How to Query, Since You Asked So PoorlyPosted: November 30, 2015 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Uncategorized | Tags: barrels, funny, hills, measurement, oil, query, roguish grin, scamps, Weird, writing Leave a comment
Why is oil the only thing still currently measured in barrels?
Why not apples?
Or wily scamps avoiding the coppers having pocketed some old soft gents watch?
How much oil equates to a barrel?
Is it the height of a scamp?
Is there a young orphan boy with a roguish grin and a pep-step kept perpetually within barrel production warehouses, having barrels brought up to him and his height (his height and him?) whereby a soulless chap with no grin a’roguish and no step a’pepy and only a hardhat and no future to his name begins to approach.
At this point the chap, so much a miser he even hates penguins (especially when they topple over), holds the barrel up to the scamp’s body and emits a: “Yeah. S’pose that’s a measurement of oil for sure.” and then proceeds to simply leave the orphan child to himself.
Now we encounter sadness.
Remember, being roguish and alone is a false economy unless you show what you were roguish with to another.
How do they keep the scamp there?
Do they feed him pocket watches?
Barrels are the preferred method of the enlightened as a means of getting to the bottom of hills, whilst also being shit as a means of ascending them.
Personally, arriving dizzy gives a man a far greater measure of the location than had he arrived typically and…therefore…morose.
Dizziness gives one a superior perception of the room, particularly in the direction you aren’t attempting to look.
My people and I are well versed in the visual layout of the bottom of our more proximate hills.
It’s a preferred rallying point following our hill-top functions.
The top of a hill seems like a mighty place to debate opinion.
Perhaps owing to subconscious reminiscing and a surging forth of prior emotions relating to a youthful victory in the sport of ‘King of the Castle’.
I might argue a little more persuasively and a tad more vehemently under the sway of temptation to see my opponent, most likely my girlfriend, tumble.
Or more likely; roll. She tends to keep a barrel nearby for her gravity-inspired commute.
I’ve never seen her use it for measuring oil though.
How clever of her.
What might be superior an oil measurement to barrels?
What is the easiest location to shoot fish?
The difference is clear.
Nobody shoots fish in a litre.
Thanks for your time,
I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live (Part 7) (Celebrity; it Comes with Me)Posted: November 25, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a comment
For the love of all that is wordly and beyond, I just think more people want to know about my new puppy.
It’s a bit shit.
Although it certainly will be a hit for ratings as it tends to piss on my father and leave leavings on all mine that is expensive, I’ve decided it was either a puppy or rehab.
I’m addicted to whoring myself via satellite, blasting my brains out with the perpetual epiphany of alcohol and pro-athlete’s lower halves.
By the way, I’m an inherent inheritor.
My mother was left a fortune, like her mother was left a fortune, and now I find myself without a bed of piled currency as I don’t tend to sleep owing to being filmed continually. The whirring of the camera’s reel keeps me up, or that might just be the athlete.
He just really loves steroids, has such an affection and growth (tumorous) in his heart for them, to a degree that whilst his bollocks are shrinking faster than my options – at least I now know what it feels like to be fucked by a mumbling bicep.
Veinier than the todger and a great deal less applicable.
If you haven’t been able to tell by this point; I’m talking complete bollocks.
I wanted to and so it happened to you and me.
No one was spared.
It’s been an emotional few days.
First of all something foul happened to the French, which I always hate as they’re so regular a people with such an indomitable and casual adoration for continuing as they were that I feel people can only learn from them.
And now I know not to fuck with the French.
I have, since Friday, enjoyed a potent urge to trip myself to Paris and drink champagne as though I were a free man with such a love for existence that I’m going to have to cry laughing in a fairly terrible French vernacular yet a superb French accent.
And then I had every well-conceived ill confidence brought forth from the ten most recent years of a wounded heart ruthlessly thwarted by a simple and essential conversation revealing that I have always been loved and…need there be any more than that?
Also, telling another you love them does the world of good for them and does the world a whole ‘of-them’ of good too.
A sudden revert to a tender and willing eighteen year old chap with his cap in one hand and nothing in the other but for a hoping grasp for another’s hand to stretch out and find him. And then share our two hats, all we had, both silly, both entirely unknowing of this, both soon to be longing for the other’s hand and silly hat once more.
Having said that, I apologise for the silliness of the prior half of this text.
Maybe I should calm down.
I like being told to calm down; it lets me know I’m doing something right.
And, if not something right, then something…well.
And, if not something well, then it certainly lets me know I’m doing something.
And if not something then what else is enthusiasm for?
Still, I truly do truly love being told to calm down.
It also means I’m doing something now since you aren’t typically told to calm down the day following your excitement.
1: “Hey! Calm down!”
2: “Calm down? Why?”
1: “You were running all around and such yesterday. With a muddy face. Yesterday.”
2: “Yeah that was for your viewing pleasure. And now you’ve spoilt it for everyone…”
Maybe I should calm down again.
Because I’m practised.
Because I’m qualified.
But I just don’t want to.
It’s one of those facets of being too enormously admirable to comply.
And now, all of a sudden, I urge you all to mock Islamic State.
Nice slide into the topic eh?
“But why mock Islamic State Sam?”
Why the fuck do you think? You with your ridiculous queries over there.
Partially because it distracts me from the ill-ease of discussing a throttling love around my head, throat, heart and more pleasant-to-be-throttled areas, and partially because it goes a distance towards dismantling international terrorism.
Just give it a go.
Dismantle international terrorism.
Membership will drop when the constant cartoon of IS with a small brain and distinctly smaller penis begins to permeate all cultures of the world.
Just make sure the humour remains, as there is no argument against a real cracker of an anti-terrorist epigram.
Such propaganda worked in negative scenarios as the anti-sematic themes of 1930’s Germany or fat cat themed foolery of the Soviet Union.
May I recommend such a similar usage for Islamic State soldiers? Would thoust mind?
The central character of ‘Jihadi Jim’ – a complete mug of a wannabe, a waste of life and the worst of it also – would be our antagonist in the scenes.
His quest is the end of the world and to finally find some sweet Western candy. He wants Nutella but it’s in the market place he also has to blow up. Can he do it whilst achieving just the right kind of smearing he was hoping for?
Plus he can become hoisted by his own petard weekly in a manner which doesn’t infringe upon the lifespans of those around him, yet might leave him as a final fine red mist on the market wall.
There would be decent men and women (regularly and emphatically Muslim so as to show they are not alike) about him, commenting on his daft theories and his wanky actions.
Victory is assured, je suis Charlie and I’m a little too in love to handle much else.
And I refuse to apologise for this.
I never apologise and I’m not sorry for that.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
But today, I feel a little greater.
Why do I do this? Because of her? Times are due I began doing this for me.
I hate arrogance; when it’s unjustified.
I’m arrogant; appropriately.
I am arrogant because it suits me, because I am wholeheartedly justified in being so and I am better at it than you.
I don’t even really have a puppy.
Celebrity, eh? I guess I’ll have to live with it, whenever it happens to me.
Though I must say I truly do feel ever so…just…famous.
(Once more) Sam.