Happy Birthday to The Dude Day!

George Bush is Celebrating The Dude's Birthday - BUT WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MISTER NORA?

I'm still not sure how to adequately mark the Massive Impact that this day has on the Future (and also History) (and Present) of the World (and Universe).

I’m torn between:

The Army Hat Cake

The Beer Can Cake

The Happy Birthday Teri Lee Wedderspoon Cake

The Cake Hat

A Giant Inflatable Bee

I think I'm gonna go with the Bee.

xoxo nora

Lord of the Dance

There has been some drinking occurring up in Nord de Rien since The Dude showed up late last week. He’d planned to take a leisurely trip up north, but as it turned out he was forced to make a hasty exit from our homeland after being subjected to relentless harassment by the paparazzi.

Someone has been spreading rumours that The Dude was mixed up in a homoerotic Rock Star Scandal involving Bon Scott and/or Barry Manilow. Despite repeated assertions by The Dude that the claims were Bald Faced Lies (he touched up Barry IN A MATES WAY, for goodness!), the story is still appearing in a variety of publications including Star Magazine, Racing Pigeon Quarterly and the New York Review of Books, and as a result The Dude is being hounded by Fat Men with Cameras all over the shop. To set the record straight, I would like to point out that the alleged gay-sexing scenario is a Category 7 “Very Unlikely, in fact Quite Fanciful”, as The Dude is Not Actually Homo (although he is Erotic).

I think it likely that the “close friend of the hairy little coconut” who is the source of the rumours is in fact Monsieur Octavo, the daddy long legs who camps (har har) behind our toilet. Since coming out as one of The Gays, Monsieur Octavo has been trying to lure The Dude into interspecies trysts night and day, and we have lately discovered that Euripides was Incorrect: hell actually hath no fury like a homosexual toilet spider scorned.

If you ask me Octavo should try his luck with Sloginski, who has been known to bat for any team asking - although Claudie has told me that he sometimes requests that his Sex Partners apply a false moustache in the manner of Joseph Stalin. Each to their own, I say.

What evs, it’s nice to be back drinking with The Dude.

xoxo nora

The Count Is Mine.

Inspired by the admirable work of Lady Michele Renouf, I have today decided to avail myself of a higher platform from which to spew my vile flights of intolerant fancy by bagging myself a Genuine Motherfucking Aristocrat. The Dude has a title of sorts but I don’t think Mrs Doctor Dude has quite the same social capital as Her Grand and Majestical Highness Lady Nora of Whoop Whoop (nee Northcote).

In the spirit of the proud line of strategic rooters who have mounted (so to speak) the social monkey bars before me, I am out to better myself through a cunning mixuture of Lies, Deceit and Foxiness.

As such, if anyone arks you from now on in:
1. mister nora, tragically orphaned when her dear papa et mama were involved in a terrible and unexpected yacht explosion off the Croation coastline in 1984, comes from a poor but impeccably noble family of Parisian socialites (rumours that she is the spawn of a Tabloid Journalist and a Golf Pro from Surfers Paradise must be gunned down like a Cane Toad on a Coastal Highway)

2. mister nora was previously married to an Austrian Prince (not to an Australian Price is Right Contestant, as some Vicious and Cunty naysayers like to suggest)

3. mister nora is an unbelievably hot and obliging swimwear model/meter maid/scantily clad nursie (not in any way is she an overqualified, myopic shop assistant with an overwhelming urge to kill).

If we could all please stick to these three little “exaggerations”, I expect to have an aging inbred polo player eating out of my bellybutton within a matter of weeks. You’ll all get a cut of the profits, promise!*

xoxo nora

*non-core

Literary Pistol

So I’ve been browsing the olde booke shoppe round the corner from where I’ve been sent to peddle my wits these last weeks. Yesterday I came across a collection of Romance novels which contained the following titles:
- Bedded by the Boss (Miranda Lee)
- The Boss’s Baby (Miranda Lee)
- In Bed with the Boss (Susan Napier)
- Outback with the Boss (Barbara Hannay)
- The Billionaire Boss’s Bride (Cathy Williams)
- The Truth about the Tycoon (Alison Leigh)
- The Greek Tycoon’s Convenient Mistress (Lynne Graham)
- The Greek’s Innocent Virgin (Lucy Monroe)
- The Sheik’s Convenient Bride (Sandra Morton)
- The Spaniard’s Inconvenient Wife (Jacqueline Bird)
- In the Spaniard’s Bed (Helen Bianchin)
- At the Spaniard’s Pleasure (Jacqueline Baird)

I have come to the conclusion that romance writers think that:
- Ladies like to fuck the boss.
- Ladies like to fuck tycoons
- Ladies like to fuck Greeks.
- Ladies especially like to fuck Spaniards.
- Ladies like to be convenient. Or inconvenient, whatevs bro.

Now, having spent years flitting through the balls (dancing) of Monaco like a silver winged, sharp tongued, tooth and nail fairy, I've had my fair share of sexual liaisons with billionaires, tycoons, Greeks, Spaniards, Well Known A-List Celebrities, etc, and I find that being firmly pressed against their throbbing tumescent man-stems is actually somewhat overrated.

What I think would REALLY get the dampness in the pants happening for the ladies of the world would be titles akin to the following, which after this post I expect to see on Whoop Whoop bookshelves ASAP and also PRONTO:
- Bedded by the Alcoholic Pessimist
- In Bed with a Bucket of Vodka
- The Communist's Convenient Sex-Comrade
- The Peruvian's Inconvenient Penis Disease
- The Truth about the Centrelink Administrator
- Outback with the Right (Hairy) Hand
- The Billionaire Boss's Poor Treatment of His Downtrodden Employees
- The Dude's Intoxicated Ladyfriend
- The Boss's Aborted Baby
- At the Afternoon Gameshow Host's Pleasure (I'm looking at YOU, Larry Emdur!)

I'm writing a strongly worded letter to Mills n Boon right this very minute. CHANGE DOESN'T HAPPEN BY ITSELF YOU KNOW.

xoxox nora
PS one day I'll get through a post without including hysterically capitalised sentences, I promise.

I'm straight.

"I accept that resolutions made in church often wilt under the hot breath of passion - I think I know that as well as any person in this chamber - but every abortion is a tragedy and up to 100,000 abortions a year is this generation's legacy of unutterable shame."




Is anyone else getting itchy knickers just thinking of Tony in those bike pants "wilting under the hot breath of passion"?

I KNOW I AM.

xoxox nora

The Greenhouse Effete

It's really motherfucking hot up here. In typical Warren Buffett style I have grabbed this issue by the balls and shown it who is the boss (me), through my Macho and Confrontational "alternative dispute resolution strategy" (i.e. turn on aircon). Anyway to cut a long story, my significant and cutting edge research into how to deal with the motherfucking hotness of the situation has been not as triumphant as I had hoped. As you will find in my recent submission to the Senate Inquiry into Motherfucking Hotness, I have concluded that "beer" x "a lot" = "still motherfucking hot".

Hey, that is not only cutting edge research, that is Maths Poetry. PI my motherfucking friend, you are no longer King of the Kingdom that is Maths Poetry. HAH! That's king nora to you, sonny.

Heat may be making mischief inside my brain, possible problems emerging with synapses, etc. However NOT TO WORRY, The Dude will be here in a day to tend to my fevered brow with a damp towel and some botox paste, so cross and irritable fingers say I will be back to normals (relatively normals) at a time that is probably soon.

xoxo nora