Finally this blog has self-fulfilled. I got down and dirty with saggy old woman thighs.

Do you remember before Facebook, when you could say “I’m not a fan of velcro on shoes” and it was slightly silly, because even if you liked velcro, you’d hardly be a fan of velcro. It’s not the freaking Beatles, it’s velcro.

Except, now there’s Facebook. Now there are actually people who are literally fans of velcro.

All kinds of boring foodstuff and even slightly amusing phrases have legions of fans.

I don’t care, really. (yeah that’s right, it’s a whole blog post about something I don’t really care about)

It’s a source of amusement… Like, I have this one friend who was a massive stoner in school and went on to swap bodies with a body builder while maintaining his same old slightly too small head, and every day he likes another string of meaningless sentences and posts pictures of him topless, flexing, with a new bike in the background of the picture, titled “my new bike”.

Every day I open facebook, I am greeted with new announcements to the world about what tickles smallhead’s humerus.

“Smallhead likes “Naming your penis apu nahasapimapetelon because it will always cum again” and 17 other pages”


“Smallhead likes “spitting out your chewing gum cause its lost its flavour” and 6 other pages”

Every day, more ridiculous non-items are added to his list.

And he’s by no means the only one guilty of making out that they’re constantly rolling around on the floor gasping for breath between spotting one hilarious phrase and the next.

I can’t really be pissed off here, I’m not pissed off, not at all..


These days, when I say “I’m not a fan of non-functional decorative pockets”, I’m not being in any way ironic. I’m actually saying, “you know that page on facebook, non-functional decorative pockets? Yeah, I won’t be clicking “like” there any time soon.”

I dislike that my little moment of irony has been stolen from me.

But if I came across the following page, I’d damn well click the little thumbs up…

“hating on facebook because it takes all the fun out of saying “I’m not a fan of something””

Stupid-ass modern life.


Oh, B. T. Dubs, guess what larks I’ve been having this morning?

I helped an old sow get into a pair of trousers. That’s right! She asked to try on these trousers- I glanced up from my attempt at solving the cryptic Times crossword, and grunted my consent. She huffed and lowered her decrepit mass down onto the padded cube for trying on shoes, and started trying to lasso the trousers over her engorged, veiny leg, under her wardrobe’s suicide note of a shift dress. No luck. She starts trying to catch my eye. I pretend to be shuffling papers.

She ahems.

“I think you’ll have to give me a hand”

And there, what was I supposed to do?

I was enlisted to hold the elastic waistband open, inches from her old woman thighs, purplish, mottled and absolutely terrifying to a young woman whose legs are her pride and joy. She launched one leg down into the trousers, flashing horribly off-white granny pants and more varicose leg than I care to see in my lifetime. And I was about to skulk off when it was time for the second leg. Urgh. Not my job… not my job… I’m not a nice girl like that. Do you think a MALE shop assistant would be asked to do this shit? Yeah, it’s not a big deal… I know. My friend works in a nursing home. He literally, actually, really, seriously has to sponge bath old men. The first time I said that to him, he laughed, and was like, yes. Yes I do, as a matter of fact.

And then every time after that he was a little less impressed.

It’s still a valid avenue of mockery, though. Come on, sponge bathing old people? If you can’t laugh about that, what next?

Jews? Abortions? Blondes?

Actually, there were no Jews in my neighbourhood when I was little so they weren’t remotely funny to me. Except the hats, they always arouse a giggle.


Anyway when she went to take the trousers off, I pretended to be talking to my boss on the phone.

She managed on her own (I know. I’m horrible. I’m really nasty. I know.) And she bought the trousers and there was an awkwardness between us. I was projecting myself into the future and thinking, oh gourd no, when I’m old and my legs look like crap and I smell like hospital, young vibrant people will be shrinking away from me in fear of catching my old. I’ll be so lonely. She was probably (or else this is just me projecting again) thinking about how when she was young her legs looked awesome too, and now they don’t, and she has to ask for help to get into trousers.

I mean, if you can’t get into trousers alone, how do you get dressed in the morning? And could the person who dresses you in the morning not help you with your shopping?

I’m a horrible person.

But you don’t know who I am, so phhhhlllll

(That was me making a farting noise with my mouth, I hope I spelt it ok)

Anyway, that about wraps up my day for today.

I also went for a nice meal with my family and had an amazing ice cream I’m feeling guilty about now, and found some dead moths in my tea as I was drinking it, and worked a ten hour shift on my feet in heels (they passed the comfy test, those are some awesome heels although obviously now I’m dying but 10 hours is long for any shoe).

But you don’t want to know about that stuff.

So, I’m off to check out a new link my best bud gave me last night that I wasn’t in the right mood for then, but think I could be ready for about now.

It’s like a collection of all the other free porn sites online, and has some seriously fucking weird categories in there.

Good night, y’all…..

….Oh, it will be!


6 responses to “Finally this blog has self-fulfilled. I got down and dirty with saggy old woman thighs.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s