OMO At The Movies: "300"

Your poor little OMO had to go to the cinema on his own on Friday night. The Boyf refuses to watch anything with gore, and even the hot humpies weren't luring him in to watch "300". So I took advantage of him going out for an end-of-term meal with his colleagues to slink off to the cinema. I took along all the necessary provisions that I thought I'd need; pecan ice-cream, popcorn, jumbo Pepsi Max, lube, Nexus prostate stimulator, poppers and a box of tissues. The foodstuffs came in useful. The rest of my wares, not so much.

Here are my thought processes throughout the film (note how monosyllabic I am when I think):

Ooooh, men.

Ooooh, muscles.

Ooooh, more men.

Ooooh, more muscles.

Hmmmmmmmm, Daxos. Yum

(Then there was some fighting, during which time I managed to throw pecan ice-cream down my shirt and trousers, so I missed much of the action whilst trying to ensure it hadn't left any marks, otherwise when the house lights came on it would have looked like I'd spunked everywhere)

Oh! Daxos gone. Others dead. Bugger.

The End.

Improvements to the film are simple, and two-fold. Chest hair and cum. Some acting might have been nice too, but then if I wanted such trivialities I'd have gone to see "Notes On A Scandal", and Dame Judi Dench doesn't look anywhere near as good with her chest out. One supposes.

The remainder of our weekend was spent painting a wall in our main room a deep dried-blood red. Officially it's called "Arabian Red" by 1892 (a paint company who specialises in authentic "period" colours i.e. Victorian). Apparently "Dried Blood" didn't look so good on the tin.

And that's about it really. No sex or dancing or getting trashed. Yikes, this middle-aged business is weird.