Mini-blog on such subjects as shovels, hen nights, and why I'm considering self harm.

I've been thinking some more about the make-up lady in Debenhams. I might take a shovel to work tomorrow and give her a make over.

So, I went to a hen night last night. Complaint 1: Why hen? Why do men get to say "I'm going to a STAAAG do, GRRRR, RARRRR, I am strooooong," while we women compare ourselves to the lowly hen? A breeding machine who can't even fly. It's like we're willfully stamping on years of feminism while hypocritically burning our bras. (Although, bras are so important. How silly to burn them. The feminists of the 70's must be ruing the day they agreed to attend a bra burning bonfire, while walking & simultaneously kicking their boobs out of the way.)
Complaint 2: Why do I want to drink through a straw with a tiny willy stuck on the end of it? Quite frankly, I don't. Unless I have yet to think of the reason why I would. Hen nights are far too phallus-based. Enough, I say! Let's base them on something sexy, like arms. However, BHS's willy sweets were Goddam tasty. Prize for the parent who sends their kiddie to school with a box of willy sweets in their packed lunch.

Goodness me, what am I watching? Something with Andie McDowell and Gerard Depardieu. I might stand on a plug. It would be far more entertaining.