Women Trapped In Baths Surrounded By Burning Candles

There’s something very sinister going on within the internet, and I’m here to expose it. It’s time for us to fight back. First, it gives the impression that women who are on the brink of giving birth to a child should be strapped into dungarees and made paint an entire house by themselves (and flippin’ well smile while doing it). NOW it appears that no pretty young lady in any stock photo of a bathroom is safe.

I’m talking, of course, about the fact that women are apparently not allowed sit in baths without being flanked by as many open flames as possible. It’s hardly HER idea – I mean, think of the logistics. You don’t fool me, Internet. SO MANY QUESTIONS…..

1: Are they lit before she gets in?

Why would she do that to herself?? She’ll be trying not to burn her fanny off while getting a naked leg over these open flames and the rim of a bath, stepping barefoot into what is essentially a home-made hot skating rink.

2: How the fuck does she get out afterwards?

I have no answer to this. I find it hard enough, what with being on the petite side. It’s like trying to scale The Wall from Game of Thrones.

3: Does she sit in the bath and try with all her might to blow out a few hundred candles all around her?

Not at all. Sure, she’s only a woman. She’d be all dizzy and faint from all the relaxing pretty smelly things she douses herself in after a hard day trying to drink water without spilling it all over her face or while trying to eat a salad alone without laughing. Also, and this is the most important thing:

4: WHO THE FUCK IS TAKING THE PICTURES AND WHY AREN’T THEY SAVING THESE POOR DAMP GIRLS??

So many victims; unnamed, unsaved, their skin wrinkling like raisins while they sit stewing in their own filth waiting for those bastard candles to burn themselves out. Rumour has it they survive on a diet of suds, face flannels and the slimy skins from those old Musk bath beads lying around the edge of the bath behind the taps from gift baskets that their granny gave them when they got all those points in their Leaving Cert in 1997.

This is a gallery dedicated to all those poor souls, fates unknown, whose suffering is now emblazoned across the realm of the cyber-world for all eternity. Vaya Con Dios, pretty ladies.

She’s not far away, she’s up close, and she’s shrinking.

Havin’ a mad laugh, so she is. IT’S BEHIND YOU…

That better be a rescue manual.

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON’T GET IN YOU FOOL…

Sticking your knee out won’t save you love, you’re basically potential lady-stew…

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion…God rest her…

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She’s not laughing, she’s trying to get out…

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is…

She’s not sleeping. She’s catatonic with fright.

“Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created…”

She’s fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER…

She’s awake but hasn’t seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is…

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

See? It’s only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It’s like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

Pregnant Women Painting in Dungarees

Ladies! Up the duff? Bun in the oven? About to pop a sprog?? Then here’s what you should be doing to pass the time during those boring last couple of weeks when you’re in the fullness of health and not feeling in any way like there’s a football team jumping on your bladder or kicking you in the small of your back. Get up off that couch and start painting. Pick a room of your choice, the internet isn’t too fussy about that. But just make with the brush and emulsions and get cracking.

Don’t get anyone in to help, because that’s not the done thing. That makes you a failure. Most importantly, you will not gain maximum Internet points unless you do this thing in dungarees. ALL OF THE 90′S DENIM AROUND YOUR BELLY. It’s not essential, but it is preferred. And always wear a smile. Or you will fail. Fact.

Look, I don’t make the rules. I’m just showing you how it is. It’s now why I throw water on my face while smiling like Denver The Guilty Dog; or eat salads alone while laughing maniacally to myself. And I’m a better woman for it.

 

See below? That’s what happens when you send one of those silly menfolk out to get you pots of paint. How are you supposed to get the whole house done with those little things?? Honestly. No sense. Don’t forget to smile at him endearingly though. Nobody likes a moany non-painting pregnant lady on the internet.

“Dude, do you see any yellow in those charts?? I’M TRYING TO PAINT THE GODDAMN HOUSE HERE. What will the internet think??”

Don’t freak out now, you’re entitled to the odd break. But don’t get too comfy, trying to get away with sitting down and resting your weary heavily pregnant self in between some light house painting. NEVER LET GO OF THE TOOLS. What would the neighbours think if they caught you sitting down like the lazy wagon in this pic below?? For shame.

Now you’re just messing around. You’re on the verge of Pregnant Painting Lady Failure, you know…

Don’t go thinking it’s just stock photos that are showing you the right way to live your happy fulfilled pregnant life. Stock cartoons are getting in on it too. So you know shit’s gettin’ real. So start stocking up on the Dulux.

Baby Brain got you confused about how many paint brushes to use at the one time? Go with one first, more advanced Pregnant Painting Ladies are ambidextrous. See below…

For the love of God, don’t even think of getting your Baby-Daddy to help. He’ll just make a tit of himself by drawing stupid pictures on your belly, or do pretend graffiti like these muppets. But if he does, you better SMILE AND SHOW THE WORLD YOUR HAPPY FULFILLED LIFE….

…and when you’re done, ladies – don’t forget to clean up after yourselves. Nobody likes a lazy Painting Pregnant Lady. Now you have the knowledge. Go forth and ignore the fumes and the physical exertion, for you are doing the Internet’s bidding once more. DON’T FORGET TO SMILE WITH YOUR HAPPY FULFILLED LIVES…

New Year? New Sneer…

“What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? “

Here we go again. Another twelve months down the drain, another twelve months waiting to take their place. Like the old retired cop, jaded from realising you can’t beat The System, 2012 has slunk away into the corner with its gold-plated clock and now defunct police badge stained with cheap whiskey and tears of regret for a thankless job now finally over.

The next morning he is already forgotten; for in his place, fresh from the academy, bounds a young fresh-faced young cop, ready to take on the world and save it from The Bad Guys. His haircut is all business, his uniform pristine, his badge gleaming, his voice just that little too high pitched and excited for the rest of the die-hard desk jockeys. He is 2013, and he is here to kick ass and take names. And God, I hate him already.

I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s hype. I’ve tried. Heaven knows, I’ve tried. I rang in the Millennium up in Belfast with a bunch of amazing people and had mad laughs while the fireworks went off – I even allowed myself a little frisson of dread during the countdown to midnight, and said a quick prayer for forgiveness just in case our world ended in a searing ball of white heat and crunching tectonic plates. I’ve made all the resolutions in the world, and kept none. Apart from writing more. As you can see, it’s done much for me so far. Here I sit, typing away, on an armchair made entirely of foldy money, drinking hot chocolate topped with gold-flake shavings while Frank Sinatra’s hologram croons ‘Seventeen’ and Wes Anderson films my every move for a documentary because my life is so awesome. SWEAR T’GOD.

Being the cynical soul that I am, I watched in amusement last night as my Facebook news feed filled up with New Year greetings fused with all sorts of corny generic ‘go-get-’em tiger!’ type ravings. It was as if my entire friends list turned into Tony Robbins, Dr Phil, Oprah or – in some unfortunate cases – Shane MacGowan. If I had cringed any more, I would have become the first living Inside-Out Human. Imagine the fun I’d have had with that on Instagram.

So why am I spewing venom and hatred at something as light-hearted and whimsical as New Year’s Eve, you ask? The answer is simple: I see it for what it is. It doesn’t fool me for a second. It’s like Ben Stiller’s guest character in the episode of Friends when Ross is the only one who notices he’s a completely psychotic asshole while everyone else loves him because he’s so nice to them.  I AM ROSS GELLER. (In many more ways than this, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

New Year’s Eve has never been nice to me. It’s only ever been a disappointing non-event full of massive expectations, holding a magnifying glass up to all the previous unrealised hopes and dreams you had for the year before. Mind you, back when I was a teenager, I only had myself to blame for that. It’s hard to get the facilities together to resurrect Brandon Lee, keep him in his Crow character AND convince him to live with you in Limerick while living happily ever after, dancing to The Cure in Termights night club of a Saturday. So to be fair, most of the time my disappointment with my New Year’s failures have been my own fault.

However, nowadays my resolutions have become so mundane and depressing that frankly, I’m ashamed. When did it come to this? Once, I dreamed of worldwide fame & fortune; visualising best-selling modern classic literature and marrying the love of my life while at the same time being linked in the press to affairs with assorted Hollywood hunks, all while touring a Grammy-winning indie album and adopting a child from each country I visit.

This year, my wish is simple: To get glasses that stay on my head.

You may well laugh. The consequences for breaking this resolution will be tragic. For as sure as I will never see five foot in height, the following will happen:

Scene: A crowded pub. Me standing next to the potential love of my life. I turn to say the perfect thing to make him fall in love with me. Camera pans out to witness the crowd’s reaction when my glasses fall right into his pint as I trip up when running away, trying to suppress a snart. 

And wouldn’t you know, there’s Wes Anderson filming it.

Happy New Year, folks.

 

 

 

 

 

J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 13

Brain: “Oh. My. God.”

Me: “What?? What is it??”

Brain: “For a split second there I had this glimpse of a thought that was so revolutionary and life-changing, it would have brought us a lifetime supply of unforgettable moments of pure ecstasy.

It is summed up thus: the true meaning of life is d-”

Me: “YUSS! ROMANCING THE STONE IS ON TV RIGHT NOW!”

Brain: *thought evaporates*

“Shit just got real.”

J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 12

Brain: “How are you Jen?? Been a while since we talked…”

Me: “The grandest. Apart from the nagging feeling that we are all essentially just lumps of carbon and water in varying shapes and sizes, bestowed with a limited number of days on this giant ball of crap. We struggle daily to engage – and compete with – other carbony watery lumps to leave some sort of lasting print on this pissy little planet before we all evaporate into an abyss of nothingness. We are forgotten in a miniscule amount of time relative to the existence of everything ever, only to be replaced by other lumps pretty much the same as us. And so it shall go on, ad infinitum. Hope, love, happiness…these are all man-made constructs designed by those above who seek control to keep us from destroying ourselves within seconds of becoming self-aware. For fear that we would gain even the smallest fraction of understanding that at the heart of it all, in the grand scheme of things, we, and all that we believe to be connected to us, are nothing.”

Brain: “Left the phone at home again did we?”

Me: “IT’S LIKE I HAVE NO HANDS…”

 

J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 11

We’re all in this together… *sniff*

Brain: STOP WRITING.

Me: Why? What now?

Brain: Check your Facebook.

Me: I just did, five minutes ago. Leave me alone. I’ve things to do.

Brain: Five minutes? FIVE MINUTES? That’s seven years in facebook time. You could have missed so much! Any longer and you’ll be like Rip Van Winkle, wandering around your page, asking what a meme is, not knowing what Guardian articles are trending…not having a notion what music video to put up on your page to seem cool and down with the kids any more… think of all the ‘likes’ you could have gotten in that time…

Me: You know YOU’RE the reason I’m not published right now, right??

Brain: ALL THE ‘LIKES’…..

J-Ro Vs Brain, pt 10

Brain: “Stop yawning.”

Me: “Stop making me yawn.”

Brain: “Dunno what you’re talking about. I’m busy trying to name the Best Supporting Actor Oscar winners for the last fifteen years.”

Me: “That’s what’s making me yawn! I’ll be asleep in minutes as this rate. I’m off to bed.”

Brain. “I just want you to get a good night’s sleep. It’s good for both of us.”

Me:. “Good. I’ve a really long busy week ahead, I need all my rest. Well, goodnight so.”

Brain: “Okay, nighty night. Sleep well.”

Me: “Really? That’s it? No fight?”

Brain: “Nope. Like you said, you need your sleep. I’m good like that sometimes.”

Me: “Great! Well, talk to you in the morning so..”

Brain: “Will do.”

Me: “……………….”

Brain: Just try not to think about that bathroom scene from The Grudge.

Me: I KNEW IT WAS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.

You’re welcome. Each and every one of you.