If you could have one attribute from another species, what would you choose?
And nothing smarmy, like the strength of a bear or the power of flight, something that puts you more into the oddity category, rather than smarmy-superhero. It has to be inconsequential in all manners aside from how it effects your humour.
I’d go with a tail – I think that makes a lot of sense for our species.
Balance is one thing, plus climbing, but mainly I think it’s about our mindset. For one thing, there’d be no more campfire stories, and hence no culture, because before we start to weave a subtle narrative from the holding-end of the marshmallow stick – we’d go: “Oh look, a tail – better go get it.”
I think mainly it’s about company. Try and spend the evening with your hair, or a foot; it’s lonely and only worthwhile if it becomes expensive and weird, but with a tail – that’s a very flirtatious and flicky sofa companion.
More tails please.
Swivel-ears? Because it’d be cute. An animalistic attribute is only really worth it if people’ll think you’re adorable – like how my wife adores how I smell like a dog stirred with honey.
I’ve a dog, Freddie, and Freddie is my first dog and that’s of great importance to me.
He’s titled: ‘My Dog’, and he responds when called that – partly because of the importance he knows that term denotes, partly because I keep calling him “My Dog”.
And Freddie does something that I couldn’t agree more with.
I cannot think of a more total show of affection than shoving your face into something with such emotional ferocity that it’s almost technically ‘eating’.
It’s as though Freddie wishes to become one with my knees, my palms, the top of my head, and I can’t blame him since those are all the most smashing parts of me.
And I’ve done this too, for many years, with my love – Jenny (particularly in the back of the neck as the sun rises).
You’ve probably done it too, when you’ve buried your face into the shoulder of a co-cuddler during a more intense an embrace, and you feel like you just want to be as close as possible that you’re quite prepared to enter their shoulder as a means of feeling better.
I can only recommend it – rub your face into the object of your affection and just see if you don’t feel well expressed.
The only issue is that I’m quite fond of dinner and I cram my face into my bowl of – it doesn’t really matter ‘of what’ – and then live with consequences for the rest of the dinner party.
So if not my dinner, and it not nuzzling on my own behalf, I’ll just take My Dog’s nuzzle when I get home from work.
I’ll take my dog’s face, because he gives it to me.
That’s ‘Brief…Therefore Witty’ enough, I feel.
I’d bring that chap back and have him stand in my kitchen.
I don’t know how I’m going to go about that by any means other than confidence (I’ve no time machine…why’s it always a time ‘machine’? Why not a ‘time plant’? It could grow older and younger and so on and so forth…If you’d like to steal this idea that’d be great as long as I don’t have to deal with it anymore.) but I’m going to get that smelly defiler of the ages into my kitchen and have him look out the window.
Whilst I can’t deny that Genghis’ methods were efficient (if altogether too runny) I’d love for him to see the progress that ‘nice-chapping’ can afford.
By being fairly pleasant to one another, with a “Good morning” here and a “That’s a lovely blouse, Mr Smith” there, we’ve got ourselves green lawns, fluffy cats, milk on the doorstep and families playing in the streets whilst soft, warm sunlight lands on all. Such loveliness you can see through my kitchen window.
Genghis might not see my point. It could be that he’d look out my kitchen window, murder it, murder me, make his way through the frightened door and proceed to take out his predisposition for upsetting a picnic all over the family picnic, sunshine and milk bottles.
Follow this up with a quick bit of back and forth about world history, wars, government, sociology, poetry and how to slurp soup without annihilating the fellow sitting next to you, and I think he’d calm down with the conquering.
Really, I expect he was a consequence of his circumstance: “Kill (the Chinese) or be killed”, similar to the rapacious conspiring by the royal/nobles of medieval England; looking to one another only to magpie how to be exemplary in sinister, Machiavellian machinations.
This being so, I’d still berate him, make him sit in special spot to look out the window.
Then maybe he’d use his powers of annihilating for good, such as by…murdering…traffic incidents…Then there wouldn’t be any more traffic incidents because Genghis Khan had kindly murdered them all for us. Just trying to be helpful, eh?
Look, I know he was a genius of strategy and governance, and that’s really another addition to my point; what if he’d used benevolence more widely? A man such as him using this in ancient times; would we be even lovelier today?
I’m not sure who I’d bring back from history and berate next.
Definitely Pol Pot, so that I could really rub it in his face about how crap he was at what he devoted his love to. That’d satisfy me to some level.
Perhaps Thomas Edison for being so bitchy…eurgh. Poor Tesla. Poor elephant.
We’ll find out, me included, next time on ‘Bring Back And Berate’!
I may be a fool (perhaps it’s best to presume this prefix to all my articles), but is there a less inspiring sport than Tennis?
With every ‘POCK’ sound across the court I hear the seconds passing me by, much like the point of this game, as well as any fleeting ambition to discover any.
Perhaps it’s the lack of applicable skills.
In the event of a nuclear holocaust, in a time when we are riddled with zombies in the pantry and climate change up the wazzoo; I’m not going to be pleased to have a Tennis player with me in the bunker, demanding all the canned beans for their metabolic rate to burn through and picking up my cat to see if there’s room to swing it.
Plus, Tennis is hardly transferable in a fight.
Armies of white-shorted men with rather stunning time-pieced wrists, delivering nothing but backhanded slaps to their opponents, most of the blows colliding with one another; resulting in those bird-brittle bones in the back of the hand crunching together and even damaging those marvellous European-made watches.
It’s just uninspiring, even with the grunts and screeches that emit from the battlefield, disturbing the body-clocks of local livestock and making it seem like this is all much more demanding than it really is.
Perhaps the skills could be transferred to the hunting grounds, wherein players could swipe post-nuclear bats from their mid-air flocks before feasting on them with all the grunts and screeches they can muster in an attempt to confuse and pacify the poor radioactive animals. (If a bat hears a screech; does it just presume “WALL!”? Because in that case, being eaten alive by a Tennis player must feel being beaten up by a house.)
Not to mention that male Tennis players fall victim to fashion-aging worse and far faster than most athletes.
Just take Caitlyn Jenner; she worked out how unfashionable manhood could be and got with that hip be-who-thoust-wishes trend. Penises are not ‘in’ at the moment. Ahem.
Golfers from 30 years ago are still terribly in-vogue, whereas the insistent urging of an all-white outfit, with wrist and headbands, and way too much upper-thigh for a hairy fellow like me to get away with without harnessing all sorts of pollen and debris in it…oh my.
Nuclear pollen is not something you want to get tangled up in your body hair; you could become riddled with full-body cacti perms which everyone’d find hilarious and your cat won’t want anything to do with you anymore – even with the Tennis player chasing him about.
And I should know of these worries; I’m a spectacularly furry fellow and have inadvertently captured many things in my body hair but am still yet to discover anything of worth; like a penny.
Most common thing I’ve found in my body hair?
Other people’s hair…normally the long hair of a lady amidst a moulting.
I’ve longed for a more productive offering, alas, no luck.
Which is why I’m even less keen to share an eternal after/half-life with a short shorted Tennis player; thigh hair fluttering in the radioactive breeze.
Bunkers are adorably petit, but what about the hourly appointed strolls down THE corridor for morale? Awfully cramped in that corridor. Barely enough room to squeeze past with two people, and no room in the slightest for a Tennis player in his itty-bitty shorts and yourself wearing even a suit of armour; although somehow you’ll still get tangled pubics. Tragic, but a surprisingly effective method of surviving those chilly nuclear winters; albeit with an uncomfortably tickly throat.
I’d like to state a change of my opinion towards Tennis players in the event of a nuclear holocaust.
Maybe we’ll need more psychos; and that is the definition of Tennis players in a nutty nutshell.
Perhaps we’ll need maniacs with a superb backhand, swiping aside the hordes of green-glowing grizzly birds and bees (who – having become tragically literate following the nuke’s increasing of their intelligences; have read all about the birds and the bees and find it cruel that the Great Green Creator should keep such elusive, vital and baffling info from them) as their whirl themselves towards our bunker as an alternative to the honey bees actually trying to mate with an ostrich and vice versa.
His disturbing affinity with whacking balls whilst grunting and then waiting for you to take your turn doing the same to him whilst he stares you down with furry green and white eyeballs, his very expensive European watch whirring at 100 miles per hour though all the number melted off, his pure white short shorts riding ever higher as the Tennis player grunts and swipes and screeches and then finally lets loose a different sound, one of such placid serenity that it undoes your trousers and shivers your spine:
Perhaps we won’t need a Tennis player in the bunker.
Not to mention the things they’ll do for a goblet (just give them the goblet).
I’ve always felt there’s a good deal of character to letters, and as a means of filling the blankness I shall now detail the alternative uses for letters and aspects of their character.
This began when is watched a chap fishing and consciously thought he was in need of a lower case g to hook them. A lower case q would preferable but only when armed with that delightful acute flick of the tail, as opposed to the droopy trailing disappointment that this font offers.
Let us continue.
Due to reading-aid picture books as a child, lower case ‘a’ perpetually remind me of apples and are consequently appear delicious to me, lower case only. Capital A looks like a truly broad letter that’d have its hands on its hips and speak confidently as per a pokemon and say “…A”. Capital A could were a cloak and look reasonable, whilst encouraging children to stay safe and always eat their lower case a’s.
Capital B looks like something you box with, but it also has breasts which somewhat diminishes the pain and tenfolds the impact. Pummeled and cheered via bosom. If not this, then handcuffs, again with bosoms, again intolerably sufferable. Lower case b, just looks like a nice guy, like a thumbs up. I can picture the b leaning on a lamppost, tiny wee cigarette alight and then b sees me walking towards him and…continues to be a b. Character development is non essential in a character, especially so early on in this alphabet epic.
Capital C is suspiciously communist, looking worryingly good in wearing red, whilst lower case c is adorable, like a cat curled up. I try to walk past these two quickly, in case I mistakenly wake the cutely sleeping and purring lower case c and also in case the capital Cs gang up on me a reclaim my property in the name of the proletariat. Not sure how to fight a C, but it looks rude enough to have a sensitive area to kick and I’d never forgive it for nationalising my pet c.
Capital D is for slicing cooking herbs. It looks appropriately slicey as you roll it back and forth across your herb, whilst also possessing a fortuitous handhold. Happy cooking. Lower case d is for propping your eyelids open whilst you continue through this article. There are some out there in this world that might suggest that the sole intended use of D is denouncing the positives of a fellow they consider a ‘Dunce’. Fuck these folk. It’s not meant for nastiness; it’s a for slicing herbs.
As for capital E, you can do as I do and either comb your hair (which, to be honest, I don’t do) or simply use it (as I do with a brush or, even better a cat) to scratch your back. Would it make an ‘EEEeee!’ based sound as you scratched back and forth with it? Probably not, because that’s silly.
A lower case f always appears to me (largely when hand written) as though one should be able to play music with it, as though it is to be strummed by a pale lady in a classically classless restaurant. It also looks it should make a longer sound than “fuh”. A melodic and elongated “fuh” – that’s what I’m trying to get across to you Dear Reader. Meanwhile the F’s capital is best dressed in pink and looking swollen like a proud marshmallow. Capital Fs always seem swollen. Shame but everyone’s got to be good at something; even letters, and capital Fs are absolutely top notch at swelling.
Both the capital G and lower case g looks like a hip place to hang out, either by reclining in the Capital whilst hunched over a chessboard (coz how hunched you are determines your passion for the game of chess. It’s all in the back) whilst the dangling tail of the g looks a fine locale for a dandy to hang about; somewhere suitably comfortable and dangerous…something adults wouldn’t approve of.
H is the contrary to the Gs, both lower and capital, as it seems the place that a responsible father would purchase to ensure his family lived in a secure home with a staunch roof. Both h and H appear to me as though they should been surrounded by a tidy little garden and neat lawn. There’s no doubt that H and h are the most financially responsible letters of the alphabet.
‘I’ looks bloody lethal, just a sharp jut of a letter, careful not to wave it about otherwise one might take another’s eye out with an I. And that’s weird. Lower case I seems as though someone examined the capital and thought…”Needs more dot” like a child proof version of the deadly I; welcome to i.
It would appear I’ve written alternative uses for letter all the way up to I.
And it’s been a pleasure, though I swear I’ll never do it again, no matter how kooky I’m feeling.
Although I would like to add for the record that I think lower case q is an unceasingly flirtatious letter and i wish it’d stop looking at me like that.
And a capital Z is an extraordinarily uncomfortable sleeping position, though it does sum up the journey via the finality of things, such as this twenty minute article, what with its zig-zagging nature, despite being in alphabetical order.
I’ve gone and gotten an urge to bulk up and bulk out lately.
Perhaps I’ve been standing too near the mountains. The show-off “look-at-my-snow-tufted-peaks” mountains. Those “ooh-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-as-riddled-with-goats-as-I-am”mountains. Mountains with an entourage of Sherpas playing fifes in their immovable wake.
Maybe I’ve been too long in the too near mountains, but that’s New Zealand for you…and for me. Still better than the old Zealand.
Perhaps it’s not ‘Zea-land’, but rather instead ‘Zeal-and…’; thereby leaving you with fact that Kiwis are espousers of zeal and…whatever else you’d like to add. It’s pleasant when national identity is a matter of, first, enthusiasm and, second, whatever else you’d like to add.
Like laziness. One could be be enthusiastic and then lazy, 100% dedicated push towards not really being bothered about it. Enthused lethargy.
Not that I’m saying Kiwis are vehement recliners, because that seems a tad racist and if I’m going to be racist I’m going to save it up for a good one (brace yourselves…Scandinavians).
Scandinavia…that’s another common hangout for mountains; the sort of mountains that once did terrible things to handmaidens or gave birth to longboats, or other ancient Scandinavian strangeness.
But to be like a mountain; I’ll give it a go.
I’m beginning with lifting some heavy shit, but not actual weights.
I’m going to improvise variously, such as by lifting a shipwreck’s timber or a conveniently proximate boulder.
However, best place to find a new heavy thing for up-and-downing is a farm. Sure, armfuls of bundled hay and discipline-inducing muck for shovelling, but mainly livestock, for the best things to lift for applicable strength are things that wiggle, and wriggle is rampant in the farmyard.
For there lay the beasts that have the ancient instinct of not-knowing what being lifted up is, but know in their gut they must not allow it to happen to them by any and all means deemed appropriate at the time of departure from the ground. It should be one of those situations in which the animal is so pissed off that the majority of noises it makes are coming out of its nose. An articulate snort of sorts.
If they don’t wiggle or kick, then it’s one of those animals that naturally climb people, like scenery.
Complimentary though it maybe to be considered vast enough to be a place to spend an afternoon (“I think I’ll have tea at Sam…perhaps the elbow region.”), it doesn’t count as lifting. Even if a horse climbs you; that’s down to the horse, not you.
And when the animals become willing to be lifted…rotate your sheep, sir.
Keep an unwilling yet steady procession of animals a’coming, thoroughly unprepared for being hoisted and lunged at the sky as though eager contrary proof against the cloud’s accusing suggestion that you don’t have any sheep to hand.
And the method works! My biceps nowadays…they’re why animals think of me as scenery, like a valley.
You know when the show-off body builders kiss their biceps? Well, I can’t help but do that, because mine are near my lips perpetually, being a bit of a sizeable bother to be honest.
My biceps are so large; they’re near. Near the dog, near the hat stand, near the computer, my wife complains when my biceps get in her light whilst she reads…and her soup.
More importantly…Forearms. You’ll want nice manly firearms, naturally the kind that make your daughter’s suitors know that you can…just…keep…hammering, in a rugged checkered shirt, whilst your beard looks on sternly and bushily.
How illegal is a hammer anyway?
Hammers give me confidence, less son-in-law strife and and forearms that bulge like I’ve got a problem.
Bulging is either a sign of the absurdly healthy (healthy to the point of arousal) or desperately done-for. And I’m the former.
You don’t even need nails, though some earplugs to hand and ear might be advisable. And then, thoroughly deaf, you can show the ground why you live on top of it. Make it pay for abandoning those sheep and other livestock to your lofty ambitions of cloud collisions.
Hammer, mallet, axe; all these are tremendous for the forearms and greatly decreases the proximity of those you want, increases the distance of those you don’t want, and adjusts the altitude at which you prefer your sheep to be.
I say sheep, but there’s nothing more biblical than ‘oxen’ to lift.
When you go ‘oxen’; you’re too-too-much in general terms.
Like as a wedding gift. Once an oxen would have been an ideal wedding gift, sitting patiently as a future grandchild’s inheritance, between the toasters and bed sheets. Now though, that oxen is too-too-much.
‘Biblical’ is a hell of a method of overkill though.
5000 people for dinner and serving just fish and loaves of bread? With some suspiciously watery wine? And then retaliating to a rude comment at the water-wine bar by flooding the Earth? Rounding things off by killing yourself to one of the worst torturous deaths imaginable and then saying to people as they walk back to their seats from the bar: “I’m doing this for you, y’know. How about some applause!? If it’s not to much to ask?! Can’t do its myself obviously, can I?!”
Biblical is one way, but medieval is quite another.
Like chucking down a gauntlet and expected other folk to be suitably insulted by it, thereby picking up the gauntlet prior to you both killing each other’s employees.
If you’re going to take part in that daftness, at least make it a heavy gauntlet.
That’ll do for today’s…whatever this is. I wouldn’t call it advice, as I’m more that chap your teachers and parents warned you about regarding being told to jump off a bridge.
Variety and weight. Every day. Check the farmyard.
Conditions are perfect.
I have never been more proud of my species than the occasion on which I watched the video of an Australian man squaring up with and punching a Kangaroo.
To begin, this was not one of those cruel kangaroo-boxing charades as per the Victorian era…it was a kangaroo that deserved to be punched and man that deserved to do the punching.
To set the scene of this wonderful moment, it begins sadly.
A young Australian man has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, meaning that his life is a great deal more ‘over’ than the rest of us currently walking around.
This being so, the chap is still luckier than a fair many people; because he has his friends who are insistent on taking him out to live life whilst it’s still liveable.
So this friend takes his very ill pal out to do what they both enjoy most; hunting with their dogs in their jeep.
Here is where the video begins.
A shakily held camera (a shakily held camera is forgivable considering cancer) atop the jeep, Aussie outback whizzing past and distressed calls of the men looking for their dogs which appear to have disappeared.
As it turns out, they had a fear of what had become of their hounds, and the fear was confirmed.
The motor pulls to a stop and a man, the friend, leaps down and begins walking towards what we can now see; a large dog in the unfriendly embrace of a very large Grey Kangaroo (‘the big kind’).
The man is walking towards the two animals with manly purpose; and here’s why that’s brave.
A Grey Kangaroo is about 5-feet-something tall and filled with testosterone and all the muscly meat that entails.
Have you ever seen a shaved chimp? Whilst casually reaching for a banana you’ll see their arms ripple with all sorts of unnecessary-yet-insisted-upon-by-nature muscles, and a kangaroo is no different.
In a permanent ‘look at my muscles’ pose, a lone male Grey Kangaroo is highly aggressive and will happily consider your garden as it’s new pot to piss in.
Along with this, the kangaroo is deadly owing to one weapon in its arsenal; the tail.
Usually seen as a mere aid to its hopping about the wilderness, it is in fact like a crocodile’s tail; filled with muscle and unyielding bone, not prehensile but it’ll make you apprehensile (but only if you’ll excuse poor puns) when you discover it’s trick.
When fighting, kangaroos might look as though they are indulging in a bitchy little face pushing fight, with scratching being the order of the day, but this is not the end all. For the deadly strike, the kangaroo will lean back on it’s bewilderingly now-leg-like tail (currently holding its entire bodyweight) and proceed to kick out with its legs into the abdomen of the opponent.
Picture a tripod bouncing across the Australian landscape, only you didn’t realise this until too late and now its going to involve that third leg most unfairly in a fight.
The force breaks bone, and should claw catch flesh: the belly can easily be carried off and away.
To tackle this takes guts, as it is your ‘guts’ that can also quickly be staining your bush shoes and the kangaroo’s toes.
That is what this man is walking towards, with oh-so-perfect a purpose.
The kangaroo sees the approaching Aussie male, and let’s the dog escape (with which it appreciatively flees).
The man is now right up to the kangaroo, and there is a hell of a lot of testosterone in the air this afternoon.
He and the kangaroo both square up, with the Roo bulking out and the man shaking loose like Bruce Lee as he adapts to a boxing pose.
And then, the man promptly puts his hand though the kangaroo’s chin.
Through it’s chin.
Like UTTER BUTTER.
And I’m standing up and yelling “YEEEESSSS” at this, in my cosy bedroom at home, thousands of miles away and two weeks later.
The kangaroo waves is arms in pathetic yet vital little spirals in effort to keep balanced whilst it leans back dependently on its deadly secret weapon of a third leg.
The look on its face is of be-fucking-whilderment.
It does not have the processing skills demanded of it now to understand the tuned ability of this incredible species: humanity.
Exactly how to stand so as to generate adequate power for the punch, precisely where to aim and land the blow through the now-since-buttery chin of the kangaroo, and the compassion of heart to not have your mate’s trip spoiled by the loss of another great friend to our species: dogs.
The kangaroo is entirely and irrevocably undone by the chap’s species, his knuckles and his good form.
The standing up for your species and your mates is the pinnacle of what we should be spending our time doing and this could not have been better (like BUTTER) exemplified here.
Kangaroo defeated, humanity the victor, this Australian man nods his head in appreciation of the occasion (“Yeah.” would fit well here) turns, and walks away, back to his dog and his mate to enjoy the rest of their trip together.
My hero and yours.
The statement is ultimate.
The next time we have a chance do this this it might be Aliens…so get your shit together, do some push-ups and hug your mates.
Well done sir; bravo humanity.
Video here: http://youtu.be/FIRT7lf8byw
(Disclosure: A kangaroo WAS mildly hurt during the making of the article, but it was being a bully dick and deserved it.)
I want to eat my wife’s legs.
It comes from a place of love, I can assure you of that, though there is also a chance some small percentage of inspiration comes from a small breakfast.
We have an agreement, you see, in which, as our hearts, lives and bank accounts have become entwined, as have our shared ownership of body parts.
Those are OUR bosoms and that is OUR foreskin, so on and so very much forth.
There are limbs and sundry which have special ownership, however, such as my ready greediness for my wife’s legs.
I’m not sure why, but as time has passed in our whirlwind of passionate going-steadiness, my mouth has passed from open mouthed awe at my wife’s physical form (along with the very decent form of being eager to involve me upon it) to closed mouthedness – with teeth bitten down and much attempted chewing upon a choice buttock.
Probably just arousal, though I feel sure there are connotations of good old cannabalistic adoration…eating the hearts of one’s enemies can only fall more pale to the good etiquette of eating that of a lover’s, whilst I am also confident it’s simple good forward thinking.
Plane crashes were an awfully ‘2016’ thing to occur, but this year might decide to replicate with me dangerously strapped in to my seat.
I can envisage plowing down, cockpit first into the scorched ground of Saharan desert, peanuts and hostesses flying every which way, before blacking out holding my wife’s hand.
Coming to, still with a hand to hold but no wife in sight, I would eventually come about to find her, and seeing this am overcome by grief and an attack of the munchies.
From then on it’s something to chew over whilst considering my future in canabalism.
Of course, this is all nonsense.
Whilst I do encounter a peculiar urge to nibble upon my wife’s legs when I stumble upon a glimpse of them, I don’t want eat my wife.
Perhaps I should simply eat a trifle more (as two trifles evidently isn’t enough…actually, please help me with my trifle habit) prior to our bath time.
This being said, I still do have a degree of autonomy of regions of my Mrs.
We’ve agreed, I get her thighs, whilst my forehead is all hers.
I want her thighs because they are too pure a specimen for her to spoil with some form of “I’m a spiritual wanderer and foot-first hippie” tattoo involving ‘swishy’ lines as if you’ve really got a David-Bowie-starry-summer-breeze on your leg…and a horsie.
Plus they’re simply a smashing pair of pegs.
And she has intentions on my forehead. Not sure why. To hang art from it at some point possibly; it is a rather large forehead and we all have a calling…even foreheads and I.
All this about eating my wife is merely how I feel regarding munching on the public, but I’m not so sure, not so sure at all, about grandmothers.
“Oh I could just eat you up” they’ll say.
And, yes, they jolly well could, but not without a fight and a retaliatory chomp.
Do you have the fortitude to beat off a granny of steadily advancing years and worryingly advancing nashers?
Whilst I’m confident of being socially comfortable with belting a granny about the nose and ears with her own handbag/Yorkshire terrier, I know all too well of chums falling to the dentures and hideously successful gumming of a starved granny who thinks they’re adorable.
Not to mention, these old women are riddled with spare teeth, meaning that they could eat you with dentures in both hands AND with the mouth.
“Ooh ain’t he lovely Doris!?”
“Oh yes Marge, but try him with gravy.”
Personally, I’d have to view the whole encounter as a fine selection of fellow-filled grins from which to elect the most helpful to knuckle heavily before running home to my wife and urging us to eat more before babysitting any potential future grandchildren.
I truly-doodly-do write some strange things throughout my articles.
However, I’d like to remind everyone not to eat anyone and vice versa, unless you find them in a prime state for eating, just remember to wash all hands before cooking. And feet. And sundry.
And don’t forget, canibalism leads to larger larders but fewer friends…not a pleasing alliteration when realising one is a direct result of the other.
So; not chewing, but nibbling.
Third article in a row.
Third article in a row hurts.
With the get-go of the first and second I was enthused with such an efficient tempest of productivity, less than 24 hours ago, that now I gaze back upon it wistfully.
To begin, after an efficient cup of tea, I exercised in the manliest of manly ways.
That’s not to say I lifted the weightiest (owing to being medically buxom) femme fatal I could rescue and kicked in bolted dungeon door after bolted high-tower door whilst cloaked in a sexy sheen of man sweat and musk that made me both glow like a golden god and reek like the best bits of a bear. I did however, do some push-ups and then acted like I wasn’t breathing at all heavily – no big deal (I did 15 and 1 for luck; I promise).
To follow I made some notes, something I can reassuringly ignore later, like a comfort blanket in the form of a sheet of words that I can tug over my guilt of not wanting to write at that time.
This can be a pickle as time passes. And not a good pickle, like a summer’s day pass-me-the-pickle-jar-darling kind of pickle. Rather more the bad kind, is-it-a-pickle is-it-a-Victorian-baby-with-too-many-noses-and-not-enough-heads kind of pickle.
You might know it as a gherkin (oh the joys of language!).
Then I travelled by Greyhound bus from Byron Bay to Brisbane.
This is normally a tremendous chance to begin ignoring my notes, and I indulged heftily, though my ignoring was interrupted by the need to I wiped the drool from my wife’s chin, blouse, and allocated seating area (when the drool flowed out of this area; I considered it free to roam).
I then finished reading my book, a galant little number about a cheeky doctor and his silky ilk, before beginning a comic-tragedy the Jehovah’s Witnesses had whipped up (featuring some worryingly enthused illustrations, such as a reanimated-to-life woman who appears so jolly at what has befallen her she just might bite every living motherfucker out there).
Briefly Brisbaned Brisbane and bought the brand of noodles that taste just swell out of the sheer knowledge you’re saving money by having a mediocre time. The joys of discipline (feeling good about a bad time) are a treat we’re having to rely on these days.
I don’t care how, but I feel we should also say “noodles” more frequently.
It’s bound to help somehow, unless the osmosis effect is of people becoming more ‘noodley’ and that’s all too easy to envisage. The prospect of shaking hands with a ‘noodley’ man upsets me and my digits. Let’s cease this noodleyness.
Ate the noodles and spent the next hour wallowing in the few cents I’d saved in an attempt to stave off the oncoming nervousness I could feel in my thankfully ‘not-noodley’ bones.
Why was I feeling so? Noodles? Was I not feeling good enough about my bad time?
So I charged away and fled back again; meaning I exercised back and thither, hither and there across the apartment floor, waiting for the good feeling of discipline to take hold.
I would begin writing any second now.
There’s a tarnishing habit in myself and others in which we swerve in attempts to begin work by assuring ourselves we’d be far more productive at a more inconvenient time; translating to “we’ll wait till midnight to panic, by which time we’ll be far too slumberous to give the panic the performance it deserves so…might as well ‘beddiebyes’ it”.
Midnight was still a way away and so I tuned my efficiency once more, as a means of procrastination.
I washed my body and washed my clothes, became diligent in both, to the point of folding my socks and working out the creases by my eyes.
Currently…too much coffee, perhaps the inner conflict of procrastination against a righteous little hobby, or maybe the noodles let me down; in any case I’m beginning to find all actions and choices to be a slope well buttered and I’m sliding.
And now it’s tomorrow.
I’ve slept, awoken, watered and walked, before chasing my bed all the way home upon the discovery of my being unhealthy and not fit for public consumption.
And following a day in bed, I am exhausted, tired and getting the knack of being knackered (testicles are also commonly referred to in the British Isles as “knackers” and this is funny, if a tad tricky to work into this tale…goodness knows why but my testicles were not of tremendous feature this day).
Now my lass is home with me, drooling and occasionally sleeping, whilst I type this out to you feeling sad.
Third article this year and it’s a sick note from my self-created inner-mother (whom I’m finding worryingly attractive…hopefully due to her looking like me) excusing me from my tardiness and signed with an adorably audacious yet shaky signature.
I’ll write two now to make amends.
Consider it as writing lines.
I suppose now I’ll need to carry a show-handkerchief and sprout a moustache for folk to tell whether they should respect me or not.
That way I’ll have two things to weep into as I think of the Queen.
I was enjoying a five pound note on Bonfire Night and came away from the experience a Monarchist.
There are only a few years left of the goodest girl, so why not be a Monarchist for the remainder?
If we were to take up republican arms and cast her out onto the Mall, I’d feel wretched.
It seems too easy to picture; the Queen dazed and confused and wondering where to make her way to now she’s without a household to come thither with a blanket and tuck her in…somewhere.
I’d have to relieve her; scoop her up in my messianic middle-class arms and take her home to meet my children. Put her in a shoe box beneath the bed where she’ll eventually die because we miss-fed her dog food.
She may be largely redundant; but it is the strict cohesion of everyone taking this redundancy too seriously that makes her too vital for the nation for us to permit her to pass away.
This being said, I also feel the rise in me of the notion that she has the will for survival as such the daughter-of-mother-nature it becomes macabre.
Butlers, maids and chauffeurs must know they are useful in their current application though also qualify too easily as eventual arrow-fodder and food source. Matter and masses; as it were.
The sensation I’m suffering in two-way tides is that of a masculine/gentleman’s urge to protect the Queen with my English manhood, and to allow her to lead me to my death in use as a barricade and elevenses’.
I’m an individual sort of chap but I’m happy to dive my head into some of that “Dear Leader” complex and feel like I’ve achieved something because I have a Queen.
I’ve got a Queen; what’ve you got?
Pfft. Don’t make me laugh inside (I’d never denote external emotion beyond “ooh what a lovely bouquet of flowers. My house is simply desolate of posies; thank you so awfully much for standing in line today”).
Democracy is for pussies and men who don’t love their grandmother enough.
Let’s talk in terms of granite here.
At war, your senate will discuss which of each of them gains possession of the fallen’s body parts, so as to knaw upon in their final few cannibalistic moments, whilst MY Queen will be standing on the beaches; with crown askew and rabid corgi by her side in delicious anticipation of being used as a by-the-tail-club-to-be-swung, sharpening her own knuckles and daring ISIS to take another step towards her.
I’ve got a Queen.
And I’ll apply her to the affected area liberally.
Why do this? What is she good for, sir?
To become a tad more staunch, perhaps sir?
The Queen makes me stiff, not only in my upper lip, but in every appropriate body part that could do with a wee bit of starching, as well as subjugately flaccid in the single area of pride and shame and irreverence to both penile emotions.
She makes me stiff like a patriot should be; stiff for my country and stiff for my Queen.
Stiffer than a millennial knows how.
The Queen is one of those few things I’ll someday cry about, simply because…she won’t cry in return.
Much like how she wept a sturdy gallon of tears for her retired battleship; she wouldn’t do that for me and I love her for it.
I know that, deep in the belly of Buckingham and Balmoral, she will let loose a lonely droplet for a corgi and she’ll never do that in front of me; and that makes me want to blubber into my stiff moustache.
The Queen is a battleship and I adore her because she sank Nazis and kept us buoyant.
What did your congress do?
Did they gather?
I’ll tell you what the nation’s ‘MRS’ did; she continued as she was bound to.
So quietly dignified that everyone knew about it.
She would wail a piece of aristocratic pottery deep into the noggin of a petulant and “awfully presumptuous” intruder and then proceed to not understand why the nation’s papers are making such a fuss.
Don’t intrude upon my Queen.
And I’ll let her loose on you if you don’t staunch up.
Come be stiff with me.
Oh well chaps. All in good spirits; I’m sure your senate and congress are a charming collection when only one gets to know them.
Here’s a scheme; how about the matinee of Comus at the Globe next Saturday?
You bribe and collect the Senate and Congress to be there for 14:30. They can each have a cushion.
I’ll bring the Queen and her throne; you fucking loser.