I’d Eat It.

Posted: October 15, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Snails, frog legs, pig arseholes and spider legs.

I guess there’s not much else to do with them but to scrub them up, add wet heat, and then chew thoroughly.
When it comes to diets that you mostly…find…then you have to sacrifice your pickiness for the sake of belly-filler being so important.

You there- eat something! It’s largely what we’re here for, so either fuck it (also on the important to-do list) or eat. If you’re going to do both then do it down-stream. That mess will be famous. Especially if it’s a snail.

Cooked snails are rubbery, aside from the personality. In terms of personality- they’re all a great bunch of guys/girls. Not very rubbery.

A rubbery individual is a person/snail that I have not met. Probably. It’s not my duty to meet rubbery people/snails, and that’s about as amusing as this sentence is going to get. Rubbery people/snails. Meet them.

I do like spending time with my pet snail, Greed, who I have not told yet about the eating of his kin. We’re going to buy two dozen and ‘prepare’ them for cooking, which is immediately the cruellest thing you can do to them. First step, access the snails. Second step “lightly sprinkle a fine layer of rock salt over the escargot” (‘escargot’ being French for, I assume: ‘the little shelly-bastards because they fucked my wife too’). This makes them dissolve somewhat which is apparently the only way to prepare them as it makes them evacuate themselves- a thing you can’t really train them to do.

But, seriously, I single-handedly hate emptying snails.

You think there’d be a spoon for that, but it’s all down to fingers and blowing. As usual.

Pig’s areholes are a Soul food delicacy, if you’re hungry enough. From what I read in a Bizarre Magazine article from several years ago- Mr T fled from one once.

You take a pig arsehole. Wipe it (and there’s only one way to do that- think about it. Making the common sign-symbol for ‘dosh’ might give you the right idea) and then fry what’s left of the shit out of it. Then serve it to Mr T and watch him go. I bet he’d even get on a plane.

From what I guess- it’s like a ring of blubbery gum. That you know used to be a pig’s arsehole.

Tarantula legs are probably the only part of them I’d want to eat. Certainly rather than its fangs, or beady little eyes. Or its arsehole (I’m not fond of arseholes- you really only need one in my opinion).

I’m told they’re like chicken and that it is actual meat. That’s really all you need to know- that its contents is not poison slime, nor is it acid- nor a thousand tinnier spider that are trying to occupy your genitals. It is meat.

This- I would totally go for, only I am lacking in the spider leg jar in my larder. Someone help me.

Frog legs taste like chicken. Well- why not eh?

I’d eat a frog’s legs. But it would be interesting to see the side of it by vegetarian politicians that allow a little meat-eating. Maybe they’d just take the one leg from the frog, and then patch it up and leave it to continue its fairly dull life. Perhaps build it an artificial leg out of the left-overs from a meal of frog’s legs. They already hop anyway.

I know it’s cruel to do the rock-salt treatment to these two-dozen garden snails, but if I don’t eat anything for a while then I’ll be hungry and I’m sure it’s acceptable to do these things if you’re hungry.

Poor buggers- may they rest in delicious, rubbery, garlicky-buttery peace.

On toast.

Sam.

If I Ever Met Cancer- I Wonder What It’d Be Wearing.

Posted: October 12, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Today I will be talking about talking about taking personification too far, because personification told me to.

To begin, I want to make the point that, as is common with people with an unfortunate/tragic growth- they might give it a name. I’ve never had a growth, aside from hair, which I haven’t named.

So I did some reading.

Take for example Joan, from London, gets cancer, and cancer makes her feel bad, so she focuses positive thinking unto this little bastard of a lump so as to reduces the power it has over her.

Lump equates to chemo. So she names the lump Basil. Now Basil equates to chemo. And it’s better to say ‘fuck Basil’ than just ‘fuck cancer’. Makes the fight more personal.

“How is little Basil doing?” might ask a particularly informed (but not enough to refrain from asking) passer-by.

“My Basil is having a hard time at the moment- he’s in a jar following meeting that wonderful surgeon fellow” Joan would reply.

And then…what would Basil say, as he sat sweating in a jar?

Would he just sigh? A failed attempt, try again next time?

What does a cancer lump do following decapitation from the lucky body-part? And in that vein, what does a cancer lump do when it is victorious and has consumed the whole of Joan? There’s nothing left of Joan to infect- how does a cancer like Basil spend it’s time now? Can it follow up its greatest achievement of having Joan’s tits removed and jarred?

Or does it just die? And if it just dies, then what’s the fucking point in doing it anyway? Obviously cancer has no real vision. Basil could have made something of himself, but is only really a one-hit-wonder following Joan’s bosom.

I’m feeling a strong need to clarify that I hate basil as much as the next guy (and I can see him from here and he actually looks like he hates cancer a little less than me- the wanker). And now that I know Basil has such little direction in life/death, I dislike him all the more.

Fuck the Basil that equates to chemo. He has no right to equate to chemo. Nelson Mandela, Isaac Newton, Freddie Mercury, not even any of those guys had a right to equate to chemo. What makes Basil think he’s so fucking swell?!

And in terms of this, I’m also wondering (seeing as how I’m taking personification way too far today) what cancer would wear whilst out and about.

I have a feeling he/she’d wear lots of undeserved medals. I can picture that easily. The sort of disease that would show off and complain about how the diseases of today are so weak-willed compared to the good old days. The good old days of cholera and Black Death- real hearty stayers of a contagion. Oh they’re in the address book, crossed out and KIA. I’m sure cancer misses them terribly.

Good.

Aside from that I’m thinking pinstripes. With a handkerchief and gold teeth. Gold teeth dotted around his face because it’s symbolism for spending money and making only a dent. I bet cancer loves a bit of symbolism. I bet it even bought those gold teeth himself.

Cancer clearly tries too hard.

I think cancer would listen to Coldplay.

This is an image of a pinstriped, handkerchief-ed, penetrated by gold-teeth weirdo named Basil reclining in a burgundy leather armchair, his head rolling back and his ears filling with what he wants, and what he wants is Coldplay.

He looks extraordinarily uptight, like a man that never learnt how to wank.

Cancer doesn’t smoke.

But he does scratch himself with your discarded left-overs. Like Joan’s tits.

Oh my, he is a bastard. I would never do that.

The female version is likely tall, really tall. Taller than all of us, with a hint of burliness that can only be contended with by a distinct knife to the testicles before she hopefully goes away. I don’t know her name, but she smells like petrol.

This is the brute bitch that did what she did to one of Arthur’s two-veg.

She wears a pinny and has killer heels.

I love shoes, and I respect heels, but a personification of cancer wearing fabulous shoes? That’s a tip-toed stride over the line of ‘shoes Sam’s willing to allow’. Not that I have much say in anyone’s footwear. This rule only applies to cancer because I’m trying to find a way to bully it.

Arthur would love to do this, but a knife to the bollocks was his only option.

I wonder what Arthur and Joan would do if they ever bumped into the personification of cancer in the street.

I really don’t know. What do you say to someone after a relationship like that?

Either spit hatred or wish them all the best because you’re not quite sure either. Unless you know you can walk away and simply hope to never see that personification again, in which case that’s currently all we can do.

Apart from personify it.

And mock it.

And wear pink.

Fuck Basil and whatshername… we’ll forget about them someday, and remember Arthur and Joan.

Here’s to you guys.

Sam

At Least It Got Censored.

Posted: October 6, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

So, we all have a time of hate in our lives. I have to admit that when mine gets going it’s normally when I haven’t received enough compliments in a while.

Whenever such a lack of such things occurs- I’ll find a reason for removing you from my life as soon as possible. It is a very negative situation and I apologise in advance and for earlier.

I also swear that a little bit of that hate-like substance called retribution will do great things for you, mainly get you out of the habit of holding that chair with your arse and instead place the chair within your grasp, then through a window, and then you and the chair are gone. If you’re angry enough, it’ll be hilarious.

A censorship is a badge of honour to all the right people- almost as if there work has been ‘okayed’ back-handedly by the admins-that-be. I am still waiting for some people to want other people to stop reading my work. I truly hope they are flaccid-dicked enough to have a go at me. I could make a living and a death out of that kind of recommendation. They just need to be a little more flaccid.

What is important is my lack of pride.

Humbleness is an ability not to be fucked with. Beware the humble just as much as you might never turn your back on the quiet ones. Humble fellows make you eat their brand of pie. And when someone can make you eat any kind of pie, even if you want to eat it, they are the ones in charge. You are too busy eating pie, humble or otherwise.

That fact that I am not proud to say what I feel is reflected in the idea of true equality in reference to race. If you do not notice a person is a different colour than you, then you are very sweet and deserve a promotion from whatever it is that you sweetly do, but this is rare and hopefully a matter of the times. To be able to say what you feel, and as that, say what you feel rather than what you feel you should be permitted to feel- is a similar box of frogs. We are now just bargaining over the legs- because we are French (and I, personally, am racist).

Say what you want, and let them say that you can’t say what you want. The battle of dignity is won, and for our species that is a constant war so therefore you might as well win a few battles. Go ahead and shit your pants, but don’t cry. If you cry- you have done something far worse. You’ve soiled your eyelids.

To be proud of what you say might be a swipe at your own existence. You could instead be proud of what you are doing, as opposed to what you are saying. What you say and what you think is not something to be boastful about: “Enjoy my company because I told a risqué joke about bamboo and rude locations in my twenties”. Your actions are at times to be relayed, and all the time they are to be done, had, in process, in action- KEEP MOVING. Activity- don’t let them take it from you.

However, if those flaccid-fuckers enter your sphere of influence and try to adopt it into their own sphere of influence of telling people what to do because they actually want to tell you what to think, then all that’s happening is two spheres pleasantly colliding into one another, and two spheres doing that look like tits and that’s just marvellous.

Partly, mostly, marvellous owing to looking like tits, but also owing to the fact that making things breast-esque is exactly what they hate the most.

So let it be.

However, I feel that my work might not be the sort worthy of a decent dose of censorship. To end with an example, please allow the following:

I realised recently that if you take the French word ‘bisque’, and then you take the French word for ‘and’, which is ‘et’, then all you have to do is put the two together to make the sound similar to ‘biscuit’.

And then all you need is a reason to say ‘biscuit’.

But until then…please censor me… or…get fucked.

And drug-themed pornography criticising the government.

Biscuit

Sam.

I’m Not Going To Reminisce About The 00’s.

Posted: August 17, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Oh fuck, the 00’s.

What are we going to do now? All we have in relation to something worth talking here about is war and computers- and I’m not good at either of those things. Computer illiterates in foxholes equate to me wondering why more things aren’t to do with long walks and pretty girls- generally.

Those are the few things that set me apart from people who are set to perfection in the previous decade of ours. ‘Pretty girls’- generally, is a common passion, but is something that I find hard to omit owing to being something of a self-composed poster-boy for virility, an image that takes time, trousers and embarrassment to accumulate. I like accumulating things though- it amounts to something.

As for the good longs walks- they remind me of being an ape (an essential quality in someone worth knowing) and of being some sort of dignified author that would actually have done nothing for the cause of female emancipation from the drudgery of being slammed with the dick of ancient history till now. Another thing about the 00’s: penis trumps vagina. A good long walk might remind you of that, but in the meantime (whatever that is) it will promote that ‘distinguished author’ look that you’ve been trying so hard to maintain. Put that pipe away.

You wouldn’t have gotten these things from the 00’s. The 00’s amounted to, as far as I can remember: war, computers and Robbie Williams being really popular. Possibly more popular than Diet Coke, which is impressive, and something that I can only hope for this blog to me someday. I say more popular than Diet Coke because I’m realistic. Regular, full-blooded Coke doesn’t need to advertise, it just needs to be guaranteed.

Perhaps if females and walking had been promoted as much as the 20-teens has begun to, we might have missed out on the following.

It turns out we do have cultural contributions to our species that goes beyond Robbie Williams. We have the music videos. Music video’s with sheer-white backdrops, metal bands and boy bands both wearing black and both trying to look tough and dangerous (whist both trying too hard at that). Baggy trousers- coming from an age of men trying to conceal weaponry, to boys trying to look like men trying to conceal weaponry, and finally to children attempting to look like most other older boys do, whilst also using the opportunity to hide their physical frame from the world because they’re only kids, and kids are stupid.

This was a time in which things were made glossy and I don’t know why. The perpetual addition of cheese to foodstuffs (and barely, thankfully, limiting itself there) was a component of the times.

All those dead Iraqi’s really ruined the decade for me, as well as those about the rest of the planet that were butchered for all the other just causes that some god likely encored. What really twists the blade for me here is the fact that this is not a 00’s exclusive, but it is…is…an example of a generation that knew it had the means to alter and chose not to. The excessive’s of laziness were on the eye-watering rise throughout these pitiful ten years, and the blame lays not at feet, but lays in the lies of the minds of those of us that know what I’m talking about. Myself included; it does feel lovely not to be annihilated on a Sunday afternoon. What a…foreign thing to happen. This was the war aspect. Very happy that no cheese was added.

So long playing in the streets. Hello, latest acquaintance of the species- massive heart disease, diabetes and general paleness. The revolution of video game sophistication amounted to the heaviest generation that we have had for a long time. Mother’s loose a third of their body weight at birth and all children can be heard walking from afar. As they walk- their foreheads jiggle.

This is what the 00’s gave us, and what’s even worse is that it gave us…us. Apologies, but we are the generation prior that laid the foundations for the end of children and the start of wars by regrettably not being as astounding as the technology that raced alongside us. Albeit that we have learnt to share, and to learn and to give a little grace when required, we are still very willing to lose our ape-ish-ness and indulge in raising fictional crops on a figurative place, inviting others to waste their time and insisting on yourself giving up the fun you were born with rights to. This has been the computer aspect.

Don’t you dare blame the 60’s- that’s not your job and if you even think about blaming the 40’s then your laughable, it was the 00’s, purely on the basis that this was the latest decade do nothing but withhold and indulge.

We haven’t even legalised Mary Jane yet. And that’s our fault. That’s all our fault. Fucking do something you shitty little population- nothing would happen if it weren’t for you taking part, why should this be any different. The 00’s was the perfect time to do that and, my word, wouldn’t it have helped.

Let’s ‘hark’ back now, something I don’t often do, but since we’re reminiscing we might as well ‘hark’ simultaneously along with that. It’s good for your vocabulary. Let’s hark back to the ‘penis trumps vagina’ situation.

We’ll you’re right- women and their vagina’s are doing fairly well these days, indeed, they are doing for themselves- but therein lies the issue that I have with the 00’s here. Why was it up to key particular women to do this? Why not all of them? Why not all of us- men and their penis’ included (naturally- never omit a man’s junk)?

You see, we are the time that we live in, and without the positive action of a massive population, spurred on by those individuals that seem to matter for some reason, there will be no change. Don’t leave change up to individuals because it is knackering and depressing to do so alone. Just look at all those dead people you’ve heard of; that’s why you’ve heard of them and that’s also a substantial contribution as to why they are dead. And the centuries probably did them no favours either.

You, the population over there- hiding behind the Apple store! Go outside and make change, but for the love of all that is worth mentioning- don’t let advertisers see you do it. If you do- they’ll claim you and say you’re using their phone or their network to be the essential repetition of ‘new generation’ (being cool and free and buying our product just like you should. Keep watching your TV and shut up, you filthy little consumer).

This mind-set of sit-down, consume and distract yourself was all over the 00’s, and the brilliance of technology has had a central goal of luxurious entertainment, equating to all meaningful progression becoming a side-line to the main game. This is why women are paid less- because blasted by Angry Birds and Netflix- you really don’t give a fuck.

So now we’re in the 20-teens and so far I’m liking it. I think people are getting to grips with being apes and being in charge. Just look at the US. Here comes Mary Jane. Well done.

War and computers, eh?

Sam.

I’m Gunna Need All Your Money.

Posted: July 24, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

When I’m older, I’d like to be…34.

Being thirty four will probably do me well. That’s all I’ll need, I suspect…not that I’m suspicious of that age.

Well, maybe I am. It might be helpful to be suspicious of an age. I’ve heard what they say about people over thirty. And apparently the people over thirty haven’t because they still haven’t stopped.

Thirty should be middle-aged, but it’s got this ‘youth’ association about it, like scratchy little beards, or full-bodied acne.

However, 34 does have connotations of wealth, and that’s something I could really make some use of.

I am what money is for. Money is the latest ticket, surpassing the good looks and talent that had dominated the ‘dicking-the-landscape’ industry for the past few millennia.

If I had some of those paper numbers, I’d be able to slap whatever I felt like.

You could buy a field- who wouldn’t want to do that? Fields are where the best things happen, and where anything can happen. Like some further, more in-depth, slapping.

A field full of 34 year olds could really set the ocean alight. Set it alight with those paper numbers they carry around (I’m referring to currency, because I want to). Even the ugly ones that can’t throw.

And aside from that, 34 looks brilliant numerically, whereas the word-version appears a little long-winded. ‘Thirty-four’ is a dull read. ’34’ positively excites me, not like a woman, but at least like a number should do with such connotations.

Still, ‘chin (the fuck) up’, such as it is.

You see, I’m soon to be 24 (now see how lovely twenty-four looks compared to those digits over there…twenty-four was born for letters) and that really hurts for someone who’s been eight for the past sixteen years. (’16’ years? ‘Sixteen’ years? Definitely ‘sixteen’ years).

Aside from this I have issues for tissues with my forearms. Skinny bastards they certainly are, although EVERY SINGLE TIME that I’ve punched someone in the face it has worked entirely. The forearm issue only seems to revolve around sailor-like activities (aside from punching) such as lugging rope or hoisting…whatever you please- you’re a sailor, and therefore you hoist.

34 year olds have superior forearms to me, and that’s why I tend to either elbow or wrist them. And wristing someone in the neck is really fucking uncomfortable for everyone involved, so I must have a point to make…I can only assume.

Assuming is easy so I’m going to do some of it.

I’m am also going to assume that 34 year olds have got some reason to be held in suspicion, just look at their forearms. How did that happen unless they’ve gained a decade more than me in the area of hoisting? And then why would they hoist? Sailors? Are all sailors 34?

Does it matter? Yes? Ok then, fine. Let it matter.

But in the meantime I’m going to need all your money, because you’re 34 and I’m not and you might as well assume that I have several other reasons- I’ll be assuming the same. This is teamwork.

You see, this whole monetary issue really is expensive on the inner-lining of the soul. So kill it.

Kill it and relax for a while there really isn’t much else to do once you’ve killed money. Apart from holding fruit in higher esteem. Fruit deserves it. And so do I. So give me all your money.

Maybe I should lift…

Sam

Pigs Without Legs.

Posted: June 23, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Just imagine that.

Pigs without legs.

Hmm.

You should probably take that and make a metaphor out of it.

Or just think about it.

Hmm.

Another thing to think about? Can you leave your body to pornography?

If so…maybe you should…do something about that weird personality that everyone assumes is due to your dad fucking your belly button but is actually due to you simply wanting to help people and their genitals- probably due to the fact that your mother never fucked your belly button. Not even once, in the winter.

You should do something about that weird personality- because what’s truly weird is what is truly different, and what is truly different is never accepted in the times that personality endures.

Let’s take…invading Iraq. That would never be popular in our current times, but in a couple of centuries, that’ll be the hot-ticket on the fashion walk. People everywhere will be doing their darndest (blooming darndest) to find some angle with which to invade Iraq from.

Of course disposing of despots will be the traditionalist’s route, whereas the true die-hards will be using the ‘oil’ route with which to fuck their way into the nation.

The people of Iraq will invade themselves, presuming they haven’t moved. They will be the most fashionable people on the planet, to the degree of their being able to climb through their own windows and decapitate themselves with their own bread knife. Pretty damn fashionable. Some people might try to do the same thing with a broom- but they’re trying too hard- by the time they get through cutting their heads off it won’t fashionable any more.

By the way- I’m not talking about police officers without legs, because that’s not very interesting. You see one of those guys on the floor, you’re more than likely to be polite than just stare as they rock and roll, whereas, when it’s an actual pig- you’re going to watch it for a while. Probably get yourself a beverage with which to enjoy watching with.

And then you can think about those legless pigs…fucking.

Hmm.

Think about that.

Sam.

Hmm.

Just Add Cheese. Because I Said So!

Posted: June 20, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Routes to millions of pounds, or more likely- dollars, seems to tread all the same ground.

Just add cheese.

I like to think of the number of people that are very well paid and have their own parking space purely owing to their idea of adding cheese to a product.

At times adding more cheese.

I have had that idea, but you’re going to need a good product to add cheese to.

I chose a piano.

I could sell the cheese, and I could have sold the piano- but the combo just wouldn’t move off the massive shelves you have to use for those things.

Then there are those people that realise that you’re about to invest in mozzarella all over a D-minor and so start building massive shelving units accordingly.

Those guys, the clever little and large mother fuckers, make a deliberate choice to not be one of those people that try to add cheese. When I was young, adding cheese was like growing up, ‘He’s added the cheese- don’t they grow up fast!” and now people are starting to make money out of those lucky, (can’t stress enough) LUCKY, bastard executives who now have everything (almost literally- they’ll have everything in their house- even trees). Their children will have an inheritance and I won’t like them either.

You know those children are going to be boring. Maybe not ‘church-boring’, but certainly ‘I won’t wear that collar, people might notice me’ boring.

And people like that, well, I need to have their inheritance. If you have an inheritance- either buy some orphans, or give it (and perhaps your newly acquired orphans- that didn’t work out) all to that hermit, if you can find him. I can’t deny that I’m partly encouraging this so as that should I ever go into that hermit phase- I can always hope that I’ll have an inheritance coming my way. To me in my hermit-chair.

I could be a hermit- I just don’t the people skills. You’re going to need a lot of other people to keep yourself alone for that amount of time, and if you can’t offer someone a hunk of bread (one of the few things you can actually offer a ‘hunk’ of) with a smile and a wave with a hunk-holding hand then you’d better hope that the inheritance is coming soon. Otherwise you won’t be alone for long, and that simply ruins the definition of a hermit. You might be a hermit at heart, but it’s the other people that make that career for you.

So if you ever have to baby-sit their boring children one day, you’d better get yourself over there, sit down in the dad’s chair, get up again, go to the fridge, and the settle down for a dull night with a nice, cold book. If the book’s cold- it’ll be a little more exciting and that’ll be crucial. If there’s an orphan there, get them to tell horror stories- it might even liven the dull one’s up a little.

Other than that- add cheese. Evidently, adding cheese also works.

Sam

Of course I’m Asian, why wouldn’t I be Asian?!

Posted: May 30, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Of course I’m Asian, why wouldn’t I be Asian?! Born in Britain to white/Jewish parents? Ok, sure that’s a pretty good reason, but other than that I’m talking mathematically.

Sometimes it’s good to talk mathematically.

Most people in the world are Chinese. Of all the nations in the world, the largest population is that of China- as you all likely know. Therefore, partly going by how I don’t use mirrors that much (yet am still somehow physically approachable) whilst mainly because most people are Chinese, the chances are that I’m Chinese.

So…y’know…sorry Tibet. I feel awful. And I feel Chinese.

And I guess that automatically makes me a dissident, which is marvellous. I have for a long-time-lately agreed that Tibet should be free, but as much as I believe in a free Tibet, I also simply have to insist on a free Texas.

I don’t think that people can really comprehend what Texans go through daily.

It’s called ‘lunch’.

‘Lunch’ in this part of the world isn’t a dinner party, or a day at the beach, or a piece of cake. It’s like being raped by foodstuffs that are yellow. Yellow or brown. Either way; they’re raping you and they’re French fries.

I once encountered a Texan that was so large that her arse drooped over the chair and down to, and fucking touching the floor of that restaurant. That Chinese restaurant.

Poor Texans. If you were to donate just £3 a month to an average Texan family…the money would probably be painted yellowy-brown and eaten.

How continental.

How very continental indeed.

However, this doesn’t diffuse the issue that I, like you likely are, am Chinese.

Suddenly Chinese.

I’m not quite sure how to take this. Of course, when I think about China, my cheeky little brain leaps to humorous racism- the kind we can all enjoy and indulge in. And then, what with myself being a newly acquainted Chinese dissident, am filled with a terrible and Chinese anger at myself.

The trouble is- I don’t have nuclear capabilities (though preferable, of course, to nuclear incapabilities), not even a little one for the weekend.

China does. They’ve got the guns and the numbers, whereas I’m 5 8″ and that’s about it (though I am of course selling myself short. My smile- is heavenly).

Oh.

It was parenthetical a moment ago, but now it rings through to me that it might be worth something.

I have a sunny day of a smile- whilst China has a population problem. There’s a defining quality- “I don’t have a population problem; you do! You numerous bastard!”.

I guess, therefore, thus, and…hence…that it’s a waiting game. We, the Chinese, will run out of China and either have to take a little more and a little more of other places until they don’t put up with people like me anymore and the Mutually Assured Destruction that has plagued us all since the beginning of all beginnings is made altogether too hasty (for my liking) by other states.

States like Texas.

It’s a waiting game, and all I have to do it be patient, and let my fellow Chinese multiply until the young, once more, take over and Tibet is returned and perhaps then, I can make my way back to being English.

I love being English. It suits me.

You should try it sometime; you’ve all got the figure for it.

Sam.

Where’s The Real Imposter?!

Posted: April 21, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I have looked around and noticed, and you may have as well, and that this economy is very strange.

Not that I’m referring to any sarcastic or satirical points of view about how there is no trickle-down effect and something-something ‘EU’.

I’m rather referring to the weird reasons why weird money is made by some people, and the weird requirements of the public. The weird public. Because obviously; we’re all weird here.

Look to your left, you will see (hopefully) other people. All of them are strange, and you can probably tell by the way that they’re also looking to their left and making facial expressions of ‘yes, they are strange Sam’ prior to getting that feeling that someone is watching you- probably from the right. Anyone looking to their left; forget about them. Anyone looking to their right; never mind them too. Avoid eye contact and stop breathing so much. Yes. We’re being obscure.

There is a craving from these ‘all-of-a-sudden’ people and their offspring. Now I’ve worked in a wide variety of places, and I’ve been around the world, and I’m getting to the fucking precipice of ‘staying-here’ and wondering why so many fake things are made. Children can’t want that many fake things, you’re going to destroy their imagination if you keep feeding them things to play with that are too similar to the real world. Children don’t need too much of that real world- just have them encounter a scary dog when they’re 6 and they’re raised. They are officially parented.

After that- it’s up to them to have a good time (weather permitting) upon their own steam and simply pass on the family gene (mainly your big fuck-off nose) or avoid as such entirely so as to de-populate the world. (I suggest- when we start to re-populate the ocean-space…at least one of us needs to stop breeding. Hopefully you, with your big fuck-off nose)

I was half-way through this article when I decided to take a walk out deep into the country to gain a little perspective and to enhance my buttocks.

Along the way, whilst still in the city, I looked down and noticed the exact point I was making here to be, in fact, everywhere.

It was small and purple, lumpy looking and dirty.

I bent down to pick it and held it up to the sun’s light.

It was a fake bunch of grapes.

How very appropriate.

I had to leave quickly as I realised I wasn’t country-deep enough yet. You can tell when you’re deep in the country around where I live because, and this is a little strange, it feels good to hear explosions. You start to crave a bombing because it adds a little character to the scene. Lovely butterflies, transcendent sunshine, no cars and still no cars, and just some slight and distance bangs. It really makes you feel happy not to be in a town, because you know you’re definitely not being bombed.

There have been other times when this has happened to me- when fake things have turned up and I don’t quite understand what’s going on.

I’ve worked in schools for 4-11 year olds. It was here that I encountered my first fake croissant.

What child needs that?! Was it even for a child?! I don’t know- I just threw as hard as I could- no one complained.

Now I’ve thrown real croissants as well, and I’ve enjoyed it, but this was different.

I’d like to suggest, since I’m going to write something down anyway and it might as well appear to be helpful, that whoever is doing the production of fake things: stop. For the sake of imagination. I can assume a croissant. I’ve encountered them and I have thrown them. I need no fakery. Nor do the children. Let them assume.

However, what about the industry- the economy? How many jobs rely on the seemingly major production of small imitation things? I bet they’re all Chinese- why not eh? Being Chinese is extremely ‘in’ at the moment- everybody’s doing it.

Maybe that’s the secret to successful communism. Maybe it’s just a false pineapple. Maybe I should get some sleep.

Should the false-idol business fall through the real floor, would China fall to its real economic knees (China has economic knees. Explains the popularity) following an influx of cheaply made, poorly designed, barely resembling a lemon, fake lemons from Pakistan?

Who wants that? Me, but for the love of the species, please keep the Chinese happy- they still make pretty decent and real shelving units.

On a Tuesday (it doesn’t matter which one) I bore witness to a small roast chicken. It completely consumed me. I bore and bore and bore witness till I eventually got to the point of thinking that this was not a real fake roast chicken. Because they’re made in China. And this one was sweating, or something.

I actually said, albeit to myself- “you’re not the real imposter! Where’s the real imposter!?”.

And then I told you about it.

Good night.

Sam.

I Am Distinctly Species-ist.

Posted: March 9, 2013 | Author: | Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Let’s be clear here.

Something is not dreadfully wrong. Wrong as in ‘unnatural’ anyway. Recently, a guy in a foreign country (as it turns out- most countries are foreign) made his way to the supermarket and beheaded a British woman that worked there. Now then. This is a bad thing. No doubt about that. If you ever get the opportunity, do not behead me.

However, beheadings, or rather- sudden, weird and extreme violence will happen. With so many people this’ll happen. One thing that is becoming extremely clear to me now is that, numerically, people make us weird. And obviously not the good kind of weird, the beheading kind of weird. Maybe it’s because all the roles in society have been taken by others, or maybe they’re better at whichever role it is that you’re aiming for.

Like weathermen. If I suddenly decided that I wanted to tell people it was raining, I’d bet that even my neighbour might be better at that than me. Let’s have a little demonstration, but please bear in mind that this is mere type:

It’s going to rain.

There you go, now you know. I even did it in bold, and of course, even if you’re reading this in a few years time, the chances are that it is still ‘going to rain’- that’s a perpetual state of the planet. It’s going to rain. There- I just did it again, really quickly. Do you want to hire me? No, you do not want to hire me. Why? Probably because I don’t have a large colourful board behind me (as far as you can tell) and my neighbour might have beaten me to it. Not to mention that ubiquity of ‘other’ weathermen these days. Every weatherman I have ever met has not been me, and that is discouraging, to me at least. In my opinion, chances are that I’m not going to be a weatherman and my neighbour is.

And I don’t even know who my neighbour is, but that is the point.

I don’t know who the fuck’s out there, so I might as well take my chances and cut your head off. I can tell the police afterwards that I had every right- I was defending my weatherman career.

An unfortunate fact is that you can always become a serial killer if you want. It is the most un-ignorable way to get attention, and unless you live in a death-penalty nation-state then you’re probably going to be looked after as well, particularly if you play the mental-illness card. That is a card in the pack of every human, because we are, after all, all slightly unwell and easily unhinged. It is a method for survival in this super-tribe.

Ah…the super-tribe.

It would have to come to a point where, with every other role being presently filled and often much better than how you would do it, that the only way forward (inside your massive, echo-ridden mind) is to carve (literally) your name into the desk of the human experience- culture. Charlie Manson- I have heard of. You- I have not heard of.

I would make amends. I would also suggest that rather than machine gunning (a brilliant verb) yourself onto the front pages, I simply suggest you say “Good morning” slightly more often- it might be that enema of luscious normality you were craving. Especially if you get one back, rather than people just saving it for Christmas.

I have one, other, suggestion. Species-ism. I say that we unite as a species and take our frustrations that we naturally aim at one another and turn it towards another species entirely. As for now, we don’t have that human-level intelligent enemy that alien existence might bring forth, with which to wage some filthy war, but we do, however, have cows.

Cows. I don’t have anything against cows in particular. It’s just that (and I consider this a positive aspect of myself) I appreciate other humans more than I do cows, and that’s a compliment to you as well.

For now, I say that the cows should have it coming to them, bless ’em, but only in the name of our hopeful and perpetual love for each and every other human. Making each other valuable is all we can, and all we really have ever been able to do.

So, in the name of the species, ‘Fuck Cows’.

Sam.

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