Updated Every Weekday!
At last, the turbulent origin of spam can now be revealed in a little feature I like to call The Spam Man Cometh. Read it or I shall box your ears and flick your nose.
Your assignment for the weekend is to buy a huge pile of erotic novels from a bookshop while panting like a horny dog and accidentally dribble on the money while handing it over.
Hey, the new James Bond film Die Another Day is coming out soon! You know what that means? It means every site that happens to mention the new James Bond film Die Another Day will get a shedload of lovely new traffic from search engine people! That's why I am grateful for the new James Bond film Die Another Day!
Well, now you search engine people are here I guess I should give you some relevant James Bondy humour. And in the great tradition of internet humour, I'm going to do it in the form of a list. Namely:
TEN THINGS JAMES BOND NEVER SAYS
1. "HA HA HA HA! You know, I could have sworn you said your name was Pussy Galore! BWA HA HA HA!!!"
2. "I figured some other agent could take care of it."
3. "Have I ever taken time out to tell you how much I appreciate your hard work, Q?"
4. "Thanks, I'll have a pina colada. With dark rum."
5. "Thank you, sir, I promise to follow your orders utterly to the letter."
6. "Well, the place was kind of heavily guarded, so I gave up and came home. I mean, they had big dogs. Really fucking BIG dogs."
7. "Sorry, I don't believe in it before marriage."
8. "I'm sorry, I can't bear all this mindless killing. My conscience is tearing me apart. I'm afraid I will have to tender my resignation."
9. "Yes, I had a very uneventful holiday, thanks."
10. "Well, I'm back from the mission, and I have to say I couldn't find a single use for this stupid gadget you gave me, Q. What the hell were you thinking, anyway? A cigarette case that shoots air-to-air missiles? When did you think that would come in useful while escorting the Bolivian Propaganda Minister across a car park?
TEN THINGS JAMES BOND VILLAINS NEVER SAY
1. "I suppose your right. I never will get away with this. Clarence, forget the laser, we're going to church."
2. "You think he's James Bond? Clarence, he just said he's a banker from Newcastle, I see no reason not to trust him! Honestly, you'd probably think I was James Bond if I didn't have this cool scar."
3. "Fetch me a new white cat. This one just pissed itself."
4. "You forgot the sharks. Oh, perfect. Why don't we just chuck him in an empty pool and hope he forgets how to swim in the panic."
5. "No, of course I forgive you for letting him go. Hell, if I had to shoot everyone James Bond outwitted no-one in this operation would get any work done. Run along, now."
6. "Set the bomb to go off when the timer reaches 153. That should surprise the old git."
7. "I've had this great idea. Why don't we just go into a bank, stick a gun in the cashier's face, and demand all the money? I can't believe I didn't think of this before! It'd be a lot easier than all that business with extortioning world governments!"
8. "Boys, when you find James Bond, just shoot him in the face. Last time when we captured him and gave him a meal and a woman to shag he blew the whole base up, and I figured I should learn from my past mistakes."
9. "So you're seven foot tall, have a mechanical body part, and possess the strength of fifty men? No, I'm afraid I don't think we have a place for you in our organisation."
10. "You're right, these orange jumpsuits look fucking stupid. Let everyone wear plain clothes from now on."
Recently I've been reading some erotic novels. Not because I suspect that I'm the target audience for these things (I dread to think), but because I was assured they're absolutely hilarious. And they are, as well as utterly lacking restraint. Erotic thriller movies, constrained by motion picture regulations an' shit, are rather damp squibs by comparison. If an erotic thriller movie is a rose with a single raindrop on it, then an erotic novel is a whole garden of the things being kept permanently underwater.
Specifically I read 'The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty' and the sequel 'Beauty's Punishment', by Anne 'Ooh aren't I gothic' Rice, who attempts to hide her sick, sick mind behind the pseudonym of 'A. N. Roquelaure'. What tickles me is that the first book is dedicated to someone called 'S. T. Roquelaure'. She not only made up an imaginary author, she made up an imaginary acknowledgement to cover her tracks. That's a dedication to anonymity you really have to admire, if her real name wasn't splashed all over the cover in foot-high letters.
Anyway, the story is a continuation of the old Sleeping Beauty story, only I sincerely doubt that Disney would have done it this way. In A. N. Roquelaure's fevered brain, Sleeping Beauty was stripped naked by the prince as she slept and raped before she finally got her act together and woke up. She never gets her clothes back. Ever. She spends the whole book, and the next one, running around nudey as a frickin' jaybird, here. Anyway, the prince assures Beauty's parents that, since he saved their kingdom, he gets to kidnap their daughter and use her non-stop as his very own penis holder. The king and queen seem suspiciously agreeable to all this.
This is one of the milder parts of the story. As soon as they get on the road they stop at a village where Beauty gets chained up from a shingle for the townspeople to admire ("Look at her buttocks!" says one. "They are the finest in the land!" says another. They sound like they're trying to flog her on the shopping channel). Then she gets brought inside the inn and vigorously spanked until her royal bum is red as an embarrassed tomato while she cries her eyes out and everyone enjoys the show.
That's another theme to the books. Spanking. She becomes a love slave in this palace o' perverts where she has to go around on her hands and knees and be spanked rotten day in, day out. Everyone in this book owns a big wooden paddle or a big leather strap to spank everyone else with. Spank, spank, spank, all the long day. At the end of the second book Beauty and some bloke get kidnapped by these Eastern blokes who seem to be using them for entirely different love slave purposes, smearing them in honey and sticking fruit up her cha-cha, and you finally think that perhaps things are going to be comparatively restrained from now on, until in the last paragraph the Eastern blokes suddenly produce wooden paddles and big smiles.
When love slaves aren't being spanked or having their genitals fiddled with, they're generally being sodomized. This only tends to happen to the male love slaves, perhaps for want of a better orifice. There's this one bloke in the first book who tells his backstory, reciting in close detail all the exotic items that have been in and out of his arse. Honestly, it's like this guy's bum is the central terminus of the universe which everything has passed through at some point. You wonder how he can even stand upright, his rectum must have been about three feet wide after everything he'd had in there.
What is perhaps the most curious thing about these books is the way you just sort of ... get used to all the foul and perverse things going on. All these naked men and women being buggered and boned and bent over someone's knee, all the while thinking about how right their tormentors are to do it and how richly they deserve every single vaguely phallic item being shoved between the lips they never kiss with, and it starts to become very repetitive. "Oh," you say, when you're half way through book two. "There's men having dildos with pony tails on the end shoved up their bottoms and being made to pull carts. Ah, and there's a couple of girls bouncing up and down on wooden phalluses while townspeople bet on who can orgasm first. Big deal, we've seen people being stuffed like turkeys in far more interesting ways on earlier pages." Once you've finished the books, you feel like you've been through some long and arduous foreign war. You feel confused, and frightened, and dirty, like you've lost some part of your innocence which you'll never get back. Reading one of these books from cover to cover is more masochistic than anything in the text, let me tell you.
...I wonder where I can get the third book in the series?
[I feel lazy. Here's a guest update, courtesy of Dave Gilbert. It's quite lengthy. I think he got excited.
I am not what you'd call tidy. I suppose "rancid slob" would be the appropriate term. Whenever I'm finished with something (whether it be an article of clothing or a book or what have you) it is usually dumped onto my desk chair. I like my chair. It's low and kind of resembles a bucket-seat, so there's lots of room for various items I can't be arsed to put back on the shelf. My apartment is small, so I can usually complete this transaction with a delicate toss. If I miss, I just leave the item on the floor. If I miss and the item rolls under the desk, I shrug and tell myself that I'll pick it up soon. This item will be usually be unearthed about three months later, forgotten and covered in dust.
Eventually, of course, I will want to sit in this chair. So I just gather everything up into my arms and unceremoniously dump it all onto my bed, which resides a foot to the left. When I want to go to sleep that night, everything migrates to the couch. When the couch gets too crowded, I shove the largest of the debris into the floor and make room for myself.
Yes, I am a rancid slob. But here's the kicker - I also can't smell. Things like expired milk and old chinese take-out don't bother me. Dirty dishes can fester in the sink for ages, breeding several new species of mold, and I can still take a deep whiff through my nostrils and declare that the air is clean and fresh. This brings my general sloth onto a whole new plateau. Yes, I am one of the nasally challenged.
When I was very small, my astute mother picked up on the fact that her son was unable to detect anything with his nose. She took me to various doctors, all of whom administered all sorts of tests but they all came to the same conclusion: there was no reason for my lack of smell - it was just there. There was some biological quirk of my DNA make-up that erased any ability for me to sense odors, and it would remain so forever. I've given the matter some thought, and I think the problem started with a specific incident in my childhood.
It was during a particularly vicious game of "Got Your Nose," and my father got the idea that throwing my imaginary proboscis down the sink and turning on the garbage disposal would be a gosh-darn funny thing to do. I was too young to remember this happening, but chuckling family members occasionally remind me how I screamed and cried afterward ("You had tears streaming down your face!" my dad once told me, laughing heartily). Perhaps I was so psychologically scarred by this event that I honestly believed that I lost my nose, and therefore any ability to smell? Not much of a theory, I admit, but it's more than any of those doctors have managed.
Suffice to say, this affliction has had some interesting results over the years. One of my favorites was in college, when one of my roommates stormed into the kitchen screaming bloody murder. I was at the table, quietly reading a book, and my roommate's tea kettle was merrily burning itself to a blackened crisp on the stove no more than three feet behind me. "Couldn't you SMELL that?" she demanded. I could only shrug and say no.
People often do a little double take when I explain how I can't smell, and then the usual three questions follow. Can you taste? (Yes) What caused it? (I don't know - but let me tell you about the time I played "Got Your Nose" with my dad) Is there any treatment for it? (Sort of, there's some clinic in Washington D.C that specializes in it, but it's very expensive and their success rate is next to nil). I can understand the curiosity, but sometimes I feel like I should write up a FAQ sheet. Folks are kind of hesitant when they find out, as if they are witnessing a brilliant sunset in front of a blind man. This is ridiculous. I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Seriously. I mean, if you have never smelled anything before, would you know what you are missing? I certainly don't.
Think about the advantages! I went around the other day asking people what the worst common smells were. Here is a list of some of the horrible odors I never have to suffer sniffing:
There are hundreds more, but the one I want to draw your attention to is "Milk past the expiration date." Recently, a good friend of mine entered my apartment and wrinkled her nose. She knows that I can't smell, and is usually very blunt about things, so she wasted no time in exclaiming: "Dave, something REALLY smells bad in here!"
"Really? What does it smell like?" I asked her.
She couldn't explain the odor to me, so I spent the next half hour cleaning the kitchen. Some of the dishes had been in the sink for a while, so I dutifully cleaned them all and asked my friend if the smell got any better. Negative. I opened the fridge and dumped everything that was in there longer than a month. Nope. That wasn't it. I got a mop and cleaned the floor. I grabbed the 409 and wiped the counter clean. The noxious odor was still there - just as strong as ever. I opened up the cabinet under the sink and found an old milk carton. I opened it, held it up to my friend's face and asked her if that was the source.
And that, my friends, was the first time I saw another human being turn green and run to the bathroom heaving. How was I supposed to know that empty milk cartons start smelling bad after a while? From my point of view, the carton is EMPTY. There is nothing in there to actually give off an odor. Jeeze people, work with me here.
Suffice to say, this incident showed me that I needed some outside intervention. I finally bit the bullet. I've hired a housekeeper. I got a few snickers when I told friends about this, getting the standard admonishment: "What? You live in a one-room studio! What do you need a housekeeper for?" Er, does having a one-room studio suddenly put me out of the market for cleaning services? If anything, I should be issued them by the government. If only so they can tell me the obvious stuff - like if the eggs in my fridge were going rotten or not, or if there was a dead body next door attracting flies.
My housekeeper has been coming to my apartment every other week for the last two months, and I couldn't be happier. She arrived this morning as I was leaving for work, and I am now secure in the knowledge that my apartment is in good hands. When I return home, my floor will be spotless, demonstrating the shiny gleaminess of the recently mopped. All my dishes, glasses and silverware will be sparkling and stacked hygienically in the cupboard. The bedsheets will be freshly laundered and folded into crisp hospital corners. My dozens of books, videotapes, CDs and various knick-nacks will be arranged smartly along side each other as if commanded by a strict drill-sergeant. There won't be a speck of dust anywhere, and the windows will be nicely washed and clear.
Sense of smell? Bah. You can keep it.
I love reading my site statistics. Except when my daily hit average goes down, that sucks. But when it goes up I'm the happiest, hoppity little webmaster you ever did see, with a spring in my step and a kind word for everyone.
I also like to see what people have been entering in search engines to get to FullyRamblomatic. And you know, an awful lot of them seem to be looking for porn. I like to think that, after seeing my site, these wholly unwholesome fellows see the error of their ways and learn to appreciate a good laugh rather than a wank, because although one is perhaps not as much fun, but at least it doesn't leave your keyboard covered in sticky white goo.
Some of the things people search for, though ... the mind boggles. Let me show you a few. Just like Chris Livingston at Not My Desk does sometimes. Remember, kids, if you mention where you nicked it from it's not plagiarism.
This is one of my favourites. Where some people look for 'masturbating dickgirls' or 'hot wet fanny flaps', there are still nervous, retiring internet users who can only bring themselves to look for 'nudey girls'. It gives one a sense of hope for the people who inhabit this little internet. I should add that adding 'y' or 'ie' to the end of a word is a well-respected method of comedy that triples the humour value of any word. Let'sy goey ontoey the nexty oney.
By day, mild mannered reporter Lucy Gluteus ... but whenever she senses someone break wind, she transforms into ARSE WOMAN! Streaking against the sky with a posterior the size of two melons in a sandwich bag, coming down upon the heads of evildoers and people who fart in crowded lifts! (cue heroic 70s superhero theme tune) DAAA da DAAA, da da da-da da da da DA DA da-da DAAA...
'anne robinson sexy'
I've never understood the whole 'sexy' aspect of Anne Robinson. She looks more like my old French teacher. I guess that's part of it, since there are people in the world who actually find being ordered around by a woman in a mortar board a turn-on. Although I can't help feeling that Anne Robinson naked would be hazardous to passing erections.
'taj mahal titties'
Now you come to mention it ... the Taj Mahal does look kind of like a huge breast! I bet there's some whole legend behind it. The court architect took a wrong turning and wandered into the Emperor's harem, where he found several naked women lying on their backs. On that day, a legend was born ...
'show me pictures of vagrants in the tudor times'
A 'please' would be nice.
'beautiful woman wearing eyepatch'
How many more fetishes are going to have to appear before someone invents a laser gun that only targets sick fetishists? We have furries... inflatable furries... headless furries... plushies... those people who wear Star Trek uniforms in bed... rape fantasists... and now we find people attracted to other people wearing eyepatches? Maybe this is a pirate fetish. That's kind of cool. I could go with a pirate fetish. But if you had sex with a pirate, what would happen when they claw their fingers into your back? You'd have a big iron hook sticking into your lung and the last thing you'd hear would be a hasty apology. Not the best way to go.
'christine hamilton porn'
I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up. So I'm going to compromise. BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA ha hoo. Ha. Huh. Uh. A-huh. A-huh-huh-huh. (sniff) Urgh. Urk. (runs to bathroom and almost makes it) BLEEERRRRRRRGGHH!
material not otherwise credited by Ben 'Yahtzee' Croshaw