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.)
The Greatest Human to Ever Live
(Part 4. Make it a Brunch With Moi, Sister)
I am the greatest human to ever live.
Especially when the competition has such an admirable ‘keep-at-it’ attitude towards eliminating one another.
I can’t deny the embarrassment I suffer in acknowledgement that it’s all because they’re trying to impress me.
And it does.
Take a look at the budget they use on warfare.
Ahh fuck it.
Fuck this warfare wile-away-the-moment topic whilst instead I could take you firmly by the ears (if you were in the room with me. And had ears. I apologise if you don’t. Wait…no I don’t. Why the fuck should I apologise for your lack of ears?) and blow the contents of the following subject down your ear canal.
Brunch with me is transcendent.
Soon it’ll be a reward for curing only the most high-profile of diseases. The lady who cures missing limbs by replacing it with something more powerful; like a kangaroo.
(“Well, I sure do miss my foot, got a kangaroo on the end of my leg there now. It’s company but kind of fucks up my driving something awful and bouncy.”)
That lady…she can brunch with me.
Brunch with me with will turn any commie. I’ll have them being intimate with a fist full of dollars by the end of it.
Had I brunched in the Cold War there would have been moments with men in dark rooms sitting around cold metal tables with a sloped-shouldered American offering a whole mouthful of: “You know we’ve got brunch with Sam. So get the fuck out of Korea.”
And I’m fine for that to happen; I don’t like Korean communists anyway; they’re ridiculous and have too many statues.
Don’t forget that life imitates art.
Do you want to be marble?
Of course you do, marble like me baby, but I’ll bet a couple of my own feet that that you aren’t looking to suddenly become granite in any way but metaphorical, are you?
No, because you hate Korean communists too, plus they have a silly march.
Plus your silly march is sillier and you deserve some recognition for that but until North Korea falls you’re going to have to restrict your silly march to your own private corridor.
You see, when you’re having brunch with me you feel the gratitude of fortune to have gone to have endured such a classical education that forbade your jaw from dropping, which is prone to happening when you see what I’m about to do with the oatmeal on my foot.
I’m cheeky with the oatmeal, but I use the syrup as though I was bred for it.
You can smell the discipline I emit; albeit tinged by the syrup jug’s wafts.
No good thing is tinged; I expect it’s the connotations of sounding like minge. And that’s a vagina.
And vaginas (at their worst) are the pits; literally.
And penises (at their best) are the tits; metaphorically.
And tits are neither; technically.
All go well when impacting on the brunch counter. All body parts are welcome here; except kangaroos (“fucking up my brunch-bar as though they don’t even know what it’s for! That’s not how you hop on a breakfast bar!”)
If you haven’t been able to deduce to this point by now, I am dunking my body parts in the brunch and, in many ways (many happy, noble ways), am dunking brunch in my body parts.
And here’s why.
Breakfast is stifling – I dislike necessity, particularly regarding phrases such as “well-balanced” and “cornerstone”. Those terms should leave me alone otherwise I might retaliate; somehow. I prefer to be dominant regarding my tummy.
Lunch is redundant; you should be busier.
I pride myself on being too hectic for a sandwich.
Too noteworthy for salad.
Too inevitably going up and down in history as a sweetheart with a tendency to be photographed in chrome for liver.
That word should mean more than just…liver.
It should be a base note of humanity; “all that remained was…liver”.
And dinner is disappointing.
If you didn’t find it on the end of that stick you jabbed and bobbed and weaved and threw with; you missed the point entirely (unlike the unfortunate creature impaled. Luckily it was ugly so you gave no fucks) and now we can’t be friends. You disassociated acquaintance you.
At this point I’ve moved on to the meatier part of the meal because I’m too liberal for your typical 09:00-11:30 eating habits.
My eating habits are as though someone attached (inhumanely; because this is just a metaphor and I just feel it exclaims the point better) the engine of a formula 1 racing car to a headless cockerel.
Messy and pointless; but things are happening pleasingly fast, albeit without much progress.
I move on to the meat because I grew bored with oatmeal on my foot, though you should know by now I’m not done with it yet.
Because I’m an oatmeal kicker and I’ll be back for more.
All this while you’re sitting in your seat, much as a seat-sitter would. Not that I sit on seats. You see, seats are what I raise my oatmeal-lathered foot onto so I can rest my arms on my knee and look deep into your arrested and near-wet eyes and explain something to you.
Explaining something like why I’ve got to do what I’m about to do with the waffles.
And from that point forward you are (not hit with, since there’s nothing violent here; only inspiration physical and sweaty – meaning therefore you are…) fucked with the realisation that my current waffle-motif adorning the bosoms and hairdos of all other customers in the three-table radius is for you.
Still messy and pleasingly fast, but no longer pointless and now we’re getting somewhere.
I’m just making you realise how brunch with me can be; just enjoy the unforgettable nature of whatever the fuck is happening right now (you have a pepper in your hair by the way…).
I lean forward to caress it out and the, pardon me, you are overwhelmed by my very own ridiculous masculinity.
You probably took note of my plumage.
My chest hair is like a field of muscular black wheat in a summer’s heat. Far away.
That’s why I tend to be compared to a swan more than any other animal (e.g. a human).
There are three main reasons for this.
- Plumage. Of the two, it’s been said I’m more regal on the externally.
- I can break a man’s arm just by swimming. Proximity irrelevant.
- In many ways now…I am the Queen’s.
My word, I am a marvel at catching women as they swoon.
I’m very last moment too, as I always manage to be granted an audible gasp by those slow and still sitting men (Ha!) surrounding us who have plucked up the courage to watch you descend and wish you all the best as you do so.
My technique is that as you swoon, I swoop. Like the cool coconutty power of a Hawaiian wave, only with the muscular arms of a ballet dancer.
I exercise only by lifting women and kicking doors down. That…and feeding the people between 09:00-11:00. Within a three-table radius.
Brunch with me is bliss to be endured.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
I’m a man.
So, you want to learn how to be a tough guy like me? Sure I’m a tough guy – you can tell by the way I’m not immediately contradicted on that statement.
Well, to begin with…violence, oh dear me, violence.
Violence is like a flower…which you do to people…or have happen to you…with a flower.
It got less flowery as I thought about it, yet still the point remains; violence.
Imagine a fist blossoming onto you. There’s the floweriness, and other than that you really just have to feel it before you start cramming similes all hither and thither.
Ultimately, avoid the sweet fuck out of violence seeing as how you never know what someone might be carrying.
Like a cat. And heavens help you if the guy’s got enough room to swing it.
Let just get stuck in with the violent advice.
See what you have to do, it’s all in the walk.
You just walk straight up to him. And then as through him as you can. Just keep going, foot first into his face first and see if you can cross the line of a fair fight together.
If wearing one, shoe his features – though one may wish to go all apey at the prospect of acquiring all the females or make for certain these several square feet of territory are undoubtedly yours, in which case go shoeless.
It’s about footwork so make your foot work. For the other fellow, it’s all about facework, and he’s doing wonderfully at it, if somewhat defensively.
Footwork. Stride into their face at an amusing angle people will talk about when their old and whilst the guy with a size 11 sole print along the centre of his face sits, purposefully hooded because of his rebirth mark (baptised by eloquent thuggery of foot), and stirs his drink, bitter, because you walked into his face and you were the good guy.
Not only did he deserve to have his face thoroughly footed, but you deserved to be the one to kick that face and dance about it afterwards. That day should be celebrated annually. The day that face first and best foot first came together, like a romance of non-genital body parts.
That’s another vital point…
Assume a Moral Victory
Make losing a fight work for you…stand up for the little guy, or at least prior to your imminent collision with a flurry of fists, and scream aloud: “DAMMIT MICHAEL THEY WERE ONLY PYGMIES!”
This way the people local to your punch-up will overhear your monologue and either leap to your aid or speak well of you afterwards. Possibly also during (“See that bruised guy over there? The guy with the bouncy head? He’s great…stands up for pygmies…real trooper.”)
In the same vein, don’t hit a woman, unless you need to hit a woman, in which case be sure others witnessed how psychopathic she was conducting herself prior to you launching a new means of distancing yourself from someone so intimately (punch her in the nose publicly).
Also, don’t pull her hair. Instead, it’s likely best to flee, which is a surprisingly hilarious manner of departing from the threat of annihilation (I’ll get into this momentarily) and other than that – phone the police, an ambulance and the regional mental healthcare services because when they find out you’re the one who fled in fear of the other’s sheer force of personality; you’re safe as houses.
A ‘Fair Fight’
What many people don’t realise is that a ‘fair fight’ refers to how attractive a fight is. Similar to the archetypal manner of referring to damsels or princesses – she was fair and meek, just as a good woman isn’t.
Now obviously you’re not going to carry a weapon because that route leads to jail and a heartbroken mother, but you sure can carry a distraction.
Back to the cat…(this is why I warned you).
Lob the cat into the midst of a group of people making you feel uncomfortable and you shall see how comfortableness may be yours once more. Wear that cat well. Make ‘em dance.
And whilst the cat preys upon the shins, ankles and footwear of your numerous opponents, you can finish your novel because time is suddenly oh so splendidly upon your side once more. Plus, you have a back-up cat anyway, ready for flinging.
In case any animal rights activists are reading this; don’t worry. Just don’t worry. There we go.
Also, I don’t know or care where you keep your vial of dust, but at least carry one, perhaps in an attaché so you can interrupt your battle most pitch and say “Whoah there Honey, let me just get what I got”, bite out the cork and spit it out to the side (or as I prefer to denote my masculine diet; swallow it), pour some of that dust into your hand and apply liberally about his nostrils, eyes and airways like a hippy would if he realised he was grasping a handful of real seeds…or believable contraceptives.
It’s not foul play, because we were nice guys before that, but then we had that unpleasant collision of body parts and now we’ve involved dust.
Also, don’t suggest your opponent “Bite the dust” as that really seems like a lively thing to do. The sort of thing you do when you’re young, hungry and about to prove that you will actually bite dust for some reason.
The aside benefit of dust over sand (which is technically sea shells — which is ALMOST a necklace — which is ALMOST a nice present and you’re meant to be cunning…not considerate of their likely having a sour day starting with breakfast being shat on by the neighbour who really hates toast and him having it so you present him with a delicate gift) is that it is made up of skin.
Which comes from people.
Which means that what you’re holding in your hand there is in reality approximately 1000 large apey things called people, and they’re on your side and in your palm and soon about to be considerately delivered jazz hands-wise to the parts of him that most often require tissues (eyes or dick-hole; you don’t want a dusty dick-hole to the degree that I don’t know why – just don’t have a dusty dick-hole.).
Apart from the end of his bell, which you must try to work around seeing as how that area is essentially only for when things get personal and so far, oh brother, you have no idea how formally I’m carrying myself in this duel to the death. I say “duel to the death”, maybe just till mild fatigue…or distraction…or somehow falling in love, in which case we are now on personal grounds and therefore- get dick busy partner, because I’ve got a vial and now it time to apply liberally all over my now-sexual opponent.
Once applied, step in for a little skull percussion.
Step in, move suddenly and in a way people will remember but not talk about again because it’s traumatic, and then…break his heart. You brute.
I always say one should have a phrase (https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/04/23/nice-guy-with-a-nuke/) and times such as this, when tempers are heated, passions are high and fists are fisting (negative or positive – choice is yours depending on your thoughts at the time of fisting. Be sure to let me know), are identical to all others aside from now; we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.
Here’s a cracker (whilst peering over their shoulder and with an expression of “I’m genuinely looking at something which you should too!”):
“Well in my rude opinion…Is? Is that baby eating heroin?”
He turns to take part in the glancing at the baby eating heroin, in which case you be the bigger man and find a smaller one impress yourself upon (I recommend by fleeing from him too. Remember; “we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.”).
Also, embrace the fellow for the panic-stricken, hurting deep-down, trying-to-be-masculine-in-public, oh-I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-it’s-making-me-change-colour, kind-of-a bloke his is right then and there.
Cuddle the cunt.
Now I’m not, as it turns out, much of a noted technician of any form of wrestling or Brazilian Ju Jitsu, but from what I can tell; if you climb your way up him until his limbs have no place to be other than hugging you in return then we’re having a successful evening.
Do Not Let Go.
Laugh About It
Make jokes constantly.
Don’t let up with the zingers.
The only thing you need derive humour from is his attempts at starting a fight. Mock his punches and wittily critique his tough guy stare. That will ruin his night more than any swift kick to the knackery-noos.
Especially if you’re getting beaten.
If you have your face in another man’s hands and he’s grinding against something displeasing to you, mock his efforts disdainfully and the fight is over. Your bleeding might not be, but the battle is.
Plus everyone loves a comedian, particularly one with such a rough crowd as the one literally beating the shit out of him.
Be a Lover, Not a Fighter
Be the gentleman.
Be the poet.
Be the victor.
When the moment of violence is imminent, remind all in the vicinity that you are a lover, not a fighter…and so proceed to do your utmost to become romantically engaged with this man as completely and committedly as one should be in these situations. Kiss him.
Kiss him, only when he is attacking you and later claim you misread the conflicting signals he was giving off and you were only trying to help him out.
No mercy; buy him a drink and offer him your twinkling eyes, you hapless romantic you.
DO NOT BE THE RECIEVER OF LOVE from the man, but certainly the dominate the romantic back and forth you’re both currently undergoing.
Once more; only do this if you’re being attacked, otherwise we’re getting rape-based in our tactics and that’s a bad tactic, sir.
Pardon Me If I Conclude
End, no matter in what circumstance or in what state of physical wellbeing, with a phrase.
Have your phrase ready for blowing the walls out of the place and bringing the ceiling down.
What that might be? It’s yours to conclude. I have my own, and it is my own. Get your own, sir.
All violence aside – don’t get into fights and give happiness and curiosity to others and you shall in turn receive likewise.
Therein lies a future promising and a past pleasing.
The target audience demographic that I belong to is starting to disappoint me: I’ve realised that I’m poor because the TV I watch doesn’t feature a lot of yacht advertisements.
Cigar advertisements seem to pass me by seamlessly, as do leaflets enquiring as to whether or not I have enough bullion in my life. I have no vault. Vaultlessly yours…
Not once have I been approached by someone trying to get me to finally give in to purchasing another person. “Hey- I’ve gotten to that point in my life, wealth-wise, where buying someone is not a sign of snobbery. It’s neccessity. I cannot be expected to carry my own furs and I can’t stand cotton.
So, let’s make a little money- shall we? To bring this all about somewhat more actually, rather than the mere hypothetically motions I’ve been going through so far.
This is the premise of my financial future: ‘Bring back smelling. Bring it all back’.
You used to do it. Yes you did. Once there was what began as your passive smelling in which you let loose your own distinct whiff that would make your mother know you’re hers, and then what would come throughout your life as your own distinct smell- the reason why your dog knows you’re home whilst you’re still in the car.
And then there came the act of smelling- that cute thing you do with your nose- and good reasons to do so.
In the times as of late you have three main smells we’re bothered to associate ourselves with- and they are undoubtedly the most appropriate.
Number 1. The smell of food, tasty and not, your attraction to it and a reminder of your need to get some.
Number 2. The smell of pussy (recently transposed into the smell of perfume, which eventually leads to the smell of pussy), tasty and not, your attraction to it and a reminder of your need to get some. For the ladies- it would be the musk of mankind after they’ve stabbed a deer to bits pieces.
Number 3. The smell of shit, and your need to avoid it.
What I am trying to get across here is that this is a whole genre of business that is really being limited to the sophistication of substances being bottled. Sure- a lot of very nice things come in bottles, but the best stuff doesn’t.
How about the guy that was making holes in running meat? I mentioned him earlier- the fellow that comes home slinging bison-remnants over one shoulder and his dick over the other. This man cannot be bottled, and if you would try- you would end up thrown over whatever shoulder he has remaining and that is a place for only the most very private of property (bison-remnants and genitals). Women want this, and men want to be this. Nothing else matters. Here endeth the bullshit lesson.
Another thing un-bottle-able…the opposite of the man with occupied shoulders. The woman with berry juice running down her chin. This woman cannot be found in a city street, for she can only be found where the wild wind blows and the nights are the celebrations of the day. Men want this, and women want to be this- only a little deeper down than their Mankind-counterpart.
Women suffer from a stiffness of how they are presented owing to a long history of not having much else to be in charge of. Men also don’t have a time limit- whereas a woman’s needs are defined by them. Women need to relax, and need to remember that there is nothing wrong with not-breeding. Having a baby is less helpful than you might think it is- just look at the mess it makes and all that noise. The woman with berry juice trickling down her chin gives zero fucks about this…good.
Dab, dab, behind the ears and upon skinny wrists, doesn’t work, can’t be done- for the same reason as with a man. You try to put her in a bottle and she will reject you in a manner that will remove all hope of a jolly ending from your entrepreneurial insides. This kind of rejection, and the fact that it does not come from most women- seeing as most women have been sophisticated to the point of inhibiting natural instincts (‘It is most improper for a gal-most-female to allow berry juice to trickle down her chin. Blue berry or red, she is NOT ACCEPTABLE!)- stings and makes you want to run home. You should.
My advice to you is, shower every three days, and make the most of your ability to sweat. It won’t ruin things- really. Be sure to give the genitals a good scrubbing every day though as, all notions of natural pride aside, no guy or girl is going to lap up that genital cheese that only comes from lack of washing and thoroughness. Girls- if you’re going to wash at all, then you have to go inside by at least two inches. Men- do what you know you need to do…never allow a build-up of cheese. Swipe your penis as though it abandoned you, but make sure you do it with a damp cloth.
And then I’d make money out of it.
Well, no- not quite, but it would give me a platform from which to just keep talking and as long as you’ve got something to say- what else could you need? Social movements- makes money. Dr King would have been a millionaire by now, if it hadn’t been for all that racism and bullets. Fucking assassins are just the worst when they’re racist. And so are you.
Before eating- raise your fork to your nose and have a good sniff of it. Do this with everything else too, though don’t prop it up to your nose with a fork and that’ll ruin most things.
From your breakfast to your wife- smell what there is to be smelt because…if you had no nose…how would you smell?
Redundantly- that’s how you’d smell. You’d smell redundantly and now you pale even further when compared to Labradors.
My friends- smell whilst you can and you will realise that the triggers this sensation has upon your memories is tremendous- I highly recommend it, although (of course) it can stub the toe of your heart when you are reminded, by scent, of one you once loved. I once loved a girl, and her scent has ruined the enjoyable smell of pizza-dough for me. The hardworking bitch. She’s why I’m writing masculine beauties like “stubbed the toe of your heart” to express myself. And to think I used to be happy with a scream, or even a dandy little yelp.
To realise that your prime smelling years are behind you is not something to be sniffed at (HA!), and I hope you’ll never have to live through something like that.
You know the way that summertime just smells like summertime? That’s why we should smell more- so I highly recommend you get to it. If that smell was my ancient history and all I had to look forward to with my nose was it being a handy way to locate the centre of my face- well then, prospects are disappointing all round. Although it would be a handy place to keep things- like loose change. Hmm.
Have yourself a little odour that you didn’t get given for Christmas. Unless of course you got it from rubbing up against something like a fern, in which case I’ll wish you a merry one and think of you whenever I’m hiking through Norwegian woodlands.
But I might take a hike from walking in the wild so often, owing to my most recent little adventure in which I had barbed-wire nudging my balls.
I was climbing down a little trench and realised I when I got to the bottom that it was fenced, not with a modestly respectable fence but with rails of barbed-wire that never seemed to like me anyway.
So I made a little bridge and flung one leg over, at which point everything turned very spikey and I made a noise most involuntary. Whatever I’d placed my flung-leg onto had crumpled as I applied my weight, meaning that my descent was imminent and my landing was to be squeamish. A few months earlier I’d fallen over (“OH NO I’M FALLING” were my exact words at the time) and damaged my meniscus- the muscle joining the shin bone to the thigh bone, and my healing was not yet complete by the time I encountered the barbs I have since come to dislike so.
Basically my knee was on about 40% strength, so as I began to fall- I stopped myself by stamping my leg down. My knee, being weak, was unprepared for such a hefty request as my spends-a-lot-of-time-sitting physique was putting on it quite suddenly.
Now, my knee didn’t break, but it did bend, and lately I’ve come to realise that’s not entirely a good thing.
My knee slowly bent, I slowly descended- no sound coming from me aside from the ‘pop’ of a barb penetrating my jean’s groin, and, then, the secondary, dimmer-pop as my underwear gave up the fight also, and then silence (particularly from my horrified self) as the barb came to, and rested…gently prodding, though not ‘popping’ my very own testicles.
I have never been gladder to have as much upper-body strength as I do, though I swear that I only lifted and broke free somehow because I screamed loudly enough. Following this I broke a hedge in retaliation and resourcefulness (in fact I was proud I found something to aggress onto so quickly) and I re-built my bridge and ran all the way home- stopping only to…’feel’ (without actually touching) my bollocks- just to make sure a prodding was as only as brutal as my mid-morning walk had been.
If I’d had a weaker upper-body, or if I’d been a tad bit shorter- that might have been the end of my groin as we’ve all come to know and love it.
I’m just so happy that I didn’t get penetrated by some rusty-tetanus-infested-barb that I’ve never even met before and would much prefer to keep at a friendly distance.
My word- the slowness and the quietness…I’m a fucking fable of making sure your bridge is secure. And to avoid barbed wire as long as you value your valuables.
I could still be there, all alone, entangled and heartbroken, the casual and very adorable whimper emanating from this thicket in a trench that no one’s ever going to investigate…
But then…*sniff sniff…wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo*, and by my lucky stars the cops and doggies have found me, having latched onto the trail of my scent with such apparent ease that the blood-hound actually recoils a tad (poor thing)
Guys and gals…I’ll sum up here because I’ve got a mud-puddle outside with my name on it (and there’s nothing better for cooling the blood)…
Love the senses that nature has gifted you, and implement the sweet good-grief out of it. Apply the act of smelling to your workplace, to your family and to your model-plane crafting hobby, and in a mere 50 years our children (if you simply must have them) will be talking about how splendid their day smelt.
It’s simply another aspect of life that I intend to flaunt fully and, of course, add a little to the culture. Not to mention, again- of course, that it’ll remind me of her and how beautiful life is, even if it hurts sometimes, because of that very beauty. Hardworking bitch.
Do you smell what I’m cooking?