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If you are offended, disgusted, annoyed, or otherwise disturbed by the content of this diary, it's not my fault, and this disclaimer will tell you why. If I know you personally and haven't invited you here -- well, there's a reason for that, so kindly go on back to whichever part of my life you belong in. Trust me, this is for your own good.

Guest Entry #3 - hissandtell

2005-11-24, 10:20 a.m.

GUEST ENTRY #3

Hello, I'm hissandtell and I'll be your writer this evening. Let me tell you about our specials...

Or, click HERE if you'd rather just re-read clarity25's guest entry from a couple of days ago. Hey, it's okay; I'll understand. Bastards.

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SAY I'M A SCRUFF-BAG WELL IT'S NO DISGRACE

So apparently the US government has blocked the fabulous miss meany from reading my diary - which both horrifies me yet, in some perverse way, also thrills me.

You see, naturally I'm secretly tickled that the army thinks I'm dangerous or scary or incendiary or something equally evil enough to censor. Was it my entry about pig-fucking that did it, do you think? I mean, honestly! Me, blacklisted like this! Come on, chaps; I'm hardly menacing at all these days. All I do is sit at home with the cows and the puppies naked in my garden (me, not them – but them too, I expect), crack a few stockwhips occasionally to relieve tension and dress up in flibbertigibbety costumes with tiaras and animal tails and fuck-me shoes when the mood strikes me.

Actually, I don't think I've felt quite so much of a subversive influence on anyone since I was 11 and threw myself off my friend Wendy's Danish Moderne pouffe in an inspired impersonation of Noddy Holder leaping off Dave Hill's drum kit while we were listening to Slade one rainy Saturday afternoon.

There we were, having had a perfectly civil time eating smorrebrod and imbibing a teensy glass of blackberry akvavit (because Wendy's parents, being from the Continent, were very cosmopolitan about such things). I was wearing my sister's shiny-silver glam-rock platform boots and my David Essex-esque shabby denim dungarees and looking a bit like a very tall tragic hybrid of Ziggy Stardust and Gary Glitter, only with a better haircut than the Zigster and rather fewer paedophile-ish tendencies than ol' Gaz (as it's panned out, ironically), and a Wolverhampton Wanderers bovver-boy scarf.

We were playing "Cum On Feel The Noize" for perhaps the sixtieth time, when Wendy's mother came into the den where I was dancing on the sofa and graciously asked me, in her lilting Kobenhavn accent that sounded not unlike Meryl Streep as Karen Blixen, 'Would you care for another slice of Honningkage with Chokolade Palaeg Lys, Hissie?"

I said, "No, thank you" very politely, just nanoseconds before (and really, who's to say whether it was mere youthful exuberance or the combined effects of unfamiliar Scandinavian cheeses and highly potent grain alcohol?) I jumped onto the pouffe and landed in a sploodgy pile on my knees on the tasteful teal-blue Axminster, shrieking, "We get wild, wild, wild, oh holy shite bugger me dead that hurt!"

Wendy's very elegant mother stared at me in horror for a few seconds and then took her aside and whispered to her, "Perhaps it's not a good idea if you let Hiss jump off our furniture any more, dear. In fact, perhaps it's not a good idea if you let Hiss into our house any more. In fact, perhaps it's not a good idea if you keep being friends with her. In fact, she's a bad influence on you, I think. In fact, get rid of her now."

Well, she may not have said those words exactly, but you take my point. Or you would if I had one.

And anyway, here we are (mumble mumble) years later and Wendy and I are still good friends, and what's more she still lets me jump off her furniture whenever I like, so who won that round, hmmm?

Actually, now that I've had time to reflect on it, I've frequently been made to feel like a bad influence on my mates, and the offense and outrage and emotional defilement I attempted to convey above was clearly so very not true that I'm surprised I bothered trying to get away with it in the first place. Most of my life I've had that unpredictably whimsical Social Pariah persona that emerges unexpectedly – you know the one? - where I simply can't stop myself from growling at passers-by and mothers clutch their children to their breasts in fear and urge them desperately to avert their eyes when I approach? - and not only am I indifferent to it by now, but to be perfectly honest I like it that way.

But I'll have you know that I am not without a modicum of power and influence of my own, and myriad VIP contacts, and all those other lovely special things a woman needs to make it in the world – which, of course, is why I'm such good friends with the divine miss meany in the first place.

I mean, when people ask me, as they often do, if I know the meanymeistress well, I smile a certain smile and say, "Please. Don't waste my time here. Know her? Is life like a box of chocolates? Can you catch more flies with honey than vinegar? Does the hand that rocks the cradle rule the world? Does a one-legged Pope with a watertight arse shit in circles in the woods? Do you feel like you’ve been to two county fairs and a goat-rootin'? What is this, the Spanish inquisition?"

And it's also why I am just plumb churned up inside that she's not allowed to read my diary any more on her US Army-issue computer when she's working.

Look, I am not a morally-depleted high-risk character here. Trust me. Why, I've even met the Queen, you know. The woman was practically my mother-in-law, except that Andrew chose that flighty Titian-tressed toe-proffering tart-quaffing trollop over me, when push came to shove. And I think we all know how that little liaison ended, don't we?

But possibly more importantly than that from the point of view of Uncle Sam, I am awfully good friends with someone (whose identity I shan't reveal in this forum – let's just call him "X" to cunningly throw everyone off the track) who used to be a very important something in the US State Department, associating closely with people like Maddie and Donnie and Condie, and who even invited George and Laura to his wedding a couple of years ago.

Well, to be fair, they didn't actually attend – I think they sent a thoughtful telegram and a very tastefully gift-wrapped attractive silver-plate wine bottle coaster, though – although to be perfectly honest, I'm even guessing about that little detail, based purely on the fact that a former Prime Minister of Australia gave me one (a wine coaster, silly) for my wedding present when he couldn't make it to my wedding – even though, interestingly enough, in his heyday he was more notorious for ingesting vast quantities of beer rather than wine and calling everyone "Comrade" and yelling out a few spirit-rousing member-engorging verses of "Solidarity Forever" before plummeting to the ground in a drunken heap.

But anyway, let me assure you that my dear friend and old UQ Law Ball date, X – and let's also just say that he's a boy who knows his way around Embassy cocktail parties and press conferences, incidentally, and was all over CNN almost every night during the first few heady months of "Operation Iraqi Freedom" rabbiting on about pesky things like, oh, priceless Mesopotamian antiquities vanishing into thin air - will vouch for what a splendidly respectable woman I am, and that I'm hardly a threat to anyone anymore.

And to prove it, here's a photo of us together:


Well, it's for the best if I reveal only half his face – for national security purposes, I mean – since banging on with blatant self-promotion and desperate name-dropping is one thing, but opening up a can of wriggling worms of subtle and nefarious intelligence gathering practices are quite another, I imagine. Oh, damn this crazy war! I'm from Australia, for heavens' sakes, where informality is the keynote! Can't we all just get on with each other?

You know, that photograph was taken in the 1980s in one of those photo-booth-thingies after X and I had been to a Go-Go's concert together. (Don't try to tell me we didn't know how to live on the edge back then, baby – we also went to see the B 52's once. Clearly we had a thing for bands which used superfluous and inappropriate apostrophes in plurals.) Sadly, you can't see my sparkly deely-bobbers (actually, I suspect I'm wearing stripy tiger-ears in that photo) or my purple fishnet stockings or my big gold lame frou-frou skirt worn in homage to the goddess Belinda Carlisle or my darling spike-heeled yellow patent leather Mary Janes or my waist-cinching wide-elastic belt or my red lace push-up cleavage-inducing nipples-revealing bra, but take it from me – they were there; they were there with bells on.

Anyway, before I go I shall leave you with another photograph of some rather wonderful gifty-thingies sent to me this very week by a darling friend on DiaryLand (no names, no pack drill – oh, fine; it's niceguymike, really). Michael was a journalist in the US Army for yonks and yonks, back in those halcyon days of yore when Jody Powell and Hamilton Jordan (one of whom – can't remember which one - I actually met at Journalism school, big mobs of time after they'd done that brilliant "White House Whiz Kids" Butch and Sundance pose for Annie Leibovitz on the cover of "Rolling Stone" magazine that made such an impression on me when I was young and, well, impressionable) ruled the media airwaves, back in the 80s (or should that be 80's?) when Belinda reigned as queen:


Yes, they're dear little BDSM Bad Taste Bears, in various stages of acute discomfort, pain, torture and/or depravity.

The pierced fellow is Ringo and the one who's a bit (hehe) restrained is Jock. And yes, the girly-bear in the middle looking particularly pleased with herself – whose name is Violet, I think – is wearing a strap-on. I'll spare you a view of the side elevation, but suffice to say it's pretty darned spectacular. (Not quite as spectacular as this cute little Smokey toy, admittedly, but not too shabby nonetheless.)

And all this from a (albeit former) US Army journalist, I'll thank you to remember. It's no bloody wonder the ANZUS treaty engenders such controversy here in Oz if this is what you septic soldiers get up to in your spare time, is all I can say.

Because honestly, if that just doesn't prove once and for all who's a bad influence on whom around here, I'll bloody well eat my Khaki Akubra.

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Finally, just because meany said I could do WHATEVER I WANT in her diary because she loves ME the best, I choose to show you some photographs of my new puppies:



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