One of the most prosperous aspects of my body would have to be my limbs.
Vitals, organs and head are all fine, well and occasionally dandy; but it is in the lengthier extremities by which I earn my living and dying.
Naturally there will be some echoing hushed speculation as to why in the world my most extreme extremity; that of my really-rather-male junk (I’m talking about my penis; which is occasionally your penis) doesn’t bring home the bacon.
Because people will talk; that’s why.
Bringing home bacon with one’s flaccid phallus denotes that the two filthy breeds, pigs and apes, are come together in a manner that only David Cameron would find fetching.
Plus I imagine one would have to resort to tying it in a knot so as to carry said pork product, in which case I’d carefully consider the etiquette of the situation before I serve this to my wife and children.
Perhaps a bow is more suiting.
Perhaps bacon entwined in a pleasantly bowed father and husband penis is not suiting.
Either way, in any matter and whatever, my penis is more a class of width as opposed to length, meaning that whilst my wife and I appreciate regularly jabs (“What an occasion!”); I receive no passing praise in the street.
Instead, whilst my feet (previously listed – LINK) have had their say and instead to have many more (my feet, comrades, are non-negotiable), today is a matter of hands.
My hands; my hands.
I’d give my hands a round of applause if only that weren’t ridiculous.
Rather than cut to the chase, let us cut to the capture, and know now all of you; my hands massage elephants.
They can cause an elephant to wither, from fingertip to trunk; they can make elephants forget their own family.
It’s a grasp and shaft action, gripping a vast many roles of grey skin and then pushing the fucking elephant down to the fucking compound (should one deign to phrase it aggressively).
“Shove the elephant” is a mantra charged to endow one with hands like those of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, though my hands refuse to spend time hanging around on ceilings. They’re a rooftop collaboration and they massage elephants into submissive amnesia.
My hands are the talk of the town and the song of the city, strolling with stride into drinking establishments, emitting an elephant story or two, raising a few fingers in jest, inserting a few finger in romance pits and finally balling up into a versatile meat-boulder and making their way to the colonies because they really haven’t changed their views yet.
They may be a tad on the reactionary side but, being hands, fuck ‘em.
And whilst “Fuck ‘em” is assured, they still do some outstanding work in their community, if only they’d get along a tad more serene.
The left hand is of pomp, holding cigarettes in that certain way, twirling a movie star with the reddest lips about and lazily gesturing his way through dialogue that must surely have been signed by Shakespeare.
The right; sees to the garden.
It also has a way with dogs and doesn’t trust women wearing trousers.
This being so, when in and amongst the elephant community, they move on through and the population becomes congregation and I swear I’ve seen the elephants smile.
Have you ever seen an elephant smile? It looks like a vagina; pouting.
Unified they are too damn fine typists, whilst eagerly awaiting their return to the elephant village, the garden and the red carpet.
They can type 400 words a minute.
Or, to put it more accurately: they can type “400 words a minutes”; taking about 3-4 seconds to do so.
They can get a great deal done, my hands, so before you dismiss them as being not what this country needs in these sadly brave times; recall that the silliness occurring here goes a great way to give me something to do on a dozy Saturday, remind one another that being British does require a certain noble absurdism, and that from here on out; let’s just smile a tad more regularly. Eh?
Give my hands a chance.
And fuck Nigel Farage.
That’s an order.
Give my hands a chance and, it’s probably best, leave my penis be.
Thanks for doing so,
Yep. We will fuck up in a style that denotes how we refuse to see what sits in front of us. A little bit like World War 1.
The difference is, this time it will largely revolve around sugar.
Apologies for the sugar.
I swear that all that diabetes wasn’t my idea- it sort of just happened.
Whoever’s idea it was to keep putting sugar into things- identify yourself!
Yes. Stand up, you owe use a great deal of our own teeth back, and I WILL COLLECT.
I don’t really want to, I’ve never been overly possessive of my teeth or other peoples, but I do love calling in a debt, particularly when it’s a righteous calling.
Most of that sugar could likely have been left where it was. I mean, sugar- there’s nothing quite like it to sprinkle over your- whatever you want to sprinkle it over (perhaps your missus/cereal/foot)- but I feel that for the most part it could have been ignored.
It’s easy if your try- that’s why you get people who are slight. ‘Slight’ the classy variety of skinny.
Only, we’ve been made to remember sugar as though it is an essential aspect of our lives. It goes beyond being considered an aspect of our diet- it is now a component of our social circles.
“Who’s bringing the sugar?” is a phrase rarely heard but fits in nicely owing to the regrettable fact that we all assume that sugar will be bought to our gatherings.
Think of a gathering- any kind- you will find sugar is present in the pockets, handbags and huge gaping holes in the hinds of the teeth of those gathered. Klan rallies will have some sugar beneath the hood, politicians in the throne rooms of dictators will have luxurious access to the famous white grain, and children will see it everywhere.
The access to it, the ubiquitous presence of sugar, is why you may have that feeling that “life is shit- avoid if possible”.
Avoid sugar- it will bring you up and throw you down, in ways that pale in pointless comparison to crystal meth or crack cocaine, but it will ruin your innards and, at the end of the day, what else do you really have? Be proud of you guts- aside from your actions, they sum you up.
Your body has a great deal more sway than you might like to believe.
For example, you don’t want to vomit…but…whatever- it’s happening anyway and it’s up to you to deal with the cold, clammy aftermath with a mop.
“Aftermath with a mop”- the sign of a body having taken charge.
Indulge the body a little more in the direction of what it wants so deeply, not in the direction of slowly dissolving it in sugar.
Sugar makes you dissolve slowly, whilst being fast enough to ruin your smile and remove you liver.
Instead- do a little back scratching.
Back-scratching, where the metaphor works.
It feels great because we should be doing it frequently, whereas actually we are neglecting our body’s physically-social needs.
Scratching our backs (which is actually most of our body- remove it and we’d just be necks bobbling about upon arses) feels tremendous in a sort of “where’ve you been all my life” way, because our body expects it to happen and the scratch is supposed to be by another person.
Your back being scratched by another, from your body’s point-of-view, means social interactions, which means safety in numbers of more than 1, which hopefully means procreation, which finally in turn relates to some kind of meaning- I don’t know what- but that’s irrelevant for now- I’m talking about backs and what they want me to do for them.
What’ll happen if we don’t indulge in a little back scratching? I don’t know that either- maybe it’s already happening. Maybe it’s global warning? Maybe it’s all that sugar we’ve been dissolving ourselves with.
I recommend that you withdraw all wall-hanging backscratchers from your environment and go and get some good sturdy people that won’t abandon you when the flood water rises and you need a rub on the back.
Rather than filling yourself up with that gross grain called ‘sugar’, go and negotiate some community with your neighbours.
I’ve said this before- but doing this will really help you in basically all that you do (aside from being lonely).
If we don’t start to go about these natural instincts with the gusto that they deserve, and instead distract ourselves with the ugly-ugly, then- who knows what will happen next?
I’m not saying that Hitler just needed a pat on the back more often, but…fuck- maybe he did!
Then again, maybe that back of his being caressed (as it just might have been) actually encouraged him to do all that he did.
In which case- perhaps FDR needed his back to be scratched in order to enter WW2 earlier. I’m sure he could have created an industry out of it- Mr New Deal and all.
Either way- if we ignore these healthy natural instincts then we’ll without a doubt start to become a funny shape.
Take the Catholic Church and the repression of sexual instincts in male-exclusive communities.
Evidently it doesn’t work.
You know what I’m struggling to do? Finding another example of natural instincts being withheld, that’s what.
This means two things.
- The Catholic Church should stop it… (“STOP IT!”)
- In all other areas, we know that not doing what’s natural is bad for us.
So, I think we should all apologise for the what’s going to happen, owing to what we’ve done (or haven’t done) thus far.
Sorry for the sugar kids.
Sorry for not scratching your ancestors backs.
(P.S. As for creating an industry to aid natural instincts being fulfilled; as I mentioned earlier with FDR…some of you are going to start thinking about prostitution. Well…if you can pay someone to massage your shoulders with their thumbs, why can’t someone be paid to massage someone’s penis with their vagina? Answer me!
And…obviously don’t get an STD or hit a prostitute as that’s a serious hole in my argument.)