I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 1.
Posted: July 31, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: comedy, ego, funny, humans, Humour, posture, self improvement, self-help, writing Leave a commentA Superior Ego and Excellent Posture.
I want to start with my ego.
It’s better than yours.
Your ego gives you just about enough presence of thought to enable you to become really skilled at watching YouTube videos, with a distinct knowledge of how to increase your arse breadth.
Whereas myself (Who? Me?); I’ve been working on my ego.
My ego has brought me to a point in my life in which I feel comfortable enough to say that I am the greatest human to ever live. And that took some effort to say. Not that you need to congratulate me since I’ll just be assuming you are anyway (I assume the clamour of my glamour).
I like to enter rooms.
And sometimes, once inside, I’ll just wait for the applause to wash over me like a shower of appreciative spit. Warm and running down to dampen my socks, that’s how I like my applause.
And although I may be waiting for what might never come, it is the being prepared to wait that matters. And enjoying waiters manoeuvre around me as I bow with arms outstretched.
When I get to the bank, I hand over a pound and whisper loud enough for the camera to hear: “Don’t mention it. Get yourself something nice. I want you to look good for me” to the teller.
It doesn’t matter if they’re male or otherwise; my ego’s too flawless to consider people beyond their haircuts.
Their genitals; that’s their business. Their genitals may remain in the bank, for I will purely take note of the hair-doo and wardrobe.
Their attire, depending on the mood of the moment; that might well become mine.
And the same goes for their lunch.
I don’t need to pay you for your lunch; I gave a pound to the bank.
That’s my economy.
It’ll work its way back to you if that pound hasn’t already become enshrined with a very bamboo-themed décor.
By the way, I’m not suggesting you’d want compensation because I stole your lunch – I wouldn’t steal your lunch; I’d accept it as an offering, like a lamb to the slaughter only I want the wool for a bedsheet too.
Also, I wouldn’t steal a lunch. I’d steal banquet. Because I know how to handle a sack of swag and I’m sure I could fill it and manoeuvre it as though it were a bag o’ feathers as opposed to a sack o’ peacock gooches.
I’d could go on about my ego, but it’s too broad a topic for me focus my whole attention span onto for more than a couple of minutes, so I’ll just finalise the ego-section by declaring how appropriate my face would be to adorn currency.
People would get into debates and haggles when one will then mention: “Well I have Sam’s face” and the other will have my face too and they shall both agree they have encountered a glorious impasse and surely they must retire to an early bed.
Because my face is like looking at the sun for too long.
It can fuck up your reading.
I’d apologise…but I am not going to apologise.
Who’d want to read when the option of staring at my visage is still entirely viable? Even following those minutes you spent improving your vocabulary, wasting of your time when you could have been learning a thing far greater from my face alone; that there is no God.
There is no God. Here I am.
I am not God. There you are.
So let’s move onto posture shall we?
My posture.
It’s commanding.
I’m followed by an audience of my posture like a Pide Piper of Hamlin because my posture is mightily followable.
Can I see over that tall hedge to gaze at the predators coming our way (not that I’m worried. For me, predators are a food-group and that’s why I’m laughing when I see them. Not that you’d know)? No. But the hedge were slightly shorter than myself – I’d be able to see right over it owing to my miraculous height. And why am I this tall? Because of my posture, baby.
Tailors crave me, and I let them crave me. They want me and my posture for their craft and I deny them because it’s too amusing to be pursued by a tailor.
They’re as flappy and as floppy as you’d expect.
And so am I; here’s why.
I was once told by a good friend of mine that there is nothing wrong with taking yourself too seriously.
So every other day when I feel the need to bump myself right in the confidence I take myself too seriously so as to remind myself that my ego’s better than yours and how my posture is worth shouting about.
When I say “shout” – I do mean literally.
I do everything literally.
I take the bull by the horns because I want to take the bull and the horns were right there, being horny and graspable…like me.
I find myself getting grasped perpetually in the park, mainly getting grasped in the posture.
It’s awesome; posture affirming.
Did wonders for my ego and I didn’t even need it.
I’m am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Next time on I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live: Romance and my smile.
Oh my! I’ll see you then.
Sam
(P.S. Am I going to proofread this? No! I save proofreading for articles less perfect).
How to Get Over the Girl
Posted: June 30, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: advice, biting, dating, divorce, funny, health, Humour, love, marriage, nature, relationships, Tickling Leave a commentWell, since it’s the 30th June and I am rapidly losing time till midnight – cutting it fine indeed in terms of my thorough discipline of writing an article at least once a month (I don’t know why I do this and neither do you so I’ll insist on laziness being permitted) – I am reaching for a topic to blow my load of verbiage upon.
And I’m going to do so with the following:
How to Get Over the Girl
Now, I know what I mean by this, and although you might not you should therefore consider yourself lucky.
Prior to beginning however I’ll make clear that this shall be a writ in reference to the love of my life; by no means my wife, and my attempts to deal with the afterwards.
My wife and I (myself about to become a divorcee at the succulent age of 25 and 10/12ths) are irrelevant to the topic in my manly hands so; forget that aspect (just an aspect).
By the way, don’t marry out of sympathy.
I am instead in reference to a girl that has thus far been the image of point in my life. The thought of her is why I do things and this is my point.
Or at least up till fairly recently in our relationship of on-again-off-again lovers and friends, for within the past year I have come to think of her as a loving part of my still young youth for which I am as of yet unable to compare and humble, but am proudly aware of my growing understanding that the girl will, perhaps, be replaced by another aspect. Maybe this one with event prettier eyes.
I’m getting ahead of myself on account of my need to say what occurs and have some words written, so I’ll return to advice rather than feelings (Eew).
So, when looking to get over the girl, do the following:
- Bite Someone.
Now, this may seem a little fucking crazy (just a tad) but I truly recommend it.The biting of another simply places oneself into an entire new realm of people who would wish to go about some business with you.
Now it may be, as I’m sure you will have considered in the few short seconds since reading, an aggressive attitude that comes forth from either the limb or appendage of the person you have encountered tooth-wise.
Good.
Let’s see where a little aggression goes, but by no means enter the combat zone with this person, just tickle her/him with your teeth and explain why you did so…
“Why? Because I AM NOT A WEIRDO!” is what I would go about with, audibly.
Explain that this has never occurred to you before but the moment you saw this person you were overcome with an urge to nibble, and so did. Because you’re a natural kind of guy. Or girl.
And this part is crucial.
Much in the same way as you ask a lady for a dance or a drink or date, it depends rather very much so on who you ask.
There is of course a chance that this will fail most uproariously in a manner which shall bring about your eventual crying (By the way; don’t cry. Wail and hump. And bite) over how ridiculous you were for biting someone so as to take your mind of a girl…but it could work.
“Look. I feel bad, it’s kind of hot out here and I’m sure we all have places to be. All I can offer you is a chance of revenge and, judging by my currently placid demeanour – it looks like this will not negatively escalate – that’ll be the end of this.”
Offer them your credit card and passport, your workplace information and the most disappointed-in-you family member’s contact details; make clear you apologise entirely and with depth, but also be sure to enlighten with a proposal.
- Bite Someone Who Looks Like They Could Handle a Biting.
If they appear as though your teeth and their completely unrelated lives should remain as such…bite them not.If they look like they might take part in a little biting back…have at it. I hope you enjoy it.
Be sure to yourself that I make no course for romance here; just something else.
And something else can be one of the greatest things of all you ever needed.
Bite.
It’s endearing.
Not that I’ve ever tried it of course for, although I am a biter, I am also a tickler; and that’s why I’m getting divorced.
By the way, this new girl, with the tickling; massive victory.
Maybe I should have bitten instead.
- Don’t Tickle Someone. That’s My Move.
I could drift further in some meandering montage of well deliberated thought entwined with a stream of consciousness brought about by the hour and that it is due, but I shall save more advice for recovering and succeeding from the girl at a later date.For next time on samsywoodsy.com however…” I Am THE GREATEST HUMAN TO EVER LIVE and Why”
See you then, you clever folk you.
And apologies for the inconsistency, but forget ye not I am the greatest human to ever live. Because that equates to leeway.
So hand some over.
Sam
(P.S. I’m not even going to proofread this am I? Fuck.)
How to Fight Like a Man (Like Me)
Posted: May 6, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: combat, comedy, distraction, fighting, funny, how to fight, how to win a fight, Humour, language, lover not a fighter, manhood, masculinity, phrase, self-advice, self-help, selfhelp, victory, violence, Weird, win, writing Leave a commentI’m a man.
See?
So, you want to learn how to be a tough guy like me? Sure I’m a tough guy – you can tell by the way I’m not immediately contradicted on that statement.
Well, to begin with…violence, oh dear me, violence.
Violence…
Violence is like a flower…which you do to people…or have happen to you…with a flower.
It got less flowery as I thought about it, yet still the point remains; violence.
Imagine a fist blossoming onto you. There’s the floweriness, and other than that you really just have to feel it before you start cramming similes all hither and thither.
Ultimately, avoid the sweet fuck out of violence seeing as how you never know what someone might be carrying.
Like a cat. And heavens help you if the guy’s got enough room to swing it.
Let just get stuck in with the violent advice.
Footwork
See what you have to do, it’s all in the walk.
You just walk straight up to him. And then as through him as you can. Just keep going, foot first into his face first and see if you can cross the line of a fair fight together.
If wearing one, shoe his features – though one may wish to go all apey at the prospect of acquiring all the females or make for certain these several square feet of territory are undoubtedly yours, in which case go shoeless.
It’s about footwork so make your foot work. For the other fellow, it’s all about facework, and he’s doing wonderfully at it, if somewhat defensively.
Footwork. Stride into their face at an amusing angle people will talk about when their old and whilst the guy with a size 11 sole print along the centre of his face sits, purposefully hooded because of his rebirth mark (baptised by eloquent thuggery of foot), and stirs his drink, bitter, because you walked into his face and you were the good guy.
Not only did he deserve to have his face thoroughly footed, but you deserved to be the one to kick that face and dance about it afterwards. That day should be celebrated annually. The day that face first and best foot first came together, like a romance of non-genital body parts.
That’s another vital point…
Assume a Moral Victory
Make losing a fight work for you…stand up for the little guy, or at least prior to your imminent collision with a flurry of fists, and scream aloud: “DAMMIT MICHAEL THEY WERE ONLY PYGMIES!”
This way the people local to your punch-up will overhear your monologue and either leap to your aid or speak well of you afterwards. Possibly also during (“See that bruised guy over there? The guy with the bouncy head? He’s great…stands up for pygmies…real trooper.”)
In the same vein, don’t hit a woman, unless you need to hit a woman, in which case be sure others witnessed how psychopathic she was conducting herself prior to you launching a new means of distancing yourself from someone so intimately (punch her in the nose publicly).
Also, don’t pull her hair. Instead, it’s likely best to flee, which is a surprisingly hilarious manner of departing from the threat of annihilation (I’ll get into this momentarily) and other than that – phone the police, an ambulance and the regional mental healthcare services because when they find out you’re the one who fled in fear of the other’s sheer force of personality; you’re safe as houses.
A ‘Fair Fight’
What many people don’t realise is that a ‘fair fight’ refers to how attractive a fight is. Similar to the archetypal manner of referring to damsels or princesses – she was fair and meek, just as a good woman isn’t.
Now obviously you’re not going to carry a weapon because that route leads to jail and a heartbroken mother, but you sure can carry a distraction.
Back to the cat…(this is why I warned you).
Lob the cat into the midst of a group of people making you feel uncomfortable and you shall see how comfortableness may be yours once more. Wear that cat well. Make ‘em dance.
And whilst the cat preys upon the shins, ankles and footwear of your numerous opponents, you can finish your novel because time is suddenly oh so splendidly upon your side once more. Plus, you have a back-up cat anyway, ready for flinging.
In case any animal rights activists are reading this; don’t worry. Just don’t worry. There we go.
Also, I don’t know or care where you keep your vial of dust, but at least carry one, perhaps in an attaché so you can interrupt your battle most pitch and say “Whoah there Honey, let me just get what I got”, bite out the cork and spit it out to the side (or as I prefer to denote my masculine diet; swallow it), pour some of that dust into your hand and apply liberally about his nostrils, eyes and airways like a hippy would if he realised he was grasping a handful of real seeds…or believable contraceptives.
It’s not foul play, because we were nice guys before that, but then we had that unpleasant collision of body parts and now we’ve involved dust.
Also, don’t suggest your opponent “Bite the dust” as that really seems like a lively thing to do. The sort of thing you do when you’re young, hungry and about to prove that you will actually bite dust for some reason.
The aside benefit of dust over sand (which is technically sea shells — which is ALMOST a necklace — which is ALMOST a nice present and you’re meant to be cunning…not considerate of their likely having a sour day starting with breakfast being shat on by the neighbour who really hates toast and him having it so you present him with a delicate gift) is that it is made up of skin.
Which comes from people.
Which means that what you’re holding in your hand there is in reality approximately 1000 large apey things called people, and they’re on your side and in your palm and soon about to be considerately delivered jazz hands-wise to the parts of him that most often require tissues (eyes or dick-hole; you don’t want a dusty dick-hole to the degree that I don’t know why – just don’t have a dusty dick-hole.).
Apart from the end of his bell, which you must try to work around seeing as how that area is essentially only for when things get personal and so far, oh brother, you have no idea how formally I’m carrying myself in this duel to the death. I say “duel to the death”, maybe just till mild fatigue…or distraction…or somehow falling in love, in which case we are now on personal grounds and therefore- get dick busy partner, because I’ve got a vial and now it time to apply liberally all over my now-sexual opponent.
Once applied, step in for a little skull percussion.
Step in, move suddenly and in a way people will remember but not talk about again because it’s traumatic, and then…break his heart. You brute.
Perplex
I always say one should have a phrase (https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/04/23/nice-guy-with-a-nuke/) and times such as this, when tempers are heated, passions are high and fists are fisting (negative or positive – choice is yours depending on your thoughts at the time of fisting. Be sure to let me know), are identical to all others aside from now; we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.
Here’s a cracker (whilst peering over their shoulder and with an expression of “I’m genuinely looking at something which you should too!”):
“Well in my rude opinion…Is? Is that baby eating heroin?”
He turns to take part in the glancing at the baby eating heroin, in which case you be the bigger man and find a smaller one impress yourself upon (I recommend by fleeing from him too. Remember; “we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.”).
Also, embrace the fellow for the panic-stricken, hurting deep-down, trying-to-be-masculine-in-public, oh-I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-it’s-making-me-change-colour, kind-of-a bloke his is right then and there.
Cuddle the cunt.
Now I’m not, as it turns out, much of a noted technician of any form of wrestling or Brazilian Ju Jitsu, but from what I can tell; if you climb your way up him until his limbs have no place to be other than hugging you in return then we’re having a successful evening.
Do Not Let Go.
Laugh About It
Make jokes constantly.
Don’t let up with the zingers.
The only thing you need derive humour from is his attempts at starting a fight. Mock his punches and wittily critique his tough guy stare. That will ruin his night more than any swift kick to the knackery-noos.
Especially if you’re getting beaten.
If you have your face in another man’s hands and he’s grinding against something displeasing to you, mock his efforts disdainfully and the fight is over. Your bleeding might not be, but the battle is.
Plus everyone loves a comedian, particularly one with such a rough crowd as the one literally beating the shit out of him.
Be a Lover, Not a Fighter
Be the gentleman.
Be the poet.
Be the victor.
When the moment of violence is imminent, remind all in the vicinity that you are a lover, not a fighter…and so proceed to do your utmost to become romantically engaged with this man as completely and committedly as one should be in these situations. Kiss him.
Kiss him, only when he is attacking you and later claim you misread the conflicting signals he was giving off and you were only trying to help him out.
No mercy; buy him a drink and offer him your twinkling eyes, you hapless romantic you.
DO NOT BE THE RECIEVER OF LOVE from the man, but certainly the dominate the romantic back and forth you’re both currently undergoing.
Once more; only do this if you’re being attacked, otherwise we’re getting rape-based in our tactics and that’s a bad tactic, sir.
Pardon Me If I Conclude
End, no matter in what circumstance or in what state of physical wellbeing, with a phrase.
Have your phrase ready for blowing the walls out of the place and bringing the ceiling down.
What that might be? It’s yours to conclude. I have my own, and it is my own. Get your own, sir.
All violence aside – don’t get into fights and give happiness and curiosity to others and you shall in turn receive likewise.
Therein lies a future promising and a past pleasing.
Thanks,
Sam
Nice Guy With A Nuke
Posted: April 23, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: advice, comedy, Culture, death, fashion, funny, haircuts, Humour, life, nukes, philosophy, phrases, re-incarnation, self-help, style, T-shirts, writing 1 CommentIt’s good to have a phrase. And this one’s mine.
I was thinking about the state of the planet and I concluded that the best means to go about saving it would be to place its inevitable destruction in the hands of someone profoundly pleasant – like me, baby.
Not that our negatives outweigh anything much at all, let alone our positives, but at least I came out of the thought process with a phrase to my name.
The scenario would go as such:
“Hey – you guys with the demolition equipment, and you fellows over there with the sticks and stones, and you gentle-folk with the vast amounts of crude oil running down your suit. Stop it. Stop it or I’ll melt you. Stop it before things get awfully radioactive around here. Stop it, because I’m a nice guy with a nuke…and one hell of a phrase.”
‘Nice guy with a nuke and one hell of a phrase’.
It’s mine.
I’ve come out with a fair few number of these – as I’ve said before; I was born to write T-shirts.
Should the world begin to spin a new axis and send us whirling off into a grand and beautiful playground of planets – I’ll have the perfect T-shirt phrase for you.
Something like: “The Earth flung me into space and…it’s not too bad actually.”
There.
I would wear the shit out of literature like that.
I’d blend in with all the super-cool inter-stella types who feel the planet’s disassociation with them was a good move.
Sometimes all you need is something to say.
Here’s an example.
I’ve begun to annotate Gideons bible, wherever he leaves it.
Having stayed in multiple hotels recently, I’ve found the few blank pages by the final cover to be too tempting to leave looking so pale. So I’ve taken to inking them up a tad.
Largely, the text has revolved around why one feeling the need to reach for a bible might first consider being waylaid by my words – words which suggest a little self-help.
I’ve gone about it in points. 7 points made to waylay the reader seeking some sort of prophetical depth and meaning from a book famed for causing perpetually self-flagellation/immolation/canonisation and instead offer them some means of self-help largely focusing on gratitude of being a species member easily able to flood one’s own being with endorphins.
That this is possible is reason to be cheery enough, even before we indulge in our sexually explicit, intellectually stunning, physical-adrenaline seeking brethren of folk intent on having a good time seeing as how we’ve all discovered how great clothes are and why it’s so jolly to remove them.
This is the sort of thing I write in the bible; I recommend you flip to the back.
On the subject of religion, I had a thought or two more about what I would like to return as.
Not in any sense of reincarnation, but rather to what purpose I would like my overly willing body to be charitably donated to following my grizzly passing (if my passing isn’t grizzly then I’m not entirely sure what the point of being there for it is at all).
Death by most means seems applicable to me. Likely suicide since it yields a tremendous degree of satisfaction drawn along with the identity of ‘my way’ and ‘on my terms’. I prefer the far more teenage phrasing of it, being: “it’s my life. I do what I want with it.”.
However, as amusing as possible would perhaps be the most communally-minded a way of departing our way to “dusty death”, particularly if able to spread myself over an enormous surface area and knock seagulls out of the sky and wake the dog up.
I’d quite like to explode.
Hot air balloons seem most appropriate for this.
So appropriate I’d put it on a T-shirt; “How do I want to die? Hot air balloon.”
Still – there is the question of what becomes of my leavings.
I like the idea of my dick being held in a trophy case by an enthusiast. Blue Peter badge holders only have access, must be this high and over 18 to ride.
Otherwise, I think I’d make a great bow and arrow.
I’d be a better bow and arrow than you.
I’ve often described myself as just sinewy and bendy enough to be deadly unto game at 18 yards. That’d be a heck of a thing to be considered my remains. Plus I’m an uncle and I like the idea of my niece being able to say she killed an elk using her uncle. I’d like that; it’s good to be useful.
Or a wallet. It’s also good to be a wallet. I like the idea of all my tattoos being flayed from what once was all I physically was and then being made into nice purse for a special gal in what was my life. That ball bag of mine would be perfect for this. Quite an inheritance.
Or a candlestick. This way I could still attend family weddings since I’d be part of the wedding gift list.
Now then, now then. There’s no masochistic tendencies being written about here – rather a sincere query into what’ll happen in the most final of moments. I’m not overly keen to experience the sensation of being pulled and twisted into the candlestick design drawn by a family member, but if I’m on the way out I might as well make it memorable. I’d be a candlestick who had seen a thing or two. Getting lit.
People at the wedding would bicker and quarrel and would lament how the wallet made of their mother and the pew made from Uncle Hugh (“He did love his rhymes!”) are better than one another – citing history regarding why the cousin-made mantelpiece and sister-made skirt never liked each other anyway.
And then I’d stroll in, nuke in hand and phrase on tongue – about to indulge in a large surface area following a suspiciously nukey bang.
I’ve been thinking for a while of my time lately that what I need to get myself going would be the threat of nuclear annihilation.
It’d get me out of bed. And into the meadow.
Just look at the breadth of creativity born from people believing the looming green glow of the most horrible afterwards was perpetually at a 2 minutes to midnight proximity to the end of their lives in the 1980’s.
We could do with that.
Just imagine the haircuts we’d have.
If the common man thought tomorrow’s weather was going to be particularly murderous for the skin then he might go about his next pre-nuke hair-styling with the mantra of: “More dolphins. More pinstripes. More tooth-trophies. These have been missing from my hair thus far.” and then we’d stare at him and enjoy his head.
The liberation is head-bound. We’d be buoyant because what we do to our upstairs growth is going to be somewhat without consequence…and with dolphins.
I could offer you access to the mentality to inspire a hair-do such as this. Just give me the nuclear key to turn, and then help me with my fragile wrists (I’m flawed when it comes to twisting things).
Knowing that somewhere out there there’s a pleasant man with a nice (NICE!) smile who might lean to the East a tad too, oh so too much and nudge two things: (1) a bulbous button into action and (2) you…into either oblivion or next Thursday.
Naturally one argues against this point that this imminent reality is a real reality and we should take inspiration from the probability of a vehicle’s rapid insertion of itself (via a driver) into your physical frame of somewhat-now irrelevant bones and meat (at which point you went from a pedestrian to a mess in a horrific neatness of time) into several poorly compiled heaps of person. People being described as heaps always equates to things having turned sour on a level great enough to be mentioned.
My response to this is as such: yep, but knowing everyone else is going to die will treat you to a level of comfort in how you wear your hair which you cannot be granted by merely being struck by the typical example of speeding driven metal. You lazy fuck – get thee to a nunnery and prepare for the heavy bomb full of nukey-goodness.
Having one more day of neighbours will grant you a piece of peace one can only achieve otherwise by spending a plentiful amount of your time attempting to realise that not only are you going to rot – but you’re going to start before you even die.
So let down your hair (and your parents), find yourself a phrase to your name, and prepare thyself for the dropping of bombs by a man so pleasant you’re going to wish you’d gotten him a going-away gift before the day’s sky began to quickly darken.
Oh well, at least we had the haircuts.
Also T-shirt-applicable.
You’ve been great,
Sam
Of Course You’re Not Going To Survive In The Past. You Dick
Posted: March 21, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Culture, future, history, hollywood, Medieval, modern man, Nazis, Society, Terry Pratchett Leave a commentThere has often been the brought up notion, from conversation to Hollywood movie, that if a modern man (‘man’ because – you know – they’re the ones with enough forearm to make a difference in the movies. Plus stubble and vests) were to emigrate backwards through time and enter the past…he’d be awesome.
Typically, we’re talking medieval history. The variety of history in which, if you tried with some vague degree of determination…you could be king.
King’s in those days populated the land with babies and…what modern man wouldn’t? When the wenches are as buxom as a barn door with tits – you’d procreate yourself to the throne.
This is of course the Hollywood elaboration of realistic approximation for how the Kings of the times behaved (and why). And they’re not far off.
The point to be made though is that if you were to be sent back in time to a period of history in which becoming a King is an option…no you couldn’t.
No. No you couldn’t indeed.
You could not rule the land purely because you’re from the future as this doesn’t mean you could somehow outwit people into doing as you instructed.
And this states a great deal about how much of a dick you are. Dick.
What are you going to do when you arrive back in England circa 1209?
To begin with, you’d likely appear in a field, which I feel is just terrific because I’ve got a lot of time for fields (I respect them. Ask me why and brace yourself as I may get emotional all over you), though you may realise that you’re going to have to just keep walking until something happens.
Here’s the first issue- eat something. Or be a dick and don’t eat something.
The removed existence of delicatessens and your fridge equates to you bumming around grasping a stick with dreary ambitions of convincing something onto the end of it, somehow wind up being cooked (since you didn’t even think about skinning the poor medieval dish did you? You dick) and then shat out with zero comforting wipes to you posterior.
And what are you going to wash it down with?
The beverage of the time consisted of cholera and pox-ridden water full of fish cum and your neighbour’s proverbial digested…or you could drink beer. And seeing as how you’re in a field with no beer and nothing on the end of your un-triumphant stick (I’ve got a lot of time for sticks. You could ask me why but I already wrote about it here: https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/02/18/the-evolution-of-the-stick-and-why-it-matters-to-me/ ) then you’re going to be drinking a hell of a lot of nasty neighbour-contents…and you might not even be near a river. You dick.
So, let us Hollywood a little.
You’re in an English Medieval town……………your move, brother.
What are you going to do? Convince them you’re able to do anything? You’ll be shovelling pig leavings as soon as you fall face first into them once you’ve been hounded for the first time for dressing like a futuristic weirdo by your newly-acquainted Medieval bullies. I bet they’re as blunt as this sentence.
Unless you can juggle, you’re going to slowly blend the fuck in with this crowd of peasants and vaguely attempt to wonder how you can apply anything at all you knew from your time spent in century 21.
One plus side however which you may have neglected to conceive…you’ll be a giant to these wee little peasants. 5 to 6 feet of bloke walking through the literally shitty streets would be an impressive sight to the average peasant, as they gradually gain neck-ache from constantly seeking to look you in the eye.
And you’d wash. Shiny people would be a novelty and they’d likely seek to make some sport of you until the inevitable burning takes place – mostly because you’re different in a time of maniacal fear and superstition, partly because you’re a dick and you’re shiny.
I’d burn you.
I’d blend right in. I’m good with a stick and they’d regard me with respectful contempt a distance away great enough to avoid a clobbering from my now-triumphant stick. Back then, having a stick was a serious possession to have…and I’d have one. Plus I’m stocky.
You’d probably have quite a few sticks actually; regrettably compiled into a revoltingly effective bit of kindling around your dickish feet.
Apologies for the perpetual inclination I have towards call you a dick – I’m a little sad, in fact greatly sad, but will address this once I’ve expressed this issue of you being a dick amongst peasants.
You dick amongst peasants.
Here’s the knee-knocker right here and no mistake.
Make a difference.
What the fuck could you contribute to the Medieval society? A very small amount of sod/bugger (your choice) all I fear.
Whilst you’ll spend the remainder of your time through time regretting not being a woodsman and trying to somehow make a gun out of stones and bits of squirrel…you could have introduced good people management skills.
The people that are going to survive when thrust back in time? It’s Human Resources brother!
And those amongst us built like either a gorilla with a bit of wit or the aforementioned barn door with tits (‘knockers’ – if you will). Being gorilla-like with wit is a common component of the successful throughout time. Good genes.
They’re the fellas and femmes who are going to be able to cope with the repressed civilisation people were living as part of in the times. They’re going to encourage the sticks to stack around your feet because they’re going to survive and having some shiny giant screaming about lightbulbs and why he doesn’t regret doing what he did to that squirrel is only going to help them if it’s the burnt version. Because back then the conversation was over until someone was burnt.
By the way…when the elderly chestnut comes around about going back in time and killing Hitler surfaces…no you couldn’t.
No. No you couldn’t indeed.
How would you be able to kill Hitler? What the fuck are you talking about?
Dick.
“Oh, I’d use my modern-age charm to deceive the guards and make my way through the big door and give Hitler a meaningful chat about why he shouldn’t have done that which he did. And then I’d kill with a move I learnt from Tekken. Because…I’m a 21st Century-kind-of-guy.”
You think far brighter and more capable murderers weren’t already trying to accomplish this feat? I’ll say this for World War Two – we had some good murderers on both sides and to suggest you would be the guy to go back and use your knowledge of internet memes and Grumpy Cat to encourage that bullet into Hitler’s Brain is a disservice to their murderous careers.
But aside from you’re …ah fuck it. I’m all sad now. Here’s why I’ve referred to you as a dick thus far.
In total honesty, if I was thrust back to 1939 I’d rip off Terry Pratchett. And I’d fail.
What a guy.
We’re talking about a fellow of inspired inspiration; by which I mean that he didn’t just have a next-level imagination or an outstanding work ethic…he had both. Therefore, his inspiration was inspired. As were we all.
Now there are going to be a series of heartfelt and on-the-nose prose written about the man Pratchett, but not to include my own would be impossible since I write inspired by him, and now I write for him.
Maybe I should only do obituaries; its assured work. Plus the subject matter’s fairly thrilling.
I’m sure that Pratchett would approve.
What a guy.
Terry Pratchett – thanks for making my childhood, teenage years and adult life perpetually spiced with ingenious and innovative imaginings spliced with beautiful doses of some of the greatest humour I have ever known.
I miss you and always shall.
Sam x
The Evolution of the Stick and Why it Matters to Me
Posted: February 18, 2015 Filed under: culture | Tags: Art, baseball bats, cannibal, comedy, Culture, fashion, funny, health, Humour, mental health, philosophy, staff, sticks, Weird, writing 1 CommentOnce I was afraid – I was petrified.
So I armed myself and although the fear is still painfully real – at least I can express it with a bang so loud you can smell it.
Baseball bats.
“Baseball bats” is undoubtedly my favourite quote for a South African to say.
And that’s not the end of my opinion of baseball bats (oh brother – brace yourself).
You see, for a long time, as I mentioned earlier, I have had a distinct fear in my life of being eaten.
For me, the food chain is still very real and skin-splittingly apparent, though I may adjust to this fear better than other owing to being a cannibal.
Of course, I’m not about to eat someone any minute these days…but…should the bombs begin to drop and the lights start to flicker and the SPAM not make it to the shelves I rely on so heavily to find grub upon – you’re a gonna and I’m starting with your toes because even in times like these I still believe in the entrée.
Perhaps a tad off course from my original intent of direction, but I am glad to be rid of the burden of secret cannibalism and the fact that I’d start with your feet.
In a daring return to my original path, I may as well incorporate my cannibalism into my love of the great stick known as the baseball bat.
So, with anarchy rising out the window, and the window being full of other predators attempting to get in and chew (us)…I see two options.
- Lift my baseball bat from its snug bedding beneath the bed and wrap it thoroughly about the skulls, brains and all other neck-up interior sundry of the invading bears/lions/wolves whilst allowing you a fair few minutes to make the best use of either my turned back or the door.
- Retrieve the baseball bat from its nether-bed slumber and go about tenderising you in the hope of a satisfying last meal for a least something if not me. As for the intruding beasts of slaughter; close the window and ignore them viciously.
From the two options there you may have taken note of the reality inflicted upon both scenarios; the present presence of a baseball bat.
The baseball bat – the evolved stick that grew a handle and a capacity to devastate the nearby environment as best we can with either a pleasant or beastly temper…and thumbs.
Our thumbs have been utilised most completely, I feel, in their ability to grip a stick close to heart (of us), near to brain (of dinner) and right into the middle of something curious we’ve happened upon and are now righteously prodding as only our species knows how.
I have intentions, sweet friends, of bringing about a return of the walking stick known best as the staff.
Find a fault in the plan for me. Please.
Naturally, make them discardable, in that when the primal urge to inflict our thumbs into a scenario currently happening to us (or ‘us’ happening to a scenario) we may abandon our weighty-wood and proceed either high-tree bound or deep sea swam.
They would be tremendous as an additional weight to increase applicable strength in the arms, core, back and legs. This is therefore a health benefit although naturally it will somehow be a carcinogenic of some variety…because it’s a thing…and things give you cancer.
It would be decorative and can be added to by the owner of by trusted buddies of whom you are pleased to see them whittling your possessions – rarely do you receive this opportunity so embrace with all the hands you have.
A near-lost martial art of stick/staff fighting would return to the lonely fields of dueldom, wherein battles would largely end owing to bashed knuckles being a jolly-good cause for sportingly abandoning the day and instead seeking an alliance with your newly-made knuckle-basher pal.
You could pole-vault to meetings.
When you’d need a stick, you’d have one and this is likely the greatest reason for the invention yet. Having what you need; epitome of success of comfort.
And finally – I can get my chiselling-graffiti business on the up and up and further; bringing about a polite amount of affluence and thereby bring about…a brand new, super cool baseball bat.
And I’d even let you have a go on it.
I feel we’ve travelled far from the stick being a thing merely held, to the item of primal delight I now see it as, following a sincere and loving revert to our more ape-ish ways.
Now we have a grip around one end and I enjoy smashing the shit out of fresh fruit with it.
I believe I am doing things precisely as I should be, with a comforting baseball bat in hand and a grin held firmly between my nose and chin.
As for the true evolution; it is thus.
Once we prodded with sticks, and now we do it again.
Wonderful.
Sam.
The Meaning of Rik Mayall (These Days and Previously)
Posted: January 31, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Blackadder, Bottom, comedy, funny, gwreeaat, Humour, influences, kids, Rik Mayall, The Young Ones, wank biscuit, Weird, writing Leave a commentDo you have any idea what it’s like to have one of your heroes die on your birthday?
The effect is as follows: you realise ‘it’ – death – is going to happen again, particularly to you.
Rik was one of those aspects of my life that mattered, with direct influence in abundance and a great deal more depth to me than, say, the life of the Queen of England.
There is very little about me that is due to Her Majesty, whereas His-Much-More-Majestic King Rik made me the sort of individual that would write a sentence like this. Although Rik himself wouldn’t write it, he’d dictate it since he’s so gwreeaat.
My involvement with the man was about as meaningful as it is for the rest of us, although there is a difference between the old crowd and the new.
Rik Mayall was not introduced mid-way for me, nor was he something I happily happened upon in my adolescence. Rik was always there.
My brother, doing much as older brothers do (in between punches and acne) gave me the audio cassettes of Bottom’s Hooligan’s Island, as well as various other radio comedies (I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue and Just A Minute), and of course, Blackadder.
When I was a child, from about the age of 6, I was and am still unable to sleep unless there is some audio distraction to comfort me. For some reason I was born with a rather cruel ability to see the worst and to dwell on it in my quieter moments. In short, I’d think of death and the effect of that on my family and self.
Horrid and inconceivable, I would dwell till literal bursting and, as my mother puts it: “You just wouldn’t stop running. We’d just find you running around at 1am and we had to catch you to put you to bed.”
So, distractions were inserted vigorously into my ears and, following the charity of my brother, Rik Mayall arrived.
I can remember trying to swear by the time I was 9. I sought maturity and toughness and understood that cursing would signify this to those around me. I recall rehearsing the term: “Shit”, and once being very proud that I used it when I cut my hand. The occasion seemed honestly auspicious to me.
Indeed, I am much surprised that I didn’t pick up on the merrily thrown about ‘Cunt’ as Hooligan’s Island let loose with such compassion. In honesty, I had no conscious idea of the word until the time of my leaving high school, when in all actuality I had it nightly screamed into my ears by Adrian Edmondson (alternatively known as Edward Elizabeth Hitler).
Then, watching Bottom, Blackadder and the Young Ones as an 11 year old- I felt something astonishing: comedy that had always been there was now becoming steadily amusing, even hilarious, and by the time that we are now in, I listen, read and watch the comedy of my childhood with glee and admiration for the work that it was.
We truly are a lucky bunch with our comedy scene from the 80’s and 90’s.
The comedic body of work from the Oxbridge crowd to the alternative Ben Elton and the Comic Strip Presents, followed by all after, is a fortuitous privilege that I really haven’t earned. We have no right to the comic brilliance this nation has spawned, not that I’ll be giving it up at any point.
Of course, looking into the 80’s and 90’s comedy led me to the 60’s and 70’s by which I met Beyond the Fringe, Not Only But Also, The Goon Show, Monty Python and Billy Connolly.
With all these, as well as with arrivals from the states of South Park, the Simpsons and their stand-up greats, I was spoilt and happy.
Though for all these, from the literal genius of Peter Cook to the gasp-worthy edge of South Park, there was still that special connection to Rik Mayall that was never displaced nor over-shadowed by the prominence of any other.
For myself, and an enormous number of other Rik Mayall fans, there is something that Rik Mayall did that resonates with us. And it’s really hard to identify, but I think I have it.
Rik Mayall, aside from the comic and intellectual gifts, aside from the attitude of anarchic gusto (“Take that Thatcher!”), there was an expression of personality that us others feel also.
Rik, I believe, had an inner-wanker, and how lucky he was to have it.
Not to say that Rik was a wanker at all, but rather, he knew what was wanky about himself, and what was wanky about other people. And he nailed it.
From the superb (and personal favourite of mine) journey to the BBC in the Young Ones’ episode of ‘Bambi’, to the expression on his face as he acted a wank…all this was inspirational and extremely familiar. The astonishing ability for such a good looking guy to transform himself to the definition of ‘ugly bastard’ with a manic glee is something myself and others see within themselves and, although it’s bloody odd, are glad to find Rik there being them, for them.
A wanker on our behalf; as it were.
It was always a privilege, and for those around him the end of his life must have been an emotional and heart-breaking smack of reality such as I have now come to appreciate, though I do not doubt I could miss him as much as his loved-ones do.
The People’s Poet really should have a shrine where all the kids could come and read his poems and light candles – where the grown-up stiffs could wonder why all the kids were crying, to which they would reply: “He’s dead! The People’s Poet is dead!”. What a wanky idea. What a funny suggestion. I’d attend most thoroughly.
“And then one particularly sensitive and articulate teenage would say”: well. You know. The regular usualness.
At least we have his tapes.
Or, rather much more so: at least we had him.
And indeed, at least we have our own chance.
As Rik has shown us; you are going to die, so get all the frenetic energy from inside to out, and avoid quad bikes. Actually, fuck that, approach them: approach quad bikes.
Because you’re going to die. So live beforehand, you wank biscuits.
You swots – swotting away for teacher – like a girl.
Leave the room and enter something, preferably someone.
Thanks Rik. You’ve certainly left a mark on Earth, and it’s terribly sad that no longer can we leave the punch in this sentence to you.
I guess we’ll have to leave that to the kids.
Gwreeaat.
Sam
How To Watch The Simpsons…These Days
Posted: December 31, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: comedy, fans, Humour, pop-culture, quality, television, The Simpsons, writing 1 CommentThe Simpsons.
You might have heard of it?
The Simpsons is regarded by many to be the premier of comedic writing- the kind that could mix intelligence and silliness, darkness and hope, satire and sheer comic hilarity; all in beautiful yellow.
However, The Simpsons is alright becoming a name synonymous with a subject being past its prime and absurdly so.
Unfortunately for The Simpsons, this prime was supreme and the fall was slow, with an impact that is still yet to come and is longed for by fans the world-over.
There are a variety of reasons by which this decline in writing quality came about.
Wackiness. Wackiness kills me.
In The Simpsons of late, the wackiness goes on too long and is rather, in all actuality, rude. To keep a single joke going for the best part of a minute is for the writing to insist upon itself, as well as insisting on viewer either encountering humour or uncomfortableness. It is as though the writers are aggressive in their stance on this- you will either laugh or you have to wait for this private joke of theirs to end.
There is also a trend of breaking the 4th wall for humour’s sake. This occurs too often with sadly no humorous payoff and tends to be facilitated by the modern show’s biggest failing- the grating change of beloved characters so as to drive a change of the show’s current direction; wackiness.
Here’s the awfulness of the situation for me: Bart and Lisa saying, feeling and doing things that children simply wouldn’t do.
It sucks, and that’s a cheap criticism from me, but that’s because it sucks.
I do have a suggestion for all those involved in both watching and writing The Simpsons.
I’ll start with the writers and it’s likely that they’re suffering the most out of this ordeal.
I truly feel that the current writers of The Simpsons are a talented bunch, particularly with the modern style of writing (a focus on randomness and cheekiness) and the fact that writing an episode of anything is no simple task. Not only that but also they have been hired by The Simpsons to write The Simpsons- a compliment comedy writers dream of.
Therein lies the problem. Writing for The Simpsons is such an enormous goal achieved that it must seem impossible to walk away- to the same degree that executives at Fox would find it impossible to abandon such a money-maker.
Who wouldn’t want to write for The Simpsons’? It is perhaps the greatest television show of all time and is certainly a towering pinnacle of quality writing up to series 9- what writer wouldn’t expect great things to follow once they are part of The Simpsons’ writing staff? You’d be working for your heroes. Only, your heroes are now long gone and you are bewilderingly trying to improve and modernise the Mona Lisa.
I understand that modernisation is necessary to keeping something fresh and enjoyable, and perhaps The Simpsons could have used well such a reboot, but in this case the process of modernisation has clearly floundered and failed. Not to mention that the show did encounter a reboot in so far as writing and style went; it was this reboot that made it of the quality that it was.
However, for The Simpsons to thrive in regard by critics (you and I)- it must die and be only remembered as far as the quality went.
The writer’s attempts at humour and plot need their own show with different characters, instead of taking a show and characters in which people are lovingly invested and forcing changes in their direction and charm.
It is unpleasant to take these established characters and alter them for the purposes of their own plots, at least in as far as the quality of the show went. It was great for the show to change Homer over time and to portray him a little more dopey and tad more nutty, but this personality change only exaggerated the point that he was kind, loving, and adorably incompetent at all else. Recently, the changes of character have been to engage plot-loops, rather than the audience.
Other than that, the humour sadly is sub-par and that is the final fault- regardless of The Simpsons’ format being used and abused. I have no advice for this- just move on with your writing career and practise…maybe read some books.
Ultimately though, the writers are selling themselves short by writing for The Simpsons. They are never going to match the class and innovation of humour- all intelligent, silly and touching, that The Simpsons writers up to series 9 were producing, using a much later and soiled product. We have here some young writers, attempting their own modern humour and innovation of plot, who are being consistently shot-down by every critic owing largely to them working on The Simpsons’ format.
Certainly The Simpsons’ should have died over a decade ago- likely with a finale viewed by the most of the world in possession of a television, but as much as that affords you in artistic merit (e.g. Breaking Bad), it doesn’t bring in the assured pennies. The Simpsons- a most regrettable Cash-Cow.
I feel a great deal sorry for the current Simpsons writers- I’m sure they’re trying to maintain quality and loved the show as much as we all did. But it’s not often I recommend someone to flee but I do so now to The Simpsons’ writers with a hope that they can bugger off and succeed with their own product. I’d look forward to watching it.
My advice to those that miss The Simpsons’ for what it was is as follows: watch up to series 9 only, and the never, EVER, watch even one single episode of the latest seasons. To not watch it to remove their audience, and with no audience there is no money and without the money that The Simpsons’ perpetually assured simply via name: The Simpsons’ shall finally die and belong only to its past and lovers- you and me.
The Simpsons’ from series 1-8 is a pedigree of what people like me want to do to you: make you laugh, make you admire, listen and feel touched by characters and plots that can honestly alter one’s perception of oneself and how we seek to continue. Mostly laugh.
What we must not forget that for as long as The Simpsons’ was distressing us past-quality, it was still bloody good for an awfully long time- 8 years. For 8 years it was what it was and we should not only be grateful for the good times, but also bask in them.
Still; always a fan.
Sam
Why It Matters If Shakespeare Was Gay
Posted: November 30, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: A Midsummer Night's Dream, Gay, Hamlet, hate, history, Homosexual, Humour, love, Shakespeare, Society, Weird, William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare gay, writing Leave a commentTo begin; good day to all those people out there that hoped to begin reading this to find an article spouting hateful ignorance. Apologies for my lack of consideration here- maybe I should have been a little weaker as I grew up. Maybe my parents should have been wankers to placate you.
“Wankers to placate”- welcome to samsywoodsy.com- the home of very, very really good writing.
As for why it matters if Shakespeare was gay, the answer is twofold.
Firstly, we are extremely fortunate.
Shakespeare lived in a time when homosexuality was lethal.
A ‘cure’ for the condition would have been seen appropriate if the subject were murdered so as to cleanse the rest of the population.
Had his supposed homosexuality been discovered- he would have summarily and excruciatingly murdered by the state and his neighbours, whilst his works would have been as likely to have been recalled as our contemporary equivalent of Jimmy Saville programming being aired.
If William Shakespeare was gay; he was fortunate to survive the 17th Century with as many limbs or as little pain as he did.
Though likely he would have been burned for his ‘crimes’, and his poems, plays, sonnets and even correspondence would have been just as likely to live on as if they were wrapped in a parcel atop the burning pile at his feet.
Therefore, if William Shakespeare was homosexual then we, as the ever grateful audience, must be thankful that we have what we have- it may have been maliciously lost.
The second importance of the suggestion that Shakespeare was gay is as follows.
It matters if William Shakespeare was gay, if it mattered to William Shakespeare.
This is to say: as it may have been an inspiration for what must have been an already inspired soul.
His appreciation of love, hate, brotherhood, hate, death, womanhood and manhood, not to mention unrequited love, would have been exacerbated by the fact that he was living in a time when the world accused him of evil and his nature plead him to be himself- and yet he could not.
Perhaps Shakespeare found love, and was compelled to keep it secret, or perhaps the love was for another man with whom he could not bring himself to confess of his love to. The guys wore tights all the time back then- shapely legs were on display and erections were ridiculous to attempt to hide- unless you pretended it was some kind of prop.
Shakespeare may have been an entirely different subject for us had he been heterosexual. Perhaps he would have been dull, uninterested in the world and uninspiring in prose.
That being said- I find no suggestion that he may have been homosexual, but perhaps that is a natural thing.
Why should I be able to?
Shakespeare, of men, loved to write about the bright young things.
Take Prince Hamlet. Clever, upper-class, great sense of humour but…what can I say; Norway.
Then, let us examine Lysander and Demetrius of A Midsummer Night’s Dream fame.
Demetrius. A man of formal haircut with some sort of sensible-recommended birth to his name, likely military and with starch in his shirt collar, his thin moustache, and his wallet. Altogether a starchy male. Demetrius would agree with the statement: “Sit up straight and you have a better life”. I told that to a child once. I was only partly right.
Then you have Lysander. Likely confused yet politely grinning, with a Hugh Grant ‘Flopsy’ of a hairstyle (which his mother always SO adored) and, if he is wearing something, it is probably all of it undone.
Summarising, as I tend to towards the end, if Shakespeare was gay then it matters as follows.
If it mattered to him; it matters. As an inspiration for his talent and for forging his soul into what seems as though otherworldly appreciation of love, hate, fear, brotherhood, friendship and all other grand components of all tales- in a time when homosexuality was lethal.
Secondarily, if Shakespeare was gay, then we are extremely lucky to have his work survive, for had is nature been discovered then he would not have lived to astound us via quill; his words and thoughts would not have survived the 17th century.
This is why it matter if Shakespeare was gay; because it may have made him who he was and we love the man and his work at least to the fairly moderate degree of hoping he lived long-enough to avoid execution.
A fairly reasonable level of love in my opinion.
Bravo.
Sam.
The Lateral Column 