It’s all in the shoulders.
Every last bit.
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.
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?
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.
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/
My smashing jumper gifts me a perception from others as follows:
Erect but casual.
Sure, my erection might well enter the room without me owing to extraordinary confidence from the 5th limb, but all is well; I’m wearing a jumper for goodness sake.
Of course, whilst I might find purchase in such activities as sinking into a comfy armchair to the point drowning; all is well – “They say he had an erection with him at the time he went missing”.
I am confident there are those out there who will claim that luscious hair is the means to all favourably flavoured ends, but I tend to lean rather more towards the erection side of the debate, mainly because it’s sturdier to lean on.
A 21st Century renaissance chap has newer and distinctly less reasonable facial hair than the rest of the class and a tiresome duty to type with his erection.
This is the 21st Century after all (this far).
The erections of these people are named.
Weighed and measured.
And finally hung and smoked before being unleashed upon the unwittingly nearby congregation.
The regrettably nearby congregation
And, with regards to virginity, terminally there.
And I am among them, keeping all at a 6-inch reach from me and one thrust away from grasp.
Please don’t misinterpret me here; the erection doth not the wooing, for his is merely the domain of the pleasurable presence and chemical pride.
Rather more so it is the smashing jumper that doeth the greatest woo.
These stiches know a woo or two, with a pattern so simply super that neither man, woman, beast nor basil bush can do much but falteringly implore for “Not here…my parents are downstairs”.
And whilst there might be little sway granted to man, woman, beast and basil bush, there have admittedly been some rather wall-like resistance and, in fact, submission to the fungi community.
It would seem my smashing jumper is not what once it was whilst away a’wooing.
Perhaps if I flailed?
Willingness to motion is a point desired in all but the most stationary of cultural backgrounds.
And should you see myself in such a smashing jumper as only I can actually be bothered to labour about; take care. For I’ve only a few jumpers and even fewer are smashing.
There a line from Glen Garry Glen Ross, Al Pacino’s character returns to the booth and says to his mark: “You ever take a shit that makes you feel like you’ve slept for 12 hours?”
Gosh that’s true.
I took a shit earlier and I emerged from the bathroom thinking: “What was I worrying about?!”
There’s sunshine on my foot, a nice big ole’ beam of it; landing on me most comfortably.
It’s giving me all kinds of erections, especially with the breeze coming in.
Fuck my fiancé? What an option!
There will be no fuck-uppity here.
Accomplished in-out with a wondrous use of vocab; what a woman!
Now coffee and juice.
Then some sort of accomplishment to follow it up with. Some ‘afters’.
Might as well be quicksand.
And I’ll appreciate that quicksand.
“Hey! Quicksand! I ‘preciate chu!”
It’s a good struggle; just a couple o’push-ups and downs again.
Then run away and back again.
Teasing the quicksand. It knows I’m only playing.
“Hey! Quicksand! I’m done with you! Aw don’t be like that!”
Now I have to clean the mud off my suede shoes (this is the definition of sacrifice). I knew my suede would have to take it but at least I know where to get some shoe-shine-sun-shine.
10,000 hours to become a master of something.
It can’t take that long to become average at most things. Plus you’ll end up a tad less cross-eyed in terms of devotion to one thing.
Never happened to me but I’m still saying it: now THAT’S conviction.
I tell you, I do, what I’m good at.
I do honey.
I find it, I elope with it, and we spend the night together.
Honey was there for me whilst you guys had all scarpered.
Even now, entirely non-sexually, I’m curled up beneath my sheet, entirely non-sexually, clutching a pot of honey, entirely non-sexually, with sticky fingers…sexually.
Well, not really, I’d say my relationship with honey is more of a mutual respect that romance.
Plus it’s real hard to get the lid off those stubborn prudish pots.
Enough with the fucking honey fucking.
Some things don’t belong on toast; but still it’s happened to me owing to matter of attempted cleanliness.
Think I’ll leave that there.
By the way, whole new man that I am, realised a challenge I’ve not considered before.
Scale a mountain? Fuck you, no (https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/17/the-metaphors-are-rusty/)
I’ve always thought the vagina had the basic requirement of a good rock-climbing hold.
Remember that wall of vaginas, by the artist Jamie McCartney?
I recommend turning that sideways and having a sign stating: “Do not climb when wet.”
Consider, with me please, the state of genitals for climbing.
Vaginas are perfect for climbing, though not when aroused.
Penises are perfect for climbing, though only when aroused.
Plus imagine being midway up a mountain when the erection hand-hold feels it’s been grabbed too tightly and emits its self-defence mechanism and ejaculates in your eye.
And then you fall 300 feet onto a plain of more penises, though they’re all floppy too and what’s worse is you don’t even die.
You’re just laying crippled in a meadow of floppy dicks, reminiscing about vaginas you climbed once.
Thoughts…thoughts like this are why I am a whole new man today.
Plus I just took a tremendous dump. Think I lost about a pound.
Chin up people.
I can imagine it starting with oxen.
Because it’s a shitty story anyway and shitty stories are pre-empted by oxen.
I have no oxen.
No history with them and likely no future with them.
But I promise to each and every single one of you in congregation today…if you tell me what to do with my oxen; I’m heavily inclined to disobey.
And I tend to disobey with my right hand.
It’ll offend you (…as well as myself sometimes).
Everything after that is just a matter of stamina (my word; that’s a toughie to type).
“Yahweh! Oh YAHWEH!
Tell me again; how much must I trade my oxen for?
No, I was asking ironically. Stay away of Dave the oxen.
Hey, by the way Yahweh. That oxen; his name’s Dave.
Because Dave’s my fucking oxen’s fucking name, Yahweh! You better believe it’s biblical!
Just take the fucking compliment and leave your directions out of my Dave.”
When you encounter a supreme-being like this; you’ll just have to wear them out.
Be the bigger entity and get parental.
You’ll need to discipline that deity.
If they get sudden blood all over your nice, clean Nile; just keep scrubbing those crcodiles back to a respectable shade of reptilian unbloodliness, commenting on how pleasant it is to get to spend some quality time with your favourite still-hanging-around-after-the-party-dinosaur.
Of course it’s an awful bother receiving a miracle-full of sudden blood all over your Egyptian cotton.
Deal with it mortal; we only have each other and our dinosaur leftovers now.
They’ll keep vying for your attention amongst the other Gods; promising you honeyed heavens and gushing…whatnots. Multiple women are a guarantee; you need not acquire separately.
Should they start getting uppity and demanding…let them tire themselves out.
They can’t plague you forever.
I find taking it beyond twelve plagues seems to do the trick. After that they get tuckered out.
Especially when you maintain that this is all fiction.
The divine detest that.
They see the ultimate reality of their existence of utmost paramount importance; exactly as their author deigned them to be.
And as a final straw; if they get a tad too despotic in their attempts at world domination (which is just dandy if you do so nicely); take away their offerings.
Well behaved Supreme Beings have multiple oxen sacrificed to them.
Many Daves for dinner.
Nasty ones who can’t keep their warts and boils to themselves have to make do with bread and water, sent to their corner of Heaven…early.
They mainly miss the smell.
Give a god an aroma and then take it away.
That’s the best way to witness a massive and melancholy nostril.
I tried Joop with mine. When the deity got a tad too lippy; I took his perfume the fuck from him and put it where even omniscient eyes couldn’t see. Amusing really; since he was also omnipresent, meaning that it was hidden right next to him.
And from there simply continue to play it out as such:
- Just fucking try and plague me, Yaweh. I’ll rub those frogs on my sores and boils and have a great time. See me Science myself better.
- Locusts are delicious; try some yourself. You created them? You’ll have to give me your recipe sometime.
- Kill my firstborn? Guess I’ll have to raise my pet frog as a son in his stead. He is also Dave. The Dave’s might just plague you back sometime…do things to your crops.
- Turn my water to blood? Although that can have a disastrous effect on my Egyptian cotton; I’ll have to laugh at the fact you go from this to frogs.
Plus frogs are juicy.
Thanks again for the frogs.
God being somewhat thick also aids the rebellion via mortality.
Knowing everything means you can’t actually work anything out; you’re without that spark to conjure because you already know.
If there’s one serious character fault in this Yahweh chap it must be a tragic lack of wit.
A decent portion of wit can get so much done; let’s just leave the plagues out of it shall we?
Us mortals; we should stick together.
Particularly considering that I’m the greatest human to ever live (evidently there’s no God).
And so are you.
Sam (and the Daves)
I thought you’d be asking me this at some point.
I like that.
It’s not so much that I enjoy being asked questions; rather more that I cannot help myself answering…things.
Mother Nature’s Champion on the field of sporting combat. That’s quite a compliment to pay to myself. Thanks.
Of course, your questions will revolve around football because it’s distinctly not deadly; whilst my expertise are the precise means of dismounting a foe upon horseback.
Who doesn’t joust; I mean really?
And my trick is simple.
Ride underneath the horse.
A good sturdy knot and a love for the risk of being kneed by your steed; that’s all you need to succeed in jousting.
Plus a slingshot, shiny pebble and as much hand-eye coordination as is required to clap.
Why a slingshot? Christians love it.
It’s good to please the ecclesiastical market; and they love themselves a hero with a slingshot, particularly if they’re diminutive and diminutive is a natural state of a good fellow saddled beneath a horsey.
By the way, horsey is the correct term for your mount. It shows your childish-side and this is key in fooling your opponent into thinking they’re lancing a child strapped to the belly of a steed whilst they bellow “Faster horsey! Faster!”
And then they find themselves slingshotted directly in the heart by a damn fine actor beneath a horse; plus an exquisite choice in pebble.
As I said, Christians love a slingshot-hero. The villains tend to go about their dastardly deeds with a hammer and nails (typically 3).
Oh, you want football?
Breathe these next few sentences in; why don’t’cha.
To begin with; boots are for pussies.
Barefoot your way to victory.
Take no prisoners but do take their boots (because you’re a helpful chappie).
Next up comes some actual tactics.
Don’t do it.
Do this far more regularly that shooting.
Don’t do it. This could be valuable time spent scoring.
How to score…
Real men of manliness don’t casually tuck the ball in the net, with a whooping and looping curvy bastard to delicately arrive like a really rather helpful and hopeless fish into a fisherman’s net.
Instead, please, break the net’s heart with nothing deceptive.
A ball that moves in the air is dishonest; and that’ll never do.
A real man’s kick is like a cannon.
Not a cannon that fires cannon balls, but rather more like a cannon rocketing through the air, causing defenders to scatter and wish that one day they might grow up to become a cannon kicked by me.
Also a real man doesn’t run; he chases.
And he doesn’t chase balls either.
Balls, though full of breath, neither breathe or bleed.
I require both of these facets in order to justify a chase.
Besides; we’re in no position to be in any position but a Goalkeeper.
The Goalkeeper should allow the opposing team to approach as near as they like and then, once a shot is shot (a shot being all it’ll amount to), he shall simply swipe away the ball with casual reproach, uttering extremely quietly to himself (and the ball): “No.”
That’s how I’d play football if I weren’t so occupied dismounting baddies from their horsies.
I always take their boots.
That’s how you play football; by taking the spoils.
You know you all desire the plunder.
So go get it; with superior kicks.
Keep up the sports guys and girls; it’s good for the success story.
Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Bowties should be taken back by the lower classes who never had them.
I just want the aristocrats to have one less thing.
They’ve got so much.
They have horses.
Just ask yourself: “Where the fuck are all the horses?”
My answer: “Near the aristocrats! Want to go get some with me?”
And you can reply with: “No bitch; I’m bow-tying tonight!”
You know those horses will go splendidly with your bowtie; but you’re not at that level yet. The horse and the bowtie will clash and you’ll just be standing there; being ridden and worn (EVERYTHING’S GONE WRONG!)
Though I do like the idea of bowties being some you do; just as much as wear.
If you BOWTIE; you assume permission owing to morality.
You don’t ask a lady if she’d really-rather-awfully-wouldn’t-mind if you were to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre mid-choke. There’s only so much a good woman can do as far as multi-tasking goes. She’s already trying to breathe whilst simultaneously and distinctly not breathing; it’s a wonder she can flail so much as she is!
So your course of action?
You grab her like you’re going to educate her in the ways of the windpipe and heave.
Heave so hard you forget why you’re heaving.
And when she regains enough of a lung-full to launch some appreciate your way, just utter: “Madam, surely you could tell by the way I wear my bowtie?” and leave her feeling charmed and ashamed for not acknowledging your BOWTIE a little earlier.
Pre-choke appreciation is the kind I’m looking for.
All else is too earned to be considered real manners.
That’s about it.
Does the BOWTIE make the man? No, but not all men can make a BOWTIE.
How shall we be able to discern them apart?
A little lower than the chin and most of a foot higher than the nipple; see there.
One of my favourite bodily areas since it gets such little praise.
If you need me; I’ll be in my BOWTIE.
(PS. Why? Because I’m moral.)