Tag: thongs

Dirty Dancing

The Chorus line, shortly after Tiggy fell off the stage.

It was a nice afternoon so I decided to take a stroll along the harbourfront. I wandered along dreaming about puppies, unicorns and being spanked by…never mind. A crowd of tourists from the nearby cruise ship pottered around and took photographs of seagulls.

“Yoo hoo! YOO HOO!”

A high-pitched American voice squealed behind me, interrupting my spanking dream.
“Yoo hoo, girl with the red hair! Hi! We really enjoyed your show!”

I turned around to see a chubby couple waving at me and pulling out their cameras. I was confused. I wouldn’t class Tiggyblog as a show. They didn’t look like how I image my readers to be (I assume you are all rather attractive and under 70). I still had stars in my eyes after my recent movie appearance, but that was probably on the cutting room floor by now. Had I been in a show recently? I get forgetful sometimes, but nothing sprang to mind.

The lady tourist flapped her chunky arm and beckoned me towards her.
“We saw the show last night… loved it! I loved your dancing,”
Dancing? Me? This woman was obviously drunk. I mumbled something about being late for rehearsal and fled. I could still hear her shrieking “You hoo, dancer!” as I stumbled away.

I had been a dancer, once. I was four years old and landed the part of “pink rabbit” in the village variety show. I don’t recall much about the performance, although I distinctly remember a rabbit ear falling off and pissing my tutu in sheer panic. Not exactly Bolshoi Ballet material.

Modern dance - wtf?I wondered what kind of freak show I had supposedly been dancing in. I couldn’t think of any dance genre requiring a big arse and the flexibility of a tree trunk. What had this misguided couple been watching?

Maybe it was a contemporary dance show? Perhaps I was in an art-house production about 19th century lesbian vegetable pickers, depicted in a pretentious display of arm waving and scary music. I probably played a carrot or something. But my tourist fans didn’t look the type to be watching arty modern dance. Hmm.

This being Nova Scotia, maybe they had attended a traditional Highland show, where ruddy-faced girls kicked their legs like pit nags to the sound of bagpipes. Oh, the horror! I would never dance like that. My boobs are too wobbly and bagpipes make me violent.

Work it, Tiggy!Then a horrible thought crossed my mind. Maybe the couple were not what they seemed? After all, they were on vacation, full of cocktails and free to go a little wild… in true maritime fashion, maybe they had disembarked their boat and headed straight for the local strip club? Had they spent their evening watching a “show” involving pole dancing and spanking?

Maybe the club had been packed with curious cruise tourists. And they all thought I was that girl who was dirty dancing in a sparkly thong!

My reputation in this town is in tatters! What must people think? A boatload of Americans think I am nothing but a cheap, pole-dancing slut!

However, the spanking part I can live with.


Zen and the Art of Falling Off Motorcycles – Tiggy’s Bike Test

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.