Archive for the 'Tales of Fail' Category


Valentines Day: venereal diseases and varying depression

Awe, Valentines Day… Are you one of those unlucky people in a relationship and have ended up forking out more money than you ever wanted to on flowers, chocolates, jewellery and condoms, because of some pagan festival? This particular pagan festival started with priestly types sacrificing goats and dogs and then running through the streets slapping fair maidens and wheat with the blood soaked strips of hide. Makes you wonder why they put those cute photos of puppies on “Be My Valentine” cards. Anyway, like modern Valentine’s Day, the pagans also ended the day with all the blood smeared single ladies gathering together with the single guys and pairing off for the next year by sheer pot-luck… Which is almost identical to the sad display I’ve seen play out at Valentine’s Day parties when the booze and desperation overpower any sense of pride or better judgement, the single, lonely and whorishly dressed resort to hooking up with whatever dregs are still on the dance floor.

It’s all true, pretty far from the commercialized day of romantic love exploited by card companies, chocolate manufacturers, florists (I just have to interject here that arranging and selling flowers could be rated as one of the most useless and, unskilled professions I can think of. Get a real fucking job!), restaurants and those guys on the side of the road selling various cheap and nasty last-minute gifts.

I don’t pity you at all you, couples, you needy two person hybrid motherfuckers. You’re smug as fuck on the day, safe in knowledge that there is someone other than your mother who loves you. You’ll likely end the day in some kind of carnal act. Even if it’s just a lazy, short obligatory bashing of bits. Everyone can smell the superiority you feel to every unattached person everywhere. Fuck you!

If you’re not one of the aforementioned, you might be one of those people who swear they hate V-Day, because of its commercialisation of “love” or whatever anti-consumerist sentiment you doggedly preach. Or you sit on the fence and claim to be unaffected by everybody else around you feeling so loved or loathsomely unloved. Really, we all know you’re poisoning your guts with jealousy and secretly so miserable that you don’t have anyone to call your valentine, that you’re close to hiding in the work toilet cubicle, in tears, cutting yourself. You are a loser and no one loves you. No one in this world finds you fuckable enough to even bother sending you an expensive piece of mass-produced cardboard with some rendition of a bare-assed, mutant baby with wings, sporting a deadly bow and arrow, printed on it. You’re in denial. And it is pathetic to watch you squirm in your insecurities while feigning nonchalance or contempt.

So what do you do on Valentine’s Day when you’re single?

Exchange gifts with your valentine – you’ll give them a portrait of them painted in your own blood and excrement and you’ll gift yourself with their underwear you stole… Have a romantic dinner for one and be mocked and pitied by waiting staff and other diners… Masturbate in the soft glow of all your scented candles, on your bed littered with dry scratchy rose petals to sounds of Barry White and cry yourself to sleep like the deranged freak you’ve turned into during the last week leading up to Valentine’s Day. You could attend the “anti-Valentine’s Day” parties, which number in the plenty but are so overplayed and filled with the likes of you who are purely there, in the hopes that you drunkenly hook up and validate yourself just a bit for one second before you realise how pathetic you both are, having loveless, drunk sex in the backseat of a car or down an alley.

My suggestion is… Well I don’t have one. I just don’t see a point in pretending to not care when secretly we all do, and wish we didn’t. We all want to feel a tad bit special sometimes and on the day when our attachment or lack thereof, is thrown under the spotlight more than usual, a good portion of the population will be close to suicide or remedying their depression by eating, drinking, fucking, or hiding under their blankets till it all goes away. However you choose to mask the pain and hide your shame, at least try do it so on February 15, you still have a shred of dignity and no long-term repercussions. That means no drunk texting your ex and no meaningless one night stand in a pub toilet without at least donning a condom.


tales of fail: things grandmother’s eyes have seen

Yup, that time again… There isn’t really any way to ease in to these. Perhaps you should just reside yourself to the fact that you’re about to kill a small, innocent part of your soul and you’re going to laugh through its last pitiful death throes without even noticing until it is too late.

I have had numerous platonic relationships with members of the opposite sex. I take it as a good sign that I am not completely dysfunctional when it comes to relationships with woman, which is not a feat to be scoffed at looking at my track record. This is one of them…

A fateful night that started in the kitchen of my soon to be fuck buddy’s parents place, in the company of her grandmother visiting for the weekend while her parents were away… It was pleasant and jovial start and we assured the sweet old dear numerous times that we were no more than two people who simply enjoyed each others company. This of course was true at the time. I don’t lie, and I certainly don’t lie to other people’s grandmothers. It’s part of my charm that manages to struggle to the surface on occasion, and this just so happened to be one of those occasions. Granny thought me a lovely lad, a bit of an odd dress sense, but perfectly lovely.

The plan for the evening was that I would be shown around my mate’s neck of the woods. I mean her neighbourhood, not her other “neck of the woods”. That part was entirely unplanned and I think surprised everyone. We headed out into the night with granny’s blessing to go be young. Which to us meant go get retarded drunk. The alcohol and conversation flowed that night. Every possible facet of life and what it all meant was discussed as we bar hopped around her little town. I probably discovered something profound and meaningful in all that talk, but it was obliterated by the amount of tequila I poured down my throat. I believe the count was up to 15 tequila shots, when we eventually crash landed back at her place both shit faced and ready to suck face. This incidentally, planted the seed for a strategy I would employ for years involving getting blind drunk, talking incessantly, and then pulling out my penis. If you ever plan on using this method I can vouch that it has about a 100% chance of your penis being played with, but only about a 30% chance that it won’t be by you. Some are thoroughly charmed by your straightforwardness and some are inclined to strike out and scream for help. C’est la vie.

pop art, comic book, woman slapping man, pervet getting smacked

happens more than I like to admit

We were just in middle of passionate love-making… To the casual observer it looked like two drunk people making a good go of fucking on the couch. When the inevitable happened, a lesson that I never really learnt in the years preceding or since that night, that when I have had that much liquor, my dick won’t cooperate with anyone. My dear friend and current object of lust was trying her damnedest to get a rise out of the offending appendage when unbeknownst to us, our skin on skin slapping must have alerted her grandmother to something not quite right happening in the house. She knew the sound even if she couldn’t quite place from where and when. She sat up right, hopped out of bed with the agility of a much younger woman, wrapped herself in her old lady night-gown and made her way through the dark house like a fucking ninja to investigate the origin of the strange but familiar sounds. What she found was two pale naked bodies lit only by moonlight engaged in what can only be described as a blow job. She stood for a moment, shocked, unable to believe the scene in front of her. I, being the only one able to look around the room was equally stunned and speechless. It seemed like an eternity that our gazes locked, watching horror creep over each other’s faces. Both our cheeks going crimson, hers from anger, mine from being sucked off, until there was nothing to be done but to break the silence. There wasn’t exactly silence if I’m completely honest. I’m certain there was a slurp or two in those few milliseconds.

grandma, gun

visions of my future

Granny broke her granddaughters concentration and the silence by shouting, “So this is what just friends do?!”. She didn’t wait for an answer, thankfully. She blurted something about getting dressed and going to bed while making a hasty retreat down the corridor back to her room. Our dear friend, mortified at being caught with cock in mouth, covered her face and understandably took a minute to curl up and die a little inside. While she did that I located my scattered clothes and pulled them on ready to make my exit. I was a gentleman though and waited when she went to check that Granny hadn’t died of a heart attack. I fought my initial instincts then to get the fuck out the house and run before Gran came back with a weapon of some sort. When our, now dressed, mate returned she insisted on account of my drunk state that I still spend the night, albeit, on the couch, fully clothed and far away from her. After some whispered debate, I finally relented when I realised that the situation was far more embarrassing for grandmother and granddaughter than it was for me. I was also assured nothing violent would happen to me while I slept so I reluctantly agreed. We made coffee and sat on the aforementioned couch, and laughed at how the night had ended. To me, a rather good indication that we were to stay good mates.

That morning, I awoke with a pounding head, tongue like sand and cock that felt thoroughly used. I was greeted by the sounds of Granny and one of her friends having Sunday tea while I was passed out, just feet away. I pretended to be asleep for as long as possible but eventually I had to relieve my bladder. I can’t say I’ve ever had such an awkward morning before or since. Then I haven’t been caught completely naked with a future generation’s head in my lap since then either. Strangely, Granny agreed not to tell anyone about what the three of us had shared that night and it seemed like it ended there. That is until a few years later, when our mate’s mother, who I managed to make multiple good impressions on and was on great terms with, hinted that she had been clued in on what had happened on her lounge suit all those years ago. In my shock and embarrassment, I’m afraid I probably didn’t offer up a very good apology at the time… So, Mrs “Mate’s Mom”, if you ever read this, I really am sorry I got my balls out and all over your living room… and I’m sorry you just read the details of what happened that night now.


everybody loves a trainwreck… especially me.

Dear Jesulbub,

I would like to give thanks to you for putting morons on this wet rock called Earth and then letting them loose. Their antics, although infuriating and sometimes scary, at times, offer me great amusement when I need it most. Like just the other day, when I was in the middle of a particularly stressful week, you let one of your many morons skip merrily on to the interwebs and it clicked it’s way on to twitter, where this particular child of yours, managed to fuck up a major international brand’s image for South Africa in the space of one afternoon… I sat in my office and followed the carnage with great interest, and I am thankful for all the laughs as I watched it spiral out of control ending with a big bloody nuclear fallout of an explosion, that was the public’s backlash at stupidity.

Your’s Forever Grateful,

P. Blood

I know I can say some pretty sexist and misogynistic shit on this blog. I am aware of it but I do it anyway. I try to make up for it usually by including some form of apology or admission that I am being a dick… It might not be enough, but then I don’t particularly care if you’re offended. This is a personal blog about nothing, just because I happen to have followers and readers doesn’t make me responsible for anything. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. There are plenty of other yawn worthy blogs to entertain your small minds out there. Even after saying that, there is some stuff I won’t write here or anywhere else for that matter… Like the dumb shit some ass hole, sitting in Durex’s offices somewhere in South Africa, started tweeting. Whoever let this mouth breather near a computer and explained to him (it was definitely a dude. No woman would have made those jokes) how to use twitter, clearly didn’t go as far as explaining what he was doing and the impact it would have if he managed to piss people off. Oh man… Did he piss people off. I have been trying for over a year to get that kind of hatred aimed at me. Clearly, I’ve been doing it wrong. All I need to do is remove my brain, let a 100 chimps shit all over it, stick it back in my head, and let the monkey crap spill out…

Gladly shit on your brain, old chap. But, whatever for?

I like all  social media we have available to us these days. It’s benefits out-weight the negatives by far, but like I explained to some new small-town friends and family, it is still a relatively new technology that we haven’t fully learnt to deal with yet. Our society is still catching up in a way. It is very apparent that not everyone is up to using social media properly, and with the appropriate level of restraint. I have faith though, that one day it will be no more complicated or unfathomable to even the dullest of light bulbs as using a telephone. If anything,  DurexSA’s twitter tragedy, will hopefully be a lesson to others, that letting any old wannabe keyboard jockey that talks a lot, manage your brand’s social media, is not a good idea, because it potentially leads to…

DurexSA gives it a whole new meaning, don't they?

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