Sharks? Not in my Fucking Tree!

I can’t think of a worse way to depart.

Head first down a shark, with the smell of distinctly unbrushed shark breath, rotting fish, blood and sea water, as well as digestive juices, seeing fellow prongees: fish that are also pronged upon a miserable shark tooth and give you a look which you return; the realisation that you are both in the same situation and your future isn’t as brief as you suddenly wish it would be.

Imagine sharing a petrified glance (whilst the rest of you flails in appreciation for the final few minutes you inhabit) with a fish.

Imagine being in the same situation as a fish.

The food chain is a horrible thing not to be paramount of.

This is why we should eat lions and sharks; so they know and there’s no confusion.

All sharks should find themselves tinned at some juncture.

And don’t animal rights me, oh reader darling.

You must understand that if we weren’t land lubbers (ohhhhhhhhh watch me lubber you cunt of the ocean) then those dim-eyed bastards would be the center of our nightmares, waking or a’slumber.

Here’s a challenge.

Watch someone being eaten by a shark next to you and then proceed to relax.

I double dare you to enjoy your day following the toothing of the neighbour you once neighboured in the water.

I avoid the neck-deep ocean, but I do have a contingency plan for the event of a shark assault (probably a sexual assault at that; with the wandering teeth).

Should I see the faintest suggestion of a protruding fin or flipper in my own personal piece of ocean, I will calmly wind my way back to shore (at a leisurely speed of sound) and proceed to kiss the first grain of sand I encounter and then climb the nearest sturdy tree, clutching a collection of carefully sharpened berries.

It has to end with a tree well climbed as that way, in the off-chance of any sudden evolutionary advancements in sharks being able to walk, I’ll at least have a few million years of life to enjoy before the flippers become proficient tree climbers.

And when they shake my fruit from their branch, we’ll have a discussion-most-stabby with these sharks of the tree.

Not in my fucking tree mate.

A man’s tree is like his body; keep sharks out of it.

Not only are they the greatest threat to humanity, aside from our own propensity to procreate ourselves into to starved, traffic-tired and generally pissed off people, but they’re a tad dainty in the ole’ dramatics.

Have you seen the way they leap out of the water?

“Ooh la la, feel my splash!”

Fuck them for that too.

They do in the wild what orcas are trained to do at Sea World.

It feels as though they’re attempting to merge their way in and amongst us, slowly enjoying the privilege of being inland rather than outfield in the wetter world, just biding their time until the chance to bite our species, figuratively and literally, in half…you’ll find me in my tree.

They say you should punch them in the nose if they dare to get too curious in the chewiest sense of the word.

I’d prefer to be eaten by them on the grounds of it being a somewhat less fucking stupid idea.

That being so, I still appreciate the fuck-you-final-fight of the fighting/deceased.

You have to kick and thrive in the mouth because there’s not much else to do at this juncture.

Less so kill or be killed, more so kick ‘em in the tonsils as they seek to swallow.

I could go on by I’ve an overwhelming urge to make clear this following position, though I may already have:

Fuck you sharks.

Fuck you all.

Here’s to Japan, go get’em.

Land Lubbers for Life…although I also feel comfortable taking to the air as I feel I could fuck up an eagle (ruffle its feathers and cute little talons).


When Encountering a Clown; Consider Laughing. And Cricket Bats

Has anyone thought that the most appropriate thing to do when they see a clown is to laugh?

We’re discussing a fucking loser, a ranked and certified loser, a loser who excels at loserhood.

How will you find something to do with your life? How about dousing your throat in makeup, putting a mask on, finding the most creepy looking knife from your mum’s kitchen draw and then hanging out in a cornfield until some teenagers come along?

And your primary objective?

You’re trying to impress people, aren’t you?

Doubt not, right along with me, that these honkers are the sort to go home after they’ve hung out in the wheat field for a few hours, feeling satisfied with their contribution to the zeitgeist, like those Anonymous arseholes.

There’s a good deal of arseholehood in wearing a mask, especially if you say you’re a good guy.

Not quite as arseholehood as a guy running at your car, hoping you pull away just in time.

They must plead in your head that you make it away in time, otherwise they’re going to be so embarrassed at the point of capture they’re going to have to murder someone because…they’ve gone this far and can’t back down now.

It’s like Trump only with slightly less ridiculous hair.

Imagine the picture as the clown loses his nerve, whilst a car full of adults with children and mortgages (positively riddled with children and mortgages), maybe with an alpha male whose been longing for an opportunity to protect his family.

There are men with cubicle jobs, dealing with traffic every morning and every night, coming home to an aging wife, expanding waistline, a despondent south facing penis and decreasingly enjoyable children, being told by his boss that he needs to try harder if he’s truly serious about this junior role, and he can’t even play cricket anymore because his daughter’s soccer class is more important and he has to visit his wife’s dad who calls him a pussy whenever he’s out of the room…any then he sees a clown staring at his car.

Walking towards him with that “Trust-me-I’m-disturbed-like-in-the-films” angle of the neck, with his mother’s most Hollywood kitchen knife dangling down at his side, his pace quickening. And then DAD remembers he’s still got his cricket bat in the boot of the car.

Oh he’ll be thanking the strange-ass culture of the world that has brought this clown into his life.

And he can’t wait to see what amusing noises will eminate from this clown.

That’s a good point; it excuses people from devastating a clown’s joke.

I’ve never actually met a clown, but I’ve reviewed the history and it would seem you’re supposed to laugh at them. Not that that’s the point; you should laugh at these losers with a honk noise because this is their Friday night.

Having a honk doesn’t make you a clown, it makes you a loser in a mask who, because of that, feels like they’re free from consequences; and the consequence of running at towards me wearing a mask and holding a machete whilst a honking noise emits from you is – I’m going to whip out my pocket baseball bat and ruin the joke.

Clowns: laugh at them.

And keep a cricket bat handy in case of potential losers trying to get a personality.

I would also like to say a quick “Hullo” to MI5 who are reading in currently.

Do you think that when you chaps drop by it could be a tad less clandestine; as I could really do with the views.

And I plan to achieve that by mentioning what follows.

I am holding a smoke grenade and just so happen to also currently be feeling fairly flippant towards the establishment.


The smoke grenade is mightier than the pen, so sayeth the struggling writer holding a smoke grenade for maximum effect.

I am qualified.

Flaunting the potential of a terrorist threat should do get the hordes of admiring MI5 agents flocking to my page and ‘Liking’ it.

It’s almost as dreary as asking trying to impress people by wearing a clown mask.

I hope MI5 like me.

They’d better.

Or I’ll let off this smoke grenade in my room and show everybody.

That’ll do for today; next time I’ve got some choice words for sharks and why Hemmingway was right to machine gun them.



Celebrities Stopped Dying

So these celebrities are still present.

Following the rush of celebrities passing by and away, the flood has stemmed.

Who was the last one? Prince?

And since then; I can’t think of one and it’s been months since the last.

And now I can’t even stroll down the street without colliding with some C-Lister, busying up my route on the pavement and urging me to know their name.

I am of course being ridiculous.

And why not; I’ve got enough celebrities on standby to risk being a tad ridiculous.

Who do we have left?

The Queen.

And she’s worth at least 70.

A regal 70.

Mick Jagger’s worth 80.

This is all relative.

Besides, Shakespeare’s dead. Whatever will he think of next?

Who’s left from the good days of our timely lives?

We’ve got Paul McCartney…

I’ve always liked Paul McCartney; the only Beatle.

Ah that’s not true, I just feel that without Paul McCartney, who is (by the way) a real whole-name kinda guy – doesn’t feel correct to say merely “Paul” or “McCartney”, is the reason the Beatles showed up on time.

One of those chaps you could rely on to wear a proper coat no matter what weather. Or who thought it’d be nice for us all to have some sandwiches and just happens to have some with him right now.

Not that he’s a sap, ole’ Paul McCartney.

I wouldn’t want to bully him.

I reckon he’s the sort of fellow to get picked on and, then, right in the middle of the scuffle, it turns out he can elbow you supremely hard somewhere convenient for him and inconvenient for you. And then he’d stagger back, looking hurt with his nice shirt collar all ruffled.

“I didn’t want to elbow you really hard there but I asked you to stop! I’m being nothing but reasonable! Well I’m sorry your private parts are hurt Sam but you really did ask for them to get a good elbowing you know.”

That’s a collision of two gross skin patches.

The elbow skin and the ball bag skin, meeting at last in an epic encounter of whose surface is the weirder, bumpier kind.

Like fried chicken skin.

Paul McCartney would be sure to pack natural remedy cream in his suitcase, explicitly for ragged elbows: “Please give it a go Sam, I want to see your elbows free to breathe again!”

Perhaps he’d be against elbow skin because of the fried chicken similarity.

Poor old vegetarians.

They have broccoli to rely on.

And that’s sad.

Broccoli is no companion. Plus it only keeps you warm if you rub yourself with it hard enough.

Rub yourself with a chicken hard enough and it’ll get you arrested, though you will easily find some feathers to fill your shitey jail pillow with.

I’m running low on time, plus my wife’s looking attractive in a fascist attitude; like she’s withdrawn my choice as to whether or not I find her hot and am simply now erect and servile.

What else do I have in my notes?

“Whale prodding.”

I’m not sure what that was relating to. But I brought it up.

“Nipples for the inner circle only.”

Again, I’ve not the slightest, foggiest clue as to what I was referring to when I wrote that one down, but…mentioned it!

What else?

“Fuck the Naples Mafia; who heisted those Van Gogh pictures.”

Yes. Fuck the Naples mafia verily.

I’m a fair-enough-fan of Van Gogh and consider those flat-capped, shoulder-braces, tiny cigarette smoking, just like mama-used-to-stealia-the-artworka, youa-nota-make-it-into-the-inner-nipple-circle mafia motherfuckers to have stolen that artwork from me personally.

How conceited can you be to steal a Van Gogh? That’s like stealing Mount Everest; it’s everyone’s. It’s Humanity’s; don’t touch my mountain.

Oh I would love the Naples mafia to come for me. Pussies. You ruined Naples.

Ok then, to wrap up today’s Brief Therefore Witty with hopes of mafia war (I’d win; I’ve got Paul McCartney), I’d just like to say with a tad more cultural insensitivity that fucka-the-Naples-mafia-boopidy and next time you can look forward to reading all about what to do when a clown comes running at you.

Here’s to celebrities lost…



Solving Unemployment via Nice Guys.

Oh I’ve got an initiative chaps!

One of those plans to have my name go down and up again in history; as opposed to making any money in the slightest.


Maybe I can charge people for putting my name in the history books. Oh look! Another initiative!

Forget that one. I don’t want people refusing to talk to me so as to save money.

My friends are undoubtedly more economic than they are loyal.

Frugal traitors.

They won’t be mentioned in the history books with me; those things are too crowded any way.

So I just looked up historically irrelevant people to back up my own claim that history books are too crowded and it would seem I can’t find anyone who didn’t matter.


However, I did get to enjoy reading about the magical history of Irish slavery; in which those Irish were still third class. One of those accent racisms. Or maybe you could tell by the hair.

Or the Irish telling people they were Irish.

That’s an Irish joke. And that’s ok; I’ve probably got some Irish in me.

Once there was a time when having the wrong accent left you in the lurch in life. Being able to pull off a really-rather-jolly-good-old-posh accent must have been more applicable than having legs.

Fucking legs.

Getting by without those is just…floppy.

Nothing worse than legs you don’t need; like a pair of empty tights filled with jelly.

A floppy scar; no thanks ma’m.

They might be funny to lovingly whack people with though.

Plus it would unsettle people when they realise that thing on their shoulder is an exceedingly soft foot.

Legs that don’t work, however, is not my initiative!

Companies hire Nice Guys to be helpful in the street.

These professional Nice Guys should be approachable; helping folk in the street, offering bag carrying and first aid.

Companies can then plaster these Nice Guys in sponsorship advertising.

“Nice Guys; brought to you by Ford!”

Can you deny, and I dare you to do so, the genius of this plan?

I’d take a sponsorship.

Think I’ll ask my buddy, ole’ Simon, ole’ slim. Would you like to have your name, and only your name (oi…Simon), on my chest?

I’ll tell you who else deserves sponsorships…Spacemen. And Spacewomen.

They are the greatest people to ever live in the times that they live in.

Whilst you might have Da Vinci, Columbus, etc…these are the guys who are going to fuck the next species we collide with, in war and peace and love.

Only thing is that Spacemen can’t write prose for shite…Shakespeares they are not.

Cats are likely the next choice of astronaut. Give them some simple buttons to push in an easy order and they’re superior to the next fat chap in a chair.

Once they’ve finished being casual ninjas, that is.

A cat is the most casual of ninjas to have hanging from your mail-box, meowing to be let in; the deceiver.

A ninja. A sexy, sexy ninja-cavalier-that can kill you if it wants. On such a whim; it’s technically whimsical.

I dislike the suggestion that a cat is a fragile ickle-wickle cutie pie owing to the fact that when the bombs start to drop; chances are the cat will outlast me.

The cat will be the bully in the street who slinks on over and takes all your canned food and essential balls of string I’ve been saving for none-of-your-fucking-business reasons.

They CAN kill you if they want; all they need is a pit to nudge your nibbled-to-pieces-corpse into in the afterwards.

They might need an incentive; but they’ll kill you with an attitude denoting that you’re not cool enough to know why they did you in.

I once knew a chap who permanently looked as though he was just realising his balls with being nibbled by a kitten. A mix of revulsion, shock and finally guilt at having had such an interaction with the cat to cause this tremendous turn around in fortune.

Maybe you’ll all have that look upon your faces someday soon. Not just because cats aren’t nibbling your bollocks owing to a career in space, more so because my business idea works so well.

You’re welcome.

See you soon.