Women And Begetting.

Posted: November 24, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Women are women. You might have noticed.

What aspects of these creatures are we all to consider as items of biological personality worth considering?

Things to be enjoyed and things to be remembered- in case they turn and gang up on you. These things follow. They are numerical, so I hope you enjoy that.

1. There is nothing quite like holding, or being held, by a woman. You can set yourself right into that zone of physical emotion that takes over when it comes simply to a pair of thin but unrelenting arms being around you. This can be accomplished by hugging a bloke as well- but as we know, when it comes to physical contact, and especially when it comes to women, females are far more preferable in terms of being appropriately lumpy. Men are inappropriately lumpy- the opinion of many.

Then we have the flavour of females. The sheer smack of hormones from one of those ‘whiffable’ beauties can send you overboard and inside out- both of which are admirable traits in a man thoroughly using a woman he should.

In this same vein we have the flavour of either pair of lips. The upper’s are focused around the sensation of touch (touching all over what you have been brave enough to ask them to) and the appearance. Making a woman do that smiling thing with those upper lips of hers- it makes you imitate with a compulsion that denies you your supposed intelligence and reminds only of the duo facts: that you are barely beyond a childish ape, and you are making this woman.

As for the lower lips- we all know about them. If you don’t- I can only recommend it.

I want to give those lower lips a medal, you would too. And the smell…is tremendous. There is nothing like the flavour of fanny to be promised to you for the end of the day. Penetration is the ultimate reward for a hard day’s work. Get into it and it’s hard to stop thrusting. The flavour is undoubtedly meaty, but there’s not much that can be done about that. If anything- it’s of benefit to the nostrils, the meat being sweet and the presence of that smell so close to your nostrils only suggests that the proximity to your own genitals is favourable.

That feeling…dear sweet heavens above…that feeling. It has been widely noted that the feel of a woman is the inspiration that makes us (being the men of mankind) do anything. You can even name it- anything you can name is something we’re prepared to do.

I like to refer to it as: ‘The Reason’.

It feels like you’re back to the place you’ve been trying to get to since you opened your eyes, and it feels like that in your penis. And it feels like that in your hair. It feels like that in your teeth and your hips. In your finger-tips and your heart and lungs and toes. It feels like…as I’ve said…’The Reason’.

I recommend it.

2. I was once standing directly between two women that were defending their children from one another.

It was stunning- I have never been so impressed. You could see the hormones steaming off of them in the cold air of the day. I felt like I was…just a male, caught in between.

You see, one of the children has slapped the offspring of the other woman on the play equipment at a local park. The mother of she-who-was-slapped made a point of approaching the child so as to scare the shit out of him to ensure this wouldn’t happen again, at which point the mother of the ‘slappee’ intercepted and then the literal finger-pointing began. And the screeching.

Being male, whatever that might mean, I made my way over to intercept, and failed the fuck out of it. I arrived as the screeching was impressive enough to make me go all meek. Both were very ready to kill and die as their instincts kicked in and the power of mildly-loud speech fled too. I think they would’ve been ready to eat each other as well. It seemed natural.

So, to avoid a fight by the mothers in front of their children, I simply stood between them and encouraged them to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Neither conceded until I was eventually firm (and sweet-Jesus was I firm) and sent one off in the other direction.

As I turned back to the remaining mother, I realised she was pointing at me. With her finger. Screaming. I also realised that my knees were touching.

There is nothing like being told off by a woman. Particularly a mother. Because they know that they can wither you down to the raisin that you are whilst you cower in respect of their grapey-self. What comes next is their reasons for why they’re good at this. They have to be.

3. Women are a people living in constant fear, or at least acknowledgement of, of being ‘socially defeated’ by a male.

You see, men are bigger and stronger than their female counterparts. Their hands are larger, with a denser skeleton, a superb (comparatively) reaction time and a two instincts that are far more intimidating than we men care to consider.

The first instinct of men is to not get beaten down. Therefore, we are somewhat naturally able to beat the good-grief out of most things. We know how to hurt, and we will keep trying until we know how to.

The second instinct is to occupy women. To take them, have them, grip them tightly…to own them in quantity.

These two instinct are frightening. The first instinct scares us all, man fears man, woman fears man. The second instinct is one that men accept as an aspect of their nature, whilst for women- it makes them walk home in the dark quickly, a slight presence of fear being forever there.

Imagine, fellas, that half the species out there was bigger than you, with an obvious instinct to defeat and kill whatever is defeat-able and kill-able. And that you were one of those things that was defeat-able and kill-able, you will really, really appreciate just how rape-able you are. The guys out there that might have had no choice in who or what touched them might understand this.

Women are a people frightened. This needs to be remembered. Particularly when it comes to high-heels.

4. Heels are the female phallus, simply beneath the sole (it’s wordplay. You should know that).

As we know woman are a people tormented, not by the fact that they are small and weak, but rather more because they are smaller and weaker than their counter-parts: mankind.

Second-fiddle is a literal place to be throughout the history of womankind. The physical reasons for this have been discussed, so now we encounter the means for women to deal with this problem.

Largely, this means high-heels. Those extra few inches make a massive difference when you are required to look a man in the eye. We don’t discuss it, but we all know that the few inches difference between two opponents means something. Even when it doesn’t come down to blows, the sociological meaning of those inches is that (if you are taller): “I am the superior- I am the larger”, whereas if you’re…petit: “You are the larger, I am petit. Congrats on your success”.

So, those meaningful inches enable women in boardrooms and staffrooms and in all places of business to look a man in the eye and therefore- be equal. At least in terms of confrontation occurring in the fancy form of conversation.

Not entirely equal (and therefore, I suppose, not technically…equal) but it makes an enormous difference.

I have worked with women my entire life and if you have too then you might not have realised that nigh-on every single woman you encounter is in fact an inch or two shorter than you have happily presumed. Their height is a lie, and you fell for it. You mug.

You had no idea that the average woman is probably actually a great deal smaller than you. She has altered her appearance to change your perception of her, and more importantly, her perception of herself.

Women have crafted this tool for themselves to promote their capabilities in the dialect of eye-contact. By making themselves the same height as men, or at least slightly less short, they have been making themselves a presence physically considered in a different format than previously.

Previously they were considered as legs, bosoms, backsides and lovely long hair.

Now they are considered as something that might tower over you when pissed off- something that is unpleasant to collide with, not just out of manners, but out of the sheer mass being unfavourable to meet at speed.

Height-via-heels makes you think about that. Hair does not. Hair makes you think about one of the things covered in ‘Point 1’…something to grip.

5. Big Hair is just tremendous to have tumbling down a woman’s back, poofed up around her head and neck and tickling the light fixtures of whatever room they’re in. Big Hair. I want to get me some. So do you.

For me, Big Hair is an interesting subject as it is a cross between the high-heeled phallus effect that women use to become physically imposing and the simple suggestion of something so sexy that most men have no option but to achieve erection and have it stay with them for several days. Big Hair- visual viagra.

Women are then, following the sheer sexual power that such body parts and persona have on a man, able to walk away. And so these men, although they might be ‘with-boner’; they are very, very lonely. With a boner.

Making a man lonely with an erection is the greatest power that a woman can have. It is this power than makes a man go to work in the hope that the sensation might leave him and that the pleasure of ‘Point 1’ might arrive- all over him.

This is power far beyond what a fist can do.

This is the power of the species- controlling how we make more of them.

6. Babies seem to have quite a bit of pull in this world.

They seem to have their own power that overcomes all that a man and a woman can offer. Indeed- it is what makes a man and a woman offer all that they can.

But if you fuck with a guy’s car, his collection of albums or his mother- you can be sure that you’ve crossed a line.

You don’t really have this with women. The only example that women have of this, aside from if you try to tackle their man-friend, is if you try to take/eat their children.

Now this obviously this tracks back to ‘Point 2’ but I want to address something else in link with it.

Women…want…children. In the same way that men feel that perpetual need to go about the means of procreation, women feel the need to have a baby. And when they’ve had that baby- they will smell it and be happy.

You, being merely male, are forgotten about- you were only the means, now you are creep that is never going to be good enough for her children, because nothing is going to be good enough for her children. This is a good mother.

As a man, you are like everything else that seemed lusty at the time of sex, and afterwards seems kind of gross. A discarded condom, puddles of semen gone awry in its aim, and little curly hairs. You rank amongst these now and- no- it isn’t fair. That’s possibly why you have that need to move on and go about sexing the women you encounter.

What is my point?

7. The point of this all is that as a man- you are doomed to females and doomed to lack of females.

They are the entire purpose of you being here. Just as there would be no children without parents- there would be no men without women- and indeed vice-versa.

As I said before, women are women and that is fine. There really is little we can do about that and really there is not much that we should do about that.

All you have to remember is that their smell is hypnotising, their gravitas is undeniable, their fury is unmatchable even by the sun, their maternal instinct is final, they are smaller than you think and they are frightened, they might have big hair for you to look forward to, and they feel…just like a woman.

I hate them because I love them so much- fairly much the definition and a great way to end this article.

What all these aspects beget is one of those feelings that seems eternal from this side of the clock. It is some kind of love and some kind of nature molten together into this female character and body which gives us a reason to be here, rather than an excuse.

Women, begetting and what women beget- it’s a heck of a thing to stand and enjoy.

Sam

The Metaphors Are Rusty.

Posted: November 17, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

I’ve been up a mountain.

It didn’t help.

No change to my personality or outlook occurred, nor do people sense a degree of empowerment about the way I walk now.

I meet challenges in the exact same manner as I did before.

And so it was that I came to realise- these metaphors…they are bollocks.

A mountain is the literal poster-boy of determination; the metaphor used by those to say: “you should probably respect me because I went up that, you know”.

Climbing a mountain is one thing that takes determination for some. It is only relative.

This was one of those metaphors that one simply encounters in life, and it has no bearing on the way you perceive your events and course. Climbing a mountain- something that for some is the establishment of ‘Let’s do something tricky’, is for many others a challenge that is not apparent as such.

For many others, a greater challenge would be what consumes their interest. Like a woman that sits down one morning and decides that the only way to continue is to eat only things that are alive and really rather wriggly when encountering a fork.

That is tricky.

Now, I’m not saying that for me climbing a mountain is easy, though it is one ‘helluva’ (that’s right- ‘helluva’) lot easier to walk up one than to climb up one. It’s just…what’s the pay-off?

Well, in this you have two main aspects.

To begin with, finally you have the view from the top. That’s a big one, though interestingly enough you need to be atop a mountain with the view a bit further than the end of your nose. Fog, mist and cloud cover might get in the way of what there is to see, although as well, perhaps the fog is what there is to see. I suppose it’s a little weird, so I suppose it’s a little enjoyable.

And this leads me onto the second point. The interesting things that might occur to your person as you make you way up and down.

I was nearly blown off a mountainside in a torrent of rain and punch of wind. A tempest you might say, only punchier.

Here, the acquisition of the summit mattered not- it was the danger and activity at all other points that made me smile. The pay-off was the wandering, not the arrival.

And so it might go as truth to say that all the pleasure of the journey could have been achieved by avoiding the top. Should anything of value to you occur at the top- then that is due to luck rather than likelihood.

Yet, for so many the summit seems to be the entire point, whereas one might argue that, aside from what I have already, the point is in striving through the climb and having a really bad time. If you don’t do that, then the reason for the climb is lost for so many.

“I hope you nearly fall off the mountain. That’s why you’re going isn’t it?”

And what other metaphors and sayings amount to a severe need to be reconsidered?

‘Sheep’?

The question: ‘Sheep?’ is a good one.

Yes, sheep are like the people they are aligned to in metaphor. Running to and with the crowd. Gnawing upon crud, doing little else. Being fairly thick.

But you’d better believe that for some reason, out of nowhere, out of some-hellish-blue those woolly fuckers will head-butt you and any part of you.

The average man in the street is not of this ilk. He will not head-butt you here, there or anywhere, whereas I prefer to assume that a sheep is going to head-butt some portion of my person. This is from valued, ugly and- yes- regrettably woolly experience.

As for a next step from here, now that we all know what’s really going on, it is apparent that we should establish a whole bunch of new metaphors and, as such, sayings.

“Eiffel Tower It” is a saying that I hope will come into pass one day when someone does something vital at the time to someone else using the Eiffel Tower. Whatever that thing is, and it will likely involved thrusting, I hope the saying lasts.

“The Metaphors Are Rusty” is evidently an appropriate saying for when the components of the old world crumble in the face of actual experience by each new generation. “The Writing’s On The Wall” in this case, that a thorough and piercing re-evaluation of what words in a certain order were previously ours.

So “The Metaphors Are Rusty”, and I’m about to make like a banana.

You may find me making like a banana at neither the top nor bottom of a mountain, but everywhere in-between.

Sam.

Poppies. Reminiscent of Love, Reminiscent of Fear.

Posted: November 11, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

November, and the previous month, are a time in the UK in which people wear poppies.

Small and large, plastic and linen, attached through button holes and by safety pins and needles.

I don’t think you’re allowed on TV unless you wear a poppy.

The reason for this is to make a personal statement in public concerning your opinions on World War 1 and 2. If you wear a poppy, then you are stating that you are ‘against’ World War 1 and 2, and that you are commemorating the lost lives in those wars.

“World War One? I’m against it.”

There is nothing in so much wrong with this. It has two wonderful benefits- such as that if you buy a poppy from the official charity, then proceeds proceed to the families of those that have died in warzones in more recent conflicts.

Another benefit, one that I much appreciate, is that the poppies are ubiquitous. And as such- children, being naturally curious about their environment, ask what they represent. Therefore, the answer of “To commemorate the lives of those lost in the world wars” comes forth, and the subject of these astounding events in human history are breached unto the child- and so they are aware.

This is great- telling children about it is crucial to their outlook and to their understanding.

If we don’t tell children, then the point of everything is entirely lost. It is the one moral that we all aspire to.

However, there is a negative side to this that swerves away from the path of attempting to change the world following two explosions of evil.

If you don’t wear a poppy- then by definition (by many that wear the poppy) you don’t respect the dead lost in the wars.

And if you don’t respect the dead- then you’re the bad guy.

Maybe you’re the kind of person to start a war. Perhaps you enjoy a nice war- and you think bullets are the way forward. The kind of person that only eats off of a bayonet, and if not then you want nothing to do with it.

I knew it- you’re a violent one. One of those people that wants nothing more than to annex your neighbour and distinctly not stop there.

I can tell that your favourite metaphors revolve around penetrating others with revoltingly blunt objects at high speeds. You struggle making these metaphors, but you eventually get it out. Then people move away from you. I can tell this about you.

I can tell by your lack of poppy.

So, perhaps you have given a tremendous amount to charities around the world in an effort to relieve the effects of war. And maybe you have educated a multitude of children about the history of the world wars.

But you haven’t got a poppy…so…fuck you. As it turns out- you’re Hitler.

You are a traitor, you are not a patriot, and you are a disrespectful fool only interested in saving 20 pence and not risking getting pricked by a safety pin.

And you punch babies.

And you’re a work-shy lout.

You’re probably not a God-fearing Christian. I bet you’re not even from this country.

You’re what’s wrong with this country. Something will happen to you soon.

Essentially, by choosing not to wear a poppy, for whatever reasons you have, the effect reminds me of being made to wear a yellow star.

You are not in uniform with the rest of the nation, you stand out and you are different. That’s why you’re fucked.

Maybe if you’d had respect enough to do what everyone else did- you wouldn’t be getting frowned upon like this.

Maybe it’s time you blended in. Perhaps we should all blend in.

Don’t forget- if you’re not blending in, then you’re a violent coward that kicks his breakfast to death and shits on every war-orphan you encounter, even if there’s no need for it.

So my suggestion is this: buy a poppy and wear it before you get singled out and bullied. Because that’s what people do. Because they’re too fucking stupid to think before they do.

One thing I must make plain here- not all that wear a poppy have this opinion. A great deal of people simply wish to grieve the dead, promote peace, educate the young, and all-round try to help the planet a little before they leave it and that is all. They don’t want to hate because others are different. I love these people. They think. But I fear it has become so that people now simply use the poppy, rather than respect its meaning.

To summarise, wear a poppy if you wish. Good for you. Charity is charity and educating children is, as I said, essential.

And, to summarise just a little more, if you don’t wear a poppy, then fine. Good for you. You may be contributing aid and effort stopping the woes around the world born and left from war, and you may play your part in ensuring that the next generation is aware of the horror and the tragedy that these vile events have played in very recent human history. It happened to our parent’s parents.

It will happen to your children’s children.

But, remember this- as this is the point that should be most prominent in our moral thinking following the events of WW2.

Think, before you join in. Never be afraid to be apart from the pack, for whatever reason. Bully no one for being different, however different you may feel them to be. The Jews were different, so they paid. The followers of the Nazi’s did not think, and so we all paid.

For too many, this is not about remembrance. It is about trying to prove something to others about themselves. This is something that comes from a lack of self to actually offer, so this visage is seized upon and thrown forward as though it is of actual worth- staining the true meaning of displaying this symbol by associating it with idiocy and fear.

I will not be wearing a poppy, for now at least. And you’ll be able to tell how much I care by looking for what is missing from my chest. I will not be wearing a poppy to show respect to those that were bullied and made ‘missing’ thanks to those that refused to think. I refuse to wear a poppy, for those who were given no choice but to wear a yellow star.

And there we have it.

This has been quite a long and intense article, so I thought I’d end on a lighter note.

I think a good slogan for a corporation would be: ‘NEVER FLACCID’. It needn’t be a company with anything to do with Viagra. It’s a state of mind. And, yes, a state of penis too.

That’ll do nicely.

Sam.

How Many ‘A’s Is Appropriate?

Posted: November 6, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

How many ‘A’s is appropriate in the written utterance of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH”?

Apparently 9.

Is there a need for the ‘G’s and ‘H’s?

Is an exclamation mark welcome?

I can’t think of any much worse than inserting an inappropriate number of ‘A’s in to…anything. I mean- that could really ruin a apple-pie.

You see- I’m going carving at the weekend. A buddy and I go to a patch of woods that we might happen to find. Silverbirch a’plenty. I’m going to take this term to the trees.

Scarring them with a term- from what I’ve found to be way up on the list of pleasant things to do to a tree.

Tree-graffiti.

I noticed the term “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” to be an oft-repeated phrase throughout human history. It is the natural human cry- relevant in joy, fear, birth and murder.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” transcends dialect, accent and human divisions, even alternative species. Africans, Europeans, Americans, Asians, apes galore- we all let loose an occasional “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH”.

It suits us.

Therefore- the truly meaningful…thing…that I was looking to carve into the fallen branch I had found, was born. And I think ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ would be a wonderful term to sit on.

Obviously, perhaps owing to our shared and celebrated sense of creativity or our shared and accepted sense of laziness- we knew that we would be sitting on this branch at some point.

Owing to its transcending of most signals of emotion (fear, joy, murder, birth, pain and pleasure)- it has only one true definition that is undeniable to all that hear it. No matter the reason for it’s being uttered- the translation is forever: ’SOMEONE’S HERE’.

And that’s it. It translates as: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

To hear this cry is to be aware that a person (or something apishly-similar) made it, and is therefore likely nearby. And it means this…loudly.

No matter the root of cause for it- the root meaning of it is: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

And who wouldn’t want to scream that?

Got something better to scream?

Ok, fine. That’s a good one too, but I’m sticking with the traditional: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’. Or ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ to be more dramatic.

This one could be on T-shirts.

And this is why knowledge of how to actually spell the term is important to me right now. Because I’m going to carve it, and I’m going to carve it onto T-shirts.

So, once more- with feeling: ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’.

And you can quote me on that.

Sam.

I Wish This Was Written On A T-Shirt.

Posted: November 1, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I swear I thought of this in the 90’s.

However, I (and probably you too) are likely not the first to have this idea. Most of us alive today weren’t having ideas in the 70’s- when some of the best stuff came our way (the floppy-disk…timeless).

My plan was to write a statement (or at least something that would be interpreted as such) on the front of a plain white T-shirt, perhaps with an accompanying picture. It was essential that the sentence would be taken as a statement, if only extremely personally- to the author/wearer.

The idea was another one that I laid back on my laurels for- leading to its distinct lack of materialisation. You probably didn’t notice that this idea of mine never bore fruit, largely because it had nothing to do with fruit- unless it was on a T-shirt and being witty. There’s a market in making objects appear witty. Just take toilet seats- everyone gets the joke. Or telephones.

First of all, there was the name of the company label. You know- the one you’ve never heard of.

‘None Of A Kind’…..oooh.

These T-shirts are so unique that even they aren’t like them.

There would be nothing like this, and that was the point. Repetition is death in culture- something the easily bored appreciate greatly- once. A repeated statement is listened to, but dull. That’s why they change them.

Then there was what was to be the goal of every piece of produce produced. Let extreme relativity be the essence of the output.

Originality was being moral, a good thing, whilst also making these T-shirts ones that were easy to kill was another.

The idea of killing the T-shirt was harsh, but would mean that the one-time statement could be let out for a temporary-while, allowed to fade from the linen and out of the mind, having done its part, and leaving a gloriously stained canvas all over your chest. Non-permanent ink was a favourite tool, whilst permanent ink also did well because they are bollocks and not in a good, permanent way. We were going to kill the fashion and start over. Naturally.

Tattoos just can’t do this. They take themselves too seriously, and often too shitly.

I understand that this might be a common undertone in the ethos of many other companies- but truly: ‘Allow not one shit-bit’ was something to throw at the wall until it stopped bouncing back. Then again, maybe the ‘bouncing back’ (here meaning- the return of unsightly ideas and repetition) would fire up the engines of the artist, thus equating to an artist ready for whatever might come to them next.

The problem with the tattoo stain is that, whilst being permanent is beautiful in its way, it has a flaw in that beauty. The problem with being permanent is that it can last too long. You’ve probably noticed. You’ve probably been noticing for a long time.

‘None Of A Kind’ was going to be like beach art- it would leave us alone when it was done. Art that would bugger off when you were done with it. This also depended on the month- the sweat of July would eradicate nicely if you let it.

You don’t need to be rich to have an original ‘None Of A Kind’. Let’s be honest- we really can’t appreciate how tough the rich have it because you’re just an average person born to death whilst hopefully wearing a super-cool T-shirt. Aside from hoping your crops grow, what more could you ask for?

Jeez I hope you’re crops do well this harvest. I’m sure that’s weary on your mind. Crops- got to love them.

Also that you birth only males.  I would never wish upon you a legacy of daughters.

Ok, so may your loins only bear sons, may your crops be luscious and fruitful (and the same goes for your sons) and I hope your T-shirts are super cool. I don’t think I even need to suggest you have a nice day- that’s hardly the point. Having a nice day might be one of the worst things that happen to you. A super cool T-shirt; well done….well done.

The price of one white T-shirt, a permanent marker, preferably black and then the mere price of workmanship, although the best part of this was that you’d be doing this yourself. No cost of workmanship, and an extremely personal or appropriate message, this was awesome. A brand name that was to be taken, sabotaged by the individual and therefore successful- you can understand that this whole idea was probably too theoretical and unlikely to be initiated from the get-go. Whatever a ‘get-go’ might be.

‘Graffiti that follows you to work’- was another way of looking at it.

The moral message of graffiti is to alter your environment in severe contrast to advertising and grey corporate bullshit. This is why graffiti is colourful. Doing this, being colourful and righteous from the neck to the belt, meant that your statement of the day could adorn yourself rather than a building, would lead to an extremely low-risk of arrest, and could go with you around the corner.

Remember- it’s not the boring wall, it’s the shitty neighbours. Be a good neighbour by wearing an always-original ‘None Of A Kind’ and we’ve all won.

I really, really wish I’d actually done this. No one’s fault but mine that I didn’t. But I will also say: ‘Fuck the nineties’. That’s better.

If you can guess the moral of my writing today then I recommend that you take up the advice yourself. The moral is: start a revolutionary T-shirt company to initiate the global phenomenon of ‘None Of A Kind’.

You will make no money.

You will get no credit.

But you might just get a cool T-shirt out of it.

Super cool.

Sam.