Humanity Won; Kangaroo Didn’t

I have never been more proud of my species than the occasion on which I watched the video of an Australian man squaring up with and punching a Kangaroo.

To begin, this was not one of those cruel kangaroo-boxing charades as per the Victorian era…it was a kangaroo that deserved to be punched and man that deserved to do the punching.

To set the scene of this wonderful moment, it begins sadly.

A young Australian man has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, meaning that his life is a great deal more ‘over’ than the rest of us currently walking around.

This being so, the chap is still luckier than a fair many people; because he has his friends who are insistent on taking him out to live life whilst it’s still liveable.

So this friend takes his very ill pal out to do what they both enjoy most; hunting with their dogs in their jeep.

Here is where the video begins.

A shakily held camera (a shakily held camera is forgivable considering cancer) atop the jeep, Aussie outback whizzing past and distressed calls of the men looking for their dogs which appear to have disappeared.

As it turns out, they had a fear of what had become of their hounds, and the fear was confirmed.

The motor pulls to a stop and a man, the friend, leaps down and begins walking towards what we can now see; a large dog in the unfriendly embrace of a very large Grey Kangaroo (‘the big kind’).

The man is walking towards the two animals with manly purpose; and here’s why that’s brave.

A Grey Kangaroo is about 5-feet-something tall and filled with testosterone and all the muscly meat that entails.

Have you ever seen a shaved chimp? Whilst casually reaching for a banana you’ll see their arms ripple with all sorts of unnecessary-yet-insisted-upon-by-nature muscles, and a kangaroo is no different.

In a permanent ‘look at my muscles’ pose, a lone male Grey Kangaroo is highly aggressive and will happily consider your garden as it’s new pot to piss in.

Along with this, the kangaroo is deadly owing to one weapon in its arsenal; the tail.

Usually seen as a mere aid to its hopping about the wilderness, it is in fact like a crocodile’s tail; filled with muscle and unyielding bone, not prehensile but it’ll make you apprehensile (but only if you’ll excuse poor puns) when you discover it’s trick.

When fighting, kangaroos might look as though they are indulging in a bitchy little face pushing fight, with scratching being the order of the day, but this is not the end all. For the deadly strike, the kangaroo will lean back on it’s bewilderingly now-leg-like tail (currently holding its entire bodyweight) and proceed to kick out with its legs into the abdomen of the opponent.

Picture a tripod bouncing across the Australian landscape, only you didn’t realise this until too late and now its going to involve that third leg most unfairly in a fight.

The force breaks bone, and should claw catch flesh: the belly can easily be carried off and away.

To tackle this takes guts, as it is your ‘guts’ that can also quickly be staining your bush shoes and the kangaroo’s toes.

That is what this man is walking towards, with oh-so-perfect a purpose.

The kangaroo sees the approaching Aussie male, and let’s the dog escape (with which it appreciatively flees).

The man is now right up to the kangaroo, and there is a hell of a lot of testosterone in the air this afternoon.

He and the kangaroo both square up, with the Roo bulking out and the man shaking loose like Bruce Lee as he adapts to a boxing pose.

And then, the man promptly puts his hand though the kangaroo’s chin.

Through it’s chin.

Butter.

Like UTTER BUTTER.

And I’m standing up and yelling “YEEEESSSS” at this, in my cosy bedroom at home, thousands of miles away and two weeks later.

The kangaroo waves is arms in pathetic yet vital little spirals in effort to keep balanced whilst it leans back dependently on its deadly secret weapon of a third leg.

The look on its face is of be-fucking-whilderment.

Befucklement.

It does not have the processing skills demanded of it now to understand the tuned ability of this incredible species: humanity.

Exactly how to stand so as to generate adequate power for the punch, precisely where to aim and land the blow through the now-since-buttery chin of the kangaroo, and the compassion of heart to not have your mate’s trip spoiled by the loss of another great friend to our species: dogs.

The kangaroo is entirely and irrevocably undone by the chap’s species, his knuckles and his good form.

The standing up for your species and your mates is the pinnacle of what we should be spending our time doing and this could not have been better (like BUTTER) exemplified here.

Kangaroo defeated, humanity the victor, this Australian man nods his head in appreciation of the occasion (“Yeah.” would fit well here) turns, and walks away, back to his dog and his mate to enjoy the rest of their trip together.

My hero and yours.

The statement is ultimate.

The next time we have a chance do this this it might be Aliens…so get your shit together, do some push-ups and hug your mates.

Well done sir; bravo humanity.

Sam

Video here: http://youtu.be/FIRT7lf8byw

(Disclosure: A kangaroo WAS mildly hurt during the making of the article, but it was being a bully dick and deserved it.)

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Everyone’s dying…even Hamster

Famous folk have been multiplying for the past 20 years.

In a sense- everyone could be famous with the internet being such a method and audience for ourselves; talented or hilariously-otherwise.

However, the fact that the pop-culture hero has been an increased branding for an overwhelming number of people, it also means that those famous individuals of the past 20-30 years are starting to pop-their-clogs…and die.

That’s what’ll happen if you watch things as opposed doing things. Not that there’s anything wrong with listening to your favourite band or viewing a black-and-white classic, it just means that you’ll know who we’re talking about when we say a person has died. You’ll know the year of their screen debut, the theme-song of their most popular series and you’ll say again and again: “I remember him! He had that thing with the actress, you know her name, the one who had that thing with that actor. And that cult!”

These people become a part of your life; either as important cultural aspects for enjoyment or as alternative babysitters.

The twentieth century- with the arrival of great archival technology (the damned internet) we are now, all of us, far easier to remember. So long as we have a computer.

As far as we can see, our digital footprint is eternal.

So: well done us. I suppose we’ve achieved what the alchemists of immortality never could- we are forever.

Good.

If all of Peter Cook’s comedy had died with him then I would not be the man-child I am today. Shakespeare would merely have been a dead-man who lived with inky fingers and Robin Williams would simply be a man who appeared to be in quite a hurry. Rather, Robin Williams was a man who taught me to laugh at such things as death (such as by suggesting that Robin was one of those rare men suffering from too many belts).

Looking back at his stand-up, post-mortem, I know that he might not have laughed owing to the joke being a tad-shit, but he wouldn’t have minded the cause. Humour is here to be forgiven.

These days, death is not quite the disability that it used to be. Communication ‘during the grave’ (since ‘beyond’ the grave might not be as far as some presume) is a lot less spooky than we might have thought.

But what of those without a computer or a Top 10 Hit? Like a Tudor electrician- a man who didn’t have much to do and didn’t know how to do it anyway. He is not remembered (not just due to him being fictional), but neither is the ancient caveman who had no talent for murals.

I’m afraid their memory must be only that the species is currently where it is. Without them, we would not be. And that’s all. Almost seems hardly worth being a peasant really. Other than this, all the tales and experiences of their lives simply fall in the beginnings and ends of eternity. Extraordinarily private moments and lonely thoughts in forgotten actions. Or joyous- yet still alone.

I have a hamster. His name is Hamster.

He’s just the best. My little champion. I’d trust him with anything- I’m sure he’d be on my side when the teeth begin to bite all around me.

He’s dying.

We’ve even got the shoe-box ready.

My wife made a point of putting it next to his little enclosure, to which I objected. You wouldn’t start digging the hole in full view of your almost-deceased relative; it’s hardly encouraging and equates to yawning and continually peeking at your watch towards the end of an evening with colleagues. To yawn and peek at my watch in front of Hamster with subtle nods to entering the shoe-box prematurely would be of no effrontery in the slightest towards him since he only hopes that I will continue to put him on my head when in high-spirits, though I could not bear to appear rude to such a comforting friend.

However, I’m sure to bury him somewhere smelly- he enjoyed busy nostrils. Plus I’m sure the foxes would appreciate the corpse to nibble on. I’m sure they’ll enjoy his once-busy nostrils too.

Or….or….I could use him for something. Like lobbing him at an enemy. That’d be pretty insulting.

Or I could render him for fat- that’s something I’ve heard you can do with the dead.

Personally I’d like to leave my body to science. Rocket-science.

But I’ll probably just bury him. In a shoebox. Old fashioned.

The only alternative would be that he didn’t die, in which case there’s no reason that anyone should die and now we are being wishful and fictional. I don’t know about you, but personally I adore to be able to swing cats, and the thought of that right being taken from me owing to the elderly-gentleman on my right eating up my elbow room with his sheer mass and numeracy freaks me out. That’s not how swinging a cat should be. It’s should be noisy, but it should not be compact. It’s expressive for all parties; just listen to it in motion.

With too many people comes too many problems, like we’ve always had. Our social-species is programmed to be concerned over how many of us there are. I’m not sure what the perfect number would be but whenever we dip below or rise slightly above, we worry we’re going to run out of oxygen or there aren’t enough of us to overwhelm a bear.

This is the ultimate issue however- running out of oxygen because too many new or old folk are inhaling.

This is one of those situations that can be solved either by murder or sex- thankfully not as one.

My advice to you all is to stop procreating. As politely as possible- we don’t want anyone to be offended by our sudden genital removal.

Although we’re not running-out of anything yet, we no longer have too-much as we used to. Remember all that buffalo and tuna? Well, although I’m sure you could go and get yourself a buffalo and tuna sandwich, the bread is becoming the easiest part of it and this is a negative.

In all seriousness, bread is peasant food and none of us are peasants.

Fuck bread. If you don’t pull it out of the ground or pounce on it from a super-secret hiding place then I shall remain uninvolved.

If this hamster dies then I’ll have to insist that this plant keeps the ghost going.

My last plant- Claire- had a massive stroke and died. If I’d have stroked her a little less heavy-handedly, she might still be blooming and green, rather than barren and an unpleasant shade of “You-did-this-to-me-Sam’ brown.

Hamster’s starting to turn a little that colour. A colour you can smell before you can see.

The new plant is a southern beauty named Barbara. And she will survive.

It’s what Claire would have wanted.

But what else is there to do aside from to die?

The ‘meanwhile’ is all that exists between now and then, so whilst I implore you to politely cease all procreation- remember that it is for the joy of swinging a cat as fervently as one’s human nature allows.

Be sure to live prior to what is likely unending-death.

Swing the cat and rub its tummy afterwards. Permit it to nuzzle into yours if agreeable.

Dance, sing, laugh, love and ‘all that’- but remember the point of man in the enlightened definition is to die upon your own terms: following the life you chose to have led or had died fighting for.

Either die fighting or loving, for that enormous shoebox coming to claim you will give no glinting eye nor slightest smile in concern for your words and deeds. Only those remaining on the blue-green rock have a concern for your passing, aside from one more: you. You are the greatest judge of a life well or poorly spent and my recommendation is that you give less of a damn considering the end and more of a moment exploding yourself all over everything you want to do prior.

If a man can choose and enjoy his poison then he is so: a man. Have you any idea of how much your body would prefer it if you were to continue what you’re doing: sitting? Even exercise is bad for you in the singular; only when it is regular is it of decent consequence. Your body craves for lack of danger in the form of you sitting most contently and eventually procreate. Sitting till procreation would be the dictation of your genes if only those predators would stop blending in with the Savannah-sofa and doing that splendidly provocative pouncing they do.

Why is it that only bad things (predators) in nature pounce, whilst pouncing is in all appearances and phrases a good thing? There’s nothing better than a physical pounce to make an argument memorable. Pouncing was how I met my wife. All of a sudden.

The people you love are on the final call of the stage, your parents and pets share a similar fate and you are sitting there- vaguely wondering.

Cease wonder and attack with all the ferocity that our species is known for, with aim focused mightily upon the experience of living with…only one more recommendation. Tolerate no tyrants, and enjoy the weather.

Tolerate no tyrants; forgive and love all weather for… really…weather is all there is.

Pounce.

Sam


How To Avoid Being ‘The Public’.

I am about to begin detailing a totem pole with a chisel and mallet, and I have three reasons for doing this.

The first two are short and blunt.

  1. I’ll get some blisters, which is masculine, which is attractive to a certain degree of woman, which is a feeling which is just swell.
  2. I get a totem pole out of it, and therefore get a phallus shaped thing with which to out-do my other phallus shaped things (such as that actual phallus I have- had it for years).
  3. This, and such acts like this, are a tremendous way by which to avoid the label of, and very act of becoming, ‘the public’.

The third one is, I believe, the ‘nub’ of the matter. Possibly  ‘the nub’. Maybe even the ‘knub’.

Let me explain why this is essential. Essential like music. Music called ‘knub’.

You don’t want to be the public. Even children don’t want to be the public and they’re the people that the idea is aimed at.

The only people that want to be the public are paranoid stoners that fear that somehow they’re a criminal and now they just want to be back to being part of the public- watching Countdown before the ‘just-because-you’re-paranoid’ police kick your door down and don’t let you finish your cereal.

This kind of collectiveness is what often comes from fear.

That’s why it’s aimed at children.

Because children are not encouraged to do things differently and it’s very easy to scare them. And they have a tendency to do things differently and are brave.

Some people feel a need to put a stop to that. Largely because it’s different, and they are scared of that.

Maybe that could go on the totem pole. Needs an image though. Maybe…a  baby…eating a snake. Perfect. That’s brave, and fairly hip. ‘What an infant!’

I feel that another way to avoid, or regress from, your transformation into ‘the public’ is to indulge heavily in those aspects of life that you will not see on television. Such as conversation.

Be interested, and you will become interesting. Become interesting, and that’s about all you need in life apart from a small fire, a sharp stick, a thick book and a good-sized infant to eat away all encompassing snakes.

This is most unlike ‘the public’- the opinion of which is sought only in bulk. What one of ‘the public’ feels is of little consequence, whereas- on mass- these ants will topple over that much detested (at least amongst ants) rubber-tree plant.

You go walking, or indeed move in any way, and talk to strangers as you go. Your day will then improve. Even if you gained a little strain, or perhaps some woe, at least now it’s a variety of woe that you might be more impressive to those listening- as you list your recent activities to your ‘even-more-recent acquaintances’, encountered via a short stroll.

Today, my ears were sieged by the dialogue of one man who suddenly realised that I would be empathic to the point of sympathy as he let me know about how his headlights were wonky and he had to be patient to straighten them.

This man was one of those men with whom one feels a need to reach for the chalk and board to get across your point of “Good morning”. Yet he somehow saw in me something that perhaps suggested that I too had recent or historical laments with my own headlights, or the headlights of a loved one or work colleague. Or maybe he was just looking to gain a little of that sweet bag of mixed nuts known as ‘conversation’.

Nutty.

I agreed with him in everything he said, guaranteed him that I would be patient too, and patted him on the shoulder whilst assuring him that everything about this was normal and that all he had to do was keep doing what he was doing, if perhaps only in an alternative shopping aisle.

As I left with my sushi, a cat I had endured a disagreement with the night before crossed my path, to which we exchanged similar noises (I’m not sure which of us was copying the other- I like to think that I was the trend setter here)and I gave him my fresh salmon.

The cat smelled it, bit it, took it and then ran away with many glances back with a look in its eyes that let out its sheer terror at the idea that I might possess the audacity to attempt to reclaim my own fresh salmon.

 I did have the audacity, audacity in spades, but I thought I’d leave it there in the hope that, at the next encounter, we might trade some more-conciliatory noises, as well as some more fresh fish.

If all of this hadn’t happened then I would be sad and with two less stories to tell.

Now, this man and this cat are not ‘the public’.

One is a cat, and the other is a ‘madman’.

Good.

Whereas being a cat is no longer an option (since you’ve been a human being for SO long now), the act of ‘madness’ is a viable choice for those that wish to know a little more about the world around them, by assuming there is more to know of a person than their job, address and make of car.

Acts of madness.

Living in a super-tribe of hundreds, thousands and millions, means that people are unable to persist with their natural instincts of knowing intimately every member of what should be your village-sized community of a few dozen people at most.

We can’t even do this at our places of work since too many people equates to too little communication. And that’s why people shoot other people they haven’t met yet.

Now, one may find oneself a niche group of people suited to their particular styles, outlooks and shared history (friends)- something that is increasingly easier with the routes of the internet, but I have a recommendation for dealing with this whilst without friends and away from a computer.

Make it…a little more…funky.

Talk and do. Ask questions to everybody and let them know about your day (but make it funny otherwise they’ll distinctly move further away).

Always help people that are next to you, whether they appear to need it or not. And now, knowing this, when offered help, or when a stranger to you seeks to be one no longer- embrace what they’re doing and be, as we all should, a little more funky.

By decimating the lack of communication bridges with a Golden Gate sized mother-fucker of a conversation starter, you will eliminate the public, and be introduced to a person.

Gather quickly their name and intentions, share yours too, and then make with speed to their destination and help lessen their load and increase the shared information.

This is essentially the best of the internet- without computers.

One can also use totem poles for this.

Carving in the phallus, or perhaps the now famous tree-graffiti symbol I espoused of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” should have the ultimate announcement of “SOMEONE’S HERE”. “And we’ve got totem poles”.

Find out more about this here: https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/

By sticking up this carved log from the Earth to the sky- you are sticking out the fact that you are here, not one of the public.

“No public here”.

These, and similar acts (meaning anything that the people that refer to us as ‘the public’ don’t expect), are methods by which to avoid becoming ‘the public’, and I recommend them.

Don’t fall into the kind of collectiveness that the term ‘the public’ refers to.

Instead, take part in another collectiveness- but make this one with which you walk down the street and get involved with people, safe in the knowledge that this person is no longer the public. They are now Steve, and Steve knows an excruciating amount about mushrooms, and soon you will too.

You can refer mushroom issues to your good buddy Steve now. Because you spoke.

Be interested and you will become interesting.

Eventually you might even be able to thrill yourself.

My totem pole is unquestionably going to be phallic, and that is the only kind of classiness that we all need.

My totem pole is classy.

How’s yours?

Sam