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.
I brought a large pink ruby donkey home with me from work the other day.
I’m telling you this because it’s looking at me right now.
Rather; it’s not looking at me, more so to the window and away from me. But it has an expression on it’s long, slapped-lobster- coloured-face as if to say: “I swear I wasn’t watching you! But I can if you want…”
This pink donkey’s beginning to have a presence in the house.
I keep finding it in rooms. Nothing creepy, aside from the Mrs (who’s mine by the way– all mine!) transporting him from room to room. And suddenly there he is; causing me to stop stirring my tea and wonderful half in my head, half spoken: “Why the fuck is he in here?”
Salvaged out of the bins of a nursery I work with, I’ve always has an appreciation for solid toys that don’t break easily.
Breaking easily is what I find to be the critical aspect of most things around and about me; prior to them being in pieces.
This large pink donkey however…this thing is Russia-proof.
The sort of toy that is immune to both knives and teasing. It’s probably emitting some noxious gas as I write this; some reliably-1970’s-gonna-get-ya product this.
Too solid rubber to be devastated; too mentally dense an expression on its face to absorb any kind of bullying as anything but pleasant comments about its complexion.
Lucky pink donkey.
I’m far too sensitive, you see; and that hurts to say.
Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from this donkey.
And maybe that’s a depressing fact; that I can learn a thing or two from a donkey.
Or, maybe again, it means I’ve reached a level so high I can only learn from inanimate objects. Sun Tsu, Marx and Shakespeare are all just a tad too easy these days; I need a good sturdy rubber donkey to keep me thinking about my diet.
Well…that was meant to simply be a sentence; and it turns out, upon closer recollection, that this is true.
I haven’t had a walk home like that since I was an obese baby.
Even the weather was improved; to the degree that my memories of it seems as though the golden sunlight was added later, but no – it was that glorious.
Smiles and laughter everywhere; with plenty of pointing – the good kind.
The good kind of pointing is polite, and you can tell how it is not just by the facial expression behind, but also because I reckon that finger’s a little floppy.
What would you rather have in your face; a sturdy index of a flaccid forefinger? Let alone a penetrating pinky?
Apparently a pink donkey’s what most folk want in their face; forget the pointing, good kind or bad.
Well; I got the polite kind, as well as so many smiles and warm expressions of: “Enormous pink donkey eh? Good for you; I can relate to that – It’s about time!”
More pink rubber donkeys for everyone.
This things has it’s very own sunshine and when it hits; you grin with the pinkish vitamin D you’re being beaten about the head with.
I got home that day and found myself improved.
I could learn from this donkey.
We’ve already bathed together; it went really well.
The train’s ticket conductor on the journey home and I had a charming liaison in which he wrote out a toy-ticket for the donkey.
How absolutely motherfucking charming!
I’m 27 and he was at least twice my age, and here we were both being jollied by a pink donkey.
This is an even more effective a way of meeting women than holding a baby.
You might be familiar with the way chaps can hold a baby as they meet women; holding it out in front of them as proof of procreating potency and niceness.
A fellow with a baby, strapped on to his chest like body armour, speaks to the world: “My penis is accomplished and I make up for that by being fatherly and mopping up the consequences and the consequences’ consequences.”
Those strap-on babies unnerve me, being as it seems like a make-shift “don’t shoot me” shirt.
You can’t lay a finger on that guy whilst he’s wearing one of those.
He’s immune to society touching him; law officials won’t risk the law suit, other men won’t risk the leaking baby, and the women want so desperately to get to know this sensitive chap with an accomplished willy.
Take all that; and this pink donkey trumps it all.
“Trumps it all” – damn.
Can’t we alter the terminology here?
Why not give Trump the word “Trump” and proceed to change our definition of it to a guy who has everything wrong with him – a bloke for whom money is working.
Money is evidently making Donald Trump all the more unhappy to the point that he is engaging in political warfare with the most vital nation on Earth because his daddy never loved him.
He’s a fellow with such a huge bill for sating his appetite that he’s going to make Mexico pay for it.
I have a tremendously unsubstantiated feeling that Donald Trump is looking forward to diplomacy in China because their coins have ickle-wickle holes in and he yearns to get that Yen home and start fucking the dignified history out of it.
That hole-in-the-arse/pain-in-the-arse/Donald-Trump is apparently in need of a large rubber pink donkey prescription.
If it worked for me; it can work for Trump!
I’ve just realised that Donald Trump would, without hesitation, strap a baby to himself to avoid being assassinated. I hope, should his assassination come about, it’s in a child-free area; though I feel children tend to avoid him anyway.
Kids are like dogs.
They don’t like arseholes.
And they love giant pink donkeys.
Me too; for all the three above.
See you tomorrow,
It’s all in the shoulders.
Every last bit.
And I can’t stop.
My shoulders are so gallant; I can’t help but ferry a woman over a gender-barricading obstacle upon mere sight.
I carried so many woman down 12 flights of stairs recently that I had to buy new shoes.
It’s all in the shoulders.
And I can’t get it out.
The cost of shoes is one expense to cause my wallet to shrivel in fear; yet this is merely loose change compared to my outgoings in the cost of capes.
My capes; my capes.
Once the talk of the town and vocality of the locality.
Now they either wait for me patiently as hostages in my dry cleaners till payment matters are met, or they lay drowned in an irrelevant pool I could not bear for a good and find lady to dare dirty her soles within.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Not in the slightest bit in the swing.
My hopes that my swooping swing of a really rather dashing glove my give cause to the insulter of my latest and sudden beloved suffer an embarrassed cheek, rather than myself to suffer from one hand gloved and another gripping once-pleasing remnants.
My glove bill brings tears to my eyes and drool to my tailor’s chin.
I must work more on my swing, less on my shoulders.
But one cannot bear a weight in one’s swing.
Only cause a whooshing sound.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Rather than lifting; I think I’ll take up dropping.
I’ve had a fair few hot meals and I’ve had a fair few collisions with brick walls.
All there was left to do following both of these activities (because I do spend my time doing these sorts of things) was to be complimented on how I went about them.
And I am complimented about them.
I am complimented a lot.
I fucking adore compliments.
I’ve been told I’m a natural at receiving them.
False modesty should dwindle down in the English South Downs and die like a dog in the sun-like warmth emanating from the confident folk of Brighton town; self-assured in their assertions and plentiful in immoderate compliments to their kin.
As I spoke of earlier, I’ve ravaged some hot meals and brick walls in my meandering stroll across the surface of where we are and here are some of the crackers which really got my chin up and penis likewise.
“But you look like a muscular piano!”
I mention this as a primary for the list as it speaks eternal fact.
I do look like only a master craftsman could create me whilst also appearing as though I’m as natural as a waterfall in the nude.
I am aware that I look just swell with a dinner-gowned femme-most-fatale lying across my broad LID as though all she wants to do is clamber inside but it was my idea first and so I’m going in.
Finally, it is true…sweet woman.
There is a shade to my hair which suggests that I can produce the most transcendent odes to love and joy the species can conjure, but for some reason, some handsome reason, I’m going to have to do it with my shirt torn across the chest to a degree that women from all eras of time, from Cavewoman to Victorian, peasant to hipster, all wilt at the sight of me and focus on the way I heave a concerto out into the public domain.
Sure, I heave concertos and I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not certain as to where I’m heaving it from, nor am I aware as to why heaving it is necessary at all…but I know for sure it gets me compliments.
I look like a muscular piano and I’m damn proud of that.
“Sam. Your hair looks like George Orwell!”
Thank you again for bringing it up as you did.
My main issue with this compliment is that people might assume it’s just an attempt by those admirers of mine to fling some political concrete into the waviness of my shy but not-without-confidence hair.
And there’s no need for that.
My hair is a revelation to our current dystopian society in that it rings true all the way from the scalp to the not-too-distant future; don’t eat each other.
I have a feeling that this needs to be made clear and of course I am inspired by my hair to do so.
People know this about me as much as they know this about themselves; they are inspired by my barnet and the prose it seems to produce…somehow.
Perched atop my head there is a hair-do of substantial flourish; there is no chance that this hair is going to die by any manner other than by waterfall (however naturally nude) or God.
Tweed suits my hair, as does strong tobacco and English furniture. Indeed – all suits my hair, aside from waterfalls and God as they will be the undoing of it and make it a prerequisite for things going south sourly.
I just wish they wouldn’t get involved, but they are insistent.
That’s not the Jehovah God by the way, I’m talking of course about Poseidon – undoubtedly the wettest God ever devised.
This is why he gets together with a waterfall to undo my hair’s natural Orwellian nature; because when one wet thing meets another they generally equate to an unwelcome dryness unbecoming of a young contrarian such as I. Not that I’d agree with such a statement.
The encounters I’ve had with waterfalls and wet Gods have driven my locks to scribble, most devoutly, visions of a mean future without hope of my hair staying un-frizzed by the lashings of moisture unwelcome.
Why must they have so much to do with hidden chests and booty? Why must the fairest of maidens, all welcomingly wet to the ideal moistness of female, be so nearby to them?
I find this all most uncomplimentary, but at least people say my hair looks like George Orwell.
“For someone who’s not a father – I sure want a masculine fuck from you.”
I fuck like my cum is the cure.
And apparently the locals of my locale are hyper aware of this, resulting in a hell of a long night and a multiple increase of things done down by the fire.
I like the fire – it dries my hair out. Plus my sleek pubic region.
My pubic hair is the only hair which doesn’t look like George Orwell – it gives no heed of a brave warm stare into the cold and brutal future.
Indeed, I believe it was Orwell who spoke: “Now you look here, future. If you try to ban my orgasm…I’m going to enjoy it.”
And he was right. So correct my hair could have said it.
Not my pubic hair however – as I’ve said.
Should my pubic hair speak; it’d likely just compliment me and tell me a tale about “Oh the things I’ve seen,” in which crabs are a mortal enemy.
Maybe it’s the way I wear my jumper and get out of chairs with a slight grunt these days that makes the rest of the species wish to go about procreating with the father-figure I am.
Perhaps it’s the manner in which I exude a natural air of “THIS IS MY FUCKING TREE WITH MY FUCKING PEACHES IN IT! SO TAKE YOUR WATERFALL AND TRIDENT AND GET A LIFE, NERD!” which makes the girls (Oh the girls) land on me, as well as, regrettably, the heftier half of the species.
I find myself climbed by the females of local.
They play with my hair and learn harsh lessons from it, whilst also gliding their hands over my muscular-piano-like frame and whispering sweet everythings in my ear.
I’ve perpetually preferred sweet everythings to their counterparts as I like to feel a little more constructive in my flirtations…not that I flirt anymore.
Flirting is for the brave…and I am not brave.
I am merely victorious. That’s all.
I enter bars with my shoes nowhere to be seen and nothing but a lance over my shoulder and a flute in my breast pocket.
Women love a breast pocket in use. And a lance heavily shouldered.
I then take a knee and roar at the sky something seemingly transient yet unyielding and eternally virtuous like: “AAAARRRRGGGHHH” or perhaps even: “EVERYONE – YOU’RE ALL LOOKING SWELL THIS EVENING” before collapsing with such romanticism that a man could never lift me owing to my weighty legs (“It’s as though his bones are made of gold!”) whilst a woman would most certainly rouse me by a sheer touching of my cheek.
I only really wake up these days if a maiden caresses my cheek – all other forms of rising are without any fair form of competition. Nothing compares with a nice bit of cheek caressing first thing, before my coffee and target practise in the owlery (they don’t expect a thing).
My coffee is ground by knuckle by the way. I beat the shit out of what I eat. I also only eat the male of the species; even the coffee bean, as a matter of sheer masculinity.
And the women love that.
All I know is that owing to a combination of my Orwellian hair and muscular piano-like build; I get complimented.
And I love compliments.
That’s why I’ve just paid myself plenty.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you. What a compliment.
A Superior Ego and Excellent Posture.
I want to start with my ego.
It’s better than yours.
Your ego gives you just about enough presence of thought to enable you to become really skilled at watching YouTube videos, with a distinct knowledge of how to increase your arse breadth.
Whereas myself (Who? Me?); I’ve been working on my ego.
My ego has brought me to a point in my life in which I feel comfortable enough to say that I am the greatest human to ever live. And that took some effort to say. Not that you need to congratulate me since I’ll just be assuming you are anyway (I assume the clamour of my glamour).
I like to enter rooms.
And sometimes, once inside, I’ll just wait for the applause to wash over me like a shower of appreciative spit. Warm and running down to dampen my socks, that’s how I like my applause.
And although I may be waiting for what might never come, it is the being prepared to wait that matters. And enjoying waiters manoeuvre around me as I bow with arms outstretched.
When I get to the bank, I hand over a pound and whisper loud enough for the camera to hear: “Don’t mention it. Get yourself something nice. I want you to look good for me” to the teller.
It doesn’t matter if they’re male or otherwise; my ego’s too flawless to consider people beyond their haircuts.
Their genitals; that’s their business. Their genitals may remain in the bank, for I will purely take note of the hair-doo and wardrobe.
Their attire, depending on the mood of the moment; that might well become mine.
And the same goes for their lunch.
I don’t need to pay you for your lunch; I gave a pound to the bank.
That’s my economy.
It’ll work its way back to you if that pound hasn’t already become enshrined with a very bamboo-themed décor.
By the way, I’m not suggesting you’d want compensation because I stole your lunch – I wouldn’t steal your lunch; I’d accept it as an offering, like a lamb to the slaughter only I want the wool for a bedsheet too.
Also, I wouldn’t steal a lunch. I’d steal banquet. Because I know how to handle a sack of swag and I’m sure I could fill it and manoeuvre it as though it were a bag o’ feathers as opposed to a sack o’ peacock gooches.
I’d could go on about my ego, but it’s too broad a topic for me focus my whole attention span onto for more than a couple of minutes, so I’ll just finalise the ego-section by declaring how appropriate my face would be to adorn currency.
People would get into debates and haggles when one will then mention: “Well I have Sam’s face” and the other will have my face too and they shall both agree they have encountered a glorious impasse and surely they must retire to an early bed.
Because my face is like looking at the sun for too long.
It can fuck up your reading.
I’d apologise…but I am not going to apologise.
Who’d want to read when the option of staring at my visage is still entirely viable? Even following those minutes you spent improving your vocabulary, wasting of your time when you could have been learning a thing far greater from my face alone; that there is no God.
There is no God. Here I am.
I am not God. There you are.
So let’s move onto posture shall we?
I’m followed by an audience of my posture like a Pide Piper of Hamlin because my posture is mightily followable.
Can I see over that tall hedge to gaze at the predators coming our way (not that I’m worried. For me, predators are a food-group and that’s why I’m laughing when I see them. Not that you’d know)? No. But the hedge were slightly shorter than myself – I’d be able to see right over it owing to my miraculous height. And why am I this tall? Because of my posture, baby.
Tailors crave me, and I let them crave me. They want me and my posture for their craft and I deny them because it’s too amusing to be pursued by a tailor.
They’re as flappy and as floppy as you’d expect.
And so am I; here’s why.
I was once told by a good friend of mine that there is nothing wrong with taking yourself too seriously.
So every other day when I feel the need to bump myself right in the confidence I take myself too seriously so as to remind myself that my ego’s better than yours and how my posture is worth shouting about.
When I say “shout” – I do mean literally.
I do everything literally.
I take the bull by the horns because I want to take the bull and the horns were right there, being horny and graspable…like me.
I find myself getting grasped perpetually in the park, mainly getting grasped in the posture.
It’s awesome; posture affirming.
Did wonders for my ego and I didn’t even need it.
I’m am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Next time on I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live: Romance and my smile.
Oh my! I’ll see you then.
(P.S. Am I going to proofread this? No! I save proofreading for articles less perfect).
I’m a man.
So, you want to learn how to be a tough guy like me? Sure I’m a tough guy – you can tell by the way I’m not immediately contradicted on that statement.
Well, to begin with…violence, oh dear me, violence.
Violence is like a flower…which you do to people…or have happen to you…with a flower.
It got less flowery as I thought about it, yet still the point remains; violence.
Imagine a fist blossoming onto you. There’s the floweriness, and other than that you really just have to feel it before you start cramming similes all hither and thither.
Ultimately, avoid the sweet fuck out of violence seeing as how you never know what someone might be carrying.
Like a cat. And heavens help you if the guy’s got enough room to swing it.
Let just get stuck in with the violent advice.
See what you have to do, it’s all in the walk.
You just walk straight up to him. And then as through him as you can. Just keep going, foot first into his face first and see if you can cross the line of a fair fight together.
If wearing one, shoe his features – though one may wish to go all apey at the prospect of acquiring all the females or make for certain these several square feet of territory are undoubtedly yours, in which case go shoeless.
It’s about footwork so make your foot work. For the other fellow, it’s all about facework, and he’s doing wonderfully at it, if somewhat defensively.
Footwork. Stride into their face at an amusing angle people will talk about when their old and whilst the guy with a size 11 sole print along the centre of his face sits, purposefully hooded because of his rebirth mark (baptised by eloquent thuggery of foot), and stirs his drink, bitter, because you walked into his face and you were the good guy.
Not only did he deserve to have his face thoroughly footed, but you deserved to be the one to kick that face and dance about it afterwards. That day should be celebrated annually. The day that face first and best foot first came together, like a romance of non-genital body parts.
That’s another vital point…
Assume a Moral Victory
Make losing a fight work for you…stand up for the little guy, or at least prior to your imminent collision with a flurry of fists, and scream aloud: “DAMMIT MICHAEL THEY WERE ONLY PYGMIES!”
This way the people local to your punch-up will overhear your monologue and either leap to your aid or speak well of you afterwards. Possibly also during (“See that bruised guy over there? The guy with the bouncy head? He’s great…stands up for pygmies…real trooper.”)
In the same vein, don’t hit a woman, unless you need to hit a woman, in which case be sure others witnessed how psychopathic she was conducting herself prior to you launching a new means of distancing yourself from someone so intimately (punch her in the nose publicly).
Also, don’t pull her hair. Instead, it’s likely best to flee, which is a surprisingly hilarious manner of departing from the threat of annihilation (I’ll get into this momentarily) and other than that – phone the police, an ambulance and the regional mental healthcare services because when they find out you’re the one who fled in fear of the other’s sheer force of personality; you’re safe as houses.
A ‘Fair Fight’
What many people don’t realise is that a ‘fair fight’ refers to how attractive a fight is. Similar to the archetypal manner of referring to damsels or princesses – she was fair and meek, just as a good woman isn’t.
Now obviously you’re not going to carry a weapon because that route leads to jail and a heartbroken mother, but you sure can carry a distraction.
Back to the cat…(this is why I warned you).
Lob the cat into the midst of a group of people making you feel uncomfortable and you shall see how comfortableness may be yours once more. Wear that cat well. Make ‘em dance.
And whilst the cat preys upon the shins, ankles and footwear of your numerous opponents, you can finish your novel because time is suddenly oh so splendidly upon your side once more. Plus, you have a back-up cat anyway, ready for flinging.
In case any animal rights activists are reading this; don’t worry. Just don’t worry. There we go.
Also, I don’t know or care where you keep your vial of dust, but at least carry one, perhaps in an attaché so you can interrupt your battle most pitch and say “Whoah there Honey, let me just get what I got”, bite out the cork and spit it out to the side (or as I prefer to denote my masculine diet; swallow it), pour some of that dust into your hand and apply liberally about his nostrils, eyes and airways like a hippy would if he realised he was grasping a handful of real seeds…or believable contraceptives.
It’s not foul play, because we were nice guys before that, but then we had that unpleasant collision of body parts and now we’ve involved dust.
Also, don’t suggest your opponent “Bite the dust” as that really seems like a lively thing to do. The sort of thing you do when you’re young, hungry and about to prove that you will actually bite dust for some reason.
The aside benefit of dust over sand (which is technically sea shells — which is ALMOST a necklace — which is ALMOST a nice present and you’re meant to be cunning…not considerate of their likely having a sour day starting with breakfast being shat on by the neighbour who really hates toast and him having it so you present him with a delicate gift) is that it is made up of skin.
Which comes from people.
Which means that what you’re holding in your hand there is in reality approximately 1000 large apey things called people, and they’re on your side and in your palm and soon about to be considerately delivered jazz hands-wise to the parts of him that most often require tissues (eyes or dick-hole; you don’t want a dusty dick-hole to the degree that I don’t know why – just don’t have a dusty dick-hole.).
Apart from the end of his bell, which you must try to work around seeing as how that area is essentially only for when things get personal and so far, oh brother, you have no idea how formally I’m carrying myself in this duel to the death. I say “duel to the death”, maybe just till mild fatigue…or distraction…or somehow falling in love, in which case we are now on personal grounds and therefore- get dick busy partner, because I’ve got a vial and now it time to apply liberally all over my now-sexual opponent.
Once applied, step in for a little skull percussion.
Step in, move suddenly and in a way people will remember but not talk about again because it’s traumatic, and then…break his heart. You brute.
I always say one should have a phrase (https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/04/23/nice-guy-with-a-nuke/) and times such as this, when tempers are heated, passions are high and fists are fisting (negative or positive – choice is yours depending on your thoughts at the time of fisting. Be sure to let me know), are identical to all others aside from now; we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.
Here’s a cracker (whilst peering over their shoulder and with an expression of “I’m genuinely looking at something which you should too!”):
“Well in my rude opinion…Is? Is that baby eating heroin?”
He turns to take part in the glancing at the baby eating heroin, in which case you be the bigger man and find a smaller one impress yourself upon (I recommend by fleeing from him too. Remember; “we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.”).
Also, embrace the fellow for the panic-stricken, hurting deep-down, trying-to-be-masculine-in-public, oh-I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-it’s-making-me-change-colour, kind-of-a bloke his is right then and there.
Cuddle the cunt.
Now I’m not, as it turns out, much of a noted technician of any form of wrestling or Brazilian Ju Jitsu, but from what I can tell; if you climb your way up him until his limbs have no place to be other than hugging you in return then we’re having a successful evening.
Do Not Let Go.
Laugh About It
Make jokes constantly.
Don’t let up with the zingers.
The only thing you need derive humour from is his attempts at starting a fight. Mock his punches and wittily critique his tough guy stare. That will ruin his night more than any swift kick to the knackery-noos.
Especially if you’re getting beaten.
If you have your face in another man’s hands and he’s grinding against something displeasing to you, mock his efforts disdainfully and the fight is over. Your bleeding might not be, but the battle is.
Plus everyone loves a comedian, particularly one with such a rough crowd as the one literally beating the shit out of him.
Be a Lover, Not a Fighter
Be the gentleman.
Be the poet.
Be the victor.
When the moment of violence is imminent, remind all in the vicinity that you are a lover, not a fighter…and so proceed to do your utmost to become romantically engaged with this man as completely and committedly as one should be in these situations. Kiss him.
Kiss him, only when he is attacking you and later claim you misread the conflicting signals he was giving off and you were only trying to help him out.
No mercy; buy him a drink and offer him your twinkling eyes, you hapless romantic you.
DO NOT BE THE RECIEVER OF LOVE from the man, but certainly the dominate the romantic back and forth you’re both currently undergoing.
Once more; only do this if you’re being attacked, otherwise we’re getting rape-based in our tactics and that’s a bad tactic, sir.
Pardon Me If I Conclude
End, no matter in what circumstance or in what state of physical wellbeing, with a phrase.
Have your phrase ready for blowing the walls out of the place and bringing the ceiling down.
What that might be? It’s yours to conclude. I have my own, and it is my own. Get your own, sir.
All violence aside – don’t get into fights and give happiness and curiosity to others and you shall in turn receive likewise.
Therein lies a future promising and a past pleasing.
It’s good to have a phrase. And this one’s mine.
I was thinking about the state of the planet and I concluded that the best means to go about saving it would be to place its inevitable destruction in the hands of someone profoundly pleasant – like me, baby.
Not that our negatives outweigh anything much at all, let alone our positives, but at least I came out of the thought process with a phrase to my name.
The scenario would go as such:
“Hey – you guys with the demolition equipment, and you fellows over there with the sticks and stones, and you gentle-folk with the vast amounts of crude oil running down your suit. Stop it. Stop it or I’ll melt you. Stop it before things get awfully radioactive around here. Stop it, because I’m a nice guy with a nuke…and one hell of a phrase.”
‘Nice guy with a nuke and one hell of a phrase’.
I’ve come out with a fair few number of these – as I’ve said before; I was born to write T-shirts.
Should the world begin to spin a new axis and send us whirling off into a grand and beautiful playground of planets – I’ll have the perfect T-shirt phrase for you.
Something like: “The Earth flung me into space and…it’s not too bad actually.”
I would wear the shit out of literature like that.
I’d blend in with all the super-cool inter-stella types who feel the planet’s disassociation with them was a good move.
Sometimes all you need is something to say.
Here’s an example.
I’ve begun to annotate Gideons bible, wherever he leaves it.
Having stayed in multiple hotels recently, I’ve found the few blank pages by the final cover to be too tempting to leave looking so pale. So I’ve taken to inking them up a tad.
Largely, the text has revolved around why one feeling the need to reach for a bible might first consider being waylaid by my words – words which suggest a little self-help.
I’ve gone about it in points. 7 points made to waylay the reader seeking some sort of prophetical depth and meaning from a book famed for causing perpetually self-flagellation/immolation/canonisation and instead offer them some means of self-help largely focusing on gratitude of being a species member easily able to flood one’s own being with endorphins.
That this is possible is reason to be cheery enough, even before we indulge in our sexually explicit, intellectually stunning, physical-adrenaline seeking brethren of folk intent on having a good time seeing as how we’ve all discovered how great clothes are and why it’s so jolly to remove them.
This is the sort of thing I write in the bible; I recommend you flip to the back.
On the subject of religion, I had a thought or two more about what I would like to return as.
Not in any sense of reincarnation, but rather to what purpose I would like my overly willing body to be charitably donated to following my grizzly passing (if my passing isn’t grizzly then I’m not entirely sure what the point of being there for it is at all).
Death by most means seems applicable to me. Likely suicide since it yields a tremendous degree of satisfaction drawn along with the identity of ‘my way’ and ‘on my terms’. I prefer the far more teenage phrasing of it, being: “it’s my life. I do what I want with it.”.
However, as amusing as possible would perhaps be the most communally-minded a way of departing our way to “dusty death”, particularly if able to spread myself over an enormous surface area and knock seagulls out of the sky and wake the dog up.
I’d quite like to explode.
Hot air balloons seem most appropriate for this.
So appropriate I’d put it on a T-shirt; “How do I want to die? Hot air balloon.”
Still – there is the question of what becomes of my leavings.
I like the idea of my dick being held in a trophy case by an enthusiast. Blue Peter badge holders only have access, must be this high and over 18 to ride.
Otherwise, I think I’d make a great bow and arrow.
I’d be a better bow and arrow than you.
I’ve often described myself as just sinewy and bendy enough to be deadly unto game at 18 yards. That’d be a heck of a thing to be considered my remains. Plus I’m an uncle and I like the idea of my niece being able to say she killed an elk using her uncle. I’d like that; it’s good to be useful.
Or a wallet. It’s also good to be a wallet. I like the idea of all my tattoos being flayed from what once was all I physically was and then being made into nice purse for a special gal in what was my life. That ball bag of mine would be perfect for this. Quite an inheritance.
Or a candlestick. This way I could still attend family weddings since I’d be part of the wedding gift list.
Now then, now then. There’s no masochistic tendencies being written about here – rather a sincere query into what’ll happen in the most final of moments. I’m not overly keen to experience the sensation of being pulled and twisted into the candlestick design drawn by a family member, but if I’m on the way out I might as well make it memorable. I’d be a candlestick who had seen a thing or two. Getting lit.
People at the wedding would bicker and quarrel and would lament how the wallet made of their mother and the pew made from Uncle Hugh (“He did love his rhymes!”) are better than one another – citing history regarding why the cousin-made mantelpiece and sister-made skirt never liked each other anyway.
And then I’d stroll in, nuke in hand and phrase on tongue – about to indulge in a large surface area following a suspiciously nukey bang.
I’ve been thinking for a while of my time lately that what I need to get myself going would be the threat of nuclear annihilation.
It’d get me out of bed. And into the meadow.
Just look at the breadth of creativity born from people believing the looming green glow of the most horrible afterwards was perpetually at a 2 minutes to midnight proximity to the end of their lives in the 1980’s.
We could do with that.
Just imagine the haircuts we’d have.
If the common man thought tomorrow’s weather was going to be particularly murderous for the skin then he might go about his next pre-nuke hair-styling with the mantra of: “More dolphins. More pinstripes. More tooth-trophies. These have been missing from my hair thus far.” and then we’d stare at him and enjoy his head.
The liberation is head-bound. We’d be buoyant because what we do to our upstairs growth is going to be somewhat without consequence…and with dolphins.
I could offer you access to the mentality to inspire a hair-do such as this. Just give me the nuclear key to turn, and then help me with my fragile wrists (I’m flawed when it comes to twisting things).
Knowing that somewhere out there there’s a pleasant man with a nice (NICE!) smile who might lean to the East a tad too, oh so too much and nudge two things: (1) a bulbous button into action and (2) you…into either oblivion or next Thursday.
Naturally one argues against this point that this imminent reality is a real reality and we should take inspiration from the probability of a vehicle’s rapid insertion of itself (via a driver) into your physical frame of somewhat-now irrelevant bones and meat (at which point you went from a pedestrian to a mess in a horrific neatness of time) into several poorly compiled heaps of person. People being described as heaps always equates to things having turned sour on a level great enough to be mentioned.
My response to this is as such: yep, but knowing everyone else is going to die will treat you to a level of comfort in how you wear your hair which you cannot be granted by merely being struck by the typical example of speeding driven metal. You lazy fuck – get thee to a nunnery and prepare for the heavy bomb full of nukey-goodness.
Having one more day of neighbours will grant you a piece of peace one can only achieve otherwise by spending a plentiful amount of your time attempting to realise that not only are you going to rot – but you’re going to start before you even die.
So let down your hair (and your parents), find yourself a phrase to your name, and prepare thyself for the dropping of bombs by a man so pleasant you’re going to wish you’d gotten him a going-away gift before the day’s sky began to quickly darken.
Oh well, at least we had the haircuts.
You’ve been great,
Once I was afraid – I was petrified.
So I armed myself and although the fear is still painfully real – at least I can express it with a bang so loud you can smell it.
“Baseball bats” is undoubtedly my favourite quote for a South African to say.
And that’s not the end of my opinion of baseball bats (oh brother – brace yourself).
You see, for a long time, as I mentioned earlier, I have had a distinct fear in my life of being eaten.
For me, the food chain is still very real and skin-splittingly apparent, though I may adjust to this fear better than other owing to being a cannibal.
Of course, I’m not about to eat someone any minute these days…but…should the bombs begin to drop and the lights start to flicker and the SPAM not make it to the shelves I rely on so heavily to find grub upon – you’re a gonna and I’m starting with your toes because even in times like these I still believe in the entrée.
Perhaps a tad off course from my original intent of direction, but I am glad to be rid of the burden of secret cannibalism and the fact that I’d start with your feet.
In a daring return to my original path, I may as well incorporate my cannibalism into my love of the great stick known as the baseball bat.
So, with anarchy rising out the window, and the window being full of other predators attempting to get in and chew (us)…I see two options.
- Lift my baseball bat from its snug bedding beneath the bed and wrap it thoroughly about the skulls, brains and all other neck-up interior sundry of the invading bears/lions/wolves whilst allowing you a fair few minutes to make the best use of either my turned back or the door.
- Retrieve the baseball bat from its nether-bed slumber and go about tenderising you in the hope of a satisfying last meal for a least something if not me. As for the intruding beasts of slaughter; close the window and ignore them viciously.
From the two options there you may have taken note of the reality inflicted upon both scenarios; the present presence of a baseball bat.
The baseball bat – the evolved stick that grew a handle and a capacity to devastate the nearby environment as best we can with either a pleasant or beastly temper…and thumbs.
Our thumbs have been utilised most completely, I feel, in their ability to grip a stick close to heart (of us), near to brain (of dinner) and right into the middle of something curious we’ve happened upon and are now righteously prodding as only our species knows how.
I have intentions, sweet friends, of bringing about a return of the walking stick known best as the staff.
Find a fault in the plan for me. Please.
Naturally, make them discardable, in that when the primal urge to inflict our thumbs into a scenario currently happening to us (or ‘us’ happening to a scenario) we may abandon our weighty-wood and proceed either high-tree bound or deep sea swam.
They would be tremendous as an additional weight to increase applicable strength in the arms, core, back and legs. This is therefore a health benefit although naturally it will somehow be a carcinogenic of some variety…because it’s a thing…and things give you cancer.
It would be decorative and can be added to by the owner of by trusted buddies of whom you are pleased to see them whittling your possessions – rarely do you receive this opportunity so embrace with all the hands you have.
A near-lost martial art of stick/staff fighting would return to the lonely fields of dueldom, wherein battles would largely end owing to bashed knuckles being a jolly-good cause for sportingly abandoning the day and instead seeking an alliance with your newly-made knuckle-basher pal.
You could pole-vault to meetings.
When you’d need a stick, you’d have one and this is likely the greatest reason for the invention yet. Having what you need; epitome of success of comfort.
And finally – I can get my chiselling-graffiti business on the up and up and further; bringing about a polite amount of affluence and thereby bring about…a brand new, super cool baseball bat.
And I’d even let you have a go on it.
I feel we’ve travelled far from the stick being a thing merely held, to the item of primal delight I now see it as, following a sincere and loving revert to our more ape-ish ways.
Now we have a grip around one end and I enjoy smashing the shit out of fresh fruit with it.
I believe I am doing things precisely as I should be, with a comforting baseball bat in hand and a grin held firmly between my nose and chin.
As for the true evolution; it is thus.
Once we prodded with sticks, and now we do it again.
You might have heard of it?
The Simpsons is regarded by many to be the premier of comedic writing- the kind that could mix intelligence and silliness, darkness and hope, satire and sheer comic hilarity; all in beautiful yellow.
However, The Simpsons is alright becoming a name synonymous with a subject being past its prime and absurdly so.
Unfortunately for The Simpsons, this prime was supreme and the fall was slow, with an impact that is still yet to come and is longed for by fans the world-over.
There are a variety of reasons by which this decline in writing quality came about.
Wackiness. Wackiness kills me.
In The Simpsons of late, the wackiness goes on too long and is rather, in all actuality, rude. To keep a single joke going for the best part of a minute is for the writing to insist upon itself, as well as insisting on viewer either encountering humour or uncomfortableness. It is as though the writers are aggressive in their stance on this- you will either laugh or you have to wait for this private joke of theirs to end.
There is also a trend of breaking the 4th wall for humour’s sake. This occurs too often with sadly no humorous payoff and tends to be facilitated by the modern show’s biggest failing- the grating change of beloved characters so as to drive a change of the show’s current direction; wackiness.
Here’s the awfulness of the situation for me: Bart and Lisa saying, feeling and doing things that children simply wouldn’t do.
It sucks, and that’s a cheap criticism from me, but that’s because it sucks.
I do have a suggestion for all those involved in both watching and writing The Simpsons.
I’ll start with the writers and it’s likely that they’re suffering the most out of this ordeal.
I truly feel that the current writers of The Simpsons are a talented bunch, particularly with the modern style of writing (a focus on randomness and cheekiness) and the fact that writing an episode of anything is no simple task. Not only that but also they have been hired by The Simpsons to write The Simpsons- a compliment comedy writers dream of.
Therein lies the problem. Writing for The Simpsons is such an enormous goal achieved that it must seem impossible to walk away- to the same degree that executives at Fox would find it impossible to abandon such a money-maker.
Who wouldn’t want to write for The Simpsons’? It is perhaps the greatest television show of all time and is certainly a towering pinnacle of quality writing up to series 9- what writer wouldn’t expect great things to follow once they are part of The Simpsons’ writing staff? You’d be working for your heroes. Only, your heroes are now long gone and you are bewilderingly trying to improve and modernise the Mona Lisa.
I understand that modernisation is necessary to keeping something fresh and enjoyable, and perhaps The Simpsons could have used well such a reboot, but in this case the process of modernisation has clearly floundered and failed. Not to mention that the show did encounter a reboot in so far as writing and style went; it was this reboot that made it of the quality that it was.
However, for The Simpsons to thrive in regard by critics (you and I)- it must die and be only remembered as far as the quality went.
The writer’s attempts at humour and plot need their own show with different characters, instead of taking a show and characters in which people are lovingly invested and forcing changes in their direction and charm.
It is unpleasant to take these established characters and alter them for the purposes of their own plots, at least in as far as the quality of the show went. It was great for the show to change Homer over time and to portray him a little more dopey and tad more nutty, but this personality change only exaggerated the point that he was kind, loving, and adorably incompetent at all else. Recently, the changes of character have been to engage plot-loops, rather than the audience.
Other than that, the humour sadly is sub-par and that is the final fault- regardless of The Simpsons’ format being used and abused. I have no advice for this- just move on with your writing career and practise…maybe read some books.
Ultimately though, the writers are selling themselves short by writing for The Simpsons. They are never going to match the class and innovation of humour- all intelligent, silly and touching, that The Simpsons writers up to series 9 were producing, using a much later and soiled product. We have here some young writers, attempting their own modern humour and innovation of plot, who are being consistently shot-down by every critic owing largely to them working on The Simpsons’ format.
Certainly The Simpsons’ should have died over a decade ago- likely with a finale viewed by the most of the world in possession of a television, but as much as that affords you in artistic merit (e.g. Breaking Bad), it doesn’t bring in the assured pennies. The Simpsons- a most regrettable Cash-Cow.
I feel a great deal sorry for the current Simpsons writers- I’m sure they’re trying to maintain quality and loved the show as much as we all did. But it’s not often I recommend someone to flee but I do so now to The Simpsons’ writers with a hope that they can bugger off and succeed with their own product. I’d look forward to watching it.
My advice to those that miss The Simpsons’ for what it was is as follows: watch up to series 9 only, and the never, EVER, watch even one single episode of the latest seasons. To not watch it to remove their audience, and with no audience there is no money and without the money that The Simpsons’ perpetually assured simply via name: The Simpsons’ shall finally die and belong only to its past and lovers- you and me.
The Simpsons’ from series 1-8 is a pedigree of what people like me want to do to you: make you laugh, make you admire, listen and feel touched by characters and plots that can honestly alter one’s perception of oneself and how we seek to continue. Mostly laugh.
What we must not forget that for as long as The Simpsons’ was distressing us past-quality, it was still bloody good for an awfully long time- 8 years. For 8 years it was what it was and we should not only be grateful for the good times, but also bask in them.
Still; always a fan.