Before I begin, bear with me.
It’s a lot easier to die for someone than it is to live for them.
Tell me I have to die so my wife and child can survive some terrible and clichéd doom, and I’d step forward in an instant, stepping over the edge – if that somehow helped.
However, tell me that I’ll need to be tortured for 50 years so that my son can keep a respectable hair-line with no bald spot…then fuck that guy’s hair. He has my genes any way, and I have zero hair loss on my back.
Taking the time out of my day to put some substance into yours is a lot to ask. And, if you’re as lazy as me, you’ll feel it ring true that there are times when I’d rather die for you than live for you since that amounts to having fewer tasks bothering me.
Dying is a one-time thing, minimal effort, job done, round of applause.
Living can seem to drag on forever when you’re not enjoying it, and then someone tells you you’re going to have to listen daily to the bullshit anecdotes based around their relatives and a punchline-you-really-had-to-be-therefore-but-ultimately-are-glad-you-weren’t. Those are the times you’d rather pass-on then let it drag on.
Maybe I could just donate a leg, or some teeth, or back hair?
If I could donate my left hand to ensure my son will live a life of happiness, I’d wonder what where my left hand was going to end up, but I’d get sawing. If you presented me a banana to do the job, I’d manage to cut it still, albeit hilariously.
If I could donate the same hand so as to not have to be told by wedding planners that I need to have this more-pricey version of the basic floral chair covers (otherwise we’d look back and the wedding day just would seem like a sham), then I’d cut it off and then slap them with it before handing it over to whoever’s asking for it.
That’s my son.
I don’t know why I call him that, but it’d make perfect sense if you met him.
There’s something pre-formed about Joey, as though he was born with a degree of personality and is just flinging that charming personality at the Earth as he makes his way around it.
And the manner in which this resonates with me is to call him Joey Meatballs.
He’ll age and comprehend, and slowly come to realise that his Dad is calling him “Joey Meatballs”, sometimes “Joe Meatballs” to save time and oral effort.
How he’ll respond is a matter of his upbringing, though I’ve a suspicion that he was born with an upbringing that he’ll keep bringing up and respond to “Joey Meatballs” accordingly. I’m not trying to suggest he’s the Chosen One, I’m telling you that he is.
When I write, I prefer to really focus on the typing as opposed to the narrative, and I tend to find I’ve circled back on myself anyway, as though a 1000 word article is an unwieldly palindrome.
Have you ever heard of a ‘palindromemordnilap’? It’s the term used when someone is trying to be clever but its bollocks. Remember that as we continue.
You’ll be familiar with the “Godwin Argument” – the premise being that all online arguments will eventually culminate with an accusation/suggestion that the counter-argument is “exactly what the Nazis did!”
Rather than building up to that, I feel it’s best to get such accusations of National Socialism out of the way in the initial terms of what we’re arguing about.
For example, before arguing about Brexit, its best to agree that we both have the potential to do as the Nazis did, namely – to invent Fanta.
You could invent Fanta, as could I (save of course for the fact that it has already been invented by the Nazis).
Maybe from there, having gotten accusations out of the way early, we could build to both exchanging our points, and if that fails, we can just punch each other until we can’t.
The last person to be punching can be considered the loser of the argument because this is a civil society and violence is wrong.
And that’ll teach both of us.
I hasten to add that although this is entirely my own idea, if you try to punch my son, I’ll take a step beyond punching and burn your mother down and change the fabric of society so that everyone else alive thinks this is a positive thing.
Perhaps, you’ll feel the same retaliatory way regarding your own children, but never fear; for I do not punch babies.
Let’s end this there, if I feel the need to move beyond stating that I don’t punch babies, I’m opening myself other areas I feel I need to clarify.
It could be, by reading the above, that you have come to realise why I call my son Joey Meatballs.
It’s just how things go when you have a father that says and does things like calling you Joey Meatballs.
And, as my Literacy teacher told me in regards to not beginning a sentence with “And”, is just the way things are.
Much has happened since May.
Love you boyo.
Well who’d have thought, I’m actually writing.
Sorry for the delay and even greater apologies for the delay ending and writing resuming.
I know I don’t write articles for everyone’s tastes – that’s why (as well as a distinct lack of writing talent), they’re not overly-well received.
For example, I was walking down the street the other day (it doesn’t matter which street or which day because this is fiction) and I noticed I wasn’t a millionaire.
And to think; I was really in the mood for a Rolex…
Still, no pounds equals one impetus. Lack of millions of pounds gives one glorious idea, to become a millionaire.
Not even a millionaire – that comes across as ideal hostage material – but instead ‘comfortable’. Such as having a house and no concerns about it.
I would like a house, all mine, my walls and my windows, preferably my own ceiling, I don’t give a fuck who the potted plants belong to, so long as I get my necessary verticals and horizontals.
And I’ve a good job, with a good wife enjoying a good pregnancy, a good future filled with good prospects, and a good urge to write, as well as a good thesaurus filled with good synonyms and I can apply anytime I like (but I’m comfortable now and the book is just out of bother’s reach).
So, aside from the typical life of typical pleasantries, I might just indulge in this writing habit I’ve tried my best to give-up and start actually writing.
So, now, I’m actually writing.
I tried writing as a practise for this yesterday.
I thought I’d try writing about my hair.
It went so well I burnt the first draft, not realising I only had one good (thesaurus still out of reach) draft in me and I’d put too much effort into burning my laptop to sit down with remaining stoker (pen) and surviving kindling (note-pad) to let loose another masterpiece in one evening.
Thus we’re here, writing about writing and progressing just as I’d hoped.
I’d like to write for my supper, though I think writing for my breakfast would be greater inspiration.
Sure, at supper time one has a day’s worth of worth to pen down with a fire-stoker, but in the morning you’ve got a wonderfully blank piece of paper to ruin perfectly with just the kind of prose that can set a day right. This is a metaphor.
What a metaphor!
However, I’ve missed breakfast and have moved onto a mid-evening port, in the glow of a newly borrowed laptop and the warmth of a reason to write.
Or rather being a home-owner/house-holder/property-possessor/abode-abider.
Since I’ve moved onto alliteration, I might burn this laptop too, but I don’t think my pen could last to stoke another fire.
Still, this is breakfast writing, and perhaps since this is now a great (wife passed me thesaurus) post-port time in the evening, I can write about that which has happened across the planet as of late.
I was reading the other morning that we’re all fucked.
Whilst I enjoyed Al Gore’s somewhat more bar-chart method of translating the complex data, I do prefer an image of inferno and the prose that practically smell with the sheer excitement of the author.
Sensationalist writing is like fascism. It gets things done when they’re ready to be done.
If I hadn’t been in the mood to like-totally freak out, then it wouldn’t have been successfully sensationalism. If 1930’s Germany hadn’t been in the mood for a snappier uniform and literally snappier mode of marching, they wouldn’t have done what 1930’s Germany did (lose).
With another reference to writing about writing, we have now arrived at the point at which the author has drawn parallels to the Nazis, with very little reason to. And whilst that’s fine in these-and-thus days, if you’d have tried that in 1930’s Germany, you’d have been writing as a contemporary.
I’ve realised I’m feeling silly, and here we thus-hence-and-therefore are (this thesaurus might now be deemed too-near. That’s writing, I’m “deeming” things).
Besides, upon the news of the planet being universally fucked, I’m more inclined to take things a tad more jovially.
For this reason, I’m mixing tales of hair, being a millionaire, Nazis, and Al Gore.
BBC News has a ‘Top Ten Most Read’ section, and the number one point for a recent single day was the end of the world being very much so ‘nigh’. The following day, perhaps even the afternoon of the day prior, the nation’s focus was on Taylor Swift at long last revealing how she feels about US politics.
I don’t want to say that how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US is not important. But the lack of verbalised opinion in regard to the viewpoint of “FUCK how Taylor Swift feels about politics in the US” gives rise to the righteousness of the previous day’s number one story.
We’re fucked, and the following day we were slightly more fucked, and slightly more deserving.
With a baby on the way, I’ve impetus to de-fuck the world, but Taylor Swift doesn’t listen to me and she’s the one with millions of many things.
I’ve very few things totalling in the millions.
I’ve millions of atoms of course, but I tend not to count them (it’d take ages).
I do have a son on the way though. And whilst he’s not a million things either, he is one thing that could be more than a million things and it up to people like me (the fellow that caused him into being about, along with his culpable mother) to take action.
Unfortunately for my son, the particular action I’ll be taking is writing about my hair.
Who knows? It might pay for a house for him to grow up into a fucked-up world.
I’ll keep typing, tomorrow.
It’s good to be back
All the best,
There has often been the brought up notion, from conversation to Hollywood movie, that if a modern man (‘man’ because – you know – they’re the ones with enough forearm to make a difference in the movies. Plus stubble and vests) were to emigrate backwards through time and enter the past…he’d be awesome.
Typically, we’re talking medieval history. The variety of history in which, if you tried with some vague degree of determination…you could be king.
King’s in those days populated the land with babies and…what modern man wouldn’t? When the wenches are as buxom as a barn door with tits – you’d procreate yourself to the throne.
This is of course the Hollywood elaboration of realistic approximation for how the Kings of the times behaved (and why). And they’re not far off.
The point to be made though is that if you were to be sent back in time to a period of history in which becoming a King is an option…no you couldn’t.
No. No you couldn’t indeed.
You could not rule the land purely because you’re from the future as this doesn’t mean you could somehow outwit people into doing as you instructed.
And this states a great deal about how much of a dick you are. Dick.
What are you going to do when you arrive back in England circa 1209?
To begin with, you’d likely appear in a field, which I feel is just terrific because I’ve got a lot of time for fields (I respect them. Ask me why and brace yourself as I may get emotional all over you), though you may realise that you’re going to have to just keep walking until something happens.
Here’s the first issue- eat something. Or be a dick and don’t eat something.
The removed existence of delicatessens and your fridge equates to you bumming around grasping a stick with dreary ambitions of convincing something onto the end of it, somehow wind up being cooked (since you didn’t even think about skinning the poor medieval dish did you? You dick) and then shat out with zero comforting wipes to you posterior.
And what are you going to wash it down with?
The beverage of the time consisted of cholera and pox-ridden water full of fish cum and your neighbour’s proverbial digested…or you could drink beer. And seeing as how you’re in a field with no beer and nothing on the end of your un-triumphant stick (I’ve got a lot of time for sticks. You could ask me why but I already wrote about it here: https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/02/18/the-evolution-of-the-stick-and-why-it-matters-to-me/ ) then you’re going to be drinking a hell of a lot of nasty neighbour-contents…and you might not even be near a river. You dick.
So, let us Hollywood a little.
You’re in an English Medieval town……………your move, brother.
What are you going to do? Convince them you’re able to do anything? You’ll be shovelling pig leavings as soon as you fall face first into them once you’ve been hounded for the first time for dressing like a futuristic weirdo by your newly-acquainted Medieval bullies. I bet they’re as blunt as this sentence.
Unless you can juggle, you’re going to slowly blend the fuck in with this crowd of peasants and vaguely attempt to wonder how you can apply anything at all you knew from your time spent in century 21.
One plus side however which you may have neglected to conceive…you’ll be a giant to these wee little peasants. 5 to 6 feet of bloke walking through the literally shitty streets would be an impressive sight to the average peasant, as they gradually gain neck-ache from constantly seeking to look you in the eye.
And you’d wash. Shiny people would be a novelty and they’d likely seek to make some sport of you until the inevitable burning takes place – mostly because you’re different in a time of maniacal fear and superstition, partly because you’re a dick and you’re shiny.
I’d burn you.
I’d blend right in. I’m good with a stick and they’d regard me with respectful contempt a distance away great enough to avoid a clobbering from my now-triumphant stick. Back then, having a stick was a serious possession to have…and I’d have one. Plus I’m stocky.
You’d probably have quite a few sticks actually; regrettably compiled into a revoltingly effective bit of kindling around your dickish feet.
Apologies for the perpetual inclination I have towards call you a dick – I’m a little sad, in fact greatly sad, but will address this once I’ve expressed this issue of you being a dick amongst peasants.
You dick amongst peasants.
Here’s the knee-knocker right here and no mistake.
Make a difference.
What the fuck could you contribute to the Medieval society? A very small amount of sod/bugger (your choice) all I fear.
Whilst you’ll spend the remainder of your time through time regretting not being a woodsman and trying to somehow make a gun out of stones and bits of squirrel…you could have introduced good people management skills.
The people that are going to survive when thrust back in time? It’s Human Resources brother!
And those amongst us built like either a gorilla with a bit of wit or the aforementioned barn door with tits (‘knockers’ – if you will). Being gorilla-like with wit is a common component of the successful throughout time. Good genes.
They’re the fellas and femmes who are going to be able to cope with the repressed civilisation people were living as part of in the times. They’re going to encourage the sticks to stack around your feet because they’re going to survive and having some shiny giant screaming about lightbulbs and why he doesn’t regret doing what he did to that squirrel is only going to help them if it’s the burnt version. Because back then the conversation was over until someone was burnt.
By the way…when the elderly chestnut comes around about going back in time and killing Hitler surfaces…no you couldn’t.
No. No you couldn’t indeed.
How would you be able to kill Hitler? What the fuck are you talking about?
“Oh, I’d use my modern-age charm to deceive the guards and make my way through the big door and give Hitler a meaningful chat about why he shouldn’t have done that which he did. And then I’d kill with a move I learnt from Tekken. Because…I’m a 21st Century-kind-of-guy.”
You think far brighter and more capable murderers weren’t already trying to accomplish this feat? I’ll say this for World War Two – we had some good murderers on both sides and to suggest you would be the guy to go back and use your knowledge of internet memes and Grumpy Cat to encourage that bullet into Hitler’s Brain is a disservice to their murderous careers.
But aside from you’re …ah fuck it. I’m all sad now. Here’s why I’ve referred to you as a dick thus far.
In total honesty, if I was thrust back to 1939 I’d rip off Terry Pratchett. And I’d fail.
What a guy.
We’re talking about a fellow of inspired inspiration; by which I mean that he didn’t just have a next-level imagination or an outstanding work ethic…he had both. Therefore, his inspiration was inspired. As were we all.
Now there are going to be a series of heartfelt and on-the-nose prose written about the man Pratchett, but not to include my own would be impossible since I write inspired by him, and now I write for him.
Maybe I should only do obituaries; its assured work. Plus the subject matter’s fairly thrilling.
I’m sure that Pratchett would approve.
What a guy.
Terry Pratchett – thanks for making my childhood, teenage years and adult life perpetually spiced with ingenious and innovative imaginings spliced with beautiful doses of some of the greatest humour I have ever known.
I miss you and always shall.