The Pope has died. I’m available.
Posted: April 21, 2025 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: blog, catholicism, faith, funny, Humour, life, mental health, Pope, Religion, writing Leave a commentIt is the 21st April 2025 and the Pope has died.
I’m sure he was as positive and negative as any of us, despite the hat.
Coincidentally, I’m available if anyone is looking for a bit of Poping in their area.
I’ve done it all before in a very non-literal way.
I’ve never kissed someone else’s baby, nor someone else’s feet. But metaphorically, I’ve kissed many, many feet. Fewer babies (fewer baby’s feet), but still, I’m very forgiving.
I’m so forgiving, that frankly that’s the end of that sentence.
I’m so forgiving. So there.
Am I pious? More so than you!
Am I devoted? Kind of.
Am I observant of ecclesiastical doctrine? No.
However, if you’re looking for judgement – I’m you’re guy, and that’s your own fucking fault.
From most of what I can see, the previous Pope (prior to me – white smoke incoming…) there was a need for a little bit of change.
What change?
You know exactly what change was needed.
It’s the change that mattered to you.
That particular thing is so vitally, immensely important that it requires immediate attention obviously.
What that particular (etc., etc.) thing was, I’ve no idea, but to be clear – I’m still very happy to be Pope if you’re looking for one.
Can I make a difference as leader of one-point-something billion Catholics?
Undoubtely.
I can ruin things for everyone.
And if you thought the Catholic church had issues now…wait till you see what I’m willing to condem.
First of all – those who don’t like and subscribe immediately.
Second, those who constantly ask readers/viewers to like and subscribe. Get your own religion, loser.
Third, ah I’ve run out of steam. Work in the morning, no one is paying me for this, etc again.
Etc a third time.
A fourth etc, and RIP to the previous guy (I’m sure, really, he’s letting the big-guy know we all say “hi”) but by gosh I just need to log off now because this is just simply, frightfully, awfully, ongoing.
Amen (no offence).
Sam
25th anniversary of a new millennia – China has dragons!
Posted: January 1, 2025 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: burns, Culture, dragons, fireworks, funny, happy new year, history, Humour, life, millennia, new year's eve, philosophy, time, writing, year 200 Leave a commentHappy new year!
I hope you had a good one. I didn’t really have ‘one’ – having slept through the celebrations.
I’ve had worse – such as the beginning of the year 2000, which today is the 25th anniversary.
I poked myself in the eye with a Union Jack flag, which was a crap start to the millennium.
And since then I’ve felt unappreciative of the timing of NYE.
It’s always 1000 years since 1000 years ago. Today is just 25 years since a particular 1000 years ago.
Tomorrow, a different millennia will have passed.
Whoops, there went another just then, but that might have been an adorable little century.
There are beginnings and ends across eternity, and I find focusing on only one beginning and end is just a little meagre.
All that time, all those stories, happinesses and sadnesses, era defining events redirecting courses of a trillion ships, and reliable irrelevancies, the things we’ll never know but still happened and will continue to tomorrow onwards…. saving consideration of that solely for each 31st December is a disservice to the time that has passed.
Plus, and more importantly, firework shows are dull.
It’s hard to get a good narrative going with a fireworks show.
They’re very samey – very quickly – so once you’ve seen the first minute of a fireworks show, you’ve already seen the rest. The first 60 seconds is all you need.
After that, you start to feel a bit dopey realising you’re part of a crowd all looking up at the same thing, like a cow in a herd only you’re doing something far less exciting than eating grass.
And it’s not just in-person. If watching-back the following day, you really needn’t watch a New Year’s Eve firework show specific to that year. I can watch 2008’s show and it’s genuinely much the same, as is 2010 in Paris, 2015 Sydney or 2022 NYC.
You also needn’t re-watch just on New Year’s Eve – August is doable too in case you want to insert some boredom in your summer.
I think the narrative issue is because a NYE firework show has to start with a relatively big bang and it struggles to temper its storytelling from there – unlike China’s drone-show last night.
Starting slow, building-up a story, with fewer bangs meaning you could hear the softer music, unleashing the fireworks towards a crescendo featuring a dragon which was so cool that I’m now delighted to announce it was real.
Yes it was.
They had a real dragon.
A real dragon, made in China.
Still, firework shows remain a broadly dull engagement.
I can picture someone in Ancient China living their Ancient Chinese life, attending a firework show for some national celebration, slowly realising they’re board too – partaking in an already old-age custom continued down the line to me as I watch London’s 2024 firework show above the Thames – also bored.
As well as the lack of dragons, I think the issue is the setting.
A dark night’s sky is a perfect blackly-blank canvas to hit with all those colours, but its a bit distant. If you go to a fireworks show, the fireworks aren’t actually there where you are.
A firework beneath your duvet first thing in the morning however – that’ll stay with you, and yes – so will the burns, but let’s focus on the memories.
Real dragons beneath the sheets would also result in burns, but perhaps this is something we just have to appreciate in the passage of time.
Anyway, happy new year.
But remember: millennia happen every day. As do their 25th anniversaries.
Sam
Aerodynamic nipples and the rest of us.
Posted: December 27, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: aerodynamic, blame, blogging, cannons, Humour, life, nipples, philosophy, Weird, writing 2 CommentsSo, nipples.
Nipples.
Not very aerodynamic, are you?
Admit it.
When top-speed and head-first, humans (and yes I’m talking about the very specific circumstance of being fired out of a cannon whilst naked) are rather let-down by their nipples, which quite simply go against the flow.
There are other body parts that create similar issues (I’m looking at you genitals), but it’s nipples that are the focus of today’s blog.
Now I’m prepared to admit there are many uses for nipples, mainly in early-life, adult aesthetics and general humour (I’m not saying nipples aren’t funny. Everyone knows they’re funny, especially whoever named them), but otherwise they’re a massive liability when it comes to being fired naked out of a cannon, or taking part in a super bowl half-time show.
And I don’t know about you but I’d love to be fired out of a cannon.
I’d like everyone locally to watch and cheer as I survive.
It would also be a hell of a way to die. Doing something, perhaps not heroic, but definitely touching that line between brave and foolhardy. Definitely ‘doing something‘, either way.
“He died doing what he loved: tempting it.” they’d say.
Or “Those nipples let him down again, honestly – he always gave them too many chances.”.
Regardless, I’d happily be fired out of a cannon as a way of living life to the full or ending it, especially now I’ve said my piece about nipples.
Genitals can will have to wait their turn another day.
‘Every willy has its week.’
‘Every foreskin its fortnight.’
‘Every labia its lunar cycle.’
I suppose, of course, if things were to be more nipples-first, the issue of aerodynamics would be the rest of us – not the nipples.
Nipples would be innocent in that scenario. Guilty ribs though.
Wow.
I’ve disproven my own view via a matter of perspective. It was never the nipples, it was the POV and the rest of us.
I’m still going to continuing with blaming the nipples though, as they rarely have anything else blamed on them – compared to the rest of us. I find, from the opinion of others, the fault is not in our stars but usually my “stupid big fucking feet“.
They’re not even that big, but they tend to be perfectly big enough at the precise time to be exactly what isn’t needed – depending on the scenario.
Like nipples in a cannon. Poor little guys.
Sam
Now’s the time to write about it.
Posted: November 30, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: blogging, diary, history, Humour, life, writing 1 CommentIn 50 years, those there and then will wonder why there wasn’t more first-hand accounts of the 2020s.
There are lots of ‘accounts’ – but these are largely bots, or worse – idiots.
And whilst I always take a certain pride in ticking that ‘I can confirm I am not a robot’ box, I am accordingly an idiot too.
And the issue with idiots is brevity, which is why they’re so well suited to social media.
However, if you listen to an idiot for long enough you come to realise one of two things:
1. Actually, they’re not an idiot after all
2. Actually, you’re an idiot along with them
One or two, you’ll realise whichever depending on your idiocy.
We have people who aren’t idiots – journalists, who are inevitably historians.
But what does the typical Brit consider of the Russian ‘military operation’ (aka – definitely a ‘war’) against Ukraine?
What does the average French woman think about Queen II dying?
And does anyone know how the people of Papa New Guinea feel about the worsening lack of fish generally?
Who is talking? Who is taking notes?
There seems to be, as I myself feel, a reliance on Google being around tomorrow.
It probably will be, but also – who knows?
Do you keep a diary?
I don’t, because naturally I feel all my opinions are worth sharing in blog form, which is like social media but more of a long-form idiocy.
The difference between a blog and a diary however, is consistency. Like a a good cake.
Diaries are quality cake.
This blog is shop-bought.
However, we can increase the output to the point of being disciplined – it’s just going to require everyone being ready for a greater stream of idiotic thoughts and feelings from me.
For some, that might be a blessing.
One shouldn’t compare oneself to others, but only to oneself yesterday.
Or, you can compare yourself to me – and feel pretty great about yourself in contrast.
Think about it this way: at least you aren’t saying this.
So brace yourselves, for a torrent of inane and mundane is on the way.
Why? So in whatever tomorrow may come, the people may know what a truly average person thought and felt about things.
See you there.
Sam
P.S. For breakfast, I had eggs. And this climate crisis really is getting a lot of attention now. Hmm. Think I’ll some more eggs.
Writing without a purpose
Posted: July 30, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: comedy, Culture, funny, Humour, irrelevance, life, philosophy, self help, self improvement, Weird, writing Leave a commentI don’t like writing for people. Reading it is the worst part of my work.
People (or as I call them ‘people’) as an audience mean that there has to be an intent with the words.
And it’s nice not to have an intent. I prefer to be pleasingly pointless.
Like keepie-ups.
That’s why I kick balls.
And sentences like these are why I write.
Of course, I do try to have some impact here and there. But I prefer being ineffectual – it’s more expressive.
Perhaps that’s the point.
Meaningless matters. And that’s all our shame.
And, slightly…pride.
For me, irrelevancy gets the job done.
Just like this.
Whistling. Whistling in the wind. Perhaps also peeing.
Crickey – I’m good at summing myself up.
Sam
Getting old – a quandry of vegetable care
Posted: July 21, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: ageing, Culture, food, funny, garden, Gardening, grow-your-own, Humour, life, Vegetables Leave a commentI’m the sort of chap who has a great idea, tells people about, takes little-to-no action, allows a few years to pass by, and eventually wonders: “why didn’t I do that?”
You might know this sensation.
I wanted a vegetable patch in my garden – to grow my own, beat the system and enjoy fresh air, etc.
My wife and I had a slight disagreement on where such a patch would go – and it proceeded not to happen.
Later, friends told me they were growing their own veg. “How nice” I thought.
Later still, colleagues told me the same. “How nicer” I continued.
My brother then announced he was getting an allotment – the mark of someone who wants to grow vegetables so much that they do it in public.
Lastly, my wife told me she was starting a veg-patch wherever the hell she wanted in our garden.
Suddenly it seemed I was surrounded by home-growers of an idea I’d had years ago, and was feeling somewhat left behind and out of the veg-growing picture.
Other people my age are growing their own, enjoying the process and link to their land, and probably vegetables too.
I’m yet again behind, inspired to have an idea that becomes in-vogue in time, but not inspired enough to take action at the time.
Others are saving money, becoming in tune with the Earth and growing both themselves – and carrots.
What am I going to do? I’m such a loser – I didn’t even grow vegetables when I had the chance and and other people my age have so much going on, especially cabbage, and I really need to get my act together before………………………….oh wait it’s only growing vegetables.
Quite irrelevant really – when you want them to be. Still, I’m getting old.
I’ve had my efforts.
I tried growing a pineapple plant, which struggled until my dog snapped it in half – promptly ending the struggle.
I also grew tomatoes a few years ago – but that’s too easy. It’s like trying to grow a beard – effortless whether you succeed or not.
So, sure enough I do need to begin growing something, to remain a part of the pack – but it needs to have a edge to it. Just so I can feel slightly ahead of the curve for once, like I used to be.
Naturally I turned to sea-monkeys.
In place of the pineapple plant I was growing with my son, tiny crustaceans seemed like the next best bet/pet.
However – it turns out you can’t really rear and eat these minuscule specimens. You can drink them down in one, get a bad tummy ache and rear them back up again – but you can’t enjoy chewing them.
And they’re not very intimate a collection either – individually or as a herd. Carrots are better company.
We did name one though. On the theme of them being sea-faring monkeys, we named him: “Ooh Ooh ARGH!”
I think next I’ll try tomatoes, but grow them where no one would expect – like my brothers allotment. Watered with sea-monkeys.
That’d show them all.
That’d show everyone.
Sam
I don’t think about the Romans once a day. Fish heads though – unforgettable.
Posted: June 2, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: cooking, Culture, fish, funny, history, Humour, legacy, roman-empire, roman-history, Romans, rome, Weird Leave a commentAnd if you do, don’t.
The Romans, however, did.
The Romans were entirely obsessed with the Romans; either in the form of making more Romans or removing (violently) those who stubbornly weren’t.
It’s quite something to have an obsession with greatness, such as the Roman empire. I like that. It must be nice, but I don’t have the know-how to be obsessed with helpful things.
Perhaps people, apparently mainly men, look to the Romans for some form of inspiration. ‘Getting things done’ – like the Romans.
Roman roads are still here, a fair few feet down perhaps, but they remain and seem to remain serviceable as a road, despite the millennia. That’s something to aspire to.
The famed military strategy of the tortoise defense (‘testudo’ – leave it to the Romans to make it sound more testicular): positioning a group of soldiers with shields above and at all side, is one that makes sense to a lot of people. So much sense that it makes us presume the Romans were particularly clever, because they put shields on top and all around; the kind of genius idea that everyone thinks of.
And of course, there is the sheer size of the empire, which went forward and conquered at will before sensibly stopping at Scotland and building a wall.
I suppose they also stopped at a lot of other places – like Africa. Having colonised the northern-most reaches of the continent, they must have decided that was enough and that there was no need to start hacking at the undergrowth.
So they stopped. And that, like stopping at Scotland, was probably a good idea in terms of ensuring longevity.
A solid option – longevity.
That’s not me though. I don’t get it.
I’m not Mr Longevity. I’m a breaker.
The Romans built roads that have lasted thousands of years.
I have, however, just failed with fish heads.
£1.50 for two large salmon heads. What could go wrong?
There was a suggestion that it might lead to the contents of a stew, or a stock. Not that I’d be keen on either of those things as an actual outcome, but I was determined to at least do something well.
Not only did I make a proper meal of it (in the perjorative) but it ended up looking like a dog’s breakfast (again -perjorative) that I wouldn’t even feed to my dog, for breakfast or any other meal.
I really gave it a go. I did.
In anticipation of my nature overcoming my ambition, I watched YouTube videos before beginning, trying to understand the right cuts, and the meat to aim for, and the endless cartilage to avoid.
But whilst those Japanese chefs and fisherman (and whatever the profession in between those to is – very Japanese) were samuraing the whole salmon with an array of exquisite and bespoke weaponry, I just had a steak knife.
By the time I was done, I wondered if animal rights still applied post-mortem. Judging by what I put it through, and by what I put through it: no dead thing should have to endure that.
I literally made it deader.
I hacked, I sawed, I made it talk like a puppet mannequin to see if that would cheer me up, but nothing worked and I remained buyouyed only by the fact that, despite not being able to actually get any flesh off the carcass, my son’s wish at being able to see inside the heads was granted.
Well, truth be told, I did manage to lift some flesh from it, but that was:
1. Weird because the limited variety of knives I employed weren’t effective and I resorted to pinching and tearing (perhaps even teasing) the meat from the constant cartillage with my fingers.
2. It resulted in such a demur little mound of meat that it in fact demoralised me more than the fish would have if it could ghostly re-visit it’s earthly remains and understand its longest lasting legacy would be the whiff.
The whiff.
Oh, the whiff.
It was the first thing my wife said to me when she came home. “Sam, what’s that smell?!” followed by seeing what I was doing: “OH MY GOD“.
Then she shut the kitchen door on me and led the children away to not be tainted by it.
It reeked, even overcoming the stench of my own failure.
Abandoning the project, I took the fish heads and the many pieces of fish head outside to the bin so that it could become the neighbourhood’s problem.
I then washed my fingers, sprayed them with aftershave, antibacterial gel, soap-shampoo-shower gel, bath-shower-basin, until after a couple of days I had to resort to chopping onions to overcome the salmon’s legacy.
What would a Roman have made of this?
Something longer-lasting, probably.
Like a temple dedicated to when the fish heads were easily and violently defeated and turned into fish-stock.
The Romans, and I, we’re not the same. So, I tend not to think of them.
But, and this is obviously the ego in me speaking, whilst the Romans were highly accomplished at most things – I’ll bet no empire on Earth could such a mess as I did with those fish heads.
We’re fumigating the house on account of the whiff.
All doors and windows open.
I think I’ll think about those fish heads till the day I die.
Maybe my kids will too. Sorry; legacy.
Sam
Hamster in a ball? What do you want? A medal? Fine.
Posted: May 28, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: animals, balls, comedy, funny, hamsters, Humour, medals, pets, Victorians, Weird, writing Leave a commentI can hear the hamster in its ball, trundling along with the rattle of tiny turds accompanying it; bumping into table legs and me.
What does it want? A medal?
Fine have a medal. I’ll go and get a medal and give it to you.
This is not what a hamster is for (I don’t actually know what a hamster is for – they weren’t my idea).
No animal is meant to be in a ball. A cage is bad, but at least it doesn’t rain turds whenever you take a step.
You could put any animal into a ball and it’d do that exact same thing as this hamster. An elephant would also bump into table legs and me, and fuck us all up due to the tonnage and collision, but might feel bad about it – which is nice. It’s nice to know something feels bad on your behalf.
Actually, a dolphin might not do the exact same thing as a hamster and an elephant. Unless it got a shove. Depends.
If the dolphin is put in a ball and then left to be alone in a ball – it’d just flop about whilst squeaking. If you put it in a ball and then gave it a bit of help, just to get it going: it’d rotate forever.
A dolphin is ideally shaped to rotate in a ball eternally. What does it want, a medal? Fine. I’ll get the dolphin a medal too.
The hamster meanwhile doesn’t even need its eyes, nose, ears. It just about needs internal organs, but it sure as shit wishes it didn’t need an arsehole right now. If it had none of those things, it’d be doing the exact same thing, bumping into table legs.
Poor table legs. You know, the Victorians used to cover them up in case they aroused visitors?
I feel that the Victorian era was one in which everyone was outrageously aroused, whilst pretending beyond reason that they weren’t.
They pretended instead that their genitals were cold, and sleepy, and not there.
The truth, meanwhile, was obvious – just look at the number of children they kept procreating. Children were a major portion of the workforce, whilst also being the biggest output of the era – and more people meant more people. And eventually one of those ‘more people’ put a hamster in a ball.
When did we start putting hamsters into balls?
Holy shit, the hamster just rolled the whole length of my 30-foot kitchen, through the door way into the hall, and into the lounge, all in one go – no collisions.
That shut me up.
That was classy. Shit rain and all.
I’ve taken the hamster out now, and put her back into her relatively pleasant cage. Then gave her some treats.
Her name is GingerSnow. And she rolls well.
What does she want, a medal. Fine, she can have two.
Now please excuse me, I need to make some medals.
Sam
I’ve got some tickets to Shakespeare! Can’t wait to meet him.
Posted: May 16, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: blog blogging, blogs, comedy, Culture, funny, history, human, Humour, life, love, philosophy, plays, Shakespeare, theater, theatre, William Shakespeare, writing Leave a commentA few centuries ago, having some tickets to a Shakespeare play would have been the hottest in town.
On 24th May 2024, the approaching date I have tickets for, there is a different perspective on the price of the ticket and the opportunity it represents.
Much Ado About Nothing has been performed more than a few times prior to the current run it’s enjoying at The Globe.
Over a few centuries there’ve been many thousands of performances, but really the appreciation for whether it’s a hot ticket or not is affected by the greatly reduced chance of bumping into Will Shakespeare in the queue for an ice-cream in interval.
But he’ll still be there. Not in essence, or in spirit, but physically. Is laughing not physical? Is the inner recoil of dread that comes when you know someone’s about to be cooked in a pie – not an ‘in the room’ feeling of physical?
Not really no. But he will still be there in in essence – whatever that means.
I think it means – ‘it would be nice if he was there’, but he isn’t really there. Though he is. Obviously.
Then again, for most of the time for most of the world, Shakespeare wasn’t there.
Perhaps, if it weren’t a good chunk of a millennia later, we might not ‘get‘ the meaning of his plays.
Without the insights of Shakespeare experts, with tremendous artists and producers, Shakespeare’s best might be only as good as a joke told by someone who doesn’t get why it is, or isn’t, funny.
Intonation is a tricky thing to express through a blog, but the point I’m making is that without it – well applied by actors (indeed – thespians) – Shakespeare isn’t so good.
Obviously, Shakespeare is good (maybe even great) – but how plebs like me come to realise that is thanks to other people realising that, and studying and rehearsing over years and decades to culminate with me thinking “oh, actually this is better than ‘good‘.”
And all the emotions around that.
The best thing a writer can do is strike recognition within the readers, and elevate from there. That’s the basis of comedy and tragedy. And Shakespeare did this then, but continues to do so now thanks to the interpretations of the experts today.
They’re ‘Thespians‘ – don’t’cha’know (using way more apostrophes then Shakespeare would have ever had).
I know this, from life.
I saw Two Gentleman of Verona at the Marlowe in Canterbury a few years ago. They took the stand by departing from script to laugh at anti-Irish joke, and bringing the audience with them in appreciating that anti-Irish isn’t really something people want to get behind any more.
Kenneth Branagh’s ‘Much Ado (About Nothing‘ – but it’s much cooler with just the first two words) – was intonation HEAVY and including a deck chair. Shakespeare didn’t include a deckchair, but Branagh did – and we’re better-off for it.
Then again, I had a bad time at Regent’s Park Theatre once, with Director portraying the tale A Midsummer’s Night Dream as one of much social discontentedness. Which was a semi-bad translation. Yes, such tyranny over a daughter (Hermia) is awful, but “though she be but little she is fierce” is spunky-enough to bring us through it.
Ultimately , we need to bring it back to the Thespians returning Shakespeare to the stage on the evening of 24th May 2024 – with his essence filling a theatre. We do get to meet him – the world-changing professional writer and personal poet that could cobble together a history to please a paymaster and Lord, whilst summarizing the variety of human conditions with soul-shuddering prose and a donkey’s head.
It’s a matter of hope.
Shakespeare was hopeful. He shared that with us. And it is a wonderful thing with which to leave a theatre.
And it only cost a tenner for standing room. Sore feet. Would recommend.
Summer is coming all over a town near you’s tits.
Posted: May 9, 2024 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: blog, blogging, comedy, Culture, fuck, funny, Humour, life, monarchy, Summer, swearing, vulgar, vulgarity, Weird, writing Leave a commentVulgarity gets you everywhere.
The people love it.
They love it in Buckingham Palace, they love it in the White House and in the Hamptons, they love it in on airplanes and under the sea.
‘Undiscovered‘ tribes that haven’t discovered us yet – have discovered vulgarity and they love it.
Now, naturally you need to be vulgar in a very classy way.
And that’s not writeable by people like me. I don’t know if anyone can write about it – or even begin to explain it.
Saying “fuck” (which, incidentally, is very rude) can be learned, but it can’t be written.
“Fuck” – see?
Approach the King of England and say “fuck” is a non-classy way, and it won’t go down too well. They’ve got ‘people‘ to deal with your sort of ‘person‘ that isn’t saying “fuck” as they jolly-well should be.
However, say it to Charlie with class, “fuck” with panache, and you’ll find yourself knighted.
He might even say it back to you, with even more panache – since he’s a monarch and divine, etc.
‘Panacheier‘ you might say, alongside “fuck“.
And this works in job interviews, contract negotiations, and social relationships.
Well not really, but it does work well after those scenarios.
Vulgarity is broadly applicable, in love, war, and blogging (fuck).
It’s not a good way to raise your kids, but aside from that – I strongly advise you say “fuck” a regularly, between meals, and get vulgar. There are other words of vulgarity I could demonstrate, but since I’ve really latched-on to ‘fuck‘ – I’ll perservere.
But the joy of variety in vulgarity is yours.
For instance, exhibit A – summer.
I write this in May 2024 and it’s getting warmer, lighter, longer and happier in that way that comes even before the promise of summer. I could get poetic of the smells and the touches and the living and the music, but I can also say “summer is coming all over a town near you’s tits” and that’s fine.
There’s no doubt – the grammar seems to be a bit off, but it’s technically not. The perception of the grammar being off makes it appear all the more vulgar, and that’s a positive.
Because vulgarity works. Ask the powerful.
Ask the influential in politics and communications.
Keep it classy, but a well timed “fuck” can get you ahead in life, and whilst living that same life – “fuck” can really personify how you’re feeling as the seasons become less dreadfully ‘seasonal‘ and instead suggest once more that total myth we all love to believe of summer once again coming for us.
Coming to re-embolden our souls as we make the choices that define us.
Coming to remind us of the point of life and the joy of living.
Coming….all over a town near you’s tits.
Yes, that’s not how you spell it. And yes, it’s so egregious that you forget the word “tits” is in there – but this……this is all the above.
And the below.
This is Shakespeare.
This is Aaron Sorkin.
This is Hunter S Thompson.
Three writers that I’m sure would have a great evening (to the point of breakfast) together.
The “fuck” is intrinsic to all we are and all we aspire to be. It brings us back to the horizons we aim for, all whilst enjoying the informal trepidation that comes from knowing “fuck” is acceptable to say in present company, and that now we can really get down to business.
The business of vulgarity.
The business of summer.
Fuck. In a classy way.
Sam
The Lateral Column 