Underwear

Sometimes I find myself thinking about things which are almost best left alone. They are also mostly left hidden, at least they were in my day and age. Not now. And it makes sense. Underwear, it's supposed to be worn under something, but nowhere on the tag does it say that a flash of it could make you go wrong. Underwear can be expensive, and there is no way I am letting a Wonderbra go to waste, hidden beneath something else. It does not mean I'm going out in just it, although I would if it were not for the thought that I might get arrested for soliciting. And no, just in case you were thinking, I need no Wonderbra either. No maximiser or minimiser. The Good Lord has bestowed me with a perfect set of headlamps. Praise the Lord, He's been good to me in that sphere, or twin sphere. But, underwear is something we all have to deal with, and whether we think that a baggy set of bloomers is considered ok to lounge about in some others like me have other opinions. Everyone wears underwear. Even the Pope wears underwear, at least I hope and think so, that is perhaps one other reason why he broke his wrist, he was trying to fit into the latest embroidered white papal thong. The Queen of England wears underwear, and I don't think she buys it off London's high street M&S. Perhaps she has tangas matching every outfit in the same way she has hats matching every outfit. Even GonziPN wears underwear, although I guess it's of the ill-fitting kind, the way he squirms a lot nowadays. Perhaps we should all take a leaf out of GonziPN's squirming and come to the conclusion that blue underwear is just too tight. I wonder what Mrs. Gonzi wears, does she wear suspenders? Underwear can really get an old soul like me very confused. I see female underwear ads holding things up while male underwear ads keep holding things down. Did Ghandi wear underwear, and was it beige marl? Did Shakespeare wear underwear? Mozart even? Did they try to force things down too? Henry the VIII? Did his wives wear underwear? Was it the reason he killed them all? And why do so many men keep rubbing their crotch area? Is it because Lycra is itchy? What about Mother Teresa? Did she wear a girdle? What cup size did she take? Joe Demicoli... does he wear underwear? My insight tells me he might also wear a thong for 5 minutes, then reverse it because it's up his crack too much. And what about the infamous alpha monkeys? What do they wear? They never wear vests of course lest it interferes with their hirsute chest. Below the belt? Boxers of course because they are dying to show the world that they need extra space which conceals the shocking bulges. Underwear will always cover a multitude of sins, be they physical or physical again. What about me? Well, I'll be damned if I cover up completely and not show a hint of brassiere. It's way too expensive to keep it private. Because if God gave me an asset(2 to be precise), I just have to be the living proof of His glory. I am one of the chosen ones. Praise the Lord.

Organza

Now that to me is just an expensive bit of fabric. I know they use it whenever bridal belles are about to walk up the aisle, but since there has been no aisle for me, I know it somewhere else. Such a thin, sheer, lightweight fabric; the continuous filament of silkworms. Silk worms. They sound like uppa' class worms, who don't realise that their bottom line is, they're still worms. To me they sound as if they're dragging fake Versace bags, fake Cavalli sandals (how I hate this word), and fake Chanel sunglasses while having coffee at Giorgio's in Sliema. Amazingly, one coffee lasts them a whole morning. They don't just chin-wag, they must comment on other people like me who think that going to Sliema is no big deal so I don't have to posh just because it's Sliema. Because I don't fake the posh, I am posh anyway, I carry blue blood, that's why it says B+ on my blood donor card which will unfortunately never be used again. I will certainly never settle for the fake this and fake that, as long as it's not Take That reuniting again just because of me. If I could draw, and that's a big if because I just cannot draw, I'd draw the silkworms with the fake Versace, Cavalli and Chanel and make them have coffee that tastes like a camel's urine. And yet the posh ones drink it, being very careful not to get any of that white stuff on their lips lest it could remind anybody of the night before. I... I just don't give a hoot, so what? It's milk and not something else, and even if it were, what's the big fuss about. If a posh one had it on her lips just 8 hours before, then why does it suddenly become an issue 8 hours later? Which comes to the organza. Is it these women who have woven all of that? And if so, why does a girlie friend of mine with the wrong apparatus love it so much? Why does he have to stroke it as if it were the sexiest thing invented since breasts? Why does he have to wrap it around me and my cleavage and stand back to inspect then jump for joy? It's something made by worms for God's sake. And yet I never tell him this. Because I probably like it too. Heavy-petting wasn't just meant for a clumsy fondle in a car in an abandoned somewhere in the middle of the night. It has also found it's way into something more overtly clinical. And yet, perhaps it's the worms which make it feel less clinical; my can of worms which spin something as beautiful as organza.

Dreams, Demicoli and a funeral

I had this weird dream about Joe Demicoli. Now just before you close this window and write me off as a total nut-case, just spend a couple of minutes more. Because I really had this dream. And I woke up with such a silly, yes very welcome grin. What the hell was I dreaming of? Is this what sophisticated girls dream about? No, but then they're not as sophisticated as I am. It would take a hell of a highly sophisticated girl to be able to laugh at (not as in making fun of) Demicoli. I would make a potential husband think twice, a potential lover think four times. My dad cannot think anymore, because he should have thought before he did (not made) me. No, that sounds terrible, let's say he made me, by the help of the blessed virgin Mary. I never could understand why she's is called a virgin. What difference does it make? None to me. Does the fact that she stayed a virgin mean that she was any better than if she saw some sense and enjoyed herself that little bit more? Anyway, no side-tracking, my dad didn't think twice and look what he ended up with... twice the trouble. Back to Demicoli, just to answer a few haughty remarks here and there... yes I like the guy. Always have. It's just that this blog has finally given me the chance to come out of the Demicoli-loving closet and say it out loud. So what if he's not the usual men who resemble King Kong in all they do and the manner they do it in, I still like the guy. Nobody can make me laugh as hard with his talk of Enemalta people dangerously balancing their thingy when they're doing maintenance. I hope he will be able to come to my funeral and do his thing. My brother will pay up no problem. Because that would be so original. But then, I want people to cry too. I want them to cry because they will have lost this wonderful human being whom they did not appreciate enough in life. I want them to cry because they feel so guilty. And I want them to cry because hey I'm not getting an Extra-Large coffin for just one hour of praying. Because since I haven't gone down the aisle standing up, I'll do it relaxed and lying down. My coffin will be my wedding dress, although I think that costs more in Euro money. It will be my party and since I will not be able to cry, then they will have to cry because I want to.