Open up wide for the banana! (and chocolate).

You know, I've been trying to form a blog around this for a while now, and I just can't manage to do it. See for yourself:


Looking at it you'd think it tasted lime, lemon, cranberry whatever. But not this:


"Limited edition", GOD I hope so.

I've smelt it, I've tasted it, I still can't wrap my mind around how anyone thought this was a good idea. And despite all the prejudices I may have against America, I refuse to believe that this is the original taste of America, "EMD Internationale", as you call yourself on another "Premier TM" bottle. I don't blame you for not pinning a name on your banana chocolate monstrosity, I would be ashamed too, but I'm reporting you fucker for this absent umbrella-corporation tag since it's kinda iffy that I can pin you for mouth-rape.

The stage coach naughty show

I took the bus to Northern Sweden today, again. This time I'm not at all as pleased about things, as I would much rather be cuddled up with Andreas. In bed. Right now. Warm and fuzzy and trying to avoid his nightly ninja-kicks to the crotch.

I sat on the bus for two hours before deciding to challenge the laws of gravity that do not exit at all in cramped bus toilets where you support your one hand with the door while the other one waves for your nether-regions to hurry whatever the fuck they're not doing. Even though there's absolutely no communication going on between any of your body parts right then. Your mind and your fingers under the running tap-water are trying to tell your bursting bladder to GOGOGO your bladder replies "You know, I'm just not feeling it anymore. What's my motivation."

And it's frustrating, because you know that a soon as you relax your muscles the bus will jolt and your lips will be planted on the toilet door. Bingo! Aids. Add this regular bus-toilet pressure to the horrible realization that the reason the lock is a simple hook-and-eye one is that the regular 10 by 10 cm lock has been torn out. Have you had time to pull down your pants before realizing this? Yes. Have you assumed the crouch position? Yes. Is your quivering shanoony hovering for the closest bus-rows to see, should they glance at the door? Oh god yes.

I figure that's why nobody told the buss-driver to make an announcement. It's not that they missed the gaping hole in the door after planting your ass on the seat. It's that if you share this information with the buss driver, or the next unfortunate sap who's about to expose his nuts & ass for the viewing rows, then you're pretty much admitting that you yourself also exposed your nuts-n-ass. The apologetic look in your eyes will give you away!

When you think about it, it was all pretty touching, in the solidaritish (IS a word) communist way. You get a potato, I get a potato. You get a russian doll, I get a russian doll in a doll. "You get to flash your privates, I get to...now, are you sure you didn't mean 'Porsche'."

As with anything, you just don't want to be the last kid on the block who gets a snazzy new car. You're always hoping that there's someone left, someone who will come after. And it wouldn't hurt if this person had a shaved shoonany and an embarassingly large labia. Please.

Oh look it's a bird it's a plane

It's supergramma.

My grandmother and grandfather share one passion - keeping track of what cars and people pass their house. I never quite saw the charm in or point of this until today, while we were eating lunch at the window table.

"Look pa", grandma tells her husband. "It's old one-eyed Edna on her way to the store."
Grandpa, as is custom, spins around to take a quick look. Grandma is quicker, as she forks a particularly tough piece of meat and, with a flick of the wrist, sends it flying to grandpa's plate.

She winks at me, mouthing : "He NEVER notices!" and sticks her last piece of potato into her mouth, munching contentedly.

You're never too old to become a feeder, this the internets has told me. I doubt that my grandma is one of those female fat admirers though, at least not as much as she might be at that age where you use your significant other for comic relief. And you're never too young for that, and my lovely brother pointed out yesterday.

Magda is an ancient lady who will often feign choking at dinner to prove how poorly she is. When asked if she is choking, she will pause and reply very coherently that "This is it. This is it for me!" - (that is, until next day). I finally took the time to sit down with her since I didn't have the time to run away and join the rest of my family outside in the garden. My brother was also trapped inside the house with her, but chose to make the best of the situation, playing charades and dancing a mighty fine belly dance behind her back as she spoke to me about various friends that had died recently. He tried to mute her with the remote control and bop the space behind her head with a pillow. He swam through oceans judging by his arm movements and was at one time, even chased by a shark judging by his suddenly more frantic arm-movements.

After a while I felt the tears of laughter prickling the corners of my eyes and had to excuse myself, running into the kitchen. Mom was making coffee. I begged her to call Magda to come outside with her. Mom fell quiet, very quiet. Then she mumbled:

"You know, you're doing a very good deed here."

I kept hissing my request to her retreating back even as she, avoiding my eyes and unseen to Magda, snuck through the back door. My brother's face lit up when I returned to the couch, scooping up more ammunition to float behind Magda's head.