20 Jan 2017


Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

So Dalekins has bought me this Garmin right. The one that tracks all your comings and goings and tattles on all the Cinnabuns you’ve eaten (cause it’s a dick). I could probably change your DSTV channel for you while sitting on the loo in my own home by just pressing a button. So if your 3-year-old comes to you after you left them watching cBeebies and asks what “The Red Room of pain” is… I apologise, I know not the extent of the exercise-watch-power I wield.

…and on a side note let me just say with what these things cost they should be doing the fucking pushups FOR me. Not TELLING me to Move every 10 minutes! You move, and stop telling me how to live my life!

Now why my hubby would buy me (the laziest person on the planet) a Garmin like this, can only mean one thing. He thinks I’m fat.

He SAYS he wants me to exercise to be healthy and to be able to run after Ava one day and to not develop an arthritic arse or something like that, I don’t really know. The minute I hear the word exercise I black out and need a splash of Cab Sav on my face to revive me…

So anyhoo, all this thing has now done is make me completely obsessive about the amount of steps I take! There’s a goal now, and I HAVE to hit it! Stupid fucking thing…

Now I have considered many things. Tying it to a cats paw. Giving it to a teenage boy, telling him to wear it around his wrist and sending him to his room with an old Scope magazine. I have even offered Dale the chance to take it and go have a free wank in the bedroom as long as he wears my watch while doing it, but he said that would only be good for 5 steps and what use is that! (Side Note: Add husband to “To Do” list)

So now I walk (and occasionally skip when no one’s looking). Like a peasant. Who does peasanty things. Like walk.

And when I haven’t hit my goal? I march on the spot like a complete KNOB looking like I’m chewing a toffee with my bum. Like an old Jane Fonda exercise video except minus the pelvic thrusting and add a whole lot of “ooooph!” and “are knees supposed to sound crunchy?”

But I’m not going to lie, when I do hit my goal, this watch vibrates and shoots fireworks on the screen and makes me feel like a shiny new penny. Almost makes me want to pull my shirt up over my head and ski on the grass on my knees like Messi… but I’d have to pick up the dog poo first and aint nobody got time for that…

Sigh, so you win this one Dalekins, you and your subliminal “You need to exercise” messages… less subliminal and more blatant. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that every time I mention I’m craving chocolate you rub my ear and quietly whisper “broccoli broccoli broccoli” in a robotic voice…

But if it helps me to not sprout an extra arse everytime we just drive past a KFC then fine, whatevs…

7 Jul 2016

Naughty 40’s

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

Walking down the aisle at Woolies the other day, scanning the magazines, my eyes landed on an article being advertised “HOW TO GET A JOB AT 40, FOLLOW THESE SIMPLE STEPS!”

I turn 40 in December. *gasp*

So I’m going to call upon my many many MANY years of experience (because apparently when you hit 40 you are fuck old and should have a lot of experience) and help you out here.

You want to know how to get a job when you’re 40? Let me break it down for you: LIKE ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING DOES AT ANY AGE YOU COCKTONSIL! (FYI: cocktonsil is for the writer… not you. You’re a delight, never change.)

Send CV. Go for Interview. Dazzle with your motherfluffing genius, or, cross and uncross legs like Sharon Stone showing off your lady garden that has been intricately shaved into the words “Hire me!” and taaaadaaaaa, job done.

Turning 40 is apparently a “thing”.  Everyone has something to say about it… Like you cross over into some sort of dark side the minute the clock strikes twelve when you’ve been on earth for 2 scores. See, that is just some of the shit you know when you’re my age. What a “score” means… 20 years for you young uns… (Ok I lie, I didn’t know that.  I googled that shit).

I am fully expecting my teeth to become loose and my bladder to become a little leaky the instant I wake up on my birthday, and I’ll begin to say shit like “In my day, I walked to school, in the snow, barefoot…” and “pass me my teeth sonny…” because that is the impression every one is giving me, and I say balls to that!

Ageism. I cannot grasp it.

Even being pregnant at my age I was listed as a “high risk pregnancy” because of my age. What the fuck? Oh no you did not just imply that my vagina is too old to push this baby out! It’s quite young and wrinkle free still I’ll have you know, just ask my doctor, he was all up in my grill for 12 hours and not once did he yell out “we’ve got an old vagina here, bring me the paddles in case we need to revive this thing…”

Yes, yes, so I’m turning 40. Big fucking whoop. Life carries on, just like it did the day before. I STILL don’t know how to do my taxes.  I still get nervous when my parents use my full name. Hula Hooping completely evades me, and I still don’t know the difference between lend and borrow – and don’t care to learn either, you know what I mean so don’t give me shit about it. There’s a lot I don’t know that I probably should at my age, but meh there you go.

What I do know is that we all get there… and no one ever really “feels” their age mentally, so you can mock me now for my age. But when you come hobbling “over the hill”, I’ll be there waiting with my zimmerframe to welcome you, and to possibly lob my dentures at your stupid face.

….and I might be wearing a rubber catsuit and a gimp mask while doing it. Don’t be afraid, apparently it’s known as the “Naughty 40’s” for a reason…

Side note: Sheeezus…. don’t ever try be clever and get a Google image of “cat in rubber suit with gimp mask”…  *poke out minds eye*

3 May 2016

I’m backkkkk!

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

When I fell pregnant, I stopped writing.  If you read my drivel often (thanks mom) you would have noticed this.

A nearly 3 year blank space. Why? Well I guess it was because I thought that that time belonged to me, and me alone. I wanted to keep somethings personal. If you know me, you know that this is a near on impossible task on any other day. I will happily tell people behind me in Checkers that I wish the queue would go faster as I am desperate to get back to the car so I can pull my thong out of my bum because holy fucking shit, it’s right up there… so for me to keep any personal detail to myself is, well… hard. (Filters are for other people).

I was desperate to write posts like “Right – so let’s talk haemorrhoids!” throughout my pregnancy, because come on!! Don’t lie, don’t pretend, you’ve all had one… mine was called Carl. No I lie… I never named mine, but I wish I had… but because I couldn’t see his face (Yes, haemorrhoids are always male)  I felt that naming him wouldn’t be kind… what if he were more of a Rupert?

However, I had a driving force behind my sudden silence. My baby. My precious sweet little baby that would be arriving in the world would one day learn to read, and in doing so might one day stumble upon my blog, and be forced to read about her mother’s vagina, and how her father puked burger patty into mom’s electric car windows once. Ahhh memories, that burger patty stayed with us for a very… very… long time.

If she were ever to read any of it, what would she think of her mom?

And so I stopped writing.  Stopped doing the one thing that allowed me to vent, rage, and occasionally talk about unicorn vaginas. And in doing so, I lost my outlet, I lost me.

But now, because hindsight is always 20/20, I have decided FUCK THIS SHIT! And to start writing again. I am who I am, I write silly things, I use very bad words and am descriptive in ways that make prudish people’s lips make that funny shape, like an arsehole shape… you know the one.

I suspect some of your lips might just have done that.

Ava will read this one day. Maybe she’ll laugh. Maybe she won’t. But all of this is less about her and more about me.

So in advance: I’m sorry my pickle, if reading all of this has made you cringe. If you think it’s funny then *fist bump*. If not, HOW THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN HAVE ACCESS TO THE INTERNET FROM THE NUNNERY IN PIKSONDERWATER…?!

Oh and hold on, because if you don’t like your TRUE birth story being  told, not the one about how there was a stream of golden sunlight gently touching my sweaty brow from the window, while I gave a small sneeze and you just popped out with a smile on your face, and more of the real mom version where I managed to get myself a smaller vagina from giving birth instead of one like a clowns pocket, then stop reading now…

13 Jan 2016

Don’t tell me what to do 2016!!

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

Oh Lordy, what is it with a new year that makes people go bat shit crazy with these Goddamn resolutions?! I thought I’d resorted years ago to not do resolutions because all it is, is a lot of pressure and frankly I don’t like being told what to do, even if it’s me! But alas here we are.

This year I’m going to not drink so much… check.

For a week.

And then I’m back to drinking like a hobo, you know, when they still have a little money and don’t need to be draining meths through bread…. I have standards people, and am a little afraid of what the gluten will do to me.  It is a new year after all and am wanting to try new fancy things, like bragging about being gluten free – this is a lie, I’m not scared of gluten… doesn’t it just make you fart a lot? (I may need to read up on this, everyone can do with a little less farting… and technically farting less makes me greener doesn’t it (or is that cows?), and surely to be greener would be to check off another resolution??).

Just an FYI, this is just an example… I’d never give up wine. Well not for good anyway, it’s sirens song will always lead me back to its heady deliciousness…. This may or may not mean that I have a drinking problem.

This year I am going to be greener. Fart less. See above. I’d try my hand at composting my own rubbish too but then I fear that I would have to grow dreads and start smelling like patchouli oil too, and tie dye just isn’t my thing because I’m living in 2016 and I’m not on acid…

This year I’m going to swear less.  Fuck that.

This year, I am going to lose 10kg’s. Well yes, this is obvious, because I ate my body weight in cheesecake over the last 3 weeks. Fuck you festive season and all your deliciousness (I’m lying, unfuck you, you were a delight). This one I will have to do, because my muffin top is now less of a muffin top and more of a … well I don’t even know…. What would you call it if your muffin reaches your knees? A Roly poly…?

Anyhoo, and yes, the kicker. Because Dalekins says I am goalless (is that even a word, like, spellcheck is not underlying that shit so it must be right) and this may be causing my slight depression lately (although I think it’s due to the price of avo’s have you seen that shit lately?? R45 for two! Come on!!!) he thinks I should start being a mad bastard like him and start running. Although he runs up mountains, literally (please refer to comment about him being a mad bastard).

He’s been kind and suggested… a short little 5km here and there, you know, to perk me up a little (not sure if he means my arse or my mood *suspicious face*). Now if you know me there is nothing short about a 5km run. You may as well have told me that I have to lunge and flex my glutes all the way to the Grand Canyon. I look after a toddler, who at any moment is pretty much like an excitable wet cat motoring it through the house like a Tasmanian devil, is this not enough?!! Apparently not.

Sooooooo I have started a program called “Couch to 5km” (mainly just to make him shush). I am on day 2 today, and literally only had to run for 8 minutes on Monday, and I am in fucking agony… If I were a penis, I’d be super happy about myself today because I am motherfucking stiff as a board and dreading this afternoon!! How am I going to run for another 8 minutes today? HOW! Why running for fuck sakes, of all the stupid things to choose… no one’s even chasing me!! Right now, I would rather be straddling an electric fence… with a wet vagina! wet… you know… from, rain and stuff.

Pray for me. Just pray…

17 Sep 2015

Go Go Gadget Vagina!

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

Wow, so I haven’t written anything since the 80’s.  This makes me a sad panda.

Apparently when you fall pregnant, your brain literally does turn to mush, or maybe that’s just me. Or MAYBE it’s because everyone around me has become super responsible because we have a little pinkfoot in the house now, so I cannot regale anyone with brandy soaked tales of Dalekins vomiting in his shoes, or being absolutely convinced there was a tokolosh in our garden.  Ok, ok, to be fair, that was more “mushroom” fuelled than brandy…  and by mushrooms, no I don’t mean the button variety from Woolies, I mean the stuff that entailed me having to crush it in a mortar and pestle and pour it into shot glasses (I am like the Nigella of the drug world – wait, isn’t Nigella the Nigella of the drug world..?)

Anyhoo just on that story, let me just say mushrooms don’t work on me. I am mushroom proof, I can’t even get stoned correctly for fuck sakes, which left me being the babysitter to Dalekins and two other guys (I won’t divulge details of who they were incase their moms are avid blog readers, and why wouldn’t they be? I am awesome). But incase Dalekins family reads this, then by mushrooms I definitely mean the button mushroom variety. Anyhoo yes, Dalekins became convinced that there was a tokolosh running in our garden, he even kicked a ball at “it’s head”. Because if I were a tokolosh, that’s what I’d be scared of… a drunk guy trying to kick me in the head with a tennis ball…

I don’t quite know how I got on to the story. But I have been suffering from serious writers block, so I have decided to just write a lot of crap until inspiration strikes again… bear with me now! I mean a lot has happened in my life the past year and a half, but I am positive no one wants to read about the horror that was my vagina after giving birth… (Or maybe you do, maybe I should do a VAGINA poll?) tore myself a new one I did and ended up having what I lovingly now refer to as The GREAT ETHIOPIAN CIRCUMSCISION.  (<- potential Title to my next post?)

If you would like to read about The GREAT ETHIOPIAN CIRCUMSCISION then comment with the hashtag #GoGoGadgetVag maybe we can trend on Twitter because my Vagina trending on twitter would make my life. Ok no wait this is all just false advertising. By saying #GoGoGadgetVag I am giving the impression that my vagina can infact do cool things like shoot a spiderweb… or be invisible (wouldn’t that piss Dalekins off!)  I’m just going to leave this here.

Or I could just turn this into a mommy blog, where I regale you with tales of boogers, poo consistency and 5 Reasons why toddlers are like drunk hobo’s. But imagine the horror of mommies finding this blog expecting to hear actual advise on teething and not “Put a generous helping of brandy on the gums, and then continue to slowly pour capfuls for yourself until teething no longer bothers you!”

Possibilities are endless…

Here’s a goat for taking the time to read this stupid blog post.

16 Aug 2013

Bachelors BroCode

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

So I was chatting to a friend today about a bachelors that he’d been to recently, and OBVIOUSLY my first question to him was “What did you guys do to the poor guy, and where did you go?” and I was met with a prompt SHUTDOWN! “Men don’t talk about that.”

This is a rule I quite frankly think is just lame and I don’t understand it at all.

What is the big secret?

Girls are so honest :

  • We drank too many shots because guys kept buying us Blowjobs and wiggling their eyebrows at us.
  • Someone held my hair back and afterwards picked the carrots off my pumps (This is not MY bachelorettes by the way, a) I wasn’t wearing pumps… I was wearing penis slippers and b) I spewed carrots wayyyyyyyyy before we even went out – I like to say it was a tactical chunder due to the eleventy-hundred penis shaped vodka jellies I gulped down (Don’t judge me – I needed dutch courage… there is something about having your future mother-in-law in the room while you pick out vibrators that made me need a few stiff shots okay!!)
  • I sniggered at all the other girls when “All the single ladies” came on and tried to smugly stick my engagement ring under their noses but ended up tripping on my way and just ended up boxing a girl in the tit. (It’s funny what people are prepared to forgive when you’re wearing a nuns outfit and have a balloon tied to your belt – for homing in and retrieval purposes I was told)
  • And then ofcourse there are the standard game cards that get given out: Sit on a man’s lap, look deeply into his eyes and tell him how beautiful you think his soul is.  Luckily for me my brother just happened to be in the same place so he got that one… *cough* we swore an oath to never talk of it again… sorry bro.
  • I jumped into a guys arms and made him carry me around for 20 minutes while I shouted “Thiiiiiis wayyyyyyyyyy…. Now Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat wayyyyyyyyyyy” (I may have been using his ear as a rudder)

Andddd so forth and so forth…

Now with men… you just get stonewalled, or the “What happens at the Bachelors STAYS at the bachelors.”

I only have one way of fully understanding this response:

The groom did something really REALLY bad:

  • You went to a stripclub and instead of awkwardly trying to look everywhere BUT at the vagina that is currently gyrating in your face to “Poisonnnnn” you actually screwed the stripper in question and now have genital warts the size of cabbages?
  • You bonked a hooker – She is now buried in your best friends garden under his wife’s favourite petunia’s.
  • You all take your clothes off, dance around a fire before partaking in a gay orgy of epic proportions while “YMCA” pumped in the background.
  • The groom was forced to simulate sex with a chicken.  The chicken never sent flowers or called afterwards.

Either way it’s got to be really bad, something that would ensure that the wedding actually would not take place should the bride hear of it… otherwise why the secrecy and strict following of BROCODE boys… do tell?

Because if you’re just sitting around a fire drinking Old Brown sherry, finger-knitting penis shaped sock puppets and swopping Lemon meringue recipes I’m going to be pretty fucking disappointed.

I got one bit of information, yes ONLY one from Dalekins Bachelors, and that was only because who WOULDN’T want to show off a video of a bunch of grown men dancing with SHEEP to “One Love”?

(I’m ashamed to say I Googled “Sexy sheep” to get this picture)

3 May 2013

Flashed my Va-jay-jay in Turkey

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

So I am completely hopped up on cough syrup and as I therefore have drug induced deniability I thought now is as good a time as any to tell you about how I flashed my vagina in Turkey.

Well no people, I wasn’t just wandering around the Blue Mosque and all of a sudden *pelvic thrust* WHAMMMMMM “Look at this vagina! Just look at it”! Because I am almost sure I would have gotten into some sort of a pickle. Like don’t they chop off your hands there if you steal…? (notheydon’t) I can’t afford to lose my vagina!  And good luck getting that angle right with your sword suckkaaaa!!  – sorry – again, I did warn you about being goofed on cough syrup.

Anyhoo on Dales and my last day in Istanbul, we decided to do one of the last things on our list for Turkey, and that was to go to a Turkish Hamam for a proper Turkish bath.

Now I had heard stories about these Hamams before, none of them pleasant. Something along the lines of you being led into a room and a big sweaty hairy Turkish guy will come in wearing only a thong and he will scrub your skin off and massage you and at some stage while he’s scrubbing you his sweaty hairy belly will be in your face, and you’ll wonder why you can taste ham and olives…. Well it was nothing like that!

So off we go to the Cagaloglu Hamam which is the most famous 300 year old hamam in Istanbul and is listed in the  book entitled “1000 Things to do before you Die” and I’m thinking as long as this isn’t where good tourists come to die I’m happy with that!

So in we go, you select what “services” you want done off a menu (No Happy Endings listed) and then you get sent off in different directions.  Obviously men and women are separated into different parts of the Hamam because Turkey is Muslim and they’re conservative.  Also, I wouldn’t really want to be in a steam room with some random guy shaking his frank and beans at me!

Now this is where it all gets a bit confusing because where you paid your money at the reception, well that is where the English STOPS!

I went into a big room and a Turkish lady wearing a swimsuit walked up to me, put a key in my hand, grunted and pointed towards what looked like a changing room for me. She then swung her hand up and down me indicating obviously that I should take my clothes off!

Me: *confused face* All off? *swinging hand up and down trying to somehow indicate getting nude*

*grunt grunt* *nod*

Alrighty then.  So I go into the changing room, take of all my clothes, and wrap like this cloth around my body, and then put a pair of wooden sandal clog type things that they leave outside your door, which I assumed were to stop me from slipping on the marble floors (Pffft – I nearly tore myself a new one TWICE just walking towards the bathing area!)

I came out of the changing area and was led through a huge wooden door into the bathing area which is an absolutely beautiful and very old massive marble chamber filled with steam and a massive marble slab which was in the middle of the room.  On which sat 4 other tourists, chatting away.  So I ambled over to the slab all nonchalant  trying not to feel like a fart in a perfume factory and lay down on it thinking, meh, this isn’t hard, fake it till you make it, just relax and do what they’re doing. I assumed this was the steam part.  So I lay down for about 10 minutes soaking up the steam.  And then the “therapists” came in, some of them were just wearing bikini bottoms, boobs swaying back and forth, but mine was in a full costume and shorts.  A Beautiful Turkish lady with bright red hair and blue eyes, not at all what I’d expected, clearly there was going to be no fat belly in my face tasting like ham.

She walked up to me grabbed me by the hand, yanked me off the slab and then indicated to me that I should take off the cloth and lay it on the slab – obviously so that I could lie on it and she would then massage me on it.

Oh.  I see…

It’s at this stage where I realized while taking off my cloth that I noticed that all the other girls were wearing bikini bottoms too.  But me… oh no sir, there I was in all my UNGROOMED glory! Fuck! Just fucking perfect!

She then led me gingerly towards a huge marble sink, “led me” because I was like a dog wearing ice skates at this stage! She dipped a silver bowl into the water and I was fully expecting a gentle watering down now, you know… a bit down each side to get you wet.  Nope she tipped that bowl over my head  over and over again, until I looked like a drowned rat!

Now I am ball ass nekkid, dripping like a drowned rat and walking back towards the marble, crouching,  with my arms and legs out like a retard trying to not slip on my ass.

So I lie down and decide Fuck This, I am not going to let the fact that I am the only one in here completely naked bother me, just imagine you’re at the gynecologist, they see so many vaginas everyday, yours is NOT special.

Which was all fine and well until she started to soap me up. Every time she brushed her hand over my bits my eyes would shoot open like my finger had just slipped through the toilet paper and I’d think, OhGodOhGod it’s happening, I’m having my first lesbian experience!!

So they exfoliate you THOROUGHLY but it’s actually quite pleasant, less with a sea urchin like I was expecting and more with a gentle loofah, and then they soap you up and wash you before they begin to massage you, and this is where it got weird.  I was lying on the slab, she lifted up legs up and sat under them and then let them lie over her lap where she then started to massage my legs, and at a stage had my one leg bent at a complete 90 degree angle to my body in other words, yes folks, the entire Hamam could see what I had eaten for breakfast that morning! Diesathousanddeaths.

Anyhoo.  We move on. We go to therapy. We build bridges.

She made me sit up at a stage to massage my back and when I sat up all this soap went into my eyes and she noticed my discomfort, so off she went to fetch that silver bowl of water again and I assumed she would bring it to me so I could dip my hands into it and splash some water into my eyes to clear them… nope, she threw that water at me from like 5 meters away!

*splutter splutter* ffffffffffffffffttttttttt *splutter*

And then it was time to wash the hair, I haven’t had such a thorough scrubbing in all my life and my hair was so knotted when she was done that I looked like I had a big ass bird nest sitting ontop of my head!

But what an experience, I walked out of there feeling like a baby’s butt! So a definite must, but ladies, if you’re a bit shy, wear bikini bottoms, or atleast do some effing grooming or you WILL feel like you just stepped into an 80’s foreign porn fliek!

Co-incidentally Dalekins got to keep his towel on, and had a guy who looked  just like Mario from the Super Mario brothers do his “service”. He said it was FANTASTIC, but he DID ask me for a stick of gum the minute we walked out of the place!

11 Mar 2013

How to find a Mans G-spot

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

How sneaky was I with the title of this blog post. Well you’re in it now so you’ll just have to keep reading.  I promise, there are tips on finding a mans g-spot in here somewhere… maybe.

So it’s official.  I am old.

Now don’t get me wrong, I still have the face of a 16 year old… whale sperm and the tears of 100 virgins will help with that.  But nothing I tell you, NOTHING hurts like finally coming to the realization that you are NOT 18 anymore.

I have been feeling “my age” since I turned 36 (which is the exact amount of tomatoes that goes into a bottle of All Gold I’ll have you know. I love All Gold.  – but I digress) but yesterday I had the most depressing moment when reality slapped me solid in the face like something… that would slap you… in the face.

There I was grocery shopping with Dalekins when I decided to pick up a magazine so I could spend the rest of the afternoon being lazy and flipping through a book that would make me feel fat, ugly and extremely poor.  (Really Elle… who can actually afford the fucking clothes you advertise in your magazines – Oh I’ll just run out and buy that jumpsuit made from panda eyelashes for R36,000, it’s gowgeous.)

Anyhoo after browsing through my magazine options… I picked up and decided to buy… wait for it.  This is hard for me to admit. SWEETBABYJESUSIpickedup theWoman&HomeMagazine!!!

I know. Stop judging me.  I was so sad about it, I tried to hide it in the trolley under my spanks.


To be fair amongst the articles of “How to knit a tea cosy” and “Get rid of Kankles” was an inspiring article on how to still drink wine while losing weight – with actual tips!! Where I always thought you just drank your wine and took the change out of your wallet…. Tadaaaaa lighter already. (That’s a lie, my wallet is never heavy, I never have change because I give money to every car guard on the planet because I’m scared they’ll stab me if I don’t, even though giving them my change makes me angry and bitter and sometimes I throw it out the window in the hopes it will hit them right in their stupid heads).

But I just can’t read the likes of Cosmo or Glamour etc. anymore! With pearler articles like this can you blame me!!

  • What is your man thinking – Really? Who. Gives. A. Fuck. If you have asked him and he says “nothing” leave it at that you psycho! Otherwise let me break it down for you, it’s really not that hard.  If this were Dalekins it would be the following:
    • Beer
    • Boobs
    • Kate Beckinsale
    • Kate Beckinsales boobs
    • Kate Beckinsale could totally use my thighs for earmuffs
    • Why is Tash still talking
    • Hmmmm donuts
    • I wish I could fly a unicorn
    • Boobs
  • The most satisfying position – Thankfully this isn’t the one where they explain to you how to find your mans G-Spot using nothing but your pinky, a headlamp and some braai tongs.  Trust me ladies, when I laid all of our different braai tongs out on the kitchen counter for Dalekins to “pick his poison” it apparently is not the size of the braai tongs that scares a man – it was the fact that I was running the batteries down on his headlamp that fucked him off… I know right. So inconsiderate.

This article will tell you that you need to follow the simple steps of the karma sutra, using a rubber chicken, a ladder and extending your right leg behind you left ear!  Seriously, my joints doth protest, I can’t even cross my legs anymore for fuck sakes!!

Mine is simple:  How about we do a 68? You go down on me and I’ll get you later.

  • Are you too Open? – How do you fill up an entire article of this shit? Are you telling him the consistency of your number 2’s? Yes / No? If No, you’re fine…. If yes… how in Gods name do you keep track of how much corn there is, I’ve always tried and found it quite challenging, I have even taken to keeping an abacus with me next to the loo but Dalekins took offense. I may be too open.
  • Cheat Proof Your Relationship! – Um… don’t ever have Kate Beckinsale come over to your house.

There’s just no two ways about it, I’m going to have to get used to buying “older lady” magazines, but fear not,  I will only use my new found skills like “knitting” for evil…

Everyone gets a knitted Barbie doll toilet paper holder for Christmas!!

28 Dec 2012


Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

I cannot explain to you the rage I have when you’re dead tired and trying to sleep and people are blasting their music at 1am when you have to go to work the next morning.

I use the word “music” lightly.  It was more like some drum and bass SHIT! As if an epileptic had fallen into a pool full of strobe lights and instruments… or some sort of early New year celebrations in a village in rural Congo… the type of music they play to keep frisky gorillas at bay…

Either way it was making me ears bleed and fucking me off!

*looks at watch*

*flips over*

*jams pillow over face*

*cant breath*

*removes aforementioned pillow and imagines all the wicked smotherings I could do with it… or yes, yes, boiling oil…. That’s what that DJ deserves… boiling. Fucking. Oil. All. Over. His. Dick.*

*flips over*

*looks at Dalekins*

Me: “Are they fucking kidding me!!!!! Please fix it Dalekins, call the cops… or the SWAT team…. or the Broedersbond… or the Freedom Front…. Cant… take … it… need… sleeeeeep!”

Dalekins: “Don’t worry Tash… I’ve got this!”

*switches on his iPad*


*eyes get raped by shards of light*

Me: *covers eyes* Sweet baby Jesus man what the fuck are you doing!?”

Dalekins: “I’m going to sort us I told you!”

Me: “By doing what!! Making the room brighter than the fucking sun?? It’s 2am… now I have shit fucking music and it’s bright as fuck in here!”

*Dalekins glares at me, gets out of bed and stomps off to the bathroom with his iPad*

Me: “Oh great, I’m in a crisis here, and your idea of fixing this is to go do a number two while reading War and Peace on the loo!”

*flips over and over as if I’m being exorcised*

*Dalekins comes stomping back into the room slams his iPad down and gets back into bed*

Swish… Swishh… swishhhhh

*sits up*

Me: “what is THAT noise now?”

Dalekins: “It’s the ocean!”

Me: “sorry?”

Dalekins: “It’s the oceannnnnnnn… it’s white noise I downloaded it to try drown out the Zulu warriors having their circumcision party next door!”

Me: *blink blink* Dale… that does not sound like the effing ocean… it sounds like a running toilet!!! And when did you become such a racist!! Downloading WHITE noise to drown out Zulu warriors! Wow Dale, just… wow.”

Dalekins: “What. The. Fuck… I am NOT a racist, have you lost your mind!? It’s just CALLED white noise because… ”

Me: “ Just, just… urrrrgh, let’s try get some sleep!”

Dalekins: “Fine!!”

10 minutes later…

Me: “Dalekins *whisper* Your ocean is making me want to pee.”

…Upon hindsight I should be grateful he didn’t download “Whales mating in the Antarctic”.

5 Dec 2012

Moms be driving crazy and shit!

Author: Tash | Filed under: Uncategorized

I had to drop Dalekins off at work this morning, and was driving in a road where 2 lanes become one.  Obviously the left lane has to merge into the right lane, slowly and safely.

But alas, I spot someone behind me in the left lane flying up the road like a bat out of hell and I can tell they’re going to be a douchebag and try and squeeze infront of me as the lane merges.  So I say to Dalekins “Look at this effing IDIOT!!”

And TruesBob! They come flying past me, forcing me to swerve into the oncoming lane a little bit to avoid a collision, and off they go with no “I’m sorry”  blinky hazard lights or a hand up to say, “Sorry I was driving like a bit of a knob” No no… nothing.

Me: “What an IDIOT!!”

Dalekins: “Um, Tash… that was your mom”

*looks at car*

*looks at Dalekins*


“Oh… um.  Good job mom, carry on.”

And THAT’S how your mom tries to kill you so she gets out of buying your Christmas presents!

--> Treaclechops