Vinyl or Digital? Hmmm.
Posted: April 13, 2017 Filed under: culture, Uncategorized, writing | Tags: digital, Humour, Music, technology, Vinyl, writing Leave a commentIt’s got to be vinyl.
Because we don’t need the Earth as much as we once so crucially depended on it.
I was very intellectually viewing a Vice video recently, in which the news was studied that Jack White (once a White Stripe) has purchased a vinyl record factory in Detroit, wherein he has a workforce devoted to bringing back about the tradition of music being heavier in the hand.
Throughout the interview, White gave his reasons for this endeavour, citing the enormous sales of vinyl in the UK and how music audiences have tired of the “invisibility” of music.
White also mentioned that folk liked moving mechanical parts to their music; which is nice.
I can see the appreciation of vinyl being a visible pleasure, for it was the same when I first purchased my first cd; Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
The album art system is lost, with the purchased song now having the visible identity of a postage-stamp sized irrelevance in the corner of your screen.
Whilst one could claim that this gives the audience no illusions other than the sheer product of music itself; album art was and can be tremendous.
With Warhol and The Velvet Underground having the audacity to bend minds with a banana, the ludicrously luscious lips (even the tongue is still swaggering) of the Rolling Stones and world starting Big Bang of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (by the Beatles; a local Liverpool based group); these album covers gave an added appropriate kick in the teeth to authority and kick in the arses to those young folk whose attention had yet to be garnered.
Memorable to the mind, and our first contact with the album; the cover art mattered and it still can as it gives the artist another dimension the express and the audience an added bud to with which to taste.
The theme of dimensions plays again when regarding the idea of making music “heavier in the hand”.
The song you’ve downloaded from ITunes, is THE song. You’ve got it and so do your companions.
With the vinyl album, just as it was for me when I bought my first cd; what you hold in your hand is now YOURS.
That’s YOUR Appetite for Destruction. That’s MY Are You Experienced.
Of course, one’s chums had it too, only theirs was theirs, whilst yours was yours.
The album would be clenched to the strangling point of anticipation whilst you listened for the first time, studied diligently and blindly stared at as it revolved in ones hands as you felt what the songs gave you to feel or found a feeling within you.
YOURS.
MINE.
I can tell because it’s in my hand. Yours is in yours.
As well as this, there is the factor of also listening to this music, should you care to.
“Crisp”, “clear”, “acute”, “sharp”, “sterile”, “cutting” – All words describing why you should purchase the latest model of audio technology.
“Cold” is another and is, for me, the definition of digital sound in so far as a pleasure.
It has a place, of course, with Metal and certain Dance and Techno tunes, but people are drifting towards the future of vinyl for the welcoming, wistful “warmth” that it breathes.
A pleasing, deep groove of a song comes from the speaker of a turntable. The familiarity of sound that resonates like that of ones father coming home from work whilst your mother was reading and you were really rather busy in the womb.
The sound of ‘next door underwater’ has, in my thoughts, a direct link to our first hearings from within mum’s tum; a resonance from before you were born.
That’s quite a selling point.
Why choose vinyl?
Because of this, that, and the other; especially those last three.
It’s also tall and wide and round and it spins, all highly pleasing attributes to most physical things and a record is no exception.
The flaw in the proud procession along the groove of vinyl’s victory parade over digital music is that leads to the inevitable and irreversible end of the Earth.
It is a physical thing, and physical things take up space about the planet.
They require a great deal of energy to create and distribute, both of which cause ice shelves to melt as quickly as teenage hearts to a sweet pop melody.
A vinyl record can be found lodged in the corpse of a once highly determined and regrettably dense seagull or tortoise, who took to biting and swallowing once the young chap on the brow of the boat impressed everyone immensely by demonstrating just how well a vinyl record could fly with the correction application of “spin”.
Sharpened well, a vinyl record could be the weapon of choice; whilst the digitally downloaded song is notably omitted from current editions of Cluedo as a method of murder.
And so the Earth will close for business and eternity; awash in seas of plastic discs and enormous and quality album art.
It’s a good thing Mars has all but invited us to call in soon.
I’ll pack in advance I think…must remember to bring my IPod.
Sam.
When Encountering a Clown; Consider Laughing. And Cricket Bats
Posted: October 27, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: clowns, daddy, funny, grenade, Humour, Likes, MI5, smoke, Weird Leave a commentHas anyone thought that the most appropriate thing to do when they see a clown is to laugh?
We’re discussing a fucking loser, a ranked and certified loser, a loser who excels at loserhood.
How will you find something to do with your life? How about dousing your throat in makeup, putting a mask on, finding the most creepy looking knife from your mum’s kitchen draw and then hanging out in a cornfield until some teenagers come along?
And your primary objective?
You’re trying to impress people, aren’t you?
Doubt not, right along with me, that these honkers are the sort to go home after they’ve hung out in the wheat field for a few hours, feeling satisfied with their contribution to the zeitgeist, like those Anonymous arseholes.
There’s a good deal of arseholehood in wearing a mask, especially if you say you’re a good guy.
Not quite as arseholehood as a guy running at your car, hoping you pull away just in time.
They must plead in your head that you make it away in time, otherwise they’re going to be so embarrassed at the point of capture they’re going to have to murder someone because…they’ve gone this far and can’t back down now.
It’s like Trump only with slightly less ridiculous hair.
Imagine the picture as the clown loses his nerve, whilst a car full of adults with children and mortgages (positively riddled with children and mortgages), maybe with an alpha male whose been longing for an opportunity to protect his family.
There are men with cubicle jobs, dealing with traffic every morning and every night, coming home to an aging wife, expanding waistline, a despondent south facing penis and decreasingly enjoyable children, being told by his boss that he needs to try harder if he’s truly serious about this junior role, and he can’t even play cricket anymore because his daughter’s soccer class is more important and he has to visit his wife’s dad who calls him a pussy whenever he’s out of the room…any then he sees a clown staring at his car.
Walking towards him with that “Trust-me-I’m-disturbed-like-in-the-films” angle of the neck, with his mother’s most Hollywood kitchen knife dangling down at his side, his pace quickening. And then DAD remembers he’s still got his cricket bat in the boot of the car.
Oh he’ll be thanking the strange-ass culture of the world that has brought this clown into his life.
And he can’t wait to see what amusing noises will eminate from this clown.
That’s a good point; it excuses people from devastating a clown’s joke.
I’ve never actually met a clown, but I’ve reviewed the history and it would seem you’re supposed to laugh at them. Not that that’s the point; you should laugh at these losers with a honk noise because this is their Friday night.
Having a honk doesn’t make you a clown, it makes you a loser in a mask who, because of that, feels like they’re free from consequences; and the consequence of running at towards me wearing a mask and holding a machete whilst a honking noise emits from you is – I’m going to whip out my pocket baseball bat and ruin the joke.
Clowns: laugh at them.
And keep a cricket bat handy in case of potential losers trying to get a personality.
I would also like to say a quick “Hullo” to MI5 who are reading in currently.
Do you think that when you chaps drop by it could be a tad less clandestine; as I could really do with the views.
And I plan to achieve that by mentioning what follows.
I am holding a smoke grenade and just so happen to also currently be feeling fairly flippant towards the establishment.
I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A LEGAL SMOKE GRENADE BOUGHT AT A PAINTBALLING SESSION…you should still click on my page.
The smoke grenade is mightier than the pen, so sayeth the struggling writer holding a smoke grenade for maximum effect.
I am qualified.
Flaunting the potential of a terrorist threat should do get the hordes of admiring MI5 agents flocking to my page and ‘Liking’ it.
It’s almost as dreary as asking trying to impress people by wearing a clown mask.
I hope MI5 like me.
They’d better.
Or I’ll let off this smoke grenade in my room and show everybody.
That’ll do for today; next time I’ve got some choice words for sharks and why Hemmingway was right to machine gun them.
Thanks,
Sam
Celebrities Stopped Dying
Posted: October 23, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: celebrity deaths, elbow skin, Humour, paul mccartney, testicles, writing Leave a commentSo these celebrities are still present.
Following the rush of celebrities passing by and away, the flood has stemmed.
Who was the last one? Prince?
And since then; I can’t think of one and it’s been months since the last.
And now I can’t even stroll down the street without colliding with some C-Lister, busying up my route on the pavement and urging me to know their name.
I am of course being ridiculous.
And why not; I’ve got enough celebrities on standby to risk being a tad ridiculous.
Who do we have left?
The Queen.
And she’s worth at least 70.
A regal 70.
Mick Jagger’s worth 80.
This is all relative.
Besides, Shakespeare’s dead. Whatever will he think of next?
Who’s left from the good days of our timely lives?
We’ve got Paul McCartney…
I’ve always liked Paul McCartney; the only Beatle.
Ah that’s not true, I just feel that without Paul McCartney, who is (by the way) a real whole-name kinda guy – doesn’t feel correct to say merely “Paul” or “McCartney”, is the reason the Beatles showed up on time.
One of those chaps you could rely on to wear a proper coat no matter what weather. Or who thought it’d be nice for us all to have some sandwiches and just happens to have some with him right now.
Not that he’s a sap, ole’ Paul McCartney.
I wouldn’t want to bully him.
I reckon he’s the sort of fellow to get picked on and, then, right in the middle of the scuffle, it turns out he can elbow you supremely hard somewhere convenient for him and inconvenient for you. And then he’d stagger back, looking hurt with his nice shirt collar all ruffled.
“I didn’t want to elbow you really hard there but I asked you to stop! I’m being nothing but reasonable! Well I’m sorry your private parts are hurt Sam but you really did ask for them to get a good elbowing you know.”
That’s a collision of two gross skin patches.
The elbow skin and the ball bag skin, meeting at last in an epic encounter of whose surface is the weirder, bumpier kind.
Like fried chicken skin.
Paul McCartney would be sure to pack natural remedy cream in his suitcase, explicitly for ragged elbows: “Please give it a go Sam, I want to see your elbows free to breathe again!”
Perhaps he’d be against elbow skin because of the fried chicken similarity.
Poor old vegetarians.
They have broccoli to rely on.
And that’s sad.
Broccoli is no companion. Plus it only keeps you warm if you rub yourself with it hard enough.
Rub yourself with a chicken hard enough and it’ll get you arrested, though you will easily find some feathers to fill your shitey jail pillow with.
I’m running low on time, plus my wife’s looking attractive in a fascist attitude; like she’s withdrawn my choice as to whether or not I find her hot and am simply now erect and servile.
What else do I have in my notes?
“Whale prodding.”
I’m not sure what that was relating to. But I brought it up.
“Nipples for the inner circle only.”
Again, I’ve not the slightest, foggiest clue as to what I was referring to when I wrote that one down, but…mentioned it!
What else?
“Fuck the Naples Mafia; who heisted those Van Gogh pictures.”
Yes. Fuck the Naples mafia verily.
I’m a fair-enough-fan of Van Gogh and consider those flat-capped, shoulder-braces, tiny cigarette smoking, just like mama-used-to-stealia-the-artworka, youa-nota-make-it-into-the-inner-nipple-circle mafia motherfuckers to have stolen that artwork from me personally.
How conceited can you be to steal a Van Gogh? That’s like stealing Mount Everest; it’s everyone’s. It’s Humanity’s; don’t touch my mountain.
Oh I would love the Naples mafia to come for me. Pussies. You ruined Naples.
Ok then, to wrap up today’s Brief Therefore Witty with hopes of mafia war (I’d win; I’ve got Paul McCartney), I’d just like to say with a tad more cultural insensitivity that fucka-the-Naples-mafia-boopidy and next time you can look forward to reading all about what to do when a clown comes running at you.
Here’s to celebrities lost…
Thanks,
Sam
Solving Unemployment via Nice Guys.
Posted: October 10, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: astronauts, business ideas, cats, comedy, funny, Humour, legs, sponsorship Leave a commentOh I’ve got an initiative chaps!
One of those plans to have my name go down and up again in history; as opposed to making any money in the slightest.
Aw.
Maybe I can charge people for putting my name in the history books. Oh look! Another initiative!
Forget that one. I don’t want people refusing to talk to me so as to save money.
My friends are undoubtedly more economic than they are loyal.
Frugal traitors.
They won’t be mentioned in the history books with me; those things are too crowded any way.
So I just looked up historically irrelevant people to back up my own claim that history books are too crowded and it would seem I can’t find anyone who didn’t matter.
Quaint.
However, I did get to enjoy reading about the magical history of Irish slavery; in which those Irish were still third class. One of those accent racisms. Or maybe you could tell by the hair.
Or the Irish telling people they were Irish.
That’s an Irish joke. And that’s ok; I’ve probably got some Irish in me.
Once there was a time when having the wrong accent left you in the lurch in life. Being able to pull off a really-rather-jolly-good-old-posh accent must have been more applicable than having legs.
Fucking legs.
Getting by without those is just…floppy.
Nothing worse than legs you don’t need; like a pair of empty tights filled with jelly.
A floppy scar; no thanks ma’m.
They might be funny to lovingly whack people with though.
Plus it would unsettle people when they realise that thing on their shoulder is an exceedingly soft foot.
Legs that don’t work, however, is not my initiative!
Companies hire Nice Guys to be helpful in the street.
These professional Nice Guys should be approachable; helping folk in the street, offering bag carrying and first aid.
Companies can then plaster these Nice Guys in sponsorship advertising.
“Nice Guys; brought to you by Ford!”
Can you deny, and I dare you to do so, the genius of this plan?
I’d take a sponsorship.
Think I’ll ask my buddy, ole’ Simon, ole’ slim. Would you like to have your name, and only your name (oi…Simon), on my chest?
I’ll tell you who else deserves sponsorships…Spacemen. And Spacewomen.
They are the greatest people to ever live in the times that they live in.
Whilst you might have Da Vinci, Columbus, etc…these are the guys who are going to fuck the next species we collide with, in war and peace and love.
Only thing is that Spacemen can’t write prose for shite…Shakespeares they are not.
Cats are likely the next choice of astronaut. Give them some simple buttons to push in an easy order and they’re superior to the next fat chap in a chair.
Once they’ve finished being casual ninjas, that is.
A cat is the most casual of ninjas to have hanging from your mail-box, meowing to be let in; the deceiver.
A ninja. A sexy, sexy ninja-cavalier-that can kill you if it wants. On such a whim; it’s technically whimsical.
I dislike the suggestion that a cat is a fragile ickle-wickle cutie pie owing to the fact that when the bombs start to drop; chances are the cat will outlast me.
The cat will be the bully in the street who slinks on over and takes all your canned food and essential balls of string I’ve been saving for none-of-your-fucking-business reasons.
They CAN kill you if they want; all they need is a pit to nudge your nibbled-to-pieces-corpse into in the afterwards.
They might need an incentive; but they’ll kill you with an attitude denoting that you’re not cool enough to know why they did you in.
I once knew a chap who permanently looked as though he was just realising his balls with being nibbled by a kitten. A mix of revulsion, shock and finally guilt at having had such an interaction with the cat to cause this tremendous turn around in fortune.
Maybe you’ll all have that look upon your faces someday soon. Not just because cats aren’t nibbling your bollocks owing to a career in space, more so because my business idea works so well.
You’re welcome.
See you soon.
Sam
Sugar, Sugar, You’re My Daddy
Posted: September 25, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: equality, football, funny, Gender, Humour, Jesus, Joseph, Mary, men, obesity, sexism, soccer, Weird, Women, writing Leave a commentOh 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.
Joking, gals.
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.
Take myself.
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,
Sam
Today Was a Pink Donkey Day
Posted: September 25, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Donald Trump; On His Level, Uncategorized | Tags: comedy, funny, Humour, positivity, Sociology, toys, Trump, Weird Leave a commentI 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,
Sam
Gallant Without Option
Posted: July 12, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: chivalry, comedy, finance, funny, gallantry, Humour, masculinity, Weird, writing Leave a commentIt’s all in the shoulders.
Every last bit.
I lift.
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.
Sam
Immortalised Moi
Posted: July 12, 2016 Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live, writing | Tags: Art, Culture, Earth, eating, funny, Humour, life, philosophy, phrasing, self improvement, self-development, statues, writing Leave a commentThree miles away, there shall be a bear, be it Black, Grizzly or Pooh – breed matters not, and it shall be fleeing; fleeing from the fact of me a’stoney – three miles away in the new capital, busied by floral tributes and perhaps some well-put-together and recently deconstructed oxen.
In terms of animal sacrifice, I feel it’d be rude not to accept.
It seems natural to expect statues of myself to appear; pimpling the globe, here – in honour of my recently being deemed worthy to have a statue, there – being used to keep the pigs in the forest.
I muse fondly the idea of having sat-upon-feet, by lovers sharing an ice-cream whilst also having no idea who I am because they’re young.
It is but a shame statues aren’t a rebellious art form, being an erection of the establishment only.
It’d work though, with a sudden subversive statue on your front door – cope with that won’t you please Mr Reagan?
Me, as stone, shall gather no moss and isis (because they deserve lower-case) will keep away from this piece of articulated rock.
They’ll take note of my presence and consider as follows:
- Naturally; urinate. Urinate all over their own western candy.
- Turn the gun to themselves, look down the barrel, give it a brief suck as some vague hope of demonstrating greater subservient allegiance before; finally…
- Emitting an “Oh I see” in that democracy is the way forward, being gay is irrelevant whilst gay people aren’t and woman are terrific – let them try a book.
How did they realise democracy is the way forward?
They read it my democratic countenance.
I look democratic.
And, thus, you shall also be democratic; because I said so.
It’ll go with your new rebellious statues on the city centre.
Since you’ve asked, and I’m glad you did, as to how I would most like to be appreciated in stone once departed, there are several things upon to ruminate upon within the hallowed-hollow.
Such as: what cloth shall I wear?
I shall be nude.
Everyone’s laboured hard today and we all deserve a treat.
However, I’ll need something to flow – the best statues have a flow to them.
Got it – the luscious hide of a monstrous beast I bested, tamed, struck up a striking brotherly familiarity with and finally put out of its withered misery with game of fetch so intense one might describe as being “to-the-hilt!”.
Plus an actual stab to the hilt, owing to it being a monstrous beast and needing metaphors to be hammered home somewhat.
And you can bet your bottom…arse…that I won’t be urinating.
But why not Sam, you magnificent chap you?
Because it’s remarkably amusing to see the number of honoured deities flooding the market square with well-plumbed flows. And whilst this may be so; I’ve a better idea for everyone.
For, yea, I shall shit you your daily bread and prosecute all trespasses.
Actually; I’m all in favour of permitting a hint of trespassing (yes – I went there), but the humour is more humorous if we remain in good humour and don’t get a little too technical.
Intelligently mechanised automated bakeries, installed within the magnificent depths (my depths are magnificent) of my statues, having collaborated with my personal physicians, will feed the poor and aid the working single mother on her way home without time to pop to the shops.
Every hour and 30 minutes, another loaf emerges from between my heavenly yet Earthly buttocks and plummets into the waiting arms of the grateful below.
An added advantage of this is the appreciation shown by the gulls and pigeons for the morsels of bready-leavings in that they shit on other statues in other parts of the city/woods.
And that show of gratitude matters to me most of all.
Not to mention, should you shit on me; I’m the kind of statue to shit right back at you.
Even it’s a nice, considerate shit in the shape of a romance-heart. Thoust should have shat elsewhere, birdy.
I’ll punch a poo into you purely because it’s lyrical.
You feathery motherfucker; you want to get shitty at height with this immovable object?
I’ll be immovable all over; takes your eggs and have an omelette out of your lineage.
Plus beaks are dim. Your main method of eating requires you to headbutt the floor until you’re certain you’ve met with a good angle to grasp, toss thee petty crumb of crust high into the air and swallow whole (and, yes, whilst this may be my own preference of eating grapes, I’m still insulting you over it. Only idiots eat like us).
A statue, grubby or not, tends to look as though a bath is very much so in order.
Craving, with rain teared stoney eyes, a soak in the tub.
Where’d I’d become warm and gooey as though the centre of the Earth only 6 times as delicious.
I bet the centre of the Earth is a tasty place to be.
Working your way there after the rough crust of Vietnam, with the necessary healthy greens of northern South America, avoiding Saudi Arabia because no one wants that bit – the coffee bean in the Minstrel packet.
And the Earth is good, sturdy, take no mercy filling, complete with pleasant surprises that tingle the tongue, like a subterranean nuclear-proof palace of Kim Jong-un, and the occasional mole.
Working through that filling like you’re lusty. Lusty and proud with a tongue they’ll write songs of.
I lap at that planet, watchful of those wettards which may be a little too soggy. The Atlantic is guilty of this. Meanwhile the Sahara requires a beverage post-lapping. And London is just right, if a tad gritty.
Though I’ll bet Florida is like the juice you cannot but glug away at, refreshment to the hilt.
“To the hilt” – a phrase to remind us of a time when the utmost by which a thing could be done was as long as the blade you plunged into someone.
Let’s keep this phrasing up, shall we?
Take myself, for example. I am writing this article to the point of stabbing a fellow to full extent. I couldn’t possibly stab him any further – I’d quite exhausted my reach of stab; that’s how hard dedicated I am to this article.
Because murder is convincing.
Not as convincing as a statue; of course.
And none more so than a statue of me as myself.
Because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Keep in touch with your stone masons.
Tip them regularly.
Sam
There They Go…
Posted: May 8, 2016 Filed under: culture, writing | Tags: 2016 deaths, bowie, Culture, death, Humour, lemmy, life, living, mortality, philosophy, victoria wood, writing Leave a commentTo begin with, as we know, everyone’s been dying for quite a substantial period of time.
Nobody’s not died in living memory.
We just keep it up, don’t we?
2016, in four months, robbed the world of mother and brothers, friends and lovers; most of which are unknown to all of us.
Now however, it would seem the entertainers are going.
Victoria Wood was introduced to me by my mother.
I had no idea in the slightest.
This is a very general rule for me, and becoming engaged with a funny looking lass who seemed to be wearing intergalactic clobber made it all the more so; not to mention her referencing to things which were evidently quite dull.
And then I aged.
A sad story, I know, but with these betraying years came the sublime smack of comprehension regarding the world that I had not known before.
I read a little, wrote a little, kissed here and there (once everywhere) and realised a bad time was sweaty and good time doubly-so.
And now I am as I am.
And me being what I am as I am now; I’ve gone and gotten myself and appreciation for Victoria Wood.
And I think she’s an absolute cracker.
Was.
Blending the northern grind of suburban mediocrity with the true surreal thrill-filled passion which consumes each and every one of us at our best and worse; she found her comedic niche and worked the hell out of it, building to the paramount point of glorious comedic beauty:
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda”
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpGQTbaXRSY)
She, being Freda, approaching the waning years of latter middle-age, whilst also being bloody Northern, is one evening filled with the passion of Greta Garbo’s smouldering glare and Marilyn’s off-the-shoulder-strap cheek.
Freda enquires, demands, pleads, proclaims, beseeches her lover, Barry – likely a chap still working though would rather more sit and scratch – this simple statement of the still-sparkling powerful cheek of she that is forever young (sometimes)… “Let’s do it.”
Barry cringes, is unkeen to go about the act of love making owing to some “it’s not right, s’not proper at ah age, you’re just bein daft y’old blody womun”
As is his right, with the timidity of the years bearing down upon him, though much still very so in love with his Freda, he’s a tad out of rhythm when in the sack.
And he is quite honestly intimidated by his wife.
However, her passion builds, bulges become commonplace in the front room and the crescendo cometh in the form of Victoria Wood bellowing, thoroughly accented like a bloody Northerner should be, with “TONIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
And I’m still listening to her sing it.
Recognition is the means of immortality and thus, for us, Victoria is very much so still here.
Lemmy basses about through a thousand stereos still.
Bowie’s bravery strikes chords in a million daily hearts.
And I’m reminded that I am fairly old for the average 26 year-old.
And I’d better get working.
You can’t take anything with you, but you can leave the world with something to remember you by.
They did.
And there they go.
Never forget, we’re lucky to have them…still.
Rest in peace humanity, and throttle life like you know you’re not coming back.
Thanks,
Sam
The Lateral Column 