Poll: Which is this month's weirdest search term?

Man. There are some fruitycakes out there, non? I'm always interested in the search terms that lead people to my blog. Vote below and choose thee weirdest, and I swear to all that is covered in chocolate I'll write a fantastical blog post about it. Yeah, Beyotches, it's on!!!!

more at twiigs.com...

Intenational Talk Like A Pirate Day- ARRRRRRRRR!

Today be international Talk Like a Gentleman o' fortune Tide, an' as a practisin' swashbuckler*, I feel 'tis me obligation t' raise awareness o' this fine tradition. This tide aims t' honour them great swashbucklers through history- such as Blackbeard, William Kidd an' Johnny Depp. Men who swashed, buckled, an' stomped around on peg legs, drinkin' rum** an' buryin' booty, instead o', fer some reason, spendin' 't. Also: they be really good at trap design, 't seems. An' had plenty o' time t' do so, on accoun' o' those things be complicated … like th' flyin' spike ones. How did they get them things t' reset? I'm only askin' on accoun' o' thar be always dead bodies o' swabbies who got caught by th' flyin' spikes/ darts/ spears/ capuchin monkeys, but th' traps be always still primed… hmmm. Arr swashbucklers also hire good long-term caretakers. They’re planners, arrrr.

Belay that, hearties.

Anyway, 't must ben fun t' be a swashbuckler, all that fightin' an' drinkin' rum t' prevent scurvy*** an' robbin' an' eyeliner. Men look good, sometimes wi' eyeliner. This be also why Goths be popular. An' Brandon Flowers. But Brandon Flowers be nay swashbuckler. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! He’s, frankly, a bit unconvincin' an' weedy. A real Gentleman o' fortune be dirty an' unkempt an' hairy an' possibly keeps a spare eye patch fer formal occasions. He climbs th' mizzenmast an' uses his knife t' slash his way aft down th' sail. He sweeps ladies off the'r feet, an' right onto th' plank.

If I be a swashbuckler, I would be both fearsome an' proud. Also, ribald. I would swear a great deal. An' be obsessed wi' dubloon. I would be havin' a large beard. An' th' wenches would tremble as I strode into th' alehouse, an' plunk me rum down right quick!

An' always, always, thar would be th' Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

*some would insist that I’m more o' a wench, but them scurvy dogs will feel th' taste o' me cutlass.
**ugh, tho, rum gives me heartburn. Well, I like spiced dubloon, wi' Appletiser.

*** a sound nutritional theory, t' be sure.

Bunny Love...

I know. I've mentioned it before, my crazy love for teensy bunnies. But my mania for fluffumses has been stoked of late...My mother made the mistake* of taking me in to Perky Pets in the Gardens Centre over the weekend, where they have the darlingest dwarf bunnies. For only R80!! How they do undervalue the little balls of fluffy goodness, but oh what a temptation for me! I could totally get a weensy black bunny... or a tan one.

Not a white one though...they show the dirt most dreadfully, and they're rather démodé and 80's...Which reminds me of a rabbit-fur coat I used to have, before my mom discovered fur was evil. I used to feel both glamorous and dorky in that coat. But is was so soft! Sometimes, I would pretend I was a bunny, when I was wearing it.

... did I just overshare?

Anyway, so I could get a bunny, but not while I'm in my place...I'd need a little patch of grass at least, although I do plan to have a range of super-cute leashes that match my shoes and/ or handbags, and then we can go for teensyy walks on the promenade. Actually, that might not work, some awful miniature Pinscher or Maltese bitch** might think he's a chew toy and bite him. He's need a little hutch to sleep in (can you paint them? I want one in pink and gold). Do bunnies like cushions? Must Google "bunny needs"***.

What's a good name for a bunny? Not anything like Benny, or Bobo, or something dumb with a B.... Ehhhhhm. Elijah...Elijah bunny! it totally works!

* but a good one
**female dog! female dog!
*** hmmmm. what do you bet there'll be some sort of porn result?

The Betenoir Diet Plan*

One day not too long ago I was lunching with my mother at some faux-N'orleans-type restaurant at Cavendish square that I cannot remember the name of. We were debating the merits of various meal options, and my mother (who is convinced that she is fat**) was sighing over the fat content of most of the items on the menu, whilst pining over creamy things and spicy bacon delights.

It was at that moment I revealed to her my system of dietary beliefs that I have held dear for- well, most of my life. It's not so much an actual diet per sè, more a collection of wildly inaccurate and illogical... I suppose one could call them superstitions, that I have somehow incorporated into my life.

Anyway, here are the rules. Learn them, live them, love them, beyotches!

1. cold food is less fattening than hot food. think about it. a lot of cold food feels less fattening. fruit, ice lollies, juice, watermelon, ice cream... er... yah.
2. spicy food is less fattening than creamy or bland food. see, now this one is just logical: seen any obese Thai people lately? or Indian folks? Firstly, the spiciness eats away at your fat. True story. also you eat less, and more slowly, because it's so spicy! SO potato wedges, curry, Nandos and tom yum soup all count as diet foods! yay!
3. the wetter the better*** except when it comes to desserts. The runnier and more liquid a food is, the less fattening. So, beer is less fattening than soup, soup is less fattening than steak. I mean, Duh!
4. Chewier is better than squishy. firstly, you burn more calories by chewing more, you can't eat it as fast, and I mean, it's chewier so it probably has more protein and fibre and stuff, right? So, mochi is better than pudding, but pudding is better than a bar of chocolate (because it's runnier, okay?) Also crunchy foods are good- see lettuce, cucumber, cabbages and Crunchies.
   
5. if it tastes bad, it's good. this is one of things I thinm we all know subconsciously. Spinach is healthier than potatos, cod liver oil is healthiest of all. the only exception to this rule is poop, but then again who eats poop, right?****
6. the slower you eat, the better do I even have to explain this one? slower eating means more chewing, and also the stomach acid gets less diluted so it crappifies the food more effectively which is good for your metabolism.
7. lighter is better than heavier meringues good! meat loaf bad! See, these foods have more air in them and air contains zero calories.
   

there are more, many, many more, but at the moment they elude me. these are the main ones though, and as insane as they are, I feel compelled to stick by them. In any case, if anyone who doesn't have the metabolism of a mayfly wants to try them out and report the results here, I think we could make a lot of money...I mean, do a lot of good.

* not recommended for diabetics, people who actually want to lose weight, or New Zealanders.
** she is not, except for her giant boobs, which are giant¹
*** see what I did there? nice, huh?
**** well, except for each and every one of my exes, HAHAHAHAHA!²

¹ she's totally going to kill me now. umm...Happy Birthday for tomorrow mom!
² that's probably only funny to me, huh?

The Falcon: Running Hog Wild in Italy, and soon.

Because I'm lazy, herewith an excerpt of a skype conversation with The Falcon* edited for brevity** and spelling, of course. Read on at your own risk.

The Falcon : Well I never! Drugs? I couldn't even name a drug.
betenoir : ...
The Falcon : Hmm. Cocaine would technically be going buck wild. But I am afraid of cocaine.
betenoir : rock n' roll? starting a band?
The Falcon : ALWAYS ROCK N' ROLL! I am ALWAYS STARTING A BAND!
betenoir : ..can I be in it?
The Falcon : No. Yes. Maybe. I know you can sing, but I want to be lead singer.
betenoir : bitch. I'll be the “occasional, need-a-girl-for-this-song singer”
The Falcon : Goddamn though, you were good in Guys and Dolls. Did I ever tell you that?
betenoir : no. thank you.
The Falcon : You can sing backup.
The Falcon : But you will not be paid.
betenoir : fuck you, I won't sing backup

betenoir : I will be the sex appeal
The Falcon : You'd better! Or learn to play the keytar.
betenoir : I will draw the crowds.
betenoir : I will be Nico
The Falcon : I hate Nico.
betenoir : I will DRAWL in a GERMAN ACCENT!!!

betenoir : it’s fine. We’ll fight on stage. It will play well.
The Falcon : Okay. You can be more like Karen O.
betenoir : Okay
The Falcon : Except backup.
betenoir : screw you! I’ll be backup if I can stand in front!
The Falcon : You will stand to the side and a little back. But you can do arm motions.

betenoir : I’ll learn an instrument
The Falcon : Do arm motions as you play the keytar.
betenoir : bass guitar
The Falcon : No, I play bass.
The Falcon : And during concerts we play recorded tracks of me playing bass.
betenoir : why?
The Falcon : Because my bass is unstoppable...We already have a guitarist.
betenoir : who is our guitarist? why not have more than one?
The Falcon : We already have three if we need them.
The Falcon : Drums. We need a drummer.
betenoir : I can do drums
The Falcon : All right, you're on drums.

The Falcon : But you have to drum slutty.
betenoir : drum slutty?
betenoir : what, like with my boobs hanging out, and my bra strap showing?
The Falcon : You'll figure it out.
betenoir : can we still fight on stage?
The Falcon : Sure, sure.
betenoir : sweet.

* this is what happens when you let people choose their own pseudonyms.
** yes, this is the shorter version.

Smiling Confidence, I hear you ask.

Yesterday, I hit Woolies' for a Caramel Millionaire's Shortbread and lemony sparkling mineral water. I needed a sugary pick-me up, see, because I was feeling particularly grey and iffy*. I attribute this to the mussels I ate the night before, which were, coincidentally, the first mussels I've had since I returned from Japan. I dawdled along to the till, my iPod blaring (if I remember correctly) something by White Rose Movement. Oh, also, my hair was doing the thing whereby it expands into my personal space and risks being Punished**.

So, I hand over my money, half in another world***, noting vaguely that the teller has called me sweetie about three times. Resolve not to take it personally. Then she busts out with:"oh, such smiling confidence! Sweetie."

Wha-ha? Was my approximate reaction. "really? I was smiling?"
"yes! and with such confidence!", she replied, intimating vaguely that this was not necessarily a good thing, "Sweetie".
"oh, okay. Because I don't feel confident..."
"Well, it was a really big smile. You seemed so proud. Sweetie."

So, I walked out, gnawing on my Caramel Millionaire's Shortbread, which is never as good as you think it's going to be, right? And I was more than a little disturbed. Is this how it is? Am I not the person I thought I was? have I been exuding charm, confidence and friendliness, the whole time I thought was an established curmudgeon? This would, of course, explain all the random strangers, homeless people and crazies who strike up conversations with me when I'm (supposedly) doing Unapproachable Bitch.

This unconscious charm offensive, and external mantle of confidence would, you see, mean I'm turning into my mother****. Oh, god, do I bat my eyelashes and twinkle at people?

------

I would also like this opportunity to mock an advert which names Skip***** as an "international washing powder" OOOOH! Fancy! it's an international washing powder! That's almost like being a designer label!

* oh, crap, the half I didn't eat is still in my pocket. Note to self: do not wash jacket with chocolate still contained therein.
**not a typo.
*** actually, make it three-quarters.
**** hey, it works for her, but she likes not being a cranky little sod.
***** or Surf, or whatev, it's a washing powder, it makes bubbles, it smells okay.

Rampant Materialism, or Gimme! Gimme! Gimme

So, it's my birthday in 2 weeks. I'll be turning 30, which is sweet because it's a round number. Odd numbers always piss me off. Even numbers are better and round numbers are the best*. Anyway, birthdays aren't as cool when you're an adult because you don't wake up to a mountain of gifts**, which...well, it kinda sucks. And the worst part of it all is that you're not even supposed to want or care about gifts..you're supposed to be adult and above it all and all: "oh, don't spend your money, give it to charity or something".

Bugger that.

I'm acquisitive, see, and even though I'm not expecting the aforementioned MOG*** I'd like to assert my right to covet things. Lovely things. pretty things. Possibly ridiculous things. But things that, in general, I want. In no particular order, then, my top ten birthday list****.

1. Cool 70's-style retro wallpaper for putting on only one wall of my domicile. I like Mimir, Helena, Flapatos, Branch and Galatea in pink.
   
2. Katamari Damacy. And A PS2 to play it on. the console need not be a gift, lendage is fine. And if you can actually find it in this country I'll name my 17th cat after you*****
3. Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturiser, oil-free. I'm classy, me, and I have expensive skin to maintain. Well, ish.
   
4. Lots of designer vinyl toys from Toi-toy (Moofia! Dunny! Smokin Labbits!). Or a giant Gloomy Bear. I LOOOOVE GLOOMY BEAR! He rips open the bodyof his adopted owner because he's a godd*mned bear!!!!
5. Gingham Wedges! Because I love shoes, I love shoes, oh god how I love the shoes. A pair of all-black high-top Cons would also be more than okay.
6. Lots and lots of books. I hear in the olde tymes, the Pharoahs used to cover people who did good with gold until their bums no longer stuck out******. I would like someone to do this with books and my bum.
7. Pocky Mousse. Or Special Sakura KitKat. Because I can't get them here and they taste of yummy numminess.
8. A Polarising or Infrared lens to fit my Fz-50. I recently realised that it does actually have a thread so filters can be used: therefore this means there's a Hoya adapter out there with my name on it. Sexy sexy sexy infrared. Infra-RAD more like!
9. A teeny tiny tan or black pygmy bunny with big manga eyes and flopsy-forward ears. the ears must flopsy forward, not up, or back. Forward. I'm quite insistent on this point.
10. I'd like to wake up in the morning next to a mountain of gaudily-wrapped gifts. And a cake. with excessive frosting and Marzipan Roses. To be a kid again, and have the full complement of parents and grandparents, and not a care in the world except that I might get clothes instead of toys this year. Except clothes are awesome too! Clothes and toys. And clothes for toys.
    

So, I am done, my list is presented. And now my crisis of conscience: please don't actually get me any of these things, because I'll feel AWFUL. I don't like asking for things. it makes me feel tawdry....however..if you feel you must... suppose I'll have to live with it.

Tawdry.

*as in: 'round up to the nearest five/ ten"...see?
** when you're little it always at least seems like a mountain of gifts
***mountain Of Gifts, do I have to explain everything?
**** I may have been writing such lists since I was four. Or it may have been earlier.
***** I've already made promises about future children, dogs, hamsters and other assorted pets.
****** source: Asterix. It's a valid historical text, bizzatch!

Self-esteem Issues, Illness, Self-pity and Carrie Bradshaw

I had one of those Sex And The City girls' nights on Saturday night*, the kind where you have one of those awesome, frank, uncensored discussions about sex and relationships, and realise that a) you are not as ridiculously jaded as you though you were, b) you actually feel quite upbeat and positive about relationships and men in general c) women are for the most part pretty pervy, but in a fun and wholesome way, and d) Ryan Gosling, we'd like us some of that, please.

Then came Sunday, and the Amazonian Death Flu**, and with it, the fall of my poor little self-image. Now, I'd like to assert that I have a normal, mostly healthy self-esteem. Yes, there are things about myself I'm not overly fond of***, but I've reached a stage where it doesn't bother me that much, and kind of love myself, and think I'm rad**** (especially my bottom, which is pert, oh yea) but throw in a cocktail of exhaustion and viral agents and suddenly I feel like excrement on the shoe of the universe.

Probably being all feverish and delirious and having slightly greasy hair and an untidy apartment doesn't help. Also, being stuck in bed all day is boring. And when I'm bored I think too much, and also eat Cheetos, which equals Bad Idea. I get to thinking I'm going to die childless alone and be eaten by my rottweiler, which is ridiculous because I'm going to buy a whole bunch of pygmy bunnies and they'll be in cages, so... but you get the idea. Also, I'm not really good with other people for extended periods and the idea of marriage and children has been know to give me the grille, so my paranoia about the abovementioned dying alone scenario is a little confusing.

Dying dressed in a polyester housecoat and ugly orthopaedic shoes: now that's truly terrifying.

...perhaps writing a post when feverish is not the best idea. My posts suck. I suck! The world is a vale of tears and sucktion! Life is Sucky! Poo.

*in the brief hiatus of feeling healthy that fell somewhere between the Bubonic Plague and the Amazonian Death Flu
** Oh, my kidneys, joints and glands will ache? Sweet, I like to multitask. And I hate my lungs anyway, so let's cough those biggers right out, shall we?
*** nose, ankles, could be taller, fall over too often, socially inept and shy, talk too much
**** BTW I'm bringing back the word rad back. Go out and use it.

Portnoy's Complaint, Humpty Dumpty and Anchovy Toast*

I've missed my calling. I'm convinced of this. I've been giving it a great deal of thought, and I think, nay, I know that I was meant for greater things.

I was meant to be... a freakin' ROCK STAR!!!!

Think about it: I am not only a music snob, and have a passable alto singing voice, and can just about carry a tune**, but I have the requisite quirky dress sense, the capacity to drink large amounts of beer without spewing (or losing the ability to dance on a bar with a bartender dressed as a swan), am bolshy, demanding and swear like a trouper. Not to mention that I can trash a hotel room in under fifteen minutes. Just ask the good folk at the Tokyo Keio Plaza.

So...yeah, okay, It might be a bit late in life to start thinking about this but I hear 30 is the new 20, so that means I'm turning 20 real soon! Also, I kind of don't have a band, which could prove problematic, although not necessarily so: really I'm all about the Interview Magazine articles, tabloid exposés and blag. Mmm. I'm not sure where I stand on groupies*** though. I'll have to see how that goes.

* what we talked about during the staff breakfast this morning.
** good thing musical ability isn't a requirement of the job, eh?
*** I mean, they;re generally assumed to be pretty skanky, right? and desperate. Or are male groupies different? What if they're all, like, teenagers? I'm not convinced about this part, really.

Regrets? I have a few.

so, there are a few things I would really like to have done in my lifetime, but haven't. I mean, I've accomplished a whole lot of really cool things: putting myself through two degrees, getting really involved in photography, living in strange countries for extended periods, giving a volcano the finger-- these are just a few of the awesome things I have enjoyed doing. But I'm talking the really awesome things, my dream activities, my fantasy life.

get your mind out of the gutter.


anyway, herewith find enclosed the aforementioned list of things I would like to accomplish at some point.

1) Being a ninja would be Pretty Damn Cool. I think that my life is essentially an empty sucking void when it comes to my lack of Ninja skills, or skillz as it were. I often imagine how much better everything could be if i could jump around buildings, kicking the shit out of people, throwing shurikens in the supermarket, and generally delivering Hard Life Lessons to people that annoy me. Especially guys who kmake kissy noises at me when they drive past. Or who walk past and are all like: "hey babay" I'm not your fuckin baby. But I digress. who wouldn't want to be accomplished in silent, gymnastic kick-assery?
2) Being an invincible robot ninja would be even better. do I even have to clarify this? I thought not.
3) I would like to smash a beer bottle across the face of a punk-ass. A green one. And not a wine bottle. and no, not smash a beer bottle and cut someone. I want to actually whack the bottle across their cheek, due to their deserving it. I can see it. I think it might be satisfying.
4) wait. A ninja pirate!!!!! holy cross-genre fantasticaciousness! Skaaaaarsgaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrd!
5) Killing a Zombie, obviously. with a crossbow? nothing too gross or bloody, like a chainsaw. whatever: I'd like more than 50 action points a day though.
6) Is it too late to learn to skateboard? or is it too having-a-midlife-crisis? Can women even have midlife crises? I think I would make an awesome skatepunk: I already have a snotty attitude and a tattoo, and enjoy rebelling against authority (ie: The Man).
7) eventually, before I get too old, I'd like to turn Vampire. With an awesome sword that glows blue and steals souls, which would feed my eternal.... ah. wait. that's the plot of Soul Reaver*..... oh whatever.

I really did not intend for this to contain quite as much violence. Oops. Next post: sunshine, kittens and picnics.

* I once found the cheat that allowed me to get the Soul Reaver during Baldur's Gate. It was pretty sweet.

Our Gmail conversations tend to disintegrate like this

Gmail. this morning. As usual:

E-Poops: so Ladies’ Dan and I spend an awesome evening last Thursday playing drinking HOUSE! with one of the new episodes. (too bad it was the most boring episode ever... except for when house says "rape baby") so Ladies’ Dan, I finally got the other episode to download properly, and watched it with molly on Saturday evening, and I wish you had been there to play "take a drink for every foot of tapeworm house pulls out of the patient" -- it was like 25).

Also, remember when that doctor pulled 25 feet of anal beads out of Bertrude’s mom?

Dr. Esteban: Oh I totally saw that episode!
E-Poops: I liked how they added the following lines to calm people's fears about giant 800 feet tapeworms living inside of them:
Nurse: could I have a tapeworm inside of me?
House: no, you would feel it. The only reason this girl didn't know
she had a tapeworm, is because she can't feel pain.

Also, random fact. The "can't feel pain" disease only has about 35 cases reported in the US, but there are over 300 cases in Japan.
Me: I thought that was the "can't feel empathy" disease?
Dr. Esteban: No, it's Can't Understand Why Everyone Isn't Exactly Like Me disease.
Me: ah, I see where I was confused. I think that goes hand in hand with "claim everything as our invention" disease.
E-Poops: I thought it was the "can't understand why everyone isn't exactly like me, and I am also unable to walk properly and choose attractive clothing" disease
Dr. Esteban: You mean Spontaneous Fashion Barf-o-plosion?
E-Poops: that would be the scientific word.... yes
E-Poops: (oh... sorry... the scientific word for word is term)
Me: what about "my panty hamster gets so hot in winter that I have to flash it even if it's snowing" disease?
Dr. Esteban: Did you just refer to a clunge as a "panty hamster?"
E-Poops: Betenoir is a little confused, because her cooter IS in fact a living breathing, hamster.
Me: it eats seeds.
Dr. Esteban: it eats seed?
Silent disapproval robot: ...
Me: ...and nuts.
Me: don't judge me.
La Chica: I ate some nuts today. Pecans & Cashews. Are you gonna judge me?
Dr. Esteban: Only if you ingested them through your "panty hamster."
E-Poops: Chica’s is a gerbil.

** Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved in this... incident...

Britney, please save yourself.

Saradia and I gmail chatted this morning. The thing I love about sararara is that she shares my insatiable and not-all-that-secret love for all things celebrity. dissecting celebrity news for me is like...brain masturbation. wait, suddenly I've somehow linked Sara to masturbation, and that's hella weird. new paragraph.

anyway, I love me some gossip. and I really get involved in it. The whole Britney Spears thing is just sad though... It's akin to one of those accidents that you see by the side of the road, and ghoulishly find yourself straining for a glimpse of severed head or detached foot*. anyway, we decided on a plan of action, so that Britters can regain her pop princess crown**

1. STAY IN REHAB!!!! (this one is kind of important)
2. stop with the wigs. embrace the baldness, until it grows out a bit. then adopt a pixie cut, in lightest ash blonde.
3. go on a health retreat...disappear from public view for six months or so, and emerge slim, toned, and glowing.
4. adopt an icy, glittery Grace Kelly/ southern belle image. elocution and deportment lessons should have been a part of the health retreat. perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier? anyway, shock the world by radiating calm, charm and grace.
5. move to France. (no cheese though! let's maintain the slim tonedness, shall we?)
6. work with Goldfrapp-types and craft an album (You May Call Me Mistress Spears) of perfect slivers of icy, glittery fabulous pop. Duet with Kylie. remix by Scissor Sisters.
   
7. REMAIN SINGLE! this is probably safest, until Trousersnake realises his destiny, and comes running back to the new, fantasticacious Brit.
   

...et voila! the balance of things will be restored. And also, I will not have to look at any more flabby shaved coochie, or nasty white-trash outfits, or nasty weaves. and that, my friends, is that.

* or perhaps that is just me.
** there are some Britney songs on my Ipod. you have a problem with that? I'll play you some probot and then you can SUCKIT! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!