The 'ManBoobs' incident!

My wife has recently joined the gym. It’s another perfect endorsement that she is up to no good. After all, she’s been letting herself go for years.

Why join now I ask myself. Is it a sudden passion for flippantly exposing her body and having one final flirt with her aging sexuality? After all, is it not true that the female sex drive really kicks off in the forties? Well, I’m not seeing any of it.  Now strangely, one of my good pals is also considering admitting himself to his local gym. We had lunch and he explained all.

ManBoobs! I’d never noticed them before but he assured me he had them. Apparently, they appeared a few months ago during a midnight thunderstorm. He was awoken by a loud clap of thunder and decided to get up for a pee. While relieving his bladder he looked down to see if he could make out his dick over his potbelly and inadvertently shot gunned the entire en-suite with a golden shower, as he realized he was turning into a middle-aged bearded woman.

He says, they have grown steadily ever since and he’s starting to feel like a pubescent schoolgirl experiencing a hormonal change into womanhood. He is not happy.

After lunch and a long, awkward but entertaining conversation about how they looked and whether he should go strapless or under-wired, he invited me to have a peek for myself. Now, he is an old and valued friend but I was not exactly impressed about ogling the fleshy flab first hand. A description was more than acceptable.

Unfortunately, he insisted. Having become reclusive and self-conscious, he pleaded for my opinion. I reluctantly agreed. Given our whereabouts, I grudgingly decided that a convenient place for the examination would be in the men’s toilets, but under no circumstances would I enter a cubicle with him unless the Police evacuated the entire vicinity.

Looking like a couple of dirty old men, we checked out the pub toilets and squeezed eagerly into a cubicle. It wasn’t even funny. Upon locking the door behind us I started to come over hot and flushed and wanted to cry out rape, but I calmed myself down and he undid his shirt.

They were indeed a fine pair, milky white and proud. Being starved by my wife of any kind of sexual contact for so long, I was half tempted to cup them up and kiss them but decided against it.

I agreed completely that he should join the gym ASAP or start to dress in a tulip flowered frock every Tuesday and Friday

The unfortunate Cat!

I’ve had a spot of bother. Recently I discovered a dead cat in my garden. Painful as it may seem to cat lovers everywhere, I really do dislike all cats and that’s when my troubles began.

As a rule, I am an animal lover, not literally of course, bestiality is a sin. Although, a friend of mine did once watch a DVD called 'Animal Farm', he said he only watched the first few minutes. I’m not sure if he actually turned it off or was simply 'sorted' by then, but he told me all about it. I couldn’t look a racehorse in the face for almost a year. Anyway, much as I dislike the Felis catus, I really wouldn’t wish death on any cat. A surgical operation to remove its anus maybe and attach a colostomy bag yes, but not death and that brings me nicely on to why I hate cats so much.

Catshit, crap, anal snakes, fungal faeces, butt mud or toxic turds, whatever you like to call them, you will always find some in my back garden of all shapes and sizes, deposited almost daily by one or more of the sixteen cats that live near to my house.

My back garden is a poo party playground for every one of the blighters. Do they shit in their own backyard? Every morning they take it in turns to get together after a slap up fried breakfast and with the Daily Star under one arm, they proceed to my garden and back the big brown Bentley out of the garage and on to my lawn.

Now back to the dead cat. My wife knows I hate cats and so do my neighbours, and if I see one in my back garden, I would happily challenge a fully doped Carl Lewis to beat me in a 100m sprint to it. Therefore, I felt sure I would be blamed for the abrupt demise of pussy.

The most annoying mog of all is a scruffy, smarmy ginger thing, no doubt imaginatively named, Ginger. After creating a suitable intestine sculpture, he waits at the bottom of my garden and smiles Cheshire style until I get about six feet away.

When I approach calmly but deadly, Kung Fu style, he looks at me, rolls his eyes in despair and jumps effortlessly over the fence. To make matters worse, as I retreat defeated, he has a habit of popping back up on the top of the fence again and laughing, I can’t hear it, but I know he is. Bastard!

The deceased feline had been impaled on a metal spike left upright in my garden. Dangerous I know. I was dismantling my old shed and the offending scrap metal was chucked safely or so I thought, over to the edge of my garden near some rotten fence panels.

Now, my guess is that Mr Shitcake was coming over for his daily dump, the fence panel gave way, and his sphincter squeezing days were over. I’d say he’d been there a couple of days. He was starting to smell a bit nasty. It was unpleasant.

I wondered how I was going to remove him from the spike, which incidentally, was attached to a 4ft piece of wood? I had to slide him off somehow. It might be a tad embarrassing walking around to my neighbours with a dead cat swinging from side to side while impaled on a metal spike, attached halfway up a plank of wood and asking, "Hi, don’t suppose this is yours?"

At that moment, I heard my wife walking up the garden, obviously wondering what was going on. Although I was completely innocent of any calamitous cat crime, I nervously kicked the wooden plank that was attached to the spike that was attached to the cat, into the bushes. I turned my back to it, and smiled.

I knew she would immediately suspect wrongdoing. Unfortunately, it was a poor effort. The wood was indeed now hidden but the cat's head was poking lifelessly and I dare to say, amusingly, out of the side of a conifer tree. "What is going on", she demanded. I screwed up my face for a moment.

After convincing her that I had not in fact, chased the deceased around our garden with a rusty 2ft spike attached to a large plank of wood shouting, "Come here you little shit", I explained what I thought had happened to the unfortunate moggy. Even though the mistrustful way she looked at me made me feel like I was lying, I could tell she believed I wasn't intelligent enough to make it up and she accepted my story.

She recognized the cat and we bagged it up. She made me take it around to our neighbours to explain all. It was a sorrowful affair and they said they would break the news to their ten year old daughter later that day.

Soon after, my neighbour turned up at my house to thank me for bringing the cat over and said his daughter had taken it well and he would make it up to her. "How", I asked. He smiled, "We’re getting her two".

Arsehole!

The Gym Experience!

I have been blessed with a metabolism that can dissolve and dispense with all but the most defiant of fat laden Cheeseburgers and the best the Colonel and his secret recipe can throw at me. I have spent my life carefree in the knowledge that my arteries may well be clogged up with copious amounts of sludge and bad cholesterol but from the outside, I almost look like I jog every other morning. Almost!

This was until recently. My body has starting to reject me. I have been in denial for a year or two but now I have to consider defeat. So I am going to have to do something soon about my steady expansion or turn into a pot-bellied middle-aged member of the British obese society that I see each time I visit my local Town Centre.

For now.......I’m holding out. If I stand shoulders back and breath in deeply, I can just about pull it off. I have tried this several times and the rewards of looking briefly toned only marginally outweigh the hours of pain and debilitating stomach muscle aching I suffer later.

So, the Gym it is. I ordered a pair of tight-fitting vinyl white shorts, a shuttlecock for genital enhancement, a sleeveless slightly off-white vest and a thick black moustache. I could'nt wait.

Upon arriving to sign up to physical greatness I was invited by a male assistant to view the body sculpturing paraphernalia. I was quite sure it worked fine but he insisted on showing me exactly how to use everything.

As I entered the Gym and looked at all the NASA inspired equipment I suddenly noticed I was being eye-balled by a weary looking assortment of Gym enthusiasts already hard into their sweaty, panting -and for some- fruitless work-out routines.

I wondered if I would be accepted into the World of the over-eaters.

I passed the weightlifting area which was strangely cordoned off from the rest of the Gym and watched curiously as troubled looking men who no-doubt had posters of the Governor of Californian on their bedroom wall, chewed on whole pieces of steroid and pumped iron. I admired the vanity in action. These guys had veins on their biceps the size of my arms. Nice!

I decided I was more interested in cardiovascular fitness and was immediately drawn to pretty young female strapped to a strange leg-spreading contraption.

She was resting slightly backwards while she pushed the extremely lucky foam covered metal bars open with her legs, while at the same time exerting deep sensual and pleasurable breathe- in my opinion. This was indeed an excellent visual experience. This was my kind of Gym. I became transfixed but was hastily dragged off by my concerned assistant.

He led me to the changing rooms and showers and said, ‘Off you go’. I enquired, ‘Now?’ He looked surprised. I had suddenly became a little bashful.

How was I to know if I could actually use half of this gear? I was terrified I would sit down on the leg extracting pleasure machine and not be able to open my legs without causing myself a hernia. What if I couldn’t lift those weights and the whole Gym fell about laughing? I was suddenly having second thoughts and visions of humiliation flashed before my eyes.

I changed into my 118118 uniform, attached my moustache and briskly walked into the Gym again. I eyed up the equipment holding on to some in a masculine fashion and looked inquisitively, like I was inspecting it’s suitability for my particular work-out regime.

Then I moved on to the next one and then the next. Having now visited most pieces of gym equipment and inspected its appropriateness and ruggedness, I proceeded back to the changing rooms showered and headed home.

You know........... maybe I have a few more years left yet!

My wife and shaun the Scaffolder Parts 1,2 & 3

Part 1

I’ve just turned private eye. It’s exciting, dangerous and I’m not sure I want to know the results of my investigation.

If I am going to leave my wife, then it will be me that has the affair, walks out with a canoe under my right arm, or leaves my clothes on a beach at Yarmouth.

But, it’s my wife, that’s acting very suspicious of late. Texts at all hours, quick trips to the local shop that take longer than a weekend in Devon and thongs! Yes. Thongs! I didn’t know my wife had any let alone wore them.

Having discussed this with a couple of close pals, apparently this is a classic hallmark of an affair in progress. In fact, the only thing lacking to confirm this is a fully re-invigorated sex life-well I never really had one in the first place so I can rule that one out.

And that brings me nicely onto the point that concerns me the most. I’m told that affairs start with an explosion of sex while the messy things like who gets the kids and the CD collection comes a long way down the line. Well, my wife having explosive sex is about as likely as the Pope buying Asian Babes magazine.

So, here lies a quandary. If my wife is having explosive sex on Shaun the Scaffolders pole, I need to find out.

So, my newly found love, the Internet, has turned up a few tantalising pieces of undercover 'Simon Templar' gadgets that will come in handy. Having decided on the appropriate piece of equipment I set about a plan.

So here it is, have you ever seen such a thing? It’s a SIM card reader, that once inserted into a PC, will read the last 20 deleted texts from a mobile phone. Fan-friggin-tastic.

The excitement quickly turned to fear while reading the instructions.

In order to read the sordid texts between her and her hip-hanging tool belt lover, I would need to do the following without anyone noticing: find the offending phone, remove the SIM card-taking off the battery cover and place into a USB device. Then, take this to the PC, insert, and perform a 3-minute program that reads the SIM and places the info onto my computer. Then, remove the SIM from the PC, return to the mobile phone and replace the battery.

WHAT! That is a 20-minute operation that even the SAS would turn their noses up at. My wife and her mobile phone are attached like Torvill and Dean. This will take some planning, but having recently watched a re-run of 'Steven Seagal' movies, I had an idea…..

Part 2

It was 7am and the sun was shining fiercely through my bedroom. My wife was as ever, putting on the slap and getting herself ready for another triumphant day at the office, a simple 50-minute transformation!

I waited downstairs in the study for the moment to show its sorry face and it came like clockwork. She will dry her hair at exactly 7.30am and that little job will take about 10 minutes-on and off.

The key was this; while she is drying her hair she cant leave the room, it’s a military operation getting her blonde Medusa locks just right and feeding the snakes, but not as big a military operation as mine was going to be.

First blast on the blower and off I went like a missile, darting upstairs and then rolling from a high altitude parachute jump into bedroom number two where she charges her mobile. With one swift movement the phone was in my hand. The blower stopped.

This is where it could all go horribly wrong. While she is drying her hair, it's impossible to be in two places at once, but….


Off it went again and trembling like an alcoholic looking for whisky at a bottle bank I took off the battery and released the SIM.

I was behind schedule due to the trembles, but the battery was back on. Phone looked normal. SIM in hand. I was starting to sweat slightly but took an unhurried walk back down to the study like I didn’t have a care in the world.

Blower on again. I dashed to the PC and fiddled endlessly with the stupid USB thingy. I was panicking-it wouldn't go in. Took a deep breath and it was good to go. Ran the program. Downloaded the info. Hey presto and back upstairs.

The dryer turns off and her door opens on the landing as I walked up the stairs looking like I’d been on a ten mile hike (I should have trained for this first). "Have you seen my….....are you OK...….are you having a heart attack?" I’d bet she’d love that. 'Mouth to mouth? - Oh not right now darling.'

I appeased her and the conversation stumbled as it usually does, and she goes downstairs. I had only seconds to get the SIM back in and the battery back in place before she came back up again.

Then I remember, I left the bloody computer screen on with the program results still showing, and she was just about to walk past it and immediately win in the divorce courts on the grounds of harassment, paranoia or both. I could only do one thing and call her back upstairs before she could see it, but only to find me with her SIM card in one hand and the battery in the other and looking more suspicious than a Muslim wearing a rucksack.

I called her urgently. She comes back up. I slot everything back into place with milliseconds to spare. My heart was pounding out of my chest and I fell exhausted to the floor in a red faced sweaty heap, hands trembling uncontrollably. "Oh my god" she said, "you really are having a heart attack…….."

Part 3

Unbelievable!

Having faked a heart attack and risked certain death, I found nothing. But I’m not convinced……