Birth control. Usually I'm more interested in girth control pills, such as Viagra and other penis-inflammatories; or Colin Firth control pills, to stop me watching Bridget Jone's Diary on repeat and crying into my human-knit sweater over the complexities of love and how Hugh Grant looks like a puddle. However, I have occasionally been known to knock back a couple of birthies - my favourites are the ones with the red background, those delicious little government-subsidised albino skittles. I don't know why the fuck they even include the Bitter Baby Biter flavour in the pack, whenever I throw a dinner party the bowls of Luscious Menstruation Sensation Placebo Poppers disappear like so many absentee fathers while the "active" ones just sit there, generally inactive, waiting for someone to love them as though they're little buttons chanelling babies instead of buttoning little baby channels. Obviously there is a gamut of different ways to avoid surprise gestation. The most common sperm trap is the condom, but they're so damn expensive, and I'm literally a pawper (that was phrased as cutesy as possible so if you ever hear an asthmatic grunt you'll throw some cash at me and leave immediately please). Next time you think about purchasing one of these individually-wrapped bulk-packs of 99 lube-balloons, consider another option - The Glove of Love. Buy a dishwashing glove and use the fingers; if after four fucks from Martha Stewart's "violently violet" decorated dick sheath you're not feeling it then the glove has spoken and you should move on. If they only fit into the thumb then you should move on (but first bend your littlest finger around their cute little cashew dick and pinky swear that you'll always stay best friends). If they spend half an hour trying to stretch the palm of the glove over their tree trunk penis then you should cover them in motor oil and discretely slide them into a manhole - they're not for this world. Personally, I don't need birth control - I'm delighted to know I can grow my own snacks just from enjoying my second favourite hobby after ice skating on my toenails. Three stars - I know a lot of people whose mum should have taken the blue, red or white pill, or at least followed Morpheus down the brown rabbit hole. Not racist, I'm talking about anal.
The Apocalypse. My world ended when they cancelled 24 - Jack Bauer is the gravel-drowned voice of the people, a sultry anti-terrorist siren who operates above the law and his vocal range; a stubbly Aretha Franklin if she was willing to break fingers and waterboard her fans to sell tickets. Jack's famous last line was "The Mayans were right, you can't survive without me. Chloe, call my spaceship, I'm out of here. So long, stinkworld." And with one last hocked loogie at the president (not Obama, the chimp one) the earth was doomed to an empty three-season suspenseful waiting period before an agonising face-boiling death. What will it bring? Asteroids the size of really large asteroids? Fires so hot they'll melt your cigarettes? The triumphant return of Pauly Shore? I don't care, as you can see in my photo above I've bought myself a space suit. I will survive long after you've eaten your last tin of delicious John West Smoked Oysters and scraped clean the bowl of sweetened placenta placating placebos. Biblical floods, so wet you'll wish your legs were made of paper towel? Fuck it, I've got bottles of air and the buoyancy rating of an embroidered kettle. The world gets knocked out from under our feet like a trick shot in snooker from a guy asking for a glassing? Who gives a shit, I'm Fizz Aldrin, the first dog in space (apart from those other ones). Hilarious gravity shenanigans that would all win Funniest Home Videos,
overdrawing the jackpot and plummiting the fragments of earth into
another GFC, double-fucking the earth-scraps? Piss off, I'm a dog who thinks it's people, everyone loves that shit - have you even seen Instagram? Explosive dust and nuclear fallout covering your atmosphere and getting you down? Oh well, I'll just pop a nail in one of my tanks and blast into the stratosphere, sitting pretty on a cloud of wasted human potential and aerated chunks of you while riding a unicorn right on his horn. Well, those are the reasons I gave my accountant for buying the space suit. Really I just wanted to gas myself with a crackpipe hooked up to the vents and walk around pretending I'm a human shrinkie who passed too close to the sun and withered into a hairy mothgoat after years lost in orbit, all while giggling convincingly with twisty crumbs in my dishcloth beard. Just like a real astronaut. No stars yet, I'll tell you my review on Friday while I'm chewing on your face. All's fair in love and panic. 
Revenge. They say revenge is a dish best served boiling hot and full of knives. I disagree, I like mine partially defrosted, served with a side of self-righteousness, accompanied with a refreshing glass of impaled-ale and finished with a big bowl of eye-for-an-ice-cream before using the bill to paper-cut your enemy's head off and stuff your 10% tip down his gullet. Revenge is up there with my favourite "rainy day" activities. Sometimes I'll drop ten cents on the ground just so I can give the first person who bends down to pick it up a piece of my mind. And by "piece" I mean "end of" and by "mind" I mean "Colonial bayonet". Once a lady put junk-mail in my letterbox so I put her through a shredder, tattooed tiny coupons on pieces of her and slid them under every door in the city - it's what she would have wanted. We encounter revenge on a daily basis, from Blockbuster gleefully posting you overdue bills for that video you hocked in exchange for a lick of an adrenal gland, to fat cunts smirking while they slow down in front of you after you were tailgating (when you were only trying to get close enough to see if that was really their face or a soggy loaf of bread with some jam for lips and a toupee made of feathers and sweat). It shows the human condition at its weakest, most vulnerably spiteful, and schemingly complicated best. It's what dreams, movies and my Saturday afternoons are made of. Five stars, I can't wait for the next time someone sneezes near me.Fizz is a twice-published author, now, and spends her free time inventing medieval helicopters, painting vivid portraits of transvestites using only the makeup they leave on her sheets and sending her ears to past lovers (she has a whole drawer full of them, and a whole lotta lovers). If you have anything you'd like Fizz to review, please mention it in the comments, or tattoo it on a strip of your mailman and slide it under her kennel. She reviews free samples of expensive things extremely favourably, even if they're shit.
