Eating Melon Makes Me Moral

It would seem diet can greatly affect your wellbeing.

Say for example you enjoy digesting your way through a plate of collarbones.

Now that’s fairly gnarly, but perhaps you ought to calm yourself down a tad, particularly considering the species of collar bone.

You should only eat your neighbour if the feeling’s mutual.

So then you move on to seed.

Seed.

It’s just not worth saying.

Enunciate it not.

The calorific offerings a seed puts up do not cover the costs of saying “seed”.

Not because “seed” requires a dexterity of jaw, tongue and teeth, but because it breaks a little piece of my heart from me every time I say it and the only way to say it is…meekly.

And I am not meek.

Even “Spreading my seed” fails me.

I begin triumphant with “Spreading my…” and then descend into a sad, sad day by the time I arrive at “seed”.

Or maybe “seed” arrives at me?

Likely not; I doubt “seed” could be bothered to turn up and if it did the jokes would fall a little flatter and the wine could be complained at.

Essentially, and conveniently, don’t invite the word “seed” to a get-together.

Because that’d be ridiculous.

Eating melon is also ridiculous; and it can save your life.

As well as your death.

We all want our death to be a good one, so let me save your death here and now by encouraging melon all over you.

Eating melon is like intercourse with a harp; only this time it actually goes well.

Also, to enjoy a melon, one must break into it.

You must burgle the melon.

Crack it a sunder with your witty bicep and savour the squelch we only set aside from rainy walk and only the finest of bodily functions.

Eat melon.

It will improve your personhood and more besides.

I ate a melon once; now look at me…

Uhu.

That’s right; you could be urging melon onto others too.

Decimating a melon open will grant you a ferocious instinct to do such things more often and there lies the key to life; a passion for it.

Especially if you suck the sweet squelch out of it afterwards.

You could be urging melon onto others and I for one feel all the better for it.

Now that I’m all moral and such

Via melon.

Sam

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How Awfully Correct of Me

As I’ve mentioned before in fits of appropriate arrogance; I’m that correct motherfucker you’ve been looking for.

I said “whom” recently.

I was confronted on it and debate ensued.

There was much pointing and, by jove, nearly some prodding too.

My arms were bloody well folded throughout so denote how stubborn and elbowy I was in the mood to be for the foreseeable and in the face of his argument.

He said it was an improper use of “whom”, to which I countered that the use was only incorrect grammatically.

My intonation was flawless.

My intonation was tender, gravelly, full of poise and wholeheartedly correct.

It was the same intonation with which I stated internally I was going to then simply sit in my chair and disagree with him for the next few minutes.

I was very much like the novelist I could always have been; had it not been for the distinct lack of books coming out of me.

This is the same reason I’m not a library (which is the sort of joke a novelist would make).

Should I be a novelist; call me Rafferty.

I shall respond.

I will speak in hushed and suddenly definitely-audible tones, arms folded to show I have dry skin on the elbow most prominent, but I write a damn fine novel.

Each evening.

I want to be the variety of novelist who has gold teeth but not his own, instead from some form of clash with another novelist at some point. In Africa. On a boat.

Things get fisty.

I feel a novelist of the highest character is one ready to increase the amount of knuckle and diminish an amount of jaw until the prose are deemed satisfactory by the opponent.

A good novelist really knows how to be a bizarre white guy.

Perhaps this is how I should have behaved with my opponent is the argument of opinions over grammar.

I was told when I was younger that an opinion cannot be wrong, such is the flame of confidence and insistence.

So, if in my opinion 1 + 1 = 3 then it does for as long as we are pacifying children with such an idea as failure being an ‘other-people’ scenario.

 In other words…when I say: “Whom?” in the beginning, middle or end of any discussion then I shall not be accused of being incorrect as I have some pretty distinct opinions as to the contrary.

Sam


If I Were a Sea Shanty I Would Improve Your Demeanour, Madam.

I’ve always found I operate better whilst tankards are collided upon tavern table tops.

It helps with my stutter.

Not that you’d be able to tell I have a stutter merely by listening to me.

I have a stutter one needs to view from a comfortable setting to be able to fully appreciate.

My feet stutter.

And they stutter well. Very well.

Most presume, as they watch from their comfortable setting, that I am Irish Dancing.

I am not.

All I am in that precise moment in time is curious as to how you came to find yourself a comfortable setting such as you did.

My own comfortable setting?

I find myself adequate and pleased whilst atop a woman.

Naturally you’ve done a little leaping up there in your noggin and I must restrain you in your thoughts only so far as to make clear I am referring to the female more as a chaise longue as opposed to a sexual being.

Otherwise it would be weird.

It helps with my stutter.

Women are comfortable. There you go; have a fact. Women are comfortable.

Should I divulge this to you? Is it right?

I think so, seeing as how I seem to be anyway (jeez; my typing is faster than my morals).

If I were a sea shanty I would likely leave out the bit about water.

Sea shanties and water go hand in hand, which is girly, and I am not a girl.

I am a sea shanty.

I feel a worthy sea shanty should blister out some good tales of pulling rope and being overboard.

Overboard suits me.

Plus hoisting things helps with my stutter.

“Oh, he came from far along by the end of the rope,
drinking a mouthful of tea.
With great distance from ship, as he dangled and dipped,
his poor luck right in front of me.”

Nothing wrong with being self-deprecating about one’s manhood.

Although, I would appreciate the clamour so soon I would receive should I be the only sea shanty with working (and relaxing) genitalia.

I am a sea shanty with some penises.

That might cheer you up, Madam.

If not then I’ll find somewhere else to sit.

What a shanty.

Sam


If I Were You I Wouldn’t Give Me a Fiver

I don’t appreciate currency because it doesn’t appreciate.

It tears and it tumbles.

Why offer me a heavily used and really rather grimy little promise such as a fiver when you could drop a tomato on me?

Tomatoes are short term and long term.

Thus tomatoes are eternal.

In the brief they are a tasty fruit and not a vegetable.

I apply them.

In the less quick and distinctly more long-term they are volatile bags of rosy fluid with a pleasing sense of grip to the palm and opponents facial features.

I apply them.

Gift me no fivers.

Land upon me a tomato and expect I shall commit a pleasant vengeance.

I also appreciate that island you’re bringing back to my place.

You nice guy you.

Nothing like an island to begin the day.

Not that I’d eat one, I don’t feel confident enough in my capacity to do so, but I sure as hell will find myself face down and hopes high as I begin to truly enjoy the island that is mine.

I’m a tad on the bright-side perception when it comes to possessiveness.

I just assume the continent is mine and allow everyone to go about their busy business upon it.

Plus sea shanties.

Sea shanties are mine, particularly when they are traded in return for a shiny apple.

I’m going to get me some sea shanties, once I’ve finished my evening’s scrumping.

It would appear my preferential currency revolves around fruit, and I won’t be satisfied till that this sentence can be regarded in a literal sense.

Let’s do that.

Sam

 


Books Are For Pussies. I Only Ever Read Palms

I need to eat more Arabic food.

I’ve a feeling, and I’m referring to all the Arabic food amongst us now and that is reading this, that you’re coming to get me and so I should likely pounce first.

And having pounced, dice myself up some tobacco of the gloopiest nature (gloopy as though I’ve pleased it) and then shisha smoke the good riddance out of it.

That, my friends, is how you make an enemy, and that, my friends, is the best way to think of your food.

Pounced upon and so stirring in action that it requires a pipe of shisha to follow.

The fork and spoon, all I ever need for most routes in life (whip them out suddenly; you’ll get a good measure on people by seeing how they react), are my table top buddies and we delve deeper into the Arabic food that taunts us so deliciously.

We should regard the existence of a pleasant and tempting smell for what it is…you’re putting something up my nostrils for your own benefit and I’d like to purr a “thank you” for this.

Insertion is a fact of life, whether it be nasal or a more pleasing fact of life.

To Arabic cuisine…I’m coming for you. Via insertion.

To the fork and the spoon…be there for me.

To the girl…watch how eagerly I rip off a table leg to defend your honour and boyfriend. I’ll always protect your boyfriend. Largely because you’re my girlfriend. Plus I like him.

I read the menu in French, no matter its being an Arabic. I don’t speak French anyway, although my French accent is second to none (aside from the Belgians).

If I read the menu at all. I don’t tend to read words.

Books are for pussies. I only ever read palms now owing to the tendency for the reading material to be somewhat more impulsive in a way books never seem to be, as they watch me pass back and forth from the shelf.

Belly dancing, more of a habit than a hobby of mine (it keeps seeming to crop up and solve dilemas for me), shall be plentiful and prominent.

Books don’t belly dance, and I’ll only enjoy a brief rest until they do.

I can do anything now; I have well inserted Arabic food well inserted.

Plus women.

Plus beer.

Not to mention the gloopy tobacco.

I cannot wait to do all the things I am going to do to Arabic food very soon.

I’m going to make books impulsive.

Like a hand.

Sam


Why Must I Be A Twenty-Something In Love?

I’m not being rhetorical.

Answer me.

And don’t go going all gone clever by offering up a rhetorical answer in return.

Because that’s childish and I can promise you this…I will win in such a battle of witlessness.

I’m too slow for you.

So, pretty much I met a girl about 9 years ago when I was aged 17.

And I fell in love with her.

I fell like Newton’s apple though with less universal consequences and a worse headache.

And the bump on my head (by the way; I’m fully aware of how sickly this analogy currently is) never wavered or diminished throughout the torment and woe of heartbreak and separation, throughout numerous breakups, antagonisms and years apart.

And recently I fell again, for the girl again, and again I am beginning to realise, with horror and joy, that this is the long trip of my life and I am not likely to reach the destination.

Likely because I perpetually feel as though I have arrived.

And arrived well.

I always presumed my bump was bigger.

The difference; I can see her bump too now.

And, apparently, it’s a bump to rival mine.

And the effect of these two bumps entwined, like the utterly bizarre emotions they transmit (I’m talking about entwined headbumps for fuck sake), is that I talk like this.

Dopey I am.

Doomed with a grin and a good cause for both.

Tendency to drool.

Such is life…when as absurdly lucky as it has played out for me.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

Sam

P.S. I’m so sorry. I am also fully aware of the decent lack of logic throughout this, though still probably a little less aware than you.

I am so sorry.


Maybe If I Type for a While; Preferable Consequences Will Occur.

Getting started on an idea is much like this sentence; you just start saying something and prompted brilliance will rise itself to breach so as for you to do as thou please with it.

You see, the brilliance only arrived owing to not wishing to be rude.

It observed the situation and realised it was rather relied upon and so took the initiative of turning up.

All rather brilliant really.

And brilliance is a wonderful commodity to have.

Just look at the sun (sure, actually do that).

The sun is brilliant.

Try ye not to deny it and don’t say you weren’t trying to deny it either. Because that’s almost confusing.

And ‘confusing’ is my thing.

‘Confusing’ is the mark of someone I want to stand near.

Because positive consequences, or a few of the other kind too, are sure to happen if they continue as such.

Hey, perhaps the world made up of reasonable assumptions regarding whom one should stand near. And I like to make my reasoning along this line: a good friend should be slightly frightening.

Get a frightening friend and the “Ooo-Ooo Good Things” will happen, or at least something will happen.

Comfort zones are for people.

And I am not a person.

I am an ape, the very next ape, and I am in a rushing of living, urging myself forward to begin and end and thrust myself and expel myself into all manner of frays, occasions and sparky joys.

Because, this way some things, likely “Ooo-Ooo Good Things”, are sure to start happening.

All because I began.

And this is brilliance.

And this is confusing.

I must have written it. With an ambition to improvise.

How like me.

Sam

P.S. I spent my evening belly dancing. Consider this proof.