Oh I’ve got an initiative chaps!
One of those plans to have my name go down and up again in history; as opposed to making any money in the slightest.
Maybe I can charge people for putting my name in the history books. Oh look! Another initiative!
Forget that one. I don’t want people refusing to talk to me so as to save money.
My friends are undoubtedly more economic than they are loyal.
They won’t be mentioned in the history books with me; those things are too crowded any way.
So I just looked up historically irrelevant people to back up my own claim that history books are too crowded and it would seem I can’t find anyone who didn’t matter.
However, I did get to enjoy reading about the magical history of Irish slavery; in which those Irish were still third class. One of those accent racisms. Or maybe you could tell by the hair.
Or the Irish telling people they were Irish.
That’s an Irish joke. And that’s ok; I’ve probably got some Irish in me.
Once there was a time when having the wrong accent left you in the lurch in life. Being able to pull off a really-rather-jolly-good-old-posh accent must have been more applicable than having legs.
Getting by without those is just…floppy.
Nothing worse than legs you don’t need; like a pair of empty tights filled with jelly.
A floppy scar; no thanks ma’m.
They might be funny to lovingly whack people with though.
Plus it would unsettle people when they realise that thing on their shoulder is an exceedingly soft foot.
Legs that don’t work, however, is not my initiative!
Companies hire Nice Guys to be helpful in the street.
These professional Nice Guys should be approachable; helping folk in the street, offering bag carrying and first aid.
Companies can then plaster these Nice Guys in sponsorship advertising.
“Nice Guys; brought to you by Ford!”
Can you deny, and I dare you to do so, the genius of this plan?
I’d take a sponsorship.
Think I’ll ask my buddy, ole’ Simon, ole’ slim. Would you like to have your name, and only your name (oi…Simon), on my chest?
I’ll tell you who else deserves sponsorships…Spacemen. And Spacewomen.
They are the greatest people to ever live in the times that they live in.
Whilst you might have Da Vinci, Columbus, etc…these are the guys who are going to fuck the next species we collide with, in war and peace and love.
Only thing is that Spacemen can’t write prose for shite…Shakespeares they are not.
Cats are likely the next choice of astronaut. Give them some simple buttons to push in an easy order and they’re superior to the next fat chap in a chair.
Once they’ve finished being casual ninjas, that is.
A cat is the most casual of ninjas to have hanging from your mail-box, meowing to be let in; the deceiver.
A ninja. A sexy, sexy ninja-cavalier-that can kill you if it wants. On such a whim; it’s technically whimsical.
I dislike the suggestion that a cat is a fragile ickle-wickle cutie pie owing to the fact that when the bombs start to drop; chances are the cat will outlast me.
The cat will be the bully in the street who slinks on over and takes all your canned food and essential balls of string I’ve been saving for none-of-your-fucking-business reasons.
They CAN kill you if they want; all they need is a pit to nudge your nibbled-to-pieces-corpse into in the afterwards.
They might need an incentive; but they’ll kill you with an attitude denoting that you’re not cool enough to know why they did you in.
I once knew a chap who permanently looked as though he was just realising his balls with being nibbled by a kitten. A mix of revulsion, shock and finally guilt at having had such an interaction with the cat to cause this tremendous turn around in fortune.
Maybe you’ll all have that look upon your faces someday soon. Not just because cats aren’t nibbling your bollocks owing to a career in space, more so because my business idea works so well.
See you soon.