This place needs a new smell. Or a window. (Also a vendetta against God).

Posted: November 4, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I don’t do ‘deep-dives’ into topics for these writings, so what follows might be best described as a ‘splash’.

Or maybe a ‘plop’?

I was about to suggest ‘tinkle’ too, but I really need to focus, especially as that’s what I didn’t seem to be able to do last night.

I went to a pool-hall last night and lost 7-0 to my wife. I don’t think I played particularly badly, but luck wasn’t on my side and my wife’s simple superior in everyway.

You’d probably imagine that I was feeling a little low from this felt low, which I was after the first loss.

By the 4th loss I was trying to start conversation on I’m knowledgeable on so I could retain a degree of….something. I don’t know if being down 4-0 has a counter equivalent, especially intellectually.

It’s never the case that something doesn’t matter because: “yeah, well, I’ve got a degree…”

My wife had even started being sympathetic, which made the whole thing worse.

As I said, I wasn’t playing badly, just bad luck after bad luck. I seemed to pot the white after every shot and every ‘cert’ I hit bounced back out of the pocket.

I could be tempted to say there was something else at play here. Because there was, and it might have been Jesus.

No matter the deity, I needed to get something out of the evening so decided it might as well be a religious experience.

And this pool-hall setting suited a religious experience down to the ground.

Full of men, mostly bearded, with one woman doing really well and making them all feel uncomfortable (“shouldn’t be allowed. she’s got tits to lean on. unfair advantage. dependable tits.”)

No windows too. And that is a bit odd – I don’t think my pool game is worsened by sunlight.

And a smell that wasn’t really there. Vaguely cleaning fluid – but it could have been so much more.

It could have been the sort of smell you can see. Wherein part of the ceremony involves wafting it.

What else does one waft, than a visible whiff.

There was no clear dress code (they even allowed trainers), but I feel some particular garb would have been appropriate. Something oddly stiff in certain areas, made from the faux-version of an animal that doesn’t exist any more. Or a fish.

With all that in place, the stiff garb, the visible whiff, the lack of sunlight and no women – then I could really get mad.

7-0, someone has to pay.

And they will. So now I’ve decide to launch a campaign of annihilation against God.

Surely it was He that guided my white balls to the pockets, He that caused every good shot to reject gravity and bounce-out instead, He that encouraged my wife to be extra-nice to me, making me feel all the more minimal.

That’s probably why he created the world; so I could lose at pool last night. That’s how it felt, anyway.

Having a vendetta like this, especially against the Divine, is very liberating.

Very freshing.

Why did I get out of bed today? To wreak sweet vengeance on the creator!

Why did I go back to bed shortly afterwards? Because I forgot it was a Saturday and we all felt fancied a lay-in, but the urge to destroy heaven is still there.

I’ll give you an update on the progress of that soon.

Quickly to clarify before signing off: pool-halls are religious but could be more so, and that ‘God’ – oh he’s going to get it.

Sam

My son is my lightbulb

Posted: November 4, 2019 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My son is my lightbulb.

It’s not his fault, but he exceeds in illumination and has effect on my life in which I feel as though I’ve had a bright idea whenever I’m in his presence.

He’s like being on a diet.

When dieting, I’m perpetually stuck with the ingenious prospect of keeping at it, head down and mouth hollow and shut, or to indulge in that enlightening option of gorging until I realise the need to diet again (which is a brilliant solution as dieting is should really be encouraged).

When I hold my son, or when I come through the front door, poke my head around the corner to see if he’s there, to be met with the inquisitive tilt of the head and resulting smile of a little fellow who loves me, I have the idea of making everything perfect, just for him.

It’s a good idea, no?

I thought so anyway, and so I surveyed the globe for things that need tidying.
It seems, I’ve quite a task ahead of me.

It occurred to me that religious people have been looking to correct the wrongs of the world since the dawn of things like dawns being given names, but to no long-term success. Considering they had God on their side (according to press releases), and bearing in mind that I’ve distinctly less divine powers than the average kids party magician, I feel any ability to introduce a white rabbit from a hat is unlikely to see things peacefully concluded in Syria.

Certainly, I could overload each opposing force with white rabbits until all combatants were incapacitated with the drowsiness brought on from gluttony of a certain delicious stew, and all armies were made unidentifiable from one another owing to the shockingly speedy new trend of all clothing being made from cosy white fur, but despite my being a carnivore, I wouldn’t want to send a billion bunnies to their war-ending ruin.
Just imagine the emails I’d get.

Rather more, if I were to engage the electives from either side in a simple magic show, I think I’d be amongst those shot, my wand being nothing more than not really a wand.

There would be those who would argue that despite all my previous promises of world-revolutionising changes to the planet in the name of my son, this is all clearly bollocks as I wouldn’t send a billion rabbits to die in the Middle East.

To which I’d say: “fair enough, I guess I’ll have to then”, and would proceed to load myself comfortably into the back of the latest air-strike capable bomber and then go about vomiting white rabbits from out of my hat at the speed of magic.

Why doesn’t God do this, I don’t know, and neither do you.

Either way, I’ve still an urge to improve the world in every manner I can.

I feel that will include fighting for changes and fighting for traditions, which are all going to be according to what I deem best for my boy anyway.

I’d produce one rabbit perhaps, from a pet shop rather than from one of my hats (which I’m actually going to wear later and don’t want smelling of a rabbit with stage fright), and give this to him so he can hold it and smell it and feel little life in his little hands.
I think that would help him in some way.

We’ll stay clear of Syria until it gets too close, at which point we’ll go away from it, because I don’t ever want him to go through what children and the children-grown are suffering over there.

I’m not divine, and can’t change too much around Earth. I’ll love my son until I’m gone, hoping only that he’ll have known how much I loved him, tried to keep him happy and safe, and to remember that when the times like those in Syria come to him, he remember the preciousness and wonder of life before he takes his next step.

He is my lightbulb. On.

Sam

Oh I WISH You’d Plague Me! Just Fucking Try It.

Posted: April 16, 2016 | Author: | Filed under: culture, The Greatest Human to Ever Live, writing | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I can imagine it starting with oxen.

Because it’s a shitty story anyway and shitty stories are pre-empted by oxen.

I have no oxen.

No history with them and likely no future with them.

Good thing.

But I promise to each and every single one of you in congregation today…if you tell me what to do with my oxen; I’m heavily inclined to disobey.

And I tend to disobey with my right hand.

It’ll offend you (…as well as myself sometimes).

                Everything after that is just a matter of stamina (my word; that’s a toughie to type).

“Yahweh! Oh YAHWEH!

Tell me again; how much must I trade my oxen for?

No, I was asking ironically. Stay away of Dave the oxen.

Hey, by the way Yahweh. That oxen; his name’s Dave.

Why Dave?

Because Dave’s my fucking oxen’s fucking name, Yahweh! You better believe it’s biblical!

Just take the fucking compliment and leave your directions out of my Dave.”

When you encounter a supreme-being like this; you’ll just have to wear them out.

Be the bigger entity and get parental.

You’ll need to discipline that deity.

If they get sudden blood all over your nice, clean Nile; just keep scrubbing those crcodiles back to a respectable shade of reptilian unbloodliness, commenting on how pleasant it is to get to spend some quality time with your favourite still-hanging-around-after-the-party-dinosaur.

Of course it’s an awful bother receiving a miracle-full of sudden blood all over your Egyptian cotton.

Deal with it mortal; we only have each other and our dinosaur leftovers now.

They’ll keep vying for your attention amongst the other Gods; promising you honeyed heavens and gushing…whatnots. Multiple women are a guarantee; you need not acquire separately.

Should they start getting uppity and demanding…let them tire themselves out.

They can’t plague you forever.

I find taking it beyond twelve plagues seems to do the trick. After that they get tuckered out.

Especially when you maintain that this is all fiction.

The divine detest that.

They see the ultimate reality of their existence of utmost paramount importance; exactly as their author deigned them to be.

And as a final straw; if they get a tad too despotic in their attempts at world domination (which is just dandy if you do so nicely); take away their offerings.

Well behaved Supreme Beings have multiple oxen sacrificed to them.

Many Daves for dinner.

Nasty ones who can’t keep their warts and boils to themselves have to make do with bread and water, sent to their corner of Heaven…early.

They mainly miss the smell.

Give a god an aroma and then take it away.

That’s the best way to witness a massive and melancholy nostril.

I tried Joop with mine. When the deity got a tad too lippy; I took his perfume the fuck from him and put it where even omniscient eyes couldn’t see. Amusing really; since he was also omnipresent, meaning that it was hidden right next to him.

And from there simply continue to play it out as such:

  • Just fucking try and plague me, Yaweh. I’ll rub those frogs on my sores and boils and have a great time. See me Science myself better.
  • Locusts are delicious; try some yourself. You created them? You’ll have to give me your recipe sometime.
  • Kill my firstborn? Guess I’ll have to raise my pet frog as a son in his stead. He is also Dave. The Dave’s might just plague you back sometime…do things to your crops.
  • Turn my water to blood? Although that can have a disastrous effect on my Egyptian cotton; I’ll have to laugh at the fact you go from this to frogs.
    Plus frogs are juicy.
    Thanks again for the frogs.

God being somewhat thick also aids the rebellion via mortality.

Knowing everything means you can’t actually work anything out; you’re without that spark to conjure because you already know.

If there’s one serious character fault in this Yahweh chap it must be a tragic lack of wit.

A decent portion of wit can get so much done; let’s just leave the plagues out of it shall we?

Us mortals; we should stick together.

Particularly considering that I’m the greatest human to ever live (evidently there’s no God).

And so are you.

Sam (and the Daves)