I’m not the kind of guy that regularly quotes Chandler Bing (‘Could I be anymore of a Friend’s nerd?’) but the character was rather on-the-nose with the statement:
“The bottom line is smoking is cool and you know it.”
He wasn’t wrong, and you know that too.
Smoking is cool.
This is undeniable.
One can gauge this from the perpetually fag-in-hand look-at-me nonchalance that the greatest heroes of our age have espoused because…they’re cool.
John Wayne (plus denim jeans).
These outstanding instances of masculinity/cool are the benchmark for our performance as a species. If we’re never going to be as cool as these guys were when they were smoking; shall we bother continuing?
Thus, we keep smoking.
Still, there are reasons as to why smoking is so darn cool, and I’ve just taken my dog for a walk and mulled it over aloud to him.
He agreed with me completely; and who are you to deny my dog?
So, to begin, it is chemical – smoking is a drug.
There is a BBC documentary in which the presenter investigates the pleasures of smoking.
He states he in his forties, never once having smoked and is now about to partake; sat in chair with multiple leads connecting him, shirt-off and via those sucky things, to computers that beep as though they’re pretending they know what they’re doing.
He ignites and is immediately coughing and spluttering (the only two things that are ever mentioned whenever smoking is initiated by the uninitiated) as though he’d never smoked before; which he hadn’t.
It cuts away and then back to him a moment later, reclining casually and with the smoke-filled lackadaisical grin common of those realising that this pleasure is relatively cheap, thoroughly enjoyable, completely legal and suddenly making him feel a good deal more-cool than he had ten minutes earlier.
He is converted to the factual pleasure of smoking by sheer experience. Well done him.
The rush of nicotine is one thing, but also consider that when smoking you’re not breathing and the lack of oxygen makes you a tad sleepy till the second second’s blast of nicotine hits again, the heart pumps and the pupils dilate and you take a moment for a breath of fresh and freeing oxygen before plunging back to the depths of the sedate-party that keeps you up all night.
If you hadn’t noticed by my prose, I used to be a smoker.
And now I’m distinctly less cool.
Then there is the pop-culture aspect.
Hemingway and John Wayne (plus denim jeans) – those guys, via TV, film, and the occasional strangely erotic magazine centrefold, emerging out of the mist, accomplished and horny (yikes) and ready to either gun you down like the script says to or write the script that says to gun you down; either way they’re smoking. And utterly cool.
And then one cannot deny the impact of the local popular minority, whom (at the typical teenage age) smoked themselves to blackened pieces in an effort to be an even more popular and more minor minority to such a degree that you wanted to be a part of it.
Their smoking was influenced and an influencer of all of the above and all of the below and if you didn’t start smoking because of other people standing near you then you’re an individual and I tip my hat to you.
There is also the mind’s being influenced by the physicality of smoking.
Don’t forget: sticks, stones and humankind were born perfectly for breaking politician’s bones and they’re wary of this.
One day, like guns and knives, the daily walking stick will be considered (rightfully so) a lethal weapon and shall be controlled by the central powers.
Holding a stick or a stone fills one with a sensation of capacity to affect.
With a stick or stone in hand, things happen as you decide them to, and the ancient feeling born from this is of confidence.
Have you ever held a handgun?
I have, and I felt distinctly un-fucked-with for those few minutes.
Smoking slots into this category, in terms of sensation akin to holding a gun/phallus and in terms of being removed by central powers.
Psychology all comes down to waggling your stick and waggling your phallus, in a smoking area or not. Man and woman, the cigarette is an emblem for the masculine phallus and it’s a pleasure to waggle.
Not only that, but a cigarette is a penis and a nipple.
Like a fish or a fat guy, having something in our mouths creates the illusion that we are safe according to the fact that we’re apparently eating.
The illusion of eating makes us feel better, and a cigarette re-enacts for us eating at our most secure; in our mother’s arms, sucking on her nipple.
In other words: smoking feels like home.
In additional other words: smoking feels like home and you also get to waggle your phallus around.
Cigarettes are one of the only things that you light on fire and then proceed to place in your mouth. And that’s cool.
Not to say that things are improved once aflame, but there’s no denying things become cooler when fire is involved.
It is natural too.
We are the sort of species to find something, plant it, grow it, eat it, wear it, smoke it, inject it, and plant it again. Ancient cigarettes, entirely made of leaf, are something I can create and thus relate to.
I cannot, however, create a vaporizer. And so, accordingly, I want nothing to do with them.
Plus they remove the masculine/slightly acrid flavour of old shag and replace it with the doing-no-good-for-anyone marshmallow-rainbow-blossom flavour whilst you also look like you’re sucking a robot’s dick.
And that’s not my kind of cool.
They’re not our overlord’s just-yet. Let’s hold fire on the robot-dick sucking. Your toaster doesn’t hold such sway at the moment.
Finally, don’t smoke; it’s not cool for people who don’t smoke.
“Oh I simply must have my noxious intake in which I brood; a 48-year old cool kid that’s standing up against THE MAN (who doesn’t want cancer)” is the pro-smoking argument and it can simply either grow-up, fuck-off, or fuck-off in a grown-up way.
It’s not so much the fear of cancer, or even the wimpy argument that comes from a determined smoker…it’s the large smelly stage effect that you’ve just heaved out of your insides floating its way towards me down the street as I exit the building.
And that’s not cool.
Ultimately, despite being distinctly uncool, smoking is perhaps the coolest things a person can do; and that is why it’s still here.
Whaddaya gonna do?
Apparently it’s also bad for you – so perhaps it’s best to avoid.
Either way; LIKE and FOLLOW 🙂
As I write this upon my commute to work, there’s a woman on this train whose whole head looks exactly like a fish.
Not just a fish’s face, but a whole fish.
Now, I’m not classless enough to take a public photograph of this woman to share it over the internet, so I’ll do what I can to tell the tale of her face.
You’ve probably already arrived there already when you read “looks exactly like a fish”; enormous lips.
What can you do? Enormous lips are a mixture of what you think of when you picture a fish-looking-female, add some DNA, a dash of cosmetic surgery and perhaps a whole splodge of poutiness; it’s just a matter of business between your nose and chin that is different for all folk.
I’d love bigger lips, for mine are very mere – thin and the part of me that even the neighbourhood cat wouldn’t start eating if it found me dead (he’d probably start with my cheeks – I’ve got plenty of those).
Although, it’s probably beneficial to have the thin lips I do as I’ve a smile slightly broader than my face and to have lips on a par with this fish-headed woman would result in confused headaches for all who happened to look at me.
Again; what can you do?
Aside from the obvious lip-factor, next come her ears. Her ears are like a fish’s fins and obliques, bejewelled with earrings and make-up like some precious fish’s shining and glittering scales.
Her eyes are bulging and yet fishily-expressionless; shaded with tropical blue and green. I can’t tell what’s nearer to the tip of my nose from ten feet away; her what-can-you-do lips or her ‘are-you-livid/aroused/hungry/bemused/amused//confused/proud/excited-eyes’.
Her hair colour is irrelevant; but the shape was not.
Both blonde and brunette hair, raised in a pony-tail (whilst looking entirely unlike a horse – to her credit…and mine; I’ll take credit for anything) yet dangling out the back and finishing with an upwards jaunty flourish…………………like a tropical fish tail.
Again; her whole head is shaped as though a whole tropical fish. And I’m not finished yet.
The shape of her head.
It was fish shaped.
I’ll leave this description at that point; the point I’ve ran out of things to and enthusiasm with which to describe and am pleased at this.
She looks like a tropical fish, but here’s the rub.
What is she like?
Is she extraordinarily nice, intelligent and funny, self-mocking of her tropical fish shaped head?
Does she hate it, does she laugh at it, does she do both?
It’s a common factor, I feel, that people look a certain way yet are in and of themselves not that certain way but rather another.
Caught her eye just then, shared a moment’s gaze.
Is she delighted at the prospect of an admiring glance, the prospect of someone finding her attractive? Or does she wonder what the fuck this ugly guy is staring at her for, eager to, rather than be stared at, head home to her local pub and grab a handful of the lined-up and dutiful boners awaiting her?
Maybe they think she’s gorgeous and there’s no real sign that she isn’t. Just, also fish-like.
Beauty is in the eye of whomever is going to fuck this fish-headed woman. I’m sure there’s a market for this sort of thing; and if she’s got a clever brain she’ll dip her toes in it.
Perhaps she’s a decade ahead of me in this thinking; she’s been herself for longer than I’ve considered her on this one-hour and 15 minute train journey.
Good for her.
Some folk are born to look a certain way, and we need to deduct that from our perception of their potential personality.
Imagine Brad Pitt growing up, if you weren’t already doing so as you became bored throughout the fish-head description.
Picture Brad trying desperately searching to find self-critical flaws, as is the habit of teenagers’ the world over and through time, yet he encounters a reflection of a chap so handsome he simply realises his life is going to be ok.
Maybe he’ll try acting.
With looks that good, one must presume that at some point you’ll be handed a large sum of money; just on principle. Ever seen a Brad-Pitt-good-looking homeless guy? I’m still looking.
Perhaps that’s because there is no one of Earth that comes close to Brad Pitt good looking.
I considered a young Johnny Depp, and then realised this was folly. The only person who comes close to Brad Pitt as he is now; is Brad Pitt at other points in his life.
He is a standard of good-looking guy that is unattainable for all others.
If you have a baby boy, you might imagine he could become President of the USA, be an astronaut and walk on Mars, maybe even be Bill Gates rich; but you’ll never even for a moment entertain the insane thought that he’ll match Brad Pitt in the face.
If you concentrate on the idea of beautiful women, 10,000 rush into your head, blurring and merging into the basically the same image.
Angelina Jolie looks like Gal Gadot, looks like Natalie Portman, looks like Keira Knightley, looks like Winona Ryder.
The most beautiful woman in the world; and there’s five of them.
When concentrating on a handsome bloke; you think of Brad Pitt. Sometimes you do it just for the enjoyment of it; why not? I do. It’s not gay, it’s human, like watching the Northern Lights.
No one on Earth is better looking than that guy, and he has to live with that.
Face it – there was only ever Brad Pitt.
And here, ‘face-it‘ doesn’t mean confront the situation, it means: do what Brad does.
Insert your extraordinarily-godly-good-looking face into your woes and watch shit get solved.
Brad Pitt got divorced from one of those many most-beautiful-woman-in-the-Hollywood-world, a real high-quality sort of wife that’s worth keeping for the kudos alone. A tricky divorce, kids, money, tabloids, and no-doubt some heartbreak to bitter-sweeten the hurt.
Know how he got over it?
He looked like Brad Pitt, and now all’s well.
It’s much later in the day now, and the fish-headed woman disembarked and went about her London day, and I mine.
I wish her well and hope she looked kindly on my ugly visage.
Here’s to her.
A whole new standard of fish-headedness.
And, honestly, kind of cute.
My beautiful wife has those same lips.
And I’m not Brad Pitt.
But, then again, no one is.
Only Brad Pitt was Brad Pitt and, really, Brad Pitt is all there ever was.
His face; onto the rocket it goes.
See you next time,
I hate the saxophone.
Especially when someone is blowing one, indeed – blowing any wind/brass instrument, whilst maintaining eye-contact with me.
Looking deep into my eyes and blowing (not going to call it ‘playing’) the saxophone is the one thing that creeps me out in the whole orchestra; even the wind-chimes don’t elicit such a response from me.
That aside, I also feel that the saxophone simply sounds terrible and has no place in my ear or on planet Earth. There’s just no need for it and I want it gone.
I hate the saxophone deeply, but not as deeply as the blowers of them looking into my eyes whilst they’re going at it.
It looks like a creepy thing to do, like when my dog holds eye contact whilst farting – not betraying the slightest hint of fart-awareness which I feel is ever-so-slightly what he is going for.
He doesn’t even wag his tail to aid in relocating the whiff.
I hate the saxophone. It tries too hard.
They also look stupid, like an alien willy that some megalomaniac elected to emboss with gold and make glint. Too many valves and too many fiddly-bits. This is not an alien willy I feel I can get behind, whilst also certainly not wanting it behind me.
Then there’s the sound.
Another passion of mine is hatred for a general consensus that I didn’t have a say in.
For example, Olympians being seen as heroes. They’re not doing it for me, are they?
They’re devastating their childhood in the hope of some on-camera human-interest moment that might hopefully lead to presence in a biscuit advertisement and a life-long career as a pundit. Olympians are not heroes; they’re admirable capitalists.
Now I’m grumpy.
My reason for mentioning this is that I also reject the notion that the saxophone is the sound of cool.
It’s not cool. It is the pantomime joke of cool.
It is the overly-archetypal noise that is penciled in as representative of moonlit rendezvous with the limp-via-emotion dame being held firmly in the five firm fingers of the cool guy in his American car that speeds out of town from behind this pool-club and into the next town wanky enough to be represented by the saxophone.
Pass me…the trombone.
Now THAT is an alien penis I can get behind (still don’t want it behind me though – I guess no one wants to be snuck up on by brass and jazz instruments).
The trombone is mighty; comical and hellishly resonating, requiring guts, pomp and proud forearms (essential) to play. It is a sound that represents “Uh-Oh!” and “Oh Dear!” and is quite simply the most hilariously erotic noise an orchestra can summon.
I love the trombone.
It is silly, funny (with a capital F, U, N, N, and Y; making it simply a loud-to-read “FUNNY”), jolly, erotic, proud, strong, bold, awkward and wholly unnatural a noise outside of our heads. It’s like a some surreal cow that knows you’re engaging in intercourse and wants the whole meadow to be aware.
Again, it also looks tremendous, requiring the forearm strength and depth of puff that makes a man a good one. It can be gold and shiny, but also looks tremendous when dulled; like it was carried into battle and has been found in an old veteran’s foot-looker.
Think of all the jolly and noble generic jazz you can conjure in your head. It’s not a saxophone – it’s a trombone that saves the day.
And I’ve been considering publication names; what do you think of this:
I figured it a great name for a publication, in the spirit of the famed ‘bugle’, and would be the daily trombone. Power, purity, dirt and hilarity, it is an instrument that requires meat-pipes and a good arm to commit to; plus it is the key to the classically comedic ear-filler of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7GRnNzIvbh8, or simply the good-old https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKdcjJoXeEY .
Whilst I feel ‘The Trombone’ would be a smashing name for a publication, I’ve begun to engage in another activity that sees me through the day.
Fortunately, I’ve begun to slap myself each and every day in the spirit of reality, atonement for unfulfilled ambition and having a palm-full of face.
The Daily Slap, another positive name for a publication, snaps you out of the bitter funk of boredom (the only bad kind – even a funky smell is a positive thing to have in your kitchen, wallet and wife) that will will you down, keep you blue and unsexy, and fuzz your head with as much unoriginality as a saxophone.
However, beware brain cells prior to engaging in The Daily Slap.
There’s always the issue that you may become good at this, and in doing so elevate your palms to the rush-impact standard of deducting yourself the crucial brain cells that enable reading and fucking.
If you can’t read and you can’t fuck; you’d better have a damn fine hairstyle otherwise you’ll never be popular.
Unless mothers and wide-eyed mummy-wannabies will gather you up in their arms and insist you cannot read and fuck to such a hopeless degree that the only real solution to the unpleasant future ahead is a blanket and the instruction to bury one’s head in it and suck whatever you can find to suck within.
And even throughout such a distant and roaming thought process as the above, I still find my hatred of the saxophone to be a prevalent part of my being.
The Daily Slap, I recommend, as it is a real means of engaging with oneself and shudders off the dust of lethargy and is a real kick in the trousers (in the form of a slap in the face).
So, ‘The Trombone’ or ‘The Daily Slap’ – either way; have a good day.
It’s hard to return to writing, for several reasons.
One, you get a new job with unartistically-favourable hours (e.g lots of hours). Two, you’re still dealing with emotional trauma that I’m still not ready to write about yet. Three, the last piece you wrote was about leading a League of Mongrel Messiahs.
A heck of a trinity for a heck of a second testament, but I’m too tired from a long day at work, tear breaks in the bathroom and concern about following an article about Mongrel Messiahs and the fact I’ve not distributed a single leaflet to the (I prefer to presume) common cause, so I’ll just introduce you to my pet boulder instead.
I’ve always wanted a boulder, ever since I came to the age of realisation that a boulder was a dependable bed-fellow that only departed in the most traumatic of quakes.
A boulder is for relying on.
A boulder will do what a boulder does -it got out of bed a million years ago and was immediately successful to the point of being able to lay back and crush its own laurels; which was actually the best method of success for a boulder anyway.
Plus they have character. Though a tad Stoney-faced (…………………………….chuckle); I find them to be quite adorable.
I watched them in the petit-meadows around Niagara Falls, hiding in the long-grass as though they were about to lunge out and give me a devastating tickling.
Swell, that’s what boulders are, all the way from Stonehenge’s royal slabs to the wee-ickle chap I’ve got snoozing on a shoe-box in the corner of my room; snoozing as though a lay-in is its forte, as though horizontality is the future of measurable achievement in bedroom corners, as though there’s not a thing you can do about it because…it’s a boulder and it isn’t responding to emails or sledgehammers today.
My boulder has no name. If I did name it, I’d name it “Boulder”; which make the entire process redundant anyway.
Weight: it’s getting there.
I’m thinking I’ll convince some concrete onto the top of it so that when I take it into the fields to do some lifting, it’ll be more substantial to grip. Like a haircut that can break your back.
I wonder what hairstyle would look best on a boulder.
A Beatlesesque bowl-cut could work, but I don’t have a bowl that broad (plus it’d be suitable for rock music………………………….guffaw). Perhaps an intimidating punk-Mohawk of concrete; which would be especially since it’s also a guard-boulder.
I feel that, should Burglar Bill stroll into through my window, past my particularly wimpy hound and iwakeable wife, then I trust he’ll glance over my boulder, concrete hair-do and all, and realise that fucking off out of my house is a genius plan.
Maybe a nice sensible haircut for; that’d be really disconcerting.
I want forearms like Pop-Eye, minus the speech impediment and more spinach. To get forearms like that guy you need to do more than just eat it, you need to bath in it, drink it, sniff it, listen to it and keep a careful squinty eye on it as your wife pours it into your boots and over your boulder.
Spinach, boulders, and concrete haircuts.
More of these please.
Me and my boulder have a routine. I pick it up, I lay it down, I repeat until one of us is feeling sleepy.
Throughout all of this, everything I have that can clench; I clench. Hands, toes, buttocks, knees, wrists, boulders, eyelids and (still attempting this) my willy.
Have you ever seen a clenched willy?
It looks boiled.
Even my boulder recoils.
Which is fine; it’s ok to have boundaries between your boulder and genitals, no matter how much they may have in common.
For instance, my boulder’s not permitted on the bed. Despite how adorable they are, boulders (to their credit) emirate a natural ‘fuckoffness’ which equates to a truly uncomfortable night.
Is this the sort of wisdom you expected from the founder of The League of Mongrel Messiahs?
I also feel that a boulder is a natural heirloom, something that will stand (sleep through) the tests of time and the bank won’t be bothered enough to take away. I can picture my great grandchildren playing with family boulder, wondering what the heck I was thinking but also understanding that boulders really are a reliable member of the family.
They rarely do something that boulder’s don’t do.
I work in London now, with a 2 hour commute a day, so between staring out the window and committing to elbow-wars for the arm-rest with the chap next to me, I’ll see to writing some of these more often.
Would you like that? Or was that “bump” just then the sound of the last fuck you gave being roughly commuted-over by my 07:29 to London?
I also gave up pork. But I’m not giving up pigs. I’ll explain that next time. A sad story but a good sad story.
There are somethings that are missing from yesteryear (which was apparently at some point in the mid-fifties) that this world is in dire need of.
Sense of community (“sure”).
Being able to fix your own car (“uhuh”).
Children playing in the streets (*yawn*).
And the only food that was bad for you was too much for it (“and who really gives a basket of warm, fluffy fucks?”).
Not to mention that there’s no real music anymore…
Perhaps the problem is that these are issues whined by those who came from those times and are now, regrettably, dying to the tune of some K$sha ballad whilst their grandchildren are too fat to get out the door and play in the streets where they will be preyed upon.
What we need are some new things to miss from the past.
Such as Leagues.
Why aren’t there any Leagues anymore?
There used to be Leagues bombarding your front doorstep with still-warm prints of their latest campaigns to do away with this or to bring forth the that and many other times simply stating their existence as any good League surely has the right to do.
And I refuse to permit any form of online gaming groups to be classes as a League on the grounds that they are useless (thus far), proffer not even a single leaflet and really are simply not the sort of people you’d want to be stranded with in a dark zombie-strewn forest.
Keyboard skills do not translate well to activities that do not require keyboards.
More activities without keyboards; they’re long missing too. I’m now at the stage at which writing with a pen hurts my hand after only a few sentences and I – being cursed with verbiage – am left feeling overly impassioned by the toll and toil of my inky craft in what amounts to the longer nouns on my shopping list. I’ve stopped buying croissants as a matter of…it hurting.
Croissants are the food of the typing-types.
And Messiahs. There used to be tonnes, as though it was raining with Messiahs and we were up to our blessed ears and had our holy hands full with the constant barrage of those who had come elected by their own relative Almighty and were seeking my salvation and bank account details (plus free cool-aid).
I can cure you.
Especially your sciatica.
Just kick my dog in the face, like I do.
Of course, don’t kick my dog in the face as I’ll consider that an invasion of my personal property (as well as an invasion of my best friend’s face with your foot). And when I say ‘kick’ – I mean: nudge him in the face with your foot whilst he nibbles you. And when I say ‘dog’ – I’m referring to my Lurcher/Greyhound of whom it requires a good deal of height so as to foot-nudge properly; the effect might not be the same on your pug. But kick that too; it’s good for the species (ours).
And the species matters to me, just like it should to a Messiah.
I’m not the Messiah to canine-kind, but they’re welcome in the healing process of your sciatic nerve.
Dogs are another thing that used to be done better.
Mongrels were proper mongrels; full of salty beans and with a hint of wolf and whiff of poodle mixed together into something that wanders down the street with as much swagger as any worldly millionaire that knows that one day it’s steak and women as an evening’s entertainment – the next it’s soup for dinner and soup for romance.
The League of Mongrel Messiahs.
I’d take their leaflet.
This might be a little beside the point since you’re not in the room with me but – gosh my typing sounds good today. Although at times it can be a little stalted as I try to remember the spelling of “stalted”, as though it were a pleasing piano melody that contained an unneighbourly and offbeat pause that could ruin the piece altogether.
Perhaps that’s the key to good writing. But how should a scribble sound?
Short sharp dashes aplenty, with many pleasing whooping whirls too; just like a good signature. I’ve always felt that when writing with the passion of really writing, it should be a highly physical and audible thing with just the right amount of shoulder pulse and groove amongst the melody of those nifty little z’s and capital N’s that the young folk and Nazis are so fond of (whilst also including some woo’s for the older pups and owls; for I’ve also always felt that ‘woo’ looks like an owl laying down and imitated).
A tad off topic but somehow more to the point.
How very me.
I imagine the League of Mongrel Messiahs would have their leaflet written only by the most audibly-pleasing of writing techniques.
But which sounds most musical?
The only form of writing that provides a “whooooosh!” throughout; such an essential aspect that emails and texts insert it onto a sent message just in imitation of those fabulous flying machines.
But all I’ve got is a keyboard.
And a croissant.
And a large dog.
And what more would you expect from my League of Mongrel Messiahs?
What could be more hopeful than a chap looking to be your Messiah with croissants and a dog as such vital aspects of his arsenal?
Whilst a good-looking slogan (especially on a sash and even more especially on a slash and keeping the question mark) – I hardly think this is something to be provided by a Messiah. Promised, perhaps, but not provided.
A manner in which to wait until the final finality?
I can do that.
It’ll involve sticks and shouting, large amounts of general things, landing hard, smoking a pipe, a large ego with just cause, meadows, fishing via the stabbing method, boulders and some saintliness.
Or just some occasional blog-articles.
At least we have some new things to reminisce about now.
Perhaps it’s due to the trends in history that make these two things seemingly ubiquitous, or perhaps it’s simply a matter of sheer genital/national charisma, but it would seem that vaginas and the Irish are perpetually IN.
Something that is not consistently trendy is the regularity of contributions to my own blog. However, here’s a second offering to the world in my own attempts at being IN.
To begin with (as is the typical case for humans); vaginas.
I would put a very genuine bet of whatever’s thought worth wagering that vaginas have had a greater say in the sway of the world’s political, artistic, warring, scientific, economic and even mathematical tides; more exquisite than gold, more hungered for than food and of greater footing than land (meaning that you can surely rely on vaginas as a reliable foundation, and also meaning that vaginas are a tremendous location to warm ones’ toes in the chillier of an ice age night’s).
And they’re IN, as opposed to their male counterpart, which is only IN when it is victorious (aka – literally IN).
See how they’re defended, let alone fought for. A vagina is something that nobody wants to see clubbed, and whilst a penis and their accompanying descendicles give a man a shudder as a particularly villainous gust of wind flutters them about so amusingly, it is the thought of any disadvantage to the vagina that we find incomprehensible.
A good sturdy vagina is a thing of evolutionary brilliance. It has the power to eek out a full-blown baby and yank-in a man of any amount of yard, it can keep the toes warm (as previously mentioned) and can be as frosty as any other delicious treat, it smells tremendous in the fashion of a honeyed pork chop and is self-cleaning.
I cannot think of a single thing that is easier to advertise than a vagina.
If vaginas, as a clan/consortium, made rum – I’d buy it and so would you. And I don’t like rum and you’re some gay guy that I’m writing to currently, but whilst I’ve got little choice as I’m as straight as my own sex organ (slightly leftwards…and just a little rightwards; my willy’s a smashing scenic route), you choose the ‘Rum du la Cunni’ because you know it’s a brand you can trust since it comes so highly recommended.
You know the way in which your dad comes with you whilst you are purchasing your first car? Same thing really, you’re father recommends vaginas, and though they might not be your particular cup of tea with a custard cream, you trust your old man’s word.
Now, I know that the penis is an incredibly trendy piece of hard-worn hardware, but that’s only in the state of arousal known as a ‘boner’. That’s: ‘boner’.
A boner is a mightily impressive thing and is certainly how I’d start my colony on a desert island, but once they’ve reverted to being as flaccid as…an unaroused penis…they’re merely an appendage that doesn’t even flop that well (and flopping’s what it does best).
I wrote an articles previously, discussing which would be preferable as a climbing wall; again – it was the vagina that came up trumps as even in the event of a safely unaroused wall of vaginas suddenly becoming aroused; at least you’ll die with sweet smelling fingers.
It is at every single one of these points that vaginas and the Irish differ.
The Irish don’t smell that sweet, unless they’ve gotten themselves a vagina, they’re difficult to advertise (“anyone in the mood for an Irishman?”) and whilst they’ve been present at many crucial times in crucial matters – people didn’t decide to do that much because of the Irish.
However, they aren’t half IN, in fact – perpetually so.
Now I’ve been held the esteemed company of both vaginas and the Irish, and whilst both are complete charmers, it is the latter that are the conversationalists you want in your ear (vaginas are a hushed bunch aside from the occasional shouty one).
The Irish are inherently IN, despite several centuries of racial oppression, and one can tell this best by how often they were the topic of conversation.
Plus, everyone’s a little bit Irish, from India to the USA, the most commonly hyphenated racial mix is “-Irish”. “-German”, “-African” and “-Italian” have either had their day or seen a minor resurgence (“-English” is meanwhile nowhere to be seen). The Irish are amongst all peoples and people are most definitely fashionable – that’s why we haven’t had nuclear war yet.
And it is worth considering that the reason that people are so preservationally trendy is that they’re an ickle bit Irish, and thus we have Irish to thank for the distinct lack of nuclear war we’ve been enjoying lately.
It is also worth considering that should nuclear war commence then we’d all be shrouded in a little haze of green, and whilst the Irish look just swell in green – it most certainly doesn’t suit vaginas.
Additionally, the Irish are famed for distilling a certain spirit, yet I doubt it’d compete with the barrels of Cunni Rum that’d also outsell oil.
If I could have an Irish stereotype in my home – a charming chap with completely mental hair, looking slightly scruffy yet with startlingly blue eyes, lulling me to merriment with some heart-breaking melodies and then some extraordinary tales of drunken adventures, as well as that habit for getting on with all others aside from other Irishmen – then I’d get rid of that fucking plant and enjoy the new stereotype/furniture.
To be honest with you all, I started this article with the pure intention of detailing how vaginas and the Irish are perpetually IN, and whilst the Irish most certainly are perpetually IN, I’m beginning to find an imbalance in this article as to which is the more fashionable.
I don’t think its racist to say that vaginas are most fashionable than the Irish, but if it were then call me a racist; vaginas are more fashionable than the Irish.
Of course, there are many perpetually IN things that the Irish out-weigh.
Bubbles are incredibly in vogue and have been for as long as they’ve been noticed, but the Irish are better than bubbles because they can do everything a bubble can whilst still being able to fight for Home Rule so charismatically.
The Irish can float around a crowd and make everyone look and wonder where they came from, they can appear suddenly in either the most lackadaisically ebullient or rabidly hardcore of times, and have a pleasing shininess to them; everything a bubble can, plus the Irishness.
I think that’ll do; vaginas, the Irish (especially stereotypically) and bubbles are perpetually IN, albeit with a hierarchy in with the vagina is Queen of the Queendom.
Next time, should it occur, will be all about cowboys and how things always seem more appealing when wet (e.g. a wet apple is an alluring apple. Nobody asked for a dry apple).
(P.S With apologies to the Irish and much gratitude to the vaginas)
So if any of you are distinct followers of this blog, you might know that I have a tendency for a smashingly swell idea for a regular series of articles that will blossom my writing career into something beyond the eloquence of a graffiti-less toilet wall…and it lasts one article.
One article, and then the rigour-mortis of arrogance and anxiety kicks in; wherein I’m so gifted a writer that I don’t need to prove it just yet, which is handy because I’m terrified it’d be no good.
I feel this one will last though, largely because it’s an interesting subject to focus on, largelier because I’m willing to devote one summary sentence before calling it a success as a matter of insistence and promptly moving on to insisting furthermore that “largelier” is a word. Of course it is; I’ve used it twice in one sentence alone.
The subject of focus will be perpetual fashion – that which is inherently ‘IN’ and irreversibly hip.
Do you recall the scene in ‘The Social Network’ in which Mark Zuckerburg ponders on how fashion is never finished? I didn’t, until I thought of these following few, bare, barely-articles in which I agree that, certainly, fashion is never finished; but it is for some things.
Like cigarettes and babies.
As Chandler Bing said: “Smoking is COOL!”
And there’s some on-the-nosemanship right there.
Smoking will never be out of fashion.
Whilst there are certainly manners in which smoking is not-cool, of course. Such as a when it’s grubby, withered knuckles and filthy tips shaking and stutteringly willing out some last form of devoted elegance as the rizzla wraps the tobacco and the dry tongue comes trembling out to seal the dirty deal before setting the whole ensemble on fire and then it starts raining. Oh wait – that’s still pretty cool.
Of course, dying of cancer or emphazema is as awful as can be expected; but that’s only related to this. Another article will come regarding whether or not dying of cancer or emphazema is cool (early insight: not cool. Tragically dying of any disease, preventable or not, hasn’t been fashionable since ‘Philadelphia’).
Humphrey Bogart in ‘Casablanca’ said it best as he wordlessly tapped a cigarette from its pack, tapped it again to ensure the tobacco was surely impacted well, placed it between is oft-watched, oft-listened to and thankfully rarely oft-smelt lips, lit the branch (otherwise known as ‘setting it on fire’ – also perpetually IN) and then performed the part of a lifetime; confidence set ablaze by the team-work back-up of tar, smoke and fire.
Very primeval; but I guess that was early film history.
Breathing smoke is inhuman and not possible; so we do it.
The ultimate accompaniment; that branch of flaming danger hanging from the lips like a gunslinger’s piece yet also perched, pinched, with the poise and whatnot-knowhow of a magician taking your attention and sneaking your watch; smoking is cool and I haven’t even begun to discuss how it acts like a phallus and is therefore inherently impressive (early insight once more; erect penises have been fashionable since day dot. Flaccid; well, I’ve got some tales to tell).
Smoking is cool, yes; tragically.
It’s a three-pipe problem Watson!
Yes, the pipe is cooler. Partially because it is a habit that comes with a skill – just trying smoking a pipe without the insight of one who knows better – and mostly because my Grandpa used to smoke one (along with Holmes) and he used to smoke Old Shag.
A class that I miss, especially since my Nana banned in from the house.
Babies, however, are the point of all life in the human sphere (when we get to the nitty-gritty of it). Whereas the self-destructive definition of us as a species that is so self-involved yet also dangerously and adorably curious is a true picture of the folk of Earth; all that ‘human ingenuity that brought fire to the cave and saved the world oh-so coolly’ pales like a haunted and freshly laundered wedding dress in comparison to babies.
Babies were our ‘point’ prior to the species.
They make everything look better, including your outlook on life and especially the photo-plastered inner-wallet of that gruff chap who never says much but turns out to have a baby and is immediately more pleasing. A guy with a cigarette in his wallet doesn’t have the same impact on the public in the lunch line.
Babies are the new and original black.
Give a man a cigarette and he’ll look cool for 84 millimetres, give a man a baby he’ll look cool until he hands it back; which he should do if he’s a genuinely cool guy. The coolest guys will put out his cigarette before receiving the baby.
Put a baby in a suit. It’s cool.
Put a baby in animal furs. It’s cool too.
There’s little a baby can be put in that it doesn’t carry-off tremendously with much aplomb.
What doesn’t a baby look cool in?
I’m not certain why, but a baby in a boat does not look cool.
Why don’t’cha just go figure?
I’ve focused on babies looking cool here; but that by no means equates to being ‘fashionable’.
But babies are still eternally fashionable; people just won’t stop with reproductive output.
Then again, it’s not as though babies are original.
That idea’s been had, a fair few millennia ago, and still…see them go – flaunted about and rightfully praised as the greatest accessory known to humankind and the very soul and individual origin of the it too.
Plus babies know all the classics of fashion; gurgling, crawling, toddling and tumbling, dungarees (it takes a man better than me to be able to work well with dungarees outside of a professional capacity) and the ability to simply be watched, nerve-wracking and utterly, utterly affirming of whatever one is currently pondering upon at the time.
Babies are IN.
Article complete. Cigarettes and babies are perpetually IN and I hope this series of articles with continue to be too.
Next time? I’m thinking vaginas and the Irish.
All the best,
(P.S. An interesting note on to cigarettes and babies as being perpetually IN; they are both enjoyed post-coitus, albeit one 9-months later)
You’ve got to feel pity for crabs.
Naturally I’m referring to the wee-itty-bitty pubic habitants.
They’re on the way out – fucked to a degree even they’ve never seen before.
Fucked to irony.
A shame for sure, yet I spy and opportunity here; partly coming from being sparky in mind, largely due to feeling horny (whilst being hornly-felt; what a way to write!) and mostly owing to hunger.
Here we have a delicacy that only need be made delicate.
Some ballroom, some European Duke, some Governess spoiling us, a silver platter encumbered with the delights of the finest-bred higher-class prostitutes of Paris; specially bred crabs.
On a stick.
I could bring that about…it’s not as though I’m to be afflicted with the creepy little entrees.
I’m not the sort to have a hard time for medical reasons; that’s not very me.
My immune system is on the offensive and highly offensive.
It teases Gonoreah and bloodies the nose of bleeding noses.
I only bleed for the drama and the sexuality of the moment; matching my outfit and causing a stir when I enter ballrooms (one of my favourite things to enter; aside from women dazzled by my resistance to the entrees).
Bleeding only succeeds in certain areas.
Such as my chest; which can only bleed through three claws scratches, tentatively exposing what’s beneath my shirt.
An indistinct patch of blood on the bicep looks grand too, although only whilst fighting a revolutionary cause and waving a flag. The wound must also be tightly bound in a sexy rag gifted to me by some impassioned wench, who’s also holding my musket for me.
The old wounds were the best. An arrow gouge gets one into so many more clubs than one of these modern “car crash seat-belt whip” wimpy modes. How’s that meant to impress a bouncer; just because one is wearing a windshield?
Bleeding goes so well with black. And not everything does.
Whilst they say black goes with everything, this refers purely to colour. However, though the colour might well go and indeed bugger off with black, it doesn’t mean the substance the colour is of can accompany it also.
For example, as stated, red goes with black; blood goes with black.
Pale grey goes with black; vomit does not.
Vomit only goes well with buckets and humorous landings splats of your current scenario.
I saw Yellow Fever, which goes very poorly with black by the way, in the street a few days ago, or rather I saw its cowardly coloured back as it whizzed away to take out its frustrations on South East Asia.
My immune system does have a tendency to take no prisoners and gift no mercy.
Such as the time malaria got me.
It was a short and chilly summer that spring, with the birds singing sweetly beneath the water and the sun rising early after a brief lunchtime siesta. In other words; times were absurd; permit me a tad absurder.
What did you do to malaria Sam?
Why I’ll tell ya. I took that innocent young malaria strain into my broad and willowy arms and though it struggled immensely, we eventually reached an amicable forced marriage.
Followed by several beautiful and lethal offspring (I wasn’t on the pill), after which my malaria-bride made a break for it with dreams of being either a vet or a contagion. It was at this point I nobly threw acid in its face and told it to get to scrubbing whatever the fuck I told it to scrub.
You have to keep these diseases in their place, otherwise they’ll get all uppity and start demanding higher pay and penetrating your central nervous system.
I’m not at all certain as to why, but I’ve an urge to reassure you all that I do not consider women to be a negative thing, especially when compared to diseases or injuries.
I do however find funny things funny; equating with the previous.
I sleep-off syphilis.
I walk-off amputation.
I begrudge malaria receiving an education.
I am prepared to cater to the fancy ball with pubic crabs on sticks because I’m a fancy motherfucker with pubic ideas.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Now go kick smallpox in the derrière.
My smashing jumper gifts me a perception from others as follows:
Erect but casual.
Sure, my erection might well enter the room without me owing to extraordinary confidence from the 5th limb, but all is well; I’m wearing a jumper for goodness sake.
Of course, whilst I might find purchase in such activities as sinking into a comfy armchair to the point drowning; all is well – “They say he had an erection with him at the time he went missing”.
I am confident there are those out there who will claim that luscious hair is the means to all favourably flavoured ends, but I tend to lean rather more towards the erection side of the debate, mainly because it’s sturdier to lean on.
A 21st Century renaissance chap has newer and distinctly less reasonable facial hair than the rest of the class and a tiresome duty to type with his erection.
This is the 21st Century after all (this far).
The erections of these people are named.
Weighed and measured.
And finally hung and smoked before being unleashed upon the unwittingly nearby congregation.
The regrettably nearby congregation
And, with regards to virginity, terminally there.
And I am among them, keeping all at a 6-inch reach from me and one thrust away from grasp.
Please don’t misinterpret me here; the erection doth not the wooing, for his is merely the domain of the pleasurable presence and chemical pride.
Rather more so it is the smashing jumper that doeth the greatest woo.
These stiches know a woo or two, with a pattern so simply super that neither man, woman, beast nor basil bush can do much but falteringly implore for “Not here…my parents are downstairs”.
And whilst there might be little sway granted to man, woman, beast and basil bush, there have admittedly been some rather wall-like resistance and, in fact, submission to the fungi community.
It would seem my smashing jumper is not what once it was whilst away a’wooing.
Perhaps if I flailed?
Willingness to motion is a point desired in all but the most stationary of cultural backgrounds.
And should you see myself in such a smashing jumper as only I can actually be bothered to labour about; take care. For I’ve only a few jumpers and even fewer are smashing.
There a line from Glen Garry Glen Ross, Al Pacino’s character returns to the booth and says to his mark: “You ever take a shit that makes you feel like you’ve slept for 12 hours?”
Gosh that’s true.
I took a shit earlier and I emerged from the bathroom thinking: “What was I worrying about?!”
There’s sunshine on my foot, a nice big ole’ beam of it; landing on me most comfortably.
It’s giving me all kinds of erections, especially with the breeze coming in.
Fuck my fiancé? What an option!
There will be no fuck-uppity here.
Accomplished in-out with a wondrous use of vocab; what a woman!
Now coffee and juice.
Then some sort of accomplishment to follow it up with. Some ‘afters’.
Might as well be quicksand.
And I’ll appreciate that quicksand.
“Hey! Quicksand! I ‘preciate chu!”
It’s a good struggle; just a couple o’push-ups and downs again.
Then run away and back again.
Teasing the quicksand. It knows I’m only playing.
“Hey! Quicksand! I’m done with you! Aw don’t be like that!”
Now I have to clean the mud off my suede shoes (this is the definition of sacrifice). I knew my suede would have to take it but at least I know where to get some shoe-shine-sun-shine.
10,000 hours to become a master of something.
It can’t take that long to become average at most things. Plus you’ll end up a tad less cross-eyed in terms of devotion to one thing.
Never happened to me but I’m still saying it: now THAT’S conviction.
I tell you, I do, what I’m good at.
I do honey.
I find it, I elope with it, and we spend the night together.
Honey was there for me whilst you guys had all scarpered.
Even now, entirely non-sexually, I’m curled up beneath my sheet, entirely non-sexually, clutching a pot of honey, entirely non-sexually, with sticky fingers…sexually.
Well, not really, I’d say my relationship with honey is more of a mutual respect that romance.
Plus it’s real hard to get the lid off those stubborn prudish pots.
Enough with the fucking honey fucking.
Some things don’t belong on toast; but still it’s happened to me owing to matter of attempted cleanliness.
Think I’ll leave that there.
By the way, whole new man that I am, realised a challenge I’ve not considered before.
Scale a mountain? Fuck you, no (https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/17/the-metaphors-are-rusty/)
I’ve always thought the vagina had the basic requirement of a good rock-climbing hold.
Remember that wall of vaginas, by the artist Jamie McCartney?
I recommend turning that sideways and having a sign stating: “Do not climb when wet.”
Consider, with me please, the state of genitals for climbing.
Vaginas are perfect for climbing, though not when aroused.
Penises are perfect for climbing, though only when aroused.
Plus imagine being midway up a mountain when the erection hand-hold feels it’s been grabbed too tightly and emits its self-defence mechanism and ejaculates in your eye.
And then you fall 300 feet onto a plain of more penises, though they’re all floppy too and what’s worse is you don’t even die.
You’re just laying crippled in a meadow of floppy dicks, reminiscing about vaginas you climbed once.
Thoughts…thoughts like this are why I am a whole new man today.
Plus I just took a tremendous dump. Think I lost about a pound.
Chin up people.