Sorry!

Jun. 25th, 2008 12:05 am
dearorlando: (Default)
Dear Orlando,

With all the high-powered cameras available today, how do you manage to forget that proper manners dictate you must not stand in the doorway of high-class hotels in just your red flip-flops? People will spend all their afternoon tea time disputing whether or not your mother raised you in a barn.

Signed,

Someone Who Taught You Better




Dear Mum,

I already said I’m sorry!

We can argue the toss another month, but I’m still dead cert I asked her to close the curtains. She says I was supposed to get them, since I was last in the door. I was just trying to be gentlemanly, letting the lady go first. Next thing she’s laughin’ at me, just takin’ the piss, and saying “Don’t look now!” and all, so what’s a bloke ‘sposed to do? Of course I turned ‘round and looked!

Good thing she was close enough for me to grab her towel.

And I did listen to you. I did. You said “Never wear red shoes after 6 pm”. I changed before we went to dinner, just like always.

Oh, and Vi— I mean, a friend of mine rang me up just a bit ago. He wanted to know if you need a new mouse, ‘cause his clicker is all bodged up and he’s ordering another and they’re having a 2-for-1 special. I told him go ahead and get you one and bill me, but he’ll have to come hook it up. Hope that’s okay.

And I’m sorry. Really. Sorry.

You can send me the bill for the doctor visit and your new glasses. Is your blood pressure any better yet?

Love you.

A Razzie

Jan. 22nd, 2008 12:42 am
dearorlando: (Will scowling)
I know what you’re thinking. Orlando, don’t be a stranger in your own journal, mate. Well, here’s what it takes to get me to sit down and type, what’s with the dyslexia and all.


A Razzie.

There I was, all a-twitter, when Lij IM’d me up and said I’d won an award. I mean, I was all excited after I got over the initial shock of the IM screen popping up like that, I still get a little jolt when I’m not expecting someone to ring me up—-well, not ring me up, exactly, more like pop up in my face like one of those old fashioned jack-in-the-boxes which makes me absobloodlylutely fuckin' jump every single time the bleedin' little clownfaced guy comes leaping out, even though I bloody well know he’s in there and the music says he’s about to come—

What was I saying?

Oh, yeah. Razzie.

So, I heard Lij moo when he came on—I had to change it from the doorbell noise to the cow moo’ing ‘cause every time somebody entered the door Sidi would jump up barking his bleedin’ head off and what with flying around all over the world and all the different time zones, the clock in my head is all fucked up and whatever and so my internet time isn’t the same as normal people, at least that’s how Lij explained it, and—

Right. Razzie.

Anyway, Lij says on the IM, Hey Elfboy! Congratulations! And I said, What are you talking about? and he says, You’ve won a Razzie! And I said, A razzle? Whassat? and he said, No, fuckhead, a RAZZIE! It’s like an OSCAR! And I got so excited I woke up my mum and my dog and I even dialed up my sister, who says


Dumbass.


While I’m sitting there speechless, she says, Google it, you plonker!

So I did.

A Razzie.

And I didn’t bloody well even WIN. I just got nominated.

So I’m sulking, and feeling like that black crap on the floor that you’d give anything not to kneel in while you’re making an overindulgence call on the Big White Telephone in the loo at the local pub, not the membership one but the one where you go when you want to be somebody else for the night. And who else should ring me but THE MAN HIMSELF.

That’s right.

The Wanker. Johnny Depp.

And he says, Hey Whelp! I heard you’ve been nominated for an award! And before I can make a joke out of it, he says the best damned thing I ever heard of. Feeds me the line I need to put things back in place.

He says, Remember what Ol’ Jack Sparrow would’ve said, luv. And you do the same.

So when people wanna take the piss because I’ve been nominated for a Razzie? I’m just gonna smile and say:



But you HAVE heard of me.
dearorlando: (Default)
Hey,

Can any of you help me out with a question?

What’s the name of that place you go to reserve tickets for movies? And does it hurt when somebody googles you? I haven’t felt a blitherin’ thing....And, really, if Paris Hilton is getting it more than me, it can’t be all that good of a thing to have happen to a bloke, is it? Maybe my mum shouldn’t be doing that anymore?

Okay, so that was more than one question from me. Now here's a question from one of you this week:


Dear Orlando,

I‘m 24 and I work in a large office. I recently slept with a guy at work, and I've totally fallen for him, but he hasn't paid any attention to me since. We were always friendly before, and have worked together for 3 years. He's a little shy, but not usually like this. Why is he avoiding me?

Signed,
Confused and Bummed



Dear Bummed,


Let’s evaluate the date first, eh?

Is he used to calm, well-mannered, always organized you, and you gave him a bit of a shock when he rang your bell and the front door opened? You might’ve pulled off wrapping yourself in a box of cling-free kitchen plastic wrap, depending on how shy he is and whether or not his mum drove him over, but wearing wedding attire on the first date’s enough to scare even the randiest bloke away, no matter how smashing it looks on you! It’s even worse if your dad’s standing beside you holding a shotgun.

About the only thing worse than THAT would be if your dad’s holding the shotgun and it’s loaded AND you’re wearing cling-free kitchen plastic wrap. Even if it is the pretty coloured kind.

If that’s not the case of what’s happened, how’s your hygiene? Did you forget to brush the broccoli from your teeth between lunch, afternoon tea, and time for dinner? Cringeworthy, that, and spinach is almost the same. Is that blouse the same one you’ve been wearing since the first time you saw me sailing the Dutchman in the third part of the Pirates trilogy, and now you’ve seen it forty-seven times? Was there enough hair growing on your back to braid a rope long enough to wrangle a pair of sea turtles? Smelling like a Numenorian Ranger who’s been out in the wild for a fortnight really turns a lot of blokes off, too.


(Well, MOST blokes, anyway. A dab of menthol ointment around the nostrils is a big help, and it really IS easier to overlook after being apart for a fortnight’s worth of days, believe me....)


For some guys, it’s all in the chase, y’know? Have you been waving a white flag with stonkin’ big red letters that reads, “Up For It!”? Or do you just have that printed on your t-shirt? If you’ve been hanging around his desk like a personal assistant, organizing his sticky notes and grabbing his telly (amongst other things) before he can answer the bell, he might be feeling a bit smothered. Every bloke needs some space to himself, and it’s guaranteed if he’s had to hire a bodyguard to bar the door to the loo because he’s feeling followed, you probably need to give him a little more breathing room. And maybe one of those environmentally safe, non-aerosol air fresheners too.

There’s only one other thing I can think of for why a guy would ignore someone he’s been friendly with for as long as you. Now that you’ve done the bum-dinky together, your mate’s got nothing new to look forward to. Back off a little bit and re-evaluate what it is that attracted you to each other in the first place. Do you have hobbies alike? Is he interested in something you know nothing about, but you’re willing to learn? If he likes fixing up old cars, maybe you could get one. If he likes chess, maybe you could get him to teach you how to play (don’t forget to let him win if he sucks at it, okay?). If he’s never been surfing and you live near a beach, go rent a board, or if he’s never been snowboarding and you’re near the slopes, get to it. Doing things that don’t require full body contact will help take the pressure off, and then after you can invite him for a latte and see if he sits across from you or snuggles up tight on the same bench in the booth. Hold back on the down and dirty for a time or two, and he’ll be back on his knees begging you to spend the night. Works for me, if you can stand it.

I hope something in all that helps. Man, it sucks that you can’t wave your arms around and type at the same time. This has taken me forever to type because I keep having to stop to move my hands. Sometimes I think relationships are like that, too. You just have to stop sometimes and rest your brain so you can move your hands, and then stop and rest your hands while you move your brain.

Fuck me. Now I’m not making any sense at all.

Wait, there IS one other thing I can think of....

When was your last checkup, luv? There are some things in a relationship that just aren’t things you want to share. If you were dead cert before that you didn’t have the crabs, maybe he’s the one who’s hiding something and counting the days ‘til you find out what it is?

Good luck with that.

Bollocks

Jun. 18th, 2007 11:51 pm
dearorlando: (bashful DO)
Dear Orlando,

I heard that Viggo's next movie is pretty out there, as in, VIGGO is pretty out there. Somebody even posted the phrase “massive, hairy” in their early review on the internet.

Do you think you could find out for us? Is it true that V goes naked in 'Eastern Promises'?

Signed,

Keeping My Eye On The Ball(s)




Dear Eyeball(s),





WHAT?


*fuck!*






Uhm....


You absobloodylutely shouldn’t believe things you see on the internets. I have to tell my mum that all the time. I mean, I know it says I’m the most googled person on there, after Paris Hilton that is, but it really IS my mum’s fault that’s happening!

You see, mate, there are stories out there about things that never happened, and pictures where people have cut YOUR blitherin’ parts off and pasted them on some OTHER blokes body, and sometimes you’re DOING things you’d prolly NEVER DO in front of a camera... at least not anything that you’d want your mum to find while she’s typing around all over the place. There’s cameraphones EVERYWHERE, man! Maybe you might do them in a Toronto hotel room, if you snuck up the service lift, but dead cert not in the sand on the beach. You can’t even take a piss against a rock out on the beach without some bastard selling THAT to a tabloid. Or maybe in the shower stall of your mobile dressing trailer, but for sure not behind some tree out in the woods while on location! Not in the daylight, anyway... maybe if you got lost wandering around through the forest at night you could, ‘cause you can’t even bloody SEE using a camera flash for a torch, much less photograph anything besides a bunch of lines waving around all over the film. Not much good in that, is there?



Uhm.....Where was I?



Oh, yeah.

Bollocks.

So, what I’m getting on about is that sometimes what you see sod all ISN’T what you really get. I’m sure if some bloke thinks he saw Vi— Mr. Mortensen’s naughty bits on the big screen, they’re just CG’d in. I mean, the cave troll in Rings was pretty big and scary, and he was all CG. They even CG’d my legs when I had them up on his shoulders—

The cave troll’s shoulders, you perverts, not Vi—Mr. Mortensen’s!

Y’know, those computer guys are awesomely talented. I’ll bet they CG’d some nads for the cave troll too, and then had to cover them up with that little loincloth thing so they could get past the MPAA and keep the PG-13 rating. Whoever heard of cave trolls wearing a blitherin’ thong, eh?

Besides, Vi— Mr. Mortensen’s bits aren’t massive. Hairy? Okay, maybe, but they’re not really any bigger than my....



Wait— What the fuck am I sayin’? I swear, I have no bloody idea what Vig— Mr. Mortensen’s bollocks look like. I mean, we’ve shared a dressing room before, and everybody knows he’s not an inhibited sort of bloke. He’s stripped off his kit before in lots of movies, like Psycho and Walk on the Moon and Indian Runner.



Oh, yeah. Bloody Hell Yeah. Indian Runner.




I guess you’ll just have to buy a bloody ticket and go see for yourself.






Robin, I’m sorry....
dearorlando: (Will scowling)
Alright. Just from the sheer blitherin' VOLUME of letters and emails and blokes and birds stopping me on the street and asking the SAME DAMNED QUESTION--


I'll just answer you all at the same time and say:


NO. BLOODY. HELL. NO.


JUST BECAUSE ELIZABETH IS THE PIRATE KING DOES NOT MAKE ME THE FUCKIN' PIRATE QUEEN!!!!
dearorlando: (Default)
This week's question asks for a bit of dating advice....


Dear Orlando,

I've been seeing this girl for a few weeks now. She's smart and beautiful and I really like her. Last night, we decided to get busy for the first time, and lo and behold, she isn't. A she. She isn't a she. Needless to say, when I saw it, I got dressed and high-tailed it out of her apartment.

Today I'm wondering if I made a mistake. Like I said, I really do like her. Him. Whatever.

What should I do?

Signed,
Cock-Shocked in Birmingham



Dear Shocked,

If you like her a lot, does it really make a difference?

It’s like playing a sport. You can get all hung up on the equipment, and never get around to enjoying the GAME. Say you’re up for a game of footy, but you haven’t got an onion bag for the goal. Have you ever seen that stop a fistful of blokes from passing the ball back and forth and taking a few headers? There’s still a lot of fun involved, what with all the juggling and opportunities to nutmeg your opponent. And who needs stripes anyway? I think it’d be brilliant to play in shirts and skins all the time. Forget the bloody pinafores. Some guys don’t even need a soccer ball! They’ll play with hacky-sacs and pinecones, and one time I saw Bean roll up a pair of his underkecks and stuff them inside a dirty sock—

Ewww.

Anyway, what I was tryin’ to say is that you gotta get back in the saddle and land the plane, man.

First of all, you gotta turn with the ball. Get used to the idea that your girl has some special equipment. She’ll be mighty happy if you do. Things that work for you will work for her too, and you won’t have the added penalties that come when you don’t know all the laws.

Step Two: Call her. Don’t wait for the two day allowance. Ring her up right now and try for an Oscar by blaming your jailbreak on the spinach in your salad at supper. Beg off that you had to place an emergency call on the Big White Tele, or that you have really good hearing like a Standard Poodle and you heard your mum yelling for you to come get the laundry you left in her dryer.

If she won’t see you, proceed to Step Three anyway. Just use more discretion.

Step Three consists of showing up at the door with her favorite flowers, a big box of Godiva chocolates, and most importantly, the Money Move: a shiny new pair of open toed Dior patent leather pumps in just her size. Be prepared to duck in case you end up collecting one of the pumps in the chest. On second thought, maybe Armani cork wedges would be less likely to leave a permanent scar. Get those instead.

Oh, and yeah, if you’re computer’s hooked up, look to see if there are any autographed pictures of Johnny Depp too. I mean, it can’t hurt, right? And if you hold his ugly mug in front of your face, she’s less likely to make a DFK at your blitherin’ head, y’know?

If the gifts work like I think they will, it’ll be time for a bit of kiss and make up. Keep the clothes on for now, especially the pumps. Just be sure to leave Mr. Scissors-for-hands face-down on the table. Neither one of you blokes needs the distraction. I mean, your bird doesn’t need the decoy run —

Oh, fuck. Nevermind.

Take it slow. Take it easy. Don’t push to penetrate, or you’ll be dicked. It’s a Round Robin tournament here, mate, and you’ll need to be playing some Samba Soccer to make up for being the complete tosser you were last night. Remember, the coach is right when he says, “You’ll always miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” Just make sure your set-up’s a good offense, so your boygirl won’t go on the strong defense.

Good luck, mate. Don’t come off your man, eh? Like you said before, she’s smart and beautiful and you really like her, and that’s what counts. Keep your eye on the balls, and soon you’ll be back playing forward position!
dearorlando: (Default)
Dear Orlando,

I hate flying. No, I really bloody HATE flying. It's a fookin' phobia, yeah? I have to travel a lot for my job, so I'm constantly on one sodding plane or another. I've tried drinking meself silly, but then I'm just droonk AND hating flying. Got any advice, mate?

Signed,
An Anonymous Bloke




Dear Bloke,

That is such a fuckin’ coincidence! I have a friend who’s scared shitless of flying! I mean, if you even make a noise like a helicopter— WHOP! WHOP! WHOP! WHOP!— he goes all pale and sweaty! I rode halfway across the bloody island in New Zealand with him, just so he wouldn’t have to ride in a damned aeroplane, and we got caught in a mudslide and spent two days shacked up in a little old lady’s cabin on the side of a mountain somewhere with no tv and no bloody cell phone connection! We woulda starved to death if he hadn’t known how to make the bloody damned tea from a pot on the stove, ‘cause there wasn’t a kettle anywhere in the place!

Bastard told everyone the only reason he was in the car with me was because I wanted to go shopping. IMAGINE THAT!!!

Now, I like shopping as much as the next guy, but not nearly enough to get swept off the side of a mountain in a blitherin’ cyclone. I mean, who wants to shop when it’s pouring rain? You’d have to have lost the entire plot, mate! All your new stuff would be soaked!

Nigh about ruined everything I’d bought too. And I said turn left when he went right, and the stupid git refused to stop to ask for directions. He got all stroppy and kept blatherin’ on about how REAL MEN don’t ask for directions, how REAL MEN don’t ever get lost, how REAL MEN can grow a beard in less than three days, or at least get stubble on their face. I dunno what being lost and having facial hair have to do with each other, I think he was just arguing the toss with me, but we coulda stopped at least three different places before we were....

We were lost, man. Gone.

Spent two days playing naughts and crosses using our socks lined up for the game board and some pebbles for the naughts and some bent twigs for the crosses. The whole blitherin’ trip was supposed to only take a full day, so we didn’t have any extra clothes in the boot. We dashed outside nuddy and barefoot to get the twigs and pebbles, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t see the old lady peeping out the curtains at us. Pervert. At least she didn’t come to the door while our clothes were drying all over her kitchen chairs. I mean, she only came twice. To the window. That I know of.

Anyway....

About the only thing that ever worked was for me to sit real close and let him feel my leg with his hand— I mean, let him rest his hand on my thigh— my knee, sort of. Well, not REALLY, ‘cause the bloke left marks I never was quite able to explain. I mean, that’s the only thing that ever worked while we were flying.

Oh, nevermind.



I’m bloody well sure the businessman sitting beside you on your next flight is NOT gonna be up for letting you damage his goods. Have you tried Sudoku? It helps to do the easy ones first, so you can just let your mind play a little and you don’t get frustrated and give up about the time the wheels leave the runway. Or maybe trade seats so you can sit by the woman with the baby who’s throwing a wobbler—then when YOU start screaming, everyone will just assume they understand why.

Y’know, those new iPods and MP3’s can show movies— maybe you could download some Sheffield United video from the archives on their webpage? Or you could sing “The Greasy Chip Butty” song, but do it sort of under you breath, mate, so you don’t go about getting the whole sodding first class’s tummies rumbling.

(Plus, if this IS you, Bean, you northern bastard, and you’re pullin’ my plonker, nobody wants to hear you bloody sing, okay? Go use your bloody charm to talk somebody into joining you for membership in the Mile High Club and get your mind on something else, yeah??? Try whispering "Strawberry" in her ear a few times, that'll get her going.)

Good luck, mate.

PANTS.

May. 1st, 2007 10:58 pm
dearorlando: (boxers DO)
This week has been fuckin’ pants, man. Ever have one of those days when it seems like you bodged up everything you did? I’ve had a whole week like that.

So here’s the question for this week.

Dear Orlando,

Boxers or briefs?

Signed,
Just Curious




See? Just PANTS, I tell you.




Dear Curious,

I knew this was coming after what happened last Thursday.

Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to believe everything you read? Especially if it’s NOT accompanied by evidence. If you can buy it in the market while you’re standing in the queue waiting to drop a couple of pounds on jaffa cakes and tea bags, it’s probably just bollocks.

So it’s funny you should ask....

Boxers, mate. Hangin’ free. I’ve been wearing boxers for most of my adult life. I thought most people already knew, since I get asked so much about my tattoo it seems like all people think I do is sit under a tree and contemplate my navel, and every time I show it, there’s my pants hanging out the top of my trousers. I’ve got blue and red stripes, blue and white stripes, blue AND red tartan plaids, solids and patterns, and even a pair with the Union Jack on them.

Sometimes wardrobe isn’t happy with boxers, though. Makes sense when you consider Jimmy Connelly with a pair of Sponge Bob Squarepants boxers under those white satin trunks. Or how about Legolas with boxers under his leggings? Talk about getting your knickers all in a wad!

I had to wear these little black briefs under my skirt for Troy. Man! Those fuckin’ things CHAFED!!! I had raw places in places you don’t wanna know about. When we filmed that scene where Paris gets his arse kicked by Helen’s ex, I ended up on my arse in the dirt a couple dozen times before we got a wrap. I had so much fuckin’ sand in those briefs I had to get wardrobe to rinse them out and let them sun-dry three times before that one damned day was up.

They could’ve at least gotten me a spare pair, but NOOOO--

Hey! Maybe that’s why Brendan kept missing his lines....

No. Just fuck no.

Brad wanted everybody to go starkers underneath, like the real Trojans did. That was until Eric stripped off. Then Achilles decided for some reason that he would only be starkers in the scenes that didn’t have Hector in them.

What’s with that?

I mean, I don’t get why Brad wouldn’t want to be nuddy in scenes with Eric. Eric’s... well, ERIC.

I wouldn’t have minded.

I DO get why we had to wear little black briefs under those skirts, though. Those freakin’ skirts were short, man.

SHORT.

Whew.

Anyway, while we were all sitting around drinkin’ beer and thinking of whether or not we wanted to bust the piñata now or later, I tried to get Pitt to ditch his tighty-whiteys and wear boxers all the time. He and Jen were thinking about having a baby, 'cause this was back before he became Mr. Jolie, and I talked to him about how wearing boxers helps with male fertility and all that. After all, he was playing Achilles, and I was playing Paris, and Achilles’ parents were the whole reason behind the “Prettiest” apple contest that led to The Trojan War anyway. Paris gave the golden apple to Aphrodite, the goddess of Love, and then Aphrodite promised Paris he could get it onand boink Helen, The Most Beautiful Woman in the World, except Helen was draggin’ her own ball and chain at the time, and to top all THAT off, Odysseus had to go and run his gob to Helen’s dad that he should make all her boyfriends promise to defend whomever she ended up marrying, even if it wasn’t them. And this was all back before Helen ever even laid EYES on Paris, before she got all pissed that I was prettier than her, and--

Hey!

See, it was Odysseus who really caused the whole melee, not Paris. Why does Bean get to be THE MAN in this film, and I’m just a big old girl’s blouse?

Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell.





So, like I told Brad, if you really wanna to spend all your time changing nappies, you need a lot of sperm in your spunk. Like, ten billion of the little swimmers or something. And sperm bloody well don’t like heat. That’s why your naughty bits include a set of bollocks on your outsides, mate. To lower the heat. Even though when you touch a guy’s nads, things will surely heat up in OTHER PLACES, not just his noggin’.

Yeah....

What was the question?



Oh, yeah.

Boxers. Burgundy, not bright red.
dearorlando: (Wet Will DO)
Dear Orlando,

This is sort of a personal question. Well, a REALLY personal question. My boyfriend and I sometimes like to have sex in a more... unusual way. A more unusual PLACE, actually. We both enjoy it, but the lubricant we use seems to bother my skin. I end up pretty miserable for a few days after.

I was wondering if you had any suggestions for a really good product to try?

Signed,

Sick of Itching in Ithaca




Dear Itchy,

Well, Ithaca IS sort of an unusual place, I guess. It’s really cool there. I mean, it’s tropical-hot sort of cool, y’know? But I’m still pretty sure people in Ithaca like to shag just like people all over the rest of the world do.

Y’know, as beautiful as those white sand beaches are, and as clear as the water gets, if you’ve got the grainy stuff in the wrong places, sex can be a very painful ordeal. I’m thinking it’s your LO-cation, not your LUBRI-cation, that’s causing the problem. There’s no dunes in Ithaca, so if you’re boinking right down on the beach, say after everybody with a room’s gone to bed for the night, you might wanna give the beach blanket an extra shake before you start rollin’ around. Maybe try a bedsheet instead. That’s worked for me before, especially if you’re the type to wriggle a lot while playin’ hide the sausage—

I mean, not ME. I don’t wriggle a LOT, just sometimes—

Oh, bollocks. Nevermind.

You could pick a spot for the missionary mambo up in the treeline, but the rocks are blitherin’ sharp and there’s really NOTHING unusual about that location, ‘cause you’re likely to have lots of friends up there. Not just the human kind (it’s a pretty popular place, since not everybody’s into the exhibitionist state-of-mind that screwing on the beach requires), but there are lots of little creepy crawlies up there too. Be careful— don’t kneel on a poor little gecko! They’re so cute!

If you’re planning on trying a vertical tango in the water, you’ll need to take some lube that isn’t water-soluble, something silicone based like Eros. You just gotta keep your head enough not to let go of the little bottle out there! Remember, no hanky-panky right at the edge where the little shallow waves are breaking. You might be thinking that nobody knows what you’re up to there, with the motion of the ocean covering up the perfume of your love potion, but if there’s too much turbulence, there goes the grainy problem all over again. If you’re standing up, you really gotta watch out for sea urchins— Maaaaan! those little fu— spiny things are SHARP! And it’s very, very painful when you step on them! You might just put your foot down right on one and BAM! The little spines just keep breaking off, they kind of crumble — OH MY GOD! What if you accidentally SAT ON ONE??! *shudders* Your poor nethers!

Whatever you do, don’t pee on it. People will tell you to pee on it, or have someone else pee on it. It doesn’t help for shite. It’s kind of sexy and all that maybe, but it does absolutely NOTHING for the pain. And it’s VERY, VERY PAINFUL, that. Save the kink for a less painful time, yeah?

I suppose Odysseus, King of Ithaca, wasn’t named Odysseus for nothing. Translate that, and it means “Son of Pain”. Wonder if he liked to have sex in unusual places too?



All I can say is stay away from sea urchins, man, that’s basically it.
dearorlando: (Joe Byrne DO)
Last week, [livejournal.com profile] encelade2 asked a smashingly good question.

Now, I have an important question: I'm dying to hear more of Joe's beard. It seemed so smooth and silky and harmless. My man's one is just scratching my jaws to the bone. I do love him, but I love my skin as well, so help please?
I'll send you home made coockies.


Since I know a little bit about the subject, here's your answer, luv....No bickies necessary- unless you've got a spot of Tim Tams around? *looks hopeful*



Joe was a bit scruffy, wasn’t he?

It took a lot of negotiating and about an hour in the makeup chair for that beard. Sort of made me look like that American chap, Lincoln, if I’d have been a bit taller. He had a nice top hat too, maybe I should have asked for one of those for Joe’s costume.

Nah.

Here’s some advice for your mate about bearding.

A beard is a major commitment. It takes a lot of courage to have a beard. While you’re waiting for two weeks for it to look more like you’ve got hair on your chin instead of dirt from the garden, you have to put up with a lot of jokes aimed at your manliness. Even your bitchy big sis will want you to get your testosterone levels checked out, making you take the piss as to whether you’re really her ‘brother’ or not. Well, bullocks to that!

You gotta make the decision to leave it alone for at least a month, maybe six weeks if you’re a slow grower like me. Your beard won’t like that. Beards like attention, they like to be touched and petted and scratched. That’s what all the itching is about—it’s just a bloody plea for attention. It feels like you’ve got a case of the crabs on your face when you first start bearding, but eventually it gets easier.

When the hair first comes in, and it’s all stubbly and prickly and you itch like fuck, make sure to stay out of the limelight. Stick to the back roads, like up in Runyon Canyon, or maybe hit the dog park. When the hairs get long enough to touch each other, you can hang out in darker places, like the backroom at the Ivy or one of the private rooms at the Hyde. Watch out for the paparazzi— you don’t wanna blow your cover and have somebody guess what you’re up to. Once everything’s fully grown in, and you’ve got things shaped and polished just the way you want, the best places to show off your new beard are on the couch in the lobby of the Chateau Marmot, dancing at Teddy’s, or anyplace around Hollywood Hills that has real estate to purchase. Or at a red carpet event, if your agent happens to have one handy.

Beards can be tricky. You have to get them proportioned just right, and make a good match with the rest of the personality, yeah? If your beard’s too thin, you spend all kinds of time and money trying to fatten—I mean, thicken it up. Nutrition’s an important thing, y‘know? Takes more than bottled water and salad to make a beard thrive. You gotta have protein and vitamins too. And essential oils— those are important too. You could gain a lot of points by giving your beard some Lavender Body Wash, like they sell at The Body Shop. Those stores are EVERYWHERE.

Having a beard can make you ten years older—I mean, make you LOOK ten years older. Having a beard can also save you time in the morning for things that are lots more fun than shaving your face. Just be careful to keep it clean. If you get stuff stuck all over, you’re sussed.

Beards aren’t always harmless. The more you frolic about, the more out of control the beard gets. It’s hard to keep a beard tame when you’re out pirating, yeah? They want to do their own thing, stray all over the place, and then just when you’ve had enough and you’re ready to cut them off, suddenly they get a clue and come back in line. Makes it bloody hard as hell to keep up appearances, y’know what I mean?

Some lovers like the way a beard feels, all rough and scratchy, and others don’t like it at all. Well, maybe not on your face, but you gotta admit there are those special places where the feel of a beard tickling across your skin feels fuckin’ great, yeah? Naughty bits, anyone?

Yep, [livejournal.com profile] encelade2. You can love the man, and you can love the beard, and if you’re lucky, you can love your man and the beard at the same time, y’know what I mean? I hope that sheds some light on what bearding’s all about, luv. Thanks for your question!

Care Bears

Apr. 4th, 2007 04:51 pm
dearorlando: (pink DO)
Aw, for fuck's sake....

I only did this Care Bear Thing 'cause Hank said I HAD TO. He keeps spammin' my inbox, and says he won't sod off until I post the results.

Well, here it is, Hank. I hope you're HAPPY. Is it all you bloody expected?



Which 'Bad' Care Bear are you?
created with QuizFarm.com
dearorlando: (Default)
First off, let me just start this weeks advice by telling my loving, protective, caring cousin Bast THAT WAS NOT THAT FUCKIN' FUNNY, YOU BASTARD!

Polar bear, my arse.



There. Now that's THAT's taken care of, here's this week's question:

Dear Orlando,

Okay, I feel sort of dumb asking this, but what do you do with your hair to get it looking so nice? My girlfriend is all nutty for your hair, she says it looks so soft and touchable. I want her to be nutty for MY hair. Help a guy out?

- Harried in Harrisburg




Dear Harris,

*my ’nutty’ hair, harharhar....* You mean, you want her to be NUDDY for your hair, right? *wink!wink!*

Okay.

It depends on which hair you’re talking about.

First off, there’s Will Turner the Pirate hair, arrrgh! I don’t really think of Will’s hair as soft and touchable, ‘cause it takes so much grease to tame that bad boy and keep it in the bun. Maybe when it’s down hanging all in my face—the ladies seem to think I’m fuckin’ hot with that hair. Somebody said I look like Jim Morrison with it down like that. Like a BAAAAAD BOY. *snickers* You’d think I had a baby face all the time from the way women squee’d when I wore it down like that and channeled my ‘early Johnny Depp’. The worst part of that hair was not washing it for days and days at a time. Months, even. After a while, it starts to bleedin’ SMELL. I mean, holy hell! MAN!

*shudders*

Now, Balian had nice hair, for a blacksmith cum knight/engineer/saviour (did I say ‘cum’??? heehee!). Cleaner than Will’s, (which is kinda odd since Willy was somehow ALWAYS wet and Balian lived in the desert) but not as clean as Drew Baylor. Drew had that nice, snuggly, soft white bathrobe with the clinky beer in the pockets, and a posh hotel room with unlimited hot water, not to mention all the complimentary little tiny cute bottles of shampoo and conditioner and the neat clear plastic shower cap to keep him dry if he just finished having a heated phone conversation and wanted a quick wan—I mean a fast rinse off without having to get his hair wet.

How about the Joe Byrne look? Just a beard away from Jimmy ‘The Calcium Kid’ Connelly. Lots of curls, short enough to wash and go, but still enough to sink your fingers into. Not like the jarhead look that Todd Blackburn had—talk about wash and go hair! I had more hair back then on my bollo—

*Ahem* Nevermind. I think my mum might be readin’ this.

Let’s get back to the hair, shall we? You want soft, touchable hair? Paris the Trojan Prince is where it’s at. Curly everywhere, no grease, let the wind blow like a hurricane and it still looked bloody AWESOME. Your girlfriend will be REACHIN’ for the Trojans if you have hair like Paris.

Eric and Brad used to get yelled at all the time for touching their Troy Boy hair, but not me! Aldo. he’s the hairstylist we had, he would sit me in the makeup chair, adjust all my little hairclips here and there, rub my scalp for a few minutes (that felt fuckin’ GREAT!), and then he’d take my chin in his moisturized palm and look deep into my eyes and just SMILE! Then he’d nudge me outta the chair, and he’d pat me on the bum and send me out the door.

Well, yeah, I suppose it WAS more like a squeeze than a pat, but still....

Eric called him the ‘Hair Nazi’. He does a pretty good imitation of Aldo saying, “Eric? Did you wash the hair? I TOLD you not to wash the hair! How can I work with this? Look at this!” He does all the hand gestures like Aldo and everything. He’s awesome. Eric, that is. Aldo’s awesome too, but Eric, he’s the BEST.

Oh. Wait, where were we? That’s right. HAIR.

If you want the softest hair, the MOST TOUCHABLE HAIR, always looking good without appearing to take any effort, ready to go from the footie field to the Oscars in a moment’s notice, you need Legolas Greenleaf hair. That stuff is self-cleaning and never gets out of place. Women just fall all over themselves trying to touch it. (Of course, with Legolas, touching would be a COMPLETE bung-up.) Legolas could fight off a thousand orcs, climb a tree, run a hundred kilometers, pick a dozen berries to go with his lembas for lunch, gather firewood, hunt down a flock of crows—oops, I mean crebain —, duck into the bushes, avoid the roaming hands of four hobbits/a wizard/a dwarf and oneTWO men, and still be ready to go to the Coronation in less than three minutes flat.

(Of course, don’t tell anybody, but Legolas was wearing a wig.)

Hey, Harris? Maybe you could just try some coconut shampoo and conditioner. That might do it, mate.

Yeah.
dearorlando: (cold DO)

Dear Orlando,

I’m hoping one day to visit Antarctica. Can you tell us about your recent trip? Did you see any wildlife?

~~Chick Down Under

 

Dear Chick,

Oh, HELLYEAH!!!! You know that saying, “in every port”? Seemed like everywhere we stopped, people were happy to see us! We danced in the local bars, drank ‘til we puked, had a jolly nice time! On the nights we weren’t in port, the boat came fully stocked, and the captain and I got rat arsed and played chess, and I lost, so I had to do all the dishes, and did you know there wasn’t one single pair of rubber gloves on that whole fu—

Oh. You mean, did we see any WILD LIFE?

Uhm. . . yeah. We did.

At the camp we visited, my cousin Bast took me out behind the buildings to see some polar bear tracks. Couldn’t find the polar bear, though. It’s bloody amazing how those things are so big, but they can hide behind the smallest snowdrifts! All of a sudden the tracks just ended, like somebody’d swept them away with a broom or something. Bast said it was lucky for me that polar bears prefer fat like on seals, ‘cause those tracks ended right near the door to the hut I was staying in!

I’m not sure why he was laughing about that.

We got to see a colony of King Penguins. The mum and dad birds are about crotch high, stonkin’ huge, man! Bast wouldn’t let me go over and pet them, though. He said he promised my mum he’d look after the family jewels, I dunno why. They seemed really friendly. We did get to see the little baby penguins— they’re so CUTE!!! Did you know the dad keeps the egg in a pouch while the mum goes off to grab some nosh? I thought, that’s cool, bit of a reverse on the old diamond geezer trick, Mum bringing home the bacon while Dad watches the chicks, until Bast said the mum’s stay gone for THREE WEEKS. THREE WEEKS!!!! I can’t go without a latte for three days, how the hell do they make it THREE WEEKS??? I’d be positively peckish.

There were some Macaroni penguins too. Talk about having a bad hair day— what the hell is that orange thing on their head? I nicked some noodles from the casserole pan after lunch, but they wouldn’t eat it. I even left lots of cheese on the top! I’m not sure where they get macaroni out in the snow like that anyway. They were good and fat, so I don’t suppose they were starving.

I have to say that the worst part about the trip was that it was so bloody damned cold. I froze my fuckin’ arse off, and I don’t have much arse to begin with. I had to sleep with my scarf and my gloves and my Mad Bomber hunting cap on a couple of nights. Bast was right, though. It’s a LOT warmer under the covers if you take your clothes off first. He’s got bloody amazing body heat.

Make sure you take somebody hot with you. You’ll need ‘em.

Hullo!

Mar. 22nd, 2007 10:03 pm
dearorlando: (Default)

Hullo!
 
Welcome to my new advice column! You know, like those Americans and Dear Abby? Well, here you’ve got Dear Me!

I’m new at this livejournal thing, so be gentle with me, yeah? It took me three bloody hours to type this up in the little posting box— and I stole my little picture thing-- whassat called? oh yeah, my ICON--from somebody, but I don’t remember the name. Bloody sorry about that, mate. . . .

Anyway.

I got my first brilliant question from a friend of a friend of a friend at the pub last night. They wanted to know more about the charity I work with, Global Green, and how ordinary everyday blokes like you and me can save energy every day so we don’t waste our planet!

So, here we go:


Dear
Orlando

I’ve read that part of the Global Green response to global warming is to unplug our cell phone chargers when we’re not using them. I’ve also heard those new squiggly light bulbs can save a lot of energy. Is that true?

 ~~In The Dark
 

Yeah, those light bulbs are absobloodylutely awesome! Did you know you can save enough energy using those light bulbs to power a lava lamp for almost a year?

Ahahaha. Sorry, luv. Just a little dig there at my best mate.

Anyway, global warming is a really bloody big threat to the planet right now. Messing with the planet is a stupid thing to do. The weather just gets hotter and hotter, the ice burgs start melting, and soon the water’s rising up on Charlize’s deck, and then how the hell am I gonna get down to the beach to surf, when there’s no bloody beach?

See, using those squiggly light bulbs is gonna save a LOT of money. A LOT. Millions, even. So nobody’s beach house with the brilliant solar panels on the roof gets pounded over, y’know?

And you can save a lot of energy unplugging your cell phone charger too. Plus, it’ll keep you from getting jolted when you’re making out in the kitchen, and your b — your mate decides that setting your nuddy arse up on the countertop is quite a grand idea, and you get dropped right on the bare end of the thing— I mean, your bare end on the end of the charger and all. Ouch. That hur— I mean, that’d hurt!

Of course, if the phone’s not charged up enough, it sure as hell messes up a blindin’ good afternoon session of phone sex, y’know what I mean? Things are just heating up, you’re getting smashingly short of breath, and that damned beeping is fucking up your rhythm every ten seconds! So you block the sucker out— the beep, I mean— and just when you feel that rush and his— it’s his, right?— voice is all gravely and rough and he’s mumbling your name and panting and grunting, you get the BEEPBEEPBEEP and YOU’RE FUCKIN’ CUT OFF!

And then you might as well go take a cold shower and then turn off the squiggly light bulbs and get some damned sleep.

Yeah, THAT'LL save a LOT of energy, right?

 

dearorlando: (Default)
I have no friends.

I clicked on the colored word "friends", and a box popped up that said, "We're sorry! You have no friends! Surely a person like you has friends out there somewhere?"

Well, obviously NOT ME.

How bloody cringeworthy is that?
dearorlando: (Default)
WOW.

That's fuckin' cool. Heehee!

I'm gonna do it again....
dearorlando: (Default)
Testing, testing, One Two Three...

Oh, fuck.

Is this like texting?

Wow, it's gonna take me all day to fill up this bloody damned box with words....this is like Composition class or something. I'm suddenly transported back to Guildhall and it's Finals Week.

I dunno what the bloody hell I'm doing here....

OH! There's POST....

I'll just push tha--
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