At some point, you should know by now, it’s going to be written down that I am the greatest human to ever live. Written by someone other than me.
Until then…I am the greatest human to ever live.
And here’s how.
Ghosts avoid me.
So does Bigfoot.
Ohhhhhhhh Bigfoot has some diabolical excuses to his name.
“I’m washing my foreskin hair tonight”.
I let him off for that one since he’s willing to bring up his foreskin hair over the telephone. What a creature. He can’t speak but he lets me know by just colliding his foreskin upon the receiver.
Sometimes I pity telephones.
Not that I let them distract me from filling you up and in with why ghosts tend to go the long way around when they see me approaching.
I feel ghosts avoid me owing to my ‘rip-the-sheet-off’ mentality that leads me to sing (fucking SING) Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl whilst dancing in Piccadilly Circus on any day but Christmas.
I don’t deal in spooky.
I ejaculate on spooky purely for the reason of attempting to make apparent I am in a whole other frame of mind compared to what this ghost is hoping for.
Hence the semen.
Whilst this might not suit the law amidst the season of Halloween, at least the real ghosts can read about me in the papers.
Oh I wish I could pick up that telephone one stormy evening in late November to hear some croaky drawl utter: “I’m in the attic Sam”.
Because I want that ghost to know.
That I would then devote my body to two distinct attitudes.
My left hand side would box.
Jab with the fist, sweep with the foot and poke with my hip. Possibly also nutting with my left temple.
My right side would go about as furious a masturbation session as you’ve ever taken note of on the right hand side of a haunted man.
My reason for this two-tone combative-masturbatory stance?
Well…would you want to haunt me?
Whatcha gonna do? Clink your chains together? Softly tap the floorboards?
Be a long since abandoned and forgotten child’s clown-dolly?
You know that turns my right hand side all horny and gets my left hand side in a mood to eradicate most-fistily (fistily. Adjective; much about the fist. Typically negative. Occasionally not) a ghost.
And I feel that closes the case.
What the fuck would you do in the face of my tactic?
Yes. I have tactics. Like a disciplined person from yore (wherever the fuck that is).
Distraction and confusion are nigh-on my sole arsenal, in the fury of silent cloak and dagger business.
Aside from my actual cloak and dagger, of course, as they quite simply ‘help’ when encountering an opponent needing to be pierced whilst also requiring a puddle to be obscured for them so as to gallantly defend their footwear and honour.
And I do that sort of thing for my enemies.
Because it distracts and confuses them.
To the point of them passing away into the hastily knife-dug grave to soon be swiftly cloaked-over and, then, returning from said hastily knife-dug grave to don my white cloak and go about haunting me with particular insistent focus upon my overly-literally imagery.
And then I ejaculate on them. Owing to my tactics.
That gets them sighing.
Good. I want them to sigh, I’ve always found it’s a good indicator of progress.
I simply refuse to acknowledge their apparition-like form and rather more insist they are just being rather witty with their parlour tricks.
“Passing through a solid wall eh? How terribly charming, I do wish cousin Bertie were here; I feel quite honestly you’d get on. Hmm. Yes.”
Middle-Upper Class vernacular infuriates ghosts.
Upon encountering ghosts I give it a really rather whopping “Crikey Carruthers!” and then leave it to my left and right hand sides to deal with the consequences.
I can’t wait to be haunted next.
I might even tempt it forward seeing as how I know the location of a native English gravesite. And I need somewhere to park my unpleasantness every now and then.
So I have a kilo of unwanted horse hair and no place to dump it other than that place where I dump things. How about there?
Can’t take it back to the horse; keeps running away.
Now I know I prefer to be galloped to, rather than galloped from.
Being galloped from has too many connotations of loneliness for the greatest human to ever live to oblige existence to. That’s why I find myself in so many stampedes.
Three stampedes at the time of writing. By the time of your reading this? Hopefully more.
I like a little hoof-mark on me. It’s my badge of both having been stampeded and then being proud as hell about it.
That should get the late-English natives coming for me.
That’s another flaw of ghost-hood; they have no strut.
Ghosts can’t dance.
And you needn’t even bet on it (just have some of my money), that I am the one to remind them of that.
Ever feel a little intimidated by the howling wind coming down the chimney and the weighty patter of rain upon the window pane?
Then fucking waltz, darling, waltz!
Now I’m not saying you should just get dancing, since I feel I’m truly the only one who should be doing that. Observe my physical expression sometime and you’ll realise you’re just not qualified.
However, I am saying you should certainly out-do that phantom when it comes to the art of tap.
I’ve always found that to be the trick to Irish Dancing. You cannot conceive, nor can I, those who are willingly Irish Dancing with aplomb aplenty and those who are righteously taking the piss out of it by flailing their legs all hither and thither in a manner most Irish-Dance-like.
So now you can do it to.
Don’t pretend you’re Irish Dancing, just Irish Dance.
Be an Irish Dancer; because I told you to.
And because you can do it if you just start. Soon all, ghost and the yet-to-be-late will assume you always were one.
Plus it keeps ghosts away.
Not that I’d really know; ghosts avoid me.
So does Bigfoot.
Do you ever get the sensation the author may have alluded to masturbation a tad too often throughout a piece, to the point that you consider him in an overwhelming and literal sense as a wanker?
I didn’t think so.
I don’t break bread with the undead owing to mainly to how swell this sentence sounds.
Aside from that, I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.