HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY!!!

Well! It's that special day in my year again, when my darling friend Fingers turns even older and even crustier!

This year, he is a crinkly 49 and I'm loving it. Just like cheap red wine that has been opened and then recorked repeatedly, the older he gets, the more bitter and difficult to swallow he becomes.

But I do so love to swallow you baby!!! MMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Happy birthday baby,

no matter how much of a miserable cunt you are,

I still totally love you.

I know just what you like best on your special day,

so I have got you my usual present, my snatch.

This year I've decided to go with purple wrapping,

because it respresents sexual frustration.

I think it's a beautiful, poetic reference

to the fact that both of us desperate losers hardly ever get laid...

Big hugs and endless bat smoking!


Love Kitty
xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

TRUTH OR DARE

Ok, so about 18 months ago I told someone a huge fucking lie. It was not malicious at all, and I actually did it to protect the person I was lying to.

If I can put it like this:

I gained nothing and lost everything from lying.

The person I lied to lost nothing and gained everything.

I did it for excellent reasons and it was definitely the right thing to do. These days, it is ok to come clean and tell the truth. I think about it constantly. I hate that I lied.

Do I tell the truth? In doing so, I am going to stir up the past. I have burst into tears twice today when thinking about the words I'd use when telling them. Right now, tears prickle my eyeballs.

I am not even sure that I will be believed. I already lied, and for some time. It's a bitter regret. I wish I'd just told the truth or just stayed silent.

I'm going to probably feel really emotional and strung out post truth-telling. It's going to be quite hard for me, but genuinely, I don't really know how the person I lied to is going to feel.

Perhaps a bit sad. Perhaps there will be no serious reaction at all. That will sting me even more.

Do I tell the truth, or shut the fuck up?

If I tell the truth, do I say it in person and risk a very unfortunate display of ugly crying, or send an sms or write it in a card?

Thoughts welcome.

The end.

(P.S. It wasn't my husband I lied to, and no I am not talking about cheating)

MONOPOLY (FRANKSTON EDITION)

(click to enlarge)

Hahahahahaha, good old Franghanistan is under attack again. Contrary to popular belief, I do not live there, so I can poke the fun, be smug and feel superior all I like.

This version of Monopoly can be applied to any suburb of ill repute really. Love the moccie.

The end.

WEDINATOR

If you like People of Walmart you will most likely enjoy Wedinator too.

This site is not as much fun as Walmart, and it took me a few pages to get into it, but it's good for people who just like me, think weddings are a lot of utter bullshit*.

:o)

I don't have anything to say today. I have no 'funny' and I have no stories of note. I'm plaughed by a dreary little raft of fucking internet idiots floating through my wet pink waters at present, so I'm just chillin' with my niggas and waiting for them to bore themselves to death with their own inferiority and drop off my radar.

For my disciples who have followed from the days when this used to be a weighloss blog, I weighed myself and eyeballed a very satisfying 52.9 kilos. This event propelled me directly and with renewed vigour into the gym for a two hour extravaganza of heaving heavy things up and down. I knocked out 45 kilos on the close-grip lat pull down. Not just hot, but strong!

This had me preening quite a bit. My muscle definition is on the sharp increase, and my arms are actually beginning to ripple. Like boysenberry icecream.

Earlier I was going to bust out some belated reeeeally quite filthy HNT, but I got called in to cover a work shift. *cuuuuunts!*

Hopefully some fucking idiots will come in tonight and annoy me, thus providing some blog fodder. Blog-wise, I'm fairly uninspired for the most part.

Oh yeah, I got asked out by a drug dealer (not at work). I'm not sure exactly what this says about me and the image I project, but it can't be good. *sad eyes*

Have a good weekend!

*just like marriage

THAT'S ENOUGH

Today on the way to work this afternoon, I was nearly run off the road by two apparently cunt-stunned truck occupants, who were so intent on getting me to pull over so that the driver could 'charm me' and get my phone number that things became somewhat frightening.

Now, a lot of blokes in utes and male truck occupants who see me driving The Best get a boner and want to show it to me, mostly because I'm dressed slutty for work and because I drive a "blokes car" and they are surprised when they see me at the wheel. It's a porno fantasy thing I thunk.

Usually it is all a big flirt-fest, quite flattering and a bit of jolly good fun. I like that I still have tradesman-pulling-power at this ripe old age and I have been known to become outrageous and flash a bit of tit or whatever to appease my admirers. We all have a bit of a giggle, then get on with our day.

Today was a bit scary. It started off with headlight flashing and a wave. I gave him a wave back, because I'm a fucking desperate old whorebag quite flirty, and then watched as he flogged seven colours of shit out of his truck to catch up with me, cruising slightly ahead, in The Beast. I giggled and preened over the attention. Any bitch who tells you she doesn't like boys going crosseyed over her phatness is a flatout fucking liar. Damn straight.

We approached Franghanistan and things turned a bit full on. I shouted out my window about being married and attempted to zoom off, only the fucking twat ahead was glued to the speed limit.

Damn the left lane.

He shouted back, something about wedding rings and then something about my hot thighs being wrapped around his head. It was difficult to hear over his mate who was driving and screaming about pulling over so that he could get my phone number.

I slowed down, so did they. I bleated that they were wankers for grass cutting as they know I'm married, the term being fresh in my mind after my post the other day, and they screamed back that it only counts if 'you know the guy'.

I need to add that to my handbook. I didn't know about that loophole. Is that even a fucking real loophole? It certainly doesn't sound like cricket to me...

They kept veering over toward my lane and the passenger seat guy hollered at me to pull over. They were both grinning like maniacs and leering and hanging their tongues out.

How original.

I shook my head, tossing my glossy mane back and put my window back up. That is when the driver decided to drive his fucking truck directly toward The Beast and try and push me onto the shoulder of the Nepean Highway.

I veered and skidded a bit on wet road, then I considered driving into the beach car park and calling the fucking cops actually, but instead I stood on my anchors, let the truck go past me altogether and then flung The Beast into the right hand lane. Then I pressed my rhinestone wedge-clad foot down on the accelerator as hard as I could and flew off toward Frankston shopping precinct.

I was frightened. They were a pair of fucking (hot) idiots. I ran two red lights to ensure they didn't catch up to me.

Now, remember the tattoo guy that asked for my number? Well he didn't get it, but he gave me his. WTF? Desperate.

Then he started texting me anyway after he stalked my number from the appointment diary. Yeah, you read it right. If a woman does not give you her number, it is proper form to FUCK OFF. Y'know? It's not rocket surgery.

If one takes tattoo guy, the guy who sent me a chardy despite the fact I was in the company of a guy at the time, plus today's shenanigans into consideration, you would be forgiven for entertaining the idea that I have actually become too hot.

Donny Henderson Smith warned me that this might happen if I allowed him to be my trainer for too long...

*sad eyes*

I wish I had a therapist to discuss my hotness catastrophe with.

*cries*

The end.

LOVE IS ALL AROUND

(Click to enlarge the Crackbook proof!!)

Recently on Tara's blog I read a thing about friendship. It went:

Friendship is like pissing in your pants. Everyone can see it, but only you can feel it's true warmth. Thank you for being the piss in my pants.

Fingers, or 'Smoopie' as I call him, is the piss in my pants.

He is an miserable old fucker. Yeah! Soon to be 49 decrepit years old and possibly the most delightfully cranky and rude person I have ever met. He's a total cunt. That is his charm.

Ever since we fucked on his Batman bedsheet set at his Cunt Point mansion back in 1997, I've loved his crinkly old cigarette-stinking arse desperately.... Now I finally haz the proof that he loves me too.

*swoon*

This obviously means that I am cancelling the blog suicide. He loves me. He loves me so much that rather like a snivelling, snot eating turd-like seven year old boy in the school playground, he hangs shit on me because he loves me so hard. He is frightened and confused by the feelings of intense, searing, passionate love. He is overwhelmed by the phatness that is Kitty.

What a fucking loser, hey? It doesn't matter to me. I love him anyway.

Smoopie, baby, I love you too. Remember to tune in on Monday for your birthday Pussy Cake Post! I promise a sweet, moist, delicious eyeload of iced vagina for everyone! Enough to go aaaaall the way around my several trillion dedicated but non-commenting readers...

Before then, there will be an attention-seeking mostly naked HNT* post to ogle in the meantime.

It feels so good to be back. Fuuuuuuck, I missed you guys!

*cries and flashes cooter*

The end.

* HNT stands for Half Nekkid Thursdays (I'm sick of getting the fucking emails asking what it means)

QUTTING

***WARNING: THIS IS NOT AN ATTEMPT TO SEEK ATTENTION***

Cunt feature Fingers says I totally suck, can't write for shit and am fucking boring.

Well. Impressing Fingers is really the only reason I blog at all. Upon hearing these and added revelations about how crap I am...I thunked to myself, why bother wasting 20 minutes writing stupid posts about grassing cutting etiquette which 280 people read and only 4 commented on?

Why tell the fascinating work stories?

Why confess in staggeringly honest detail all the cringe worthy realities of the stupid shit I do?

Why persist with humiliating myself day after day in a pointless quest to entertain people who don't bother commenting any fucking waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay....

*woe is meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!*

Why indeed!

So I quit. Fuck this.

I'm deleting myself in 24 hours. Precisely.

Bye.

GRASS CUTTING ON A MONDAY NIGHT

Sooooooo!

Who's up for a moral discussion today? No tits here I'm afraid, so I'm offering you the next best thing.

Last night I went to the pub for a few drinks with a male friend. I got there 10 minutes before my friend did and nestled on a couch with a beer and the newspaper and did some people watching out the windows for good measurement.

I noted two 'man couples' outside. They were both smoking and drinking beer too. One of those man couples moved inside and installed themselves on the nearest stools to my couch. Some eye fucking attempts from Stool Guy #1 ensued. I was not that interested in eye fucking, I wanted to see my friend and have a wine and that was it. Thanks very much.

Then, Stool Guy #2 went to the men's room and the moment he was out of eye shot, Stool Guy #1 turned to me and began a frantic crash-tune. I silently applauded his bravery, for Blind Freddie could see he was well out of his league and about to burn himself beyond recognition.

I felt charitable and humoured him. I immediately crushed him with some bionic flirting, followed up with ambiguous eyelash batting, neck of beer bottle fondling and a good 10 centimetre thigh parting with partial knicker flash, all designed to fool him into thinking he might be in with half a chance (as if).

Stool Guy #2, fresh from the potty, and my man-friend arrived on the scene at the same time. I immediately forgot about both stool guys and pranced off to the bar with my man-friend for wine purchasing. His, not mine. I haven't bought my own drink in the company of a man (platonic or otherwise) since 1992. My dear friend offered to become scarce so that I could continue the sex-trawl, which I vetoed because I was not there for random penis, I was there for friendship maintenance.

We then resettled on the couch and got busy with some long overdue jibber jabber.

About half an hour into our cosy, flirtatious-but-going-nowhere-cause-we're-both-married catch up, the blonde waitress arrived and handed me a backup chardy and said "This is from the guy outside in the blue sweater!" and plonked a glass of wine on the table.

As stuck up my own arse as it sounds, this is pretty common for me. The drink sending, it happens. Only it normally occurs when I'm out with female friends. This blue sweater person did not know who my man-friend was. I was hugging and affectionate upon his arrival and touchy-touchy while we talked because that is what I'm like. I cannot talk to a man, any man, without molesting his thighs and biceps.

I was not amused at blue sweater guys presumption that I was interested in his (house...!...) chardonnay whilst in the company of another man. How did he know that my friend was not my boyfriend, husband or nerve-riddled first date companion?

I call a moral-foul.

I went outside to "thank" him and promptly lied through my teeth, telling him that I was in fact on a date and said:

"Gee, thanks for ripping his balls off mate, now he's lost his edge and I won't be getting pounded to fuck in two and a half more drinks, will I????!!!!"

He then apologised insincerely and asked me if I would like to accompany him to "the city" and have some "fun". I declined, and mid-way through my declining, his phone rang and he actually took it and began yabbering on over the top of me.

His friend who was quite hot, sporting a black eye and greeeeeat delts laughed, and offered me his mobile number for "later"......?

I became haughty, did some hair flicking and went inside to play with my friends thigh whilst sucking down my free chardy.

Now.

Who else thinks the drink sending was out of order? What happened to The Aussie Man Code of Ethical Pussy Chasing?!?! What happened to not grass cutting your comrades?

Thoughts welcome.

The end.

I STILL WANT A THERAPIST

Even though I'm feeling almost normal these days, I miss having a therapist with whom I can play pointless mind games.

This week I'm wasting some time auditioning potential candidates to take over from Red Socks (who I miss so desperately I'm considering stalking him for reals, and fuck me I'm hoping that shit is strictly temporary or else I'm totally and completely fucked).

Don't wish me luck, because it isn't about luck! It's about circumstance and coincidence, nothing more!

In other news, I'm getting really thin. As I busily pursue my goal of getting my name at the top of the Gym Attendees List, the whole ridiculous idiosyncratic charade is instantly paying generous dividends in the "freakin' shredded and quite beautifully muscular" department.

This week I went to the gym seven times (with two days off!). A good effort, but one which I believe can be significantly improved upon. I've covered 39 kilometres on the treadmill this week too. I've done four resistance workouts, and frankly, I'm loving it.

I am pounding endless food into my gob and yet my skinny, ever-hardening body continues to shrink. It's grouse as.

My parents have arrived at Chateau Phatshack, and will be staying for six months (not at my house, but their own house which will be arranged when they go to the real estate cunts tomorrow and rent one).

I'm too shit scared to show them my new ab-muriel, because Dad is going to fucking lose it and Mum will give me her disappointed face. I fucking haaaaate that face like poison. I cannot believe I behave this retardedly at 35 years of age. I've been drinking wine since they hit the door trying to muster the courage, but so far, nothing but hangover.

Tomorrow, I'm mostly going to the gym twice and concentrating on hiding my abdominal region from my parents.

The end.

HNT (BEFORE AND AFTER)

If you don't like it, that is fair play, and I look forward to your polite silence (just like if I was an ugly chick posting a picture of her mirror-shattering self on a girls night out, you just say NOTHING, y'know?) Or if it really makes you feel better about yourself, tell me it's awful, but please, I implore you, do not bore me to fucking death with idiotic comments like about how I'm going to 'regret' it when I'm 50 walking down the street with my big tattoo showing.

Um, duh! You do not know me better than me, and I will take this opportunity to point out that I have rather great abs, and if they are still on display when I'm 50, then I will be so overwhelmed with smug, nothing else will matter.

...next, I'll be getting a half-sleeve full-colour portrait of Fingers crouched over a computer, scowling and giving everyone "the finger" with Smoopie in big loopy elaborate and dramatic cursive writing underneath (complete with ironic love heart dot to the i)...I'm going to position him on my right uber toned bicep and delt in order to achieve a tastefully subtle ink-balance....

Baaaaaahahahahahahahahaha! Not. However I am thinking about getting "Pooks" on my left flange flap...

The end.

SHE'S GETTIN' A TATTOO, YEAH - SHE'S GETTIN' INK DONE

So I finally pulled my finger out and finished off my belly tattoo over the past two days (pictures posted tomorrow). It only took, um, 17 years. D'oh!

Two hours of bone chipping red hot needles tearing into my flesh with accompanied searing agony yesterday, and then another two hours today. It's all outline and thick, heavy colour. For those not in the know, that is the shit that really fuckin' hurts. Shading is for pussies.

It's big, it's bold, it's bright and I fucking love it.

However, it's turns out I'm pretty much the lone ranger there. *does. not. care.*

Of all the people I've shown or texted a picture to so far, the overwhelming majority are not impressed.

Meh.

I have never cared what anyone has thought of my four tattoos, and now one has been extended to four times it's original size, I still don't.

Earlier, an associate offered her unsolicited opinion of my newly inked abdominal masterpiece.

"Oh, oh no. No. It's no good, you'd look better with something smaller Kitty."

"Yeah, a bit like you and your arse."

The end.

p.s. the tattoo guy gave me his number and wants to bang the shit out of me cause I'm so fucking tough and instead of carrying on like a little bitch, I nonchalantly sipped my 1.5 litre Diet Coke and chatted about lurid, filthy sexual fetishisms the whole time to keep my shit focussed and together, and didn't wince or complain, not even once. my composure gave him a boner. booyah.

REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED WITH A SIDE OF SHOESTRING FRIES...

OK, so this is going to sound like I'm talking about myself, but I'm so not.

See, a friend of mine (who is not me) indulges in a fair bit of Internet shagging dating. So does her sister (I don't even have a sister).

Recently her sister went out with a guy from an undisclosed dating site. I'm not being coy, I just don't know which one because quite unbelievably, I don't use them! *shock and/or disbelief*

Her sister did the nasty with this dude, as they dated for a little while. I believe after the ugly bumping, he dished a "root and boot" manoeuvre*, and blanked her.

Then he posed as his own cousin and made a date with my friend. Yes, both sisters use the same dating site. However, it should be noted that that my friend and the guy did not do the filth.

The two sisters have since pieced together that this guy is a fucking liar and pretended to be his cousin to date the second sister and try and get his prong in her socket, like he did with the first one.

Personally, I'm all for Internet sex, family member swapsies and generally behaving like an unpaid man-whore, but not if you are lying to people in order to do it.

Now I realise that none of this has a good Goddamn to do with me, but see, I've just been contracted in to arrange the revenging.

I'm outsourcing because I have a lot on my mind at the moment. I can't think straight and I don't want to offer up lame score settling tactics. I have been spending some time gazing out the window wondering who to call to gather around my cauldron, when I realised I have you few hundred great friends, and you really are an excellent so-far-untapped resource for this sort of shenanigan planning.

So I am imploring for help.

*help!*

I'll make it a competition to make it 'fun'!

Can everyone who has a strong vindictive streak lurking under a thin and crispy veneer of normality, please offer up their best ideas for a bit of ruthless revengefulness.

The winning entry gets a minimum three-hour date with yours truly, though please do not let that deter you from entering the competition as tolerating an evening of buying me expensive drinks and listening to me talk about myself is optional only, fully transferable, and not even mandatory.

The end.

* I seriously had to type that incorrectly and spell check it, like fucking usual...

TUESDAY'S TITS

SELLING SALES

At work we have introduced a membership scheme. Basically, the punters get a little inconspicuous key chain with a number stamped on it and their name and a 'question and answer' is entered into the computer along with the corresponding key chain number for means of identification.

Every 10th visit they get the house fee waived, or something like that. It's basically a loyalty programme like you get at Bakers Delight, or with Qantas.

It is not as easy to sell as one might first assume. Most blokes don't want even the most subtle link or proof of association in any possible way to my place of business.

*go figure!*

Here is an excerpt of me up-selling the free memberships during my last shift.

Kitty: Hello! Would you like to join our membership scheme? Every 10th visit you get the house fee waived...or something like that.

Punter: Uuuuum, no.

Kitty: Go ooon, I'm going to get bollocked if I don't get some names down. I just need your first name and a question and answer to put into the computer. Come on! It's just like accruing air miles....Yeah! It is! You know what it is? It's a Frequent Fucker Programme!!! Haaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

*falls about, killing self laughing*

Punter: *runs for exit with humiliated expression*

Hmmm. That didn't go so well.

The end.

HIGH ACHIEVING IN THE SUBURBS

These days, I always like to have some obscure, pointless but most importantly attainable personal goal in my mind. Helps me get through the darker moments. You know?

This week, I'm mostly obsessed about getting my name on the Top 10 Attendees list on the gym's monthly newsletter.

Yes I'm fucking serious.

Someone is leading at the moment with a piss-poor total of 23 visits. That is fuck aaaall! I mean, considering there are up to 31 days in a month a meagre 23 attendances is hardly a big deal to flex ones delts and crow over. Is it?? No. It's not.

Does anyone else agree with that? See, I think I might have issues with over-doing things. Perfectionism. Extremism. All of that shit. The point is, at the end of my crazy days, I no longer have Red Socks to bore to death talk to about this stuff, nobody with a notebook and a plastic identification tag on a lanyard around their neck, nobody to nod and scribble secret but fascinating notes about my mental state, nobody to care, so prepare to get it right between your eyeballs more and more often.

*Back to the gym newsletter conquering!*

So I could easily go twice a day, six days per week. Multiply that by four weeks and that is an easy 48 visits!

I intend to bat that "23visits" bullshit right out of the ballpark and score an even 30 for this month. I'd easily get a much higher score, but I only decided to become totally preoccupied with this ridiculous crap a few days ago and that is very much mid-month. For festering Santa-season December, I shall aim for an obnoxious 50+ visits by increasing things to twice a day every single day. Though I'm going to have to find out which days they intend to close for Present Day, then devise a contingency plan of perhaps several "three-visits-per-day" strikes to keep the numbers up.

I want to see my fucking name at the top of a list before I die. This may well be my only chance. So what if I end up doing lines of Voltaren and L-Glutamine in the car park just to get through my workout? Nothing worth a damn is ever easy to achieve. Plus I'll have abs to friggin' die for by News Years Eve!

Wish me some luck in my comments.

*If you don't, you fucking suuuuuuuuuuuuuck sweaty balls*

The end.