wyr

Had Dove and Klo round for dinner last night. I actually cooked – as in whacked shit in a pot and sauteed a little sauce.

We got nicely sauced up. Drank far too much Diemersfontein, certain the neighbours heard everything we were talking about with particular subject emphasis on sex.
Great quantities of crazy monkey sex, where you both fall off the side of a the bed, and where you walk like John Wayne the next day – kind of sex.
Not to mention wine glasses clinking and howling like imbeciles.

Played a particularly brutal game of WYR (Would You Rather) with Ches and The Dove yesterday.
I needed to. Very badly.

Dove:
Would you rather staple your eyelids closed, knowing that Brad Pitt was about give you a personal strip show,
Or, cut your arms off knowing that you have only one chance to touch David Beckham.
Although if your eyes are stapled, you may as well have a dancing budgie in front of you because you won't know the difference.

Peas:
Would your rather eat goat testicle goulash with Stuart Townsend stroking your thigh, but he has grown a bunion on his face and has sprouted a third nipple exactly in the middle of his eyes...
Or, ride motorbikes on the Algarve with Michael Jackson and 4 000 little boys as an entourage, with Charlize Theron running behind you in a loincloth because you stole her fucken Irish boyfriend and has consulted the Benoni Mafia to smash your kneecaps if you actually manage to make it down the Portugal coastline without being feathered and tarred by her and Michael Jackson simultaneously.

Dove:
Would you rather stand with a loudhailer in the middle of the African dancing ceremony at the 2010 World Cup and shout 'Well waddaya know? WE FUCKIN DID IT. This useless fuckin country actually did it. And we're gonna be knocked the fuck out in the first round.' And then run towards the camera in a monkey suit screaming 'WE'RE ALL DOOMED'.

Peas:
Hang on, I'm getting Chester Pillow in on this game.

Dove:
...Or would you rather stand with a loudhailer in the middle of the crowd at the American election results shouting, (assuming Obama wins)'Well waddaya know? Hope he does a better job than George Bush.' And run towards the cameras dressed as a hamburger.

Peas:
Would you rather dive into a vatful of Saddam Hussein's bodily hairs, or would you rather be the personal nose picker of Osama Bin Laden?

Ches:
Would you rather do a Flaming A on the hot TV show 'The Bachelor,' in front of the guy, on national TV, just as he's about to pick his wife or...
Would you rather have to do a 30 minute presentation, with diagrams and illustrations, about big floppy donkey dicks, to the house of parliament?

Dove:
Would you rather have to lick the floor from one end of a tube carriage to the the other, directly after a Man U. game, or would you rather find the dregs of remaining ecstasy tablets floating around Bump nightclub, collect them, and....feed them to your parents?

Peas:
Would you rather eat the toenails of Prince William while he massages your shoulders with an electronic massager and smokes opium out of your arss crack, and then he pays you five million pounds, but then a cockney bastard steals the money, even when you were holding a decoy handbag,

Or...would you rather park a tiger in front of Stuart Townsend while he's interviewing you to make you his PA which you know will involve perks like a regular photostat machine shag, but then he whips you afterwards and pays you with a bag of peanuts.

Chester:
Would you rather share a bed with Riaan Cruywagen after he's run the Comrades Marathon in 40 degree heat and wearing a polar neck fleece, or would you rather share a bath with Jimmy Abbot after he's been shoveling cow shit?

Dove:
WYR suck the sweat out of Zuma's jocks after an interview in which he’s asked to compare himself with Nelson Mandela, or, have to be a presenter on an infomercials channel for ten years, selling cat flaps.

Better one! Would you rather, to annoy someone or get them back, Fed Ex a box to their office, delivered to the canteen during rush hour lunch, with strict instructions to the delivery man that he should look at the person in disgust, spit on his feet and leave, and then when he opens the box, a Philipino boy jumps out in a polka dot g-string with a sign on his back that says, 'Please don't abuse like you did the last time.'

Or...would you rather send them an anthrax letter?