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.
An enormous gaseous globe rose from the sea’s end and illuminated my world in moments more beautifully than much I have seen, much as it has succeeded in so for eons, epochs, millennia, all of time and yesterday.
High hopes for tomorrow too.
So I didn’t get much done that morning, although my land was golden green, ruby blue, sun fire yellow and a purple only the cosmos can lay upon us.
Am I a good person? Because I’m guilty thus.
Bullfighting is something I would, if so empowered, flick a switch to end the elderly and embarrassing sport, yet I would also pay to see it if opportuned so.
It is an experience this world offers, and with life being so short and all the more apparently so since watching following watching this; how can I yield myself?
Yet still I would end it, with that switch of mine.
I would eat dog when offered and well cooked.
Dogs are amongst our oldest and greatest tools, the species would not be where it is if it weren’t for our identifying of the tremendous power of canines.
This remains with us today.
For amongst those great powers is the intelligence of personality, providing us a companionship of such strong and loving bonds that one cannot be called a “master”; but perhaps older brother will do.
It says so much for both our united species in that throughout all the monstrosity of ancient living in prehistoric life, these two great groups found each other and the inter-species bond proceeded from there.
My children will grow with a dog, my wife and I will die with one, and I would still eat the roasted flesh of one simply being that it is an experience to experience.
I would not kill a man to eat him, but should it come to combat I would like to give him cause to never wish us encounter again.
I would cut off and eat nothing vital, yet something he’d miss.
Not his heart or vitals. Not his eyes or brain. Perhaps just an ear, or a pinky.
What is missing, taken, leaves a mark and I jolly well just might.
In Samoan history the greatest threat and then insult was to say to your enemy: “you’re shit, I’m going to make you shit”, defeat him in battle, butcher him into entrees, eat some and turn him into shit.
No greater defeat.
No greater insult.
I’d eat your pinky, so don’t fuck with me or I’ll shit you.
I don’t know if the ancient Samoans had a ceremony for the first poo following the post battle brunch. I wonder if they looked forward to it, presuming this poo was once you? I just don’t know.
This went through my head as the sun rose.
Perhaps I should have laid in.
Watching the sun rise is unproductive.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Every last bit.
And I can’t stop.
My shoulders are so gallant; I can’t help but ferry a woman over a gender-barricading obstacle upon mere sight.
I carried so many woman down 12 flights of stairs recently that I had to buy new shoes.
It’s all in the shoulders.
And I can’t get it out.
The cost of shoes is one expense to cause my wallet to shrivel in fear; yet this is merely loose change compared to my outgoings in the cost of capes.
My capes; my capes.
Once the talk of the town and vocality of the locality.
Now they either wait for me patiently as hostages in my dry cleaners till payment matters are met, or they lay drowned in an irrelevant pool I could not bear for a good and find lady to dare dirty her soles within.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Not in the slightest bit in the swing.
My hopes that my swooping swing of a really rather dashing glove my give cause to the insulter of my latest and sudden beloved suffer an embarrassed cheek, rather than myself to suffer from one hand gloved and another gripping once-pleasing remnants.
My glove bill brings tears to my eyes and drool to my tailor’s chin.
I must work more on my swing, less on my shoulders.
But one cannot bear a weight in one’s swing.
Only cause a whooshing sound.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Rather than lifting; I think I’ll take up dropping.