Ah yes, we have all done it - you know pulled a sickie for the name of shoe shopping, lunch with the fellow tarts or my personal fave, due to a fuckingly enormous hang-over. Whatever your reason, you've had to make that call. The one that tests your ability as a wanna-be actress (and the Oscar goes to... *drum roll*....)
Some tarts have this down to a tea - luckily for me, I happen to be one of them. I manage to get away with murder *chuffed, smug grin* I truly believe that the art of your sick voice lies in your ability to make it sound like you are dying a slow, painful, tortuous death. This tart is blessed with the ability to turn on the water works in a matter of seconds. Often I find myself "sniffling" and "snotting" into the phone with my boss on the other end of the line, feeling oh-so-sorry for moi but I can still hear the slight hesitation in his / her voice. This is the exact moment I choose to realise my secret weapon. A couple of sobbing tears later and Bob's your uncle. I'm booked off work, told to take it easy and just rest up.
With technology becoming such a major feature in all our lives, the art of the sms is starting to lend itself to a rather unusual way of usage. No longer shalt thou have to call in sick. Oh no that is so circa 2000! Nope, today, you simply type your little sob story text and away it goes. Of course it may help adding some graphics or even better: sound! Just imagine your boss receiving this text, waiting for it to open and the first thing it does is sneeze, cough and then vomit. Badda-bing-badda-boom. You're home, free.
Now that's what I call a fucking tart saver!
Friday, April 27, 2007
The 100th Post
FUCK ME!!!
I can like to believe it. I have officially subjected my avid readers to 100 rants, raves, stories about my piss-ups, hook-ups, major fuck-ups and just general menacing behaviour...
*the crowd goes wild*
Yes, yes, thank-you, thank-you. *Sigh* You are too kind ;) I'd like to take this moment to thank all the peeps in the my life you have been the inspiration behind many of these posts - without some of you my life would be void of any colour. Of course there are those of you that add too much colour to my life and hence drive me round the bend to the nearest drinking hole. I luff you all longtime fi' dollar.
(An arb post I know but what exactly is a tart suppose to do when she realises that she has turned a century, in posting terms of course!)
I can like to believe it. I have officially subjected my avid readers to 100 rants, raves, stories about my piss-ups, hook-ups, major fuck-ups and just general menacing behaviour...
*the crowd goes wild*
Yes, yes, thank-you, thank-you. *Sigh* You are too kind ;) I'd like to take this moment to thank all the peeps in the my life you have been the inspiration behind many of these posts - without some of you my life would be void of any colour. Of course there are those of you that add too much colour to my life and hence drive me round the bend to the nearest drinking hole. I luff you all longtime fi' dollar.
(An arb post I know but what exactly is a tart suppose to do when she realises that she has turned a century, in posting terms of course!)
Thursday, April 26, 2007
I gots a new toy!
I am THE most excited tart in the world! Like a kid in a candy shop, I find myself drooling over my new toy (much to the disgust of the new “newbies” or “matlidas” as their known around here)…
I think my new toy totally adds to my swanky tarty image and I absolutely love it – yay for me. *victory dance*
Now for you slightly twisted people out there I am talking about my new phone and NOT a vibrator. Although if I was going to purchase a new vibrator it probably be something utterly tartish and equally distasteful… Mmmm maybe something in platinum or re-he-he-he-lly blinging kinda gold. The type of blinging gold that makes people sit up and take notice! In saying that though, if you are using your vibrator in public you are a sick, sick puppy and need to go for therapy!
If I did buy a new a new vibrator I would feel inclined to give it an exotic name like Antonio or Fabio or something equally as appealing as the Italian soccer captain. You know something with a bit of Latin / Mediterranean oomph *wicked grin*…
I think my new toy totally adds to my swanky tarty image and I absolutely love it – yay for me. *victory dance*
Now for you slightly twisted people out there I am talking about my new phone and NOT a vibrator. Although if I was going to purchase a new vibrator it probably be something utterly tartish and equally distasteful… Mmmm maybe something in platinum or re-he-he-he-lly blinging kinda gold. The type of blinging gold that makes people sit up and take notice! In saying that though, if you are using your vibrator in public you are a sick, sick puppy and need to go for therapy!
If I did buy a new a new vibrator I would feel inclined to give it an exotic name like Antonio or Fabio or something equally as appealing as the Italian soccer captain. You know something with a bit of Latin / Mediterranean oomph *wicked grin*…
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
How many Camels are you worth?
I’ve been noticing a fucking shit load of self-worth, value-your-self-cause-you’re-someone-special-sunshine articles floating around lately and it got me a thunking…
How can you really judge your self-worth? Can you perhaps say that because you live in a swing dig house and drive a swanky car you are worth something? Some of exs might be nodding their heads but generally the answer is no. We’re all taught that, from a young age, self-worth is a characteristic that you can’t measure or see (unless of course you have fuck all self-worth and persist with compliment digging – such a fucking irritating habit and one that is bound to be a dead giveaway.)
Anyhoo, like I said this got me a thinking – how come some tarts have too much self-worth (thus by definition making them cocky bitches) and others have less than a straw to try and grab onto? Is it a product of our upbringing, you know growing up in a loving home with your parents instilling this confidence about who you are in you? Or is this something we learn as we get older…
I mean just how many Camels is this tart worth?
(the ideal /correct answer here is that I am priceless... Either way I am so fuckign worthy!)
How can you really judge your self-worth? Can you perhaps say that because you live in a swing dig house and drive a swanky car you are worth something? Some of exs might be nodding their heads but generally the answer is no. We’re all taught that, from a young age, self-worth is a characteristic that you can’t measure or see (unless of course you have fuck all self-worth and persist with compliment digging – such a fucking irritating habit and one that is bound to be a dead giveaway.)
Anyhoo, like I said this got me a thinking – how come some tarts have too much self-worth (thus by definition making them cocky bitches) and others have less than a straw to try and grab onto? Is it a product of our upbringing, you know growing up in a loving home with your parents instilling this confidence about who you are in you? Or is this something we learn as we get older…
I mean just how many Camels is this tart worth?
(the ideal /correct answer here is that I am priceless... Either way I am so fuckign worthy!)
Wednesdays are the Thursdays! HUH?
It’s official: the Wednesdays of 2007 have become the Thursdays of 2006. ARG!
Last year every fucking Thursday was a nightmare of a day – I contemplated many excuses to avoid getting out of bed and facing the world on Thursdays last year. The excuses ranged from having gangrene to breaking a toe, to a muscle spam (and no, not THAT kinda muscle spasm) and even phoning in work to tell I had died and hence would be unable to attend for the bazillion years! Fortunately 2007 rolled in and the bad Thursday rolled out. This is why the Crombie and I celebrate Thursdays this year with oodles of bubbles (yay for champers and all things alcoholic!0.
Lately it seems that my luck is running out.
I am no longer able to avoid hating a particular day of the week. Right now its Wednesdays. Wednesdays blow much like a granny with false teeth and soft gums (although if you’re a dude I’m sure a soft gummy suck isn’t the worst…). For us tarts, however, the mere image of this is just enough to send me searching for my hip flask!
Last year every fucking Thursday was a nightmare of a day – I contemplated many excuses to avoid getting out of bed and facing the world on Thursdays last year. The excuses ranged from having gangrene to breaking a toe, to a muscle spam (and no, not THAT kinda muscle spasm) and even phoning in work to tell I had died and hence would be unable to attend for the bazillion years! Fortunately 2007 rolled in and the bad Thursday rolled out. This is why the Crombie and I celebrate Thursdays this year with oodles of bubbles (yay for champers and all things alcoholic!0.
Lately it seems that my luck is running out.
I am no longer able to avoid hating a particular day of the week. Right now its Wednesdays. Wednesdays blow much like a granny with false teeth and soft gums (although if you’re a dude I’m sure a soft gummy suck isn’t the worst…). For us tarts, however, the mere image of this is just enough to send me searching for my hip flask!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Keeping it Clean
Apparently I swear a lot.
In reality I swear whole fucking heaps of lot…
I can’t help it, its just part of who I am – deal with it. I mean honestly, you can’t blame this tart for being a passionate loud-mouthed Italian now can you? That’s like blaming Mussolini for killing people – oh no wait he did do that…. Mmmm, ok well what about blaming Schumi for being such a totally wicked Formula 1 Driver? You. Just. Wouldn’t. Do. It! Unless of course you were a BMW fan, in which case you suck balls and therefore have no opinion.
Personally I have absolutely no problem with my vocabulary and think I have a rather colourful array of expressive words to choose from. It’s not my fault that prudish people who don’t have a life can’t see this. For instance, I have been coordinating the arrangements for Mrs-S-To-Be’s bachelorettes and pamper party with BB over the past few days – thank fuck for technology because the thought of having to thrash out details such as these over the phone or god forbid through our postal system would be a nightmare of monumental proportions! The thing is BB works at Standard Bank. Standard Bank doesn’t approve of my colourful language. In fact they disapprove so much they even took the time to send reply emails stating that my mails had been rejected... due to inappropriate content.
I’m sorry wwwwhaaaaattttttttt? Rejected? What do you mean rejected??? Nothing I have ever done or said has ever been rejected… I mean what kind of word is this!
Eventually I realised that I was fighting a battle I was certain to lose and the pure frustration of not being able to communicate with BB was enough to make me clean up my act per say (Gawd I sound just like the parental unit known as ‘Mom”. Gag). So I de-dirtied myself, tried to keep it clean and tidy and guess what…
…My fucking mails bounced!
Now excuse fucking me but if you keep it tidy, you keep it tidy. I played by the rules and still they insist on rejecting me. I ask you with tears in my eyes: What has the world come to? Whatever happened to Freedom of Speech and all that jazz that the ANC fought so long and hard for, mmmm?! Never one to give up (and of course simply to prove a point – am not sure to whom though) I tidied up my act even more. My mails were so clean that I could have sent them to BB via a virginal punani!
FINALLY: Houston we have lift-off!
If I’ve learned one thing from my whole email crisis with the bank boys is that de-dirtying yourself is really hard work. Pain stakingly, back breaking, sweat enhancing work. Something this tart just isn’t up for in the future!
In reality I swear whole fucking heaps of lot…
I can’t help it, its just part of who I am – deal with it. I mean honestly, you can’t blame this tart for being a passionate loud-mouthed Italian now can you? That’s like blaming Mussolini for killing people – oh no wait he did do that…. Mmmm, ok well what about blaming Schumi for being such a totally wicked Formula 1 Driver? You. Just. Wouldn’t. Do. It! Unless of course you were a BMW fan, in which case you suck balls and therefore have no opinion.
Personally I have absolutely no problem with my vocabulary and think I have a rather colourful array of expressive words to choose from. It’s not my fault that prudish people who don’t have a life can’t see this. For instance, I have been coordinating the arrangements for Mrs-S-To-Be’s bachelorettes and pamper party with BB over the past few days – thank fuck for technology because the thought of having to thrash out details such as these over the phone or god forbid through our postal system would be a nightmare of monumental proportions! The thing is BB works at Standard Bank. Standard Bank doesn’t approve of my colourful language. In fact they disapprove so much they even took the time to send reply emails stating that my mails had been rejected... due to inappropriate content.
I’m sorry wwwwhaaaaattttttttt? Rejected? What do you mean rejected??? Nothing I have ever done or said has ever been rejected… I mean what kind of word is this!
Eventually I realised that I was fighting a battle I was certain to lose and the pure frustration of not being able to communicate with BB was enough to make me clean up my act per say (Gawd I sound just like the parental unit known as ‘Mom”. Gag). So I de-dirtied myself, tried to keep it clean and tidy and guess what…
…My fucking mails bounced!
Now excuse fucking me but if you keep it tidy, you keep it tidy. I played by the rules and still they insist on rejecting me. I ask you with tears in my eyes: What has the world come to? Whatever happened to Freedom of Speech and all that jazz that the ANC fought so long and hard for, mmmm?! Never one to give up (and of course simply to prove a point – am not sure to whom though) I tidied up my act even more. My mails were so clean that I could have sent them to BB via a virginal punani!
FINALLY: Houston we have lift-off!
If I’ve learned one thing from my whole email crisis with the bank boys is that de-dirtying yourself is really hard work. Pain stakingly, back breaking, sweat enhancing work. Something this tart just isn’t up for in the future!
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
A Tart’s “How NOT To” Guide…
We have all, at one stage in our many drunken nights out, sent someone a text message. Normally you shrug it off as a ‘nnnnaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh’ situation, happy with the knowledge that is was just a really bad dream. As you emerge from your room though, hung-over as shit, your room mate / fellow tart etc informs that you did actually send that god awful sms. As the oh-so-familiar feeling of dread sets in (this is usually while I am sipping away on a hot cuppa black mocha) you come to understand just what a tit you have made of yourself. FUCK.
You generally have two options at this stage:
1. Pretend in never happened and put it down to your fellow tart still being utterly shit-faced and therefore totally delusional. Maybe contemplate having her committed to mental asylum for inflicting such terrible news on a good mate…
Ooooorrrrrrr…
2. Climb back into bed with the covers pulled way over your head and contemplate how on God’s green earth you are going to explain this should you ever bump into that person or any of his relatives or friends again. This is my personal favourite – I usually find that I land up praying for a swift and just death; although that could mainly be due to the hang-over, mmm…
The type of drunken texts that you usually send get worse and worse as the evening and Tequila wears on. Great for entertaining your tarts, not so great for you!
For the not-so socially adept, these are the type of drunken sms’s I am gabbing on about (with help from an email I received from Crazy B yesterday):
1. The "Fishing" Text:
This text is normally along the lines of: "So wot u up 2 later?" or "U out tonight?", or simply "Ocean?" Despite appearing innocent at first, this type of text is far from it. Sent at 3am, this generally should be translated as: "I’m drunk, horny and haven't pulled tonight. Where is my back up shag? I wanna come round and jump your bones right now!" Typical response rate is around 10%, if you are lucky and this does, of course, depend on how many back-up shags you have. The determinates of a successful "fishing" text are alcohol levels in the person receiving the text, how filthy they are, and your marginal propensity to sleep. A "fishing" text is at its worst when sent to an ex. Just don’t do it! Best thing to do is remove his number from your phone, or, simply put "No" after / before his name in your phone book as a gentle reminder to avoid embarrassing yourself.
Apparently the Aussie's have got this sorted. You can ring up a company before you go out and have a specific number barred from your phone for the night! Awesome! To think I might have saved myself so many embarrassing nights out. Dammit…
2. The "T9" Classic:
For those of you tarts not up on your phone lingo "T9" refers to the predictive text facility found on most mobile phones. Such a programme, whilst useful during the day, can wreak havoc whilst texting under the influence of alcohol. My personal favourites:
"In supermarket. Fucking Steve."
"Fancy a dual?"
This last one is also classed as a "fishing" text since, as you may have realised, "dual" should say "fuck".
3. The "Friend Locator" Text:
The only type of text to be sent without sexual motivation (or so a tart can hope). Picture the following situation:
You've just met some hot dude and your mates have fucked off to leave you to it. At which point he realises your chat-chit is a load of crap and he makes an excuse to go find her friends. You are now left alone to fend for yourself. You reach for your mobile phone and attempt to call your friends several times before realising they will not be able to hear the bloody phone ring. Great! Your solution is to send the following message:
"Wher u? Dick on dance floor" Or some other incomprehensible crap.
Response rate: 0.01%
4. "Declarations of Undying Love" Text:
No doubt the most embarrassing of the drunken texts. Recognise any of the following?
"I love u!"
"Love you millions"
"Why can’t all guys be as fit like you!"
"Missing you!" / "I miss you so much!"
"I’m so into you right now."
It should be noted that for no apparent reason the number of kisses on the end of the text increases to some exponential figure i.e. from like x to x x x x x x x x x x x x x
5. "Family” Texts:
Doesn’t happen to many tarts but for those who accidentally text the parents, it can be disastrous. Normally, the parents will have had a phone conversation with you prior to going out so they are on your mind slightly. Parents most likely to receive messages are those who are dangerously
close to the hot prospects in your phone book. For example: "Dad" will be located near "Dale"
alphabetically. My personal favourites:
"I’m c*nted where are you?"
"U wanna stay at mine tonite?" (ooh dear)
6."Sex” Text:
This is just never a good idea under any circumstances and no matter how many Tequilas, Whiskeys or JaggieBombs you have consumed. Don’t do it - it’s just not clever.
7. "The Send to the Wrong Person” Text:
Unfortunately this typically occurs when you are bitching about someone or saying you fancy someone. Their name sticks in your head when you're about to send to it... and BANG! Wrong person gets the very message they are the subject of. Although this does have it advantages, because you can do the double bluff. Want to make your ex jealous? Easy, send a message to him that was meant for your fictional new hot lover. Even worse than sending a drunk text, is phoning the person (my bad! See blog entitled “Mistaken Identity: *bashful grin*)
8. “Singing” Texts:
Ever caught yourself texting song lyrics? Shocking really isn't it! This tart has one gone step further and actually sang to Crombie’s voicemail, pissed a coot! This has now been turned into a ringtone – charming. Again, just don’t do it!
9. The "Reminder" Text:
Normally sent just after 2am to yourself. The "reminder" text is just that. You have realised just how pissed you are and that in the morning you will remember nothing. You therefore send yourself reminders for the morning. Examples:
"Say sorry to Kelly"
"U lent Crombie R40"
"Check your camera"
"Key is under bin"
Lately, however, I have been unable to set these reminders as half the bloody time I don’t remember what the fuck I am doing and most importantly where the fuck I am!
Monday, April 16, 2007
Moving on Out…
This is the new official non-official mantra of The Company.
Everybody I know has either resigned or is the process of vacating. The strange thing is that I too find myself putting my little job feelers out there and seeing what wonderful big fish bite! So exciting and terrifying at the same time.
What blows my mind more than anything when it comes to The Company is how they can be surprised when six people resign in one day?! Especially Biker Boy who has only been here for like 5 months. I mean ching ching the fucking warning bells should not only be having a major strobe fit by now but the media should have been alerted too! Of course Top Managements’ take on these resignations is probably why everyone is getting the fuck out while they still can…
The great thing about looking for another place of work to grow and force my fantastic tarty personality on new unsuspecting colleagues is that I don’t give a rats fat ass about the Tweedle Twins dropping a strop or anyone else’s bullshit cause in a few months time it ain’t gonna be my fucking problem anymore. And THAT is the MOST liberating feeling any employee could possibly possess!
Everybody I know has either resigned or is the process of vacating. The strange thing is that I too find myself putting my little job feelers out there and seeing what wonderful big fish bite! So exciting and terrifying at the same time.
What blows my mind more than anything when it comes to The Company is how they can be surprised when six people resign in one day?! Especially Biker Boy who has only been here for like 5 months. I mean ching ching the fucking warning bells should not only be having a major strobe fit by now but the media should have been alerted too! Of course Top Managements’ take on these resignations is probably why everyone is getting the fuck out while they still can…
The great thing about looking for another place of work to grow and force my fantastic tarty personality on new unsuspecting colleagues is that I don’t give a rats fat ass about the Tweedle Twins dropping a strop or anyone else’s bullshit cause in a few months time it ain’t gonna be my fucking problem anymore. And THAT is the MOST liberating feeling any employee could possibly possess!
A Tart’s Dilemma
AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!
I am normally the most decisive tarty individual on the planet, except of course when it comes to menus. Menus strike fear into every fiber of my being – sssssssssoooooooooo many choices and all that pressure as everyone else at the table stares at you hunger struck and waiting for you to complete the order so everyone can eat. HATE. MENUS.
But besides the point…
The point is that I am due for an upgrade – on my phone that is, not me personally. Now this sounds like a really simple task – pick a new phone and show everyone how coolio thou are. Of course the dilemma kicks in when you have a choice of 20 phones and they all sound relatively cool and look quite stylish. I have managed to windle down the list to four phones but just can’t seem to reduce it any further. In other words, I am stuck – fucked for choice really…
My options?
Nokia N70 Music:
Generally I am not a fan of Nokia phones. I find them dull and the idea that any Joe Schmoe is able to pick my phone up and use to it to his little heart’s content appeals to me on the same level as a lobotomy does. Although in saying that, this little Nokia looks very swanky and has some really cool features when it comes to music.
Sony Ericsson W660i:
Now this little puppy is Sony E’s latest in Walkman phone technology and looks fucking awesome – am especially leaning towards the red / maroon option. Can even post blogs from this little puppy – brilliant! Have never had a Sony before and the idea of something new kinda has the whole OOOOOOOOO AAAAHHHHHHHHHH factor for me. But dunno…
Sony Ericsson W880i:
This is the more high-tech zootier version of the W660i. Has exactly the same features plus all these businessy things as well. Way cool, especially for an aspiring tart like myself. The drawback? I have to pay in R800 in order to get it. Mmmm…
Samsung D900:
I currently have a Samsung and have loved every single minute of using it over the past 24 months. Plus it has survived numerous and highly dangerous accidental drops. So as you can well imagine I am tempted to stick with what I know – although in saying that it sounds so bloody boring that I fear I might be turning into Pecan! Shock, Horror! Plus the guy at MTN recommended this one outta the whole lot – io mean gee thanks, like you’re so NOT helping me right now…
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! What to do? Which one do I choose? I know fully understand why the parental unit knows as Dad has always said that being spoilt for choice really is a fucking bitch! Dammit!
I am normally the most decisive tarty individual on the planet, except of course when it comes to menus. Menus strike fear into every fiber of my being – sssssssssoooooooooo many choices and all that pressure as everyone else at the table stares at you hunger struck and waiting for you to complete the order so everyone can eat. HATE. MENUS.
But besides the point…
The point is that I am due for an upgrade – on my phone that is, not me personally. Now this sounds like a really simple task – pick a new phone and show everyone how coolio thou are. Of course the dilemma kicks in when you have a choice of 20 phones and they all sound relatively cool and look quite stylish. I have managed to windle down the list to four phones but just can’t seem to reduce it any further. In other words, I am stuck – fucked for choice really…
My options?
Nokia N70 Music:
Generally I am not a fan of Nokia phones. I find them dull and the idea that any Joe Schmoe is able to pick my phone up and use to it to his little heart’s content appeals to me on the same level as a lobotomy does. Although in saying that, this little Nokia looks very swanky and has some really cool features when it comes to music.
Sony Ericsson W660i:
Now this little puppy is Sony E’s latest in Walkman phone technology and looks fucking awesome – am especially leaning towards the red / maroon option. Can even post blogs from this little puppy – brilliant! Have never had a Sony before and the idea of something new kinda has the whole OOOOOOOOO AAAAHHHHHHHHHH factor for me. But dunno…
Sony Ericsson W880i:
This is the more high-tech zootier version of the W660i. Has exactly the same features plus all these businessy things as well. Way cool, especially for an aspiring tart like myself. The drawback? I have to pay in R800 in order to get it. Mmmm…
Samsung D900:
I currently have a Samsung and have loved every single minute of using it over the past 24 months. Plus it has survived numerous and highly dangerous accidental drops. So as you can well imagine I am tempted to stick with what I know – although in saying that it sounds so bloody boring that I fear I might be turning into Pecan! Shock, Horror! Plus the guy at MTN recommended this one outta the whole lot – io mean gee thanks, like you’re so NOT helping me right now…
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH! What to do? Which one do I choose? I know fully understand why the parental unit knows as Dad has always said that being spoilt for choice really is a fucking bitch! Dammit!
Friday, April 13, 2007
The Wedding Date
What is it with soon-to-be-married people making sure that all the single folk who shall be attending their wedding have a date? Mmmm – anyone? Personally the mere thought of having to find a date, let alone one that will most definitely look shit hot on my arm, is a rather daunting prospect. Most of the guys I know probably won’t ever speak to me again (I have a slight problem with being polite when it comes to breaking things off)…
My most recent encounter with this dilemma came in the form of the invite to my close mate’s wedding. I am her matron of honour – such a gad awful phrase as just sounds as ancient and boring as playing chess – and therefore am required to bring someone. But not just anyone you see. This someone has to be so delectable that the camera will want to fuck him five times from Sunday. It’s bad enough that I will forever be etched in my mate’s wedding photo’s wearing the most hideous dusty pink satin (yes you read that correctly) dress but if my so called date for the event isn’t super duper panty dropping material then her photo’s will be ruined! Talk about pressure.
Luckily I am blessed with the gift of the gab and I think I have managed to argue my case for single tarts around the world. My argument was simple, to the point and in the end I am hoping that my dear duhling friend has seen the light at the end of the shot gun ;)
After all, how can I possibly play spin the empty champagne bottle under the table at the reception if I appear seemingly attached?
My most recent encounter with this dilemma came in the form of the invite to my close mate’s wedding. I am her matron of honour – such a gad awful phrase as just sounds as ancient and boring as playing chess – and therefore am required to bring someone. But not just anyone you see. This someone has to be so delectable that the camera will want to fuck him five times from Sunday. It’s bad enough that I will forever be etched in my mate’s wedding photo’s wearing the most hideous dusty pink satin (yes you read that correctly) dress but if my so called date for the event isn’t super duper panty dropping material then her photo’s will be ruined! Talk about pressure.
Luckily I am blessed with the gift of the gab and I think I have managed to argue my case for single tarts around the world. My argument was simple, to the point and in the end I am hoping that my dear duhling friend has seen the light at the end of the shot gun ;)
After all, how can I possibly play spin the empty champagne bottle under the table at the reception if I appear seemingly attached?
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Tart and The Ugly
So I’ve decided that since technology is progressing at a rapid, fantastic rate that we should start having soapies on blogs… This first episode of blog soapie is inspired by Crazy B’s recent encounter with Cockhead who couldn’t quite understand why his past exhibit of rapist behaviour had her running…
Queue Music: Dum did um, da di um dum, dum dum dum
The Tart and The Ugly
Enter The Tart, talking feverishly out loud (cause that’s how all soapie characters roll…)
I just can’t believe this fucking tonsil! Un-bee-lieve-able. What part of fuck off doesn’t he understand. I mean I gave him a chance, even tried to be nice but he just doesn’t seem to understand the concept…
Walks to the window, lovingly looking at her Petunia’s whilst letting out a sigh of massive frustration.
Abruptly her room door roars open.
The Tart shocked and completely dazed from this massive invasion on her inner thoughts, gasps. Frozen with shock at the mere site of the figure standing in the door frame, she quickly scans the room for possible exit signs… She recognises the grotesque figure straight away – her disgust evident.
The Tart, I am just here to pledge my undying love for you. I know that you have rejected me in the past which has tortured my soul beyond hell but I cannot, actually I refuse, to not have you in my life…
The Tart motions to speak but before she can utter a word, Cockhead is kneeling in front of her, begging like the dog he is…
Now I know you said to never ever under any circumstances contact you again, unless my brother had run off with your cousin whilst actually confessing his undying love for your sister but I just had to see you one last time. I had to tell you that I am so desperate to have you in my life that I defied your wishes and am prepared, if you’ll have me, to be your (Cockhead takes a large, dramatic gulp of the seemingly stale and cold air) friend… Speak my love!
Pushing Cockhead away The Tart begins pacing – mainly because she is still trying to find that allusive escape route but also to confuse the poor fucker standing in front of her. Perplexed she says….
Don’t you fucking get it?! I mean do I have to spell it out to you, you, you, you complete imbecile of a man. Well if that’s what it takes: I – Want – Nothing – Zip – Zero – Nada – To – Do – With – You! Understand now? Still not – ok maybe I should try this in Afrikaans then: Fock Off!
Cockhead suddenly makes a grab for The Tart but before he manages to stick his grubby little paws on her, the glass door explodes and there in the midst of glass flying stands a figure…
Ass – hole (said in heavy Chinese / Japanese / hell any Asian accent) you no need to The Tart bother. I here to judo chop you here from tomorrow!
The Tart can’t believe who this valiant rescuer is – she almost faints when she says his short, marshal art’s physique. Finally she manages to say his name, in only the faintest of whispers.
Jackie Chan!
Cockhead looks terrified, suddenly realizing that his chances of survival are slim, he decides to be the true chicken he is and bolts for the door with Jackie hot on his heels….
Queue Writing: TO BE CONTINUED…
And go music: Dum did um, da di um dum, dum dum dum
Queue Music: Dum did um, da di um dum, dum dum dum
The Tart and The Ugly
Enter The Tart, talking feverishly out loud (cause that’s how all soapie characters roll…)
I just can’t believe this fucking tonsil! Un-bee-lieve-able. What part of fuck off doesn’t he understand. I mean I gave him a chance, even tried to be nice but he just doesn’t seem to understand the concept…
Walks to the window, lovingly looking at her Petunia’s whilst letting out a sigh of massive frustration.
Abruptly her room door roars open.
The Tart shocked and completely dazed from this massive invasion on her inner thoughts, gasps. Frozen with shock at the mere site of the figure standing in the door frame, she quickly scans the room for possible exit signs… She recognises the grotesque figure straight away – her disgust evident.
The Tart, I am just here to pledge my undying love for you. I know that you have rejected me in the past which has tortured my soul beyond hell but I cannot, actually I refuse, to not have you in my life…
The Tart motions to speak but before she can utter a word, Cockhead is kneeling in front of her, begging like the dog he is…
Now I know you said to never ever under any circumstances contact you again, unless my brother had run off with your cousin whilst actually confessing his undying love for your sister but I just had to see you one last time. I had to tell you that I am so desperate to have you in my life that I defied your wishes and am prepared, if you’ll have me, to be your (Cockhead takes a large, dramatic gulp of the seemingly stale and cold air) friend… Speak my love!
Pushing Cockhead away The Tart begins pacing – mainly because she is still trying to find that allusive escape route but also to confuse the poor fucker standing in front of her. Perplexed she says….
Don’t you fucking get it?! I mean do I have to spell it out to you, you, you, you complete imbecile of a man. Well if that’s what it takes: I – Want – Nothing – Zip – Zero – Nada – To – Do – With – You! Understand now? Still not – ok maybe I should try this in Afrikaans then: Fock Off!
Cockhead suddenly makes a grab for The Tart but before he manages to stick his grubby little paws on her, the glass door explodes and there in the midst of glass flying stands a figure…
Ass – hole (said in heavy Chinese / Japanese / hell any Asian accent) you no need to The Tart bother. I here to judo chop you here from tomorrow!
The Tart can’t believe who this valiant rescuer is – she almost faints when she says his short, marshal art’s physique. Finally she manages to say his name, in only the faintest of whispers.
Jackie Chan!
Cockhead looks terrified, suddenly realizing that his chances of survival are slim, he decides to be the true chicken he is and bolts for the door with Jackie hot on his heels….
Queue Writing: TO BE CONTINUED…
And go music: Dum did um, da di um dum, dum dum dum
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Rant and Slate
Jesus fucking Christ.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
In my whole entire 24 years of being a fabulous tart I have never had to deal with such mother fucking idiotic pieces of scheit! Planet Fitness has got to have the highest ratio of idiots to clients in the whole fucking universe. This company actually ceases to amaze me - they fucking send me a god damn message threatening to bloody negatively list me aka blacklist because they haven’t received their fucking payments for my gym contracts…
If they did actually bother to check their fucking banking records they would see that Momentum has been debiting my fucking account for the past 6 months! But oh no that would actually mean they had to work!!! Of course when I phoned their retarded helpline – this should be renamed as help implies assistance with your query and all these morons are capable of doing is putting you on hold indefinitely and then getting back to you with a slightly less than intelligent um – they told me they don’t even have me on record….
WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! YOU FUCKING MENTALIST SPECIAL RETARDS!!!
Ineffectual fuckers!
Planet Fitness’ entire fucking HR department should be put in front of a firing squad and stoned to death for being so utterly useless at their jobs! And that goes for their fucking futile god dam finance department who clearly has never fucking heard of checking anything!
Planet Fitness: The most incompetent bunch of fucks alive!
Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
In my whole entire 24 years of being a fabulous tart I have never had to deal with such mother fucking idiotic pieces of scheit! Planet Fitness has got to have the highest ratio of idiots to clients in the whole fucking universe. This company actually ceases to amaze me - they fucking send me a god damn message threatening to bloody negatively list me aka blacklist because they haven’t received their fucking payments for my gym contracts…
If they did actually bother to check their fucking banking records they would see that Momentum has been debiting my fucking account for the past 6 months! But oh no that would actually mean they had to work!!! Of course when I phoned their retarded helpline – this should be renamed as help implies assistance with your query and all these morons are capable of doing is putting you on hold indefinitely and then getting back to you with a slightly less than intelligent um – they told me they don’t even have me on record….
WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!! YOU FUCKING MENTALIST SPECIAL RETARDS!!!
Ineffectual fuckers!
Planet Fitness’ entire fucking HR department should be put in front of a firing squad and stoned to death for being so utterly useless at their jobs! And that goes for their fucking futile god dam finance department who clearly has never fucking heard of checking anything!
Planet Fitness: The most incompetent bunch of fucks alive!
Monday, April 02, 2007
Hangover's Credo!
This was Crombie and me on Saturday...
Man oh man did her couch prove utterly useful and oh so comfortable!
Mistaken Identity
Well I had a rather fucking bad hangover on Saturday brought on after a major night out with Crombie and the other two Fab 4 members! Debauchery was in the air like no-other… Of course Crombie and I hooked with some random hotties at the bar where we proceeded to get rather shit faced (what’s new) and we eventually managed to lose Fab 4 members 3 & 4…
So we awoke, absolutely devastatingly hung over, and decided to give the boys a ring to discuss where exactly they had disappeared to and if they got the Windhoek’s we bought for them (still not sure if this was the brand they wanted). Anyhoo, I went through the usual motion of swooping into my phonebook and dialing R’s…
Ring, ring… Ring, ring:
Crombie und I: WASSSSSSSSSSUP! Hey dude hows the head today?
R: Hey you. Not too bad actually – why do you ask?
Us: Well after we couldn’t find you last night we figured that you had disappeared home drunk. But thanks for such an awesome evening – and you were totally right the men there were just deevine! But seriously dude what time did you leave cause Crombie and I couldn’t find you guys anywhere to say goodbye…
R: Huh? Who’s Crombie…
Us: hahahaha - funny dude! You are hungover! *lol* Oh by the by did you get the Windhoek’s – said to Crombie that I wasn’t sure if they were even the right brand but figured you wouldn’t mind as we had hooked up with some serious talent at the bar which we apologise for ditching you guys over but figured you wouldn’t mind as it was eye candy…
R: Um, no I didn’t get the Windhoek’s – don’t actually drink Windhoek’s. Glad you had a good time – was deejaying at that point in the evening so that’s probably why I didn’t see you.
(This is where I was thinking since when does R fucking DJ???? But shrugged it off as a side I just didn’t know my friend possessed…)
Us: Anyway dude, what you guys getting up to today? Definitely reckon that we hit Sudada again soon though…
R: Sorry where?
Us: Su – da - da, you know the place we threw name at last night... Hullo wakey wakey??!!!
R: *clearing of throat cough* Um I think you have the wrong R hey…
(Me: Oh FUCK! At this point I actually turned to Crombie with a blank face not knowing who in the fuck this guy was mouthing who is this freak? Eventually the little light bulb in the corner went kaching: this R was one of the guys I shagged in Cape Town – whilst the phone was only inches from my god damn big mouth I said that out loud! Yes I know what a charmingly retarded buffoon I was!)
*silence from the other end of the phone*
Me: Oh shit – sorry man. Bit hungover and actually possibly still drunk. Well R number 1 here’s hoping that you have a great day – excuse us we are now going to phone R #2 aka the right R…
R: Hey no worries – was good to hear from you! Have a wicked day as well…
I mean what kind of toolish tart behaviour is that?! Why I even have this guy’s bloody number in my god damn phone is a mystery… I just couldn’t believe that I had just had a convo (particularly that convo) with the R I shagged 4 months ago and then told him to politely vacate! Great – Karma you suck balls you know that don’t you bitch?! ARG!
Eventually we managed to get hold of the right R – the Fab 4 R who of course spent what felt like 50 hours laughing his ass off at my stupendously blonde phone call. Am still reeling with total embarrassment!
So we awoke, absolutely devastatingly hung over, and decided to give the boys a ring to discuss where exactly they had disappeared to and if they got the Windhoek’s we bought for them (still not sure if this was the brand they wanted). Anyhoo, I went through the usual motion of swooping into my phonebook and dialing R’s…
Ring, ring… Ring, ring:
Crombie und I: WASSSSSSSSSSUP! Hey dude hows the head today?
R: Hey you. Not too bad actually – why do you ask?
Us: Well after we couldn’t find you last night we figured that you had disappeared home drunk. But thanks for such an awesome evening – and you were totally right the men there were just deevine! But seriously dude what time did you leave cause Crombie and I couldn’t find you guys anywhere to say goodbye…
R: Huh? Who’s Crombie…
Us: hahahaha - funny dude! You are hungover! *lol* Oh by the by did you get the Windhoek’s – said to Crombie that I wasn’t sure if they were even the right brand but figured you wouldn’t mind as we had hooked up with some serious talent at the bar which we apologise for ditching you guys over but figured you wouldn’t mind as it was eye candy…
R: Um, no I didn’t get the Windhoek’s – don’t actually drink Windhoek’s. Glad you had a good time – was deejaying at that point in the evening so that’s probably why I didn’t see you.
(This is where I was thinking since when does R fucking DJ???? But shrugged it off as a side I just didn’t know my friend possessed…)
Us: Anyway dude, what you guys getting up to today? Definitely reckon that we hit Sudada again soon though…
R: Sorry where?
Us: Su – da - da, you know the place we threw name at last night... Hullo wakey wakey??!!!
R: *clearing of throat cough* Um I think you have the wrong R hey…
(Me: Oh FUCK! At this point I actually turned to Crombie with a blank face not knowing who in the fuck this guy was mouthing who is this freak? Eventually the little light bulb in the corner went kaching: this R was one of the guys I shagged in Cape Town – whilst the phone was only inches from my god damn big mouth I said that out loud! Yes I know what a charmingly retarded buffoon I was!)
*silence from the other end of the phone*
Me: Oh shit – sorry man. Bit hungover and actually possibly still drunk. Well R number 1 here’s hoping that you have a great day – excuse us we are now going to phone R #2 aka the right R…
R: Hey no worries – was good to hear from you! Have a wicked day as well…
I mean what kind of toolish tart behaviour is that?! Why I even have this guy’s bloody number in my god damn phone is a mystery… I just couldn’t believe that I had just had a convo (particularly that convo) with the R I shagged 4 months ago and then told him to politely vacate! Great – Karma you suck balls you know that don’t you bitch?! ARG!
Eventually we managed to get hold of the right R – the Fab 4 R who of course spent what felt like 50 hours laughing his ass off at my stupendously blonde phone call. Am still reeling with total embarrassment!
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