I had a thought today. (Got to be be brief cos I'm in an extortionately priced Internet cafe. Why does the whole world have to shut down for two weeks at Christmas time?) Anyway, the thought was this: Are Gouranga people happier than the average person? Do you think the accumulative effect of years spent proclaiming the wonderful word could induce a constant state of euphoria in the Gourangi (for that is their title), the verbal equivalent of taking 17 E's and washing them down with a litre of Wee Beastie? If so, I think I may have found my true vocation in life. Their new slogan should be 'Gouranga - It's cheaper than drugs'. Though in reality, it's more likely to be 'Gouranga - It'll make you smell like a hippy'. The next time someone accosts you in the street and asks you to proclaim the magic word, try telling them this:
'What, haven't you heard the news? Gouranga's been bought out by Time Warner AOL. The new word is 'Cowabunga'. Yeah, I know that's what the Turtles used to say, but apparently Time Warner are bringing out a new series, and they thought they'd get the Gouranga people to promote it. You'd better report back to your headquarters to get re-issued with Cowabunga merchandise, before people start looking at you like you're some kind of freak!'

Hands up if you've had a Pot Noodle before? Hands up if you actually like Pot Noodles? Strange, isn't it, how something that tastes of dog jizz (or so I've heard, I've never actually had a Pot Noodle) can be so popular. Like bad sex with your mum, eating a Pot Noodle is one of these experiences that you vow never to repeat, and then promptly break as soon as you've had six San Migs and a couple of whiskies. Or a couple of orange squashes in my case. Any excuse, eh? One look at the ingredients of a Pot Noodle should be enough to deter even the hungriest of astronauts; it contains dried soya bits, that Quorn stuff your mum tries to pass off as meat when she wants her kids to eat more protein. Recent research has proven, in fact, that the average takeaway kebab is healthier than our aforementioned potted friend. I wonder if it is a coincidence that my recent interest in Pot Noodles has occured just after I developed a shit-fetish? Shit in mouth/Pot Noodle in mouth; it's pretty much the same thing. Though at least you don't get random peanuts turning up in your Pot Noodle. Seriously, extreme fetish magazines should carry disclaimers: 'Warning, some activities may be unsuitable for nut-allergy sufferers.' Think of the embarassment of having a death certificate that reads 'Cause of death: Asphyxiation due to allergic reaction caused by ingesting nut traces found in excrement.' It makes the stories your parents told you when you were little, about dogs-dirt causing blindness, seem pretty tame. I actually prefer the Victorian cautionary tales about blindness - after much research, I've concluded that they're not true. Or inaccurate, at least. It's not the masturbation that causes blindness, it's the squinting at a computer screen for hours at a time. Which reminds me, why am I talking about masturbation at half past one in the morning? I'm gonna go to bed now and, er, sleep. And then dream of being sodmomized by a King Pot. I shouldn't write this diary so late at nite, you know.

Mullets fascinate me. After MILFs and lesbians, they’re probably my favourite obsession. Some people collect train numbers or Japanese schoolgirls’ knickers. I spot mullets. I’d also spot schoolgirls’ knickers given half the chance, but then I’d like to think that I’ve not reached raincoat territory yet. Give me a couple of years though…
The first word that springs to mind when considering the mullet is why? What would motivate a guy to deliberately grow his hair short on top and long at the back? And why would he then proceed to put on a leather jacket, tight blue jeans and a pair of white trainers?
I see a lot of mullets in Aberdeen; in the working men’s pubs; in the guitar shops; in the shopping centre, where they are reluctantly dragged away from Games Workshop by their owners and forced to complete their Christmas shopping, and of course in the strongest outpost for mullet wearers - the rock club. I noted three fine, full-headed mullets at The Palace on Friday nite, each one accompanied by the ubiquitous Maiden, Priest or Poison t-shirt.
The problem with the mullet, apart from the serious fashion issues it raises, is a moral one. Would you do a gorgeous woman if she topped it all off with a mullet? It's a tough decision - doggy-style is definitely out of the question. And think how hard life must be for the male mullet-wearer; Iron Maiden fans are sexually disadvantaged as it is, without adding the visual equivalent of erectile dysfuntion. Like ancient monks who burnt themselves in order to prove their holiness, mullet-wearers have opted for a life of social rejection in order to keep their unique head of hair. It can't be long now before this small, devout sect goes the same way as the dodo unless something is done about it. Mullet-wearers are national treasures that must be preserved in order that future generations of kids can say 'I'm glad that's not my dad!' I'm planning to petition my local MP to introduce concessions for mullet-users; special carparking spaces, cheaper roadtax and free scampi Nik-Naks. The next time you see a mullet, don't laugh and cross to the other side of the road. Instead, take a deep breath and repeat this ancient Tibetan mantra to yourself slowly: 'Mullets are people too.'

Vagina is a stupid word. If you don’t believe me, just try saying it out loud: ‘Vagina’. For a term that describes one of the nicest bits of the female anatomy, it couldn’t be less sexy if it tried. I mean penis is bad enough, but vagina just conjures up images of fat middle-aged American women sitting in group therapy sessions discussing menopause and masturbation while drinking cream teas. You know what I’m saying? The cool thing about vagina however, apart from the fact that it’s a fine place to put your penis, fist, or spatula, is that it comes from an even stupider word, invagination, meaning (I guess) an opening. In which case, the bum-hole is technically speaking an invagination. Therefore, all men have a vagina! How weird is that? Of course if you’re a gay man, you’ve probably realised the male vagina’s potential already, but for us heterosexual males, it’s a quite an eye-opener, so to speak. No longer is it every sailor’s dream (or every Brazilian holidaymaker’s nightmare) to pull a chick with a dick. No, if you’re really adventurous, you’re gonna choose a manny with a fanny.

September 11th. It’s one of those dates that has become infamous, just like... well, I can’t think of any others actually, but I’m sure there’s a few. I must sound really ignorant now, but then this is the boy who didn’t have a TV until he was 14. Before last week, I’d never heard of Chesney Hawkes. And I thought Les Dennis was some kind of paedophile you’d find ‘exposed’ in The Daily Mail for living in your neighbourhood. What, he is, you say? Ah, so that’ll be the guy who’s always hanging outside St Albyns Girls’ School when I ‘happen’ to walk past at 3.30 every day.
Anyway, getting back to September 11th. In future years, I’ll be able to tell someone else’s kids ‘Well son, on September 11th, when you were still sucking from you mother’s left tit, I was on the other one.’ Actually, I was at university, which is a bit of a shock in itself. I decided last nite that I would document what I did that day before I forget. I like the idea of being interviewed by the Press & Journal on the 50th anniversary of the disaster when I’m in a nursing home and reminiscing like old people do:
‘You little shits don’t know how lucky you are with all your cyber-sex and free lesbian porn channels. When I was a lad, we had to make our own pornos, and there were buildings falling from the sky.’ Just like your parents talking about the day that JFK was assassinated or the nite you were conceived, our generation will remember what we were doing on September 11th. Especially Muslims with illegal visas - it’s a good idea to have your alibi ready for when the FBI come knocking.
After going to a lecture on the Tuesday morning, I logged onto the net and looked up the Fudge messageboard, a forum based around the music scene in Aberdeen. Someone had put a message up mentioning crazy things happening in America, though I never thought much of it, as it didn’t quite say ‘The World Trade Centre has had the shit blown out of it.’ It wasn’t until I went to genie.co.uk to text someone that I noticed the article in the news section. The first tower had been hit. I tried looking up CNN and Reuters, but it seemed that everyone else had the same bright idea. I finally got the story from the BBC website - I just remember looking at the picture of the first tower on fire. As the day went by, the full scale of what had happened began to sink in. That evening, I had to go to Mark Nicol’s house to apply the finishing touches to the single my band had just finished recording. Mark was going to master the tracks on his computer. We sat and watched the news reports on TV, knowing - like everyone else - that something big had just happened, something so big that it was gonna change everyone’s lives. You suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re living through history and that you’ve just watched the biggest event since World War II, only this time it’s live on TV. This disaster was made for TV. One of the first things that occurred to me was that someone was gonna make a movie about September 11th. It also occurred to me that a lot of ignorant punk bands would use this as an excuse to rant about America and how it wasn’t Bin Laden’s fault. This sort of shit annoys me, but I’ll bitch about it another time. After finishing the CD at Mark’s, I went to my girlfriend’s house and stayed up to watch George W make his speech.
People are naturally drawn towards disasters because they’re so curious – that’s why traffic always slows down on the motorway when there’s an accident on the other side. ‘Rubber-necking’ my dad calls it. I guess I’m no different – I don’t want to look at the strange man with one eye sitting on the bus, or the 16-yearold ‘virgin’ on the internet getting doubly fisted, but it’s hard to resist. I guess people will still be talking about September 11th in 10 years time. Picture the scene inside a busy US courtroom, 2011 AD… The prosecution are questioning the accused about an alleged homicide.
‘Mr Walker, where were you on the nite of September 11th?
‘Well, I guess was at home watching CNN like everyone else.’
Oh, the possibilities for confusion are endless. It is my sincerest wish, however, that in future years, when I'm asked ‘Kai, where were you on that nite that changed the world?’ I’ll be able to reply ‘Well kids, on 18th December 2001, I was hiding in a cupboard while your mother and another lady took turns to fist each other on my bed.’
‘But what were you doing in the cupboard?’
‘Well children, I had discovered a particularly bad monkey, and I was spanking it for all it was worth.’

You know when you have a great idea for an invention but never do anything about it? I’m sure I would have been rich by now if I’d patented all the ideas that suddenly occurred to me while my girlfriend was running to the bathroom with a tissue clenched between her legs. I won’t go into details about that one, but suffice to say that every hotel would be required to keep an array of kitchen utensils in the draw beside the bed, along with the obligatory Gideon’s Bible. My friend Terry (he’s the singer in my band) came up with a great idea the other day, though if you’ve never spiked your hair before you’ll probably think he was on Ketamine at the time. In fact he probably was. Anyway, after struggling to put on his jumper without messing up his freshly spiked hair, Terry suggested inventing some kind of plastic helmet (stop laughing) that could be placed over the head, without touching the spikes. You then put your jumper on over the top, remove the helmet and hey presto - your hair’s still intact! The only thing stopping this from becoming an overnite success among the alternative 14-24 year-old Slipknot-hoodie-wearing market is the obvious uncoolness associated with putting a plastic dome over your head. Have you seen those dogs that have to wear head-collars to stop them from scratching themselves? It’s the only time I’ve seen dogs laughing at other dogs. Of course, another solution to the whole spiky hair problem would be to put your jumper on first, but that seems too practical and requires advance planning, something that neither me nor Terry are very good at.
I don’t like putting on artificial helmets of any kind - they’re so unnatural. Which is why I would never get my girlfriend a sex-toy for her Christmas. Unless, of course, it was a two-way 18-incher and she promised to let me watch. Sadly, there’s more chance of me finding a MILF in What Everyone Wants than that happening. Life’s so unfair sometimes.

In Japan, mums have been giving their sons blowjobs rather than let them have girlfriends. It is thought that girlfriends will distract them from doing their schoolwork. Picture this:
'Hey Jimmy, will you stay behind after school so we can do our homework together?'
'I can't, Lauren. I promised my mum I'd cum home early - she said she had some jobs for me.'
Ever get the feeling you were brought up in the wrong country? It gets even better when you consider the father's involvement:
'OK honey, so you're trying to tell me that you'll swallow for little Jimmy but you won't swallow mine?'
Welcome to my first ever weblog-blog! Like a nun with a strap-on, this is all new to me, but I'm gonna learn fast. I don't know why I'm starting The Trash Whore Diaries, but it seemed a good idea 20 minutes ago. I have decided to share with the rest of the uncivilised world my daily goings on; the stupid girl-obsessed songs I write for my punk band; my ongoing search for MILFs, and the lesbian dreams I keep 'making' my girlfriend have. If you're thinking I won't be able to keep this up for more than a couple of weeks, you're probably right; I've never lasted longer than 60 seconds. Practise makes perfect, however, and my wrist certainly knows I've had a lot of that. For every month that I manage to keep this diary, I am going to reward myself with a new lesbian porno. If I keep this going for a couple of years, I should have a collection to rival the Pope's. Then I might see if I can trade tapes with him - I've always been curious about animal porn, but have been too afraid to buy it. This diary could provide a unique opportunity for my canine/girlfriend fantasies to be fulfilled without making any (extra) mess.
Today's entry is dedicated to the word 'meatpaste'. Technically, it's two words, but we'll ignore that as it gives me an opportunity to discuss an entirely new way of eating out. Actually, I think I'll save this for another time - it's been a long first entry, and you've had a lot to digest. I don't want to choke you this early in the relationship, so I'll withdraw for now. I should be able to spill the beans in the near future, however, as I have just put myself up for adoption. Any interested mums out there? I'm a really nice boy you know; I've even started to learn Japanese!