Nude Tuesday

I’m not sure anyone has recovered from my nude ablutions dream from last week to regale you with further dreams of public nudity and unavoidable humiliation…

Bec – I DREAM of being able to lie on my back – for ANY activity. I think it was about week 8 my lower back kicked out and the sciatica trully kicked in, so as I’m trudging through week 31, battling off a cold/flu thing, realising half way through uni tonight that “gee that feels like a period pain” and coming home to a pink wipe (I know you’ll know what I mean) I am dreaming of:
– sleeping on my back
– not having that weird burning feeling as my ligaments stretch beyond the bounds of my body’s known universe
– a big wee
– a normal poo
– not needing a toilet ever hour – at least
– no heartburn
– to be able to bend over

but most of all…
to drink alcohol without guilt whenever I feel like it.

Oh, and I reckon the incubus has a twitch or something as instead of dull thuds I get these spasms of action, which I imagine, if I were to have a fit, would look a lot like what it feels like is going on inutero.

another tawdry confession

The other night I caught a few moments of “Win a date with Tad Hamilton“. There were only a few moments as well, Chef was home, and I knew that watching a movie of that calibre when there was Friday night football (AFL of course) and live cricket on was just too greater threat to marital harmony. Plus, who can really watch a movie with the lead called Tad? (Note to self: another Philosophy Sunday topic – what is it with Americans and weird names)

But this dear friends, caught my eye and has been lingering ever since (although Brad’s butt has been doing much to loosen its grip)

World, this is Topher Grace. Again with the weird name I know, but in what is quite obviously a Germaine Greer moment, this man child of 1978 is going to be the next generations Brad. I stand by this comment for at least the next week, until the ‘who is this guy’ curiosity factor wears off.

Can’t talk…sobbing

how can you not love Ricky “you take an Aboriginal man and a CHinese man and we are the same, except an Aborigine has a much larger penis”??? I mean, puerile humour at its best. And Jai’me – I CAN’T TELL YOU HOW MANY GIRLS I WENT TO SCHOOL WITH WHO ARE JAI’ME. I can instantly think of about 10, and we’re hedging 15 years ago now.

I.just.don’t.understand? Where did we go wrong? Can we ever pick up the pieces?

In case the flames needed more fire, I watched (only in passing though) the finale of Big Brother tonight over Four Corners – as fear mongering about how many Indian call centre workers are passing my woeful credit rating onto others and getting PAID for it – was just too much for me to bear.

But once again, it returns to Brad’s arse. Sigh. You know, it has the shape and form of Mel Gibson’s in the first Lethal Weapon when he was young, virile and sexy, as opposed to old, virile and kookily religious.

But Bec, if now you’re going to tell me that you find Eric “Desert Boots” Bana sexy I’m going to have to suggest therapy to get us through this period of discovery turmoil.


PS – considering the plethora of very average porn you can access remarkably easy on the web, why can’t I find a picture of brad’s arse to post for everyone’s benefit? I shall bookmark this for further discussion on “Sunday is philosophy day”.

Our second tiff (but I totally get Brad’s arse bared, several times)

No, no, no.

I held my keyboard when you said nice things about that ghastly Australian of the Year try hard show, but if you couple that wrongly wrong favour with your wrongly wrong disfavour for Troy (taped it today, thank you pay tv), well, I’m real tired just now but the word coming to mind is WRONG!

This is so much worse than the peanut butter tiff.

On the one hand we have the lame-o, try hard, even John Howard could have a chuckle, cross-dressing for intellectuals of the Australian of the Year.

On the other hand we have Brad’s arse.

Savour those words, make ’em personal: on my other hand I have Brad’s arse.


I rest my case.


Dirty Laundry day

OK people, I have been more than willing to bare my soul on this site about the shallow, eye candy kinda guys I like. Yes, Robbie Williams, Johnny Knoxville, Jake Gyllenhaal and Brad Pitt are all bullseye targets of lust as far as I am concerned. That’s right, Katie may have had posters of Tom on her wall when she was a teenager, but I could quite happily have bared-torso shots of the above creatures sitting pretty next to Felix’s 300 rocket/robot/transformer/fire/killing-spree artworks and Oscar’s 500 you-think-Jackson-Pollack-cornered-the-market-on-fuggly-art creative pieces. Just to make the days seem a little shorter…

This white trash lust laundry of mine comes because I saw Troy last night for the first time. This is quite a lame movie, as I’m sorry, but Eric Bana will always look like some guy you went to school with who wore desert boots and Orlando Bloom is so homosexual it is way too hard to imagine any woman bedding him, let alone doing so and creating a war. So, the ONLY think going for this movie is the following:
– Brad’s arse, bared, several times
– Brad’s torso, bared, a lot
– Brad wearing, essentially, a leather mini skirt (see below)
– Brad’s arse, bared, several times
– Brad looking tortured/angry/warring
– Brad’s arse, bared, several times
– Brad wearing, essentially, a leather mini skirt
– Brad looking for revenge
– Brad being dirty, sweaty and covered in blood, guts and gore
– Brad’s arse, bared, several times

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