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!