Today I think I’ll crush the writer’s block with an irrepressibly positive mood.
I’m in an irrepressibly positive mood.
I’m in an irrepressibly positive mood, twice.
As infinitely infantile as it may be, I refuse to deny my first sentence as true.
I’m still writing after all…
Perhaps if I were to let loose another easy-to-choke-on opinion, I’d be forced to continue writing as I’m too stubborn to be incorrect.
And in the spirit of such irrefutable (just try me) logic (an opinion can’t be wrong, therefore in my opinion; my opinion is logic), I am making it known that adding three or more parentheses (like this) to a sentence (also like this) constitutes good writing.
This is not good writing.
This (with reference to the prior sentence), in my (being me) opinion (with reference to a previous prior sentence), is.
Speaks for itself really, or rather I wish it did because that’d be a great deal easier than writing about writer’s block and overcoming with some seriously dangerous writing.
Can you imagine if someone actually read this?
It’d be lethal for their Sunday afternoon, encouraging debauched sentence structure and with zero contribution the rational of overcoming writer’s block.
However, say someone were to read this and be so inspired by how simply frightful and (even more simply) shite this writing is, that they felt obliged to do the planet a favour and improve the global literary quality that’ve I’ve sought to reduce in these few (heavily parenthesised) sentences.
Maybe a young writer of good breeding and healthy stock will see what I’ve gone and done (apologies for that by the way), take pity on and give mercy to us all in the form of a really cracking diary entry, or perhaps the great-Earth novel, the text we’d use to really dazzle the inter-galactic literary critics.
And then everyone would think I’m great; really rather applicable in helping with the writer’s block and contributing to the planet’s standing (revolving?) in the intergalactic literary circles (definitely revolving).
And then maybe I’d get a like on my blog.
(Hint, hinty, hint hint).
I hate the saxophone.
Especially when someone is blowing one, indeed – blowing any wind/brass instrument, whilst maintaining eye-contact with me.
Looking deep into my eyes and blowing (not going to call it ‘playing’) the saxophone is the one thing that creeps me out in the whole orchestra; even the wind-chimes don’t elicit such a response from me.
That aside, I also feel that the saxophone simply sounds terrible and has no place in my ear or on planet Earth. There’s just no need for it and I want it gone.
I hate the saxophone deeply, but not as deeply as the blowers of them looking into my eyes whilst they’re going at it.
It looks like a creepy thing to do, like when my dog holds eye contact whilst farting – not betraying the slightest hint of fart-awareness which I feel is ever-so-slightly what he is going for.
He doesn’t even wag his tail to aid in relocating the whiff.
I hate the saxophone. It tries too hard.
They also look stupid, like an alien willy that some megalomaniac elected to emboss with gold and make glint. Too many valves and too many fiddly-bits. This is not an alien willy I feel I can get behind, whilst also certainly not wanting it behind me.
Then there’s the sound.
Another passion of mine is hatred for a general consensus that I didn’t have a say in.
For example, Olympians being seen as heroes. They’re not doing it for me, are they?
They’re devastating their childhood in the hope of some on-camera human-interest moment that might hopefully lead to presence in a biscuit advertisement and a life-long career as a pundit. Olympians are not heroes; they’re admirable capitalists.
Now I’m grumpy.
My reason for mentioning this is that I also reject the notion that the saxophone is the sound of cool.
It’s not cool. It is the pantomime joke of cool.
It is the overly-archetypal noise that is penciled in as representative of moonlit rendezvous with the limp-via-emotion dame being held firmly in the five firm fingers of the cool guy in his American car that speeds out of town from behind this pool-club and into the next town wanky enough to be represented by the saxophone.
Pass me…the trombone.
Now THAT is an alien penis I can get behind (still don’t want it behind me though – I guess no one wants to be snuck up on by brass and jazz instruments).
The trombone is mighty; comical and hellishly resonating, requiring guts, pomp and proud forearms (essential) to play. It is a sound that represents “Uh-Oh!” and “Oh Dear!” and is quite simply the most hilariously erotic noise an orchestra can summon.
I love the trombone.
It is silly, funny (with a capital F, U, N, N, and Y; making it simply a loud-to-read “FUNNY”), jolly, erotic, proud, strong, bold, awkward and wholly unnatural a noise outside of our heads. It’s like a some surreal cow that knows you’re engaging in intercourse and wants the whole meadow to be aware.
Again, it also looks tremendous, requiring the forearm strength and depth of puff that makes a man a good one. It can be gold and shiny, but also looks tremendous when dulled; like it was carried into battle and has been found in an old veteran’s foot-looker.
Think of all the jolly and noble generic jazz you can conjure in your head. It’s not a saxophone – it’s a trombone that saves the day.
And I’ve been considering publication names; what do you think of this:
I figured it a great name for a publication, in the spirit of the famed ‘bugle’, and would be the daily trombone. Power, purity, dirt and hilarity, it is an instrument that requires meat-pipes and a good arm to commit to; plus it is the key to the classically comedic ear-filler of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GRnNzIvbh8, or simply the good-old https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKdcjJoXeEY .
Whilst I feel ‘The Trombone’ would be a smashing name for a publication, I’ve begun to engage in another activity that sees me through the day.
Fortunately, I’ve begun to slap myself each and every day in the spirit of reality, atonement for unfulfilled ambition and having a palm-full of face.
The Daily Slap, another positive name for a publication, snaps you out of the bitter funk of boredom (the only bad kind – even a funky smell is a positive thing to have in your kitchen, wallet and wife) that will will you down, keep you blue and unsexy, and fuzz your head with as much unoriginality as a saxophone.
However, beware brain cells prior to engaging in The Daily Slap.
There’s always the issue that you may become good at this, and in doing so elevate your palms to the rush-impact standard of deducting yourself the crucial brain cells that enable reading and fucking.
If you can’t read and you can’t fuck; you’d better have a damn fine hairstyle otherwise you’ll never be popular.
Unless mothers and wide-eyed mummy-wannabies will gather you up in their arms and insist you cannot read and fuck to such a hopeless degree that the only real solution to the unpleasant future ahead is a blanket and the instruction to bury one’s head in it and suck whatever you can find to suck within.
And even throughout such a distant and roaming thought process as the above, I still find my hatred of the saxophone to be a prevalent part of my being.
The Daily Slap, I recommend, as it is a real means of engaging with oneself and shudders off the dust of lethargy and is a real kick in the trousers (in the form of a slap in the face).
So, ‘The Trombone’ or ‘The Daily Slap’ – either way; have a good day.
It’s time to travel.
It’s time to travel because you have time to read this and, whilst this might be shooting myself in the world-dusty foot, travel is far more worth your time than anything I have to say.
And travel is worth your time, because you are worth your time.
All you ever really had was yourself and the Earth.
I think I’ll try some larger font sizes to encourage you to do it; maybe if the writing is thuddier – you’ll get to it.
Besides the talent, brains, good looks and whatever else you thought others had to their advantage, you still had yourself and you still had the Earth.
So go plunder and soak-up the soak-up-ables of this world, because of the greatest regrets the occupants of deathbeds claim (other than not learning another language – which’d is hardly comparable to travelling: you’d just end up saying you regret not-travelling in stunted Francais) – the most claimed and most rued truth is the road most travelled having been merely stomped on by yet another.
These are the times you need to think back in history, when the Earth was slightly less ancient and joining/being press-ganged into the military was your best chance of seeing the world and therein giving some kudos to the definition of ‘living’.
‘Living’ isn’t in the cubical, nor is it the job title on the door to the office you’re yet to occupy.
Nobody looks back on their life wishing they’d played more Candy Crush, unless of course it were whilst whiling away the hours in the back of a tour bus – but that’s a real waste of scenery.
I’d done a fair bit of here-and-there-ing in my 27 years of life, and whilst those times were tremendous – it was my 7 months of travel through South East Asia, Australasia, New Zealand and North America that really sealed the deal as to how I felt about Earth and why I was strolling around upon it.
Get gone and (no offence) just go away.
Now I’ve been home for several months now and have gone about day-to-day life as best I can, and thus I’ve had the time to process the experiences of my travel and what they now mean to me.
And here’s what’s key in my thinking: travel is not my everything, but my everything is very different now I’ve travelled.
It’s hard to return to the corporate world and give two tupenny tosses about the printer machine’s new button and how only Bodoni MT Condensed is the only font capable of truly expressing us as a company.
Instead, I remember flying…on a bus.
It’s an easily achievable method of motion once your driver realises that (1.) he is incredibly late for the tour’s scheduled arrival and (2.) you get more job satisfaction when you’ve put your passengers in surreal danger and gotten them out from it because you were dangerous.
We were hurtling our way through some ethereal mountain roads in Vietnam – heading north to Dalat at speeds illegal outside of South East Asia.
The view was typical of Vietnam; four feet away and consisting of a thick grey mist that a bus’s headlights couldn’t penetrate (but the rest of it certainly could at top speed) – with intermittent splashes of wondrous valleys and awe-inspiring mountains of that dark green that speaks such a wealth of nature one can only feel a little hurt at how the Earth has got so much going on besides you.
And despite our 10-moutains-per-hour speed – some corners required the nuances instilled from days as an experienced mountain bus driver. It was on one of these two-minute turns in which the passengers clenched their stomachs, buttocks and Candy Crush drenched Ipads in preparation for the imminent through-the-floor pedalling that our driver was treating us with, that I looked out of my window to see what locals were nearing the bus.
Three young children, looking very cold and very wet, took steps towards us in crappy plastic shoes, their hands upturned and out-stretched in the international sign for begging, though with that hurried professional assuredness that comes from knowing the passengers on board had gold to spare and the indulgence with which to sprinkle it like fairy dust all over Vietnam.
We knew they would act upon our pity, big eyes and little feet in even crappier plastic shoes than the last sentence, calling to us: “Please!” whilst we did our best to ignore; knowing that a dollar now meant it was less likely they’d ever be sent into school and have a chance to learn their way out of those shoes and down from the mountain.
Seeing life like that makes you put down the donut.
But what I saw next as we sped away from these three children made me want to throw a donut into the sky, thump it with a baseball bat with all the strength I could muster into the mouth of anyone who wanted to join the game, all due to the sheer fact that satisfying hunger is fine, but some things are eternally fun.
Another corner, another three children come into view, utterly and completely uninterested in the potential for making out-of-school money from enormous tourists…because they were – gleefully as I’ve learnt only people doing this can be – playing with a fireball.
They didn’t have lunch, but they sure as sweet hell had a fireball. And it was satisfying.
I don’t know where they got it from, but they had gotten themselves a fireball and were being entirely appropriate with it – picking it up barehanded, throwing it at (not ‘to’; fuck ‘to’) one another (the drizzle cooled them down), kicking it up and down the mountain and smiling their teeth into another dimension.
I’ve never seen humans do anything better than how those little Vietnamese children conducted themselves with their fireball guest of gusto, their small bundle of vibrant, amazing joy that excited them so much that hunger could go and fuck itself.
Additionally, I promise you that this is not metaphorical. They were holding a fireball and lobbing it at their friends.
I wish I had a fireball, and sitting at a desk, reading a snooty email either complimenting or complaining (I can’t be bothered to find out which) about my choice of font, I remember the two trios I encountered in those Vietnamese mountains.
The three hungry children and the three fireballers. Both living total alternatives to the life of a typical Englishman, and now I step forward knowing of them both.
That’s progress, that’s healthy, that’s an experience you tell the grandchildren about and that’s travelling.
And again, this experience was not my everything, but now my everything means something very different to me.
Travel – either do that or cure cancer with video games; one’s more likely and one’s possibly even more enjoyable (not that I’ve cured cancer with video games).
Fireballs and hunger, hunger and fireballs.
An enormous gaseous globe rose from the sea’s end and illuminated my world in moments more beautifully than much I have seen, much as it has succeeded in so for eons, epochs, millennia, all of time and yesterday.
High hopes for tomorrow too.
So I didn’t get much done that morning, although my land was golden green, ruby blue, sun fire yellow and a purple only the cosmos can lay upon us.
Am I a good person? Because I’m guilty thus.
Bullfighting is something I would, if so empowered, flick a switch to end the elderly and embarrassing sport, yet I would also pay to see it if opportuned so.
It is an experience this world offers, and with life being so short and all the more apparently so since watching following watching this; how can I yield myself?
Yet still I would end it, with that switch of mine.
I would eat dog when offered and well cooked.
Dogs are amongst our oldest and greatest tools, the species would not be where it is if it weren’t for our identifying of the tremendous power of canines.
This remains with us today.
For amongst those great powers is the intelligence of personality, providing us a companionship of such strong and loving bonds that one cannot be called a “master”; but perhaps older brother will do.
It says so much for both our united species in that throughout all the monstrosity of ancient living in prehistoric life, these two great groups found each other and the inter-species bond proceeded from there.
My children will grow with a dog, my wife and I will die with one, and I would still eat the roasted flesh of one simply being that it is an experience to experience.
I would not kill a man to eat him, but should it come to combat I would like to give him cause to never wish us encounter again.
I would cut off and eat nothing vital, yet something he’d miss.
Not his heart or vitals. Not his eyes or brain. Perhaps just an ear, or a pinky.
What is missing, taken, leaves a mark and I jolly well just might.
In Samoan history the greatest threat and then insult was to say to your enemy: “you’re shit, I’m going to make you shit”, defeat him in battle, butcher him into entrees, eat some and turn him into shit.
No greater defeat.
No greater insult.
I’d eat your pinky, so don’t fuck with me or I’ll shit you.
I don’t know if the ancient Samoans had a ceremony for the first poo following the post battle brunch. I wonder if they looked forward to it, presuming this poo was once you? I just don’t know.
This went through my head as the sun rose.
Perhaps I should have laid in.
Watching the sun rise is unproductive.
I thought you’d be asking me this at some point.
I like that.
It’s not so much that I enjoy being asked questions; rather more that I cannot help myself answering…things.
Mother Nature’s Champion on the field of sporting combat. That’s quite a compliment to pay to myself. Thanks.
Of course, your questions will revolve around football because it’s distinctly not deadly; whilst my expertise are the precise means of dismounting a foe upon horseback.
Who doesn’t joust; I mean really?
And my trick is simple.
Ride underneath the horse.
A good sturdy knot and a love for the risk of being kneed by your steed; that’s all you need to succeed in jousting.
Plus a slingshot, shiny pebble and as much hand-eye coordination as is required to clap.
Why a slingshot? Christians love it.
It’s good to please the ecclesiastical market; and they love themselves a hero with a slingshot, particularly if they’re diminutive and diminutive is a natural state of a good fellow saddled beneath a horsey.
By the way, horsey is the correct term for your mount. It shows your childish-side and this is key in fooling your opponent into thinking they’re lancing a child strapped to the belly of a steed whilst they bellow “Faster horsey! Faster!”
And then they find themselves slingshotted directly in the heart by a damn fine actor beneath a horse; plus an exquisite choice in pebble.
As I said, Christians love a slingshot-hero. The villains tend to go about their dastardly deeds with a hammer and nails (typically 3).
Oh, you want football?
Breathe these next few sentences in; why don’t’cha.
To begin with; boots are for pussies.
Barefoot your way to victory.
Take no prisoners but do take their boots (because you’re a helpful chappie).
Next up comes some actual tactics.
Don’t do it.
Do this far more regularly that shooting.
Don’t do it. This could be valuable time spent scoring.
How to score…
Real men of manliness don’t casually tuck the ball in the net, with a whooping and looping curvy bastard to delicately arrive like a really rather helpful and hopeless fish into a fisherman’s net.
Instead, please, break the net’s heart with nothing deceptive.
A ball that moves in the air is dishonest; and that’ll never do.
A real man’s kick is like a cannon.
Not a cannon that fires cannon balls, but rather more like a cannon rocketing through the air, causing defenders to scatter and wish that one day they might grow up to become a cannon kicked by me.
Also a real man doesn’t run; he chases.
And he doesn’t chase balls either.
Balls, though full of breath, neither breathe or bleed.
I require both of these facets in order to justify a chase.
Besides; we’re in no position to be in any position but a Goalkeeper.
The Goalkeeper should allow the opposing team to approach as near as they like and then, once a shot is shot (a shot being all it’ll amount to), he shall simply swipe away the ball with casual reproach, uttering extremely quietly to himself (and the ball): “No.”
That’s how I’d play football if I weren’t so occupied dismounting baddies from their horsies.
I always take their boots.
That’s how you play football; by taking the spoils.
You know you all desire the plunder.
So go get it; with superior kicks.
Keep up the sports guys and girls; it’s good for the success story.
Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Well, 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.
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.
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.
(P.S. I’m not even going to proofread this am I? Fuck.)