Posts by Emma Hart
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why not? Before anyone explains- I hereby call "retreat" and "surrender!"
Forcing me to swallow a huge chunk of pedantry about gerunds.
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Can we go back to the silly jokes now?
Or as the bish would say, enough is enough.
Except of course, Deborah and I would have to shout that from the back.
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The Unitarian Jihad christened me Sister Jackhammer of Enlightenment. In light of that, a simple, humble 'mistress' will suffice.
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I always liked Marquis, but I'll take Pope if noone wants it.
I can't quite imagine calling anyone Your Holiness. What about Cardinal? Nice robes. No Harleys, but we can call you Your Eminence and start a lot of sentences with 'My goodness, I wasn't expecting..."
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You know what we're missing? Injury stories of a groinal nature. I know you guys have got 'em. I have this theory that women have a reflex that makes them entirely incapable of not laughing when men bollock themselves.
My partner was recently playing squash with a mutual friend. Said friend was going for a low shot he really should have let go. The bottom of his raquet hit the floor, and instead of sliding, just stopped dead. He kept going, and owing to the angle of the raquet, copped the end of the handle square in the goolies. Cue friend spending five minutes lying on the floor. Cue partner telling story to Emma. Cue Emma spending five minutes lying on the floor, laughing so hard she cried. Cue Emma passing on said story while referring to self in third person.
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PS: If anyone has any suggestions on how to remedy the situation I'm all ears... I like the idea of a 1000 women showing up at lunchtime one day, surrounding the site and wolf whistling/cat calling to their hearts content. No no, 500 wahine and 500 tane turning up would be even better. A taste of ones own medicine.
Hysterical, and I'd love to see it. But also, I think likely to backfire. A strong attack is good defence sometimes, but other times it's just the fastest way to a backlash.
When I was at varsity, for a while there was a bunch of construction work going on on the road out the back, and I went past twice a day. Now, there were only half a dozen guys there, and I think force of numbers makes a big difference. I responded to the first day's whistling with a bow, the second by engaging in joking by-play, and by the end of the week, we were greeting each other like normal human beings. It probably made no difference at all to any other women, but y'know, sometimes you just have to accept that you can't change the world, and like Riddley says, fight the battles you can win.
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"....where he put a concrete drill through it. He's right-handed, the drill was in his right hand. "
Emma - I'm still trying to work this one out :)
Yeah, me too. And I wish I could say 'ha, it's because he is delightfully flexible'...
Apparently it involves sticking your arm up through a manhole into a ceiling, then drilling down through that ceiling towards your body. I STILL don't understand how it works.
Still, apparently watching chunks of your flesh twisted around a drill bit while you're in shock is fascinating.
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Heh, Okay, my partner may not thank me for this... He has a huge scar on his upper right arm where he put a concrete drill through it. He's right-handed, the drill was in his right hand.
Good news? He did it in a hospital. Bad news? He did it in the fertility dept.
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But that's not as interesting as what's now, in my head, your jelly-wrestling story. Basically, you get yourself a killer type A personality, over-extend yourself stupidly, and wrench your iliofemoral ligament. Which makes any motion which rotates your hip outwards really painful.
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my rheumatics are due to ..err... fighting. Would've dealt better, but I wasn't expecting her to kick me quite so much.
That sounds like one of those things I really want to hear more graphic detail about, right up until I actually hear it.