Don’t eat my cock!!!

The things you hear when you visit your (ex) sister in law.

I was over at hers, and her chickens were moving around the garden.  They normally are inside a coop, but the dogs were packed away and there were chickens hanging out, some being cool, some being total wankers.

I really don’t know much about chickens, so my perception of what makes a chicken a wanker might be flawed.

My sister in law asks me :”Would you like a chicken?”

I think about it a bit and let her know that I am not really interested in keeping chickens.  I have a dog and a cat, the odds of the chicken making it through his first week at mine is rather poor.

On the other hand I quite like the taste of chicken, and if he was serving no real purpose, I was happy to eat him.

At this she screamed: “Don’t eat my cock!!”

As if I was going to do it right there in front of her.  What does she think I am?  Totally unfeeling?

Anyway the conversation continued and we spoke a bit more about her cock that was available.  She insisted on using the word “cock” …. I continued the conversation far longer than I would normally, just so I could hear her say “cock” a lot.

If you are in Cape Town and keen on this lad who thinks he is quite good looking — and you promise not to eat him, then Charlene can make a plan to get him to you.



Sidebar note on this guy:  She mentioned something about him waking up and crowing a tad on the early side, so if you like your sleep being interrupted by a screeching fowl, then this guy is for you.

On a similar story — Cape Town has the Labia Theatre, for reasons that escape me right now.

A few years back, there was a promotion in Cape Town.  It had something to do with “something I can’t recall” – maybe it was their birthday or they were doing something epic.

Anyway they asked restaurants to get involved.  At that stage I had a family member who worked at a popular burger restaurant in Long Street, and she put a “Labia Burger” on the restaurant’s menu.

She did not or could not make the connection. And she kept saying “It’s for the Labia Theatre …” and I kept going: “Yes, I see that….but it’s a labia burger …….. ”

Anyway, so that is my post about the Labia, and a plea of not eating the cock mentioned above.

That, I think is enough from me for one day.

It’s only taken about 20 years or so to get a tattoo …..

I may or may not have told this story before, if I have then forgive me, and just read along like you have never heard it before.

I have always been captivated by tattoos.

I am a visual person – I love art, I love logos, I practically mess in my pants (in a good way, not like the bad way in the previous post) when I deal with Pantone colours.

Tattoos are art.  One gets good art, bad art and everything in between.  Art is not always about the image before you, it is about how that image makes you feel when you look at it.  Art is something that connects with you, it could be that you are drawn to something, or you could be repulsed by something.  Art is when that feeling is created in us as humans.

I am often intrigued at the decision processes people make when deciding on an image that will be on their body for ever.

This is not something I would embark on lightly.

I recall when I was about 13, I saw this girl at the local public swimming pool, she was probably 16 years old.  She was decked out in blue shorts, a white shirt that had an off the shoulder thing going on, as well as a “captain’s hat on her head (I added the location, as sometimes people need clear instruction to have a visual).

To make her even cooler, and right there I would have contemplated sleeping with her, she had an anchor on her left arm/bicep.

She was the coolest girl I had ever seen, and keep in mind we are talking 1986, so tattoos were not common place.

I wanted to be her.  I wanted her tattoo.   I wanted the entire sailor outfit.  Unfortunately I was tall, skinny and gawky and the chances of me being able to pull that lot together would have been a “non starter” to say the least.

So my fascination with tattoos started and has remained.

Every few years I get this “okay, I am going to get a tattoo” bug and I find an image that I think is “the one.”  I am certain I want it on my body forever.  Then I put the image in my diary and commit to having it there for 6 months, if in 6 months the feeling is still the same, then righto, we are off for a tattoo.

And that would seem where the “rub” was.  I never liked an image 6 months later.

The initial feeling that it roused was no longer there.

I have avoided the “what’s popular” tattoos that have become er p0pular in the last few years.  Nearly everyone is tattood nowl.

It’s no longer considered this side line, alternate, only for bikers, chain gangs and people who need to be reminded what their chidlren’s names are.  It seems it is de rigueur for anyone and everyone to get one or two tattoos.

My journey has been a long one.

I have dragged around a lot of images over the years.  I have crumpled up many and thought and thought, and basically realised nothing resonated with me that long.

Until I found an image that did.

It started with a fox.  It was not tattoo related at the time.

I started looking at the fox and his qualities and why I found the fox such an alluring animal.  In stories he is always perceived as being cunning, but aloof.  When I started reading fox qualities, they often referred to the fact that the fox is quite a small hunter, he does not have the advantage of size, so he needs to be cunning and clever to catch his prey.

He is often considered aloof.  In fact he is a very social animal.  This is clear to see when there is a group of foxes that live together.  They are loving, playful and caring to one another.

I liked this concept.  And so it began.  The fox started to resonate with me, I looked at images and ideas I liked.  At this point, purely as an interest exercise.

I saw images that my brain converted to tattoos and I was hooked.

I built up various images and ideas, and finally after what feels like nearly all my life I decided to get a tattoo.

I chose to have it over my birthmark.

I have a dark birthmark just above my left hip.  Its about 110 mm (across) and 50mm high and in varying degrees of dark brown – the shape of a rugby ball.  When I was small it was a real issue for me, and I was embarrassed by it.


Through my teens it was also something to be embarrassed about – its not an area of my body I have to show anyone, so if I can avoid it, I don’t.  I did not get ripped off about it, as most people did not see it, so there was no reason to mention it.  I always wore a full piece swimming costume to cover it up.

I eventually became immune to it in my late 20’s, and now it is just there.

I decided to look at a tattoo and have it done over the birthmark.  I started with Ant over at Metal Machine Tattoos nearly a year ago, discussing some ideas and we sort of kept it as a casual discussion.

I went to him with a real sit down idea, and book a consultation around May.

We looked at the image, he had it tweaked a bit and then the decision was made to get started.  This was the inspiration, but the final piece has the fox dreaming with only one circle moving around him, and colour is used.


The first session was 4 1/2 hours (I fell asleep twice in two of the sessions).

The second session was about an hour and concentrated on the fine black details in the ‘dream circle’ images {This was up against my ribs, and felt like I was being cut with a scalpel, less than enjoyable – no sleep in that hour, some sobbing, but no sleep}.

There was some departure from the original image, in that the total size was going to be about the size of my hand.

When we started to position the fox so that it covered the birthmark, we needed to increase the size, and then it grew into a fair sized piece – actually far bigger than I had originally planned/imagined.

I have my third, and possibly last session this Friday.

There was one hare that Ant did not get to, the detail in this piece is incredible. I am going to ask him to make the colour of the hair the same as Parker – so he will have a spot over his one eye, and also a patch on his back.

My thoughts on tattoos have definitely shifted.

I do not show my tattoo to everyone who will look, it is still my private tattoo.

It is far more gorgeous than I thought was possible.

Ant did some wonderful work, and the sleeping fox looks like he is sleeping.  The detail he has included is mind blowing.  He added colour, and he pretty much worked off his own palette for that, I am so impressed.   I popped in at my dermatologist for something else, and he took a look at it — you can’t even see I have a birthmark, so that is incredible.

I found the tattoo process extraordinary, and do not think I can explain it.  It was not a case of lying in a chair and having someone tattoo you.  It’s not something someone does to you — it’s something you are experiencing.

Something in me shifted whilst the process was going on.   “Getting a tattoo” suddenly felt like “an experience” that I was having.  It felt different to all the other experiences I have had in my life.

I have no idea what happens when other people have a tattoo – but there is something almost “spiritual” that is occurring for me – I wish I could describe it.

I am very fond of my tattoo – I am really looking forward to Friday.

I will get to the point where I will show it around, but for now I prefer it to be “my little secret” that I get to look at.

I also understand how people get one, then immediately plan another and another.  I am already planning number two.

So that’s it then ……

Reluctant Mom speaks about shitting in her pants and trying to retain some dignity ….

The one where Derick Watts & The Sunday Blues have absolutely nothing to do with me shitting in my pants ….. but it still happened …………..

When I am feeling a bit low on life, and need something to really laugh about I tend to go and find the work of Derick Watts & The Sunday Blues.  I have no idea how I found them the first time, but crikey they make me laugh.

{In case you can’t view the embedding and need to hop along to YouTube to go and look at the video –}

I sit there in amazement with my jaw slightly unhinged going “what …. what …….what?”  At the same time I am snorting Med-Lemon out of my nose.  Oh the joy.

Med-Lemon is not my drink of choice, but I seem to have come down with the makings of a cold/flu.

I already had that stupid one that takes two months to move through your system.  Several days of coughing, hacking and trying to lie there long enough to die.  That one.  I did that already.  It wasn’t fun then, and it is hardly going to be fun now.

I tend to wait things out.  I prefer not to rush off to the GP — I like to sit there and simmer in my snot and mucus for a bit to see if my body can get it’s shit together and make itself better.

Sometimes you need to call in the big guns and take the anti-biotics.

She gave me a script for two courses, but told me to take the one, and once it is finished, see if I felt better (i.e. my chest had cleared) and I no longer had a shiny top lip from snot.  If I did, then yay, if not then I should pop along and do another week of the anti-biotics.

My GP told me in a very clear voice – get a pro-biotic, take it with these anti-biotics.

Of course I nodded and thought, chick, you have no idea how bullet proof I am.  I sometimes only go to the toilet to do a number two every 5 – 7 days.  What is this rather large pill that does not look unlike a suppository going to do to me?

I laugh in the face of fear!! Ha fucking ha!

I will confess I started to feel a bit …. shall we say jelly belly at a certain point.  I thought, well, more coming out, must surely be a way to lose weight.  Surely?  So I left it be.

It seemed I did need a second course.  The flu/cold/lurgie was stuck in my chest and I was talking like the Marlboro man trying to make a living as a telephone sex worker, but failing. Horribly.

Same routine, filled script – the pharmacist looked at me and in a very serious tone said:”You need to take a pro-biotic with this stuff!”  She said it twice.  And talked slowly so I was sure to hear.

I did hear, though it was tricky over the gurgling in my intestines.

Needless to say I ignored all the advise given to me.

Needless to say, I learnt in real terms what the phrase “shit myself ” meant.

It was incredible.  If it was not so gross and alarming, I would actually tell this story over dinner.  What ever I put in my mouth, would appear in what would feel like moments later in what can only be described as a peanut butter milkshake.

Sweet Jesus.  I think I might have started to pray at one point.

I developed a close and someone dependent relationship with my porcelain throne.

The incident, when I knew that things had gone horribly wrong, and I am not making this up …. I wish I was, goes a bit like this.

I wake up in the morning.  I had been out on a date the night before, and the end of it appeared a little sketchy in my minds eye.  But that is not unusual.  Some times I black things out for my own safety.

I noticed I was super clean and my hair had been washed – I had gone to bed with my hair wet.  Something I do in Summer, but not in Winter, and the weather was sort of in between.  All seems unremarkable at this stage.

I get out of bed, feeling sort of okay, go to the bathroom – as you do.

I glance around for my clothing that I wore the night before, and they are not lying on the bathroom floor, where I usually deposit them.  Interesting, I think.  I go along to the wash basket and my clothing is not there.

Now I am getting slightly worried/concerned.  I have a bit of a blank space in my memory banks, and right now working out where my clothing is, is creating a slight bit of anxiety and panic.

I am not sure why, but I decide to take a shower – no I am not sure either, so I pull the shower curtain back and there are my clothing.  All in a pile.  Wet in the corner.

I think ….. things are getting stranger here by the minute.  What the fuck went on here last night?

I pick my clothing up with a really confused look on my face.  And the penny drops, as well as what ever is left of my intestines out via my sphincter muscle.

I appear —- yes, you heard it here —- to have pooped myself.  Copiously.

I am not going to go into a huge amount of detail here as I actually do want to attempt to retain some dignity.  But if you imagine one of those large (buy more and save types) jars of peanut butter, and just smudging it all over your undergarments, your pants and various other areas, you will sort of get a hint of what I was looking at.

Only a hint!

I am the person who cannot use the toilet in a strange house.  Or if there is anyone in the house who knows I am going to the toilet, I can’t go.  I like to keep my ablutions on the down low.

I am standing there trying, with ever fiber of my being to remember how this happened, when this happened, and more importantly who was witness to this cataclysmic shit attack!!

I showered the shit off my clothing, realising and accepting that this was truly a low point in my life.

I was clean …. now, but clearly there was shit on me in the last 12 hours.  I emptied another “shower gel” that promised all sorts of calm and to lower my anxiety if I used it.

I then washed everything in a bucket, and snuck the wet clothes into the laundry basket with a very weak excuse as to why there were wet.  {When you are lying to your Housekeeper, you know you have sunk to an all time low}

It posed several questions:

1.  Why was I in the shower with all my clothing ON?

2.  How long before I had the shit attack did I get into the shower with all my clothing — because maybe I realised it was a hum dinger and I was not going to make it with all the buttons, belt and other stuff?

3.  Or had the shit fest already started and I realised the only way to save any of my dignity was just to get in the shower?

4.  At which point should I call the date from the night before to get an idea as to whether I had taken a crap in his car, on his seat, and in my clothing?

5.  The time line, logistics and the WHAT THE HELL are so disturbing, and there are so many rather unpleasant permutations that I chose to just not think about it at all.

6. I practiced “acceptance” and peace with the universe and all that stuff  I also got myself some pro-fucking-biotics as fast as I could leave the house and not have to drop a shit bomb on route.

7.  The pharmacist said: “take two now” I popped the pack open and took two in front of him – I used my contact lens saline as a liquid to wash it down with.  Not pleasant for the record.  He realised he was experiencing a bit of strange, so he nodded, and said “it should be fine but if you have a loose stool then take another one” …….. I nodded at him knowingly, like I had just written the book on loose stools.

As an adult standing watching what can only be described as a car wreck in your pants as they lay in the shower, does not have much in the way of “hey here is the upside.”  Nothing you can say can add a happy spin here.

I was absolutely and totally mortified.  I still am.

But you know how the old saying goes, SHIT HAPPENS!

{the “date” did contact me the same day and told me that it was the greatest date he had ever been on, and that we should do it again soon ….. and then tried to set up another date.  I am not sure what I did, and I am not really into scatophilia or scatting if that was what happened – the fact that there were a few hours there where I have a bit of a blank spot and it ended up in shit smeared clothing, sort of ended the potential romance there.  

I did go on another date with him – a lunch date — yep, the date that tells you this is going no where, just to check if I actually did do anything that I need to be worried about.  

He was delighted to see me, and I could see he was all “keen and all smiles” which made me think that maybe I had not taken a dump in front of him.  

Either way after that I said “bye” in that way you do when you actually mean “listen, this is not happening, it is you, not me, me I am fucking hilarious, and I am afraid that I might break you or distort your perception of reality, so I am going to say thank you very much for lunch, and wish you well – but I won’t be getting matching tattoos and we will not be seeing each other again” …. it is a very loaded “bye” and to do it right, you need to do that distance hug with two taps on his left hand shoulder, just to be clear that this, my friend is not going anywhere……}

I saw this a little while ago on Craig’s List — it is a bit of a long read, but damn it is funny and worth the extra cup of tea:

The image is too small to read, so I have added the copy so you can read it —- enjoy:

Craigs List

To the woman that crapped in my car… (NE Portland)

We met on Craigslist so I am hoping that this post finds you. I know that it could quite possibly be the most humiliating first date that you have ever been on, but I am willing to look past that.

I thought we had chemistry sitting at McMenamins sharing that basket of Cajun Tots while drinking the Terminator Stout. I really felt like there was a connection there. I found you to be intelligent and witty and looked forward to further conversation with you.

At some point in life, everyone has gambled on a fart and lost. It just happened to be on a first date in the passenger seat of my car. Please don’t feel bad. The package I sent you with Pepto the next day and the note that said “First dates are always a crap shoot. Call me” was meant to be funny, not offensive.

I have gambled on a fart and lost on multiple occasions. The first time I did it was very memorable. It happened when I was five and sitting on my uncle’s lap. I am lactose intolerant, but love cheese. I probably win 95% of the time, but I don’t think anyone wins 100% of the time. That’s why they call it “gambling”. I’m the last person to judge you for crapping your pants. In fact, I am impressed by your boldness. The timing on the other hand, could have been a tad bit better…like when you’re not sitting on a heated leather seat…

What I am trying to say is that if you want to go out again, I would be more than happy to take you someplace where we can get a meal that is high in fiber and less taxing on the digestive tract.

I await your call,

P.S. – If you shat yourself on purpose to end the evening early…Touché…