Male Pattern Baldness, Hunter S Thompson And Shaved Freedom

I’ve long had a reaction to the claims by your typical racist chap that harps on about how black people look like apes.

The problem is that some black people do look like monkeys and apes, but this is in the same sense as the fact that there are people from all races who look like the FA Cup owing to a prominence of ear in the East and West of their head.

And in another similar sense, you then have those white people that look like chimpanzees; like my Northern Irish American-Film Lecturer: Ken Somethingsomething.

All in all, people look like things; it’s a human tradition.

Some look like dolphins, some look like insects; ultimately the fact that you look like our closest relatives throughout the Animal Kingdom (fellow humans aside) is probably a good thing.

This is just a thought I’ve had throughout the years, since meeting Ken.

And it’s not as though Ken wasn’t a handsome chap.

He had a desk-bound ruggedness, a man filled with poetical passion that let itself loose as he lectured the sweet-protestant-Jesus out of me and gave some rather fabulous ticks as he marked.

He was a ultimately an attractive man, if attractive men are you’re thing, and it was just the sheer shape of his face and the recession of his hair into full-blown male pattern baldness that made him appear more monkey-like than your average American-Film lecturer.

Also, for the record, male pattern baldness (MPB) is not a cause for unattractiveness.

Since we’re talking about it, yes, I do have an example.

Hunter S Thompson.

Thompson is an icon, a man who has transcended the mortal world and become a literal folk-legend; one of those historic men of whom there are countless anecdotes of his presence at scenes and his actions that caused scenes.

His works inspired generations, with 40 crucial years of extraordinary output that forged a new genre of literary journalism, and this is his writing alone. His attitude, the demeanour with which he strode the Earth is legendary.

He is amongst those men, such as his hero Hemingway, who made writing one of those very masculine occupations – not a world in which women were not equally capable – but one in which miners and welders and other such grizzled and anti-intellectual stereotypes wouldn’t be able to call them pussies.

Because Hunter S Thompson was not a pussy.

His into-the-fray technique of gonzo journalism evokes those terms that just feel masculine in this context. Much like my favourite Monty Python sketch in which good ‘woody’ words are discussed (not ‘tinny’ – “sorry old horse”).

Journalist.

Author.

Novelist (bit tinny…).

And Hunter changed the world from behind a type-writer and a cattle-prod, dousing the reader in the glory of the righteous crime of ‘not-giving-a-fuck-with-intent’ and wearing long white socks and with male pattern baldness.

And the male pattern baldness is only relevant here by its irrelevance.

Thompson changed the world, and my life, with utter and total freedom and male pattern baldness, and all whilst looking slightly like an aging chimpanzee.

And what I also adore is the fact that he took the helm of his head; echoing the essence of him being Master of his Fate and the Captain of his Soul by shaving his scalp and changing the world.

But still, I catch my Dad eyeing me fondly from the eyebrows-up, missing my hair that was his.

But to his fortune, he doesn’t look like a monkey. Or an ape.

They’re different, you know.

Sam

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Sharks? Not in my Fucking Tree!

I can’t think of a worse way to depart.

Head first down a shark, with the smell of distinctly unbrushed shark breath, rotting fish, blood and sea water, as well as digestive juices, seeing fellow prongees: fish that are also pronged upon a miserable shark tooth and give you a look which you return; the realisation that you are both in the same situation and your future isn’t as brief as you suddenly wish it would be.

Imagine sharing a petrified glance (whilst the rest of you flails in appreciation for the final few minutes you inhabit) with a fish.

Imagine being in the same situation as a fish.

The food chain is a horrible thing not to be paramount of.

This is why we should eat lions and sharks; so they know and there’s no confusion.

All sharks should find themselves tinned at some juncture.

And don’t animal rights me, oh reader darling.

You must understand that if we weren’t land lubbers (ohhhhhhhhh watch me lubber you cunt of the ocean) then those dim-eyed bastards would be the center of our nightmares, waking or a’slumber.

Here’s a challenge.

Watch someone being eaten by a shark next to you and then proceed to relax.

I double dare you to enjoy your day following the toothing of the neighbour you once neighboured in the water.

I avoid the neck-deep ocean, but I do have a contingency plan for the event of a shark assault (probably a sexual assault at that; with the wandering teeth).

Should I see the faintest suggestion of a protruding fin or flipper in my own personal piece of ocean, I will calmly wind my way back to shore (at a leisurely speed of sound) and proceed to kiss the first grain of sand I encounter and then climb the nearest sturdy tree, clutching a collection of carefully sharpened berries.

It has to end with a tree well climbed as that way, in the off-chance of any sudden evolutionary advancements in sharks being able to walk, I’ll at least have a few million years of life to enjoy before the flippers become proficient tree climbers.

And when they shake my fruit from their branch, we’ll have a discussion-most-stabby with these sharks of the tree.

Not in my fucking tree mate.

A man’s tree is like his body; keep sharks out of it.

Not only are they the greatest threat to humanity, aside from our own propensity to procreate ourselves into to starved, traffic-tired and generally pissed off people, but they’re a tad dainty in the ole’ dramatics.

Have you seen the way they leap out of the water?

“Ooh la la, feel my splash!”

Fuck them for that too.

They do in the wild what orcas are trained to do at Sea World.

It feels as though they’re attempting to merge their way in and amongst us, slowly enjoying the privilege of being inland rather than outfield in the wetter world, just biding their time until the chance to bite our species, figuratively and literally, in half…you’ll find me in my tree.

They say you should punch them in the nose if they dare to get too curious in the chewiest sense of the word.

I’d prefer to be eaten by them on the grounds of it being a somewhat less fucking stupid idea.

That being so, I still appreciate the fuck-you-final-fight of the fighting/deceased.

You have to kick and thrive in the mouth because there’s not much else to do at this juncture.

Less so kill or be killed, more so kick ‘em in the tonsils as they seek to swallow.

I could go on by I’ve an overwhelming urge to make clear this following position, though I may already have:

Fuck you sharks.

Fuck you all.

Here’s to Japan, go get’em.

Land Lubbers for Life…although I also feel comfortable taking to the air as I feel I could fuck up an eagle (ruffle its feathers and cute little talons).

Sam


I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live (Part 6. My Life in Compliments)

I’ve had a fair few hot meals and I’ve had a fair few collisions with brick walls.

All there was left to do following both of these activities (because I do spend my time doing these sorts of things) was to be complimented on how I went about them.

And I am complimented about them.

I am complimented a lot.

I fucking adore compliments.

I’ve been told I’m a natural at receiving them.

False modesty should dwindle down in the English South Downs and die like a dog in the sun-like warmth emanating from the confident folk of Brighton town; self-assured in their assertions and plentiful in immoderate compliments to their kin.

As I spoke of earlier, I’ve ravaged some hot meals and brick walls in my meandering stroll across the surface of where we are and here are some of the crackers which really got my chin up and penis likewise.

“But you look like a muscular piano!”

I mention this as a primary for the list as it speaks eternal fact.

Yes…darling.

I do look like only a master craftsman could create me whilst also appearing as though I’m as natural as a waterfall in the nude.

And yes…sister.

I am aware that I look just swell with a dinner-gowned femme-most-fatale lying across my broad LID as though all she wants to do is clamber inside but it was my idea first and so I’m going in.

Finally, it is true…sweet woman.

There is a shade to my hair which suggests that I can produce the most transcendent odes to love and joy the species can conjure, but for some reason, some handsome reason, I’m going to have to do it with my shirt torn across the chest to a degree that women from all eras of time, from Cavewoman to Victorian, peasant to hipster, all wilt at the sight of me and focus on the way I heave a concerto out into the public domain.

Sure, I heave concertos and I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not certain as to where I’m heaving it from, nor am I aware as to why heaving it is necessary at all…but I know for sure it gets me compliments.

I look like a muscular piano and I’m damn proud of that.

“Sam. Your hair looks like George Orwell!”

I know.

Thank you again for bringing it up as you did.

My main issue with this compliment is that people might assume it’s just an attempt by those admirers of mine to fling some political concrete into the waviness of my shy but not-without-confidence hair.

And there’s no need for that.

My hair is a revelation to our current dystopian society in that it rings true all the way from the scalp to the not-too-distant future; don’t eat each other.

I have a feeling that this needs to be made clear and of course I am inspired by my hair to do so.

People know this about me as much as they know this about themselves; they are inspired by my barnet and the prose it seems to produce…somehow.

Perched atop my head there is a hair-do of substantial flourish; there is no chance that this hair is going to die by any manner other than by waterfall (however naturally nude) or God.

Tweed suits my hair, as does strong tobacco and English furniture. Indeed – all suits my hair, aside from waterfalls and God as they will be the undoing of it and make it a prerequisite for things going south sourly.

I just wish they wouldn’t get involved, but they are insistent.

That’s not the Jehovah God by the way, I’m talking of course about Poseidon – undoubtedly the wettest God ever devised.

This is why he gets together with a waterfall to undo my hair’s natural Orwellian nature; because when one wet thing meets another they generally equate to an unwelcome dryness unbecoming of a young contrarian such as I. Not that I’d agree with such a statement.

The encounters I’ve had with waterfalls and wet Gods have driven my locks to scribble, most devoutly, visions of a mean future without hope of my hair staying un-frizzed by the lashings of moisture unwelcome.

Fucking Poseidon.

Fucking waterfalls.

Why must they have so much to do with hidden chests and booty? Why must the fairest of maidens, all welcomingly wet to the ideal moistness of female, be so nearby to them?

I find this all most uncomplimentary, but at least people say my hair looks like George Orwell.

“For someone who’s not a father – I sure want a masculine fuck from you.”

I fuck like my cum is the cure.

And apparently the locals of my locale are hyper aware of this, resulting in a hell of a long night and a multiple increase of things done down by the fire.

I like the fire – it dries my hair out. Plus my sleek pubic region.

My pubic hair is the only hair which doesn’t look like George Orwell – it gives no heed of a brave warm stare into the cold and brutal future.

Indeed, I believe it was Orwell who spoke: “Now you look here, future. If you try to ban my orgasm…I’m going to enjoy it.”

And he was right. So correct my hair could have said it.

Not my pubic hair however – as I’ve said.

Should my pubic hair speak; it’d likely just compliment me and tell me a tale about “Oh the things I’ve seen,” in which crabs are a mortal enemy.

Maybe it’s the way I wear my jumper and get out of chairs with a slight grunt these days that makes the rest of the species wish to go about procreating with the father-figure I am.

Perhaps it’s the manner in which I exude a natural air of “THIS IS MY FUCKING TREE WITH MY FUCKING PEACHES IN IT! SO TAKE YOUR WATERFALL AND TRIDENT AND GET A LIFE, NERD!” which makes the girls (Oh the girls) land on me, as well as, regrettably, the heftier half of the species.

I find myself climbed by the females of local.

They play with my hair and learn harsh lessons from it, whilst also gliding their hands over my muscular-piano-like frame and whispering sweet everythings in my ear.

I’ve perpetually preferred sweet everythings to their counterparts as I like to feel a little more constructive in my flirtations…not that I flirt anymore.

Flirting is for the brave…and I am not brave.

I am merely victorious. That’s all.

I enter bars with my shoes nowhere to be seen and nothing but a lance over my shoulder and a flute in my breast pocket.

Women love a breast pocket in use. And a lance heavily shouldered.

I then take a knee and roar at the sky something seemingly transient yet unyielding and eternally virtuous like: “AAAARRRRGGGHHH” or perhaps even: “EVERYONE – YOU’RE ALL LOOKING SWELL THIS EVENING” before collapsing with such romanticism that a man could never lift me owing to my weighty legs (“It’s as though his bones are made of gold!”) whilst a woman would most certainly rouse me by a sheer touching of my cheek.

I only really wake up these days if a maiden caresses my cheek – all other forms of rising are without any fair form of competition. Nothing compares with a nice bit of cheek caressing first thing, before my coffee and target practise in the owlery (they don’t expect a thing).

My coffee is ground by knuckle by the way. I beat the shit out of what I eat. I also only eat the male of the species; even the coffee bean, as a matter of sheer masculinity.

And the women love that.

Probably.

All I know is that owing to a combination of my Orwellian hair and muscular piano-like build; I get complimented.

And I love compliments.

That’s why I’ve just paid myself plenty.

I am the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you. What a compliment.

Sam


I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 2.

I Think I Could Fuck Up A Wolf; Should It Come To That.

I am the greatest human to ever live.

I’ve dwelt upon this, particularly since I’m a species-ist and there is a resentful degree of contempt in my heart and head and sandals for other species.

Fur and feathers – I permit.

Some of the feathery ones talk back and I like their gumption; whatever that is.

And then there’s giraffes – I couldn’t fuck up a giraffe.

Out of sympathy.

I’d ride them.

I’d ride them out of sympathy.

And they’d permit me to ride them because I’d work out how they like to have their knees massaged and win them over.

They may remain.

Fish and other ocean or water-way dwellers; they need to stay the fuck away from me.

Because I am most certainly the sort of fellow to point at them and bellow “No”.

I’ll just stick my finger, like a knuckled wand, into the water and give them the gist of me.

Pointedly.

I’ve got a lot to say about what obscenities live beneath the surface (some of them don’t even breathe air – try to show me up will ya?!) as I have an issue with things that are too wet.

I feel wetness should be an unexpected treat to come home to involving champagne liberated from the Nazis, or a hell of a way to go to work and give your inspiring and innovative speech to the board.

I’d hate to be on a board; I’m not good at sharing tables owing to my need to swing my heavy-heavy boots upon them as I lean back in my tilted chair and astound my other board members for no other reason than that I want them to back off somewhat and let me swing my heavy-heavy boots around. All this…whilst wet.

My boots are weighty. It builds up the shins – and that’s the mark of me.

You can tell if I did the deed for you’ll find the scene of the crime heavily shinned.

By me.

Ain’t nobody got shins like Sam.

However, even I can go off topic at times.

Because I’m whimsical.

And I’m whimsical because I’m the greatest human to ever live and I can take the time to relax about my intentions in a conversation like this (I’m presuming you’re all nodding along and every now letting loose a “Hmm” of approval or…is it…admiration?). Women admire my whimsy.

My whimsy’s better than yours. Because I whim it.

And that’s why I did it, that wandering off-topic thing, again.

I’m so good at meandering away; I can even meander away from talking about meandering away.

You try it.

Still, there is still the issue at hand.

That I think I could fuck up a wolf; should I whim it.

I have never in all my months of living been nearly attacked by so many dogs as the past 30 days have offered me.

The month of July just generally snarled at me; from day to day.

A lot of slobber; another unpleasant wetness is slobber being held most dangly in the worst of erogenous zones.

And I made it to August with a whole new opinion intact; I could fuck up a wolf.

Let’s look at the basic physiology of a wolf.

The key to its success in a fight against the man mountain that is me is its agile mouth.

The wolf, let’s call it ‘Diana’, has acrobatic jaws.

But so do I, Diana.

And I do bite.

I’d bite Diana the wolf right in the choppers.

And then there’s the rest of me.

Just take a slow and casual glance over my right hand and peek away, I don’t mind, at my pianist’s finger that branches from it.

Every single finger there is an advantage I hold over Diana and I will apply them most verily.

If I were to ram, and I do mean ram in the same way a pianist wouldn’t, my index finger straight and true up one of her nostrils; what would Diana do about it?

I ask because I’m going to do some presuming now and what I feel like presuming today is that Diana would whimper and try to depart from my index finger.

Let it be.

I would just let it be.

Diana is probably the lone-mother of the pack or some other responsibility, plus I’m humane.

I’m so humane I run with horses, so long as they can keep up and wouldn’t get embarrassed by my floppy-semi brought about by the excitement of running and my bountiful strides. That’s right – my strides are bountiful. I don’t know why; I just enjoy striding with an excited semi.

I’m so humane I’d put a ladybird on the windowsill rather than just exhaling it out the window and pausing to see if I can hear it land. I’ve seen too many good ladybirds land in my time.

And…if Diana the wolf wanted to flee from the index finger I currently have penetrating her snout as though I’m pointing with sincere curiosity at something in her sinus then…I would let it be.

Because she’s a good girl and a fine mother; probably trying simply to protect her cubs, who I would have raised myself and taught them how to become the kings I always knew they were if she were to pass away owing to my finger.

There’s also the fact that I could also pull her tail.

A tail is, with as much relevance as I can perceive for the situation in hand, a third of the spine which I can help myself to and give a good tug.

That’s a spine.

Fancy having your spine tugged like I’m trying to win something here?

I want to win your spine and your respect, Diana, so whimper now before I’m holding one of each in either hand.

You’re such a good girl Diana, and you’re a wonderful mother but…I’ve got to stand by my principles.

And my principle here is that wolves are scary and I this was my first instinct.

And that’s noble.

It’s okay; I’m being noble.

I have a crest.

It’s a wolf with a finger up its nose.

And then my large grin beneath it, showing all my teeth (slightly wonky because I’m well-travelled and I bite a lot of things), with my brow above it.

My brow will be frowning slightly because I’m working hard and I’m dealing with it, head looking down, eyes looking up as though I’m saying: “Seriously world? Seriously?”.

My brow is prominent in a way that if not slightly further forward than the rest of my person, it does at least receive compliments at a steady rate.

At least, it would if I didn’t pre-empt a fellow’s compliment with my classic: “Thank you!” and then: “But your bone structure will get there too; just do more things with milk, my dear old friend.”

Oh…there will be archaeologists.

And they will in some distant and lush green field begin to dig, eventually unearthing and taking care not to shovel my remains.

They shall lift my skull from its by-now ancient grave and stand and stare in honest astonishment at my inspiring-brow.

And they will compliment it.

But where in the timeline of humankind’s evolution does this remarkable figure belong? And then they will get it.

Fiction.

This must have been from a fairy tale.

Because…yeah…I’ve got damsels to spare and they’re all nicely in peril and ready for my brow.

And then I shall decide to leap the moat to delete the vile Wolf-Queen Diana from my newly acquired castle, complete with a unfortunately narrow-nostrilled fiend and beautiful damsel of high-birth.

Next time…I’ll show you how to do all of this, particularly the high-birth part.

Also, I recall saying this article would be about romance and my smile, but that’ll do for next time too.

And that’s a fine thing indeed.

Because I am the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Buddy.

Sam


I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 1.

A Superior Ego and Excellent Posture.

I want to start with my ego.

It’s better than yours.

Your ego gives you just about enough presence of thought to enable you to become really skilled at watching YouTube videos, with a distinct knowledge of how to increase your arse breadth.

Whereas myself (Who? Me?); I’ve been working on my ego.

My ego has brought me to a point in my life in which I feel comfortable enough to say that I am the greatest human to ever live. And that took some effort to say. Not that you need to congratulate me since I’ll just be assuming you are anyway (I assume the clamour of my glamour).

I like to enter rooms.

And sometimes, once inside, I’ll just wait for the applause to wash over me like a shower of appreciative spit. Warm and running down to dampen my socks, that’s how I like my applause.

And although I may be waiting for what might never come, it is the being prepared to wait that matters. And enjoying waiters manoeuvre around me as I bow with arms outstretched.

When I get to the bank, I hand over a pound and whisper loud enough for the camera to hear: “Don’t mention it. Get yourself something nice. I want you to look good for me” to the teller.

It doesn’t matter if they’re male or otherwise; my ego’s too flawless to consider people beyond their haircuts.

Their genitals; that’s their business. Their genitals may remain in the bank, for I will purely take note of the hair-doo and wardrobe.

Their attire, depending on the mood of the moment; that might well become mine.

And the same goes for their lunch.

I don’t need to pay you for your lunch; I gave a pound to the bank.

That’s my economy.

It’ll work its way back to you if that pound hasn’t already become enshrined with a very bamboo-themed décor.

By the way, I’m not suggesting you’d want compensation because I stole your lunch – I wouldn’t steal your lunch; I’d accept it as an offering, like a lamb to the slaughter only I want the wool for a bedsheet too.

Also, I wouldn’t steal a lunch. I’d steal banquet. Because I know how to handle a sack of swag and I’m sure I could fill it and manoeuvre it as though it were a bag o’ feathers as opposed to a sack o’ peacock gooches.

I’d could go on about my ego, but it’s too broad a topic for me focus my whole attention span onto for more than a couple of minutes, so I’ll just finalise the ego-section by declaring how appropriate my face would be to adorn currency.

People would get into debates and haggles when one will then mention: “Well I have Sam’s face” and the other will have my face too and they shall both agree they have encountered a glorious impasse and surely they must retire to an early bed.

Because my face is like looking at the sun for too long.

It can fuck up your reading.

I’d apologise…but I am not going to apologise.

Who’d want to read when the option of staring at my visage is still entirely viable? Even following those minutes you spent improving your vocabulary, wasting of your time when you could have been learning a thing far greater from my face alone; that there is no God.

There is no God. Here I am.

I am not God. There you are.

So let’s move onto posture shall we?

My posture.

It’s commanding.

I’m followed by an audience of my posture like a Pide Piper of Hamlin because my posture is mightily followable.

Can I see over that tall hedge to gaze at the predators coming our way (not that I’m worried. For me, predators are a food-group and that’s why I’m laughing when I see them. Not that you’d know)? No. But the hedge were slightly shorter than myself – I’d be able to see right over it owing to my miraculous height. And why am I this tall? Because of my posture, baby.

Tailors crave me, and I let them crave me. They want me and my posture for their craft and I deny them because it’s too amusing to be pursued by a tailor.

They’re as flappy and as floppy as you’d expect.

And so am I; here’s why.

I was once told by a good friend of mine that there is nothing wrong with taking yourself too seriously.

So every other day when I feel the need to bump myself right in the confidence I take myself too seriously so as to remind myself that my ego’s better than yours and how my posture is worth shouting about.

When I say “shout” – I do mean literally.

I do everything literally.

I take the bull by the horns because I want to take the bull and the horns were right there, being horny and graspable…like me.

I find myself getting grasped perpetually in the park, mainly getting grasped in the posture.

It’s awesome; posture affirming.

Did wonders for my ego and I didn’t even need it.

I’m am the greatest human to ever live.

And so are you.

Next time on I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live: Romance and my smile.

Oh my! I’ll see you then.

Sam

(P.S. Am I going to proofread this? No! I save proofreading for articles less perfect).