a broken pen

an email sent regarding toilet rolls

Hi all.

classing it up for valentine’s

So, for those who have eyes to read and ears to hear, you may know that I am not the classiest of ladies: I drink, I burp, I use foul language. So what I am about to say may shock you a little.

For Valentine’s Day this year, I have been given the chance to shed my filthy ways and board the very exclusive Rovos Rail train. For those who are unaware, Rovos pretty much makes the most luxurious trains in the world. We’re talking classy beyond all class. Big old steam engine train, champagne, 4 course meals: just a whole lot of Old School awesome.

Under normal circumstances I would never be able to wrangle my way into something so classy, but thank my lucky stars, Rovos, in association with Gats Leisure have put together a pretty amazing Valentine’s Special and kindly asked me to stop being a pleb for an evening, in order that I may share this wondrous experience with you.

Best part is: they’re opening this up to everyone, not just me. So if you want to make your lady, your gent (or anything in between) feel like a million bucks (the non-animal kind) this Valentine’s Day, you can find out more at www.gatsleisure.co.za

And in the meantime, I shall be giving you a small snippet each day of the awesomeness that is going to be bestowed upon my unworthy feet.

I’m going to try not to swear, but I’ll probably drink.

the dot spot poem

I used to think that love and sex were topics too taboo,

And then along came Dorothy, who cut through all the poo. (I wanted to write shit, but it didn’t rhyme.)

No longer need I hide in silence, my questions still unasked,

This luscious beast, so wise and fair, my troubled did unmask.

Foreplay does not in fact refer to playing some Kenny G,

And that may be why before her blog, I never got past base three.

Sexy dances are only sexy when you happen to have good moves.

The “Running Man” simply does not count, nor does dancing to the Bee Gees grooves.

Apparently I’ve  been doing it wrong, and that’s not where it’s supposed to go,

Unless you’re into kinkier things, or are a bro who loves other bros.

And also when you’re doing it, it seems to go without saying,

You must inform BEFORE-HAND that you actually are role-playing.

And as for toys and gadgets, they are made for boys AND girls,

And once again you need consent BEFORE you give them a whirl.

But none of these things I would have known, if it weren’t for Dot’s blog leaking.

I tried to ask this to my dad, and we are no longer speaking.

(Also the visual aids probably weren’t necessary.)

If you don’t know what I’m talking about www.thedotspot.net

an ode to that woman at the pool

Fun in the sun takes a turn for the worse,

When the Land Before Time becomes present.

This woman of age, no longer spring chicken,

Is more like an over-plucked pheasant.

She saunters on in, inappropriate swimwear,

Thinking she looks like a ten.

No one wants to see what you’ve got hidden there,

In your dried out and used Cougar’s den. (If you pay attention, this is a metaphor for her vaginal region)

Your skin is like leather, so tough and so brown,

And wrinkly like a new-born Shar Pei. 

Except not that cute, well not cute at all.

More like a dehydrated raisin I’d say.

And your bosom I fear, has fallen from grace,

And is enough to make most mortals shudder.

Your boob job can’t hide, nor erase from our minds

Those floppy and overused udders.

At the top of your thighs, where costume meets skin,

The folds of your flesh are not hidden.

And oh by the way, you missed a few hairs,

In that area where you have been so well ridden.

When the top finally comes off, for a long topless tan,

I can no longer contain all my loathing.

I storm to your side and yell in your face,

“Mom, will you put on some clothing???”

*Just kidding, my mom is a proper lady, aging with grace.

self waxing - a lyrical ode

…Because sometimes you have tequila with Kirsty Bisset and agree to write stupid poems…

When you’re a girl, as all girls know,

You don’t want your unsightly hair to show.

And for those of us without much cash,

We have to self wax our lady ‘tache (I just invented that as a euphemism for bikini area - I think I win)

So purchasing products from the shameful Clicks aisle,

You take every opportunity to get in a last smile.

Because pain and much suffering are right on your door,

As you say one last goodbye to your carpeted floor.

The trick is to drink ‘til you get kinda wobbly.

Then heat up the wax ‘til it gets kinda bubbly.

And ignore searing heat as it’s applied to the skin,

Wait for it to harden before you begin. (That’s what she said)

The first rip is easy, it barely hurts at all.

Like a fully grown lion giving its prey a small maul.

As you bite on your pillow and dab away at the blood (There’s no blood, but it sounds way more dramatic this way)

You can no longer see as your eyes start to flood.

After feeling more pain than you thought you could bear,

And screaming to the point where you no longer care.

You see your red skin is still not quite clean,

And realise why professionals still remain supreme.

You hope and you pray with all your might and your power,

That the last bits will eventually come off in the shower.

The difference you’ve made is really quite teeny,

And you’re still not that willing to wear your bikini.

If you have done this before, I salute you.

the beach poem

For most of us the beach is a heavenly place
To work on our tans and put a smile on our face.
And people from Joburg rush down to the coast,
To sun themselves silly, and let their skins toast.

We frolick like children in the waves of the sea,
And you don’t even have to get out to pee.
(When you find yourself swimming into a warm spot,
Look out for anyone who may be taking a squat)

And if you’re like me and have rather large breasts,
Your bikini top will be swallowed by the large ocean crests.
So be comfortable with your body, as much as can be,
Because a nipple slip or two is rather likely.

Upon exiting the water, you’ll be happy to find
A large clump of of sand giving you a saggy behind.
Sand in each crevice, sand on your tits,
Sand in your ears and in your lady bits.

And of course all your tanning has just not gone right,
You resemble a lobster wearing a bikini of white.
And nothing is better, there is nothing more win,
Then sand rubbing up against tender red skin.

The highlight of course is a bluebottle sting
And peeing on yourself is no easy thing.
So beaches be damned, I prefer me some snow,
But at least I gave everyone one hell of a show.

Wear sunscreen. Lots of it.

the pee poem

A cold Winter’s day, you’re wrapped up all warm.

It’s so effing cold, you wish you’d never been born.

But before you get depro, like a hormonal teen,

You realise you can warm up with some steaming caffeine.

So you have yourself some coffee, a cup maybe two.

Then three and then four, well more than a few.

Your fingers now warm, around cup number five,

Your bladder starts feeling like it’s coming alive.

Where is the nearest bathroom? No one can say.

You bladder now feeling like it may come out to play.

After searching and searching for what seems like a year,

You locate the ablution, not close enough you fear.

But you dash with all speed, the burning still inside,

And make it in time to find the stall occupied.

With no other stalls, you’ve no choice but to wait.

“Could I pee in the sink?” You begin to contemplate.

Finally, by miracle before you explode,

You’re given the chance to let off your load (I know that normally means something else, but well, poetic license)

You race to the cubicle, crying to find,

You’ve worn all the clothes ever, there’s just no more time.

You strip off each item, as your genitals reel,

A single drip threatens to open the seal.

Then finally, relief, of sweet golden bliss,

As you empty your bladder with the world’s greatest piss.

You exit the stall, and Hi 5 some folk,

After washing your hands of course, cos hygiene’s no joke.

AXE-traordinary

Bet that got your attention, right? Not? Well you’re reading now anyway. But don’t worry, there are scantily clad women and boozing throughout the tale.

Thanks to my awesome poetry skills, I received a rather coveted invite to the AXE Cloud 9 party from a rather good looking and popular friend. I was flattered, but as you know, I’m not what you would call the “classiest” of ladies and this seemed like it was going to be quite an upmarket affair. Mildly petrified and confused what to do with my hands, my first instinct was to buy something decent to wear. This I did, but then changed my mind, as us girls do, and wore some classy designer dress that I’d owned for a while. By designer dress I obviously mean one that I’d bought at a charity store for roughly R5.

I had, however, learned my lesson about heels from previous functions, and decided to invest in some comfy wedges. Wedges acquired and hooker make-up applied (that’s not to say make-up that I stole from a hooker, but red lipstick) I headed off to the party with great confidence and my charming date on my arm. My confidence was immediately shattered, however, to discover that at this AXE/GQ party, there were scantily-clad angel models, with industrial-sized racks and midget sized clothing. I know, who could have predicted?

So after making it through an entire month without drinking, I quite happily began to drink all the alcohol upon arrival to boost my confidence. I also made a point of happily meeting the darling who’d invited me (this was our first real world encounter) by pinching her bum. And it was a good bum, with all the firmness one can hope for in a bum pinch. Ice broken, the rest of the night was spent dancing, drinking, chest bumping and smooching, as one expects to do at such a lavish party.

Quick tip: if you’re gonna wear hooker lipstick and smooch, you’re gonna look like a clown.

But here is the fun part: my copious amounts of drinking had rendered me quite numb, which was great, until I started sobering up before leaving, only to discover that my glorious new shoes had in fact eaten through my feet. Apparently wearing new shoes before wearing them in is not ideal. Blisters do not begin to describe the medieval torture that was happening to my toes and soles. I realized the severity upon trying to navigate my way down the stairs. Despite attempting a combination of various walks/crawls/hobbles/skips I was simply unable to conquer the flight. And ladies, this is why you invite a strong guy as your date: when rendered unable to walk, he must carry you. It’s science.

So looking like a boozy sod, I was carried to my car, in a series of weird moaning noises, to prove that once again, I Shelley Pembroke, should never be allowed to attend fancy parties. I did sing my date many songs on the way home in thanks for his hard work though.

And I got a AXE hip flask.

nutella - an orgasmapoem

*I was given three lines that I had to use in this poem, they are bolded.*

Nutella, my bella, I do love you soooo <3

I’ll eat you with anything, on bread or on toast.

Ok I’m aware those are mostly the same things,

But screw it, Nutella, you make my heart sing.

Unlike most people, of you I’m more than just fondish.

You might find me squelchy and vagabondish (seriously meg? SERIOUSLY??)

The languid lover of my tongue, my tastebud fancy tickler,

My grammar is excellent, for that I’m a stickler.

Ok now that i’ve got the necessary bits done,

Here is the sexy bit about sexy Nutella fun.

Nutella I want to rub you all over my skin.

And lick you off like a cat, cos that will be win(ning).

If you were a person (a hot one you’d be too)

I’d tie you up, spread you, lick you and sex you.

And after that i would have your little chocolate babies,

And proceed to eat them, like a crazed dog with rabies.

I would lock you in a basement if you refused to behave,

Where you would live out your days as my personal sex slave.

Also, try it on a crepe. It will change your life.

666 praise the dark lord

The world is full of so much evil, with darkness so untamed.

But none so evil there can be, as he who shall not be named.

The Dark Lord approaches, cower in fear, who knows what he is cooking.

He’s creepy as shit, and I think it’s cause, he’s really not good looking.

His skin’s not great, he has no hair, his teeth are pretty shitty.

And judging by his dialogue, he’s really not that witty.

What a dick, that Voldemort dude, all the shit he did on purpose.

I guess I’d probably be a dick too if I looked like a tortoise.

And the black robe, really? For reals for reals? You should swap it for a cape.

And *spoiler alert* I can’t believe you let your snake kill Snape.

In retrospect that sounds quite dodgy. I meant your actual pet.

Not the one within your pants (it’s probably a vagina I’ll bet).

But as far evil bad dudes go, this one was quite a douche.

He killed a lot of innocents, I like the Mighty Boosh (it’s the only thing that rhymed, I care not.)

Voldemort. More like Voldemorman. Or Oldemort.

Yeah, that’s all I got.

End.