You’ve read the title, now here’s the list that I came up with whilst I was waiting. I don’t remember what I was waiting for now, so this must have been my priority. Things you can do with a chicken, as follows:
1. Take one chicken. Take that chicken anywhere- take it to a variety of places. Drop the chicken. Then watch their reaction. I recommend water. I also recommend chickens. You can quote me on both of those subjects. Drop the chicken. It might become a metaphor if you do it enough.
2. Pick on the chicken- it will fight back and that’s simply an interesting relationship to have. Chickens are not pussies. Obviously- don’t try to hurt the chicken, but self-defence counts everywhere. Same goes for the chicken towards you. Everyone- defend yourself from what you’re about to do to each other.
3. Feed the chicken. Feed it to see how far you’ll both go. What is the chicken prepared to eat, and what are you willing to feed it? If you’re still enough, and if you’re near enough, they’ll eat you. Are you ready for that? Have you ever been eaten? If you have- well done. If you have not, catch up with the rest of us now. Don’t forget, this is why we all suddenly got a chicken- personal development.
4. Dress the chicken. This will follow on from the ‘pick on the chicken’ system. Dress the chicken up like a duck. It might help. If not, why not make it look as much like a meal of chicken before it actually becomes one. This could be the start of something big for chickens- and it only took dropping them, teasing them and feeding them unnecessary items to get them here. No one else is doing this for chickens.
5. Play the chicken. Think of the chicken as a neglected drum. Or an overly-passed-by trumpet. Of course, the percussion aspect of the chicken is much more tolerable to you both, when compared to the wind-abilities. When you find the place to blow into, see if you can also stand back at the same time. You can’t, but it wouldn’t be right if you didn’t try. Along with this, the drum-aspect of a chicken is far tastier, purely because the option to taste is left to your hands which are far less talented than the tongue and nose and in more than a few distinct roles. Namely tasting chicken. People don’t tend to say: “Mmm. Feels like chicken!”.
6. Try to make them laugh. Imagine discovering that chickens laugh. Imagine being the person accredited with making the first known chicken-chuckle to occur. You would be on t-shirts. You’d be more popular than chicken is today. And then consider that people would be able to devote (and some really would DEVOTE) their time to causing chickens to laugh. It would be like a parlour game, or a rite of passage. You can’t join until you have split the chicken’s sides. You’d change the world. Good for you.
7. Just watch them. They’re pretty funny. Like feathered robots that let nothing stop them from carrying out their most primal instincts. They also hate each other and see another chicken as a mix between something to fuck, something to eat, and something to be stopped from fucking and eating because they’re a chicken and a bastard. They also jump if required- but this pales in comparison to dropping them.
So has been a list of things you can do with a chicken. If you can think of other things to do, you might want to do two things. Firstly, consider that may I know about that one and chose not to put it in because it is crass. And secondly, consider keeping that idea to yourself, just like I did.
I have a problem. That problem is my personal development on Earth.
Just Earth- everywhere else I’m doing very well and thank you.
But here, the sphere with me on, we will be putting up with 401k’s and such, largely owing to a lack of alternative.
401k’s are a thing of the past. So is lacking an alternative.
Spears are the future.
I could leave it there, but fortunately I’m not paid for this writing, so I will be continuing anyway. Because it feels good.
It feels good?
Mission accomplished. Happy sensation. Tingling toes and I’m grinning. Very well done me.
401k’s are for other people. They bother me because they bother everyone. Bother.
It seems to be the simple introduction of vitally-inconsequential numbers and letters that really can unnerve a man’s day. Like having a ‘V’ and an ’18’ gang-shit you. Fuck V, and fuck 18 too. They’ve never done me a favour or turned up on time.
I don’t see why these letters should be introduced to the nice ladies and gentlemen. What did we do wrong- why thrust letters and numbers at us until we oblige? I’m not here to oblige. I’m here for the rabbit meat.
This is where the spears come in, though usually through one side of a rabbit and then out the other. I believe having a spear is like having a roof- intrinsic to getting by and slapping nature once or twice before succumbing to being sand.
We will all become sand, so in the meanwhile, don’t let anyone write their name in you, especially if they want to do it with piss. If they approach with piss, try to haggle them down to cutlery or something.
Don’t even fucking talk to me about pensions (I prefer to talk about unnecessary swearing In the middle of every fucking single sentence). They are a very bad idea.
A pension will resign you to sitting-down and the rise of the dilapidated brain, shortly followed by the gone-to-pot face and the pretty-much-a-write-off bowels.
Retire ye not thou pious pretender.
To do so is to throw your hands into the air and say “I’m out”, leaving the rest of the world to deal with your leavings, you cruel fool. We are all suffering various stages of childhood, retirement simply gives you a chance to blame children.
However, I can sympathise (if you’ll allow me).
Pensions are a throwback to when they were necessary. Ideally, we should be ready for old-age, and as such- we should be prepared for death by making it much more likely and much more watchable. No, you haven’t earned a retirement, as to do that is to condemn the young to blame and you haven’t earned that right.
Allow me to explain both these points a little further.
Pensions were necessary in a time when old age for some childless proletariat-types resulted in destitution and tragedy.
Now, if you get old- you can physically keep working for longer, you can be aware that retirement equates to a more unpleasantly- comfy death and your government should provide. Of course, this is not the case for all- but many. But enjoy what you do above all.
We must keep working till we die, ideally, or you will never be happy.
We must change our occupations, or we will never have been happy by the time we are most similar to a door-nail.
It’s not a retirement that is so attractive, rather- it is whatever you want to retire from that is the problem. How many musicians, actors, comedians, writers and artists retire? Now compare that to the number of civil-servants that retire, or cab-drivers, or policemen. These are troubled jobs, depression leads to reasons to be depressed about depression, and that is why so many people want out.
You might be a professional tree-climber.
And this profession permits you to do what you love most- be high atop something and be miles away from the floor. An admirable occupation- much more admirable than that occupation of Poland you’ve been planning. Do you want to stop this so that you can really focus on that sitting-down you’ve been promising to commit yourself to for the next 25 years?
People who throw spears for a living don’t ever want to stop. Think about it. You throw the spear and either you’re successful (and you eat whatever’s on the other end of it) or you’re not- in which case you get the amazing opportunity to throw a spear at something again.
“Maintain your sharp-items” is the only real piece of graffiti I have executed, and is one of the most meaningful things I have ever done to a wall (not that all those games of kick-ball meant nothing).
If it’s yours- keep it sharp because a 401k isn’t going to keep the hordes off your porch.
I don’t know when, or why, but I’m presuming that hordes will be a fairly constant annoyance in our lives at some point. Like running out of toilet paper. Perhaps once every 7 months- you’ll run out of toilet paper, or a horde will turn up- grumbling about 401k’s and why their spears are useful in situations like this. Hordes adore spears. You’ll need one too.
I’m already here- what else really needs to be done? The main race was taking place throughout my pa’s genitals, and on into my mother’s genitals, and finally resting on the sofa with a lot to do with my own genitals. And with any luck; getting to know someone else’s.
I’m here- what the fuck. Permit me that at least. Ultimately I shall die, so don’t push pretention and paperwork my way- I’m trying to climb this tree. Whilst typing.
What someone does with their life should be about what they want, even if they wish to retire (in which case prepare to be frowned-the-fuck-upon). However, I feel that given a chance, people will take up professionally hunting fruit and veg as a living, perhaps advancing into spearing fauna at some point- when moving targets are achievable and we get bored of stabbing cabbage.
This is the one ultimate point.
We all get bored. We will all get bored
The curious are victorious- to be dead a long time and wary of this. We should send them all a hamper for doing so well. I’m sure they already have enough medals.
The successful in life are the curious ones. Their curiosity might bring them to the success of enjoyment, of the alternative success of failure- through which experience will be gained and possibly another of those medals. Your failure makes your success more likely.
No matter what we do, curiosity, with a little courage thrown in, wins the daily day and is the reason we have bread, the reason we have bungee-jumping, the reason we have contraceptives, and the reason why I chose to get up each morning.
My personal development has little to do with numbers and letters. But I’m a curious one and I tend to say ‘yes’ 90% of the time and I smile a lot. I win- I’m going to live well and keep doing what I’m doing. I don’t need a form for that.
I don’t have a pension plan, so for those that invest their lives in enforcing their reasons to have one: beware me. I’m going spear shopping. And that’s just swell.
Snails, frog legs, pig arseholes and spider legs.
I guess there’s not much else to do with them but to scrub them up, add wet heat, and then chew thoroughly.
When it comes to diets that you mostly…find…then you have to sacrifice your pickiness for the sake of belly-filler being so important.
You there- eat something! It’s largely what we’re here for, so either fuck it (also on the important to-do list) or eat. If you’re going to do both then do it down-stream. That mess will be famous. Especially if it’s a snail.
Cooked snails are rubbery, aside from the personality. In terms of personality- they’re all a great bunch of guys/girls. Not very rubbery.
A rubbery individual is a person/snail that I have not met. Probably. It’s not my duty to meet rubbery people/snails, and that’s about as amusing as this sentence is going to get. Rubbery people/snails. Meet them.
I do like spending time with my pet snail, Greed, who I have not told yet about the eating of his kin. We’re going to buy two dozen and ‘prepare’ them for cooking, which is immediately the cruellest thing you can do to them. First step, access the snails. Second step “lightly sprinkle a fine layer of rock salt over the escargot” (‘escargot’ being French for, I assume: ‘the little shelly-bastards because they fucked my wife too’). This makes them dissolve somewhat which is apparently the only way to prepare them as it makes them evacuate themselves- a thing you can’t really train them to do.
But, seriously, I single-handedly hate emptying snails.
You think there’d be a spoon for that, but it’s all down to fingers and blowing. As usual.
Pig’s areholes are a Soul food delicacy, if you’re hungry enough. From what I read in a Bizarre Magazine article from several years ago- Mr T fled from one once.
You take a pig arsehole. Wipe it (and there’s only one way to do that- think about it. Making the common sign-symbol for ‘dosh’ might give you the right idea) and then fry what’s left of the shit out of it. Then serve it to Mr T and watch him go. I bet he’d even get on a plane.
From what I guess- it’s like a ring of blubbery gum. That you know used to be a pig’s arsehole.
Tarantula legs are probably the only part of them I’d want to eat. Certainly rather than its fangs, or beady little eyes. Or its arsehole (I’m not fond of arseholes- you really only need one in my opinion).
I’m told they’re like chicken and that it is actual meat. That’s really all you need to know- that its contents is not poison slime, nor is it acid- nor a thousand tinnier spider that are trying to occupy your genitals. It is meat.
This- I would totally go for, only I am lacking in the spider leg jar in my larder. Someone help me.
Frog legs taste like chicken. Well- why not eh?
I’d eat a frog’s legs. But it would be interesting to see the side of it by vegetarian politicians that allow a little meat-eating. Maybe they’d just take the one leg from the frog, and then patch it up and leave it to continue its fairly dull life. Perhaps build it an artificial leg out of the left-overs from a meal of frog’s legs. They already hop anyway.
I know it’s cruel to do the rock-salt treatment to these two-dozen garden snails, but if I don’t eat anything for a while then I’ll be hungry and I’m sure it’s acceptable to do these things if you’re hungry.
Poor buggers- may they rest in delicious, rubbery, garlicky-buttery peace.
Today I will be talking about talking about taking personification too far, because personification told me to.
To begin, I want to make the point that, as is common with people with an unfortunate/tragic growth- they might give it a name. I’ve never had a growth, aside from hair, which I haven’t named.
So I did some reading.
Take for example Joan, from London, gets cancer, and cancer makes her feel bad, so she focuses positive thinking unto this little bastard of a lump so as to reduces the power it has over her.
Lump equates to chemo. So she names the lump Basil. Now Basil equates to chemo. And it’s better to say ‘fuck Basil’ than just ‘fuck cancer’. Makes the fight more personal.
“How is little Basil doing?” might ask a particularly informed (but not enough to refrain from asking) passer-by.
“My Basil is having a hard time at the moment- he’s in a jar following meeting that wonderful surgeon fellow” Joan would reply.
And then…what would Basil say, as he sat sweating in a jar?
Would he just sigh? A failed attempt, try again next time?
What does a cancer lump do following decapitation from the lucky body-part? And in that vein, what does a cancer lump do when it is victorious and has consumed the whole of Joan? There’s nothing left of Joan to infect- how does a cancer like Basil spend it’s time now? Can it follow up its greatest achievement of having Joan’s tits removed and jarred?
Or does it just die? And if it just dies, then what’s the fucking point in doing it anyway? Obviously cancer has no real vision. Basil could have made something of himself, but is only really a one-hit-wonder following Joan’s bosom.
I’m feeling a strong need to clarify that I hate basil as much as the next guy (and I can see him from here and he actually looks like he hates cancer a little less than me- the wanker). And now that I know Basil has such little direction in life/death, I dislike him all the more.
Fuck the Basil that equates to chemo. He has no right to equate to chemo. Nelson Mandela, Isaac Newton, Freddie Mercury, not even any of those guys had a right to equate to chemo. What makes Basil think he’s so fucking swell?!
And in terms of this, I’m also wondering (seeing as how I’m taking personification way too far today) what cancer would wear whilst out and about.
I have a feeling he/she’d wear lots of undeserved medals. I can picture that easily. The sort of disease that would show off and complain about how the diseases of today are so weak-willed compared to the good old days. The good old days of cholera and Black Death- real hearty stayers of a contagion. Oh they’re in the address book, crossed out and KIA. I’m sure cancer misses them terribly.
Aside from that I’m thinking pinstripes. With a handkerchief and gold teeth. Gold teeth dotted around his face because it’s symbolism for spending money and making only a dent. I bet cancer loves a bit of symbolism. I bet it even bought those gold teeth himself.
Cancer clearly tries too hard.
I think cancer would listen to Coldplay.
This is an image of a pinstriped, handkerchief-ed, penetrated by gold-teeth weirdo named Basil reclining in a burgundy leather armchair, his head rolling back and his ears filling with what he wants, and what he wants is Coldplay.
He looks extraordinarily uptight, like a man that never learnt how to wank.
Cancer doesn’t smoke.
But he does scratch himself with your discarded left-overs. Like Joan’s tits.
Oh my, he is a bastard. I would never do that.
The female version is likely tall, really tall. Taller than all of us, with a hint of burliness that can only be contended with by a distinct knife to the testicles before she hopefully goes away. I don’t know her name, but she smells like petrol.
This is the brute bitch that did what she did to one of Arthur’s two-veg.
She wears a pinny and has killer heels.
I love shoes, and I respect heels, but a personification of cancer wearing fabulous shoes? That’s a tip-toed stride over the line of ‘shoes Sam’s willing to allow’. Not that I have much say in anyone’s footwear. This rule only applies to cancer because I’m trying to find a way to bully it.
Arthur would love to do this, but a knife to the bollocks was his only option.
I wonder what Arthur and Joan would do if they ever bumped into the personification of cancer in the street.
I really don’t know. What do you say to someone after a relationship like that?
Either spit hatred or wish them all the best because you’re not quite sure either. Unless you know you can walk away and simply hope to never see that personification again, in which case that’s currently all we can do.
Apart from personify it.
And mock it.
And wear pink.
Fuck Basil and whatshername… we’ll forget about them someday, and remember Arthur and Joan.
Here’s to you guys.
So, we all have a time of hate in our lives. I have to admit that when mine gets going it’s normally when I haven’t received enough compliments in a while.
Whenever such a lack of such things occurs- I’ll find a reason for removing you from my life as soon as possible. It is a very negative situation and I apologise in advance and for earlier.
I also swear that a little bit of that hate-like substance called retribution will do great things for you, mainly get you out of the habit of holding that chair with your arse and instead place the chair within your grasp, then through a window, and then you and the chair are gone. If you’re angry enough, it’ll be hilarious.
A censorship is a badge of honour to all the right people- almost as if there work has been ‘okayed’ back-handedly by the admins-that-be. I am still waiting for some people to want other people to stop reading my work. I truly hope they are flaccid-dicked enough to have a go at me. I could make a living and a death out of that kind of recommendation. They just need to be a little more flaccid.
What is important is my lack of pride.
Humbleness is an ability not to be fucked with. Beware the humble just as much as you might never turn your back on the quiet ones. Humble fellows make you eat their brand of pie. And when someone can make you eat any kind of pie, even if you want to eat it, they are the ones in charge. You are too busy eating pie, humble or otherwise.
That fact that I am not proud to say what I feel is reflected in the idea of true equality in reference to race. If you do not notice a person is a different colour than you, then you are very sweet and deserve a promotion from whatever it is that you sweetly do, but this is rare and hopefully a matter of the times. To be able to say what you feel, and as that, say what you feel rather than what you feel you should be permitted to feel- is a similar box of frogs. We are now just bargaining over the legs- because we are French (and I, personally, am racist).
Say what you want, and let them say that you can’t say what you want. The battle of dignity is won, and for our species that is a constant war so therefore you might as well win a few battles. Go ahead and shit your pants, but don’t cry. If you cry- you have done something far worse. You’ve soiled your eyelids.
To be proud of what you say might be a swipe at your own existence. You could instead be proud of what you are doing, as opposed to what you are saying. What you say and what you think is not something to be boastful about: “Enjoy my company because I told a risqué joke about bamboo and rude locations in my twenties”. Your actions are at times to be relayed, and all the time they are to be done, had, in process, in action- KEEP MOVING. Activity- don’t let them take it from you.
However, if those flaccid-fuckers enter your sphere of influence and try to adopt it into their own sphere of influence of telling people what to do because they actually want to tell you what to think, then all that’s happening is two spheres pleasantly colliding into one another, and two spheres doing that look like tits and that’s just marvellous.
Partly, mostly, marvellous owing to looking like tits, but also owing to the fact that making things breast-esque is exactly what they hate the most.
So let it be.
However, I feel that my work might not be the sort worthy of a decent dose of censorship. To end with an example, please allow the following:
I realised recently that if you take the French word ‘bisque’, and then you take the French word for ‘and’, which is ‘et’, then all you have to do is put the two together to make the sound similar to ‘biscuit’.
And then all you need is a reason to say ‘biscuit’.
But until then…please censor me… or…get fucked.
And drug-themed pornography criticising the government.