Everything Found In 'A Bad Idea' Category

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

You know how sometimes you get a good idea but halfway through doing it, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea any more? Well, I decided to take my motorcycle test. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I used to be a biker babe when I was a teenager and able to fit into skin-tight leather pants. I rode everywhere on my bike and together we had lots of high-speed adventures and horrific accidents. Happy days. But after digging the bike out the snow one winter’s evening, I decided to sell the damn thing and buy a nice warm car instead.

So there I was at the training centre the other night, shivering with nerves and squeezed into my old leathers (they must have shrunk over the years). Of course I was saddled with the biggest, heaviest bike the instructor could find. Me and the bike got acquainted in no time. By that I mean I ended up lying in the gutter with the bike wedged on top of me. I was just testing the weight of the machine, obviously. It had been a while since I’d ridden.

So far so good...After wobbling up and down the street on the hideous metal beast for hours, the instructor waved me on to the assault course, complete with sharp turns, gravel and pot holes.

There must have been something wrong with my bike as it refused to go around corners. Bright orange traffic cones jumped in front of the wheels like they were on a suicide mission. They should build one of these torture courses at Gitmo Bay – send a few prisoners around that on rusty Honda 125 and they’d be howling their confessions in no time.

... although things were getting tricky by lunchtime...Of course my fellow trainees were all burly men who whizzed around the course like Evil Knenivel on a Vespa. I chugged behind them all, a stream of curse words and sobs echoing around my fogged-up helmet. The only way I could avoid coming last in class was if Steven Hawking joined the course.

As the rain started to pour I realized this idea was not my best one.

But by some miracle I passed the course! The miracle coming in the shape of the bottle of whisky I gave the instructor just before the test. Ha! Works every time. How do you think I got through school?

Now to decide on a new bike.

What I can afford is this:

A two-wheeled twatmobile. No thanks.

I can see the benefits – fuel efficient, space for several friends and handy for trips to the shops or lumber yard. But I’d look like a twat.

What I really want is something like this:

Tiggy gets her knee down! She has been know to get both knees down at once.

Sports bikes are sexy, sleek and totally impractical. Not sure where I’d put the shopping, but I could solve that by only buying really small things and putting them in my helmet, like sliced cheese.

Now everybody seems to think this is the ultimate bike:

Harleys - I just don't have the chaps for one.

But there’s no way I’d ride one of those metal monsters. A Harley is about the same weight as a shipping container. If one fell on me I’d have to stay under it forever.

And as a Harley-owning biker chick, it is compulsory to wear the following attire, as this young lady demonstrates:

The bare cheek of it!

I can see the benefits of a thong ‘n’ chaps combination on those hot and sticky days, but what about winter riding? One sharp frost and I could hire my bum out as a ski hill.

I need a machine that is safe, practical, and suits the level of my motorcycling skills. I think I’ve found my new bike.

It only needs a machine gun and it's perfect!

Chaps and thongs are mandatory over at Humor-Blogs.com.


Hurrah For Canada!

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Hurrah for Canada Day!

July 1st is Canada Day! The day when all Canadians avoid work, crack open a beer and then crack open another beer. To be honest, that happens most days in my house, but today we do it with pride!

To get into the spirit of things and help my non-Canadian readers join in the celebrations, I decided to find a photo that sums up Canada and what a cool place it is.

And what better than a picture of our national animal, the beaver? I set to work and Googled ‘cute furry beaver’. Unfortunately, the images Google presented me with… well, let’s just say a) I will remember to switch ‘Moderate Safe Search’ ON in future and b) I now have an image of Britney Spears burned into my brain I didn’t really need.

Britney-free beaver spotting.Never mind, I decided to head to my local wilderness park with my camera and snap the cheerful critter myself. After crawling through the undergrowth for hours, I finally chanced upon the fluffy little fella! Great, now I could get my shot. Come on little guy, do something cute and Canadian!

Unfortunately, I seemed to have caught my little beaver friend in, let’s just say, a rather private act of self-gratification. I waited patiently as the creature fiddled around with his nether regions. And waited. And waited some more. Get on with it, you little cocksucker!

More time passed. A group of curious tourists began to gather behind me.
“Mommy, why is that lady with the orange hair taking photos of a beaver playing with itself? I’m scared.”

I was escorted from the park by the rangers who were under the impression I was some kind of depraved fur-fancier, my protests that I was doing it for Canada Day falling on deaf ears.

Cover your eyes!

I’m really sorry about this, everyone. I just wanted a nice picture for Canada Day and all I have to show for it is a photo of a beaver masturbating. The day is all spoiled now. The only other picture I got was of three recidivists from the local trailer park. Admittedly they are not quite as fluffy, but they are Canadian and will have to do.


Give them some chicken fingers and they won't steal your barbeque.


Swearing - not big or clever.

My language is often less than lady-like. I could give a 350lb Docker with a spade through his foot a run for his money in a swearing contest. I didn’t want admit I had a problem until I called my boss a cock pirate (to be fair, he took it entirely out of context). It was time to act.

Sign of Intelligence
I joined the No Cussing Club. Happy orange-shirted kiddies smiled at me from their website in encouragement. I too could a live profanity-free life! All I had to do was swear a pledge of allegiance (without swearing), buy an orange Club wristband and my potty mouth would be silenced forever! I couldn’t let the children down.

“I won’t cuss, swear, use bad language, or tell dirty jokes. Clean language is the sign of intelligence and always demands respect. I will use my language to uplift, encourage and motivate. I will Leave People Better Than I Found Them!”

I made it through the oath but as I tried to order my wristband my computer crashed. “Fuck!” I yelled, and realized I’d broken my pledge in under two minutes. “FUCK!” I exclaimed again as I realized I’d just said ‘fuck’. This was going to be tough.

The website suggested I try alternatives to swear words. Just use an everyday word, the first one that pops into your head. My friends began to wonder whether I was high on drugs as I randomly shouted out “Switzerland!” “Fudge Bucket!” and “Wooden Monkey Carving!”. The fact that these were the first words to pop into my head was worrying. Maybe the Club wristband was affecting my circulation.

I sounded like a Dictionary with Tourette’s and was becoming reluctant to speak in case I slipped up. I imagined tears running down the children’s orange glowing faces as I wrestled with my fudges and fucks. I had failed the No Cussing Club kids.

I’m sorry kids. It’s not that I have a limited vocabulary and don’t know lots of big clever words. But sometimes only a fuck will do. When you’re grown up and you put a spade through your foot you’ll understand.