40 years ago this week man landed on the moon with Neil Armstrong immortalizing the words ‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind’.
It is amazing to think man can travel 250,000 miles and land on a 10 square yard patch on a planet with a 2200 mile diameter, but struggles to find the clitoris.
By gods it may take a mission the scale of a Mars landing before the secrets of the g-spot are revealed. Apparently it is located due North inside the Valles Marineris canyon.
Better sex education for boys may lead to ‘One small cep for man, and one giant orgasm for womankind’.
There is hope for the future. I am reliably informed that Oprah, the people’s messiah, provides factual information about structured foreplay and female orgasms to the great unwashed! Unfortunately, the only men that watch her show are trouser pilots.
Thankfully, as a schoolboy, I had some of the best sex education available, though I have been accused of stampeding towards the clitoris.
Beaverboosh
Friday, July 3, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Smoking, Masturbating and Urinating
President Obama this week revealed he has not quite kicked his smoking habit following his signature on new anti-smoking legislation.
I love Obama! He’s one of the coolest guys on the planet, he is very human, and he smokes! Whoa!
Americans have vindicated themselves after eight of the darkest years of their mostly proud history. They have voted in a true leader, and a black one with Irish heritage to boot. Not since the Kennedy’s have the Obama’s of County Limerick had so much to be proud of, to be sure.
Obama claimed that he is not a daily smoker, or a constant smoker. He doesn’t smoke at home, or in front of the kids, but he occasionally ‘falls of the wagon’. He is 95% cured though!
He is an inspiration. I have always worked on the 80/20 rule when it comes to life, especially on the topic of moderation, but he has shown me there is room for improvement. 95% eh!
I consult my life coach to see how I can improve my performance. I am excited as we discuss how I can make ME better. We focus on 3 prioriy areas for improvement.
1. Smoking - I too like a cheeky marly, especially with a cocktail. To be fair, I could stop smoking but I would have to stop drinking. If I stopped drinking, my rate of masturbation would likely spike creating all sorts of health dangers.
To hit a 95% cured rate, I must only have 10 tabs a month! Doable! I have only smoked a couple of times in past months but with great intensity. At my SiL’s wedding, I consumed almost 2 packs in one night. I think I was eating them whole by the end of the evening. That was the past!
2. Masturbating - Mrs. BB and I have a passionate and abundant love life, but I have the hormones of a 17 year old and I live in a city with some of the most beautiful and playful women in the world. Not that I am ever tempted to stray, I am one woman man, but it is convenient to pop off to the bog and knock one out occasionally, especially in the summer cafés after lots of drinking and smoking!
To hit a 95% cured rate, I must only apply the handbrake once a week! Man, this is a challenge. It 27C and the forecast is for sun, sun, sun. I might have to stay inside a bit more this summer and especially avoid the beaches.
3. Urinating - Like most boys, my aim is true, but terribly inaccurate. The collateral damage can be devastating, especially on the toilet seat and surrounds. Captain Winky has a mind of his own and squirts out in all manner of directions. I’ve never been known to talk out of both sides of my mouth, at the same time, but my Member of the House certainly has.
To hit a 95% cured rate, I must have a laser guidance device installed in my penis, you know like in those smart bombs. This will still be a tough performance target to hit. In the end, I decide on taking the box lunch at the Y approach and sit on the toilet to wee. Early trials are mixed. There are still a few misfires and I feel like a pansy, but I have reduced the swaying factor.
It is a breath of fresh air to find a leader who is inspiring, is alive, sets a great example for all, and is of my generation.
I just can’t believe how much Obama and I have in common. I guess many boys of our generation do.
Beaverboosh
I love Obama! He’s one of the coolest guys on the planet, he is very human, and he smokes! Whoa!
Americans have vindicated themselves after eight of the darkest years of their mostly proud history. They have voted in a true leader, and a black one with Irish heritage to boot. Not since the Kennedy’s have the Obama’s of County Limerick had so much to be proud of, to be sure.
Obama claimed that he is not a daily smoker, or a constant smoker. He doesn’t smoke at home, or in front of the kids, but he occasionally ‘falls of the wagon’. He is 95% cured though!
He is an inspiration. I have always worked on the 80/20 rule when it comes to life, especially on the topic of moderation, but he has shown me there is room for improvement. 95% eh!
I consult my life coach to see how I can improve my performance. I am excited as we discuss how I can make ME better. We focus on 3 prioriy areas for improvement.
1. Smoking - I too like a cheeky marly, especially with a cocktail. To be fair, I could stop smoking but I would have to stop drinking. If I stopped drinking, my rate of masturbation would likely spike creating all sorts of health dangers.
To hit a 95% cured rate, I must only have 10 tabs a month! Doable! I have only smoked a couple of times in past months but with great intensity. At my SiL’s wedding, I consumed almost 2 packs in one night. I think I was eating them whole by the end of the evening. That was the past!
2. Masturbating - Mrs. BB and I have a passionate and abundant love life, but I have the hormones of a 17 year old and I live in a city with some of the most beautiful and playful women in the world. Not that I am ever tempted to stray, I am one woman man, but it is convenient to pop off to the bog and knock one out occasionally, especially in the summer cafés after lots of drinking and smoking!
To hit a 95% cured rate, I must only apply the handbrake once a week! Man, this is a challenge. It 27C and the forecast is for sun, sun, sun. I might have to stay inside a bit more this summer and especially avoid the beaches.
3. Urinating - Like most boys, my aim is true, but terribly inaccurate. The collateral damage can be devastating, especially on the toilet seat and surrounds. Captain Winky has a mind of his own and squirts out in all manner of directions. I’ve never been known to talk out of both sides of my mouth, at the same time, but my Member of the House certainly has.
To hit a 95% cured rate, I must have a laser guidance device installed in my penis, you know like in those smart bombs. This will still be a tough performance target to hit. In the end, I decide on taking the box lunch at the Y approach and sit on the toilet to wee. Early trials are mixed. There are still a few misfires and I feel like a pansy, but I have reduced the swaying factor.
It is a breath of fresh air to find a leader who is inspiring, is alive, sets a great example for all, and is of my generation.
I just can’t believe how much Obama and I have in common. I guess many boys of our generation do.
Beaverboosh
Friday, June 19, 2009
Well Hung
Another morning of dehydrated brain pulsing numbness. This is the fourth this week. My tongue has swollen to twice its normal size. I have a bad case of the zaklys. You know, where your mouth tastes zakly like your ass. I am truly well hung. I am definitely maybe not going to drink tonight.
Monday night saw a return visit of AC/DC to Oslo at Valle Hovin stadium, an outdoor venue with a 40K capacity. That’s ten percent of the city’s population. I am always telling foreigners that Norwegians are a most beautiful and fit people. Walking into the stadium was the exception – it was one of the largest collections of ugliness I have ever witnessed. It was a freakin freak show.
My pals and I drowned ourselves in ale, played air guitar, and sang at the top of our lungs as an antidote to the gaggle of disfigurement. The show was outstanding, but left me both half deaf and ready to self induce vomiting as my alarm penetrated a deep barley haze at 5 am the next morning. I had a flight to catch. I had visions of my head hanging out of the window of the airport train laying large patches of elephant snot all of the way to the airport.
Tuesday night and it is Bolgen & Moi in Kristiansand. A long day of business continues and we decide on the 5 course tasting menu with wine accompaniment. I am desperate for a drink to smooth the edges. It is a warm summer night. I order a double G&T to start. I temporarily spiral into oblivion when the waiter tells me they have run out of gin. What kind of freakin restaurant runs out of gin in the middle of the summer?
The starter of scallops in pea pure with pancetta accompanied by a 2005 Montrachet takes me to heaven. Unfortunately 2 hours later and no main course, the endless banal business conversation, and I am jabbing a fork in my leg just to stay alert. I am back in hell. By the time the selection of cheese arrives I am ready to call in a code blue. There is one piece of cheese on my plate and I query the waiter about the selection. He reliably informs me there is a cheese selection and this is what he has selected for me. Right.
Wednesday night and I am back in Oslo having drinks with some new business associates. It is almost midnight and light out. It never gets dark here at this time of year and there are no obvious signals to stop drinking and go home, barring not being able to stand up, urinating down your leg, or passing out.
The restaurants and bars are heaving for summerfest. Everyone gets together with friends and parties in June before the country shuts down for the month of national holidays in July. If you include all of the partying people do before they take their holidays, where they continue partying, there are only two months of the year any work gets done in Norway. I still haven’t discovered when this is. Blink and you’ll miss it.
Thursday night is dinner with my old team of all star delivery bitches. We are at Aker Brygge, right next to the sea in the city centre. My energy levels are very low but rising quickly with the third bottle of Rose and all of the smutty girly talk at the table. Good girls can be so naughty some times.
I tell them of my week’s journey and that I have been well hung all week. They giggle. One of them looks at me provocatively and says that she always thought I was intellectually well hung. Tease! It is great to see them! They have all moved onto important well paying positions and I am delighted to have contributed to shaping their young graduate minds, mostly with invaluable advice on how to lose friends and alienate people.
I am looking forward to catching up with Mrs. BB tonight. She has been away on business this week and we shall reunite over a family dinner. It is seafood and champagne, one of our favourites. Mrs. BB is a champagne monster, so I do not think I am going to get off as lightly tonight as I plan. Oh well, she doesn’t mind when I am well hung. Boys are horniest when hung over.
Beaverboosh
Monday night saw a return visit of AC/DC to Oslo at Valle Hovin stadium, an outdoor venue with a 40K capacity. That’s ten percent of the city’s population. I am always telling foreigners that Norwegians are a most beautiful and fit people. Walking into the stadium was the exception – it was one of the largest collections of ugliness I have ever witnessed. It was a freakin freak show.
My pals and I drowned ourselves in ale, played air guitar, and sang at the top of our lungs as an antidote to the gaggle of disfigurement. The show was outstanding, but left me both half deaf and ready to self induce vomiting as my alarm penetrated a deep barley haze at 5 am the next morning. I had a flight to catch. I had visions of my head hanging out of the window of the airport train laying large patches of elephant snot all of the way to the airport.
Tuesday night and it is Bolgen & Moi in Kristiansand. A long day of business continues and we decide on the 5 course tasting menu with wine accompaniment. I am desperate for a drink to smooth the edges. It is a warm summer night. I order a double G&T to start. I temporarily spiral into oblivion when the waiter tells me they have run out of gin. What kind of freakin restaurant runs out of gin in the middle of the summer?
The starter of scallops in pea pure with pancetta accompanied by a 2005 Montrachet takes me to heaven. Unfortunately 2 hours later and no main course, the endless banal business conversation, and I am jabbing a fork in my leg just to stay alert. I am back in hell. By the time the selection of cheese arrives I am ready to call in a code blue. There is one piece of cheese on my plate and I query the waiter about the selection. He reliably informs me there is a cheese selection and this is what he has selected for me. Right.
Wednesday night and I am back in Oslo having drinks with some new business associates. It is almost midnight and light out. It never gets dark here at this time of year and there are no obvious signals to stop drinking and go home, barring not being able to stand up, urinating down your leg, or passing out.
The restaurants and bars are heaving for summerfest. Everyone gets together with friends and parties in June before the country shuts down for the month of national holidays in July. If you include all of the partying people do before they take their holidays, where they continue partying, there are only two months of the year any work gets done in Norway. I still haven’t discovered when this is. Blink and you’ll miss it.
Thursday night is dinner with my old team of all star delivery bitches. We are at Aker Brygge, right next to the sea in the city centre. My energy levels are very low but rising quickly with the third bottle of Rose and all of the smutty girly talk at the table. Good girls can be so naughty some times.
I tell them of my week’s journey and that I have been well hung all week. They giggle. One of them looks at me provocatively and says that she always thought I was intellectually well hung. Tease! It is great to see them! They have all moved onto important well paying positions and I am delighted to have contributed to shaping their young graduate minds, mostly with invaluable advice on how to lose friends and alienate people.
I am looking forward to catching up with Mrs. BB tonight. She has been away on business this week and we shall reunite over a family dinner. It is seafood and champagne, one of our favourites. Mrs. BB is a champagne monster, so I do not think I am going to get off as lightly tonight as I plan. Oh well, she doesn’t mind when I am well hung. Boys are horniest when hung over.
Beaverboosh
Friday, June 12, 2009
Golf Head
I have led an outstanding life:
As my plane touches down in rainy Bergen with an almighty thud, I am abruptly awoken. I come back to earth with a resounding thump. This is not my life, it is that Woods fellow.
This has happened before. I make a note to contact my doctor to change my medication.
If you don’t know your birdies from your bogeys, or are fed up with my blog:
This is a truly awesome achievement for a golfer.
- Prodigious child golfer with loving and ecouraging parents
- World No. 1
- 14 Major Wins, 67 PGA Tour Wins
- A Swedish underwear model for a wife
- Two lovely children
- Global racial appeal
- A million dollar smile
- A jet, exotic properties and $80 million of sponsorship deals a year
- A cheeky caddy named Steve…
As my plane touches down in rainy Bergen with an almighty thud, I am abruptly awoken. I come back to earth with a resounding thump. This is not my life, it is that Woods fellow.
This has happened before. I make a note to contact my doctor to change my medication.
If you don’t know your birdies from your bogeys, or are fed up with my blog:
- CLICK HERE to link away now if you are a GIRL
- CLICK HERE to link away now if you are a BOY.
This is a truly awesome achievement for a golfer.
Alas, my own golf game unfortunately requires a bit more dedication and patience. Last year saw a few good rounds but I struggled with my own golf injury.
Having hooked a drive off the fairway, I found my ball sitting 15 yards behind a Y shaped tree in the deep rough. Like most amateur golfers, I did not hesitate to try to hit my ball between the branches of the tree in order to save a stroke.
Addressing the ball with a 4 iron, I gave a mighty whack only to have the ball hit the tree and come right back and nail me in the middle of my forehead. It all happened so fast. I was stunned.
The subsequent lump on my forehead grew to the size and shape of a small penis. My ears were ringing for days.
Thankfully I recovered, but I still cannot remember the names of some of my family members, and the period between 1986 and 1990 draws a complete blank.
Luckily, I got away with a bogey.
Good luck with this year’s US Open Tiger, and may the golf gods be with you.
BeaverbooshFriday, June 5, 2009
Ex-Girlfriends Reunited
The deluge of social and professional networking has brought a few pleasant surprises over the past months. I have received messages from some of my ex-girlfriends querying “Is that the Beaverboosh that fucked my ass off I once knew?”
I have been tracked down. Thankfully, there were no secret children, outstanding claims, or long-standing grievances to be settled.
To be fair, I have parted amicably with all of my exes, on good terms, friends… mostly.
Even though the years have passed, and many circumstances are different, they do not appear to have changed that much.
Party girl is still partying loads at clubs, pubs and concerts. Brainy girl has acquired another degree and works and reads loads. Media girl is forever busy with a full work and social diary. Some things don’t change.
It got me thinking about what my unsuccessful conquests were up to. I set about tracking them down.
There was Medical girl - I don’t remember whether she was studying to be a proctologist but she sure loved assholes. The Twins, Fock Me and Fock You – I still have naughty thoughts about dating them both at the same time. Horsey girl – she preferred stable boys hung like horses. I could go on, but I shan’t.
I managed to track a few down and struggled to think of what I might say. I reviewed my options:
“Hi, remember me, I wanted to bonk your brains out.”
“Hi, I don’t think we were ever properly introduced, but I wanted to bonk your brains out”
“Hi, you probably don’t remember me, but I wanted to bonk your brains out.”
I mused on the situation. In the end, I made no efforts at contact. After all, they were not friends, but mere aquaintances. There was no meaningful connection beyond my lust.
I tire of the seemingly endless stream of banal social and professional networking. I choose not to participate in much of it.
Catching up with the exes was a pleasant surprise. After all, we shared spiritual and carnal pleasures together. Though it did not last, we shared a meaningful connection for a time.
Beaverboosh
I have been tracked down. Thankfully, there were no secret children, outstanding claims, or long-standing grievances to be settled.
To be fair, I have parted amicably with all of my exes, on good terms, friends… mostly.
Even though the years have passed, and many circumstances are different, they do not appear to have changed that much.
Party girl is still partying loads at clubs, pubs and concerts. Brainy girl has acquired another degree and works and reads loads. Media girl is forever busy with a full work and social diary. Some things don’t change.
It got me thinking about what my unsuccessful conquests were up to. I set about tracking them down.
There was Medical girl - I don’t remember whether she was studying to be a proctologist but she sure loved assholes. The Twins, Fock Me and Fock You – I still have naughty thoughts about dating them both at the same time. Horsey girl – she preferred stable boys hung like horses. I could go on, but I shan’t.
I managed to track a few down and struggled to think of what I might say. I reviewed my options:
“Hi, remember me, I wanted to bonk your brains out.”
“Hi, I don’t think we were ever properly introduced, but I wanted to bonk your brains out”
“Hi, you probably don’t remember me, but I wanted to bonk your brains out.”
I mused on the situation. In the end, I made no efforts at contact. After all, they were not friends, but mere aquaintances. There was no meaningful connection beyond my lust.
I tire of the seemingly endless stream of banal social and professional networking. I choose not to participate in much of it.
Catching up with the exes was a pleasant surprise. After all, we shared spiritual and carnal pleasures together. Though it did not last, we shared a meaningful connection for a time.
Beaverboosh
Friday, May 29, 2009
Dam Beavers
A slow morning over latte and my eye caught by the Times headline ‘Landowners Fear the Beaver Invasion’.
I mean really, who would fear a beaver invasion? Surely an occasion like this would be rejoiced!
It appears that after a 400 year absence in Scotland, a pair of European beaver families are being introduced as part of a ‘Beaver Trial’.
It’s no wonder the Scottish are so effin miserable. 400 years with no beaver! All of the golf and whisky in the world is not going to overcome that now is it?
Alas, fishing interests are deeply concerned about the impact on the salmon industry and have presented some pretty damming evidence: “American beavers, slightly smaller than their European cousins, were reintroduced to Prince Edward Island, Canada, in 1949, and opponents of that scheme say that the difficulties associated with their inexorable spread will soon be mirrored in Scotland.”
I always thought American beavers were slightly smaller than European beavers, though there is no question that American mouths are much bigger. As for the inexorable spread, well, quite. It’s nice to get the confirmation in print from an authoritative source like the Times.
The beavers used in the trial were captured here in Norway, and as most of us here will attest, the Norwegian beaver is one of the finest in the world. I am sure my Scottish cousins will be grateful once they have had a peek at the little, though slightly larger than American, snappers.
On an entirely separate but beaver related note, a 40 kg behemoth beaver has escaped a farm in Devon this week and has thus far evaded capture.
A behemoth beaver, and on the loose. Now that is something that will strike fear in most men’s trousers.
Beaverboosh
P.S. To avoid any confusion, the beaver on my head is Canadian.
P.P.S. Nursemyra's contribution: Australian Beaver
P.P.P.S. Rob's contribution: Canadian Beaver
I mean really, who would fear a beaver invasion? Surely an occasion like this would be rejoiced!
It appears that after a 400 year absence in Scotland, a pair of European beaver families are being introduced as part of a ‘Beaver Trial’.
It’s no wonder the Scottish are so effin miserable. 400 years with no beaver! All of the golf and whisky in the world is not going to overcome that now is it?
Alas, fishing interests are deeply concerned about the impact on the salmon industry and have presented some pretty damming evidence: “American beavers, slightly smaller than their European cousins, were reintroduced to Prince Edward Island, Canada, in 1949, and opponents of that scheme say that the difficulties associated with their inexorable spread will soon be mirrored in Scotland.”
I always thought American beavers were slightly smaller than European beavers, though there is no question that American mouths are much bigger. As for the inexorable spread, well, quite. It’s nice to get the confirmation in print from an authoritative source like the Times.
The beavers used in the trial were captured here in Norway, and as most of us here will attest, the Norwegian beaver is one of the finest in the world. I am sure my Scottish cousins will be grateful once they have had a peek at the little, though slightly larger than American, snappers.
On an entirely separate but beaver related note, a 40 kg behemoth beaver has escaped a farm in Devon this week and has thus far evaded capture.
A behemoth beaver, and on the loose. Now that is something that will strike fear in most men’s trousers.
Beaverboosh
P.S. To avoid any confusion, the beaver on my head is Canadian.
P.P.S. Nursemyra's contribution: Australian Beaver
P.P.P.S. Rob's contribution: Canadian Beaver
Friday, May 22, 2009
Testicles, Tits and Teasing
I am in a black taxi stuck in traffic in London with a Norwegian associate following a difficult but important meeting in the city.
I comment to my associate on the meeting attendee, “I bet he would have given his right testicle not to be in this situation.”
My associate, whom I had unfortunately forgotten had suffered testicular cancer casually commented, “Having given my right testicle under different circumstances, I am not sure he would have.”
My own insensitivity shocked me. Ouch.
At a recent family dinner, my sister in law announces that she has procured my mother in law a special surprise gift.
“I walked into the pub and looked at the girl behind the bar and said to her, you have something my mother really wants”, she declared.
“What, big tits,” I quipped not being able to stop the words from rolling off my tongue.
It was in fact a t-shirt with a sentimental logo. Amidst the collective ‘ooooohs’ around the table, my mother in law looked at me and wryly smiled.
Phew, out of jail, sort of.
I am meeting a young and very attractive associate for the second time.
She arrives in the rather large meeting room I have booked and asks, “Where do you want me?”
“Preferably on the sofa with your legs behind you ears,” I teasingly suggest.
I thank the gods I am not in America. This would have been a law suit.
Beaverboosh
I comment to my associate on the meeting attendee, “I bet he would have given his right testicle not to be in this situation.”
My associate, whom I had unfortunately forgotten had suffered testicular cancer casually commented, “Having given my right testicle under different circumstances, I am not sure he would have.”
My own insensitivity shocked me. Ouch.
At a recent family dinner, my sister in law announces that she has procured my mother in law a special surprise gift.
“I walked into the pub and looked at the girl behind the bar and said to her, you have something my mother really wants”, she declared.
“What, big tits,” I quipped not being able to stop the words from rolling off my tongue.
It was in fact a t-shirt with a sentimental logo. Amidst the collective ‘ooooohs’ around the table, my mother in law looked at me and wryly smiled.
Phew, out of jail, sort of.
I am meeting a young and very attractive associate for the second time.
She arrives in the rather large meeting room I have booked and asks, “Where do you want me?”
“Preferably on the sofa with your legs behind you ears,” I teasingly suggest.
I thank the gods I am not in America. This would have been a law suit.
Beaverboosh
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