Am I Hosting a Porn Site Here, or What?

I’ve had some pretty disturbing search engine terms appear on the blog recently – so strange, in fact, I’m wondering if people are  confusing me with somethingverykinky.com. And if  they’d only leave their e-mail addresses, I’d be glad to answer their questions or offer some sensible advice:

How do you draw a penis with a keyboard? ~ An excellent question! Keyboards aren’t terribly well-known for their artistic qualities: I’d suggest using a pencil.
Groping mummy ~ Get some therapy, you pervert!
Too much soy milk hurts my arse~ Stop sitting on the cartons then, duh!
I’m going to have a heart attack.Oh my God! Oh my God! ~ Disconnect Google, love and phone a bloody ambulance!
How to have a flying human cock ~ that’s easy! Chop it off and lob that pesky little sucker out the nearest window.
What does Heroin look and smell like? ~ How the friggin’ Henry would I know? Do I look like DrugsRUs?
How do I reply to, Can I have your number? on the internet?~ Now this one’s a toughie…umm… how about Yes  No?
 Where to buy penis stockings? ~ See Bernie. She crochets a beautiful line in willy-warmers.
Tights for my penis ~ Jeeze! I just told you – see Bernie!
A picture of a pair of mens’ legs sticking out of a cow’s bottom ~ WTF?! Get out of here, and don’t come back!
Where can I buy Star War’s condoms? ~ Well, that depends – were you looking for a specific type, like The Dark Invader? Or the Chewbacca range for large and hairy ones? Or the ribbed Star War’s rubbers with a special head shaped like R2D2? Maybe you’re a single male suffering from Obsessive-Complulsive Disorder? If so, you’ll be wanting the Han(d)s Solo. Or, if you have a really tiny winky and your partner often complains that she doesn’t know when you’ve started, try our brand-new Yoda condoms. Fitted with a specially formulated heat device, once installed, your prophylactic will cheerfully announce, ‘Inside you, I am’.    

Image via Wikipedia

 

And I thought I was weird!
Maybe I start a new blog-hop called Strange Search Engine Terms Sunday. What do you think?

Quite frankly, my dear, I can’t be arsed…

Image via Wikipedia

Reading Ellen’s Guide yesterday reminded me of the good ol’ Favourites’ List. It’s not a complicated system – just a page, containing all your favourite potential datees.  It’s like social bookmarking for saddos.

My list is empty. I probably don’t need to explain why… But I have been added to five favourites’ pages.  Oh lucky, lucky me.

The first is Babyface – the original todger-flasher (short, squat and wrinkly), who likes ‘collecting clowns on the beach’ and ‘melting with others’.

Then we have Fisherman – extremely distinguished i.e. older than my granddad and author of my last ‘Do you want to see my one-eyed trouser-snake?’ e-mail.

And Bald-Brian who quips, ‘Sharks are like dogs. They only bite when you touch their private parts. Hee hee hee’.

The Octopus who’s looking for his ‘solemate’. Sounds a bit fishy to me…

Finally, the Seahorse who wants a ‘nice female to hang out’.

I give up. Really.

But, what’s more confusing than the fact that I can only ever attract strange men, is why keep a list like this in the first place? Because these guys don’t ever make contact with you. It’s bizarre, really. Like buying your favourite Death by Chocolate dessert and never taking it out of the freezer, or worse still, pulling it out once a week and drooling over it! Eek!

And as for the other two Herberts. Well, if you’d sent someone photos of your dangly bits (or indeed, the offer of such) and had been completely blanked, would you consider that person a Favourite? I can’t work it out, honestly.

There’s another bonus feature on my site, called Meet me! That’s just the same. You trawl through users’ photos, and if you see someone you like, you click the ‘Yes! I’d like to meet you!’ button. Again, what’s the freakin’ point? Because these guys do nothing about it! Plenty of Fish should really install a button, saying ‘Yes! I’d like to meet you, but I can’t be arsed to make a move because I’m too busy wanking over the photos in my Favourites’ List!’

Ye Gods, is it any wonder I’m a cynic?

A decidedly dirty date…

The worst thing about internet dating is the actual dates.  

He couldn't fix it...

Meet Adrian, aged 49, builder, and a bit of a knob. I knew this because I’d met him years ago when he’d built a shed for my neighbour. Last week he contacted me through my oh-so-fabulous dating site, and suggested dinner.

I wasn’t keen. He wore down my resistance, and we compromised with takeaway pizza at his house. Do I know how to have fun, or what?

I knew Adrian had a dog because he’d posted a photo of it on his site. A ratty looking, terrier thing with an evil glint in its eye, so I took my dog along. Mainly because I thought they’d scrap and I’d have an excellent excuse to make a fast getaway. Wrong! They immediately became the best of Pedigree Chums, the traitors!

Well, Adrian built his house and I was honoured to have the guided tour. I couldn’t comment on the actual building because I couldn’t see any of it underneath the piles of junk, hanging cobwebs and filthy, dirty dishes. It was foul! Even the dogs declined to jump on the furniture for fear of the resident wildlife…

Yikes! There's two of them!

I perched precariously on the edge of a chair, nursing tea from a stained, chipped mug and wondering how the hell I was gonna dispose of it, when the ratty dog thing leapt on my lap, bouncing me backwards. Adrian was warbling on about his new teeth, screwed in that day and giving him jaw-ache. Well, that made two of us. The terrier thing lunged at me, pinning my hair down to the back of the sofa, and started snogging my face. I couldn’t move! Hot tea was slopping down my leg. I tried swatting him away with my free hand but the mutt was on a mission. My dog, thinking Woof! That’s a fun game! jumped up and squatted on my free arm. (He’s a big, butch labrador, but he has no brain.)

It was a canine snog-fest with me caught in the middle, making this muffled, strangulated noise out of the corner of my mouth; I was too scared to open it – a dog’s tongue would’ve been in there tickling my tonsils. ‘Gerrofff….’elp….meeee…’toff… fcks…seck….arghh…’eeellllpppp…’

Adrian was completely oblivious. He was too engrossed in his new diatribe against self-obsessed women to notice that his dippy, demented dog was eating my face.

Us girls only want a bloke for his wages. Nobody’s interested in a lowly builder. Poor Adrian can’t find a woman because he isn’t bringing in the dosh.

If I could’ve opened my mouth, I would’ve put him straight: poor Adrian can’t find a woman because he’s a bit of a knob.

Just one cock-up too many…

Image by wstera2 via Flickr

Can someone help me out here, please? Preferably before I scream and scream and explode in angry frustrated blobs that splatter the walls and make a mess of the carpet….

Remember me telling you about the deluge of indecent Purple Pecker Pictures I kept receiving in my inbox? Well, to stop the willy onslaught, I added my own appendage to my profile page:

Oh, and please DON’T send me photos of  your dangly bits. There’s a time and place for everything, and ‘Hello, here’s my todger’ isn’t one of them!

To me, that’s fair enough, and straight to the point, if you’ll pardon the pun. So why then, do I have an e-mail lurking in my message box, entitled: Hello, would you like to see my one-eyed trouser-snake?

Tell me where I’m going wrong, people. I mean, was that too subtle a message? Too sophisticated? Too obfuscating-ly oblique?

And it’s not that I’m a prude. If I was dating someone and we’d already done the jiggly jiggly, and he sent me a picture of his doodle along with a witty comment like ‘Meet me for dinner. I’m bringing desert!’, then I’d be as skippy as a teenager at a Justin Bieber gig.

But coming face-to-head with a strange, disembodied penis during your morning cuppa? It’s enough to scramble your eggs…

And, for the love of Mars bars and other things holy, don’t tell the  gorilla. He’s extremely protective. If he finds out other men have been flashing their wares in my face, there’s no telling what he’d do. In fact, he’d probably go completely bananas 😉

Ether I’m a prude or you’re just crude…

Image via Wikipedia

Last night I made a fatal mistake. Well, not literally fatal because nobody died. Yet. But still…

This bloke Charliedog has sent me seven messages and four winks in the last two weeks. No photo, so I ignored him. Last night another two winks flew into my inbox, and my conscience started  pontificating in my ear. Good word that, pontificate. Anyway, I felt guilty. Really guilty and bad-mannered and rude. So I sent him a message.

Sometimes I can be so stoopid.

As my finger left the Send button, up popped an Instant Messenger screen:

Hello! At last!
What joy!
How do I contact you?
What’s your number?
Mobile number, please.
What are you doing?
How do you spend your days?
Number, please.
I can’t get to know you through typing.
You’re one sexy lady.
Number, please…

I hadn’t typed a word. Not. One. Word.

Somehow, Charliedog managed to reach into the ether and grab my telephone number. I swear I didn’t supply it  but then, it all happened so fast…And I was stuck on the bloody phone for two hours. Two long hours of my life, gone. Never to be relived.  Thank God…

He droned on about every woman he’d ever had, the finer points of broadband downloading speed and how many times he’d been in conflict with the police – never his fault, of course. Was I impressed? I think not.

Now I’m well-known for being a flirt and making naughty comments; I can usually be replied upon to lower the tone in any conversation, but even I objected to this:

What’s your bra size?
Pardon?
What’s your bra size? How big are your tits?
42GG. How big’s yer dick?
Eight inches of solid, throbbing beefstick. It’s all yours, babe. Think what you could do with it!
Oh, I am. And I’ve got just the knife to do the job…

Now, is this an acceptable way to talk to a woman? A woman you haven’t yet met?  Was I supposed to be impressed? Salivating with lust and desire?  Flirting is fun, it’s silly, it makes you giggle, but blatant crudity is just cheap and nasty. And this is one of the main problems with online dating; men hiding behind their computer screens because they don’t know how to converse with a female in real life, and some think it’s a Quick-Stop-Sex-Shop.

Charliedog’s dying words as I was hanging up?  I bet you’re glad to have found someone intelligent, eh?
Oh, yes. What joy…

PS The photo isn’t me. And I lied about the bra size. I’m more of a training-bra kinda girl…  😉

 

If you want me to fall for you, give me something worth tripping over…

Image via Wikipedia

Ye Gods, sack me now! I forgot a category in yesterday’s post. Let me introduce you to: 

Dick 007: Now, guys who fall into this category have – well, an unusual way of wooing women… I stumbled across the first one by accident, and boy! was I unprepared. Instead of uploading a picture of his face like the rest of us poor saddos, he chose instead, a photo of himself mid-coitus. A real zoomed-in, no-hair-follicle-left-to-the-imagination shot of himself doing the bizz with some fat chick  splendidly proportioned woman. At least I think it was a woman. It could actually have been a bulldog… 

In her position (pun intended) I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even want that particular print hanging around my house, but I’m absolutely certain I wouldn’t want it broadcast on the big ol’ World Wide Web. I mean, what was Dick 007 thinking? And what message was he sending out to us potential datees? I’d shag Les Dawson? 

Others in this category are more selective, preferring the er…more individual approach. Yep, that’s right – open up your inbox or Instant Messenger screen and up pops a purple pecker in all its morning-glory…

I mean, come on! We all know men are sexually aroused by pictures of naked women, but girls find full frontal male nudity about as appealing as a leg-wax. A close-up of Skippy and the twins? It’s not exactly a sunset over the sea now, is it?

Guys, there’s a time and a place for everything, and ‘Hello, here’s my todger’ really isn’t one of them.

Looking for Mr Right? I’ve found Mr-Not-Right-In-The-Head…

Good news! It’s not just me! All my friends have strange men lurking in their closets, too. Metaphorically speaking, of course… Somewhere around the fourth bottle of ASDA plonk last night, the horror stories started to emerge. It was like something out of a Twilight movie.

Between us we have dated:  

• Mr-I-Miss-My-Mommy
• Mr-I-Need-A-Hug
• Mr-I’m-Only-Interested-In-Flat-Chested-Stick-Insects-With-No-Pubic-Hair-No!-Of-Course-I’m-not-gay!
• Mr-Eek!-A-Spider-I’m-Weally-Weally-Fwightened
• Mr-I-Love-You-With-All-My-Heart-Where-Shall-We-Go-On-Our-Second-Date?
• Mr-I-Can’t-Keep-It-Up-Without-Steel-Pins-And-Superglue.

Oh yes, we’ve all been out with  him. Several times.

I mean, honestly. I know we’re in our forties.  Nobody’s expecting Mr-All-Night-Piston-Penis, but please! Is it too much to ask for Mr-Slightly-More-Tarzan-Than-Jane?

Now, had it just been me, I could’ve understood it; I’m not maturing like a fine wine, for example. No, I’m aging more like that avocado, forgotten in the back of your fridge – squishy, wrinkled and bruised. But my mates are gorgeous, vivacious, intelligent women. They have personality, boobs and everything!

It can’t be them.

No, there’s definitely something weird  going on with middle-aged men; they’re lost and lonely, weedy and needy. For the love of Mars Bars and other things holy, where have all the bastards real men gone?

Image sourced:http://www.flickr.com/photos/wasfiakab/3819296354/sizes/s/in/gallery-54369912@N05-72157624936803975/

Hey, they’re singing my song…

 

Oh come, if you’re psychotic, joyfully neurotic,

Oh come on; I’m waiting. I’m down the local pub.

Come and annoy me! Bring your needy psyche!

Oh come, let us go dating.

Oh come, we could go skating.

Oh come, let’s do some mating.

Chri-ist, you’re weird!  😀

Image sourced: http://www.everystockphoto.com/photo.php?imageId=3265139

Strange men and dogs…

I’ve never been lucky in love. Or raffles. Or even those hook-a-duck games at the fair. The little bastards see me standing there, poised with a  pole, and paddle frantically to the other end of the pond, smug ducky smiles on their smug ducky faces. I did win a goldfish once, though. It was deformed. And it died on the way home on the bus. It wasn’t my fault; I’d popped him on the seat while I buried my face in baby-pink candy floss, and the next thing I knew,  this mammoth-sized woman had sat on him! Well, the bag burst. Water spurted. I squealed.  She shrieked. The bus driver stood on the brakes. We all shot forward, and the silly cow got herself wedged in the seat. By the time we’d fished him out, poor Goldie was cooked. And flattened. She really was a big woman.

Anyway, I’ve digressed, slightly. Where was I? Oh, yes –  unlucky in love. You’ve heard of Iron Man? Well, I’m Electromagetic-Wave-Woman. It’s like I have this invisible transmitter stuck to my head, giving out radio waves audible only to strange men and dogs. It’s a right pain in the bottom. Whenever I meet a bloke I fancy, one of two things happen; either he’ll grimace and start making vomiting  noises, or he’ll give me the come-on. Fairly standard stuff so far, right? Well, if he dashes for the loo, I immediately know he’s a decent bloke with no particular hang-ups. But that doesn’t help me score ‘cos he finds me repulsive. But, on the other hand, if he likes me and starts doing the old Dating Disco Dance, then I know, with an absolute certainty, that the poor guy’s completely fucked in the head.

And then we have the dogs. Whether they’re big, small, shaggy, furry, friendly or grizzly, they pounce, they play, they wag their butts. They grin and slobber, offer up paws and cuddly toys and licks and cuddles, and all the time, wearing those daft, soppy, doggy looks of blissed-out adoration.

I’m telling you,  strange men and dogs –  they bloody well luff me.

Image: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sis/88844769/sizes/s/in/photostream/