The Sharmanator

This is the result when you work in a female dominated industry – sometimes you find yourself in the middle of an uncomfortable conversation. As a man, tampon talk is definitely up there on the list of topics to avoid, so imagine my shock and awe when I found myself ‘starring’ in a real life Always Ultra ad.

I dropped in at the pub after work last week, looking to consume a pink beverage with an accompanying, elegant umbrella, and to unwind from yet another stressful day of model scouting. Instead I was bombarded with menstrual microphone chit chat.

Menstrual Mike was the posterboy for the new Always campaign

As the ladies continued to guzzle wine and reflect on combos of humorous and horrific monthly musings, I delved deep into the subconscious to add some value to the conversations. I’m a Renaissance Man. Three dimensional. I don’t just talk about sport. I can have real dialogue with girls and talk about feelings… and shit!

Let me set the scene. It was my first year out of school. For five years prior, I had spent about 90 percent of my days surrounded by uncouth, vulgar, ‘Soggy Marie’ participating dudes who wouldn’t know what a tampon was, even if it grew wings and spoke to them in Latin.

Now I was free. I had a driver’s licence and ‘roadtrips’, with mates (including girl ones), was the new fad. At this stage, however, we were still getting to grips with the whole co-ed culture and only managed to convince one girl to join us on our first outing to Dikhololo (that’s not even a euphemism folks).

We boozed, braai’d (BBQ’d), and watched A-frikken sunset or two. And when we wanted to chillax to the max, we hit some pool time. Sitting on a step in the shallow end, I had my arms outstretched – *trying* to be a lot cooler than I really was – chatting to a standing (we’ll call our token female on the adventure) ‘Megan’.

Growing up with sisters, you’re forced to become perceptive, and while Megs was standing in the pool, I noticed her bikini bottoms were sporting a thread that she clearly hadn’t seen. I did the gentlemanly thing, reached for the cottoned nuisance and proceeded to grip, bite and pull.

The puckered expression on poor Megs’ face was indication enough that the thread was somehow not attached to her bikini…

I went away with my gay mates this weekend – we went kamping.  It was a fairly balanced mix of homos, heteros and trisexuals (they’d try anything).

The best thing about roadtrips with batty boys is that they ‘don’t do average’, so there’s no fucken around with bread and water. The food is French and unpronounceable, the beds are handwoven with Moroccan mohair, and the showers elegantly sculpted from Italian luxury – complete with power-jets that caress only the best parts of the B,S&C.

This is how not to do average!

The wine flowed continuously for three days, we Heidied our hearts out on green hills of Arundel and jammed with the inbred locals at night. But when we wanted a bit of downtime, we resorted to the good ol Saffa tradition of ’30 Seconds’. The awesomeness of this boardgame deserves its own post, so more of that later…

Anyhoo, somehow we got onto the subject of penises, and what ensued was a healthy mass debate on cockstylin’. This brings us to ‘Weapon of choice’ Chooseday (dont hate me because I posted this on a Wednesday) – a feature where I bring you my uneducated thoughts on contrasting issues such as bathing versus showering and tight asses versus titties. It’s progressive and minds could potentially be blown; true story!

Anteater vs Mean Mr. Mushroom

Penises are pretty siff looking things, no matter how they’re packaged. I’m quite chuffed with the way mine turned out, though, (must be the manscaping) and I have even had the occasional compliment after Harry has tonsil tunnelled  his way into a laydee mouth.

If this is your first time here, I’ll set the record straight – I’m packing an anteater. Don’t be frightened laydeez, embrace it! The problem with not being circumcised is that girls don’t always know how to approach the situation. They are very particular about guys being rough with their wizards’ sleeves but the same criteria holds true for the hooded snake. Don’t yank the poor fucker, ease into your strokes like an Olympic rower.

Anteaters are your friend – they like to be petted, stroked, and gently kissed on their foreheads. Forget what the media has told you about them not being clean, smelling or being generally funky. If they are looked after, they have the potential to deliver some exceptional results.

I’ve heard that molten mushrooms grow quite well in the dark. Like anteaters, they find refuge in dark warm holes. It assists with their growth (It’s an interesting fact that Mario of the Mario bros. franchise is in fact circumcised – why else would he get so excited when you captured his mushroom?) That’s the breadth of my mushroom knowledge.

Anteaters are an endangered species and I think it is my philanthropic duty to get mine out as much as humanly possible to ensure that public perception of these lovable creatures continues to improve.

What are your thoughts laydeez?

Erm, I think there's something wrong with your mushroom!

Firstly, if you stumbled upon this post because you thought it was going to be some hilarious piss take of kids, without parents, you’re wrong. I may have a filthy mouth, but ‘orphan humour’ – fuxsticks – what do you take me for?

Anyhoo, special shout out to the Hobbmeister, Hobbdizzle fo’ shizzle, m’nizzle. He has managed to survive and see in his 24th birthday today. I was sceptical that he would make it this far after the condition he was in on Friday night – he was all kinds of motherless…

I digress. I received a mail from my friend Kate about some rad initiative that her company is PR’in called WOW. Settle geekazoids! Before you cream yourselves, this WOW doesn’t relate to World of Warcraft, but rather World Orphan Week. You can read more about WOW here but below is a brief synopsis:

‘SOS Children’s Villages is raising awareness for World Orphan Week otherwise known as WOW. It extends from 8 to 14 February 2010 and is an upbeat initiative to mobilise corporate South African to dress in something ‘wow’ to highlight the plight of orphaned and abandoned children’

Kate had me at ‘dress in something wow’. Fuck I love fancy dress! There is no better way to raise awareness for the plight of some pretty incredible little kiddiewinkles out there, who need your help than by dressing like a complete knob-head.

'Snow White, leave them kids alone!', said Grumpy

I’m currently in Scotland eating my body weight in Haggis, but will be back same time, same place tomorrow for more references to my penis and other inappropriate subject matter.

In the meantime, if you need more info about WOW, holla at Leigh Swartz on (011) 234 8708 or 0861 767 767.

Kisses

xoxox

I was reading this post by my good buddy, Slick Tiger. It details his most EpicFierce work hangover, and served as timely inspiration for Friday night tomfoolery.

Last week was Nelly Retardo, and it culminated in an emotional farewell bonanza. The ‘Global Economic Climate’ has had its casualties but its only when the lines between colleague and friend have blurred that you really appreciate the impact of redundancy.

The Dee taught us that the best way to deal with the big ‘R’ is to go ‘bombing’, but sweet, baby Jesus, she had no idea how much of a mess I was about to make of myself.

I’m generally an amorous drunk – you get bombarded with hugs, I drop the ‘L’ word (on males and females alike), and, on special occasions, you may even get treated to a free anteater show.

This was as special as they come (pun intended), and after downing three quarters of a bottle of wine, the circus was most certainly in town. Those expired grapes etched a rich blackness into my memory that will never be repaired. Binge, cocksposure, powernap, binge, karaoke, powernap, powernap, powernap…

Betty teaches Mike how not to be a lame fader!

Karaoke: you're doing it wrong dickhead!

The worst part about being the most fucked person at a razzle dazzle is that there is always someone out there ready to help you decode how much of a cock you really were, the next time you see each other sober.

Below is a recollection of scenes from the filthiest man I have ever had the pleasure of co-existing with in a work or human environment – Mike Warburton (aka The Actor)

"Lord only knows how many times I was subjected to your tally-whacker

on Fri night. Jesus. If I ever witness as many women begging a man to

do UP his jeans and NOT remove his doomhammer for their enjoyment and

edification, I'll be going some!! Extraordinary. I presume you flashed

the old schwanzstucker in everyone's face at karaoke? Can you remember

ANYTHING from Fri night??!!"

*I don't pull the memory loss card, as a get out of jail free option. I'm well aware that my tackle was on full display and there was even the likelihood that I tried to insert said 'doomhammer' into the ear holes of one, possibly two co-workers. The lesson here folks? As long as you don't get too wizasted and poke someone's eye out with the Purple Avenger, sometimes it's quite cathartic to get properly SLAMMED!

Some people have cool grans. I’m not talking about the ones with tourettes, who entertain your friends with a collection of ‘cock, shit,balls’ outbursts, but rather the ones who turn their hearing aids to the off position, smash back the ‘H-2-the Wizo’, and bop and boogy their little geriatric pins off, every time you release them at a family function.

Every few months, there’s bound to be a new YouTube sensation that captures the hearts and minds of a nation. Move over Susan Boyle, your 15 minutes are over, sweetheart. Sharman and Hobbo presents: 78 year old, ‘Granny Beer Funnel’ (visuals courtesy Blogspot Rugby) [view it here if YouTube is blocked by your corporate regime]

Ola seven,

Moanday conspired against me and threw copius amounts of shit in my direction – the older I get, the more I realise how inconvenient this whole ‘work’ thing is.

I survived a Nelly Retardo day and finally had the opportunity to upload what can only be described as EpicFierce imagery. Let me give you the background:

Hobbdizzle and I were hoping to consume our bodyweight in beverages this weekend, but decided to take a break from binge-drinking  after the damage that we had inflicted on our vital organs during December. In hindsight, it was imperative that we had our wits about us. Drunken debauchery would have ensured that Hobborrific missed the glimpse of this remarkable signage that danced in his periph.

R. Soles : official Douche merchandise

Any brand with such a fine name deserves a plug!

There you have it folks. Nike hightops, with velcro and pumps = LAME. I’m heading to King’s Road London to get my feet inside a pair of R.Soles (there’s something about that last statement that just doesn’t sound right). Thanks to Hobbo for eventually adding some value to the site

Pace (as in ‘have a brisk walk’) out!

I was having dinner with some colleagues last night. We managed to keep our rendezvous on the downlow from ‘The Colleague’, thank firefox!

Things started to peek on the merriment charts. Punch concoctions became more exotic and the level of high percentage alcoholic ingredients was cranked up a notch.

There was no stopping us and it all went downhill when Betty pulled out the boardgames. Nothing like watching your peers effing and blinding each other over a game of 30 Seconds – or as the Poms know it – ‘Articulate’.  Incredible how even their games sound wanky!

Every night out with colleagues is expected to have at least one awkward silence moment… Not with this crazy group of phuckas. As soon as Lucy Dee smells a conversational ebb, she throws out something a little controversial to continue the raucousness.

When she suggested we play ‘the peanut butter game’, I was both nervous and excited. Betty’s Weimaraners’ ears perked and I had visions of two canines licking peanut butter off my genitals. Below is the footage. It’s like Generation Next of reality here at S & H… Happy Weekend! (if you can’t view the video due to corporate fascists having blocked your YouTube access, check out my Posterous page)

England thrives on mediocrity – from the weather to Gordon Brown – its a place where you can be pale, pasty and on the cusp of morbid obesity, without a  care in the world.

You see me rollin, you're hatin! Gonna catch me eatin dirty!

Every time I see a femme-fatty putting unnecessary physical strain on the streets of London, one word comes to mind – GUNT. Our Kiwi mate, Struan, introduced me to this gem of a noun. It’s literally the fusion of two words and describes how one’s GUT has morphed with one’s GINE to create a landmass to rival Pangaea. Gunt, Gunt, Gunt!

In most progressive cultures, these ‘heart attacks on legs’ would be mocked, teased, discouraged from shovelling additional calories down their oesophagus, and have the suggestion of stomach stapling thrown into the mix. However, England is too PC for such niceties. Being a fat lazy fuck comes too easily, especially with the promise of the dole and riveting daytime television to keep you and your third ass enthralled.

You know society is in trouble when being the smelly chubster is in the upper echelons of coolness. I blame darts for this phenomenon. Darts isn’t even a real sport. It’s an excuse to get slammed at a pub and throw miniature spears at a wall, or, eachother.

Darts gets more TV coverage in the UK than sports that actually require you to perform physical exercise – even football soccer. Darts chuckers are the celebrities of middle England, and the worst part of all of this, is that they think they are worthy enough to bestow rad nicknames upon themselves.

Phil 'The Power' Taylor - taking knob dressing to the next level

Manny Pacquiao deserves a bad ass name like Pac-man because he’s a lean, mean fighting machine who smashes people in the FACE for a living. Phil Taylor, however, deserves to get off his lazy ass and jog around the block. And, while he’s at it, he should take the quarter of all 2-15 year old obese pom brats with him. pfft!

My dress sense has been brought into question on several occasions, most notably in recent weeks. However, the lay-deez in the office did manage to make me blush with some positive feedback regarding my new jean pant purchase. I think it was the ass shots here.

Sure, sometimes I let my old lady down, by donning an ensemble of items that appear to have originated from opposite ends of the fashion universe (stripes with checks?) and have our Kiwi finance manager suggest I got dressed in the dark or, even better, struck down by autism in my sleep.

D-d-d-definitely stylish!I'm definitely stylish!

The one thing I treasure most about my job, however, is having the freedom to rock the smart casual look nine days out of 10, with a smattering of suits and boots only when there’s some serious shit going down.

There’s a pretty phenomenal chance that I would find a cubicle to hang myself from, if I was subjected to wearing  a tie for 10 hours every day. I certainly blame my Adam’s Apple – it was never designed to be restricted by a rat race collar, and I think my anti-suit sentiments stem from the cocks that you see on the *inside* of suits, especially in London.

Yes - you are quite right! I am a cock, but not just any cock! I am a large veiny, pulsating, manly cock!

On Mud Island, they call them City Boys, because they work in the ‘City’ / Square Mile. If you don’t know your history, I’m not gonna give you a lesson now and bore the funk out of the intelligentsia. Read this article from Wikipedia

It’s douchebags like this, with their penthouses in Canary Wharf and Blow-ruined nostrils that fucked with the financial system and brought the global economy to its knees. It’s not so much the preamble that bugs me about these dudes, but the fact that they can’t wear their precious Jimmy Choo’s during their daily commute. Those are safely secured in their briefcases, while they opt to wear their tekkies (sneakers) into town.

I don’t know much about fashion, being stylish, or even wearing my shirts the right way round half the time, but FFS, if you want to dress like a knob, be sure to leave the house in a three piece and your recreational footwear.

OK, there's always an exception to the rule. JT can do whatever the hell he likes. He's *that* cool.

It was Mrs Hobbo’s birthday yesterday, so Hobdawg, being the good son that he is, braved the elements and Eurostarred his way to Frenchland. He fought sleet, sub-zero temperatures and even polar bears to celebrate with his old dear.

Spot the polar bear? Clue: Hobbo's the one on the left

The most impressive effort, however, was reserved for his choice of card. Have a gander at the below video, or don’t! I ain’t bovvered…