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Wednesday, October 25, 2006

the worth of 'funny'

Someone once told me I was (or hopefully, still am) 'funny'. Okay, quite a few people did say that, at various points in time, most of whom changed their mind as I belted out "Michael Learns to Rock - Someday" (or some other ballady classic) for the 50th consecutive time, and settled on classifying me as 'criminally insane'.

Not wanting to be overly modest about all my groundbreaking achievements (I've fumbled a couple of bowling balls in my lifetime - haha.) I must admit I used to have some killer 'knock-knock' jokes at my disposal, and my puns are quite capable of dealing out some heavy pun-ishment (keep reading, I implore you, the bad jokes will only last for a couple or more paragraphs, such is the consequence of being forced to blog against my limited imagination). Admittedly I would rather be complimented as being photogenic, this coming after my sister uploaded a photo she and I were supposed to have taken the night of her departure/fleeing to England - instead I found a cartoon character, mockingly dressed in the very same attire I was in that very night, by the name of Mr Tomatoface.

To utterly convince any skeptic of my powers in the field of Humour, I have spontaneously thought of a joke (a "blonde" joke at that) to embarass anyone foolish enough to claim to know me.
"What excuse does a blonde give when she forgets something?
I'm sorry, but my mammaries fail me"
Not my best effort, but with a little tweaking here and there, it has the potential to became one of the very greats. This of course, coming from someone who believes anyone culpable of cracking a "blonde" joke is in dire need of lynching (myself included). This joke, culminating as a result of an unfortunate conversation with a friend regarding the wonders of the word "breast". Should you decide to care about the basis of the discussion (you know you want to), it was an unanimous decision that the tongue rolls around it in a strangely affectionate manner (the word, you pervent... I liken it to be as enjoyable as pronouncing "pomp" or "Bob" or... "bump". Honest. You just can't get enough).

Deviating away from dubious blogging material to something abit more wholesome, I have decided that in order to supplement my increasing prowess at swimming, I have also begun to partake in yet another activity that would put my sexuality in question. Skipping. After watching Rocky, with themes of masculinity and sweaty men pummeling each other to pulp appealing strongly to my sense, I had decided that skipping (a proven method of improving a boxer's footwork or so I'm told, or perhaps to relieve a pent-up effeminate demeanor) would be a perfect compliment to my intensive ~~drowning~~ swimming regime thus becoming the ultimate fighter in the entire Universe, conquering crime and intergalactic threats all the while mantaining the perfect physique and being able to doggypaddle 50m without getting a cramp.

As my clock's arm draws closer to indicating 2am, the startling realisation that I haven't showered hits me (verily explaining the strangely agreeable sweet and sour scent of my body odour slowly permeating the room), as well as the continued pangs of muscle ache deep in my pectorals after a hard session in the gym yesterday reminding me to get some sleep soon before they tear themselves loose in rebellion (a sight to behold I'm certain - rebelling breasts! Sounds like something Pamela Anderson endures everyday).

Mmm. Breasts. (joking...)

TO THE BATMOBILE

posted by butler at 7:01 pm
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