I’m Not Even Procrastinating

I watched a meeting today in which Real Madrid footballer Ronaldo and UFC fighter Conor McGregor meet and discuss how hard they have to work to be what they are; pinnacle people.

Men of the kind of wealth which makes you immortal, athletic monsters with hearts of purest gold, confidence and determination to be the perpetual “better man”.

I was pleased not to have been invited.

They would have stood there with their six packs, bank balances, glories and futures, whilst I would have sat there in a t-shirt that states: “I sometimes writes blogs”.

The kind of guys who recline by leaning into their rock-hard starched back muscles which never unstiffen owing to sheer will. Cooling their feet in bank balances.

They have fans. I’m entirely on my own.

I slobbed yesterday.

I’ve survived my slobbing period and have slobbed much fiercer than I did yesterday. However that was back in teenage days, in which I committed to appropriate slobbing just in an attempt to have some ounce of fat on my bones.

Appropriate slobbing.

I woke early, made my wife a packed lunch and walked her to the train station for work, kissed her a farewell and ran home to make a day’s worth of the day. Oh boy, I was going to be so proactive I might just tick it off permanently.

I then proceeded to eat chocolate and ice cream, potato chips and wine, fast food remnants and the daylight – all devoured into nothingness. I sent the occasional email and told my wife I was working in an effort to excuse myself owing from being a real adult.

I excuse myself with the fantasy that I’ve worked hard and the universe will one day require outstanding one-in-a-million Candy Crush skills, the likes of which only I have seen.

Thank goodness I masturbated so much; it was up to me to slog it out alone there.

My occupation of chairs is a compliment to full utilisation of buttocks.

If it hadn’t been for my snacking, we’d all be a lot worse off. I leaving all the healthy grub for you folk; get broccoli.

At least heroin gets you out of the house.

I’d call this procrastinating; but I’ve found something else to do.

This is nothing; completely nothing yet never nothing completed. One cannot get ‘nothing’ ticked from the list.

So the best idea, as is usually discovered by the collectors of plastic bags, cats, and drool, is talking to oneself.

Bitch.

Bitching at myself to stand and walk.

Be in a situation that need not necessarily be good for the serenity but sure is a blessing on the stories you have to look back on.

Having stood and walked, I compliment the good grief out of myself and perhaps I suggest going outside.

That’s something.

It’s not nothing.

Perhaps I suggest I’m the greatest human to ever live, stick my tongue in my cheek and live like that’s the way I’m supposed to.

Excuse me, I’m going out.

Sam

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Muhammad Ali – Speaking to Himself

I’ve heard some criticism as of late.

Following the seemingly destined article from Time magazine by a chap following Ali through his early to late years, an article of magnificent insight and appreciation as only from one who was there if not him, I read a “Dear Editor” letter in response.

Apparently a wanker had a pencil this day.

Forgive a paraphrase or two, (something along the lines of which I’ve said prior) for the response came as thus:

“I don’t like boxing. He wasn’t great. Nah.”

Indeed, this Italian chap named Fausto, spoke of his likelihood to not even read this edition; so strong was his disappointment of what it contained within. Not that he would know; owing to not opening the edition he was so disappointed in.

Little minds might well sift for insight into menial and miniscule subjects, and that’s fine (what could be finer than thinking about nothing much at all – please see metaphysics), but I don’t like a bully with or without a pen and to see a journalist and the dead picked on for the purposes of you wishing to share a bad day are unacceptable.

Get thee to a nunnery and from there turn left to OFF in a FUCK manner.

Why was Muhammad Ali great?

Was he?

Only in terms of people; yes.

In terms of the science of the sport; indeed – “Nah”.

Nifty and continual; a chap who showed his penchant for dodging like a loony-tune, and leaving a man exhausted from successfully achieved swings and far more numerate misses.

His boxing was very good; and that is an understatement when regarding the mass murder (he could kill me repeatedly if he wished) of him vs I, and then an enormous overstatement should he have ever dared (as surely he would have) to dance with Tyson.

And that’s that; most thatilly.

And it is joyfully important to recall to all minds that his boxing talent and skill were merely as they were; “His boxing was very good”.

Naturally you’re to assume I’m on my way to thriving in verbosity over his spirit and standing; his courage and morality; which I have regard for, but not before compliment boxing as the scene-setter it is.

A world of men willing to receive a knuckily death-threat to the pretty and increasingly ugly face, the whimpering brain and even the shocked visceral innards.

It might not be the art it is often entitled as; but it is an extraordinary frame.

And so on to the man beyond the athlete.

Compare the term “sacrifice” to the term “donation”. The sacrifice of three prime years to a melancholy ether, could well be a synonym for donation to his might, his thought and his future.

Less so a matter of sound fiscal planning; his absence from the boxing scene was a departure from the income scene; his heroism of self did his wallet and entourage no favours.

Still, though I am grateful to this man, who made demonstrate the easeless act of will in order to achieve a more contented heart.

Morality made apparent.

There is a final credit to devote to this man.

I’ve heard a plethora of vocal recordings, capturing Ali and often letting him loose, from squeaky loud mouthing to an old hat wearing a better one than you, I’ve heard what Ali said to himself.

“I am the greatest!”

“I AM the greatest!”

And thus he became so.

Amidst a dislocated brain from the meat mountain of Foreman and the part immovable object/part irresistible force of two-hundred-thousand-year-old genetics from Frazier, and the shuffling existence of the concussion-infused Parkinsons disease; Ali has remained the greatest through no victory other than this; he took the time to realise he was.

“I AM the greatest!”

Ali was because he told himself he was.

And luck – both good and sour.

Ali told himself he was the greatest and so he was.

Self-doubt can lay a person to the unknown foundations of tomorrow, but Ali would only be the foundations of that tomorrow following a regard held highly and a continuation of the mantra.

He told himself: “I AM the greatest!”

And then; see what happened.

Thanks,

Sam

For the superb article of Ali by Robert Lipsyte, see the following link: http://time.com/4358073/muhammad-ali-robert-lipsyte-on-the-life-of-the-greatest/