Is Necrophillia Dead in the Water?

The publication of Fifty Shades of Grey in 2011 confirmed for many what they had long surmised—that sex can be interesting and not necessarily repetitive, let alone solely reproductive. Nevertheless, for many of the women (and some men) then sitting in cattle class surreptitiously soaking up the BDSM adventures of Anastasia Steele it was a guilty and vicarious pleasure. They couldn’t see themselves doing it: all that whipping and tying up, whilst interesting, was best left in the world of fantasy—or at most minor spanking when Bill got home from work. Yet in the high rise apartments of Auckland, the parliamentary offices of Wellington and the boredom of Hamilton, BDSM is practiced and perfected far more often than we may think. For many, it has replaced vanilla sex as the norm, the benchmark. It is in such quarters not seen as obscene or perverse, an abomination or a cause of earthquakes. It is just what it is. Providing it is consensual, it is a pleasure, an adventure, an interest. There is no evidence, like the myth that soft drugs lead to hard drugs, that BDSM leads to greater extremities of behaviour like necrophilia or child sex, both of which can be described as, and are, perversions. Indeed it could be said that a dalliance in BDSM sates the appetite for anything more, and it may well be our most potent sexual safety valve. However, it appears that “Bishop” Tamaki disagrees with this assessment. God has told him, he says, that deviant behaviour—particularly but not solely homosexuality—is the cause of the earthquakes our country has suffered. If we are to believe Mr Tamaki, God is perhaps moving with the times: a plague of locusts or a rain of frogs visited upon our house is so old hat. Mr Tamaki is entitled to his opinion, I doubt it is God’s, but I think I know where true obscenity and perversion rests.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees it: Trump is God's Gift

As Cecil C. Sackrider sees it, brethren, in Donald Trump God has visited upon us His greatest gift since Genesis: the gift of fear, the gift of revelation, the gift of jubilation, the gift of celebration, the gift of God’s eternal love. Donald Trump is all these and more. For, in him, God has gifted us the spectacle of the Last Judgement, The Blood Moon Prophecy, Armageddon, the End of the World, The Rapture. These were my thoughts, my prayers, as Billy-Jo and I lay in bed last evening, after her nightly anointing, watching the televised debate between Mr Trump and Mrs Clinton. I saw it right there in the full righteous splendour of the 80-inch screen kindly provided by Brother Nathan, of Nathan’s Appliances (1145 South 26^th). I saw God at His most majestic and beneficent best—showing unbelievers the glimpse of the hell that is their inevitable destination if they do not return to the righteous path to God. And so I say unto you, brethren, do not look upon the debate as an equitable contest of two persons locked in a gladiatorial duel. Rather, look upon it, look upon the dark visage of Donald Trump rather than that of the wronged woman, and see upon it what Satan will unleash upon all those who spurn the love of the one true God. For know this, Donald Trump is God’s gift and Satan’s spawn. America be fearful. Be loved. Be afraid. And thus I did say to Billy-Jo. Billy-Jo looked upon me in justly such fear. “Is this true, Father-Husband? Is this the man to bring us to the end of our world? The end of our love? And she did shed upon me tears in a manner and in an innocence that did bring a stirring to my soul and to my body. “Perhaps to the world as we know it, my dear child. Unbelievers are destined to scream and fry in the infernal eternal flames of Hell,” I said…lovingly. “But not our love. Our love, will never end, my love.” And so it was that Billy-Jo, in her fear and in her awe and in her love, snuggled into me tightly. And thus, with Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton looking upon us, I, for the second time last night, filled the young body of my dear dear wife with Holly Spirit.

Are you ravished by the guilt of parsimony? Do you want God, through his ordained messenger on Earth, Pastor Cecil C. Sackrider, to assuage you of that guilt? Send a check or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666 for a copy of Pastor Sackrider’s The Sin of Money and How to Lose it. Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a personal phone call from Our Lord, as delivered by Pastor Sackrider.

Hotel Hamilton

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As Fryday’s regular readers know, this blog is hardly enamoured with Hamilton. It has even been known to be mildly critical of the city, though always with compassion and sympathy for those forced to live there. Last week I was there and whilst I met some lovely people I found little else to change my perception of the place. In fact there were two distinct occurrences that simply reinforced my view that Hamilton is both surreal and sinister. The first is that for only the second time since I acquired it my GPS gave up the ghost—giving me totally erratic, repetitive and inaccurate information. That may not sound like much to you, but consider: the only other time it behaved in such a manner was also while in Hamilton. If Google Maps cannot comprehend the place, how can I? The second occurrence (one perhaps of my own making, given that you get what you pay for) was that I stayed in the worst hotel I have ever experienced. Now, Fryday is not in the business of name and shame (unless of course you are Donald Trump) so I won’t name the hotel. But consider this: the receptionist, though pleasant, spoke very little english; though the hotel boasted a “restaurant” I was not allowed to sit in it—I was curtly instructed that: “Not possible. You go to room. Get room service there. Pay three dollar.” The only heating in the room was a very small fan heater that emitted little heat and a lot of noise. And the shower? A shower curtain in this day and age? And as for the water temperature? It took fully four minutes for it to rise to warm. Warm, mind you, not hot. Never hot. Not capable. And then it fluctuated, as if someone elsewhere had turned on their warm tap. And finally the fixed shower head—in itself an anomaly in modernity—was positioned barely above chest height. Hamilton is the BDSM—bondage and discipline, sadism and masochism—capital of New Zealand. It is where the real Fifty Shades of Grey is played out. It happens nightly in Hamilton. Don’t ask me how I know. I do. If that is your thing, go there. However, if you are not yet brave enough to indulge yourself in the full excess of BDSM, particularly masochism, and a simple sample of inflicted pain will suffice, then I suggest you simply stay at a Hamilton Hotel—if your GPS can find one.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: Laieth with the lambs

As we were lying in bed after last night’s consummation, Billy-Jo and I were talking about women’s role in the world. We are enlightened people—God be praised—we believe that women have a role. But it is troubling. Billy-Jo, so sweet and innocent, barely out of her teens and often barely, is confused, as I know that many young women whom I administer too are. For years women have held to the belief that Our Lord God’s edict is that their role is to revere men. No other role before that, after God, saith the Scriptures. And man shall come only after God. And man shall come often. Is the Scripture’s instruction to women. It is God’s word, women’s role. So ordained. Yet it is God’s will a woman shall be President, with domain over man. How can this be so, Billy-Jo asks, her eyes glistening in that way Satan tests me each night in the candle light. How can it be that a woman should be subjected to such a sin of pecuniary that she would forego her role to man and God and embrace naked ambition, she asks of me. I say unto her, in a most loving way, to think not of naked ambition. Not yet. Too soon. A minute more. And pecuniary is not the word she is looking for. So sweet. So innocent. But she is right to question. Has God turned His back on America? Or is Hillary Clinton His gift to America? I say unto Billy-Jo that it is the latter. For if it is not to be Hillary Clinton, it is to be Donald Trump—the demon’s bastard child. Cursed be the Profit. God shall have no demigod before Him. So he has sent us Hillary Clinton. Who is no god at all. Just a woman. And by placing before us a woman, God has reminded us of the strength of subservience. Obedience to His will. As he gave us his Son, he now gives us a woman—not to serve, but as a servant. And we will be a supplicant not to her but to God. For it is God saying to man, reminding man, through this woman, that man should devote himself only to the devotion of God and women the devotion of man. So it written. And Billy-Jo sees the light, under that candle-light. And shows her devotion.

•           For a list of God’s Gifts, as delivered personally by God to Pastor Cecil C. Sackrider (handwriting verified), send a check or money order (minimum US$99.99) to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a personal phone call from Our Lord, as delivered by Pastor Sackrider.

What Kim Jong-un tells us about Donald Trump

Presumptive presidential contender Donald Trump says he is prepared to meet North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un. Would we characterise such a meeting as the summit of silly hairstyles: the silliest meets the second silliest? I will leave you to determine who’s first.
But who gains from such meeting? Well, probably both men. Kim Jong-un, using the perverse logic that governs much of what he does, may feel that meeting a presidential contender gives his presidency international legitimacy—though, perversely, he doesn’t seem to care or want it. Donald Trump may feel that meeting the world’s most troublesome leader gives his candidature international gravitas, though, perversely, he doesn’t seem to care or want it. Or perhaps Trump simply wants to plant in Kim Jong-un’s mind the idea of building a wall between North Korea and those pesky southerners. Walls are good and, depending on their location, multipurpose—on the Mexican border they are good for keeping people out; in North Korea they are good for keeping people in.
But the main reason for a visit, says Trump (69), is that he believes he can talk “some sense” into the young dictator. Good luck with that—Kim Jong-un (33) acts and is little more than a petulant child—albeit a dangerous one. Trump may have more luck in his second hypothesis—getting North Korea’s only ally, China, to talk some sense into Jong-un. After all, Trump “loves” Chinese (and they of course love him)—it’s where he gets his Trump-brand shirts and ties made. Of course such a meeting—whilst likely attractive to both men—is unlikely. Kim Jong-un never leaves North Korea, even to visit China, and The Don expects the world to come to him, not the other way around.
So why is Trump postulating such an idea? Probably for that very reason—it is unlikely to happen and is therefore low-risk grandstanding on a grand scale. I doubt he would have got the same coverage had he stated his preparedness and preference to meet John Key, or my good friend Yoseph Wankerstan of Wogistan.
And there I think lies, on an as yet a small scale, the reason Donald Trump may be potentially a greater danger to the world than Kim Jong-un ever will. I believe Donald Trump has a low boredom threshold. And when he reaches it, crosses it, he does or says something outlandish—just to liven things up. At the moment that doesn’t matter. He is little more than good for a laugh. As is Kim Jong-un, unless you are living under his brutal dictatorship. But imagine what it would be like if Donald Trump became President and in charge of the world’s largest and best-equipped military monolith. What in his boredom could he do with that? Outlandish hypothesise, you say? Checks and balances, you state? Perhaps. But think upon this: Americans voted in a President (George W. Bush)who took his country to war on the basis of little more than God and the oil barons telling him to do so. Is the idea of a megalomaniac such as Donald Trump getting bored and wanting to make a big statement any less outlandish?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. What do I know? What do you know? What does anyone know about what goes on inside Donald Trump’s head.
At the moment, we seem more interested in what is on top of it.
But that could change.

As Cecil C. Sackrider Sees It: America Will Be Held To Account.

And America will be held to account.
I see it.
America must be judged. But I will delay it just a while.
Because, I want to gather you in, as many of you as I can.
There is not much more time to be heard.
Some of you have been playing at the edges for a long time.
I am telling you that you had better get in.
The storm is coming.
The storm is coming.
I feel it.
I sense it
I know what I am talking about.
Donald Trump is coming.
Winter is coming.
This is the time. This is the moment. Get right with God.
Set your house in order. Make your erection sure. Your election sure.
Come into the arc.
You hear me?
Come into the arc.
The rains are coming. They storm is coming. The lightning is coming.
Donald trump is coming.
God plainly told us he is coming.
You had better hurry. The lightning is flashing. The thunder is rolling.
The Holy Ghost is saying you had better hurry. Hurry
All aboard. All aboard
The saviour ship is here.
All aboard. All aboard
The storm is coming.
Donald Trump is coming.
Winter is coming.

•    Tickets for the Saviour Ship are just $499.99 for a limited time only. Send a check or money order to the Cecil C. Sackrider Ministry 1069E West 35 Street Montgomery Alabama United States of America, Zip Code 666.  Checks should be made out to CASH (Congregation Against Satan’s Handiwork). All donations over US$50,000 go into the draw to win a personal phone call from Our Lord, as delivered by Pastor Sackrider.

When Whetu calls: Trumpo! My man!

Trumpo! My man!
Kia ora Bro.
Awesome congrats on being elected President.
We fellas reckon youse got what it takes to be a bro, specially for a white fella
Youse sees whats wrong with Earth an youse sees ways to fix it.
That’s awesome.
So, me and the bros got an offer for you.
An offer that as that other fella said you can’t refuse…to.
We make you Paramount Chief of Ngati Parrie
That makes you the man!!!!
You get to lead all the stuff.
You get the first choice of kai.
You get the best toke.
Room of your own.
Everything you not get as President. ‘Cept maybe the toke.
All it takes is a bit of koha.
One million dollars sound alright to you?
Cash is good.
Let us know know when you can make it.
I’ll tell the man on the gate to watch out for you.

Kia ora,
Whetu Sullivan
Paremoremo.
https://www.facebook.com/thebreezebreakfast/videos/10153260851225025/

Poetry in Pantyhose

I may be delving into dark and dangerous territory here (you think?) but I believe I understand women. I have been one, once or twice. Yes—that is me over there. Now before I completely embarrass my sons and scare my wife, let me explain.
A few years ago I played the Fairy Godmother in a couple of children’s pantomimes. In doing so, I experienced the trials and tribulations of being a woman—some of them at least. I itched and scratched from bra rash (I was not, I think, properly fitted) and I holed pantyhose beyond count. I even exposed my derriere one notable night when my tutu dropped to the ground. Yes, sisters, I am one of you. I feel our pain.
However…
Whilst it can be said that we women don’t have to wear bras or pantyhose and such inflictions are affectation, we know that not to be true, don’t we darlings? Men do rather expect it of us. But, what about elective cosmetic surgery—facelifts et al? Is that really necessary, and, if not, is that a truly self-inflicted affectation? I think so. And, yes, I know men have cosmetic surgery too, but I am not going there—I am back to being a misogynist male. Okay?
I think some of the women around me today are among the most beautiful I have met—inside and out—and as far as I know none has had major cosmetic surgery—or need it. Yet, reading a story in the Herald today, I see that for some women such surgery is not only an affectation it is an addiction. I refer to the story on mother and daughter Georgina Clarke and Kayla Morris who have spent thousands of cosmetic surgery, with Kayla funding much of it as a stripper. You can read their story here. The story tells us that currently the pair spend £5,000 a year on tanning beds and have had lip injections, Botox, cheek fillers, semi-permanent make-up, tooth whitening and hair extensions. Despite having already spent more than £50,000, the pair plan to have a boob job apiece later this year, along with buttock implants, a nose job, further lip injections, and veneers.
Now, may I venture a suggestion here that perhaps successful surgery, whilst enhancing the face or body, is most successful if not immediately apparent that you had it. Such is not the case here. As you will see if you go to that story or google images of the couple, their body and face enhancements are so obvious they are bordering on the grotesque. Why would you do that to yourself?
But, then I am being judgemental.
Sorry.
I am such a bitch.
So, let me return to safer ground: writers, writing and words.
All writers dream of that magic (and not always attainable) moment when he or she comes up with so perfect a phrase that they are forevermore in debt to the Muse, yet saddened that never again will they have such a moment. If it happens at all, it happens once. And it must have happened to the Daily Mail (the original publisher) writer who, grabbing a gift from the gods, appended to the above list of upcoming surgery this:
“(and) a designer vagina for Georgina.”
Gold!

You have to hand it to them

Politics has shaped a lot of recent Frydays recently, so I thought I would take a break and tell you about an interesting experience I had this week. This week I went to hospital to correct a, for me, long-standing and, for many, surprisingly common deformity of the hand, called Dupuytren’s Contractures. It happens because some muscles (not the tendons) in the hand contract causing one or more fingers to permanently bend at right angles to the palm, giving the appearance of a “claw hand”. In my case, it was the little fingers on both hands, though I initially elected to have only one of my hands, the right, corrected.
Others who have had Dupuytren’s include, to my horror, Maggie Thatcher and Adolf Hitler. I must remember to take a close look at Donald Trump’s hands. On the positive side, I am told that those with the most propensity for this condition are descended from the Vikings. I am quite excited by that, having just finished watching the excellent History Channel drama series The Vikings on Netflix. I feel like going out and buying a sword.
Anyway, after a referral from my GP I was given one week’s notice to present myself at Whangarei Hospital for a corrective operation. I was told that I would be operated on in the afternoon and would need to stay overnight. I would also need to be driven home. Arrangements were duly made.
And I duly present myself at the assigned time having dutifully had “nil by mouth” since 6.00 that morning, but having substantially fortified myself with scotch the previous evening. My wife was able to accompany me through all stages of the process, except the actual operation, and she and I were treated by Whangarei Hospital staff with great courtesy and consideration. They are a friendly mob down there. And casual.
How casual though I was not to find out until the point I was wheeled into the anaesthetist's room next to the operating theatre.   There I met my surgeon for the first time. Down to earth and informative he told me at length about the operation after first examining my right hand. He then asked to look at my left hand—remember, I also have the condition on that hand, though not as pronounced. The subsequent conversation went like this:
He: How about we do that one, as well?
Me: When?
He: Now.
Me: At the same time?
He: Why not? I got time. And I guess you are not going anywhere for the next hour or so. We’ll fix that one up too. Take an extra five minutes, that’s all. Then we’ll send you home.
Me: Home? I thought I was staying overnight.
He: Nah. You’ll be good, as long as you are not driving.
At which point, and with a wide grin, he left me and I was wheeled into the theatre. Now the point about that theatre was it contained a cast of thousands—well, six people really. More than I expected. In my time as an actor I have performed before much smaller audiences—and I said so. Does everybody have a permanent grin at Whangarei Hospital? The grins faded though when they saw that the principal surgeon had marked the “wrong” hand.
“Thought we were doing the right hand,” a nurse said. “We are,” I said, “but he has told me he is now going to do both hands.”
“Oh,” said the nurse and threw a knowing and slightly ruffled glance at the rest of the team. “Well,” said one. “Two for the price of one. That’s Whangarei for you.”
The grins returned.
So I had both hands done. I did have to stay overnight, but that is another story. As I write this the operation was successful. My hands ache and I have difficulty typing (ironic, given this is the longest Fryday I have written) but my fingers have noticeably straightened and I am told they will stay that way—no more quizzical glances after shaking hands with men who are left wondering whether I am a Mason or coming on to them.
But the point I would like to make about the surgeon and indeed the rest of the team is this. First the surgeon. The two groups you want to see calm, informative and relaxed are pilots before you take off and surgeons before they put the knife in—am I right? And as for the team? Calm, reassuring, professional, laid-back and flexible. All the traits that I believe epitomise New Zealanders generally.
I never thought I would say this—It was good to be in Whangarei.
In fact, it was good to be a New Zealander.

Greetings to you good folk in New Zealand

Greetings to you good folk in New Zealand
It is Chuck Mantell editor of the Freeport Bugle talking to you here again. Freeport is looking awesome at the moment. We are heading into spring and the crops are sprouting. Mindy Holsberger says her melons are going to be simply awesome this year. Mindy is well known these places for the size and juiciness of her melons. She never fails to display them to best effect, and folks come from miles around to see and touch them. Why I remember last year when I touched them that they were the firmest melons I had felt since way back in 1989 when I got to touch Mandy-Jo Bodkin’s that time she had them out on display.
I know you folk down there like your fishing, so you will be glad to know that the fish is aplenty in Freeport this year. Billy-Bob’s hole up there on Trumpet Creek is simply swimming in them. Why I have even heard that you can put your hand in Billy-Bob Haubraw’s hole and fish will just swim into your hand, that’s how willing they are to be caught. Billy-Bob’s wife, Billie-Jo, will even fry them up for you if you are of a mind. And if she takes a liking to you, Billie-Jo will even show you her secret hole out the back and let you try your hand at that.
Don’t get me wrong though—there is more to Freeport than melon squeezing and fishing. We have culture here too. The Freeport Little Theatre Repertory Society are putting on the annual musical this month. It’s a return to those times we all remember, the summer of love, when the Society presents their remake of Hair—50 years on. The society has managed to assemble much of the same cast as their 1967 season and the men especially say they reckon that despite some of them being in their 70s the singing and dancing will be just as good as it was back then and the nude scene don’t phase them at all. They say they will be up for it, excepting for the matinee—they reckon that these days they can only get it up once a day.
Not sure what you folk down there do for culture. I heard tell from a friend of mine who visited New Zealand a few years back that your men folk like to parade around in skirts made of grass while your women folk play with their balls. Now, I guess that would be a sight to see.
Of course you are probably like us, God-fearing folk. We don’t do anything on the sabbath, excepting go to church. Pastor Ron reckons he is going to have a right passionate sermon this Sunday. He says he doesn’t often get into politics but he says it is time for all righteous folk to do God’s willing and get behind Senator Ted Cruz from the great state of Texas. He says God has no time for Donald Trump. I don’t know about that and as an editor I reckon it is my responsibility to go straight down the line when it comes to politics, specially when God and politics come together. I reckon that is an awesome combination and I am thinking I don’t want to take that on.
Nope, your good mate (like that Kiwiism?) at the Freeport Bugle will be sticking to his knitting—reporting on Mindy Holsberger’s melons, delving into the Haubraw holes and reviewing Hair for my readers who don’t get the chance to see it for themselves. I wonder of Jenny-Mae Tolkin-Elliott looks the same. That would be awesome!
Yours truly
Chuck Mantell
Editor, Freeport Bugle.

No Small Talent

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Personal opinion this. Probably sounds—or maybe is— a little churlish and insensitive, but I rarely found the late Ronnie Corbett very funny. His interaction with Ronnie Barker on The Two Ronnies was always admired, but I felt that Barker was by far the funnier of the two and a much greater talent. By contrast Corbett’s prolonged solo monologue (forgive the tautology, I am making a point), was for me the low point of the show; it somehow seemed more a nod to ego than entertainment. You may disagree, and I know of at least one Fryday reader who has posted a moving tribute to Ronnie Corbett on Facebook, and may well ask why I am writing anything if it is so negative. Well, the reason I am doing it is that I am paying tribute, in my own way, to Ronnie Corbett—in much the same way I paid tribute to Ernie Wise—and for the same reason. They may not have been as funny as their comedy partners—Barker and Eric Morecambe, respectively— but nor would Morecambe and Barker be quite so funny as they were without the formidable and often self-depreciating skills of their “straight men.” I am sure Corbett never thought himself a straight man when he was performing with—and for—Barker. But maybe he did so later; there is a lovely, but slightly sad scene, in Ricky Gervais’s wonderful Extras. In it, supposedly at the Bafta Awards, Corbett unmercifully takes the mickey out of himself, playing himself as a cocaine-snorting washed up comedian found in a toilet cubicle by Gervais. When they, along with Steven Merchant, are discovered and confronted by security we have a classic putdown by the security chief: “Corbett—it’s always bloody Corbett.” You can view the scene here. Ironically, and skilfully, the scene is played by Corbett with a straight face and the far greater put-down is the one he self-inflicts—brilliantly.  That show, that scene, that face shows to me—in its own small way (pun intended)— what a giant talent Ronnie Corbett really was.