Thursday, 28 February 2013

Because Fuck You, That's Why.

You see this picture? Until 11pm tonight this hideous contraption is about to give me hell.


Yeah. Thank God I'm Fucked.

If you don't know what this is, or have never had to be on the receiving end of one, you have never truly resented working on a Friday.

We don't have TGIF. We have things like...

TGIO- ThankGodIt'sOver.
TGID- ThankGodI'mDrunk.
TGIDGASLICT- ThankGodIDidn'tGetASingleLactoseIntollerantCuntTonight

or in front of house's case- TGNAMFIITR -ThankGodNobodyAskedMeForIceInTheirRiesling.

So to everyone out there with your precious little "Oh Em Gee so excited it's the weekend!" posts.


Go eat a laxative and a stool hardener and have your insides fight to the death.

Wednesday, 27 February 2013

Birthday Wish.

Gran: "Will we be going into a depressed little 'I'm getting old' bubble for our birthday this year darling?"

Me: "Probably. But I'm actually going out this year too. I figure there's no better present than having all my friends in my favourite club with bangers and heineken. That and... I've asked them all for naked selfie birthday messages... Modesty hat or pine cone or garden gnome or something. Anything to naked up and excite my day."

Gran: "We all deserve friends who will get naked for us when we're feeling down."

I don't want to know what she's referring to but...

Damn straight.

Tuesday, 26 February 2013

I Want To Tell You A Story.

Once upon a time, on some godforsaken rusted piece of debris (also referred to as a 'bus') in Bolivia, there was two young Australians.

These piss poor visa-less Aussies, with Spanish so incoherent they sounded like a 1970's car trying to start, were trying to get across into Paraguay.

After being held at the border for a few hours, after drug searches, sniffer dogs, pleading and 'playing dumb', the girl starts crying hysterically.

Now, I'm talking hysterical.

You know when you stop being able to speak two words without heaving your lungs up through your throat?

'Asthmatic hyena' is probably the closest description I can think of.

As this girl was crying, a German backpacker they had befriended, came to their aid.

He bailed them out with the promise that they would repay him at the next town. He was giggling too, later telling the young pair that they were let go for two reasons:

1. The Border Security just wanted to make some extra money.
2. Because the next bus back was in 9 hours and they were genuinely terrified that they would have to put up with a completely inconsolable crying girl for that long with no confidence whatsoever that she would stop.

Now that's a friend. A friend will bail their mate out.

But the best friend? Well that's the one sitting beside you, the one who got busted with you, the one who later is caught thanking the sweet Lord that women are fucking retarded in every country.

So here's to that best friend. A toast to that extra special ('special') person in our lives. I'm saying Happy Birthday to mine today. To the one I get drunk with, cry with, laugh with, get stuck in military custody with and can be myself with. To the one who knows my Maccas order, who knows when we're going to watch a movie, to put it on for me because I have no fucking clue what a HDMI cable is and may as well be a device used in A Clockwork Orange for all it concerns me. But I don't need to know, because I have you.

Friends have always been there when I said I needed them. But you were there even when I said nothing, when you simply knew.

Even though we are being separated, if you're ever afraid of looking at the past, or if the future seems distant and scary, remember to stop and look at the now, that even if we are tens of thousands of kilometres away from each other, I will always be there with you, to see you climb your mountains and to see you fall, undoubtedly stopping to pee my pants laughing and call you a dickhead before helping you up... But that's just me.

We spent our 18ths together...

 And our 21st...

And I know we'll be eating that god awful cherry flan that you make at our 50th.

Happy Birthday xx

Monday, 25 February 2013

Note To Self.

Do not decide to duel a bad mood with an exhausting 8km run...

In the humidity...

In a white sports bra...

In a torrential downpour.

Oh hey there high school boys waiting at the bus stop. What can I say? I'm Anne fucking Hathaway.


Sunday, 24 February 2013

Sex Advice.

I have only ever been given two pieces of 'sex advice' in my life.

One from my mother, who cornered me during a thunderstorm on a camping trip and told me : "darling, I don't care who you end up with, just don't have sex with only one persin in your life."

The other was from my first girlfriend on the topic of giving head.

To this day I still think it's the greatest thing anybody has ever said about anything.

So if you don't know what you're doing, or ladies, if who you're with doesn't have a clue, here's how you teach them:

"It's like eating a mango and you can't use your teeth."

Fucking genius.

You're weeeeelcome.

Excuse Me While I Smash Into Your Face.

Went to the beach with the boy yesterday.

Amazing weather, cool water and a perfect 10 sunbaking naked in front of us.

I'm not going to lie, I was looking more than anybody else on the beach. Thank fuck for sunglasses, protection from the glare that allows me a more subtle stare at this girl's BEYOND amazing goddess-like physique. I even rang one of my mates who has been on the hunt for a 10 for a few years now JUST to gloat.

But that aside, I got a little tipsy in the heat. Le boy has a couple of mates join us around 3.

I run out of the water (nearly attractively face plant) and do the whole "Hey guys -mwa- great to see you."

Except... it's hot, I'm a little drunk from a whopping 4 beers (lightweight) and wobbly with dehydration AND blind in one eye, so safe to say my depth perception is not exactly amazing.

My 'mwa' turned into one of those Smash The Other Person's Face type cheek kisses.

Not really a way to recover from one of them except to overcompensate with the next mate by barely feather brushing his cheek.

Safe to say I probably should apologise (sorry lads).

But then again, maybe I was just feeling a little violent that the 10 left just as they arrived.

Hey, don't get between a fat kid and it's cake... Just sayin'.

Tits Out For The Boys.

I thought this kind of shit only happens in the movies or in nightmares...

At brunch with Mum. She heads to the bathroom.

It's warming up outside so I pull off my jumper. My singlet decides it wants out too. Head then procedes to get stuck in my jumper.

So here I am, 21 year old out to lunch in the middle of Chapel Street with my tits out.

I could have overcome this ordeal if it wasn't for the St Johns Ambo guy from the table next to us who came up to me as Mum was paying and whispered "Nice."

She has no idea why I have the facial expression of a constipated walrus and I am not about to tell her.

All I can say is thank God I'm wearing a nice bra.

Friday, 22 February 2013

Friday, Cry Day.

You know those days at work where you can't help but think : "fuck I can't wait to go home and get drunk."

Fridays in hospitality aren't one of them. That's really more of a 'Tuesday'.

No. Friday is the extra special day where you wish you had've been maggoted on Thursday night so that you wake up still pleasurably numb and you simply... continue it on.

They're busy. Faaaaarking busy. From the 3 hat restaurant to the dingy little Indian takeaway place on the corner that's run by a Vietnamese couple in a Caucasian neighbourhood so nobody's the wiser, everybody has the same mentality.

"We're gonna get raaaaped!"

Frontwards, backwards, upside down, sideways with a broom and plowed by Optimus Prime type rape.

I don't mind a good Friday night ass whooping, it gives me that delightful adrenaline rush I'm such a junkie for, it actually calms the nerves I'd acquired when my seafood order still hadn't arrived at 11:51am (a painful experience in itself which rarely benefits from the barrage of C and F bombs I launch at whoever is in sight.)

But then again, Fridays are the day that everything becomes a cunt. Your dishwasher is a cunt, the guy you have manoeuvring the dishwasher is a cunt, your pepper grinder, palette knife, service bell, they all become cunts at around... 8:15, give or take a few later walk ins right at the time you start running out of shit.

But it's the day of bantering. The witty, smartass comebacks come out to play, who can rile up the other one enough that they'll crack into a burnt, exhausted and most likely sobbing mess on the floor that has already accumlated three inches of compacted rubbish four minutes into service. What can I say, the pressure sneaks up on you.

It's the only day I can blatantly tell my boss to fuck off from the pass before I fork his brain out through his nose and he'll probably just giggle his motherfucking ass off.

But we still do it. We love it. I did it last week, I did it last night and be damn sure I'll still be here getting the shit beat out of me by some printer paper and a four-burner next week.

Because that's hospitality for you. Making someone feel at home, even if you wish they were.


Oh my glorious shinbone.

Even when my dry store light blows, you can always guide me to the metal toolbox situated in the middle of the room.

On another completely unrelated note...


Wednesday, 20 February 2013

Women In The Kitchen.

Being a female in a male dominated genre of work is challenging sometimes.

But if it has taught me anything it is that men generally have two emotions.

Horny and hungry.

So if you're looking to do something for your boy and you see him without a hard on.

Make him a sandwich.


The awesome moment when your boobs grow a size and a half and you're NOT getting fatter or pregnant.

I don't care that I'm a little too close for comfort to 22.


Fuck yeah puberty!!!

Tuesday, 19 February 2013

You Know What I Fucking Hate? : Part 2

Introducing: The Hairy Soap.

As I jailed myself within my hot steamy comfort cube as a kid, to me, I could only describe the sensation as the definition of relaxed. Until I bore witness to the horrifying sight that is the family soap, complete with imbedded ass, back and pubic hairs.

Now, maybe my standards were too high? Maybe I shouldn't expect the other counterparts of the family to undertake the action (oxymoron as it is) of 'cleaning the soap'.

I do not wish to lather my nether regions with your offending detriments. Nor do I have any interest in partaking in acts of incest because now, all I can think of is the last place that soap touched is somewhere on my Dad's or foster brother's body... -shudder-

It has scarred me for adulthood with quite some severity. It has gone beyond that of a pet peeve and has landed, ass hair first, into a downright fear.

Being an adult now however, has allowed me to purchase MY OWN bar of Dove Sensitive (significant emphasis on MY OWN). But I still have nightmares at the idea that visitors and guests or my housemate may decide to utilise my little block of hygiene... Maybe that hair isn't mine?

So if you choose to excrete dead skin cells and fallen follicles from your body in my shower, please, I beg you. Clean the fucking soap.

Cook. Fuck. Wash.

I was at the laundromat today, scuffing off the dried up bits of dough that have become engaged to the elbows of my chef jackets and who like any new couple, appear to be inseparable.

As I loaded up the machine a young guy (maybe 16 or 17?) was next to me cradling a pile of coins, with the facial expression that can only be described as a cross between a hernia sufferer and Susan Boyle.

The kid had no idea what to do.

Now, don't get me wrong, I loved school. I learnt a lot of things like;

- how to text without looking.
- that a dialect becomes a language when the speaker has an army, a navy and to speed things along, some WMDs.
- that if you cross sulfur, tungsten and silver you get SWAG.
- and that the difference between a PhD in History and a couple of large pizzas is that the pizzas will feed a family of four.

But I mean... This is basic shit. It's a washing machine, not one-dimensional kinematics.

So I abandoned my own domestic duties to help this lad and for a terrifying five minutes, taught him how to wash his clothes.

I am hopeless with technology I will admit. I never bothered to learn. My Dad still hooks up my stereo for me and my boyfriend works the Xbox when I'm in need of a Breaking Bad fix. At least I know I'm retarded. But today's youth... Are they being isolated into a world of microwaved food, internet porn and automatic vacuum cleaners?

Someone needs to stop and teach this lot how to cook a chop, how to fuck or how to wash? I have no idea who to call upon for this job. Pretty sure Ghostbusters are either occupied or dead...

Seriously. What do they even teach in schools these days?

You Know What I Fucking Hate? Part 1.

I have decided to add a reoccurring segment to my blog, highlighting each individual pet peeve as they make their insidious appearances throughout my daily life.

Number 1:

Introducing: The Rummager.

Having a bag of mixed lollies and offering someone some and instead of being polite and grateful and all "Oh thankyou! I'd loooove one" you get the cunts that want to play Pick 'n' Mix.

Motherfucker this ain't the god damn movies ok? I'm offering you a lucky dip lolly. Hokey pokey style, put your hand in put your hand out with NOOOO shaking all about.

Comprende amigo?

Although what's worse is when it's with a bag of chips...


Monday, 18 February 2013

Cheeky Fucking Cunt.

So the 'bad review' we got?

Turns out if was written by a chef from a neighbouring restaurant. The swiney asswipe of a cunt disliked all 22 North Melbourne restaurants that day except strangely for one ...

His own.

You are a pathetic piece of horse shit... Actually, I take that back. Horse shit has a use.

If your dick was on fire and I had a bucket of water I'd grab a crazy straw and drink it in front of you.

You are single handedly the proof that God exists and has a sense of humour.

I mean, I work hard, I love my restaurant and I was genuinely upset about this review. Distraught even, verging on psychotic and ready to take up alcoholism as a new hobby (clearly a stable-minded person right here...)

I don't understand what would drive somebody to do that. Did your imaginary friend hate you as a child? Did your mother slap you and get shit stains on her hand?

In the words of Moe Syzlak:  "Blah! Choking on my own rage here."

Sunday, 17 February 2013

The Ideal Boyfriend.

Manager at work: "What's your idea of the perfect boyfriend?"

-long pause-

Me: "A guy who will lick beer off my stomach on a really hot day and who will watch Sex And The City whilst giving me a back rub."

"You don't ask for much."

"All 6 seasons, both movies, learn their names and he has to pretend to like it too."

"Ah fuck girl, you're dreamin'."


Don't Assume A Virgin Can't Fuck.

So. Basically I have three talents.

-I can put my feet behind my ears.
-I can sing Advance Australia Fair to the tune of Working Class Man and vice-versa.
-and I can skull beer.

Now, don't get me wrong I am a PATHETIC drinker. More than four drinks and I suddenly think the floor is a hammock and that John Farnham is talented and attractive.

... Seriously, ew.

But that has nothing to do with skulling. People are simply stupid enough to write me off with the assumption: "Ah she can't drink so she can't skull."

I have been at the pub now for almost an hour with an old chef buddy of mine and we're on our fourth pot. Winner of the skull gets 20 bucks.

He has lost every single one.

I mean for fuck's sake, if I had've known in high school that my ability to swallow large amounts of liquid quickly could make me rich I would've just quit my part time job at Sanity,  moved to Siena College and labelled myself a slut. For those of you who don't know Siena, the girls there pretty much take more loads in a week than my washing machine has for it's entire 5 year warranty.

My only problem is eventually, (undoubtedly sooner rather than later) I'm going to be drunk enough that I'll start losing.

And I'm pretty fucking competitive at the soberest of times let alone when I'm humming along to Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head and ready to throw myself in the fireplace screaming "Diagon Alley!" The barman will probably offer me a water soon which in a mildly tipsy state, is the last thing I want, primary reason being that usually all I can think of is "Why would I want water? Fish fuck in water..."

Because in my eyes there are two kinds of drinkers:
-people that can handle their alcohol (you know who you are)
-and the people (like me), who can't.

And we have no idea.

Or you could be one of the rare (but not rare enough for my liking) people that drink for the excuse to pursue their calling for true happiness of hooking up with fat hairy women... -cough- each to their own, won't hold it against you, yolo etc etc.

But the moral of this is don't assume. Just because I can't drink to save myself doesn't mean I can't skull. It's no different to assuming a virgin isn't a great fuck.

It's very LIKELY, but you don't know it.

Saturday, 16 February 2013

Lady Luck.

Highlights of my night at Circus Bar with my favourite clubbing buddy:

- Watching my mate get crutch grabbed by a bouncer to check that he was indeed, a male, because only girls were allowed to have the seats upstairs. Don't think he's had that much action for a while... His expression resembled that of a person who has just found out they fucked their mother. A bit of disgust, a bit of shock and depending on what state you're from, a bit of amusement.

- The same bouncer testing us both for "do you even squat" asses (possibly the only male to ever grab my ass without me having a total hissy fit...)

- Not hearing a single 'woo!' after the drop.

- The look on all the fried cunts faces when they realised Will Sparks was a no show.
Something like this.

- Drunkenly educating my taxi driver about how heels are the primary motivation for chicks to get cabs and as a result, how he will be able to send his kids to private school.

- But finally. For the club abs.

Chyeah. Podium bangers.

Friday, 15 February 2013

Everything Hurts.

You know you've had a big one when you get out of the cab at 8am and say:

"Thanks mate have a good night!"

Ergh. So many dirty looks.

Thursday, 14 February 2013

I Would Kick Myself In The Head If My Leg Reached That Far.

Dear Chef.

That was a little too much success going for you all at once. Here, let me shove your face into a pile of stinking liquorice fueled crap to bring you back down to Earth.

Cheers, hope you're well!
The Universe.

PS. We've mailed a giant middle finger to you and you should receive it within 3 -5 working days.

Bad reviews fucking SUCK.

Because suddenly it doesn't matter that you have 34 prior good ones. Number 35 had to be someone that wanted to whinge about everything. 

It's like walking up a flight of stairs in the dark and you think there's one more step than there is and for a fraction of a second, your entire world drops.

Why WHYYY did we have to get reviewed on my one night off. I just fucking replaced my fridge door from the last hissy fit I had over an overcooked confit trout.

Beside myself with emotion. Teenage girls who have caught their boyfriends macking on with their sister in the alleyway of a drunken 16th birthday don't get this upset.

Going to dance my rage away tonight at Circus. Maybe that will help...

Blah. I need tequila and a hug.

Sweat And Scotch.

That wasn't dinner service. That was rape.

My dead grandmother could have felt that penetrating her and lived just long enough to ensure it was announced to the world, loudly, from some form of a rooftop.

And that would be coming from the woman who I'm pretty sure spent the first 21 years of my Dad's life telling him he was the emaculate conception so as to avoid him ever bringing a girl home and sleeping with her.

25 seater restaurant booming with 4 sittings from open til close. If a tow truck ran over my feet right this very second it would comparitably feel like a massage.

But strangely, nothing really went wrong. Everybody was tipsy and full and happy (aside from myself, my French sidekick and my Frankston bogan kitchen hand who by the end of service resembled a pack of celery sticks that were a few weeks past their prime). Oh, and except for the ONE table that I deligated to my Sous while I escaped outside to reunite my lungs with fresh air, which happened to be occupied by a good mate of mine and I had no idea. (Manager can go deep throat a cactus for that one.)

Nearly ran out of absolutely everything too, stopped a few times to pray to anybody that would listen that please let there be no more. It was like an intense orgy but nobody could cum... Eventually you have to stop and say "Is it over yet?"

But for the first time in my hospitality career I can proudly say Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

I hope the sex you go home to leaves you as thoroughly spent as that evening has left us.

Now, who's got the scotch?

Wednesday, 13 February 2013

I Hate Valentine's Day.

Worst day of the year to be in hospitality.

Except maybe for the short few days after the Masterchef finale when everybody suddenly thinks they’re the next Peter fucking Gilmore but really have the palate of a dried up forgotten Chux that’s been hiding behind the sink pipe for too many months.

What’s worse is when people ask you with the slightest undertone of Gretchen Weiner : “Oh what are YOU doing for Valentine’s Day?”

Cunt what do you think I’m doing? Knitting a fucking sweater over a bottle of vintage Chablis, naked and covered Adam and Eve style, in whatever cheap petal Big W had out the front on sale?

No. I am up for 17 hour work day of making chocolate tortes and preparing my hands for the bombardment of oyster shucker attacks they’re bound to endure for my 6 and 8pm sittings, making sure everybody else is having the romantic night of their life.

Next time I’m specialling garlic mussels instead and you cocksuckers can just live with smelly cum to be licked for that twice a year ritualistic “hey honey we can have sex tonight!” drone of a lifestyle you’ve allowed your marriage to become. Or anything really that just needs to be thrown around a hot environment for 3 minutes in order to be done. Sound familiar?

Nothing says romance to me more than a slab of Corona, some Tarantino and couch snuggles over a bowl of 19c a packet Indomie mi goreng (that I‘ve lazily microwaved, not even stoved, with extra fried shallots up the wazoo of course), followed by some back clenching orgasms.

And what if I told you that you can make a booking OUTSIDE of 7:30-8:30? -pause for shocked expression-

Plus I can't listen to Elton John for more than 3 minutes without dry reaching. Unless I'm watching the Lion King, no I cannot feel the fucking love tonight.

You can shove your false ideologies about romance up your dead nanna crutch for all I care. Romance is about spontaneity. It’s about doing something nice for the sake of doing it. Not because you wandered into Safeway to pick up the latest copy of Zoo, a carton of milk and whatever new healthy cereal you’re pretending to enjoy and had your eyes assaulted by pink fucking everything and love hearts to make you realise “Oh fuck! That reminds me to tell my Missus I love her tomorrow!”

Fuck off.

And why does it have to be the guys job? If I could find a way to wrap a love heart shaped steak and the 20/20 recorded I would for my boy.

This is also not to say, that I’m not a lover of romance. I do. I adore it. I am an absolute sucker for white roses too. It’s the one part of me that actually reminds me I’m still female (That and I feel the need to use public restrooms with every single one of my friends and even when I‘m ready to go out I‘ll still dawdle around for an extra fifteen minutes… You know it’s all one big hiccup of a matrix).

But anyway. Bring me a flower on a bad day. A random Sunday in July when it’s icy cold (I deal with the cold about as well as I do seeing a “124km Until Next Rest Stop“ sign on the Nullarbor when I‘ve just smashed a 1L Slurpee) and you’re doing it to brighten my day.

Bring me a giant Freddo when I’m PMSing and I’ll swoon.

But for God’s sake. Don’t stand here and try and say it means shit because Hallmark decided that every guy should get laid at least once a year outside of their anniversary. The only good thing about Valentine’s Day is the movie and that’s only because I would wife Jessica Biel.

I’m not bitter. I’m really not. I just think that every day should be Valentine’s Day. Flowers and chocolate and hot sex and Date Nights and babysitters for the kids, should be saved for whenever you and your loved one need them, not for when you‘ve been told you‘re supposed to have them. Tell them you love them. Tell them. Every. Single. Day.

That and I really didn’t want to be in the kitchen before 7am today.

So let’s bow our heads for all the men who believe they’re getting Brownie Points and for all the unplanned pregnancies.


Can I Bribe Waitresses For My Entertainment?

Tuesday, 12 February 2013

Ultimate Rejection

Waitress at work: "Had the world's biggest ego drop the other day when I discovered the four year old I babysit has a Valentine. I asked him in that cutesy "Oh I'll be your friend Valentine" way and he said "No! Batman is my Valentine"... HOW THE HELL DO I COMPETE WITH BATMAN?!"

Me: "You think THAT'S the ultimate rejection? I was touching myself the other night and my hand fell asleep. I got rejected by my fucking hand!"


Monday, 11 February 2013

Shove Your Heart Shaped Candy Up Your Ass Cunt.

Boss wanders into my kitchen and casually brings up the discussion of Valentine's day.

He asks: "What are your thoughts on making the spun toffee heart shaped?"

I threw a mushroom at his face and stormed out.

I think he gets the idea.

Cheeky Shorts

Being alone in a restaurant before it opens is quite theraputic.

This morning I was prancing around the kitchen in my cheeky Wah Wah hot pink short shorts listening to "Greatest Chick Songs of the 90s" only to get spotted by my angry Cockney veg supplier through the front window.

"Why ain't you wearing pants Chef?"

"I am, they're just really short."

"Well it don't look like it now ay? Why don't you jus wear nuffin. If I was wearin shorts that looked like nuffin, I'd just wear nuffin."

Not going to lie, the old fart has a point.

Skinny Girl Problems.

My boss is buying me my new set of head chef jackets.

Beautiful. Black, long sleeved, ventilated back.

They cost him a pittance for a L, M, S or XS.

Sadly I'm an XXS.

Which means he has to ship them from America and it's going to cost him an extra $140.

I'm pretty sure that was full cream milk he put in my coffee this morning... And why did he just buy me a Kransky for lunch...

The awkward moment when you're boss is trying to fatten you up to save a buck.

Dry Reaching

You have never been truly disgusted until you've had a chef stick his fingers into ricotta and then into grated parmesan and chase after you screaming "IT'S LIKE FINGERING A YEAST INFECTION!"

Why hello breakfast. Just popped back up to say hello did we? I missed you.

Gather Around My Son And I Shall Tell You A Tale.

I had to get an eye test not long ago to see if I'm still eligible to drive. Because clearly my ability to read letters off a board makes me drive good good (idiots).

The line was pretty fucking long and there was this old Polish guy in front of me so we got chatting. This guy was pretty incredible. He had escaped Poland as a small kid after all his family had been lost, was an airforce pilot for 27 years, an atheist and an internationally renound opera singer (but only in his bathroom). Now he was making sure he could still have a licence so he could drive out to put flowers on his wife's grave. But best thing, he told all these Polish jokes.

Said he likes poking fun at himself. Keeps him young.

So his name gets called and we say our quick goodbye and he goes to read the board which I can see from my seat (had glasses on at the time). "C Z E W I X N O S T A O C"

The guy behind the counter said "Can you read this for me sir?"

And with the calmest of calm, my mate said : "Read it? I know the guy."

Now THAT'S the kind of old person I want to be.

Fucking legend.

Saturday, 9 February 2013

Sex Without Dick

A guy orders a pizza without cheese.

My new French chef turns to me and says:

"A peeza wizout cheese is like sex wizout dick."

It's been about 15 minutes and I'm still giggling.

Friday, 8 February 2013

Tie Me To The Bedpost

So. I've always been a little apprehensive about being tied up during sexy time.

Not for conventional or even rational reasons though.

I'm more worried I'm going to don a sexy outfit, purr to tie me up and do whatever you want. Then he's going to gently but securely fasten my hands with a neck tie to the bed post, kiss my forehead...

Then fuck off and go fishing.

Eggs And The Boy.

I don't drive. I've been blind in my left eye since I was 17. But it has never stopped me from being the world's biggest cuntstick of a back seat driver.

My poor boyfriend. He consistently puts up with a louder, more abusive Stevie-fucking-Wonder berating him about his driving. Because clearly I know what I'm talking about...

I am waiting for the day when he runs into the kitchen whilst I'm cooking breakfast, screeching: "Careful with those eggs! Careful! CAREFUL!! Are you blind!! Turn them they need butter oh my god it's hopeless, you never listen to me when you cook! Don't forget the salt you ALWAYS forget the salt. The salt THE SALT!! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FREAKING MIND!"

Before comfortably positioning himself at the table and with the smuggest grin and a swift :"Now you know how it feels."

I honestly wouldn't even blame him.

Thursday, 7 February 2013

The 'Simple Aussie Picnic' .

Does not exist.

At least not in my family. Whenever we have a little picnic shindig it really should be decoded as 'bring every item you own and put it next to everything your cousin owns and see who has the better lawn chair'.

Every. Single. Time.

My Dad has adorned the phrase, "If you don't have to make at least three trips to the car, you're not even bloody trying."

And that's coming from the man who once piled up his arms with a boxed Weber, 3 month old me and a stack of lettuces because he was worried he would be emasculated if he couldn't do it all at once.

In retrospect, every Aussie male's movements are derivatives of What Makes The Alpha Male.

You know... Aside from the first case and point of it being the bloke who comfortably takes possession of the host's tongs in order to turn the snags himself.

I suppose I've never really paid too much attention. I'm usually far too consumed in thought about how to best utilise my years of Tetris addiction when figuring out the alcohol:food ratio in the esky.

AY! That shit's important.

What do they even teach in school these days...?

Valentine's Day Ideas

Hey lads.

Looking for the perfect gift for your lady friend?

These days, for a contempory gal you can't go wrong with a nice eyeshadow, mascara, lip gloss or a mirror.

Or splurge for an 'all in one' and get her Adobe Photoshop.

A Pig And An Orgasm.

I found out today from the guy that delivers my tea towels, that a pig can orgasm for up to half an hour.

Seriously... Imagine a pig in an over the top, poorly directed porno.

That's a hell of a lot of oinking.

I'm guessing THAT'S why Pumbaa always had that goofy grin. He was getting the Hakuna Matata matated right out of him.

Out of all my childhood tv show characters, I never thought I'd be jealous of Miss Piggy. I mean, she was ugly AND had to fuck Kermit... Although that does explain why he was so confident for a skinny little green dude.

My inner child wants to whimper.

Wednesday, 6 February 2013

Satan's Testicles.

It is a fucking sauna in this kitchen today. Cheers Melbourne, I adore working in full black chef's gear when we have an Epicure photo shoot just because you've decided the forecast should be bipolar.

The underside of Satan's ball sack wouldn't get this sweaty if he was masturbating with a jalapeno up his ass in the fires of Mount Doom.

Need a slurpee...

Fun Fact For Lazy Cunts.

If you ever need the motivation to clean, just think about this.

Majority of dust particles that accumulate in the average home derive from dead skin cells.

You're weeeelcome.

Pregnant Goldfish.

I called my apprentice a pregnant goldfish today.

After a few wikipedia searches he discovered that a pregnant goldfish is called a 'twit'.

In my opinion, an hour later is probably too long to respond with "AY!!"

Shake Me Like A British Nanny.

Every apprentice gets yelled at. It kind of gets programmed into your system.

That "Get fucked you good for nothing, worthless piece of shit. My fucking Grandmother can cook a better risotto with her eyes shut you pitiful excuse for an apprentice"... Etc etc that kind of crap you hear every day.

I think the best one that ever got spat at me was : "You're so fucking stupid you'd trip over a cordless phone!" - I still use that one.

But in fact, you become slightly robotic. "Yes chef. No chef. How high chef. I'm sorry chef. No my pants are not pooling sweat by my vag next to this grill chef." This mutual agreement of heirarchy is usually sealed with a pomelo to the head or a plate to the wall FLINCHINGLY close to the hot pot of bisque you're holding.

You get the point.

Being caught out by a chef for doing something wrong is kind of like being caught sneaking your boyfriend into your bed through your window when you're 15.

My Gran actually dragged my boyfriend's naked petrified corpse out from under the bed and drove him home at 2am once when I was 15 or 16. Then you get yelled at, punished, problem solved.

But it's not always like that.

Sometimes you get the silent treatment. And unless it's with your respected other half, where you simply make them think that you don't like it, it can cut like a knife.

You await the verbal beating that will never be. Then you fidget, you start to sweat. You're left stewing in your own shame like a badly made stir-fry. Maybe hearing a barely audible whisper of "You've disappointed me."

No. No no no!!!

COME ON!! Throw something! Yell! Rant! Rage! Anything!! Grab me by the scruff and shake me. Shake me like a British nanny!!!

Indifference is the worst punishment. Because now you are just leftover sand in their ass crack. Not worthy of attention, you'll simply get shuffled and washed until you eventually fade away...

Indifference and silence will break even the strongest of us.

Tuesday, 5 February 2013

This Blog Was Proudly Brought To You By My Work's WiFi

Boss has now changed our work WiFi password from 'ChefIsAFreeLoader' to 'ThisPornIsComingOutOfYourPay'.

I still think I'm winning.

Why Don't I Just Piss On Your Head?

Thank you for not smoking on my train. Going between carriages is exponentially better.

Aside from being illegal, cigarette smoke is the residue of your pleasure. It contaminates the air, pollutes my hair and clothes, not to mention my lungs. This takes place without my consent.

I have a pleasure, also. I like a beer every now and then. The residue of my pleasure is urine. Would you be annoyed if I stood on a chair and pissed on your head and your clothes without your consent?

Trade cunt?

Highlight Of My Week

There's rarely a better feeling than seeing an ex boyfriend and thinking : "Wow, dodged a bullet there."

Ah the little things in life.


You know, sometimes I look at old people and I think "Naww you are just the sweetest thing!"

Other times you meet a really repulsive one that transports you back to when dinosaurs roamed the Earth except they've become so bitter they force your face to shrivel up like an over-the-hill hooker's asshole, who has fallen asleep in the bath.

Absolutely horrified. I can't help but think "you are so cheap I bet when your doorbell rang your kids had to yell out 'ding!'" you miserable, dried up neglected old cactus.

My 49 year old virgin accountant is less painful to be around and believe me, I've sat listening to him thinking "Geez I'd rather be brainwashed by Justin Bieber on repeat than sit through one more minute of this monotonous crap."

And I really hate Bieber.

Remove yourself and the pole that comfortably protrudes out of your rectum, from my restaurant.

If you even so much as THINK about making my front of house cry again?

Run bitch.

Monday, 4 February 2013

Horny Hoons vs The Sports Bra

Honest to God, I think I have solved the issue of hooning in Victoria.

I have a bit of a soft spot for tradies. In reality, I just like anybody that knows the meaning of a hard days work. But a sun-kissed, sushi-eating tradie in work boots is for me, the male equivalant of Megan Fox eating a Cyclone Paddlepop in a wet tshirt competition. (Hot Megan, not fat Megan).

That and utes. I adore utes. You can take a girl out of Keysborough but you can't take etc etc etc.

The only thing I don't like about guys with fast cars and egos that can crack a diamond from 40metres away, not to mention dicks for brains, is the hooning. Motherfucker, it's 60 for a reason.

We have the same egotism in kitchens. We call it the Cock Competition. If you hear a chef say "Put your cock out on the bench" it roughly translates to "Prepare to be destroyed in battle." Who can bone a quail the fastest, who can bone the maître d' blah blah the competition is endless.

But I must say, walking to the train station every morning is a petrifying task with Maloos flying down at a million miles an hour. If Superman wore purple and did a few more weights, he'd resemble an R8 with a dickhead behind the wheel.

I have however, found a way to resolve this matter.


On our usual "Holy shit I smashed an entire packet of Starbursts in front of Masterchef last night, quickly break out the dust covered Nikes" jog, my friend (who is baben beyond belief) and I discovered that if it's a hot day and we're really hauling out a sweat and therefore wearing very little...

Suddenly the cunts do 20.

My 71 year old Grandma doesn't drive down a main road that slow.

So lets have less horny hoons and more hot girls running around in sports bras.

Genius I tell you. Fucking genius.

Sunday, 3 February 2013

Why do YOU run?

Jaz: "I run so I can push myself to new goals!"
Anna: "I run so I feel good about motivating myself."


-long pause-

Me: "I just want to come home, drink 6 beers without the guilt and still look good naked."

My Top 5 Cringe-Worthy Moments.

1. Bogans talking about Centrelink really loudly on public transport.
2. Severely obese people wearing leggings as pants.
3. A boy sniffing a pair of underwear to see if it’s clean.
4. Seeing a drunk girl squat pee in a gutter.
5. Hearing a grandparent say the word blowjob.



This whole YOLO crap is really starting to piss me off.

I'm just going to become a Hindu I think...

Then the next time some fuckwad screeches 'Yolo!' at me I can spit back with "Hey, speak for yourself."

Helpful Hint For Guys

Learn when to stop talking.

I know, I know, pot meet kettle right?

But yesterday my boyfriend turned to me and said "You know how kissing gets kind of tedious?"

The look on face was the "Stop talking right now and seriously think about whether or not you want to continue this conversation because let's be honest, it probably can't end well" look.

You all know that look. It's the lovechild of Death Stare and I'm Smiling But Not Really That Happy To See You.


By now, it really doesn't matter what his original intentions were, I'm already donning the sour scrunched up monkey bum face and not a hell of a lot except for chocolate and a sensual massage is going to bring me back to normal.

My Neighbour May Think I'm A Drug Dealer...

I have a few reasons as to why I think this.

Number 1:
Whilst I have never tried a drug, I do enjoy recovery clubs and often wander home at weird hours of the day looking like I’ve just spent 5 hours on a podium going spastic to some off the hook bangers. Plus I don't sleep much. I call it the ’sewer rat’ look. Tramp. Circus. Revs. Cloud. TFU. Hidden. Wahs. Humpday. Wherever I can get my ears impounded with bass so heavy it’s like having Satan fight Goku with lightsabers in your basement. It gives me goosebumps… Also not helping.

Number 2:
My neighbour has a love of incense. I’m allergic to that shit. So every time I’m over there I’m scratching and sniffling like a junkie on a come down. From my perspective, I can think of one good reason to be a shardy, there’s only one sleep til Christmas…

Number 3:
As a chef, I have a slight obsession with herbs. So often, I come home from the markets carrying large bunches of leaves. As far as they’re concerned, I‘m selling the best damn scante in Melbourne. I call it “Coriander” or “Corri” as it’s known on the street.

Number 4:
I get paid in cash when I work shifts for clubs. Last week, it was really windy and I had an embarrassingly large wad of notes fall out of my pocket in my driveway and spent the next ten minutes frantically chasing after it with a look resembling the desperation of a sanitary napkin sniffing vampire.

Number 5:
Finally. Handing cash over through a car window to a mate that’s dropped off a festival ticket, at 10:30 at night on a Sunday when you live in a dodgy area… Probably sealed the deal. I swear to god, I’m going to Future Music Festival. As in, I am ACTUALLY going to Future, I’m not just sitting in my bathtub with a couple of points and a tab of acid, THINKING that I’m losing my shit to Boys Noize from atop a cloud hovering the Isle of Man, sipping whiskey with Buddha and Ebenezer Scrooge looking down at 10,000 drunken Irishmen standing on a rock in the middle of the Irish Sea. Tiddly-tee POTATOES!

Now, I’m not really concerned with what they think of me, hell, I rarely care about that. It’s more just a worry that BECAUSE it’s a bit of a ghetto, I am going to be cornered as a new source.

I figure I have two choices. Start making gram baggies of Omo and make a killing until people catch on. Or get a very large, very angry looking dog…

Friday, 1 February 2013

Rule No. 76 - No Excuses, Play Like A Champion.

Did you know that less than 1% of people are celiac?

Fucking fascinating that they all simultaneously seat themselves in my restaurant at quarter past 8 on a Friday night.

You know the people. The steak well done, no salt, dressing on the side, split onto two plates,  gluten free cunts.

No. You're just fat and looking for an excuse to eat a pizza without the guilt. I saw you sneak a pretzel off the table when your date was in the bathroom.

I was fat once. Now I'm not. You know what I did?

I got on the fucking treadmill and I put down the fork. I didn't sit in front of Deal or No Deal re-runs shovelling down a packet of gluten-free doughnuts like a Mammuthus primigenius (more commonly known as a woolly mammoth, or 'Manfred from Ice Age') in preparation for hibernation.

You insufferable armpits are shitting on the flow of service like a hungover Mexican and on the hope that an ACTUAL gluten free person can state who they are without the chef going : "Oh really mate? Yeah well suck me off cos I'm Wonder Woman!" (This is usually closely followed by a tea towel headband and checks turned into short shorts for a highly immature yet hilarious Linda Carter impersonation.

But at the end of the day, I would be more sympathetic if it wasn't for one simple thing.

Why do all of Melbourne's celiacs have a mansion in Toorak?

I've never seen a gluten free homeless guy... Just saying.