One of the most prosperous aspects of my body would have to be my limbs.
Vitals, organs and head are all fine, well and occasionally dandy; but it is in the lengthier extremities by which I earn my living and dying.
Naturally there will be some echoing hushed speculation as to why in the world my most extreme extremity; that of my really-rather-male junk (I’m talking about my penis; which is occasionally your penis) doesn’t bring home the bacon.
Because people will talk; that’s why.
Bringing home bacon with one’s flaccid phallus denotes that the two filthy breeds, pigs and apes, are come together in a manner that only David Cameron would find fetching.
Plus I imagine one would have to resort to tying it in a knot so as to carry said pork product, in which case I’d carefully consider the etiquette of the situation before I serve this to my wife and children.
Perhaps a bow is more suiting.
Perhaps bacon entwined in a pleasantly bowed father and husband penis is not suiting.
Either way, in any matter and whatever, my penis is more a class of width as opposed to length, meaning that whilst my wife and I appreciate regularly jabs (“What an occasion!”); I receive no passing praise in the street.
Instead, whilst my feet (previously listed – LINK) have had their say and instead to have many more (my feet, comrades, are non-negotiable), today is a matter of hands.
My hands; my hands.
I’d give my hands a round of applause if only that weren’t ridiculous.
Rather than cut to the chase, let us cut to the capture, and know now all of you; my hands massage elephants.
They can cause an elephant to wither, from fingertip to trunk; they can make elephants forget their own family.
It’s a grasp and shaft action, gripping a vast many roles of grey skin and then pushing the fucking elephant down to the fucking compound (should one deign to phrase it aggressively).
“Shove the elephant” is a mantra charged to endow one with hands like those of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, though my hands refuse to spend time hanging around on ceilings. They’re a rooftop collaboration and they massage elephants into submissive amnesia.
My hands are the talk of the town and the song of the city, strolling with stride into drinking establishments, emitting an elephant story or two, raising a few fingers in jest, inserting a few finger in romance pits and finally balling up into a versatile meat-boulder and making their way to the colonies because they really haven’t changed their views yet.
They may be a tad on the reactionary side but, being hands, fuck ‘em.
And whilst “Fuck ‘em” is assured, they still do some outstanding work in their community, if only they’d get along a tad more serene.
The left hand is of pomp, holding cigarettes in that certain way, twirling a movie star with the reddest lips about and lazily gesturing his way through dialogue that must surely have been signed by Shakespeare.
The right; sees to the garden.
It also has a way with dogs and doesn’t trust women wearing trousers.
This being so, when in and amongst the elephant community, they move on through and the population becomes congregation and I swear I’ve seen the elephants smile.
Have you ever seen an elephant smile? It looks like a vagina; pouting.
Unified they are too damn fine typists, whilst eagerly awaiting their return to the elephant village, the garden and the red carpet.
They can type 400 words a minute.
Or, to put it more accurately: they can type “400 words a minutes”; taking about 3-4 seconds to do so.
They can get a great deal done, my hands, so before you dismiss them as being not what this country needs in these sadly brave times; recall that the silliness occurring here goes a great way to give me something to do on a dozy Saturday, remind one another that being British does require a certain noble absurdism, and that from here on out; let’s just smile a tad more regularly. Eh?
Give my hands a chance.
And fuck Nigel Farage.
That’s an order.
Give my hands a chance and, it’s probably best, leave my penis be.
Thanks for doing so,