The target audience demographic that I belong to is starting to disappoint me: I’ve realised that I’m poor because the TV I watch doesn’t feature a lot of yacht advertisements.
Cigar advertisements seem to pass me by seamlessly, as do leaflets enquiring as to whether or not I have enough bullion in my life. I have no vault. Vaultlessly yours…
Not once have I been approached by someone trying to get me to finally give in to purchasing another person. “Hey- I’ve gotten to that point in my life, wealth-wise, where buying someone is not a sign of snobbery. It’s neccessity. I cannot be expected to carry my own furs and I can’t stand cotton.
So, let’s make a little money- shall we? To bring this all about somewhat more actually, rather than the mere hypothetically motions I’ve been going through so far.
This is the premise of my financial future: ‘Bring back smelling. Bring it all back’.
You used to do it. Yes you did. Once there was what began as your passive smelling in which you let loose your own distinct whiff that would make your mother know you’re hers, and then what would come throughout your life as your own distinct smell- the reason why your dog knows you’re home whilst you’re still in the car.
And then there came the act of smelling- that cute thing you do with your nose- and good reasons to do so.
In the times as of late you have three main smells we’re bothered to associate ourselves with- and they are undoubtedly the most appropriate.
Number 1. The smell of food, tasty and not, your attraction to it and a reminder of your need to get some.
Number 2. The smell of pussy (recently transposed into the smell of perfume, which eventually leads to the smell of pussy), tasty and not, your attraction to it and a reminder of your need to get some. For the ladies- it would be the musk of mankind after they’ve stabbed a deer to bits pieces.
Number 3. The smell of shit, and your need to avoid it.
What I am trying to get across here is that this is a whole genre of business that is really being limited to the sophistication of substances being bottled. Sure- a lot of very nice things come in bottles, but the best stuff doesn’t.
How about the guy that was making holes in running meat? I mentioned him earlier- the fellow that comes home slinging bison-remnants over one shoulder and his dick over the other. This man cannot be bottled, and if you would try- you would end up thrown over whatever shoulder he has remaining and that is a place for only the most very private of property (bison-remnants and genitals). Women want this, and men want to be this. Nothing else matters. Here endeth the bullshit lesson.
Another thing un-bottle-able…the opposite of the man with occupied shoulders. The woman with berry juice running down her chin. This woman cannot be found in a city street, for she can only be found where the wild wind blows and the nights are the celebrations of the day. Men want this, and women want to be this- only a little deeper down than their Mankind-counterpart.
Women suffer from a stiffness of how they are presented owing to a long history of not having much else to be in charge of. Men also don’t have a time limit- whereas a woman’s needs are defined by them. Women need to relax, and need to remember that there is nothing wrong with not-breeding. Having a baby is less helpful than you might think it is- just look at the mess it makes and all that noise. The woman with berry juice trickling down her chin gives zero fucks about this…good.
Dab, dab, behind the ears and upon skinny wrists, doesn’t work, can’t be done- for the same reason as with a man. You try to put her in a bottle and she will reject you in a manner that will remove all hope of a jolly ending from your entrepreneurial insides. This kind of rejection, and the fact that it does not come from most women- seeing as most women have been sophisticated to the point of inhibiting natural instincts (‘It is most improper for a gal-most-female to allow berry juice to trickle down her chin. Blue berry or red, she is NOT ACCEPTABLE!)- stings and makes you want to run home. You should.
My advice to you is, shower every three days, and make the most of your ability to sweat. It won’t ruin things- really. Be sure to give the genitals a good scrubbing every day though as, all notions of natural pride aside, no guy or girl is going to lap up that genital cheese that only comes from lack of washing and thoroughness. Girls- if you’re going to wash at all, then you have to go inside by at least two inches. Men- do what you know you need to do…never allow a build-up of cheese. Swipe your penis as though it abandoned you, but make sure you do it with a damp cloth.
And then I’d make money out of it.
Well, no- not quite, but it would give me a platform from which to just keep talking and as long as you’ve got something to say- what else could you need? Social movements- makes money. Dr King would have been a millionaire by now, if it hadn’t been for all that racism and bullets. Fucking assassins are just the worst when they’re racist. And so are you.
Before eating- raise your fork to your nose and have a good sniff of it. Do this with everything else too, though don’t prop it up to your nose with a fork and that’ll ruin most things.
From your breakfast to your wife- smell what there is to be smelt because…if you had no nose…how would you smell?
Redundantly- that’s how you’d smell. You’d smell redundantly and now you pale even further when compared to Labradors.
My friends- smell whilst you can and you will realise that the triggers this sensation has upon your memories is tremendous- I highly recommend it, although (of course) it can stub the toe of your heart when you are reminded, by scent, of one you once loved. I once loved a girl, and her scent has ruined the enjoyable smell of pizza-dough for me. The hardworking bitch. She’s why I’m writing masculine beauties like “stubbed the toe of your heart” to express myself. And to think I used to be happy with a scream, or even a dandy little yelp.
To realise that your prime smelling years are behind you is not something to be sniffed at (HA!), and I hope you’ll never have to live through something like that.
You know the way that summertime just smells like summertime? That’s why we should smell more- so I highly recommend you get to it. If that smell was my ancient history and all I had to look forward to with my nose was it being a handy way to locate the centre of my face- well then, prospects are disappointing all round. Although it would be a handy place to keep things- like loose change. Hmm.
Have yourself a little odour that you didn’t get given for Christmas. Unless of course you got it from rubbing up against something like a fern, in which case I’ll wish you a merry one and think of you whenever I’m hiking through Norwegian woodlands.
But I might take a hike from walking in the wild so often, owing to my most recent little adventure in which I had barbed-wire nudging my balls.
I was climbing down a little trench and realised I when I got to the bottom that it was fenced, not with a modestly respectable fence but with rails of barbed-wire that never seemed to like me anyway.
So I made a little bridge and flung one leg over, at which point everything turned very spikey and I made a noise most involuntary. Whatever I’d placed my flung-leg onto had crumpled as I applied my weight, meaning that my descent was imminent and my landing was to be squeamish. A few months earlier I’d fallen over (“OH NO I’M FALLING” were my exact words at the time) and damaged my meniscus- the muscle joining the shin bone to the thigh bone, and my healing was not yet complete by the time I encountered the barbs I have since come to dislike so.
Basically my knee was on about 40% strength, so as I began to fall- I stopped myself by stamping my leg down. My knee, being weak, was unprepared for such a hefty request as my spends-a-lot-of-time-sitting physique was putting on it quite suddenly.
Now, my knee didn’t break, but it did bend, and lately I’ve come to realise that’s not entirely a good thing.
My knee slowly bent, I slowly descended- no sound coming from me aside from the ‘pop’ of a barb penetrating my jean’s groin, and, then, the secondary, dimmer-pop as my underwear gave up the fight also, and then silence (particularly from my horrified self) as the barb came to, and rested…gently prodding, though not ‘popping’ my very own testicles.
I have never been gladder to have as much upper-body strength as I do, though I swear that I only lifted and broke free somehow because I screamed loudly enough. Following this I broke a hedge in retaliation and resourcefulness (in fact I was proud I found something to aggress onto so quickly) and I re-built my bridge and ran all the way home- stopping only to…’feel’ (without actually touching) my bollocks- just to make sure a prodding was as only as brutal as my mid-morning walk had been.
If I’d had a weaker upper-body, or if I’d been a tad bit shorter- that might have been the end of my groin as we’ve all come to know and love it.
I’m just so happy that I didn’t get penetrated by some rusty-tetanus-infested-barb that I’ve never even met before and would much prefer to keep at a friendly distance.
My word- the slowness and the quietness…I’m a fucking fable of making sure your bridge is secure. And to avoid barbed wire as long as you value your valuables.
I could still be there, all alone, entangled and heartbroken, the casual and very adorable whimper emanating from this thicket in a trench that no one’s ever going to investigate…
But then…*sniff sniff…wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo*, and by my lucky stars the cops and doggies have found me, having latched onto the trail of my scent with such apparent ease that the blood-hound actually recoils a tad (poor thing)
Guys and gals…I’ll sum up here because I’ve got a mud-puddle outside with my name on it (and there’s nothing better for cooling the blood)…
Love the senses that nature has gifted you, and implement the sweet good-grief out of it. Apply the act of smelling to your workplace, to your family and to your model-plane crafting hobby, and in a mere 50 years our children (if you simply must have them) will be talking about how splendid their day smelt.
It’s simply another aspect of life that I intend to flaunt fully and, of course, add a little to the culture. Not to mention, again- of course, that it’ll remind me of her and how beautiful life is, even if it hurts sometimes, because of that very beauty. Hardworking bitch.
Do you smell what I’m cooking?
Sometimes I blindside myself with the question: “Do you have any fears?”
I don’t know why I do that, aside from the fact that it’s a good conversation starter…when I want to talk to myself.
The secret to conquering fear is: repetition until the sensation of swimming with piranhas is something you no longer notice.
Like when you shit. If you’d never shat before- you find it very surprising and feel the need to keep it from ever happening again.
I’d imagine that it’d be like shitting a cat. If you’ve never shat a live cat, and I doubt you have, then you’d want to prevent it from happening, because if you have had shat a cat, and I still doubt you have, then you’d have something new to fear.
There is one main method to dealing with these fears.
Deal with them.
Aggression, involvement and repetition, solve this.
Be involved with your neighbour and the world will be something you are part of, as opposed to something you are against.
Altogether- I’m against high-school shootings. They don’t work.
Just look at them, they don’t work. They are tragic and the ‘reason’ behind the children doing this was that they felt uninvolved. Isolation is a killer for a species such as ours, and the sense of scarcity in the footholds of these murderer’s social lives is what drives people like that to attempt to communicate with such hatred and fear. The firing of the guns was an expression of emotion from children that didn’t know how to talk yet.
There is one way to deal with this, and that is to delve a little deeper into the lives of those around you, and therefore the world around.
Neglect of your neighbour is an evil thing, mainly for you. When you don’t know your neighbour, then you doom yourself to masturbating those ninety years of life that you tremble at the thought of living. The trembling makes your genitals sway, and this is not how things are supposed to be.
Genitals should not sway; they should be thrust or spread. Swaying is for your hands in the air with a lighter well lit in them whilst acoustic guitar songs are performed. You wouldn’t put a lit lighter inside your genitals, and so therefore the analogy is complete.
An important point: IT IS NOT SAFER IN YOUR ROOM.
Just look at the holocausts.
Uhu. That’s right, I pluralised it. Holocausts.
Just look at the holocaust, and then the other holocaust, and then that other one.
Take the genocide of the Jewish (amongst a tragic number of other groups) in Europe- without that, in such modern times as these, we wouldn’t know how evil we can become when we neglect our neighbours. We know how evil ‘not paying attention’ can be, because of this. Good. Let’s not let it happen again.
But of course we did- the extermination throughout a couple of centuries in the New World. Native Americans, the First Nations…’Injuns’. Relatively- they are gonner’s. A people that would be easier to comprehend if they weren’t here anymore. We need to learn from this- the American Holocaust. From the extermination of various peoples and cultures as they are literally ‘removed’ across a continent, to the sterilising of Native American mothers so as to have less Native American mothers, the people have not only been ‘removed’- they’ve been screwed.
I hope for an overwhelming increase in First Nation offspring…and comedians. The comedians will be my favourite part of all this, aside from the lesson to never repeat it. But this being all to hope from this particular holocaust- I feel it is only evil. No lesson has yet be learnt, no good has yet come (no offense meant to the Native American comedy community).
Then look at what we had in Ancient China, and what the Mongolians did to them. Unfortunately, I believe it’s about the only thing Mongolia has ever done, but being that as may, the annihilation of one hundred million Ancient Chinese men, women and children, all in the name of…your own name and it’s glorification (which admittedly did get them what they wanted) and the perpetual goal of LOOT, is unacceptable. The tragic pain it undoubtedly was has been nullified by time, but still, we tend to view this holocaust as a something that happened, as opposed to…the holocaust.
I consider there to be many definitions of violence. One of them is that violence is the neglect of your neighbours to such a degree that you can’t last without them, whilst they are busy living without you. You are fucking yourself just as much as you are allowing your neighbour to be fucked. And not in a pleasant, “let’s insert one of this” or “how about enveloping that whilst being as wet as you can?”
And then…what do you fear?
Typically, we fear a lack of good people leading to a lack of our own personal comfort.
You fear spiders? Rather- you fear not having an arachnologist nearby so as to dash forwards with a handkerchief so as to dispose of the offending creature that was only trying to stand very still. If not this, then it’s because you fear spiders because you didn’t grow up stroking them, like you should have done.
You should have grown up stroking all creatures, purely for the reason that something you grew up stroking- you no longer fear. You might be bored of them (imagine being bored of tarantulas), but you will not fear them. “(Sigh) Enough with the tarantulas!”
Evidently, you’ve been neglecting your environment too.
I see you there, neglecting your environment. You’re good at it.
When was the last time you frolicked, pussy?
Go frolic, there’s really not much else to do apart from to go frolicking in the meadow. There’s no other reason for meadows. If you don’t frolic in the meadow, you’re doomed to something awful…like…kidnap, or something like that. I’m sure that there are many situations that can only be solved by frolicking, and you’ll be all out of practise. You won’t know how to roll around and jiggle in the meadow.
Being tied up and frolicking go hand in duct-taped hand. If you’ve frolicked enough; you’ll be free. Obviously don’t try this in terms of allowing kidnapping to happen to yourself; that would be silly.
Still- without a frolic to your name, or a name to your neighbour, your fears with grow and eat you bit by bit (always avoid being chewed) so my advice to you is as follows.
Speak to everyone around you. If you’re not good at that sort of thing, then have a set of questions ready. My preference of opening question is: “What’s your favourite colour”. It’s cute and endearing, in a fuck-fear kind of way.
Secondly. Go to the meadow and enjoy it for what it’s for. You know…frolicking.
Dealing with your fear is the only way to conquer it, and having fun whilst doing so is the means by which to kick fear whilst it sits stunned on the ground and you’re smiling.
Just go and frolic- I think I’ve made that clear by now. Jeez.
That’s where I’m going right now.
In the meadow.