The Lateral Column
Posted: April 11, 2017 Filed under: Uncategorized Leave a commentThe Lateral Column.
Good title.
That’s about all there is to this.
I’ve a title, better than a peer’s Lord or Highness, but with the downside that I have no friends; what with my not being a peer to anyone.
The Lateral Column.
Oooh, just HIRE me why don’t’cha?
Travelling has hit this website hard, unlike me or you, both of whom haven’t hit it in the slightest.
These four months of travelling, with six remaining (new kangaroo-skin wallet permitting), have gifted me an appreciated banged-about-brain within which all I’ve seen and pondered is stored, in glaring contrast to my notepad, which lists items of shopping, the names of several Asian chaps whose names it seemed vital to recall, and the title of this column (The Lateral Column…..hire me).
Once I had intentions of being the famed writer that history’s greats would reanimate themselves purely to get their remaining fingers on the my latest epic (the kind of book that’d causes birth rates to drop…if it weren’t for the ultra-arousing prose of my shopping list and the authentically phallic font I’ve in mind for using), shortly before re-popping their pre-popped clogs at their sheer sight and humiliation that they never thought of a title that darn emotive and marketable.
My ego has taken, shall we say, a hearty heaving over the shoulders of humanity’s more subtle waves and been dashed most enlightening upon a humble shore.
I deserve nothing.
I deserve nothing more than you, actually, and it took some time to note that this was inherent and is ever onward.
It shall take some mighty doing to appreciate that the ego that came to this realisation at first saw humbleness as an audacious affront. There is no doubt that ego is fun and it shall have its place; as a humble tool of a meek man.
All there is to do is practice something I enjoy doing; here – writing.
Once a day, for as little as one half to one hour, I will be expressing myself all over Dear Reader, in as enigmatically and preposterously prosperous a manner as I can conjure…for that would appear to be my style.
And I like it.
One can tell from the website’s former name: Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
And now; The Lateral Column.
I’ve a great deal to story to you in our little I’ll-write-you-read establishment, but those tales will wait till impatiently till a later article and an earlier hour, since I’ve only a few hours till hostel checkout and I’ve not slept yet.
It’s worth it all though, even through the moped-crashes, drag queen molestations, monkey attacks, waterfall blindness, hotel manager fights and cuddles and the time I discovered the third best feeling in the world is to hand puppy so cute that I’d both gobble it up and die for it to a pair of highly attractive and even higherly flirtatious german twins whilst laying/dangling from a hammock whilst a rather dopey grin dangles all the more danglier from my face.
The second best feeling?
This.
The greatest feeling I’ve felt?
Coming soon.
Sam
Who to Vote For; Clinton or Trump?
Posted: November 6, 2016 Filed under: Matters that Matter, writing | Tags: Clinton, politics, Trump, us election, usa Leave a commentClinton.
Vote for the same ol’ shtick; Mrs Hillary Clinton.
Whilst once there was a time in which politicians were acceptably immoral and had private agendas for which presidential powers were sought to necessitate; we are now in the perilous epoch of activism and public power.
The sway of the influence no longer is cast by those climbing by ambitious claw and tooth to the top of the perpetual foothills; for the era of personal politics is upon us.
People looking to gain an attribute beyond power are named upon the ballot slot.
Whilst we have Clinton; from the elderly school of dangerous dogs ready to bark and bite a jaw-shaped hole through their enemies in vainglorious effort of keeping the course, we also have Donald Trump – the irrelevant.
Trump has travelled through 7 decades without experiencing negative consequence, living on the accumulations of Trump the Greater and Senior – a Republican and a businessman. The father, one of the potent individual by which the United States came into fruitful fruition, died with an empire ready only to crumble.
From a 7 billion dollar legacy of concrete and formidable zeros, we look into a future of rubble and a single zero.
With Father’s empire to cushion his every failure, Donald has only one successful promotion throughout his life and this is fact that he inherited his name and fortune.
“My name is Donald Trump and I am extremely wealthy” is the successful fact; compounded by his repetition into being something he himself conjured.
And with this being his only success; Donald seeks to push the saturating idea to the hilt; “My name is Donald Trump and I am so extremely wealthy that I became President of the USA”.
A lonely failure, prisoned by his father’s success, the fortune that should have blown doors from hinges before him has constricted him to having one single phrase and one simple point: “My name is Donald Trump and I happen to be wealthy”.
For an individual without the backbone of solid achievement, and with only one thing to say, we now have the ambition that goes beyond seeking power and focuses its aim directly at legacy: Donald Trump wants to be more successful than his incredible father.
Donald wants approval that he has done something without his father, independent from the legacy that shackles him and free from the burden of his own mediocre 70 years.
Upon victory, Donald will seek another – now an international appeal, once more without substance and with the style of an ill-educated celebrity; whereupon he will be met and matched by the world of rabid politicians ferocious in their attacks to gain ground and influence.
A legacy of rubble comes tumbling towards us now, of which Donald Trump will insist on being voted most popular by those who remain.
Clinton is the antithesis of this.
For those denouncing her successes as being a matter of inheritance from her husband’s career, we should remember that she became a Senator and Secretary of State despite her husband writing her off as a figure he sought alternative company from; orally.
Hillary Clinton inherited high intelligence, few sociopathic tendencies and a moral upbringing from her parents.
With so adept a brain and education (in career as well as through a high-standard of schooling) saw her to the role of Senator and White House Secretary of State.
Her femininity, husband’s adultery and the portrayal of her as a frigid career woman caused Hillary to sharpen the teeth and strengthen the grip to hold fast until the ambition was met with completion and another challenge.
Hillary is an old-school politician with the evident will to surpass the standards tossed at her feet by challenges throughout her life; she has made selfish actions and thoughtless mistakes and these in her past are astoundingly rare and accounted for.
Clinton is spectacularly qualified as a politician and leader, whilst that sharpened ruthless edge makes for a President the nation and world is in need of.
And above all; she is a good person. Seeking changes in the world that are essential, though not easy, and changes that are right, though unpopular.
With Hillary Clinton as President of the USA, the world would have a typical leader, more of the same, spouting the day-to-day jargon we’ve come to expect and that many are revolting against.
She would do the job and well.
Donald Trump as President will be the result of a popularity contest with such self-absorbed fear that it shall supersede the point of the entire electoral process; to anoint a leader to do right by the United States of America.
Clinton now portrays what people most want changed: a removal of the jargon, of the old elite, of the dynasty, of the nepotism.
And I expect the removal of this to come profoundly so; following the defeat of Donald Trump in November.
But this depends on the will of the people.
Some vote for Hillary against Trump and vice versa.
Some vote for Hillary because of her policies and the high probability of her proficiency in the role.
Some who vote for Trump are not voting for policies or his qualifications for the role; they are voting for his personality.
And this is weak.
And for a comment on fear; I am afraid that the people of the United States are becoming beyond holding aloft as an example of how to lead the world.
I fear the United States is about to finally disappoint the world beyond reconsideration or forgiveness.
So in aggressive Western response to the economic and expansive rise of China, Brazil, Russia and China, aligned with the decline of the USA and the European Union; I’ll be keeping my chin up and sense of humour alight…I hear Canada’s popular as of late.
Thanks,
Sam
Donald Trump; On His Level
Posted: November 6, 2016 Filed under: Donald Trump; On His Level Leave a commentDonald. Why are you such a pussy that you only molest women? Molest a 200 pound 27 year old chap like me if want to get some street credibility. Like a real sex offender.
Donald Trump; On His Level
Posted: November 6, 2016 Filed under: Donald Trump; On His Level Leave a commentDonald. Have you noticed how all you Trumps look suspiciously Russian?
Why are you communist?
Stop being communist.
Donald Trump; On His Level
Posted: November 6, 2016 Filed under: Donald Trump; On His Level Leave a commentDonald. Why do you keep failing? Big failure; huge. Confirmed failure.
Donald Trump; On His Level
Posted: November 6, 2016 Filed under: Donald Trump; On His Level | Tags: donald trump, us election Leave a commentDonald. The adoration of 100 million sign-waving, gleefully racist, proudly dense Americans, jiggling their chins in anticipation of your next sassy comment doesn’t amount to your daddy’s love.
My Name’s Samuel Wood and I’m a Monarchist
Posted: November 6, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: congress, grandmother, loyality, monarchy, republicanism, senate, stiff, the queen Leave a commentI suppose now I’ll need to carry a show-handkerchief and sprout a moustache for folk to tell whether they should respect me or not.
That way I’ll have two things to weep into as I think of the Queen.
I was enjoying a five pound note on Bonfire Night and came away from the experience a Monarchist.
There are only a few years left of the goodest girl, so why not be a Monarchist for the remainder?
If we were to take up republican arms and cast her out onto the Mall, I’d feel wretched.
It seems too easy to picture; the Queen dazed and confused and wondering where to make her way to now she’s without a household to come thither with a blanket and tuck her in…somewhere.
I’d have to relieve her; scoop her up in my messianic middle-class arms and take her home to meet my children. Put her in a shoe box beneath the bed where she’ll eventually die because we miss-fed her dog food.
She may be largely redundant; but it is the strict cohesion of everyone taking this redundancy too seriously that makes her too vital for the nation for us to permit her to pass away.
This being said, I also feel the rise in me of the notion that she has the will for survival as such the daughter-of-mother-nature it becomes macabre.
Butlers, maids and chauffeurs must know they are useful in their current application though also qualify too easily as eventual arrow-fodder and food source. Matter and masses; as it were.
The sensation I’m suffering in two-way tides is that of a masculine/gentleman’s urge to protect the Queen with my English manhood, and to allow her to lead me to my death in use as a barricade and elevenses’.
I’m an individual sort of chap but I’m happy to dive my head into some of that “Dear Leader” complex and feel like I’ve achieved something because I have a Queen.
I’ve got a Queen; what’ve you got?
A senate?
Pfft. Don’t make me laugh inside (I’d never denote external emotion beyond “ooh what a lovely bouquet of flowers. My house is simply desolate of posies; thank you so awfully much for standing in line today”).
Democracy is for pussies and men who don’t love their grandmother enough.
Let’s talk in terms of granite here.
At war, your senate will discuss which of each of them gains possession of the fallen’s body parts, so as to knaw upon in their final few cannibalistic moments, whilst MY Queen will be standing on the beaches; with crown askew and rabid corgi by her side in delicious anticipation of being used as a by-the-tail-club-to-be-swung, sharpening her own knuckles and daring ISIS to take another step towards her.
She’s MINE.
I’ve got a Queen.
And I’ll apply her to the affected area liberally.
Why do this? What is she good for, sir?
To become a tad more staunch, perhaps sir?
The Queen makes me stiff, not only in my upper lip, but in every appropriate body part that could do with a wee bit of starching, as well as subjugately flaccid in the single area of pride and shame and irreverence to both penile emotions.
She makes me stiff like a patriot should be; stiff for my country and stiff for my Queen.
Stiffer than a millennial knows how.
The Queen is one of those few things I’ll someday cry about, simply because…she won’t cry in return.
Much like how she wept a sturdy gallon of tears for her retired battleship; she wouldn’t do that for me and I love her for it.
I know that, deep in the belly of Buckingham and Balmoral, she will let loose a lonely droplet for a corgi and she’ll never do that in front of me; and that makes me want to blubber into my stiff moustache.
The Queen is a battleship and I adore her because she sank Nazis and kept us buoyant.
What did your congress do?
Did they gather?
I’ll tell you what the nation’s ‘MRS’ did; she continued as she was bound to.
So quietly dignified that everyone knew about it.
She would wail a piece of aristocratic pottery deep into the noggin of a petulant and “awfully presumptuous” intruder and then proceed to not understand why the nation’s papers are making such a fuss.
Don’t intrude upon my Queen.
She’s mine.
And I’ll let her loose on you if you don’t staunch up.
Come be stiff with me.
Oh well chaps. All in good spirits; I’m sure your senate and congress are a charming collection when only one gets to know them.
Here’s a scheme; how about the matinee of Comus at the Globe next Saturday?
You bribe and collect the Senate and Congress to be there for 14:30. They can each have a cushion.
I’ll bring the Queen and her throne; you fucking loser.
Queendom; bitch.
Sharks? Not in my Fucking Tree!
Posted: October 28, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: eagles, food chain, humans, hunting, land lubbers for life, sharks Leave a commentI 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).
Sam
When Encountering a Clown; Consider Laughing. And Cricket Bats
Posted: October 27, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: clowns, daddy, funny, grenade, Humour, Likes, MI5, smoke, Weird Leave a commentHas 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.
I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A LEGAL SMOKE GRENADE BOUGHT AT A PAINTBALLING SESSION…you should still click on my page.
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.
Thanks,
Sam
Celebrities Stopped Dying
Posted: October 23, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: celebrity deaths, elbow skin, Humour, paul mccartney, testicles, writing Leave a commentSo 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…
Thanks,
Sam
The Lateral Column 