How Many ‘A’s Is Appropriate?

Posted: November 6, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

How many ‘A’s is appropriate in the written utterance of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH”?

Apparently 9.

Is there a need for the ‘G’s and ‘H’s?

Is an exclamation mark welcome?

I can’t think of any much worse than inserting an inappropriate number of ‘A’s in to…anything. I mean- that could really ruin a apple-pie.

You see- I’m going carving at the weekend. A buddy and I go to a patch of woods that we might happen to find. Silverbirch a’plenty. I’m going to take this term to the trees.

Scarring them with a term- from what I’ve found to be way up on the list of pleasant things to do to a tree.

Tree-graffiti.

I noticed the term “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” to be an oft-repeated phrase throughout human history. It is the natural human cry- relevant in joy, fear, birth and murder.

“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” transcends dialect, accent and human divisions, even alternative species. Africans, Europeans, Americans, Asians, apes galore- we all let loose an occasional “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH”.

It suits us.

Therefore- the truly meaningful…thing…that I was looking to carve into the fallen branch I had found, was born. And I think ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ would be a wonderful term to sit on.

Obviously, perhaps owing to our shared and celebrated sense of creativity or our shared and accepted sense of laziness- we knew that we would be sitting on this branch at some point.

Owing to its transcending of most signals of emotion (fear, joy, murder, birth, pain and pleasure)- it has only one true definition that is undeniable to all that hear it. No matter the reason for it’s being uttered- the translation is forever: ’SOMEONE’S HERE’.

And that’s it. It translates as: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

To hear this cry is to be aware that a person (or something apishly-similar) made it, and is therefore likely nearby. And it means this…loudly.

No matter the root of cause for it- the root meaning of it is: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.

And who wouldn’t want to scream that?

Got something better to scream?

Ok, fine. That’s a good one too, but I’m sticking with the traditional: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’. Or ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ to be more dramatic.

This one could be on T-shirts.

And this is why knowledge of how to actually spell the term is important to me right now. Because I’m going to carve it, and I’m going to carve it onto T-shirts.

So, once more- with feeling: ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’.

And you can quote me on that.

Sam.

I Wish This Was Written On A T-Shirt.

Posted: November 1, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I swear I thought of this in the 90’s.

However, I (and probably you too) are likely not the first to have this idea. Most of us alive today weren’t having ideas in the 70’s- when some of the best stuff came our way (the floppy-disk…timeless).

My plan was to write a statement (or at least something that would be interpreted as such) on the front of a plain white T-shirt, perhaps with an accompanying picture. It was essential that the sentence would be taken as a statement, if only extremely personally- to the author/wearer.

The idea was another one that I laid back on my laurels for- leading to its distinct lack of materialisation. You probably didn’t notice that this idea of mine never bore fruit, largely because it had nothing to do with fruit- unless it was on a T-shirt and being witty. There’s a market in making objects appear witty. Just take toilet seats- everyone gets the joke. Or telephones.

First of all, there was the name of the company label. You know- the one you’ve never heard of.

‘None Of A Kind’…..oooh.

These T-shirts are so unique that even they aren’t like them.

There would be nothing like this, and that was the point. Repetition is death in culture- something the easily bored appreciate greatly- once. A repeated statement is listened to, but dull. That’s why they change them.

Then there was what was to be the goal of every piece of produce produced. Let extreme relativity be the essence of the output.

Originality was being moral, a good thing, whilst also making these T-shirts ones that were easy to kill was another.

The idea of killing the T-shirt was harsh, but would mean that the one-time statement could be let out for a temporary-while, allowed to fade from the linen and out of the mind, having done its part, and leaving a gloriously stained canvas all over your chest. Non-permanent ink was a favourite tool, whilst permanent ink also did well because they are bollocks and not in a good, permanent way. We were going to kill the fashion and start over. Naturally.

Tattoos just can’t do this. They take themselves too seriously, and often too shitly.

I understand that this might be a common undertone in the ethos of many other companies- but truly: ‘Allow not one shit-bit’ was something to throw at the wall until it stopped bouncing back. Then again, maybe the ‘bouncing back’ (here meaning- the return of unsightly ideas and repetition) would fire up the engines of the artist, thus equating to an artist ready for whatever might come to them next.

The problem with the tattoo stain is that, whilst being permanent is beautiful in its way, it has a flaw in that beauty. The problem with being permanent is that it can last too long. You’ve probably noticed. You’ve probably been noticing for a long time.

‘None Of A Kind’ was going to be like beach art- it would leave us alone when it was done. Art that would bugger off when you were done with it. This also depended on the month- the sweat of July would eradicate nicely if you let it.

You don’t need to be rich to have an original ‘None Of A Kind’. Let’s be honest- we really can’t appreciate how tough the rich have it because you’re just an average person born to death whilst hopefully wearing a super-cool T-shirt. Aside from hoping your crops grow, what more could you ask for?

Jeez I hope you’re crops do well this harvest. I’m sure that’s weary on your mind. Crops- got to love them.

Also that you birth only males.  I would never wish upon you a legacy of daughters.

Ok, so may your loins only bear sons, may your crops be luscious and fruitful (and the same goes for your sons) and I hope your T-shirts are super cool. I don’t think I even need to suggest you have a nice day- that’s hardly the point. Having a nice day might be one of the worst things that happen to you. A super cool T-shirt; well done….well done.

The price of one white T-shirt, a permanent marker, preferably black and then the mere price of workmanship, although the best part of this was that you’d be doing this yourself. No cost of workmanship, and an extremely personal or appropriate message, this was awesome. A brand name that was to be taken, sabotaged by the individual and therefore successful- you can understand that this whole idea was probably too theoretical and unlikely to be initiated from the get-go. Whatever a ‘get-go’ might be.

‘Graffiti that follows you to work’- was another way of looking at it.

The moral message of graffiti is to alter your environment in severe contrast to advertising and grey corporate bullshit. This is why graffiti is colourful. Doing this, being colourful and righteous from the neck to the belt, meant that your statement of the day could adorn yourself rather than a building, would lead to an extremely low-risk of arrest, and could go with you around the corner.

Remember- it’s not the boring wall, it’s the shitty neighbours. Be a good neighbour by wearing an always-original ‘None Of A Kind’ and we’ve all won.

I really, really wish I’d actually done this. No one’s fault but mine that I didn’t. But I will also say: ‘Fuck the nineties’. That’s better.

If you can guess the moral of my writing today then I recommend that you take up the advice yourself. The moral is: start a revolutionary T-shirt company to initiate the global phenomenon of ‘None Of A Kind’.

You will make no money.

You will get no credit.

But you might just get a cool T-shirt out of it.

Super cool.

Sam.

Chickens Are For Doing Things To.

Posted: October 27, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

You’ve read the title, now here’s the list that I came up with whilst I was waiting. I don’t remember what I was waiting for now, so this must have been my priority. Things you can do with a chicken, as follows:

1. Take one chicken. Take that chicken anywhere- take it to a variety of places. Drop the chicken. Then watch their reaction. I recommend water. I also recommend chickens. You can quote me on both of those subjects. Drop the chicken. It might become a metaphor if you do it enough.

2. Pick on the chicken- it will fight back and that’s simply an interesting relationship to have. Chickens are not pussies. Obviously- don’t try to hurt the chicken, but self-defence counts everywhere. Same goes for the chicken towards you. Everyone- defend yourself from what you’re about to do to each other.

3. Feed the chicken. Feed it to see how far you’ll both go. What is the chicken prepared to eat, and what are you willing to feed it? If you’re still enough, and if you’re near enough, they’ll eat you. Are you ready for that? Have you ever been eaten? If you have- well done. If you have not, catch up with the rest of us now. Don’t forget, this is why we all suddenly got a chicken- personal development.

4. Dress the chicken. This will follow on from the ‘pick on the chicken’ system. Dress the chicken up like a duck. It might help. If not, why not make it look as much like a meal of chicken before it actually becomes one. This could be the start of something big for chickens- and it only took dropping them, teasing them and feeding them unnecessary items to get them here. No one else is doing this for chickens.

5. Play the chicken. Think of the chicken as a neglected drum. Or an overly-passed-by trumpet. Of course, the percussion aspect of the chicken is much more tolerable to you both, when compared to the wind-abilities. When you find the place to blow into, see if you can also stand back at the same time. You can’t, but it wouldn’t be right if you didn’t try. Along with this, the drum-aspect of a chicken is far tastier, purely because the option to taste is left to your hands which are far less talented than the tongue and nose and in more than a few distinct roles. Namely tasting chicken. People don’t tend to say: “Mmm. Feels like chicken!”.

6. Try to make them laugh. Imagine discovering that chickens laugh. Imagine being the person accredited with making the first known chicken-chuckle to occur. You would be on t-shirts. You’d be more popular than chicken is today. And then consider that people would be able to devote (and some really would DEVOTE) their time to causing chickens to laugh. It would be like a parlour game, or a rite of passage. You can’t join until you have split the chicken’s sides. You’d change the world. Good for you.

7. Just watch them. They’re pretty funny. Like feathered robots that let nothing stop them from carrying out their most primal instincts. They also hate each other and see another chicken as a mix between something to fuck, something to eat, and something to be stopped from fucking and eating because they’re a chicken and a bastard. They also jump if required- but this pales in comparison to dropping them.

So has been a list of things you can do with a chicken. If you can think of other things to do, you might want to do two things. Firstly, consider that may I know about that one and chose not to put it in because it is crass. And secondly, consider keeping that idea to yourself, just like I did.

Personal Development On Earth.

Posted: October 20, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I have a problem. That problem is my personal development on Earth.

Just Earth- everywhere else I’m doing very well and thank you.

But here, the sphere with me on, we will be putting up with 401k’s and such, largely owing to a lack of alternative.

401k’s are a thing of the past. So is lacking an alternative.

Spears are the future.

I could leave it there, but fortunately I’m not paid for this writing, so I will be continuing anyway. Because it feels good.

It feels good?

Mission accomplished. Happy sensation. Tingling toes and I’m grinning. Very well done me.

401k’s are for other people. They bother me because they bother everyone. Bother.

It seems to be the simple introduction of vitally-inconsequential numbers and letters that really can unnerve a man’s day. Like having a ‘V’ and an ’18’ gang-shit you. Fuck V, and fuck 18 too. They’ve never done me a favour or turned up on time.

I don’t see why these letters should be introduced to the nice ladies and gentlemen. What did we do wrong- why thrust letters and numbers at us until we oblige? I’m not here to oblige. I’m here for the rabbit meat.

This is where the spears come in, though usually through one side of a rabbit and then out the other. I believe having a spear is like having a roof- intrinsic to getting by and slapping nature once or twice before succumbing to being sand.

We will all become sand, so in the meanwhile, don’t let anyone write their name in you, especially if they want to do it with piss. If they approach with piss, try to haggle them down to cutlery or something.

Don’t even fucking talk to me about pensions (I prefer to talk about unnecessary swearing In the middle of every fucking single sentence). They are a very bad idea.

A pension will resign you to sitting-down and the rise of the dilapidated brain, shortly followed by the gone-to-pot face and the pretty-much-a-write-off bowels.

Retire ye not thou pious pretender.

To do so is to throw your hands into the air and say “I’m out”, leaving the rest of the world to deal with your leavings, you cruel fool. We are all suffering various stages of childhood, retirement simply gives you a chance to blame children.

However, I can sympathise (if you’ll allow me).

Pensions are a throwback to when they were necessary. Ideally, we should be ready for old-age, and as such- we should be prepared for death by making it much more likely and much more watchable. No, you haven’t earned a retirement, as to do that is to condemn the young to blame and you haven’t earned that right.

Allow me to explain both these points a little further.

Pensions were necessary in a time when old age for some childless proletariat-types resulted in destitution and tragedy.

Now, if you get old- you can physically keep working for longer, you can be aware that retirement equates to a more unpleasantly- comfy death and your government should provide. Of course, this is not the case for all- but many. But enjoy what you do above all.

We must keep working till we die, ideally, or you will never be happy.

We must change our occupations, or we will never have been happy by the time we are most similar to a door-nail.

It’s not a retirement that is so attractive, rather- it is whatever you want to retire from that is the problem. How many musicians, actors, comedians, writers and artists retire? Now compare that to the number of civil-servants that retire, or cab-drivers, or policemen. These are troubled jobs, depression leads to reasons to be depressed about depression, and that is why so many people want out.

You might be a professional tree-climber.

And this profession permits you to do what you love most- be high atop something and be miles away from the floor. An admirable occupation- much more admirable than that occupation of Poland you’ve been planning. Do you want to stop this so that you can really focus on that sitting-down you’ve been promising to commit yourself to for the next 25 years?

People who throw spears for a living don’t ever want to stop. Think about it. You throw the spear and either you’re successful (and you eat whatever’s on the other end of it) or you’re not- in which case you get the amazing opportunity to throw a spear at something again.

“Maintain your sharp-items” is the only real piece of graffiti I have executed, and is one of the most meaningful things I have ever done to a wall (not that all those games of kick-ball meant nothing).

If it’s yours- keep it sharp because a 401k isn’t going to keep the hordes off your porch.

I don’t know when, or why, but I’m presuming that hordes will be a fairly constant annoyance in our lives at some point. Like running out of toilet paper. Perhaps once every 7 months- you’ll run out of toilet paper, or a horde will turn up- grumbling about 401k’s and why their spears are useful in situations like this. Hordes adore spears. You’ll need one too.

Another point.

I’m already here- what else really needs to be done? The main race was taking place throughout my pa’s genitals, and on into my mother’s genitals, and finally resting on the sofa with a lot to do with my own genitals. And with any luck; getting to know someone else’s.

I’m here- what the fuck. Permit me that at least. Ultimately I shall die, so don’t push pretention and paperwork my way- I’m trying to climb this tree. Whilst typing.

What someone does with their life should be about what they want, even if they wish to retire (in which case prepare to be frowned-the-fuck-upon). However, I feel that given a chance, people will take up professionally hunting fruit and veg as a living, perhaps advancing into spearing fauna at some point- when moving targets are achievable and we get bored of stabbing cabbage.

This is the one ultimate point.

We all get bored. We will all get bored

The curious are victorious- to be dead a long time and wary of this. We should send them all a hamper for doing so well. I’m sure they already have enough medals.

The successful in life are the curious ones. Their curiosity might bring them to the success of enjoyment, of the alternative success of failure- through which experience will be gained and possibly another of those medals. Your failure makes your success more likely.

No matter what we do, curiosity, with a little courage thrown in, wins the daily day and is the reason we have bread, the reason we have bungee-jumping, the reason we have contraceptives, and the reason why I chose to get up each morning.

My personal development has little to do with numbers and letters. But I’m a curious one and I tend to say ‘yes’ 90% of the time and I smile a lot. I win- I’m going to live well and keep doing what I’m doing. I don’t need a form for that.

I don’t have a pension plan, so for those that invest their lives in enforcing their reasons to have one: beware me. I’m going spear shopping. And that’s just swell.

Sam.

I’d Eat It.

Posted: October 15, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Snails, frog legs, pig arseholes and spider legs.

I guess there’s not much else to do with them but to scrub them up, add wet heat, and then chew thoroughly.
When it comes to diets that you mostly…find…then you have to sacrifice your pickiness for the sake of belly-filler being so important.

You there- eat something! It’s largely what we’re here for, so either fuck it (also on the important to-do list) or eat. If you’re going to do both then do it down-stream. That mess will be famous. Especially if it’s a snail.

Cooked snails are rubbery, aside from the personality. In terms of personality- they’re all a great bunch of guys/girls. Not very rubbery.

A rubbery individual is a person/snail that I have not met. Probably. It’s not my duty to meet rubbery people/snails, and that’s about as amusing as this sentence is going to get. Rubbery people/snails. Meet them.

I do like spending time with my pet snail, Greed, who I have not told yet about the eating of his kin. We’re going to buy two dozen and ‘prepare’ them for cooking, which is immediately the cruellest thing you can do to them. First step, access the snails. Second step “lightly sprinkle a fine layer of rock salt over the escargot” (‘escargot’ being French for, I assume: ‘the little shelly-bastards because they fucked my wife too’). This makes them dissolve somewhat which is apparently the only way to prepare them as it makes them evacuate themselves- a thing you can’t really train them to do.

But, seriously, I single-handedly hate emptying snails.

You think there’d be a spoon for that, but it’s all down to fingers and blowing. As usual.

Pig’s areholes are a Soul food delicacy, if you’re hungry enough. From what I read in a Bizarre Magazine article from several years ago- Mr T fled from one once.

You take a pig arsehole. Wipe it (and there’s only one way to do that- think about it. Making the common sign-symbol for ‘dosh’ might give you the right idea) and then fry what’s left of the shit out of it. Then serve it to Mr T and watch him go. I bet he’d even get on a plane.

From what I guess- it’s like a ring of blubbery gum. That you know used to be a pig’s arsehole.

Tarantula legs are probably the only part of them I’d want to eat. Certainly rather than its fangs, or beady little eyes. Or its arsehole (I’m not fond of arseholes- you really only need one in my opinion).

I’m told they’re like chicken and that it is actual meat. That’s really all you need to know- that its contents is not poison slime, nor is it acid- nor a thousand tinnier spider that are trying to occupy your genitals. It is meat.

This- I would totally go for, only I am lacking in the spider leg jar in my larder. Someone help me.

Frog legs taste like chicken. Well- why not eh?

I’d eat a frog’s legs. But it would be interesting to see the side of it by vegetarian politicians that allow a little meat-eating. Maybe they’d just take the one leg from the frog, and then patch it up and leave it to continue its fairly dull life. Perhaps build it an artificial leg out of the left-overs from a meal of frog’s legs. They already hop anyway.

I know it’s cruel to do the rock-salt treatment to these two-dozen garden snails, but if I don’t eat anything for a while then I’ll be hungry and I’m sure it’s acceptable to do these things if you’re hungry.

Poor buggers- may they rest in delicious, rubbery, garlicky-buttery peace.

On toast.

Sam.

If I Ever Met Cancer- I Wonder What It’d Be Wearing.

Posted: October 12, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Today I will be talking about talking about taking personification too far, because personification told me to.

To begin, I want to make the point that, as is common with people with an unfortunate/tragic growth- they might give it a name. I’ve never had a growth, aside from hair, which I haven’t named.

So I did some reading.

Take for example Joan, from London, gets cancer, and cancer makes her feel bad, so she focuses positive thinking unto this little bastard of a lump so as to reduces the power it has over her.

Lump equates to chemo. So she names the lump Basil. Now Basil equates to chemo. And it’s better to say ‘fuck Basil’ than just ‘fuck cancer’. Makes the fight more personal.

“How is little Basil doing?” might ask a particularly informed (but not enough to refrain from asking) passer-by.

“My Basil is having a hard time at the moment- he’s in a jar following meeting that wonderful surgeon fellow” Joan would reply.

And then…what would Basil say, as he sat sweating in a jar?

Would he just sigh? A failed attempt, try again next time?

What does a cancer lump do following decapitation from the lucky body-part? And in that vein, what does a cancer lump do when it is victorious and has consumed the whole of Joan? There’s nothing left of Joan to infect- how does a cancer like Basil spend it’s time now? Can it follow up its greatest achievement of having Joan’s tits removed and jarred?

Or does it just die? And if it just dies, then what’s the fucking point in doing it anyway? Obviously cancer has no real vision. Basil could have made something of himself, but is only really a one-hit-wonder following Joan’s bosom.

I’m feeling a strong need to clarify that I hate basil as much as the next guy (and I can see him from here and he actually looks like he hates cancer a little less than me- the wanker). And now that I know Basil has such little direction in life/death, I dislike him all the more.

Fuck the Basil that equates to chemo. He has no right to equate to chemo. Nelson Mandela, Isaac Newton, Freddie Mercury, not even any of those guys had a right to equate to chemo. What makes Basil think he’s so fucking swell?!

And in terms of this, I’m also wondering (seeing as how I’m taking personification way too far today) what cancer would wear whilst out and about.

I have a feeling he/she’d wear lots of undeserved medals. I can picture that easily. The sort of disease that would show off and complain about how the diseases of today are so weak-willed compared to the good old days. The good old days of cholera and Black Death- real hearty stayers of a contagion. Oh they’re in the address book, crossed out and KIA. I’m sure cancer misses them terribly.

Good.

Aside from that I’m thinking pinstripes. With a handkerchief and gold teeth. Gold teeth dotted around his face because it’s symbolism for spending money and making only a dent. I bet cancer loves a bit of symbolism. I bet it even bought those gold teeth himself.

Cancer clearly tries too hard.

I think cancer would listen to Coldplay.

This is an image of a pinstriped, handkerchief-ed, penetrated by gold-teeth weirdo named Basil reclining in a burgundy leather armchair, his head rolling back and his ears filling with what he wants, and what he wants is Coldplay.

He looks extraordinarily uptight, like a man that never learnt how to wank.

Cancer doesn’t smoke.

But he does scratch himself with your discarded left-overs. Like Joan’s tits.

Oh my, he is a bastard. I would never do that.

The female version is likely tall, really tall. Taller than all of us, with a hint of burliness that can only be contended with by a distinct knife to the testicles before she hopefully goes away. I don’t know her name, but she smells like petrol.

This is the brute bitch that did what she did to one of Arthur’s two-veg.

She wears a pinny and has killer heels.

I love shoes, and I respect heels, but a personification of cancer wearing fabulous shoes? That’s a tip-toed stride over the line of ‘shoes Sam’s willing to allow’. Not that I have much say in anyone’s footwear. This rule only applies to cancer because I’m trying to find a way to bully it.

Arthur would love to do this, but a knife to the bollocks was his only option.

I wonder what Arthur and Joan would do if they ever bumped into the personification of cancer in the street.

I really don’t know. What do you say to someone after a relationship like that?

Either spit hatred or wish them all the best because you’re not quite sure either. Unless you know you can walk away and simply hope to never see that personification again, in which case that’s currently all we can do.

Apart from personify it.

And mock it.

And wear pink.

Fuck Basil and whatshername… we’ll forget about them someday, and remember Arthur and Joan.

Here’s to you guys.

Sam

At Least It Got Censored.

Posted: October 6, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

So, we all have a time of hate in our lives. I have to admit that when mine gets going it’s normally when I haven’t received enough compliments in a while.

Whenever such a lack of such things occurs- I’ll find a reason for removing you from my life as soon as possible. It is a very negative situation and I apologise in advance and for earlier.

I also swear that a little bit of that hate-like substance called retribution will do great things for you, mainly get you out of the habit of holding that chair with your arse and instead place the chair within your grasp, then through a window, and then you and the chair are gone. If you’re angry enough, it’ll be hilarious.

A censorship is a badge of honour to all the right people- almost as if there work has been ‘okayed’ back-handedly by the admins-that-be. I am still waiting for some people to want other people to stop reading my work. I truly hope they are flaccid-dicked enough to have a go at me. I could make a living and a death out of that kind of recommendation. They just need to be a little more flaccid.

What is important is my lack of pride.

Humbleness is an ability not to be fucked with. Beware the humble just as much as you might never turn your back on the quiet ones. Humble fellows make you eat their brand of pie. And when someone can make you eat any kind of pie, even if you want to eat it, they are the ones in charge. You are too busy eating pie, humble or otherwise.

That fact that I am not proud to say what I feel is reflected in the idea of true equality in reference to race. If you do not notice a person is a different colour than you, then you are very sweet and deserve a promotion from whatever it is that you sweetly do, but this is rare and hopefully a matter of the times. To be able to say what you feel, and as that, say what you feel rather than what you feel you should be permitted to feel- is a similar box of frogs. We are now just bargaining over the legs- because we are French (and I, personally, am racist).

Say what you want, and let them say that you can’t say what you want. The battle of dignity is won, and for our species that is a constant war so therefore you might as well win a few battles. Go ahead and shit your pants, but don’t cry. If you cry- you have done something far worse. You’ve soiled your eyelids.

To be proud of what you say might be a swipe at your own existence. You could instead be proud of what you are doing, as opposed to what you are saying. What you say and what you think is not something to be boastful about: “Enjoy my company because I told a risqué joke about bamboo and rude locations in my twenties”. Your actions are at times to be relayed, and all the time they are to be done, had, in process, in action- KEEP MOVING. Activity- don’t let them take it from you.

However, if those flaccid-fuckers enter your sphere of influence and try to adopt it into their own sphere of influence of telling people what to do because they actually want to tell you what to think, then all that’s happening is two spheres pleasantly colliding into one another, and two spheres doing that look like tits and that’s just marvellous.

Partly, mostly, marvellous owing to looking like tits, but also owing to the fact that making things breast-esque is exactly what they hate the most.

So let it be.

However, I feel that my work might not be the sort worthy of a decent dose of censorship. To end with an example, please allow the following:

I realised recently that if you take the French word ‘bisque’, and then you take the French word for ‘and’, which is ‘et’, then all you have to do is put the two together to make the sound similar to ‘biscuit’.

And then all you need is a reason to say ‘biscuit’.

But until then…please censor me… or…get fucked.

And drug-themed pornography criticising the government.

Biscuit

Sam.

The Trouble With Experts Today.

Posted: September 28, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Attempted murder is pretty tricky to get done, you know.

It’s tricky to only try to murder a guy, when his head’s right there in front of you. You want to alter someone…do things to their head. Most things, even just sighing on it will make them notice. An attempted sigh might not, but if you’ve managed that at least you’ve accomplished something.

I’m not sure why we’re talking about attempted murder, but frankly you’re freaking me out and I’m going to have to monologue until I feel comfortable again.

I jumped off a crane last night. It was- delicious, like eating…all the information in the world. Now that’s fairly esoteric to understand, just like the word esoteric, but it is true. It feels like you’re suddenly aware of everything, and this may seem fairly Buddhist of me but what that knowledge really revealed was understanding, but only understanding how much we don’t know and how much we don’t understand. And that this was ok.

Pretty Buddhist, as I said.

There’s a description of a person you don’t get much of… she was a pretty Buddhist. And she was being calm.

All I did was descend, not much to it but to pay the burly man seventy pounds, allow him to tie you up in lock-in straps that looked reassuringly used whilst disturbingly elderly. The fall made me pulse and breath, scream and swear, laugh and burst a blood vessel in my left-eye for which I am still looking for a good eye-patch. If it’s not a pirate-version, it’s for someone else because I only wear pirate eye-patches, largely because they go with everything.

Lemon-meringue bell-of-the-ball dress with boner-length heels and gold lipstick…goes perfectly with a pirate eye-patch. So does nether-the-neck nudity. Goes perfectly with a pirate eye-patch.

So I’m still looking.

I have some opinions about experts as well. You could probably tell that by the title.

What I want to distinguish here is the difference between run-of-the-mill, because-I’m-on-television expert, and the people that no-one is better at or more familiar in their subject matter whilst also potentially being an expander of their field.

You have those that are simply well-dressed and voicing their opinions by whatever means possible, and then you have those that are really too distracted being experts to offer their opinions to people like you and me. But of course you have the middle-ground, the beautiful grey area that has the forefront fellows like Stephen Hawking writing a book whilst he has a spare two minutes from sitting fairly still as a genius might.

I fucking hate it when people wade in without the proper equipment- the sole list of which being lack of time for the interview to really take place.

Experts are fucking busy, and you might realise that when you’ve got shit to do and your brain cells conglomerate to a point where they can actually conglomerate and if you’ve got some conglomerating brain cells then I can only try now to persuade you not to go onto the television and do some wading in. Proper equipment or not, there’s a time and a place to piss people of, so make sure your research rubs people up the wrong way. Unless you’re a masseuse. If you’re a masseuse, I can only say thank you and don’t you ever leave me be.

Leaving people be really tends to work, it’s just that incest sells more papers. Unless of course you’re a publicist that fucks his brother, in which case- you should probably stop fucking your brother-just in case he finds out. Other than that, leave people be and they will surely thrive.

Thriving matters.

I have a very small amount to say about a hell of a lot of things, so I’ll sign off with these three other important points that occurred to me as I was disjointedly writing this.

  1. He’s dull. He’ll only eat it if it’s within bread.
  2. ‘Calorie’ is, I know, a beautiful name for a female, aside from the regrettable association with chips.
  3. If we’re being poetic, then the sun is the greatest thing to have on your face. If we’re being traditional, then I’ll refer you to the fanny in the corner. This is preferable.

For now,

Sam

I’m Not Going To Reminisce About The 00’s.

Posted: August 17, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Oh fuck, the 00’s.

What are we going to do now? All we have in relation to something worth talking here about is war and computers- and I’m not good at either of those things. Computer illiterates in foxholes equate to me wondering why more things aren’t to do with long walks and pretty girls- generally.

Those are the few things that set me apart from people who are set to perfection in the previous decade of ours. ‘Pretty girls’- generally, is a common passion, but is something that I find hard to omit owing to being something of a self-composed poster-boy for virility, an image that takes time, trousers and embarrassment to accumulate. I like accumulating things though- it amounts to something.

As for the good longs walks- they remind me of being an ape (an essential quality in someone worth knowing) and of being some sort of dignified author that would actually have done nothing for the cause of female emancipation from the drudgery of being slammed with the dick of ancient history till now. Another thing about the 00’s: penis trumps vagina. A good long walk might remind you of that, but in the meantime (whatever that is) it will promote that ‘distinguished author’ look that you’ve been trying so hard to maintain. Put that pipe away.

You wouldn’t have gotten these things from the 00’s. The 00’s amounted to, as far as I can remember: war, computers and Robbie Williams being really popular. Possibly more popular than Diet Coke, which is impressive, and something that I can only hope for this blog to me someday. I say more popular than Diet Coke because I’m realistic. Regular, full-blooded Coke doesn’t need to advertise, it just needs to be guaranteed.

Perhaps if females and walking had been promoted as much as the 20-teens has begun to, we might have missed out on the following.

It turns out we do have cultural contributions to our species that goes beyond Robbie Williams. We have the music videos. Music video’s with sheer-white backdrops, metal bands and boy bands both wearing black and both trying to look tough and dangerous (whist both trying too hard at that). Baggy trousers- coming from an age of men trying to conceal weaponry, to boys trying to look like men trying to conceal weaponry, and finally to children attempting to look like most other older boys do, whilst also using the opportunity to hide their physical frame from the world because they’re only kids, and kids are stupid.

This was a time in which things were made glossy and I don’t know why. The perpetual addition of cheese to foodstuffs (and barely, thankfully, limiting itself there) was a component of the times.

All those dead Iraqi’s really ruined the decade for me, as well as those about the rest of the planet that were butchered for all the other just causes that some god likely encored. What really twists the blade for me here is the fact that this is not a 00’s exclusive, but it is…is…an example of a generation that knew it had the means to alter and chose not to. The excessive’s of laziness were on the eye-watering rise throughout these pitiful ten years, and the blame lays not at feet, but lays in the lies of the minds of those of us that know what I’m talking about. Myself included; it does feel lovely not to be annihilated on a Sunday afternoon. What a…foreign thing to happen. This was the war aspect. Very happy that no cheese was added.

So long playing in the streets. Hello, latest acquaintance of the species- massive heart disease, diabetes and general paleness. The revolution of video game sophistication amounted to the heaviest generation that we have had for a long time. Mother’s loose a third of their body weight at birth and all children can be heard walking from afar. As they walk- their foreheads jiggle.

This is what the 00’s gave us, and what’s even worse is that it gave us…us. Apologies, but we are the generation prior that laid the foundations for the end of children and the start of wars by regrettably not being as astounding as the technology that raced alongside us. Albeit that we have learnt to share, and to learn and to give a little grace when required, we are still very willing to lose our ape-ish-ness and indulge in raising fictional crops on a figurative place, inviting others to waste their time and insisting on yourself giving up the fun you were born with rights to. This has been the computer aspect.

Don’t you dare blame the 60’s- that’s not your job and if you even think about blaming the 40’s then your laughable, it was the 00’s, purely on the basis that this was the latest decade do nothing but withhold and indulge.

We haven’t even legalised Mary Jane yet. And that’s our fault. That’s all our fault. Fucking do something you shitty little population- nothing would happen if it weren’t for you taking part, why should this be any different. The 00’s was the perfect time to do that and, my word, wouldn’t it have helped.

Let’s ‘hark’ back now, something I don’t often do, but since we’re reminiscing we might as well ‘hark’ simultaneously along with that. It’s good for your vocabulary. Let’s hark back to the ‘penis trumps vagina’ situation.

We’ll you’re right- women and their vagina’s are doing fairly well these days, indeed, they are doing for themselves- but therein lies the issue that I have with the 00’s here. Why was it up to key particular women to do this? Why not all of them? Why not all of us- men and their penis’ included (naturally- never omit a man’s junk)?

You see, we are the time that we live in, and without the positive action of a massive population, spurred on by those individuals that seem to matter for some reason, there will be no change. Don’t leave change up to individuals because it is knackering and depressing to do so alone. Just look at all those dead people you’ve heard of; that’s why you’ve heard of them and that’s also a substantial contribution as to why they are dead. And the centuries probably did them no favours either.

You, the population over there- hiding behind the Apple store! Go outside and make change, but for the love of all that is worth mentioning- don’t let advertisers see you do it. If you do- they’ll claim you and say you’re using their phone or their network to be the essential repetition of ‘new generation’ (being cool and free and buying our product just like you should. Keep watching your TV and shut up, you filthy little consumer).

This mind-set of sit-down, consume and distract yourself was all over the 00’s, and the brilliance of technology has had a central goal of luxurious entertainment, equating to all meaningful progression becoming a side-line to the main game. This is why women are paid less- because blasted by Angry Birds and Netflix- you really don’t give a fuck.

So now we’re in the 20-teens and so far I’m liking it. I think people are getting to grips with being apes and being in charge. Just look at the US. Here comes Mary Jane. Well done.

War and computers, eh?

Sam.

I’m Gunna Need All Your Money.

Posted: July 24, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

When I’m older, I’d like to be…34.

Being thirty four will probably do me well. That’s all I’ll need, I suspect…not that I’m suspicious of that age.

Well, maybe I am. It might be helpful to be suspicious of an age. I’ve heard what they say about people over thirty. And apparently the people over thirty haven’t because they still haven’t stopped.

Thirty should be middle-aged, but it’s got this ‘youth’ association about it, like scratchy little beards, or full-bodied acne.

However, 34 does have connotations of wealth, and that’s something I could really make some use of.

I am what money is for. Money is the latest ticket, surpassing the good looks and talent that had dominated the ‘dicking-the-landscape’ industry for the past few millennia.

If I had some of those paper numbers, I’d be able to slap whatever I felt like.

You could buy a field- who wouldn’t want to do that? Fields are where the best things happen, and where anything can happen. Like some further, more in-depth, slapping.

A field full of 34 year olds could really set the ocean alight. Set it alight with those paper numbers they carry around (I’m referring to currency, because I want to). Even the ugly ones that can’t throw.

And aside from that, 34 looks brilliant numerically, whereas the word-version appears a little long-winded. ‘Thirty-four’ is a dull read. ’34’ positively excites me, not like a woman, but at least like a number should do with such connotations.

Still, ‘chin (the fuck) up’, such as it is.

You see, I’m soon to be 24 (now see how lovely twenty-four looks compared to those digits over there…twenty-four was born for letters) and that really hurts for someone who’s been eight for the past sixteen years. (’16’ years? ‘Sixteen’ years? Definitely ‘sixteen’ years).

Aside from this I have issues for tissues with my forearms. Skinny bastards they certainly are, although EVERY SINGLE TIME that I’ve punched someone in the face it has worked entirely. The forearm issue only seems to revolve around sailor-like activities (aside from punching) such as lugging rope or hoisting…whatever you please- you’re a sailor, and therefore you hoist.

34 year olds have superior forearms to me, and that’s why I tend to either elbow or wrist them. And wristing someone in the neck is really fucking uncomfortable for everyone involved, so I must have a point to make…I can only assume.

Assuming is easy so I’m going to do some of it.

I’m am also going to assume that 34 year olds have got some reason to be held in suspicion, just look at their forearms. How did that happen unless they’ve gained a decade more than me in the area of hoisting? And then why would they hoist? Sailors? Are all sailors 34?

Does it matter? Yes? Ok then, fine. Let it matter.

But in the meantime I’m going to need all your money, because you’re 34 and I’m not and you might as well assume that I have several other reasons- I’ll be assuming the same. This is teamwork.

You see, this whole monetary issue really is expensive on the inner-lining of the soul. So kill it.

Kill it and relax for a while there really isn’t much else to do once you’ve killed money. Apart from holding fruit in higher esteem. Fruit deserves it. And so do I. So give me all your money.

Maybe I should lift…

Sam

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