The Fictional BF Games, round 2 – Thor v Loki


So here it is and it’s been a long time coming. Who will win the battle between Thor and Loki? Better yet, who will win Loki???


Right PM2, it’s time we discussed the adorable brotherly bromance that is Thor and Loki. It’s a tough call on which of these boys is hotter. Personally I’d prefer a Thor- Loki sandwich, with me smack in the middle. I mean, they aren’t “real” brothers, Loki did get rescued from the Ice Giants, so it’s totes ok for all of us to be naked together. While I know Thor has the body to die for, I mean seriously…those abs…geez, I’d happily move to Asgard for that alone. But throw in his adorably cheeky and downright naughty, brother Loki, well I’m halfway down the Bifrost, boys.


Glad we agree on this PM1, although I do see a future argument seeing as I’m not big on sharing. But back to these adorable boys, but more importantly, back to Loki. Thor might have a body to die for and yes, those abs are something out of a dream world, but Loki…OMFG Loki. There’s something about this boy and his ability to walk that fine line between love and hate, good and evil that makes him far more desirable. Who doesn’t love a bad boy with a tortured past? Well, clearly I do and with far more intensity than a normal person should have for a fictional character. I’d be more than happy to keep him company in that prison cell. Yep, that’s me running down the Bifrost bridge tearing my clothes off. Pale has never looked so hot.


Couldn’t agree more PM2. What is it about a tortured bad boy that makes us go weak at the knees and wanting to save them? I’m a sucker for it and when you have the cheeky little smile, the naughty evil streak, the playfulness and that god damn fucking hot accent…well I’m sold. And Loki, if you don’t want saving, then I’ll happily go bad for you instead 🙂


Oh PM1, I’m so glad you brought up accents because in my opinion, this is the clincher on why Loki wins this battle hands down. Thor’s accent…ugh, so terrible. Now usually I’m all about an Australian accent (that shit’s a total panty dropper), but in this movie, the Australian/American mix doesn’t fly with me. It just sounds, well, if I’m being honest here, like Thor is a dumb fucking meathead. Sorry… A small derailment from what is truly important here… LOKI! Can we talk about his accent??? PANTY DROPPER! The British accent will desecrate any accent and when it’s on a naughty, naughty boy, well fuck me. Somehow that accent makes his evilness so fucking hot.


Look I agree, Thor’s hybrid accent is strange…but…there’s something about that voice of his that makes the Aussie/American/Brit combination thing work. Actually, what the fuck am I saying, he could read me the phone book in any accent and I wouldn’t care. Especially if he does it shirtless. Loki on the other hand…oh my fucking god…You’re right PM2, a naughty British boy with a cheeky little smile and an evilness that makes my clothes fall off…oh geez, Loki, I’m all yours…anytime, anywhere…


See, here’s where we differ. I hate that stupid hybrid accent and would much prefer if Thor didn’t speak at all, but still do everything shirtless… seriously, I’d rather he do everything naked and silent. But Loki…I want to hear him whisper in my ear, talk dirty to me, hell, he can even ask me to wash the dishes in that fucking accent. I’m down for it all, especially if it ends with him naked and in my bed. So tell me PM1, as we debate these adorable boys, if forced to choose… Let’s say, we’re sitting in a tattoo shop and you have to tattoo Thor or Loki somewhere on your body, who would win out? (Now something about this is probably ridiculous, but completely possible when it comes to the two of us. Too many beverages, combined with our stupidity, and the fact that we are rarely together could make this situation totes plausible.) Who’s it gonna be, PM1???


Pfft…like you have to ask? It’s Loki, of course! And seeing as I’m going first, I’m totes claiming him as mine…back off PM2, I don’t do sharing. 🙂


Creativity…why is it so f**king hard?



So I recently invested in Photoshop. Because of my job, I managed to land a pretty good deal, which got me the fancy-ass version with all the bells and whistles. We’re not talking the lazy cousin here; we’re talking the full child prodigy. This was an interesting purchase on my part for two reasons. One, I am creatively stupid. Yes I can appreciate something beautiful and fancy, and I understand the whole “less is more” concept, but I’m shit when it comes to creating that myself. The other reason; I am quite possibly one of the most impatient people in the world. Combine that with my anal retentiveness and really, it’s an epic fucking shit storm just waiting to happen.

But let’s start with the buying process.

Now I like to think of myself as being fairly tech savvy, I know my way around the web, I blog, I format and upload books. I single handedly worked out how to download stuff on my computer and stream it to my TV via my Playstation, long before Apple TV cornered the market on that one – don’t think I didn’t notice Apple. I also work in a professional industry, I’m degree educated and like to think I’m pretty smart. So, with this in mind, I was super excited to make my online purchase, which I did pretty successfully I thought, given I was several wines in by the time I made this decision. Actually in hindsight, that’s also quite possibly why I thought buying Photoshop was a good idea in the first place. Fuck knows the creative ideas that flow when alcohol is involved. Anyway, I digress. I made my purchase and then stood by for the email with instructions on how to install it. Well, didn’t this turn into a monumental fucking pain in my ass.

First up, because I bought it via my job, I had to verify with Adobe that I was in fact currently in that job. No problem, they sent me the link and said to follow the instructions on how to send your job proof in. I click on the link, get taken to the Adobe site and can’t find the fucking spot where I upload my details and job proof. Now, I should probably point out at this time that I don’t do well with instruction manuals. In fact I never read them. This not only drives Hubs A insane (he’s a techno-nerd), but also means it’s invariably an endless stream of “fucks”, and “fucking shit fucks”, coming from my mouth until I eventually work it out. Or more realistically, get Hubs A to sort it out. Anyway, at this point, I can’t find the fucking upload button, but what I do notice however, is the big flashing INSTALL HERE button, asking me to download my product.

Fuck it, let’s just do that instead shall we.

So I do, and surprise, surprise, the world doesn’t explode, and instead I get taken to the serial number details. Knowing that the peeps I bought the product from had sent me some long-ass number, I figured (because basically I didn’t read their instructions either) this was my serial number, so I type it in.

What the fucking fuck? It’s too short…as in there are four fucking numbers missing. Fucking hell. So I send them an email, pretty much asking, “What the fuck, where are my fucking numbers?” Two seconds later I haven’t got a reply so I pick up the phone. No-fucking-help on the other end clearly has no idea and gives me Adobe’s helpline instead. For fuck’s sake. So I call Adobe…and this is what the automated-no-fucking-help-voice says to me;

Hello and welcome to Adobe technical support. We blah blah blah …Please press 1 for help with blah blah blah or press 2 for help with blah blah blah. Please note, that we don’t solve these problems; blah blah, how to solve your fucking serial number issues, blah blah, over the phone and require you to email us with your details.



It’s at this point that I slam the phone down and decide I need a drink. Owing to the fact that it’s only ten o’clock in the morning, I’m at work and I’m still a little hungover from the night before, it has to be coffee. Now during my coffee break, I finally receive an email from the peeps who sold me the Photoshop with the fucked up serial number. That went something like this:

Dear PM1,

Thank you for your email. Blah, blah, blah…

The number we sent you is not the serial number. You will need to apply for your serial number by verifying your job via the link we sent you.

Blah blah blah

Signed, No-fucking-help-either.

Oh my fucking god…what the fuck is happening here. Why can’t these fucking fuckers just give me the fucking serial number.

Needless to say at this point, I was about ready to say fuck it and return the fucking thing, figuring this was a sign that yes, I was in fact creatively stupid and didn’t deserve to own this fancy ass product. Then I took a deep breath, calmed the fuck down and actually read through the instructions. And what do you know, there, buried in a pile of fucking instructions, was the fucking link. After that, it went something like this: details uploaded, serial number received, product installed, ready to use.

Now it was time to let the fun begin. Of course at this stage I did what any normal person would do and I opened the product, ignored the dumbass instructions, and starting playing with a photo. This was the result.


Pretty good huh? I would have liked to have given him glasses but I couldn’t work out how to change the fucking brush from black to white 🙂


Remember that movie you loved as a kid?


Last night, after having ANOTHER conversation about Ben Affleck as Batman, Hubs B and I got to discussing movies we loved as kids. The topic came to this after Hubs B tried to defend his love of Michael Keaton as Batman. (Ironically, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises were all on TV. Prompting Hubs B to admit that Christian Bale is pretty fucking amazing.) But that isn’t what this about because I could go on and on about Christian Bale and his holy-hell-someone-save-me-hot-ass body (and his voice and his face and his ass and…OMFG), but I’ll save that for another day. So back to Michael Keaton as Batman. If you remember, Hubs B claimed Michael Keaton as his number one Batman (if not, read about it here), which made PM1 add him to her face punch list. His claim was that he remembered seeing the movie as a kid and being mesmerized by it.

This is where he begins to defend his reasoning with something that happened several months ago.

Remember those movies you loved as a kid? You could watch them a million times, knew every word, loved every character? We all have them and they hold a special place in our hearts. Now trust me when I say, let them live forever in your heart or you will regret it. Don’t ever go back and watch them later. They will be ruined…

So here’s how the story goes. After reading Rob Lowe’s biography (Yep, I read it, go ahead, judge me.) It reminded me how much I loved the book and the movie, The Outsiders. (Dreamy Ponyboy and that orange peroxide hair) I shared this thought with Hubs B who also had fond childhood memories of the movie. (Not so much about Ponyboy, though) So, we decided to watch the movie. Now, this is where it gets ugly.

It wasn’t that it was a horrible movie or anything. It just didn’t live up to the memory. Both of us sat there with our what-the-fuck faces, staring at the TV when the movie ended. It was almost like someone just ruined our childhood by telling us that our dog died and had not actually been taken to a “farm” as our parents originally told (lied to) us. It was quite depressing… watching The Outsiders in our thirties.

This brings me to Hubs B’s love of Michael Keaton as Batman. He wants that Batman to live in his childhood memory as the best and I’m going to let him have it. Considering how The Outsiders went down (I still <3 you, Ponyboy), I’m not going to ruin another movie for him, so back off, PM1!


Shiny, flashing road rage


So today was my first day back at work after a ten day break. And as expected, it got off to a spectacularly shit start when I got stuck in the worse than usual gridlock traffic on the freeway. On a good day, and by good day, I mean the middle of the fucking night when everyone else is already home and in bed, my journey from home to work would take between 20-30 minutes. This is largely dependent on how much I’m willing to risk a speeding ticket to save those extra 10 minutes (frequently for the record). On a bad day, say like every fucking day I commute, this can take anywhere from 45-60 minutes.

Except for today. Because today, it took a grand total of 90 fucking minutes for me to get from home to work.

Now I know that like me, there was a heap of other people all returning to work today, which only added to the shitastic traffic. However, in a deliberate move on my part, I decided to start my commute in a little later than normal. Smart move right? Avoid the first day back traffic and therefore severely reduce the chances of unleashing my homicidal rage on either my fellow commuters or my colleagues at work. Well in theory yes, but really, it was my first day back at work, of course I wasn’t getting up at the ass crack of dawn, to rush in to a job that regularly sends me to the liquor store on the way home. I wasn’t about to shock myself into a heart attack, although in hindsight, that would have been a great excuse to stay home.

Instead, my alarm went off a good hour after it normally would on a work day and after a luxurious breakfast in bed, I took a shower, straightened my hair and made a coffee for the commute (thank fuck). And as I reversed my car out of the garage, I congratulated myself on a well thought out plan. After all, going back to work after a ten-day break, hell, after the fucking weekend, is never easy, but at least my drive in today wouldn’t suck too much. Oh fuck me, was I wrong about that.

Because, as I finally reached the freeway entrance, which essentially forms the bulk of my commute into the city, I pretty much ground to a halt. Not only was the traffic fucked, it was beyond fucked. I mean, worse than a normal commute day in, fucked. I’m pretty sure all the cars were stationary and the entire three-lane freeway resembled the parking lot at my local Target. Fuck me, this was not going to be good.

But what choice did I have? Short of saying fuck it and executing an Austin Powers style 20-point turn and driving the wrong way back up the freeway ramp to go home, I had no choice but to continue. And continue I did…for a solid 45 minutes, essentially driving what probably equates to two miles in that time.

Now I know there are often reasons for slow/grid-lock/completely fucked traffic, and as I would soon, or rather, an hour later, discover, today was no exception. And you can imagine my delight when I came upon said reason, only to discover it was an “incident response” van, pulled over on the side of the road with some pretty flashing lights on its roof.

Yep, that’s fucking it. No accident, no alien invasion, nothing.

And look, in some ways I can understand. Pretty shiny things distract me too. But let’s get real, these are normally expensive, come in tiny little boxes and hang from my ears, wrists or neck. They aren’t the type that weigh a ton and sit on the side of the road doing sweet fuck all. Seriously people, you’re fucking slowing down for that??

Naturally a few F bombs fell from my mouth as I finally drove past these pointless flashing lights and all the fuckwits watching it, and actually managed to get my car out of first gear. This maneuverer also allowed me to finally overtake the fuckwit in front of me who’d felt the need to let every fucking car that wanted change lanes in in front of her. A good 90 minutes after leaving home, coffee long gone, I walked back into work only to discover that yes, it takes approximately 30 seconds to feel as though you never left it in the first place.

Fuck me.


A quarter mile at a time…

rs_560x415-131130193834-1024.Paul-Walker-FastandFurious4-jmd-113013_copyOk, I need to have a rant about car salesmen/women. And look, apologies to anyone who reads this and does this for a living. I know I’m stereotyping here, but my recent experience with one has failed to suggest otherwise.

So Hubs A recently convinced me to purchase a new car. I say convinced when what I really mean is he went on about it for so long (years), that agreeing was basically the easiest way to get him to shut up. The man’s a gadget/upgrade kinda guy. Normally I’m ok with this, I like having the latest i-whatever and a kick ass home theater set up. But cars piss me off. They are such a waste of money and I find it hard to justify buying another, newer model when the car I currently drive is still fully functional.

But most of all, I just hate the whole buying a car experience.

But, like with most things, he wore me down. Throwing out words like black leather interior, black paint, GT sports version, and turbo, got my inner Fast & Furious revving (RIP Paul Walker, you are still missed). In the end, I pretty much couldn’t refuse. The man knows I have a weakness for cool looking cars, even if they are as over the top as half the car scenes in the Fast & Furious movies (I never cared Paul, you still looked cool). So off we went, me bracing myself for the fact that my annoyance meter was about to reach I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face level, Hubs A trying to reassure me that he’d handle the dreaded Car Sales Person.

Because I don’t want anything to do with them. This is partly because I don’t care for their bullshit and also because I don’t understand half the shit they’re talking about. Sure I’ve watched, and re-watched (a million times) all the Fast & Furious movies, (they’ll never be the same without you, Paul), but my understanding of sequential gear boxes and continuous variable transmission and all the other fancy shit they go on about, is basically non-existent. It’s not that I can’t understand it, I simply chose not to. I just don’t care about that shit. What matters to me is the car looks awesome, it’s safe, it’s at the right price and I manage to walk out of the whole experience without punching the Car Sales Person in the face.

So when said Car Sales Person starts going on about the car I’m currently picturing myself racing Paul Walker in (beautiful man, I’d probably let you win), being “priced to clear” or “the cheapest price you’ll ever pay for this model” or “won’t last past this week” or “loaded full of extras”, my annoyance level starts to creep up. Because you know what Car Sales Person, I might not give a shit about this stuff, but Hubs A does. Do you honestly think we’d walk in here, ready to drop several thousand dollars on this without having done our homework? Um no, no fucking way actually. And FYI, when you try to reel us in even more by throwing out an, “Oh and I should mention, I have another buyer ready to pay this price, right now,” I’m very close to reaching punch-you-in-the-face levels.

Oh so you’ve got another buyer who’s ready to go do you? Really, where are they? And why don’t you have a sold sticker on that window? And why have you just spent the last 20 minutes trying to convince me to buy the car for the exact same fucking price?

I know you’re fucking with me Car Sales Person…I’m not an idiot. But I tell you what, how does an, “Ok, that’s fine, we’ve seen a cheaper version of this car up the road anyway,” sound? Oh what’s that I hear you say? “What can I do to stop you walking up the road?” or “How can I get you to buy this car right now?” Ohhhh, where’s your other buyer now huh? That’s right, they don’t fucking exist.

And now, neither do I. I live my life a quarter mile at a time Car Sales Person, I don’t need you riding it. I might just go home and watch the original Fast & Furious (arguably the best, love you Paul). At least the car bullshit in that is entertaining.



Gone Girl – if it means I get Ben Affleck instead, then hell yes!

PM1: Right, The official Gone Girl trailer has been released…and can I just say, Ben Affleck as Nick… Best. Casting. Ever.

PM2: Well fuck me if Ben Affleck isn’t crazy hot as Nick Dunne. I’m obsessed with the trailer. I legit watched it four times. I can’t wait for this movie! So, there has been some speculation that the movie will deviate from the original plot of the book. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this, although the ending of the book did leave me with that hangover feeling. But in turn, I do love a good surprise. What are your thoughts PM1?

PM1: I’m sorry, did you say something? Oh right, yes, let me just drag my eyes away from Ben’s gorgeous face, body, ass, and discuss this epically awesome story and its controversial ending. I gotta say, I actually liked the book’s ending. I laughed out loud at how sick and twisted it was and that the author had the balls to pull it off. At the same time, I’m totally ok with them changing the ending for the movie, because it’s the author who’s doing it. Yep, Gillian Flynn’s sick and twisted mind is writing the screenplay, so as far as I’m concerned, she can do whatever the hell she wants with the ending…as long as it doesn’t end up as some bullshit, sappy HEA. You got that, Gillian? Now, let’s get back to discussing Ben…are we going to get some shirtless action in this movie?

PM2: Don’t get me wrong, I thought the ending was genius, but it left me with a million questions. I would love to share my thoughts, but that would make me one of those people who blow endings for the world by posting spoilers. Can you say Face Punch list??? There is no one else I would want to take part in the writing of this screenplay. Gillian Flynn is obviously a gifted and insanely creative woman, who will do anything but give this movie ending a HEA. My bigger concern than any changes to plot is…are we going to get to see Ben naked in that disturbing shower scene??? At this moment a shirtless Ben from The Town comes to mind. Water running down his well-developed chest to his flat, muscular stomach as hands grope his body. Is it warm in here or is it just me? I have to lie down. OMFG…


PM1: Um yeah, you’re obviously talking about this ^^ scene from The Town. Fuck. Me. That man is gorgeous and is born to do shirtless chin-ups. In fact, he should do a movie of nothing but shirtless scenes. And then he should get an Oscar for Best Performance by a Shirtless Actor. And then he should come over to my house and do shirtless things all day…and night. Shit, I’m sorry, I digress. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, the ending. Right, I’m with you PM2, I also don’t want to comment on the book ending and how I think it might be changed in the movie, because like you, I find people who blow endings or plot twists, to be major fucking assholes. You do deserve to be on our Face Punch list. Needless to say, the ending of the book rocked and I’m sure the ending of the movie will too. You’re right, Gillian Flynn would never give us a neat little HEA because that’s not how her beautifully sick and twisted mind works…I’ll bet it works in ways to give us plenty of shirtless Ben though

PM2: There needs to be a GIF of the chin-ups scene, so I can watch it over and over and over and over…Hubs B where are you???!!! Sorry…lost in thought. But back to Ben shirtless. He’d totes take home the Oscar for Best Performance by a Shirtless Actor and then while giving his speech (where he thanks PM1 and me for all our support), he removes his shirt, exposing the physique of a Greek god and vows to never cover his gorgeous body again. HUBS B????!!! …Okay, okay, cold shower and I’m back now. We were talking about what again? Oh yeah, Gone Girl. All I know is that this movie is going to kick some serious ass, regardless of the ending. A talent like Gillian Flynn’s will never disappoint, because only a woman with a mind as twisted as hers could create such a flawless story. I know where PM1 and I will be on October 3rd…the boozy theater with our BF Ben. Cheers!



Two words…Holy. Fuck.

No, I mean seriously, I don’t actually think I can speak. Any words I say will not do this man justice. And by man, I mean fictional character in a movie adaptation of a best-selling novel, who is now my future husband (sorry current husband).

Do I need to set the scene, so you know who I’m talking about? Ok, for those living on another planet, I just went and saw Divergent. Divergent is a nice little movie, based on the first book in a pretty well-known series, written by Veronica Roth. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. Divergent is the smash hit, first book, and now movie, from the International best-selling YA dystopian trilogy, set in a post-apocalyptic Chicago where the population is divided into five factions based on bravery, intelligence, honesty, selflessness and peace. It features Tris, a kickass heroine who choses the bravery faction instead of the selfless one she was born in to, and Four, a trainer in the bravery faction, Tris’ mentor and BF, and my future husband. Sorry Tris, but you and I both know what happens in the end. He’s going to need to move on.

Without going into the plot, because unless you’ve been living on another planet, you’ll know it, and if you are living on that other planet, then you probably don’t care, I can safely say that this is a story, a movie and characters that are definitely worth checking out. It has a female lead who is strong, fierce and knows what she wants, which is a refreshing change from the whiny, submissive bitches we’ve seen so much of in the past. The future world is well-described, the entire concept of factions and how they work together is extremely cool, and most importantly of all, it has Four.

Oh Four…how do I even begin to describe how amazing you are. Not just a pretty face, you have a body to die for, a tattoo that leaves me drooling and a voice that can literally give me a Fourgasm. Every time you spoke (to me) last night, I felt like I needed a stiff drink and a cigarette. And let’s not even go into what the balcony scene did to me. Taking your shirt off was one thing, but Tris (me) running her (my) fingers all over your tattoo before you turn and kiss her (me) with those amazing lips of yours…Fuck. Me….Fuck me hard, please.

Be rest assured my gorgeous man, I have indeed spent all night google-imaging you. What can I say; my Fourgasm got harder, bigger, better…fuck, it got multiplied.

Excuse me while I go take a cold shower.