You don’t need a cellphone to talk through your arse, but it helps…

More like this here: http://www.bizarro.com/

The old days: Thought in head. Speech through mouth.

The old days: Cell phone off. Someone might call me. With work. Wouldn’t want that. “How come you never answer your mobile?” Switch it on to call other people. Quickly switch if off again. Occasionally lend it to soldiers on duty at “incidents” or outbreaks of “bother” to let them call back home to Britain – in exchange for them giving access or information. Otherwise peace. Quiet. Meeting someone? Make an arrangement and stick to it.

These days: Cell phone on. Someone might call me. With work.  Freelance. Keen. And on duty to respond to emergencies like forgotten PE kit, after school activities with the bus long gone. Emails. Audio recording. Writing. Maps. Twitter. Facebook. Etc. Etc. If only it came with a pillow I could sleep on it.

These days: No need for any thought in head. Adjust sitting position. Then, using either buttock, accidentally trigger cell phone and dial a random person in phone’s address book. Nothing to it. You’re talking through your arse.  That’s progress for ya. Just pray your backside hasn’t dialled Australia.

Or the police. Really

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Olympics part 3 – Backsides, bottoms and bums

Before you get hot under the collar about all the pictures of backsides, bottoms and bums – not to mention the odd crotch – please keep in mind that this is an important feminist argument, relevant to sports fans, Olympic watchers, media workers and er… you.

Also, I stole it all from Nate Jones at www.metro.us. A lazy flicher, that’s me. But think of this larceny as homage to his piece (ooer madam).

It was so effective, I thought you deserved to see it all. And I mean all! (But don’t worry . It is safe to read the rest at the office. As long as you’re willing to risk outbreaks of female giggling, some loud whooping and a dip in productivity.)

What if every Olympic sport was photographed like beach volleyball? (by Nate Jones)

Does this make me an arse?

"I just hope I didn't hear you making fun of my name..."

Well. This is embarrassing.

When I asked you all if my response to a street sign meant I was a snob – it turns out that Ursula was right. Except for the “smart” part. It meant I’m an arse.

I blame Maxi for my humiliation. She encouraged me to find out the humiliating truth.

And Laurie can nod knowingly to herself. She sussed out the real picture from the beginning.

So… you remember that sign I was poking fun at for mispelling “daley bread”. You might recall my hoity toity pernickety I’m-not-buying-bread-there-they-can’t even-spell snobby attitude.

Yup, that sign.

Well. You’ll never guess the surname of the people who run the premises?

Mmm. Yes. They’re called Smith.

Phew. Thank goodness for that.

The End.

Actually. No.

Following Maxi’s UNHELPFUL comment (“If it were me though, I would be in there tryin’ out the bread, would have to know”) I pushed open the door and

Are you SURE you want to take his name – PART TWO

Balls, bastards and all those other rude-sounding surnames… At least they raise a clear red flag. If you take his name on marriage, you know what you’re getting into.

He's an arse & he's got a tickler.

But sometimes something seemingly innocent can catch you completely unawares – and be devastatingly hilarious