Hamster in a ball? What do you want? A medal? Fine.

Posted: May 28, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I can hear the hamster in its ball, trundling along with the rattle of tiny turds accompanying it; bumping into table legs and me.

What does it want? A medal?

Fine have a medal. I’ll go and get a medal and give it to you.

This is not what a hamster is for (I don’t actually know what a hamster is for – they weren’t my idea).

No animal is meant to be in a ball. A cage is bad, but at least it doesn’t rain turds whenever you take a step.

You could put any animal into a ball and it’d do that exact same thing as this hamster. An elephant would also bump into table legs and me, and fuck us all up due to the tonnage and collision, but might feel bad about it – which is nice. It’s nice to know something feels bad on your behalf.

Actually, a dolphin might not do the exact same thing as a hamster and an elephant. Unless it got a shove. Depends.

If the dolphin is put in a ball and then left to be alone in a ball – it’d just flop about whilst squeaking. If you put it in a ball and then gave it a bit of help, just to get it going: it’d rotate forever.

A dolphin is ideally shaped to rotate in a ball eternally. What does it want, a medal? Fine. I’ll get the dolphin a medal too.

The hamster meanwhile doesn’t even need its eyes, nose, ears. It just about needs internal organs, but it sure as shit wishes it didn’t need an arsehole right now. If it had none of those things, it’d be doing the exact same thing, bumping into table legs.

Poor table legs. You know, the Victorians used to cover them up in case they aroused visitors?

I feel that the Victorian era was one in which everyone was outrageously aroused, whilst pretending beyond reason that they weren’t.

They pretended instead that their genitals were cold, and sleepy, and not there.

The truth, meanwhile, was obvious – just look at the number of children they kept procreating. Children were a major portion of the workforce, whilst also being the biggest output of the era – and more people meant more people. And eventually one of those ‘more people’ put a hamster in a ball.

When did we start putting hamsters into balls?

Holy shit, the hamster just rolled the whole length of my 30-foot kitchen, through the door way into the hall, and into the lounge, all in one go – no collisions.

That shut me up.

That was classy. Shit rain and all.

I’ve taken the hamster out now, and put her back into her relatively pleasant cage. Then gave her some treats.

Her name is GingerSnow. And she rolls well.

What does she want, a medal. Fine, she can have two.

Now please excuse me, I need to make some medals.

Sam

I’ve a Boulder and That’s That.

Posted: May 28, 2018 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

It’s hard to return to writing, for several reasons.

One, you get a new job with unartistically-favourable hours (e.g lots of hours). Two, you’re still dealing with emotional trauma that I’m still not ready to write about yet. Three, the last piece you wrote was about leading a League of Mongrel Messiahs.

A heck of a trinity for a heck of a second testament, but I’m too tired from a long day at work, tear breaks in the bathroom and concern about following an article about Mongrel Messiahs and the fact I’ve not distributed a single leaflet to the (I prefer to presume) common cause, so I’ll just introduce you to my pet boulder instead.

I’ve always wanted a boulder, ever since I came to the age of realisation that a boulder was a dependable bed-fellow that only departed in the most traumatic of quakes.

A boulder is for relying on.

A boulder will do what a boulder does -it got out of bed a million years ago and was immediately successful to the point of being able to lay back and crush its own laurels; which was actually the best method of success for a boulder anyway.

Plus they have character. Though a tad Stoney-faced (…………………………….chuckle); I find them to be quite adorable.

I watched them in the petit-meadows around Niagara Falls, hiding in the long-grass as though they were about to lunge out and give me a devastating tickling.

Swell, that’s what boulders are, all the way from Stonehenge’s royal slabs to the wee-ickle chap I’ve got snoozing on a shoe-box in the corner of my room; snoozing as though a lay-in is its forte, as though horizontality is the future of measurable achievement in bedroom corners, as though there’s not a thing you can do about it because…it’s a boulder and it isn’t responding to emails or sledgehammers today.

My boulder has no name. If I did name it, I’d name it “Boulder”; which make the entire process redundant anyway.

Weight: it’s getting there.

I’m thinking I’ll convince some concrete onto the top of it so that when I take it into the fields to do some lifting, it’ll be more substantial to grip. Like a haircut that can break your back.

I wonder what hairstyle would look best on a boulder.

A Beatlesesque bowl-cut could work, but I don’t have a bowl that broad (plus it’d be suitable for rock music………………………….guffaw). Perhaps an intimidating punk-Mohawk of concrete; which would be especially since it’s also a guard-boulder.

I feel that, should Burglar Bill stroll into through my window, past my particularly wimpy hound and iwakeable wife, then I trust he’ll glance over my boulder, concrete hair-do and all, and realise that fucking off out of my house is a genius plan.

Maybe a nice sensible haircut for; that’d be really disconcerting.

I want forearms like Pop-Eye, minus the speech impediment and more spinach. To get forearms like that guy you need to do more than just eat it, you need to bath in it, drink it, sniff it, listen to it and keep a careful squinty eye on it as your wife pours it into your boots and over your boulder.

Spinach, boulders, and concrete haircuts.

More of these please.

Me and my boulder have a routine. I pick it up, I lay it down, I repeat until one of us is feeling sleepy.

Throughout all of this, everything I have that can clench; I clench. Hands, toes, buttocks, knees, wrists, boulders, eyelids and (still attempting this) my willy.

Have you ever seen a clenched willy?

It looks boiled.

Even my boulder recoils.

Which is fine; it’s ok to have boundaries between your boulder and genitals, no matter how much they may have in common.

For instance, my boulder’s not permitted on the bed. Despite how adorable they are, boulders (to their credit) emirate a natural ‘fuckoffness’ which equates to a truly uncomfortable night.

Is this the sort of wisdom you expected from the founder of The League of Mongrel Messiahs?

Oh well.

I also feel that a boulder is a natural heirloom, something that will stand (sleep through) the tests of time and the bank won’t be bothered enough to take away. I can picture my great grandchildren playing with family boulder, wondering what the heck I was thinking but also understanding that boulders really are a reliable member of the family.

They rarely do something that boulder’s don’t do.

I work in London now, with a 2 hour commute a day, so between staring out the window and committing to elbow-wars for the arm-rest with the chap next to me, I’ll see to writing some of these more often.

Would you like that? Or was that “bump” just then the sound of the last fuck you gave being roughly commuted-over by my 07:29 to London?

Poor fuck.

I also gave up pork. But I’m not giving up pigs. I’ll explain that next time. A sad story but a good sad story.

Tarrah,

Sam