So it seems one of my written works has inspired other written works from one of the country’s serving members of military. Words much cleverer and funnier than mine. (Is cleverer a word?)
Back in July, I wrote my column for Darwin Life Magazine on Manscaping . It was an article inspired by the magazine’s Business Development Manager, who when I asked her what I should write about (I’m ALWAYS open to suggestions by the way…) mentioned the fact that everywhere she turned there were metrosexuals.
I closely studies metrosexuals for the next 2 weeks and realised yes – they were everywhere. I followed them in shopping centres to see what they purchased and where. I checked out their shoes, their clothing, and their personal grooming.
Then shazam! There it was – the common denominator. NONE of them had facial hair. Many of them had no chest hair. I can’t say whether they had trimmed the hedges at the base of the trunk because I thought it was best that I DIDN’T follow them into the men’s room. I mean, I’ve done it before, but only when the ladies room is full. And I always knock first!
Anyway… my observation was enough to inspire the column.
Darwin is a town heavily populated with young males so I figured the column would be relevant. Interestingly, a whopping 15% or more of the total population are members of the military, many of whom I noted during my weeks of stalking research, were extremely well groomed. And the few that I am friends with are super stylish when they’re not in their khakis. But I always have this sense that they are seriously macho-hero-Rambo-ready-to-annihilate-and-not-afraid-of-a-damn-thing type of guys.
Blood and guts? Open wounds? Puh! Just another day at the office.
So when this response to my Manscaping column came to me from someone signed ARMY POET I was a little surprised. Aren’t army types supposed to be tougher than this?
Here is the poem. It’s hilarious, and you have to read it like a limerick. (eg. There once was a man from Nantuckett).
Whilst considering the issue of hair
On backs, cracks…in fact anywhere
I looked down below
And thought “Yes, have a go!”
And decided on being quite bare.
To the bathroom, I raced for a razor
Will she like it? Perhaps it might phase her
Now as a bloke I must ask
With dangly bits to this task
Would it be any safer with laser?
But now is the time to be brave
Covered in foam I psyched up for the shave
Lathered in snow
Hey where’d my balls go?
Then a frightened willy gave me a wave.
My quad blade Gillette went berserk
Like a crazed shearer I tackled the work
Foam, blood and hair
Sprayed everywhere
And I shrugged off the pain with a smirk.
Blood dripped from my arse to the floor
My dick lost an inch maybe more
From a slit in my sac
I put a testicle back
No wonder my scrotum was sore!
And now I give blokes this advice
Before shaving your privates – think twice
Just let the girls with the bush
Decide on their tush
Cos being gelded aint nice!
(NB: This is an extended version of the article appearing in the October issue of Darwin Life Magazine)
I’m talking about the man cave. The boy’s room. That designated area in the home for all things mannish. Whether it’s a tin shed, a study, or that spare room upstairs; the man cave is fast gaining popularity among today’s men. In fact some people ‘unofficially’ plan the room when they’re building or buying a new house.
If you’re a female and you’re wondering what the hell I’m talking about – I’m actually referring to those guys that have a special room of their own in the house or on the property to watch sports – or Jason Statham movies, to play pool, drink beer, and discuss their favourite thing about Jessica Alba and the best way to barbecue a rump steak.
It provides a place for masculine reinvigoration and salvaging male ego. The activities inside are designed to help men rejuvenate, and reclaim their feelings of manhood. Where guys are free to smoke, yell at the TV, work-out, entertain mates, and you know… slay dragons if they want.
The bottom line is that it’s the man’s area, under his control.
The official term “man cave” seems to have come about only in recent years, but the idea is as old as man himself. Indeed, at one time men DID live in caves, which served as effective protection from the elements.
Perhaps the modern phenomena of man’s need to isolate himself in personal bliss and privacy is derived from this basic instinct – that of protecting himself from the elements. Modern day elements such as TV shows like Desperate Housewives. Music by Taylor Swift, or Michael Buble, and possibly more dangerous elements like nagging wives and screaming children.
Think about your dad. If he had a shed which he would retire to at some point before or after dinner – he had a man cave. Despite the fact that he was probably being productive, (unlike men’s rooms of today), it was still his zone. Your mum probably only ever went in there to tell him dinner was ready. It was your dad who designed the shed and decided where to put stuff. Men don’t usually get this privilege inside the home, in many cases – not even their own bedroom. So it seems fair that guys might want an area at home where they have complete say-so.
I spoke to a well known Darwin bloke who wishes to remain anonymous. Probably because his man cave (known simply as ‘The Shed,’) is in his words – “kick-arse.” He tells me that his space is a work in progress.
The Shed, set on a 13 acre property is like nothing you’ve seen before. There’s a big TV, monster stereo, air hockey, pool table, foosball, dart board, shooting game, Daytona game and pinball game. The Shed also includes original pieces of furniture from well known Darwin drinking holes AND a WW2 (hollow) bomb. Just – cool STUFF.
‘Cool stuff’ seems to be a pre-requisite for a Man’s Cave. No longer satisfied with a shed full of tools, the man cave must now be decorated, and something the man can boast about and show off to his mates with.
And just like men can’t speak shoe and think we’re crazy for wanting so many, most women don’t get the man’s room obsession.
The process whereby man fervently desires gadgets and toys for his room, and spends many months hunting down the best possible deal. When plasma/speaker/computer-game/leather recliner prey is finally sighted and killed at Harvey Norman, it’s dragged back to the cave by triumphant man who waits for ‘oooh-aaah’ accolades from woman. Woman gives large items in room disinterested glance and wanders off. Man proudly assembles his ‘cool stuff’ over the ensuing months, whereby he receives several high fives from his mates.
Quite possibly – the man cave is the new form of penis extension.
I ask my Darwin friend what any man considering creating his own space should start with. Just to confirm my theory of cool stuff. “Loud music and a beer fridge,” he laughs, “but you’ve also got to have something you can stand around and do.”
Traditionally, man caves are designed to keep women and children out, but The Shed, he says, is “not a boys club, although girls tend to not stay too long.”
He claims only part of it is about escaping to a man’s world. Hmmm…. Maybe.
But considering that man caves in various forms have been around for centuries, history dictates otherwise.
Consider some historical examples:
The man cave of Thomas Jefferson, was his entire house – which was actually a study full of books, paintings, and tools for writing.
Mark Twain who often spent the summer with his sister, needed somewhere to get some work done. Twain built himself a writing hut on her property where he was free from distractions, inspired by the setting, and could write in peace and quiet.
In addition to being a statesman, Winston Churchill was also a talented artist. He loved to paint so much that he built himself an art studio in his estate’s garden. When he felt the “Black Dog” of depression, he would retreat to his studio and keep the darkness away by painting.
After Theodore Roosevelt’s Dakota cattle business failed, he returned to New York and built a home in Oyster Bay. There – he would go to relax, romp in the woods, and revitalize his man spirit. The crowning manly jewel of the house was his trophy room where he kept his collection of dead wild game.
In even more ancient times we see proof. Elijah from the Bible also had one:
1 Kings 19:9 – And he came thither unto a cave, and lodged there; and, behold, the word of the Lord came to him, and he said unto him, What doest thou here, Elijah?
From this it’s clear that Elijah was simply taking a break from it all, and he possibly responded to the Lord with, “Gee Lord, I was just relaxing in my man cave, sheesh!”
And so we see – the man cave or boy’s room is nothing new. But I think the reason it’s making a huge comeback – in a more commercial, decorated, 21st century kind of way… is this: In the old days, men were the head of the home. These days, it’s the woman who occupies the title of ‘Household CEO.’
We are the ones who tend to have final decisions on purchases for the home like cars or furniture. On holiday destinations, on schools for our children… almost everything.
I can therefore understand why it might be prudent for the man to have his own space; A scented candle-free zone that represents who he is – where he can just, be.
How often do you think about sex? Constantly? Or does it just….pop up…once in a while? One popular study urban myth suggests that men think about sex every seven seconds.
Seriously? Every seven seconds? How does THAT work! Particularly if say, you are the Leader of the Free World, or an International Tennis Sensation or actually… just trying to shave your face?
Comparatively of course, women think about it every seven days. But then again there are days when I think about the block of chocolate in the fridge every seven seconds, so I guess it’s possible. Although with sex, you wouldn’t accomplish much besides staring into space with ‘wood.’
Tiger Wood? Yes Tiger would!
And if it’s every seven seconds, how long does each thought last? Surely not seven seconds.
And how was this seven second theory researched? Did they get a bunch of blokes into a room with pen and paper and say, “Please keep a tally of every time you think about sex?”
And was Pamela Anderson conducting the survey? Because that may explain the theory. Every male participating in the study would be hoping she would strip down to her red swimsuit at any given moment.
I would like to have personally conducted that survey after giving birth, wearing a shapeless pair of tracky-dacks and a t-shirt with a trail of white sludge down my back from where the baby did one of those sneaky over-the-shoulder vomits. Because this would give us a more realistic result – yes?
Whatever the basis of the theory and no matter its validity – at least this gives us women the reason that men never really listen. How can they possibly hear, “Can you please pick up a carton of milk?” when they are deep in thought about burying their face into an entirely different milk source.
A more believable study recently conducted by Onepoll.com showed that men thought about sex thirteen times a day, in contrast to women – who think about it five times. It also revealed that this is the case whether the subject is having a dry spell, or hitting the jackpot.
Five times still sounds generous to me. Unless we’re talking about those times when a woman’s partner is asking her for sex, and she’s saying on five different occasions, ‘Seriously? Right now?” Does that count as ‘thinking about sex’? Or maybe she’s saying ‘giddy-up’ five times a day and they’re dancing the horizontal mambo. Or the hippy-hippy shake. Or something.
Researchers also found that men think dinner and a massage get us women in the mood. Interesting, since Ryan Reynolds without his shirt on does the trick for me. And apparently – women believe music and cooking get the man ready to ‘tap that.’
Really? Who ARE these women? They go to all the effort of arranging Barry White and roast beef? Because usually me saying “Wanna see my boobs?” is the only green light required.
Meanwhile, I wonder if that chocolate is still there…
I remember at age 14, watching TV and seeing something remarkable. Magnum P.I. His name was Tom Selleck and he was Hubba-hubba Ding-ding! It’s etched on my brain forever because it’s the first time I felt attraction towards a man with a chest of hair. And as I sat there staring at the screen, hypnotised by the follicular growth that would make a gorilla jealous… I knew at that moment! I’d become a woman!
These days most men have received the memo: Body grooming is good. It became popular around the same time as the birth of that new word – Metrosexual. A time when Queer Eye for the Straight Guy was a top rating show. Yes– what was once considered feminine practice has become the norm amongst even the blokiest of men. No longer just for frou-frou, fastidious guys anymore, routine maintenance is almost expected. It’s not unusual for men to be dipping their manicured fingers into your night cream. It’s also not uncommon for the uber-masculine to be manscaping: Removing body hair; trimming the hedges and de-forresting the trunk.
Some believe you’ll not only appear cleaner, but you’ll also enhance muscle definition and keep the body cool. And ‘weed whacking,’ or ‘trimming the man hedge,’ provides the optical illusion of a taller tree. Besides, nobody wants to look between the thighs and feel the urge to call their local CSI’s.
Some men among you may ask… You think I should trim WHAT? So here’s Cyclone Cindy’s guide to Manscaping.
Ears, nose and eyebrows: Eeeuw! Gross. Nose and ear hair isn’t appealing in the slightest. It makes me want to vomit. And eyebrows? You really should have two. Separate them if they’re not already. Also, looking like you have 2 witchetty grubs resting on your face was not a good look for John Howard, and I’ll guarantee it’s not a good look for you either. But be careful, becuase neither is looking like they’ve been sculpted more than Michelangelo’s David. Ahh, unless you’re going for the Michael Jackson look.
Back and Shoulders: Absolutely no. Get rid of it. All of it. Let me make this perfectly clear: There are conclusively NO circumstances where this is ok. It is simply unhygeinic. I mean how do you know you’re not harvesting fleas? Besides, if you happen to live in Darwin like I do, you don’t want hard up journalists from the local newspaper reporting another YOWIE sighting.
Underarm hair: Generally best left alone, but if you look like you have Buckwheat in a headlock, or worse – you can actually comb it, you’re a sure fire candidate for a trim.
Chest hair: This one depends. If you ask me, pectoral fur connotes virility: A tough guy who’s burly and sweaty with a hint of natural, dragon-slaying scent. In a rugby match with Colin Farrell and Hugh Jackman against Ashton Kutcher and Robert Pattinson, I’m backing Team Chest Carpet. As previously mentioned, I’d rather snuggle into a nook with a warm rug like that of Roger Federer’s than slide off Mr Bigglesworth. HOWEVER (and this is extremely important information.) IF you’re cursed with limited chest hair, do yourself a favour and clip that mangy pathetic excuse of a cricket growth OFF. (It’s a cricket growth if there’s no more than 11 each side… ) Like a balding man sporting a comb over, you’re only fooling yourself.
Wedding Tackle: I’m hesitant to offer advice. If you want to learn more there’s a plethora of instructional videos on You Tube. I will say this though: There are 2 looks to avoid: the Crotch Fro and the Baby Stewie.
Overall, nobody but Channel Nine reality shows like obsessive gardeners. So with that in mind, find balance.
Borat is NOT a role model, but neither is Bruno. And whatever you do stay safe and choose your removal technique wisely!
You may have noticed I haven’t blogged for a week. I’m a bad blogger. If I was a puppy you’d be rubbing my nose in it. If my blog is my baby, then fine. Call me a neglectful parent. Call me a gamblerholic who’s left my blog locked in the car at the casino in 36 degree heat.
But look, sometimes stuff happens. Like vomit.
And sometimes other stuff happens, like headaches. And sore throats. And runny noses. And coughs. And aching, aching bodies.
It’s true. While the world has been turning, while the Socceroos have been struggling in SA, while troops in Afghanistan have been dying, and while deputy PM’s have been plotting to do some rug pulling, I’ve been sicker than Marilyn Manson with a nose bleed eating his own toenail clippings.
Yep, that’s pretty sick.
And wrong.
And that is how I’ve been feeling all week. Hence the blog-less week that’s been.
Well there’s that, and the fact that I’ve had 4 extra people living at my house, including 2 children under the age of 2. That alone would render you almost useless to do much thinking… let alone sitting still for an hour to write.
There’s a reason they call getting sick Coming Down. Coming down with the flu, or a cold, or a chest infection. Because it’s as if your body has just been dumped and fired all on the same day. Your body is no good to anybody. Not even somebody, and especially not everybody.
Now when you’re a man and you feel like this, of course you remind every person you come into contact with during that ‘sick period’ that you are a futile human. Less of a man, and therefore, in need of much care and attention until once again your faculties are restored and you are made whole. 100% man once more, after which time you can recall to others your ‘sickness.’
And as you recount those days of horror, you remember what a brave soldier you were, suffering the way you did, and what manly ways you used to fight and destroy the sickness that bound you.
HOWEVER when you’re a woman – it’s not just a different story, it’s a different author from a library far, far away.
I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a drama queen when I’m feeling bad. “Puh Huh. Puh Huh…” That was me after a scorching case of sunburn / sunstroke. A shivering pathetic bright red mess.
So perhaps I’m not the best person to be noting the major differences between men and women when we’re sick. Especially when you consider I’ve been on the verge of self diagnosing a severe case of The Man Flu.
But I haven’t. Not yet.
Now when you have the Man Flu, movement is impossible. You have to lie still like a vegetable, or you will never get better. You have to have tissues at your side, along with substantial water or juice in order to properly replenish the fluids you’re losing through the cold sweats. You also have to have some form of pain relief – Panadol, Codral, etc… as well as some kind of lozenge if the throat area happens to be affected by the Man Flu as well. These are always located on the bed side table, or lounge arm chair – depending on where the man in question has decided to spend his debilitated and delicate state recovering. And all of these items have been delivered to the side of the suffering patient because they are incapable of doing anything for themselves beyond involuntary bodily functions.
The same symptoms experienced by a woman however, do not necessarily mean the same diagnosis. Man Flu is reserved for those who choose to suffer in NON-silence. It’s very serious. Those indisposed are extremely fragile. It is an illness reserved for those who can’t possibly leave the confines of the couch, let alone the house.
When a woman with similar symptoms is sick, it’s just called the flu. Or – in some cases where a woman is determined to keep on going – just a bit of a cold. Nothing serious. A woman will still be able to prepare her own meals, make her own bed, go to work, wash her own dirty dishes, get herself a drink, drive herself to the chemist/doctors, and basically function as usual. Movement? Of course – movement is necessary for function.
So. I have tried DESPERATELY to convince my husband this last week that I may be coming down with the Man Flu. That I am barely able to function. But he’s not buying it. Yesterday morning when I lay in bed, in those last few precious moments before you get verticle, I told him I wished I could stay in bed all day.
“But you can’t. I need you to tidy up outside and water the plants today, and you need to get on the computer and fix up that traffic infringement, and – since you’re last out of bed today, do you think you could make the bed?”
(Yep, we make our bed every day and we both get annoyed if last one out hasn’t made it).
On the rare occasion that my husband has the Man Flu, asking him to fix his own toast and vegemite is like asking him to tint my eyelashes. It’s a ridiculous idea to be baulked at.
So? My response to his suggestion that I get outside and channel Jamie Durie?
“Sure, no worries. Let me just clean away the green snotty tissues, and locate my green thumb. Stat.”
Umm, No! Actually to me that was a ridiculous idea. RIDICULOUS! We had words, and his suggestion to my feeling average was: try going to bed earlier.
GRRRRRRRR….
See men just don’t get it. When they are sick, they are bearing the diseases of the world on their manly shoulders. When we get sick, we should just go to bed earlier and surely we should be fine…. Because our threshold for pain is clearly higher, and despite pain, we are usually expected to get on with it.
And THAT is why women give birth – not men. Good grief – can you imagine????????????
Today I’m feeling better. I actually ate lunch. And look! I’m blogging again.
But until next time I’m sick – hopefully not for AGES, I’m on the prowl for a female doctor who writes medical certificates for women sufferers of The Man Flu. And perhaps a prescription to boot that reads:
“DO NOTHING. Sleep. Relax. Get a massage. And a facial if it helps. Avoid all home maintenance and cease all activities aimed at assisting the males in your direct environment. After one week, if you’re not feeling better, come back and see me for a repeat, otherwise leave a note where the male will find it saying: Annoying isn’t it???”
I don’t want to be a traitor to my home town and all, but I just don’t get how Darwin guys attempt to ‘pick up.’
In a town heavily populated with 18-35 year old males, it’s fair to say Darwin has the Mother Load of single blokes. Many of whom SUCK at chatting up girls.
I guess you could call them Mother Suckers.
There’s a different social etiquette up here. We’re more relaxed and informal. It’s not bad – but it can become boisterous, rugged and blunt. So when you equate that to flirting and the art of seducing a woman; as I said, you basically suck.
I have been approached by some of you in the past, although I am married. Unfortunately when you’re on the dance floor not everyone has a clear view of your ring, especially when you dance like me – with your arms in the air like you just don’t care…
Look if I had to bet on a croc making the front page of the NT News, or a girl being approached by a raving freak who’s overindulged in the all-you-can-eat Protein Powder Line – well you know.
I believe the term “The Hurt Locker” is military slang for ‘a bad and painful place.’ Well single men of Darwin…. Do you know how many times women have been forced into the hurt locker from your atrocious attempts to flirt?
You need some direction. So here it is: Cyclone Cindy’s top 5 flirting tips.
Tip 1.
Don’t tell me you were out til 6am, had 3 hours sleep, went to the gym, and now you’re doing it all over again like it’s cool. I get it. You like to party… and you’re often still awake when the sun comes up. So is the guy who collects cigarette butts off the foot path.
Tip 2.
Don’t tell me you work in ‘treasury’ like that means something to me, or like it’s a big deal. You can only use your job to impress me if you’re an astronaut, a surgeon, or Rafael Nadal.
Tip 3.
Don’t surprise me with a drink unless I say, “Surprise me.” I know, I know… ‘Viva la Jagerbomb!’ But I’d prefer that a guy I just met doesn’t see me skull a drink that burns my throat and makes my eyes water.
Tip 4.
Don’t comment on my clothing. Unless you’re gay, in which case you probably stopped reading this six paragraphs ago. You’ll more than likely make me feel like a slut, or a school teacher. A slut I can work with. A school teacher dresses for comfort. Would you like me to call your penis cute? No! No you wouldn’t. Same thing.
Tip 5.
If we haven’t locked eyes, if I haven’t played with my hair (totally subconsciously of course), if I don’t have your name, if I haven’t smiled at you…. DO NOT rub your magic wand up against my butt cheeks on the dance floor. I can see you have a good body, I’m sure your colleagues at work think you’re irreplaceable, and I’m confident you you can bench press whatever… Just don’t.
So there it is. Don’t take it personally – A for effort. I DO understand it can’t be easy seducing a girl in a typical Darwin pick up joint. Dark places that smell like a piece of old cheese in a sock hardly set the scene. So – Good luck!
Right now is probably not a good time for me to be writing this. I am super furious and have just spent half an hour reporting to Facebook administration some ATTACKING, SEXIST, DEROGATORY remarks made about Kelli Underwood. Some, alarmingly made by women. (And no, I’m not ‘one of those’ people who report others, in fact this is the 1st time I have ever reported anyone on Facebook).
If you follow the AFL, you will probably know exactly who I’m talking about, but if not – let me tell you about Kelli Underwood.
She is the FIRST EVER female to commentate a game of AFL. Sadly, Kelli is NOT the proud owner of a penis and because she lacks this apparent MANDATORY apparatus, has received a bucket load of completely UNFAIR and outright SEXIST backlash.
(Incidentally, Kelli should totally sue for defamation. I once started a group on Facebook about getting butchered by hairdresser and me and my 5 members apparently caused $50,000 worth of damage. I would LOVE to see how much she could get out of the MONGRELS on Facebook who are attacking not just her ability to commentate, but her personally).
LAST weekend a young sports commentator by the name of Kelli Underwood made her calling debut on Channel 10 in the AFL pre-season competition.
If Kelli was a bloke, that event would not have attracted much attention. In fact, if Kelli was Kel, he would have been welcomed into the fold with open arms and nobody would have battedan eyelid.
Sadly for Kelli this week, she is not a bloke. Kelli Underwood (pictured) has been subject to the sort of scrutiny that only underworld criminals and out-of-form Australian cricketers normally face.
It is a different matter when Nicole Livingstone calls the swimming. You see, she was a swimmer. Liz Ellis calling netball. Fine – that’s a chicks’ sport. But heaven forbid any woman who dares to dream and cross that big thick white line into the male football domain.
Kelli will find out the hard way that the path she has chosen will be very rocky indeed. The bloggers are just the beginning. Macho radio commentators have expressed grave concern about Underwood’s future. Even sensible male journalists believe that she has absolutely no chance of succeeding in this most brutal of worlds. This has all been expressed in week one, before we even find out if the girl has talent.
I must admit I turned on the AFL last weekend and was shocked to hear a female voice calling the game. We are so finely tuned to hearing men that any female, no matter what she says, is going to sound strange and foreign.
But that doesn’t mean we should put a line through her name just yet. Underwood deserves exactly the same chance as any one of her male counterparts. From the small portion I heard, it is obvious that the girl knows and loves the game.
The mere fact that she has decided to pursue her goal shows a determination and gutsiness that is admirable. Underwood would be well aware that the female experiment lasted two minutes on Channel 9’s cricket commentary. Kate Fitzpatrick was such a disastrous choice as the pioneering woman on the cricket commentary team that no one has ever dared to venture there in the two decades since.
Firstly, well said Rebecca Wilson who wrote the article, especially the bit about nobody batting an eye if it was a new bloke commentating.
But Kelli didn’t enter into this role blind folded. She was well aware of the attention she might receive saying, “Obviously the whole ‘woman’ thing will be a talking point and I understand it’s an issue that polarises people and a lot of people have an opinion. But I’m a woman and I’ve earned this opportunity and I’m going to go for it.”
Here is a snippet of Kelli commentating. Keep in mind it was right before the final siren.
Some complain it’s not the fact that she’s a woman, but rather – that her voice is annoying and painful to listen to. For real?
Have any of you heard Rabs (Ray Warren) commentate a game of NRL? Talk about annoying. If you don’t know who I’m talking about, tune into Game 2 of the State of Origin on the 9th June and you’ll know the second he opens his mouth. Because I would rather hear a recording of someone vomiting excessively than listen to him, but you don’t see many HATE groups on Facebook for him do you?
To give you an example of some of the atrocious and abhorrent things being said about Kelli, I’ve cut some out below.
From the Facebook group: Operation Sack Kelli Underwood from Commentating (members 11,026)
F**K UP BITCH!
Dumb f**k she is! She is ruining the Cats vs dees game. Just f**k off biatch! You are single handedly ruining Australian Rules Footy!!!!!
Get in the canteen and off my f***ing tv!!!!!!! You are boring and crap!!! Women should stick to cleaning and serving food – NOT commentating!!!! What next a f***ing female coach get a grip!!!!!!
She’s a fu**n slag f**k her off real quick
Kick the bitch in the guts!!!paaaa smelly kelli get outta here C***!!!
Back in the kitchen BITCH, and cook me some PIE!
Women are good at lots of things, but leave this job to a man who knows the know. Like Dennis!
From the Facebook discussion group: Underwood was employed BECAUSE she is a woman
I have seen her do two games, go away girl and do a story on cooking as you are boring as a football commentator
I agree footy is a game played by blokes so naturally someone who commentates should have personal experience in the game! Seriously how many blokes would get to commentate netball?
His name is Luke Darcy, and he commentates netball you brain dead hack. Also, there are loads of male AFL commentators who have never played a single game.
From the Facebook discussion group: Women in Football????
It doesn’t work….now we gota put up with this raspy voiced, throat clearing mess while she commentates Geelong’s finest games…any1 know of a female in the football media that’s worth knowing??? even malthouse fell by the wayside after she finished giving handjobs in primary school carparks
Women should stay out of footy. its only 4 men.
I agree with everyone and everything said – females involved in AFL is wrong – umpiring, goal umpiring, commentating, anything (only if the girl is blonde with a tiny waist and big boobs then I’m pretty sure they are allowed to be the physiotherapist)
And that’s not all. There are so many hate groups aimed at this woman, you would think she was the master mind behind the Bali bombings. And it’s not just Facebook groups. There are TONS of on-line forums on the topic like this one that say Kelli should’ve been drowned at birth!
So the main message we’re getting from the semi-deranged masses is that women and football don’t mix. Women should stay FAR AWAY from the game. We should instead, be venturing off the field, and into the kitchen. Yes, because The Kitchen is where ‘we belong.’
Well knock me down with a feather, that’s a new concept!! Women in the kitchen…. and the millions of male chefs who incidentally; often get paid more for cutting the same onion. Have you noticed on EVERY competitive cooking show, the judges are MEN?
To those who say that Kelli get in the kitchen… are you suggesting that women should be like that of a 1950’s housewife? If so, it’s too late! Read your friggin history books. The men went to war – the women kept the rest of the world turning, and we were changed forever. Have none of you seen the movie A League Of Their Own?
I would like to bet my left breast that Kelli is getting paid less than her male counterparts. As do all women on TV. Koshie gets more than Mel. Karl gets more than Lisa. It’s a sad fact.
So anyway, on Saturday after reading a comment on facebook by one of my friends, saying if he wanted to watch a chick imitate a bloke, he’d watch Ellen, I decided to watch. Admittedly, I only usually watch my own team play, unless it’s finals, and the week Kelli was commentating a West Coast Eagles game, I was in Sydney where AFL is like honest politicians.
I couldn’t see the problem. Yes, she did a fair bit of the grunting macho voice when the on-field plays got heated or close to scoring, (as do male commentators) but she undoubtedly knows her stuff. I can’t understand what’s so annoying about her.
Yes she sometimes stated the obvious – but EVERY commentator does that, and I’m wondering if those who think she is annoying to listen to, are actually (consciously or subconsciously) irritated by the female voice, rather than what she is saying, or how.
These people would like Kelli – and in fact ALL women to leave their game alone, and give the job to one far more qualified. One with an Adam’s Apple and a set of testicles to boot.
In fact, women of Australia…. let us leave football THE HELL alone. Let’s cancel our team memberships. Let’s stop watching games on TV. Let’s stop going to LIVE games. Lets’s STOP buying any merhcandise.
And you know what men – your beloved game will choke and die. Because it’s a well know fact that women make up a large percentage of memberships, of crowd numbers and TV viewers. And it’s also been documented that women are the ones who buy MOST of the team merhcandise.
So let’s stop. We should get back to the kitchen where we belong and bake pie. How DARE we enjoy a game of footy! How DARE we be watching, let alone commentating.
I’d now like to bet my right breast that if Kelli had been sitting in the box wearing a bikini with her jugs out, men Australia wide would be saluting her. If she followed it up with a photo shoot for Zoo Weekly? Why men would be praising her.
“She’s a good sort” they’d say!
And we’d hear all about her love of being naked, how she loves to have sex with her boyfriend during half time, how she once did it in the MCG locker rooms, and actually, how she loves it when she gets tipsy and ends up rooting the entire team – because you know, if you want to be part of AFL – that is where you belong. Not as a contributing member of a fantastic game and a great Australian sport; but as a piece of ass.
And then they’d dedicate the legendary song “Up There Cazaly” to her but change the words as follows:
Up there Kel Underwood
Please will you quit?
Up there and at ‘em
And show ‘em your tits
Up there Kel Underwood
Keep quiet or die
You’ll get more admirers
By baking a pie
In the fairy tale : when Cinderella rocked up to the Prince’s palace for an evening of dancing and romancing, she razzled. She dazzled. Although I seriously doubt she was vajazzled.
The Prince noticed her immediately, looking upon her with much desire and they spent the evening twirling beneath whatever it was they had before disco balls were invented.
Did the Prince have ANY idea AT ALL what poor Cinders had to go to arrive in such diva-like fashion? Nuh!
Did he know she almost didn’t make it? Did he know she had 2 revolting step sisters plotting to keep her away? Did he know she had nothing to wear until the last minute? Did he know she would’ve waited FOREVER for a taxi and probably missed entrée and main until luckily, the pumpkin arrived? (Pumpkin coach not pumpkin dish.)
No, no he didn’t. You know why?
Because unless you’re a drag queen, Karl Lagerfeld or Napoleon Perdis, and you have a penis – then you are probably incapable of understanding what is involved in getting a woman ready for a formal occasion like a gala ball.
Dude – are you reading????
To be fair – there are a few guys who get it, but they probably had sisters.
So yesterday at about 10.30am, I receive word that we have tickets for the Starlight Paspaley Star Ball. It’s a glitzy affair, and ball gowns are the order of the day. There’s always unreal entertainment, a delicious 4 course meal, dancing, and some amazing and heart warming moments when the children who benefit from such fundraising events share their story. (Tissues please). It’s also attended by the who’s who of charitable elite in Darwin, although I do not count myself in that category.
Did I mention its tomorrow night?
WHERE O WHERE is my damn fairy godmother?
I haven’t attended a formal gig since losing my baby weight, so any appropriate dress is massive around the titty region (sad), and a bit saggy around the tummy and bum (happy). Seriously, I’ve been upstairs for the last hour attacking one of my very good dresses with rusty old safety pins. No time to get anything altered.
I haven’t waxed my legs in WEEKS, I still haven’t attended to my grey regrowth or faint upper lip hair from way back when I posted on airbrushing, and my makeup leaked in my toiletry bag on the way home from Sydney last week.
In addition, I haven’t walked in high heels since the George Michael concert back in February, and I left my Spanx somewhere in Melbourne last year.
Clearly, if anyone at this moment needs a fairy godmother – I DO.
My dream is actually to have a small but experienced group of individuals on my payroll, at my beck and call. I would call them THE PRETTY COMMITTEE.
Much like the scene in Miss Congeniality where Sandra’s character morphs from a snort laughing half man into a pageant ready fox. Comprising the pretty committee would be my stylist, my personal shopper, my hair removal technician, spray tan technician, hair colourist and cutter, hair stylist, makeup artist, and cleaner. (The cleaner is just so I can have the day off while I get ready).
I’m getting carried away and need to get back on track at explaining why MEN DON’T GET IT!
Let me just say this. If I had free access to our finances to accommodate my fit-for-ball status then there would be no issue. But I don’t, and in fact I have NO access for a number of reasons.
Reason number one is that we have been travelling heaps lately, and have more trips planned. Does anyone know how to go about buying Qantas shares?
Reason number two is that I got into trouble for ‘ignoring’ a parking ticket which then accumulated a late fine. I didn’t ignore it, I just kept forgetting.
There are other reasons too. Anyway, I still put the idea of a new purchase out there into JBA* Land, but got a very curt, ”I don’t think so Cindy.”
What about if I do my own primping and wax my own legs, bleach my own moustakka, apply my own fake tan, paint my own fingernails and toes, dye my own hair from a (cough, splutter) packet, and even style it myself on the night?
Still No.
Ok so right now there are probably some of you going, Umm, Cindy, you should have called this post: Why Cindy Doesn’t get it – chapter 1: It’s called a Budget! You’re being a spoilt princess and I’m sure you’ve got something in your wardrobe that fits.
Yes, I do, and it’s circa 2002, or looks like a sack.
Here’s is what most men don’t understand.
They come home from work an hour before it’s time to leave for the ball. They have a shower, shave, throw on their trusty suit or tux and tie, nice socks, good shoes, bit of cologne and BIBBITY BOBBITY BOO! They’re ready, and no doubt asking us to hurry up please because we’re running late! They think it’s that easy for us but it’s so much harder.
Our preparation starts days in advance, as I have mentioned. They don’t understand what they’re implying when they say, “Just wear your black shoes” when you’re wearing a navy dress. Or when they say, “Just take that bag ” when it’s actually a bag big enough to hold spare nappies and a portable DVD player.
They don’t understand that we DON’T WANT TO LOOK FINE. We want to look amazing. We want to look stunning. We want to be like Cinderella and razzle-dazzle.
Anyway, thank goodness for girl friends. THEY get it. THEY understand.
So my fairy godmothers may not possess a magic wand, but they still help me beyond belief by lending me a dress and by babysitting my daughter at the last minute.
Meanwhile, modesty aside, I know I’ll be looking “ciao mama” tomorrow night. If I didn’t think I would then I wouldn’t bother going. And that’s something else guys don’t get. We’d rather not go than look bad or feel out of place because of what we’re wearing.
Last year my husband wore navy pants with a black suit jacket to a ball. I was mortified. He couldn’t have cared less. And THAT is what men don’t get!
With another weekend of sport approaching – and in the wake of Brendan Fevola admitting he has a significant gambling addiction and is seeking professional help in a bid to ”knock it on the head”, I was reminded of the triumphs and tragedies that face our countries sporting heroes. Actaully I am reminded almost every weekend. I thought why not point out some loves and hates of everybody’s favourite game – whatever code you follow.
Some people think the AFL ‘s television deal, which amounts to 780 million dollars over five years is justified in comparison to the NRL, based on the fact that AFL was watched by a total of 65,023,000 and the NRL by only 40,272,000.
Some people think if the NRL want to keep up with the AFL they had better expand.
Some people think it’s completely acceptable behaviour to consent to sex in a public toilet with a Broncos player.
Some people think it’s completely acceptable to point your peen towards a window on the side of a building and release. Ahhhh.
Some people think taking a photo of a hot girl in the shower and showing all your mates is normal.
Some person is probably thinking… Give me back my loofah Lara!
Some people think that footy players are paid to play football and not be role models.
Some people think that most headlines on sport these days aren’t about the game at all. Instead they’re about players who CAN’T PLAY sport because they’d been too pissed and done something stupid enough to get them arrested or sacked or both.
Some people think AFL players are way hotter, not only because you can see their neck, but also because their body is leaner.
Some people think NRL players are way hotter, because even though they’re not too bright, they can lift heavy things, and they look good covering up their magic wand with their hand.
Some people think that footy players should just stay home at the weekend.
Some people think that if their family has supported a team for generations – and the players don’t have the decency to respect their fans or their clubs by behaving better, then why should they respect the clubs? …. If the players don’t?
Some people are over the moon that both the AFL and NRL have started clubs in opposing territory, in the attempt to branch out each code and attract new fans in a wider geographical location.
Some people think AFL is GAY FL.
Some people think NRL is NR SMELL.
Some people think that a footy player who sleeps with her every time he comes to her town to play, will eventually leave his wife and 2 children for her… and gets upset when she sees him mention his wonderful family life in the papers.
Some people think that the Gold Coast Titans will be one of the biggest NRL teams in Australia because of the population growth in the area.
Some people think that the Labour party’s $60 million contribution to the Gold Coast stadium for the AFL, which will be completed in 2012 and hold about 25,000 is totally fair because AFL gets bigger crowds.
Some people think that when Nate Myles, naked and disoriented, defecated in a hotel corridor after frightening a family when he tried to get into their room… was an all time low point, and a dark day for NRL.
Some people think when Ben Cousins got arrested with no shirt on exposing his Such Is Life tattoo, that it was an all time low point, and a dark day for the AFL.
Some people think Ben Cousins with no shirt on exposing his Such Is Life tattoo, is one of the hottest things they’ve ever seen.
Some people think Ben Cousins is equally hot with his clothes on… and to those people i say.. CLICK HEREPhwoooaar!
Some people think AFL is a better game because it’s faster and players score more. (I’m talking on the field)
Some people think NRL is a better game because it’s tougher and the tackles are more controlled.
Some people think Union is better because it’s still rugby, but without the 6-time tackle turn around.
Some people were just glad to see the little sand pit gone forever.
Some people think NRL players sometimes wish they were AFL players because they keep kicking the damn the ball.
Some people think it’s strange how in NRL actually scoring is only a –TRY!
Some people think AFL is stupid because if the player misses the score, they go: “Close, but not quite… we’ll give you a POINT for trying.”
Some people think it’s brilliant that the Melbourne Storm keep ‘beating them at their own game’
Some people think it was brilliant when the Sydney Swans won the grand final and ‘beat the Eagles at their own game’
Some people remember that day, and think there may have been a SARS outbreak in NSW… Suddenly. Aussie. Rules. Supporter. (Gee, guess who I support?)
I think the whole ‘battle of the codes’ is a waste of time when you could all be watching the REAL football, and REAL men for that matter. Hello Beckham! Hello Cristiano Rinaldo! Hello Harry!
Step aside Madonna, and take baby Jesus with you. Your time to reign as the Queen of all Cougars has come to an end. Make way for the Grand High Dame of Cougars – Liz Taylor.
When the news that Elizabeth Taylor was engaged to a much younger man broke, I had already been collecting lots of info on cougars. I’ve been meaning to blog about Cougars for a while now, but the problem with blogging is that once information is out there for anyone to read, you can’t exactly make stuff up or provide info that is a pile of rubbish.
So let’s put an end to some BIG rubbish right now: Dame Lizzie T IS NOT engaged, I follow her on twitter, I know. She tweeted at approximately 2am Darwin time this morning the following: The rumors regarding my engagement simply aren’t true. Jason is my manager and dearest friend. I love him with all my heart. Take a breath Mads, the coast is clear, you’re still number 1.
So anyway where was I?
Oh yeah, Mumma cats.
So I have all this stuff, insight, personal stories on younger men that date or (more commonly) sleep with older women – and its incredible how much information is out there on this not-so-new phenomenon. So much that condensing it for a blog is proving tricky. So much that I’m thinking of writing a book on Cougars. I could call it “Cub Love – your Guide to Dating the Older Woman” or “Cougar’s – an Age or an Attitude” or my favourite so far… ““Cougars: More Than Just a Ferocious Pussy.”
Hmm – maybe not.
I don’t know if you’ve watched the show Cougar Town. I watched the first 2 episodes and decided there were other things I’d rather be doing with my time… like scraping toe jam out of someone’s toenails. Meanwhile my husband thinks it’s a great show. I don’t know if I’m unimpressed because her character is silly, or if it’s because I can’t look at Courtney Cox and not think MONICA. I find myself thinking: Where’s Chandler? Where’s your adopted Chinese baby? And when did you quit being a Chef to do Real Estate? Who ARE these people?
Maybe Courtney should’ve branched out sooner. Maybe she should’ve sacked her agent and hired Jen Aniston’s, who has played so many ‘pretty girl who can’t get the guy’ roles – Rachel is now just a sweet distant memory.
Boy I’m really digressing today.
Anyway I read something that Cindy Crawford once said. She said, “I don’t want to be a cougar, I want to be a MILF. I hate that word cougar and what it represents. MILF is a word I absolutely love…..“Age can be daunting, but you can’t stop it. I know 20-year-old guys don’t look at me anymore. I don’t feel it like I used to. I remember walking down streets in New York at the height of my modelling career, my hair up, and all the construction guys would go crazy. It’s different now.”
Ok – a quick word to Cindy C: First up, I know plenty of 20 year old guys would do you in a heart beat. Second – Construction guys? Seriously – that is who you’re using as a guage post on your own level of hotness? Get a grip! Ask George Clooney if he thinks you’re hot because since your time together in Italy, every woman he’s dated has been a Cindy Crawford Clone.
I was intrigued that Cindy hated the word Cougar and what it represents. (What DOES it represent???) Meanwhile, when Susan Sarandon was asked if she minded being called a Cougar, she said, “No! I LOVE that!” And Demi Moore seems to be a bit over the term. She said, “I’m certainly not the first person to be in a relationship with a younger man, but somehow I was plucked out as a bit of a poster girl. I don’t know why that is. ….I’d prefer to be called a Puma.”
Excuse me Demi, but isn’t that the same thing?
I won’t name them all, but there’s actually a very long list of celebs that have been branded as cougars. Some of them I agree with, most of them not. I don’t believe a woman is a cougar JUST BECAUSE she is dating a younger man.
I’ve dated a handful of guys younger, some much younger – but did I feel like a predator searching for prey? No. Searching for play? Yeah sure. But who doesn’t do that in their twenties. To be honest I was usually a bit embarrassed to tell people the age of the guy I was seeing, or that we were even together at all.
I used to think to myself – Cindy, find yourself someone more suitable. This one is too young. Send him back to the pool. Everyone is laughing behind your foolish old cradle robbing back. Find a man more sedate, more settled – with a paunch and a prescription for Viagra.
It was never my intent to use and abuse – to seek, seduce and be done with. I acted with them the same way I did with men older or the same age. Flirtatious but demure. I was never forthright, never aggressive and always played the part of ‘she who must be captured,’ not the capturer. So I don’t believe I have ever been a cougar.
First of all, to be a cougar in the true sense of the word, I think you must be single. They’re felines or mountain cats who hunt younger men. The term gets thrown about so loosely these days – I’ve been accused of being a cougar many times. I may be 4 years older than my husband, but let me just say – HE HUNTED ME. I asked a friend of mine who’s had quite a bit of experience with different cougar types to give me some insight. He gave me the following points to consider;
Cougars are as individual as any other age group of women…
Many Cougars seem to want what many men want: sex with no strings attached. But this depends on the age difference. The greater the age difference, the less likely they are to be wanting a relationship.
Their dress standards aren’t completely different, I’d say that it’s influenced by two things, their socio-economic background and whether or not they want to exaggerate any assets they may have physically… so not that different from any other age group, though they may dress more aggressively.
They do have different expectations; cougars are perceived to be the “in” thing at the moment. They expect more attention, if they don’t get it and they want it, they’ll generally fight to get the attention back on them.
On the whole, most cougars tend to be far more self assured, know what they want and aren’t afraid to go after it… In a guys eyes confidence is confidence, this translates to our perception of cougars, if they are confident socially then they must be confident in the bedroom too and that’s a turn on for most guys…
Cougars are the same as any other women of any age group; alcohol tends to lead to drunken confidence. I think with age though, people tend to recognise their limitations better, so they might not get wrecked but definitely drunk… yes they are better in the sack, which comes from the confidence I mentioned earlier. Plus if it’s a one night/short term thing then I think cougar’s bring out all the tricks, “I’m going to blow this guy’s mind” kind of mentality…
Conversations with cougars tend to flow better, because they are more confident socially they are less inhibited in what they will and won’t discuss, uncomfortable pauses don’t generally exist. Guys tend to be more confident too as we know what the cougar wants and we don’t generally care if the cougar isn’t interested and moves on…
Let it be said that an attraction is an attraction regardless of age – which is why I think many men don’t put barriers on that kind of stuff. I enjoy conversing with at least women of the same age or older, since I have no stomach for discussing gossip and what Britney is going to do next!
He then shared these stories:
Was out last Saturday night and saw my friend (who’s got a girlfriend) talking to a couple of cougars, because one of them was a family friend… The other one (not my mate’s friend) took one look at me and grabbed my chest. I just laughed but didn’t push her hands away. After a few seconds she pulled her hands back and asked if I wanted to play with her chest. We’d barely exchanged a few words! She had large breasts but I declined (I’m growing up).
Secondly, when I was 26 I dated a 36 year old divorcee with 2 kids for nearly 5 months. It was a great experience, thoroughly enjoyed myself, I was actually pretty disappointed when we broke up, but we’re friends now. The sex was incredible!
My biggest question on what qualifies a girl as a Cougar hasn’t really been addressed, and that is the Dignity Factor. I tend to think my friend’s second story did not involve a Cougar at all. Dignity implies decorum. It implies morality, poise, self respect. It implies that one is acting with grace and distinction. Dignity is not asking someone you just met to play with your jug-o-nauts.
I don’t think dignity would be a word used to describe the common cougar. Which is where I think Cindy Crawford and Cyclone Cindy agree. The other Cindy (like me) is married to a younger man, but neither of us believe we are cougars because of what they represent.
The implied attitude and behaviour of a cougar is not one I take on board. In fact I don’t even think I ever let it on the jetty. Except maybe once when I was 18 and told a 17 year old boy at a party who’d just been making out with another girl that the colour lipstick he was wearing didn’t suit him, and that he should try mine…
If I am older than you, but not dressed provocatively, not forward, not aggressive, not interested in sex right away… Am I still a Cougar? If I’m just doing a little innocent flirting, but happen to be older than you, am I still a cougar? If you ask me for my number, if you call me and ask me out, if you date me and chase me and you make the first move, but I’m 7 years older than you… Am I still a Cougar?
I asked a different male friend this very question. Apparently… YES I would still be a Cougar. You want to know why? (he says) Because even if I’m standing in a corner and keeping to myself, YOU approach me – YOU make the first move…. My very presence in the same club or pub or restaurant means I must be on the prowl. If you’re not hunting for prey, what are you doing there in the first place. (Cue me choking here.)
In other words… Please ladies – if you must age… do so at home!
Obviously I don’t agree with this line of thinking. Cougar-hood is all about a woman’s attitude towards sexuality with men. It’s about being overt, a woman who openly seeks to satisfy her own sexual desires. It’s being obvious and forthright.
I also don’t believe that women who choose to decline the title are women insistent on maintaining an inferior, more vulnerable status, which is the thought of some feminists. Just because I’m more like Charlotte than Samantha from Sex and the City, doesn’t mean I’m weak, or against women’s rights for equality.
I’m not really a cat person anyway. I’m allergic to them so to me their pests. I’m definitely a dog girl. So yeah, guess what I’m saying is I’d rather be known as a fox than a cougar.
No, it’s not a metaphor for anything. I actually. Drank. Pussy.
Pussy is a new (well I’ve never seen it but I DO live in Darwin) 100% Natural Energy drink. It comes in a skinny white can with black and pink writing, and I would put it in the same beverage family as Red Bull, Mother, V etc…
Reading their website was quite the profound journey for me. First was a page with a quote from Oscar Wilde, “Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like success.” This quote changes each time you log on. Then in fine print at the bottom of the page was this small sentence. “Looking for Pussy? To find out which bars and clubs stock Pussy, call us on 1300 PUSSY. ” Ugh, naturally!
The website is good. Simple and clever and consistent with the branding.… and aimed at certain males…. Metros, Yuppies, those not afraid to wear pink.
Here are some snippets. And be prepared, this energy drink may be 100% natural, but the drink has a personality, and values. I’ve bolded the bits I like the best.
The name Pussy shocks and demands attention – that’s the point. Inhibition is a recipe for mediocrity. This is a premium energy drink named with confidence.
Pussy launched in Australia in August 2009 and has met with a terrific response. We’re working to make sure you can get Pussy whenever and where ever you want it.
Personality – Pussy is spontaneous, entertaining, optimistic and fun. It’s a starting point. A moment when something happens and when things begin – Pussy starts conversations. It believes in having a good time as often as possible.
Values – Pussy is the first truly premium energy drink. We have sourced the best ingredients to create a great taste and a natural lift.
We believe in challenging the consensus – and moving things forward. Pussy is about natural energy, it’s irreverent, sophisticated and a pleasure to drink. Pussy is NOT about being serious, chemical energy, having a corporate attitude or being predictable.
Pussy is unique. It is made with a blend of fresh white grape juice from Southern Italy, pressed Mexican limes and lightly carbonated water. These are then mixed with Grenadilla and Lychee flavours, infused with six selected botanical herbs : Milk Thistle – Guarana – Siberian Ginseng – Sarsaparilla Schizandra Gingko Biloba
Look up any of those herbs, and they claim to do amazing things which will benefit our minds and bodies. A full run down on all the benefits is on the site, and truly – after reading all about them, it made me think that not only do I want Pussy every day, I NEED Pussy every day. And when the can was empty this morning, I did wish that I had more Pussy.
(PLEASE – if you’re going to visit the site for more information, make sure you put the word ‘drink’ after ‘pussy’. I didn’t and was slightly horrified to see a blonde policewoman wearing an outfit hardly appropriate for running after bad guys. Black eyes anyone? )
So I’m thinking that this drink is revolutionary. Not only because of the natural improvements to the mind and body, and the fact that taste-wise it is actually LOVELY… (refreshing and not too sweet like most), but also for the name. Jonnie Shearer, the 21 year old from the UK was really onto something when he had a ‘vision’ from his bedroom. Yes. Yes. I bet he did!
Which Energy Drink is leading the way at the moment? It depends which country you live in. But I would like to predict here and now that very soon Pussy is going to take over. Pussy is going to RULE.
EPILOGUE:
So I’m thinking of having my own bedroom vision. Yes I think I’ll create my own new natural energy drink with a big rooster on the can. Guess what I’ll call it? I don’t know what herbs I’ll use yet, but they’ll be good ones. And it will come in a GREAT BIG HUGE can, one so hard that it won’t crush. I’m not sure how I’ll market it yet, but I’m sure you get the drift….
Back and Shoulders: Absolutely no. Get rid of it. All of it. Let me make this perfectly clear: There are conclusively NO circumstances where this is ok. It is simply unhygeinic. I mean how do you know you’re not harvesting fleas? Besides, if you happen to live in Darwin like I do, you don’t want hard up journalists from the 
Cyclone Cindy 
