The End Times…

The End Times are approaching, as always.

Bad luck- conditions of the planet. Nothing you can do about it, just let it wash over you…whatever ‘it’ might be.

So, what are the End Times?

Is it a time when you don’t want to be? A time where you no longer fit as you once did previously?

Really- I think it’s relative.

It’s time when we wouldn’t be comfortable anymore, like a 19th Century Klan member walking down a modern New York street, or a time in the distant future from now when the eating of the elderly is an essential and a jolly pastime.

Or perhaps if a Tudor man was to see an average car advert (the neon green car with models flipping in night-glow paints and coloured contact lenses). He doesn’t want to exist where this car is from- such bright colours and flipping are aspects of the devil. He doesn’t like it here in this advert.

Take for example, the situation of the cow and the ants.

Sounds like a moral fable doesn’t it? Maybe it is. Actually, no- better not say that in case this turns out to be an immoral fable and bastards start to refer to the story of ‘the cow and the ants’ when they’re about to be dastardly. Got to watch out for bastards. They’ll fuck up your fables.

So this cow’s trotting down the street next to eight million ants.

They look at each other and realise their mutual hatred and the fact that they’re going to wipe each other out. So they go about it.

And, following a ‘moo’ and a…’scuttle’ (?) and a thud- the cow is no more. Nothing remains- not even the eyelashes. How could you ignore the eyelashes of a cow? I want some- I could put them on the rim of my shoes, and therefore have nice shoes. I can’t think of another way to improve them.

This has little to do with why people are going to have to be eating ants instead of cows (aside from the mass of resources that a cow consumes compared to how much it takes the eight million ants to say “No thanks- truly I’m full, but the cow was delicious thanks”), but I think perhaps it’s a testament of class that we only eat the superior creature. “I only eat the victorious”- a pompous saying for pompous people, an essential aspect of the world- otherwise there’d be a lot less fancy French food critics- something I believe only exists in comics and film.

Therefore, being a little pompous is alright- it creates a food-market for victorious creatures, and acting roles for people with high-brows and large noses. Ants win on mass. They’re good at mass.

You could tell your children that. And then it’d be there turn to be confused.

A another aspect to this would be that cows cry when they’re about to be murdered, and ants…might, I don’t know, but at least the fact that it’s too hard to tell equates to the other fact that I therefore don’t really care. Maybe ants cry, but because we don’t see it, we don’t cry for those tears.

So ultimately,’ bye-bye beef’. Feel free to weep.

‘Good morning chewing antennae’- the essential cornerstone of any breakfast when there’s not enough resources to feed an oxen.

Besides, fewer oxen mean that there are fewer things to covet. You’re going to have to try to sin with beetles now, and I wish you well with that. They don’t cry, you know.

The next aspect of the End Times is that you’re going to need to get a boat and die on it.

Because aside from fishing, nice neighbours and sunsets, that’s all that there’s going to be left to do.

You see, you’re going to need a boat owing to lack of living space on land, and possibly because you prefer what mutated, radioactive Fukushima tuna is left over from what the fishing industry abandoned compared to seeing pickled grasshoppers in a jar on your supermarket shelf.

Not only due to this, but also owing to the fact that, aside from there being too many children to have a space to stand, there’s also going to be no room to fuck. And a large amount of pressure to stop making other humans.

There’s no way to ensure that enormity of a mass sterilisation process, and so fucking will just be frowned upon and in many cases prohibited by those with weaponry exclusively designed with reproductive organs in mind (they are either long, thick, with terrifying balls on, or they are wide and soggy with a horrific ability to totally encapsulate you, as well as hypnotise).

When you have to move onto a boat owing to lack of space, maybe you should stop fucking, but trying telling that to anyone with both the ability to fuck and nothing wrong with them. In most cases of anything, fucking is the best bit, so telling people stop is going to be met with a disregard most apparent when they start to fuck in front of you on the poop-deck.

By the way- I like to say ‘fuck’ instead of ‘intercourse’ or ‘sex’, because ‘fuck’ suggests a confidence to do as such in any mood (joy, hate, hilarity, shame). ‘Sex’ suggests merely and regrettably procreative motives, whilst ‘intercourse’ is used only in writing, by those with a fear of saying it aloud in case it suddenly happens to them and stains their clothes and upsets the cat.

So you’ll be on a boat, with little chance to fuck (aside from the mutant fish). And you know you’ll want to die. Either that or make it a weird religious thing.

Religion is going to have some issues when we’re all on boats and eating grubs.

People just aren’t going to have time to pretend this piece of bread is His flesh. You’d just be amazed that you have some bread that you’re lucky enough to be able to spend some time with.

I think that people being tormented by the abundance of salt- water and the lack of non-soggy bibles to bash is either going to send the religious among us overboard…in a good way. Maybe overboard is where Jesus. I know it’s where God is.

Not to mention that when the End Times come, the people who have been enthusiastically waiting will have a terrific anti-climax.

Waiting and waiting and then finding out that ‘fire and brimstone’ doesn’t really happen anymore is going to suck for them. And then the lack of an ‘arc’ and a ‘Noah’ is also going to sting when you realise that you’ve not been invited.

“Who the fuck needs lions!? We don’t need a lion- let alone two of them! I could be sitting where that lion is right now! That’s it- I’m going…out!”

Even the bible will fall into a crack in the ground.

And then there’s the situation with the art. Where will it all go?

Things that were of such highly valued importance- the Mona Lisa- will drift into oblivion like a fat-guy downwards.

The Mona-Lisa is going to fall off the wall and stay there, eventually be eaten by ants still not full from the oxen (sharing between eight million never works well), before finally being shat.

All things will be shat at some point. Just be glad you’re on a boat, not being shat.

Some things will last longer than others. Is that what will matter in the End Times? Should the things that matter therefore have been made of plastic?

Plastic art probably exists, and now that I’m all for it I’m going to have to find a way to become a patron of it. It’d be nice to have a wing…

In the end, will all that combing of hair have mattered? All haircuts will be forgotten aside from the now-and-forever style of ‘Fukushima-baldness’- you shouldn’t have eaten the tuna that couldn’t swim. You should have eaten the crickets- it’d be one less thing to hear in the silence of your hairless nights. On a boat.

Full stops will be done for- and that’s the end of it.

Disney Land and Auschwitz will only be remembered jointly as: “places people used to go to. One was better”.

The Beatles will become an entity that never existed and that people distinctly don’t dance to, and wood will be one of those objects that has no source. You might be able to get a piece of wood, but chances are you can’t climb it. Unless you have a forest on a ship, but then you’re getting into Studio Ghibli territory, and I’m not that good of a writer to keep up with myself.

The End Times are coming…as always.

Your End Times are coming.

Remember that, and maybe you can get some more stuff done. Get yourself down to that boat yard…install an ant-farm.

Otherwise- I’ll see you next time, at the End of Times…

Sam

Advertisements

Hats. An On Again- Off Again Relationship.

When you love something immensely, you put it on your head.

I do at least.

In a manner of sheer ape-ish enthusiasm, the object of my delight is on my head and I am proceeding about my day. I do it in the bakery all the time (bagels).

I don’t seem to be able to help it. When entranced by an object, I have it as close to my head as I can whilst trying to keep the situation from getting messy, whilst also enjoying it when the messiness comes to a head…my head.

So I wear it upon my head, like a King wears his crown out of either love for the power or love for the duty. Or perhaps just the love of looking lovely in a crown.

Things I have put on my head owing to enthusiasm.

Buckets are an obvious example I’m sure we can all relate to, and this is probably owing to the fact that we get so content with a bucket around. A bucket- the archetypal vessel- has never been able to be replaced, and so in the presence of such perfection- we are happy, and we put it on our head.

You can’t beat a nice, warm bucket on a Saturday afternoon in the summer time.

In my opinion, seeing as how harsh the world is going to become in terms of surviving the future…buckets are going to become more in vogue than fucking, and that’s been popular since before there was a word for it.

So we put it on our heads (both buckets and fucking)

Why on our head?

Because it is notable about us- what we wear upon our head is an obvious statement of what we regard as important at the time of being viewed. Such as the king’s crown, such as when I am jubilant about apples (I also wear apples…because I’m really, really happy about them).

It is as if we are stating: “Yes- it certainly is on my head, just as it deserves to be. What are you going to do about it?”

I left the previous many paragraphs for about two weeks. This was owing to drunkenness. Not from being drunk for two weeks, which is beside the point, but because when I was writing last- I was somewhat hammered. Which did not help. Which is a shame because at the time it felt like it did

 I was waiting for something to say, but now I know I shouldn’t wait. Nor should you.

I swear that sometimes you just need something to say and that you shouldn’t pussy around with the intimidation of the blank page and the feeling that “I can only write when it comes naturally”. Force those words and then you’ll be able to do whatever you want with that once blank page.

So that’s the situation. Write whatever you feel like and if a point comes out of it then that can turn out to be the good reason for it. Other than that- just continue doing things to keep that page from being blank.  I mean- I started out talking about hats for fuck sake, and now here I am giving the down-low on writing ethics.

It’s not just about writing, as the philosophy translates easily to leaving your front door.

I caught a frog within seconds of leaving my front door three days ago, the broken toe I temporarily had was all forgotten for the moment, and the wish to only capitalise on the moment being lived was all that existed, aside from the frog.

It took a moment to pick it up, but other than that it was docile as toast.

What do you mean by that Sam?

Well, thanks for asking and let me get right down the brass tacks of answering your question.

‘Docile as toast’, which I have referred to this frog repeatedly as, is a nod towards the fact that the sheer amount of resistance the frog put up against my ‘carpe diem’ sensibilities of the moment was the act of being apparently buttery and falling.

Which is what toast does. It can be vaguely slippery and fall.

And then when it falls, it lands, and typically it simply remains. Which is what the frog did.

I couldn’t really call it a ‘get away’.

And so the simile works.

‘Docile as toast’- use it.

But I still had to repeat and utter and acknowledge and repeat the fact to the people that I encountered that day that I had caught a frog and that it was docile as toast.

The brilliance of the situation, the entire surge of the ‘carpe diem’ momentum that had willed me palm-wise towards a frog seemed lost on them, as was the simile- which I still maintain is worth anyone’s time.

To share the victory (called as such because I realised that technically I hadn’t lost anything) was a fubar point to these people.

I had to carry the joy that was temporary with me so as to make it from my front door of that morning until the next victory occurred.

Sometimes, that has to happen.

No one else ‘gets’ the joy, and so you have to be a little more joyous- not that you should keep smiling too much otherwise it will ruin everything you. Looking like a psycho only works is a few stabby little circles.

To re-iterate though, you should not forget that when you were putting that frog on your head because you were happy about it- it was more than an act of doing what you wanted with the blank page of your day- it was an act that might have led to a good reason.

Your ‘good reason’, your ‘point’, is our own meaning of life, and it is only likely to happen when you push and smile.

Do whatever you want to that blank page, discover if a ‘good reason’ happens afterwards and then put the consequences on your head because you love it. And keep pushing and smiling, but don’t smile too much.

If you want…

So, that’s where you get to with a blank page that you bully into being whatever you want, then talk about the importance of putting that pride and joy on your head, followed finally by saying you should apply this to your waking life as well. You get a blog, and you get that blog because you weren’t being a pussy.

Here’s another point, applicable to some other subject if not this one…I like the wording of it though- I might use it next time:

Sons and daughters of the land, throughout your lives, every proud moment of yours that your parents have rejoiced in, your mother has deep-down experienced the ultimate ‘emotion’ of “my-fanny-did-that”. Well done her.

That’s it- I found my good reason…I might print this and put it on my head. I hope you find your good reason too.

Don’t be a pussy with a blank page.

Sam.