These are the Gods in their Towels…

Axe has finally come up with the answer to every pimply unpopular wanking-off teenage boy’s deepest aspiration They have literally come up with a new product that could possibly solve some sad poor lonely soul from years of feeling unloved.

With this new you-can-look-like-you-shag-shitless thang some tit of a teenager will actually start believing that he is a stud, a god, sent back in time to change the future of some lucky lucky ladies! Gawd, I can already see him, standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in his Axe attire, practicing his moves so as to perfect his mojo.

Mmmm, that would actually make for a fuckingly hilarious movie! I can see it now, the teaser campaign, the hype!

The Poster…

The title? Shag Action Deception!

Deduction

…Red Bull just doesn’t taste the same without Vodka!

The Ultimate Spirit Crusher

I think the weirdest thing any tart can experience in life is the convo… You know the one that starts off with a clearing of the throat followed by a we need to talk! These are always administered by some nervous version of the male species who is rightfully waiting for you to squeeze the last little bit of manhood he could possibly possess out of his shrinking testis!

Personally, I hate these conversations and try and avoid them like the plague. I would rather fake having HIV than having to face one of these little chats. The last time I had one of these talks I was settling down on the guy’s couch to watch Van Wilder – who would have thunk it that the situation would so rapidly deteriorate that we would turn to each other, mid way through popcorn making, and utter those heart crushing words. Luckily for moi I managed to beat him to the break-up finish line. Go tart!

Recently though one of my most deevine tarts has had to go through this pain staking activity and my heart goes out to her. Don’t worry babe – the sun will shine again!

Of course to the little fucker that is responsible, I hope you have mother fuckingly ugly children!

New Liver Aisle 5 Phuleez!

In the whole history of this tart’s relatively boozed up life, the past 4 days have got to be at least in the top 3 for being utterly shitfaced! Crazy B was up from the Mudder City and man did we fucking party like it was 1999!

The weekend was kicked off in true tart style with drinks at The Baron (where Crazy B had the life altering experience of meeting Pecan – totally thrilling) and then MyGrillMyBar, and of course what would a night out be without a pull in to Jozi’s very own “upmarket” meat market. Yip, Manhattanening we did go – even landed up with VIP’s for the rest of the year (I love it when Karma is kind)!

Now generally one would imagine that a good night out on the piss in this town would leave anyone with enough of a fucking hangover to stay away from the bad man known as alcohol – right? Not a fucking chance, at least not according to this tart! In fact as the weekend wore on so did the need to consume copious amounts of alcohol e.g.:

Crazy B had never been to Sun City so I decided that it was high bloody time that we changed that so to be different we decided to stay just outside of Sunnies at a place called the Authentique French Guest House. Mistake numero uno! Firstly this fucking place is located in the middle of fucking nowhere about 45km from the City of Sun and Debauchery. Secondly you have to drive through three bloody shanty locations before you even see anything that resembles a white face or a fucking sign for that matter. But the ultimate cherry on the cocktail was then having to attempt to drive down the most fucked up dirt road I have ever had the misfortune of trying to navigate. My pooooooooor car!!! *quiet sob* As you can well imagine I was not impressed!
Enter the need for drink # 1, 2 and 3!

After much debate and a few frantic phone calls we managed to book ourselves into the Cascades! Man were we gonna be pimping it for the weekend. Call for drink # 4

By this stage of the day we were so liquored up that I don’t even remember ordering drink 5 through to who the fuck knows but I do remember that they consisted of the most awesome apple n mint cocktails followed by a few more drinkies that had been stashed / stocked in our snazzy mini bar (god bless hotels!). The rest is a major blur but I do recall copious amounts of double vodies and red bull (we figured since we were pimping it in major expensive style that we might as well drink like we had no budget *lol*).

The above lead to a barman asking Crazy B and I if we were still there (ah, like duh man!), Crazy B pissing against some massive 4x4’s car tire (I have photographic evidence of this), climbing into the porter’s baggage birdcage in short mini-skirt, pretending to drive Harley and a few Quad bikes’ as well as flagging down the driver of the Miss SA LandRover!

Bee-ute-a-ful!

What a classy bunch of drunken tarts we are!!!

The Reason

This is exactly why I will never ever have children!

… and Karma shall reward you!

At the beginning of this week I decided it was time to try a new mantra – you know test the waters of something that I had never experienced before…

My new mantra? To be the bigger tart and by bigger I don’t mean compete with JLo for the biggest ass in the world award. By bigger I mean the nicer, better tart - the kinda tart that doesn’t sink to fucking annoying people’s level of retardedness and blow her fuse cause some people just don’t know how to fucking drive in this town!

Lately my Karma hasn’t been too fantastic. Case in point: I had a bloody car accident on Friday with a fucking pregnant lady – I mean have you bloody ever?! So I figured that maybe if I tried to turn over a new leaf as far as Karma was concerned she might, just maybe, kinda reward me a bit…

AND IT WORKED!!!

*victory dance*

How exactly did Karma reward this tart?
… With free entrance to Jozi’s premier meat market of course!
*wicked chuffed grin*

Lucky Number 13!

Today my Crombie biatch turns the big 2-4! Yip, one year away from having to permanently strap on her big girl panties and pretend to be all grow’d up – I say pretend cause if Crombie actually does grow up this tart will be utterly devastated and have no choice but to sign her up for at least 10 sessions of shock therapy! Are you listening schnoodle…?!

I even sang happy birthday to Crombie, in what I can only imagine to be utterly awful and ghastly at like 7:20am in the morning! She was kind enough though to not turn this little singing exhibition into a god damn ringtone (thank fuck, praise be to the universe) For this act of kindness I send Crombie loads of birthday hugs.

But more importantly is that I have a fantastic pressie waiting for her in my car – I love giving my tart’s birthday pressies! Sometimes they like, sometimes they don’t (those that don’t never live very long though… mmmm, nudge nudge wink wink Crombster!)

But even more importantly is the drinking that shall be undertaken to celebrate what can only be described as the best mother fucking day in March!





Lots of these little puppies will be had indeed – maybe even a few bottles of bubbly. Mmmm, actually while we’re celebrating we might as well just throw in the bar. Maybe even some of the barmen too (provided of course they get the birthday girl’s nod of approval)!

So to the Crombster:
Chicken you rock my world! You are the voice of reason when mine blinds me from seeing what a complete fucking flirt I am when all boozed up…

Luff you like a fat kid loves cake…
Have an utterly awesome (and totally wicked) tarty day!

Inspiring Tourism

Ok so when I first saw this advert I nearly pissed myself. I think this city should be given a medal - a medal for creativity, inspiration and possibly tying their city to something that EVERYONE spends their life chasing (if you are lucky enough, like moi, you never have to look or chase very long!).

This little tourist promoting piece of hard copy advertising got me a thinking: how we would advertise our very own concrete jungle? Am sure that the mere mention of crime alone would cause a few tarts to um cream their panties per say... I can just see it:

For the most panty creaming experience... Come to Joburg!

Hahahaha - this tart would so give up beautiful shag-stag men for a month to see that. No, no, really I would...

Conversations

I have just had one of THE most boring lunches of my life. Seriously. I would rather sit with my Nonna and watch her make gnocchi, breathing in her really old stale Italian mamma smell again, than sit through one more lunch like that...

Am not sure it if is because everyone might be bored of the others company or whether we have just gotten to the point where we have absolutely fuck all to say each other. Mmmm, option 2 might not be such a bad idea especially with regards to Tame B. This woman talks more about her fucking annoying family and crazy-ass cousin than an obese person spends dreaming about cake!

It’s actually quite unnerving having a lunch like that – every one is present and accounted for yet nobody says a word. Ever had that? I never quite know what to do in situations like those cause it isn’t a comfortable silence – does one say something? My usual answer is yes and normally transforms itself into something completely blonde and tartish *proud grin* Or do you cherish the hush – I had the whole silence is golden thang drilled into me as a snot rag!

I like conversations, in fact being Italian has taught me to embrace using my mouth *oops, did I say that?!* I meant talking ;) Either way, lunchtime was so mentally non-stimulating that I now find I have heart burn from eating my chow so damn fast! Bugger…

That’s Amore!

Love at first sight - Concept or Fact? Truth or Fiction?

I’m not sure I will ever be one of those tarts that believes in something as close to a fairytale as this age old philosophy. I just don’t think I buy it, I mean boy sees girl, girl sees boy, the world stops and enter love first sight.

I think I am far too much of a realistic to believe in something like this.

Now LUST at first sight I can do, any day of the god damn week. Let’s face it with some of the men out and about in this town as of late, there is just no way that you wouldn’t come across one individual every 2 – 3 days (am allowing maximum exposure time for those who are not as socially adept as moi) where the desire to shag them senseless doesn’t wash over you.

Love though is different. It’s more complicated. Tricky even. Crazy B I think is in love at the moment and I must admit then when she first told me about The Yankie the realist in me just thought: Oh brother (apologies Crazy B).

The notion / idea of love at first sight is just too abstract. I need something more concrete. Proof. I have loved and been loved many a times but I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that after knowing someone for 2 weeks you can talk marriage and gawd forbid THE FUTURE with them?! Far too young for conversations like that – mmmm, yes maybe when I am 35 I can start thinking about becoming a monogamous tart; you know settling down and all that jazz. Although after describing it as enthusiastically as I have, I think I’ll pass.

I have many a times been told that I am missing the best feeling ever (this is where I got extremely confused as I thought they were talking about the big O, but after some detailed and debated explanation I was on the same page as the rest of my tarts). Their argument: Love is the thing that… lifts you up to where we belong (sorry being a silly stupid tart now)… the greatest songs of all time (fuck I hate that saying) are about – oh yes cause Eminem was so totally feeling the love when he wrote all of his hits *ba hum bug*

My tarts have apparently given up on me and resided themselves to the fact that I just don’t believe in fairytales. What they don’t realise is that life has taught me that the only happily ever after you will have is the one you create for yourself. The stories we read as kids about true love and happy endings (not to mention 7 dwarfs – have you ever seen 7 dwarfs, cause I sure as fuck haven’t) are just that: stories, tales, nothing more than fables to give us hope that we will find someone someday (ah gawd listen to me, I sound like The Mom) who will witness our lives…

After all this debate and being called a cynic and aloof I did some searching – I started looking for these songs about great love that my tarts kept using as their frame of reference.

And eureka, I think I finally understand what the big fuss is about – this song must surely encapsulate all the feelings that love at first sight induces…

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

That's amore

When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine

That's amore

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling

And you'll sing "Vita Bella"

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay

Like a gay tarantella

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fagiole

That's amore

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet

You're in love

When you walk in a dream but you know you're not

Dreaming signore

Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli

That's amore

When the moon hits you eye like a big pizza pie

That's amore

(That's amore)

When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine

That's amore

(That's amore)

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling

And you'll sing "Vita bella"

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay

Like a gay tarantella(Lucky fella)

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta fagiole

That's amore

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet

You're in love

When you walk in a dream but you know you're not

Dreaming signore

Scuzza me, but you see, back in old Napoli

That's amore

(Amore)

…NOW That's amore ;)

Return of the Panty Creamer!

Today is the happiest day of this tart’s life!

It’s Tuesday – the most utterly useless bloody day of the week – and I am glowing like the sun has crawled up my ass and decided to have a mini-supernova!

Today is the day that THE most deevine specimen of male species (besides Ryk in a SPEEDO – *shivers of pleasure down the spine* the man is a god, nuff said) is returning to our small screens today!

Wentworth Miller – besides the shocking first name but when screaming out of pure pleasure I am sure one could find a more appealing name or phrase to yell – is back! My distaste for Tuesdays shall just be applicable to the day time. This fine specimen of panty creamers has made my day, actually scrap that, my fucking year!

Oh bestill my beating heart!

P.S. NB message to all my tarty mates:
Unless you have just severed a leg (or arm or any other appendage for that matter), have severe cock lock (and I am talking pain here tarts) or are too absolutely shitfaced to drive (yes Crombie, that means you), you may not under any other circumstances mentioned above phone, sms, miss call, or even contemplate engaging in any form of communication with me. This type of behaviour is completely forbodden between 8:30pm - 9:30pm. Every Tuesday has now officially become Wentworth Miller time babyeeeez!

Wanna Play with my Choo Choo?

The Tart is up here in Jozi town which as you can imagine I am completely über loving! As of course is customary when one’s fellow tarts visit my concrete jungle I have to show them the sights. And by sights I mean all the men, men, men, men, men, men. Luckily for me the males that were out on parade last night were of rather fine specimen (which is unusual as of late), particularly the guy that hit on me whilst his girlfriend was parking the car – I reckon this dude has got his shit all worked out!

During the major paruzzing that occurred, The Tart mentioned to me that she would just love it if I took her to the Dodgy Roger. I was of course utterly shocked that she even knew about such a scheit hole considering she had been living in the Mother City for the past umpteen years… I mean who knew that the Dodge had such far reaching legendary capabilities!

So what started off as a rather peaceful beginning to a drink or 2 at the Roger quickly turned into every tarts nightmare (not surprisingly, considering our surroundings)… Yip, we were approached, and I say approached because this dude literally looked like a cat stalking its prey – fuckingly charming for us! This individual could clearly not read the pure distaste and what can only be described as disgust on my face when he had the cheek to ask us to join him and his equally as minging mates… I was taking a major page outta Crombie’s book and doing my best to bare my teeth and be as nonchalant and rude as possible. This fucker, however, was on his own personal seek and destroy mission. Brother!

After 5 minutes of conversation with this fuck-witt, he eventually used the what-does-you-do-for-a-living-card (a most valid sign that it is definitely time to cut your losses and move on to greener more willing pastures) to which it emerged that he made trains. Well fuck me I thought – how utterly bloody fascinating, please can I drop my panties right now! Oh phuleez Mr Train Man! ARG! How utterly lucky and in love I felt at that moment… *gag* He even made the little choo choo motion (at this point I was starting to have violent, yet completely justified, visions of smashing my glass into his face and THEN seeing if he could do those retarded movements. Ass.)

Eventually our Spoornet worker got the hint and fucked off, but not before trying to plant his choo choo seed with some other unsuspecting tarts that had the same amount of disgust on their face. After rejection numero two set-in (hilarious) our 007-spread-your-choo choo-out-there-cause-you-will-eventually-get-a-bite skulked off after the first tart he saw wearing a shirt… What a lucky, lucky lady!

The Fantastic Four

I met THE most fantastic men last night! Absolutely fuckingly brilliant men… Naturally, as is the story of my life, they’re gay which in a way makes them even more gorgeous…

Crombie and I had the pleasure of high tailing it to The Peech Hotel in Melrose last night to get very fucking happy on very smooth and relatively expensive champers! Yay for us! Yip, we got were officially the first tarts to drink bubbly outta beer glasses (watch this space as I am telling you babes it is the way of the future – bigger glass filled with bubbly = more time drinking = less time waiting at the queue at the bloody bar = happy Clicquot day for everyone!).

Sitting with the two boys and the Crombster I realised that we were indeed the most fantastic people at this Veuve do – what an utterly um fantastic thing. Finally people as fabulous as the chicken and I – who knew?! Joy to the world…

So besides getting absolutely shitfaced on champers and then driving up and down fucking 16th Ave in Houghton looking for no. 7 (do people NOT believe in numbering their god damn houses anymore – Jee-sus!) a brilliant Champagne Thursday was had by all – The Engen even got a visit from Crombie and my twins: Drunk Us! Now there are some tarts that any man would give up his unborn children for *wicked grin*

Just a Love Machine

I recently found myself lying in a ditch, flat on my back, looking up at the clear blue sky and pondering… why me?!

What was I doing in this ditch? Simple.

I was basking in the proverbial hole I had just dug myself. Typical I thought and then I started to realise that it was all bullshit. This tart had not asked the Shoe Gods, the Booze Gods or the Gods of Debauchery for this so why the fuck I had dug myself into this fucking hole shall forever be one of the great mysteries of the universe!

This hole was all due to me waking up one Sunday morning, hungover as all fuck – possibly reeking like a bum who has been living off Black Labels for the past 5 years, and realised that I was officially involved in a love triangle! Me, the booziest fucker, oops Freudian slip I so totally meant tart! Now this love triangle is what I call extra fucking sticky because it involves the ex of a good mate’s. As all tarts know, exes are just plain fucking off limits – unless of course he looks like Brad Pitt in which case sorry for your mat, I mean if the bitch was stupid enough to let Brad Pitt go then she shouldn’t mind if you have a go. One can always use the excuse that you were just making sure that he was over her or making sure his um apparatus is still fully functional and ready to go – yes actually I think she would be greatful, what a mate!

But I digress...

Anyhoo, this ex basically confessed his undying love for moi one drunken Saturday evening. At the time, my tarty ego clouded my judgment and I found myself trying to justify why I should let him take me for dinner – I mean it was just dinner and a girl has to eat, plus it would be free, and even though is way below my set of standards (every tart has their par) I thought, maybe I shouldn’t be so shallow?… Mmmm.... That was until Crombie managed to sort me out with a slaps and a: Dude, what the fuck?! I was now faced with having to turn another man down and use the friendship trump card – you know the one that every half decent tart keeps up her sleeve?!

So that’s how the love triangle started – me, Mr Ex and My Mate. You see it is even more complicated as Mr. Ex and My Mate are still exceptionately good friends and dated for 5 years… Thank fuck I wasn’t physically attracted to Mr. Ex – stunning guy but just no fireworks *sigh* So I let him down as best as I could and I think I have managed to escape a head-on collision between this love triangle and my fabulous life…

I felt insanely bad about all of this as after all I am an incredibly stunning tart (I refuse to use the word nice, I mean what an ineffectual word – nice is how you describe your in-laws, when being PC of course) until Crombie made me repeat the following:

It is not my fault that I am beating men off with sticks
It is most definitely not my fault that I am shit hot
It is not my fault that I get drunk and then my stunningness gets misinterpreted
It is not my fault that Mr. Ex thinks I am the shizzle…!

*sigh*
It really is a tart’s life, tough at the top and suffocating at the bottom!

Satan’s Spawn

It’s official – the parental unit known as “Mom” is Satan personified. The woman has no heart, not one once of sympathy for drunken behaviour. Not one! I was in physical pain this morning. The after effects of Veuve were clearly marked by my smudged mascara across my face and inside out peejays. You would think that she would understand that a tart needs her beauty sleep (read: recovery form drunken debaucherious night out) cannot be achieved with the measly 4 hours I got…

The woman dragged me out of bed at bloody 4:30am this morning to go to gym. The cracker is that not only did I actually go, with paramount swearing, but I did a 30 minutes weight training session AND (yes there’s more…) a 40 minute walk. All I could think about was: left, right, left, right…

Although I love my Mom scheit loads she is officially an evil, evil woman. The anti-Christ, the domestic version of the devil Wears Prada, the Armageddon of my life!

The after effect of her bloody “good intentions” as she put it is that I am officially deeply fucked (DF) and incapable of… Oh fuck it I am just incapable today!