Solving Unemployment via Nice Guys.

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.

Aw.

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.

Frugal traitors.

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.

Quaint.

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.

Fucking 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.

You’re welcome.

See you soon.

Sam

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How To Avoid Being ‘The Public’.

I am about to begin detailing a totem pole with a chisel and mallet, and I have three reasons for doing this.

The first two are short and blunt.

  1. I’ll get some blisters, which is masculine, which is attractive to a certain degree of woman, which is a feeling which is just swell.
  2. I get a totem pole out of it, and therefore get a phallus shaped thing with which to out-do my other phallus shaped things (such as that actual phallus I have- had it for years).
  3. This, and such acts like this, are a tremendous way by which to avoid the label of, and very act of becoming, ‘the public’.

The third one is, I believe, the ‘nub’ of the matter. Possibly  ‘the nub’. Maybe even the ‘knub’.

Let me explain why this is essential. Essential like music. Music called ‘knub’.

You don’t want to be the public. Even children don’t want to be the public and they’re the people that the idea is aimed at.

The only people that want to be the public are paranoid stoners that fear that somehow they’re a criminal and now they just want to be back to being part of the public- watching Countdown before the ‘just-because-you’re-paranoid’ police kick your door down and don’t let you finish your cereal.

This kind of collectiveness is what often comes from fear.

That’s why it’s aimed at children.

Because children are not encouraged to do things differently and it’s very easy to scare them. And they have a tendency to do things differently and are brave.

Some people feel a need to put a stop to that. Largely because it’s different, and they are scared of that.

Maybe that could go on the totem pole. Needs an image though. Maybe…a  baby…eating a snake. Perfect. That’s brave, and fairly hip. ‘What an infant!’

I feel that another way to avoid, or regress from, your transformation into ‘the public’ is to indulge heavily in those aspects of life that you will not see on television. Such as conversation.

Be interested, and you will become interesting. Become interesting, and that’s about all you need in life apart from a small fire, a sharp stick, a thick book and a good-sized infant to eat away all encompassing snakes.

This is most unlike ‘the public’- the opinion of which is sought only in bulk. What one of ‘the public’ feels is of little consequence, whereas- on mass- these ants will topple over that much detested (at least amongst ants) rubber-tree plant.

You go walking, or indeed move in any way, and talk to strangers as you go. Your day will then improve. Even if you gained a little strain, or perhaps some woe, at least now it’s a variety of woe that you might be more impressive to those listening- as you list your recent activities to your ‘even-more-recent acquaintances’, encountered via a short stroll.

Today, my ears were sieged by the dialogue of one man who suddenly realised that I would be empathic to the point of sympathy as he let me know about how his headlights were wonky and he had to be patient to straighten them.

This man was one of those men with whom one feels a need to reach for the chalk and board to get across your point of “Good morning”. Yet he somehow saw in me something that perhaps suggested that I too had recent or historical laments with my own headlights, or the headlights of a loved one or work colleague. Or maybe he was just looking to gain a little of that sweet bag of mixed nuts known as ‘conversation’.

Nutty.

I agreed with him in everything he said, guaranteed him that I would be patient too, and patted him on the shoulder whilst assuring him that everything about this was normal and that all he had to do was keep doing what he was doing, if perhaps only in an alternative shopping aisle.

As I left with my sushi, a cat I had endured a disagreement with the night before crossed my path, to which we exchanged similar noises (I’m not sure which of us was copying the other- I like to think that I was the trend setter here)and I gave him my fresh salmon.

The cat smelled it, bit it, took it and then ran away with many glances back with a look in its eyes that let out its sheer terror at the idea that I might possess the audacity to attempt to reclaim my own fresh salmon.

 I did have the audacity, audacity in spades, but I thought I’d leave it there in the hope that, at the next encounter, we might trade some more-conciliatory noises, as well as some more fresh fish.

If all of this hadn’t happened then I would be sad and with two less stories to tell.

Now, this man and this cat are not ‘the public’.

One is a cat, and the other is a ‘madman’.

Good.

Whereas being a cat is no longer an option (since you’ve been a human being for SO long now), the act of ‘madness’ is a viable choice for those that wish to know a little more about the world around them, by assuming there is more to know of a person than their job, address and make of car.

Acts of madness.

Living in a super-tribe of hundreds, thousands and millions, means that people are unable to persist with their natural instincts of knowing intimately every member of what should be your village-sized community of a few dozen people at most.

We can’t even do this at our places of work since too many people equates to too little communication. And that’s why people shoot other people they haven’t met yet.

Now, one may find oneself a niche group of people suited to their particular styles, outlooks and shared history (friends)- something that is increasingly easier with the routes of the internet, but I have a recommendation for dealing with this whilst without friends and away from a computer.

Make it…a little more…funky.

Talk and do. Ask questions to everybody and let them know about your day (but make it funny otherwise they’ll distinctly move further away).

Always help people that are next to you, whether they appear to need it or not. And now, knowing this, when offered help, or when a stranger to you seeks to be one no longer- embrace what they’re doing and be, as we all should, a little more funky.

By decimating the lack of communication bridges with a Golden Gate sized mother-fucker of a conversation starter, you will eliminate the public, and be introduced to a person.

Gather quickly their name and intentions, share yours too, and then make with speed to their destination and help lessen their load and increase the shared information.

This is essentially the best of the internet- without computers.

One can also use totem poles for this.

Carving in the phallus, or perhaps the now famous tree-graffiti symbol I espoused of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” should have the ultimate announcement of “SOMEONE’S HERE”. “And we’ve got totem poles”.

Find out more about this here: https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/

By sticking up this carved log from the Earth to the sky- you are sticking out the fact that you are here, not one of the public.

“No public here”.

These, and similar acts (meaning anything that the people that refer to us as ‘the public’ don’t expect), are methods by which to avoid becoming ‘the public’, and I recommend them.

Don’t fall into the kind of collectiveness that the term ‘the public’ refers to.

Instead, take part in another collectiveness- but make this one with which you walk down the street and get involved with people, safe in the knowledge that this person is no longer the public. They are now Steve, and Steve knows an excruciating amount about mushrooms, and soon you will too.

You can refer mushroom issues to your good buddy Steve now. Because you spoke.

Be interested and you will become interesting.

Eventually you might even be able to thrill yourself.

My totem pole is unquestionably going to be phallic, and that is the only kind of classiness that we all need.

My totem pole is classy.

How’s yours?

Sam