How Awfully Correct of Me

As I’ve mentioned before in fits of appropriate arrogance; I’m that correct motherfucker you’ve been looking for.

I said “whom” recently.

I was confronted on it and debate ensued.

There was much pointing and, by jove, nearly some prodding too.

My arms were bloody well folded throughout so denote how stubborn and elbowy I was in the mood to be for the foreseeable and in the face of his argument.

He said it was an improper use of “whom”, to which I countered that the use was only incorrect grammatically.

My intonation was flawless.

My intonation was tender, gravelly, full of poise and wholeheartedly correct.

It was the same intonation with which I stated internally I was going to then simply sit in my chair and disagree with him for the next few minutes.

I was very much like the novelist I could always have been; had it not been for the distinct lack of books coming out of me.

This is the same reason I’m not a library (which is the sort of joke a novelist would make).

Should I be a novelist; call me Rafferty.

I shall respond.

I will speak in hushed and suddenly definitely-audible tones, arms folded to show I have dry skin on the elbow most prominent, but I write a damn fine novel.

Each evening.

I want to be the variety of novelist who has gold teeth but not his own, instead from some form of clash with another novelist at some point. In Africa. On a boat.

Things get fisty.

I feel a novelist of the highest character is one ready to increase the amount of knuckle and diminish an amount of jaw until the prose are deemed satisfactory by the opponent.

A good novelist really knows how to be a bizarre white guy.

Perhaps this is how I should have behaved with my opponent is the argument of opinions over grammar.

I was told when I was younger that an opinion cannot be wrong, such is the flame of confidence and insistence.

So, if in my opinion 1 + 1 = 3 then it does for as long as we are pacifying children with such an idea as failure being an ‘other-people’ scenario.

 In other words…when I say: “Whom?” in the beginning, middle or end of any discussion then I shall not be accused of being incorrect as I have some pretty distinct opinions as to the contrary.

Sam

If I Were a Sea Shanty I Would Improve Your Demeanour, Madam.

I’ve always found I operate better whilst tankards are collided upon tavern table tops.

It helps with my stutter.

Not that you’d be able to tell I have a stutter merely by listening to me.

I have a stutter one needs to view from a comfortable setting to be able to fully appreciate.

My feet stutter.

And they stutter well. Very well.

Most presume, as they watch from their comfortable setting, that I am Irish Dancing.

I am not.

All I am in that precise moment in time is curious as to how you came to find yourself a comfortable setting such as you did.

My own comfortable setting?

I find myself adequate and pleased whilst atop a woman.

Naturally you’ve done a little leaping up there in your noggin and I must restrain you in your thoughts only so far as to make clear I am referring to the female more as a chaise longue as opposed to a sexual being.

Otherwise it would be weird.

It helps with my stutter.

Women are comfortable. There you go; have a fact. Women are comfortable.

Should I divulge this to you? Is it right?

I think so, seeing as how I seem to be anyway (jeez; my typing is faster than my morals).

If I were a sea shanty I would likely leave out the bit about water.

Sea shanties and water go hand in hand, which is girly, and I am not a girl.

I am a sea shanty.

I feel a worthy sea shanty should blister out some good tales of pulling rope and being overboard.

Overboard suits me.

Plus hoisting things helps with my stutter.

“Oh, he came from far along by the end of the rope,
drinking a mouthful of tea.
With great distance from ship, as he dangled and dipped,
his poor luck right in front of me.”

Nothing wrong with being self-deprecating about one’s manhood.

Although, I would appreciate the clamour so soon I would receive should I be the only sea shanty with working (and relaxing) genitalia.

I am a sea shanty with some penises.

That might cheer you up, Madam.

If not then I’ll find somewhere else to sit.

What a shanty.

Sam

If I Were You I Wouldn’t Give Me a Fiver

I don’t appreciate currency because it doesn’t appreciate.

It tears and it tumbles.

Why offer me a heavily used and really rather grimy little promise such as a fiver when you could drop a tomato on me?

Tomatoes are short term and long term.

Thus tomatoes are eternal.

In the brief they are a tasty fruit and not a vegetable.

I apply them.

In the less quick and distinctly more long-term they are volatile bags of rosy fluid with a pleasing sense of grip to the palm and opponents facial features.

I apply them.

Gift me no fivers.

Land upon me a tomato and expect I shall commit a pleasant vengeance.

I also appreciate that island you’re bringing back to my place.

You nice guy you.

Nothing like an island to begin the day.

Not that I’d eat one, I don’t feel confident enough in my capacity to do so, but I sure as hell will find myself face down and hopes high as I begin to truly enjoy the island that is mine.

I’m a tad on the bright-side perception when it comes to possessiveness.

I just assume the continent is mine and allow everyone to go about their busy business upon it.

Plus sea shanties.

Sea shanties are mine, particularly when they are traded in return for a shiny apple.

I’m going to get me some sea shanties, once I’ve finished my evening’s scrumping.

It would appear my preferential currency revolves around fruit, and I won’t be satisfied till that this sentence can be regarded in a literal sense.

Let’s do that.

Sam