tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11979742455750810392024-02-19T01:59:48.247+00:00The MalfunctionerParts of me are broken. This is a place for me to record things that feel worth exploring. You are free to watch me trying to figure out my deal. I promise to be super honest, except when I am clearly joking!Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-31801042120671584302022-02-27T21:56:00.000+00:002022-02-27T21:56:06.107+00:00A PERVERT ROBOT HELPED ME WRITE STRICT JULIE FANFIC!!!<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hi there, Functionals! I started another blog post about a week ago, and it's taken a lot out of me emotionally. I'm still at the shitty home with no movement date in sight. So frustrating! I do have other big news, but I'll share that next time.</span></p><p>What I have done in the last week was find out about <a href="https://inferkit.com/" target="_blank">InferKit</a>, the neural network that generates further text to continue a passage you give it. It seems to be super smart; it'll generate different continuations even if you put the same text in two different times (or, indeed, countless times)!</p><p>I wrote a story starring <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Strict Julie</a>, as I am wont to do, first letting the robot chip in (or microchip in, wokka-wokka!) and then giving it more words as it built up my trust. By the end Of let the robot write almost half the story, letting it carry on when it was on an interesting tangent.</p><p>To begin with I rewrote the beginning of Julie's last family dinner, thinking that would give us room to manoeuvre. I have since coloured the robot's contributions in scarlet. I hope you enjoy it!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJOK26xPbQ73DNsZKxfGE8watJRX1INMngVY0IUvXvYgFvnA-ZjraNI5eEDfqCJX4Qul6vBu9usg1WGGm6PvXSDgaMPMJZGQT1E-5J1KQP2oUFTO2V2Lz6SrXbNZjkUbUKAy5y8c3Ww7RbuERjXmqQZM0W8lJHgWQy9mlJSWwblvFO0gFMOpLPfYOELA=s1333" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1333" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJOK26xPbQ73DNsZKxfGE8watJRX1INMngVY0IUvXvYgFvnA-ZjraNI5eEDfqCJX4Qul6vBu9usg1WGGm6PvXSDgaMPMJZGQT1E-5J1KQP2oUFTO2V2Lz6SrXbNZjkUbUKAy5y8c3Ww7RbuERjXmqQZM0W8lJHgWQy9mlJSWwblvFO0gFMOpLPfYOELA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sunday was dinner at Julie's parents' house. They generally got told about all her more serious misbehaviour-based spankings. This is something she felt she wanted as part of her spanked wife status from the start: that extra reality (and, yes, extra embarrassment) of trusted others knowing. Sue and her girlfriend Amanda would be there as well this week. Everyone present would be in her inner circle. Amanda had mainly seen (and participated in) David being dominated by Julie and Sue, but she knew the full story of Julie being a spanked wife as well from Sue. Julie's parents did not know that the three women played with David in this manner; only that Julie was a spanked wife and that David did his best to keep her under his thumb.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Little prima donna that Julie was, when she got to the table where lunch was being served she made a show of wincing as she sat and saying "ouch." There was very little acting required!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sue knows when her little sister is fishing to be embarrassed by her spankings and took the bait. Right in front of everybody she asked, "Oh my. Look at you sitting. Did you get a spanking just now?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie turned bright red. "Yes, it's true that I was spanked by your husband for being in his way. As you can see," she said, turning around in her chair and showing her bottom to everyone at the table, "he likes to take care of his wife."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Julie's</span> mother let out a gasp of shock; her father grinned but made a joke of partially shielding his face whilst peeking through her fingers. Her husband, David, barked "Put it away, Julie!," and her sister Sue giggled and pointed out a particularly nasty bruise to her own partner, Amanda.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I assume she meant she was getting in your way?" Julie's mother asked David. As much as she loved her daughter, she had to admit there were times she could be very airheaded, getting confused by things like which traffic lights represented what, whether doors were open or closed, and who was bound by which marital vows.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"That's right," said David, "I spanked her for disturbing me whilst I was watching my spaceships show on the television. Still, I made it up to her later on. Tell everyone what we did that night, Julie!"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Julie blushed and said "Come on, David, I want to hear about it." She squeezed his knee affectionately and smiled shyly.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">David waited while the younger members of the household were served their lunch, talking happily about the various upcoming trips and changes they had in store. When everyone was done, Julie said, "OK, then. Let's get started, shall we?"</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">It was now</span> early afternoon, the group were relaxed, and Julie's nephews had taken their lunch into the living room where they were taking it in turns on a noisy video game. As Julie's mother opened a fresh bottle of wine David started telling about their sexy evening together after Julie's well-earned spanking.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Well, Julie was feeling the pain in her bottom, naturally, and was a bit stressed out after a lengthy stay in the corner," David said. "I decided to run her a nice hot bath with lots of bubbles! Well, after keeping her company a little bit she got a little feisty and decided I should get in the bath with her! And, well, Julie, you should tell them what happened next!"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Ah yes, I was getting her to take off her clothes whilst I soaped her up and, well, as I was shaving her bottom, we got a little carried away," he said, pausing to let his audience of one digest the last part of his story.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">"Can we, David, please go on? How did you get her in such a state of arousal?" Sue asked, anxiously taking her own hand </span>out from under the table, where she had been rubbing Amanda's thigh. She was the only one paying attention, the other guests were pretending to cover their ears as David casually revealed how Julie's shapely bottom was hairy enough to require regular shaving.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">David took a sip of his wine and carried on, a little annoyed at how Julie was failing to contribute. "I'm not entirely sure; I don't think she fully understands it herself. A spanking always puts her in the mood for sex a little later; I think because it makes her feel seen and paid attention to, and also because she finds it sexy that I could really hurt her, but don't. It's as if she put her body and her mind up as collateral and gambled with her vulnerability, both mentally and physically. And the bet paid off, so she needs to celebrate."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"That's really interesting, David, I've never thought of Julie's identity as a 'spanked wife' quite like that before," said Julie's mother. "Tell us, Julie, do you have any other fetishes you'd like to tell us about?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Oh, yes!" said Julie. "I am definitely aroused by anything that involves a penis; for example, I'm really turned on by having a penis being stroked in my hand. I like it when a man kisses me on the cheek or behind my ear, but really want to make him go down on me too, although I'm not really confident about that myself. I think it's because my own husband hasn't been very good at giving me oral."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">David spat out his wine in shock as the other diners laughed at this revelation. "You've never complained before!" he exclaimed, feeling his face go red from embarrassment.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'm sure you just need a little course-correction," said Amanda, trying to play peacekeeper as Julie's family howled with laughter </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I've got some tips for you David!" Julie's father offered, causing her mother to slap him with a napkin.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Doug!" she exclaimed, a little embarrassed but also a little bit smug. Turning to her daughter Julie once more she said "I'm sorry to hear David's been letting you down. Are there things you've been doing to stimulate yourself sexually?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="color: #cc0000;">Julie paused before answering, then admitted "You know, I have a passion for oral sex!" she said in a conspiratorial tone to her parents, whispering, but only just.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Well, if you'd like to find out more, Julie, I can show you the best way to please a man in bed, and make him cum inside you!" her mother suggested as David started to blush again at this new source of amusement for his audience.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"In that case, you'd better let me have David to myself," Sue teased, patting him on the arm. "Amanda and I can talk you through the finer points of eating pussy!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Hang on a second!" said Doug. "What do you expect me to do whilst you're all off giving each other tips for the bedroom?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Julie thought for a second. <span style="color: #cc0000;">"I can't really get David to help me with my hairbrush?" she pondered, her face flushing red in embarrassment once again. "I'm sorry David, you can't come in the shower with me either?</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Oh no," David replied. "This isn't about getting wet, it's about you giving me a quick explanation of your fantasies. I think you'll get a good idea of what makes a woman orgasm when you listen to us."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">As he said this, his eyes locked onto his </span>father-in-law, who was looking perplexed. Doug couldn't help but think David had misunderstood Julie's comment about coming in the shower, but decided to focus on the comment she had directed to him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "You'd like me to give you a hairbrush spanking, to show David how a real man does it? Well, I can do that, though your bottom looked plenty sore enough! Well, let's do this!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> He moved his chair away from the table in order to accommodate his daughter over his lap. Julie got up from her seat and took his hand, leading him to the centre of the dining room, her face bright red.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">He sat down across from her, and helped her take the pants down off her legs, then watched as she struggled with getting her jeans and knickers off. She was obviously finding it difficult, and he became a little concerned when she just stood there. He realised she must have the same problem getting out of jeans.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">He called her over to the sofa</span>, where her nephews were still playing their video game. "Help me pull these jeans off your auntie Julie, please, lads," he said, taking his daughter by the waist.<span style="color: #cc0000;"> "I don't want to have to remind you twice!"</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Her nephews began to tear her jeans, her boyfriend's clothes, panties, shoes, bra, socks and everything else off her body. She hadn't noticed this, having her eyes focused firmly on Doug who was standing by the sofa, watching the activity.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">He had an understanding of the realities of puberty, and understood the way a young girl's body reacted to it. His erection had not disappeared.</span> He took a cushion from the couch and thanked his nephews before taking his daughter by the arm and leading her back into the dining room.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doug sat on his chair once more, put the cushion over his lap, and addressed his daughter once more. "Enough playing around, Julie. If you want me to give you a spanking then this is your opportunity."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">He sensed disappointment from his daughter. She knew she had crossed a line by talking so frankly with Sue and Edna about their sexual preferences for others in the living room last night, and despite Jenny's invitation, Sue knew that Jason was not alone when he asked her for 'show and tell'.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Doug held his head up high and delivered the firmest of whacks. "What is there I should give you a little better swat than 'Emily' do," he asked, repeating a phrase that one</span> time he'd heard in a poorly dubbed Swedish film. Julie let out a little yelp of pain. She hadn't realised how drunk and inappropriate she had been at her parent's book club meeting the previous evening. Had she really harassed Edna about her sexual preferences when they were discussing td works of Douglas Coupland? And why had she agreed to play Strip Poker with Jenny, Jason, and that other guy?</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie felt very embarrassed as her father continued to spank her naked in front of her closest family. David and Sue were smirking at the site of Julie's naked bottom.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"What do you think I should give you a spanking that might make it worth more?" he enquired as he brought his hand down again. "Oooohhhh!" Julie yelped as she squirmed a little, trying to escape the big hand.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Doug dropped his hand for a moment. "No, no, no. 'Emily' only requires one swat, does she?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">"No sir," replied Julie</span>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I think you're right, 'Emily,' you require many more!" Doug said, bringing his hand down hard for a number of spanks in quick succession. "But we're forgetting, you wanted a hairbrush spanking, did you not? Let's give that a try."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Julie's mother handed him a hairbrush to use on Julie's throbbing bottom. <span style="color: #cc0000;">As he applied it to her reddening skin, Julie's face was still lit with anger, but now she was also with embarrassment. Her bottom must have been a perfect red colour. The brush stung like a motherfucker, and Julie yelped even harder.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">"Julie, I'm very disappointed in you this morning. I saw your little conversation with Edna and Sue in the living room last night, and it was all quite inappropriate. I want you to be honest with your parents</span>, so if you feel like you want to ask your dad for a spanking any time in the future then do so, you have my full blessing," said Julie's mother. " Is there anything else we should be doing to punish you on occasion?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"NO, I'm sorry, Mummy," replied Julie. "I just don't know how to get control of my tongue sometimes."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">She felt her dad pat her bottom, and said a little awkwardly, "My daughter needs a spanking. I should be in charge of this. My other children also have a curfew, and we have to get up at six o'clock to get to work on time. What do you think I should do about your drunken behaviour last night?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Doug was gentle as he spanked Julie's bare bottom. He spanked the same spot many times, and Julie's eyes were full</span> of tears. Eventually he decided she'd had enough, and stood up to give her a hug. She gave her mom an apologetic cuddle too, wishing she could put some clothes on.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Sometimes when Julie's been naughty I punish her by sticking things in her bottom," David volunteered. "Julie, why not list six or seven things you've had pushed into your bottom hole?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie shook her head. "I don't know how to explain that to people." She started crying. "Why did I say that about Edna and Sue?" she wailed.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"I'm sorry, Julie," said David. "I'll tell them that you told us the truth, and that you were just feeling a bit lonely. And there's no need to be embarrassed about talking about something like that with your parents, is there?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"No, I'm sorry, Mum," said Julie, wiping her eyes. "It's just not something I usually talk about. It's private."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, we're all family here, nobody is going to judge you. Would it help if I told you some of the things Doug and I have pushed up my butt?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie nodded, and David continued, "My favourite was when Doug did an interlude during the spanking, and pushed his penis right up inside me. It was really nice! I think it's quite special that you're talking about these things with your parents, isn't it?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Julie's mum smiled. "I can think of one other thing you should mention," she said, fingering the bottom of her daughter's underwear. "My son pushed a spade bit right into the centre of your bottom hole once too, and you have a nice</span> scar from where it splintered."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Julie was shocked, she hadn't realised her father had anally penetrated her husband whilst she was bent over awaiting further spanking. "It is nice to talk about these things," she agreed. "May I get dressed again, or is someone going to stick something inside me?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"It's a bit wet in there, isn't it?" her mum joked.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David laughed, "Yes, but it won't hurt if you get used to it." Julie asked to be left alone, and went to have a shower. After she had cleaned herself up, she got back into her pyjamas and went back to bed.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Wow, that was a naughty behaviour, even by your standards," said David. "Julie, I believe that you will need to be spanked again for it."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"I don't know about that," replied Julie. "My bottom is so sore right now."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"It is very sore," her husband agreed. "Is there something else you would rather we did?" </span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie thought for a moment. "I'd like to have a kiss and cuddle with you, if you're up for it."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David's eyes sparkled. "I'd love that, love."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">They were lying side by side, kissing and caressing each other's naked bodies. She reached over and unfastened David's trousers, and gently pushed them off his legs.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Oh, you naughty boy," David laughed, sitting up to give her his jeans. "Can't let you get them off, can I?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">He pushed them down, and Julie was treated to the sight of the most enormous penis she had ever seen.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"That's my baby," she exclaimed. "It's so big, but it's really soft, isn't it?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"I know it's big, but I don't mind," replied David. "It makes me feel so happy to see you this happy. And it's lovely to make you happy."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Julie was admiring his penis. It was unusually long for a boy, but not unusually long for a grown man. She also noticed that he was the only man she'd ever met who had very, very hairy balls. She guessed that they would be knobbly, as they were already hairy and hard.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">She reached forward and began to stroke them.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Hey, this tickles!" said David, laughing.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"It tickles a lot," Julie told him, grinning. "I've never felt anything like this before!"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"I know. It's quite exciting."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie was revelling in feeling his penis on her hand. "It doesn't really feel that soft to me, I think it's a bit strange," she explained.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">"It is strange," agreed David, smiling. "I suppose if you're used to having smooth skin on your hands, then it might be odd</span> to feel my big, hairy, hard balls and surprisingly rough penis. Well, good night!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> He turned off the light, and Julie lay there naked, thinking about the afternoon she'd just had. One thing was for sure, <span style="color: #cc0000;">she was definitely going to sleep with a pillow between her legs!</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">When Julie awoke, it was still very dark. She could smell coffee and bacon in the kitchen.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Is that breakfast ready?" she asked.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"It is now, love," her husband replied.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">She got up and headed downstairs, still naked. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Looks like someone had a good night," Sue said sarcastically to Amanda, who giggled appreciatively. Julie sat with them at the table, helping herself to breakfast food.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">They were all completely surprised when <span style="color: #cc0000;">David joined them, dressed in tattered pyjamas. "Where the hell have you been, you madman?" demanded Janet</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David stood up and smiled at the women. "What are you looking at, you twat?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">He put on a very obvious smirk. "Shove your camera away, woman! It's not even warm outside!"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David headed into the kitchen, and Janet followed him.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Oi, you're not off the hook that easy, man!" demanded Janet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">David was about to reply when Julie entered the kitchen, as naked as the day she was born. "Who is this woman?" she demanded.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David stared at her for a moment before saying, "This is Julie."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">After seating himself at the table, he continued, "She has come to stay until tonight, then she'll be going back to work."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie looked at the four of them, smiling in amazement. How did they ever find an attractive single girl without revealing themselves to all and sundry? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Oh really?" she asked seductively. "And what do you suggest we do until then?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> David smiled, sure that she would like his answer, as would his sister-in-law and her girlfriend. <span style="color: #cc0000;">"We are all going to watch a film, then you're going to show us a few of your favourite scenes."</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">Julie was confused. "A film? Aren't most films performed at home?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David held up his hand. "No! How can it be performed at home when you film them at your place? I won't let you forget this."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Sue strode towards Julie and slapped her. "You stupid slut, after reading about my own fiancé just today, you couldn't manage</span> to ask him who he was or why he was marrying a lesbian. I can't believe your arrogance! What are you going to do to make this up to us?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"I think the first thing I need to do, before you come up with any more ideas, is to find the most expensive prostitute this side of the planet!"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">A knowing look came over her face as she left the room.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David called after her, "She was real! Have a look at her photos. And how big are her tits, to be honest? Are they big or are you just greedy?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Sue leaned over and thumped him hard on the back of his </span>knobbly balls, causing him to double over in pain. "Don't let your idiot wife wander the streets of Toronto naked and looking for a prosititute! What kind of an idiot are you!?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">David called after her. "Julie, you don't need a prostitute! Amanda, Janet, and I will do whatever sexual acts you like, on film if necessary! Just tell us what we should do!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Julie came back. "I know what I want, and it's this:<span style="color: #cc0000;"> David, Amanda, come with me to our suite. Amanda, leave the porno and copy Pete's stories to a disk."</span></span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"David! We'll check the disks before we do anything!" called Janet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">David stood and smiled, looking at his sister-in-law and her girlfriend. Neither of them seemed as upset by his nudity as the rest of his family did, but that could just be because they were naked too. Although he doubted</span> it, the tattered pyjamas he had been wearing were very unflattering.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Amanda put down her porno and set Pete's stories transferring from her laptop to an external hard drive. She went upstairs to join the naked married couple, and Sue was hot on her heels. Janet stayed downstairs, doing some IT work.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, here we are, Julie, naked and in private. What now? " asked David.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Now, I want to start with some pillow talk." she replied.</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">David nodded. "All right."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"We're all going to start our pleasuring in this position." she continued. "Me on top. Okay? David, you lie on your back with the pillows under your head. Okay?"</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"Okay."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">"You'll notice some signs of arousal already, I think."</span></p><p><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: inherit;">As she sat down, Amanda hit her switch in her side office. Immediately a whirlwind of erotic films fluttered past her screen: frolicking young girls in stockings and garters, sado-masochistic blow jobs, sweet lovestruck boys reading great literature, voluptuous women in expensive fishnet stockings, and then a crucifix being slowly raped by a hooded headless man.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">Julie noticed the moaning boys on the screen, and then gave a shudder. She swung around on the couch so that her upper body was visible for sure. </span>"If I could say just one thing we should all remember after the adventures of the last 24 hours it would be this:<span style="color: #cc0000;"> the next time I look at my pretty husband, I'm not going to see a sissy man who wants to emasculate me. I'm going to see a man-woman who loves to fuck and/or please. Because this house isn't about possessions; it's about celebrating life together."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then she gave her loving family a big hug, and fell asleep knowing she must be one of the luckiest girls in all of central Canada.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The End</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">What do you think? Pretty uncanny in places, right? Bring on the Singularity!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eat Peace, Motherfuckers! ✌</span></p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-25333190444047093642022-02-01T00:52:00.017+00:002022-02-04T03:57:32.850+00:00DOING THE LAUNDRY: STEAMY SUPERCHARGED EDITION<p>Hello, Function-y Bunch! Hopefully this will be the last time I write to you from Shitbox Care Home PLC, as I am due to move on Wednesday! But before I get to you with the positive things that have been going on I felt I needed to address the latest post from my friend Strict Julie on her blog, titled <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2022/01/doing-laundry.html?zx=628aed7aeb1e785b" target="_blank">Doing the Laundry</a>.</p><p>I was enthralled reading it. It's a lot darker than most of what Julie writes, and her husband David treats her pretty appallingly throughout, although Julie is clearly responding to it physically and not using her safewords. She's more than capable of sticking up for herself if she thinks a line has been crossed. The scene involves a hand spanking followed by oral and vaginal pentration. Julie is teased constantly for her high libido and for acting like a horny freshman away from home for the first time rather than a career woman in her forties.</p><p>At the end it's revealed that the scene had been established beforehand, and that David was playing a part. It's something of a bait-and-switch, but it's a relief to have it verified that David was chasing the game of a scene rather than being monstrous for no reason</p><p>Here's my issue with the post, though:</p><p>Nobody does any fucking laundry!!!!!</p><p>What the Hell? There's talk of laundry that needs doing; in fact a pair of trousers get stained and David specifically mentions they will need to pre-treated before cleaning, but then this tantalising plotline is abruptly dropped! Chekhov would not approve!</p><p>The only other mention of laundry comes at the very end of the story, when, after being spanked and fucked or whatever Julie ends with "<span style="color: #38761d;">I have laundry to do.</span>"</p><p>I don't know if she thinks that by mentioning laundry twice she reaches some threshold for minimum viable product, or if she is just trolling her readers, but I think she's better than this and that she should write with integrity rather than using sexy clickbait titles to drive up her readership. How is this a post about "Doing the Laundry?" Imagine if Waiting For Godot ended with Vladimir and Estragon deciding "We have Godot to wait for!" Ludicrous.</p><p>I wrote to Julie in private saying I thought she was above using cheap tricks and gimmicks to drive up her page count, and rather than showing remorse she went through a butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth act, pretending she didn't know what I was talking about, and that she wasn't trying to drive up page views. I'll let you, the reader, be the judge, but I think we all know how sexy laundry is and launderers are.</p><p>Coincidentally, I happen to have experience working as a launderer! As such, I decided to write a continuation of Julie's story using some of my expertise to help her out. Like all stories involving dry-<span style="font-family: inherit;">cleaning <span style="background-color: white;">equipment, it ended up being pretty erotically charged!<span></span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I present to you... </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Doing the Laundry - Part II - The Professional</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Julie collected up her panties, her bra, her heels, and his pants, and left silently as her husband watched his show intently. "I have laundry to do," she thought.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> She examined the stain she'd left on her husband's trousers and reconsidered. Her husband was right, it would need pre-treating, but she had not received any formal training in how to do so, and did not have access to the same chemicals that a professional cleaner would. She re-entered the den where David was watching TV.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "I know you've told me to do the laundry, but I am concerned that if I try and tackle the stain and am unsuccessful then an expert won't be able to remedy the situation," she said. "It may be slightly more</span> costly and impractical to take your pants to a professional, but it will be cheaper in the long run if we go longer without buying new pants. Plus, my lingerie set is made of a number of different materials, so I am wary to clean it myself."</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Very sensible," David agreed. " I love how well you care for our things. A guild certified expert would certainly get the best results, and will give us a chance to support a local business. I love you."</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ray Handsome stood behind the customer service desk of his dry cleaning shop, having spent a rewarding hour doing the necessary maintenance of his Rennzacci Progress Xtreme 55 Club. The tanks were balanced, the still scraped clean, and the button trap empty. He was making sure he had enough trouser guards in stock when a pretty young woman entered the store, wearing a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweater, tight fitting denim jeans, and a blue denim jacket.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBj_0L1V_AwqOLOoNuyVJsxnjf6cF1BC2h8XwC_wMLbVYccu5VuNiAhoiUCw_SZbyuDTG_qhEpSg13jbwhryOqkPqWfPWwn0EdnfqFwjeOf4zf0ZkUXs40sUeCbO5BEdk2tl82D6b8N5_2mpQjrkYlvE2dBX8LjrEq-uTUx38G0CkvUkHwy3Eo5ftg5Q=s474" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="474" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBj_0L1V_AwqOLOoNuyVJsxnjf6cF1BC2h8XwC_wMLbVYccu5VuNiAhoiUCw_SZbyuDTG_qhEpSg13jbwhryOqkPqWfPWwn0EdnfqFwjeOf4zf0ZkUXs40sUeCbO5BEdk2tl82D6b8N5_2mpQjrkYlvE2dBX8LjrEq-uTUx38G0CkvUkHwy3Eo5ftg5Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ray smiled a her warmly, excellent customer service being second nature to a professional dry cleaner such as Handsome. Cleaning was not his first career; he had started off as an Army Doctor before working his way up from Marine to Navy Seal to Gurkha. He'd served nine tours in Iraq, twelve in Afghanistan, four more in Fallujah, and two years doing Black Ops in South America. He turned his back on that life in disgust when Sleepy Joe Biden stole the election; trading in his sack of purple hearts for a gym bag stuffed with Canadian FunBucks and heading North for a better life. He had moved into the first place he saw for sale after crossing the border, which happened to be the penthouse apartment of a skyscraper in downtown Toronto.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He had picked Dry Cleaning as a second career because he wanted a job with responsibility and the chance to improve people's lives. He found a cleaner looking to take him on and, after a gruelling two week training process at the hands of a Master Dry Cleaner, including Saturday mornings, he knew the basics to keep a shop running smoothly. The rest he'd have to figure out as he went along, though luckily he had the phone number for one of the guys who installed the machine, who could tell him what to do if there were any error messages or whatever.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Good morning, madam!" he addressed the customer. "How can I help you?"</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "I have a pair of pants and a lingerie set that need cleaning as soon as possible, please" she said.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "I can have them cleaned within the hour, though I will have to charge you five FunBucks extra for express cleaning. If I could take some details, starting with your name, Ms...?"</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Delmar. Julie Delmar." She gave him her address and phone number, and he printed off a ticket.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Here we go! That'll be done within the hour. Are there any stains I should be aware of?" asked Handsome.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Ooh, yes, thanks for reminding me. The gusset of my panties is totally soaked in my pussy juices, and the thigh of one of the trouser legs is coated with the same stuff, from where I was straddling my husband's leg," she told him. She would normally be embarrassed to reveal such intimate details to a man she had just met, but Ray had the same approachable, easy-to-talk-to manner of all men in his industry. When she thought of it, he had probably the sexiest job there was, learning the secrets of strangers in their time of need and covering up the evidence of an sinful misdeeds. They were a lot like priests, she supposed, only more relatable, and rugged as they worked with their hands, and with better skin thanks to being around steam all the time. Plus they were totally on the table, sexually speaking.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"That shouldn't be a problem," said Handsome, taking this revelation completely in stride. She wasn't the first to make such a statement, nor would she be the last. Truth be told, it made a change from the three most common stains he had to deal with: gravy stains from poutine, baby seal blood from clubbers, and cheese curd stains from poutine. "Here's your ticket, thanks for choosing Ray's for your dry cleaning needs."</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Julie went to take the ticket, then realised, horrified, that she had nowhere in which to put it, as neither her jacket nor jeans had functional pockets! "Um, does it matter if I come back without the ticket?" she asked.</span></span></p><p>"No, that won't be a problem," said Ray, " as long as you have valid ID to prove who you are."</p><p>Julie gave this some thought. "I don't have any ID, and I don't want to go home for it! My husband has already spanked me once today for being a dirty whore; I don't want to get punished again for being irresponsible, and so I can't risk losing this ticket! May I stay here and watch you work?" she asked.</p><p>"Certainly you may! We can't risk further annoying your husband. It sounds like you keep him busy!" Ray said, donning a white coat.</p><p>"I certainly do!" said Julie. "He's already had to fuck me in the pussy and the mouth today, when all he wanted to do was watch mildly subversive Star Trek TNG fan fiction."</p><p> "Wow, you are having a busy day!" he said. "I'm just going to pre-treat these clothes and then I'll put them in the cleaner." </p><p>He took the trousers to the pre-treatment station, placing the stained fabric facing upward, feeding the leg over a mechanical arm that had a built in vaccuum. He applied Blutol to the stain, turned on the vacuum, then used a pressurised jet of water to pass the solvent through the fabric of the trousers. He stopped the water but left the vacuum on until the pants were dry. "We don't dry clean wet garments!" he explained. "That's asking for trouble."</p><p>Julie was in awe of this captivating man and the control he had over the machine; effortlessly making it do his bidding so that the stain vanished under her lingering gaze. "Is that hot or cold water you're using there?" she asked.</p><p>Ray chuckled; this curious outsider reminded him of when he too was ignorant of the industry's many secrets, a couple of years before. "Always use cold water when dealing with organic stains, or you risk chemically altering any natural enzymes and making the stain impossible to remove. Imagine you're baking - if you take a raw egg you can mix it with water and it blends together in a new solution, right? Like when you're making cake batter?"</p><p>"Yes, that's right," said Julie , fascinated.</p><p>"Well, imagine trying to stir a boiled egg into a pint of water! It simply wouldn't work. It's the same principle here." As he spoke he finished pre-treating the dirty panties.</p><p>"Wow!" said Julie, impressed by how clearly and confidently he had educated her. She bet he would make an amazing father.</p><p>He took the garments to the front of the machine, released the electronic lock, and turned the handle to break the air tight seal. He tossed the trousers in the machine, but placed the lingerie in individual net bags.</p><p>"Why did you bag up my unmentionables?" Julie asked, blushing slightly.</p><p>Ray closed the door and activated the lock as he answered. "As they are more delicate it's safer to bag them. The perchloroethylene I'll b be using to clean your things is 1.7 times heavier than water, and I don't like taking chances. Plus the hooks from your bras or garters could get stuck in the holes of the drum, and that's a headache I could do without."</p><p>Julie gazed at him in admiration. "The standard program takes about forty eight minutes to run, but that assumes you have a full load of 21 to 23 kg. As your load weighed 2 kg - I always round up for my records - I can take manual control of her and have your load ready in about sixteen minutes. That's how you sort out the men from the boys in this job!"</p><p>As Julie watched the rugged man force the machine to do his bidding, checking different windows and guages, guiding the solvent from one part of a machine into another, she thought how much more interesting this hunky worker doing his regular job was than watching Seth MacFarlane pretend to be a spaceship captain. In fact, she thought, being a dry cleaning technician was very much like being in command of a space cruiser, man and machine working in perfect symbiotic harmony, other regular citizens placing their faith in the hands of these heroes. "Any woman would be lucky to have this renaissance man attend to her with his calloused but nimble hands the same way he paid attention to his machine and to the wants of his many customers," she mused.</p><p>When he was satisfied the garments would be free of solvent he opened the door to the machine and steamed the trousers in a special cabinet before ironing them. The ironing board was attached to a vacuum and a blower, meaning Handsome could iron creases far sharper than one could create at home with a standard domestic ironing board. Julie was beginning to think there was nothing especially standard or domestic as far as this stallion of a man was concerned. She imagined that it was her flesh he was caressing, rather than the smooth fabric of her husband's stain-free trousers.</p><p>He deftly hung the trousers on a plastic hanger, using a trouser guard to ensure they wouldn't slide off the hanger whilst being transported. He pulled a protective sheath down around them, using the heat of a wire element to cut the plastic covering at just the right length. He then pressed and bagged up Julie's underthings, and placed them alongside the trousers on the service counter.</p><p>"Here you go, Ms Delmar," said Ray. "All done and dusted in under forty minutes! How will you be paying today?"</p><p>"Oh no!" thought Julie. She hadn't thought about payment, and once again was let down by her lack of pockets! What on Earth could she do to pay back this man for the amazing work he'd done?</p><p>"I'm sorry, sir," she said, "I have no currency with which to pay you! I swear it was an accident! Is there something else I can do to repay you for your exemplary work?"</p><p>Handsome frowned. "Well, I should probably turn you over to the Mounties," he said. "The only other form of payment I take is sexual gratification, and I know you're married, so-"</p><p>"Oh, my husband doesn't mind me occasionally engaging in weird sexual misadventures with hotel staff or old co-workers or my sister! Let me borrow your phone and see what he says."</p><p>Ray handed her the phone and she called David. "Hi, it's Julie!" she said.</p><p>"Julie? What is it? This is the third time you've interrupted my TV show today! What is the meaning of this?"</p><p>"Well," she said, " I wanted your permission to fuck the only other person I've seen in the hour it's been since I last saw you. You see, I'm at the dry cleaners, and my jacket doesn't have a pocket, so-"</p><p>"Do whatever you have to do!" said David, exasperatedly. "I'm watching my spaceships!"</p><p>"Okay, I love you!" said Julie, not realising David had immediately hung up on her. "He says yes!" she told Ray.</p><p>"Oh, that's awesome!" he said. "Only do you mind me doing you up the ass, because I seem to remember you saying you've had your husband's cock in your mouth and your gash sometime within the last two hours, and I don't want his sloppy seconds."</p><p>"No problemo!" said Julie, cheerfully lowering her jeans and her panties, exposing her sore red bottom. She placed her elbows on the service counter and said "I am well accustomed to taking it that way, and I'm so horny right now I don't mind you raw-dogging me, hard, rough, and dry if you have to!"</p><p>"Don't worry," said Handsome," I have a sachet of lube in my wallet." He greased up Julie's beckoning chocolate starfish, enjoying the heat still radiating from the vicious spanking her husband had given her. He thrust himself into her, and worked himself in and out, Julie responding eagerly both vocally and through the motion of her hips as she swayed to meet him, forcing him deeper and deeper into her, until he shot a hot load of baby batter inside her, As he continued to come he pulled himself out of her, his pearl jam leaving a trail along her back passage like wet SuperCrease being applied to the inner crease of a trouser leg. Julie, for her part, was shuddering and weak at the knees, using the counter for support as she came like a thrupenny banger.</p><p>Once he was finished he put away his softening member and withdrew to the other side of the service desk. "If you bring those panties in I can clean them free of charge," said Ray.</p><p> "Oh, don't worry about that, these are just some cotton granny panties I bought from Honest Ed's," she laughed, making herself presentable.</p><p>"The discount store?" Ray asked. "I thought they closed in 2016?"</p><p>"Ha ha ha," Julie laughed coquettishly. "Well, goodbye!"</p><p>As she left the store she felt his spunk and lube dribble out of her ass, mixing with the juices from her pussy. "That's the trouble with laundry," she thought. "It was never long before more needed doing!"</p><p style="text-align: center;">The End</p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>It's probably worth noting that since I started writing this nonsense Julie wrote to me again, still confused, saying she doesn't think laundry is "Click-baity." Guess we'll see!</p><p>Eat peace, motherfuckers! ✌</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-64177906870037293772022-01-19T21:17:00.002+00:002022-02-01T01:03:26.727+00:00SERVICE, PLEASE!Still in the shitbox care home. Neither my GP or the local respiratory team would sign off on a sensible plan to move me, just in case something goes wrong on the journey. It's ridiculous bureaucracy; nobody wants to accept liability on the off chance that something goes wrong when I'm at the furthest point from a hospital, even though it's a given that staying put is not an option. I've had to sign a form saying I understand the risks of moving (though really I don't, I just know I can't stay here!) and then pass two mental capacity tests (one set of questions posed by people from either end)! With all that red tape cut I was due to move today, only someone at the receiving end caught COVID, so they can't take new admissions. I feel like Sisyphus' boulder; scheduled to reach the top of the hill aeons ago yet never quite making it.<div><br /></div><div>I have figured out the perfect funeral service for when I do kick the bucket. It's weird to think of the people who know me most intimately not being there, or knowing that I'm dead. Then again, I won't be in a position to care. So I'll try and capture my vision for it here in advance.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've only been to one funeral, and I don't remember it lasting too long, so I've narrowed it down to four songs and a joke. I think that's reasonable. It wouldn't be a religious thing, but I've included some God stuff for them that like it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I imagine it would take place in a crematorium. I don't know who would officiate. There would be a photo of me and behind it a slideshow playing of random photos I took on holiday in Portland; the absolute happiest I've ever been. To signify the beginning of the service my favourite song plays: "Another Girl, Another Planet" by The Only Ones.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ilDD5SeHxXE" width="320" youtube-src-id="ilDD5SeHxXE"></iframe></div><br /><div>The officiant would start by apologising on my behalf for making anyone travel, and that I hoped they took it seriously when I said not to wear anything they felt uncomfortable in or to have made any crazy sacrifices to come. They would tell the following joke:</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a farmer who attends church every Sunday in a small village, but one weekend in the Autumn he realises that the window he has to harvest his crops ready for market is closing, and he can't afford to give up his Sunday morning, so he stays at home and reaps his harvest.</div><div><br /></div><div>That afternoon one of the parishioners comes up to him and chastises him for missing a service. The farmer replies that he decided it would be better to be out in his fields thinking about God than in the church thinking about his crops.</div><div><br /></div><div>The officiant would then point out that I hoped nobody would feel sad or uncomfortable at my funeral, but that I would appreciate them finding some time for me in their thoughts in the following days or weeks, as well as for my surviving family.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div><div><br /></div><div>It would then be pointed out that I wasn't a religious person and that it wouldn't make sense for this to be a particularly religious affair, but there I did request for the following song to be played, from my favourite ever album and featuring one of my favourite bands:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UpRzbm1UU9g" width="320" youtube-src-id="UpRzbm1UU9g"></iframe></div><br /><div>The officiant would then say that even though I believed in nothing it never stopped me from trying to learn more about the world and about myself, and that I asked for the following joke to be told; one of my absolute favourites. (They would tell the joke, but you can hear it here!)</div><div> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eIiLeinhnYc" width="320" youtube-src-id="eIiLeinhnYc"></iframe></div><br /><div>At this point anyone who had something to say about me could do so. After they were done the officiant would summarise and mention what I consider to be my greatest achievement: when my previous place of employment burnt down I met the owners on site the morning it happened, surveyed the damage, and after waiting a beat got a laugh out of both of them by asking if they thought terrorists might have done it. I might not have come out on top in life, but being able to cheer people up in their lowest moments, that's it's own kind of magic.</div><div><br /></div><div>My body would then be cremated whilst "Beautiful Ride" from Walk Hard plays.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-eIdXnxgcHU" width="320" youtube-src-id="-eIdXnxgcHU"></iframe></div><br /><div>The officiant then tells one final joke. Like the first one, it concerns a farmer, only this time one of the smartest woman I ever knew said I had a lot in common with the farmer when I told it to her.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a rambler walking through the countryside, and he stops in a field to have some lunch. As he does so a farmer comes in the field with a herd of pigs. The farmer leads them to an apple tree, then picks a pig up and holds it over his head so it can eat an apple from the branch. When the pig is done the farmer picks up a different pig and holds it up to a different apple. He does this a few different times with a few different pigs whilst the bemused rambler watches on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eventually the rambler finishes his lunch and heads over to the farmer. "Excuse me," he says, "but I've been watching you feed your pigs and I was wondering; wouldn't it be quicker to take that fallen branch and knock a bunch of apples down from the tree so all the pigs can eat at once?"</div><div><br /></div><div> The farmer mulls it over for a moment and says "Yeah, I suppose it would be, but then again, what's time to a pig?"</div><div><br /></div><div> The officiant would thank everyone for coming and invite them to head to wherever the wake is. Another favourite song, "Girl From Mars," would signify the end of the service.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/FkSl9GGOFHM" width="320" youtube-src-id="FkSl9GGOFHM"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>In lieu of a program there would be a CD with the information you'd get from a program, as well as the songs featured, a written transcript of the two farmer jokes, "Float On" by Modest Mouse added between The Vandals and Dewey Cox, and after the songs Jonathan Katz telling the polar bear joke lifted from his album Caffeinated. If you put the disc in a computer you could see my favourite holiday photos as features in the slide show.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CTAud5O7Qqk" width="320" youtube-src-id="CTAud5O7Qqk"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Not a bad half hour or so, right? Any tips or tricks from anyone more experienced, hit me up in the comments!</div><div><br /></div><div>Throw your dog the invisible bone! Peace! ✌</div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-27421698769450116372021-12-25T23:53:00.000+00:002021-12-26T00:15:04.952+00:00JULIE'S CHRISTMAS EVE HUMILIATION<p> First things first; I'm still in the shithole care home, there is a bed waiting for me in the good one, but the respiratory teams from the two different areas need to sign off on a plan of action to get me there. Should be early new year. I cannot wait!</p><p>I've had one episode of hamster heart since I last wrote. It was early morning, and happened a little before shifts changed for the staff here, which complicated things. It took a while to g<span style="font-family: inherit;">et a nurse to my room, and then she refused to call an ambulance, even though my pulse was at 235bpm! <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">She told me an ambulance wouldn't come for me because they didn't come for her friend Dustin when he had a heart attack.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> What the fuck? My care is in the hands of a nurse who doesn't believe in ambulances!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I called an ambulance myself, and they asked if I had access to aspirin. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I rang my call bell and asked a care and she told me she wasn't able to give out drugs. I told her that I understood that, but to ask the nurse if the house had access to aspirin. The carer went, came back, and told me I wasn't prescribed any. I told her that wasn't what I needed to know, and repeated the operator's question. She went off again, and came back asking to speak to the operator directly. She then said the nurse had given her a phone number that emergency services could call if there were any more questions. She then left me alone, taking my phone with me, and cancelled the fucking ambulance, unbeknownst to me!</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Luckily it resolved itself quarter of an hour later, and the day staff nurse gave me my phone back, but seriously, what the fuck?! I was hoping I did have to go to hospital, and to need drugs to stabilise my heart (which has happened before) or even defibrillator (I haven't needed that before, but I came on so close, I signed off the paperwork and the anaesthesist came to measure my throat for a tube; another ten minutes and I'd have been on the table!). Fuck, I'd have happily died in the back of a hypothetical second ambulance if it meant the house would get investigated for negligence, and that fucking nurse had to explain why she turned the ambulance away from a tachycardic patient in her care.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This is the main thing I don't get with gun control, and allowing people to carry a gun around 24/7. I could never do it, because within a month I'd shoot myself in an act of passive aggression. Merry Christmas!</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Anyways, between my crazy heart problems, fighting off a new round of cellulitis and my breathing issues, plus depression from finding my sentence at this place had been extended, I've been pretty shattered for the last couple of weeks. I will finish off the whole Stinky Lips thing at some point, I promise!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Anyhow, today's Christmas. I'll be spending it alone, but there's a family Zoom at some point, so that'll be nice. My parents have given me my presents; three scratch offs and these magnetic rings, which are kind of a "fidget toy," I guess? The magnets aren't particularly strong, or fun. Better luck next year, I guess!</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij-IeTksFqI0QZYFih7JvoyO5kEhEBdumDlXtZl0uGEAB6Fo8sTj4DlaPeumJSPgr-nVgUbnpgkIoCGTvRD5bebwrQJhf6tczQLw3rAItrNHsEiFDtUwXgFSWAU7aZTgsPCpdxYQZhSkxKv7FFiQ3jcOk9vEntqP6RX83N1IMNFtdL81Pm6HtJOaPKPw=s816" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="679" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEij-IeTksFqI0QZYFih7JvoyO5kEhEBdumDlXtZl0uGEAB6Fo8sTj4DlaPeumJSPgr-nVgUbnpgkIoCGTvRD5bebwrQJhf6tczQLw3rAItrNHsEiFDtUwXgFSWAU7aZTgsPCpdxYQZhSkxKv7FFiQ3jcOk9vEntqP6RX83N1IMNFtdL81Pm6HtJOaPKPw=w333-h400" width="333" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Not great!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><div><span style="background-color: white;">The other gift I've received is a box full of three random smellies and a flannel from the home. Given that I'm bedbound and need to be strip washed it's not a very sensitive or practical gift. A bottle of bubble bath is pretty much useless to me!<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I've mentioned before on here that gift giving is very much a part of my love language. I don't always know how best to express how much I care for the people I love. My brother complained to my parents a couple of years ago that I was going overboard getting presents for him and his girlfriend; my theory there is I was making him look bad! I definitely give more to the few people I do give presents to than I get in return. I don't care; I love finding the perfect thing to let someone know that I see them and value them. I've bought Snowball a couple of presents she seems genuinely happy with, there is more en route, I can safely predict she will be thrilled!</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I asked my friend Julie from <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">the Strict Julie blog</a> for an address to send her a present, but she asked me to write a story about her and publish it here instead. I don't know why I'm bothering, with any luck her face is buried deep in her friend Paula's asshole right now, and will remain their until this Epiphany! Still, I thought I'd knock something out for her, and for you reading this! Merry Christmas!<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>-</p><p>It was Christmas Eve, and Julie was at her parent's house where she was visiting with her husband. They'd enjoyed a lovely dinner along with her sisters Sue and Nancy, Sue's girlfriend Amanda, and Nancy's husband and her sons. It was now late in the evening, and it was decided that as everyone had been indulging in some festive drinks the smart thing would be for everyone to stay over for the night.</p><p>It was now late in the evening, and Nancy and her husband had gone to bed. Her three sons were enjoying staying up with the proper adults; they had been allowed to drink beer and were having fun playing cards and listening to the stories the grown ups were telling, some of which were a little ribald and may not have been told had everyone had clearer heads!</p><p>They were still in the dining room, Amanda had just finished telling a funny story from the pharmacy she worked at about a customer who had asked for a microchip free vaccine, and Julie's dad was shuffling the deck of cards, when suddenly a commotion from the living room made everyone go and investigage!</p><p>The family bundled into the living room, and were amazed to find none other than Santa Claus stood by the fireplace, brushing soot off his suit! "Merry Christmas!" he greeted them. "Apologies for intruding, but I have something of a conundrum! This almost never, ever happens, but Julie, you are exactly as naughty as you are nice! You've done a lot to make people happy over the past year, but there have been several occasions where you've been very naughty! I'm here to offer you the chance to make up for some of your naughtiness, and then you can have a jolly old Christmas with the rest of your family!"</p><p>David let out a laugh. "I told you I've been letting you get off easy!" he said. "I'm interested in hearing this."</p><p> "Well," said Santa, " You've done a good job managing your team remotely, and you've entertained tens of thousands of people all over the world with your blog. On the other hand, you spent a lot of time when you should have been working browsing pornography, masturbating, and working on your book, which you intend to sell for personal gain despite writing some of it on company time. Then there's the issue of spreading misinformation with your blog and getting into pointless, heated arguments with strangers."</p><p> "It's not misinformation!" Julie objected.</p><p>"Oh, really?" asked Santa. "You believe you know better than the wide majority of experts when it comes to climate change, Israel and Palestine, proper voting procedure, and infection control?"</p><p> "Um, well, I think it's important to keep an open mind-" Julie began.</p><p> "Not so open your brain falls on the floor!" Santa cut her off. This got a big laugh from Sue and Amanda. "Then there are more specific naughty acts; causing a car accident, leaving the door to the family vacation home open and using it as a chance to rope your neighbour into your deviant sexual lifestyle, arranging to meet a married man at a hotel room for a sexual encounter behind his wife's back..."</p><p>"Julie!" snapped her mother, appalled at what she was hearing. "We raised you better than that!"</p><p>Julie was at a loss for words. At the time she had rationalisations for all these behaviours, but sat here, in front of her family, it certainly seemed naughty rather than nice. "I'm sorry, Mommy," she apologised.</p><p>"That's a good girl, apologising to her mommy," said Santa. "Very nice... Very nice indeed! Maybe you'd like to give her the first present?" He handed her what was clearly a small wooden paddle, perfectly wrapped revealing the shape of the gift underneath, and adorned with a fancy bow.</p><p>Julie gulped and handed her mother the paddle. She had a feeling she knew what was coming next. As her mother unwrapped the paddle and inspected the small holes bored into it Santa explained.</p><p>"Your parents, and especially your mommy, have been worried by some of the erratic behaviour you've displayed in the past. You've shown poor judgement and, though you've made an effort to be more conscientious in recent years, asking your husband to fulfil the role of disciplinarian, your mother sometimes fears she made some mistakes in raising you. Furthermore, you haven't provided her with any grandchildren, and she feels she's missing something there. I have decided that as a gift to her you shall visit your parents on the first Sunday of each month. You shall admit to all the naughty things you've done that month, and you shall strip naked so our parents can give you an appropriate spanking and cornertime. Afterwards, your mother will give you a bath and help you into your pyjamas, and put you down for a nap. If you like you can masturbate at this point. With a vibrator, though - only naughty girls pleasure themselves with stuffed animals!"</p><p>Julie blushed deeply, a bunch of emotions swirling around in her head. She was definitely embarrassed, but part of her was already looking forward to being punished and taken care of. She did some mental math and realised that her first punishment session was just eight days away. The thought excited her more than she'd care to admit and she felt a familiar tingle in her pussy.</p><p> "As it's Christmas Eve, and you have done several naughty things I'm sure your mother will want to know more about, I think it's appropriate you both get a taste of your present now. Julie, ask your mother to discipline you!"</p><p>Julie gulped and looked around the room. "Um, could you give me a spanking, please, Mom?"</p><p>Julie's mom frowned . "Not like that, no! You know a proper punishment spanking needs to be delivered to a naked, repentant young lady!"</p><p>Julie blushed and started taking off her clothes. Amanda asked Sue "Is this okay in front of the boys?" referring to Julie's three nephews, who had gone from blushing and sharing awkward glances to staring in rapt attention.</p><p>"Our family has always been very liberated when it comes to nudity," Sue explained. "Julie certainly doesn't mind showing off her body, or catching a look at anyone else's. The boys are old enough to make up their own minds."</p><p>Julie, now naked, asked "Will you spank me now, please, Mommy?"</p><p>"Okay, darling!" she replied. "Over my knee!"</p><p>Julie straddled herself across her mother's lap, bottom pointing in the air. She realised that the room was full of heterosexual men and homosexual women, and they would all be forming an opinion on how attractive she was, whether intentionally or not. She has also positioned herself to be gazing at her smirking husband, whilst behind her she was sure her father would get a perfect view of her cunt from behind.</p><p>Her mother started cold with the paddle, catching Julie unawares and making her jump. Her mother carried on, switching from cheek to cheek, whilst Santa gave instructions. As the heat in her bottom grew and the pain intensified, she heard humiliating commands such as:</p><p>"You're mainly striking the buttock closest to you, try angling the paddle to get an even redness."</p><p>"Try and focus mainly on the fleshiest lower buttock with the paddle."</p><p> "If she reaches her hand back like that again you could pin it behind her back with your free hand."</p><p>After what seemed like several excruciating minutes, during which the humiliation probably edged out the pain, her mother dropped the paddle and started using her hand, mainly spanking her daughter, but also running her tender flesh from time to time. Julie, who was definitely feeling more than a little aroused at this point, found herself arching her back and thrusting out her bottom appreciatively when she felt her mother's soft fingers massaging her cheeks, which would only encourage her mother to spank her a little more.</p><p>"Take note, boys!" Julie's father said to his grandsons, who were watching the whole thing intently. "Sometimes women leave you no other option than to take a firm hand."</p><p>Santa once again offered some advice, such as:</p><p> "Don't be afraid to smack her upper and inner thighs; she can take it!"</p><p> "Why not change up your rhythm from time to time, keep the naughty little miss guessing!"</p><p> "If you use one hand to spread her cheeks open you can spank the inner flesh of her bottom; that'll definitely make an impression."</p><p>After a couple of minutes Julie was crying and begging her mother to stop; "No, Mommy, please, I'll be nice, I'll be nice!" After a couple of minutes of this Julie's mother relented, helped her daughter to her feet, and gave her a hug.</p><p> "You silly thing, you took that very well. I hope that inspires you to be a bit more considerate in the future," said her Mom.</p><p>"Can I put my clothes on now?" asked Julie.</p><p>"Not until you're done being my helper! Ho ho ho!" Santa laughed. "Next I have these three presents for your nephews."</p><p>Julie took three identical black boxes, the kind you might put a fancy necklace in, all tied with a red ribbon, and gave them to her nephews indiscriminately, wondering what could be inside. They were certainly very light, and made no sound as she carried them.</p><p>When they opened them she realised, to her horror, that each boy had been given a pair of her dirty panties! Not just regular panties, either, but some of her favourite lingerie!</p><p>Santa explaines. "A lot of your naughtiness stems from the fact that you self-identify as a hot, sexy, woman who can pull any guy, and in many ways you're acting out subconsciously trying to get your father to acknowledge you in this way as well. Tonight you have a chance to show your father exactly how few boundaries you have, by jerking off each of your nephews in front of him!"</p><p>"Whoa, is that a good idea?" asked Julie's mother. "They're only young men."</p><p>"How about this?" Santa asked. "Each lad can sit on Julie's lap, under a blanket, if he chooses. Julie will reach down his pants and, if he's hard, she'll jack him off to completion? It'll be the boys' choice, and their modesty will be protected."</p><p>"Okay," Julie's mom acquiesced. "Well, let's do this, then, boys."</p><p>Julie sat in a chair in the middle of the room, still naked, and the oldest boy came and sat on her lap, holding a throw from the couch over himself. Julie reached down his pants and found his warm, hard young flesh straining to be released. She unsheathed his bulging erection, and started caressing it rhythmically. She felt the boy squirm in her lap and she hugged him with her free hand, drawing him closer to her naked flesh.</p><p>It wasn't long before she felt his cock shudder in her grip, and she moved her hand to catch his deposit. As she did so she gave him a kiss on the cheek, and jerked his shrinking cock a few more times with her now sticky hand, before releasing him and wiping what was left from his surprisingly large load on her thigh. As he climbed off her and took his seat the family gave him a round of applause, causing him to grin bashfully. Julie then invited the middle brother on to her lap for the same treatment.</p><p>The second nephew performed much like his brother, only at the end he turned around and gave Julie a hug, pressing himself against her naked bosom and kissing her firmly on the cheek. Julie thought David looked a little jealous at that, as if the boy was taking liberties.</p><p>The youngest nephew hadn't sat on Julie's naked lap for very long before cumming enthusiastically in her grasp. She held on to the boy and spent a little while pretending to wank off his now-flaccid dick, in order to save face in front of his family. He smiled nervously at her as he climbed off her and sat back in his seat, blushing fiercely! He took the blanket with him and left it bundled in his lap, leaving his aunt exposed in front of everyone again.</p><p>"Excellent!" said Santa. "Isn't this nice, with everybody getting along? Now, I have some good news, some bad news, and some presents for you, Julie, whilst you take a little break and compose yourself."</p><p>Julie was sure this was going to embarrass her once again, but she seemingly had no choice between doing as she was told and getting judged as fully naughty and ruining Christmas for everyone.</p><p>Santa continued. "It seems that the company you work for are starting an exciting and lucrative new venture. It's a big enough project to have lured your friend Mr Stevens out of retirement, and you won't be surprised to hear he wants you on his team. It'll mean a promotion and a pay rise. However, as a fan of your writing, he's aware that you don't always give your work your full attention, and are likely to look at porn or masturbate rather than doing a full day's work." Julie looked over at her parents, mortified; her dad clearly thought it was funny but her mom seemed less than pleased.</p><p>"Luckily, the company has come up with a solution! HR are incentivising proper workplace conduct by offering a $100 monthly bonus to anyone who agrees to remain in chastity during work hours! Furthermore, chronic masturbators and porn addicts will have a special room they can use before work, similar to how breastfeeding women have a safe space to use as they need it. This room will have two Sybians for women such as yourself to stimulate yourself before work. You can use it fully clothed, and each woman will get her own attachment to place on top before use. The company will be providing the standard non-invasive attachment, though you are free to buy another model if you wish. Here you go!"</p><p>Santa gave Julie a parcel to unwrap, and she found herself holding a long silicon strip with strange raised bumps.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMN3ezyft8XsDq7P_JDn8CxpT2nrmYxIH5TJ19dDucWiIrOeX6c4wdUWU4aMpTc_G4pBkqi0pQhfrgLzer5_LzfCxpSYpmFTbHlunC5I4L1t1YgDJuI1oJoxbqrvq44EoRxuuKajyvZV6MzYVKlCZ-rVCcgGwjGh61bPirc7tMMRJ1kGcTZH3LNkhEig=s921" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="583" data-original-width="921" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMN3ezyft8XsDq7P_JDn8CxpT2nrmYxIH5TJ19dDucWiIrOeX6c4wdUWU4aMpTc_G4pBkqi0pQhfrgLzer5_LzfCxpSYpmFTbHlunC5I4L1t1YgDJuI1oJoxbqrvq44EoRxuuKajyvZV6MzYVKlCZ-rVCcgGwjGh61bPirc7tMMRJ1kGcTZH3LNkhEig=w400-h254" width="400" /></a></div>"Thank you very much, Santa, but I'm not sure how this is supposed to work; I'm unfamiliar with the Sybian" Julie explained.</div><div><br /></div><div> "Sure you're not!" Sue coughed into her hand, causing David and Amanda to chortle with laughter. David found the site for the product on his phone while Santa explained.</div><div><br /></div><div>"The Sybian is a kind of narrow bench you straddle. It's designed to stimulate you through vibration and rotation, both of which you can control. You'll be able to cum multiple times looking at whatever porn you wish before work starts, then lock yourself into a chastity device with a time release lock!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie1d4_GfgqU9mcHudFqhEn4H8jYlX5xmN1TPenrISlnvVRUk7KVk8i9_Y4Fwkb7rXMzwv6otBuOA_wzHgOuJ9X3BSE8BRESd0gU38YxezcA87vABGpx3GYzLfQjbsgIp77MeNFsG4XLRw2B8QaCHE4szmbxhKxGXH7x-n6o8E_fGGB8cVAZNVRxNWKTw=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1200" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEie1d4_GfgqU9mcHudFqhEn4H8jYlX5xmN1TPenrISlnvVRUk7KVk8i9_Y4Fwkb7rXMzwv6otBuOA_wzHgOuJ9X3BSE8BRESd0gU38YxezcA87vABGpx3GYzLfQjbsgIp77MeNFsG4XLRw2B8QaCHE4szmbxhKxGXH7x-n6o8E_fGGB8cVAZNVRxNWKTw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, okay!" said Julie. "But a chastity device, really?"</div><div><br /></div><div> "Yes!" said Santa. "That's your next present!" He gave Julie what looked like a perfectly wrapped metal thong. She undid the paper and realised that was pretty much what it was.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgRUDk6aZSMEa1N8q-EEHzp2Yc2843XBMGes4_yljj6BmX-AHA5625MGVAC6QL4_KwAUdSxbbC2i73WvuwuFAQFi-jPygiBgNe_v40txGGoNY4LCNDtZwVgZEhXnIiz5RJistPHOHjBBlpfd6v6Ezmcoe0r6Eo_nkFjYwXjJAwA10iusrbBQA2J0KfKQ=s496" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="496" data-original-width="496" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgRUDk6aZSMEa1N8q-EEHzp2Yc2843XBMGes4_yljj6BmX-AHA5625MGVAC6QL4_KwAUdSxbbC2i73WvuwuFAQFi-jPygiBgNe_v40txGGoNY4LCNDtZwVgZEhXnIiz5RJistPHOHjBBlpfd6v6Ezmcoe0r6Eo_nkFjYwXjJAwA10iusrbBQA2J0KfKQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div> "There are a lot of models available, but this one is designed to be discrete and comfortable, and it has holes to allow you to go to the bathroom without removing it. Oh, and Mr Stevens insisted on a model that left your backside as exposed as possible; in case he needed to discipline you during the day."</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie looked around the room, it seemed that everyone found the idea of her wearing the chastity device and being spanked occasionally very funny, except for her nephews, who looked like they couldn't believe how their night was just getting better and better!</div><div><br /></div><div>Santa looked in his sack. "Let's see... Ah, yes, a present for your sister!" He gave Julie a present wrapped in pretty pink paper. She had no idea what it could be. She gave it to Sue, who unwrapped it with glee.</div><div><br /></div><div>When she unwrapped it she burst out laughing. "Is this for who I think it is?" she asked, holding up a yellow pacifier, designed for adults, that was attached to a lockable harness that would fit all the way around a person's head.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgutDEj2fTGcgz6wUiaJpTBDVnigT1B6E8DzqUm_rG7OOxmdmQozV6smfqajVvPymPM84RWKQ1JE65AFI0ECK0m8vYFR0G2BMw6IVRGT9ReNSPC3GLvUwXbXPEzunAJ7aLLfX7g6owu7FslOBcWhLS5iJlOA9Lq5DBeg_iRgHHteYc7VdhUaWahCyLv2w=s794" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="794" height="356" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgutDEj2fTGcgz6wUiaJpTBDVnigT1B6E8DzqUm_rG7OOxmdmQozV6smfqajVvPymPM84RWKQ1JE65AFI0ECK0m8vYFR0G2BMw6IVRGT9ReNSPC3GLvUwXbXPEzunAJ7aLLfX7g6owu7FslOBcWhLS5iJlOA9Lq5DBeg_iRgHHteYc7VdhUaWahCyLv2w=w400-h356" width="400" /></a></div><div>"I suspect so!" said Santa. "Julie has wasted a lot of time arguing pointlessly online over the past year, some of which she doesn't even believe. I feel you would be a good arbiter of which opinions are naughty and which are nice, and by instructing her to wear her gag for a certain length of time you may encourage her to keep her naughty opinions to herself. For example, did you know she wrote on the comment section of her blog that women have done a poor job of voting in their own best interests and that she would happily relinquish her right to vote?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"What the fuck?!" asked Sue. She and Amanda looked horrified. Sue automatically got to her feet, pulled Julie out of her chair, and delivered several hard spanks to her red behind, causing it to explode with white hot pain all over again. "What an ignorant thing to say! I'm going to have to look at this blog, and if I find anything on it I don't like you will be hearing about it! How ignorant!"</div><div><br /></div><div> Julie gulped. She knew full well that Sue would find not only several political and social opinions she would object to, but years of details of very intimate encounters! She had even written about the time Sue had taught her a lesson about sharing confidences, and how much trouble she'd be in if she did it again. Julie felt queasy with apprehension; the spanking was very nearly a welcome distraction. Suddenly it stopped, and she found the pacifier being pushed roughly into her mouth.</div><div><br /></div><div> "You'll be keeping that in until tomorrow morning," Sue said. "What a load of nonsense!" She slapped Julie's bum one last time before sitting back next to Amanda, visibly annoyed. Amanda gave Julie a glance as she took Sue's hand and stroked her forearm.</div><div><br /></div><div> "Well," said Santa to Julie, "you've certainly been a good girl this evening, and taken your punishment for your naughty deeds well, so I think you deserve a couple of presents of your very own. Here you go!" He handed two soft packages to Julie, one big, one small.</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie tore into the big package, and was surprised to see a pack of pink adult diapers in her size! She blushed deeply, unable to comment on the gift. She opened the other gift, and found some opaque pink plastic pants with white ruffles on the posterior.</div><div><br /></div><div>Santa spoke once more, but not to Julie. Instead, he addressed her husband. "David, I'm afraid you've been a little naughty yourself this year. Julie is your kept wife, only you haven't been keeping a very firm hand on her, as evidenced this evening. Furthermore, you haven't been great at rewarding her for being nice: You've read on her blog that she has a craving to be diapered by you, and you have ignored this, despite knowing she would pamper you this way if the show was on the other foot." At this comment Sue and David exchanged knowing glances.</div><div><br /></div><div> "I - I suppose so," said David. "What do you want me to do to make up for it?"</div><div><br /></div><div> "Well, seeing Julie's bladder got her in trouble at the cottage, and that you don't like stopping for her to per when you're driving, you will have to diaper Julie for any road trip likely to take an hour or longer. She is also to be diapered whenever you are on vacation or visiting the family cottage. This rule is in place until next Christmas. Understood?"</div><div><br /></div><div> "Yes sir," David sulked. "But what about when she poops in them?" Part of Julie was delighted with this new development, but part of her was ready to die from embarrassment. Her family were paying close attention.</div><div><br /></div><div> "Well, you'll have to change her. Or find someone else to help you. Maybe you'll need to advertise for an au pair when you travel, or maybe one of her adventurous friends will surprise you. This Paula that's staying with you seems up for most things," Santa said. Julie's mom frowned on hearing of her holiday guest; she was not fond of anyone she associated with what she considered Julie's wild years.</div><div><br /></div><div> "I think I would be nice to put Julie in her new things tonight, she's been through a lot. And then maybe you folks should go to bed; tomorrow's a big day! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have lots to do tonight!"</div><div><br /></div><div> Santa waved the group goodbye, and they all bid him adieu, except Julie, of course. He picked up his sack, touched the front of his hat, and disappeared straight up the chimney.</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie lay on the floor on the centre of the room. David knelt down beside her and tore open the pack of diapers. "The things I do for you!" he teased. She lifted her hips and he slid the diaper underneath her, fastening the tabs as she lowered her bottom into the diaper. She stood up and David reached for the plastic pants.</div><div><br /></div><div> "Not yet!" Julie's mom interjected. "You need to make sure it fits first." She slid two fingers between the diaper and Julie's waist, and then the same for each leg. She adjusted a tab, then told Julie to spin around. She tugged at the waistband before giving the seat of the diaper several firm slaps. "All good! Now she's ready!"</div><div><br /></div><div>David held open the plastic pants for Julie to step into, and pulled them up appropriately. Her mother ran her fingers through the ruffles and patted Julie's bottom. "Right, then, everyone, that's plenty of excitement for one night! Everyone off to bed, please! No complaints, boys!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Everyone filed out of the room. Julie followed her husband up the stairs, her parents close behind her. She was about to follow her husband into their bedroom for the night when her mother laid a hand on her shoulder. "Julie, I'd like a word with you in our bedroom, please. David, no need to wait up."</div><div><br /></div><div> "Okay, well, uh, 'night!" said David, before disappearing into his bedroom. Julie had no doubt her nephews wouldn't be the only ones blowing their loads that evening!</div><div><br /></div><div> "With all that's happened tonight, I think it's time we had a frank conversation, and what better time than when you're forced to listen to me, for once in your life? Now, I know you like to define yourself by your sexuality, and that you and Sue think you're the sexual Magellans of the family, discovering hitherto unknown peaks of sexual pleasure." She stripped as she was talking, and was soon standing in only matching silky black panties and a bra, each adorned with white bows and trimmed with white lace. They were definitely classier and, well, 'sexier' was the only word that came to Julie's mind. "However," the older woman continued, "I've been around the block a few times, and picked up a trick or two of my own. She reached into her wardrobe, and pulled out a black satin gown. She put it on without tying it up, before turning to her husband and telling him "Undress!"</div><div><br /></div><div> As Julie's father hurriedly took off her clothes her mother disappeared into her en suite bathroom. When she came out she was carrying two small plastic tubs and - to Julie's amazement - wearing a large, bright green, strap-on dildo!</div><div><br /></div><div>She spun Julie around and told her "Elbows on the dresser!" Julie whined through her gag as she felt her mother tug down her plastic panties and slip her hand down her diaper, running her finger along the crack between Julie's sore cheeks, feeling her way towards her asshole! Julie's whimpers turned to tears as her mother stuck two slippery fingers up Julie's clenched asshole - was her own mother going to fuck her up the ass on Christmas Eve?</div><div><br /></div><div>Her mother withdrew her hand and pulled up the plastic knickers. "You can stop snivelling and turn around now," she said, "the hard bit's over. An early Christmas present of my own for you. And, if you'd like to climb up on to our bed, I have another for you."</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie sat upright at the head of her parent's bed, legs akimbo, as her mother started lubing up the artificial phallus with Vaseline from one of the tubs she had brought from the bathroom. "Pass Evie over to young Julie, please, then take your place at the end of the bed," Julie's mother told her father, who was now fully naked. He pulled a large Hitachi magic wand vibrator out of a drawer, turned it on, and passed it to his daughter. He then made his way to the foot of the bed and bent over, facing Julie, his elbows and palms flat on the bed.</div><div><br /></div><div> "For a long time you've been wanting to show your Daddy what a naughty little slut you can be," said Julie's mom, "so now's your chance to show him. Merry Christmas. However, this is also a learning experience, and the main lesson I want you to learn is: Look but don't touch! Your father is mine, and I am not sharing him with you! Understood?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie nodded enthusiastically; she definitely got the picture. She pressed the vibrator against the front of her plastic underwear and her pussy immediately thanked her for it. Her mother slipped the head of the dildo into her husband's waiting hole, and began thrusting away. Soon her father's penis started growing in length and becoming hard, and as he moaned with pleasure his wife reached around and started tugging on it, pulling back as she penetrated deeper, both parents watching their horny daughter bring herself to orgasm.</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie came twice as her mother continued to take ownership of her father in front of her, but she was feeling very uneasy. Her stomach was cramping, and she found herself sweating and shivering out of discomfort as well as ecstasy. She came a third time, which seemed to trigger her father, who finally came himself, shooting a rope of white jizz on to his marital bed. It also seemed to trigger something in Julie's digestive system, and she evacuated her bowels into her diaper as she rode the sense of bliss, feeling a deep sense of shame whilst enjoying the strange sensation of having her own warm mess spread out of her and fill the back of her diaper. The force of the evacuation put pressure on her bladder, and she found she was pissing herself as well! She blushed heavily and started crying at this final indignity.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her mother was prepared for this, having placed two suppositories inside her daughter's anus without her realising. She took her strap on out of her husband and made her way to the front of the bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Poor baby darling, why are you fussing? Didn't you enjoy your presents from Mommy?" she asked rhetorically, giving her daughter a hug. She ran her fingers through the lacy ruffles of Julie's plastic diaper cover and exclaimed "My oh my, has little Julie made a present of her own for her mommy? How very thoughtful!" She released Julie from her arms and said "The thing is, it's way past your bedtime, and I've had enough excitement tonight. I think I'll open it in the morning, if it's all the same to you! Now, run along!"</div><div><br /></div><div>Julie climbed off the bed and headed to the door, her full diaper causing her to waddle. As she reached for the door handle her mother said "I think when I change you I might show you my strap-on skills up close and personal. Your sister says you behave a lot better after a hundred swift thrusts!"</div><div> </div><div>Julie groaned and trudged off to her own room, hoping David was asleep and that the smell from her diaper wasn't going to wake him up. One thing was for certain; tomorrow would be a Christmas to remember!</div><div><br /></div><div>-</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace! ✌</div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-86670310050347898762021-11-28T23:56:00.008+00:002021-11-29T04:35:49.196+00:00THE BALLAD OF STINKY LIPS - PART 2<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Okay, so I re-opened this smutty behemoth, and the first thing I noticed was it's big.<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; white-space: pre-wrap;"> You just won't believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist's, but that's just peanuts to this shit. If you read the first part, viewable here, then you'll have read roughly 3,000 words. That doesn't include my preamble where I tell you about my birthday, my failing health, and my life in this shitbox care home. If you read the porn element of this post too, you'll have read a further 2,000 words, give or take. If you'd spent your time instead reading George Orwell's Animal Farm, you would be one sixth of the way through it! The same is true of John Steinbeck's Of Mice And Men. Feeling pretty good about your life choices, are you?</span></span></p><p>Never fear! As a reward to you, loyal reader, I give you permission to outright lie about whether or not you've read either or both books. If anyone asks what you thought of either tome, just say "It was a little too heavy-handed for my taste," or "I get why it's important, but personally I found the message to be a little too on-the-nose." You're now effectively 55,000 words in credit - The Malfunctioner will not be beaten on value!</p><p>Today was the last Sunday of the month, so I treated myself to my monthly takeaway. I bought a pizza, and due to Papa John's crazy pricing structure, bought 2 sides and a small bottle of drink as well, because that wound up being £3 cheaper than just buying the pizza! Then they were out of all their drinks, so they said I could have a large one for free next time because they can't give partial refunds! How about just selling the food with an honest profit margin rather than trying to fool our dumb capitalist brains into thinking we're making a great financial decision just because we've ended up with a few thousand calories we didn't want? Why do all these places offer Buy One Get One Free deals and never half price 'za?</p><p>What else... Ooh, I saw Last Night In Soho, and while it won't have the rewatchability of Edgar Wright's other movies, it looked great and had some great performances, and despite a couple of creepy images it was about as scary as Doctor Who at its scariest, and less gory than the goriest episodes of Buffy, or the new Chucky TV series. I did love this shout out to my corner of the world and the town my parents call home:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='394' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzjXK8LbmkrS2k6CrHNtcXunAkBF2Xas4xx1Za9uqUD-xk1vlvIVEfggcMlXVDV9bqe-vXni7EI7BIFmGvcQg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br /><p>It's an old gag, but it lands well here! As far as I know it's legal to share clips of movies if you comment on them like this, but I'd love a cease and desist, so e-mail me for my address if you're a fancy Hollywood lawyer and want to send me one. The ball's in your court!</p><span><a name='more'></a></span><p>I thought I'd show you a page of the messages I'm working with so you can get an idea of the process of converting our Reddit back and forth into third person narrative. It's 70% editing names and pronouns and such, and 30% actually being creative, when I could just be digging my teeth into a new story. Hopefully this is worth it, though?</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTFLK_Muf5p4Bg1lLeYwjztLwBvN9-oJagkXIHnRNjdl3-MuD0PsH7PCPMEHE-hoIP31pkkYXGSzq0stkC-nfjWcBhcLdkYXTbjcpYnw7UGzY91YZQzvzwf1srTK1yf_z_w8q6WC2EBsQu4AVUz_-_RmwNt4kakvKJQP2QRDhEAn6T-PkglDcH9rUWFw=s1920" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTFLK_Muf5p4Bg1lLeYwjztLwBvN9-oJagkXIHnRNjdl3-MuD0PsH7PCPMEHE-hoIP31pkkYXGSzq0stkC-nfjWcBhcLdkYXTbjcpYnw7UGzY91YZQzvzwf1srTK1yf_z_w8q6WC2EBsQu4AVUz_-_RmwNt4kakvKJQP2QRDhEAn6T-PkglDcH9rUWFw=w250-h400" width="250" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Once again it is up to I, Tankerton Latch, to give the public what they want!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I think that's all I have for now, on with the show! Pretty upsetting pornographic imagery from this point forward, you have been warned!</p><p>-</p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Liza made a pouty face as the rough men took pleasure in her sexy curves and her lack of inhibitions. “I’m not stinky!” she started to complain, until the sensation of a hard cock being shoved into her ass caused her to inhale and refocus. She moaned in pain as Hector stuffed in dry, the only lubricant his beer, stretching out her tight asshole. As she felt another cock enter her soaked pussy, Earl heard her moan out loud; a raw, guttural mixture of pleasure and pain, ecstasy and self-disgust. She felt both men pounding hard as they found their rhythm; as they did Earl unsheathed his cock, dangling it in front of her reddening face.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Please - sir - stuff - my - mouth,” she pleaded, each word a moan that escaped her in sync with the thrusting of the two sexual deviants.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I'm more than happy to oblige," Earl smirked, "especially if it'll stop your back talk." He placed the tip of his cock on her forehead and slowly dragged it down her face, between her eyes, off the tip of her nose and finally into her greedy, eager mouth.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With a mouth full of warm salty flesh, “You can’t shut me up that easily!” Liza tried to say, but it came out as muffled nonsense. She moaned again as she felt a particularly rough pounding on her already sore ass. As she whimpered, Earl shoved his cock further down her throat, leaving her nose in his hairy balls.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Take a good sniff, you naughty little slut!" Earl said, clamping his hands over her ears, and spitting in Liza's face to make her close her eyes.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Following his boss' lead, Hank stuck his grubby thumb inside her belly button. "All sealed up!" he reported, "shipshape and Bristol fashion! And talking of Bristols, someone give those nipples a tweak, I bet this bitch likes being treated a little rough!"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now sealed up, Liza wiggled around fighting for air, bucking and panicking as the guys held her down. Still being fucked, she pulled her nose out of Earl's sweaty balls to get a fresh breath of air, though the air she inhaled reeked of his crotch. She whimpered and gagged on his dick as she let herself get smothered again. Feeling her nipple being pulled roughly, she let out a primal moan on his stiff shaft. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Come on, Stinky, " her new employer taunted, "put your tongue around it! Remember, you need to blow twenty guys just to break even, I don't know how much money you need, but the quicker you can get guys, and the occasional gal, off, the more money in your pocket at the end of the night."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Liza started using her tongue in earnest, wrapping it around his flesh as she started trying to make him cum with her throat. Slobbering all over herself as Earl throat fucked her, she felt Hank and Hector pulverizing her ass and pussy, each man thrusting as hard and rough as he could, neither man trying to maintain a rhythm. Her sore ass stang as her legs shook.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl seemed oblivious to her discomfort, focused only on his own feelings of joy. "That's more like it!" he told her. "You have two minutes to get me off, or else I'm sending your sorry ass back on to the street with five bucks and your empty bottle!"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She started working her head more, concentrating on the dick in her mouth as she fought the urge to cum on the two deep inside her. Tickling his shaft with her tongue, finally it trembled as Earl shot a hot load of jizz straight into her waiting mouth. He placed his hands flat on the counter on either side of Liza's head and focused on nothing but the intense pleasure she had brought him. As the cum flooded into her mouth and throat she felt Hector and Hank starting to slow before cumming inside her pussy and ass as well. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Well, looks like I picked the right slut for the job!" Earl gloated. "Stay there so I can strap that diaper on you, but first I think I need to write something on your chest, just above your perky little titties there. Feel free to finger yourself whilst I get a Sharpie and your diaper."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes sir,” she said through a mouthful of cum. She could feel the other men's payloads dribbling unceremoniously out of her ass and puss. She started rubbing her wet pussy, thinking about what her new boss was going to write on her.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She kept rubbing her dripping cunt whilst Earl wrote on her naked chest, reading the words out loud as he slowly wrote them in big clear letters: "Stinky Lips" Slut. $10 a suck.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Aww is that really my nickname?” Liza asked, knowing the answer. She could still smell the stench of his crotch on her face, and kept rubbing herself with her fingers as she lay prone and vulnerable on the dirty countertop. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Until you do something even stupider, yes!" he laughed, his recent sexual release putting him into something resembling a good mood. "Are you going to finish soon? Would it help if I stuck my fingers in your ass?"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Liza shook her head yes as she kept rubbing herself closer to the brink of quivering orgasm. He pushed two fingers in deep, slowly, only to start pulling them out again once he was knuckle deep. Before exiting her completely he would push them back in before fully withdrawing. He kept on repeating this simple action until she came with his fingers deep in her ass, naked on the table, warm jizz still trickling out of her holes.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Ooh, you dirty little cooze!" Earl teased, removing his fingers for good. "Well, nearly time to open up. Let's tape on your diaper - bottom off the table!" He lifted her legs and strapped on a bulky medical adult diaper as she basked in the afterglow of a well earned orgasm.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once the embarrassing garment was secured she scooched herself off the table, feeling it keeping all the fluids in. As Hector and Hank laughed at her expense she went to leave the kitchen, until Earl put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Bend over real quick, I still have my Sharpie!" he instructed. She did as he said, obediently exposing her diapered ass, allowing him to write "Property of Beefy's Bar & Grill. Not to be opened without express permission from Earl." He slapped her ass firmly to let her know he was finished, and he followed her into the main bar.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He directed her to the edge of the bar, where a special cage allowed for a person to be folded up uncomfortably inside with only their head sticking out. A seat was built into the top of the bar to allow a second person to sit down and expose their privates to the captive's mouth.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well," said Earl, unhinging the wrought iron gate to allow Liza entry, "inside your seat you go!"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Thank you sir” she said, climbing in and poking her head out, her skin pressed against the wrought iron lattice bars as the indecent contraption was closed with her inside it.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyJL6hI39s02h1nSKnctIoc7Q_-AvcFk8RUaJlls6zB6mqLsgsN9iH2aU91_3usCOcoph44CNC8Z5TpiHfbR_3m4ZaslWUnGBqJWrSELlkr7UyWuC1EJMW4nZyYrQtMMMhi6cMP8HCS1zuGnCQIulP2aBofUPxUosoyjP8SdHSEslCYJF9fq4ZMzsb1Q=s908" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyJL6hI39s02h1nSKnctIoc7Q_-AvcFk8RUaJlls6zB6mqLsgsN9iH2aU91_3usCOcoph44CNC8Z5TpiHfbR_3m4ZaslWUnGBqJWrSELlkr7UyWuC1EJMW4nZyYrQtMMMhi6cMP8HCS1zuGnCQIulP2aBofUPxUosoyjP8SdHSEslCYJF9fq4ZMzsb1Q=w283-h400" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This wasn't the model I had in mind writing this smut, but you get the idea!</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl admired his handiwork. With her knees pressed to her chest you couldn't really make out what he'd written there, but she was young and pretty and plenty eager, even now she was looking at him with a dumb smile and come hither eyes. She was a delightfully deviant find. "I'll be back behind the bar, let me know how you get on I guess!" he said, before leaving her so he could open up and start serving his most eager clientele.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> As Earl had predicted earlier, the bar was busy from open to close, with many of the local working men happy to spend a sizeable chunk of their paycheck, celebrating having some spare scratch for the first time since they'd frittered away the last month's.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> The crowd thinned out in the wee hours of the following morning. When he and the boys had driven out the last barflies and closed up, Earl headed to the corner of the bar, where Liza was looking very much the worse for wear. "How was your first shift?" he asked.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Very good, thank you sir" she promptly replied, though she looked exhausted.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, I'm glad to hear that! Let me help you out of that cage and get you a drink. You must be eager to wash some of that jizz out of your mouth! Oh god, and your face and hair as well! I've got my $200, how much dick did you suck tonight?"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her legs were wobbly as she stepped out, crawling on the floor, catching her breath. She knew her face, coated with jizz and ball sweat, must smell terrible. She pulled at her matted hair as she eyed up the tip jar Earl had placed on the bartop by the stool.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I think it had to be like 25 or 30 cocks, sir," she wheezed. "Sorry, my throat is kinda sore”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl rolled his eyes as he handed her a cold beer. "I'd have thought you wanted to make sure you were paid for every dick, otherwise you may as well have stayed outside and sucked guys off for free." he admonished her. "It's a good thing you're pretty, 'cause you really ain't that bright. We'll call it $80, because I like you and you make me laugh. With your tip jar that looks like about $150 all told. Will that get you out of whatever jam you're in, or do you want to come back tonight for some other kind of quick cash?"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“No I need to keep working sir, I would need to come back again tonight," she said, feeling dumb, still covered in cum and cock sweat.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Well, you can't go back in the stool, Trixie is in there on a Saturday, she owns that spot and makes a fair amount of coin. I definitely have something for you though. Now, I could go find your pretty blue sweater if you want to head home, or I can let you use my shower and crash at mine for the night. It's up to you. I'd call you a taxi, but you look like shit and smell even worse, I can't see nobody giving you a ride."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yes, can I crash here tonight, sir? Liza answered, sniffing herself and wrinkling her nose.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Sure you can, and call me Earl, I ain't fancy. How's that diaper holding up?" he asked.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It’s keeping everything in, sir, Earl, can I take it off?” she asked, hoping for some respite and relaxation before getting used at the bar again</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl could hear the exhaustion in the poor girl's voice. "Sure thing, Stinky, let's head up to the bathroom and you can peel it off and dump it in a trash bag. I'll help you shower off and we can get some sleep. You can sleep with me in my bed, but not in that state, because you reek and you have jizz all over you."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> EDITOR'S NOTE: I left the final exchange of the day as it was written, because I like how you can see the real me getting annoyed at being rushed and taking it out on my playmate in-game!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her: “Yes sir!” I say and follow you.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her: Should we start the next day?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: You can wake me up with a blowie and then make us a couple of bacon sandwiches, if that's what you're asking. But before we sleep I'm going to have to fit you with a collar and leash. Not that I don't trust you, but it's your first day and you're hard up for cash... There we go! Now nighty-night, Stinky Lips!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Don't rush the game master!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">14 days! Peace! ✌</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-48017313749808491622021-11-25T23:49:00.004+00:002021-11-29T13:03:24.328+00:00WHAT HAS MADE ME HAPPY RECENTLY?<p> I realise the last couple of posts have been kind of a downer, and so I wanted to share some things that picked me up during my long absence. Truth be told, I was intending on writing this yesterday, but ended up in a dead sleep for virtually the whole day (they woke me up for meals, I would wake up when my bladder needed emptying, otherwise I slept from 11pm Tuesday to 4.30am Thursday with little else to show for it. My sleep schedule here is erratic; sometimes I stay up all night with a catnap in the afternoon the following day; after too many of those the Sandman takes me off for an extended stay. Luckily, today happens to be Thanksgiving, so that was kind of fortuitous! Yay!</p><p>The main thing that motivated me and was the inspiration for picking this blog up again was a self-help book, that had a ton of good common sense advice with examples rooted in world history. It's called the Bible, motherfuckers, and you'll wish you'd read it too when Satan is jizzing hornets up your stretched out asshole with his veiny, three-headed cock.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsxi-yliNshwN7YWTvRYLEpqDaRI2ucOuDct8g1w8ftv4NMrzHEQ8sviooxiAP_4n7oAgP9sYmEgY1JQ4G9LS2HLMdO-s4ueJyTUaKsNYgXqTIOwBP5d2XVA_ZmTJU6UpiM-WHXSeHlQsxt0tCeFaSY2LWEq5q5zITklIBOH06_zb-tutimtqJUhFWtw=s612" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="612" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsxi-yliNshwN7YWTvRYLEpqDaRI2ucOuDct8g1w8ftv4NMrzHEQ8sviooxiAP_4n7oAgP9sYmEgY1JQ4G9LS2HLMdO-s4ueJyTUaKsNYgXqTIOwBP5d2XVA_ZmTJU6UpiM-WHXSeHlQsxt0tCeFaSY2LWEq5q5zITklIBOH06_zb-tutimtqJUhFWtw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">WARNING: May cause dilation of the pupils, discoloration of the cheeks, mental illness including strong belief in fictional beings and irrational distrust of scientific fact.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Nah, not really! Can you imagine?! I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't really read much more than the regular blogs. And some very text heavy games, if that counts. Because I'm wearing a mask most of the time and lying pretty flat, it's hard to read a regular book or comic. Gaming is better if I've been repositioned on my bed correctly, but the warm embrace of television is there on tap twenty-four hours a day. Maybe that would be a good place to start off my recent recommendations with.</p><p><b>TV Shows</b></p><p><b>Getaway Driver: </b>This eight part gameshow, hosted by Michelle Rodriguez and streaming on Discovery+, is such simple genius I imagine it was conceived of years ago and technology has only just made it possible, with drones and go-pro cameras making it possible to follow high speed action for little cost. The premise is simple: three drivers take their own cars to a 40 acre compound, and Michelle Rodriguez gives them each $2,000. If they can make it to one of two unmarked exits before being stopped by two expert drivers then they get to keep the cash. If their hot rod gets fucked, well, better luck next time! The two that do best then do it all again at night, with some roads closed off, three experts, and one exit. The fastest to make it out gets $5,000 and the chance to race again the next night, if they want to. It's high risk, low reward, but the racers are generally likeable characters in it for the bragging rights as much as the cheddar. If you don't give a fuck about swearing then I'd have thought it would be great family viewing over the holidays; who doesn't like car chases?</p><p><b>3%: </b>I should probably preface this by saying I like pretty much any scripted TV show or film where players are trying to figure out how to beat a game! And by extension but with varied results how to break out of prison, pull off a con or a heist, cheat on a test etc. I really liked the Sony Escape Room movies the first time I saw them, and enjoy the Saw franchise way more than I should (and the spin-off, Spiral, with Chris Rock and Samuel L Jackson was a delight - a Saw movie with great actors effortlessly giving great over-the-top performances? Yes please!). I started watching Squid Game the day it came out,enjoyed it, but couldn't believe how it caught on!</p><p>In one of several "Shows to watch if you liked Squid Game" articles I read about a Brazillian show called 3% that fits that genre perfectly. Fortunately it's on Netflix. A story told over four seasons, it was set in a future where a city was on the verge of collapse as there wasn't enough resources to go around. A Process was established that anyone who turns 20 can apply for, and only the top 3% pass. These Elite people travel by submarine to The Offshore, which is a futuristic sci-fi paradise, with cures to disease, no money, advanced tech, plenty of food etc. The rest go back to The Inland, which is basically a slum. We start by following Process 105 in the first season, but just about every episode has a different game or challenge, whether it's part of the Process or an Inland gang initiation or whatever. Also, big ethical questions are raised, which are also my jam.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><b>The Premise: </b>I was excited to see this anthology show written by BJ Novak, as I really enjoyed his collection of short stories, "One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories," and loved hearing Busy Philips read his genre-defying children's book, "The Book Without Pictures." If you know a young child that isn't your own, I promise that book will make for an excellent Christmas present. Thank me later.</p><p>Anyhow, The Premise takes five high concept premises and spends half an hour playing them out in a very grounded world. A white social justice warrior realises a sex tape he made can exonerate a black man of aggravated assault of a police woman, the father of a girl killed in a school shooting gets a job as PR director for the National Gun Lobby, a pop star promises to fuck the valedictorian of a graduating class.</p><p>The reviews are mixed to tepid according to Wikipedia, and I'm not too surprised, as obviously your mileage will vary according to your personal philosophies and senses of humour, but I thought it was a very unique, thought-provoking show, with the finale, "Butt Plug," reaching God-level status, and will be included in my first list of such TV episodes. Catch it on Hulu or Disney streaming, depending on where you live.</p><p><b>A Very Solar Holiday Opposites Christmas Special: </b>Also from Hulu, and also God-status eligible, Solar Opposites is a cartoon about five aliens stranded on Earth who do, well, pretty much whatever they want. It was created by Justin Roiland, co-creator (and voice of) Rick and Morty, and it is basically what that show would be if Dan Harmon wasn't there using his incredible sense of story to reign Roiland in. Basically, the aliens have seen Ready Player One, and have stolen the idea of having a machine that places real people in movies, despite criticising it as a lazy gimmick. They choose to enter Jingle All The Way, taking Arnie's place despite never having seen the film all the way through.</p><p>Almost immediately they decided to bail when they realise it's not a particularly good movie, nor a very Christmassy one, but find their holiday spirit gone when they return to reality. Hijinx ensue, until they head back into the Jingle-verse, and discover decades have passed, forcing them to find a new ending. If you don't mind swearing, violence, fourth wall breaking and frank assessments of pop culture staples, this special is definitely worth a watch. </p><p><b>Music</b></p><p><b>The Doubleclicks: Teaching A Robot To Love (OCR): </b>I don't listen to much new music, if any, but I'll always make time for The Doubleclicks because they are the best band in the world to be a fan of. They've just released the original cast recording of the musical they wrote, and I've really enjoyed it. It's about being robotic, being human, being non -binary, being anxious throwing a party, and being loved and in love. <a href="https://thedoubleclicks.com/musical" target="_blank">Check it out here</a> or watch an animated music video here:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="369" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3FCjkRoTXmg" width="477" youtube-src-id="3FCjkRoTXmg"></iframe></div><br /><p><b>Games</b></p><p><b>Tell Me Why: </b>Made from one of the companies behind the Life Is Strange Series, this is essentially a Life Is Strange game under a different name. If you enjoy games with a strong narrative element and choices that matter over action, this (and the Life Is Strange series) will be right up your alley. You play as separated twins, one a trans man, the other a cis woman, meeting after a decade apart to clean out their mother's old house. You play as a different twin in each scene, and try to remember the night their mother died, hassle her old friends for information, and decide where they're going to go next. The first third is free, the last two will cost you! Also, as you complete each of the three chapters you learn how many other players chose the same as you. Most are split roughly 50-50 or 80-20, but the last one was split 0-100... with me falling in the statistically irrelevant category!</p><p><b>Forza Horizon 5:</b> Just a massive open world racing game that lets you race firm anywhere to anywhere! There is street racing, dirt racing, and everything in between, plus ridiculous PR stunts where you get caught on speed cameras or just launch your car as far as you can off a cliff. Incredible graphics and control, plus a handy rewind button if you burnout taking a corner too fast or get too cocky threading the needle between other cars. Tons of cars, all of which can be tinkered with, and you can copy other player's livery and tune ups if you'd rather be driving round Mexico looking for new roads and XP boards to smash rather than messing around in the garage. Bought it at a discount from the Icelandic Microsoft store, hoping to get Horizon 4, which is somehow equally or more expensive, in the Black Friday/Cyber Monday sales!</p><p><b>Toys</b></p><p><b>McFarlane Death Metal Batman and Batcycle:</b></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjl8bHIuWzBTQNmmD81J4DHpjihWD-xXr67O9aLxCRTwfh7XwOAhi7pDbRdjupb-5gna9qANx5LG2RHpJmY3FO6juiVPX5lkxu1yCWlyuCfQj8L2CxeMLXScGaiIaHdhM0pFI3RRagdH1t3dbpDzi4HSvwLDCZ05Oh6d7fmRXGP9RzHIHMMsknneYbPGg=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjl8bHIuWzBTQNmmD81J4DHpjihWD-xXr67O9aLxCRTwfh7XwOAhi7pDbRdjupb-5gna9qANx5LG2RHpJmY3FO6juiVPX5lkxu1yCWlyuCfQj8L2CxeMLXScGaiIaHdhM0pFI3RRagdH1t3dbpDzi4HSvwLDCZ05Oh6d7fmRXGP9RzHIHMMsknneYbPGg=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My Batman came with a dope red guitar, not a scythe. I like to think he's listened to too much Iron Maiden.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>NECA The Dark Knight Joker - McDonalds Variant:</b><p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhY4BBbDRyfZWPdB2CdNV8QWxUMvTxA7VzGS-6xNDApG1UgjbLmbLlzG2_8VGZn9XizmkmepsQQ5L685DbE1QWQuGPsFYixmc4qZXjBLrwgWjbrZHLsdNMGS0HJCJLpKijqJ9sjVzH5kIM_JM6QA2ctTj9Uj3Kdkn3b-EF9iN87u1Y6WEorCNowmpwFhg=s800" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhY4BBbDRyfZWPdB2CdNV8QWxUMvTxA7VzGS-6xNDApG1UgjbLmbLlzG2_8VGZn9XizmkmepsQQ5L685DbE1QWQuGPsFYixmc4qZXjBLrwgWjbrZHLsdNMGS0HJCJLpKijqJ9sjVzH5kIM_JM6QA2ctTj9Uj3Kdkn3b-EF9iN87u1Y6WEorCNowmpwFhg=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He's lovin' it! I saw this as a goofy take on Heath Ledger's Joker, but my friend Snowball saw it as a dark Ronald McDonald! An interesting idea for a Psychology graduate thesis, no?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Friends and Family</b><p></p><p>This has been the big one. I've been trading e-mails with Snowball most days, several times a day. She's been a constant ray of light in my dark and lonely existence. I can't imagine where I'd be without her. If you run a blog that I've commented on and you've taken the time to reply, or if you're one of the living saints who has taken the time to write me an e-mail, you will probably never grasp how much that meant to me.</p><p>17 days. Peace! ✌</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-74754129608467537712021-11-24T01:11:00.001+00:002021-11-29T13:05:36.085+00:00GAMBLING WITH MY HEALTH... AND HITTING THE JACKPOT!<p> I wrote yesterday that in the <span style="font-family: inherit;">downtime since my last post in August "<span style="background-color: white; color: #393939;">I've basically been doing worse, physically and mentally." The word "basically" really does soften the blow there, doesn't it? Jesus Christ, what an understatement!</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">Since I last checked in to tell you about my health I've suffered three episodes of Hamster Heart (SVT), mini pulmonary embolisms, right side heart failure, sub-COPS level SAT readings, and weeping leg ulcers. I only found out about this today, other than the bouts of Hamster Heart, which are pretty hard to miss, the home had documented that they'd recognised the symptoms but not told me! Not that I could have done anything about it. Apparently I also go cyanose when I roll on to my side. I've graduated from a CPAP to a BIPAP (if you're reading this Vanessa, you called it!) and am also on 2 litres of oxygen for 16 hours a day.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">To borrow another famous understatement: I told you I was ill.</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibYeTTjmz9bT7DrGLQouqCbbtpy3oLZHRc3-KTqb2kX78sEK-qqyWMz7UxTxGhWkSb1ZUm8z8_fgz0ozOE4FBTkCfqZf5oa4707IHLCiaPGINsGUvmRpdcCjyQk1IcNfghIm_UOESN2g6Cf4N6cJ7alWSbkwLW_jJ5oC8FR_KoqU6fqkS3iPcaQghRGg=s1024" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEibYeTTjmz9bT7DrGLQouqCbbtpy3oLZHRc3-KTqb2kX78sEK-qqyWMz7UxTxGhWkSb1ZUm8z8_fgz0ozOE4FBTkCfqZf5oa4707IHLCiaPGINsGUvmRpdcCjyQk1IcNfghIm_UOESN2g6Cf4N6cJ7alWSbkwLW_jJ5oC8FR_KoqU6fqkS3iPcaQghRGg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bested only by Leslie Nielsen's "Let 'er rip.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: white;"> A few weeks ago I was visited by the mental health team. <a href="https://tankertonlatch.blogspot.com/2021/03/denied-help.html#more" target="_blank">As I wrote back in March</a>, I had a meeting with them in February and they came up with a bunch of ideas of how to help me in the room, but then sent me a letter <span style="font-family: inherit;">saying: </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #393939;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"As your current issues with your mental health are based very much on your situation, we are unable to provide any support until you have made steps towards changing your situation. We feel that at this time your needs are most appropriately met by weight management services and we would encourage you to work with them towards discharge from [your care home] and getting back into your own property. At this point if you are still struggling with your mental health, you can be re-referred back into mental health services."</span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #393939;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I wrote in March, this was a soul-crushing denial of help, a cruel Catch-22. It was like a lifeguard refusing to help a drowning man until he demonstrated strong swimming skills. One of the women I saw in February came back again last month, and told me in the room that I seemed a lot more depressed. She wasn't wrong.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Not only had the mental health team passed the buck, but weight management services have not met me either. Every specialist or GP I've met here has come to the home unannounced; they know I'm not going anywhere and that they will need to liaise with staff before meeting me anyway, so I'm always the last to know. Well, round about September my social worker told me that they'd written letters to me but I'd never got back to them. I explained I'd never received them and gave her permission to give them my e-mail so they could get in touch directly. A month later she asked why I hadn't written them back, and I told her I hadn't had any e-mails either, (not even in my spam!). I asked her to tell them to CC her so I would definitely get them, and that was the last I heard of it.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">My whole time here has been like this. I don't have a deathwish, and it's not like I want to spend the rest of my life in this bed, or in these four walls, or even in this city. I've put the work in with my physiotherapist, but once he saw I'd memorized the exercise routine he'd given me he abandoned me. I followed the advice the dietician gave me for months (the advice applicable to my situation; advice such as "Weigh out up to 300g of pasta before you cook it" is pretty useless to me. I've been hoisted every time the staff have bothered to try (once the hoist in my room was replaced, repaired twice, and charged up; for weeks I was told it was broken when it was merely unplugged!)</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">This is all especially frustrating because the home touts itself as offering bariatric care. I've been here 13 months, and haven't been weighed in all that time. If you've been on a successful diet then no doubt you have at some point weighed yourself and been motivated by the results. You've probably also been surprised how a small slip can cause you to pack on a couple of pounds, and recommitted to being disciplined. Imagine lying in bed for a year fighting infections on and off, obese but also bloated from excess lymph, and hoping, wanting, trying to lose weight, but with no weight recorded, no mirror, no measurements taken. For all I know I've done a good job. I certainly feel like I've made the effort... For the most part.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I will admit, for over the course of about six weeks between July and August I had about ten takeaway meals and was drinking a 2 litre bottle of Pepsi or Dr Pepper roughly every three days. I'll be honest, it was around the time of my birthday, I was depressed, and power crazy with the opportunity to eat anything I could get delivered after onky eating bland care home meals for nine straight months. Most days I was eating sandwiches for three meals a day, not wanting to eat a full hot meal in bed at midday at the height of summer. Main meals are only served at lunchtime, there are very limited options for lunch or dinner: a choice of two hot dishes or sandwiches, the evening hot dish literally being something like a burger, hot dog, or bacon roll.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">As I started rejecting the home meals, my social worker got involved. She saw that the food here is, in her words, "low-quality rubbish" and unsuitable for someone trying to lose weight. She got the home to agree to get food for me that was separate to what the other residents eat. She then came back a week later with the healthy eating specialist from the local doctor's surgery, and asked her to create a diet plan based on what's healthy and what I enjoy eating. We discussed it for an hour, and the healthy eating woman said she'd write up her notes and form a proper plan. My social worker went on holiday for a fortnight, so I didn't speak to her for a month. She asked how the diet was going, and I told her it hadn't been started. The healthy eating specialist said she was still tweaking it (this was on a video conference). I was sent this on October 15th, almost exactly a year after moving in:</span></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIc21DWXnPnSN0qTRm6CM5zk0OsG-x9dxY1IoPuDKD1OEU2xWSgQRzz98M5WyPcsxsO4KQWBhlG40-6i4A-0meZd2lZSOG6Z8N0JFPH8UHJ9gXNKkNiDoScDR8s-f5e9TxeqgDxBKb3RCPSs6wcr4meGpe01xrVKupWr8h8mYZyGZDRYk2-6llfKSNbA=s1565" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1565" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIc21DWXnPnSN0qTRm6CM5zk0OsG-x9dxY1IoPuDKD1OEU2xWSgQRzz98M5WyPcsxsO4KQWBhlG40-6i4A-0meZd2lZSOG6Z8N0JFPH8UHJ9gXNKkNiDoScDR8s-f5e9TxeqgDxBKb3RCPSs6wcr4meGpe01xrVKupWr8h8mYZyGZDRYk2-6llfKSNbA=w306-h400" width="306" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Transcribed from the back of a fag packet.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="background-color: white;">What a joke! I'll eat beans, yoghurt, and cooked fruit. When she says I dislike "vegetarian options" she means she asked if I like vegetarian sausages or burgers, and I said I'd rather have actual vegetables rather than ones that had been processed and moulded into an arbitrary shape. What's basically happened over the last six weeks is I have a bagel with avocado and poached eggs for breakfast, baked potato with cottage cheese most lunchtimes, and a cheese and onion omelette most evenings. Maybe twice a week at lunch and dinner I have what the rest of the home has.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">The mental health team were called in to evaluate whether I have what they call capacity; the ability to understand the consequences of my actions and realise when I'm making a bad decision. Someone with an eating disorder wouldn't have this cognition, and the state would be able to intervene and take away some of their freedoms. My various health experts and social workers couldn't understand why I'd stopped sticking to the food the home offered, and why I wasn't demanding more help with repositioning and personal care.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">I explained to the mental health people that it was simple: this place sucks, and I'd just stopped caring. The staff are almost always short tempered and borderline resentful of you for needing help; not because they're cruel, but because they're underpaid (£8.91 an hour) and stretched too thin. They haven't being trained in repositioning me using the fancy new pillow I've got (paid for by the council after the home refused) and used this as an excuse not to do it for ages, now it's the blind leading the blind. They don't do a good job washing me and the water is always tepid at best. I understood that not repositioning with the pillow could lead to my skin breaking down, but it's been fine without it for the eighteen months since I went into hospital, and I'd rather risk that than risk pissing off the people I rely on to feed me and help me piss without soaking my sheets.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">Similarly, I realise that eating fast food and drinking Pepsi are unhealthy diet choices, but after months of a sandwich-centric diet, I couldn't give a shit. I was receiving an hour of hands on physio five times a week in my flat, but agreed to come here because it was supposed to have specialist bariatric equipment, all the physio I could want, and people my own age. It was a total fabrication, sold to me by the NHS Home First team because it was costing them £100 per person in PPE every time they entered the flat, and my package of care called for one person at lunch, and four at breakfast and dinner. Shoving me into a care home for £2,000 a week was obviously a bargain.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">So yeah, I think I've been justified in feeling like I've spent a year in stasis. The truth is actually worse than that, I've spent a year in serious decline.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;">The good news is that by convincing my social workers that I'm prepared to die in this room rather than carrying on living like this, and that if somebody doesn't do something, likely will, a new opportunity has arisen. The mental health team were right back in March, if I wanted help I'd have to take steps to change my situation. They just didn't realise it would be taking steps towards self-destruction; I'd have to make my future the state's concern as well as my own.</span></p><p>Well, my nihilism worked to my benefit; two weeks ago a specialist care home five hours away expressed an interest in rehabilitating me. I met the manager and the head of bariatric care at the end of last week. The manager said that it was five minutes past midnight for me and that I'd clearly been stripped of my dignity, and that they wanted to correct what was wrong with me before things got irreversibly bad. The bariatric specialist said the bed I was in was, and I'm quoting him here, "firewood," and that if I go there I'll lose twenty to thirty kilos in the first two or three weeks, just from lying on a bed that works my lymphatic system. Based on my last weigh in, taken over a year ago, that should put me comfortably under 200kg. I'll be relatively light compared to most of their clients, and I could be out and in the community in four or five months!</p><p>Today there was a video conference with me, some of the specialists and social workers, and the manager of the good home, and it was confirmed I'd be moving there on the 13th of December, just twenty days away! I'm feeling optimistic about my future for the first time since COVID hit. It took 14 months longer than expected, but soon I'll be at the home that was promised to me. There's a woman roughly age who was in bed for seven months and is now standing, and she's looking forward to meeting me, and I genuinely connected with the two guys I met. I feel as much a part of the new home as I do part of this one.</p><p>I spoke to the head carer here, who was listening in on the discussion, immediately after. We've always got on okay despite all my complaints about the home and the safeguarding issues I've raised. She got me a drink, and I asked if she was listening in. She said she had, and seemed very frosty. "Exciting, isn't it?" I prodded.</p><p>"Good news for you," she said, rather curtly, and left. I'm guessing they're going to miss the easy £100,000 a year they were getting from the neighbouring county council. The average resident here pays £500 - £600 a week, so I'm sure it's going to sting. Also, I wouldn't be surprised if there are some frank discussions about how my health deteriorated so quickly whilst under their supposed care. If nothing else, there's no real reason for me not to absolutely slate them all over the internet!</p><p>20 Days! Peace! ✌</p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-9441888922807041872021-11-23T02:41:00.005+00:002021-11-25T05:26:58.992+00:00AMERICA IS A CUM-STAINED HOTEL ROOM...<p> ...and Corona is a black light. Not my words, but a tweet from Megan Abram from March 10th, 2020 (well, almost, I inverted it). That beautifully vivid metaphor stuck with me for the next year, as the cracks in society began to appear, and we realised how undervalued and underrepresented certain members of our society are. The idealist in me was hoping that shelf stackers, bus drivers, cashiers, and trash men would be recognised as indispensable members of our community, and be treated as such. I thought at the very least they would make things better for nurses and carers, as the whole country banded together once a week to applaud for them. It wasn't to be the case. The world's billionaires got richer whilst the rest of us thought over the thin end of the wedge.</p><p>Readers from outside the UK may not be familiar with Captain Tom Moore, the retired army officer who, in April 2020, decided to walk a hundred lengths of his garden as he approached his hundredth birthday, hoping to raise £1,000 for NHS Charities Together. He raised nearly £33 million (£39m after rebates), and became the Guinness World Record Holder for greatest amount raised for an individual charity walk. He received 1.5 million donations, 150,000 birthday cards, and a knighthood. He contributed to a number one charity single, received the Sports Personality of the Year award, and the Pride of Britain award. A film about him is being produced, and he has been commemorated in postmarks, New Year's fireworks, and flyovers, and has had his name given to everything from trains and boats to police dogs and horses. My grandad wrote to Piers Morgan suggesting the army stop using the word "captain" and use the word "captom" instead.</p><p>A motion to increase nurse's salaries was voted down in the Houses of Parliament shortly after, whilst COVID-19 was hitting us hardest. Maybe if we'd shouted for pay rises rather than clapping, maybe if instead of sending birthday cards people had sent letters to their MPs, maybe if we questioned why it took a pensioner exhausting himself for money to be allocated to support key workers, we could have made a real difference.</p><p>Captain Sir Tom Moore died a hero shortly before his 101st birthday, having caught the coronavirus while being treated for pneumonia, and Piers Morgan never wrote back to my grandfather.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3jo8RGeGKlVZ24h5kEEw2njNJBvmJ66za2fknS7TvwualK8mShstOCrJOe9kdh22kqI1QgVe-LpUvRaQklQXVRWf2Vh34ltx4rMGn854gzx7a8oTrHQmneSCIcmVZ_KF1NDSCUWSKgzM4LeCqQnasWqfXraQDvZzLFmbNVYrvMfRg9YuWl5ig8iGVxw=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3jo8RGeGKlVZ24h5kEEw2njNJBvmJ66za2fknS7TvwualK8mShstOCrJOe9kdh22kqI1QgVe-LpUvRaQklQXVRWf2Vh34ltx4rMGn854gzx7a8oTrHQmneSCIcmVZ_KF1NDSCUWSKgzM4LeCqQnasWqfXraQDvZzLFmbNVYrvMfRg9YuWl5ig8iGVxw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> "Tomorrow Will Be A Good Day." Sorry Tom, but that's not always true.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Things weren't much better in hospitals across the pond that April. Hospital workers were making surgical gowns out of garbage bags and posting photos of how their faces were bruised from wearing the same pair of protective goggles all day. Refrigerated trucks were being used to store dead bodies. Things were looking grim.<div><br /></div><div>I was still using Twitter at the time, and on April 11th posted a tweet complimenting a host of a podcast I listen to, saying that he does a great job of looking out for the fans and making sure they always get good value for money when they put out merch, paid bonus <span style="font-family: inherit;">episodes, and the like. Another listener responded thus:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "<span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">He has given us more than a bang for our buck. I said before he gave us a nuclear missile for our buck.
I make Hand Grenades for a living so I am an expert in BANG"</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0f1419;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0f1419;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I tentatively replied, fearing I knew the answer: "Have to ask... Are you an essential <span style="font-family: inherit;">worker?" He wrote me back:</span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #0f1419; font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1419; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Yes. I make products that support Law Enforcement. I have been working a lot of OT lately"</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0f1419;"><span><a name='more'></a></span></span></span><p>This was the same day that America became the country with the highest COVID death rate in the world. It was also a month before the murder of George Floyd, which started huge Black Lives Matter protests across the country. Three months later again Jacob Blake was shot, sparking further protests, including the one Kyle Rittenhouse was involved in on August 25th.</p><p>There had been a protest in Louisville on March 13th, right around the time a lot of the country was starting to take coronavirus seriously. You probably remember Tom Hanks announcing he and Rita Wilson had tested positive the day before. But otherwise things had been pretty quiet up until that point.</p><p>I bring this up because Kyle Rittenhouse has been found innocent of murder after killing two protesters. I'm glad he was, I believe he was a good kid acting out of fear, who genuinely thought he could help administer first aid and help protect property, and got in way over his head. I don't believe he went out that night hoping or expecting to shoot anyone, and that he was genuinely traumatised by the event. On the other hand, I get why there are riots: it's indisputable that he shot two unarmed men to death at a Black Lives Matter protest without facing legal ramifications. If that was all you knew about the shooting then I expect you'd find that unjust too.</p><p>Rather than questioning Rittenhouse's character (to further muddy the waters, after being mislabelled as a white supremacist and a KKK member by idiots on the left, Rittenhouse has successfully pissed off many idiots on the right today by announcing his support of the Black Lives Matter movement!) and relitigating his case, maybe now would be a good time to examine America's weird love for firearms, both in and out of the police. Maybe we should be asking why the government was prioritising the creation of explosives rather than hospital <span style="font-family: inherit;">equipment. I<span style="background-color: white; color: #202122;">n May 2020, in addition to police, 43,350 military troops were deployed against Black Lives Matter protesters nationally.<span style="font-size: 13.3333px; white-space: nowrap;"> </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">Military surveillance aircraft were deployed against subsequent Black Lives Matter protests. BLM protests are heavily over-policed; why not invest this money in health, education or social services instead?</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-family: inherit;">That's exactly what some cities have done, notably Minneapolis, Philadelphia, Portland, and Seattle. It's interesting that the level of crime has not risen in those cities, and that it's hopeful that it will fall in the future.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I should note that the police over here have just as terrible a history of institutional racism. Just this week I heard the fact that black teenagers are nine times more likely to be stopped by the police than white ones. And though our regular police aren't armed, we do have gun crime; it's just handled by specialised units that have received specialist training and are closely monitored. It's not a perfect system, but it results in a lot less accidental fatalities. It's almost as if less guns equals less death!</span></p><p>I should admit that I've phoned the police on four occasions. None of them led to anything productive. The first time I was walking home from town, and there was a gentleman heading towards me on the same stretch of pavement. As I got near him he stepped off the pavement, walked up a small grassy slope, and went to dig something out of a hedge. I was expecting him to pull out a hubcap; what he actually did was pull out a dead pigeon that he began tearing apart with his bare hands. I walked home pretty briskly, and called the non-emergency police number; as it was still daylight and the dude was at the entrance/exit to a supermarket, by a bus stop, on the only road connecting the housing estate I lived on to the rest of the town, and I figured there was a good chance some kids would see him and be traumatised. I was on hold for twenty minutes, at which point I realised he'd probably either moved on or been dealt with.</p><p>The second time I was waiting for a bus to take me to work, along with about half a dozen other people. This would have been about 7.45 in the morning. What looked like a teenager in his first car drove past us, wearing a gorilla mask, and waving a dildo out of the window. To be absolutely clear: There was nobody there waiting for a school bus, and this was over an hour before any school would start; it's not as if he was trying to give his mates a laugh. A couple of minutes later he drove back on the opposite side of the road, doing the same thing, so I wrote down his license plate and called the police. I made it clear that I wasn't offended and that nobody was really bothered, but was worried that he'd get into an accident driving around wearing a mask that covered his whole head. The operator told me that a similar incident, and I bit my tongue rather than saying "Do you think the cases might be linked?" I may not respect the institution, but I respect the individuals that comprise it. I heard no follow up, I assume the kid was probably given a severe talking-to.</p><p>The third time I was instructed to call them by my boss. I was working at the charity shop and a guy in his twenties came in and started looking through men's t-shirts and tops. It was clear from the manner in which he did it that he wasn't in his right mind; rather than rifling through the racks like any other shopper he was furiously taking each item off the rack, holding it at arms length, then putting it back on the rail. It was like a sped up charade of somebody clothes shopping. Eventually he took a bunch of tops into the changing room and I told the volunteer to buzz upstairs and get the manager down.</p><p>Sure enough, the guy left the changing room with one of our tops on underneath his jacket, and put the rest back on the arm he had got them from. He went to leave the shop but I got between him and the exit, saying he'd have to leave the top behind. My manager saw what was happening and started arguing with him, as he insisted he'd come in wearing it. She made me call the police, and he took off his jacket... revealing that he was somehow wearing the top with the coathanger still in place! I had visions of him walking home like a scarecrow, unable to fish his keys out of his pockets with his arms restrained. The police came long after he'd left, saying they knew the kid but weren't able to do anything because he hadn't actually stolen anything from us, though they did ask him to stay away.</p><p>The fourth and final time I called the police was when I was closing up the shop on my own. For a couple of months we'd had problems with people going through our trash overnight. As a charity shop we took any donations, outside of furniture and electrical goods, as we didn't have the space or a PAT tester (though we could arrange a free pick up from a larger store). All books, shoes, handbags, bedding, curtains and clothing we considered unsellable we sold by volume to other companies. All we through away was bric-a-brac that wasn't worth the shelf space it would have taken up, had spent time in three different stores without selling, was in too poor of a condition to sell, or items we couldn't sell for various health and safety reasons. There weren't any overlooked treasures, it was all true garbage.</p><p>Furthermore, when throwing the trash out we did everything we could to deter anyone going through it. Crockery was smashed, mirrors shattered, bottles of shampoo and moisturiser emptied out all over it - anything to make it unappealing (and to minimise the volume of the contents of the bins, as they were only emptied twice a week). Still, no matter what we did, two or three times a week people would force the bins open after we went home. We had two big wheelie bins, and people would go through them and leave some of the contents on the floor. There was nothing worse than opening up in the morning knowing you had a busy day with little help, and realising the first job you had once someone was behind the register was spending twenty minutes in the rain picking up wet carrier bags, sweeping up broken glass, and peeling soggy cardboard off the pavement.</p><p>One day I was managing the shop myself, and I left through the back door to deposit our takings at the bank across the road. One of the bins had been wheeled out of position and opened, so I closed it, locked it, and wheeled it back before going to the bank. I then went back to the shop for another half an hour before leaving out the back to catch my bus. I then realised the other bin was now open, so I went to close it.</p><p>What I wasn't expecting was to find Coathanger Man from my last police encounter in there going through the trash. I knew at this point my chance to catch the early bus had gone, and I'd have to wait an hour for the next one. I told him to leave and not come back, as the police had already told him to stay off the premises. He clearly wasn't in his right frame of mind, he was talking nonsense and searching all around the bins for a bag. I warned him that if he didn't leave immediately then I'd call the police. I was expecting him to go, but he just carried on searching, even climbing in the bin again. I didn't want to call the police; if they didn't arrive soon enough I'd miss the last bus and would have to spend about half the day's wages on a taxi to the bus that would get me home. Nor did I want to call the area manager and report it, or explain what happened to my manager the next day, given how she stressed out over anything and everything as it was.</p><p>Coathinsjcd Man still wouldn't go, so I called the police and reported the situation. I remember saying his confidence made me think he could be carrying a knife. When they said they'd be there soon he ran off, and I called the area manager. As I waited for the police an idea occurred to me, and I opened the first bin again. There inside was Coathanger Man's backpack. I gave it to the police when they came, and filled them in, then caught my bus. Apparently the guy came to the shop the next day, asking for his bag back! My boss told him it was with the police, and I never saw him again. People still went through our bins, though.</p><p>So, out of the four times I tried calling the police for help, how many times did they make a difference? In the first case, they didn't answer my call, but they couldn't have done much for that bloke anyway, he clearly needed to be seen to by a mental health worker. The kid in the car I assume they found and gave a good bollocking, maybe even telling on him to his parents. He may have got a fine or points on his licence, but what he really needed was an authority figure to tell him not to be such a moron, and that's one thing the police are great for!</p><p>Coathanger Man... He didn't technically commit a crime, other than forcing the bin open, and there was no way of proving that. He was clearly a known nuisance; what he really needed was a social worker and a drugs counsellor. Someone to look at his life and figure out why he couldn't afford to buy a second-hand top. I'm sure he felt he needed one, and wasn't stealing for fun or profit. There were no men's clothing stores in that town, like many towns around here it consisted almost entirely of charity shops, banks, cafes, hairdressers, and estate agents. If you needed a decent top for a job interview or a funeral or whatever, we were your best bet. Similarly, someone should have been looking into why he was willing to risk injury and police hassle by jumping in our bins and going through the broken remnants of junk. There was never any food in there. He must have been leading a pretty terrible life.</p><p>So that's my dealings with the law: maybe they've influenced my attitude towards the police in America. My brief exchange with Hand Grenade Guy on Twitter certainly did. Oh, and I once spent a fascinating couple of hours looking around the museum in the police station in Portland, Oregon. If you don't believe the police can do their jobs well with restrictions placed on the weapons they carry, then look at some of the shit the cops used to carry around:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjHIjREKbbwmXT0je7IWENtO9kgSRrTnwN89ZpYu9xhJF5jOiVadOg2yIAw-T5_dc4wxEVKQ2k1LXyUc8rxMkcd7DLy3f7qKoV3AXgrMD7fgB7pQtj7TgA7tA-v4476YnmzkkwbVZWtZL8Mligq6VtdGzZoVIh9buLH-_MpK43hyamB3cq0D6SL-F5Kw=s2048" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjHIjREKbbwmXT0je7IWENtO9kgSRrTnwN89ZpYu9xhJF5jOiVadOg2yIAw-T5_dc4wxEVKQ2k1LXyUc8rxMkcd7DLy3f7qKoV3AXgrMD7fgB7pQtj7TgA7tA-v4476YnmzkkwbVZWtZL8Mligq6VtdGzZoVIh9buLH-_MpK43hyamB3cq0D6SL-F5Kw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some of this shit was being used into the sixties. To put that in perspective, the Rosa Parks incident took place in 1955.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg81oGKTAhRDLmJCy9KzKqetRCkqE1OAbWUx6g5HvCzxYpZcFF0xIi9rEfuH7Eq7GjOnfYGE8DAjN2n4RPnbsGS-t3hObPeSPtBtoHVMuPSPuFmccfrC09qV5DOVjh1hTN3fFxdkCzQlC5lqMXwgm2NMlEmL3nhoYeZ8gy6ol0Z28xLQaRyAQIpgLNLBw=s2048" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg81oGKTAhRDLmJCy9KzKqetRCkqE1OAbWUx6g5HvCzxYpZcFF0xIi9rEfuH7Eq7GjOnfYGE8DAjN2n4RPnbsGS-t3hObPeSPtBtoHVMuPSPuFmccfrC09qV5DOVjh1hTN3fFxdkCzQlC5lqMXwgm2NMlEmL3nhoYeZ8gy6ol0Z28xLQaRyAQIpgLNLBw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">You know what, officer, I think I will come quietly.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I have to imagine that the gear the police carry now seems as other-worldly to people in sixty years as this stuff does to me today.</p><p>-</p><p>A brief word about my long absence; I can't believe I haven't written on here since my birthday! I've basically been doing worse, physically and mentally. I haven't had much good to report, and I don't like reporting on bad news, because it's depressing and I don't think anybody really wants to hear it. I'm going to write more about the last couple of months tomorrow, when hopefully I'll have some good news to share! I was planning on having a grand comeback, but wanted to share my point of view after absolutely lighting up some assclown on Strict Julie's blog post outlying some of the facts, and her feelings around, the Kyle Rittenhouse verdict and his actions defending himse!f. You don't need to read what she wrote, <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/11/kyle-not-guilty.html?zx=8267745911fe98a3" target="_blank">just click here</a> then scroll down until you see my avatar in the comment section (just kidding, Julie!). Apparently I'm sexy when I'm angry!</p><p>Hopefully, finally, tomorrow will be a good day. I'm believing in you once again, Captom.</p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody></tbody></table>Peace! ✌Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-19421639143416562322021-08-12T21:17:00.004+00:002021-11-28T23:55:04.862+00:00THE BALLAD OF STINKY LIPS - PART 1<p dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-1047444a-7fff-e026-5338-5c03fd9bc5b1" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hi Malpals!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So today's blog is going to be a little special! I've taken the role play I did with long-term penpal Stinky Lips, and rewritten it in the third person. I met her on r/DirtyPenPals and have referred to her often, always using my nickname for her. For this story I have changed her name to Liza. I've tried to stay as true to our original collaboration as possible, even the bits that didn't turn out as I hoped they would! All the pictures I added in later. Liza's dialogue and decisions were her own, most everything else is down to me. Not all of it, she threw in some details that I wasn't expecting. She's a very naughty girl! I was going to release the whole thing in one go, but I'm less than halfway through adapting it from dual first person to third person. It's nearly 4,000 and I wanted to post something today, so here we go.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;">Before we get stuck in, it's been a while and I want to catch up. Things haven't really improved at the home, but my safeguarding officer has apologised for how she came over at <a href="https://tankertonlatch.blogspot.com/2021/07/oh-good-my-safeguarding-officer-is-joke.html" target="_blank">our first meeting</a>, has been doing some research on me and the home, and genuinely seems to want to find a better route forward. I said that I'm placing all my faith in her as a catalyst for change, as I don't trust the home in general and certain members of staff in particular, and she seems to understand that.</p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;">One positive change is I've got them to agree to wash me in the afternoon when I've had a good chance to stretch out and for my painkillers to do their thing. The downside to this is the water is cold and it means getting cleaned with wet tissues rather than flannels. Why is there not an adequate water heater? Why doesn't the home own enough flannels for every resident to have all they need? Good questions!</p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;">Negative: My oxygen saturation levels have been low since the heatwave we had a couple of <span style="font-family: inherit;">weeks ago. Way back o<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">n the 22nd of July I had a visit from Tissue Viability about my ongoing mastitis. A care home nurse was there too. The Tissue Viability nurse asked if they'd been monitoring my SATS, blood pressure and temperature seeing as they were concerned about possible infection. The nurse said they do regularly check my SATS because of my history of supraventricular tachycardia. I said this wasn't really true - if I suspected I was experiencing SVT they would take my pulse and SATS then, but it was not something they regularly did. This meeting was at about 11am.</span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The care home nurse continued to check my SATS throughout the day. At 7pm he came to ask me if I had spoken to a GP. I said I hadn't. He told me a GP was worried about my low SATS - around 83 - and thought I should have gone to hospital that afternoon. I didn't know what to make of this information, and figured as it was Thursday evening it was unlikely I'd be admitted on to a ward until early Friday, and then would have to probably stay the weekend. Worried about COVID, having previously picked up C. DIFF and gastroenteritis, and not feeling any symptoms, I decided not to go, assuming a doctor would let me know more information if I needed it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's pretty surreal to be told you missed a phone call telling you that you need emergency medical attention, if that's what happened. I stayed out of hospital because I didn't feel unhealthy enough to go in. I have more news there, but I don't want to get hung up on it right now. Next time!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I've been feeling tired and breathless and haven't done much besides watch TV and role play with Snowball, who, as always, is aces!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The main reason I wanted to post today is because it's my birthday! My parents stopped by for a couple of hours and we played an escape-room-in-a-box style game that I got my mum for her birthday. They gave me a present wrapped up with a chain around it and a different puzzle game I need to solve to find the combination to the lock! They also got me the perfect greeting card showing old school go karts going around a track, only when you open it there's a kart that's bumped into a bale of hay and the corner has fallen off. The text inside is about is even when you hit a bump in the road you have a laugh about it and keep going. I don't know how long they spent looking for it but it fits me perfectly!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;">My brother and his fiancee sent me a difficult looking movie quiz - No multiple choice, no chance of whoever </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">gets closest, it looks like questions such as "Who directed Cabin Fever?" and "Who played the bell ringer in Rocky?" and "In the Harry Potter movies what does the Hogwarts motto 'draco dormiens nunquam titillandus' translate to?" Definitely see my brother getting ready on the next Zoom call when we play that! They also got me an Amazon voucher and a teensy tiny LEGO set of Captain America, a motorcycle and a Hydra agent.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The best gift I've been able to open came from one of my aunts. I have a large extended family that I don't really speak to, but I got sent a handful of cards via my parents which is nice, because who really cares about their nephew turning 34? However, my one aunt's been self isolating due to COVID contact, so she made a card out of some blue paper and an old greeting card, and enclosed two postcards of old timey streets in Bristol as well as a packet of sunflower seeds, ready for planting next February!</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I should note that although 34 is a pretty nothing year - the start of my mid-thirties, I suppose? - I do remember as a kid assuming I'd die by 33, because it didn't make sense for me to live longer than Jesus. Well, I've had a couple of close calls, but they haven't shuffled me off this mortal coil just yet! I'm not saying I'm better than Jesus, just better at not having people nail me to shit. Do what you like with that information.</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, on to the main attraction! I took a picture from <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.bdsmlr.com/" target="_blank">Julie Sploogie's BDSMLR</a> that doesn't look like me or the reference picture I was given but suits the mood nicely! Enjoy!</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr53p0kjsTC1g2OWlEM0TDCaqpWz2-372g1_da_N3CSt7d_c6hSTyJ1rEHikYoxYtRWzXk_U41KGduZAKM_KQpkc2Rh-jqjcvEZuexHHtPR4l5slQpHllHtFfYDca-TdSs2bhL4SKkAFkY/s1050/bdsmlr-499014-kCAyjybsmM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="990" data-original-width="1050" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr53p0kjsTC1g2OWlEM0TDCaqpWz2-372g1_da_N3CSt7d_c6hSTyJ1rEHikYoxYtRWzXk_U41KGduZAKM_KQpkc2Rh-jqjcvEZuexHHtPR4l5slQpHllHtFfYDca-TdSs2bhL4SKkAFkY/w400-h378/bdsmlr-499014-kCAyjybsmM.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dark!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">For the sake of clarity I've decided to change the bar owner's name to Earl. It was Tankerton/Tanks during the rol</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">eplay, but I don't want my good name besmirched with this filth! Lawks!</span></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm going to be honest: some parts of this I enjoyed very much, some of this was me trying to find if Liza had a limit when it came to humiliation and degradation. If she has, I couldn't find it! If this were a porn video I would certainly skip certain scenes! Others I would enjoy very much.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't have her permission to do this, so I've changed her moniker, which I'm assuming was fake anyway. Similarly, I changed the reference photo she used, because although it was taken from an NSFW reddit account, the model she used only posts photos of herself fully clothed, and I assume would be horrified to have her image associated with this filth!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her original prompt has been taken down, but it went something like this:</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hey everyone,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m Liza, and I'm looking to do a very nasty and humiliating RP.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to get dominated and humiliated by the nastiest men. I have a huge fetish for men’s musk and alphas making me do humiliating nasty things. Bullying, tough, humiliating dares, degrading the loser of a bet etc. Even if what I’m doing is nasty, the humiliation still turns me on, so my dom would use that to their advantage.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd like to start a scenario where I am in serious debt and will do anything to earn some cash, letting men humiliate and degrade me. They would pay me to do disgusting stuff, maybe the loser of a bet would have to fuck me, stuff like that. Sort of like Jackass but the joke is always on me, as the sub slut.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think that's all the warning you need! I answered her prompt in character, so I may as well incorporate that into the story. And awaaaay we go!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">-</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a little after closing at the Beefy's Bar & Grill. Earl sat at his office computer, a desktop from the late 2000's he used to keep payroll, set up work rotas, and surf local personal ads for cheap labour and loose women. He was in his early forties, short and balding, with a beer gut that stuck out the bottom of his stained wifebeater vest and hung over his grubby jeans. He found a desperate plea from a young lady who was down on her luck, so he loaded his e-mail program and sent her an invitation to work for him.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hi Liza,</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I saw your post saying you were looking to make a little easy money and weren't worried about whoring yourself out. I have a bar with a rather rough clientele just outside of city limits, and I'm always looking for desperate sluts who don't mind being degraded for a price.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have a position that would be perfect for you, servicing my patrons in a special seat by the bar. You would be locked in the stool in a kneeling position with your head sticking out by the seat. Google "kinky barstool" for an idea of my set-up. Customers would pay me ten dollars to sit on my seat, and whilst they enjoyed a drink and maybe some of my famous hot wings you would take their sweaty cocks in your greedy whore mouth and sick them off enthusiastically. If you do well enough they might give you a tip, or a sip of their beer, or let you suck their greasy fingers after handling my wings or my bourbon glazed ribs. Of course, they might be wary with all the jizz you'd be chugging down, and might just wipe themselves clean with your pretty hair. You won't get much of a say in the matter!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The occasional broad might want you to service her, either she's naughty like that or showing off for the fellas, it don't bother me none either way. Better not bother you either; ten bucks is ten bucks, and you had better leave all my regulars happy. I need a slut who does what she's told, if you have a lot of principles then maybe look somewhere else. I don't have a complaints box or an HR department but I do have a heavy wooden paddle.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If that sounds good to you then show up ready to strip off and get started at 5, in time for happy hour. It'll be safest for you to just stay there until closing but I have a diaper I can strap on you so you don't piss all over my barroom floor. I'll keep the first 200 bucks and whatever's left over you can keep - after the first twenty guys you'll be making a pure profit! Just make sure you don't end up owing me, because you won't enjoy that.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If my customers like you then perhaps we'll find some other odd jobs for you to do around the bar, or maybe I can find something for you to do around my apartment. I'm always happy to help out a whore once she's lost all respect for herself!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl Botham</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Owner/Manager, Beefy's Bar & Grill</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl powered down the old machine and headed across his cluttered apartment to his unmade bed, which he crawled into after removing his jeans. He didn't think about his e-mail to Liza again for a couple of days; he answered a lot of requests for help in similar fashion and rarely heard back. The chicks that did tended to be bitches ranting about how they deserved to be treated better. The way he saw it, he wasn't the one getting them into whatever shit situation they were in, and sooner or later life turns everyone into a whore or a thief. At least he was being straight up.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He was therefore surprised three days later to find an e-mail from Liza sitting in his inbox. He opened it up and read it.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hey earl! Sorry I’m late on this but it sounds like a perfect job for a dumb young slut like me!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It irritated Earl that she hadn't capitalised his name. Didn't this cunt want to make a good first impression? The rest of the message was very promising though - no fancy airs, no protests that this was beneath her, no negotiations. As long as this bitch wasn't too fat for the cage or a total butterface then he was sure he could make money off her desperate ass. He could probably get his own dick wet for free as well! He sat down on the metal folding chair he kept by his desk and fired off a quick reply.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, you certainly haven't made a great first impression with your tardiness! I hope you suck cock better than you keep time. Let me get a good look at you, if you're not pretty enough to work the bar then there's some lower paying gigs elsewhere. I know a silly young slut like you ain't gonna have a CV, but do you perchance have one of them fancy kinklists I could take a look at?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He headed over to his recliner with a bottle of beer and stuck on some wrestling. His apartment was above his bar, but there was no way he was heading all the way down there to pour himself a pint; he never cleaned the lines so the beer was foamy, metallic crap anyways. His customers didn't care, they came to drink shots and to see his girls; the cheap beer was there to help them pace themselves between shots and to keep them cool in the stuffy, sweaty, smoky dive. Earl sold bottles of beer to the clients that didn't want lager that tasted like piss, and always took a handful upstairs to put in his own fridge at the end of the shift.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was less than an hour before a noise from his computer let him know that Liza had got back to him. He grinned; it seemed she was more eager than she first appeared! Maybe another lead had fallen through. Well, the more desperate the better...</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes sir! (Ref pic or description do you prefer?)</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Also sorry, not a fancy list</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kinks: Blowjobs, facials, Humiliation, Bondage, Stink torture( sweat,musk,farts), Being face-sat, Being a 3 hole slut, bullying, rimming, cock worship, tea-bagging, ball sucking, foot worship, body worship, ass to mouth, light pain, wrestling, pet play, spanking, facials, cum play/humiliating cumshots, drugs, body writing, public humiliation, water sports, dp/spit roasting, rule 34</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hard Limits: Blood, animals, underage, heavy pain, rape</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Jesus Fucking Christ," he thought, "it seems like I've stumbled across a winner here!" The 'sir' was a big improvement to 'earl,' already this chick was showing him more respect. And what a list of turn-ons! Still, best to let her know he wasn't some cuck pushover.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever's good for you! There's definitely a lot we can work with there, and I hope you're serious about taking a spanking because I think you've earned one taking so long to get back to me!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He got another beer from the fridge, but before he could get to his recliner the e-mail notification sounded again. This time she'd written:</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Guess I do deserve a big punishment huh? Lol</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She'd also attached a photo of herself; a grinning brunette in her early twenties. Pigtails. Nice tits, though they could be bigger. Not chubby by any means, but not one of those skinny bitches either. Couldn't see her ass, but he bet it was good. She'd be in the cage anyway, so it didn't matter about her dumper so much for now.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He imagined her soft warm lips around his cock, and felt himself chub up a little. The message itself was a little too familiar, he bet she was one of these self-important millennial skanks that screwed around on their phone all day and thought the world owed them a living. Best he let her know what she was in for now...</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Very nice! You're certainly front of house material! As for your punishment, I think I'll warm you up with a bare ass OTK hand spanking, and then you can bend over and take six licks with my paddle - one for every 12 hour chunk you left me wondering. That'll teach you to take help when it's offered and to be respectful of other people's time!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After that, me, Hector from the kitchen and Hank the bar back have a game we like to play with new birds - think of it as a kind of initiation. The game is called Leaky Submarine, and how it works is we take your clothes off and plug up any holes we might find. Once that's done I'll strap you in your diaper and put you in my stool, ready for my early bird customers. It's payday at the lumber mill today so I'm expecting a packed house full of rough men with bulging wallets. I'll see you at 5 if you're serious about making some scratch.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She wrote back once more, and Earl couldn't help but laugh at her naivete.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes sir! I’m happy I made front of the house!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Also leaky submarine sounds like a fun game! Does my mouth get plugged too? I’m sure I’ll learn more when I play the game.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What a clueless bitch! She was going to be fun.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl opened his bar up at lunchtime, and it was pretty quiet for the most part. At half past four he was sitting by himself at a table enjoying a bottled brew. An eager young lady bounded up to him, sent his way by Hank at the bar. She introduced herself as Liza and wasted no time at all bending over Earl's lap, flipping up her school girl skirt and exposing her ass in a thong to him.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl was impressed by this girl's audacity, and pleased to see her toned buttocks were just as nice as he was hoping they would be. He was sure his regulars would enjoy gawping at them and pawing at them as well. Still, no point letting this young broad go getting a big head just yet.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Figures a slut like you would be wearing slut underwear," he said, pulling the thong taut in a big wedgie. He unhooked the knife from his belt and cut it through the stretched fabric in one rough motion, exposing what little of her rear it was hiding. Then he went to town on Liza's naked ass, slapping it relentlessly, first one cheek, then the other, then right across the middle, the pattern repeating over and over as her bottom got redder and redder.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At first Liza tried to take the pain in stride, but eventually she felt the stinging intensify across her buttocks. It hurt too bad, and she yelped out loud as Earl continued his assault on her smooth derrière.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh my God, it stings so bad!" she thought, her pussy getting moist as Earl slapped harder still. She let out a tiny whimper that mixed with a guttural moan.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl grinned. "Ooh, you little slut!" he teased. "Someone likes it when Daddy punishes their little bottom!"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">With two far fingers he explored her damp pussy, and was rewarded with a full body shiver. He applied a little more pressure, and pushed his thumb against her asshole, taking care not to go inside her yet. He held his grip for a few seconds, enjoying feeling her squirm with pleasure, but decided it wouldn't do to start off their relationship in such a manner, and he abruptly pushed her off his lap.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He stood up, leaving her on the floor, and instructed her to crawl back across the room.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Liza did as she was told, sore red bottom exposed, looking over her shoulder at her new employer and licking her lips.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Very nice," Earl thought, before saying aloud "Place your hands on my bar and stick out your backside for me."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whimpering with pain and pleasure, she stood up, feeling the effect of his handiwork on her booty. She put her hands on the bar and bent over for him, desperate to be seen as a good girl.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl gave her red bottom a few affectionate pats, and nudged the instep of her left foot with the tip of his boot in order to widen her stance. As she waited nervously He could see her pussy shimmer, practically dripping with anticipation. He then took his old, wooden frat style paddle from Hank, and wordlessly rained down six hard blows on her tender young bum.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Liza yelped loudly at each swat that thudded against her already sore ass, her screaming echoing throughout the building for Earl's other employees to appreciate as Liza stood with her legs spread wide, shaking on the spot and breathing deeply. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl spun her around so he could address her directly. "Well, you took that fairly well, despite your caterwauling! Let's get you in the kitchen for your initiation. The way Leaky Submarine works is: You lie down on the island prep station in the centre of the kitchen. You're the submarine, and me, Hank and Hector are three sailors that have to plug up any holes we find, to stop you from sinking. I'm sure you're used to accommodating seamen!" He grinned at his own dumb joke.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Holding her sore butt, Liza sniffle and tried to compose herself. She followed Earl to the greasy, poorly lit back room, listening as he filled her in on the rules of the game</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, that sounds fun! Do you always play games before work?” Liza asked, stripping out of her remaining clothes once they had entered the grotty kitchen.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl was taken aback. Was this girl really as big a slut as she was making out? Was she putting on a show for him, or did she have some wiring crossed inside her fucking head? Still, he answered her question, dumb as it seemed to him. "Only with new hires, on special occasions, and birthdays. This is a bar for hard drinking, rough and ready types, not Chuck E fucking Cheese. Hector and Hank here are going to sort it out between them as to who gets to stick it in your cunt and who has to cram it in your turd-cutter. I'm going to work your mouth, I wanna make sure you have some idea what you're doing before I put you in my barstool and let you loose on my customers. Have a bottle of beer, it's important to stay hydrated."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes sir, I guess that makes sense,” Liza said, taking the beer and sipping from the bottle, not liking the taste.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“At least I get to play this time to accommodate all these seamen!” she giggled, winking at Hector and Hank, as they argued over who gets to fuck her in the pussy. "I hope the smaller dick one gets my ass," she thought, "I’m still tight. "</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl passed Liza's unfinished beer to Hector, who bent her over the kitchen countertop and poured a little into her asshole. He pushed a finger into her rosebud, withdrew it, and pushed the neck of the cold beer bottle into her winking hole. He moved it in and out, and the men all laughed as she howled and squirmed. After moving it in all directions and pulling it in and out a little Hector pulled the bottle out quickly and roughly, causing Liza to stand up straight and rub her tender back passage. The men all laughed at her expense, and Hector gaves Liza back her half-full beer.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Holding her ass, her cheeks still bright red, Liza whimpered even as the three men found furthe merriment in her discomfort. Her asshole hurt from being stretched for the bottle, and beer dribbled down the base of her crack.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earl grinned at her, luxuriating in her humiliation. "Finish your drink, and we'll start the game!" he instructed, leering at her.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her cheeks flushed red as she took the cold bottle that was just in her ass, raising it to her mouth and gulping the nasty beer down. Having to taste her own asshole as she drank the beer, she made a grossed out face and finished the beer as quickly as possible.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Atta girl," Earl laughed, "you came here to play! Well, hope up on the table, Stinky Lips, and we'll kick off the show!"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Stinky lips! How rude! “ Liza giggled as she hopped up on the table, seeing Hector and Hank pull their big cocks out as she did so.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I think that nickname's going to stick," he leered, "I thought you'd at least make a token objection. Seems like you'll do just about anything! Let me know when the boys have found their rhythm, and then you can wrap your stinky lips around my nice hard cock!"</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;">-</p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;">Well, that seems as good a place as any to wrap up today! I hope it didn't seem too disjointed, turns out editing is not a lot of fun!</p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 12pt; margin-top: 12pt;">✌ 🎉 🎁</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-77815235560224596552021-07-21T08:44:00.006+00:002021-07-21T09:08:59.263+00:00STRICT JULIE WELCHES!<p>A man goes to visit a psychiatrist, and after a little while the psychiatrist decided to give him a Rorschach test; showing the patient a series of ink blots and asking what he sees in each of them. The patient looks at the first one. "That's a woman on her knees, blowing two guys." He looks at the second. "That's two couples, each having sex in the wheelbarrow position." He looks at the third. "That's five guys in a daisy chain, jerking each other off."</p><p>The psychiatrist puts the cards down. "It's obvious to me," he says, " that you have something of a dirty mind."</p><p>The patient frowns. "I've got a dirty mind? Come on, doc, you're the one with a drawer full of dirty pictures!"</p><p>I was reminded of this little joke when chatting with my friend Julie, of the newly rechristened <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Strict Julie Spanked! blog</a>. I value our friendship a lot, but we met through unusual circumstances (I commented on her blog with some of the things I would do with her if she were my sub, she told me how gushy her little pussy was getting thinking about it) and our relationship goes through unusual cycles. Specifically, if I go too long without trying to make her knickers fizz then she'll try and provoke me, a little like an infant testing the patience of her caregiver, seeing if they'll carry on allowing the naughty behaviour or if they'll take the child over their knee for a spanking. Once Julie's been put back in her place we're firm friends for a couple of months.</p><p>I noticed a couple of these little provocations recently, though maybe I'm reading too much into it? Well, tough luck if I am, Ms Delmar, as you're getting a healthy dose of humiliation regardless!</p><p>I should preface this by saying that way back in March <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/03/the-tangled-musings-of-tankerton-latch.html" target="_blank">Julie posted a story</a> I had written for her on her site, and made a big show explaining exactly how theatrically she had masturbated to it behind her husband's back. I <a href="https://tankertonlatch.blogspot.com/2021/03/a-moral-dilemna-extended-tangled-musings.html" target="_blank">posted my own blog</a> stating that this bragging about cumming to my writing behind David's back seemed sketchy, and if she was going to use me as a secret source of real world pleasure then she should balance the scales with some real world punishment too. Only fair, right?</p><p>I knew I was flying close to the Sun, I have no real authority over Julie, and the obvious moral thing would be to confess to her husband exactly what she'd been up to and let him handle it. Still, at this point everyone was acting on the assumption that David doesn't ever read Julie's blog, and it was certainly fun pretending to take her in hand in his absence.</p><p>Well, at first she was gung ho to prove that she could take the punishment I'd prescribed for her, but I wasn't surprised when it never actually happened, and eventually she acted as if no deal had been made. Well, no harm, no foul, I never reached out to Julie expecting to have any <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">physical influence over her or to find out about her personal life. The fact she'd decided to cum reading my stuff was amazing all by itself. However, I was a little irked by this little exchange we recently had in the comment section of her blog:</span></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: <span style="text-align: justify;">I've just noticed you called me your god friend! I wonder what Dr Freud would say about that! You are absolutely **not** allowed to correct it! ✌</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Her: <span style="color: #38761d;">Ohhhhh!</span></span></span></p><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit;">Maybe it's like a God Father. You must now see, as my God Friend, to my moral upbringing.</span></span><div><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Me: </span><span style="text-align: justify;">I think I tried that a couple of times, to minimal results! You realised I have no real power over you, and missed out on a lot of fun! 😜✌</span></span></span></div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="text-align: justify;" /></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">The job sounds like hard work, you're a good person with a big heart but, to paraphrase your post, you're a stubborn little fuck when you want to be! Never dull, though!</span></span></span><div><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Her:<span style="color: #38761d;"> </span></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #38761d;">"Stubborn" is my super power 😊</span></span></span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Okay, so maybe she had forgotten about our little arrangement in the heat following some ill-thought-out comments she made on an earlier post, and then paid the price for! When I reminded her of my attempt to "see to her moral upbringing" and how dismally I'd failed she brushed it off. Fine. But then she had the audacity to post a blog entry named <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/07/cornertime-pics.html" target="_blank">"Cornertime Pics"</a> that was breathtakingly audacious.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Skipping back to our exchange in March: Julie had read my blog and written a nice lengthy e-mail, starting by suggesting we were "virtual fuck buddies!" She then followed it with this one-liner, dripping in disrespect:</span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: inherit;">Oh, and I'm supposed to ask you about a punishment?</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Well, with that attitude I decided to skip over any thoughts of leniency - reading up on her most recent punishment it doesn't seem to have sunk in that taking her punishments with decorum may earn her a little clemency! I wrote back as follows:</span></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div>I think you deserve a little punishment, yes.</div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div>I think the next time you know your husband is going to be away for a while you should send me a quick email to let me know your punishment is starting. You should spend forty minutes in time-out with your nose against the wall and your arms by your side, one of your dildoes in each hand. Your bare bottom should be on display for the empty room. You can set an alarm for forty minutes to let you know when you're done, and you can spend that time thinking about how bad a spanking you need to administer yourself, now we know you are capable of doing so. You know your limits and what a proper punishment feels like, so you can judge this for yourself.</div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div>One you've come out of the corner and given yourself a quick spanking you can e-mail me to let me know you're done and I can give you a couple of quick questions about your punishment so I can gauge how contrite I think you are. I have a notifier set up so I always know when I'm getting e-mails, and I can prioritise your punishment over whatever else I might have going on so David doesn't have to find out, since you kept your pleasure-making a secret from him too.</div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div>I think this is firm but fair, and well within your limits. I was obviously playing it up a bit on my blog, but I do feel a little bit uneasy knowing you went to such great lengths to try and impress me, and this will let me know that you genuinely care about my feelings rather than just using me as an excuse to indulge your exhibitionist streak.</div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div>I'm aware you have your safewords, and there's nothing to stop you from telling me to fuck off and get over myself, but I have a feeling you'll rise to my challenge.</div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><br /></div></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><div>Let me know if this is acceptable to you, and I'll get to work on that story I thought up as a reward.</div></span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">What Julie didn't know at the time, and will only find out when reading this, was that I was intending to ask her if she was still horny upon completion of her punishment, and would have told her to rub one out if she was. I'm all heart, that's my problem! As embarrassing as corner time is for her, I thought it would be even worse doing it for nobody's benefit, dildo in each hand, bottom pointed at nobody in particular! I was glad to see she was taking me more seriously when she wrote back:</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;">FORTY FUCKING MINUTES???? Are you FUCKING insanse???? I don't think I've ever really done more than 10 minutes of timeout (I might have exaggerated a bit for my blog...).</span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;">Ooooooooohhhhh.</span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;">yes sir... it might take a while until I have that much alone time again, what with COVID and all still on. But i will do it (forty FUCKING minutes...)</span></div></div></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Ha ha ha! Looks like I'd scored a direct hit! They say when punishing a bratty child with a time out you should give them one minute per year old they are... Seems it works for forty year old troublemakers just as well as five year old ones! Well, like I said, I'm a big softie, so we had the following exchange:</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;">You certainly have exaggerated a bit for your blog, I thought I was letting you off a little easy! You can yellow out a little if you're going to be a big baby about it, but then I'll be expecting a very severe self-spanking, including with the Muskoka paddle you used to pleasure yourself with; and I'm sure that your husband will notice your sore little bottom if that happens. Plus, though I won't share the specifics of your punishment, I'll have to let my readers know that my first punishment was too much for you, and that I had to let you plea down, and I know you don't like people seeing you tap out...</div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;">I'll let you decide, but I'm delighted you're taking this seriously.</div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;">A big virtual hug for my favourite sub,</div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;">Tanks.</div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Respectfully, but Fuck you, Sir. I'm doing the full 40!</span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;">That's my girl! Let's call it forty-one, though, to discourage you from swearing at me.</div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Phew! Was expecting to have to wash my mouth out with soap for that. 1 minute extra only. Got off easy!</span></div></div></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;">And that's basically where we left it. I sent her monthly "reminders" that she got less and less interested in. When I warned her I was thinking of spilling the beans about the whole sordid affair and letting my faithful Functionistas know what a big 'fraidy-cat wimp she turned out to be then she wrote me the following:I</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div></div></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;">I guess my reluctance is more that I feel being put in the corner is a prerogative reserved for my husband, as punishment. Somehow, for me, more intimate than being fucked for fun, you know?</span></div></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></div></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><div><span style="color: #38761d;">Maybe if you take this angle, explaining my reluctance, it would be ok to give me a well-deserved tease.</span></div></div></div></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white;">Very convenient that she's found a moral philosophy that allows her to be "fucked for fun" and to diddle herself stupid with no comeuppance, elaborately and without her husband's knowledge, but to shy away from making it right! Consider that me administering a "well-deserved tease," and know that I hope she has enjoyed this trip down memory lane.</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;">But why share this now? Well, like I said, not only has she suggested I take a firmer hand in her moral upbringing, but her Cornertime Pics post was ridiculous! In it she had reposted 48 pictures uploaded to another blog, seemingly without any formal consent from those photographed (you'd have thought she'd be more careful after her </span><a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/04/julie-scolded-by-miss-chris.html" style="background-color: white;">run in with Miss Chris!</a><span style="background-color: white;">) Under each picture she'd written a caption explaining a feeling the picture evoked in her or the larger scene she imagined playing out. She specifically asked readers to pick out their favourites and comment saying why, </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">so I did. I also clarified that one model was not holding something between her thighs as suggested:</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">33, 25 & 47... You can imagine 47 with her laptop or tablet letting her blog readers know how naughty she's been!</span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Nothing between 32's thighs, the care instructions are hanging off the back of her panties, has this tripped you up? Don't tell me you cut the care tickets off your garments, I'll have to think of a fitting punishment for you, on behalf of your local dry cleaner!</span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Laughing at the timings you've prescribed for these poor girls, knowing they would probably break you!</span></div></div></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I was more than a little surprised by her response:</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #38761d;">25 looks like a British girl. 33 and 47 are being humiliated just like you like them to be. And I'll defer to your expertise on 32, that's a big tag!</span></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Oh I know re the timings. Especially the poor teen I had in the corner all day long.</span></span></div></div></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span style="text-align: justify;"><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Let me be perfectly clear as to what had just happened: This bitch had found a site that posts nothing but pictures of adult women experiencing corner time, signed up to it, stolen nearly fifty pictures, uploaded them all to her blog, captioned each and every one, and now she has the nerve to kink-shame me?! Aren't they all being humiliated? Isn't that why your pussy got all tingly staring at them, imagining what could be happening behind the scenes? Sorry doc, but you're the one with the dirty pictures!</span></div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;">I knew this aggression could not stand, and that I would have to embarrass her appropriately once I was in the right mindset. I think I've probably done a good job. Feel free to give her some (harmless, good-natured) razzing in the comments!</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;">And it's absolutely the manufacturer's care label. Maybe they just run smaller in Canada!</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1ar7rY2Q_CrcLXgc2Sg62mrmWfWFyBllaWgaidjbSaWtACkvquxJX5nzx7MZfhhfZmE7AaWvBWbSVTmtJpB_BRhNacTA9QhU4Hsq19nXDVvKDI8U2yHRazsJavEfIHmVDqCPOO4M_LnX/s1920/bdsmlr-799589-Mv0sbQVIs8.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1148" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz1ar7rY2Q_CrcLXgc2Sg62mrmWfWFyBllaWgaidjbSaWtACkvquxJX5nzx7MZfhhfZmE7AaWvBWbSVTmtJpB_BRhNacTA9QhU4Hsq19nXDVvKDI8U2yHRazsJavEfIHmVDqCPOO4M_LnX/w239-h400/bdsmlr-799589-Mv0sbQVIs8.png" width="239" /></a></div><br /><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;">Peace!</div><div style="background-color: white;"><br /></div><div style="background-color: white;">✌</div></div></span></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-56042234157466169142021-07-20T14:57:00.000+00:002021-07-20T14:57:29.320+00:00DON'T MAKE ME TALK TO YOUR MANAGER!<p> Hi Malpals,</p><p>So I know the last post was me complaining about the lady from safeguarding who came to visit me. Today I received a copy of a report summarising the level of care the home provides for me. I was not consulted about the report, or even aware of it. Some of it I feel painted me in a poor light: you get the impression reading it that I am a glutton, and that I would be living a full, active life if only I could stop constantly stuffing my face with fatty foods! Weirdly, though, the report also contains a bunch of outright lies about the help I'm receiving and my ability to express myself and make decisions for my future.</p><p>I'm going to let you read the e-mail I sent to adult social care, because it reflects what a terrible job the home have done representing me. I sent a blind copy to my parents, and I think that this report, combined with the fact that three members of staff have caught <span style="font-family: inherit;">COVID this week, have finally convinced them that anywhere would be better than here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear ****</span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today I received a copy of my review, ref ****. I was not informed this review would be carried out and was not given a chance to object to any of it. A lot of the information held within is not true, so I thought it best to clear up a few things:</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The care home do not provide 3 or 4 staff to help with a body wash.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">They do not provide 2 staff members to help with toileting needs.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do not need help maintaining family and other relationships.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do not need help with memory, awareness, planning and decision making.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The home does not offer help with behaviour or mood affecting myself or others.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do not receive visits from the Community Nursing Team to monitor my skin.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The home cannot claim I am continuing to put on weight as they have never weighed me or taken physical measurements of waistline, circumference of upper arms, etc.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was not able to contribute towards the review via phone, or any other method, as I was completely unaware of it.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do not feel upset discussing my care and support needs.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I did not consent for the nurse to discuss these matters away from me.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">My family do not visit me daily, mainly due to them living two hours away, but also in part because the home allows a maximum of two guests to visit during a week, booking in advance and visiting once, simultaneously.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">The physiotherapy team did not require me to drop down in weight to 180kg before helping me. There is no maximum weight at which they will stop helping those who need it.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have not been discharged from working with a psychologist and a psychiatrist because I refused to accept help.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have not been in my current placement since 2016, and was in fact relatively healthy, living independently and holding down a full time job as a dry cleaner at this time.</span></li></ul></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are other aspects of this report I disagree with - for example, I feel I would benefit greatly from assistance from the mental health team, and that my financial situation needs addressing as a priority due to **** Care Home's inability to fill out and return some standard paperwork in a reasonably timely manner - but the information that I have laid out above is fact.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It is probably worth mentioning I find the nurse who provided information for the report, Sue ****, to be borderline negligent. I went into hospital last December and the paramedics that dealt with her during handover described her as 'obstructive.' I went into hospital again this year because she told me an ear infection I had was getting better when in fact it had been getting worse. She has been lackadaisical treating episodes of supraventricular tachycardia I have suffered in the home, which is one reason safeguarding concerns have been raised on my behalf.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for your time,</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tankerton Latch</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So that's me embracing my inner Karen! Tomorrow I have an unrelated group chat with the care home manager, my housing officer, my occupational therapist and someone from Adult Social Care. This report has only served to get me extra riled up!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What a useless bunch of tossers! Peace,</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">✌</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-70569738618027249092021-07-18T16:00:00.000+00:002021-07-18T16:00:02.418+00:00OH, GOOD, MY SAFEGUARDING OFFICER IS A JOKE!<p>Hi Malpals,</p><p>I tend to be pretty laid back. I'll usually go with the flow, to the point where it's to my own detriment. I ended up in this dive because I agreed to move out of my temporary flat before all my concerns were met, I last went to hospital because I let the nurse here convince me my infections weren't as bad as I knew they were. I put up with a lot of shit, I think mainly because of my relationship with my brother growing up. He was a bully, and worked away at my self esteem, and when he stopped getting a rise out of me he started arguing with my mother. It takes a lot to put my needle in the red. But when it gets there, watch out!</p><p>In the Kill Bill movies there's a sound that plays when Uma Thurman's Bride character first encounters a member of the Deadly Viper Assassin Squad, post-coma. The camera focuses on her eyes, and an alarm sounds, followed by a quick six-note escalation. When it plays, we know The Bride is consumed by her anger, she'll leave it all on the floor as she goes after her target. She'll give all she's got, because these people will take it all from her. You can hear the sound here:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/cOy6hqzfsAs" width="320" youtube-src-id="cOy6hqzfsAs"></iframe></div><br /><p>I've had moments where I've felt that way, as I'm sure we all have. And I'm sure I can't hear that sound in the moment, but I associate it so closely with that feeling of all consuming anger that I subconsciously add it when replaying these moments in my head.</p><p>The last time I felt it was whilst I was living in hospital after being kicked out of sheltered accommodation for being too much of a medical risk. Obviously I wasn't in the greatest headspace anyway, and then one afternoon I received a phone call from a telemarketer. I can't remember what the guy was pitching - pretty sure it was cheaper gas, though it might have been loft insulation - I can't remember what exactly it was, but it was definitely something you'd need to have a fucking house for. I said something like "You're barking up the wrong tree here, mate, I'm homeless and in hospital."</p><p>"You should move in with me, then," the cunt on the other end said.</p><p>I felt my face freeze mid-smile and my temperature drop. "What was that?"</p><p>"You should move in with me," the odious little shit repeated.</p><p>Well, I can't remember exactly what I said. I know I didn't swear or give a reason for the prick to take the moral high ground and hang up. I remember channelling my inner Victor Meldrew, first berating the poor bastard, then demanding to speak to his supervisor and asking what sort of outfit she was running, employing callous little sociopaths, asking if they were given any training or instruction or whether they were free to harass and insult whomever they liked... I was properly livid!</p><p>I had some of the same sense of anger on Friday when I met Danielle, my safeguarding officer. I was feeling pretty rough anyway, she hadn't let me know in advance she was coming, and I got the feeling she just wanted to get my paperwork off her desk rather than actually helping. Remember at primary school, when kids would argue, some grown ups would let both kids have their say and work out what was fair, whilst others would just make the kids shake hands and promise to behave? That was very much the vibe I was getting off this woman.</p><p>She started off asking what my goals were. I told her I wanted to leave this place. "Where to?" she asked. I told her I didn't know. I told her I wanted to be able to get out of bed and into a wheelchair. "Do you know what that will actually take?" she said. I told her I didn't. She said losing weight would help. I told her I've cut out sugary drinks, replaced crisps with healthy snacks, kept a food diary, consulted with a dietician and the kitchen staff, and that for nine months all I've had is earache about losing weight but that nobody is actually weighing me. She asked if I'd considered food substitutions. "For example," she said, "I really love ice cream." I told her I haven't had ice cream since moving in here. "Okay, but what I do is, instead of having Ben & Jerry's, which is 2000 calories, I'll have Halo Tops, which are 300 calories." I reiterated that I'd quit sugary drinks for water and potato chips for healthier equivalents. "The thing about healthy alternatives is that they do still contain calories; you can't eat them all day." I told her I had a snack between dinner ending at 5pm and breakfast starting at 8.30am. She then went on about the takeaway I had last week, saying that "one cheat meal can undo a week's good work." How about one in nine months, after they'd forgot to make me dinner? This woman was not winning me over!</p><p>At this point she decided to let me know why she was here to see me. Two separate safeguarding concerns have been raised, one by my occupational therapist about the home's failure to reposition me, and one by adult social care about their mistreatment of my hamster heart episodes. I guess her thoughts on dieting are an added bonus for her fat ass clients, whether they want it or not? Lucky me!</p><p>Well, she said, it's good news! The home have put their hands up, admitted they've done wrong, and are going to be better from here on out. I guess that makes up for shirking their duties for the past nine months? Am I supposed to be reassured now? To take them on their word that it'll be smooth sailing from here on?</p><p>"So, have they been repositioning you?" she asked.</p><p>"They started to, on Tuesday, knowing that safeguarding concerns had been made, and they bollocksed it up."</p><p>"How did they bollocks it up?"</p><p>"They repositioned me the wrong way, undoing the work the occupational therapist has been doing trying to straighten me out. I wrote to the occupational therapist on Tuesday when they did it and she sent one sheet of instructions to the care home manager on Wednesday morning. I've seen it, and I've told them not to move me until they've read her instructions so they know they're doing it right. One side of A4."</p><p>"Okay, well I know they've been trying to reach her. Is there anything else worrying you? The staff here say you're quite down.</p><p>"Yeah, my finances. My PIP payment was stopped in February, and because the home took so long filling out the paperwork to get my benefits reinstated I've dipped into my overdraft for the first time since becoming honeless, which is one thing I never wanted to happen."</p><p>"Ooh, I'm with you there, I don't believe in going in to debt." Well, 80% of the UK are, so maybe there's a colleague that can explain how fucking awful it can be? Maybe teach you some basic empathy as well? Unbelievable. "Well, I don't deal with the financial side of things, but I'll make a note to pass your details on to my colleague who does."</p><p>She then started to give me her deeply patronising wrap up speech - bare in mind this was my first time meeting this bitch, as far as I know she knows nothing about me or what I've been through already.</p><p>"Well, the good news is you're still very young, you've got a lot of opportunity to turn it all around. It will take a lot of graft, and it will hurt, and you will cry. Hey, but at least if you've got yourself into a pickle with your money then you won't be spending it on things like takeaways!"</p><p>Aaand there goes my inner alarm. Awee-orr! Awee-orr! Duhn duhn duhn duhn da-duhnnn!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymTtnDS-7rZCJJNGYpEbIoL9IKxRIj5UaugCEXraLTZXvATwRLIr5f_8oHJf1e0JRz9ERBesuO2jHc69Shpb4AIR_dFhvPo5Y9XTRIIlSFsTnty1NA05_gImkgYfv2zRxFKYF4ZzkJxJx/s1280/R.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymTtnDS-7rZCJJNGYpEbIoL9IKxRIj5UaugCEXraLTZXvATwRLIr5f_8oHJf1e0JRz9ERBesuO2jHc69Shpb4AIR_dFhvPo5Y9XTRIIlSFsTnty1NA05_gImkgYfv2zRxFKYF4ZzkJxJx/w400-h225/R.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> "The fuck did you just say...?"<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>"I haven't got into a pickle, the home spent so long filling out a simple form that it put me into debt. Because they don't care."<p><br /> "Well, we don't know how long these things take-"</p><p> "Yes we do. Because the same form was sent to the hospital, and they sent it back within a week. All they had to do was write down how long I've been here and how much care I've been receiving, and it took them three and a half months. And now I have no money to my name, but I'm still paying these people once a month as if I had."</p><p>At this point I think she left, I can't remember her saying anything else, certainly nothing of value. I basically slept through the following 48 hours, that white hot anger took a lot out of me. I realised writing this I'm still angry about it! I was going to write a couple of things about Strict Julie's <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/07/cornertime-pics.html" target="_blank">cornertime post</a>, maybe revealing a couple of things in the process! But I realise I'm definitely in the wrong frame of mind, and am likely to cause myself trouble there!</p><p>God damn! Peace! Fuck!</p><p>✌</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-52284274188668299752021-07-13T22:43:00.002+00:002021-07-13T22:49:53.103+00:00A CARE HOME THAT CARES?<p>Yesterday I had a visit with someone from Adult Social Care, the first I've had since moving to this shithole nine months ago. She's going to raise a safeguarding concern in the county that's funding my stay due to their terrible handling of my hamster heart episodes. My occupational therapist is raising one about the lack of repositioning, so hopefully they'll get me out of here soon!</p><div style="text-align: left;">The Adult Social Care lady also set up an online meeting between me, the care home manger, my housing officer, my occupational therapist, and herself, in order to discuss <span style="font-family: inherit;">some complaints I've raised (the hamster heart treatment, the repositioning, the lack of Wi-Fi, the absence of a blood pressure cuff).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">On a completely unrelated note (!) today was the first time in nine months the care home followed my care plan, hoisting me in the air to change my and repositioning me every two hours. They're using an old pregnancy pillow instead of the fancy decubitus the OT asked them to buy, and J can certainly feel the difference, but it's better than nothing! </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">They even remade my breakfast sandwich because they used white bread instead of brown (The brown bread's all right, the white is over-processed, tasteless, bleached shit) and told me to let them know if I needed any other changes to my meals! I've been repositioned four times today, which is great because the previous one was literally three or four weeks ago (I remember it was a Sunday, I just don't remember which.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, nothing in this place ever goes quite right. They started with the cushion under my right side for two hours to straighten me out, which was fine, and then left me on my back unsupported for two hours to ensure there are no pressure sores, which is also fine. They then put the pillow under my left side, so I was tipped over more to the right than usual. I couldn't even look at my laptop screen in this position - I'm holding my Amazon tablet dead in front of me as I type this and it's literally at an angle of 45°. All my weight is on my neck and the top half of my right arm<span style="font-family: inherit;">. My right ear</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> is touching the bedsheet. I told them that I need to be laid straight, but Ruth the head carer was adamant this is how repositioning works - with you on your right side, then your back, then your left side, then your back, and so on and so forth!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I appreciate that is probably how it works with most people, but with my spondylitis the last thing I need is to be spending a quarter of my time pushed further over to the right than I naturally am anyway. I've e-mailed my occupational therapist and hope common sense will prevail. Annoyingly, the day shift went home without removing the pillow and setting me flat, and the night staff carer didn't want to take the pillow out on her owm, so I pulled it out myself after being extra off kilter for three hours. I'm sure the OT is going to go ape shit!<span><a name='more'></a></span></span></div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">On a more positive note, things are going great with Snowball. We're having a sci-fi/fantasy adventure that is completely wholesome and kink-free. Proper nerd shit! I'm balancing that out by adapting my role play with Stinky Lips into third pers</span>on narrative.. It currently stands at 8,000 filthy, filthy words, and I've hardly started tweaking it!</p><p>Nothing much else has happened to me, but I have space for another few hundred words, so I may as well make a couple of TV recommendations for a couple of weird underdogs I've been enjoying. These are for American shows, one on Discovery+, one on Fox, so check local listings or get a VPN!</p><p>As a bedbound single dude I spend a fair amount of time watching television. I am fairly picky about what I watch though. I'm way more likely to abandon a new show after a few minutes and re-watch an old sitcom than to see it to the end. This year has been pretty bad for TV, with old shows being held up or cancelled due to COVID, and new shows seemingly determined to make a case for their own wokeness, as if it's more important to give representation to all and shed light on issues of the day rather than just being entertaining. I haven't bothered watching the already kind of dull Kung Fu reboot after an episode dealing with racist graffiti and BLM-esque protesters. I also gave up on Superman & Lois when I got sick of Superman's whiny, emo son. It's as if the CW thinks that the kind of nerds that would watch the show spent their schooldays thinking "Gee, I'm sure glad I don't have superpowers making my life more complicated! It's hard enough being a good student and dealing with the pressures of being a teen in today's society without being burdened by super speed, strength, or the ability to fly!"</p><p> Side note: I am glad that I saw the unintentionally hilarious scene where Clark Kent reveals to his FOURTEEN YEAR OLD sons that their papa is secretly the most famous person/thing on the planet by TAKING OFF HIS GLASSES, picking a truck up over his head and flying into the air with it. Not once did one of these kids turn to the other and say "Did you ever notice that Dad looks a lot like that alien that Mom famously interviews a lot? Do you think there's anything to that?"</p><p>I will, however, try a gameshow, particularly if it has a dumb enough hook. Last year my Summer viewing was dominated by adult versions of games designed for kids. As well as the second season of mini-golf/Wipeout hybrid Holey Moley there was Ultimate Tag, Extreme Dodgeball and The Floor is Lava. This year, Holey Moley's back, but the dumb hooks have left the sports field and moved into the kitchen.</p><p>The first show I want to recommend is Discovery+'s Budget Battle. Hosted by a man who is basically John C. Reilly doing a Seth Galifianakis impression, this cooking show gives four chefs $40 and has them create three dishes: breakfast, dinner and dessert. The catch is they must buy four ingredients that must be heavily used in each meal: one from each of four categories. They're always told the $1 Daily Deal item in each category and the price of the low, medium, and high cost items. A more costly ingredient will be fancier and generally less processed, but will not necessarily be easier to cook with.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisS0CIRVXls3nvE5X9BD8cmSA8waioxHohaUOpRWuhEuVxwUjk48Hswld39IbvSBgjMYX-t1LIcXYDE4D4aPd7TBTMP60qxAsGopR9Wc6WJuVkJm10afthuxACNAtLYB-08_qQ_nyqMX6H/s1920/Polish_20210713_180011739.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisS0CIRVXls3nvE5X9BD8cmSA8waioxHohaUOpRWuhEuVxwUjk48Hswld39IbvSBgjMYX-t1LIcXYDE4D4aPd7TBTMP60qxAsGopR9Wc6WJuVkJm10afthuxACNAtLYB-08_qQ_nyqMX6H/w400-h225/Polish_20210713_180011739.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Somehow only one of these men is real!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>For example, the breakfast board might have the categories Eggs, Ham, Onions, and Bread. The chefs will be told the daily deal item is gummy fried egg candies, the low cost item is $2, the medium item $4 and the high cost item $6. Two chefs buy the gummy eggs for a dollar, one gambles on the low cost item and gets Cadbury's Creme Eggs, and the fourth plumps for the high cost item hoping to find real eggs, only to find caviar!</p><p>One chef gets voted out after each meal, and the winner gets $1,000 for every dollar they didn't spend. The chefs don't have enough cash to buy many high end items, so they likely to be forced to turn a bag of calorific snacks or a frozen ready meal into a featured component of a fine dining dish. It's interesting to see what strategies chefs adopt to try and create winning dishes and still go home with a decent chunk of cash. Spending more money should buy you a better chance of winning a smaller prize, but if you're confident enough in your ability to turn garbage into delicious gold you could earn $28,000.</p><p>A small caveat: the series is only six episodes long, but they changed the game halfway through by changing the prize to $500 per remaining dollar the winner held on to, and by introducing "Out of Stock" items, including one on a Daily Deal square per show. This means the most a chef could win is $13,500. The chefs are definitely more frugal during the first half of the season, I guess when your real-world dollar buys you twice as much good ingredients it's worth splurging and spending five or six grand on good ingredients to help you win, you're also buying the right to say you won a television cooking show. That's got to be worth a couple of grand to an up-and-coming chef, right?</p><p>The other show that's captured my heart combines the tense and gritty world of desserts with the light-hearted whimsy of forensic analysis. Think Dexter meets Bake-Off. You are picturing Crime Scene Kitchen on Fox!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrnZpIEpdZLlaOtpu7ugf2usNlFKfpAIQpuki2lxMBMs8oihMUmDDDqj7yWOYGfOHlG68fjOsVc5nPzzdREFGyVmUpZfUuNI54AZxjyjhOz9Y6J5Xu8oU2n1AKvr78IQ0Od3TWdDXU2Bdj/s1170/xp7deZhggvXvYEy8RltPkFNrDeI.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="780" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrnZpIEpdZLlaOtpu7ugf2usNlFKfpAIQpuki2lxMBMs8oihMUmDDDqj7yWOYGfOHlG68fjOsVc5nPzzdREFGyVmUpZfUuNI54AZxjyjhOz9Y6J5Xu8oU2n1AKvr78IQ0Od3TWdDXU2Bdj/w266-h400/xp7deZhggvXvYEy8RltPkFNrDeI.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The name reminds me of my time in student housing - eleven teenagers sharing two kitchen sinks! Things got messy.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The high-concept idea is brilliant. Chefs compete in teams of two. Each team has three minutes to look around the same kitchen, using their knowledge of creating desserts and their skills of deduction to figure out exactly what dessert has been created. They then have a set time to create what they think the correct dessert is. The genius of the show is that even though the judges sample and criticise every dessert, the winning pudding is the one closest to the mystery one created in the Crime Scene Kitchen.</p><p>There are two rounds. In the first round the teams have to create a relatively simple dessert. Whoever is most accurate gets an extra clue in the elimination round. This time the teams have three minutes to figure out a "showpiece" dessert - an elaborately built creation that has also been decorated.</p><p>Because the teams are ultimately judged on deduction rather than baking skills, you can never be quite sure who's going through to the next round. Your favourite team could make a cheesecake that's a runny mess with a burnt base; if someone else made a tart and the mystery dessert is a cheesecake then your guys win!</p><p>And therein lies the fun! Watching teams that botched the execution hoping their detective work is up to snuff, and conversely watching complacent creators of delicious looking towering delights discover they've spent three hours creating completely the wrong dessert. There are two judges to give their takes and explain which clues there were and how they were supposed to be interpreted, and Joel McHale is there to make acerbic jokes about the dumb format of this silly show.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsbe7-EzUlYKhPyBD973eERWgoY2AybKSevsnntmy6cKuFxZG7Dar0WdEeCdHKulO9He6OKnBbpx6hHttXGC7x-f4oYeYFPuPwZKJSlzfVjs8GHFYOaNxgC_c0nS3RsaHIaLMW_Ne6BNs/s1333/60ab2848477ac.image.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="1333" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsbe7-EzUlYKhPyBD973eERWgoY2AybKSevsnntmy6cKuFxZG7Dar0WdEeCdHKulO9He6OKnBbpx6hHttXGC7x-f4oYeYFPuPwZKJSlzfVjs8GHFYOaNxgC_c0nS3RsaHIaLMW_Ne6BNs/w400-h276/60ab2848477ac.image.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The lanky guy in the background who looks like a Pixar villain is not only a ringer but super catty to boot!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>There are twelve teams, but they're split into two groups of six. One team goes home each week, the team furthest from the correct showpiece. The first few episodes alternate between the two groups and they merge into a group of six when three pairs are eliminated from each group. This stops there being too many similar cakes, but means there's usually enough people cooking for someone to completely misread the kitchen or else to serve a ballsed up, half-baked mess.</p><p>The teams vary in both baking skills and police work. There are definitely folk who hear hoofprints and think zebras, like a team that spot red, yellow and green fondant icing and assume they should be making an Italian dessert, because the Italian flag is red, white and green. Even if they had the colours right the logic doesn't make much sense - the winning teams looked for something red, yellow and green to sculpt.</p><p>Two solid recommends. I think I'm going to pitch Crime Scene Bathroom, where you watch Budget Battle and decide which of the three guest judges will have the worst diarrhoea after nine weird concoctions cobbled together from random ingredients.</p><p>Also Rick & Morty is back and the second season of I Think You Should Leave is exceptionally funny, as was the first.</p><p>Until next time,</p><p>Peace!</p><p>✌</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-38671735214422630872021-07-09T03:41:00.003+00:002021-07-13T14:52:42.635+00:00BETTER THAN CUMMING<p>Good morrow, my poor neglected Malpals, you're all looking fine! Please forgive me for my absence! I haven't been doing great the last few weeks. But I write to you today in a state of happiness far greater than any post-orgasmic afterglow!</p><p>It seems I was taken off my antibiotics too early, as my mastitis never went away, and has now flared up again. I'm seeing a physiotherapist twice a week, though he is not nearly as hands on as the one I had coming five times a week whilst I was living on my own. I agreed to move here because my carers at the time told me this was a dedicated rehabilitation facility, and that I could be receiving physio all day, every day if I wanted it! Eight months without help later and I have a lot less strength and movement. Never mind, at least I'm on the road to success again!</p><p>I've also had two episodes of hamster heart since I last checked in! Regular readers will know that's my jokey name for supraventricular tachycardia, a condition that causes my heart to beat at around 265bpm. You'd think it would be awesome, like when Fry drinks 300 cups of coffee in Futurama and time seems to slow down for him, or when Neo dodges bullets in The Matrix. What actually happens is your blood moves through your lungs too quickly to take on oxygen, and you die if the issue doesn't resolve itself. Fortunately both times I was able to sort it through tilting my bed (I'm bedridden and living in a care home, if this is your first time reading this!) but on multiple occasions it's needed treatment in hospital, with pretty serious drugs. It can (and nearly did!) require defibrilation. Well, of the two times I had it only once did my so-called "carers" ring the emergency bell for the nurse, though I asked for it both times.</p><p>The first time it happened I told the carer, in front of the nurse, that it's a serious condition and I need her to ring the emergency bell if I ask her to. I expected the nurse to have my back. Instead the carer told me that she has to use her own judgement before ringing the bell, and would only ever ring it if a patient was out cold. I told this to another nurse and she said I should have reported the carer; I said another nurse had witnessed the whole thing and hadn't said anything. The head carer submitted a report to the manager for me before, and nothing was ever said about it. Why waste my time? Surely telling two nurses is reporting it? My patience with this place has basically eroded at this point.</p><p>The second time the carer did ring the emergency bell, after I insisted, and the nurse left me unattended for five minutes whilst he went to look for an oximeter. A room in this place starts at over £400 a week, shooting up to near £600 depending on the level of care you need. They should really go fuck themselves.</p><p>All of which is to say, I haven't been feeling awesome, nothing much good has happened, and so I haven't felt like blogging. Well, that all changed today, because PIZZA!!!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jIVBQ6QATu1fni9jhxfRWB3ackMJqdeyyJgkXOh8o0Tyt8VQnRYchi4qr-i40B1CVb-Qc0Qutwt0uziInEcYxWf1E_F1pVRPoZUVfKDLYBIzOlMhM70d2_6wDzjiSFnCaaLOQYBx3HSm/s516/Caps-Ninja-Turtles-TEENAGE-MUTANT-NINJA-TURTLES--TMNT--Pizza-Bite-Snapback-Baseball-Cap--One-Size--Multi-colour-l.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4jIVBQ6QATu1fni9jhxfRWB3ackMJqdeyyJgkXOh8o0Tyt8VQnRYchi4qr-i40B1CVb-Qc0Qutwt0uziInEcYxWf1E_F1pVRPoZUVfKDLYBIzOlMhM70d2_6wDzjiSFnCaaLOQYBx3HSm/w388-h400/Caps-Ninja-Turtles-TEENAGE-MUTANT-NINJA-TURTLES--TMNT--Pizza-Bite-Snapback-Baseball-Cap--One-Size--Multi-colour-l.jpg" width="388" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I haven't bought pizza since moving in, but I have bought this awesome hat!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Today was the first time since moving here I've been allowed to order food in. I thought that would be one of the perks of moving to a city. In fact, I was told that I'd be able to eat what I wanted, when I wanted. I thought I'd have my own little kitchen, like I did at another care facility I stayed in for six weeks whilst they tried to find me a flat to move into. Another ruse by my carers at the time! There's only ever a choice of two meals at lunch and one in the evening, otherwise it's sandwiches for you! Most times the evening option is suspiciously sandwich-adjacent, like a burger, hot dog, or bacon roll. It's never a substantial meal: the burger for instance is just a frozen patty cooked and placed on a roll with fried onions. No sauce, no salad, no sides; just a miserable burger on a plate. The hot dog comes with onions too, the bacon roll with butter. The chicken burger comes with mayonnaise. These are not real meals! They're served between 4.30 and 5pm, and are meant to last until breakfast, which happens between 8.30 and 9am. £600 a week!<p></p><p>The meals we get at lunch are the sort of thing you get when people make fun of English or British food. Stuff I've genuinely never seen on the menu at any restaurant, cafe or pub. Stuff most kids or teenagers in this country have probably never heard of, let alone tasted. Stuff like liver and onions, faggots and mash, spotted dick, and semolina. Whatever you order is unseasoned and lukewarm. I just found out writing this that the kitchen manager and care home manager share a surname; that answers a lot of questions.</p><p>Breakfast is the one meal that I actually look forward to: two fried egg sandwiches on brown bread. I asked for this for months, and was told I could have it once a week, but that the council were paying for me to stay here so I could lose weight. I've since found out this was never true. I haven't been weighed since coming here, which is another source of frustration: I want to lose weight, and probably am, but with no data there's no way of knowing, which is very unmotivating. If you can't see yourself, and have no number to go by, then how do you know if you're doing well? You don't feel good for sticking to healthy snacks and water, you just feel fucking guilty for enjoying a Pepsi or some proper crisps.</p><p>In the end I saw a dietician, kept a food diary for a month and sent back the cold toast I was getting every morning for a week before the manager came and said I could have the breakfast I wanted.</p><p>One morning that week a carer came and asked me what I wanted for breakfast. I told her what I wanted and she told me that all I was allowed was toast. I asked why she asked me what I wanted if that was all I was allowed. She said she didn't know. I said "This is a fucking miserable way to start each morning." She told me not to swear at her. I told her I wasn't swearing at her, I was just frustrated by the situation. (People generally know when I'm swearing at them!)</p><p>Tonight I made the mistake of needing a piss between 4.30 and 5.30pm. As I said before, this is when the carers are busy dishing out food and helping residents eat it. If you need help then, or during the lunch hour, you have a good chance of being chastised for it, depending on for not your carer is a miserable bastard. Most of them are. I usually avoid going at these times, because I don't like being chided by the whiny carers and genuinely don't like adding to the stress of the overstretched staff as it is. I'm always way more apologetic to the nice ones who wouldn't dream of making you feel bad for having a full bladder. They really are the best people.</p><p>Well, like I said, I've just started a new course of antibiotics and they're playing havoc with my sleep cycle and my digestive system. I have a short fuse anyway as I'm on diuretics in order to stop lymph building up in my legs. When I really have to go, I REALLY have to GO! So today I made the cardinal sin of ringing my bell at 17:07!</p><p>Wouldn't you know it, I had the same carer come to me that told me off for swearing before. First time I've seen her in a couple of weeks.</p><p> "I need a hand with a urine bottle, please," I said. My standard opening line in such circumstances.</p><p>"Well, it's supper time, you'll have to wait," I was told.</p><p>"I know, and I'm sorry, but I really need to go now." She's known me since I've moved in to this shithole. We both know I know the rules, and that I try not to cause problems.</p><p>"Well, I can't help you, because I'm serving food."</p><p>"Okay, but I need *somebody* to help me, please."</p><p> "Well, everybody's serving food at the minute."I</p><p>"Well, I'm going to piss the bed then."</p><p>"There's no need to be rude!"</p><p>"Well, what else am I supposed to do?"</p><p>"There's no need to be rude! Saying that you're going to piss the bed!"</p><p>Fucking stopped what she was doing and helped me piss though, didn't she?!</p><p>I don't know whether she was offended by my language or if she thought I was threatening her. It wasn't a threat so much as a fact of nature; another five minutes and I'd be asking someone to give me a wash and change my sheets. I was saving us both time and effort! I should point out the carer in question is probably only a couple of years older than I am and that I've heard her use much worse language when she's been in a bad mood. Fucking hypocritical cunt of a nag! (See, that would be swearing at her!)</p><p>To cap it all off, it turns out they weren't even serving hot food, and they forgot to give me any! Apparently tonight was pâté, and I was told they ran out because they didn't make enough. This is laughable, it's not like they're baking their own crackers and mincing their own goose liver. The pâté is one of my favourite things they do, though it's always ludicrously out of proportion. You get a massive slab of pâté, maybe two -thirds of an inch by four inches by six, about a third of a slab you might buy from a supermarket. Then there are two semi-circular halves of a thin slice of cucumber sticking out of two generous spoonfuls of pickled ginger. Finally, there are a total of four or five different crackers from a variety of up to three different brands. There is easily enough pâté and ginger for over a dozen crackers, so you end up eating a lot of it without the crackers. I'd have thought the crackers would be the cheapest ingredient and therefore the most plentiful item, but I guess not! Thinking about it, pâté is probably too exotic for pensioners used to two roast dinners a week and fish on Fridays. (A couple of years ago there was a takeaway five miles from here that was controversially named "Foreign Muck," a traditional English term for any food that would appear foreign to King Henry the Eighth.) They probably divide a slab of pâté between the three of us that want it and keep the crackers in the cupboard until pâté is back on the menu in a fortnight.</p><p>So I pleaded with the carer that told me they forgot me to ask a nurse to allow me to order something in, and she let me! Food delivery is something that's only been available to me in the last couple of years. The town I grew up in was home to about 11,000 people, with maybe the same again tucked away in villages and hamlets within a five mile radius. There were seven takeaways: two Chinese, two Indian, and three fish and chips. And those were proper traditional fish and chips, that didn't do pizza or kebabs. The only way to have a burger was to get one battered. We only ever ate from one Chinese or one fish and chip place, and only a handful of times over the course of a year. </p><p>None of these establishments offered delivery. Only the Indians and one fish 'n' chip place had a restaurant attached. I'd have thought hiring one lad on a moped on busy nights would have been a money maker, but I guess nobody else did. One man at the factory where my dad worked famously had a standing arrangement for a fish and chip shop to make his order and for a taxi to pick it up and take it to him. He essentially invented Uber Eats back in the 1980s!</p><p>The first time I ever had food delivered to me was when I was homeless living in sheltered accommodation. I actually wound up eating more than I wanted, because some unbelievable asshole would steal food from the freezers. It was a fair effort to get to a supermarket on my legs, and there was only a small fridge in my room, and the nearest supermarket had a lot of good, cheap, frozen food. We all had allocated space in the freezers, and some selfish dickhead was stealing from us, even though we all basically had nothing. I admit to stealing from a supermarket when I was squatting and penniless. I stole from my millionaire boss and the pockets of customers as I got less and less work. (I was a dry cleaner keeping forgotten cash left in suit pockets; I wasn't a sneak thief or a cutpurse!) I would never have stolen from the other homeless tenants. We all had enough problems. How would you sleep at night?</p><p>Anyway, when I moved into my temporary flat there were two choices for delivery: Dominos or a combination Pizza/Kebab/Burger place. The flat didn't have an oven or a stove or any means of cooking other than a microwave. Eventually I bought a stove-top oven but it wasn't big enough for pizza, so I'd order in once or twice a month. Other places delivered once COVID was bad enough to stop restaurants serving but good enough to allow contactless delivery. The trouble then was making sure they delivered during the fifteen or twenty minute window my evening carer was there. This usually wasn't an option.</p><p>I ordered in breakfast early on when I was staying here, after asking for permission from two carers, but was then told not to do it for COVID reasons by the manager. I don't really see the difference between ordering a pizza and ordering food and drink from Etsy or Amazon, or even accepting my mail for that matter. Still, them's the rules!</p><p>Pizza was on the menu one time here, in the evening. I ordered it, and got one lukewarm slice of gummy pizza with watery chicken and onion that had clearly been frozen. Just like the joke from Annie Hall, the food tastes dreadful and there isn't enough of it!</p><p>Well, today I ordered in, and it was the best thing I've eaten since last October. It was warmer than anything I've had within these four walls, though it must have travelled for at least ten minutes and the kitchen here is presumably in the same building. Even better than that was the feeling of control! Food when you're hungry, plus options when you're at the end of your rope? Better than an orgasm, no question!</p><p>I love Breaking Bad, but people who like the show and want to be like Walter White are nearly as bad as people who watch Rick & Morty and want to be like Rick. They're missing the point and ruining the perception of the fandom. That said, the one thing I do admire about Walter was his refusal to relinquish control, no matter how bad his health got. Mild spoiler warning for a show that ended eight years ago: Walt is at his absolute lowest in the penultimate episode, hiding away, paying for everything to be brought to him once a month, paying extra to pass time for an hour playing cards with a man he barely knows. When he lets the delivery man deal the cards we know he's given up. At the end of the episode, when we see he's decided to go full Heisenberg and formulate one final gambit, we know Walt's back, and we're going to be treated to a glorious swansong.</p><p>That's kind of how I'm feeling these days. I'm reliant on these pricks for so much. I need help getting food and excreting waste. I have no privacy. I'm offered a wash most days, but if I don't want to have a wash when it's offered I probably won't be asked again, so bad luck if I'm expecting the physiotherapist, or on the phone, or just too damn tired at that moment. Tough titties if you don't like the carer that comes to help you. I have little chance to take a stand, but when I do I take it!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVcUBzCoBoPOKpUWcEJea6HocQTiu4ANn_Jfq5mABpauTuTfRgKiLKl-Xf6gz-A_AYxyZvTk95S3LxgbHYBR8FAHlLdUPrMAoQcMAU7u2f0ppgmNFeHOuaWPQRsGizO35k4vWlJAp5n7d/s1500/12406635-5234734186243879.webp" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVcUBzCoBoPOKpUWcEJea6HocQTiu4ANn_Jfq5mABpauTuTfRgKiLKl-Xf6gz-A_AYxyZvTk95S3LxgbHYBR8FAHlLdUPrMAoQcMAU7u2f0ppgmNFeHOuaWPQRsGizO35k4vWlJAp5n7d/w400-h400/12406635-5234734186243879.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I bought this little bastard since moving in too, it cost twice as much as the hat and didn't even come boxed!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>So paying for my own Wi-Fi was worth it for the service, for the peace of mind not having to deal with the shitty, shitty, service the home offers, and so that I can make a case that the home aren't acting as they advertise. Getting decent hot food twice a month will do wonders for my mental health, the choice is it's own type of nourishment. The care home, the county I'm living in, and the county paying for my stay have all refused to pay for the special pillows I need to rehabilitate. My occupational therapist is petitioning both county councils, saying that by both denying me the equipment I need to heal they are denying me a fundamental human right. She's also contacting adult social care because the carers should be repositioning me once daily, separate to my wash, and that has never, ever happened, despite me apparently paying for four carers to do it!</p><p>I've been complaining to adult social care too, as I feel the home are not dealing with my hamster heart episodes properly. I feel that complaint and the repositioning issue have the best chance of getting some results. The other problems I have can be brought up when I've found someone to listen to me.</p><p>Oh yeah, and my main concern at the moment is financial. Like I said way back in February, I was receiving two benefits. One is the basic income the government thinks a person needs to live, the other is a separate benefit that should cover the level of care I need as a person with my level of disability. The second benefit was cut, as I now live in a care home and they should be caring for me. The council helps pay for care home costs according to your needs. Each benefit was roughly £600. When I moved in to the care home the council looked at my finances, and I agreed to pay £450 a month (not that I had a choice!). These are rounded figures, obviously. This gave me lots of money left over for things like snacks and cold drinks. I had money saved away, and still spent a nice chunk on books and pretty statues.</p><p>Little bit of politics: I know some people feel benefits should literally only cover the literal necessities to live, but I never asked for these amounts, these figures were calculated for me. Plus I always had my income tax taken from my paychecks and paid all my council tax, even for the property I was squatting in! (Okay, I was a little late on some of those, but I paid it as soon as my benefits were backpaid, ie, when I had the money to do so!) Plus so has everyone else in my family, and everyone else I know. I'm just the unlucky one who needs to take some of it back. I'd rather be earning the money with working legs and paying into the system, but this is the hand I've been dealt.</p><p>Well, in February the second benefit was cut. I was a little worried at the time, but I was told the situation would be sorted sometime between a couple of days and a couple of months, depending on how soon adult social care got information from the NHS and the care home about the lengths of my stays and the level of care I've been getting. Well, the care home took nearly four months to fill in the paperwork saying when I arrived here and what my package of care was. The form was sent to the home on the 6th of February and the home sent it back on the 27th of May. Four months. For some wanker here it was an extra bit of paperwork they kept putting off, but for me it's my incone. My livelihood. My life!</p><p>When I first went into hospital after becoming homeless I was given a big chunk of cash that put me well in the black, as my disability benefit was backpaid six months. I went from owing my bank £800 and having no access to funds to being £2,600 in the black! For a couple of weeks I was scared to spend it on anything more substantial than a meal deal and a bag of sweets from the hospital WH Smith! After a couple of weeks I got another benefit come in, and ended up replacing my low-end, second-hand laptop with a well-reviewed, value-for-money gaming laptop. My previous one I got a deal on because the case was so banged up, it was great for browsing and watching downloaded movies but not good for games from this decade. It cost £175, £25 less than the same model in a presentable case. This one was also knocked down, plus it was refurbished, and still cost £1,475!</p><p>I felt obscene buying for it, like I was doing something dirty, but I figure this one will last, and will still be able to run anything I'm likely to want for years. It's the Vimes Boots Theory of Economics (rich people accumulate wealth because they can afford good stuff and therefore pay less overall; a rich bugger will spend £200 on a pair of boots that will last a lifetime, whilst in the same time a poor bastard will spend £500 buying £10 boots one after the other, and still be the one with wet feet!), and has generally been a dream and is as good today as when I bought it, whilst the previous model was almost dead when I stopped using it. Plus, I felt like I deserved a treat after being homeless for three months and then spending fifty-plus days in hospital!</p><p>The one thing I didn't want to do since leaving hospital with that money was to join the 80% of British people currently living with some kind of debt. Well, that happened three weeks ago when my beloved laptop wouldn't restart after a Windows update. I handed over a £20 note to an IT repair guy, and put £40 on my card. Without that second benefit I'm doomed to keep yo-yoing in and out of the red, unless I give up any and all luxuries not offered by the care home; e.g. a cold drink that isn't water, food between 5pm and 8.30am, or Wi-Fi I can depend on.</p><p>That's us mostly caught up to date! I need to get back in the swing of things on r/DirtyPenPals. I'm still roleplaying with the trans adult baby girl I apparently never gave a nickname to, and will henceforth be known as Snowball! Not for the sexual act, but as an homage to her favourite stuffed animal! I very much enjoy playing as her caregivers, but our activities are decidedly wholesome. We've spent a fortnight roleplaying a vacation scenario and I value her as a friend, but she's more like a kid or a relative than a sexual woman. It's great making her happy, she has the best reactions to stuff and there's never any head games with her. She reminds me of some of the volunteers I worked with back when I worked in a charity shop, and she also reminds me of shit I'd completely forgotten from my childhood. Plus I get to do stuff you normally need kids for, like telling dad jokes and ancient stories, and looking in rockpools and searching for mermaid's purses at the beach.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAj6B9eCJZJPLzUFGN97EoEc6OkZwFXX2pZLf4BbNbTvsaP-F_W2B49qeBhgmSER9Sw0FDiDYTFBe7G2wvTeJ99J82U0tozJF03chZ2l7Oiy_2ZGvZiXUP69z0yEmrPyEc-nQmp9xMYdSj/s1600/DSC_0127_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="915" data-original-width="1600" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAj6B9eCJZJPLzUFGN97EoEc6OkZwFXX2pZLf4BbNbTvsaP-F_W2B49qeBhgmSER9Sw0FDiDYTFBe7G2wvTeJ99J82U0tozJF03chZ2l7Oiy_2ZGvZiXUP69z0yEmrPyEc-nQmp9xMYdSj/w400-h229/DSC_0127_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A mermaid's purse, washed ashore. Where else would she keep her waterproof mascara?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Things kind of grew stagnant with Babycakes. I want to reach out to her again, because she's whip-smart and seems to appreciate my sense of humour, but she is way too passive and not only goes along with everything I say, but pretty much refuses to tell me anything about her personal life or contribute towards a narrative. She seemed at her absolute happiest laying on the sofa next to me, locked in an over-used diaper, being force-fed until she was supernaturally fat and unable to move. And I get how that could seem like a fantasy for some people - I know there were people who saw Wall-E and thought life on the spaceship could be pretty sweet, actually - but it's way too close to my real life to qualify as escapism or erotica for me! I literally don't know how to move the roleplay on and give her what she wants. Maybe she's looking for more of an authority figure, someone to take her firmly in hand, but she genuinely doesn't seem to care what happens to her, as long as I'm happy. But I don't want to push around a rag doll that'll thank me for treating it however I like. I need to write to her and figure out how to resolve it.</p><p>Dear old Strict Julie posted her idea of "<a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/07/what-is-ultimate-humiliation.html?zx=99a6d467ad70fb4e" target="_blank">The Ultimate Humiliation</a>" over on her blog. As she is fond of saying, your mileage may vary! Well, when I think of humiliation, I think of my old pal Stinky Lips. It's been over a month since I've told her I'd like to write up and publish our encounter, and they say silence is consent, so fuck it, why not? I'm definitely overdue posting something depraved, and by the gods she was good for that! Whilst there were aspects of her humiliation I very much enjoyed, there were parts where I was just trying to see just how much kinky shit this sponge could soak up! The trouble was that she was all gas and no brakes; I loved putting her in awkward situations, but she would suddenly take the controls and go from third gear to fifth with no finesse, and then hand back the wheel when we'd already reached a destination. That's probably a terrible metaphor, but the takeaway is dirty, dirty story coming soon!</p><p>One final humiliation of my own, which reiterates just how bad this place can be: I've mentioned in passing that my toilet will often block. I hear that heroin users struggle with using the bathroom. I take morphine daily, which is the closest government sanctioned thing to smack, though not as potent or, from what I can tell, fun! Still, I do deal with constipation, and only shit two or three times a week. When I do go I use a bedpan, and whilst I've never looked directly into one after using it, as far as I can tell I'm essentially pushing a big, solid, lump of shit into a confined space, and essentially create a thick, unflushable, turd. This will almost invariably block the toilet when the carers deal with it. Apparently there's a sluice in the building, and some of the carers have started bagging up my shit and disposing of it that way, rather than blocking the toilet every time. Why it took nine months for somebody to formulate this plan I have no idea. I also have no idea how far the sluice is from my room. Anyway, last week Jane, the miserable, heartless, buzzkill of a cleaner I've written about before came to have a moan at me after unblocking my loo.</p><p>"When you have a poo can you tell them to bag it up and take t to the sluice? It's not my job to sort this out," she asked.</p><p>"No," I replied. "You're going to have to make a sign." I've long since got used to the indignity of needing to use a bedpan, to have my ass wiped, to have my shit taken away and disposed of. It's embarrassing but necessary. No fucking way am I going to start instructing the carers how to handle my waste! The way I see it, it's the home's responsibility to take that shit and dispose of it hygenically. Once it's out of my arse, it's out of my hands!</p><p>Word is spreading. I overheard one carer tell one of the best carers, Sophie, that Jane said she shouldn't have put my shit in the toilet but should have taken it to the sluice. Sophie's response? "I don't care, the home should buy some fucking working toilets." My sentiments exactly!</p><p>Well, as usual I've shared more than I expected. Now my laptop is running it'll be much easier to write up my encounter with Stinky Lips. I hope she might even answer some questions about the story, but I haven't heard from her yet, so no promises! Let me know if you begrudge me my benefits, feel I should do Jane a solid after eliminating my solids, or if your own waste matter has been criticised. Strict Julie tells me her piss is sweet smelling and that her husband says it tastes sweet too, I say she can't convince me for a second that she hasn't drunk at least a little of it herself. Probably unprompted, probably in private. Was that a rude thing to say? I don't seem able to tell these days!</p><p>Peace!</p><p>✌ 🌈💰🍀</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpqeExgXl5y86fNsTdfupgD1y_TdLk719ok5zgRHuaVgP6avPjJFvie7fDt_HslkobgQypOajDZ0Zj4dHRNOThXkfkV3J8TMokDd84IrTAS5Mh2Yij9oIP9gLMPn-MIJaujGIgJnmgBQ9/s1920/wp2354614.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1920" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpqeExgXl5y86fNsTdfupgD1y_TdLk719ok5zgRHuaVgP6avPjJFvie7fDt_HslkobgQypOajDZ0Zj4dHRNOThXkfkV3J8TMokDd84IrTAS5Mh2Yij9oIP9gLMPn-MIJaujGIgJnmgBQ9/w400-h250/wp2354614.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>P.S. I decided to check my analytics, something I rarely do, but I was curious as to how my absence has affected my Functionistas. Well, it turns out that Wednesday was one of the most popular days ever for my blog, with page views I've only experienced when referred to by Strict Julie. Naturally I assumed I'd been linked to again, but apparently they're all coming from Sweden, from people using the Firefox browser on a Macintosh computer. They've clicked on 19 of my 51 published blogs, mainly on Wednesday but a fair amount yesterday as well! If you are my Swedish superfan please drop me a line! If it helps I absolutely adored the television program Kärlek och anarki! Let's be friends!<p>Fred!</p><p>✌</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-13952923644126531072021-06-10T22:49:00.001+00:002021-06-10T23:51:21.432+00:00PASS THE TISSUES; WE ALL HAVE PARENT ISSUES<p> Hello Malpals! Recently Julie of Strict Julie Spanks <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/06/daddy-issues.html#comment-form" target="_blank">wrote a post</a> touching on some of her daddy issues, and Lion of the Male Chastity Journal posted his thoughts on mommy/daddy issues <a href="https://www.malechastityjournal.com/2021/06/07/ill-be-the-daddy-and-you-be-the-mommy/" target="_blank">on his own blog</a>. As today is my mum's birthday I thought I could share a little of my own thoughts on the topic.</p><p>First, an update on my health situation. I haven't gained or lost any body parts since my last post. The parts I have remained more or less the same size, save for one vital organ; I was feeling very horny after sleeping for the best part of five days! I've heard the orgasm referred to as "la petite mort," or "little death." The term generally refers to the brief feeling of euphoria and weakening of consciousness that we experience after cumming. I've also heard of the phrase being linked with the shame you can feel after achieving orgasm. I used to feel that, sometimes, in my late teens and early twenties (as I've said before, I was a very late starter!). Professional downer Arthur Schopenhauer said "directly after copulation the devil's laughter is heard." It's probably worth noting that the syphilitic misery-guts was shagging a 19 year old dancer when he was in his mid-thirties, so your mileage may vary!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoWCOD5iu4M385WPNtoeJHNu1s9ofS7nvhKQdYxwQUnNiLi9_Vc_cE1p68veHwvdHZN3MOkMrhbVbIQceAhu-FC4WL-UD_L_zoO4zeLALAfn_ELfRxj1HyBiYPHhysv6fDAn9h8v5wtgE/s1464/Arthur_Schopenhauer_by_J_Sch%25C3%25A4fer%252C_1859b.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1464" data-original-width="1280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoWCOD5iu4M385WPNtoeJHNu1s9ofS7nvhKQdYxwQUnNiLi9_Vc_cE1p68veHwvdHZN3MOkMrhbVbIQceAhu-FC4WL-UD_L_zoO4zeLALAfn_ELfRxj1HyBiYPHhysv6fDAn9h8v5wtgE/w350-h400/Arthur_Schopenhauer_by_J_Sch%25C3%25A4fer%252C_1859b.jpg" width="350" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Arthur Schopenhauer, notable grouch and creator of the Hedgehog's Dilemma<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>For me it has a different connotation; sometimes I orgasm and it's fine, if a little anto-climactic, for want of a better term. Other times it will feel like all the oxygen has left my lungs and I'm left gasping for breath. I sometimes put on my CPAP machine before tossing one off; other times I find myself scrambling for it afterwards. It's concerning, but not enough to stop me from jacking it. I may be smart in some ways, but I still let my stupid animal brain do a lot of the driving. I've definitely had a couple of the latter type of climax early this week, but sometimes you just have to crank one out, you know?<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>As I was saying, the only thing that's changed medically is that the weird blemish on my chest has burst again, expelling blood and clear discharge. The last time this happened the nurse on duty applied a dressing to it. Simple fix! This time, Sue was on duty. I've mentioned before that I consider her to be lazy and uninterested, bordering on negligent. She said it would be best for the fresh air to get to it, and that a dressing would only serve to hold the bacteria in place. I'm no medic, but I'd have thought an open wound, however small, would be better dressed, especially on a patient who is taking blood thinners. Maybe an anti-bacterial cream could be used if not a dressing? Some sort of action? But she's the medical professional, what can I do? Besides report her and the home to adult social care services, which, guess what, I'm trying to do, though they don't make it easy!</p><p>Also worth noting; my occupational therapist took away the fancy support pillows she had lent me! They've made a huge difference to my posture, and she is going to find a way for me to get to use some somehow. She's also very displeased with the level of care the home are providing, and has been making waves behind the scenes, apparently! She seems like a good ally; between us I'll soon be back on my feet, kicking ass and taking names! Well, that's what I'm hoping, anyway!</p><p>Anyway, back to my mother and her birthday! I've read that gift giving is some people's "love language," and I think I've written before that I think it's one of mine. My parents are hard to shop for; they're not drinkers or collectors and they've dabbled a lot in specific hobbies but it's tough to know what they'll enjoy. I used to be good at finding DVDs for movies and TV shows I thought they'd enjoy, but Dad downloads everything for them now.</p><p>We play a lot of board games, and my mum really enjoys the Fast & Furious movies, as every right thinking person should. So I was delighted to find out that there was a Fast & Furious board game available in the US but not over here, so I can surprise her with that on her next visit on Monday.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLugkc1IZ7mNQgnSIzil9sL4exW-MNoO4krSpfjuu0-69b-yvpD-w0qcLAOQFjqmnT6GmrBY_pdo9PAEv7hGjX9PV5SWIquuqXIIckmoFUoxbLJ01AiWJ80CEuLYtYGgX6DiLO3AEg65v/s630/pic6003645.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="629" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLugkc1IZ7mNQgnSIzil9sL4exW-MNoO4krSpfjuu0-69b-yvpD-w0qcLAOQFjqmnT6GmrBY_pdo9PAEv7hGjX9PV5SWIquuqXIIckmoFUoxbLJ01AiWJ80CEuLYtYGgX6DiLO3AEg65v/w399-h400/pic6003645.png" width="399" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Looks to be just as exhilarating as the movies!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The game sounds simple enough to have fun with, and is cooperative, which is a plus too. There are three modes of play, but basically you're trying to complete an objective before your playing pieces reach the end of the board. The drivers can climb out of their vehicles and leap from roof to roof. Reviews say it does a good job of capturing the dumb excitement of the movies' signature road wars, so that's good!</div><div><br /></div><div>I also bought a wood-effect elephant that can go in my parents' garden; they've been buying a lot of garden decorations and she likes elephants. One Mother's Day I bought her a figure of two elephants whose trunks intertwined to make a heart. Another time I sponsored an elephant in her name for a year at a local zoo. The elephant I got her this time looks like this:<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1F2-Fjs4-Yxkf_iveDYUbH6Z8JYnh93pnmOgfqzHqtVvfD8gdldd65CH3durc6YaIYggPZW4zVP2E7ICdJ1gE386VKy0Ie0k6OP34ZkOF3gEWu8O_2hFdvxEwQmgRLyu5bPvvMZpqnUU/s794/il_794xN.2185135412_kawi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="794" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY1F2-Fjs4-Yxkf_iveDYUbH6Z8JYnh93pnmOgfqzHqtVvfD8gdldd65CH3durc6YaIYggPZW4zVP2E7ICdJ1gE386VKy0Ie0k6OP34ZkOF3gEWu8O_2hFdvxEwQmgRLyu5bPvvMZpqnUU/w400-h300/il_794xN.2185135412_kawi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">What animal is grey with four legs, big ears and a trunk? A mouse going on holiday!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>It isn't especially large, but they have a relatively small garden. I think she'll like it!</p><p>I also e-mailed a voucher for her and my dad to spend two hours axe-throwing at an indoor range near where they live. It's an early Father's Day gift as well. They both used to do a lot of field archery, and it's something they've never done before. They both sounded pretty pleased when they saw it (I was on the phone with them as Mum read the e-mail).</p><p>We have a pretty chill relationship now that we live separately and I've bottomed out of regular society. It wasn't always that way. I've mentioned before that I was ridiculously scared of letting my parents, and especially my mother, down in any way. I stuck with activities I derived no pleasure on for years because I didn't want to seem ungrateful or ill-mannered. I never seemed to be doing well enough in school, despite getting high grades and embarrassingly glowing reports from virtually every teacher.</p><p>Looking back on my childhood it always feels cold. I spent a lot of time reading, and a lot of time frustrated that I couldn't communicate with my parents, or that I didn't feel listened to. My parents both came from fairly large families; and my dad was actually adopted, so maybe that has something to do with it. I remember being in my early twenties and queuing with my parents to see a play at a theatre out of town. Some woman waved at my dad and said hello, he returned the greeting. My mum pointed at the group they were with and told me they were dad's "real family." I think I must have looked suitably flummoxed as she went on to ask "You did know he was adopted, didn't you?" I didn't ! As I write this I realise my brother might still not know. So yeah, our family was close, but it always felt kind of superficial.</p><p>Neither of my parents really took an interest in any sort of love life or interest in the fairer sex I had beyond teasing me about my first (and near enough only!) girlfriend, when I was five. I have a vague memory of them being annoyed that I'd written, but never sent, a love letter to a girl in the year above when I was eleven or so. They didn't understand why I'd keep those feelings to myself. Years later there was a blow up when my dad thought I'd been looking at porn on the family computer. Some time over the summer after I cut myself at university (or rather, just adjacent to it!) Mum told me a distant uncle (he lived in the same town, we just never really talked!) asked if I was gay after they told them about my mental health breakdown. She told me "We told him you weren't, as far as we knew....?" I reassured her I wasn't. I didn't tell her I was psychologically unequipped to handle any real female intimacy either. Probably still am!</p><p>All of this is to say; when I first started looking at pornography, as I've said before, it was an extension of reading true accounts of humiliation that I'd read about online. I sought out images and videos of women being spanked, or gunged, or diapered. I also watched a lot of jerk off instruction/encouragement videos. None of these videos were ever particularly graphic or featured vaginal penetration. Any that did I'd stop watching! A lot of the JOI/JOE videos featured roleplay where the woman would pretend to be in a power position: your boss, teacher, babysitter, or, yes, even your mom! One of my favourite diaper models, Pampered Penny, gradually switched from mainly being diapered or diapering other pretty young women, to instruction/encouragement/humiliation videos, where she would address the camera directly, gently but firmly making the viewer do all sorts of humiliating things, often involving diapers, but not always. She now ruby updates two distinct clips4sale studios, one focused on diaper play, one focused on other taboo subjects, often Mommy-dom!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVznKD8lDZHO4TSlv-xF8ScoMFAGcsNXPEHG_NZldGA_b8nEqLoQcNY-9lfw6yFdFST8bxU0f7Und1EemTZskewq0R9TJpTTWhL-hE9McqEgfvTIz1sfED8ny17G2KmmcPF2q0GedwsAeJ/s510/hrkjyxmwjhrfmxjk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="338" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVznKD8lDZHO4TSlv-xF8ScoMFAGcsNXPEHG_NZldGA_b8nEqLoQcNY-9lfw6yFdFST8bxU0f7Und1EemTZskewq0R9TJpTTWhL-hE9McqEgfvTIz1sfED8ny17G2KmmcPF2q0GedwsAeJ/w265-h400/hrkjyxmwjhrfmxjk.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Uh oh, Mommy's looking pissed!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>So yeah, the concept of a hot "mommy" figure taking an interest in a guy's sex life, to the point of forcing him to jack off, or look at her naked, or any number of variants on the theme is appealing to me. It's hot to see a powerful woman give a shit about this stuff. However, I have no sexual feelings towards my actual mother, or any desire to do any of the humiliating shit prescribed in these videos in real life. I think it's precisely BECAUSE I don't have the desire that these videos appeal. Another excellent virtual mommy is Mistress T, who has a whole load of videos in which she humiliates her worthless, small-penis, premature-ejaculator of a son, coaching him exactly how to jerk off. I don't feel like these labels apply to me, but it's nice to think about this woman taking control, and knowing there are guys who really want to please her as she instructs.</p><p>I get that it's a weird thing to fixate on, but I have no desire to actually BE the target of these confident, sexual women's attention. If anything I'd love to be the one who humiliates them back; Penny is excellent in this regard, when she commits to being humiliated she really commits! And there's nothing I like more than seeing a domme get a taste of her own medicine.</p><p>I do like the idea of being a daddy-dom. When I watch a video of one woman humiliating or punishing another, I always want to take the place of the top, and judge their performance by the reactions of the bottom and the chemistry they share. Way back on my second post I mentioned Mommydom and Strict Julie commented:</p></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #38761d;">While not a strict Freudian, I think a lot of sexual feelings come from Mummy for the boys and Daddy for the girls. But I think you've mislead me, young man, into thinking you are less of a sub than you actually are, and would only reluctantly, to please me really, come across my knee. Naughty, naughty.</span></p></div></blockquote><div><p>She was wrong, as she often is (just read any of the comments on her political thinkpieces for proof!), but I saw why she could come to that conclusion, especially given how she expects men to bend to her will! I briefly surmised what I elaborated on here, and she apologised for mis-kinking me. She's the best!</p><p>So that's my take on faux-mommies; don't want one, but like the sexy women who know what they want and are prepared to take control. So what of daddies?</p><p>Well, I certainly don't want one, but would I want to be one? Well, yeah, absolutely, for the right girl (or girls!)! I'm not a fan of adult babies, but there is something very sexy about being a quasi-caretaker, especially for a girl who doesn't mind being humiliated or objectified a little. A grown woman acting like a baby is not sexy to me. But a grown woman made to take interest in childish things? Yes please! My best example of this to hand is <a href="https://tankertonlatch.blogspot.com/2021/04/strict-julie-humiliated-by-husband.html" target="_blank">my story I wrote for Julie</a> wherein she agrees to learn the recorder to please her husband. It remains very popular, relatively speaking. I find nothing arousing about a grown woman wanting to learn the recorder, and practicing it every day for a month enthusiastically of her own volition. I'd go so far as to say it would be something of a turn -off! The humiliation and reluctance is what does it for me.</p><p>Ironically, at this point I have two long-running playmates on r/DirtyPenPals. I'm a daddy of sorts to both of them. One of them calls me Daddy, the other calls me Tanks, but in our scenes they are both pretty much dependent on me to look after them. I've never gone further with either of them than a magic wand stimulating them through their diapers. Neither of them seem that bothered. Neither am I. I find other ways to indulge and entertain them. I'm almost profoundly lonely, and imagining snuggling up to a smart, funny woman on the couch or pretending to arrange a birthday party for a friendly and grateful AB is the closest thing I have to friendship outside of the mutual interest we have for each other in our little blogosphere here.</p><p>Fair warning, though: if I ever do track down that elusive Ms Right then all bets are off!</p><p>Peace!</p><p>✌ 🌈💰🍀</p></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-64857728592127173782021-06-07T19:27:00.001+00:002021-06-07T20:28:24.442+00:00WHO HAS NINE TOENAILS AND TWO THUMBS?<p>This guy! 👍👍</p><p>I've been having an ingrown toenail treated every week since November. One of the few advantages of being here rather than the flat is that a podiatrist visits once a week. This is great - pre-COVID I was paying for a chiropodist to come cut my toenails every so often, but COVID put a stop to that! When I first moved in my nails hadn't been cut in about a year. The toenail on the big toe of my right foot has been ingrown at least since then. My toenail on my left foot basically fell off in hospital in early 2019, when I was still just about moving around.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrF1OmzL482tjME70OIO2cr0HdVV3bTrcTlYLiAxGAhqgokBmUcYU95y3MUj6fqD3CPQtiFJYp7tC9Z_-m-B7zJZYHyRFPnlWi9kkOCzlP-yb24_drSx9L5y0cO4HWH4iuOzOX0r9MjBza/s640/Mistress-T--Feet-3007285.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrF1OmzL482tjME70OIO2cr0HdVV3bTrcTlYLiAxGAhqgokBmUcYU95y3MUj6fqD3CPQtiFJYp7tC9Z_-m-B7zJZYHyRFPnlWi9kkOCzlP-yb24_drSx9L5y0cO4HWH4iuOzOX0r9MjBza/w400-h300/Mistress-T--Feet-3007285.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Warning: These are not my feet! They are Mistress T's. Photos of my disgusting feet ahead!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I knew the podiatrists were planning on removing it rather than visiting me every week to look at it and dress it. I didn't know it would be today! I wasn't too worried, though I had to sign paperwork acknowledging I could go into anaphylactic shock and die. Mainly the worst part was spending twenty minutes listening to the two guys talking about their golf handicaps whilst waiting for the local anaesthetic to kick in!</p><p>I haven't mentioned the toenail before because it honestly never occurred to me, so low down is it on my list of concerns. In fact, since coming from hospital three weeks ago, I've had a doctor talk with me about:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Blood in my urine.</li><li>A weird skin thing on my back that keeps bleeding; I've been told the NHS views it as cosmetic and won't treat it as it's not in a place that'll stop me getting work. It'll cost £560 to get it removed. I don't care about it and wouldn't have known about it if I wasn't told about it.</li><li>Low blood pressure, diagnosed at the hospital but not chased up because this shitty, shitty care home doesn't have a blood pressure monitor. They're £20.</li><li>A weird skin thing on my chest that feels like a blister with a ball bearing inside. A nurse here swabbed the discharge and sent it off, but I haven't heard back yet.</li><li>Serious fatigue. I slept all day and night Thursday, Saturday and Sunday. I fell asleep a few times today. I'm tired right now. I don't know why!</li></ul><div>It's the tiredness that's bugging me the most. My CPAP machine for my sleep apnoea was like unlocking a cheat code that allowed me to sleep for half the time, wake up feeling refreshed, and stay alert all day. The difference was incredible! Now that I've had my beard shaved and my hair cut it's working better than ever; I should be full of beans! But I guess I'm still fighting my infections.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm aware that I've been letting this blog slide. I had a pretty good streak going of keeping it updated at least every other day. I updated it from hospital. It's easier to record positive events, and I worry about crossing the line from being sardonic and self deprecating and making light of my misfortunes, to just straight up complaining and whinging and generally being a bummer. Most of all I want to write something really sexy, or at least sexual; something very unwholesome. It's hard to write sexy when you feel gross.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last Monday my mother took a photo of my legs and e-mailed them to me! I didn't want to see them, she just did it without asking. I tend to keep my mind busy with other things. Well, I had to look at them, and now you do to!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxuNx4aK92r26tQLwVqmSeKK6MxK5-q5ZeYTSSo7eCP77WesQcw0b2g9iywkhEOCsk4xz1PiwksFw2TUM1usWpX_dcatamMyRWTQV-LNApbymgfosmajsyLMxBY2S4Bv8uUFiLhkIGkBk/s2643/20210531_140821.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1189" data-original-width="2643" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFxuNx4aK92r26tQLwVqmSeKK6MxK5-q5ZeYTSSo7eCP77WesQcw0b2g9iywkhEOCsk4xz1PiwksFw2TUM1usWpX_dcatamMyRWTQV-LNApbymgfosmajsyLMxBY2S4Bv8uUFiLhkIGkBk/w400-h180/20210531_140821.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Worse photos ahead!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>The box on my bed is a present for my mum, more on that on Thursday. My right leg looks mostly normal, just a little red! The skin on the left has been awful for about eight years; since the first time I got cellulitis and developed golf-ball sized blisters! The swelling really isn't as bad as it has been, and is mostly at the back of the leg. I'll be up on these gams in no time, all being well! I'm glad she did take the photos, because it inspired me to take a look at some older ones, and I was amazed at the difference. More on that laater!</div><div><br /></div><div>The tubigrip gathered ineffectually around the centre of my right foot is supposed to keep the dressing on my right toe in place. God knows how many carers would have seen it like that and ignored it! I really try to give this place a fair shake, and refrain from cynical hostility. I don't think anyone on the staff here is bad, but there's a lot of people who are jaded and they're all overworked. The woman who's been in the room next to me for the past couple of weeks won't ring the call bell; she'll just shout for help over and over again. Sometimes the staff shout at her. I get it; it must be difficult helping some our biddy get dressed or help some old duffer to the toilet whilst this woman's screaming for you. I admire her lung power! Obviously the concern is if she does fall nobody will come running.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sent my housing officer an email a couple of weeks ago outlining four major concerns I've had since getting back from hospital. I mentioned that I've been paying for four carers but only ever had one or two, that my hamster heart (SVT) episodes weren't treated as emergencies, that the home doesn't have equipment as basic as a blood pressure cuff, and that I'm having to pay for Wi-Fi because the home manager hasn't got the passwords to the networks they provide. He agreed these were serious issues and that he would pass the complaints on to the council. So that's good news too.</div><div><br /></div><div>I decided to post an old photo my mum took of my legs for comparison. This photo was taken in 2017. I was working six days a week on these getaway sticks! The lymphoedema nurse didn't understand how I was staying upright on them all day! There were no chairs in my dry cleaners; I would walk about five blocks and down a flight of steps to a bench to have lunch. They would balloon up even more (as would my abdomen and penis!) the Christmas of the following year.</div><div><br /></div><div>You are under no obligation to read any further! The next photos are included only for the morbidly curious and for comparison against my current, relatively healthy legs. Thanks for making it this far, there is no shame in stopping here!</div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: red;">I'm not to blame if you don't like what you see from here on out!</span></b></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, you asked for it! Here are the photos you wanted!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNym5DEpj2WwkgU1PjrnS9PnFpAMzKtrTsBUXKEMi7tcsUq194U0ogXcQiXXnHOPBvs3wNbsv4aA6Mw7nO_ofRIyjOz1p3RbFx1JBoDkJ0ugpSSlb7WGbmiLT2uVZftHWkRtxE21GryVl/s2048/20171115_165023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsNym5DEpj2WwkgU1PjrnS9PnFpAMzKtrTsBUXKEMi7tcsUq194U0ogXcQiXXnHOPBvs3wNbsv4aA6Mw7nO_ofRIyjOz1p3RbFx1JBoDkJ0ugpSSlb7WGbmiLT2uVZftHWkRtxE21GryVl/s320/20171115_165023.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrawKCJ0UUNv2KxdMx4C4uW_HvCIU_uWJIytr6-5dD1vZ5h49f185tPn9vSVehO67_67PJIjGgP2RMnCpi5WILLNdUweRtOV81yp277FAtbvKcZ4gfBTJHzVnD_foK99ZmPOqCIp5ENB1/s1328/20171101_170447_resized.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="747" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrawKCJ0UUNv2KxdMx4C4uW_HvCIU_uWJIytr6-5dD1vZ5h49f185tPn9vSVehO67_67PJIjGgP2RMnCpi5WILLNdUweRtOV81yp277FAtbvKcZ4gfBTJHzVnD_foK99ZmPOqCIp5ENB1/s320/20171101_170447_resized.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSQbefb5mVCkEgBz2ssPAwfFAQxYvhpKQsgTsL91ugq2DY8DtX0eLL73yOL3GtAuwhMwPXhS7gqLGl_YUd_j7CHmjIGUfYFdOv6vOWo7fdb8RpoM_yIYGj23OAATR4zLHQXx9-KPOhFWv/s1328/20171009_171125_resized.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="747" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSQbefb5mVCkEgBz2ssPAwfFAQxYvhpKQsgTsL91ugq2DY8DtX0eLL73yOL3GtAuwhMwPXhS7gqLGl_YUd_j7CHmjIGUfYFdOv6vOWo7fdb8RpoM_yIYGj23OAATR4zLHQXx9-KPOhFWv/s320/20171009_171125_resized.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>Pretty grotesque, right! In the second photo you can see that I had started treatment for them and they were being wrapped in compression bandages; that's why the skin juts out like that, a bandage had been holding it in place. You can also see how my feet wouldn't fit into my shoes and I'd stand on the backs of them. That white and yellow gunk on my legs wasn't from the dressings; it was dead skin! And the bottom photo shows you how wet my left foot would get soaking in discharge that would leak down my leg and pool in my shoe.</div><div><br /></div><div>What's weird about these photos is that they weren't taken on a particularly good or bad day; my legs stayed this way for about two years and have slowly been getting better since.</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I think that covers me. I'm feeling kind of spent, but I've been worse, and am sure I'll keep getting better. Thanks for sticking with me. You beautiful weirdos who read this are the best!</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace!</div><div><br /></div><div>✌ 🌈💰🍀</div><p></p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-54549926700881254722021-05-26T07:21:00.005+00:002021-06-07T20:23:21.496+00:00🎶 OWNER OF A HAMSTER HEART 🎶<p>Much better than the owner of a lonely heart...</p><p>Hi guys! Sorry about the unprecedented amount of time between posts. The Wi-Fi has been prohibitively slow since getting back from hospital. I've actually bought my own mobile broadband router and am waiting for a SIM card to arrive. If you're thinking of buying mobile broadband from an internet service provider, this seems a lot more affordable than essentially renting a hub or a dongle from your ISP, and you can pay as you go rather than locking into a contract. The only catch is that I don't get great signal on my regular phone hear, but it looks like the new provider should have me covered. I'm expecting the SIM tomorrow, so look forward to more regular updates!</p><p>I've been waiting to share an excerpt from the exchange I have going with my friend and online playmate Babycakes. We met through r/DirtyPenPals and she is a constant delight! The <span style="font-family: inherit;">question was:</span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;">Imagine you were offered a deal, some time in your past, with no memory of having made it. A sacrifice for a boon. The sacrifice was your physical health and mobility, all the problems you know all too well.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;">What was the boon worth that sacrifice?</span></p></blockquote><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1b; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">Heavy stuff! I answered as quickly and honestly as I could, and I want to share my answer here because it concerns you guys, the readers of my little blog! Here's what I came up with:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">The knowledge that I could still be relatively happy and keep my sense of humour despite it all. As a kid I was terrified of anything going wrong medically. When I was a child I used to scurry out the room when the theme tune to Casualty started! I fainted after being given injections at school. I got so used to being pricked in hospital that I would basically sleep through it! I even jabbed myself in the stomach at home twice a day for a fortnight. The idea of being homeless terrified me so much I tried to kill myself rather than deal with it. Now it's just a technicality, I never had to rough it on the streets.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">I know I complain a lot on my blog, but I like to think I mostly do it in a sardonic fashion. If you took everyone in the privileged first world and measured how well they responded to waking up bedbound with ants crawling on them I think I would handle it way better than most; like, in the top ten percent of reactions. Maybe a little too zen, now that I'm seeing an occupational therapist I'm going to have to insist the home help me out a bit more.<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">I've even been able to drop some long term sexual baggage that's weighed me down for decades. There's no way I could snuggle up to you on a sofa like this and be 100% honest even a year ago. The ability to admit that I would like some kind of human interaction, the idea that I am on some level a sexual being with sexual desires; albeit a broken one, and the concept that there's some part of me a partner might find desirable - these are a!l new things to me! So I guess my evolution was the result of my sacrifice and the new perspective was the boon.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;">Heavy question to wake up to! But know that, and I know this is also the cheeseball answer though I mean it in all sincerity, you are a definite perk to my condition. I very much doubt we'd have ever met if I was still living in my damp, dark flat in my hometown, working forty hours a week as a dry cleaner and viewing my boss and colleagues as a substitute for family and friends. So you're not the boon itself, which I think would have been the slick rom-com answer, but you are definitely a very positive by-product. I don't know if I'm expressing myself as well as I could here, but I hope you take some happiness from that!</span></p></blockquote><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1b; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">The same goes for you, my Mal-Pals! I don't think I'd have been able to write as frankly and introspectively and, let's be honest, self-indulgently had I started this blog a year ago. I don't write this hoping to gain followers, and I think the erratic nature of the content reflects that, but it's nice to feel heard nevertheless! So I thought I'd take the opportunity to let you know how grateful I am for your interest in my ramblings, rants, and "tangled musings!" Thank you.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1b; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">I saw an occupational therapist today, the second time I've seen one since being here! She's left some fancy cushions to help me position better in bed. This evening has been the closest I've come to sitting out in a chair since COVID hit. This is extremely good news! I sent an e-mail to the OT last Friday; concerned that the staff here haven't been following her instructions, and that I doubt they'll have the time to help with bed exercises and manual handling going forward. She reviewed my care plan and it seems that I, with assistance from the council, have been paying for four carers to look after me and have only been getting one or wo! This place really doesn't run as advertised, and I'm starting to lose my patience!</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1b; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">Tonight I had an extremely mild case of supraventricular tachycardia, a condition I'm going to start referring to as Hamster Heart, as it means my heart can decide to beat at 275bpm!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZR-yXhdfmkhgOUBtc24_m5syeJ0uif9XdqSYWXG2GcyiXG8IgkKIsMu5Hm1xqUs7CRH6gVNOJW0MZSrWn6HtHwxdWpM9WZSveOAEhMI9Xhnc7Swu27pWudxBtXRT-0JutT43Kwk0uDub/s1076/Polish_20210526_044343898.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="312" data-original-width="1076" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQZR-yXhdfmkhgOUBtc24_m5syeJ0uif9XdqSYWXG2GcyiXG8IgkKIsMu5Hm1xqUs7CRH6gVNOJW0MZSrWn6HtHwxdWpM9WZSveOAEhMI9Xhnc7Swu27pWudxBtXRT-0JutT43Kwk0uDub/w400-h116/Polish_20210526_044343898.png" width="400" /></a></div><div>I woke up at 2.30am and recognised the symptoms. This is my 7th or 8th time having it, I know what I'm talking about! I had a weird feeling in my throat and got light headed. I rang the bell and told the girl I needed the nurse. Another girl came and I told her to ring the emergency bell. She didn't, telling me the first girl was already getting the nurse. The first girl came back. I told her to ring the alarm, she told me she wouldn't because the nurse was on her way. I told them to being my empty syringe from the bathroom. They couldn't find it at first, but did bring it once the nurse came.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had tilted the bed and breathed in the manner I've been instructed to when a hamster heart episode strikes, and it passed. The girls didn't understand what I was doing and kept telling me to calm down. This was frustrating, I wasn't in a state of shock, but I was trying to convey how potentially serious the condition is. I've needed treatment in hospital for it, and once was ten minutes from being defibrillated for it. I had literally signed paperwork acknowledging I might die. I need to be taken seriously when this happens!</div><div><br /></div><div>The nurse took my pulse and told me I was fine. I asked for an oximeter and one of the girls went and got one. My pulse was fine and my oxygen saturation level was 99, very high for me! My usual range is 86 to 92. In hospital a couple of weeks ago it was hovering at 83 and 84, despite me being on oxygen! Obviously high saturation is good news, but it does imply I wasn't imagining the attack! I had a similar episode in hospital the first time I sat in a wheelchair for fifteen minutes. My internal organs aren't used to me sitting upright!</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to e-mail my contact from the council and let him know what's going on. I haven't ever spoken to my current social worker, though I've been assigned to her since before Christmas. Now I have a case that these people are failing their duty of care. Earlier in the day I asked Sue the nurse if she should be monitoring my blood pressure, since it had been recorded as low in the hospital and hasn't been checked since. She told me that it was fine in the hospital. I reiterated that no, it wasn't, and that actually they'd taken me off my diuretic as it was so low, and that can affect it. I'm sure it was just because they hadn't given me any fluids. Sue literally rolled her eyes at me and said she'd ask the GP to come and measure it as the home doesn't have their own cuff. This blew my mind; Amazon has a wide range in the £15 to £25 price range. This place is fucking clown shoes!</div><div><br /></div><div>Well, I think enough is enough. Time to cut through some red tape!</div><div><br /></div>Peace!<div><br /></div><div>✌ 🌈💰🍀<br /><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1b; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a1a1b; margin: 0px 0px 10px; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;"><br /></p></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-14438866885750121492021-05-19T13:31:00.007+00:002021-06-07T20:23:56.507+00:00TWO SURPRISES, AND I DABBLE IN CYBERCRIME!<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hello Mal-Pals! I'm glad to report I'm doing a lot better than I have been recently. I'm still not feeling 100%, but I'm a damn sight better than I was when I was hospitalised. My hearing is back to normal in my right ear, which is excellent! My main bugbear is the Wi-Fi here, there are three networks and I only have access to one of them. My laptop simply isn't connecting to it, whilst my tablet finds it for a while and then loses it. It's very frustrating, the internet is basically the one place I'm truly free. I have no real privacy and can't set my own agenda. I have to ask for help with everything. There's a family Zoom call later, it'd be nice to be on it!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spoke to the owner/manager of the home - I had my parents e-mail and ask for help, because I've consistently tried to see her about more pressing matters and have been ignored before. It turns out that of the three networks, she has no information about one of them, has a password that doesn't work for the second, and uses the one I can get on with my tablet herself. There's just no attempt at problem solving or improving things for the guests here, the staff seem so jaded and have way too much responsibility. The care home is divided into two floors and there are over sixty beds; I don't know how many are on each floor. I do know that on Monday overnight there was only one carer and one nurse looking out for the entire floor, from 8.30pm to 7.30am. This has happened a few times before, and seems to me to be pretty irresponsible. Granted, most of the residents will be sleeping, but it still seems dangerous; a nasty stomach bug or a fire would prove disastrous!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have been playing on Reddit again with the usual suspects. I've genuinely missed carrying on my imaginary adventures and flirtations, but it seemed more polite to not play at all whilst I was feeling down than to knock out a couple of responses in between naps! My playmates know not to expect a swift response anyway, and I like trading a couple of dozen messages over the course of a day rather than fitting it all into a dedicated hour of chat.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I also set a prompt based on my new obsession, The Leprechaun's Game. I said I wanted to be the leprechaun, and that I was looking for someone to play Misha, trying to convince me to spare her husband after he stole my gold, and not to hurt her or her unborn baby. I had a response in less than an hour, because r/DirtyPenPals is mental and there are a ton of very specific and implausible situations posted every day. We chatted back and forth for a couple of hours in character; it was not particularly sexy! I did toy with the idea of staying true to the character and just demanding my gold and then killing her off, but decided against it. I might revisit the chat and decide on whether or not to post it. Maybe I'll ask the girl I played with first. Watch this space!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was surprised by a visit from the physiotherapist, and she brought an occupational therapist along with her! I saw the physio for the first time back in February, and she told me she'd be back with the OT in the next couple of weeks. This is the first time seeing her since. For some reason the home manager had e-mailed my parents after they saw her in the corridors and asked her what progress was being made on my last visit, and my mum had told me. Nobody from the home had told me, and I'm still in isolation after my hospital visit, so I wasn't sure they'd be here. It's great that they were! Finally some progress!<span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">We discussed my goals; I told her I'd ideally like to be able to get about in a wheelchair, then with a frame or crutches (I've used both!) and then finally unaided. I don't know how feasible that is or how long it'll take. She asked if I'd like to live independently and I said yeah, I want our of this place as soon as possible! I told her that I had physio in the hospital, and then in my flat. She said they wouldn't be able to offer it at the same level, but that they'd give me exercises I could do with the staff here. The staff sometimes can't find fifteen minutes in a day to give me a wash, but hopefully she'll get on top of them. She chastised a couple of the staff for my position in bed; I'm usually too far down in the bed to sit up as well as I'm able; when I try and sit myself up the bed lifts up the top of my back and my neck, making it harder for me than if I were lying flat. Tip your head down so that your chin touches your chest and hold it for a few minutes if you want to see what I mean: your airway won't be able to work as well and you'll get tired quickly! I also tend to end up lying diagonally across the bed due to the way my spine is twisted. The staff complained that I tend to migrate once I'm put right, and she just said they'll have to move me back more often! I could have cheered!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The other thing she's done is told them to give me a pillow! My last physiotherapist told me not to use my pillow because it was pushing my head further forward and restricting my airway and putting pressure on my neck. The OT yesterday tried moving my head from side to side with her hands and couldn't believe how stiff it is - "That's not going anywhere!" was her diagnosis. My neck muscles have been supporting my head unaided for the last eight months and my "at rest" position has been with my neck muscles straining to keep my noggin in place! What she was saying made a lot of sense.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">She said I'd be better off losing some weight; I told her I'd spoken to a dietician, had altered my eating habits, quit sugary drinks completely, and was sure I have lost weight. I don't know for certain because they haven't weighed me since I got here. I just keep being told that the scales they have are broken and they're waiting on new equipment. At what point do you go from being a home that normally specialises in bariatric care, but currently can't because of lack of equipment, to being a home that straight up doesn't specialise in bariatric care? I don't think "eight months" is the right answer!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Still, the future finally looks to be brightening! I was warned the process will seem agonizingly slow, and that it will be up to me to put the work in, but I am all for it!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My other surprise yesterday was an e-mail from a carpet cleaning company in Ohio giving me all the information I needed to log in to their system under the alias of a new employee, Tammy S, who apparently has a similar e-mail address to mine. I don't know what you'd have done under the circumstances, but I decided to wreak merry havoc!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I logged on to the system with the temporary password the HR department gave me, and was asked to create a strong password with upper and lower case letters, a number, and a special symbol. I settled on The-N-Word420. I was asked to verify I was the real Tammy by entering a code that the system sent to my e-mail, not hers! Once I did I was in!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I went to her account page to see what information I could alter. Not much, except deleting her cell phone number and changing her correct e-mail to my one to keep her from proving who she was and spoiling my fun!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided to set a security question for good measure: "Do you like butt stuff?" The correct response? "Hells yeah I do!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">There wasn't much else I could do, other than add an account photo. I wanted something featuring nudity, but also playful and a little anti-authoritarian. Luckily I had the perfect photo saved on my phone:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5u67eExaJCVZfHpr-525Ez5iKFRtfwi04k0CGTb0hdSQilMWZDag-alO0L6JnQYMei8QoUfcq97yEe1oiODqBaZbTqKnxLSjz4oFAYhYNLu0_XYm8HcX7u84KNlEwbRR9JCwFcO2k08e/s761/me.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="761" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP5u67eExaJCVZfHpr-525Ez5iKFRtfwi04k0CGTb0hdSQilMWZDag-alO0L6JnQYMei8QoUfcq97yEe1oiODqBaZbTqKnxLSjz4oFAYhYNLu0_XYm8HcX7u84KNlEwbRR9JCwFcO2k08e/w400-h284/me.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was hoping there was an internal messaging system or staff forum, but no such luck! You could read newsletters and announcements and the like, but there was no real opportunity to be a nuisance. I did put in a request for paid absence on the 20th of April, saying "You don't want me in the office on 4/20, trust me!"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I gave it a while, then e-mailed the HR department. The e-mail they had sent me mentioned some forms to fill out, and I couldn't see the icon to access them. The message I sent read as follows:</span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hi guys,</span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you for welcoming me to the Teasdale Fenton team! I am very excited about this new opportunity - I only wish I could have been here on Cinco de Mayo - I love tacos, as I'm sure you'll discover!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm working my way through the welcome pack; I've completed Part 1 but can't for the life of me find the blue bell referred to in Part 2! I've attached a screenshot so you can see what I mean. If it helps I have no problem being paid in cash, off the books. I worked that way on a previous job and found it much simpler than filling out all these forms!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whilst I've got you guys, I was wondering if we're one of those lame companies that do random drug tests? I only mention it because I read an article that said those tests give a surprising number of false positives! It's quite scary when you think about it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for your help,</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tammy</span></div></blockquote><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I sent the e-mail to the HR department, after attaching a screenshot showing tabs open for Pornhub ("Free Porn Videos") and ImageFap ("Free Porn Pics") and the bawdy avatar. I was aiming for "extremely unprofessional" without being completely implausible or abusive. Still, I was rumbled; I never got a response, and the password was reset. I figure Gmail gave me away; I hadn't changed my name in my Google account, so my real name might have shown up on their end. I don't know.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's the thing, though: I clicked the "Forgot password" link and I was asked to prove I was the real Tammy by providing her social security number! I had taken a screenshot of her account with <span>the <span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; white-space: pre-line;">risqué avatar I had uploaded and guess what? I had captured her social security details too! The game was still on!</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I entered her social security. I gave my e-mail as her real one and then asked for the proof of identity code to be sent there! How stupid is that? I set her password to MeAgain!69 and pressed forward into her account once more.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once inside I saw they had replaced my picture with a tasteful "TS" on a blue background, Tammy's initials. I had a quick look online for the perfect picture to convey my mood, and settled on the following:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1ef3haUPwryCWbILnKtkMM3oMUwOgow1hBYo2LWEOPyUX3fQSNPdlcLKNQanlMIe3IH5aLcZxcJGkuNeRJpsTSxZLGYUzNJsCNVAdzTS0NmExs45ReO0uru2XkW9hEi8nFY3rz14ovub/s960/1888792168.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="958" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin1ef3haUPwryCWbILnKtkMM3oMUwOgow1hBYo2LWEOPyUX3fQSNPdlcLKNQanlMIe3IH5aLcZxcJGkuNeRJpsTSxZLGYUzNJsCNVAdzTS0NmExs45ReO0uru2XkW9hEi8nFY3rz14ovub/w399-h400/1888792168.jpg" width="399" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was very happy with my choice: rude but tasteful, and playfully defiant! I do love apparently amateur snaps like this one, though I always hope they're posted with consent. I assume if a woman poses for a photo like this in this day and age she must know there's a good chance the photo will end up online and spread far and wide. Anyway, I found myself locked out again after a few minutes and the account was frozen. I decided to send another e-mail to HR showing my hand. I also thought I may as well try a <span>little extortion, because you don't get opportunities like this falling in your lap every day, and if you don't ask then you don't get!</span></span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hi guys!</span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So obviously I'm not the real Tammy. Unfortunately, you've sent me all the information I need to fool your system into thinking I am her, and have given me her personal information including her cell phone number, e-mail addresses and social security number.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm prepared to keep your failure to protect your employee secret, and refrain from harassing her through your company website and via her e-mail, cell and social media, if you send $1000 to my PayPal account.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks in advance,</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Not Tammy</span></div></blockquote><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Boom! I am a white collar criminal! I cannot justify my actions morally, but I feel absolutely no remorse for what I did. Their system is poorly designed and they were sloppy with their information. Companies pay big money to have weaknesses in their systems highlighted, it's usually done by shoulder surfing someone on the premises and then accessing the system with the details they observe. Passwords are largely meaningless; the average person has 140 online accounts, so obviously we use the same passwords more than once. Furthermore, you wouldn't remember a password difficult enough for a dedicated computer to guess; that's why two step verification and biometric proof is the way of the future, though as I proved yesterday, the two step procedure needs to be set up right!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm thinking I should write to Tammy. She has a second e-mail address that I saw when I went back in, I could e-mail both and let them know what a bad job her new employers did of protecting her, and maybe ask her to ask them where my thousand bucks have gotten to!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Good idea? Bad idea? Let me know what you think!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Peace!</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">✌ 🌈💰🍀</span></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-34055122338647574402021-05-15T02:52:00.007+00:002021-06-07T17:16:45.777+00:00HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN, JIGGETY-JIG! PLUS: ONLINE SHENANIGANS!<p>So I've been sent home again! How do I feel about that? Well, I've just bought, pretty much on a whim, the embodiment of sadness, paying €20 to have her shipped from France. That may give you some idea!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Qcd7VUMJISLsD4OgCYfuYtyd099w7MGxVx4EgDCEOab5VqJJ19V3CXwygIHiYZF-0cXQcPnjSvyeft8kHpRIhpPdgX8g7ZYpaLHn9Vh5pRhTmKIFcd3NI3Lx3YWLOaHlHPDvi4tiQ7xP/s862/61UdXKi96EL._AC_SY879_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="862" data-original-width="602" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Qcd7VUMJISLsD4OgCYfuYtyd099w7MGxVx4EgDCEOab5VqJJ19V3CXwygIHiYZF-0cXQcPnjSvyeft8kHpRIhpPdgX8g7ZYpaLHn9Vh5pRhTmKIFcd3NI3Lx3YWLOaHlHPDvi4tiQ7xP/w279-h400/61UdXKi96EL._AC_SY879_.jpg" width="279" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">They only made these for Sadness and Rage! I guess they've done their market research. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>She's not a toy, she's a "soft sculpture." I am not a CHILD, thank you very much!</p><p>The hospital was kind of a waste of time. I spent a lot of time in the hospital between December 2018 and March 2020, when COVID hit. I've been in twice since. Beforehand I was occasionally kept in for little reasons. I spent a few extra days one visit because my temperature would flare up at night. I had no other symptoms and it would be normal during the day, but that one spike would keep me in for 24 hours extra. A few times I've spent an extra night because the ambulance crew were too busy to take me home! Sometimes I've been discharged by a doctor during Monday rounds - if there was a doctor working Saturday or Sunday I could have gone home then. And of course, I was well enough to go home for a couple of months in early 2019, I just didn't have a home to go to! A place in a care home opened up, and then after seven weeks (six in care, one back in hospital!) I moved into a "temporary" flat, and I've been living there since! All my staff's there now, though I spend my days in a care home in a different county.</p><p>Things are very different since COVID. There's no waiting in hospital on a stretcher until a bed's ready, instead they wait in the ambulance until the bed is available in the right place, and wheel you right there. No waiting in limbo for the right ward to admit you, and they'll send you out as soon as you can bear it! It's a very different experience.</p><p>On my last visit I had a room to myself in what used to be the room they used to knock kids out before surgery. It was now partly used for storage,, but you could see old paintings that I guess we're meant to relax the young'uns. I had suffered an SVT attack but was now fine, so they just stuck me in whatever ward had a spare isolated room overnight whilst they waited for transport. It was not the best night's sleep, but I left the next morning.</p><p>This time around I was transferred from Majors, which is where they assess you first, to another ward at twenty minutes to one in the night! They don't serve food or drink in the Majors, except with medicine, and by the time they moved me I was sleeping anyway, though eager for a drink!<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>This morning I had the standard hospital breakfast of two pieces of cold toast and three ice cold portions of butter! I've long ago learnt to put two packs of butter up against my body under the sheets whilst I struggle with the first one. I set up my laptop and downloaded about 40GB worth of games - one large one, one small one, and most of a second large one. The internet at the home is very spotty, especially on my laptop. Most of the time my laptop won't detect a signal, although my tablet can. It's frustrating because my laptop cost a lot, lot more than my tablet, I would have thought (and would have preferred!) that it would be the other way around! Sometimes it finds the signal and will download at normal speeds for a couple of days, and the rest of the time it crawls along so slowly that it's not really worth using - video won't stream, pictures are slow to load, it's like using dial up! It's quicker at night, but 40GB will usually take about a week to download, so that's something!</p><p>Lunch was good - an "all-day breakfast" of sausages, bacon, omelette and hash browns. They called it "all-day" even though they don't serve it at breakfast or at dinner! They had a choice of about eight hot dinners, and also sandwiches or a salad. It's been years since I've been handed a menu! The care home gives you a choice between two options at lunch and dinner. One dinner option is always a sandwich, the other is usually a hot variation on a sandwich. Last time I had a bacon roll. Tomorrow I'll be having ham and cheese croissants. It was nice to have options, and nice to have properly hot food, straight from a kitchen! The dinners here are served with metal covers, and I don't know how far they come, but they're always warm, rather than hot. It was nice to have something too hot to pick up with my fingers!</p><p>Also nice: a wash with properly hot water! The water in my bathroom here never gets properly warm, and it's kind of embarrassing, but at first I didn't recognise the feeling of a hot flannel on my back! It was a shock to the system after eight months of cold washes, but then the right synapses fired and I remembered "Oh yeah, I rather like this!" How crazy is that?</p><p>Not so great: I was left lying on a sling overnight. They used a hoist to lift me on to a stretcher to leave the room; the first time I've used it since getting here, another positive! The sling is made from a plasticky material, similar to what they use for safety harnesses or rucksack straps (I've done some abseilling in my time! And a bungee jump, come to think of it!). I'm told my skin is "red raw" and that there are purple bruises, but I don't feel any different. The head carer said they should be reported for leaving me on it overnight, but I doubt anyone will. I'm certainly not going to! At the hospital end they used a slide sheet and board to slide me in and out of bed, and then used the hoist again at this end. The hoist puts some strain on my legs, as they stick out unsupported, but is basically pretty comfortable.</p><p>As for the treatment, I was prescribed some antifungal cream for my chest and eardrops for, well, my ear! The doctor that saw me said that my ear needed to be looked at by a specialist, as it is too closed up and full of wax and debris. He said it was "cauliflower-y, " and asked if I had a chronic condition! I told him it had all come on since Sunday. Thinking of Sue the nurse trying to convince me it was getting better literally makes me laugh, out loud, lying here in my cold bed! What was she thinking?</p><p>The specialists were too busy to see me today, and my condition isn't considered enough of an emergency to stay in, so I was discharged. The GP will have to refer me to them as an outpatient. I assume they'll have to come and visit me in the home; or else arrange for me to be transported there, seen, and taken home again. I'd have thought it easier to just squeeze me in today, but what can you do?</p><p>Whilst in they found I had slightly low blood pressure, so they've taken me off my diuretic for a couple of days. I think it's probably because I had very little to drink during my stay. I usually drink a lot! I had to see twice in the hospital yesterday evening; it was a little embarrassing asking someone new for help but they were proper nurses and used to it, rather than some of the new hire carers they take on here that need the procedure explained! Both times I went I overflowed the cardboard urine bottles slightly - it's a very effective diuretic! Today I didn't have to pee until 7pm, which is obviously not particularly healthy, I've usually been about three times before then!</p><p>Along the same subject: This evening (and I'm sorry if this is unpleasant for you, but illustrates my point about the difference in staff here pretty well,) I had to evacuate my bowels for the first time since early Sunday morning. I had one of my usual carers help me on to a bedpan, but when I was done I rang the call bell and a new hire answered. I explained I was on a bedpan and needed to come off, and she told me to wait whilst she got some help. She was gone about five minutes, which feels like a long time sat on thin plastic with your own fresh turd burning your anus! You diaper lovers don't know how good you've got it! She came back on her own, and said she would help me. I guess I was too euphemistic for her, because she let out a sound of shock and told me to wait whilst she got some tissue. She told me after she "thought I'd only done a wee," I guess five the byproduct of six days worth of meals had come as a shock! I can pretty much guarantee my toilet will be blocked, and as the handyman doesn't work weekends I can also confidently predict it will stay that way until Monday.</p><p>There are two main downsides to being back. Firstly, I'm in isolation for a fortnight, so my parents have had to cancel their plans to come here the next couple of Mondays. I don't want to downplay how serious COVID is; if you think there's a chance you're a carrier then isolate yourself. I get why they can't have people fresh back from hospital free roaming and interacting with the old fogies. I don't want to risk getting anyone sick. However, I've been discharged as medically sound. I have had both COVID jabs months ago, was tested in hospital, and can (and will!) be tested here. My parents get here half an hour early so they can be tested before seeing me. My room has patio doors which they enter and exit by, so there's no chance of them meeting another resident. As far as the home knows, they could have visited me in hospital (and would have if they lived closer)! With all those conditions in mind, I don't see why they can't spend an hour with me. I know it would make them much happier.</p><p>The second rule is that I can't have any medication within six hours of leaving the hospital, to save the risk of a double dose.I take routine prescribed paknkillers, and can top up with oromorph as needed. I asked for some oromorph before leaving the hospital to help with the journey. One of the ambulance guys said I could have some in the ambulance. I ended up going with a different crew, and they wouldn't give me any because they weren't sure if I was prescribed it. Luckily the care home is close to the hospital, but because of this six hour rule I couldn't ask for it then either! I actually got it, along with my other evening drugs, at 9 tonight, rather than 10. This wasn't out of kindness but laziness, I was out on the end of the nurse's drug round. It's definitely better, but I'm not allowed my most powerful painkiller, zomorph, until 7am tomorrow! This is because you can only take it every 12 hours, and they can't risk me having taken it at the hospital before coming home. They usually give out "controlled drugs" at 7am and 7pm, and don't want me getting out of sequence. I asked the nurse if I could have some at 10pm tonight, 9am tomorrow morning, and 8pm tomorrow night</p><p>"Surely an hour can't make a difference?" I asked.</p><p>"Sorry, but I've been told not to give any to you until tomorrow morning."</p><p>I know it doesn't make a difference; I've been woken up for breakfast at 9 to find the tablets on my table with no recollection of being given them, though the staff are meant to watch you take them. When I was in my flat I didn't set an alarm, I just took one when I woke up and one with dinner. These things aren't measured to the individual and timed perfectly for optimal 24 hour pain relief. Fucking bureaucracy and red tape over people. When I'm given a rule I like to understand the reasoning behind it. If it makes sense to me it'll help me remember it, if it's arbitrary then I am more likely to ignore it. My secondary school had around 2,200 people plus staff, corridors got busy. When I joined the rule was to walk on the left hand side of the corridors. One day, in my second or third year, it was announced that we'd be switching to walking on the right side, to make it easier to turn right when corridors met. I didn't see the point in this; it should be obvious there are as many left turns as right turns; all you've done is switched the burden to those making a left! I liked learning first aid because there is a logical reason behind everything you do. Learning about the bureaucracy and data protection was dull as fuck! For example, an adult member cannot be Facebook friends with a member of the cadets, who are under seventeen. It doesn't matter if you're a week older than your best friend and you've turned eighteen just before they have, it doesn't matter if you're a mother and your 10 year old child is a cadet. I don't have a Facebook account, but that's not a rule I'd worry about breaking.</p><p>I don't know if the hospital has a rule about watching sexy Swedish dramedies with full frontal nudity, but if there is I broke that rule during my stay! I thought that my ear problems give me the perfect excuse to research Love & Anarchy, the Netflix show that struck a chord with me in January and inspired me to reach out a little and drop some of my baggage. I've made some notes, expect a recap and some highlights soon!</p><p>I also used a VPN to look at Strict Julie's blog - it's blocked as a phishing hazard by the NHS, and Google safe search tells you "Strict Julie" yields no results! I'm glad I did, because I wanted to read the fallout from <a href="https://strictjuliespanks.blogspot.com/2021/05/consent-ring-gets-nod-in-ontario.html" target="_blank">yesterday's fictional article about a new law in Ontario</a>. It wasn't presented as fiction, but it is honestly not very believable. Some people thought she was being deliberately deceitful, others questioned the veracity of the whole blog. Trying to visit it here I still get a phishing warning but can skip past it - I think someone took her joke a little too seriously and has reported it as suspicious out of fear or spite. People! What can you do?</p><p>I thought it was clear she was joking. I'll admit to taking her a little too seriously in the past when she's misrepresented herself a little, usually because she was hoping for titillation rather than honesty! When she role played sex work for financial gain with her husband and went on to say that she couldn't understand why a working girl should feel ashamed, I felt as if she were looking at the industry through rose coloured glasses. When she said she was worried about being outed and meeting up with her ex company executive, I genuinely worried she might shut the blog down, and thought she was more worried of being exposed than she was. Her blog is obviously important to her and a lot of people enjoy it, it would be tragic if she lost it. I've learnt now that by the time she's asked for a second opinion her mind is generally made up and she's looking for support, or to have her decision validated. Today she was asking for opinions about a new book, feedback has been almost completely positive, but there's no doubt in my mind she would have pursued this excellent premise anyhow!</p><p>I read the first sentence of Julie's post and was immediately suspicious:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 24px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #274e13;">Consent Ring Gets Nod in Ontario</span></h3><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5301754278454844489" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #274e13;">by Mary Barklay</span></p></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5301754278454844489" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #274e13;">May 10, 2021</span></p></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5301754278454844489" itemprop="description articleBody" style="font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 570px;"><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #274e13;">Yesterday in passing bill C-97, the Ontario government gave the nod of approval to the previously legally precarious movement know as "Consent Ring".</span></p></div></blockquote><p>I'm naturally a cynic, so before reading further I googled the headline, then googled "Mary Barklay." Nothing notable came up. I googled "bill C-97." Something to do with budgeting, housing or immigration. Okay, clearly bullshit. Let's see what her kinky little brain has conjured up! As I read on it was clear that it was nonsense, and that Julie wasn't even trying to fool the readers, she was just experimenting with writing in a new format. Still, some people will buy anything, or not understand when someone is pulling their leg.</p><p>I was about eleven when the internet started becoming a thing. I had a website early enough for Virgin to publish it in a book of useful URLs. I had the sort of friends who would spend twenty minutes in MS Paint sticking a photo of a friend's head onto the body of a hippo just to annoy them for five minutes. Early on I found a site that generates fake news articles. There were maybe six templates for stories, none believable, that you could fill in a person's details and they'd put them in to the story and e-mail them from a fake newspaper. I remember one story was about a man being stuck in a port-a-potty overnight. I filled one out with my friend's name, age and hometown. It was something like he was caught stealing $200,000,000 from Microsoft and that Bill Gates wanted him arrested, so police were hunting him down. My friend was eleven, he didn't have a bank account. I thought there was no way he'd believe it. I just made up the paper, naming the nearest town to his house and writing "Gazette" at the end. Well, he did believe it, and so did his classroom assistant, (Oh yeah, he was autistic! I didn't understand the condition, nor did anyone tell me he had it even though he had been my best friend for about four years! Whoops!) although, as a woman in her early twenties who hung out with teenage boys all day, she should have been more clued up. I bumped into them between lessons, and he told me he was worried. When I asked why, he said it was because the police thought he'd stolen millions of dollars from Bill Gates. He'd gone, WITH HIS ASSISTANT, to the IT TECHNICIANS, and shown them the e-mail, and they were all STUMPED as to what could have happened and why the POLICE were tracking this SCHOOLBOY. You'd have thought a copper might have popped by the school to see if he was there! Well, I agreed it was a head scratcher and left him to it; I was not expecting my joke to go so far, and was not going to take the rap for fooling the faculty of the school!</p><p>Well, a couple of decades later and I guess I'm accustomed to this kind of playfulness on the internet. I can usually tell when someone's kidding and when they're not. In the comments section I recommended Canadian dramedy Workin' Moms as something in her article reminded me of the show. When she liked that I recommended children's TV show Pingu as well, saying that the animated adventures of the plasticine penguin was my favourite Canadian reality show. I did watch the show as a child, and reading up on some of the banned episodes I have to wonder if it had a lasting effect:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="327" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6DvNVCjmRzI" width="394" youtube-src-id="6DvNVCjmRzI"></iframe></div><br /><p>I wasn't big on Twitter when I used it, but organically gained about 150 followers, which I think was pretty good seeing I was just making dumb jokes when I felt like it. When COVID struck someone I followed wrote a tweet saying she had to make an appointment with her gynecologist on Zoom. I tweeted something like "That old trick. I fell for a similar scam, and not only did naked photos of me end up online, I'm no longer allowed to bring my laptop to Starbucks." I think it got about a thousand likes, a few people commented they liked it, and a few posted something along the lines of " You had me going there" or "You had me fooled for a bit." I was obviously making a joke, I didn't think people would get so invested so quickly!</p><p>Another time I saw someone taking a swipe at Mike Bloomberg, drudging up an article from 1999 in which he described his then-16 year old daughter as blonde and busty, and saying that you could imagine what she got up to left alone in a hotel all day. Someone posted a photo of the daughter, and I made what I thought was a fairly obvious joke:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjamzefIc5nVtgqLyGmY5t-7WPwU9fgvC8mrOmoqpbF63tHoH2senYRGT2GIxO9mHwBYMfkUC1Tz97yNnUomjbmtZmGz5rOjYFBvsZwMqwFbnu0WQ7-Z9xVb7OWJ7VPsu4Sgizbk4j1uJW/s956/Polish_20210515_002436978.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="956" data-original-width="838" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjamzefIc5nVtgqLyGmY5t-7WPwU9fgvC8mrOmoqpbF63tHoH2senYRGT2GIxO9mHwBYMfkUC1Tz97yNnUomjbmtZmGz5rOjYFBvsZwMqwFbnu0WQ7-Z9xVb7OWJ7VPsu4Sgizbk4j1uJW/w562-h640/Polish_20210515_002436978.jpg" width="562" /></a></div>Soooooo many people missed the joke. People were telling me I could Google her. Someone posted a picture of her book. I remained clueless, asking if she had "some kind of Jack's disease" or if she was "a Benjamin Button." I claimed that I sent the photo to my paediatrician cousin, who said she thought the girl was probably about six, and couldn't believe she was actually in her thirties. I stayed in character all day. Two people blocked me out of rage. Others tweeted a standing ovation, or admired my commitment to the bit. For me it was like a gift; I hadn't been fishing for idiots, but suddenly found myself with a net full! About fifteen hours later (I'm not searching again to check, but 13+ for definite) someone asked if I realised the daughter was the woman on the left and not the child in the middle. I immediately offered a hasty apology and thanked the guy for spotting my error when nobody else had. He took my apology as genuine, saying that more people should be more like me and that I had "won the internet " for that day!<div><br /></div><div>The one time I did deliberately go trolling was a great success. There were two mild Trump controversies in late June last year: he tweeted "Do you get the impression that the Supreme Court doesn't like me?" which people teased for sounding petty, probably unfairly. Shortly after there was video of him scrolling through his phone whilst small business owners explained how the pandemic was affecting their business, which did genuinely look pretty bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tweeted "I'm no journalist, but checking the meeting schedule against his twitter feed it's pretty clear he was tweeting this at the time." I then posted the following image of Donnie's feed, including the tweet I mentioned above. Take a few seconds to skim the tweets and see if one of them seems a little out of character:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSX76MkIJJEkV_rixJk2NiY4N0pIbI5YhwI7MXkLiXAOYq0F4qcZK4z_cpyZTdFNDsC7RoYQ0R-9Y5HjZRuZeDQFdmSAcWHqGhHVcnFZk0VSUfcTfnCCsdwQj5kS8Qu-trkVTQ1-WCOwh/s1039/TrumpTweets.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="738" height="788" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlSX76MkIJJEkV_rixJk2NiY4N0pIbI5YhwI7MXkLiXAOYq0F4qcZK4z_cpyZTdFNDsC7RoYQ0R-9Y5HjZRuZeDQFdmSAcWHqGhHVcnFZk0VSUfcTfnCCsdwQj5kS8Qu-trkVTQ1-WCOwh/w560-h788/TrumpTweets.png" width="560" /></a></div>Did you spot it? Thousands didn't! 123k people saw my tweet and 42k opened to see what Trump said. 1.25k liked it, 670 retweeted it, and nearly 70 people replied. Only a couple saw it was a joke. The actress Jane Lynch liked it, but I don't know if she read it or saw it as a joke. I had created Fake News!<div><p>I thought I had been rumbled right off the bat, when the first commenter posted this, highlighting my laziness in editing the timeline:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssJUdQDA-0eZsdcp17XeKdICXW25qo_sq8zYaMsJrJJV4zYXBacH9GhPxacoVGQxKZKuyA-Ot0LHcx4xnCU1tXOhAUevymndCKv7Q7Gu_z2bz9zzwxhUy1REG0Sd0FOhdpubX-GHcvBAg/s1577/2b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1577" data-original-width="1030" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssJUdQDA-0eZsdcp17XeKdICXW25qo_sq8zYaMsJrJJV4zYXBacH9GhPxacoVGQxKZKuyA-Ot0LHcx4xnCU1tXOhAUevymndCKv7Q7Gu_z2bz9zzwxhUy1REG0Sd0FOhdpubX-GHcvBAg/s320/2b.jpg" /></a></div><p>I thought I was scuppered, but decided to keep my poker face. I tweeted back "Whoa, weird!" and received in reply "Very strange. All from Moscow no doubt." I believe this is what they call Trump Derangement Syndrome: the guy was smart enough to notice there was something wrong with the tweets, but not savvy enough to realise the whole thing was bullshit. He found it more plausible that the Russians were somehow boosting Trumps tweets, and not even his good ones. Other people speculated that Trump's aides had posted the tweets, some mentioned they co<span style="font-family: inherit;">uldn't believe his casual tone. Nobody pointed out that @SupremeCourt is not the right handle for the US Supreme Court. Someone went back and checked and saw the tweet wasn't there. I replied to every comment, getting more <span>and more <span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; white-space: pre-line;">blasé. I would agree with whatever anyone said, and became less worried about getting caught and more worried about being funny for anyone who spotted the joke. Someone called me stupid for not realising you can get someone else to write your tweets, never realising that I was well aware Trump hadn't written it all. I was definitely flying close to the sun here:</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GIOMiutlzonOhEwt9sPnyEh1-6g1ry9y7-4-ZKwY1AGG3rF7WyrvMPB29uPJVNa9jFUpOVp7xwy7JSoHTlOEb16c6Vl2rggJvX9HT4TPGYHjh1G4NVuAx3my48vqz1Q3jo6fEi1KhNLx/s778/59.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="755" data-original-width="778" height="653" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3GIOMiutlzonOhEwt9sPnyEh1-6g1ry9y7-4-ZKwY1AGG3rF7WyrvMPB29uPJVNa9jFUpOVp7xwy7JSoHTlOEb16c6Vl2rggJvX9HT4TPGYHjh1G4NVuAx3my48vqz1Q3jo6fEi1KhNLx/w673-h653/59.png" width="673" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124; white-space: pre-line;">Yuk yuk yuk! Ain't I a stinker?!</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think that just about does it for my first day back! I've spent so much time reliving past glories that</span> I can ask for some more oromorph!</p><p>Peace!</p><p>✌ 🌈💰🍀</p></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-17371932080922555072021-05-13T13:00:00.006+00:002021-05-13T13:05:42.172+00:00A CHANGE OF SCENERYI've just had a doctor pop over and see me, and I'm off to the hospital! He barely looked at me before deciding I needed to go and get some intravenous antibiotics and my ear wicked; the only thing that's unclear is which department I'll be admitted to first, the ear, nose & throat doctors or whoever deals with mastitis! I hate that I have to go but am glad to be getting help. It almost feels like a sick punchline; "I told you I was ill!" I have no idea how long I'll be there for.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPaHixsighDHqT_-F-aGTAhcxhyCI9Z-7xdNu-h1hWDVrjg1NGSs922LqZZACLJtXbzKdHaIm4aas3APZLpCR8B7K9S8AXLDM8hcNkMh3uQTW4hKEa-jWyEqPBOIYXUZ0mQe92LeVAebNi/s900/Adult+Swim+Childrens-Hospital-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="699" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPaHixsighDHqT_-F-aGTAhcxhyCI9Z-7xdNu-h1hWDVrjg1NGSs922LqZZACLJtXbzKdHaIm4aas3APZLpCR8B7K9S8AXLDM8hcNkMh3uQTW4hKEa-jWyEqPBOIYXUZ0mQe92LeVAebNi/w311-h400/Adult+Swim+Childrens-Hospital-1.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><div><div><br /></div><div>I'm focusing on the positives; maybe I'll be able to get food delivered, my bed will probably be better, the Wi-Fi will probably be a lot smoother and I can download a bunch of games onto my laptop ready for when I come out!</div><div><br /></div><div>I've had both my COVID shots, so I'm not as worried about that as I was when I went for an overnight stay in December. The hospital is pretty near to the care home, so hopefully it'll be a smooth trip there and back.</div><div><br /></div><div>So yeah, swings and roundabouts! Hopefully I'll be feeling myself soon and this blog will get back to... well, as normal as it gets!</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace!</div><div><br /></div><div>✌ 🌈💰🍀</div></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-32253384455309960752021-05-11T15:49:00.006+00:002021-05-11T16:33:01.298+00:00HAIRCUT 💯, BUT NO FANTASTIC DAY<p> Hello Malcontents! Another checking in article, I'm afraid!</p><p>Still sleeping a lot, still suffering from mastisis. I really don't mean to moan every time I come on here, I wish I had more good news, even something as daft as my new, unending love for The Leprechaun's Game! But over the weekend I've developed an ear infection, and that is occupying a lot of my mental bandwidth! I can hear the blood pulsing in my ear, and it's always full of fluid. Not great!</p><p>Unfortunately this happened when the worst nurse, Sue, is on shift. She's lazy to the point where it's borderline negligent. When it's not her shift I get all my morning tablets at around 7am. When she's working I get them at around 10am. I was taken to hospital in December with a case of supra ventricular tachycardia. The paramedics were complaining about her in the ambulance, one of them called her "obstructive!" One of them asked her for my medical notes and she told them "in a minute!" My heart was beating at around 265bpm, I needed drugs injected to get it beating normally. It's best not to keep the paramedics waiting!</p><p>I had another incident of SVT earlier in the year. The carers I reported it to went to find her on foot rather than ringing the emergency bell. It was twenty minutes after reporting it that she came to see me, at which point I had reset my pulse by raising my legs and controlling my breath; fortunately it was a mild attack. The worst attack I had didn't reset after being given the drugs and I was being prepared to have my heart reset electronically. I had to sign the paperwork acknowledging this could kill me, and the anesthetist came to measure my throat for a breathing tube. Fortunately my body reset itself just in time and I was able to shake the anesthetist's hand and that was all. So when it does hit I need it taken seriously, and when Sue did turn up and didn't even have an oximeter; I had to wait for her to finish her drug round and come back with one. It was genuinely terrible care. The head carer reported the carers I told for failing to uphold their duty of care when they didn't ring the emergency bell, but nothing ever came of it.</p><p>So yeah, Sue's not the one you want in your corner when things start breaking bad. Yesterday she took ten minutes out of my parents visitation time to explain that there was no progress getting hold of a physiotherapist. She said they were busy seeing other people, and I explained that I realised that, and that I have been waiting over eight months. She said that the physiotherapists wanted to see me losing weight, and I pointed out that I'd made some serious changes to my diet since arriving here but above nobody has weighed me since my arrival in October I don't know how much progress I've made. She said the GO said there were exercises I could do in bed, and I told her I've been moving my legs as much as possible, but it's different from having somebody help lift them, or putting their arm there to push against, or putting a slide sheet under the legs and monitoring the movement. I literally said that she was a nurse and I didn't understand why I had to explain this to her. In the end my parents just thanked her and sent her off and then told me how frustrating they found her behind her back. Anything to avoid a scene!<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>Sue's told a doctor about my ear infection but they're not going to see it because I'm already on antibiotics for the mastitis. I said I don't understand how they'll help given that the infection started since I started taking the antibiotics. I wasn't given an answer. Today the infection is notably worse; my ear is much more swollen and it physically aches. Sue says it has to swell up before it can heal. I don't believe her!</p><p>She did say it was my fault for having long hair. I told her that I've been offered a haircut once since arriving, said I wanted one, and then it didn't happen. Similarly, my hair's only been washed once in that time. Do I think there's a correlation? No, but it means I got a haircut today anyway! I've gone from roughly two feet of hair right down to an inch! I kind of miss running my fingers through it, but it does look better! I have spent £10 on my hair in the last two years! I looked into donating your hair to charity a while back but you need to be more careful with it than they would be at the home.</p><p>Sue also blamed the strap on my sleep apnoea machine and the fact that I lie more heavily towards my right. Since I don't have the tools or materials to design new medical headgear and am unable to unfuse my vertebrae and straighten my spine, I guess I'm shit out of luck! I do wonder if a more capable care team would wash my headgear once in a while, or apply a body cushion so that I wasn't leaning over so far. That's the sort of thing my care team were doing for free before I was moved here. I was getting physiotherapy for an hour a day, too, but now I'm going to have to start again from scratch. When I got new straps for my headgear here I asked for the old ones to be washed and haven't seen them again! So I can't risk losing the ones I have. Maybe I'm crazy, but I like to sleep when I'm tired! Hopefully my mask will fit better with the new haircut. Practical as well as sexy!</p><p>There have been a few rays of sunshine over the past few days. This Time With Alan Partridge, Bar Rescue and Inside No 9 are all back on TV. I was a little late discovering Alan Partridge, but he's a truly great comedy character, and has starred in some amazing radio, podcasts, two books, a sitcom, a fake chat show, web series, a feature film and now a fake current affairs program. No other comedy creation has done so much or stayed so fresh over a thirty year period. It's remarkable. His back and forths with antagonistic roving reporter Lolly Adefope, who picks him up on the smallest details and won't give him an inch, are absolutely brilliant.</p><p>Bar Rescue is my favourite reality TV program. The formula is the same every week; Jon Taffer, a man in his mid sixties who looks like a mobster from the Flintstones, visits a failing bar, shouts at the owners about what a terrible job they're doing, introduces a menu item, runs a stress test that inevitably goes terribly, introduces a signature cocktail, revamps the bar, and leaves under the impression that the bar is going to do aces from now on. There are other shows like it, but I enjoy how far the show can go off the rails. Sometimes the bars have been truly neglected, sometimes there are ridiculous drunken shenanigans and sometimes the owners are massive assholes that won't take Jon or his advice seriously. There are episodes where Taffer walks away mid-rescue after running out of patience with some dickhead who thinks he knows best (it's always a guy in these cases). There are also heartwarming episodes where he helps an owner overcome personal tragedy, or gets them back on their feet and in control after a battle with severe illness, but really I'm more interested in the fuck ups who will harass Jon's wife or allow a horse into the bar. TV gold!</p><p>Finally, Inside No 9 is an anthology series, with each episode set in a different location with different characters. There's often a narrative gimmick; one episode was filmed in more or less real time but played with the scenes in reverse order, Memento-style. Another was written in iambic pentameter, another only used the CCTV footage and webcams from a crisis call centre to tell an excellent, thrilling story about a man who answers the phone call of an overdosing teenager. The opening of this series featured the story of a bank heist told in the style of commedia dell'arte, and was the most self-indulgent the show has ever been, with lots of breaking the fourth wall to talk directly to fans and critics, make fun of the weak secondary plot, make fun of the format and make dumb jokes about how characters have turned over two pages of the script at once. Plus there was lots of physical humour and stupid wordplay and innuendo.</p><p>Following kinksters might like the following joke from the show, though you need to be aware of British retail giant Marks & Spencers, aka M&S, who sell amongst other things some relatively upmarket chilled food aimed at busy young professionals. They do lots of ready meals and the like, and also a lot of grab-and-go lunchtime foods. Anyway, the joke is set up like this: Columbina, a smart young woman has just met Arlo, the idiot of the group at their hideout:</p><p>Arlo: I've got them things you wanted for the sandwiches.</p><p>Columbina: What did you buy?</p><p>Arlo: Pulled pork, pressed tongue, and a hot and spicy whip.</p><p>Columbina: That sounds disgusting!</p><p>Arlo: You said you wanted an S&M selection.</p><p>Columbina: I said an M&S selec... Never mind!</p><p>Boom boom! Last night's episode was pretty mid-tier, which is still miles ahead of most TV. The best episodes are truly transcendent; pushing the boundaries of what can be accomplished in half an hour. I'm looking forward to the rest of the season immensely.</p><p>Lastly, I had a new statue delivered last week that I waited until my parents were here to unwrap and put together. It features Spider-Man Noir and Spider-Ham, and looks excellent on top of my wardrobe!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPq2irDF7afSBQp2n1X-qhAUR5rSc0ty2-p4w_dpwlt1SjARRmr0gZG6tqdHuJ4hvTjw2rJYtj8g-ILE-aOmN-H0lmld3UBNoOxcC684cnmdIQ7UTB751dcqw6675Tw0tB1ZHcvQdqH_3e/s877/noir-and-spider-ham_marvel_silo.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="877" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPq2irDF7afSBQp2n1X-qhAUR5rSc0ty2-p4w_dpwlt1SjARRmr0gZG6tqdHuJ4hvTjw2rJYtj8g-ILE-aOmN-H0lmld3UBNoOxcC684cnmdIQ7UTB751dcqw6675Tw0tB1ZHcvQdqH_3e/w219-h400/noir-and-spider-ham_marvel_silo.png" width="219" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Hopefully I'll be feeling more like myself soon, and then it will be more regularly scheduled entertainment. Until then, peace!<div><br /></div><div>✌ 🌈💰🍀<br /><p><br /></p></div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-11036966342238326452021-05-07T22:13:00.001+00:002021-05-11T16:34:51.197+00:00SINCERE APOLOGIESHi gang,<div><br /></div><div>Just a brief post to let you know that I have cellulitis, and possibly mastitis, which is unpleasant and also a little embarassing, as mastitis usually happens to breastfeeding women. As we all remember from med school, "You can't spell 'mastitis' without 'tit.'" Fortunately it hasn't affected my nipple, it's more affecting the skin towards my armpit. I've had cellulitis before, but only affecting my feet, legs, abdomen and, on one memorable Christmas, my penis.</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw the doctor today and he's hoping antibiotics will be enough to treat it, though apparently there's a black scab there and if that goes bad I'll have to go to hospital and have whatever's there sucked out of me. Here's to hoping that doesn't happen!</div><div><br /></div><div>It doesn't really hurt but I keep getting really hot and I've been really tired for days now. I haven't been on Reddit for over a week, I think, and have been sleeping an inordinate amount. It's my favourite thing to do right now! I chalked it up to depression, and that's probably part of it too, but I'm glad there's an actual physical issue I can point at for feeling so tired all the time rather than just being all "I'm sad, leave me alone so I can shut my eyes and disengage from the world."</div><div><br /></div><div>One of you beautiful Functionistas recently commented that I'm too hard on myself, and maybe you're right, if I read that someone else was tired all the time I wouldn't judge them for it, and if they told me they were depressed then I would be understanding. It feels like there's a part of me that's always ready to kick me when I fall, to dwell on my failures and inadequacies and make me feel worse about myself, to remind me that I'll always be the kid that would be picked last, or not told there was a game on to begin with. I imagine most people have that voice, but it must be louder for some than others. I guess that's what depression is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wow, this ended up being a lot bleaker than I intended! Just letting you know that it may not be quick, but when I'm feeling better I'll be back into The Leprechaun's Game! My friend Julie recently complimented my writing and suggested that I might have a future writing professionally! I was hugely flattered, and whilst I can't see myself making a living that way I was encouraged to reach out to ChampDog Films to see if they would let me write the novelization of The Leprechaun's Game. I do have another idea for a writing gig if they reject me, but I'm holding out hope!</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace!</div><div><br /></div><div> ✌ 🌈💰🍀</div>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-75584926031750504142021-05-05T10:05:00.012+00:002021-05-05T10:33:35.173+00:00THERE ARE NO WINNERS IN THE LEPRECHAUN'S GAME<p> Hello Mal-Pals! Those of you who familiar with my blog know that it has two primary functions: To showcase some of the dirty fiction I write to entertain myself and my friend Strict Julie, and as a dumping ground for whatever is taking up space in my noggin. Well, that's all about to change, as this blog is now a dedicated stan site for 2020's video nasty The Leprechaun's Game!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOW_hMXyu9SSx_JuGmvFxwYJrkq0auUM6mqr770GzqYpoLhIgfHJbUrVoRaTUHJUyrPqoVp2CIO-wdUO9ITLCdCb6aA2-peB9X4aPCKwOk6Roah25o0ZePG66rQ2LZw8WybU7domZeghx/s960/MV5BOTBlOWFhYjMtNGY3OS00MjcyLTgwNGMtYWNjOWVlZTdhYTEzXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjM4MTU4NjQ%2540._V1_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="710" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOW_hMXyu9SSx_JuGmvFxwYJrkq0auUM6mqr770GzqYpoLhIgfHJbUrVoRaTUHJUyrPqoVp2CIO-wdUO9ITLCdCb6aA2-peB9X4aPCKwOk6Roah25o0ZePG66rQ2LZw8WybU7domZeghx/w296-h400/MV5BOTBlOWFhYjMtNGY3OS00MjcyLTgwNGMtYWNjOWVlZTdhYTEzXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjM4MTU4NjQ%2540._V1_.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Scary! The leprechaun in the movie is actually blonde, which is less effective.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>I watched this movie in the wee hours of this morning and found myself utterly delighted by it! Most modern horror is slow, generic and not worth your time. The few real stand outs of recent years are either weighed down with a horrible depressing backstory, usually involving the death of a kid, or are coated with a level of irony or silliness as if the makers need to reassure watchers that they're in on the joke and their film shouldn't be taken seriously. It's refreshing to see someone step up to the plate and swing for the fences, even if they do completely biff it!</p><p>I never watch trailers as I find they always detract from my enjoyment of the film. I decided to watch this based purely on the misleading official synopsis, the intriguing poster, and a couple of details hinting that this film wouldn't be bad in the sense that it was a time wasting drudgery, but would hit that "so bad it's good" sweet spot where the film's flaws are entertaining enough to elevate the film above your average slasher or mediocre studio comedy. Plus, horror is a strange genre; even the lamest grindhouse flick can have a concept or special effect that stays with you after the credits roll.</p><p>The main thing that intrigued me was that the film has a running time of exactly eighty minutes. I don't know about you, but to me that screams "minimum viable product," someone determined to fulfil the necessary requirements for a feature length film without worrying too much about things like quality acting or realistic dialogue. "Servicable" seems to be the kindest adjective to describe most elements of this schlockfest! I was also tempted by the unheard actors that made up the British cast and the fact that the film was released elsewhere as "Vengeance of the Leprechaun" and "Vengeance of the Leprechaun's Gold." I honestly enjoyed every minute of it. The trailer gives you some idea of the gold you can find if you follow this particular rainbow:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/uLFqHL9FPM8" width="320" youtube-src-id="uLFqHL9FPM8"></iframe></div><br /><p>The official synopsis doesn't really do the plot justice. Spoliers ahead! Here is the editorial review Amazon has for the film:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a bunch of thieves are sent out to hunt urban legends, they steal the gold of a leprechaun, only to find there is a steep price to pay.<span></span></span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p></blockquote><p>It's not quite true. The film opens with a couple of young women sat in a car parked in a multi storey car park. They discuss what options they have for the future and we learn that they've somehow found a fortune but are faced with spending the rest of their lives on the run. Whoever they've crossed has already killed their accomplices, and life on the lam is their only option. Unfortunately their car won't start, and the Leprechaun is revealed to be sitting on the back seat!</p><p>It's worth noting that the Leprechaun here differs in many ways from the classic portrayals in pop culture, or the Leprechaun franchise starring Warwick Davis. This movie's leprechaun is the size of a regular man and talks with a flat, accent-less voice that is distorted to the point where he is often incomprehensible. Despite his flat delivery he always refers to his precious coins as "Me gold!" He dispatches these two wrong'uns using his two go-to weapons: vague magical powers and a heavy-duty machete. He doesn't wear green, but has a gold bow tie and matching pocket square. His shirt looks like he might have been designed by Ted Baker. He has long blonde curly wig and looks as if he's wearing a mask made primarily from stilton cheese, that doesn't extend to his neck. His look is original, distinctive and weirdly off putting - I would call that a success for a movie monster!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QUfVUr891V7QNuE-k_BIHpGHqqhWRUMdpM464KmrRtCEuyA44p1rEuv6LJgG0Ijg7kDQUbTMDjTWH26wnKo1fCUDtOAEZLEcEn09L24koZz_Ij2_86ztJOhEgqShr-d9iG5go55XHNOZ/s1920/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-03h12m08s739.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1920" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7QUfVUr891V7QNuE-k_BIHpGHqqhWRUMdpM464KmrRtCEuyA44p1rEuv6LJgG0Ijg7kDQUbTMDjTWH26wnKo1fCUDtOAEZLEcEn09L24koZz_Ij2_86ztJOhEgqShr-d9iG5go55XHNOZ/w400-h224/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-03h12m08s739.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>There's then a big info dump filling us in on the legend of the Leprechaun. There's several sentences of information that isn't important, some of which is inconsistent with what we learn later in the film. The text is rainbow coloured and transposed over stock footage of an old map and green valleys. There is awful Irish music playing, which I have to assume was royalty free.</p><p>We then cut to Karl and Misha, who are having a VERY SERIOUS conversation, sat in an appropriately serious manner. It turns out Misha is pregnant. She's known for a few weeks, but hasn't told Karl because they have so little money. Karl does a lot of sighing and Misha decides to abort the kid. Her words, not mine. Karl tells her that they've "got this" and that where there's a will there's a way. Misha changes her mind just as abruptly - they'll have the kid after all!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCA7ACoElyyNcI_bmFVQa9IVCwjW9rJYPsTKvNlt_GyBWfKwqkhT4jEWyqmyqiaui59B0ynGN679xUiLHQL4kuf-Gxvq5FWeJ6QUAqEFx-b83t0fRDCZBTTQ54Oq78pDeILKNv6ys63Xns/s1920/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-04h36m17s346.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1920" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCA7ACoElyyNcI_bmFVQa9IVCwjW9rJYPsTKvNlt_GyBWfKwqkhT4jEWyqmyqiaui59B0ynGN679xUiLHQL4kuf-Gxvq5FWeJ6QUAqEFx-b83t0fRDCZBTTQ54Oq78pDeILKNv6ys63Xns/w400-h224/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-04h36m17s346.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>Karl makes a phone call, the precise details of which are impossible to make out because he has the kitchen radio playing as he makes it. The radio DJ announces it as "the new track by Frankie FC" (I think) but I can't make out the name of it. It's awful regardless, a collection of what I assume are royalty free loops assembled into a royalty free track. I'm guessing Frankie FC is an in joke or that the work is being highlighted as a favour. The film has serious indie spirit, and is written and directed by Louisa Warren, who also plays Misha. I'm absolutely looking into some of the other films she's helmed, including The Mermaid's Curse, Virtual Death Match and Bride of Scarecrow!</p><p>Karl meets a dodgy friend, who talks him into meeting a man who has a "quick in and out" for them. This phrase is used throughout the movie, and never to describe a hasty shag. Karl is reluctant, but agrees to do One Final Job before cutting his connection to Britain's criminal underworld.</p><p>The scene where they learn about the job is fucking fantastic. It turns out the guy they're meeting is a collector of proof of other beings. You'd have thought that owning actual proof of just one supernatural entity would be a big enough deal to set you up for life, and this guy claims to be sitting on a treasure trove of paranormal artefacts! He brags about owning Bigfoot's claw, a yeti's fur, and the sack Krampus uses to collect children. Unfortunately, we don't get to see these trophies.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7ZSzSoly0UECA0hl4Oq9CCH7wh8hBQ8PxJ2dMPPecUatztaqT1Y5gd8kRG9trPv-6ez00125D_RruHDppeJaFYAM3dNuqoraRwEwKGpbKXiFxCnF2UwOOOYYLTye8qpmpJqodabZwlkq/s1920/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-07h56m18s206.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1920" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx7ZSzSoly0UECA0hl4Oq9CCH7wh8hBQ8PxJ2dMPPecUatztaqT1Y5gd8kRG9trPv-6ez00125D_RruHDppeJaFYAM3dNuqoraRwEwKGpbKXiFxCnF2UwOOOYYLTye8qpmpJqodabZwlkq/w400-h224/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-07h56m18s206.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>The collector asks the likely lads to head to the end of the rainbow and bring him back the leprechaun's gold. When asked why he's paying them instead of going himself he mentions that they might all be killed for stealing from the Leprechaun. As compensation for their risk they'll be paid a hundred thousand pounds for the bag of gold. If they can't find it everyone on the team will receive a grand for their troubles. Win win!</p><p>They decide to round up some local lads and eventually put together a team of six; two of whom are actually women. They decide to promise them £500 each for their time and keep the extra cash for themselves. Next thing we see they're in the woods, BESIDE THE END OF A FUCKING RAINBOW and promising everyone a grand, or a cut of the £100K. For some reason they haven't filled anyone in on the plan to hunt for a sack of gold before meeting at the rainbow's end, or more accurately, slightly off screen past the rainbow's end.</p><p>The group are rightly sceptical, but Karl's business partner Marshall ensures them that "stranger things have happened to [him] in [his] life!" Placated thusly, the gang start poking around in the undergrowth.</p><p>After a brief montage Marshall finds the sack, laying out in the open. It turns out Karl was betrayed by some of the other guys on a previous criminal job, and could have ended up in prison. The crew talk as if they're boosting stacks of cash from a mob safehouse rather than poncing about in a forest looking for mythical loot.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTLzs1tWTFd-MMw__8Ge02BDJBEHIEAXxc1aJIs4aJePIkeBCAVEr1VokqhdofdO_AcyTLCg1nl_Zxqwv7FbNtIgf37t3AoFnWr2M6yZnYh_UItE2YT4ZVf7UtWAB-VYRZdzhQ7QF9LCa/s1920/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-07h53m20s844.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1920" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTLzs1tWTFd-MMw__8Ge02BDJBEHIEAXxc1aJIs4aJePIkeBCAVEr1VokqhdofdO_AcyTLCg1nl_Zxqwv7FbNtIgf37t3AoFnWr2M6yZnYh_UItE2YT4ZVf7UtWAB-VYRZdzhQ7QF9LCa/w400-h224/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-07h53m20s844.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>They can't believe their luck! Marshall decides that the gold is probably worth half a million quid, which means they could all get £100K each. Math is presumably not his strong suit. It's hilarious how quickly they decide, on the spot, to keep all the gold and fuck over the contractor. In the next scene the crew are sat around drinking petrol station bubbly out of tumblers. Karl asks what to do if the contractor comes after them, and Marshall offers up a defensive strategy so simple I can't believe I've never heard of it before.</p><p>"Comes after us? Well, I suggest you start spending! Spend, spend spend, buddy! Book a flight, take a holiday, put a deposit on a house... That's what I'm gonna do!" Marshall seems to be under the illusion that you can get out of debt by simply not having the money you owe, having exchanged it for goods or services. I will have to check with my investment broker, but I'm pretty sure that money doesn't work that way. He also points out that the guy shouldn't be taken seriously because he paid them to search for a leprechaun's gold. I genuinely can't decide if his logic there is terrible or brilliant!</p><p>One of the crew goes home and tells his girlfriend that he's won a £100k on the lottery. They have sex, off screen, and the next morning the leprechaun soon shows up and kills them separately with two different types of magic.</p><p>Karl and Marshall meet a buyer so they can sell their gold. Somehow they've ended up with £100Ks worth between them. They're clearly not criminal masterminds. The buyer tells them that as it's clearly dodgy he'll only give them £30K for it. The film doesn't state it outright, but 30K divided by two is less than 100K divided by six, plus they potentially have the contractor coming after them for screwing him over. These guys are terrible at this.</p><p>Meanwhile, another member of the crew is murdered by the leprechaun in a multi storey car park with a machete.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUiGt-3u7z72O05G2JsObDKvVnjzdE9JK9KeSUlpxrYdiXZnZtTTWcv4Eb5LD8CMQVk9aj9zwiMSH8uElbwr1a18ICBMb7AiLXZdFfn4hPFrhQwhnivDGAwMT1AtTIFt2ZdB1eSTA6zSp/s1920/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-03h27m41s227.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1920" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtUiGt-3u7z72O05G2JsObDKvVnjzdE9JK9KeSUlpxrYdiXZnZtTTWcv4Eb5LD8CMQVk9aj9zwiMSH8uElbwr1a18ICBMb7AiLXZdFfn4hPFrhQwhnivDGAwMT1AtTIFt2ZdB1eSTA6zSp/w400-h224/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-03h27m41s227.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>A policewoman meets one of the gang in a church, telling her that two of her friends have died, and that the police "are assuming foul play due to the amount of blood found at the crime scenes." I imagine most cases where a corpse is displaying multiple machete wounds and has been left unceremoniously in the middle of a car park a second party turns out to be responsible. The police have CCTV footage of the gang meeting at the wood, and the cop recommends the gang member comes clean. "I don't think you're telling me the whole truth. I'm trying to help you. Police aren't trying to get in the way, be a pain, we are trying to help. We solve crimes, you hear me?" She talks a big game, but unfortunately we never see her again.</p><p>It's a shame, because outside of the scenery chewing cryptozoic collector Police is my favourite character. The whole time the two are talking they stare at the front of the church, possibly out of reverence, possibly because they're reading cue cards. Police is played by Antonia Johnstone, who has worked with some of the same actors on other projects, including Rise of the Mummy, which she directed as well as doing make up and wardrobe. This last credit surprised me because Police appeared not to have tucked her shirt in, a strange choice for a police officer. Antonia Johnstone is literally billed as Police in the credits.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqJkqWqSr2cyP4mHJOKp7TccoUavSXrVgfZG4QPufUcZ379q7Qz18q73PSs2AwAe8U3SxOrUufyc3kzVXiWCcANGJoFIpE45oem6atGnfVC1ZKGkU4uUEH2a_eBg9W41JSMuajrf_r9uZ/s1920/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-04h18m30s383.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1072" data-original-width="1920" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieqJkqWqSr2cyP4mHJOKp7TccoUavSXrVgfZG4QPufUcZ379q7Qz18q73PSs2AwAe8U3SxOrUufyc3kzVXiWCcANGJoFIpE45oem6atGnfVC1ZKGkU4uUEH2a_eBg9W41JSMuajrf_r9uZ/w400-h224/vlcsnap-2021-05-05-04h18m30s383.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>As I write this I realise that Police's exit pretty much marks the midpoint of the film! Can you believe there are a further forty minutes to unpack?! I think the smart thing to do would be to stop here and finish my summary tomorrow. Look forward to much more Leprechaun's Game related content from here on out!</p><p>Peace!</p><p>✌ 🌈💰🍀</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-15736681537084383312021-05-03T11:57:00.003+00:002021-05-03T11:57:12.154+00:009 THINGS I'D POST ON TWITTER, IF I STILL USED TWITTER, VOLUME SIX<p>Six weeks since I got my second COVID vaccine and I'm doing fine! Please get yours too.P</p><p>Appearing on Chopped 420 to "tell your friends all over that ganja is medicinal and you can use it to enhance the quality of your life" is like appearing of Songs of Praise to let people know about our saviour, Jesus Christ.</p><p>I imagine Songs of Praise is one show that really had to switch it up when COVID happened!</p><p>I am learning a lot from Chopped 420 though; who'd have thought that Ron Funches smoked weed?</p><p>What are the odds on a kid called Laganja Estranja growing up to become a cannabis rights activist?</p><p>Can you get a contact high watching people cook with weed or am I feeling the effects of my whiskey and morphine? #AnswersOnAPostcardPlease!</p><p>Words, Santa, Moms, Grandpa, Moms Christmas, Parents, Education, Santa 2, Teacher - My ranking of the Bad comedies.</p><p>So there's a Time Lord named The Doctor and another named The Master. Does that imply there's another called The Bachelor? Or The Drop-Out? I like to think he'd have the coolest TARDIS.</p><p>In 33 years I've only had two people tell me they thought I might be autistic. One was my closest, most honest confidant and the other was a mental health doctor I was struggling to express myself to in hospital. Still, not enough data to form a pattern!</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1197974245575081039.post-74573651844226881762021-05-01T07:37:00.002+00:002021-05-01T08:32:25.111+00:00MY LIFE AS A BASKET CASE; MENTAL ILLNESS & THE WORST THING I EVER DID<p>I've been putting this off all week. Well, to be honest, I've been putting this off since I've started writing this blog. I've been treating this blog a little bit like a therapist; I just unload whatever I'm thinking and try and get things clear in my head. I'm not spiritual, I don't believe there's a will to the universe, or genuine karma, balance or justice. That said, we're all the stars of our own little stories, and from our perspective the events we experience are all connected purely because they all happened to us. So whenever life deals me a bad hand, and I crash the company van, or get taken to hospital with swollen, infected legs, or wake up to find ants crawling over me, there's always a voice in my head going "Well, there was that one time you fucked your entire life up. Maybe you deserve this."</p><p>Now that I've written this fucking thing, it occurs to me that people I like read this blog, and that friends I make in the future may read this too. I hope that the actions I write about here don't literally repulse you away from me, and that you can appreciate I am a different person now than I was over a decade ago. Maybe don't read this if you don't want to see me at my worst!</p><p>Before I get to that, I owe my friend Julie an apology. I didn't proof read my last post before submitting it and did not express myself as well as I am able. The story I last posted was the first one I ever wrote specifically for her, not intended as a comment to her blog. I talk to Julie and about Julie in a manner unique to her; it took a little pushing by her to get me comfortable referring to her using language that is derogatory or misogynist. It's language Julie uses to describe herself; I recall her referring to herself as "Queen Slut" in the comments of a recent post. Obviously language is a tricky thing and intent is everything; if a third party seriously called her that I would be most unhappy. If her husband called her that whilst she was blowing him I'd be most entertained.</p><p>Communicating with and about Julie is tricky; I know if I write about her here she'll read it, but this is essentially a public place. Writing on her comments page can be tricky; Julie almost responds to comments as if she is two different characters, with Strict Julie responding to comments on posts where she's mainly a domme, and Sub Julie responding to comments where she's mostly a femsub. Obviously there's a little blurring of the lines, but she'll let readers get away with more on comments to some posts than on others. Plus she can be very coarse and derogatory in the way she describes herself; it's something that Miss Chris picked her up on when visiting for the first time. Of course, she obviously has a role to fulfil herself. Obviously e-mailing Julie directly is when I can be the most honest or the most fake, writing something that will titillate her without worrying about how a third party will react. There are other times when I'll start to write her an e-mail but realise she'll get more of a kick discovering my words here and wondering who else has read them, or in the comments of her blog where her fans will appreciate them and join in the fun. It can be a little complicated!</p><p>In my last post I listed a bunch of terms I've used to excite her since she's given me the go ahead to talk dirty. I wasn't trying to offend, but when she quoted my own words back to me it's clear that listing such harsh, derogatory terms without context was an unkind thing to do. Furthermore, I realised my words could be interpreted to mean that I no longer care for her, which I hope is self-evidently untrue. I care for her a great deal. I just know she'd rather be shamed and humiliated a little rather than being treated like she might break. I sincerely apologise.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbsHNb1tKk6V5RucE7FUf1pk9Pz0QnBdiXuWH6CtKLPCn6eVrsc9pmqBuEcrIN1Fy0f3At9SmD_LvMRTUQdDFR8Mg_3rvaN004kExR_kfHh9NwQdSgwJUMsWPGxUMYVNDdNJHSWNVRy33/s1280/593f3af0-b6a8-4b36-986c-4cea0f2263d2__79031.1453952761.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="956" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicbsHNb1tKk6V5RucE7FUf1pk9Pz0QnBdiXuWH6CtKLPCn6eVrsc9pmqBuEcrIN1Fy0f3At9SmD_LvMRTUQdDFR8Mg_3rvaN004kExR_kfHh9NwQdSgwJUMsWPGxUMYVNDdNJHSWNVRy33/w299-h400/593f3af0-b6a8-4b36-986c-4cea0f2263d2__79031.1453952761.jpg" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Who doesn't want a five foot tall cuddly reminder of every fuck up?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>So, on to the main show. (THINGS GET VERY BLEAK FROM THIS POINT IN!) I've always had a hard time telling my parents (mainly my mother, Dad's never as invested as she is) that I'm not interested in going after a given opportunity. I guess I was always scared of being seen as ungrateful, or of rocking the boat, or maybe I just knew that I'd end up doing whatever Mum wanted eventually, so why bother with the arguing and the guilt? I knew these were opportunities that other kids didn't have, so I felt bad turning them down. Stuff like joining Mensa, the French exchange program, taking GCSE electronics instead of food technology (I thought cooking would be the more useful skill, but my parents and the school thought electronics would help with my stated career goal of "something using a computer!") and staying with the Scouts long after I started hating it (as I mentioned before, it was a little like being an extra in a Mad Max film once a week!).</p><p>I went to University without a real career trajectory in mind; a huge mistake. I signed up for a Combined Studies degree that allowed a huge amount of flexibility. You started off studying three subjects, but you could study more or less of each one and come away with a full degree in one subject, a twin degree, a master/minor... It was great for someone who didn't know what they wanted to do with their life but had always been expected to go to university by their family and teachers. I took Philosophy, which I loved but saw no future in, Management Science, which I found really easy, and Business Studies, figuring that would give me plenty of options. In the second year I dropped Business. I was doing very well in the other two subjects and was enjoying them more too.</p><p>The Combined Studies program allowed for a year studying abroad. The university had ties with a bunch of other colleges and universities around the world, including some in Canada. I don't know what had sparked my interest in The Great White North, but I'd mentioned it as somewhere I'd like to visit when I was a teenager, and so my parents thought I should seize the opportunity. I never bothered applying; studying abroad basically meant taking first-year classes, and none of what you did would contribute to your final grade. It seemed like a waste of time.</p><p>Well, my mother badgered me, and then the University, who told me there was just enough time to apply. I ended up applying to study Philosophy in Montreal.</p><p>My parents bought me a ticket out there way before classes started, the idea being that I could suss out the city, rent the very best accommodation and apply for the pick of student jobs, should I be inclined to do so. The jobs were a no-go, my Visa would only allow me to work for the university, and although the university was English speaking all the jobs basically expected you to be fluent in French. My visas hadn't been fully cleared by the time my plane ticket was due, and I flew out only to be turned away at the Canadian border. I asked if I could stay as a tourist, have my visas sent to me and then re-enter the country, and was told no. They couldn't understand why I was in the country a month before classes started. They let me phone my parents and then I took the next flight home.</p><p>This was the one time I told my parents I really didn't think studying abroad made sense; that I'd rather finish my degree with the classmates I knew and get on with finding a career. My feelings were basically chalked up to feeling tired and shaken up, and were roundly ignored.</p><p>When I did fly out again I was in a pretty bad headspace. I spent the first day in my hotel rewatching the first season of NBC's Heroes on my laptop. I took a room in the first apartment I visited, lucking out that it was directly opposite a metro station. My flatmates were two Asian international students and a Canadian lad who had his own social group and, though he was nice enough, never really clicked with me. I couldn't name any of them now for a thousand bucks.I</p><p>I felt like a real loner during lectures too, and just didn't know how to connect to anyone. There was no central campus, student bar or blocks of student housing; I was at a total loss. One of my lectures was on a Monday night, something like 18:00 to 22:00. The course was sold as Applied Ethics, the course I was most looking forward to, but it was taught by the Professor of Sexual Ethics and he would view every moral problem through that filter. He'd show us weird videos that made me uncomfortable. It didn't take long for me to start skipping his lectures, and then ditching his class entirely.</p><p>My parents and brother came to visit me at Christmas. I showed them what I'd seen of the city, then we went to Niagara Falls for New Year's Eve and spent a few days in Toronto. My grandfather died whilst we were in Montreal. It was devastating. I remember processing it badly; I fainted a couple of days later in a food court in Toronto! It was like my brain was fighting the news.</p><p>My parents said they'd pay for me to fly back for the funeral service and then fly back again. Looking back I should obviously have flown home and stayed there, maybe getting a part time job as I was basically broke. But I didn't want to let my parents down, and couldn't really justify them spending all that money on me, so I went back to Montreal when they flew home.</p><p>There were no repercussions from ditching Applied Ethics, and I couldn't afford to buy a metro card to attend the first couple of weeks of classes until that semester's student loan came through; although my year was split into two my loan was paid in three instalments as if I were still in the UK. Nobody cared that I missed those classes, so I decided not to bother with any more. Instead I would wander the streets, climb Mont Royal, visit the cinema for cheap on a Tuesday or watch TV and movies on my laptop.</p><p>When I came home I had to process Gramps not being there all over again. It was like it was new to me whilst everyone else had gotten used to it. I remember coming back from a day out with my parents somewhere and they casually stopped off at the cemetery to show me his gravestone.</p><p>I had to scrape the bottom of the barrel finding accommodation for my fourth and final year; student accommodation was mostly snapped up by first years in January. I ended up in a tiny room on the top floor of a split level house. My housemates were all international students. One of them was a Nigerian who ran up a massive electricity bill keeping his room hot with a space heater, and whose wife and baby moved in with him part way through the year.</p><p>When I went to register for classes at the beginning of the year there was some sort of computer error; and it broke me. Rather than doing the sensible thing and phoning the school, or venturing on to campus to see what the problem was, I just kept trying and failing to register. I couldn't stand being rejected again, so rather than finding out whether it was a computer error of whether I was genuinely unwanted I chose inaction. I convinced myself I could make up for the lessons I missed, until one week it became obvious that I'd missed to many classes and I told myself there was nothing I could do at that point anyhow.</p><p>Somebody called me on to campus in November and I let on a little of what had been going on. I was told there had been a computer error, and was told I could sit classes in the new year. I was asked if I was seeing a counsellor. I wasn't, and genuinely didn't see that I needed one. I thought I was wasting her time, and that she'd be too busy with date rape victims or domestic violence casualties to deal with me! I started attending weekly counselling sessions and taking citalopram.</p><p>When I went home for Christmas I told my parents I was taking medication for anxiety and depression, but not the rest of it. I got the sense they didn't approve of me taking the drugs, but tolerated it nonetheless. Lying in such a horrible fashion was terrible, but not the worst thing I ever did. (THINGS ONLY GET WORSE FROM HERE! DEPICTIONS OF SELF HARM LAY AHEAD!)</p><p>I can't remember how I justified not re-joining classes in the new year to myself; it was pure cowardice. I remember truly hating myself. I got it into my head that I should cut off a hand, whether out of penance, or self-loathing, or a dramatic bid for change I don't know! I remember drinking a lot of vodka, something that was very out of character for me at the time, and trying to sever my arm about six inches above my wrist. I figured that would look more like an accident. I went down to the kitchen early in the morning, got out my wok and the ingredients for an omelette, started chopping an onion and then went to work on my arm. Well, it turns out that cutting your hand off with a kitchen knife is harder than it sounds! I spent about forty five minutes cutting into my flesh, nearly all the way around the arm and fairly deep, but as the sun came up it was clear I was never going to make it. I called an ambulance and my parents, telling them I had cut myself cooking but not to worry. The paramedics came and took me to hospital where I got stitched up and was seen by a psychiatrist. The ambulance crew said they were going to leave a note for my housemates, but they didn't, and they told the landlord they thought I'd been abducted! The floor was covered in blood and they had to pay specialists to clean it up. Still not the worst thing I ever did!</p><p>I went home for Easter break with my arm bandaged. I had stitches taken out at my local doctor's, and eventually my dad saw the scar. It nearly wraps around my arm and is slightly forked at the end, there's no real way it could have been done by accident. Dad asked me point blank if I'd cut myself on purpose and I lied to his face. It felt bad, but I hated myself and my actions all day every day as it was, what was another drop in the bucket?</p><p>I went back to my tiny room for a few more weeks and eventually ended up attacking myself all over with a kitchen knife. I cut my arms, legs, torso and face, just about anywhere I could leave a mark. I still have a bunch of scars, mainly on my left arm and my legs. I didn't do any permanent damage to my face. I wasn't trying to kill myself, I don't think I had a specific goal in mind, it just felt good to hurt myself and to have evidence I couldn't hide that my insides were as broken as my flesh. Still not the worst thing I ever did!</p><p>I left the house early, got breakfast at Burger King and then went to the student medical centre. Everyone I encountered either made a point not to look at me or stared at me like the monster I was. There was a weird power to it.</p><p>My wounds were treated and my parents were called. They sorted things with my landlord and asked me when my end of year exams were; I finally came clean and they took me back home. I basically his inside until my wounds healed. I came off my head meds cold turkey after building up from 10mg to 20, 30 and finally 40mg in the space of a few months. Mum was worried that if I took them people would talk. My brother had been planning on studying Media Studies at the university closest to our house so he could hang on to his weekend job and his girlfriend. I wonder if I had had a better time away from home he'd have spread his wings a little. I doubt it, he never really cares what I did and was always keen to distance himself from me. If I'd stayed at home he'd probably have applied to study in Azerbaijan.</p><p>The worst thing I ever did was to do the exact same thing the following academic year. My parents had convinced the university to find me a place to live on campus and visited me every couple of months or so. I was so scared of failing or not fitting in or whatever that I had again failed to sign up for classes and lived out the rest of the year on campus as if I were a regular student, but all the time I was empty inside. Being around other students led me to start drinking again with a new found zest for the liquor; whilst other students used the stuff as a social lubricant and occasionally overdid it, I found that vodka was excellent at making my inner pain go away.</p><p>I was home for a few weeks at the end of the year before telling my parents I wouldn't be graduating. I told them I'd failed a Philosophy module and would have to take another to graduate. They didn't believe I could flunk a class and said they'd call the university the next day to find out what was happening. Then Dad asked me flat out of I'd done the same thing again and I admitted I had. They took the opportunity to ask me directly if may brother's girlfriend was pregnant, and I told them the truth about that as well. My brother despised me for years because of this.</p><p>It was only this year that I realised I probably hold some kind of slacker record, I'd dossed off for two and a half straight years, studying for a degree that could be finished in three! My friend Julie asked me early on if I'd gone down in disgrace or crashed and burned, I think a fiery car wreck would have been easier for everybody than my slow but determined crawl over the edge of a crevasse.</p><p>I had to phone a bunch of relatives and tell them I wouldn't be graduating. Both parents were angry and disappointed, though Dad immediately accepted it as something he'd never understand whilst Mum took it as a personal insult, like she'd failed to raise a normal, undamaged son. Neither parent really trusted me again. I think it took me becoming bedbound to put everything in perspective; nothing else I did was ever enough to make up for that betrayal. It took months before my mum would really talk to me again. Things got better when I found a job, and then after Christmas. When I upgraded to a better job I saved enough money to take a holiday, it was the happiest time of my life! After booking the holiday Mum started charging me rent, something they never asked my brother to do, saying he needed the money for his car and his girlfriend. If I hadn't been paying rent I might have been able to afford a car rather than taking four buses a day to get to my job and back! My parents ended up going on a cruise twice a year, a practice that stopped when I finally moved out and rented my own flat instead.</p><p>When I wasn't able to pay rent on the flat my mental health fell in a big way and I tried to kill myself. It got better as my situation improved, but is still not great!</p><p>My mental health was very, very good when I started this blog; I'd started reaching out to people and being creative. I had the double fortune of duloxetine kicking in and receiving two pieces of good news that allowed me to view my past through a new lens. It's been getting worse since I was denied help from the local mental health team and especially bad since last week, when I had the dual horrors of my grandfather going to hospital and my bed, desk and laptop being invaded by ants. All I did yesterday was sleep and watch one episode of The Handmaid's Tale, broken into three parts, watched during meal times. I saw my GP on Wednesday and she's going to increase my duloxetine and re-refer me to the mental health team.</p><p>I don't know what I hope to achieve by telling you all of this, but now you truly know me better than just about anyone. There's nobody in my real life who has seen every side of me, the way you have if you've read every blog post. I think there's value in that. This hasn't been an easy or enjoyable write, and I can't imagine it was much fun to read! So thank you for making it this far.</p><p>If you find yourself in similar circumstances, reach for help and be honest with the ones you love. I wish I had. If you have questions for me then leave a comment or e-mail me, I promise to give an honest answer.</p><p>Peace!</p><p>✌</p>Tankerton Latchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03654112370440835499noreply@blogger.com11