Maxim-um Shite

A few months ago I had some airline miles about to expire. They were on an airline that I never fly, and there weren't very many of them, so I took advantage of one of those "exchange miles for magazines" offers. One of the magazines I selected was Maxim - I used to like it years ago, although not so much that I'd spend actual money on it every month. But how bad could it be for free? I mean, I like naked women, scotch, cars, cool real-life stories and all the usual man-stuff you'd expect to find in Maxim so I signed up. Now I recognize that at age forty I'm outside the Maxim target demographic but I have to say that the magazine is now complete shit.

For a start, in the last edition there were seven separate features involving partially clad women, mostly of the "movie star / TV star" variety, pouting at the camera. What's the point of this? Any adult male with a job and a place to live can hook up to the internet and view completely naked women by the thousand every day, some of them doing things with bananas that you definitely won't see in Maxim. I don't understand who needs page after page of not-even-remotely-naked pictures. Some are accompanied by the kind of stilted interviews that are presumably scripted to portray the starlet in question as the kind of girl-next-door who would be only too willing to shag you, and who is just a normal, down to earth person really. Yeah right.

Much of the rest of the magazine is dedicated to selling you stuff, either through actual advertisments or through shameless product placement features. There was a small section on cars, but it included an award for "toughest hybrid" which is a complete oxymoron since the hybrid is a badge of pussy shame that no archetypal Maxim reader should be considering. To be fair to Maxim, there were two articles worth reading, but magazines are ideal toilet-reading material and those articles wouldn't cover a single "major visit". Even if it was turbo-charged by a Thai curry.

So since I'm clearly not the Maxim target audience, who is? Well, they obviously either have money (so they can contemplate buying the >$100k Audi featured) or just like to whack off over pictures of stuff they can't afford. They are a man-about-town, confident enough to wear the fine fashion showcased at the end of the magazine, but insecure enough to need advice on how to deal with premature ejaculation. (By the way, the best comment I ever saw on the subject was "premature for whom, exactly?"). The Maxim reader is happy with pictures of semi-naked women, not showing any nipples or hairy undercarriage, possibly related to the premature ejaculation problem (full nudity presumably pushes them over the edge too quickly). They devote their entire disposable income to electronic gadgets but seem to spend a disproportionate amount of time in front of computer games, which may explain why they need advice on "How to decode what a woman's drink says about her". (Of course women are probably getting simultaneous advice from Cosmo or one of a thousand other women's magazines on what they should drink to make an impression, so I'm guessing you'd have more luck judging her real personality by the color of her underwear. Actually, that's not a bad idea...)

Now I'm not arguing that Maxim should shy away from drink, parties, cars, pretty girls, cool toys and stories about ninja killers in the misguided pursuit of a "higher" form of literature. Bring on the low-grade entertainment, laced with sardonic humor and flashes of accessible style. Publish something that would be a true playbook for the 25-35 age group. And put some bloody content in it, instead of filling a page with photos of five sneakers and calling that a feature, wankers. But for fuck's sake, if you can't hold off for a few minutes before blowing your wad when you're on the job, don't be looking to Maxim for sensible advice. I'd expect to read "shag uglier women - you won't come so quickly". That would be a magazine I'd buy. Or at least read at the dentist.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

It's My Glands

I happened to be in the supermarket freezer section a while back, looking for idiot-proof microwavable meals, for reasons that are too dull even for this journal. The whole section basically divided into three categories: pizza, ice cream and diet meals. I didn't want pizza, already had ice cream and was not about to buy sodding diet meals. The whole premise seems to be that you buy some little overpriced box of "healthy" diet food and, by restricting yourself to dull meals from Weight Watchers or Healthy Options, you magically stop being a fat bastard and lose weight. For any normal human being they are pointless simply because you get fuck all food for the money and need about three boxes for a good meal.

So why is there such a market for this stuff? The commercials all seem to be about "busy women, on the go, with complicated lifestyles, needing nutrition to balance work, life and family". If the customers spent half as much time balancing their lifestyles as they do in the commercials they wouldn't have time to eat like a pig and therefore wouldn't need the product. The real target audience is a lazy cow looking for a magic weight loss solution.

For one thing, if you have any time to spare you'd be better off buying simple ingredients and preparing food yourself. The only possible reason (other than convenience when you're truly busy) for buying prepared meals in a box is that you don't trust yourself to eat the right stuff, or the right quantity, if you make your own dinner. But that's where the whole thing falls down; if you can't trust yourself not to eat too much when you make dinner then you obviously can't trust yourself not to have that brownie at the office, or the giant mocca latte, or the burger and fries for lunch.

It's the same problem that afflicts borrowers who refinance their home to pay off credit card debts; within months they've built up new credit card debt to the same level as before and now have a high mortgage payment as well. This is because their spending habits never changed. The "magic solution" of the home equity loan is no different from the hundreds of weight-loss products that promise easy results; it doesn't work unless you're prepared to make the tough choices.

You may as well eat what you want - you'll still be a fat fucker but at least you'll enjoy your food, and you won't be shoveling cash to Weight Watchers and all those other parasites. I have friends who are "overweight" because they enjoy eating good food much more than exercising - it's a choice and I respect it. If you do want to lose weight the recipe is simple - eat less, exercise more. If you haven't lost weight it's because you eat too much and don't exercise enough. Very fucking simple. You don't need to buy books, join clubs or purchase frozen shit in tiny portions to grasp this concept do you? All you need is willpower. Now I know willpower is hard. I have a bag of 100 Grand bars in the cupboard that are meant for trick or treaters and I could happily eat the fucking lot. I eat candy regularly because I enjoy it. However I don't expect that I'm going to lose weight doing it.

The bottom line is that if you try and stop doing something that you really enjoy, sooner or later you're going to crack and go back to it. (Which is, interestingly, why serial killers usually end up getting caught.) So you'd better find a way to eat less of something you enjoy rather than eating crap you hate. The alternative is weight-loss surgery, but this is a bit like achieving celibacy by cutting off your dick. Who needs willpower when you're physically incapable of the act in question? You're still a weak-willed wanker, but now you inhabit a surgically altered body. Plus you can't treat yourself to that double quarter pounder without yakking it all up five minutes later. Nice.

Anyway, I mostly don't care whether people are overwieght, except when they go so far that they spill over into my seat on the plane or push up my insurance costs; I just wish that all those diet meals weren't clogging up freezers and taking up space that could be dedicated to frozen chicken madras and Findus crispy pancakes. And don't complain that "I can't lose weight, no matter what I do". It's all bollocks. Unless you have a giant tapeworm growing inside you, you're fat because you eat too much. Get over it.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Just Charmin

It never ceases to amaze me the lengths to which manufacturers will go just to get us to buy more of their stuff. It started out with commercials telling us why their product was so good, and then progressed to telling us why it's better than anyone else's, but now it's become necessary to invent problems no-one realized they had simply so they can sell us something to solve them. The most important rule of advertising - first you have to make people unhappy with what they have so that you can sell them what you've got.

Today's case in point - Charmin toilet paper. Now, as I've stated before, my requirements for toilet paper aren't extensive. I'd like the shit to adhere to the paper better than to my arse, and I'd like it to be strong enough that my finger doesn't go through. That's about it really. I don't base my purchasing decision on commercials containing cartoon bears that smile semi-orgasmically while wiping their arses behind a tree. Times must be tough in toilet paper, though, because the good people at Charmin just invented a new need: toilet paper that leaves less little pieces behind, presumably up your arse.

I have to confess that I've not found this to be a major issue, or the kind of problem requiring prime-time advertising in order to educate the population about a solution. I've no doubt the good people at Charmin (part of P&G, home to some of the smartest consumer marketing people in the world) did their homework before embarking on this new campaign. They must have spent countless hours in focus groups with concerned consumers, asking them "What problems does your toilet paper cause you?". I can just imagine the deathly silence in the room, with nervous citizens staring intently at the table, until some brave soul piped up "Sometimes I find bits stuck in my arse crack". How could you not laugh at this point? Wouldn't you just have to ask how they made this discovery? Were they in the habit of poking around in their hole during the day, and if so, why? But the Charmin people must have kept their cool and, more to the point, discovered hundreds of fellow sufferers.

The big pitch around Charmin Ultra Strong is that it's more durable (hence less pieces left behind in your arse) but now that they've taken explicitness around toilet paper advertising to such a basic level I have to ask how long it will be before the first commercial airs where the little bear sticks its finger through the paper and complains to its parents, whereupon they will provide it with a roll of Charmin Super Ultra Strong and it will wipe away in ecstasy.

Of course it's also possible that the "little pieces left behind" pitch is really code. Maybe the real market is those women who live in constant fear when a man goes down on them that he'll come up for air picking bits of toilet paper off his tongue, thus causing them to die of embarrassment. Can you imagine that commercial? Or maybe it's really about your finger going through but they haven't got up the courage to make that the pitch yet.

If you visit the Charmin website you'll notice that they also have a toilet paper with lotion in it. Leave aside for a moment that I can't even hear the word "lotion" without a flashback to the Buffalo Bill character in Silence of the Lambs calling "It will rub the lotion in its skin" to a woman in a pit, just why would anyone need lotion in their toilet paper? Maybe they'll have cartoon Mrs.Bear telling Mr.Bear that last night was the last time she's letting him do her up the arse, and her piles are killing her. He'll produce a roll of Charmin Plus and she'll wipe with it. Cut to him beasting her again the very next night.

They also make wipes for use after the paper, for that "shower fresh" feeling. In other words "for those fudgy ones where you're not so much wiping it as spreading it around". I think that's the tag line Charmin decided upon for the Christmas campaign. Smart people these marketing types. All that rich food at Christmas you see...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Halloween Chicken

Today our local Petco held its Halloween "pets in fancy dress" competition. I don't spend any time in Petco on account of us not having any pets at home - this tends to reduce the need for pet shampoo, worm medicine and squeaky toys, although I have to say that some of the dog biscuits are pretty fucking good. Anyway, Bison daughter has a chicken which is a perfect pet in that it lives at a friend's farm; we pay for food and lodging and the chicken now provides us with fresh eggs. I hadn't seen the chicken in a while and it's got surprisingly big; I just can't help imagining it upside down in a roasting tray with an onion up its arse though. So the daughter and two other young friends dressed up three chickens and two German shepherd dogs in country and western outfits (don't ask me why - the girl was raised on Motorhead and there's never been so much as a single Shania Twain song played in this house) and entered them in this competition as a "chicken and dog" band.

I was at the gym this morning so I met them at Petco afterwards; I had expected to see a throng of pets and owners in assorted costumes but there were only a few people with dogs, and one with a large cat in a box. They weren't in costume and it turned out they were there to queue for shots. (I presume for the animals, but you can never tell with these people). Last minute adjustments were made to the chicken costumes before the competition began. Not quite believing that I was witnessing my daughter dressing a large chicken with a small guitar round its neck in broad daylight in a public place I took refuge from this surreal scene in the lizard and snake department. There I found a baby python on sale for $50 in a Halloween Special that would very much have liked to come home with me. Its sign told me that it needed frozen rodents and would grow to four feet long. I made a mental note as a possible Christmas present for Mrs.Bison.

Eventually the tannoy weakly announced that the competition would start. A blonde girl in a Supergirl costume that exposed her elaborately pierced navel and back tattoo picked up a small megaphone and attempted to engender some enthusiasm in the assembled crowd of about ten people, four of which, it became apparent, were connected with the store. She called the acts up in turn to parade before the judges; apart from the chickens all the acts were small dogs in costume. When I say "all" I'm referreing to about three acts. One woman had three small dogs and appeared to be dressed as some sort of Halloween bag lady; we could not decide whether this was in fact a costume or if she had just abandoned her shopping cart full of aluminum cans outside. Mrs.Bison challenged me to a round of The Seasonal Apparel Game and won easily by claiming a woman with a Halloween shirt and sweater, and black cat earrings. It was never going to be close because I was much more interested in watching Supergirl and her pierced belly button. And quality Halloween breasts.

Elsewhere in the store a spotty teenager bagged goldfish for a customer and the queue for shots failed to progress. No-one was there to notice the small gathering in the corner, but after the judging Supergirl led the contestants in a silent and slightly sad parade around the store before returning for the grand announcement. The chickens had won, and $15 of vouchers were awarded to the victorious (and admittedly more charming and photogenic than a bag lady) chicken girls.

We moved away to the back of the store to remove various items of chicken costume. We had to step carefully to avoid an assault course of dog shit apparently left in frustration by some poor mutt who had spent an hour dressed in a stupid Halloween costume for nothing, and who would never be able to hold his head up in Petco again. It had been scattered in such a wide distribution of turds that it was not so much a matter of "clean up on aisle three" as "explosion at the Hershey factory".

Outside it was t-shirt weather again; the Halloween spirit was no more in evidence there than at the competition. The winner of the Seasonal Apparel game had disappeared, along with the bag lady and, presumably, her cart. Frumpy suburbanites continued to spend money on pampered pets and a small crate of contented chickens returned to the farm. Don't ever let it be said, though, that St.Louis is dull. Can you imagine the drugs you would have to take before you got a vision of a blonde, pierced Supergirl leading a parade of country and western chickens through a maze of tropical fish? That would have to be some fucking good shit.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

And Voldemort Sucks Dicks...

Possibly the most disturbing thing about learning that Albus Dumbledore is gay is not the number of people who think this is wonderful, or the protests from those who think it's disgusting but the fact that the first response from these people isn't "who the fuck is Albus Dumbledore?". I suppose most people know of his character in the Harry Potter books, even if they've never read one, because it's been almost impossible to escape the hype around this series. I would bet, for instance, that more adults could name him than could identify from memory any character in more worthwhile fiction, such as "The Sun Also Rises", "Brighton Rock" or "Traisnpotting". Which is fucking sad, I have to say.

The other thing that pisses me off is that "right on" cow JK Rowling telling everyone that Dumbledore is gay now - after everyone's bought the books and she's sold all the movie rights for a giant fortune. If she'd had any guts (or if she really wanted to prove a point) she would have had Dumbledore actually do something gay in one of the books. He could have had his hand up Harry Potter's robes when he was bent over the Pensieve, or shagged Professor Quirrell up the arse in return for the Defense Against The Dark Arts job. But none of this happened. Calling Dumbledore gay after the story is over and the checks are all cashed is just chickenshit.

No, if JK Rowling really wanted to get alternative sexuality out there she could have made the effort to introduce more of her characters' colorful personal lives early on. Hagrid, for instance, enjoyed sex with animals - it's not for nothing that he taught "Care Of Magical Creatures". Sex with magical creatures, more like. His man-on-beast scene with Buckbeak would have shown his true desires, had it been included, and he used to do things with blast-ended skrewts that would make your hair curl. Percy Weasley had a diaper fetish which he used to indulge in secret, in the prefects' quarters, where Penelope Clearwater would change and powder him. Professor Snape perfected the Avada Kedavra charm solely so that he could practice necrophilia, his own personal predilection. Neville Longbottom was a feeder, with an insatiable desire for obese women; his visits to Honeydukes were mainly to acquire more candy in order to fatten up a 200lb Hufflepuff girl. Draco Malfoy liked girls too, but was known to "prefer the back door"; he introduced Hermione Granger to the delights of anal sex in the girls' bathroom while Moaning Myrtle watched from around the u-bend. The next day Hermione was so sore she had to use Wingardium Leviosa on herself to keep her arse off the chair during Potions. Filch, the caretaker, was known to expose himself to first-years if he caught them alone in the corridor; Professor McGonagall knew about this and would have fired him but Filch had pictures of her from a "Wizards' Wives" edition of Playspell that he had threatened to post on the Hogwarts notice board if she intervened. And so on...

It's all bollocks, of course, but hardly more ridiculous than stating now that Dumbledore was gay. There's about as much evidence in the books that Cho Chang wanked off boys behind the Quidditch sheds in return for cigarettes, or that the true cause of Cedric Diggory's death was auto-erotic strangulation gone wrong.

And the saddest thing of all is the fact that I can write this without reference to any of the books. If you get all the references then you too are probably one sad wanker. Never mind - look on the bright side. You could be that bloke that spent $1200 getting a giant Dumbeldore tattoo on his back before the news came out. I'm guessing that right there is now someone's fantasy. I think I'll stick with Tolkien - at least if the Hobbits were rump-humping each other in the Shire they did it discreetly...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Where's My Fucking Crisps?

As I have observed before, America is a wonderful country, and I have no desire to move back to the UK. I was reminded of that fact again today when an obviously senile and retarded British judge sentenced a jobless alcoholic shitbag to a non-custodial "community service order" after he puched a defenseless 97 year-old war veteran in the face in a completely unprovoked attack, blinding him in one eye. I know that there are judges like that over here too, like the one who didn't send the sex criminal to prison because he was "too small and would have had a hard time there", so this country's far from perfect, but it has a lot of other things going for it.

If it was up to me to make America better I'd definitely change out a few judges and I'd introduce a "stupidity tax" on all Oprah and Ellen viewers. I'd still allow people to watch baseball, in spite of the fact that the season consists of about ten thousand seemingly identical and pointless games between teams who all finish within a few games of .500, but in any scheduling conflicts the NFL wins. Always. The one other thing I'd do right away is introduce a constitutional amendment guaranteeing the right to diversity of crisps.

OK, you Americans call them "chips" but to me they're crisps, except when I'm ordering them over here (and only then because the servers won't understand what the fuck I want if I don't use their words). I can live with the change in name but what I can't abide is the mind-numbing lack of choice in my supermarket. Back in England I grew up with crisps in a wide variety of flavors. To begin with there were the classic three - ready salted, salt & vinegar and cheese & onion. Then the more exotic prawn cocktail, roasted chicken, smokey bacon, roast beef, spring onion and tomato ketchup. But that was just a start - crisps and other snacks started coming in all sorts of wonderful shapes and flavors. Bacon flavor Frazzles, Monster Munch (including the mouth-puckering pickled onion flavor), Quavers, Cheesy Wotsits and Hula Hoops. There were scampi and lemon flavor Nik Naks, two packets of which I once vomited in a police club car park in Bristol (they were that good).

Nowadays crisps have gone all metrosexual; there are varieties like lamb with Moroccan spices, Thai sweet chilli and caramelized onion & sweet balsamic vinegar. If you ordered a packet of those in the pub you'd have got your head kicked in back in the good old days. And talking of pubs, there you'd find the ugly stepsister of snacks - pork scratchings. So unpleasant, tooth breakingly hard and full of fat that they barely qualify as a food item, and yet perfect with a pint or five.

So tell me, please, why it is that when I go to my local supermarket I'm confronted in the "chip aisle" by about eighty barely distinguishable varieties of tortilla chip and approximately fuck all else? How can any civilized society eschew the rich panoply of potato snacks that now exist in favor of one dull, salted chip whose sole purpose in life is to transfer salsa to your mouth as a sort of edible spoon? There used to be salt & vinegar Lays potato chips - they were excellent, and I'd always buy a bag, but now they're gone, replaced by an extra facing of anonymous sodding tortilla chips. There are some regular salted chips as well but these are a bit like the snack equivalent of sex in the missionary position - not bad but wouldn't you fancy a bloody change every now and then?

America is a wonderful country but in the "arms race" of unhealthy snacks it's being outclassed and outgunned by smaller rivals, and no-one is speaking up. I want to see multi-packs of different flavored chips on the shelves, bright orange cheesy things, ridiculous shapes and exotic flavors. No-one should be forced to eat the same dull chips every week. Maybe this is a midwestern thing - familiarity and safety versus change and excitement - but not everyone round here thinks the world ends at the Mississippi.

If a country can get its kicks watching interminable baseball while eating pretzels, which basically have the consistency of a salted piece of wood, just think how much better things might be with some spare-rib or beef & onion flavored crisps. Anyone for pork scratchings while I'm at the bar?


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Happiness Is...

What is the secret of happiness? I'm tempted to say "three young, beautiful and willing girls, a deserted beach and a fine bottle of scotch" but that is in fact the secret of "pleasure" not "happiness". I'm not suggesting that the pursuit of pleasure isn't a good way to spend time, but you probably are not going to be able to spend your entire life on that beach; if you do you'll end up with three wrinkly women with skin cancer and probably cirrhosis of the liver. If you live a normal life you're going to have to be able to find happiness in ordinary things or you're going to end up, well, fucking unhappy.

Psychology Today talks about the root of happiness being high self-esteem but as society is increasingly filled with young people who have been raised on a self-esteem diet of "you're wonderful and perfect no matter how criminal, thick or irritating you are" and they seem to be increasingly unhappy, I'm tempted to suggest that you can stick Psychology Today up your rearmost orifice. That's not supposed to make you happy, by the way; if it does I think you have bigger problems than you realize.

Advice on finding happiness is 90% bollocks but this advice from Mr.Micawber in Dickens' book David Coppeffield is pretty close to the mark: "Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery." In other words, happiness comes not from how much you have but from having just a little bit more than you need. Or maybe, in modern day America, a little bit more than you expected.

When I was younger I had fuck-all money, but what I had went on beer and take-out Chinese food, heavy metal music and, eventually, fuel for a very shit car. I didn't expect to have Chinese food every day so when I bought a House Special Chop Suey it made me happy. If I had had enough money to buy one every day it would no longer have brought any pleasure and I'd have needed to move up to take-out Indian food and a Chicken Madras. I'm pretty sure happiness is a state of mind brought about by the release of endorphins in the brain (one of the problems of having a doctor for a brother is that they are inclined to pick you up on shit like this and point out that you're wrong, but I'll risk it) and the brain is wired to release a certain amount of "happiness" when good things happen to you. That is unless you use drugs to overload it, but in that case once you take the drugs away you become "depressed" because you just moved your baseline.

So basically you're wired to feel happiness at a certain level, and the only thing that varies is what it takes to trigger that happiness. If you're a rich bastard who's expecting to get a new Ferrari, and you end up not getting your bonus, you'll be unhappy, regardless of the fact that you're still tooling around in a Porsche. On the other hand, if your car is an orange piece of shit (like my first one) you'll practically reach orgasm driving a Ford Taurus. The secret of happiness is to not have so much of whatever you enjoy that it's no longer a source of pleasure but becomes just a pre-requisite for not feeling like crap.

Right now happiness is waking up on a Saturday with no projects or plans, getting a cup of tea in bed and then going downstairs to find a nice, friendly wife with a good arse making me a pie. Plus I know for a fact that there's an excellent Scotch in the cupboard...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Crapquest

Many of the wonders of modern technology come with unfortunate drawbacks when you really get down to it. Mobile phones allow you to call people at your convenience, but also allow any dickhead who can dial a number to call you. Wireless internet and e-mail means you're never away from work. And Mapquest gives you line by line directions to anywhere, but they don't fucking work.

I was up in New England this week; unlike the rest of the people there I did not make a special trip to look at the "fall foliage". Instead I went for meetings and, well, meetings. The hotel was a beautiful place out in the middle of fuck-knows-where and the lazy-arsed secretary who made the arrangements gave us directions using Mapquest. She could have called the hotel and asked for directions but that would have resulted in directions that actually enabled us to find the hotel, so where would the fun have been in that? Similarly we headed out one evening to a restaurant in Vermont which was supposed to be 30 minutes away. About ninety minutes later, after detours, U-turns, asking directions at a crappy motel and driving over three separate lawns (don't ask) we arrived at the restaurant and I vowed that the very next person who gave me a set of Mapquest directions would be experiencing them ten seconds later as a papery suppository.

I know people go on about how wonderful they are, and compared to, say, taking bearings from the sun, they are probably pretty good. But the thing about driving is that it's all about landmarks, and knowing where to turn. Hotels, restaurants and other such establishments have a very good incentive to give you excellent directions because if you don't arrive you won't spend any fucking money, so why not ask them, rather than trusting to a computer algorithm that includes two non-existent turns when the road is actually dead straight?

The other visitors to New England clearly had no need of directions because they arrived in a sodding great coach, all bringing enough cases of luggage to last a normal human being about eight months. There must be a gene for "dull as fuck" and these people clearly inherited it; I think some of them had two copies. If I ever turn into the kind of person who goes on coach tours to New England in a plaid shirt and tan pants, I can only hope that the coach drives over a cliff and bursts into flames, thus putting me out of my misery.

And you know what? If the driver's using directions from Mapquest it would be entirely possible.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

The Seasonal Apparel Game

It's that time of year again: all over the US suburban women are breaking out the seasonal apparel. It's not enough that they select clothing in appropriate shades of brown, orange and red, they have to go the extra mile and wear sweaters with pumpkins on. And witches. And other shit. Plus it's not just sweaters - it's earrings, t-shirts, cardigans and fuck knows what other stuff.

What happens to these people? When you're a fashionable teenager you don't buy a cardigan with a fucking pumpkin on it, so at what point do you suddenly switch into mommy mode and decide that it's OK? The fall/halloween season is but a warm-up for the main event, though. Christmas (or "the holidays" to politically correct tossers) is a license to people everywhere to dress up in naff clothing adorned with Christmas trees, angels, gifts, stars, snowmen and Rudolph the fucking reindeer. If you walk around any office that has a "business casual" dress code you'll see them - middle-aged women in seasonal sweaters. Possibly a few men, too, although you can be fairly sure the sweater in question was a gift, in return for which he was required to leave his balls at home.

There's no point fighting it but if you think I'm going to suggest that "if you can't beat them, join them" then you've seriously misjudged this site. Instead it's a case of "if you can't beat them, make a game out of them". Next time you're at some social gathering make sure you have an opponent (a like-minded individual) and see who can find the greatest number, and overall most ridiculous example, of seasonal apparel victims. Just remember the following rules:

• One seasonal apparel wearer scores one point, regardless of the number of stupid things they are wearing.
  
• Male specimens score two points because they are more rare.
  
• The overall "MVP" seasonal apparel victim shall be judged not just on the number of items they are wearing but on the overall offensiveness of the clothing in question.
  
• First to spot the eventual MVP will win this category, but the sighting must be declared to the opponent by stating "Fuck me! Look at that one. I claim it!", preferably in a loud voice.
  
• Sightings of seasonal underwear score five points, but these must be actual sightings; it's not enough to have someone claim to be wearing a thong with a Christmas tree on.
  
• Managing to actually shag someone in seasonal apparel scores twenty points, unless it's your wife/husband and you brought them to the event, in which case please sort your life out.

You can obviously play many variations of these rules but, in whatever form you choose, the game is designed to bring joy to a season otherwise littered with sartorial sadness. If you hadn't noticed those sweaters before you certainly will now. Good luck for the 2007 seasonal apparel season.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Have A Jodrell

As I've stated before, English is a rich language, particularly "real" English, which is embroidered with thousands of euphemisms, slang terms and similes (look it up) which provide endless opportunity to shock and appall. I was reminded of this last night when watching a movie in which a character was caught by his wife "pulling his plum over the sink". His mate refers to this act as "having a Jodrell", an obscure reference to anyone from outside the UK, and unlikely to be readily decoded. Let me explain:

Rhyming slang in the UK originated with cockneys from East London. They would replace a common word with a pair of words, the second of which rhymed with the original. Then they would often use only the first of the two new words, making it hard to understand what the fuck they were talking about. For instance: "I got my mate on the dog and told him to meet me down the rub-a-dub. The trouble and strife was giving it verbal but I put on me new whistle and was off down the frog and toad before she new what was 'appening."

Dog = Dog and Bone = Phone
Rub-a-dub = Pub
Trouble and Strife = Wife
Whistle and Flute = Suit
Frog and Toad = Road

In other words, "I phoned my friend and told him to meet me at the pub. My wife was somewhat upset by this but I put on my suit and left quickly."

Rhyming slang has continued to evolve and is now no longer heard much in East London (where people tend to speak more Bangladeshi) although it shows up all over the rest of the UK. A Jodrell, for instance, is exactly the same as a J.Arthur. Jodrell Bank (a famous UK observatory) = J.Arthur Rank = Barclays Bank = Ham Shank = Wank. Still not much use to the average American, who probably doesn't know what a wank is. It is, in fact, a wonderful word, both verb and noun, meaning to masturbate (male) or the act of masturbation.

American men can jerk off. Or possibly jack off, choke the chicken or spank the monkey. But British men can also have a J.Arthur, pull their pud, visit Mrs.Palm and her five lovely daughters, punch the clown, jerk the gherkin, shake hands with the unemployed, indulge in one-handed reading, bash the bishop, punish percy in the palm, put one in the sink, peel the eel, have a toss, enjoy a hand shandy, do the five knuckle shuffle, beat their meat, milk the donkey, take things in hand, paint the ceiling, have a quick one off the wrist or engage in hand-to-gland combat.

Does this mean that Brits wank more than Americans? I doubt it, but it could mean they talk about it more. Over here it's the last taboo. Alright, one of the last - I admit that shagging a pig is probably higher on the list, at least outside Arkansas. But when was the last time you asked a colleague what they did over the weekend and they said "Oh, I don't know, cut the grass, watched some football, had a wank and went out for dinner at that new Thai place"? It's not going to happen. And if it did you'd certainly feel differently about shaking hands with them. But masturbation is an important part of male life. Never maturbating would be like having a magic lever that brings joy and pleasure, and never using it. Wanking is to sex what a Snickers bar is to a three course meal - it's not a replacement, and you wouldn't want to try and survive on it, but that doesn't mean you won't have one "between meals".

Just remember, though, that a the similarity between a wank and a Snickers is limited: you shouldn't get one at the supermarket check-out, and don't give one to your friends on a long car journey. Here endeth the lesson. Now go forth emboldened by this new knowledge and take life firmly by the hand.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Bored Of Breasts?

I was talking with Mrs.Bison last night and happened to refer during the conversation to a young woman at work. She asked "Is that the one with the big arse?" and I replied that, no, this one had big tits. Wonderful, pendulous breasts. I then went on to make a Homer Simpson-like noise of appreciation, "Mmmmmm! Pendulous breasts!". When she commented that "You like her breasts then?" I stated that I wouldn't mind playing with them for thirty minutes, just for fun. At this point she challenged me: what could I do with them for thirty minutes? Wouldn't I have basically checked everything out in about five?

That got me thinking, partly because it was an interesting question, and partly because it was a reason to continue thinking about breasts. When presented with a new and fascinating pair of breasts, for how long would you play with them before becoming bored and going for a beer, or turning on the TV? This sounds like a strange question, I'm sure. "Why would I stop? I'd keep going and move on to other, hairier stuff!" But what if there was no "moving on"? What if it was just breasts. No conversation, no kissing, no bearded clam, no hand shandy and no hide-the-salami. It's just a pair of breasts and you can play with them for as long as you like. Or not.

This is not an easy question to answer because in the real world breasts tend not to come as a separate package. Consumer marketing types might attempt to derive the real "value" of breasts by a process of conjoint analysis whereby bundles of various body parts and sex acts are rated and priced, but I know fuck-all about how you would do this. Plus it won't tell you how long you'd play with them, only how much you'd be prepared to pay for the privilege (a somewhat different question).

It could be that breasts by themselves have the same level of attraction as a dead mouse to a cat: you'll play with them for a bit but if it's not going anywhere you'll soon lose interest. So how long is long enough to appreciate a new pair?

I did read that a Men's Health survey rated the foreplay time of various nationalities of men and British men topped the chart with 17.44 minutes of foreplay. Leaving aside the ridiculousness of timing this, what a great result for the Brits! But what does this 17.44 minutes tell us about the amount of time that breasts can be appreciated? My guess is that once you've factored in kissing, cuddling, stroking, undressing, sucking, fingering, licking, tugging and all the other variations on the theme of foreplay, the minutes-per-breast count goes way down. Admittedly these are not going to be "fresh new breasts" every time, so the novelty value has to be factored in, but my esteemed spouse may be onto something here: if there's nothing else on offer, fifteen minutes of breast appreciation may be as much as is required.

I suppose there's only one way to find out. Next time I get the opportunity to examine some strange woman's naked breasts I'm going to have to grab it with both hands, and time it. You know, it's a tough life bringing science to the masses, but someone's got to do it...


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Big Rubber Balls

I happened to be in the gym with Doug The Dog over the weekend, when we had the dubious privilege of being accosted by a personal trainer. There's a steady stream of personal trainers at this gym (and probably most gyms), a startling number of which are blonde women with an IQ of approximately 47. The same people who buy a lifetime membership to a gym that they will probably use twice, before deciding that exercise is something other people do, are often prevailed upon to purchase one-on-one personal training when they sign up. You see them being led round the gym in their ill-fitting workout gear, invariably wobbling with several years of accumulated lard.

Now I have nothing against people consulting a trainer per se, nor do I mind fat bastards coming to the gym - as I've said before I have respect for anyone who makes the effort to work out consistently. What bothers me is that these poor fuckers are trusting themselves to trainers who in many cases haven't got the first sodding clue how to get them what they want. No matter if it's a thirty year-old bloke who wants more muscle or a fifty year-old woman looking to avoid osteoporosis they're going to end up with basically the same workout, and it always involves balls.

I've read in many places that squats are the single most complete exercise that you can do. You don't have to go heavy - it's just a great all-round exercise. But do you ever see a personal trainer introduce anyone to squats? Do you bollocks! Chances are that the first thing they'll do is go and get the big red rubber ball and have their client make a dick of themselves with some stupid made-up routine. Personally I believe trainers pass the time by seeing who can make someone do the most ridiculous movements in public.

So, back to our trainer. Obviously they don't put the bite on you right away - they work up to it, with questions like "Have you ever worked with a personal trainer?" and "Do you know what your body fat is?" but you can see it coming a mile away. In this case the trainer in question may have been struggling to reach the lofty heights of a 47 IQ, given her inability to subtract one number from another and calculate a target heart rate. She eventually got around to offering each of us a free evaluation, where we would get baseline measurements for all sorts of things. Only a complete retard would fail to realise that this data is utterly useless unless they go back repeatedly for paid sessions and get re-measured. It's a hook, to get insecure people to pay for training they don't need at exorbitant rates.

I've come to appreciate that people who pay for training aren't actually buying the training; they're purchasing absolution. Trainers know this and they make sure the session isn't demanding, so the client keeps coming back, laboring under the sad delusion that a few minutes of undemanding exercise twice a week is going to erase the cumulative effects of fifteen years of donuts. You notice that the trainer spends more time chatting to the client about how their weekend went than pushing them to work harder. Eventually even the most deluded client realises that they have made zero progress, and quits, but a lot of money changed hands in the meantime. One of our trainers is a fabulous blonde specimen who ends each session by putting the client on his back (it's usually a man), wrapping herself around one leg and stretching his hamstrings. What this is supposed to achieve I do not know, other than spontaneous and embarrassing wood for the client. It certainly keeps them coming back though. It's practically a "happy ending".

Not surprisingly I declined the opportunity to have a free consultation. Doug, on the other hand, signed up. His motives are not pure, though. Doug doesn't need to know his body fat, biceps circumference or target heart rate. He just wants to see if he can get a shag. And who can blame him - after all, it's certainly exercise.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Stiff Hamster

It's been a long week. My timing was all fucked up after the trip to China and it's taken me until now even to get back to the crappy sleep pattern I had before I left. Jet-lag can be a bitch. So I was reading the news today during a dull moment at work, of course focusing on the important world-changing events, when something caught my attention. In case any of you failed to notice, the Ig Nobel awards were just handed out. This spoof ceremony, which takes place at Harvard, recognizes "obscure and bizarre" research. And the winner this year? The discovery that Viagra cures jet-lag in hamsters.

What wonderful news! Of course the benefits to be derived from this discovery are somewhat limited, given the relatively few hamsters I see boarding transcontinental flights these days (maybe they have problems getting the water bottle through airport security), but it does raise hope for me. I am already resigned to the likelihood that I will die young as a result of all the jet-lag I experience; that research was done on rats, I think, and it's pretty depressing. Nevertheless, I'm always interested in anything that will make the time before I die more bearable. Could it be true that good old Viagra might be a cure for jet-lag in humans too?

I undertstand the rationale for conducting research on hamsters when new drugs are involved - after all they tend to make less headlines when they die unexpectedly, and can actually be flushed away, whereas for some reason sudden deaths of human subjects get the regulatory authorities all excited. But in this case I fail to understand why they didn't use real people. After all, they would be more than happy to take the pill, and they could actually tell you how they feel, rather than just showing you by not running the right way down the maze. On the other hand, I can imagine the attraction of conducting hamster research - just imagine the furry little bastards with a prolonged erection. Do you think it would get in the way when they run around on their wheel? Would they be unable to crawl through the plastic tube without getting their dick caught?

I'd love to have seen the reaction of the professor who approved the funding for that project though. "You're going to get a bunch of hamsters and give them what?" Still it's all in a good cause, and I should head down to my friendly neighborhood quack on Monday to ask him for some blue pills "just to treat my jet-lag". I'd be more alert in meetings, focused on my work and energized with customers. The fact that I'd be making presentations with a huge boner would, I'm sure, be a minor inconvenience to my understanding colleagues.

It does beg the question: how do you know when a hamster is jet-lagged? The obvious answer is that it keeps falling asleep, but if you give it Viagra of course it won't sleep! As the old joke goes, "What's the difference between light and hard? You can sleep with a light on." Maybe that's all they proved here, in which case there's still no fucking hope on the horizon for me and my jet-lag. Oh well, it's getting late, and in the absence of an erection I'm going to bed. Goodnight all!


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Like It Hairy? Have Your Say!

OK, I showed you my opinion - now show me yours! Should a real man have a hairy chest or is waxing the only way to go? Should women shave it all off down there or is hairy more sexy? The polls are now open and your opinion counts! Vote on one or both of the polls below and I'll publish the results - once and for all this thoroughly scientific survey will establish whether it's worth ripping it out by the roots.

You are more than welcome to "get out the vote" for your chosen cause. Tell your friends and workmates. Tell your family too, if you need something disturbing to discuss at dinner tonight. Vote early - no photo ID required!

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Your country thanks you.


Copyright 2007 Edward Bison

Completely Shaven?

Confession is good for the soul, or so they say, so I'm here to confess. It's nothing bad like killing a stranger for kicks, stealing underwear or watching The View. No, it's just a mild case of hypocrisy - it'll probably clear up on its own if I leave it for a couple of days.

I was waxing philosophical yesterday (if you'll forgive the pun) about the evils of male chest depilation, and how real men should have a bit of hair on them. One of my avid readers (I know there's at least two) pointed out that this should really apply to women too, and I was forced to confront the question: what would I think if I encountered a naked woman with hairy legs and armpits, a slight moustache and a giant mat of beaver thatch? Well obviously I'm going to run a mile, so that makes me a hypocrite. It's a fair cop!

Generally speaking men seem to like women to take care of all that excess hair, at least in the US. I know there are guys who like women hairy - there are websites specially for them, but then again there are websites for men who want to fuck chickens so the line beyond which normal people fear to tread gets a bit blurred. However I also get the distinct impression that even in the unlikely event that men did not give a flying fuck about the hair on women they would still shave and wax themselves senseless because that's what is considered "normal".

I'm not in a position to author the definitive study, but female pubic hair seems to me to fall into four distinct categories: Natural, Trimmed, Shaped and Gone. Now it's important to note that I'm married and therefore never think about female pubes, but if I did I would have to say that natural is fine, provided that it's not some giant minge-mane, down to the knees. Trimmed is good too - all the benefits of Natural but with less time spent trying to hack up a rogue pube after sex. And any man who says completely shaven doesn't appeal to him is either gay (you obviously get a pass for not liking shaven pussy if you don't like pussy at all) or in such serious denial that almost no help is available.

So far so good. But what's the attraction of Shaped vag fur? I'm talking specifically here about the small square of hair (landing strip) that can be left just North of the Grand Canyon. What the hell does it achieve? Is it there to reassure those people who think it would just be too weird to go all the way to bald? There may be some deep psychological issue associated with women shaving it all off, like it triggers in them hidden fears of regression. Or it may be more simple: if the guy gets disoriented while he's down there, the little hair square serves as a "this way up" sign, a reminder of which end of the Canyon he should be mining.

By the way, I've heard about guys getting their pubes waxed off so that the "tree" appears to stand a little taller (with no surrounding undergrowth). Let me assure you that no amount of undergrowth removal is going to fool anyone who actually takes a ride on your log flume, as it were. My advice: stick to waxing your car. I'm guessing it hurts less in the long run...

Copyright 2007 Edward Bison