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.
The Greatest Human to Ever Live
(Part 4. Make it a Brunch With Moi, Sister)
I am the greatest human to ever live.
Especially when the competition has such an admirable ‘keep-at-it’ attitude towards eliminating one another.
I can’t deny the embarrassment I suffer in acknowledgement that it’s all because they’re trying to impress me.
And it does.
Take a look at the budget they use on warfare.
Ahh fuck it.
Fuck this warfare wile-away-the-moment topic whilst instead I could take you firmly by the ears (if you were in the room with me. And had ears. I apologise if you don’t. Wait…no I don’t. Why the fuck should I apologise for your lack of ears?) and blow the contents of the following subject down your ear canal.
Brunch with me is transcendent.
Soon it’ll be a reward for curing only the most high-profile of diseases. The lady who cures missing limbs by replacing it with something more powerful; like a kangaroo.
(“Well, I sure do miss my foot, got a kangaroo on the end of my leg there now. It’s company but kind of fucks up my driving something awful and bouncy.”)
That lady…she can brunch with me.
Brunch with me with will turn any commie. I’ll have them being intimate with a fist full of dollars by the end of it.
Had I brunched in the Cold War there would have been moments with men in dark rooms sitting around cold metal tables with a sloped-shouldered American offering a whole mouthful of: “You know we’ve got brunch with Sam. So get the fuck out of Korea.”
And I’m fine for that to happen; I don’t like Korean communists anyway; they’re ridiculous and have too many statues.
Don’t forget that life imitates art.
Do you want to be marble?
Of course you do, marble like me baby, but I’ll bet a couple of my own feet that that you aren’t looking to suddenly become granite in any way but metaphorical, are you?
No, because you hate Korean communists too, plus they have a silly march.
Plus your silly march is sillier and you deserve some recognition for that but until North Korea falls you’re going to have to restrict your silly march to your own private corridor.
You see, when you’re having brunch with me you feel the gratitude of fortune to have gone to have endured such a classical education that forbade your jaw from dropping, which is prone to happening when you see what I’m about to do with the oatmeal on my foot.
I’m cheeky with the oatmeal, but I use the syrup as though I was bred for it.
You can smell the discipline I emit; albeit tinged by the syrup jug’s wafts.
No good thing is tinged; I expect it’s the connotations of sounding like minge. And that’s a vagina.
And vaginas (at their worst) are the pits; literally.
And penises (at their best) are the tits; metaphorically.
And tits are neither; technically.
All go well when impacting on the brunch counter. All body parts are welcome here; except kangaroos (“fucking up my brunch-bar as though they don’t even know what it’s for! That’s not how you hop on a breakfast bar!”)
If you haven’t been able to deduce to this point by now, I am dunking my body parts in the brunch and, in many ways (many happy, noble ways), am dunking brunch in my body parts.
And here’s why.
Breakfast is stifling – I dislike necessity, particularly regarding phrases such as “well-balanced” and “cornerstone”. Those terms should leave me alone otherwise I might retaliate; somehow. I prefer to be dominant regarding my tummy.
Lunch is redundant; you should be busier.
I pride myself on being too hectic for a sandwich.
Too noteworthy for salad.
Too inevitably going up and down in history as a sweetheart with a tendency to be photographed in chrome for liver.
That word should mean more than just…liver.
It should be a base note of humanity; “all that remained was…liver”.
And dinner is disappointing.
If you didn’t find it on the end of that stick you jabbed and bobbed and weaved and threw with; you missed the point entirely (unlike the unfortunate creature impaled. Luckily it was ugly so you gave no fucks) and now we can’t be friends. You disassociated acquaintance you.
At this point I’ve moved on to the meatier part of the meal because I’m too liberal for your typical 09:00-11:30 eating habits.
My eating habits are as though someone attached (inhumanely; because this is just a metaphor and I just feel it exclaims the point better) the engine of a formula 1 racing car to a headless cockerel.
Messy and pointless; but things are happening pleasingly fast, albeit without much progress.
I move on to the meat because I grew bored with oatmeal on my foot, though you should know by now I’m not done with it yet.
Because I’m an oatmeal kicker and I’ll be back for more.
All this while you’re sitting in your seat, much as a seat-sitter would. Not that I sit on seats. You see, seats are what I raise my oatmeal-lathered foot onto so I can rest my arms on my knee and look deep into your arrested and near-wet eyes and explain something to you.
Explaining something like why I’ve got to do what I’m about to do with the waffles.
And from that point forward you are (not hit with, since there’s nothing violent here; only inspiration physical and sweaty – meaning therefore you are…) fucked with the realisation that my current waffle-motif adorning the bosoms and hairdos of all other customers in the three-table radius is for you.
Still messy and pleasingly fast, but no longer pointless and now we’re getting somewhere.
I’m just making you realise how brunch with me can be; just enjoy the unforgettable nature of whatever the fuck is happening right now (you have a pepper in your hair by the way…).
I lean forward to caress it out and the, pardon me, you are overwhelmed by my very own ridiculous masculinity.
You probably took note of my plumage.
My chest hair is like a field of muscular black wheat in a summer’s heat. Far away.
That’s why I tend to be compared to a swan more than any other animal (e.g. a human).
There are three main reasons for this.
- Plumage. Of the two, it’s been said I’m more regal on the externally.
- I can break a man’s arm just by swimming. Proximity irrelevant.
- In many ways now…I am the Queen’s.
My word, I am a marvel at catching women as they swoon.
I’m very last moment too, as I always manage to be granted an audible gasp by those slow and still sitting men (Ha!) surrounding us who have plucked up the courage to watch you descend and wish you all the best as you do so.
My technique is that as you swoon, I swoop. Like the cool coconutty power of a Hawaiian wave, only with the muscular arms of a ballet dancer.
I exercise only by lifting women and kicking doors down. That…and feeding the people between 09:00-11:00. Within a three-table radius.
Brunch with me is bliss to be endured.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
You should have kept your smile.
Because smiling works.
Or else have yourself a prized grimace that denotes to all around you that you’ve completed harder word-searches than them, and they don’t stand a chance.
How you conduct your facial features as you mingle amongst the rest of the species can be the determiner of your destiny.
Being the greatest human to ever live, I smile.
Why shouldn’t I?
My smile is arresting and my grin is criminal.
My laugh is disarming. I buckle out a “ha-ha” as though it were a mix of Muttley’s wheeze and a Welsh choral singer’s bellow.
And it’s also very at you.
‘You’ being everyone in the vicinity.
People hear my laugh and they whip around as though there’s an avalanche of tumbling Santa Clauses’ ho-ho-ing its way towards them, only to see me enjoying a joke I just told.
However, laughing is also a highly pleasurable way of winning an argument.
It’s a matter of insistence.
Such as the time you might invade a UKIP event and ha-ha your way through the diatribe of people desperate to prove they’re not racist. If you were a racist; which party would you vote for?
I’m not a racist, but if I were; I’d vote UKIP.
But there’s one thing more that I find intolerable of UKIP, and naturally it would be me to see this for what it is.
Nigel Farage has stolen the colour purple from us.
Once, purple was a rarity in the urban world. Whereas in some aspects of nature there would be a slash of purple here and there, in the cities there was almost none, aside from the investments made by the wealthy who could afford dye.
Investing in purple.
I’d like to invest in purple, but it seems hard to do that without funding UKIP and I’m just not racist enough for that (although I am slightly racist….I hate Eskimos. Fuck ‘em. What did they ever do for me?).
If my smile, such as what crops up when I’m sure Eskimos aren’t nearby, had a colour then I’d presume it to be purple, but it’s not. It’s a tender yet rugged shade of ‘Handsome’.
The colour ‘Handsome’ is like chocolate, only more muscular. With totally manly nipples. Slightly abnormal, but still more manly than your father and that’s why you’re with me babe. Superior nipples and I’m handsome with a slight anti-Eskimo twist.
Plus I’m the greatest human to ever live.
My smile is like a flower that can bear-hug you so hard that you enjoy the cuddle it becomes.
My smile can, and I’m not sure exactly how (it’s natural science – I don’t need to know. Birds don’t know how they soar and a tumble weed doesn’t know how it tumbles. Just let it be), but my smile can make you fuck off. Just a little of a turn to the left, I think, tilting upwards slightly, let loose a smile and boom; you’ve fucked off.
I would undoubtedly announce on, perhaps, some sort of blogging website that the lower half of my head is the preferential half for when you fancy a conversation.
Whilst my brow is flexible and communicative; it’s easier to have a chat with the lower half of my head.
And other things besides…
I really enjoy cunnilingus. Not enjoying the act perpetrated unto myself as I really don’t have enough vaginas for that (not even one) but I love dolling it out beneath the skirt of the other half of the species.
Why? Because I like being good at something that other guys aren’t.
Laughing and cunnilingus go hand in hand in terms of a mutual act. Lip to lip.
The clitoris is substantially tingled by the vibrations of a giggling.
Perhaps not side-splitting, but certainly split-siding.
That’s a vaginal joke, that’s why you get it.
And that was an insult-joke and I’m sorry about that.
And that wasn’t a joke. There’s nothing wrong with vaginas and there’s nothing wrong with me being sorry about that.
Damn, I’m a fine writer.
So I’ve got some writing chops, the things I can do with a pen and a keyboard would tickle you beyond the hacky constraints of a weak-wristed journeyman with a quill. And inky fingers.
You can’t have that done to you by a writer with inky fingers. Everyone’d know you’d been tickled.
I can make you tingle with a space bar and you don’t even want to be enlightened as to my history with other people and the insert key.
We got along.
I recall they enjoyed what I had; especially my musk.
Yes. I’ve got a musk.
You should see it. Because you can. It’s purple.
You can see it emanating from me as the sun goes down – like the Northern Lights; only tougher. Tougher in the same way that you can see a bull’s balls. Not an advantage overly; unless you wilt at that sort of thing. But wilting is something I hope for my enemies, particularly in public.
So – to the point – I smell like an overly-purple Northern Lights with testicles on the outside.
My laugh, however, that’s not a thing to be given a name. Just let it be.
My laugh isn’t to be controlled as it is a wild thing let loose only by me, baby. The potency of my laugh can make you swoon in the same manner that my musk’s balls can make you wilt.
That’s how I know you’re enjoying it.
But I’ve got to stay in check with my physical appearance, even I can’t rely solely on musk, smiles, laughter and an incredible lower-face.
So I had a wet shave in a Turkish barbers.
I sat in the chair and awaited the compliments about how their nuclear-age razor equipment wasn’t up to the job of slicing my bristles. My mane. My organic chin-duvet.
I waited, and then they wrapped a towel doused in boiling water over my entire head with just enough gap to allow my nose to poke out.
“Damn” I thought, “I’ve got a cold nose”.
I like things a’boiling.
Once shaved I discovered I had a dimple in my chin. “Tremendous” thought I, “Now everyone will be able to know I’m an All-American Good Guy type. From Kent. England.
Now I can go into space, chin-dimple first.
You guy’s realise we’re in space?
I feel a need to acquire some sort of ticket. I’m set though, I own an acre of the moon. And I am going to plough it, along with my space alien girlfriend.
My Earthly semen cures her space-libido. Always momentarily.
And I only ejaculate when directed by my government.
I think there’s only one more thing I want you to know…
I only masturbate when I have to.
Maybe I’m straying into topics meant for next time on Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
So I’ll leave it at this; throughout all the above, amidst the true and the exaggerated (somewhat)…I smiled.
The endorphins were released and I was happy.
And that was because I kept my smile, and I recommend you unleash yours.
Unto others and for yourself; smile.
And I should know.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
I Think I Could Fuck Up A Wolf; Should It Come To That.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
I’ve dwelt upon this, particularly since I’m a species-ist and there is a resentful degree of contempt in my heart and head and sandals for other species.
Fur and feathers – I permit.
Some of the feathery ones talk back and I like their gumption; whatever that is.
And then there’s giraffes – I couldn’t fuck up a giraffe.
Out of sympathy.
I’d ride them.
I’d ride them out of sympathy.
And they’d permit me to ride them because I’d work out how they like to have their knees massaged and win them over.
They may remain.
Fish and other ocean or water-way dwellers; they need to stay the fuck away from me.
Because I am most certainly the sort of fellow to point at them and bellow “No”.
I’ll just stick my finger, like a knuckled wand, into the water and give them the gist of me.
I’ve got a lot to say about what obscenities live beneath the surface (some of them don’t even breathe air – try to show me up will ya?!) as I have an issue with things that are too wet.
I feel wetness should be an unexpected treat to come home to involving champagne liberated from the Nazis, or a hell of a way to go to work and give your inspiring and innovative speech to the board.
I’d hate to be on a board; I’m not good at sharing tables owing to my need to swing my heavy-heavy boots upon them as I lean back in my tilted chair and astound my other board members for no other reason than that I want them to back off somewhat and let me swing my heavy-heavy boots around. All this…whilst wet.
My boots are weighty. It builds up the shins – and that’s the mark of me.
You can tell if I did the deed for you’ll find the scene of the crime heavily shinned.
Ain’t nobody got shins like Sam.
However, even I can go off topic at times.
Because I’m whimsical.
And I’m whimsical because I’m the greatest human to ever live and I can take the time to relax about my intentions in a conversation like this (I’m presuming you’re all nodding along and every now letting loose a “Hmm” of approval or…is it…admiration?). Women admire my whimsy.
My whimsy’s better than yours. Because I whim it.
And that’s why I did it, that wandering off-topic thing, again.
I’m so good at meandering away; I can even meander away from talking about meandering away.
You try it.
Still, there is still the issue at hand.
That I think I could fuck up a wolf; should I whim it.
I have never in all my months of living been nearly attacked by so many dogs as the past 30 days have offered me.
The month of July just generally snarled at me; from day to day.
A lot of slobber; another unpleasant wetness is slobber being held most dangly in the worst of erogenous zones.
And I made it to August with a whole new opinion intact; I could fuck up a wolf.
Let’s look at the basic physiology of a wolf.
The key to its success in a fight against the man mountain that is me is its agile mouth.
The wolf, let’s call it ‘Diana’, has acrobatic jaws.
But so do I, Diana.
And I do bite.
I’d bite Diana the wolf right in the choppers.
And then there’s the rest of me.
Just take a slow and casual glance over my right hand and peek away, I don’t mind, at my pianist’s finger that branches from it.
Every single finger there is an advantage I hold over Diana and I will apply them most verily.
If I were to ram, and I do mean ram in the same way a pianist wouldn’t, my index finger straight and true up one of her nostrils; what would Diana do about it?
I ask because I’m going to do some presuming now and what I feel like presuming today is that Diana would whimper and try to depart from my index finger.
Let it be.
I would just let it be.
Diana is probably the lone-mother of the pack or some other responsibility, plus I’m humane.
I’m so humane I run with horses, so long as they can keep up and wouldn’t get embarrassed by my floppy-semi brought about by the excitement of running and my bountiful strides. That’s right – my strides are bountiful. I don’t know why; I just enjoy striding with an excited semi.
I’m so humane I’d put a ladybird on the windowsill rather than just exhaling it out the window and pausing to see if I can hear it land. I’ve seen too many good ladybirds land in my time.
And…if Diana the wolf wanted to flee from the index finger I currently have penetrating her snout as though I’m pointing with sincere curiosity at something in her sinus then…I would let it be.
Because she’s a good girl and a fine mother; probably trying simply to protect her cubs, who I would have raised myself and taught them how to become the kings I always knew they were if she were to pass away owing to my finger.
There’s also the fact that I could also pull her tail.
A tail is, with as much relevance as I can perceive for the situation in hand, a third of the spine which I can help myself to and give a good tug.
That’s a spine.
Fancy having your spine tugged like I’m trying to win something here?
I want to win your spine and your respect, Diana, so whimper now before I’m holding one of each in either hand.
You’re such a good girl Diana, and you’re a wonderful mother but…I’ve got to stand by my principles.
And my principle here is that wolves are scary and I this was my first instinct.
And that’s noble.
It’s okay; I’m being noble.
I have a crest.
It’s a wolf with a finger up its nose.
And then my large grin beneath it, showing all my teeth (slightly wonky because I’m well-travelled and I bite a lot of things), with my brow above it.
My brow will be frowning slightly because I’m working hard and I’m dealing with it, head looking down, eyes looking up as though I’m saying: “Seriously world? Seriously?”.
My brow is prominent in a way that if not slightly further forward than the rest of my person, it does at least receive compliments at a steady rate.
At least, it would if I didn’t pre-empt a fellow’s compliment with my classic: “Thank you!” and then: “But your bone structure will get there too; just do more things with milk, my dear old friend.”
Oh…there will be archaeologists.
And they will in some distant and lush green field begin to dig, eventually unearthing and taking care not to shovel my remains.
They shall lift my skull from its by-now ancient grave and stand and stare in honest astonishment at my inspiring-brow.
And they will compliment it.
But where in the timeline of humankind’s evolution does this remarkable figure belong? And then they will get it.
This must have been from a fairy tale.
Because…yeah…I’ve got damsels to spare and they’re all nicely in peril and ready for my brow.
And then I shall decide to leap the moat to delete the vile Wolf-Queen Diana from my newly acquired castle, complete with a unfortunately narrow-nostrilled fiend and beautiful damsel of high-birth.
Next time…I’ll show you how to do all of this, particularly the high-birth part.
Also, I recall saying this article would be about romance and my smile, but that’ll do for next time too.
And that’s a fine thing indeed.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
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).