Mademoiselle de Paris Bitches About

I Hate Big Butts and I Cannot Lie.

2010-04-12T10:20:00.013+01:00

UGH. I am sick to death of the Hollywood body parts that the media are trying to sell us left right and center : Angelina's vaccuum extractor lips, Nicole's reinforced concrete face, Jennifer Pitty-Me's vermicelli hair, Jennifer Loparse's spare shelf ... Damn, even Reese's Witherspoon's chin excitates people. And am not joking :

Even more sturdy than an IKEA shelf

I cannot believe that we have become a society so shallow that we are idolising not only human beings but the actual anatomical parts of such beings.

And strangely enough, we don't hear similar gossip about Johnny Depp's tree shaped dong ,Robert Pattinson's sparkly nipples or Gerard Butler's retarded orang-otang's smile...

However, the latest variant of the Bimbonic Plague epidemic that is taking over our screens/ magazines is named Kim "Take a Leak"Kardashian. Why such urinary venimosity my dears?

Because this non-entity has gotten famous by getting peed on by her American football boyfriend.

Oh- and that is not the least of the WTF feelings that are going through me at this moment.

Indeed, classy newspaper like the Daily Mail also want you to know the following :

A bimbo's version of the Robot Dance

Yeah that's right. A whole article about a talentless pachyderm with an arse the size of a genetically modified car park, who can bend low enough to show her mammaries but cannot carry on a genuflection to catch her $2000 purse.

And this is news? What the hell? Granted, had the dress split, it would have been hilarious....Or maybe not, since I truly believe that the Big Bang would have been recreated.

But maybe another Big Bang would help restore sanity on this planet where talentless mammals are put on a pedestal for taking on the role of toilet!

B-b-b-botox face, b-b-botox face

2010-04-09T16:19:00.011+01:00

Oh dear. July 2009. That was the date of the last of my postings over here. Nearly 10 months of alcohol rehab later I am back.
Pah not really, I was busy studying a fashion degree online and pretending I could understand the yoof ("youth") , their fashion ("OMG, I am so GAGA!"), the fashion industry and how to get turned down by snobby assholes (in very nice clothes).

Oh, hell has not frozen over during this period - despite the fact that more and more of my fellow ladies are opting for the frigid trout look- but I also had decided that I should stay away from the computer to see a bit more of the world that surrounds me in dolby digital (fucking neighbours).

Well I am back and the conclusion is that :

1) If I could I would put a lot of people on "mute" and that includes the trout pouts I met these last couple of months. Actually "Mute" is not correct. They should be muzzled.

2) I paid nearly £6000 for an online degree and thats not getting me anywhere. Yeah thats right. A degree that requires MY computer, MY electricity bill, usage of MY chairs, usage of MY sofa and I paid all this.

For what? Illusions that MY input would be appreciated in the elitit (typo "elitist" but it stays) fashion world....Oh I guess that they did a good job at selling me illusions! Probably the best lesson I ever got in this marketing degree actually : how to con deluded professional for a lot of money? Thats right make them belive degree= jobs.

Grrr I will be back for more tonight. Right now, I have a an anger class to take.

Ring My Belle Or The Tale of The PMT Armageddon

2009-07-20T14:11:00.012+01:00

This afternoon, I received a link to a Facebook quiz
which is able to tell you which Disney Princess you are, based on a series of amusing questions with terribly predictable answers ("If you are out clubbing and that you are plastered, do you a) flash your lady garden to unsuspecting little people b) lose your stripper stiletto c) end up swipping the floor on your ass with your sister's dress d) skinny dip in the toilet cubicle head first).

I got Princess Rohypnol.

Bah. Sleeping Beauty...it is true that I am a lazy bitch.

Anyway, I never really bothered with the Disney business model that we get brainwashed with since nursery school : one dumb chick needing rescuing / one chippendale in shining armour / 5 brats in tow.

From the age of 8 onwards, I have always hated going to weddings and assisting to the exhibitionist circus that is associated to it. If I want to see two morons being legally tied in farcical outfits, I'd rather go watch an Amsterdam show.
Usually, the whole thing gives me major mouth cramps because I have to fake smile so much. I even bring my own onions with me to join the symphony of *emotional* tears. And also to chuck them in the sorry eyes of the dirty old uncle who oggles my chest area whilst I and the other bridesmaids form a bee line for the Meringue.

Now, I have so far managed to dodge the :"when is it your turn?" death sentence question by answering that " I'd rather drink bleach and regurgitate it afterwards" or that "I am not of the domesticated kind, if I want a leash I'll join my local S&M club". And this worked until I turned 25. Because before 25, you aren't supposed to be able to make your own mind up, you are an immature idiot with obviously no idea of how the real life works, yak yak yak, *pitiful stares*, *bewildered stares 'you poor soul, I will pray for you when you reach 30 and not got a ring on your finger'*,...Amen.

But since I am approaching my alleged expiry date, it seems that it is no time to joke anymore (well for me it is). Because once a woman hits their thirties, they are not viable for consumption anymore and lose all what made them human beings a few month ago. The lack of ring on a female makes them miserable (see, men can get away with cock rings), and implicates no social life whatsoever (yep if she cant even find a man she must scare the shit out of the rest of the world) and full of bitterness (yep crying every night over my broken dildo) .

You dont want to be one of *them* do you? (question usually asked by a fat divorced auntie with a collection of romance novels on one side and a bowl of sickly sweets on the other)

Nah, you are right aunty. I dont want to be one of them. I wanna be one of those funky lesbians that get married in massive fiestas! Bet you'd like that huh?

Bimbonic Plague, Spare Tyres and Face Filters

2009-07-16T09:05:00.038+01:00

On this Earth, many mediums can be used by people to connect with each other: beer goggles (sherry monocles if you are of the posh kind), Dirty Mothers (the cocktail – but I guess the real ones can help too) and of course the WWW ( swinging neighbour of the XXX : " I need the WWW for some XXX").

Online dating was always going to be contrived. After all we are not born with USB genital parts or Wifi network cards to emit signals to each other. So to attract the flies you gotta get the honey out. Example:

“Tall, slim/athletic, 1979 model (GTi) male coming complete with a full money-back guarantee (see Mum for details). Tanned white bodywork in excellent, toned condition. Fitted with original teeth, short light brown hair & fully expandable accessory kit.”

most definitely translates as :

“Morbidly overweight, bitter, unsuccessful middle aged loser with a serious flatulence problem. Some willingness to assist with basic bodily functions required.”

Harsh but true. Physical appearance is central to real life meet ups but online, you can turn your extra chunk into "more to love" ,your crooked nose into "i look like Owen Wilson" or your catheter into "experienced man".

But I say, fair enough. As a romantic relationship usually ends up by bumping uglies, you may as well optimise your chances to get laid.

But if you are looking for friendship online , which to me implies physical contact limited to being dragged home by my legs when drunk, then I am dumbfounded by these types of ads:

Looking For Very Girly & Pretty Girlfriends Onlymusic,Shopping N Expensive Taste

Hey Chikas,

looking for friends who r down with the get down,no about fashion,clubs,music and who consider demselves good looking.

interested in shopping,music,boys(of course) HOLIDAYS, AND MUST BE WORKING! not chillin with no broke ass girls who cant buy a drink at da bar!

nover the age of 20 and not over the age of 26 pleaseeee AND NO MEN!

gotta be open minded
send me ur facebooks

mwah
x

Mmm so you are looking for a friend that considers themselves good looking, very pretty, are rich, have expensive tastes and be open minded? As open minded as the whoopee cushion that currently serves as your brain?

And your Majesty is even requesting a monetary limit on the potential 'friend' ? shall I send my work references and a copy of my bank statement to ensure my suitability as a friend?

I just love how people who are obviously desperate for company can get so picky like they are just looking for a spare tyre to get out just in case of a flat tyre emergency. And the facebook filter is truly amazing : just like on amazon.com, you can go and check the product suitability and characteristics. If you arent happy just chuck out of your basket. Simple.

I am extremely tempted to reply and send a photo of an unknown model. Then, upon potential reception of her photo, just reply : Sorry babe, you look like a tractor to me and I only fit on Maseratis.

Fucking Paris Hilton and her stupid BFF show.

Quiche Me Baby One More Time (Slice 1)

2009-07-13T21:44:00.008+01:00

Oh dear. I think I have just given the quiche of death to my virtual -potentiallyreallife - butnotanymore-relationship.

What started like a whirlwind romance looks like it is going to end up like a gunshot fart. As swift to exit as it entered the room.

The reason? Exhaling too much virtual garlic breath on my online lover. Smothering him with my world wide web beret.

In the real world, this translates to asking for some minimum communication to be established between the two continents (nb: we aren't that fat). But men dont communicate. Unless they "want to know what you are wearing baby".

I am wearing some ass kicking shoes,baby.

It all started so well. A nice text complimenting me on my facebook appearance (of course, it was a profile shot, with a heavily made up mademoiselle and a vodka smile). A text back asking who I owed this compliment to (yep, I dont know half of my Facebook friends) and it started the ball rolling. For 2 months, after which it deflated like my ego.

Oh did I mention that there was/is an 8 hour time difference between us? It means that I am aging 8 hours ahead of him (biyatch) but also that communication was limited to mornings or evenings.

Which is fine if you are both happy to sacrifice some hours of your time for a relationship.
Which was fine-ish at the start. I could handle the "busy man schedule" - after all I am allegedly a busy woman too, so let's pretend I am equally high up in the Busy Tree (the higher you are, the more important you seem apparently).

"I am crazy about you" said online lover.
"I want to come and see you as soon as possible" said online romancer.

Blah blah blah. It all sounded nice at the time. But then ShrivelledBalls (right now I am angry so that'll be ShrivelledBalls) got insistent on the date of the visit without consulting me. Got sulky when I advised that the date pushed on me was not possible (am a busy lady remember?)

No email, no text, no burger breath for me (sorry about that) after that. I had to chase him with my whip (e.g texts) to get an update. After a week : "I do care but I thought you were angry with me".

Are you 12 (he is like 37)? Can you not get your pants down and check for some balls and COMMUNICATE with me?

This discussion carried on (via texts as a phone call would have probably turned the bollocks blue) and ended up with me asking if we could have a real discussion....on messenger ( I am a softie).

No answer to this day.

Do you think that having things to play with down there whilst thinking about their other half actually removes the need for men to pick up a phone and call their partner?

I guess that for them a easier to handle.

Get Fit or Die Tryin' : Apollo Creed vs Mitch Buchannon

2009-07-10T10:49:00.010+01:00

Ever since I was able to fill in a bra with something else than round vegetables or socks, I knew that something was wrong with me.

Okay, so Mother Nature did not bless me with Barbie's Silicon Valley but then I got given something that would make this bimbo lose her permanently-etched self satisfied grin : real mammaries with proper nips as opposed to curved plastic breast cockpits.

No, the problem was that my teenage years were governed by Baywatch. And, funnily enough , I was starting to look like Mitch Buchannon rather than C.J. Parker.

Oh, the acne spots I created when I angrily tried to deforest the carpet growing on my legs. And the tantrums I threw when I was taught that the saddlebags on those legs were not just a temporary predicament linked to the transition to fully fledged member of the Venus community.

Indeed, now a senior member of the Tampax sisterhood, I am still carrying those saddlebags.However, in a bid to not push straight males into batting for the other team when showing up on a beach soon, I have decided to take drastic action against it : I have joined a local sweat shop.

An Occidental one by the way. Not one of the fancy ones where you get paid to sweat.

Nope, I joined one where it costs to sweat.

Ah the gym. The only place where I can turn up looking like Death after a long day at work. With no make up, old jogging bottoms to cover the legs and an 80's tshirt on top, I feel invincible - and by that I mean invisible - not like Superman and his ridiculous glasses camouflage. I do not look like shadow of myself - but rather like a draft of myself drawn by a Daltonian sufferer.

Or so I thought. You see I always thought the gym was full of self centered people, looking to deal with their own asses . But it turns out that I was wrong, as some people actually turn up there to check on other peoples asses.

YES GYM WEIRDOS I AM TALKING ABOUT YOU. You:

1) Pervy meatheads who grunt like they are about to let an orgasmic one rip.
2) Bimbomen who stare at themselves in the mirror then stare at you to invite you to their auto-erotic oggling.
3) Competition freaks who check on YOUR treadmill settings to evaluate how they can beat you at the hamster run whilst trying not to fall off the treadmill because they cant actually do it.
4) Smelly chicks who reak of a mixture of perfume and sweat and check out your ratio of cellulite per meter square of skin.
5) Bored old men who sit on an exercise machine for 15 minutes without doing anything but looking so concentrated that you'd think they are exercising with their forehead.

Rocky Balboa, I blame you and your silly theme song for all these numpties.

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the cream of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all in the eye of the tiger

Read My Face Like A Book? Try My Ass.

2009-07-07T18:23:00.011+01:00

I never really wanted to have my face permanently stuck on the internet. No, really.
I wouldn't really care about having my google-map-style-derrière , my dyslexic boobs or even my personal lady bonzai online. These are only the parts to the machinery. Not the engine.

In fact, even though the stretchmarks on my ass are like a map to the Holy Grail (e.g very intricate and in need of Tom Hanks to decypher them), I feel confident that should it end up on the net, no fool would want to attempt to crack the mystery of my bum.

So as long as noone is able to link the baboon ass to the monkey I feel safe.

But you see, we are now plagued with this social tool for nerdy mythomaniacs called Facebook. Facebook, where it is possible to not only expose your total lack of life by constantly updating your status ("Emma is having a shit" - and is wiping her arse with the keyboard?) but also expose your totally exciting life ("Emma is soooooo pisssssssssssssssssed!" - and is not telling you about her vomit covered hair and bum breath?) which really is what everyone else considers routine.

I have joined Facebook. My excuse is that I cannot be arsed to send emails most of the time and a visual reminder of the people that are socially linked to me helps me remember to be sociable - eg ask how people are but not being arsed to follow up and repeat in 6 months.

The female species' behaviour on Facebook never cease to amaze me. Like in the real life they are bitchy and try to outdo their bitches. They try to come out with the most hilarious status for 3 hours, then realise it is not that funny because no one commented on it and delete it to come out with something that will bring out the comments -eg the man-bait-comment :

" Emma is dancing around in her pink panties with a peep hole on the front and is flashing her titties to her neighbours"

Never mind that work colleagues, family, or just normal friends are viewing the slutty virtual update.

HornyTom liked it and stuck a thumb up to show his appreciation /erection.

Sometimes I think that the thumb should be replaced by a dick. It is more appropriate, non? Hard on : exciting stuff , floppy dick : try harder. Haha.

Anyway, everyone knows that Emma is probably watching a repeat of Melrose Place whilst stuffing her face with a Mars bars and refreshing her Facebook screen to check how many dicks she tickled.

Oh well, it does not matter because it is only virtual stuff....But still, I am off to refresh my own page because I am that vain that I want to make people stiffen up from distance.

Genie in A Lube Bottle, Don't Rub It The Right Way

2009-07-03T14:52:00.010+01:00

"So I am here. What were your other two wishes hot chick?"

Dear Oily Bandit,

I know that your profile name says Clinton. But as we are now completely familiar with one another, certainly after this online burglary of an introduction, I allow myself to call you Oily Bandit.

It is only fair, since you kindly named me after a category of domesticated fowl that some people keep for the purpose of collecting their eggs or kill for their meat or feathers (by the way I am plucking those myself, as a hairy bird does not look that good when roasting on a beach).

Your full trans fat glory is leaving me speechless : from the carefully combed torso hair - with special work on the moobs area (that is man titties for you my dear) - to the vaseline finish on the terminally ill muscles, I am really taken by the effort you took out when deciding to post this McDonald's menu description style photo of yourself and offered it to me.

I am even more impressed by your cocky confidence at stating that I wished you were here. Just like those post cards. But thank fuck I dont have to lick your stamp to send you back.
What this means though is that I can now print out a t shirt with "I went online and all I got was a lousy fat man". Yes, I know, I rub it in.

However, I am sorry to tell you that the last thing that I physically rubbed to get something out of was not a phallic device that would bring me a man coated in jelly.

The last thing I rubbed was my computer mouse, when I was trying to block you from contacting me on the online cattle market. Why? Well, you asked me what were my two other wishes.

I wish that romance was compatible with a USB keyboard and an Internet connection and not sacrificied on the altar of virtual handjobs and ADSL sex.

I wish that the online world was not full of peacocks, parading their rear but not showing off their true colors.

After all, all a hot chick needs is a real cock.

Uranus Alignment & Bananas

2009-07-01T15:47:00.013+01:00

"The danger doesn't lie in how many banana skins you could trip on... but in how many you are on the look out for!" (excerpt from Mademoiselle's horoscope from yesterday)

This did not give any sense to my day whatsoever. But it did provide a very clear and logical explanation to the vengeful "Over my dead body!" that bananas tend to scream at me after I strip them off and annihilate them. You see, I never understood why we had been conditioned to think of banana skins as natural enemies to the human race (but still a good topic for a practical joke) : after all, if you aren't able to spot a banana skin on the floor whilst walking on your two feet, then you probably should not be allowed to use this form of locomotion.

Anyway, yesterday's horoscope reminded me of why I love reading my horoscope so much : it is silly, entertaining and surprisingly accurate. The fact that it is accurate to any mammal with reading abilities does not matter, because deep down, you know that the horoscope was obviously meant for you only.

Something I also tend to do, is to go and check another website - obviously, this is only for accuracy purposes and not because I am not happy with the prediction of misery that I have been assigned. If my horoscope tells me that one day I will wake up with Pamela Anderson's rack then of course I will believe it and check my chest for airbags every morning. However, I will not give it any credibility if it tells me that my day will be difficult at work because I am a professional slob.

It is not being picky, just keeping some control on a life that seems depressingly pre-written and accessible for a fee through the story teller of your choice who seems to own the copyrights of your destiny.

And that would explain why life flows better with Visa.

In light of this depressing news I will take the advice of my horoscope: " While Mercury forms a sharp alignment to the planet Uranus, you just have to concentrate. Stay calm. Be clever. Succeed."

In other words : take life like you would take a suppository, with dignity and with a relaxing pill to hand.

Crack Caffeine & Bum Cracks

2009-07-01T12:10:00.011+01:00

As I mentioned before, summer is fast approaching. In fact, it is already there, which is amazing considering that the Sun is the biggest lunatic since the Moon.

In order to fit in my trikini (I need an extra patch of material for my face), I am trying desperately to cut down on the little things that make my life more livable day after day but also contribute to make my ass more lovable day after day ('lovable' being used as the politically correct word for 'fucking enormous').

Unfortunately, I have this daily habit of dropping pounds to my local coffee dealer and gaining them back on my gluteus.

The culprit is not simply coffee, but its glamourously calorific version of Cafe Latte. Because who orders a simple 'coffee' nowadays? Do you really go into Starbuck$ to order a simple 'coffee'? No, because if you did, you 'd get the nastiest, nostrils-shut-nose-in-the-air look from the staff, who would look down on you like you'd just ordered some shit in a cup. Which, in some cases, is probably what happens anyway.

Since trying to quit, I have been subjected to nasty headaches, earaches, hallucinations(unless Johnny Depp did deliver my post yesterday) and have been doing lots of ridiculous mistakes such as emailing a whole department a 'screenshit' of what they should follow.I also feel like a Duracell bunny without its battery and without the sporty shorts.

How is this a legal substance but not weed? When I smoke weed, I dont get half these symptoms and even after long breaks, I never suffer from withdrawal symptoms. Je suis confused.

But maybe it is good because Mr Advertising says that caffeine is good for getting rid of this visual horror known as cellulite? So even if is not good to drink, it is good to lather on the stuff in the skin?

I have seen so many adverts recently that promote ZE Cellulite Terminator with added caffeine and God knows what other chemically named placebos. All of them showing a woman that has come out straight from a spotty horny teen's brain e.g : as smooth as a ping pong ball.
None of them with a bum crack with directions imprinted outwards (that is stretchmarks for you guys) nor a skin like a wrinkly orange.

All I know right now, is that I am too tired to crack the mystery of my cellulite and so I am heading for a coffee...

Homo Semi Erectus and Titty Honk Honks

2009-06-30T14:57:00.006+01:00

First things first, I think that bras are way too groovy to be burnt. They are to boobies what burger buns are to Big Macs. They keep the edible portions of edible mammals hidden underneath layers of softness. And what else could keep those gravity resistant monsters in cage and prevent pointy nipples incidents?

What I want to say is that I am not really a feminist type of woman. I will defend my kind but am not usually one to jump on the castration wagon.

However my rant today is regarding a more and more common specimen of male : the Homo Semi Erectus.
The Homo Semi Erectus is a modern guy, and he is approaching is thirties or is in his thirties. Most of the time is Facebook status is empty because he is too busy doing real life stuff like playing Age of Empire . He is not a fashion victim but takes care of his facial hair 5 days out 7, believes that Gillette is the best a man can get, and wears trendy jeans that show a little bit of his pasty derriere.
He is not a geek, no, not that bad. In fact, he has a bit of a tan. Maybe slightly darker than a paracetamol caplet but it still is some colour.

The problem with Homo Semi Erectus is that too much time spent on his laptop seems to have warmed up his testicular area. Warm balls are only good in meatball marinara.

In this case, it means man who cannot make any decision without using the human version of Google a.k.a the Mother; man who cannot get ready in less than 30 minutes because his hair is not bed head enough (but if you put your hand on it, then you are messing it up, go figure), man who talks to you like he is talking to Google ( the one accessible through keyboard :"sex woman video") or man whose passionate actions consists of:

"your are hot"*clumsy titty honk honk*
"let's go in the room"*more clumsy titty honk honk*
"Your ass is soooo soft" (why so much surprise?mmm)*ass grabbing that leaves finger marks*
You can Google the rest and take off the music, screams, big knobs and instead add cellulite, clumsy moves and asthmatic breathing.

So, what has gone wrong and who shall I sue?

Oh I know! Micro SOFT!

Love me, thrill me, defibrillate me....

2009-06-29T11:01:00.012+01:00

Today I feel like the pretzel which lodged itself into Mr George Bush's throat. Halfway though there, but not there yet. And probably not ready to go there.

Over the weekend, I experienced that painful side effect of love. The break up. The one that never gets mentioned in Cinderella's reality show or Snow White's ménage à huit . The one that would probably leave Ariel the little mermaid wanting to be able to have legs so that she could really drown in sorrow.

But I am being overly dramatic because in fact, it is not sorrow I am experiencing but guilt. Horrible executioner guilt. Because I initiated the break up.

It was not one of those slanging matches punctuated with flying objects and nasty thruths ("I have three other girlfriends and one of them has got four legs")- in fact it was one the quietest discussions I have ever had. Somehow, I wished it had been a diva fight, because then it would have made it easier to move forward and realise that we grew to be mismatched.

Instead, we ended up having a nice dinner together, the weirdest dinner I had ever had, a break up dinner. Very civilised and like nothing had happened ; yet we both knew we had split up a minute ago. The thing is that this relationship was meant to die a long while ago. Instead, it lived on life support, with only the minimum required to survive being inhaled in it.

Despite being an expected and necessary outcome , I feel very guilty about what I have done. Like when I resell my unwanted presents on Ebay. Comparaison de merde but hey the analogy works in theory.

Someone gives you something and you reject it (no, I haven't sold my boyfriend on Ebay).

But why feel guilty because you cannot appreciate someone's present? After all, what they feel is right might not accomodate you. And it would be wrong to pretend that the vomit coloured cardigan your auntie offered you is the most fashionable item that you have seen and that you are going to wear it this weekend. Yes, ok maybe for getting the bin out.

The truth is love is egotistical and by leaving someone you are sorry for yourself being such a meanie to someone else. So yes, you potentially hurt another person in the process, but in the end it still comes back to your own little self.

So for now, I am going to work on my own personal trial and be guilty until feeling innocent.

Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot.Com Bikini

2009-06-26T14:56:00.013+01:00

I am addicted to online shopping. That is a fact. Online shopping to me is probably like what a blowjob is to a man . Quick, satisfactory and it only requires a few body parts to enjoy it.
As I work in IT and am forced to sit in front of a PC for 9 hours, I have got no alternative - a part from working- but to use my little fingers and my big mouse for the purpose of buying virtually good looking stuff.
Oh oui! Because it is most of the time amazing online. So amazing looking that you keep adding items in your basket - even if you dont have the means/need to buy the sky high platform shoes with purple sequins on the toe - until you reach a frightening three digit amount (without the delivery).

Maybe I should wait until payday, your sensible side advises.
Fuck this, this dress is gorgeous, your female side says.
How long is this piece of crap going to last me , your male side questions.

So, because you are so excited about the prospect of receiving an item that is really not necessary for your survival ( but that will still look good on Armaggeddon day), you pay for next day delivery.

And you wait anxiously like a geek needing his daily dose of Internet Explorer fuck ups.

Two days ago I ordered a bikini that is supposed to make me look like Cheryl Cole.

Today, I received 3 patches of material with bits of string linking them toghether. The crotch patch seems to have been designed for women with the anatomy of a Teletubby. The boobie patches are shaped for maximum titty escapage.

What am I supposed to think? Is Cheryl Cole a transvestite Teletubby?

Goodbye Bush, Hello Cactus

2009-06-26T10:58:00.010+01:00

"Would somebody get this big walking carpet out of my way?"

In a few days, we will be in July.
In my native country, this is equal to the start of the "grandes vacances" also known as the biggest exodus known to Frenchkind.
In my adoptive country, this is equal to bipolar disorder weather, boozy barbeques and days of playing Spot The Email in the office.

And in my consciousness, it is equal to hairy nightmare.

Unfortunately, I was born a member of the hairy bipedal humanoid species known as unluckybitchwithhairylegsandcellulite as opposed to the smooth bipedal humanoid species known as luckybitchwithnohairandnocellulite.

And so, in my quest for the smoothest legs since Barbie's plastic legs, I have spent many years and many currencies trying to find a way to fight the fuzz.

But why this paranoia? After all we do say "Chassez le naturel, il revient au galop". If you try to kick Mother Nature's ass, she 'll kick you back twice. Which would explain the next day cactus legs.

But maybe this is why :

How can a modern woman not measure up to her ancestors....because that is what they all looked like, right? (*insert French arrogant sigh*).

Charles Darwin, it looks like you got it wrong mate. Judging by the amount of depillatory products coming out month after month, it seems that we women are the homo sapiens that need to evolve.

Unfortunately, despite my repeated efforts to turn into a normal woman, I keep failing and wake up with spontex sponge legs. And lets not talk about the Bermuda triangle area. Anyone need barbwire?

But the point is : I am not willing to cry a river (sorry Justin T.) nor be on all fours in front a complete stranger to conform to a photoshopped vision of the perfect woman. So screw the waxing. And the pubic induced contorsions.

This year, whoever will get into my heart, my bed and my lady triangle will have one chance out of 2 to experience stubbly love!

Fancy adding an old git?

2009-06-25T12:01:00.007+01:00

So, today as the attention deficit disorder person that I am, I went to check on the status of my profile in the Not-facebook-but-has-book-in-the-name.com website. Oh mon Dieu. (also known as Lordy Lord, OMG, Christ on a bike, Holy Shit).

Well, I was glad to notice that I had to my account:

A challenge for a 'Nicest ride' battle ( I accepted it but got declined due to my photo of a motability scooter. Maybe because it had a 'go on small dick' sticker on it)
A human gift (it came unwrapped, how rude)
5 new bidders
18 profile views including online voyeurism by Dave Savage, Dirtay Ass, Lucifer (who cannot even spell Hell, shame on you) and Rusty Ron.
15 friends requests, 1 flirt, 12 secret admirers and 3 messages.

Out of sociologic curiosity, I went to take an academic look at my admirers. And I can conclude that romance is not dead, it is just going through optical fiber cables.

Thanks to technology, I can already see what my future other half looks like under his clothes. Voyons, i would not even know what he looks like with clothes on as all I can see is pumped up muscles, Popeye arms or in the case of Mister Flirt, a pot belly. Oh that is so exciting and enticing. And combined with the greatest chat up line ever heard to my little french ears, I cannot resist Mr Pot Belly's fatal romantic skills : "Hey fancy adding a old git.jas"

How could I resist? how could I not succomb and crawl back on my ethernet cable all the way to Mr Pot Belly's inbox and not let him know about my mouse-clicking induced injury, due to trying to view his photo on a larger screen and the way my laptop vibrated when it showed the picture? ( Actually I wanted to view the picture on a smaller scale as the big belly looked dodgy on my computer screen at work. Also my laptop had a fit because of the time taken to load the site- told you he was heavy).

Well I did resist, just like I do in real life when 45 year olds perverted gits sit next to me and start calling me charming names or whistling at me in the street.

I never understood what men thought they'd achieve by whistling at women on the street? Me Tarzan, you Jane is even a better chat up line. And Tarzan does not even have a driving licence to drive a white mini van.

Similarly, why would a 47 years old man message a 26 years old woman and seriously think that he'd get a realistic response? I have got nothing against age difference but come on, if you are going to try and get some feedback, dont put a photo of your dental implant or your catether !!

Unless you are Harrison Ford.

Cyber cattle market, mooings and elucubrations...

2009-06-24T18:33:00.001+01:00

I must be really bored. Or just very geeky. I am a 26 year old female thing, with a good job, and I have spent my afternoon setting up a flashy pink profile on another social networking site and even paying cyber dosh for it (because a profile with a simple template just isn't like, cool, like OMG, totally awesome enough). This magical place with the most original name and tag line is MyYearBook.... "You've got friends!" which is adorned with giant smileys with an ecstasy tablet on the tongue.

Why am I now talking about it on another social toilet seat? Not because I have bowel issues but because it helps me flush my frustrations and thoughts. Also, everyone knows that ladies do not have bowels and do their numéro deux like they buy their Chanel Numéro 5 - in secret, but the smell always gives it away.

Oh, I am such a lady, n'est-ce pas?

Anyway, that is what these online platforms are for, right? To offload egotistical goods onto the already overpopulated cyberspace. Now the irony is that I am also offloading and not once but twice....oh well, jamais deux sans trois comme on dit.

Back to MyYearBook, I spent the afternoon accomplishing my duty and enacting the symptoms of juvenile Alzheimers : you know, talking to yourself about yourself,setting up a picture of your own face in case you forget it and writting an autobiography about you to pretend you're cool, famouuuuuuus and soooo mental.

Yay, I did my first mooing.

It was a Frenglish mooing by the way (half between Meuh and Moo).

This must be the biggest cyber cattle market I have ever seen. What is impressive is that the farmers are very active. Screw swine flu and foot and mouth disease. With so many cows and bulls online, they are one click away from the perfectly cooked burger, or roast, or barbeque....depending on one's way of handling meat.

Five minutes after having logged in, I got bid on and got owned. Shall I be happy or release the bovine spongiform encephalopathy madness? Well, I am for sure impressed to have generated instant admiration quicker than it takes for Jordan to lose her knickers. But to get bid on online by strangers? Meh, I don't know if I am more disappointed to be worth 97 electronic dollars or just annoyed by the auction style of the purchase.

Where the hell is the buy it now option?