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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I slept with ISIS’ mother, both literally plural and metaphorically singular (and anal).
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.
ISIS can’t read good.
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.
Just plain ol’ fuck ’em.
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.
(P.S. Grandpa’s pipe tobacco and probably Ewan McGregor).
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
You can’t disparage a grizzly bear.
Neither of us have permission for this.
You might see it tumble down a river bank, sniff its own balls or some they’ve gathered from ‘bearing’, and perhaps even go cross-eyed; but ultimately a grizzly bear has a final reality that cannot be countered.
Teeth and tonnes.
A grizzly bear will squash you with its sharp teeth and tear you both apart and a new one, with a look.
That’s why I respect bears; they have the self confidence that overcomes looking foolish.
I could watch a grizzly bear get its head stuck oh-so adorably in a honey pot, proceeding to wander and bump about until a kindly friend provided some jar-removing empathy; and all the while I’d be sporting a cold sweat and nursing a frighteningly ineffective piece of any weaponry ever made at the prospect that this creature might one day have intentions towards some honey pot of my own.
Lions don’t do that to me.
Catch a lion attempting any of the above and you’ve got a pussy cat you can mock and give a good kick up the arse.
Shooting a bear is your very best hope (seeing as this is how you can irritate it to finish you off more mercifully quickly), whereas lions have very little to say in response to a shotgun blast.
You can bop a lion on the nose and you’ve gone a significant way towards undoing its legend and usurping leadership of the pride. Two bops should do it.
Not that I’ve ever fought either; I can’t. PETA won’t allow it.
Of course, grizzly bears requiring nothing from nobody, whereas lions are such pussies that PETA has to stand up for them.
A lion at full charge can be disposed with a stern: “STOP IT. You’re embarrassing yourself.” – causing it to slink away.
Grizzly bears cannot slink. Try that same method (vary the wording if you like) with a grizzly bear and you’ll simply hear your words echo decreasingly within the animal currently digesting you.
Bop a grizzly bear on the nose and you’ll never bop again, and you’ll regret not having gotten more bopping done in your time.
Note, I will be referring to the grizzly bear as a ‘grizzly bear’, rather than as a simple ‘grizzly’ as I feel to shorten it would be overly familiar and I’d like to maintain as much formal ‘Mr’ and ‘Sir’ as I can with my host (host – because wherever you are, that’s a bear bit of place to stand and be a bear).
To make it short, shortly before continuing at length: grizzly bears are large roaming landmarks, whereas lions can simply fuck off.
When you’re selecting for your apocalyptic battle team, and you’re choosing from nature’s bounty (try not to choose lemongrass or wheat -they’re useless in a fight, of all floras you should utilise cacti and coconuts, or a suitably angry hedge), you’re going to realise that the grizzly bear is a team by itself. It’s back-half is on its front-half’s side, and its left side is predictably on its right side’s side. Its teeth work in coalition with its claws, its eyes with its mouth, its hunger with its need to take a dump a few hours hence.
A lion might leave you a carcass, but a bear will turn you and all you were into a turd in North America. This victory is total, as the bear might feel some parental satisfaction of having transformed the irrelevant you into a colossal amount of faeces; and as such become something the bear has a greater regard for compared to the living you, flailing limbs and awfully widened eyes, screaming something about a “good bopping, Mr Grizzly Bear sir”.
Lions can be dispatched with a finger up its nose.
I also predict that a stiff kick in its balls, the kind of impact that gives testicles arthritis, would also demise a lion to pieces. If it is a female lion, then I’d kick her in her male lion’s balls and then I’d spray her with cold water whilst making a screechy noise.
Being a cat, I imagine a lion would find acute embarrassment something it struggles with. Bears would roll with it, indeed – they would roll in it and enjoy whatever that sensation is. I once said (to quote myself – apologies) that it is hard to make a mountain look foolish.
Bears are wandering mountains that chew, shite, and impress you with what they can do with a salmon. You can’t make them look foolish, whereas a lion can look dopey as sweet hell.
And what are you going to do about it?
Lions have had movies made about them, songs dedicated to them, goodness knows how many wanky tattoos of their image, as well as those t-shirts that people wear in which lions give an ‘Far-out dude’ look on an ethereal background of stars and other such strange things to associate with an animal of which I am quite confident I could beat in a debate, an arm-wrestle, and a good-old fight to the death.
Don’t speak poorly of grizzly bears, because if there was one in the room with you right now, the walls would tumble, you’d vanish in a cloud of bloody mist, the eaves-dropping neighbours would gasp “oh my!” and all that would remain would be a thoroughly more impressive turd and the smell of satisfaction Mr grizzly bear emitted before wandering off as mountains do and forgetting about you entirely.
If there was a lion in the room with me right now; I’d ask it to leave.
And leave it would, because I might also happen to mention I have (Mr) grizzly bear associates that might be interested to meet a pretty young lion such as yourself.
In addition to this whole subject; a bear would easily dominate a gorilla, for the simple flaw that gorillas are too much like us to really get anywhere in nature without the instinct to bang things together until a (hindsight) good idea happens. Plus sex and humour.
Now, I like to take an overwhelming degree of responsibility for the human species (somewhat possessive perhaps, but it is mine) and I urge none of you be flippant with a grizzly bear. I do not give you permission, and you should presume none. I don’t have permission to disparage a grizzly gear, and I wouldn’t want such permission, as this would be invitation to turdation and the kind of improvement I don’t find overly flattering.
That being said, leave lions be too. They can’t help being a bit crap, even if they do try to show off with the regular roars and scraps and impressive hunting statistics.
I wonder how they taste.
Don’t hunt them unless they’re getting out of hand and give people a hard time.
Under no circumstances whatsoever are you allowed to attempt to hunt a grizzly bear, if only for the reason that the apocalyptic team battle circumstance might come about and you don’t want to be looking to a team of your mate Harry, an utterly unwelcome lion, your mum, and a mind-bendingly large gap where your grizzly bear talisman team mate was meant to be.
Feel free to hunt chickens as I don’t care for them, plus I’ve a feeling we should keep them in check in case an uprising should happen. I can handle a few hundred chickens coming at me all at once, but a flock of 19 billion is going to seriously affect my lawn.
I really don’t want 19 billion chickens realising they have a slight advantage over us in numbers and feathers, before finding out my address and coming to ‘get’ me. I don’t know what it’s like to be ‘gotten’ by chicken en-masse, but I can only hope it’s preferable to what we do to them.
I image it would tickle, in a manner only a grizzly bear would be able to enjoy.
Some people don’t have it, others are ravaged by it, and if you can’t tell already – I am referring to the ability to wiggle ones eyebrows independently.
I don’t mean they can wriggle their eyebrows free from express command by higher authorities, more so that they can make the right eyebrow wriggle, as well as it’s sister.
Yes, I do believe that each eyebrow has a gender. My right is a dude, my left is his female fellow.
They are both entirely independent from each other, with separate social circles and professional squares.
Some people can’t do this. But they can dilate their nostrils.
I cannot dilate my nostrils, despite a vast amount of time doing…something (let’s call it ‘effort’) at the bathroom mirror (poor thing).
Both my wife and my boss can do this.
I however, can belly dance; whereas they can’t even watch.
I remember realising I could make my belly roll at a dinner party of my parents. The conversation was flowing, which was a shame as it was so dull, and I found myself as a last resort (forgive me, only being a young child, I was not mature enough to be so bored).
So, I just wondered if I could command my stomach to flip-flop in a manner that might cause halt to the conversation that was flowing like the dribble that such drivel rhymes with, and then I did it.
Soon I was on the table, feet amongst potatoes (as a young boy should – though normally not mashed), and tummy in the air, like a patriot of physiology and very keen to continue.
And things really haven’t changed since.
The belly dance is a tremendous tool as it is both as conversation stooped and starter – this being why I call it ‘corking’.
Some fellow of mine might be conversing at me, very face-first, about Brexit. I then say “Hey pal, look at midriff” and he’ll respond with: “Wowee Sam, good for you! It’s like Brexit, right? And another thing…”
I must admit my belly dance has been ineffective against Brexit and its constant production of dull argument, though I persist.
I belly dance in the face of democracy.
The problem with democracy is that it enables a majority of people to make a really bad decision.
That follows with a response to my theory, with the counter: “Are you saying that the majority of people are stupid?”
Of course they are, have you met people? Have you met the modern person? The average man in the street…doesn’t. Choose your topic of purposeful action, any at all, because the answer is ‘no they don’t’.
And we’re sinking into a quagmire of circumstance in which the talent of the nation is buggering off, and those that got us into this mess are expecting those whom voted Remain to get us back out of it.
Nevertheless, talent like this guy and his stomach aren’t going anywhere.
Particularly when I want to take a swipe at Remoaners too.
Uninformed of a separate selection of facts, those that berate the majority of the nation, such as I just did, could really do with a bit more experience outside of their preference.
Snobbiness is the worst failing of the British people, and the Remain campaign demonstrated that from the beginning. That is why it failed and that is why it is inherently unlikeable.
One thing that is guaranteed about the Brexiteers is that it has that feeling of blind romantic adventure. “Let’s do this and see what happens! We can make the best of it! Freedom!”
Whilst these sentiments may be based in untruths, the attraction remains – more so than the UK has within Europe.
European membership should have been celebrated whilst we had it. We all benefited, and could have improved our standing too, and now we are without, divided, and horrified by the fact that both sides were right and wrong in an ugly blend of uniformed ignorance and inexperienced ignorance.
Nationalism can be a wonderful thing if we could all have just gotten along.
Your loss. I’m a patriot to the side, proud of the best bits and eager to improve the rest, whilst unashamedly keen to make the most out of things for my neighbour and me.
Britain will be easy pickings for a belly dancer like me, beginning with the number one industry in the UK.
Not just a rainy mist apparently named by Snoop Dog, but a source of national unity akin to red phone booths, bizarre humour, bad teeth, and a reaction of chat-ceasing awe in the face of my belly dancing.
The drizzle industry is going to make a killing this year, and I want a piece of that soggy pie.
Patriots will have it shipped in, using it to obscure their neighbours, keep the laundry soggy like a Briton, and mystify the Mrs in association with a stiff upper lip and stiffer stiffy.
And it is during this kind of conversation you and I are having (thanks for contributing) in which I as a youngster first found cause and ability to belly dance.
I’m sure, whilst taking part in this conversation today, you’ve already found yourself trying it too.
Good job, see you on the drizzly other side.