Lazy Tuesday Picture Show

Soo.. A new season of Hell's Kitchen has started, and I should probably be recapping that, and Believe, and whichever of the other hundred or so TV shows turned up lately. I should be, but it's Sunday. It's, uh, God's day. I'm sure it says somewhere in the Bible about not recapping shitty reality TV on the seventh day. (That is to say, it was Sunday when I started writing this post, but then I fell asleep and stuff and then my time was taken up by staring at some trees or something, I don't know.)

With that in mind, I skimmed my 'Shit from the web' folder and picked some photos at random to share with you and possibly/probably waffle on about them a bit.

SO WTHOUT FURTHER ADO:

Yeah.. I don't really know what to say about this. I don't even know what newspaper it came from because I found it floating around the internet and engendering reactions from people akin to being told a loved one has died. People are just shuddering and passing it on, as I am doing now, to you. I'm not entirely sure WHY they're passing it on. It's not one of those mildly threatening chain-Facebook-mail letters: "BUY FROM GREGGS. OR YOU'LL GET THE GREYJOY TREATMENT!" (I've just noticed it says 'SUNDAY SPORT exclusive' in the middle, so I guess that's the mystery of what newspaper it came from solved.)

Fancying food is weird. I mean, I get the appeal of chocolate sauce when engaging in bedroom shenanigans, even whipped cream; but that's because I get to lick it off cut muscles and strong arms and it gets licked off my-- Excuse me, I need a moment to fan myself with my hand and swoon a bit.

Ahem. Sorry, got a bit distracted there. Anyway. Let me look this up and see if it's just urban legend, we?

OH GOD, YOU GUYS, IT'S A THING, It's not even only one thing, it's a couple of different branches of the same gross thing. Apparently the urge to have sex with food is called sitophilia. By that, I don't mean having sex with food involved, like the aforementioned whipped cream and whatnot, I mean having sex with pasties like the gentleman in the photo above, or when Jason Biggs fucked an apple pie. (Although, to be fair to JB he wasn't sexually attracted to the pie, he just wanted to know what a ladygarden felt like.)

So I guess licking chocolate sauce off someone is mildly kinky, but wandering through a supermarket and getting a semi because the French sticks look so damn sexy is sitophilia.

Look, I generally don't give a crap what consenting adults do with/to each other. But for the love of all that's holy, if you're dumb enough to scald your prick in a pasty, do not go to a newspaper with your story. I did not want to know that there are people out there who purchase Greggs food for anything other than eating. Actually, considering the disgusting crap that place churns out, I presumed people just bought the stuff for the satisfaction of throwing it in the bin, not for any other kind of satisfaction.

“I have been into Greggs many, many times and never have I seen a sign warning you not to put your penis into one of their products – especially after it has been reheated. “That, to me, is a clear case of negligence and I intend to sue. I ran my helmet under cold water straight away but I’m still in agony and can barely walk. It’s covered in blisters. I may never be able to have sex with a pasty again."

If this guy actually does sue, let's just hope he's laughed out of the courtroom lest it starts some kind of precedent. I really don't want to have to walk into a restaurant and have to deal with a little disclaimer at the bottom of the menu: "For oral use only. Management is not responsible for any injuries you may sustain if you misuse our food. With your dick."

I don't know why I find this so hilarious, but I do.

That's generally me most days. Only replace 'lazy' with.. well, with most of the words, really. 'Too lazy to sleep. Too lazy to human,'

Too lazy to lazy.

Man, I'm tired.

That's it. I got nothing else. I burnt myself out with the rant about the pasty-fucker up at the top there. I'm going to have a nap because quite frankly, writing blog posts is exhausting and I need one of those large, shiny muscular men with big leaves to fan me gently while I'm doing this.

Everything is so hard.

Peace, lovelies.

Writings and things

So, here's the deal. I'm a pretty terrible comedic writer, and I'm OK with that. I waffle, I ramble, I meander off-topic and never quite find whatever point it was I was trying to make.

What I am pretty darn good at is fantasy fiction. I've been writing it since I was able to write, and I'm halfway through a manuscript which is frankly guaranteed to make me tens of dollars.

This was going to be a long post full of vaguely interesting writing tips and maybe even some snippets of what I'm working on; bit I did not sleep AGAIN last night which is making every word some kind of agony to write.

I seriously can't keep my stupid eyes open,

Don't laugh, it's a serious condition.

Here. Have all my NOPES.

I'm not dead, I swear. I'm just a lazy asshole. I was going to post this whole thing yesterday but my intricate and frankly incredible drawing in Paint somehow disappeared and I lost the will to live.

Instead, I offer up this mini-post that is mainly comprised of a photograph which terrified me to the depths of my soul and made me think of Amber, because her fear of spiders makes my own seem like an insignificant sort of mild dislike, rather than the violent, hysterical phobia it is.

So, sorry, Amber. But this is almost certainly your own fault. Every time you blog about spiders, one appears in my home. This is merely the age old tradition of a cluster of eyes for a cluster of eyes: