Bring Back And Berate – Genghis Khan!

Genghis Khan.

I’d bring that chap back and have him stand in my kitchen.

I don’t know how I’m going to go about that by any means other than confidence (I’ve no time machine…why’s it always a time ‘machine’? Why not a ‘time plant’? It could grow older and younger and so on and so forth…If you’d like to steal this idea that’d be great as long as I don’t have to deal with it anymore.) but I’m going to get that smelly defiler of the ages into my kitchen and have him look out the window.

Whilst I can’t deny that Genghis’ methods were efficient (if altogether too runny) I’d love for him to see the progress that ‘nice-chapping’ can afford.

By being fairly pleasant to one another, with a “Good morning” here and a “That’s a lovely blouse, Mr Smith” there, we’ve got ourselves green lawns, fluffy cats, milk on the doorstep and families playing in the streets whilst soft, warm sunlight lands on all. Such loveliness you can see through my kitchen window.

Genghis might not see my point. It could be that he’d look out my kitchen window, murder it, murder me, make his way through the frightened door and proceed to take out his predisposition for upsetting a picnic all over the family picnic, sunshine and milk bottles.

Follow this up with a quick bit of back and forth about world history, wars, government, sociology, poetry and how to slurp soup without annihilating the fellow sitting next to you, and I think he’d calm down with the conquering.

Really, I expect he was a consequence of his circumstance: “Kill (the Chinese) or be killed”, similar to the rapacious conspiring by the royal/nobles of medieval England; looking to one another only to magpie how to be exemplary in sinister, Machiavellian machinations.

This being so, I’d still berate him, make him sit in special spot to look out the window.
Then maybe he’d use his powers of annihilating for good, such as by…murdering…traffic incidents…Then there wouldn’t be any more traffic incidents because Genghis Khan had kindly murdered them all for us. Just trying to be helpful, eh?

Look, I know he was a genius of strategy and governance, and that’s really another addition to my point; what if he’d used benevolence more widely? A man such as him using this in ancient times; would we be even lovelier today?

I’m not sure who I’d bring back from history and berate next.

Definitely Pol Pot, so that I could really rub it in his face about how crap he was at what he devoted his love to. That’d satisfy me to some level.

Perhaps Thomas Edison for being so bitchy…eurgh. Poor Tesla. Poor elephant.

We’ll find out, me included, next time on ‘Bring Back And Berate’!

Sam

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Fewer Tennis Players, Please

I may be a fool (perhaps it’s best to presume this prefix to all my articles), but is there a less inspiring sport than Tennis?

With every ‘POCK’ sound across the court I hear the seconds passing me by, much like the point of this game, as well as any fleeting ambition to discover any.

Perhaps it’s the lack of applicable skills.

In the event of a nuclear holocaust, in a time when we are riddled with zombies in the pantry and climate change up the wazzoo; I’m not going to be pleased to have a Tennis player with me in the bunker, demanding all the canned beans for their metabolic rate to burn through and picking up my cat to see if there’s room to swing it.

Plus, Tennis is hardly transferable in a fight.

Armies of white-shorted men with rather stunning time-pieced wrists, delivering nothing but backhanded slaps to their opponents, most of the blows colliding with one another; resulting in those bird-brittle bones in the back of the hand crunching together and even damaging those marvellous European-made watches.

It’s just uninspiring, even with the grunts and screeches that emit from the battlefield, disturbing the body-clocks of local livestock and making it seem like this is all much more demanding than it really is.

Perhaps the skills could be transferred to the hunting grounds, wherein players could swipe post-nuclear bats from their mid-air flocks before feasting on them with all the grunts and screeches they can muster in an attempt to confuse and pacify the poor radioactive animals. (If a bat hears a screech; does it just presume “WALL!”? Because in that case, being eaten alive by a Tennis player must feel being beaten up by a house.)

Not to mention that male Tennis players fall victim to fashion-aging worse and far faster than most athletes.

Just take Caitlyn Jenner; she worked out how unfashionable manhood could be and got with that hip be-who-thoust-wishes trend. Penises are not ‘in’ at the moment. Ahem.

Golfers from 30 years ago are still terribly in-vogue, whereas the insistent urging of an all-white outfit, with wrist and headbands, and way too much upper-thigh for a hairy fellow like me to get away with without harnessing all sorts of pollen and debris in it…oh my.

Nuclear pollen is not something you want to get tangled up in your body hair; you could become riddled with full-body cacti perms which everyone’d find hilarious and your cat won’t want anything to do with you anymore – even with the Tennis player chasing him about.

And I should know of these worries; I’m a spectacularly furry fellow and have inadvertently captured many things in my body hair but am still yet to discover anything of worth; like a penny.

Most common thing I’ve found in my body hair?

Other people’s hair…normally the long hair of a lady amidst a moulting.

I’ve longed for a more productive offering, alas, no luck.

Which is why I’m even less keen to share an eternal after/half-life with a short shorted Tennis player; thigh hair fluttering in the radioactive breeze.

Bunkers are adorably petit, but what about the hourly appointed strolls down THE corridor for morale? Awfully cramped in that corridor. Barely enough room to squeeze past with two people, and no room in the slightest for a Tennis player in his itty-bitty shorts and yourself wearing even a suit of armour; although somehow you’ll still get tangled pubics. Tragic, but a surprisingly effective method of surviving those chilly nuclear winters; albeit with an uncomfortably tickly throat.

I’d like to state a change of my opinion towards Tennis players in the event of a nuclear holocaust.

Maybe we’ll need more psychos; and that is the definition of Tennis players in a nutty nutshell.

Perhaps we’ll need maniacs with a superb backhand, swiping aside the hordes of green-glowing grizzly birds and bees (who – having become tragically literate following the nuke’s increasing of their intelligences; have read all about the birds and the bees and find it cruel that the Great Green Creator should keep such elusive, vital and baffling info from them) as their whirl themselves towards our bunker as an alternative to the honey bees actually trying to mate with an ostrich and vice versa.

His disturbing affinity with whacking balls whilst grunting and then waiting for you to take your turn doing the same to him whilst he stares you down with furry green and white eyeballs, his very expensive European watch whirring at 100 miles per hour though all the number melted off, his pure white short shorts riding ever higher as the Tennis player grunts and swipes and screeches and then finally lets loose a different sound, one of such placid serenity that it undoes your trousers and shivers your spine:

“That’s LOVE.”

Perhaps we won’t need a Tennis player in the bunker.

Not to mention the things they’ll do for a goblet (just give them the goblet).

Sam


Little White Squares Of Essence

When sitting down to write about Contemporary Art, there are two things to consider of the audience.

1: Prior to the first letter being inked (or in this case – pixelated), the reader will have dug their heels into the ground, before quickly whipping said heels off altogether and preparing to stab those stilettos between the authors eyebrows.

This is true of the coupled viewpoints on the matter, from the admirers of the form, to those who are adverse to it, or rather – in quote form: “How much?”, “Load of bollocks!” And “My two year old could’ve done that!”. (Indeed, then why didn’t your genius little two year old do it then and bring his postnatal worth up into the seven-figure bracket? Two years old and such an under-performing disappointment already…)

2: They’ve already gone.

Contemporary Art is to them confusing, accusatory, kind of funny, exceedingly odd, uncomfortable and alright-I-guess, to which is added the viewpoints of the above category and thereby making their lack of presence on the gallery floor more than understandable.

I’ve been all over the world and have walked into many an art gallery in my few years, so I feel I’ve a good handle on whether or not I’ve got a opinion on the matter.

And I’m pretty sure I’ve got an opinion on the matter.

And I’m about to share it with you.

Any second now.

There’s a great deal of art that floats my boat and splendid. Well done world. Good idea on all that art you did.

And some of the art I like provokes powerful emotions and thoughts within me, and that’s also fairly smashing.

When I take a good long look at the later work of Vincent Van Gogh, I am filled with a very sad understanding of the artist; who and how he was before his thoroughly documented end.

Of course I would, I believe, feel differently (indeed – potentially not feel at all) if I were unaware of the documented (by art historians via pen and Van Gogh himself via thick globules of emotive colour) decline of the artist as a fellow.

If it weren’t for my parents, some minor schooling and a jolly good book or two, I’d think ‘Sunflowers’ was but a painting of sunflowers and that ‘Starry Night’ was a painting of a village with low light pollution.

Had it not been for all that prior knowledge, I’d have no idea about that distinct hue of ‘I-want-to-shoot-myself blue’.

It’s the same with art in a gallery, particularly Contemporary Art.

There are two facets to Contemporary Art, as follows:

1. It looks cool.

Like guns and smoking and smoking guns (and, I don’t know if you can ‘gun smokes’, but if you can, that too).

I saw a piece today that was a wooden mallet, nailed to a wall.

It looked tremendous, suited the wall very nicely, and was unforgivably cool; giving the poor mallet some of that ‘juxtaposition-medicine’. The sort of thing I’d wear on a t-shirt, although preferably inked on – rather than nailed.

Sometimes art can be cool and at other times it can be pretty, like singular strips of highly expensive wallpaper by a renowned wallpaperist.

To bring up Feng Shui (because I feel bringing it up here will really focus the article’s inner energy and help with my flow), I’d say that art can really tie the room together (as per Lebowski’s rug).

Not much to think about, like a simple absurdist joke; the point is in the silliness.

There are worse things to walk past; worse things to ignore.

2. The second facet is that they have a tremendous given explanation typed on that vital little white plaque next to the art work, detailing what you should be understanding and how you should be feeling, all whilst speaking in the definite.

You may have seen the Damien Hirst piece: ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. It’s a shark, preserved in formaldehyde, in a tank suspended from a ceiling, whilst you look at it and think about how you cannot really configure death, only ponder about how you can muse upon it.

The use of the shark as an image of death having died, paired with the image of it frozen in time whilst we are not, gets you oh-so thoroughly.

This is an example of a sturdy bit of art, something which stirs you deep down in THERE and gets you whirring away up THERE. Just like ‘Sunflowers’, just like ‘Guernica’.

And a good deal many people know how they feel about it and these other pieces I because it said what to feel, just next to it, on a little white plaque.

That little white square of essence.

A picture paints a thousand words, but I’ve got a thousand and one words and a whole load of capital letters and exclamation marks! See!!?

This is by no means the rule of all Contemporary Art: the nice art made for walking past, the art that looks cool whilst you ignore before wearing it on a t-shirt and the art that is utterly visually moving. But for the rest of Contemporary Art…those little white squares of essence are the only tale teller.

I could say that they go hand in hand, and that one cannot live without the other, like conjoined twins sharing the heart, but although I tried understanding some of the lesser communicable pieces of Contemporary Art prior to reading the plaque beside it…I think I preferred just reading the plaque.

The thousand-word-worthy image to accompany that plaque; I can conjure that on my own in my head.

Because that’s what words cause us to do.

The writer does the hard work for these guys and gals, so I’ll keep on reading, but I want the author of those little white squares of essence to get some credit.

Perhaps the main plaque could come with another, minor, plaque, detailing the intents of the main plaque’s author and listing his or her’s previous work.

Or maybe they could really broaden the genre, and squeeze some Romance, perhaps a little Sci-Fi, maybe even a good dose of innuendo (and out-your-endo).

Either way, all I’m really trying to say is that I went to an art gallery today and I emerged opinionated.

Objective complete.

‘Guernica’ is heart-wrenching, ‘Sunflowers’ are heartening and the little white squares of essence are at times just as informative and emotive as the art whose meaning they attempt to convey.

Here’s to Pablo, here’s to Vincent and here’s to the authors of our art.

In related otherness, sunflowers are my favourite flower; I’ll tell you why soon.

Sam


How To Win A Fight Without Dignity

I wonder how I’d win a real fight.

I hate to think of the victor merely being the superior shover.

Punching is very hard to accomplish with any degree of accomplishment. It really takes two to tango, and an equal number to punch and be punched. And if that other guy doesn’t want to be punched, it’ll take a lot of convincing or a monumental favour to be repaid.

Sure you throw a punch, or perhaps more likely you’ll proffer a soft and awkwardly angled set of barely curled knuckles in the direction of his personhood, but you’re more likely to be aggressively flailing.

And this is ineffective.

Stop being ineffective.

Particularly when considering his response to your flailing is to flail back.

Retaliatory flailing is the assured way of no punches being thrown and no punches landing because you’re all to busy enjoying a nice flail against each other’s wrists, necks and lapels.

I don’t want to flail, but it’s better than successfully landing a blow and then suffering the depressing lack of positive consequence to it.

Imagine having the ideal draw of elbow with which to fling your perfectly crunched-up fist with utmost accuracy against and into that sweet spot on his chinny-chin-chin.

And he proceeds to look at you with all audacity it takes to remain standing and the lack of decency to even have a next-day bruise. He bruises like a brick; hitting him hurts.

Then consider the utter failure of your apparent zero knockout power is equalled by the stinging pain of fractured fingers that’ve suffered the distinctly bad time of colliding with something altogether more impressive and coming off, not only worse, but pitied.

The punched-yet-smiling chap proceeds to proffer a rugged hand whose strength you feel as it shakes your wrist to the very point of being registered on the Richter scale, that it could send you and your inconsiderable chin through the door, floor, ceiling, family dinner, town hall meeting, santos grotto, or whatever else is in the same direction as his punch.

You know what’d be worse than the punch; the fact that the watch you see following up behind it, like a bride’s wedding train, is nicer and more expensive looking than you car, house and wife combined and there’s no way he’s going to do a swapsies.

This kind of chap could punch through even your finest flailing and then he’d save your life with that utterly masculine First Aid he learnt on a business course in which he really did rather impress the former army guys doing the training.

Despite the testament of cannibals, people don’t taste good and even that dopey dose of adrenalin that powers you to nobly bite his ankle isn’t going to persuade your taste buds that this was a good idea. Whilst biting works, especially when eating, it is a move that will gain you no fans, only a wide community of people who prefer to know just how close you’re standing to them and their ankles.

Plus, this chap would simply ‘ankle’ you into the ground, charisma his way into convincing your teeth into changing whose team their on and, ultimately, punch you on-in-and-up the nose.

In a fight, the nose is a place to be, and brother I’ve been there. Or, more accurately, I’ve hosted visitors.

And whilst the nose holds that stinging and shocking sensation of pain that also handily blinds your foe for a mo, it falls pathetically in comparison to kicking a swaying pair testicles. Testicles, surprisingly, tend to mind their own business in most matters, and are hence utterly surprised themselves by the intended collision with whatever you’ve elected to swiftly introduce them to.

I mentioned how this fellow would ‘ankle’ you, at will. Don’t try this yourself. It’s like attempting to Adam’s Apple a fellow into submission and pretty much comes down to an embarrassing and ineffectual rub. He might even enjoy it. He might even pay a woman to do it for him, though without the Adam’s Apple.

Hair pulling is one of those things you don’t want to happen to you, especially in a case it turns out you enjoy it and enjoy it too much too. I’ve no doubt sudden arousal can be an intriguing aid in combat, especially if you have an heavily armoured and sharpened penis, but the distraction of enjoying the hurt would certainly be a disadvantage. Plus you’ll need that blood for pulsing around your body, not to flooding it all into one brand new 6-inch limb.

And in such a case, why not tug his hair too, for you both might get a literal rise out of it and could bring a cessation to conflict

My advice is this.

Run away and prepare to show him who’s boss when he’s not looking, develop a limp as an excuse to carry a walking stick (strolling shalaylee) and proceed to be ‘the funny guy’ for a good long while onward so as to avoid the slightest possibility of conflict.

He’s probably more than agreeable anyway, especially when he’s standing behind you as backup for when your jokes aren’t going down so well.

All the best,

Sam


Alternative Uses For Letters (I’ve Always Wanted To Eat An ‘a’)

I’ve always felt there’s a good deal of character to letters, and as a means of filling the blankness I shall now detail the alternative uses for letters and aspects of their character.

This began when is watched a chap fishing and consciously thought he was in need of a lower case g to hook them. A lower case q would preferable but only when armed with that delightful acute flick of the tail, as opposed to the droopy trailing disappointment that this font offers.

Let us continue.

Due to reading-aid picture books as a child, lower case ‘a’ perpetually remind me of apples and are consequently appear delicious to me, lower case only. Capital A looks like a truly broad letter that’d have its hands on its hips and speak confidently as per a pokemon and say “…A”. Capital A could were a cloak and look reasonable, whilst encouraging children to stay safe and always eat their lower case a’s.

Capital B looks like something you box with, but it also has breasts which somewhat diminishes the pain and tenfolds the impact. Pummeled and cheered via bosom. If not this, then handcuffs, again with bosoms, again intolerably sufferable. Lower case b, just looks like a nice guy, like a thumbs up. I can picture the b leaning on a lamppost, tiny wee cigarette alight and then b sees me walking towards him and…continues to be a b. Character development is non essential in a character, especially so early on in this alphabet epic.

Capital C is suspiciously communist, looking worryingly good in wearing red, whilst lower case c is adorable, like a cat curled up. I try to walk past these two quickly, in case I mistakenly wake the cutely sleeping and purring lower case c and also in case the capital Cs gang up on me a reclaim my property in the name of the proletariat. Not sure how to fight a C, but it looks rude enough to have a sensitive area to kick and I’d never forgive it for nationalising my pet c.

Capital D is for slicing cooking herbs. It looks appropriately slicey as you roll it back and forth across your herb, whilst also possessing a fortuitous handhold. Happy cooking. Lower case d is for propping your eyelids open whilst you continue through this article. There are some out there in this world that might suggest that the sole intended use of D is denouncing the positives of a fellow they consider a ‘Dunce’. Fuck these folk. It’s not meant for nastiness; it’s a for slicing herbs.

As for capital E, you can do as I do and either comb your hair (which, to be honest, I don’t do) or simply use it (as I do with a brush or, even better a cat) to scratch your back. Would it make an ‘EEEeee!’ based sound as you scratched back and forth with it? Probably not, because that’s silly.

A lower case f always appears to me (largely when hand written) as though one should be able to play music with it, as though it is to be strummed by a pale lady in a classically classless restaurant. It also looks it should make a longer sound than “fuh”. A melodic and elongated “fuh” – that’s what I’m trying to get across to you Dear Reader. Meanwhile the F’s capital is best dressed in pink and looking swollen like a proud marshmallow. Capital Fs always seem swollen. Shame but everyone’s got to be good at something; even letters, and capital Fs are absolutely top notch at swelling.

Both the capital G and lower case g looks like a hip place to hang out, either by reclining in the Capital whilst hunched over a chessboard (coz how hunched you are determines your passion for the game of chess. It’s all in the back) whilst the dangling tail of the g looks a fine locale for a dandy to hang about; somewhere suitably comfortable and dangerous…something adults wouldn’t approve of.

H is the contrary to the Gs, both lower and capital, as it seems the place that a responsible father would purchase to ensure his family lived in a secure home with a staunch roof. Both h and H appear to me as though they should been surrounded by a tidy little garden and neat lawn. There’s no doubt that H and h are the most financially responsible letters of the alphabet.

‘I’ looks bloody lethal, just a sharp jut of a letter, careful not to wave it about otherwise one might take another’s eye out with an I. And that’s weird. Lower case I seems as though someone examined the capital and thought…”Needs more dot” like a child proof version of the deadly I; welcome to i.

It would appear I’ve written alternative uses for letter all the way up to I.

Ha.

And it’s been a pleasure, though I swear I’ll never do it again, no matter how kooky I’m feeling.

Although I would like to add for the record that I think lower case q is an unceasingly flirtatious letter and i wish it’d stop looking at me like that.

And a capital Z is an extraordinarily uncomfortable sleeping position, though it does sum up the journey via the finality of things, such as this twenty minute article, what with its zig-zagging nature, despite being in alphabetical order.

Sam


Around My About!

Just a few moments ago I updated my ‘About The Lateral Column’ page and I feel it goes a good way into explaining what I’m doing here.

Therefore, I’m laying it out for you here too!

After reading, don’t forget to Like me and to think of me constantly. Tell your attractive friends about me too, and your boss for good measure.

Here you go!
Thank you for reading!

I’m a writer (see!) and I’ve come to realise that, through many years of neglect and lack of confidence, I’m not about to be the next big thing.

I’m not going to change the world and the revolution does not start here.

However, I still do love what was my calling and I enjoy the feeling of discipline and steady (so, so slow) improvement and so I keep it up here.

For the most part I write when inspired, but my true aim is to write (and upload) at least once a day with something silly and also less regular pieces with a tad more passionate oomph.

I’ve got two main themes:

‘Matters That Matter’ (in which I discuss, debate, diatribe and use real CAPITAL LETTERS) on subjects from all areas which have me feeling that old urge to write).

‘Brief…Therefore Witty’ (wherein I write as a stream-of-barely-consciousness on whatever strolls across my blank mind at the time of writing. It might get a little weird. Brevity is the soul of wit, and these are brief as fuck).

I have a third theme: Lists. This will feature lists. I could tell you what else this’d feature; but you’d need to check the ‘Lists’ section for that.

I can’t explain how much Likes and Comments cheer me and irk me to keep it writing. Please do.

Thanks again,

Sam.


Pick Up That Gauntlet. But Only If It’s Absurdly Heavy

I’ve gone and gotten an urge to bulk up and bulk out lately.

Perhaps I’ve been standing too near the mountains. The show-off “look-at-my-snow-tufted-peaks” mountains. Those “ooh-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-as-riddled-with-goats-as-I-am”mountains. Mountains with an entourage of Sherpas playing fifes in their immovable wake.

Maybe I’ve been too long in the too near mountains, but that’s New Zealand for you…and for me. Still better than the old Zealand.

Perhaps it’s not ‘Zea-land’, but rather instead ‘Zeal-and…’; thereby leaving you with fact that Kiwis are espousers of zeal and…whatever else you’d like to add. It’s pleasant when national identity is a matter of, first, enthusiasm and, second, whatever else you’d like to add.

Like laziness. One could be be enthusiastic and then lazy, 100% dedicated push towards not really being bothered about it. Enthused lethargy.

Not that I’m saying Kiwis are vehement recliners, because that seems a tad racist and if I’m going to be racist I’m going to save it up for a good one (brace yourselves…Scandinavians).

Scandinavia…that’s another common hangout for mountains; the sort of mountains that once did terrible things to handmaidens or gave birth to longboats, or other ancient Scandinavian strangeness.

But to be like a mountain; I’ll give it a go.

I’m beginning with lifting some heavy shit, but not actual weights.

I’m going to improvise variously, such as by lifting a shipwreck’s timber or a conveniently proximate boulder.

However, best place to find a new heavy thing for up-and-downing is a farm. Sure, armfuls of bundled hay and discipline-inducing muck for shovelling, but mainly livestock, for the best things to lift for applicable strength are things that wiggle, and wriggle is rampant in the farmyard.

For there lay the beasts that have the ancient instinct of not-knowing what being lifted up is, but know in their gut they must not allow it to happen to them by any and all means deemed appropriate at the time of departure from the ground. It should be one of those situations in which the animal is so pissed off that the majority of noises it makes are coming out of its nose. An articulate snort of sorts.

If they don’t wiggle or kick, then it’s one of those animals that naturally climb people, like scenery.

Complimentary though it maybe to be considered vast enough to be a place to spend an afternoon (“I think I’ll have tea at Sam…perhaps the elbow region.”), it doesn’t count as lifting. Even if a horse climbs you; that’s down to the horse, not you.

And when the animals become willing to be lifted…rotate your sheep, sir.

Keep an unwilling yet steady procession of animals a’coming, thoroughly unprepared for being hoisted and lunged at the sky as though eager contrary proof against the cloud’s accusing suggestion that you don’t have any sheep to hand.

And the method works! My biceps nowadays…they’re why animals think of me as scenery, like a valley.

You know when the show-off body builders kiss their biceps? Well, I can’t help but do that, because mine are near my lips perpetually, being a bit of a sizeable bother to be honest.

My biceps are so large; they’re near. Near the dog, near the hat stand, near the computer, my wife complains when my biceps get in her light whilst she reads…and her soup.

More importantly…Forearms. You’ll want nice manly firearms, naturally the kind that make your daughter’s suitors know that you can…just…keep…hammering, in a rugged checkered shirt, whilst your beard looks on sternly and bushily.

How illegal is a hammer anyway?

Hammers give me confidence, less son-in-law strife and and forearms that bulge like I’ve got a problem.

Bulging is either a sign of the absurdly healthy (healthy to the point of arousal) or desperately done-for. And I’m the former.

You don’t even need nails, though some earplugs to hand and ear might be advisable. And then, thoroughly deaf, you can show the ground why you live on top of it. Make it pay for abandoning those sheep and other livestock to your lofty ambitions of cloud collisions.

Hammer, mallet, axe; all these are tremendous for the forearms and greatly decreases the proximity of those you want, increases the distance of those you don’t want, and adjusts the altitude at which you prefer your sheep to be.

I say sheep, but there’s nothing more biblical than ‘oxen’ to lift.

When you go ‘oxen’; you’re too-too-much in general terms.

Like as a wedding gift. Once an oxen would have been an ideal wedding gift, sitting patiently as a future grandchild’s inheritance, between the toasters and bed sheets. Now though, that oxen is too-too-much.

‘Biblical’ is a hell of a method of overkill though.

5000 people for dinner and serving just fish and loaves of bread? With some suspiciously watery wine? And then retaliating to a rude comment at the water-wine bar by flooding the Earth? Rounding things off by killing yourself to one of the worst torturous deaths imaginable and then saying to people as they walk back to their seats from the bar: “I’m doing this for you, y’know. How about some applause!? If it’s not to much to ask?! Can’t do its myself obviously, can I?!”

Biblical is one way, but medieval is quite another.

Like chucking down a gauntlet and expected other folk to be suitably insulted by it, thereby picking up the gauntlet prior to you both killing each other’s employees.

If you’re going to take part in that daftness, at least make it a heavy gauntlet.

That’ll do for today’s…whatever this is. I wouldn’t call it advice, as I’m more that chap your teachers and parents warned you about regarding being told to jump off a bridge.

Remember.

Variety and weight. Every day. Check the farmyard.

Conditions are perfect.

Silly enough?

Sam