Monday, 8 August 2016

WHO LEFT BEYONCE ALONE WITH THE WEAVE CUTTERS?

Beyonce, Beyonce Instagram,
BEYONCE'S NEW MAN-FACE HAIRCUT.  
Sorry? What? We're supposed to like it? Oh bahahahahaHAAAAA!
Instagram
Hm, let me see, how to put this delicately? Beyonce's new haircut is ... er ... Beyonce cut her hair and it looks, ehm ... Beyonce ... OH FUCK IT!  Beyonce was clearly either far more traumatized by her weave's run-in with a lip-sync-hating fan or she has a case of the post-partums. Either way, she hacked her hair off and it looks like shat. Okay? Like absolute shat. Not that hair should matter in the slightest (it's not like I raved about Michelle Obama's bangs or anything) but when the entire Twitterverse masturbates itself into a frenzy because Beyonce pulled a Miley Cyrus, well, someone has to be the voice of reason. 
Oh dear God.
I am the voice of reason.

It's the end of days.

EDITOR'S NOTE: It is? But ... but ...  you never paid me for last week yet.
MY NOTE: Do you think you will need money where you're going, YOU DONKEY-FACED GOAT ARSE? (Whew. I need to calm down.) *swills moonshine straight from panties* Ahhhh. That's better.

Related: You want to see a haircut done right, Bey? I'll show you a haircut done right. SNAP!!!

Sunday, 7 August 2016

THE CARIBANA AFTERMATH: NSFW OR QUEASY STOMACHS


So it's over. And I survived. It's rather telling how deeply relieved I am every year when Caribana ends and I find myself still standing, still conscious, not in a hospital bed, not wearing someone else's underpants and not smiling out from Wanted posters on signposts. 

VENUS RISING FROM 
THE PORTA-POTTIES
 I was gone so long they almost had to 
send a search party out for me, and I sure 
as hell am glad they called THAT off, 
because here was the description: 
Age? We can't tell you. She'd kill us. 
Sex? Oh definitely. With just about anybody. 
Outfit? Well it's more like a get-up, really. 
Name? Whor ... Never mind. We see her. 
She's over there siphoning beer 
out of the kegs again.
Every year, just in case that last one happens, I make sure to have a friend take a good-ish photo of me, which can be supplied to federal agents if need be. It's bad enough to be wanted by the law without having to suffer the indignity of a bad mugshot as well. This woman here can tell you more about that. 

I have to admit I haven't a goddam clue who she is, I'm just using her to make a point. And also I admire her obvious good breeding and the fact that she, like a lot of women I admire, does not see the need for the constant tedium of pants.

And speaking of pants, that is not what I wore to Caribana. Because Caribana is all about the sexy, the skin flash, the embracing of your inner Rihanna. (Except for the crotch flashing. And the nipple piercing. And the drinking of so much Bajan rum you'll butt grind an entire island. In fact, maybe Rihanna was a bad example.) 

Anyway, this post has spiralled badly out of control so I'm just going to assume I'm not sober yet after all and end with: "It was fun. Damn good fun. And now I must get back to my prayer book ... " *keels over backwards in dead-dog, legs-upright position*

Editor's Note: Pssst! I know where she hid the GOOD pictures and I will be posting every one of them just as soon as I make sure she's really out and not just trying to trick me. Last week I went down the basement stairs for that one!