The Valentines Day gift that keeps on giving: belly dancing lessons for men

Male bellydancer...well what does it look like? Click to enlargeWords.

Fail.

Me.

From the brilliantly twisted mind and elegantly restrained pen of that Bob Newhart of British politics, Jon Henley in The Guardian:

In possibly life-changing Valentine’s Day news, we are pleased to report that the many and varied attractions of Birmingham have just been enhanced by the addition of all-male belly-dancing classes. According to the Birmingham Mail, belly-dancing for blokes helps “trim porky stomachs, achieve ramrod straight backs and turn themselves into sex gods”, and while there are drawbacks – you have to wear a “tight top” so the teacher “can see your belly rolls” – we can, at this late juncture, think of few better ways to show her you really love her.

Blame Germany!

Die! Deodorant!

Is this who’s to blame for the choking miasma that inhabits the ladies’ room at Metrotown? The brave or desperate souls who venture into the complicated tunnel system behind the Food Court (and who survive) tell tales of a horrible, synthetic, eye-biting cloud of Spring Meadow-scented vapour. We here at the ol’ raincoaster blog had always put it down to the suburban penchant for Aqua Net, Charlie, and the apparent inability of mall-goers to deposit their deposits within the toilet bowl, instead of all over the seat, the floor, and the cubicle walls.

How wrong we were.

It turns out that Germans are apparently so stinky that only crop-duster-sized doses of deodorant are effective on them. Unfortunately, they are equally effective at setting off fire alarms, as a group of blushing, sweating, but presumably Meadow-Fresh teenagers discovered.

“The fumes of the pleasant-smelling deodorant were so intense that they drifted up to the ceiling and set off a fire detector,” said Volker Buttgereit of the Buesum police force… “Hopefully the girls will get by with a little less spray next time,” said Buttgereit.

Well I for one fully support the use of aromatherapy candles in ladies’ rooms. If nothing else, the resulting explosions should singe off their underarm hair, thus reducing the need for deodorant in the first place.

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Anna Nicole’s Fridge contents!

I can't believe it's not heroin!Check this out: looks like Howard K. forgot to sanitize the crime scene before the cops and/or the reporters from TMZ could get there. He was, reports say, much more thorough when Daniel ankled this planet.

Yogurt, sure. Weight loss shakes? Of course. Vitamins? Whatever, who cares?

So far, it looks like my fridge, except I would never buy an American brand of Worchestershire sauce.

But wait. What’s that I spy?

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Heroin!

Of course, the alternate theory to the ever-popular The Lawyer/Butler/Babydaddy Pretender Did It theory is that Trimspa got wise to her Slimfast-suckin’, cheatin’ gullet, and had her offed before the news could leak, potentially undoing millions of dollars’ and several years’ worth of marketing work.

As for me, well I have an alibi. I was blogging at the time.

Also, was she really fucking her bodyguard? Go her!

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equal-opportunity gold digging, a guide for men

Barbara Hutton and Baron von Cramm 

It occurs to us here at the ol’ raincoaster blog that the ancient art of gold digging is confined, in these sadly decadent modern times, almost exclusively to the fairer sex.

This is unfair.

Obviously smelly, hairy, balding guys with uncertain bowel control deserve cynical marriages of convenience as much as lithe, buxom teenage blondes do, but how to achieve gold digging parity in an uncaring world?

Never fear, gentlemen: we at the ol’ raincoaster blog have a solution. Simply implement the following steps in order and watch the millions roll your way.

  1. Barbara Hutton, setting the world on fire and vice versaGive women a lot of money. It doesn’t matter where you get it from, but get it and give it to them across the board. Until there are rich women there is no point in attempting to gold-dig them. We suggest starting by paying and promoting your employees using criteria other than gender. We also suggest personal donations, when appropriate (you have my banking details, don’t you? I gave them to that Nigerian guy…). Change property and inheritance laws so that the loot is divided on the basis of relation, not gonads. Vote for women, because everyone knows politicians never retire poor.
  2. Wait till the crop of solvent women produced by the above innovations reaches, and passes, maturity. Wait till they start to remind you of Bea Arthur in Maude; that is the earliest point at which most women will become ripe for gold-digging. They need to have outlived their estrogen, but don’t wait till they’ve outlived most of their contemporaries as well. No sense overdoing things.
  3. You want someone whose ancient passport picture looks something like this,Barbara Hutton in about 846BC ie Belle of New Orleans at the Time of the Louisiana Purchase. If nothing else, it means her granddaughters might be worth pursuing on a recreational level. People who don’t know your age will assume you fell in love with her when she looked like that; people who can tell your age should be told you met in an internet chat room, and that she tends to deny it if asked out of embarassment.
  4. The way to succeed at gold-digging is the same as the way to succeed at any endeavour: Practice, practice, practice. You’ll need to be able to whisper endearments at intimate moments without getting her name wrong, among other critical skills. This is the secret behind the eternal popularity of monogrammed pillowcases, btw. I bet you wondered. But anyway, you will need, at some point, to go to bed with the object of your … intentions. Yes, you will need to bonk the Bea, to gamahuche the granny, to roger the retiree, to sex up the sexagenarian. You’re going to have to put it in and keep it there. Don’t worry, we’ve thought of everything. Use this handy-dandy item to practice until you can complete the act without a Carmen Electra poster hanging over the bed; it is extremely unlikely that the woman you’re attempting to gold-dig will allow a Carmen Electra poster to be placed over the bed, unless she is very unconventional indeed, or, indeed, Joan Jett.
  5. Keep your figure till after the wedding, and yes, there must be a wedding: remember, living in sin cuts you out of all those silver, gold, and Wii anniversary gift-getting occasions.
  6. Don’t neglect those little touches that mean so much: encouraging her love of fast cars with enormous blind spots, lighting her cigarette, cigar, or crack pipe (see if you can get her to work her way up), putting the coke dealer on speed dial, thoughtfully buying her skydiving lessons for her 80th birthday, or teasing her that she is too chicken to stand on the cliff’s edge and close her eyes.

Just don’t let Howard Stern mix your drinks.

Unless I’m in your will.

And so they were married...over Zsa Zsa's dead body!

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2-4-6-8 come on guys, hallucinate!

This scene, from Absolutely Fabulous, is the single best hallucination scene ever recorded.

Sure, when I got shot up with morphine I saw angels surfing on the rays of the setting sun over English Bay which was certainly odd, particularly given that my room had no windows, but not really out of the ordinary for me. Lady Penelope sitting on my legs and Richard E. Grant howling to the four winds about how he turned gay because he wasn’t man enough for me and I broke his heart: that would have been noteworthy.

But it would have been Gabriel Byrne in my hallucination.

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