowfly:
The Adventures of Sherlock Hose

Moby Sock

Facey McBones:
In Search of Lost Darn

Charlie Blowfly:
Adventures of Tom Sawyer and
Huckleberry Fishnets

Not to mention of course Shakespeare’s
A Comedy of Slippers

Facey McBones:
The Foot Soldier

Charlie Blowfly:
Don Quixote of Leg Warmer

Facey McBones:
On par with The Great Socksby I’ve always

And who could forget Charlotte’s Legs

Charlie Blowfly:
And Victor Hugo’s French revolutionary
masterpiece Les Chausettes

Facey McBones:
Ohh nice one

Charlie Blowfly:
Or that great tale of swashbuckling
adventure, The Man in the Iron Booties

Ooh ooh – The Jungle Sock by Rudyard Kipling

Or even Ivanhose

Facey McBones:
I always preferred The BFG
(Big Frilly Garter)

Even Denier Fair

Charlie Blowfly:
Oh well if it’s children’s books you
want then you can’t go past Kipling’s
Just Sock Stories

Or Anne of Green Garters

Green Legs and Ham is pretty
good too

Tuesday, 26 March 2013

It appears that not all that glitters is, in fact, gold.

The best way to insulate ones stomach is to eat a good and hearty meal, right? Wrong. Well wrong if that meal was satay chicken and you are trying to insulate it against glitter capsules whose sole purpose is to turn your shit into golden speckled nuggets of joy. Apparently I should have eaten a house brick that’s then been kilned by the skank breath of Satan himself instead. The following is the story of how amazing ideas, in theory, do not always translate into fantastic ideas in practice.

6.30pm 25/03/2013
After a busy afternoon of being a responsible adult; rescuing kitties from the rain, cleaning, shopping, washing and cooking (I’m definitely going to make some lady a lovely housewife one day), I sit down to a hearty meal of peanut satay chicken and rice. Momentarily forgetting my complete lack of tolerance for even the slightest of spicy food, I’ve managed to convince myself that this is a perfect meal to line my stomach with before beginning my quest to become the latest member of the gay mafia. I’m pretty certain that if you can shit glitter you must immediately qualify as a level 9000 homo.

After clearing away my plate I sit down to read the prescription and as it shows in Charlie’s earlier post, it recommends taking two capsules in the morning with food until the course has been completed or until awesome. Two, huh, probably should have paid more attention to that, or had my glasses on, because I took all twelve. ­Let me tell you right now that swallowing twelve capsules is not a fun task and at each interval of ingestion I found myself thinking the following:

*takes 2*
Surely she would have brought capsules that are actually safe to consume...right?
*takes 3 more*
I wonder if I should call my Mother and tell her I love her in case of some allergic reaction…
*takes 2 more*
I’m pretty sure this is going to go well.
*takes another 3*
Pretty sure.
*takes last two*
Oh well…

And so it was done. There was nothing left to do now but wait aaaannnddd silently start freaking out about what I’d just done.

8.30(ish)pm – 25/03/2013
A phone call to Charlie to chat about the day’s events turns into a laughfest detailing what exactly is going to happen over the next few hours. At one point I was laughing, ok cackling, so hard that I swear I felt something move. At this stage I’d experienced a lot of stomach pains and gas. I can’t tell if it was the capsules or the chicken. I’m going to put it down to the chicken. Naturally.
1.45am 26/03/2013
Woke up after having the most bizarre and bewildering dreams. Generally I’m blessed *cough yeah right, blessed* with incredibly vivid, insane and graphic dreams imaginable so whether it was just a psychological side effect of me taking these things or, until now, some unknown secret power of “non-toxic glitter” I was waking up to myself thinking “What the actual fucking fuck?”. The details of the dreams escape me now, clearly drowned out by the Enya music radiating from my gastrointestinal tract but rest assured I was riding high on the waves of nausea and crazy lady dreams.

8.45am 26/03/2013
At this stage I’d just like to say that it was nice knowing you all because my stomach has been trying out for the Cirque Du Soleil all fucking morning and I’m pretty sure it’s the new star attraction come this summer’s touring season. I have heard nothing but the sounds of the Battle for the Lower Intestine raging for the last few hours and they’re so emphatic about winning the victory march to my arse that I’ve put myself into one of the worst panic attacks I’ve suffered in a long time. The soles of my feet are sweating. I didn’t know that was possible. The end is nigh.

10.00am 26/03/2013
Now I am not a leisure pooper. I have never understood the appeal of sitting in a toilet with a good book and marinating in the stench of your own excrements vapours for “fun” or for “time out”. I’m all about efficiency; get in, get it done and get the fuck out while you have a chance of retaining your olfactory senses. This time however I found myself quite happily and maniacally laughing to myself while this…movement…occurred.

Now, even though I did say I would post a picture of the aforementioned glitter turd I just can’t. I found myself having a rather heated debate, at times out loud, about this and found that even I have my limits. I was as surprised as you but at the end of the day the lighting was wrong and I couldn’t fix it. So you’ll have to make do *giggles*, YES I’M MENTALLY 12, with me telling you that it was like passing a hedgehog who’d found itself facing the wrong way of a one way street during the Drag Queen parade at Mardi Gras. The poor little guy didn’t stand a chance.

I’m also pretty sure that this won’t be the last of this debacle because the sparkle to poop ratio was well under what I put in the top of me so I think I’m going to be shitting holographic sparkle poops for days.

Help me Imo-Dium Kenobi; you’re my only hope…

Monday, 25 March 2013

Definitely not the Sparkle Olympics

So to carry on the below post from Charlie I’d like to confirm and clarify a few things in anticipation for tomorrows opening ceremony of the Sparkle Olympics…wait, no, that sounds like some sort of horrendous stripper games where the kind of events you’d expect to find are “Best projection of ‘dead inside eyes’ across a crowded bar”, “100 yard gash” and “Clearest heels”. The gold medal isn’t in fact a medal, but the redemption of Daddy’s approval and a cash prize to finally pay off that HECS debt. Hmmm I think I’ll work on the name…anyhow, onto the things I’m trying to say.

One – Yes, they are real pills filled with real edible glitter. Well sort of edible glitter anyhow. After closer inspection, seeing how I’d only learned that glitter is made of glass, (yes seriously… fucking glass. I’m pretty sure it was just an accident that it looks incredibly pretty in the sunlight when some sick bastard was sitting around one day after dropping a glass jug on the ground and thought to himself “You know, the only way the beauty of this moment could be enhanced is by throwing this in a child’s face and sticking it on things they love to eat and hold close to their skin.” What the hell guy?!) soon after agreeing to eat these and, crazy me, I insisted on finding out what the fuck edible glitter is made from before shoving in my face hole. Turns out, it’s not technically edible. It’s not digestible therefore not able to be classified as a food but it’s non-toxic (huzzah!) so it shouldn’t kill me.

Also, we’re choosing to see it not being digestible as only being a positive because, well, that means that it won’t dissolve in my stomach and therefore the chance for sparkly poops can only be directly proportionate to the amount of these things I ingest. Clearly that’s right because I used science and math terms. You can’t argue with science and maths.

And glass apparently, at least according to that one guy anyhow.

Two – I am in fact going to document my experience from ingestion to the fabulous conclusion. There will probably be photos. I say “probably” because unless anyone can get to me fast enough to stop me, I will post them.


Three – I’ve made Charlie my emergency contact for this so in the event that something does go catastrophically wrong, she will still be able to upload and document the events that unfold or explode. Probably explode. Actually I’m 90% sure that something is going to go wrong with this but I personally feel that if the only good thing that comes of this endeavour is that I manage to make the evening of the emergency staff at one of our hospitals, then it’s a night well spent. Those guys work hard they need some zazz in their life. No one can say I’m not a team player now.

So with that all said and cleared up I will shortly bring to you, my lovely fellow maniacs, the story of sparkly poops.

Thursday, 21 March 2013

She may die of massive internal rainbows.

The following is a conversation that may very well take place in the not-too-distant future...

"...hello, 000? I need an ambulance at *address suppressed*"
"What is the nature of your emergency?"
"It's SHINY! Please hurry!"

twenty minutes later...

Charlie Blowfly: Thank god you're here! I didn't know what else to do!
Facey McBones: *lies groaning on the couch like a cow in labour*
Ambo: What’s happened?
Charlie Blowfly: Ummm...
Ambo: OK let’s get her stabilised first. Has she taken any drugs?
Facey McBones: *giggles and groans again*
Charlie Blowfly: Define “drugs”.
Ambo: If I’m going to help her I need to know what she’s taken.
Charlie Blowfly: OK, OK... this. *holds out container*

Ambo: *reads the label* You know this isn’t a legitimate prescription.
Charlie Blowfly: I know!
Facey McBones:  *screws up her face in a hideous pained grin as the unmistakable sound of a fabric-ripping fart fills the room, accompanied by a strange tinkling noise*
Ambo: *looking around confused* Are there... bells around here? Maybe a windchime?
Charlie Blowfly:  *resignedly* No, that was her. It’s been happening for a couple of hours now.
*Facey McBones lies giggling on the couch, tears running down her cheeks*
Ambo: Why is she laughing?
Charlie Blowfly:  She’s hysterical. She needs help!

Ambo: *opens the bottle* ...Oh. Oh my.
Charlie Blowfly:  ... yeah... yeah.
Ambo: ... Why?
Charlie Blowfly:  It was meant to be a gift!
Ambo: A gift?
Charlie Blowfly:  She always wanted everything about her to be fabulous... 
Ambo: and so...

*Another earth-shattering yet oddly musical fart sound fills the room*

Facey McBones: ...I think I just fabuloused my pants...

Wednesday, 13 March 2013

Scumbag Facey

So apparently I’m a total scumbag…at least tired me is anyway. Well ok, more than usual I mean. Ok fine, tired me is, on average, a bigger scumbag than the waking and functional Facey and likes to fuck with her own head because she’s clearly not right.


Well probably not better but at least more accurate, because that’s what we’re all about here, accuracy…



Last night I got home later than I usually would after celebrating a friend’s birthday with Brinner. Yes, breakfast for dinner, it was glorious. Upon my return home I was pretty much doing the zombie shuffle around the house getting ready for bed on autopilot, or so I thought. What I was actually doing was setting up all of the items on my bedside table that have any form of writing on them, to be upside down. Books, pens, packets and phones ALL set up so that when I woke up this morning and looked at the table my first and immediate thought was “OH MY GOD I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO READ!!”. Knowing very well I'd then proceeded to pick up the closest book, which was still upside down, to try and prove to myself that this wasn’t the case at all and also knowing all too well that the book would still be upside down and this would result in me freaking out entirely until I was fully awake and realised that I’m not completely illiterate just incredibly stupid.

I’m an arsehole.

So there that is. Now you all know. I’m part sadistic arsehole; part special needs person who really shouldn’t be allowed out of the padded room without suitable head protection because I’m too trusting and easily fooled.

This post wasn’t really written with the intention of providing a Lol-a-palooza; it was more just a “this is what you get” thing.

Perhaps it was more a warning.

Definitely a warning.

The following is a reenactment of a conversation that nobody should ever have...

Charlie Blowfly:
On wow if you wanna join for a lil bit

Thanks but I'm seriously constipated and actually sitting on the toilet trying to let stuff happen. It's not. So I'm pretending to do something else like FB. I'm going to bed in a mo.

Charlie Blowfly:
Do the pooping stretches!
Makes your tummy muscles move about.
It’s disturbingly like the YMCA now that I come to think about it

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't tried.

Charlie Blowfly:
And lift your feet off the floor

Yep. Tried that too.

Charlie Blowfly:
Tried sticking a hose up your butt?

And drinking more water but now I just feel bloated as well.
LOL. So not happening.
I drank a Dare today too. It's all going to come at once isn't it?

Charlie Blowfly:
Don’t knock it til you've tried it. Colonic irrigation is amazoring
On the plus side - you were planning on repainting your bathroom right? 
...just maybe not knocking out a wall 

Let it pour I say!
The knocking out of a wall may hessian all on its own.
Happen ffs
Oh god I think something moved!

Charlie Blowfly:
Bounce up and down!!

I love that tog can talk me through a poo baby.

Charlie Blowfly:
I'm apparently named Tog now too. That’s less awesome. I sound like a caveman
*pokes you with a stick* You make big poopy now.

Was supposed to be you LOL
Oh the pike must have done it.
Poke what the Fucking Fuck
Apparently there area fish now.
Ok that's it. Auto spell, you're a homo.

Charlie Blowfly:
Or polearms
Which might be more effective
They’d scare the shit outta me LOL

I know right?!

Charlie Blowfly:
Gah I just got killed coz I’m talking you through a poop
LOL how do I explain THAT to my party? 

Sorry. I'm done now. Go back to your game. Tell them a friend thought she was in labour.

Charlie Blowfly:
Did everything... come out alright in the end? 

Yeah. My poo is racist.

Charlie Blowfly:
How so

It's Black

Charlie Blowfly:
How is that racist?
Is it because your bum is white?

I'm white and it wouldn't leave when I told it to.

Charlie Blowfly:
That’s just being a bad tenant. Talk to department of housing they've got lots of experience with black tenants not leaving when told
... damnit now *I'm* racist.

Don't ask me to be all logical and stuff this time of night. I just gave birth for fucks sake.