The 1970s – it was all the rage at the time.

Posted: February 26, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

You know what I mean, even if I’m not too sure of it.

That’s because you’re instinctual, and this is a compliment.

This isn’t though, fuckface.

In the 1970s, ‘Fuckface’ was just coming to fruition. A little more socially acceptable, to fuck a face, have a faced well-fucked, and a great term to call people. People like you, fuckface.

And if you didn’t know, you probably should, there was many a fuckface in the 1970s. That was their decade.

In the 1960s, Small Faces, the 1980s, the Talking Heads, the 1990s, The Spice Girls – the latter of which was a true revolution of retro-reversion for feminism, in which people from Princes Diana to the Pope (same thing at the time) realised that women could be fuckfaces too.

I like a motif to a blog, but its possible I’ve extended ‘fuckface’ as far as ‘fuckface’ can take me.

So from here, its a matter of talking about what I thought I was going to write about before ‘fuckface’ inspired me.

It’s still about the 1970s (which, as I say – were extremely popular at the time), and it’s still about faces.

Essentially, I want to talk about a 50 year-old photo I saw in my hometown newspaper, which celebrated the win of a pub darts team in some kind of regional league.

10 or so chaps, with the variety of haircuts, facial hairs and fuckfaces that you’d see commonly back then.

And what a time to look suspicious! ‘Suspicious’ was in vogue.

Not to mention that the fuckier your face was, the more iconic of the time you were.

This blog didn’t proceed last night, as my wife wanted to watch Mission Impossible II on my laptop. I’m not going to enter a fuckface argument with my wife and new millennium Tom Cruise, and nor would you, so I fled.

Bravely checking my wife is now asleep, and considering I’m now well rested (being 12 hours later), I shall continue, though I do miss Cruise.

Accordingly, I’m playing some ABC News footage from the Fall of Saigon. 1975, the heartland of the fuckface decade.

Would I, however, be willing to write-off the whole Vietnam/American War as a fuckface combat? Probably not, as people who took part in that war, or were just near enough for war-crimes, really have fucked faces to the degree of whatever literal or metaphorical extents you’d be willing to consider, quietly, so as not to wake my Mrs.

“Vietnam fucked my face” sounds the sort of script you’d read on a found Zippo lighter in the Da Lat jungle highlands.

But I was talking about a darts in an English pub in the 70s. Black and white an image, being printed in an old local paper, but being from the 70s there is also a strong beige feel, maybe even corduroy. And cigarettes.

And you can zoom in on these ten or so faces, of young and middle-aged men, and suddenly you’ll hear a distant voice saying calmly “he was a respected member of his community, worked hard at the brown cigarette factory, and once got a bullseye. But nobody knew he held a secret so terrible, that it wouldn’t be till years after the case closed that the truth became known. For in fact, John ‘Cigarette’ Brown, was a closet fuckface. Even his wife didn’t know. And his children are coming to terms with it to this day.”

Or something criminal, not in a good way.

It’s now been two days since I started writing about this nonsense. But I’ve persevered, and all I need was three breakfasts.

The benefit to taking several days to conjure up a piece of writing such as you’ve endured reading (you’re lucky, you didn’t have to write it) is that you can look back on where you began a couple of days ago, what you went through, and where you are now, and consider: ‘what the hell am I doing here?’

And I like thinking that.

Because, what the hell am I doing here?

A blog, apparently, whilst watching a vast amount of news footage from the 1970s.

And breakfasts.

Sam

New year’s resolutions and the apocalypse

Posted: January 2, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

I’m not the sort to bask in the failure of a long-deceased civilisation, but I’m not half pleased that the Mayans were off the mark with the missed prediction of 2012.

A famous miss, quite the ‘swish’ to echo through the eons.

Perhaps, it’s an error in translation? Rather than ‘apocalypse’ – they meant ‘low chance of showers’? In which case, they were bang on – as I distinctly remember that there was a low chance of showers that particular year.

It’s also a fantastic way to stay relevant – doom braying.

And that’s what I’m bringing to 2023 – predictions for the end.

So here it is.

You’re all going to die.

So you’d better put the cat out and leave a note for the milkman or the paper boy – or any other 1990’s chores you choose to turn to in your time of time-cessation.

Of course, most of you will have realised this years ago, which is nice, but you forgot to keep yourself relevant by reminding people.

It’s not just for selfish reasons that I do this though, as a healthy dose of daily death can be invigorating. Very.

Knowing you’re going to leave life inevitably, and potentially suddenly (especially you), should influence your actions. It might not, but it should – because you’re going to die.

And it’s best not to be religious about this, even if you use that to guide your morality. Not just because I’m agnostic, but it’s hard to play the odds well in picking one God out of the thousands there have ever been – you’re likely to choose the wrong one and then comes heavenly vengeance – just like what presumably happened to the Mayans.

Zeus is the only God I’ve seen mighty evidence for, thanks to all that lovely lightening, but I don’t want to believe in him because if I could impress and terrorize the world with tempests and lightening, maybe I’d want to fuck a fish too since, at a certain point, humans won’t cut it any more when you can seasonally fuck the sky. I don’t know how that could guide my morality, but I know I don’t want to fuck a fish this year.

A new year’s resolution is dandy, good for you and yours, but you were supposed to die via apocalypse (or potentially a dangerously low chance of showers) over a decade ago.

You were mortal last year, and it’s the same again this time.

Remembering this, and that it might happen at any moment, is a fantastic way to start the year.

To die preferably is all we can aim for, really.

That being said, Merry Christmas! May Zeus be with you (but not standing too close).

Sam

Anger to the point of fudge. Don’t make her fudgy. I don’t speak Fudgish.

Posted: October 23, 2022 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

This week my wife mothered our kids (including two baths nights), cooked all our evening meals (getting better all the time), worked her job in the Justice policy sector (one day commuting to London and back), sold our car (made a heavy note wad at it), studied evenings for her post graduate degree (late into the nights), hoovered (for fun apparently) and otherwise generally put up with me.

Forgiveness is important with this kind of wife, as it’s no wonder she didn’t have time to thank me for doing the washing up one evening, which I did do fairly loudly.

I would have done more this week, but I was too occupied watching her in astonishment. In honesty, I would have been watching her regardless of how many tasks she was doing, as she is invariably my favourite thing. I even like her handwriting, and I know I like her handwriting, which is an odd thing to know you like about someone.

What don’t I like about her, aside from her husband?

She’s got a bit of a temper. Only a bit, because she tends to leave the lion’s share of her temper about my head and neck following a dispute, such as me suggesting post-graduate education is less important than washing up, by me.

Then again, it is that same temper that I find oddly charming, on those rare occasions I see it make its way towards other poor unfortunates.

It’s somewhat as I’d imagine it to be, if I were the Arizona deserts watching little planes flying very fast towards and even faster away from little island in the French Polynesia sea.

I remember in an Australian town called Hahndorf, we’d been to a local petting zoo to pet some lambs and camels, ostrich and emu. Both ostrich and emu, this is important.

Afterwards, we were in a little sweet shop on the main road, and my wife mentioned in conversation with the owner that we’d been at the zoo.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Well, an enormous ostrich!” my wife remarked.

The owner paused, leant back in his chair and looked out the window in a manner that suggested he just read the gospel of instructional manuals of ‘how-to-be-arrogant’, and said with his hands behind his head:

“Yeah, we call ‘em emus over here, love.”

He ran a sweet shop. Once. Who knows what’s become of him since?

He’s probably being arrogant somewhere, deceased.

All the same, I all but giggled as I clutched my candy canes in a trembling and sticky fist, watching my wife slowly lean over the counter in an all-encompassing manner and gently ask him:


“Fucking idiot?”

Good question, if confusing in that way questions you’re not meant to answer can be. He answered, and he was incorrect in and of his very being, dialogue aside, though I’m pleased to say I did my duty as a husband and global citizen of sweet shops and coaxed my wife out of the shop with the promise of there being some enormous ostriches out there someone which might match her temper, so she should try it. Also, I had some fudge.

Fudge heals all wounds. Apart from those that happened to that sweet shop guy. He needs hypnosis.

My wife then shared the fudge with me, and it was brilliant, in-Australia-and-not-in-trouble, fudge. We ate it together.

She has many other qualities I also adore, but now I’m hungry and the washing-up really needs doing loudly.

Sam

Bananas are the punchline fruit. Give them a break.

Posted: October 10, 2022 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sometimes a thought enters your head, and then you hear yourself saying it to someone.

In some of these ‘sometimes’, you might find yourself muttering it aloud, causing others to get off the bus quickly.

Other ‘sometimes’, the preferable ones (unless there were no spare seats on the bus), mean you do what I did, which was to say it to my wife. In a museum. There were many seats.

In fact, there were so many seats, you could tell that some people weren’t sitting down, but not due to seeing anyone standing. Just, lots of chairs really.

You might also find yourself typing such things on a blog, causing people reading it on smart phones to get off of buses all the same, but perhaps it’s still best to revert to my what was going to be my original point.

I said something to my wife. And now I want to share it with you.

“Jenny, which fruit looks best in mid-air?”

My wife has a wonderful capacity to both humour and wither me with a look. She doesn’t do that for just anyone, but perhaps not many other than myself can draw such infuriated pity. Especially in a museum (lots of chairs).

Choosing the ‘humour-him’ route (there were children present), she indulged me, saying “I don’t know Sam. Bananas?”

I had hoped she wouldn’t say that, because I worried she might be right, which meant I was too with my first thought.

Bananas.

The punch-line fruit.

A very applicable fruit, certainly, but still the go-to fruit in the historical contexts of people using a fruit for something a fruit shouldn’t be used for, and for things that don’t actually need to be done.

I think it’s a blend of the shape, colour, peel, consistency and pronunciation. Everything else is just legend.

Certainly over-relied upon, and as such, I didn’t want it to be the answer to my question; I didn’t want banana/s (singular or plural it really doesn’t matter at this point) to look good in mid-air.

But, damn it, they do.

I expressed this all to my wife, who by this point had chosen her well-practiced alternative to humouring me.

“Pineapples?” she ‘fuck-offed’.

Unfortunately, perhaps more of the same with Mr Pineapple. Certainly not the jobber of mid-level fruit expectations, but they’ve at least been put forward for their obvious attributes.

Pineapples, really are just trying too hard.

A silver-placed friend with the wacky green hair-do, trying to talk to women at a party where women are really in-to fruit but getting ignored in favour of his friend shaped like a big penis with a healthy yellow glow.

I wanted to tell my wife this, but she’d been through enough today, even though earlier we’d practically had a bus to ourselves.

So I continued my thoughts and settled on a fruit (phrasing you can’t use in reference to bananas or pineapples because it is inappropriate and, more so, already been done) with a degree of subtlety.

The lime.

Bear with me.

A lime, emerald green, backed by the bluest of baby boy skies, suspended in mid-air, just for us to see.

I thought that was nice. I told my wife that I’d concluded, and this cheered her up immensely.

Then again, maybe all fruit are pre-determined to look good whilst falling. If they drop from a branch, with few-enough leaves, on a clear autumn noon with strongly sunlit blue skies, any fruit looks good, because they’ve been doing it for centuries.

Bananas, pineapples, limes, maybe even a tomato.

A sense of style, doing as the ancestors did it. Dropping, and looking good.

THAT is good museum conversation, but I couldn’t continue as my daughter needed help eating her apple.

It was a good one. You should have seen it go.

Sam

Kids say the darndest things, thank god spiders don’t.

Posted: June 17, 2022 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

So, with two young children running around and beginning to say things (my one year old daughter said “Love you” for the first time today whilst I put her to bed, whilst my son sought me out in the kitchen whilst washing up to tell me “Daddy, two of The Beatles are DEAD”), I’m reminded that having something to say is a matter I really enjoy talking about.

It wasn’t long ago that I noted publicly (as public as a blog can be…public if any cares enough to give a damn to look at it) that sometimes all you need is something to say.

This has served me well, with interviews, romantic dates, speeches, parental lessons, and perhaps most especially when I would like to blog but don’t have anything to write about.

It’s akin to penning a novel about how nice it would be not to have writer’s block.

Writer’s block.

That’d be a woe far more begrudgingly acknowledged if it was a granite block in the center of the town, which writers could bang their head against to clear the haze. That’d have miners and sailors nodding across the pub at writers, heads heavily bandaged, but at least now having something to write about.

OH MY BABY JESUS (I love that baby) MY WIFE JUST CALLED ME OUTSIDE TO OUR GARDEN SHED TO SEE A SPIDER SLIGHTLY LARGER THAN OUR GARDEN SHED.

We’ve locked all the doors.

If that spider wants into my house, it’ll have to learn to climb up the drainpipe or something ridiculous like that.

I don’t like spiders.

They don’t like me, but that’s usually ‘afterwards‘.

This one in the shed was a big bulky bugger too. One of those ones with a lot of body – like its got some sass.

It’s sassy-sense was tingling. BBW – Big Black Widow.

It wasn’t really a black widow, just a common-garden-terrifying-spider with mandibles it appeared to be able to lean on.

Then it moved. And at once the whole world felt as though it was made from spiders, where even the concrete beneath my feet felt like the suspicious tickle of WHATTHEFUCK…ITSINTHEFOOTKILLTHEFOOT.

‘Tickle’ is a good description of how a spider moves. Combine ‘tickle’ with ‘stalk’, and we’d be hitting the nail on the head. Or we could just hit the spider and just make do with ‘splat’. Maybe ‘tickle’ is how they feel when there aren’t actually any around but you’re still dwelling on them.

I don’t like spiders.

And they still don’t like me.

Maybe because they’ve read this.

Maybe they can’t read.

Spiders are illiterate, sure, but I wouldn’t throw that in their face. That’s what my slipper is for.

My wife kept calling the spider “he” to begin with, before each time quickly correcting (wrongly) to “she”, whilst I had been quite happy to make do with “it”, then to do away with “it” and never think or worry about “it” again from behind a locked door.

However, my thinking towards pronouns changed too as I kept watching it. It was so big, I feel like only a collective noun would really be appropriate for this singular “them” of a spider.

Crows are known as ‘murders’, hyenas are a ‘cackle’….this spider in my shed should be an ‘punchitinalegtwice’.

I don’t know if their legs are the worst part, nor the mandibles, nor the eyes. I think it’s the silence.

‘A silence of spiders’. That is way, way too eerie a collective noun than I’m going to permit then, no matter if it is perfectly appropriate.

Something isn’t appropriate if I’d rather it wasn’t.

I’ve seen bigger spiders before this one though. Not just seen them. Heard them.

This might counter my earlier point about silence (also in turn upsetting my second point about appropriateness – making it inappropriate, which according to the flip of that exact point might make it appropriate….going on and on about this same point just isn’t….now’s not the time), but I did once encounter a common-garden-terrifying-spider that was so huge I could hear it coming.

It ran around the corner of my windowsill and waved its legs at me, like a yobbo. I shut the window sharpish, but could still see it waggling its oh-so-too-many limbs at me.

I don’t like spiders.

Spiders don’t like me, most evidently.

I do like writing this way, reacting to what is occurring – like my wife calling me outside to see a spider.

I’d better make sure the doors are still locked. It might try to get in, plus my wife.

At the start of this piece I began by sharing something that my children had said to me today. Here’s another:

My wife went to get a tattoo today, a real beauty – a snowdrop flower on the back of her neck. I never thought her neck could get any lovelier (why the hell would anyone thing such a thing about necks?), but now it is, and it is forever.

I told my son this, that his mummy was going to the tattoo shop to get a new tattoo, and he replied with concern: “are her other tattoos broken”?

All you need is something to say, but sometimes its nice to have something said to you too.

Sam

ISIS propaganda and the best of smells. Together at last.

Posted: March 31, 2021 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

I like having something to say. It gives the teeth something of a last hoorah before I forget about them entirely.

We don’t need better dentists, we need better prehistoric DNA and frankly I think the Tories are failing us on that point.

I’ve been limitedly successful over the past few years. I’ve had a succession of jobs that have to some extents supplemented my lifestyle, and to better extents have secured happy lives for my family. Mainly, this has been working in education and PR.

I now no longer like either.

In education, children are done an incredible disservice by some utterly dedicated and dutiful people, and PR is a mix between actual experts being inefficient in communicating, good vs bad luck, and a heavy heap of bollocks that revolves around typical journalism.

The good stuff of journalism is “once was” and “hopefully later”.

I hasten to add that I’m not referring to war zone correspondents. I’m talking about the more minor chit chat that takes up a greater portion of the lives of us that aren’t living in war zones.

I read a VICE article today, and it was really bad. Bad in the sense of making me worried I was missing a hip point due to the confusion I gained from reading it. It focused on a cool new drug and that’s a pretty lame use of brains and fingertips. They looked to insert laid back humour, which was a funny thing to do.

I’ve considered this, and considered other mediums, from the Daily Express to the Independent, and I think that if you’re going to aim poorly for a bad target, you’d better do so well.

Therefore, we’ve a choice here in what we do with this blog and how we live our lives hence. First, I think we should list the best smells that we can make use of. Second, let’s get some propaganda going that benefits me and fucks ISIS and the like. I don’t see how you can come to other conclusions than this.

So, first again, we’ll begin with smells. How about woodwork and American air-conditioning. That’s a nice succinct beginning to a list, from which we can start a separate list.

Now that’s begun, let’s tackle some anti-ISIS, pro-me patriotism.

I’m a golden glorious god of benevolence, I play with my children regularly and am pretty good when it comes to reasonably simply acoustic guitar songs, whereas ISIS is a pile, puddle and column of both wank and whatever wank would be if it came from under the sea. Nautical wank.

Back to smells.

Cookies and the forest. These a crucial in continuing the list of nice smells. Without them, the list would have stopped already with American air-conditioning. In addition, these smells smell nice.

Propaganda.

I slept with ISIS’ mother, both literally plural and metaphorically singular (and anal).

Smells.

Sunny concrete in the city and babies. These, much like the second set of smells, are crucial to the list, but we must remember that they only make it on of they’re true. And if you’re denying that sunny day city pavements smell nice then you’re a monster.

Propaganda.

ISIS can’t read good.

Smells.

Those old books that ISIS can’t read smell terrific, as does that European continent chocolate they don’t get in Northern Syria anymore because ISIS are bastards with small everythings. My everythings are bigger. My everythings can read. My everythings’ get Euro chocolate with the Euro milk of Euro cows that Euro moo, which you might not realise because this is text and not audio, but I’m saying “chocolate” with a French accent. ISIS can’t do a good French accent and have no Euro moos, which is possibly why they’re so angry in the first place.

Propaganda.

Just plain ol’ fuck ’em.

Smells.

Just plain ol’ fuck ’em in the nostrils.

It may be at this point that you’re starting to realise the kind of journalism I had in mind for celebrating. Not the gross nitter natter of the tabloids, nor the informed, investigative and dutiful inkers that reveal crime and call out bullies. My kind of journalism is far more aligned with that focus of sincere adoration for the mundane that matters most, and the propaganda we’ve all been missing since World War 2. I might not have actually been alive during WW2, but nor was Hitler for a part of it.

If we went to war with Germany (unheard of, I know), which would be a tragic shame as I know some lovely Germans, I’d illustrate the worst of them, caricatured in characters, with focus on their worst as their only. I would entwine this with some neat information about my which accents are most suitable for meeting live on Mars and why a Frankfurt accent wouldn’t be suitable at all (I’d find a reason…may it would echo worse than an Italian accent. I don’t know because it’s bollocks).

That’s what I want to write, in between occasional pieces that are important in that they have meaning, but my primary output should be these assaults of viciously uninformed propaganda and the boggiest of blogs.

Accordingly: ISIS need nuking into glass before they get their hands on our nuns. I had some toast for breakfast.

There we go, two sentences, both alike in dignity, summarising the key points of today’s propaganda and the key aspect of blogging (telling of my breakfast).

Were it not for the latter, I don’t think I’d have the confidence to take on ISIS as remotely as I am now. Without the former, it’s almost as though regularly updating the internet about what I had for breakfast don’t matter.

Sam

(P.S. Grandpa’s pipe tobacco and probably Ewan McGregor).

All the conspiracy theories are true – I’ve checked.

Posted: December 13, 2020 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’ve been doing some reading on YouTube and I’m sorry to break it to you but whilst Covid-19 is undoubtedly a hoax designed by Bill Gates for some unconfirmed reason, it’s also real and it’s all Bigfoot’s fault.

Criticism of this argument can at the most be that Bigfoot doesn’t upload regularly to YouTube, but any other criticism should be dismissed as irritatingly-informed.

More importantly, Bigfoot did it.

I’ve also some bad news about Priests being infected by flying saucers with monkey-aids to benefit the illuminati. That’s if you ‘believe’ in bad news.

I could go on about 9/11 and what I’ve studied on Twitter about the involvement of the Bush family, but it is actually more bizarre to know what you’ve already been told by journalists and those that were there at the time.

It is extraordinary to consider that Jihadi Extremists hijacked commercial flights, having been trained by a Saudi millionaire that had in-turn be trained by the CIA to fight Soviets, and flew them into the New York skyline with an ambition for total death.

That is completely unbelievable.

Perhaps that’s why there are so many conspiracy theories surrounding it in the first place.

The real word and history and exceptionally odd, with so many random mechanisms bouncing off one another, like bubbles – some popping instantly whilst others swell and swell to a point that Donald Trump is elected President and then rather suddenly isn’t.

It’s already absurd enough for reasons that, albeit not good, are at least what make sense when we follow the breadcrumbs and listen to the people present.

My only real worry is whether Bigfoot is going to listen to my advice, or if he’ll instead go-off the deep end, arrange a UK-tour, swing by my house, eat and insult me profusely, close my front door whilst bidding my wife a ‘bon soir’ because he’s a gentleman and surprisingly French, and return to the North American tall trees with some new must-share insights into why UK bloggers like me funded the Nazis to build the pyramids. A long sentence, but a better one than this.

Also, whilst I did fund the Nazis to build the pyramids, I now donate to numerous anti-pyramid schemes and consider myself absolved and the matter closed.

Another area to address would be a matter to be seen to by the postal service.

Otherwise, it’s a pleasure to be back on the internet and hope to return with more; more.

To quote Bigfoot: “Bon soir.”

Sam

Yes, I have a vengeance cabin

Posted: November 5, 2019 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m pissed off so it’s probably a terrific idea to start casting my opinions online.

One thing that I’d like to do with the fury within me is to spill the beans on my masterplan to put myself in a position of power to right those that’ve wronged me.

There won’t even be any degree of “= profit” about this, it will in fact come down to making a vast amount of money from the advertisers that want to sell news of their product on comedy, satire and pornographic websites.

The blend might be unique, but that admittedly does equal a little bit of profit.

The website would be hosted in my cabin, with a camera placed on top of a ladder, a laptop shivering in the corner from the content to be uploaded via it, and a large amount of plastic sheeting that can be easily trashed.

Vengeance cabin prepped, I would kiss my wife and son goodbye, hop in my car (for ‘engineheads’ – it’s a red car, thus faster), and drive down to the local shop to grab some pristine, buxom, and very flirty fish and chips.

Then I’d drive it back to my cabin, sneak past my wife and son who’re hopefully not too powerful in the noses, shut the vengeance cabin door behind me, and pull the blinds down (note to self, or to any reading benefactor: buy black-out blinds) so that nobody can see inside – either for their own wellbeing or because they should be paying for this.

With the steaming fish and chips laid upon the floor, I’d de-robe my lower half, squat, and make a vast amount of money by taking an enormous dump over the surf-meets-turf.

Once done, I’d take a photo of it.

Then I’d put it on the internet, you’d click on the link, revisit, revisit again as I update the variety of subjects shat on, revisit repeatedly (yes you will) and alerting advertisers as you do so that this is a place for advertising to be placed, they’ll get in touch with me, I’ll take their second offer, and the road to power and vengeance begins.

I mentioned earlier that I’d be looking for advertisers eager to engage with comedy, satire, and pornographic websites.

I could chef that blend, with a healthy series of things to take a dump on, like a mask of Trump, or a an Apple Iphone, perhaps a novel or building materials (I’ve got bricks bro.

Got some mortar too – maybe I’ll dump on a wee-little wall), and if I leave a hundred words or so of description, the kind that gets the SEO flowing and the laughter true, I’d undoubtedly get the money.

Then comes the power.

Then comes the women, I presume – I don’t know, my wife won’t tell me.
So we’d go back to the power, increase it so smartly that it’d have a crease, and get some vengeance.

Why fish and chips to begin with?

Because, you’d click to see it.

Because, deep-down, you’re just as normal as everyone else. And that means you want to see what different things look like with poo on them. Even better if it makes you laugh about politics.

This should hit all the targets I’m hoping to hit, and I admit that this will include quite a lot of people logging on and wanking to my photos of poo on objects (like Saturday Night Fever VHS’, bottles of milk, and the Chinese flag), but that makes money, which is capitalism, which is freedom, which is patriotism, which are still not enough for me to ever tell me son about my masterplan. Either way; fair enough.

I feel less pissed off now that I’ve revealed my masterplan, but I might feel different tomorrow once I’ve realised I’ve said these emotional plans online.

One last thing, I’d do…I’d clean up my vengeance cabin, take my vengeance money, and buy some flowers and fudge and global monopolies, improve the days of those that have wronged me, and sit back down with my wife and son, pat the dog, smoke something expensive, and sleep a more peaceful sleep than the people out there who can’t stop thinking about the guy who bought them fudge, flowers and their place of work.

It’d need a name, no puns (like ‘Splatire’), so how about…………….

I may have outdone myself with ‘Splatire’.

Looks like I’ll just have to settle snuggly on my own limitations and rule the world from my vengeance cabin, waggling ‘Splatire’ like it something I’m actually proud to admit on the internet.

That’s better.

Sam

How to Arm Wrestle with your Legs

Posted: September 29, 2019 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

To begin, it is crucial to develop a thorough understanding of the rules of arm wrestling, so as to be able to disregard them and apply one’s feet to your opponent.

Of the crucial rules to be appreciated, the fact that it is illegal in arm wrestling to use your feet unto your opponent is paramount. This is because they are essentially not expecting it.

Whilst you, reader, may be expecting me, writer, to get stuck straight into kicking your opponent in the face, you’re mistaken; as prior to that I am going to finish this prolonged sentence any moment now.

Kick your opponent in the face as soon as possible, the results of which will become obvious a moment after impact.

However, be sure to kick their face towards their own arm so as to achieve victory, otherwise you’re just kicking them in the face – and there’s frankly no need for that.

This is not about kicking them in the face, it’s about arm wrestling with your legs.

Having kicked them in the face, plus having aimed their face towards their own arm, be sure to capitalise on this by slamming their hand down towards the matt. Do this with your feet.

It’s quite simple when you remember your ability to jump.

To put it at its most simple, post-kick you must stand upon tip toes, leap as though looking to bounce, become mid-air horizontal over your opponent’s hand, and land with maximum gravity.

It is at this moment, upon regaining your feet (you’ll need those for later rounds) that you must assume that stance of victory whilst maintaining a visage of absolute innocence.

Indeed, you must fuse your victory roar with a hint of “Who me?”

A key factor in this tactic of using your legs to win at arm wrestling is this: when asked if you kicked you opponent in the face and then landed like an ironing board upon his hand, you say “No.”

And that’s the long and the short of it.

Feel free to bring a Legs Coach to the competition, only remember that instead of them shouting “Now’s the time to kick them in the face!” – they’ll need to translate this to “Use your legs!”

If anyone at the competition has a problem with this tactic, state plainly that they’re against evolution and whatever your ethnicity, gender, or religion you happens to be.

I hasten to add here that this isn’t exactly a tested technique of mine, but I wholeheartedly support you in utilising it (feel free to say I said it was ok – I gave you permission).

Remember to use that using methods such as these is only fair for those who want to liven up and evolve what is otherwise a traditional practice; at least it’s not cheating.

Sam

Joey Meatballs – Much Has Happened Since May

Posted: September 27, 2019 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Before I begin, bear with me.

It’s a lot easier to die for someone than it is to live for them.

Tell me I have to die so my wife and child can survive some terrible and clichéd doom, and I’d step forward in an instant, stepping over the edge – if that somehow helped.

However, tell me that I’ll need to be tortured for 50 years so that my son can keep a respectable hair-line with no bald spot…then fuck that guy’s hair. He has my genes any way, and I have zero hair loss on my back.

Taking the time out of my day to put some substance into yours is a lot to ask. And, if you’re as lazy as me, you’ll feel it ring true that there are times when I’d rather die for you than live for you since that amounts to having fewer tasks bothering me.

Dying is a one-time thing, minimal effort, job done, round of applause.

Living can seem to drag on forever when you’re not enjoying it, and then someone tells you you’re going to have to listen daily to the bullshit anecdotes based around their relatives and a punchline-you-really-had-to-be-therefore-but-ultimately-are-glad-you-weren’t. Those are the times you’d rather pass-on then let it drag on.

Maybe I could just donate a leg, or some teeth, or back hair?

If I could donate my left hand to ensure my son will live a life of happiness, I’d wonder what where my left hand was going to end up, but I’d get sawing. If you presented me a banana to do the job, I’d manage to cut it still, albeit hilariously.

If I could donate the same hand so as to not have to be told by wedding planners that I need to have this more-pricey version of the basic floral chair covers (otherwise we’d look back and the wedding day just would seem like a sham), then I’d cut it off and then slap them with it before handing it over to whoever’s asking for it.

Joey Meatballs.

That’s my son.

I don’t know why I call him that, but it’d make perfect sense if you met him.

There’s something pre-formed about Joey, as though he was born with a degree of personality and is just flinging that charming personality at the Earth as he makes his way around it.

And the manner in which this resonates with me is to call him Joey Meatballs.

He’ll age and comprehend, and slowly come to realise that his Dad is calling him “Joey Meatballs”, sometimes “Joe Meatballs” to save time and oral effort.

How he’ll respond is a matter of his upbringing, though I’ve a suspicion that he was born with an upbringing that he’ll keep bringing up and respond to “Joey Meatballs” accordingly. I’m not trying to suggest he’s the Chosen One, I’m telling you that he is.

When I write, I prefer to really focus on the typing as opposed to the narrative, and I tend to find I’ve circled back on myself anyway, as though a 1000 word article is an unwieldly palindrome.

Have you ever heard of a ‘palindromemordnilap’? It’s the term used when someone is trying to be clever but its bollocks. Remember that as we continue.

You’ll be familiar with the “Godwin Argument” – the premise being that all online arguments will eventually culminate with an accusation/suggestion that the counter-argument is “exactly what the Nazis did!”

Rather than building up to that, I feel it’s best to get such accusations of National Socialism out of the way in the initial terms of what we’re arguing about.

For example, before arguing about Brexit, its best to agree that we both have the potential to do as the Nazis did, namely – to invent Fanta.

You could invent Fanta, as could I (save of course for the fact that it has already been invented by the Nazis).

Maybe from there, having gotten accusations out of the way early, we could build to both exchanging our points, and if that fails, we can just punch each other until we can’t.

The last person to be punching can be considered the loser of the argument because this is a civil society and violence is wrong.

And that’ll teach both of us.

I hasten to add that although this is entirely my own idea, if you try to punch my son, I’ll take a step beyond punching and burn your mother down and change the fabric of society so that everyone else alive thinks this is a positive thing.

Perhaps, you’ll feel the same retaliatory way regarding your own children, but never fear; for I do not punch babies.

Let’s end this there, if I feel the need to move beyond stating that I don’t punch babies, I’m opening myself other areas I feel I need to clarify.

It could be, by reading the above, that you have come to realise why I call my son Joey Meatballs.

It’s just how things go when you have a father that says and does things like calling you Joey Meatballs.

And, as my Literacy teacher told me in regards to not beginning a sentence with “And”, is just the way things are.

Much has happened since May.

Love you boyo.

Sam

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