The Lateral Column.
That’s about all there is to this.
I’ve a title, better than a peer’s Lord or Highness, but with the downside that I have no friends; what with my not being a peer to anyone.
The Lateral Column.
Oooh, just HIRE me why don’t’cha?
Travelling has hit this website hard, unlike me or you, both of whom haven’t hit it in the slightest.
These four months of travelling, with six remaining (new kangaroo-skin wallet permitting), have gifted me an appreciated banged-about-brain within which all I’ve seen and pondered is stored, in glaring contrast to my notepad, which lists items of shopping, the names of several Asian chaps whose names it seemed vital to recall, and the title of this column (The Lateral Column…..hire me).
Once I had intentions of being the famed writer that history’s greats would reanimate themselves purely to get their remaining fingers on the my latest epic (the kind of book that’d causes birth rates to drop…if it weren’t for the ultra-arousing prose of my shopping list and the authentically phallic font I’ve in mind for using), shortly before re-popping their pre-popped clogs at their sheer sight and humiliation that they never thought of a title that darn emotive and marketable.
My ego has taken, shall we say, a hearty heaving over the shoulders of humanity’s more subtle waves and been dashed most enlightening upon a humble shore.
I deserve nothing.
I deserve nothing more than you, actually, and it took some time to note that this was inherent and is ever onward.
It shall take some mighty doing to appreciate that the ego that came to this realisation at first saw humbleness as an audacious affront. There is no doubt that ego is fun and it shall have its place; as a humble tool of a meek man.
All there is to do is practice something I enjoy doing; here – writing.
Once a day, for as little as one half to one hour, I will be expressing myself all over Dear Reader, in as enigmatically and preposterously prosperous a manner as I can conjure…for that would appear to be my style.
And I like it.
One can tell from the website’s former name: Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
And now; The Lateral Column.
I’ve a great deal to story to you in our little I’ll-write-you-read establishment, but those tales will wait till impatiently till a later article and an earlier hour, since I’ve only a few hours till hostel checkout and I’ve not slept yet.
It’s worth it all though, even through the moped-crashes, drag queen molestations, monkey attacks, waterfall blindness, hotel manager fights and cuddles and the time I discovered the third best feeling in the world is to hand puppy so cute that I’d both gobble it up and die for it to a pair of highly attractive and even higherly flirtatious german twins whilst laying/dangling from a hammock whilst a rather dopey grin dangles all the more danglier from my face.
The second best feeling?
The greatest feeling I’ve felt?
I brought a large pink ruby donkey home with me from work the other day.
I’m telling you this because it’s looking at me right now.
Rather; it’s not looking at me, more so to the window and away from me. But it has an expression on it’s long, slapped-lobster- coloured-face as if to say: “I swear I wasn’t watching you! But I can if you want…”
This pink donkey’s beginning to have a presence in the house.
I keep finding it in rooms. Nothing creepy, aside from the Mrs (who’s mine by the way– all mine!) transporting him from room to room. And suddenly there he is; causing me to stop stirring my tea and wonderful half in my head, half spoken: “Why the fuck is he in here?”
Salvaged out of the bins of a nursery I work with, I’ve always has an appreciation for solid toys that don’t break easily.
Breaking easily is what I find to be the critical aspect of most things around and about me; prior to them being in pieces.
This large pink donkey however…this thing is Russia-proof.
The sort of toy that is immune to both knives and teasing. It’s probably emitting some noxious gas as I write this; some reliably-1970’s-gonna-get-ya product this.
Too solid rubber to be devastated; too mentally dense an expression on its face to absorb any kind of bullying as anything but pleasant comments about its complexion.
Lucky pink donkey.
I’m far too sensitive, you see; and that hurts to say.
Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from this donkey.
And maybe that’s a depressing fact; that I can learn a thing or two from a donkey.
Or, maybe again, it means I’ve reached a level so high I can only learn from inanimate objects. Sun Tsu, Marx and Shakespeare are all just a tad too easy these days; I need a good sturdy rubber donkey to keep me thinking about my diet.
Well…that was meant to simply be a sentence; and it turns out, upon closer recollection, that this is true.
I haven’t had a walk home like that since I was an obese baby.
Even the weather was improved; to the degree that my memories of it seems as though the golden sunlight was added later, but no – it was that glorious.
Smiles and laughter everywhere; with plenty of pointing – the good kind.
The good kind of pointing is polite, and you can tell how it is not just by the facial expression behind, but also because I reckon that finger’s a little floppy.
What would you rather have in your face; a sturdy index of a flaccid forefinger? Let alone a penetrating pinky?
Apparently a pink donkey’s what most folk want in their face; forget the pointing, good kind or bad.
Well; I got the polite kind, as well as so many smiles and warm expressions of: “Enormous pink donkey eh? Good for you; I can relate to that – It’s about time!”
More pink rubber donkeys for everyone.
This things has it’s very own sunshine and when it hits; you grin with the pinkish vitamin D you’re being beaten about the head with.
I got home that day and found myself improved.
I could learn from this donkey.
We’ve already bathed together; it went really well.
The train’s ticket conductor on the journey home and I had a charming liaison in which he wrote out a toy-ticket for the donkey.
How absolutely motherfucking charming!
I’m 27 and he was at least twice my age, and here we were both being jollied by a pink donkey.
This is an even more effective a way of meeting women than holding a baby.
You might be familiar with the way chaps can hold a baby as they meet women; holding it out in front of them as proof of procreating potency and niceness.
A fellow with a baby, strapped on to his chest like body armour, speaks to the world: “My penis is accomplished and I make up for that by being fatherly and mopping up the consequences and the consequences’ consequences.”
Those strap-on babies unnerve me, being as it seems like a make-shift “don’t shoot me” shirt.
You can’t lay a finger on that guy whilst he’s wearing one of those.
He’s immune to society touching him; law officials won’t risk the law suit, other men won’t risk the leaking baby, and the women want so desperately to get to know this sensitive chap with an accomplished willy.
Take all that; and this pink donkey trumps it all.
“Trumps it all” – damn.
Can’t we alter the terminology here?
Why not give Trump the word “Trump” and proceed to change our definition of it to a guy who has everything wrong with him – a bloke for whom money is working.
Money is evidently making Donald Trump all the more unhappy to the point that he is engaging in political warfare with the most vital nation on Earth because his daddy never loved him.
He’s a fellow with such a huge bill for sating his appetite that he’s going to make Mexico pay for it.
I have a tremendously unsubstantiated feeling that Donald Trump is looking forward to diplomacy in China because their coins have ickle-wickle holes in and he yearns to get that Yen home and start fucking the dignified history out of it.
That hole-in-the-arse/pain-in-the-arse/Donald-Trump is apparently in need of a large rubber pink donkey prescription.
If it worked for me; it can work for Trump!
I’ve just realised that Donald Trump would, without hesitation, strap a baby to himself to avoid being assassinated. I hope, should his assassination come about, it’s in a child-free area; though I feel children tend to avoid him anyway.
Kids are like dogs.
They don’t like arseholes.
And they love giant pink donkeys.
Me too; for all the three above.
See you tomorrow,
An enormous gaseous globe rose from the sea’s end and illuminated my world in moments more beautifully than much I have seen, much as it has succeeded in so for eons, epochs, millennia, all of time and yesterday.
High hopes for tomorrow too.
So I didn’t get much done that morning, although my land was golden green, ruby blue, sun fire yellow and a purple only the cosmos can lay upon us.
Am I a good person? Because I’m guilty thus.
Bullfighting is something I would, if so empowered, flick a switch to end the elderly and embarrassing sport, yet I would also pay to see it if opportuned so.
It is an experience this world offers, and with life being so short and all the more apparently so since watching following watching this; how can I yield myself?
Yet still I would end it, with that switch of mine.
I would eat dog when offered and well cooked.
Dogs are amongst our oldest and greatest tools, the species would not be where it is if it weren’t for our identifying of the tremendous power of canines.
This remains with us today.
For amongst those great powers is the intelligence of personality, providing us a companionship of such strong and loving bonds that one cannot be called a “master”; but perhaps older brother will do.
It says so much for both our united species in that throughout all the monstrosity of ancient living in prehistoric life, these two great groups found each other and the inter-species bond proceeded from there.
My children will grow with a dog, my wife and I will die with one, and I would still eat the roasted flesh of one simply being that it is an experience to experience.
I would not kill a man to eat him, but should it come to combat I would like to give him cause to never wish us encounter again.
I would cut off and eat nothing vital, yet something he’d miss.
Not his heart or vitals. Not his eyes or brain. Perhaps just an ear, or a pinky.
What is missing, taken, leaves a mark and I jolly well just might.
In Samoan history the greatest threat and then insult was to say to your enemy: “you’re shit, I’m going to make you shit”, defeat him in battle, butcher him into entrees, eat some and turn him into shit.
No greater defeat.
No greater insult.
I’d eat your pinky, so don’t fuck with me or I’ll shit you.
I don’t know if the ancient Samoans had a ceremony for the first poo following the post battle brunch. I wonder if they looked forward to it, presuming this poo was once you? I just don’t know.
This went through my head as the sun rose.
Perhaps I should have laid in.
Watching the sun rise is unproductive.
Bowties should be taken back by the lower classes who never had them.
I just want the aristocrats to have one less thing.
They’ve got so much.
They have horses.
Just ask yourself: “Where the fuck are all the horses?”
My answer: “Near the aristocrats! Want to go get some with me?”
And you can reply with: “No bitch; I’m bow-tying tonight!”
You know those horses will go splendidly with your bowtie; but you’re not at that level yet. The horse and the bowtie will clash and you’ll just be standing there; being ridden and worn (EVERYTHING’S GONE WRONG!)
Though I do like the idea of bowties being some you do; just as much as wear.
If you BOWTIE; you assume permission owing to morality.
You don’t ask a lady if she’d really-rather-awfully-wouldn’t-mind if you were to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre mid-choke. There’s only so much a good woman can do as far as multi-tasking goes. She’s already trying to breathe whilst simultaneously and distinctly not breathing; it’s a wonder she can flail so much as she is!
So your course of action?
You grab her like you’re going to educate her in the ways of the windpipe and heave.
Heave so hard you forget why you’re heaving.
And when she regains enough of a lung-full to launch some appreciate your way, just utter: “Madam, surely you could tell by the way I wear my bowtie?” and leave her feeling charmed and ashamed for not acknowledging your BOWTIE a little earlier.
Pre-choke appreciation is the kind I’m looking for.
All else is too earned to be considered real manners.
That’s about it.
Does the BOWTIE make the man? No, but not all men can make a BOWTIE.
How shall we be able to discern them apart?
A little lower than the chin and most of a foot higher than the nipple; see there.
One of my favourite bodily areas since it gets such little praise.
If you need me; I’ll be in my BOWTIE.
(PS. Why? Because I’m moral.)
Donald. Is this true that small change once beat you up? Was it pesos?
Why is oil the only thing still currently measured in barrels?
Why not apples?
Or wily scamps avoiding the coppers having pocketed some old soft gents watch?
How much oil equates to a barrel?
Is it the height of a scamp?
Is there a young orphan boy with a roguish grin and a pep-step kept perpetually within barrel production warehouses, having barrels brought up to him and his height (his height and him?) whereby a soulless chap with no grin a’roguish and no step a’pepy and only a hardhat and no future to his name begins to approach.
At this point the chap, so much a miser he even hates penguins (especially when they topple over), holds the barrel up to the scamp’s body and emits a: “Yeah. S’pose that’s a measurement of oil for sure.” and then proceeds to simply leave the orphan child to himself.
Now we encounter sadness.
Remember, being roguish and alone is a false economy unless you show what you were roguish with to another.
How do they keep the scamp there?
Do they feed him pocket watches?
Barrels are the preferred method of the enlightened as a means of getting to the bottom of hills, whilst also being shit as a means of ascending them.
Personally, arriving dizzy gives a man a far greater measure of the location than had he arrived typically and…therefore…morose.
Dizziness gives one a superior perception of the room, particularly in the direction you aren’t attempting to look.
My people and I are well versed in the visual layout of the bottom of our more proximate hills.
It’s a preferred rallying point following our hill-top functions.
The top of a hill seems like a mighty place to debate opinion.
Perhaps owing to subconscious reminiscing and a surging forth of prior emotions relating to a youthful victory in the sport of ‘King of the Castle’.
I might argue a little more persuasively and a tad more vehemently under the sway of temptation to see my opponent, most likely my girlfriend, tumble.
Or more likely; roll. She tends to keep a barrel nearby for her gravity-inspired commute.
I’ve never seen her use it for measuring oil though.
How clever of her.
What might be superior an oil measurement to barrels?
What is the easiest location to shoot fish?
The difference is clear.
Nobody shoots fish in a litre.
Thanks for your time,
For the love of all that is wordly and beyond, I just think more people want to know about my new puppy.
It’s a bit shit.
Although it certainly will be a hit for ratings as it tends to piss on my father and leave leavings on all mine that is expensive, I’ve decided it was either a puppy or rehab.
I’m addicted to whoring myself via satellite, blasting my brains out with the perpetual epiphany of alcohol and pro-athlete’s lower halves.
By the way, I’m an inherent inheritor.
My mother was left a fortune, like her mother was left a fortune, and now I find myself without a bed of piled currency as I don’t tend to sleep owing to being filmed continually. The whirring of the camera’s reel keeps me up, or that might just be the athlete.
He just really loves steroids, has such an affection and growth (tumorous) in his heart for them, to a degree that whilst his bollocks are shrinking faster than my options – at least I now know what it feels like to be fucked by a mumbling bicep.
Veinier than the todger and a great deal less applicable.
If you haven’t been able to tell by this point; I’m talking complete bollocks.
I wanted to and so it happened to you and me.
No one was spared.
It’s been an emotional few days.
First of all something foul happened to the French, which I always hate as they’re so regular a people with such an indomitable and casual adoration for continuing as they were that I feel people can only learn from them.
And now I know not to fuck with the French.
I have, since Friday, enjoyed a potent urge to trip myself to Paris and drink champagne as though I were a free man with such a love for existence that I’m going to have to cry laughing in a fairly terrible French vernacular yet a superb French accent.
And then I had every well-conceived ill confidence brought forth from the ten most recent years of a wounded heart ruthlessly thwarted by a simple and essential conversation revealing that I have always been loved and…need there be any more than that?
Also, telling another you love them does the world of good for them and does the world a whole ‘of-them’ of good too.
A sudden revert to a tender and willing eighteen year old chap with his cap in one hand and nothing in the other but for a hoping grasp for another’s hand to stretch out and find him. And then share our two hats, all we had, both silly, both entirely unknowing of this, both soon to be longing for the other’s hand and silly hat once more.
Having said that, I apologise for the silliness of the prior half of this text.
Maybe I should calm down.
I like being told to calm down; it lets me know I’m doing something right.
And, if not something right, then something…well.
And, if not something well, then it certainly lets me know I’m doing something.
And if not something then what else is enthusiasm for?
Still, I truly do truly love being told to calm down.
It also means I’m doing something now since you aren’t typically told to calm down the day following your excitement.
1: “Hey! Calm down!”
2: “Calm down? Why?”
1: “You were running all around and such yesterday. With a muddy face. Yesterday.”
2: “Yeah that was for your viewing pleasure. And now you’ve spoilt it for everyone…”
Maybe I should calm down again.
Because I’m practised.
Because I’m qualified.
But I just don’t want to.
It’s one of those facets of being too enormously admirable to comply.
And now, all of a sudden, I urge you all to mock Islamic State.
Nice slide into the topic eh?
“But why mock Islamic State Sam?”
Why the fuck do you think? You with your ridiculous queries over there.
Partially because it distracts me from the ill-ease of discussing a throttling love around my head, throat, heart and more pleasant-to-be-throttled areas, and partially because it goes a distance towards dismantling international terrorism.
Just give it a go.
Dismantle international terrorism.
Membership will drop when the constant cartoon of IS with a small brain and distinctly smaller penis begins to permeate all cultures of the world.
Just make sure the humour remains, as there is no argument against a real cracker of an anti-terrorist epigram.
Such propaganda worked in negative scenarios as the anti-sematic themes of 1930’s Germany or fat cat themed foolery of the Soviet Union.
May I recommend such a similar usage for Islamic State soldiers? Would thoust mind?
The central character of ‘Jihadi Jim’ – a complete mug of a wannabe, a waste of life and the worst of it also – would be our antagonist in the scenes.
His quest is the end of the world and to finally find some sweet Western candy. He wants Nutella but it’s in the market place he also has to blow up. Can he do it whilst achieving just the right kind of smearing he was hoping for?
Plus he can become hoisted by his own petard weekly in a manner which doesn’t infringe upon the lifespans of those around him, yet might leave him as a final fine red mist on the market wall.
There would be decent men and women (regularly and emphatically Muslim so as to show they are not alike) about him, commenting on his daft theories and his wanky actions.
Victory is assured, je suis Charlie and I’m a little too in love to handle much else.
And I refuse to apologise for this.
I never apologise and I’m not sorry for that.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
But today, I feel a little greater.
Why do I do this? Because of her? Times are due I began doing this for me.
I hate arrogance; when it’s unjustified.
I’m arrogant; appropriately.
I am arrogant because it suits me, because I am wholeheartedly justified in being so and I am better at it than you.
I don’t even really have a puppy.
Celebrity, eh? I guess I’ll have to live with it, whenever it happens to me.
Though I must say I truly do feel ever so…just…famous.
(Once more) Sam.