Twice In Two Days? I Didn't Know I Had It In Me!

How on earth could mother nature get it so wrong? Where I want it, I ain't got it. And where I've got it, I don't want or need it. I'm of course talking about hair.

Let's start from the top and work down shall we? After all, that's where most of my blogs head anyway!

My head. I have just counted the hairs on my head. 27. 14 ear, 19 nasal, and the rest where they should be on my scalp. Except not. They've kinda slipped towards each ear. Honestly, it's like a fight broke out up there, and the hair decided to take sides, with some going one way, the rest going the other. And they have asked my ears to pick sides. So, in the middle, is just like an expansive wasteland. The only thing that's missing is the rusty shopping trolleys, and the stained mattress.

And my ears. Why the heck have my ears started to sprout hair? My hearing is bad enough as it is, without the extra filtration of hair! It gets so damn long in there, that I could get a part in panto as Rapunzel, and when asked to let down my hair, offer great locks of the stuff coming out of my ears.

The problem with ear hair, is that I can't see it. And unless anyone tells me its there, I don't always know until it's too damn late. And Mrs B takes great delight in getting the garden shears out to hack them off. After she's platted them first.

And nasal hair. I TRY to keep it in check, but the bloody stuff grows faster than I can keep it in check. Most of the time, I walk around like I've got a bloody scrubbing brush shoved up each nostril.

And keeping it in check is bloody painful!

Guys, you'll sympathize with me on this one. But if you use your clippers on nasal hair, and the get caught, you end up accidentally plucking. And doesn't THAT bring tears to your eyes!

And then there's the eyebrows.

Now those buggers REALLY have a life of their own! NO hair clippers, scissors or garden shears in the world are man enough for them. So out comes the machete. I have to tie rope around Mrs B's waist, and send her in. She then hacks away as best she can to try to bring the whole thing under control. At this point she becomes less hairdresser, and more horticulturalist.

Right. That takes care of the head. Moving down......

My upper body and arms are so hairy, I am now officially on the endangered species list. And the fact that I also drag my knuckles on the ground certainly doesn't help matters. I am on constant poacher alert.

We have had to ban flannelet sheets in our bed, because once I get in, I can't get out without a lot of help. I stick to it like bloody Velcro.  The only way I can get out, is for Mrs B to get a crowbar, wedge it underneath me, and lever me out. And if I don't stay rigid whilst she does it, I end up sticking to the bed again, and we have to start all over. Everyone in our street would know when I got up, because of the tearing Velcro sound coming from our house.


The only bit we try to keep under control, is the back of my neck. But get that wrong, or wear a T shirt that's a bit lower cut than the rest, and I look like I'm smuggling tarantulas back there.

Now at this point, I am going to issue a warning. It seems my last blog, for some strange reason, put one or two of you off your food. The fact that by now, regular readers should know that it is not wise to eat and read this stuff at the same time seemed a bit lost on one person in particular. Bless her. So, you might wanna put that bacon sandwich down for a second.

And maybe grab a bucket.

I'm gonna go to the 'Gentleman's Area'. Bet your glad I suggested the bucket now eh?

It just happens to be the most follicle intense area of my entire body. Now that in itself, is not a major problem. But lets just say that the longest thing down there should not be hair. Every time I go to the bathroom, it involves a hell of a lot of 'fishing' around amongst the undergrowth, until I eventually find the little chap.

And when foreplay consists of playing 'Where's Willie', it kinda gets a bit boring after a while.

So, last time we did find it, I tagged it with string and a label. And provided the label I find doesn't say 'Wash at 40 degrees', I know we're on the right track. I'm thinking if we could harvest whatever it is that makes the hair grow at the rate it does 'down there', we could solve the worlds deforestation problems overnight.

At this point, you're probably thinking 'don't go round the back'. Don't worry. I am not about to talk about my hairy butt on here. Even I have standards you know!

Now my leg hair doesn't really cause any real problems, thank goodness. I have enough to deal with as it is. Leg hair is a bigger problem for women than men. Except when you don't shave for a few days, and we rub up against it. I have suffered less skin damage falling off my bike, than accidentally rubbing against the stubble of an unshaven female leg.

But just try to mention it to your nearest and dearest. I don't shave for a few days, I pretty soon know all about it. But show me a chap that was stupid enough to mention  his loved one that she may need to 'Veet up', and I'll show you a chap who is spending a lot of time sleeping in his car, with a black eye, and contemplating the error of his ways.


Right. That's more than enough grossing out of everyone for one day. Let's just hope Mrs B let's me back in the house to post this thing.

And maybe give me a steak for this black eye.


P.T.F.O.

Turn Me Into Soup Honey, But Not Minestrone.....

Soooooo. Yes, I know it's been a while. The truth is, I've just recovered from the operation to have my running tights removed. I wrote my last blog whilst still wearing them, and I was wondering why I was thinking so clearly that night.

It turns out that these bloody tights were gripping the lower half of my body so damn tightly, it was forcing all the blood into the upper half of my body, including my brain. By the time I'd finished writing it, the lower half of my body had the look and feel of a well squeezed tube of toothpaste.

But, what's concerned me enough to post my next blog is this. Occasionally, I like to check out who has been reading this drivel. I mean, these people must be off their freaking heads. Or Russian, as it turns out. For some strange reason, I have quite a following over there. Well, when I say quite a following, 3 to be exact. The television reception must be truly awful over there.

Anyway, whilst checking out how people were getting to my site, I tracked a link back to Google. Someone had typed into Google, and I'm not kidding here, 'Rate my blow up doll'.

Now hang on a minute. Rate my blow up doll? What the heck is THAT all about? I'm trying to imagine the scenario here.

Some lonely guy is looking for some action. He's fed up with DIY, and has also run out of hand cream.  His personal hygiene, and chronic acne mean he's got more chance of hooking up with a rolled up copy of a daily newspaper than a proper living girl. Hang on! Sy, is that you?

"I know, I'll buy a blow up doll" he thinks. But, having never been in the market for such a thing, he has to research it first.

Now I suspect, and I'm only guessing here, that 'Which' magazine does not review this type of thing, so the guy decides to turn to the internet. After all, when buying a blow up doll, what sort of things do you look for. And what questions do you ask?

And do you go new, or second hand? I'm guessing puncture resistance has to be a fairly high priority. The last thing you want is for the damn thing to go down on you whilst 'in use'. Besides, that option would only be available on the deluxe model I'm guessing.

And once you get the thing home, how do you start the courtship? Well obviously, inflation is probably a pretty early step I'm guessing. Do you go through the whole fantasy? Sit her down, talk to her. Offer to buy her a dress.  Or Take That tickets maybe?

Or, maybe I have got this whole scenario all wrong. Maybe this person has already bought said blow up doll, and has already given it a 'test run', and now wants to post his comments for other potential buyers.

"Having got the doll out of the box, and upon checking, I realised that the inflation valve was too big".

Perhaps it's his job. Hey, someone has to test these things I suppose. And how do you get THAT sort of job? It's not exactly the type of thing you see at the local job centre.

I guess it serves me right for putting the term 'blow up doll' into one of my blog titles. I did it thinking I would get some hits in this way, but didn't really think it would actually work. It's certainly got me thinking about future blog titles. I did, for example, consider writing this one about, and calling it '100 things to do with warmed, hollowed fruit'. However, after writing about the first thing to do with hollowed, warmed fruit, it kinda put me off the other 99.

Something else that caught my attention this week. Apparently, they are looking at more efficient, and environmentally friendly ways of disposing with us, once we shuffle off this mortal coil. Whilst it's widely acknowledged that burial is no longer practical, cremation uses up a lot of carbon dioxides, whatever that means.

So, they've come up with a new idea. It involves putting the body in water, adding some chemicals, and boiling the whole lot up to 120 degrees for several hours. This turns everything into a kind of soup, which they simply pour down the drain.

Well, sign me up baby.

Being a bit claustrophobic, I don't like the idea of being placed in a box for all of time, to slowly rot away and be eaten by worms.

And cremation would be extremely dangerous. Being full of gas as I am, I would be less burn, more bang. And whilst taking out half the congregation would be a great way to go, it wouldn't be very responsible now, would it?

So, I'm all for this 'turn me into soup' thing. It means all my family and friends could stand around this giant cauldron, and watch me disappear before their eyes. Maybe they could all take turns to have a stir. Make a wish perhaps.

"I wish this bugger would hurry up and liquidize. I'm parked on a double yellow".

And at the end of it all? I couldn't think of a better, and more appropriate way for me to go, than be flushed down the sewer with the rest of the turds.

P.T.F.O.