Your Love Wont Pay My Bills (But it will give me chlamydia) PS: Penis

The best things in life are free. But you can give them to the birds and bees. I want money (that's what I want X3)


Ladies and gentlemen (and ladies who look like gentlemen... Gemma). What makes a man get up early each morning to work in a menial job from 9-5, 6 days a week? What makes a prossie "lick it like a lollipop" on the street corners of Islington? What makes Matthew Morrison continually and repeatedly humiliate himself and the musical theatre community week after week on Glee?





MONEY. (That's what I want X3)




You may say that I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one... something, something ... fun. You may also say that money, like the size of your boyfriends penis, doesn't matter. Bullshit. Bull. Fucking. Shit. Bullshit. Money makes the world go round, it keeps your fat ass mamma in nylon jumpsuits and crocs. It keeps your father's mistress(es) at bay (We've been meaning to have this talk with you for a while... sorry you found out like this). It put your dumb-ass through Tafe, and is probably going to get you laid. Know what we're saying? Islington. It's a metaphor... except not. Fuck you.


We have some issues with money here. We live a lifestyle which the French would call "beyond our means". Chauffeurs, caviar, pool boys (we don't have a pool, but he sure does clean out the pipes) and weekly luge lessons. We've tried cutting down, firstly by ending our weekly shopping trips to Islington... wait, what? And we've made huge sacrifices. It's painful to admit this, but guys.... we only have one Blu-ray player. It's disgusting we know, stop judging us like a southern baptist in a gay bar! Having multiple Blu-ray players is a basic human right, and if we had a second one, it would free up our time to help those poor starving children in Middle-Earth and to solve the escalating crisis in Narnia.

But alas, we are pöör. Hey, have you ever wondered whether Lindsay Lohan's carpet matches her drapes? It's been a burning question for a while. Her carpet's probably been burning for a while too. Where were we? Umm... where did you go? Were you looking up pictures of Lindsay Lohan's crotch? You disgusting gutter snipe! Oh wait, you know who's pubes would be interesting to see? Angela Lansbury's. We know it's gross, because she is in her early hundreds... but do pubes go grey when the hair on your head does? I guess that's a question we'll learn the answer to when we get to heaven. Or turn 35.


Back to the topic at hand. How dare you distract us, you vulgar hussies. You public school educated tramps! And if you think the above paragraph was to stretch the length of this blog, you are so wrong. You are sorely mistaken. Incorrecto. Wrong. Neinte. Nein. WRONG, WRONG, WRONG! NOW STOP BADGERING US WITH YOUR SILLY DISTRACTIONS. Ps - penises are funny. Like, not funny "ha ha", but funny "you want to put that where?!" And it's the funniest thing how many penis references there are in every day life. I mean the smallest things (oh, not yours sweetie, it's of a good length and girth.) can remind you of penises. I mean we can't even look at a banana without feeling giddy. Penises are everywhere. Even in musical theatre.


As we were traveling to visit people over Easter we were listening to a simple musical theatre song. Naturally it was musical theatre - we are two strong gay men. The song we were listening to was "Grow for me" from Little Shop of Horrors. I know, we're laughing already. If you think that this is a beautiful and typical "I want" song, you are so naive. When we heard it we knew instantly that we wanted to share it's hilarity wit chu. We couldn't make a whole blog out of it, so we inserted it (haha get it) into this one. Let us sing you a few bars. (Try not to drool)


I'm begging you sweetly
I'm down on my knees
Now please, grow for me!


mmhmmm.


And later:


I've pinched you back hard
like I'm supposed to


And the discovery he makes... it needs blood to grow. Just sayin'


Anyway, we're really poor. Our penises are droopy and unmanicured. On an unrelated topic, we have started a charity... to help penises. Because they need love too. They need love too. Make all donations to the name of the charity "PJ and Kathryn".... email us for more details.


Happy Holidays y'all!


Peace out,
The Two Fat Ladies.




PS, We want to take you behind the middle school and get you pregnant.

The Mystery of the Red Underwear...

Mrs and Mrs Willis-Sinclair, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense. Which leads me to our next transgression, Reverend Mother… we were singing up on that mountain. If you don’t get those references you don’t deserve to be alive. Ok, we’ll stop with our incoherent nonsense, and move gaily forward to the matter at hand.

For some time, there has been a pair of men’s red underwear in the corner space of our bathroom. Where once slept our house elf, Dobby, now rests this pair of mysterious underwear. At this stage we are unaware if it is the final horcrux, but we have a few more tests to run. That is neither here nor there, the main question is: where did they come from in the first place? 

The underwear has been there for quite some time. At least, we think it has. Going off our bathroom cleaning schedule… they may have been there anywhere from 2 weeks to 2 months. Dobby is soooo getting socks for Easter. We’ve both been ignoring them for a while, believing them to belong to the other. PJ, being of the male variety (usually) could quite easily own a pair of men’s red underwear. Kathryn, being of the male variety (usually) could also quite easily own a pair of men’s red underwear. Seriously. Kathryn does actually own men’s underwear… which is why PJ, knowing that he does not own cheap polyester blend underwear, presumed that they belonged to her. 

Tonight the tension was unbearable. And Kathryn decided to broach the subject of the mysterious red underwear. Which is how we discovered that neither of us actually owns the underwear. Nor do we know where they came from, or how they came to be in our Upper East Side Pied-á-Terre. We decided to sit down, and logically work through all the possibilities:

1) 

The underwear in question belongs to Gemma Brownlow. Gemma has not visited our humble abode in quite some time (bitch), but it seems the kind of immature prank she would play. Then we came to our senses and realized that Gemma does not wear underwear of this variety. She wears Calvin Klein cotton briefs (don’t ask how we know, but lets just say she’s pretty well endowed – if ya know what we’re saying? Wait, what are we saying?                                    

2) One of us has had an illicit affair with a married businessman who wears red underwear. His name is Gary Dixinormous, and he’s a junior marketing  associate who enjoys Macramé conventions and leaving red underwear in people’s bathrooms. Upon further discussion, we realized Gary does not actually exist, but rather, was wishful thinking on our part. Well, not exactly both of us. Shalom, Gary… we’ll always have that fateful night in St. Louis. I’ll never forget your eyes… or your flexibility.

3)  The demon lady strikes again. Yes. Our neighbour of the feminine persuasion who may or may not be possessed by a demon, the devil, or Miley Cyrus. She selfishly continues to plague our existence through her continual living. This seems like the sort of thing she would do. Just for shits and giggles. Out of all  the possibilities… this one seems the most likely. Therefore, we have found our culprit.

Why would she put red underwear in our bathroom? We know not, but in a time of ancient Gods, Warlords, and Kings, a land in turmoil cried out for a hero.

She was Xena, a mighty princess forged in the heat of battle.

The power

The passion

The danger

Her courage will change the world. And kick our demon neighbours ass. Or, maybe just do her. Allegedly. We don’t want to put Xena in a box. Unless it’s Gabrielle’s.

Peace out mo fo’s

PS – Brodey, did you happen to leave red underwear at our house?