Tasting Etiquette

My first post of the week is dedicated to something that makes this tart a little more "off the wall" than she already is... It is a subject I hold very dear to my heart. It has been the third companion on Crombie and my many debaucherious night's out.

Being an I-tie and all it was written in the stars that this extraordinary subject and I would get along famously. In fact, we were destined to get along so famously that The Tart's family owned one of these puppies and started producing some of zi best stuff I have had the pleasure of consuming - on countless occasions!

The subject? My third companion? The lord of debauchery? Who else but a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc or was it Merlot, mmmm maybe even the evil bastard known as Chenin Blanc?! Whoever it was, wine has got to be the best thing ever invented / discovered since sliced bread!

Now apparently one isn't suppose to glug the stuff straight from the bottle while singing "come and Rescue me" to Crombie. Nope, there is a proper tasting / drinking etiquette. Who knew?! The whole etiquette thing was developed to help you embrace the different qualities each wine offers. Fuck. Me. Wine has qualities? Fan-fucking-tastic!

This news got me so excited that I did what any tart would do given the situation. I googled. God bless Google! According to Google, if you're going to be tasting a number of wines, your judgment will remain clearer if you spit rather than swallow!

Now I wonder what other areas of life this could be applied to, mmm....

If you think I'm sexy...

I think every tart has been called this at least once in their life. I get called this constantly and although some tarts would think it was a major compliment, I can't fucking stand being told I am sexy. Not sure why really, just kinda have a negative connotation attached to it. To try and get over myself (I am apparently riding on a fucking high horse at the moment - yipee kai yeah mother fucker!) I looked the word "sexy" up in good old dictionary (when was the last time you used one of these things? Rather archaic). So "sexy" is defined as follows:

1. concerned predominantly or excessively with sex; risqué.
2. sexually interesting or exciting; radiating sexuality;
3. excitingly appealing; glamorous

Ok so after reading those I have kinda blown my own little discomfort with the word right outta my own fucking window but let's just pretend that I still hate the word... I mean having some random bloke call you sexy is kinda like having someone call you vivacious - I mean what the fuck? Why not just say, my fuck you look amazing and so full of life. Vivacious sounds far too much like curvaceous for this tart's liking. So the use of this word is most definitely not a good thing!

Then, of course, you get sent a mail which contains photies of fellow tarts and dudes who, by definition, would rate themselves as "sexy". After reviewing these, you will see that above definition doesn't even begin to capture the sexiness these creatures contain...

Fuck. Me.

Like I said boys, sexy... Just. Don't. Do. It.

I'm a sucker for...

Men. In. Suits.

But not just any old linen / pinstripe / classic black suits. Oh no. I'm talking the expensive kind. The good quality kind. The kind that when you rip off a few buttons in the heat of the moment, you feel the fabric's pain.

I've always loved, actually worshipped would be the right word, a man in a good suit. Mmmm, mommy! They make me want to do crazy, wild animal things to them.

The only thing better than a man in a suit? A fucking hot man in a suit. Fucking hot men in suits is my kryptonite... (and no that isn't a typo or grammatical error. It means what it says).

Crombie is different. Hairy baboons who can sing the night away do it for her. Actually, hairy baboons who can sing the night away like Joe Niemand do it for her. My guys have to be clean-cut, *cough cough* and you guessed it: dressed in a suit! So when I stumbled across this little comic, I couldn't help but think of the Crombster...

Noodle, all I can say is thank fuck we don't have the same taste in men! :)

Secret Hiding Places

Did you ever have a secret hiding place as a snot rag? A place that you could disappear to and tell the world to fuck right off in the process? I'm not sure if I did but I do recall quite a few hiding places I had as a tarty teenager... Ah yes the joys of youth and all the stupidity that comes with it.

The Tart and I had these hiding places down to a tee when it came to booze, smokes and I think condoms too but that could have been another corrupt mate! The great thing about these hiding places is that they were interchangeable. You could change them to suit whatever mood you were in or even better yet what shoes and shit hot outfit you were tarted up in for the night. Fan-bloody-tastic. I used to think that my hiding places were fucking genius and that no one, not even the almighty Parental Unit, would ever uncover the depths of my sneakiness. Today, however, whilst munching on some tasteless pasta salad the truth was revealed and I was left completely dumbfounded. Left thinking why on God's green bloody earth I had not managed to think of that?!

The hiding place? A girl's platted hair
The treasure? Miniature bottles of Jack, Vodies, Gin (and the list goes on)
How? Scheit loads of ribbon, elastics and very thick hair...

I am still absolutely devastated. To think my long hair could have served such an honourable purpose. Fuck.

Supersize Me

I am officially scared for life. My reputation for being a well-dressed, fashionised tart is ruined. My name is smut *loud sobs* And to think this is all a result of wearing that god awful creation. AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So Mrs-S-To-Be finally got married on Saturday and this poor tart, who fro once kept her fucking mouth shut and took the news that I would be wearing that dress with grace and poise, had to wear my maid of honour dress. Now the design was totally gorgeous - loved that - the problem, however, came in once I found out what the bloody hell the fabric was! Yip, I was told that I would be wearing satin. But wait folks, it gets better! Not only was I now going to be wearing the worst fucking fabric on the planet but it was going to be a dusty, dirty salmon pink. Yay for me - I could hardly contain my excitement.

But I decided that I would gush over the dress, telling my friend just how gorgeous I thought it was and a fantastic fabric and colour she had chosen (vomit bag aisle 5 phuleez!) My deepest fears were realised on Saturday morning when I had to climb into my tent. And I say that with just cause. You could literally have fitted the entire Mandela family in it. Now one would think that the fucking thing would be made to perfection, after all it was made for me right? Mmmm, maybe not... My dress dilemma only got worse though... There were 3 burn marks on the side of it, the zip was a gaudy white and it hadn't been finished!

To make sure that this tart is not over-exaggerating a dreadful and painful situation, let's recap my extra special maid of honour dress, the dress that will forever be in my mate's photos to mark her memorable day:

1. It was the size of a tent and could fit a family of 10 in it. This meant I couldn't lift my arms higher than my fucking elbows for fear of flashing a bit tit. Grrrrreeeeaaat!
2. Satin apparently stretches. Mmmm, so was now wearing even bigger pink sack. Charming!
3. That's how many fucking burn marks this thing had on it.
4. The stitching near my waist hadn't been finished and so my over-sized plush family of 10 house starting coming undone. Super.
5. The bloody dressmaker cut the dress too short. I tried changing my shoes but alas the ones I had originally chosen were just too perfect to punish and have hide in a shoe box. So I looked like a midget who had recently had a massive fucking growth spurt.

Man did this tart look shit hot or what?! Especially loved the looks I got from The Westcliff's Function Manager - yes, Andrew I knew that I looked like a complete fucking tosser. 'Preciate it. Since I was brought up to look on the bright side of things I figured that the whole pink cream puff thing I had going on wasn't that bad. I mean all in all, I guess you could say it was a rather "successful" day!

Can't wait to see the official photo's - yip, am just dying with anticipation.

The Fairest Sirs of All...

Before I begin this blog I must apologise to Fab 4 members 3 & 4 for being such a scheit tart and only blogging about the best damn wedding I have ever had the honour of attending. Sorry boyz, my bad...

Anyhoo, the point of this post is to gush non-stop about how fantastic my boyz (which is pronounced in the same fashion as Jerry Mansfield called Joffers his boy) wedding was. The Crombie and I had the best mother fucking time ever, well after we eventually managed to find the place that is - apologies Crombie. It really wasn't this tart's fault - the maps were outdated, there were no signs and I just don't have the fucking patience. In the end we made it; heels, dresses and slightly sweaty faces.

I must admit that I didn't quite know what to expect as this was my first gay wedding ever but I should have known with D&R on top of things (in a totally non-sexual way) that it was going to be a day / night to remember. And man was I right.

The ceremony was one of the best one's I have ever been too. Especially since their vows actually meant something. They focused on promising to grow with each other and that their marriage wouldn't be one of entrapment or restrictions. Not the usual bullshit of obeying your partner - I personally hate that fucking vow. Nope, D&R had me in tears when they exchanged vows. So fantastic to see two such beautiful people celebrating their love for one another.

After scoffing down the most deevine nibbles we got down and dirty - on the dance floor that is. In what I fear was a vein attempt to try and warm my toes up (I had been unable to feel them since about 8pm that evening) Crombie and I got everyone all riled up to do some major tail feather shaking. Of course, poor R was having a mild shit fit with the Dj who clearly took his job of being the boogie master at a gay wedding a little bit too seriously / far. I mean he even played YMCA for fuck's sake. Even D tried to get him to play something more contemporary which resulted in this Boogie Master asking what the fuck contemporary meant. Mmm, right, okay, nuff said...

Either way it was a fucking cracker of a day - something that I will certainly never forget and hold very dear to my heart (just like my boyz...)

The Teaze...

Firstly I must apologise for being totally absent as of late on the blogging world but life is just bloody mental at the moment plus I kinda have the excuse of being on leave (well yes maybe but not really so just nod your heads and forgive this tart, k?!)

Anyhoo, we had Mrs-S's-To-Be's bachelorettes party on Friday - which was a total smash hit, naturally - but the shock of the whole thing wasn't the drinking or strange looks we got from fellow party-goers out on the town that night. Although the looks came from a very conspicuous bunch of people. Actually these individuals, I have decided, are the lowest form of human currently occupying space on my planet! However, I was horrifically educated. This tart is by no means a prude (god forbid) but the shock and pure horror I was exposed to on Friday night was enough fro me to want to buy a Bible!

My little "night of education" started when we decided to take the Mrs-To-Be off to Teaze-Hers for a night of tarty fun with a slight twist of debauchery. Hahahaha. We definitely got more than we bargained for. First of the all, the male strippers are hardly anything to look at and I think that dear old Lolly needs to address this issue if he wants to attract tarts like me. Presently, the clientele consist of fat, old women who are clearly celebrating the joys of being divorced. Nuff said!

But besides the lack of eye candy, the things one can pay these boys to do is just plain sad. Now obviously you have the tame options such as pole dancing, body shots (note to self make sure you wear sexy underwear when this occurs. Lucky for me I was. Also, avoid the short stripper as he tends to get a bit um *cough cough* over-excited - couldn't get the bloody man off me!) and then the usual shows (which brought back ghastly memories of the ladies nights Bourbon Street used to host - gag). The interesting part happens when you are ready to start paying R350 plus. What exactly does R350 buy you, you might ask? Well, this will get you the Full Monty - yip, ball sack and all is what you get. Up and close and personal like. My favourite little package that they have (although this is kept very hush hush and we had to stroke the one stripper's ego to get this outta him) is the option of jerking them off. Oh yes, that's right tarts - for a mere R500 you can jerk some guy off while all your fellow tarts watch. What a fantastic bonding experience. I just couldn't believe it - totally fucking shocked doesn't even begin to cover this... The funniest things is that the booth next to us opted for this little number, whilst some of them were eating as well. Mmmm, yummy. When you order you food from your little "stripper boy" do you ask fro some penis on the side?

At this point I decided it was time to leave as the levels of sad-individuals was now reaching a desperate point. So we paid, thanked all the boys (for god knows what exactly) and then decided to take a looksie at Teazers. After all, it's just hoo-hoo's in small knickers parading around for a whole heap of men, right? Wrong! Now I was one of those tarts who thought Teazers was just a strip club - a totally above the board strip joint and wouldn't have given two fuck's if my boyfriend had gone. Hee hee hee. Fuck me, was I wrong... Teazers is nothing more than a glorified whore house. I still can't decide what stunned me more: the completely starkers tart, spread eagle, fingering herself in front of three male counterparts or the tartier whore on the table next to her, also spread eagle (with all her bits and bobs on show) letting some balding 40+ year old muff dive her! Like I said, glorified fucking whore house!

So after my little investigatory night out, the third deal breaker was born. Any future love interest that even so much as contemplates popping into the Teaze, will find himself swiftly kicked in the balls and told to fuck right off...