Things I Learned Today: Midgets make funny noises when they have sex

I’m not nearly as addicted to the internet and to my computer as I would like to be. If I were properly addicted I would get stuff done. I would respond to emails on time, I would update my blog, I would read other people’s blogs and I would never ignore the internet for days on end resulting in the situation we have here: blog neglect. It’s a fairly common problem amongst non-addicted people. In some cases it may manifest itself as a general lack of new posts. In other cases it may result in posting the very same blog post day after day, with minimal or no alterations.

I’m going to blame my latest period of absence on my lack of addiction, because I can’t really blame it on boredom. On Saturday M and I went to a wedding, danced very badly, drank too little wine and talked to almost no one. It was a beautiful wedding and the pouring rain didn’t really bother anyone. Neither did the freezing temperatures of 32 degrees once the rain stopped. It sure didn’t bother me, even though I was standing outside in a short skirt and nylons, because my legs are extremely weather resistant. Well, at least they are now after the amputation due to frost bite, and subsequent prosthetics.

As if the wedding wasn’t fun enough to last us an entire month, M and I went to see Pablo Francisco tonight. It was a fun show, even though he was clearly traumatized to be in Finland where it apparently is “so cold he can’t get an erection.” I dunno about that; Finnish men do just fine. But Pablo taught me many things tonight. Like for instance, cock blocking is not cool. Especially not if you’re doing it to yourself by buying a Smart Car. Also? It’s totally fine to say “nigger”. You heard it from me first. *

Things I Learned Today: Midgets make funny noises when they have sex

Golf Is A Four-Letter Word

Today is the International Day of Peace, and I figured that as a human rights advocate I should say something profound and enlightened and decidedly beauty queen inspired about world peace and everyone living together in harmony. Alas, there is something much, much more important that requires my attention. You all know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Today is Miniature Golf Day! How awesome is that?

Miniature golf is just about the best sport in the world, right after cockroach racing. It’s like golf, but for people who are in a little better shape and don’t mind walking from green to green. It’s affordable, easy to learn and contrary to popular belief, doesn’t require your own set of balls.

One thing that bothers me a little, though, is the date. Who the hell had the bright idea to make September 21st Miniature Golf Day? I bet they had never actually played miniature golf, because usually it’s done outside. I don’t know what September is like where you live, but over here it’s 50 degrees outside and it’s been raining for a week. I wouldn’t mind playing miniature golf in this weather, but I’m pretty sure the ball might float away. And I think that’s cheating. Or just good luck.

I’m a great miniature golfer. I’m short; that’s got to count for something. And I once played miniature golf in America and won. But I learned that it’s not called miniature golf over there. They’ve given it the very manly name of Putt-Putt. I actually don’t think Americans take miniature golf very seriously at all. Just take a look at this American miniature golf course:

There are all sorts of castles and shrubs and water and stuff that’s fun and nice to look at, distracting you from the game at hand.

Meanwhile, the Swedes know exactly what miniature golf is all about:

No nonsense, serious business. I’m inclined to agree with the Swedes; a sport that’s important enough to warrant an entire day dedicated to it must be taken seriously.

Happy Miniature Golf Day!

Oh, and happy International Day of Peace too. *

Golf Is A Four-Letter Word

And After All the Sweat, Blood and Tears, It Still Says "Made In China" on the Back

I was hardly surprised at all when I woke up this morning and the week had once again decided to start with Monday. I don’t like Monday. Monday is full of expectations, intentions and need-to-dos, but extremely low on energy, motivation and want-to-dos. Usually my motivation rears its ugly head around Friday, but by then it’s too late to actually do anything so I just ignore it. Friday is good like that.

One person who hasn’t been low on motivation lately is M. He’s been practicing his karate day and night, spending days and weeks and many more days and weeks away from me to reach enlightenment. And finally, after another weekend away from his sweetheart, M finally came home with the holiest of dark textiles.

M + karate = black belt

I’m living with a karate master. Suddenly Monday doesn’t seem so bad after all. I’ll just have M kick its ass. All the way to Friday… *

And After All the Sweat, Blood and Tears, It Still Says "Made In China" on the Back

334 Words About Something You're Tired of Hearing About

Recently there has been a bit of a battle going on. A battle about a mosque. When I told my American friend I was going to write about it, he said “ohh lord, not that thing again, it’s all we’ve heard about this past month.” Sadly, his reaction is the same as many others’. We tire of hearing about mosques, Koran-burning, floods, and whatever else is wrong in the world at any given point. And for that reason I will make my own take on the Ground Zero Mosque very brief.

Opponents argue that the building of a mosque near Ground Zero would be insensitive. I’m having problems figuring out who exactly it would offend. Who is so offended by the building of a mosque at Ground Zero that the Muslim community’s freedom of religion and freedom of assembly should be violated? I can only assume that people are comparing Muslims to Al-Qaida and feel that building a mosque at Ground Zero would be a kick in the face to all of America.

But I still can’t quite grasp why a mosque where Muslims worship would reflect the actions of one extremist Islamist group. Muslims are simply people who adhere to the religion of Islam. Islamists are people who add a political agenda to their practice of Islam and are by no means even comparable to Muslims. Should the entire Muslim community be held accountable for something a few extremists did? And if that’s the case, does it mean that it’s bad taste to build a Catholic Church next to a kindergarten? Because the Pope knows the Catholic Church hasn’t got the best of reputations when it comes to young boys. I’m just saying.

Everything isn’t always black and white. In fact, it never is, we threw out the black and white TV’s ages ago. In today’s world we should be able to see all the nuances, and frankly, if we can’t, we need a new set of attitudes. And probably a new TV. *

334 Words About Something You're Tired of Hearing About

The Curious Case of the Little Evil White Mushroom Penises

I’m so happy we already established I can say penis on this blog, because boy do I need to say it now. See the thing is, my lovely sister Muschu is a bit of a celebrity. Well, not exactly a celebrity, but she works with celebrities and that’s practically the same thing, no? She’s a designer and is working on the Finnish version of the TV-show Dancing with the Stars, making the outfits. Dancing with the Stars, or Tanssii Tähtien Kanssa, as it is called in Finnish, is shot in Helsinki. Muschu lives in Turku. This means that she’s had to move to Helsinki temporarily and has left her apartment in my very capable hands.

For the past month I’ve been in charge of watering the plants, sorting the mountains of mail she gets and making sure that the apartment doesn’t burn down. And this is where the penises come into the picture. I thought I was doing a good job; I sorted the mail alphabetically, never left any matches out and watered the plants, about a gallon per plant. That should be enough, I figured. And it was. It was plenty. I’m almost starting to think it was too much, because tonight when M and I went to water the plants we found that one of the plants had been invaded by a whole pack of evil white mushroom penises about an inch tall. I have no idea where they came from, I just know that they’re here now.

Let this be a cautionary tale; don’t ever make me take care of your things unless you really like little evil white mushroom penises.

I’m sorry Muschu. *

The Curious Case of the Little Evil White Mushroom Penises

Feeling Lonely? Don't Worry, Berta Is Here For You

After my little departure into politics and human rights the other day, I’m going to jump straight to the porn I promised you. Where should I start? Should I start with the stripteases? The crazy costumes? The nudity? The blow jobs? The S&M dungeon? The huge number of toys (some of which should not be used on unexplained calf pains)? The live shows? No, I think I’m going to start with Berta.

She’s a loooove ewe. She’s soft and cute and anatomically correct. If by anatomically correct you mean that she has a rear opening for a sound box that makes her go “baaaah” when you press up against her behind, and another rear opening that’s big enough to fit something more or less penis-shaped. Can I say penis on this blog? I’m not sure. I didn’t hear that annoying biiping sound they use on TV, so it’s probably okay. But if you’re below the legal limit of being allowed to handle a penis you probably shouldn’t read this. Or below the legal limit of letting others handle your penis, if you fall into that category. Anyway, Berta sort of followed me home. She now sleeps between M and I in bed, which is awesome because now I can divert M’s nightly advances and let Berta deal with him.*

For those of you who are now wondering why Ziva’s Inferno suddenly seems more like Ziva’s House of Love, I can explain it all. M and I attended Turkkusex (not safe for work, unless you work in a sex shop, in which case it’s perfect for work), an erotic exhibition that takes place in Turku every fall. We attended the exhibition last year as well, and decided that it was just the right thing to keep our delicate sensibilities from rusting completely.

We saw a number of more or less famous porn starts and performers, including Tera Patrick, Scandinavian Hunks and Bobbi Eden. A male group called the Candymen were hilarious and made me relieved I wasn’t the poor girl who had been dragged up on stage to "assist" them. I didn’t take any pictures because apparently that’s a big no-no when it comes to people performing sexual acts on stage. Imagine that. But if you click on the link up there you'll probably be able to navigate the site and find the official photos. While I was busy not taking pictures, M and I perused the wide selection of toys, blow-up dolls, leather and lace clothing and various torture devices. Speaking of which, in the Dungeon of Secrets you could get tied up and receive a good spanking for the ridiculously low price of 2 euros. What a bargain!

I didn’t get particularly dolled up for the exhibition, just a pair of stilettos, a dog collar and my trusty panda costume, but other people certainly got dressed up. We saw naughty nurses, firemen, police officers, librarians and women wearing only shoes. They were great shoes, though.

We had a great time, but I’m still happy it’s a once a year sort of thing and not more often. That panda costume is hot.

Hot.

Now I'm off to hide the porn magazine we won under M's side of the bed for M's mom to find when she comes to visit us.

*N.B. this was a joke. M doesn’t do sheep. *

Feeling Lonely? Don't Worry, Berta Is Here For You

The War on Human Rights

I’m not an American citizen. I have never lived in the USA and I probably never will. I wasn’t going to write anything about 9/11 because I wasn’t there, it didn’t affect me personally. When it happened I was in my teens, I had just gotten home from my piano lesson and was sitting in my room, ignoring my homework and watching tv. Almost every tv channel was airing something about the World Trade Center. I watched in silence as the second plane hit. I watched as the towers fell. All around the world, the catastrophe was being aired live. I was young and couldn’t quite grasp the enormity of the situation, but regardless I knew that from that day on the world would be a different place.

And it was.

The Bush administration launched a war on terror. The target wasn’t the one group of truly evil people who had done this, but instead an entire country, full of civilians and innocents. Security was upgraded until the mere thought of people’s right to privacy was a joke. Suddenly everyone with Middle Eastern looks was a terrorist and treated as one. Airports installed full body scanners that produce an image of your naked body, and if you weren’t comfortable with someone looking at your naked form, you were forced to agree to a strip search. By a UN Resolution the entire world was cast into a permanent state of emergency where human rights could be derogated from, and was so in an arbitrary and wrongful way.

A horrendous event that should have united people, instead worked exactly as Al-Qaida wanted. Americans united, and while many wanted to leave it at that, many many more turned their united rage towards anyone who was male, young and had a beard. Terrorist suspects lost every right to be treated as human beings. While every person in the entire world has had their right to privacy violated in some way or other due to the security upgrades since 9/11, terrorist suspects have had their right to fair trial and right to life violated. They have been tortured and thrown into prison to rot without trial, with their right to representation completely ignored.

I’m not defending terrorists. They should be punished for their acts. I’m speaking for those people who are suspected of being a terrorist. That could be you or me. Anyone could be a terrorist suspect without actually having done anything. Just because a man is Muslim, young, of Middle Eastern descent and has a beard doesn’t make him any more terrorist than you or I. But he will without doubt be treated as one.

In the UK a “stop and search” technique was implemented after 9/11 where police officers stopped random people on the street if they seemed suspect, and searched them. Asian people were 3.6 times more likely to be stopped than white people. Black people where 4.3 times more likely to be stopped. In 2003 the 8.120 stops of pedestrians led to only 5 arrests. Incidentally, all of those arrested were white.

Terrorist suspects are being tortured right now. When the general public is asked for their opinion, a majority will think this is okay. What went wrong when it became okay to torture people? No matter how I look at it is torture morally or legally sane. Imagine a ticking bomb scenario. A person has admitted to having placed a time bomb somewhere. It is armed and ticking. Someone you love might be in danger. But the suspect won’t tell the authorities where the bomb is. Should the authorities use torture to make the suspect tell them where the bomb is?

If you said yes you probably referred to one of these arguments:
-the life of one person is less important than the lives of several people who might be in danger
-it’s the only way the suspect will tell authorities where the bomb is
-it’s okay as long as the authorities are doing it

However, there is no perfect knowledge. There is no way of knowing if there really is a bomb somewhere. Who should be allowed to asses the losses and benefits? How many lives justify a broken bone? How many lives for a torn out nail? How many women and children should be saved before the axe makes an appearance? In very rare occasions does torture produce truthful information, and if the person is innocent they will most likely start making up information just to get a break. Torture breaches the human dignity of the victim, as well as the torturer and everyone involved. Torture not only erodes professional ethics, it weighs on the minds of anyone who is forced to do it. And finally, torture is always prohibited; in national law, in human rights law and in humanitarian law.

My heart goes out to the victims of the events on 9/11 and their families. I hope that everyone responsible is brought to justice and punished. And I hope that everyone’s human rights are respected in the process. *

The War on Human Rights

Ziva Does Zumba

Yesterday I finally decided that I had watched my ass grow big enough and I needed to do something drastic about the state of my behind. Naturally, I first looked into liposuction, but it turns out it’s very expensive. And since I don’t have thousands of moneys just lying around in piles, liposuction clearly wasn’t the way to go. I then looked into those little fish that eat your flesh when you sit a bath tub full of them. Apparently they only eat dead skin and my ass is very much alive. In fact, I think it has a life of its own and is growing without my prior consent. Anyway, the little flesh-eating fish wasn’t a very good idea to begin with; I really don’t like sharing my bath tub with representatives of other species.

I looked into a few alternative ways of losing ass weight, but eating less just seemed boring, and the pills didn’t seem very reliable, and the whole octopus thing just looked scary, not to mention complicated. Eventually I just had to take the bull by the horns. I resigned myself to at least one hour a week of ruthless exercise. I chose Zumba as my means of torture, mostly because it starts with a z and matches my name. How cool is that? Plus? I sort of figured that dancing for an hour couldn’t possibly be that hard.

Of course I wanted to have someone with me, so I asked Zelma, but apparently exercise is “poisonous”, “bad for the soul” and “a ridiculous way for the upper class to get off their fat ass and look good while the rest of the world has to work for our money and don’t have time to exercise in any other way than to do manual labor, therefore making exercise evil incarnate”, whatever that means. In short, she wasn’t coming.

I arrived at the Zumba class sweaty and exhausted from pedalling my bike downhill, and looked around to see if anyone noticed I was dying of a heart attack before the class even started. And that’s when I saw Therese, a very dear childhood friend whom I haven’t talked to in years. It was great seeing a familiar face, and even more great when I realized we had much the same attitude towards exercise. Albeit, Therese could probably pedal her bike downhill without going into cardiac arrest.

Let’s Zumba! N.B. not Ziva in the picture.

Together we sought out a place in the very back of the class, made sure we knew where our exits were and hoped that 60 minutes would go by fast and that we’d be able to fit into a size much smaller pants by the end of class. A beautiful Latino girl walked into the room and we knew we were doomed. “Let’s start with a light warm-up” she said. 15 minutes later I was as close to death as I’ve ever been. Even counting that time when I accidentally drove right in front of a big rig and made it swerve to miss me.

If I had known that “light warm-up” is actually synonymous with “sweating your intestines out through your skin” I’m not sure I would have signed up for the class. But I did, and surprisingly I liked it. It was all “jump, hop, turn, step, jump, jump, turn again, turn the other way, no the other other you silly pig, jump, step, step, hop, turn” for 60 minutes. Therese and I were more often facing the wrong way than the right way and we probably looked like a couple of monkeys with a itchy rash, but at the end of the class we agreed to think about meeting again next week for the class.

I’ll definitely think about it.

And finally, a little bit of a heads up; this weekend M and I are going to an erotic exhibition. Lots of live porn, fancy toys and on-stage stripteases. Stay tuned for that little gem. *

Ziva Does Zumba

The Crayfish Party

A few weeks ago my friend Zelma and I set out on a quest. A quest to find the holiest of all things culinary – the crayfish. Normally, a crayfish can be found in a river or a lake, and since there are 187,888 lakes in Finland, it shouldn’t be too difficult to hunt one down. However, Zelma and I don’t kill animals for food. If we’re to actually take a living being and put it into boiling water, it will at least have to be for a good reason, like fun, or a good practical joke. Therefore, we went to the supermarket and got the ready-dead frozen kind. They needed a good defrosting, so we left them in the sink and went out for some pre-dinner adventure. We went to the farmers’ fair.

We petted a pig. We looked at a cow. We ran like Satan himself was after us when the heavens opened and an epic thunderstorm hit the fair. Zelma and I ran for our lives. We were too scared to use our umbrellas because we’ve been told never to hold a metal stick in a thunderstorm. We’re smart like that. We were running and screaming and soaked through by the rain and suddenly realized that we were in desperate need of coffee. And it so happens that the coffee shop was way closer than Zelma’s car – what a coincidence!

We ran inside just as lightning struck something not entirely in our imminent vicinity, and pretended that the coffee shop was our destination the entire time. We looked like a couple of drowned, very humanoid, cats. Zelma had a cup of coffee, I had a cup of hot chocolate, and by the time we were done the thunderstorm had passed and we were safe to walk all the way to our car without having to hold metal sticks. I held one anyway, just to show that I wasn’t scared of a little lightning.

We got back to our crayfish just in time to verify that they were still dead, which they were. There’s nothing as annoying as zombie crayfish. We grabbed a crayfish in one hand, a knife in the other and let the games begin. This is how you eat a crayfish, crawfish, crawdad or any other identical crustacean with an identity crisis: First, off with the claws, and suck the juices out of them. Then the claws need to be bent open to get to the tiny piece of meat inside them. Next, the shell, head and inner organs have to be separated from the body. A little suck of the grey ribs is often just the right thing before you move on to the tail. The shell needs to come off the tail, the poop chute needs to be removed, and then you’re sitting there with the only real piece of meat on the entire creature. A tiny little piece of tail that tastes salty and fishy. Yum! And totally worth the effort of dissecting an entire crayfish just to get to a piece of meat the size of something way too small to be dinner.

Not dinner.

Zelma and I had about 10 crayfish each, after which we were too exhausted and hungry to keep eating. We went to a barn dance instead. My inner redneck rejoiced. *

The Crayfish Party

I Don't Like The Name Earl, I'm Going To Call You Enoch Ezekiel Emmanuel Ed

Today I am happy to announce to you that Hurricane Earl missed Finland by several thousand miles! It was a close call, but with a bit of luck and many, many people using fans, blow dryers and their own lungs to blow the storm in the other direction, we made it.

Hurricane Earl. Finland is slightly east-northeast of here. 4500 miles, to be exact.

I lied. We didn’t have to do anything. See, we don’t get hurricanes over here. Sometimes we get a few bad thunderstorms, and sometimes it rains a lot, and sometimes a smallish tornado will throw a horse and dog across a field and it will make headlines all over the country, but no hurricanes. Not even small ones. And if one would get lost on its way to somewhere else, it would die before it reached Finland.

We simply don’t have what it takes to create a hurricane, or a tropical storm, as they are also called by people who know what they’re talking about. We don’t have enough tropics. We don’t have enough water. And even if we did, the water is not warm enough. And we definitely don’t have enough badly built houses below sea level behind questionable levees.

I can’t tell you I’m not happy about it. I don’t like windy weather. It makes it hard to pedal my bike up the hill to my apartment and my hair gets all messed up, and I just brushed it a week ago! I like my windows intact and my trees rooted to the ground. But maybe I would be better off we had Hurricane Season.

I’m a big wuss when it comes to all sorts of extreme weather. I already told you that we don’t have hurricanes, but we don’t have volcanoes, earthquakes or droughts either. Hell, we barely have sunshine! Sometimes we get a little flooding, but we’re no Pakistan. Or even the Czech Republic. We’re the Switzerland of weather, and it has made me a big chicken. I will never be able to move anywhere because holy fuck, what if there’s an earthquake? This has led me to realize that being born in Finland has severely limited my life. I’ll be stuck here forever, enjoying my safe and boring weather. So thanks Mom and Dad for keeping me sheltered from every single scary thing I could have possibly experienced. Really. Thanks a lot. *

I Don't Like The Name Earl, I'm Going To Call You Enoch Ezekiel Emmanuel Ed