I’m a Whole New Man; Just Like the Old Days

There a line from Glen Garry Glen Ross, Al Pacino’s character returns to the booth and says to his mark: “You ever take a shit that makes you feel like you’ve slept for 12 hours?”

Gosh that’s true.

I took a shit earlier and I emerged from the bathroom thinking: “What was I worrying about?!”

There’s sunshine on my foot, a nice big ole’ beam of it; landing on me most comfortably.

It’s giving me all kinds of erections, especially with the breeze coming in.

Fuck my fiancé? What an option!

There will be no fuck-uppity here.

Accomplished in-out with a wondrous use of vocab; what a woman!

Now coffee and juice.

Then some sort of accomplishment to follow it up with. Some ‘afters’.

Might as well be quicksand.

And I’ll appreciate that quicksand.

“Hey! Quicksand! I ‘preciate chu!”

It’s a good struggle; just a couple o’push-ups and downs again.

Then run away and back again.

Teasing the quicksand. It knows I’m only playing.

“Hey! Quicksand! I’m done with you! Aw don’t be like that!”

Now I have to clean the mud off my suede shoes (this is the definition of sacrifice). I knew my suede would have to take it but at least I know where to get some shoe-shine-sun-shine.

What next?

Accomplishment, please.

10,000 hours to become a master of something.

It can’t take that long to become average at most things. Plus you’ll end up a tad less cross-eyed in terms of devotion to one thing.

Never happened to me but I’m still saying it: now THAT’S conviction.

I tell you, I do, what I’m good at.

Honey.

I do honey.

I find it, I elope with it, and we spend the night together.

Honey was there for me whilst you guys had all scarpered.

Even now, entirely non-sexually, I’m curled up beneath my sheet, entirely non-sexually, clutching a pot of honey, entirely non-sexually, with sticky fingers…sexually.

Well, not really, I’d say my relationship with honey is more of a mutual respect that romance.

Plus it’s real hard to get the lid off those stubborn prudish pots.

Enough with the fucking honey fucking.

Some things don’t belong on toast; but still it’s happened to me owing to matter of attempted cleanliness.

Think I’ll leave that there.

By the way, whole new man that I am, realised a challenge I’ve not considered before.

Scale a mountain? Fuck you, no (https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/17/the-metaphors-are-rusty/)

Climbing people?

Of course!

I’ve always thought the vagina had the basic requirement of a good rock-climbing hold.

Remember that wall of vaginas, by the artist Jamie McCartney?

I recommend turning that sideways and having a sign stating: “Do not climb when wet.”

Consider, with me please, the state of genitals for climbing.

Vaginas are perfect for climbing, though not when aroused.

Penises are perfect for climbing, though only when aroused.

Plus imagine being midway up a mountain when the erection hand-hold feels it’s been grabbed too tightly and emits its self-defence mechanism and ejaculates in your eye.

And then you fall 300 feet onto a plain of more penises, though they’re all floppy too and what’s worse is you don’t even die.

You’re just laying crippled in a meadow of floppy dicks, reminiscing about vaginas you climbed once.

Thoughts…thoughts like this are why I am a whole new man today.

Plus I just took a tremendous dump. Think I lost about a pound.

Chin up people.

Sam.

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Oh I WISH You’d Plague Me! Just Fucking Try It.

I can imagine it starting with oxen.

Because it’s a shitty story anyway and shitty stories are pre-empted by oxen.

I have no oxen.

No history with them and likely no future with them.

Good thing.

But I promise to each and every single one of you in congregation today…if you tell me what to do with my oxen; I’m heavily inclined to disobey.

And I tend to disobey with my right hand.

It’ll offend you (…as well as myself sometimes).

                Everything after that is just a matter of stamina (my word; that’s a toughie to type).

“Yahweh! Oh YAHWEH!

Tell me again; how much must I trade my oxen for?

No, I was asking ironically. Stay away of Dave the oxen.

Hey, by the way Yahweh. That oxen; his name’s Dave.

Why Dave?

Because Dave’s my fucking oxen’s fucking name, Yahweh! You better believe it’s biblical!

Just take the fucking compliment and leave your directions out of my Dave.”

When you encounter a supreme-being like this; you’ll just have to wear them out.

Be the bigger entity and get parental.

You’ll need to discipline that deity.

If they get sudden blood all over your nice, clean Nile; just keep scrubbing those crcodiles back to a respectable shade of reptilian unbloodliness, commenting on how pleasant it is to get to spend some quality time with your favourite still-hanging-around-after-the-party-dinosaur.

Of course it’s an awful bother receiving a miracle-full of sudden blood all over your Egyptian cotton.

Deal with it mortal; we only have each other and our dinosaur leftovers now.

They’ll keep vying for your attention amongst the other Gods; promising you honeyed heavens and gushing…whatnots. Multiple women are a guarantee; you need not acquire separately.

Should they start getting uppity and demanding…let them tire themselves out.

They can’t plague you forever.

I find taking it beyond twelve plagues seems to do the trick. After that they get tuckered out.

Especially when you maintain that this is all fiction.

The divine detest that.

They see the ultimate reality of their existence of utmost paramount importance; exactly as their author deigned them to be.

And as a final straw; if they get a tad too despotic in their attempts at world domination (which is just dandy if you do so nicely); take away their offerings.

Well behaved Supreme Beings have multiple oxen sacrificed to them.

Many Daves for dinner.

Nasty ones who can’t keep their warts and boils to themselves have to make do with bread and water, sent to their corner of Heaven…early.

They mainly miss the smell.

Give a god an aroma and then take it away.

That’s the best way to witness a massive and melancholy nostril.

I tried Joop with mine. When the deity got a tad too lippy; I took his perfume the fuck from him and put it where even omniscient eyes couldn’t see. Amusing really; since he was also omnipresent, meaning that it was hidden right next to him.

And from there simply continue to play it out as such:

  • Just fucking try and plague me, Yaweh. I’ll rub those frogs on my sores and boils and have a great time. See me Science myself better.
  • Locusts are delicious; try some yourself. You created them? You’ll have to give me your recipe sometime.
  • Kill my firstborn? Guess I’ll have to raise my pet frog as a son in his stead. He is also Dave. The Dave’s might just plague you back sometime…do things to your crops.
  • Turn my water to blood? Although that can have a disastrous effect on my Egyptian cotton; I’ll have to laugh at the fact you go from this to frogs.
    Plus frogs are juicy.
    Thanks again for the frogs.

God being somewhat thick also aids the rebellion via mortality.

Knowing everything means you can’t actually work anything out; you’re without that spark to conjure because you already know.

If there’s one serious character fault in this Yahweh chap it must be a tragic lack of wit.

A decent portion of wit can get so much done; let’s just leave the plagues out of it shall we?

Us mortals; we should stick together.

Particularly considering that I’m the greatest human to ever live (evidently there’s no God).

And so are you.

Sam (and the Daves)


How to Play Football Like Messi, Pele…ME (I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 7)

I thought you’d be asking me this at some point.

I like that.

It’s not so much that I enjoy being asked questions; rather more that I cannot help myself answering…things.

Mother Nature’s Champion on the field of sporting combat. That’s quite a compliment to pay to myself. Thanks.

Of course, your questions will revolve around football because it’s distinctly not deadly; whilst my expertise are the precise means of dismounting a foe upon horseback.

Who doesn’t joust; I mean really?

And my trick is simple.

Ride underneath the horse.

A good sturdy knot and a love for the risk of being kneed by your steed; that’s all you need to succeed in jousting.

Plus a slingshot, shiny pebble and as much hand-eye coordination as is required to clap.

Why a slingshot? Christians love it.

It’s good to please the ecclesiastical market; and they love themselves a hero with a slingshot, particularly if they’re diminutive and diminutive is a natural state of a good fellow saddled beneath a horsey.

By the way, horsey is the correct term for your mount. It shows your childish-side and this is key in fooling your opponent into thinking they’re lancing a child strapped to the belly of a steed whilst they bellow “Faster horsey! Faster!

And then they find themselves slingshotted directly in the heart by a damn fine actor beneath a horse; plus an exquisite choice in pebble.

As I said, Christians love a slingshot-hero. The villains tend to go about their dastardly deeds with a hammer and nails (typically 3).

Oh, you want football?

Breathe these next few sentences in; why don’t’cha.

To begin with; boots are for pussies.

Barefoot your way to victory.

Take no prisoners but do take their boots (because you’re a helpful chappie).

Next up comes some actual tactics.

Shooting.

Don’t do it.

Scoring.

Do this far more regularly that shooting.

Passing.

Don’t do it. This could be valuable time spent scoring.

How to score…

Real men of manliness don’t casually tuck the ball in the net, with a whooping and looping curvy bastard to delicately arrive like a really rather helpful and hopeless fish into a fisherman’s net.

Instead, please, break the net’s heart with nothing deceptive.

A ball that moves in the air is dishonest; and that’ll never do.

A real man’s kick is like a cannon.

Not a cannon that fires cannon balls, but rather more like a cannon rocketing through the air, causing defenders to scatter and wish that one day they might grow up to become a cannon kicked by me.

Also a real man doesn’t run; he chases.

And he doesn’t chase balls either.

Balls, though full of breath, neither breathe or bleed.

I require both of these facets in order to justify a chase.

Besides; we’re in no position to be in any position but a Goalkeeper.

The Goalkeeper should allow the opposing team to approach as near as they like and then, once a shot is shot (a shot being all it’ll amount to), he shall simply swipe away the ball with casual reproach, uttering extremely quietly to himself (and the ball): “No.”

That’s how I’d play football if I weren’t so occupied dismounting baddies from their horsies.

I always take their boots.

That’s how you play football; by taking the spoils.

You know you all desire the plunder.

So go get it; with superior kicks.

Keep up the sports guys and girls; it’s good for the success story.

Like me.

Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Champion.

Sam


When Life Hands You Lemons; Do Whatever the Hell You Want

Lemons?

Nice one.

Lemonade?

If you insist…

I, however, will be knocking the sour bejeezus out of those lemons and over my garden wall because; thanks for the lemons but I’m going to have to destroy them now.

Thanks though.

I’ll knock those lemons into the river.

Sour-up some fish.

Put it on a T-Shirt and promote the hell out of it.

“Go Sour Fish!”

Why not put it on a T-shirt?

There are people who criticize things on T-shirts:

“Oh really? Is that cute little T-shirt supposed to sum you up?”

Yes – motherfucker. Why else do you think I’m permitting it to lay upon my canvas?

Sure my torso’s a canvas. It’s the only real billboard I have and I’m going to have to use it to sum myself the fuck up owing largely to the fact I’ve nothing to utter but: “Aarrgghh!”

https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/ shall tell you more; though my spelling has altered somewhat.

Of course I see the chest as a flag.

Let it remain brightly.

So, offered lemons; perhaps you could make lemonade.

I, however, designed a really rather nifty T-shirt and flag.

I think it’ll suit the masses marvellously.

And they really deserve a break.

You need not make just a T-shirt and flag.

One could demonstrate the outer limits of human imagination and ingenuity and go about staunchly and unapologetically creating lemonade.

I’m not ashamed of making lemonade; it’s just that I’m more of a T-shirt and flag kind of guy.

That’s what my friends say about me.

Flags are our history and T-shirts are our expression of extremely personal nationhood.

No man is an island (including the Isle of Man), unless he T-shirt lets you know otherwise.

Should his T-shirt state: “I’m Up and Dressed! What The F**k More Do You Want?!” then fuck that guy and his life choices.

Imagine the scene of the purchase:

1: “Louis! Look at this here shirt! We have to get that for you!”

Louis: (laughing) “Oh come on you guys! I know I like a lie-in but that T-shirts got swearing on it!”

I’m sure you’ll appreciate my “fuck that guy and his life choices” comment.

And although what one wears might not necessarily denote what one is; it is a truth that a guy who looks awesome is a guy who looks awesome and the looking-awesome guy who looks awesome probably has a degree of insight and input into looking so awesome-guyish.

Essential; a funny or expressive phrase upon your T-shirt says something about you.

Hence, therefore and thus; make it something awesome.

Be awesome.

Beats making lemonade.

SamARGH


With a Bowtie I Could Remain Much the Same. You’ll See

Bowties should be taken back by the lower classes who never had them.

I just want the aristocrats to have one less thing.

They’ve got so much.

They have horses.

Just ask yourself: “Where the fuck are all the horses?”

My answer: “Near the aristocrats! Want to go get some with me?”

And you can reply with: “No bitch; I’m bow-tying tonight!”

You know those horses will go splendidly with your bowtie; but you’re not at that level yet. The horse and the bowtie will clash and you’ll just be standing there; being ridden and worn (EVERYTHING’S GONE WRONG!)

Though I do like the idea of bowties being some you do; just as much as wear.

If you BOWTIE; you assume permission owing to morality.

You don’t ask a lady if she’d really-rather-awfully-wouldn’t-mind if you were to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre mid-choke. There’s only so much a good woman can do as far as multi-tasking goes. She’s already trying to breathe whilst simultaneously and distinctly not breathing; it’s a wonder she can flail so much as she is!

So your course of action?

You grab her like you’re going to educate her in the ways of the windpipe and heave.

Heave.

Heave so hard you forget why you’re heaving.

And when she regains enough of a lung-full to launch some appreciate your way, just utter: “Madam, surely you could tell by the way I wear my bowtie?” and leave her feeling charmed and ashamed for not acknowledging your BOWTIE a little earlier.

Pre-choke appreciation is the kind I’m looking for.

All else is too earned to be considered real manners.

That’s about it.

Does the BOWTIE make the man? No, but not all men can make a BOWTIE.

How shall we be able to discern them apart?

A little lower than the chin and most of a foot higher than the nipple; see there.

One of my favourite bodily areas since it gets such little praise.

If you need me; I’ll be in my BOWTIE.

…BOWTYING.

Sam

(PS. Why? Because I’m moral.)


How I’d Like to Go…

What about if I were to simply explode?

I don’t think one can argue with dramatics at a time like that.

Plus the mess I make post-pop could provide work for the workless (I will be swept and mopped), meat (a tad hairy) for the hungry (I’m looking at you, lucky vultures) and a reminder of me as I used to be; wet, showing too much flesh and gradually making my way down your wall.

I can only apologise for the mess. If offended; feel free to concern yourself with the less-fine cuts.

Fertiliser is fertiliser after all.

Apologies also for the windows; at least we have people to deal with that for us; window washers. I hope they’re trained to such a degree as limbs on the pane.

If it weren’t for window washers we’d have to go about that extraordinarily simply task all alone with a sponge.

All alone with a sponge.”

Let these words haunt us like the remnants of me snail-pacing myself down your window.

A real curtain-shutter.

I don’t know about you guys but I want to stab and burrow the little dot of an exclamation mark deeply into the Earth before I depart.

“BOOM” suits me nicely.

Just to be clear here; I’m not advocating any terrorist activity.

Don’t do that.

It’s bad for your health and the economy.

In particularly, MY health and economy.

Don’t touch my economy.

Terrorism in the form of faux-martyrdom (annihilating oneself and as many as possible of the unsuspecting non-believers around you) is cowardice in its most vulgar and blatant guise.

Heroes also suffer the throws of slings and arrows whilst they burden the daily and die slowly in an effort to improve the world (though relative).

If destroying yourself and the lives of those you haven’t even spoken to is your best method; you should really get out of the world-changing game because you are woefully unarmed on a planet currently dealing in and thriving on words and ideas.

Courage is all the more essential in matters that are slow and are accordingly all the more un-noted.

Exploding yourself and killing others is capitulation to the rigours of a worthy fight.

Not to mention that you disembarking a few dozen/hundred/thousand folk from the planet’s surface really is testament to how petty you are.

If all I’d achieved in my life was the murder of others; I’d consider the life a wasted one. Fortunately and tragically never to return.

Blow yourself up; leave the world unchanged (though of course there is now one less cunt in it).

I’d rather be all alone with a sponge.

Seriously.

In the meanwhile; I believe I was talking about my own preferred means of departure.

REAL CLASS is lacing oneself with explosives, enjoying a final meal of rare steak and (please) no lit candles, before making my way out into the desert/mountain top/bridge of your own cute little boat (let’s keep it secluded, eh fellows?) and having a good long think.

Follow that think, whatever it might have consisted of, and push the button.

Probably the red one.

Exploding must be one hell of a sensation; though admittedly brief.

They say a head decapitated is still open to thought and sensation for several seconds.

Curious.

Perhaps it is alike to the chicken running headless around the farmyard in what it hopes is the least axe-like direction.

Time to kill, post-suicide, eh?

If only my head remained; I think my options would become wonderfully limited and clear.

Can’t say “Ow” (though appropriate). Can’t sing (though appropriate; exploding really is breath taking). No final soliloquy.

Only one thing for it.

Give the sky a big kiss and continue rolling.

Mwah (you get one too).

It won’t change the world, but since it’s your life; do as you choose with it.

Plus; worms need grub too.

Bugger off in the style you deem most appropriate.

That’s what I’d like to do.

That’s how I’d like to go.

I would, of course, fiercely recommend living that life first.

It is ever-so-somewhat the point.

Mwah,

Sam

(PS. I likely have much more to say on the variety of topics covered here; I’ll get to them at some point. Probably not sponges and window washers though; I don’t know how they happened.)