Posts Tagged ‘breasts

05
Feb
09

What are the most disturbing search engine terms people use to find your blog?

I am sure I am not alone in marvelling at the many and varied ways people chance upon the posts you have committed to the world wide web.

I say ‘marvelling’, I mean ‘despairing’. There are lots of perverts and voyeurs out there, my friends, and most of them are dropping in to see me in the hope of some hot vibrator/breasts/knickers/dwarves/vegetable action. I am glad not to let these valued viewers down.

Apologies should, however,  be extended to all those who arrive in my corner of cyberspace hoping for recipes on the basis that I mentioned cooking, once, about six weeks ago. On this note, I must advise that under no circumstances should you try and use a carrot vibrator in your slow cooker recipes. They are surprisingly tough, even after marination.

For your delectation, these are a selection of the people you are sharing these pages with. Possibly right now. And you’re the only one with both hands on the keyboard.

1) Black women without knickers

2) Women with black knickers

3) Dwarves with big breasts

4) Flooded black knickers dwarves

5) Vegetable vibrator sexy

6) Vibrator that talks back 2 u

7) How to find g spot women orgasm

8) Madonna nip slip hot picture

9) Map of g spot

10) Carrot sex video

I do wish Mum would stop hassling about the carrot sex video. A promise is a promise, and she should know I always follow through (wait until the harvest, Mama! Then the carrots will come, oh yes, they will come).

Do you have any disturbing search engine terms to share? I have no prize, other than my eternal and life-prolonging love.

15
Jan
09

My implant hell, or how I spent £7,000 in the name of vanity*

Finally, the wait is over.

After two and a half years of monthly dental treatment, financed by the sale of three kidneys (one each from me and the kids) and a second mortgage, my teeth are now complete.

I now have Tom Cruise’s stature AND his smile, and now must only find myself a Hollywood wife, a Nazi costume and an unshakeable belief that an galactic overlord came to earth 75 million years ago and infected us all with alien juice to complete the metamorphosis.

Despite my anally-retentive dental routine, three years ago I realised that something was rotten in the state of Denmark, namely a tooth towards the back of my mouth which throbbed so insistently that in some ways it became a surrogate wristwatch, marking out the seconds, minutes and hours in which I could neither sleep, eat or speak.

I knew my infected tooth needed immediate attention, but just to make sure my self-diagnosis was correct, I waited another six months to be on the safe side – there’s no point rushing into these things.

By the time I crawled to the dentist, my drug habit dwarfed Pete Doherty’s and my tooth had taken on a life of its own; one that involved causing me as much agony as possible – a bit like Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms album stuck on repeat.

Having finally been forced by those around me to go to the dentist and undergone an appointment where I had ignobly burst into tears and had to be sent home to calm down like an over-emotional schoolgirl, I was finally treated and felt the true glory of a life without pain – right up until the moment I paid the bill.

From then on, it was downhill all the way. My calcium-leeching children had sucked all the goodness from my bones in the womb, leaving practically every tooth as precariously wobbly and unreliable as Britney Spears beside the punch bowl at a playschool barbecue.

The dentist broke it to me gently (at first with pliers and then with a bandsaw) and told me that to sort out my teeth I was going to have to have numerous treatments over several years which would include deep root canal, bone regeneration, surgery, extraction, antibiotics and implants.

I was so shocked that I didn’t even ask why I needed breast surgery. It seemed like the least of my worries.

My plan to have the troublesome tooth treated and then skulk away to my lair, tail between legs and floss between teeth until a check-up that I’d agreed to attend without any real intention of ever doing so, evaporated to dust.

Suddenly, I was spending more time with my dentist than I did with my friends and loved ones, which was a blessing in disguise for my friends and loved ones, because for quite some time, all I could bang on about was my teeth.

In a bid to bring my mouth up to 21st century standards, or even 18th century standards, I have spent around £7,000, with £4,000 of that spent on just four teeth (two implants, two porcelain veneers) – muggers from now on will ignore my wallet (emptied by dentists) and head straight for my gnashers.

I may be in debt for the rest of my life, but at least I can eat an apple. If it’s mashed up. And eaten through a straw.

I think the highlight of my treatment was the removal of an infected tooth without anaesthetic (you can’t anaesthetise infected tissue, as I found out after I’d been strapped to Sweeney Todd’s chair and watched him swallow the key to the door) in a scene reminiscent of the kind of back-street dentistry which went on in Dickens’ day. All that was missing was a match girl freezing to death in the corner and a rat the size of a Jack Russell looking on dispassionately as I stoically bore the pain in the only way I knew how; by screaming like a toddler in a shoe shop.

But it hasn’t all been bad. Very often it’s been bloody awful.

Along the way there’s been blood, sweat, tears, laughter (albeit ironic laughter when my dentist asked me if I was planning any holidays and I told him that I thought this year I’d stick to just paying for his instead) pain, infections and financial ruin. Mainly just the tears, the blood and the bankruptcy, to be honest, but to focus on the positive, I now have enough titanium rods in my mouth to audition for a role as a villain in James Bond.

With hindsight, I am glad that I had the work done and I’m sure that when they’re old enough for me to explain the situation to them, the children will understand why Christmas stopped for them in 2005.

Look on the bright side, I’ll tell them. I had my teeth done on the NHS – if I’d gone private you wouldn’t have any vital organs left.

* Maybe I should have qualified – when I said ‘implants’ I meant teeth, not tits. Sorry if I mislead you. I’m not sorry. But you knew that.

12
Jan
09

Think big breasts are fun? Try owning a pair like mine

Believe you me, larger bosoms are a mixed blessing. From Katie Price to Dolly Parton and taking in Ann Widdecombe along the way, if you sport a cup size above DD it’ll often feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Or your ribcage, at least.

Having a big bust is a bit like being a dwarf, having no hair or being very fat: it’s an open invitation for people to offer you the benefit of their opinion about something that is none of their business whatsoever. I have had complete strangers ask me if they can ‘have a feel’ on the basis that they’re not convinced my twin assets are God’s gift, rather than the result of a surgeon, a large cheque and a bicycle pump.

On the whole, I’ve found that women get far more het up about hooters than men: worrying about whether they’re too big, too small, too lop-sided, too many miles down their journey south or too damn magnificent for this world (or is that just me?). Men normally have a far less complicated approach to breasts: they like them, they like looking at them and they wish we’d wear wet t-shirts a little more often.

Let’s put it this way: I have rarely had a conversation with a man along the lines of whether I am betraying my gender because I’m wearing a low-cut top. Yet recently, in a monthly style magazine, a female fashion writer stated that cleavages and large bosoms were ‘out’. This, of course, for those of us who aren’t stuffing socks in our bras or are Kerry Katatonic-like yo-yo plastic surgery addicts, is quite bad news.

Short of strapping myself into a surgical truss, I’m stuck with my chest until the day I shuffle off to meet my maker. Flaunt it and I’m ‘out’, cover it up and somehow it looks even bigger or worse, transforms into some kind of monstrous ‘uni-boob’ shelf you could rest a cup of tea on.

And look at the fashion advice those of us with melons rather than grapes are expected to embrace in an attempt to “minimise a larger chest”. “Large handbags tend to draw attention away from the bust and make your breasts appear smaller in relation to the sheer size of the bag,” suggests one fashion writer.

Fabulous: as if carrying a huge set of Eartha Kitts around all day, every day, isn’t enough, now we’ve got to carry a suitcase to offset our rack as well – it’s a fast track to a dowager’s hump by the age of 30.

In my experience, larger-chested ladies have the choice of working three looks: (a) nursing earth mother (b) blousy trollop or (c) imposing matron/nit nurse.

Wear a v-neck and half the population will address any conversation with you to your chest, wear a polo-neck and you’ll look as if you’re about to stick a thermometer up someone’s rectum. Sports bras make you look like an extra from The Return of the Mummy, opt for the no bra look and discover that your chest keeps moving for a good ten seconds after you’ve stood still.

Just to add insult to injury (literal injury if you try jogging with the no-bra option) retailers such as Marks and Spencer charge us more for bigger cup sizes claiming that the ‘specialist work’ required to make a buxom bra justifies the price hike. They’re talking about all that scaffolding and the hydraulics, I expect.




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