You should have kept your smile.
Because smiling works.
Or else have yourself a prized grimace that denotes to all around you that you’ve completed harder word-searches than them, and they don’t stand a chance.
How you conduct your facial features as you mingle amongst the rest of the species can be the determiner of your destiny.
Being the greatest human to ever live, I smile.
Why shouldn’t I?
My smile is arresting and my grin is criminal.
My laugh is disarming. I buckle out a “ha-ha” as though it were a mix of Muttley’s wheeze and a Welsh choral singer’s bellow.
And it’s also very at you.
‘You’ being everyone in the vicinity.
People hear my laugh and they whip around as though there’s an avalanche of tumbling Santa Clauses’ ho-ho-ing its way towards them, only to see me enjoying a joke I just told.
However, laughing is also a highly pleasurable way of winning an argument.
It’s a matter of insistence.
Such as the time you might invade a UKIP event and ha-ha your way through the diatribe of people desperate to prove they’re not racist. If you were a racist; which party would you vote for?
I’m not a racist, but if I were; I’d vote UKIP.
But there’s one thing more that I find intolerable of UKIP, and naturally it would be me to see this for what it is.
Nigel Farage has stolen the colour purple from us.
Once, purple was a rarity in the urban world. Whereas in some aspects of nature there would be a slash of purple here and there, in the cities there was almost none, aside from the investments made by the wealthy who could afford dye.
Investing in purple.
I’d like to invest in purple, but it seems hard to do that without funding UKIP and I’m just not racist enough for that (although I am slightly racist….I hate Eskimos. Fuck ‘em. What did they ever do for me?).
If my smile, such as what crops up when I’m sure Eskimos aren’t nearby, had a colour then I’d presume it to be purple, but it’s not. It’s a tender yet rugged shade of ‘Handsome’.
The colour ‘Handsome’ is like chocolate, only more muscular. With totally manly nipples. Slightly abnormal, but still more manly than your father and that’s why you’re with me babe. Superior nipples and I’m handsome with a slight anti-Eskimo twist.
Plus I’m the greatest human to ever live.
My smile is like a flower that can bear-hug you so hard that you enjoy the cuddle it becomes.
My smile can, and I’m not sure exactly how (it’s natural science – I don’t need to know. Birds don’t know how they soar and a tumble weed doesn’t know how it tumbles. Just let it be), but my smile can make you fuck off. Just a little of a turn to the left, I think, tilting upwards slightly, let loose a smile and boom; you’ve fucked off.
I would undoubtedly announce on, perhaps, some sort of blogging website that the lower half of my head is the preferential half for when you fancy a conversation.
Whilst my brow is flexible and communicative; it’s easier to have a chat with the lower half of my head.
And other things besides…
I really enjoy cunnilingus. Not enjoying the act perpetrated unto myself as I really don’t have enough vaginas for that (not even one) but I love dolling it out beneath the skirt of the other half of the species.
Why? Because I like being good at something that other guys aren’t.
Laughing and cunnilingus go hand in hand in terms of a mutual act. Lip to lip.
The clitoris is substantially tingled by the vibrations of a giggling.
Perhaps not side-splitting, but certainly split-siding.
That’s a vaginal joke, that’s why you get it.
And that was an insult-joke and I’m sorry about that.
And that wasn’t a joke. There’s nothing wrong with vaginas and there’s nothing wrong with me being sorry about that.
Damn, I’m a fine writer.
So I’ve got some writing chops, the things I can do with a pen and a keyboard would tickle you beyond the hacky constraints of a weak-wristed journeyman with a quill. And inky fingers.
You can’t have that done to you by a writer with inky fingers. Everyone’d know you’d been tickled.
I can make you tingle with a space bar and you don’t even want to be enlightened as to my history with other people and the insert key.
We got along.
I recall they enjoyed what I had; especially my musk.
Yes. I’ve got a musk.
You should see it. Because you can. It’s purple.
You can see it emanating from me as the sun goes down – like the Northern Lights; only tougher. Tougher in the same way that you can see a bull’s balls. Not an advantage overly; unless you wilt at that sort of thing. But wilting is something I hope for my enemies, particularly in public.
So – to the point – I smell like an overly-purple Northern Lights with testicles on the outside.
My laugh, however, that’s not a thing to be given a name. Just let it be.
My laugh isn’t to be controlled as it is a wild thing let loose only by me, baby. The potency of my laugh can make you swoon in the same manner that my musk’s balls can make you wilt.
That’s how I know you’re enjoying it.
But I’ve got to stay in check with my physical appearance, even I can’t rely solely on musk, smiles, laughter and an incredible lower-face.
So I had a wet shave in a Turkish barbers.
I sat in the chair and awaited the compliments about how their nuclear-age razor equipment wasn’t up to the job of slicing my bristles. My mane. My organic chin-duvet.
I waited, and then they wrapped a towel doused in boiling water over my entire head with just enough gap to allow my nose to poke out.
“Damn” I thought, “I’ve got a cold nose”.
I like things a’boiling.
Once shaved I discovered I had a dimple in my chin. “Tremendous” thought I, “Now everyone will be able to know I’m an All-American Good Guy type. From Kent. England.
Now I can go into space, chin-dimple first.
You guy’s realise we’re in space?
I feel a need to acquire some sort of ticket. I’m set though, I own an acre of the moon. And I am going to plough it, along with my space alien girlfriend.
My Earthly semen cures her space-libido. Always momentarily.
And I only ejaculate when directed by my government.
I think there’s only one more thing I want you to know…
I only masturbate when I have to.
Maybe I’m straying into topics meant for next time on Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
So I’ll leave it at this; throughout all the above, amidst the true and the exaggerated (somewhat)…I smiled.
The endorphins were released and I was happy.
And that was because I kept my smile, and I recommend you unleash yours.
Unto others and for yourself; smile.
And I should know.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
I Think I Could Fuck Up A Wolf; Should It Come To That.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
I’ve dwelt upon this, particularly since I’m a species-ist and there is a resentful degree of contempt in my heart and head and sandals for other species.
Fur and feathers – I permit.
Some of the feathery ones talk back and I like their gumption; whatever that is.
And then there’s giraffes – I couldn’t fuck up a giraffe.
Out of sympathy.
I’d ride them.
I’d ride them out of sympathy.
And they’d permit me to ride them because I’d work out how they like to have their knees massaged and win them over.
They may remain.
Fish and other ocean or water-way dwellers; they need to stay the fuck away from me.
Because I am most certainly the sort of fellow to point at them and bellow “No”.
I’ll just stick my finger, like a knuckled wand, into the water and give them the gist of me.
I’ve got a lot to say about what obscenities live beneath the surface (some of them don’t even breathe air – try to show me up will ya?!) as I have an issue with things that are too wet.
I feel wetness should be an unexpected treat to come home to involving champagne liberated from the Nazis, or a hell of a way to go to work and give your inspiring and innovative speech to the board.
I’d hate to be on a board; I’m not good at sharing tables owing to my need to swing my heavy-heavy boots upon them as I lean back in my tilted chair and astound my other board members for no other reason than that I want them to back off somewhat and let me swing my heavy-heavy boots around. All this…whilst wet.
My boots are weighty. It builds up the shins – and that’s the mark of me.
You can tell if I did the deed for you’ll find the scene of the crime heavily shinned.
Ain’t nobody got shins like Sam.
However, even I can go off topic at times.
Because I’m whimsical.
And I’m whimsical because I’m the greatest human to ever live and I can take the time to relax about my intentions in a conversation like this (I’m presuming you’re all nodding along and every now letting loose a “Hmm” of approval or…is it…admiration?). Women admire my whimsy.
My whimsy’s better than yours. Because I whim it.
And that’s why I did it, that wandering off-topic thing, again.
I’m so good at meandering away; I can even meander away from talking about meandering away.
You try it.
Still, there is still the issue at hand.
That I think I could fuck up a wolf; should I whim it.
I have never in all my months of living been nearly attacked by so many dogs as the past 30 days have offered me.
The month of July just generally snarled at me; from day to day.
A lot of slobber; another unpleasant wetness is slobber being held most dangly in the worst of erogenous zones.
And I made it to August with a whole new opinion intact; I could fuck up a wolf.
Let’s look at the basic physiology of a wolf.
The key to its success in a fight against the man mountain that is me is its agile mouth.
The wolf, let’s call it ‘Diana’, has acrobatic jaws.
But so do I, Diana.
And I do bite.
I’d bite Diana the wolf right in the choppers.
And then there’s the rest of me.
Just take a slow and casual glance over my right hand and peek away, I don’t mind, at my pianist’s finger that branches from it.
Every single finger there is an advantage I hold over Diana and I will apply them most verily.
If I were to ram, and I do mean ram in the same way a pianist wouldn’t, my index finger straight and true up one of her nostrils; what would Diana do about it?
I ask because I’m going to do some presuming now and what I feel like presuming today is that Diana would whimper and try to depart from my index finger.
Let it be.
I would just let it be.
Diana is probably the lone-mother of the pack or some other responsibility, plus I’m humane.
I’m so humane I run with horses, so long as they can keep up and wouldn’t get embarrassed by my floppy-semi brought about by the excitement of running and my bountiful strides. That’s right – my strides are bountiful. I don’t know why; I just enjoy striding with an excited semi.
I’m so humane I’d put a ladybird on the windowsill rather than just exhaling it out the window and pausing to see if I can hear it land. I’ve seen too many good ladybirds land in my time.
And…if Diana the wolf wanted to flee from the index finger I currently have penetrating her snout as though I’m pointing with sincere curiosity at something in her sinus then…I would let it be.
Because she’s a good girl and a fine mother; probably trying simply to protect her cubs, who I would have raised myself and taught them how to become the kings I always knew they were if she were to pass away owing to my finger.
There’s also the fact that I could also pull her tail.
A tail is, with as much relevance as I can perceive for the situation in hand, a third of the spine which I can help myself to and give a good tug.
That’s a spine.
Fancy having your spine tugged like I’m trying to win something here?
I want to win your spine and your respect, Diana, so whimper now before I’m holding one of each in either hand.
You’re such a good girl Diana, and you’re a wonderful mother but…I’ve got to stand by my principles.
And my principle here is that wolves are scary and I this was my first instinct.
And that’s noble.
It’s okay; I’m being noble.
I have a crest.
It’s a wolf with a finger up its nose.
And then my large grin beneath it, showing all my teeth (slightly wonky because I’m well-travelled and I bite a lot of things), with my brow above it.
My brow will be frowning slightly because I’m working hard and I’m dealing with it, head looking down, eyes looking up as though I’m saying: “Seriously world? Seriously?”.
My brow is prominent in a way that if not slightly further forward than the rest of my person, it does at least receive compliments at a steady rate.
At least, it would if I didn’t pre-empt a fellow’s compliment with my classic: “Thank you!” and then: “But your bone structure will get there too; just do more things with milk, my dear old friend.”
Oh…there will be archaeologists.
And they will in some distant and lush green field begin to dig, eventually unearthing and taking care not to shovel my remains.
They shall lift my skull from its by-now ancient grave and stand and stare in honest astonishment at my inspiring-brow.
And they will compliment it.
But where in the timeline of humankind’s evolution does this remarkable figure belong? And then they will get it.
This must have been from a fairy tale.
Because…yeah…I’ve got damsels to spare and they’re all nicely in peril and ready for my brow.
And then I shall decide to leap the moat to delete the vile Wolf-Queen Diana from my newly acquired castle, complete with a unfortunately narrow-nostrilled fiend and beautiful damsel of high-birth.
Next time…I’ll show you how to do all of this, particularly the high-birth part.
Also, I recall saying this article would be about romance and my smile, but that’ll do for next time too.
And that’s a fine thing indeed.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.