Why I don’t remember my weekends.

Posted: January 26, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I tend not to remember my weekends, because I tend not to remember most things that aren’t memorable.

I cooked pig’s feet on Sunday night, and I have literally no clue what we took place.

No clue.

I’m thoroughly informed on the flavour of trotters (taste like pig feet, probably like your feet too), but not on the preceeding 48 hours.

It’s because I ‘Walter Mitty’ – but not in the exotic or adventurous sense like the famous movie.

Instead, when my weekend is happening, and especially when my wife is explaining to me what we’re doing for the weekend, I like to get lost in an internal fiction of mundane oddness.

And it’s very frustrating.

I’d love to enjoy the memories of a weekend, or maybe even the weekend itself, but I reverie without mercy to the point that I’ve broadly got no idea what’s going on.

My wife was speaking, as I presume she does regularly, and instantaneously I began daydreaming about how I would explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, using only the most choice grunts and hand-gestures.

Why did I do that?

I didn’t do that!

That daydream happened to me and I simply couldn’t look away.

If this bizarre scenario played itself in your head – you’d also miss-out on your wife’s plans for your weekend.

And to be frank, whilst I’d like to enjoy the weekend, sometimes – I also really want to give some serious consideration to how I’d explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, and then watching myself in my own head, with an ancient Viking I’ve never even met before, miming a vagina whilst really committing to an effeminate moo.

Sometimes, I’d really like to do that.

But, reality is also lovely at times.

My wife and kids a smashing, really lovely. Can’t fault them at all.

My wife walks towards me with a smile that she can’t help – because she, like me, has a massive face.

Thus, she presents me with a smile, the same way someone might want to show me they’ve a bucket.

And my children – they’re worth being around for, as well as all that parental responsibility, etc.

My son reminds me of me, he’s the best show off and hopefully will do better than having a blog one day.

My daughter makes me laugh, and I expect that’s a phase till she finds easier means of getting chocolates and dollies.

How do they compare with an ancient Viking ignorant of bovine gender?

They’re preferable, but I’m still distracted by the ridiculous.

I’ll just have to concentrate on the preferable, I suppose.

But I hope you appreciate that having an uninvited Nordic fellow, complete with axe and beard and numerous other stereotypic apparel, inserted into your head from nowhere, might be distracting.

Because it is – I’ve written a whole blog about it. That’s how distracting it is – it gives me focus.

If this distracting focus makes me a millionaire thanks to this blog, that’s a negative – I don’t want my son to be inspired by such things.

He’s already distracted enough, with the void look in his eyes that tells me that in his head he’s somewhere nicer than the conversation I’m currently giving him.

He needs a good, solid focus, uninfluenced by fictional Vikings and me.

He needs his grinning mother – the ultimate reality, the sort you can both hang your hat on and rely.

My daughter will be fine, she takes after the ultimate reality with the big face.

I’m reminded of something teachers have said for, I expect, centuries…”must try harder”.

I’ll certainly try.

Sam

Can’t I just donate a foot and have fewer worries?

Posted: January 16, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I wish sacrifice was real.

Not that form of sacrifice we see every day, in which people sacrifice (meaning ‘dedicate’) their time and efforts to something for others; time and efforts that might otherwise have been enjoyably spent on more selfish endeavours.

People do that every day, and that’s wonderful. Good for them.

I mean the kind of sacrifice that currently doesn’t work. The other…..other….kind of sacrifice.

Don’t worry, I don’t want to sacrifice my children or pets or anything like that.

Just one of my feet.

To the gods.

If I could lop off my left foot (I need my right foot for work) and throw it into the fire of heavenly donations (like an ethereal footbank) in exchange for just a little less woe – I’d do that.

Let me put it like this: you can retain your left foot…..or…..your mortage is paid off by the gods. Which would you choose?

I’d be hopping to the bank with a right-footed glee not seen since I hopped for genuine joy as a child.

Then I could spend my money on things I really want to buy. Like a shoe.

And I mean no offence to those out there without left feet, but this is my view and whilst I’m sorry right now – I’ll happily apologise further when my mortage is paid off by the Gods and I can consider sacrificing some of my remaining toes in exchange for free wifi.

My children get ill, you see.

And if you’ve children too, then so do yours.

Consider this – plus war, climate change and taxes, and you’ll realise – your not as attached to your left foot as you once thought. And you’ll feel this all the more following the ‘procedure‘.

All in exchange for a little sacrifice. Just a little less woe, would be nice

Fewer feet, less woe, a fair compromise.

And what will the gods do with my foot?

None of my business, but there’s no doubting that it’ll all come down to procreating with it and birthing angelic hordes of demi-god feet that can march or tap-dance at will.

Not that it’s any of my business.

Sam

My Feet are Non-Negotiable. Help

Posted: June 21, 2016 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., culture, writing | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

I was fortunate enough to notice recently that my feet are non-negotiable.

With me and where I am, they go and there they are.

Offer any offer and my response, with no tone of mirth nor pleasantries, shall come as: “and my feet? Have you calculated my feet?”

Look me in the foot when you’re talking to me.

From the ankle down I really do represent a threat to international internationalism, as opposed to national internationalism (in which people of a nation are in favour of internationalism owing to largely national issues and somewhat even-more-so-largely owing to yearning for a greater selection of cheeses and meats).

Before concurments of worldwide benevolence may take place, I’m going to need some devastatingly tasty preferences in terms of what my feet get out of it.

My feet deserve it.

Just look at them; they’re so helpless. They can’t even kick, their best efforts amounting to a slap-via-foot. They need a good mothering don’t they just.

They do themselves no favours; my feet are aloof, tending to look down upon most that tower above them.

Not to mention I have a bulbous toe.

“Bulbous? How so?” (I hear you mutter admiringly)

Well, sometimes a man’s got to swell, and I swell with an abundance of testosterone having nowhere else to go and an urge-undeniable to tell you all about it.

Every man must have a flaw, and whilst for the longest time I assumed this meant “floor” and found myself purchasing many (though I’m more of a wall-guy than a ceiling or floor-guy) before I realised the in actuality I needed a flaw.

Though what flaw to have?

To begin with, it’d better be sure to not interfere with my meaning; you know what I mean? Because if you don’t get my meaning and it’s due to my flaw interfering then I’m afraid I’m going to have to discipline it with the back and palm of my hand as though I’m fanning it poorly.

I hate being misconstrued, especially by something that’s eventually going to be in my toe.

So then what?

“Too much of a good thing” is something some people say sometimes.

What do I have that be bountiful?

Testosterone.

Once such vast amounts coursing through me to the point by which I had to shave twice a day, if only it were my (muscular) jaw and (movie-star) chin but alas it…I had to shave my fiancé.

So much testosterone I made other people hairy and then by proximity their recently sprouted hair stood on end, less so as a matter of friction and more so as a desire for it.

I am most favourable in enclosed spaces with strangers, because everyone leaves with a tale to tell, a whole bunch of new friends, a great-day-in-the-morning grin and I fucked you all.

And I did that on my way back home to shave my fiancé, by gosh I must stop indulging in games of sardines.

It’s a wonder I can get my bulbous toe in nowadays, but they must come with me and I must be victorious at sardines, otherwise fucking you all in only half a victory.

By the way, having adorably helpless feet is a great way to meet women.

Just lay them on the table in front of some witty gals and state with no understanding of the possibility of a negative refrain:

“So…I see you’ve noticed my feet. Sure, they look like they can play a fair few concertoes (I’m not sorry) but they’ve only got a few left in them.

We’ve just come back from the chiropodist and…they’re gonners.

Apparently they’ve a condition known as, and I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly since I’m no fancy doctor with a hat from the city, but I think it’s called: ‘Isavedtoomanyorphansitus’ and now they’ve got nothing but their enormous fortune and me for company here in this dive.

Hey! I see you’ve got feet too, perhaps we could mingle with a little more tingle?

Ow.”

So it goes.

Look, it’s been weeks since I last posted and I had to get something up.

So this happened.

Not a lie has been told and I feel better.

Marvellous.

Thanks,

Sam