Has anyone thought that the most appropriate thing to do when they see a clown is to laugh?
We’re discussing a fucking loser, a ranked and certified loser, a loser who excels at loserhood.
How will you find something to do with your life? How about dousing your throat in makeup, putting a mask on, finding the most creepy looking knife from your mum’s kitchen draw and then hanging out in a cornfield until some teenagers come along?
And your primary objective?
You’re trying to impress people, aren’t you?
Doubt not, right along with me, that these honkers are the sort to go home after they’ve hung out in the wheat field for a few hours, feeling satisfied with their contribution to the zeitgeist, like those Anonymous arseholes.
There’s a good deal of arseholehood in wearing a mask, especially if you say you’re a good guy.
Not quite as arseholehood as a guy running at your car, hoping you pull away just in time.
They must plead in your head that you make it away in time, otherwise they’re going to be so embarrassed at the point of capture they’re going to have to murder someone because…they’ve gone this far and can’t back down now.
It’s like Trump only with slightly less ridiculous hair.
Imagine the picture as the clown loses his nerve, whilst a car full of adults with children and mortgages (positively riddled with children and mortgages), maybe with an alpha male whose been longing for an opportunity to protect his family.
There are men with cubicle jobs, dealing with traffic every morning and every night, coming home to an aging wife, expanding waistline, a despondent south facing penis and decreasingly enjoyable children, being told by his boss that he needs to try harder if he’s truly serious about this junior role, and he can’t even play cricket anymore because his daughter’s soccer class is more important and he has to visit his wife’s dad who calls him a pussy whenever he’s out of the room…any then he sees a clown staring at his car.
Walking towards him with that “Trust-me-I’m-disturbed-like-in-the-films” angle of the neck, with his mother’s most Hollywood kitchen knife dangling down at his side, his pace quickening. And then DAD remembers he’s still got his cricket bat in the boot of the car.
Oh he’ll be thanking the strange-ass culture of the world that has brought this clown into his life.
And he can’t wait to see what amusing noises will eminate from this clown.
That’s a good point; it excuses people from devastating a clown’s joke.
I’ve never actually met a clown, but I’ve reviewed the history and it would seem you’re supposed to laugh at them. Not that that’s the point; you should laugh at these losers with a honk noise because this is their Friday night.
Having a honk doesn’t make you a clown, it makes you a loser in a mask who, because of that, feels like they’re free from consequences; and the consequence of running at towards me wearing a mask and holding a machete whilst a honking noise emits from you is – I’m going to whip out my pocket baseball bat and ruin the joke.
Clowns: laugh at them.
And keep a cricket bat handy in case of potential losers trying to get a personality.
I would also like to say a quick “Hullo” to MI5 who are reading in currently.
Do you think that when you chaps drop by it could be a tad less clandestine; as I could really do with the views.
And I plan to achieve that by mentioning what follows.
I am holding a smoke grenade and just so happen to also currently be feeling fairly flippant towards the establishment.
I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A LEGAL SMOKE GRENADE BOUGHT AT A PAINTBALLING SESSION…you should still click on my page.
The smoke grenade is mightier than the pen, so sayeth the struggling writer holding a smoke grenade for maximum effect.
I am qualified.
Flaunting the potential of a terrorist threat should do get the hordes of admiring MI5 agents flocking to my page and ‘Liking’ it.
It’s almost as dreary as asking trying to impress people by wearing a clown mask.
I hope MI5 like me.
Or I’ll let off this smoke grenade in my room and show everybody.
That’ll do for today; next time I’ve got some choice words for sharks and why Hemmingway was right to machine gun them.
Oh I’ve got an initiative chaps!
One of those plans to have my name go down and up again in history; as opposed to making any money in the slightest.
Maybe I can charge people for putting my name in the history books. Oh look! Another initiative!
Forget that one. I don’t want people refusing to talk to me so as to save money.
My friends are undoubtedly more economic than they are loyal.
They won’t be mentioned in the history books with me; those things are too crowded any way.
So I just looked up historically irrelevant people to back up my own claim that history books are too crowded and it would seem I can’t find anyone who didn’t matter.
However, I did get to enjoy reading about the magical history of Irish slavery; in which those Irish were still third class. One of those accent racisms. Or maybe you could tell by the hair.
Or the Irish telling people they were Irish.
That’s an Irish joke. And that’s ok; I’ve probably got some Irish in me.
Once there was a time when having the wrong accent left you in the lurch in life. Being able to pull off a really-rather-jolly-good-old-posh accent must have been more applicable than having legs.
Getting by without those is just…floppy.
Nothing worse than legs you don’t need; like a pair of empty tights filled with jelly.
A floppy scar; no thanks ma’m.
They might be funny to lovingly whack people with though.
Plus it would unsettle people when they realise that thing on their shoulder is an exceedingly soft foot.
Legs that don’t work, however, is not my initiative!
Companies hire Nice Guys to be helpful in the street.
These professional Nice Guys should be approachable; helping folk in the street, offering bag carrying and first aid.
Companies can then plaster these Nice Guys in sponsorship advertising.
“Nice Guys; brought to you by Ford!”
Can you deny, and I dare you to do so, the genius of this plan?
I’d take a sponsorship.
Think I’ll ask my buddy, ole’ Simon, ole’ slim. Would you like to have your name, and only your name (oi…Simon), on my chest?
I’ll tell you who else deserves sponsorships…Spacemen. And Spacewomen.
They are the greatest people to ever live in the times that they live in.
Whilst you might have Da Vinci, Columbus, etc…these are the guys who are going to fuck the next species we collide with, in war and peace and love.
Only thing is that Spacemen can’t write prose for shite…Shakespeares they are not.
Cats are likely the next choice of astronaut. Give them some simple buttons to push in an easy order and they’re superior to the next fat chap in a chair.
Once they’ve finished being casual ninjas, that is.
A cat is the most casual of ninjas to have hanging from your mail-box, meowing to be let in; the deceiver.
A ninja. A sexy, sexy ninja-cavalier-that can kill you if it wants. On such a whim; it’s technically whimsical.
I dislike the suggestion that a cat is a fragile ickle-wickle cutie pie owing to the fact that when the bombs start to drop; chances are the cat will outlast me.
The cat will be the bully in the street who slinks on over and takes all your canned food and essential balls of string I’ve been saving for none-of-your-fucking-business reasons.
They CAN kill you if they want; all they need is a pit to nudge your nibbled-to-pieces-corpse into in the afterwards.
They might need an incentive; but they’ll kill you with an attitude denoting that you’re not cool enough to know why they did you in.
I once knew a chap who permanently looked as though he was just realising his balls with being nibbled by a kitten. A mix of revulsion, shock and finally guilt at having had such an interaction with the cat to cause this tremendous turn around in fortune.
Maybe you’ll all have that look upon your faces someday soon. Not just because cats aren’t nibbling your bollocks owing to a career in space, more so because my business idea works so well.
See you soon.
Oh jeez I’ve craving for my issue.
My very own issue.
My dependency on sugar has escalated to the point where it being moulded into a typical food format; such as a chocolate bar or a cupcake; really is too indirect for me.
I’m close to putting it straight in the eye; I promise.
Honey is something I spend my time doing.
And, guys, I don’t even use cutlery.
And, guys, I avoid involving bread.
And, fellas, I can’t stop eating honey.
Aaaaaahhhhhhh fuck it.
There’s a woman in the staffroom having a womanly issue. She’s teary and hot; the sort of occasion where women gather around and I am despised because by being in the same workplace I’m too proximate. With my manly genitals in tow.
I’m feeling like I’ve done something.
Overtones of “Bloody men” are emanating from them all.
A crowd’s gathering; the government says to avoid these by women just keep it right up.
It’s not my fault you’re menstruating; if you didn’t want that you should’ve gotten yourself pregnant.
Chocolate is going to be applied here. Liberally. I can tell.
And that’s my fault; don’t’cha know?
It’s honestly as if women don’t know that men can tell when a woman’s chemical imbalance is so volatile that we feel urged to wear a helmet and keep our knees together.
Lay your egg at home.
I’d would genuinely take the economically devastating consequences of an egg-laying woman staying at home and returning only with an empty vagina.
Of course I’m being facetious; I’m not really that sexist.
I’m just being funny; like only men can be because women aren’t.
I’m not so sure about many of these arguments regarding gender equality.
Obviously men are bigger and women are better at giving birth; but every point after that I feel falls by the wayside.
Sexism could have a place in society; but we’ve all got too much to be getting on with, especially each other (hey – give peace a chance; siblings).
Sexism only has one place in two arenas and they are physical sports and humour.
The chances are that Mary didn’t match up to Joseph when it came to lifting the lumber, but she didn’t even need him when it came to bursting forth a Messiah.
Not that any of this is true, by the general idea carries over.
For, yeigh, there shall be-eth cases in which a Mary can lift more lumber than some spindly-Joe, and they’ll be a Joseph out there, someday, who is so supreme at multi-tasking; he can raise for you the most charming of Messiahs and even carve up a really rather fancy cross to nail him to in a thirty three years time.
Actually; that’s…Yeigh, some dayeth, the word shall come forth, and that word shall verily be “Semen”.
I truly dislike the insinuation that mothers are the cradle of life.
Only my wife is privy to the mysterious contents of my ball sack and she shalleth voucheth that, YEIGH, that semen is surely mighty.
Just try, darling, just try to have a baby without the involvement of a man, and his goods, and his very goods.
You, sister, can give birth, but I can paint the walls with what I’ve got to give – now thats miraculous.
The physical side of sexism is altogether an accepted state of affairs.
Women, the best of them, can be just as tactically sound as a man in military conditions. But when it comes to a punch-up; Mother-Mary’s getting knocked the fuck out.
I could walk into a UFC ring to engage in combat with a mediocre trained female fighter and she would, within a minute, have me pleading for her to get her knee out of my mouth (or perhaps to leave it in there; but those are my issues and not for discussing right now).
Take that same UFC fighter and give her an absolute, fledgling, greenie, newby trained fighter to get punchy with and he will take her face away with him.
The same premise carries over to other sports.
World-Football. I’ve seen those female footballers play and I’ve been highly impressed; in particularly by their set-pieces and ball skills.
Put a top-flight female football team against a lower-league men’s division and those talented young ladies are going to need the rest of their careers’ off to get over the bruising.
And to think I started this Write about my sugar intake. Remember my issue?
That’s something female sports stars can look forward to as long as chaps like myself are sucking that sugar down, gradually becoming a meatball that can be undone by a sudden need to stand up quickly.
That’s a thought, oh my yes it is!
So, female footballers have altered their game to become less physical and more tactic-based.
Even blind folk play football, and their game is altered to cope with this and use their skills best.
Why not a fat-chap league?
A game in which pace is a matter of the fastest waddler.
Shooting can remain the same, set-pieces the same too, along with passing and skills.
It just means that goalies stand a better chance owing to sheer mass and the defensive wall for free kicks is going to have to have one hell of a curve ball put around it to make it past.
The downside would have to be that these people are supposed to be role models. And role models shouldn’t be named as such because they continue to roll down-pitch owing to a particularly influential tackle.
Ball-shaped men are not applicable; it would seem.
I’ve got a radical new diet to hopefully ensure this sport never sees the light of day.
It involves more water than previously and far less of eating fistfuls of honey raw from the jar (as was my former method of getting by in the evenings).
But I’ve run out of time; so I’ll tell you on the next Write.
See you tomorrow,
I brought a large pink ruby donkey home with me from work the other day.
I’m telling you this because it’s looking at me right now.
Rather; it’s not looking at me, more so to the window and away from me. But it has an expression on it’s long, slapped-lobster- coloured-face as if to say: “I swear I wasn’t watching you! But I can if you want…”
This pink donkey’s beginning to have a presence in the house.
I keep finding it in rooms. Nothing creepy, aside from the Mrs (who’s mine by the way– all mine!) transporting him from room to room. And suddenly there he is; causing me to stop stirring my tea and wonderful half in my head, half spoken: “Why the fuck is he in here?”
Salvaged out of the bins of a nursery I work with, I’ve always has an appreciation for solid toys that don’t break easily.
Breaking easily is what I find to be the critical aspect of most things around and about me; prior to them being in pieces.
This large pink donkey however…this thing is Russia-proof.
The sort of toy that is immune to both knives and teasing. It’s probably emitting some noxious gas as I write this; some reliably-1970’s-gonna-get-ya product this.
Too solid rubber to be devastated; too mentally dense an expression on its face to absorb any kind of bullying as anything but pleasant comments about its complexion.
Lucky pink donkey.
I’m far too sensitive, you see; and that hurts to say.
Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from this donkey.
And maybe that’s a depressing fact; that I can learn a thing or two from a donkey.
Or, maybe again, it means I’ve reached a level so high I can only learn from inanimate objects. Sun Tsu, Marx and Shakespeare are all just a tad too easy these days; I need a good sturdy rubber donkey to keep me thinking about my diet.
Well…that was meant to simply be a sentence; and it turns out, upon closer recollection, that this is true.
I haven’t had a walk home like that since I was an obese baby.
Even the weather was improved; to the degree that my memories of it seems as though the golden sunlight was added later, but no – it was that glorious.
Smiles and laughter everywhere; with plenty of pointing – the good kind.
The good kind of pointing is polite, and you can tell how it is not just by the facial expression behind, but also because I reckon that finger’s a little floppy.
What would you rather have in your face; a sturdy index of a flaccid forefinger? Let alone a penetrating pinky?
Apparently a pink donkey’s what most folk want in their face; forget the pointing, good kind or bad.
Well; I got the polite kind, as well as so many smiles and warm expressions of: “Enormous pink donkey eh? Good for you; I can relate to that – It’s about time!”
More pink rubber donkeys for everyone.
This things has it’s very own sunshine and when it hits; you grin with the pinkish vitamin D you’re being beaten about the head with.
I got home that day and found myself improved.
I could learn from this donkey.
We’ve already bathed together; it went really well.
The train’s ticket conductor on the journey home and I had a charming liaison in which he wrote out a toy-ticket for the donkey.
How absolutely motherfucking charming!
I’m 27 and he was at least twice my age, and here we were both being jollied by a pink donkey.
This is an even more effective a way of meeting women than holding a baby.
You might be familiar with the way chaps can hold a baby as they meet women; holding it out in front of them as proof of procreating potency and niceness.
A fellow with a baby, strapped on to his chest like body armour, speaks to the world: “My penis is accomplished and I make up for that by being fatherly and mopping up the consequences and the consequences’ consequences.”
Those strap-on babies unnerve me, being as it seems like a make-shift “don’t shoot me” shirt.
You can’t lay a finger on that guy whilst he’s wearing one of those.
He’s immune to society touching him; law officials won’t risk the law suit, other men won’t risk the leaking baby, and the women want so desperately to get to know this sensitive chap with an accomplished willy.
Take all that; and this pink donkey trumps it all.
“Trumps it all” – damn.
Can’t we alter the terminology here?
Why not give Trump the word “Trump” and proceed to change our definition of it to a guy who has everything wrong with him – a bloke for whom money is working.
Money is evidently making Donald Trump all the more unhappy to the point that he is engaging in political warfare with the most vital nation on Earth because his daddy never loved him.
He’s a fellow with such a huge bill for sating his appetite that he’s going to make Mexico pay for it.
I have a tremendously unsubstantiated feeling that Donald Trump is looking forward to diplomacy in China because their coins have ickle-wickle holes in and he yearns to get that Yen home and start fucking the dignified history out of it.
That hole-in-the-arse/pain-in-the-arse/Donald-Trump is apparently in need of a large rubber pink donkey prescription.
If it worked for me; it can work for Trump!
I’ve just realised that Donald Trump would, without hesitation, strap a baby to himself to avoid being assassinated. I hope, should his assassination come about, it’s in a child-free area; though I feel children tend to avoid him anyway.
Kids are like dogs.
They don’t like arseholes.
And they love giant pink donkeys.
Me too; for all the three above.
See you tomorrow,
I’m watching Rocky.
Even if you haven’t seen the first film; you find yourself with nostalgia coming out of your ears.
Excuse, me there’s a series of clips showing gradual improvement all whilst set to music.
I’ve caught chickens; its easy. Not as easy as eating it; but at least it keeps you moving. You can fill your belly and your pillow. And you…bone and beak bag…keep that bag away from me.
Sitting here, and knowing I’m a good person, tells me I deserve a puppy.
A puppy I will gradually improve, whilst set to music.
Since that last sentence I am now at work, finishing my lunch just after breakfast and concerning myself with the most convincing ailments.
Diarrhoea is convincing enough to have the boss set you loose back into the public. Just calmly walk in to their office, with one look on your face: the look of a face that shall never express again because apparently I’m only expressing out my arse for the foreseeable.
Your walk should be slightly askew, basically as though you have an exceptionally private reason for keeping your butt-cheeks open and an equally private reason for keeping your knees entwined.
When offered a seat; just slowly shake your head.
“I am going home.” state simply, “I have diarrheoa.”
And immediately, that boss wants to know nothing more about your issue and simply wants you to escape this world and leave them in it.
If they say they can’t smell poo, ask them: “It’s not poo! What is it?! It’s grey!!”
And their urge to remove you from their office carpet and the potential lawsuit of “He made me work whilst sitting in my own grey diarrheoa! A million pounds and an apology should do…”
It’s days later now. I’m so undisciplined I couldn’t even finish Rocky.
Rocky was poor and 20 miles ago.
2 days ago me and the (my) Mrs hiked 20 miles across the county to get a feel for our feet.
You see some sights on a stroll like that.
Like the “fuck me or eat me – whatever” waddle of sheep.
I’m not going to ask; “Is it me?” because I know what people like you are likely to answer with, but it seems to me that sheep really are trying their best to walk sexily.
“Ooh, nibble my wool” Throwing weight from one sexy?/succulent? rump-bump to the other.
I can appreciate how the Welsh and Kiwis get to that stage now.
“Well…what was the sheep wearing?”
“Hardly anything at all!”
“It was asking for it then!”
I’ll end this stream of conscious blogging here by cutting off any thoughts I’m making light of woman-blaming with this other perception I went about and perceived.
This is the perception of having a woman on your knee. Comes across as a powerful chap having some delightful delight on his lap.
Or, in the other reality, there is the perception of a woman using a man for a chair.
Good for everybody.
Mores streams-ofs-consciousnesssssssss soons.
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.