Rolling pins: them, me, and the ancient argument as to what constitutes a ‘pin’.

Posted: November 2, 2025 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I appreciate there are going to be some alternative definitions from my own, as to what constitutes a ‘pin’. I also know that some of these are going to be ‘factual’.

But what pride themselves on in terms of correctness, they more than let themselves down in accuracy.

A pin is something that you can pin with. If a thing cannot pin, a pin it is not.

Rolling pins – they’re not pins. They’re my ultimate bed fellow of the realm we can all relate to: something you enjoy having around, regardless of its purpose.

I can picture a medieval woman, house-bound, subjugated and bored, being told the local ravishers are on their way to commit their namesake.

Thankfully, she has a rolling pin, which must, simply ‘must’, have been used at least once in human history to defeat the bad guy.

Got yourself a villain? Bop him on the head with a rolling pin.

Got a yourself a villain nearby but just out of reach? Throw a rolling pin at him, the distant git.

Baking?

Baking and interrupted by a villain?

Bop him about the head and neck with a rolling pin, before returning to the esoteric application of a rolling pin outside of villain-bopping and household defence (plus all around justice): somehow flattening dough.

I’ve never really been able to use a rolling pin for anything other than a really good time thrashing it about and some amateur Morris dancing (I haven’t landed a paid Morris-dancing gig yet, but I hear its all about persistence. Keep at it and eventually someone will pay you to leave. They won’t threaten – you’ve got a rolling pin and a fucking hanky.).

When at school I put the rolling pin to dough and nothing really happened – certainly not cakes or bread or whatever it was I was being taught. Least of all flattened dough.

As I got older I treated myself to a basic, this’ll-do, rolling pin, in preparation for the day in which I’d be bopping anti-social behaviour in the face.

I’ve still got it. My wife uses it for cooking every now and again (and bloody again), whilst I prefer to chase my children with it – so the whole family gets good use out of it.

In the event of a fire, or perhaps some near-world-event, if I’ve time to grab something from the house before dashing for the village hall, I’m grabbing my rolling pin. And kids.

And people at the village hall would be pleased, commending me for bringing so jolly-decent a thing as a rolling pin to the end of the world that the whole Parish can find some relief from.

I don’t know if it would necessarily aid in clearing rubble in search of wounded, or be massively handy when it comes to building a new basic infrastructure system once the fallout has cleared, but it wouldn’t half give me confidence in the new world.

Such confidence, that in fact it would aid in clearing rubble, and in developing basic infrastructure. Because we’ve got a rolling pin.

But it’s still not a ‘pin’.

Spur of the moment, I’m going to rename them to “Oods”.

I like that, it works, and I like that and it works.

And even if it doesn’t work, you can’t deny I like that.

Sam

I Sleep-Off Syphilis. I Walk-Off Amputation

Posted: August 22, 2016 | Author: | Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

You’ve got to feel pity for crabs.

Naturally I’m referring to the wee-itty-bitty pubic habitants.

They’re on the way out – fucked to a degree even they’ve never seen before.

Fucked to irony.

A shame for sure, yet I spy and opportunity here; partly coming from being sparky in mind, largely due to feeling horny (whilst being hornly-felt; what a way to write!) and mostly owing to hunger.

Here we have a delicacy that only need be made delicate.

Some ballroom, some European Duke, some Governess spoiling us, a silver platter encumbered with the delights of the finest-bred higher-class prostitutes of Paris; specially bred crabs.

On a stick.

I could bring that about…it’s not as though I’m to be afflicted with the creepy little entrees.

I’m not the sort to have a hard time for medical reasons; that’s not very me.

My immune system is on the offensive and highly offensive.

It teases Gonoreah and bloodies the nose of bleeding noses.

I only bleed for the drama and the sexuality of the moment; matching my outfit and causing a stir when I enter ballrooms (one of my favourite things to enter; aside from women dazzled by my resistance to the entrees).

Bleeding only succeeds in certain areas.

Such as my chest; which can only bleed through three claws scratches, tentatively exposing what’s beneath my shirt.

An indistinct patch of blood on the bicep looks grand too, although only whilst fighting a revolutionary cause and waving a flag. The wound must also be tightly bound in a sexy rag gifted to me by some impassioned wench, who’s also holding my musket for me.

The old wounds were the best. An arrow gouge gets one into so many more clubs than one of these modern “car crash seat-belt whip” wimpy modes. How’s that meant to impress a bouncer; just because one is wearing a windshield?

Bleeding goes so well with black. And not everything does.

Whilst they say black goes with everything, this refers purely to colour. However, though the colour might well go and indeed bugger off with black, it doesn’t mean the substance the colour is of can accompany it also.

For example, as stated, red goes with black; blood goes with black.

Pale grey goes with black; vomit does not.

Vomit only goes well with buckets and humorous landings splats of your current scenario.

I saw Yellow Fever, which goes very poorly with black by the way, in the street a few days ago, or rather I saw its cowardly coloured back as it whizzed away to take out its frustrations on South East Asia.

My immune system does have a tendency to take no prisoners and gift no mercy.

Such as the time malaria got me.

It was a short and chilly summer that spring, with the birds singing sweetly beneath the water and the sun rising early after a brief lunchtime siesta. In other words; times were absurd; permit me a tad absurder.

What did you do to malaria Sam?

Why I’ll tell ya. I took that innocent young malaria strain into my broad and willowy arms and though it struggled immensely, we eventually reached an amicable forced marriage.

Followed by several beautiful and lethal offspring (I wasn’t on the pill), after which my malaria-bride made a break for it with dreams of being either a vet or a contagion. It was at this point I nobly threw acid in its face and told it to get to scrubbing whatever the fuck I told it to scrub.

You have to keep these diseases in their place, otherwise they’ll get all uppity and start demanding higher pay and penetrating your central nervous system.

I’m not at all certain as to why, but I’ve an urge to reassure you all that I do not consider women to be a negative thing, especially when compared to diseases or injuries.

I do however find funny things funny; equating with the previous.

I sleep-off syphilis.

I walk-off amputation.

I begrudge malaria receiving an education.

I am prepared to cater to the fancy ball with pubic crabs on sticks because I’m a fancy motherfucker with pubic ideas.

I am the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Now go kick smallpox in the derrière.

Plus…GIRL POWER!

Sam