Why do those without legs insist on running marathons?

Posted: September 9, 2023 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I saw a news article on a Ukrainian teenager whose legs had been blown off by Putin.

And, after that, wonderful things happened because of wonderful people, and so she’s not dead and she now has prosthetic legs.

So now she’s running a marathon.

Why not archery?

Or, anything else that wasn’t a metaphor for overcoming all those naysayers, like Putin, who said she couldn’t run marathons anymore because she’s got no damn legs.

If my lower half left me, I’d regroup and set about working out how best to achieve sitting-down from now on, but I’m not going to take up tap dancing just to show ‘them’.

Maybe I’d tap dance against Putin, but not if he told me not to. Because he’s a limb-deducting psycho.

Good for that teenager. Good for Ukraine.

But remember you’re not bound by tradition to run marathons just because you’ve had your legs blown off.

You can do anything.

Even archery.

I dislike the idea of a PR agency suggesting that there is traction to be achieved if you go down the no-legs marathon route. And if you’re with-it enough to note “but I’ve never liked running, and I’d much prefer to do some other things”, they’d respond: “Oh dear, I don’t think you realise the full benefit of having your legs blown off.”

I dislike that a lot.

Being obliged is not my business.

Just as when you’re having a nice menstrual cycle (as my wife and I call it – having a ‘runny egg’), you’re not obliged to wear ghost-white clothing and go for a vagina-stretching bike ride in front of men in the park.

You could have a period and do archery.

It’s your choice, you’re not bound by narratives.

If you’re a grouch throughout the year till Christmas Eve, you’re not obliged to have a soul-searching experience that causes you to unfold in favour of the whimsy and spirit of the season the following morning. You can just read the paper and stay home with your tin of cold beans for lunch.

Your choice. Make it. Your paper, read it. Your beans, eat them.

Avoid Putin, and enjoy your choice, paper and beans. If he allows it. Or get your legs blown off again.

If you have no legs and want to run a marathon……fine. As long as you actually want to do it.

You could alternatively take up dentistry.

Speaking of which, if you’ve sensitive teeth and have recently begun using a new toothpaste to counter the sensitivity, there’s no law, no ruling, no enforced doctrine that means you must now drinketh only ice-water, and eateth only hot food stuffs, just to show you can.

You’re as entitled to tepid food as anyone.

I’ll bet Putin has sensitive teeth, and that’s what this is all about.

Hey Putin, got sensitive teeth?

“No. Only judo.“

‘Only Judo’, what are you talking about Putin?

Sam

Solving Unemployment via Nice Guys.

Posted: October 10, 2016 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Oh 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