Everyone’s dying…even Hamster

Famous folk have been multiplying for the past 20 years.

In a sense- everyone could be famous with the internet being such a method and audience for ourselves; talented or hilariously-otherwise.

However, the fact that the pop-culture hero has been an increased branding for an overwhelming number of people, it also means that those famous individuals of the past 20-30 years are starting to pop-their-clogs…and die.

That’s what’ll happen if you watch things as opposed doing things. Not that there’s anything wrong with listening to your favourite band or viewing a black-and-white classic, it just means that you’ll know who we’re talking about when we say a person has died. You’ll know the year of their screen debut, the theme-song of their most popular series and you’ll say again and again: “I remember him! He had that thing with the actress, you know her name, the one who had that thing with that actor. And that cult!”

These people become a part of your life; either as important cultural aspects for enjoyment or as alternative babysitters.

The twentieth century- with the arrival of great archival technology (the damned internet) we are now, all of us, far easier to remember. So long as we have a computer.

As far as we can see, our digital footprint is eternal.

So: well done us. I suppose we’ve achieved what the alchemists of immortality never could- we are forever.

Good.

If all of Peter Cook’s comedy had died with him then I would not be the man-child I am today. Shakespeare would merely have been a dead-man who lived with inky fingers and Robin Williams would simply be a man who appeared to be in quite a hurry. Rather, Robin Williams was a man who taught me to laugh at such things as death (such as by suggesting that Robin was one of those rare men suffering from too many belts).

Looking back at his stand-up, post-mortem, I know that he might not have laughed owing to the joke being a tad-shit, but he wouldn’t have minded the cause. Humour is here to be forgiven.

These days, death is not quite the disability that it used to be. Communication ‘during the grave’ (since ‘beyond’ the grave might not be as far as some presume) is a lot less spooky than we might have thought.

But what of those without a computer or a Top 10 Hit? Like a Tudor electrician- a man who didn’t have much to do and didn’t know how to do it anyway. He is not remembered (not just due to him being fictional), but neither is the ancient caveman who had no talent for murals.

I’m afraid their memory must be only that the species is currently where it is. Without them, we would not be. And that’s all. Almost seems hardly worth being a peasant really. Other than this, all the tales and experiences of their lives simply fall in the beginnings and ends of eternity. Extraordinarily private moments and lonely thoughts in forgotten actions. Or joyous- yet still alone.

I have a hamster. His name is Hamster.

He’s just the best. My little champion. I’d trust him with anything- I’m sure he’d be on my side when the teeth begin to bite all around me.

He’s dying.

We’ve even got the shoe-box ready.

My wife made a point of putting it next to his little enclosure, to which I objected. You wouldn’t start digging the hole in full view of your almost-deceased relative; it’s hardly encouraging and equates to yawning and continually peeking at your watch towards the end of an evening with colleagues. To yawn and peek at my watch in front of Hamster with subtle nods to entering the shoe-box prematurely would be of no effrontery in the slightest towards him since he only hopes that I will continue to put him on my head when in high-spirits, though I could not bear to appear rude to such a comforting friend.

However, I’m sure to bury him somewhere smelly- he enjoyed busy nostrils. Plus I’m sure the foxes would appreciate the corpse to nibble on. I’m sure they’ll enjoy his once-busy nostrils too.

Or….or….I could use him for something. Like lobbing him at an enemy. That’d be pretty insulting.

Or I could render him for fat- that’s something I’ve heard you can do with the dead.

Personally I’d like to leave my body to science. Rocket-science.

But I’ll probably just bury him. In a shoebox. Old fashioned.

The only alternative would be that he didn’t die, in which case there’s no reason that anyone should die and now we are being wishful and fictional. I don’t know about you, but personally I adore to be able to swing cats, and the thought of that right being taken from me owing to the elderly-gentleman on my right eating up my elbow room with his sheer mass and numeracy freaks me out. That’s not how swinging a cat should be. It’s should be noisy, but it should not be compact. It’s expressive for all parties; just listen to it in motion.

With too many people comes too many problems, like we’ve always had. Our social-species is programmed to be concerned over how many of us there are. I’m not sure what the perfect number would be but whenever we dip below or rise slightly above, we worry we’re going to run out of oxygen or there aren’t enough of us to overwhelm a bear.

This is the ultimate issue however- running out of oxygen because too many new or old folk are inhaling.

This is one of those situations that can be solved either by murder or sex- thankfully not as one.

My advice to you all is to stop procreating. As politely as possible- we don’t want anyone to be offended by our sudden genital removal.

Although we’re not running-out of anything yet, we no longer have too-much as we used to. Remember all that buffalo and tuna? Well, although I’m sure you could go and get yourself a buffalo and tuna sandwich, the bread is becoming the easiest part of it and this is a negative.

In all seriousness, bread is peasant food and none of us are peasants.

Fuck bread. If you don’t pull it out of the ground or pounce on it from a super-secret hiding place then I shall remain uninvolved.

If this hamster dies then I’ll have to insist that this plant keeps the ghost going.

My last plant- Claire- had a massive stroke and died. If I’d have stroked her a little less heavy-handedly, she might still be blooming and green, rather than barren and an unpleasant shade of “You-did-this-to-me-Sam’ brown.

Hamster’s starting to turn a little that colour. A colour you can smell before you can see.

The new plant is a southern beauty named Barbara. And she will survive.

It’s what Claire would have wanted.

But what else is there to do aside from to die?

The ‘meanwhile’ is all that exists between now and then, so whilst I implore you to politely cease all procreation- remember that it is for the joy of swinging a cat as fervently as one’s human nature allows.

Be sure to live prior to what is likely unending-death.

Swing the cat and rub its tummy afterwards. Permit it to nuzzle into yours if agreeable.

Dance, sing, laugh, love and ‘all that’- but remember the point of man in the enlightened definition is to die upon your own terms: following the life you chose to have led or had died fighting for.

Either die fighting or loving, for that enormous shoebox coming to claim you will give no glinting eye nor slightest smile in concern for your words and deeds. Only those remaining on the blue-green rock have a concern for your passing, aside from one more: you. You are the greatest judge of a life well or poorly spent and my recommendation is that you give less of a damn considering the end and more of a moment exploding yourself all over everything you want to do prior.

If a man can choose and enjoy his poison then he is so: a man. Have you any idea of how much your body would prefer it if you were to continue what you’re doing: sitting? Even exercise is bad for you in the singular; only when it is regular is it of decent consequence. Your body craves for lack of danger in the form of you sitting most contently and eventually procreate. Sitting till procreation would be the dictation of your genes if only those predators would stop blending in with the Savannah-sofa and doing that splendidly provocative pouncing they do.

Why is it that only bad things (predators) in nature pounce, whilst pouncing is in all appearances and phrases a good thing? There’s nothing better than a physical pounce to make an argument memorable. Pouncing was how I met my wife. All of a sudden.

The people you love are on the final call of the stage, your parents and pets share a similar fate and you are sitting there- vaguely wondering.

Cease wonder and attack with all the ferocity that our species is known for, with aim focused mightily upon the experience of living with…only one more recommendation. Tolerate no tyrants, and enjoy the weather.

Tolerate no tyrants; forgive and love all weather for… really…weather is all there is.

Pounce.

Sam


The Case for a Lovely Dictatorship

I think I’d make a lovely dictator.

It’s all in the elbow and secret police.

Beautifully folded arms and brutality in the case of people not celebrating your birthday and, congratulations, you’ve won.

So, I’ve written on the subject of fascism before (https://samsywoodsy.com/2012/12/13/im-a-nice-guy-but-i-cant-deny-the-fascist-in-me/) and this time I’ve got some evidence. The burden of proof is a wonderful thing when you have some.

Looking through annuls (as well as the anals…HA!) of history I’ve discovered the good deeds of dictators.

Naturally, mostly there is some an over-whelming degree of horror and unenlightened hatred from a few bullish men that feared losing power…but, my word, could they get things done…

Essentially- picture King Kong telling the trains to run on time. That train would arrive smiling because it was told to, with a faint whiff of not-big-enough banana just as you are ready to board for your morning commute into New York- avoiding the congested area around of the Empire State building owing to some sort of Great Ape in a uniform encouraging trains around from on high.

Picture this, and then picture your dead children, and you kind of get the idea as to why dictators can get things done.

Evil.

Evil is a method perpetrated against others to ensure fear, and that fear is then used to sustain a very physical grip over the inhabitants of a state. As one famous US general once put it: “Get ‘em by the balls and the hearts and minds will follow”.

This is the method- often…and fuck it.

However, this is not the only method- for we also have Julius Caesar, Dictator with a capital ‘D’ because that was his actual role of office, and it suited him wonderfully.

Although Julius certainly had people killed; it was his politics (and wealth) that brought him the position of power in Rome, and the position giving to other by which to argue lay purely in how numerous you were in a knife fight. Act alone? Commiserations. 40 of you? Good for you- you’ve just done some ‘disposing’, not an easy thing to do and an awful stain to get out of your toga.

See Franklin Delano Roosevelt!

See his apparent wonderfulness, and forget-you-not that he ensured that whatever he sought to enact would become so by creating for himself: ‘Emergency Powers’.

FDR obtained his immense powers whilst the US was in the proverbial ‘shits’ (and…possibly literal…possibly- I expect that shit was a major aspect for someone in the depression era) of a grand-old, we-don’t-have-them-like-we-used-to depression…where the dungarees were dusty, the dust was the dinner, the dinner was the dog and there was nothing for dinner. Where’s the dog? In the dust. Yummy.

FDR created a great deal of benefits to the unemployed working-man that were necessary to bring the US out of the dark-depths of the depression, prior to the outbreak of WW2. And when that world conflict finally had itself a Pearl Harbour- things really got easy for FDR.

However…what matters here is that he was a nice guy.

Some might argue that he indulged in numerous and constant affairs whilst in office and whilst in wedlock to his (or rather: the nation’s) First Lady Eleanor…but she indulged right back at him. Indeed they would both appear to be rather good at indulging in the genitals of their chosen sexual partners. A gift for the extra-marital indulgences also seems to have served them well, whilst their actual marriage was rather more of a superb working partnership as opposed to a matter of the boring-old ‘love no other’ horse-tripe that so infuriates those more well libido-ed amongst us.

Maybe it meant they were more in-tune with their feelings following the ‘training’ of adultery.

“Once I was aware that I was feeling horny, upon which I acted. Another time, Pearl Harbour has Japan happen to it and I knew, as I did before, that I must fuck shit up…one…more…time”

He never said that, but I said it once whilst pretending to be him. Does this count? No, it does not.

They were good people.

And he was a great man.

Wonderful at affairs: foreign, domestic and extramarital.

A lovely dictator.

In his shoes- could you ask for more? Aside from the paralytic illness obviously (I hear he achieved that illness by falling off a boat. Paralysed and wet…never again).

Then there was all he achieved from the beginning of his Emergency Powers- such as working towards what would become the United Nations and a universal declaration of human rights. It took a dictator to get that done.

Prime Minister Harold Wilson, a man that acted upon the good council of academics and researchers to bring about the litigious roots for the legalisation of homosexuality 1965.

His actions, though tremendously unpopular in a land when one feared a gay man as something akin to anything that was a predator with an erection- bizarre and an enemy, brought us to where we are now, a place in history where homosexuality is celebrated as a joy and regarded by many (thankfully the younger of our over-crowded generations) as a social norm.

Who gives a fuck if the elderly want to maintain a world to their liking? Even if they gave a great deal during their lifetime- that is no entitlement to dissuading good people from harmless actions. Besides, a popular component of the meaning of life is: leave where you arrived a little more cheerful than how you found it. And stop being such a cunt.

Prime Minister Harold Wilson may or may not have harboured his own fearful grudge against his homosexual neighbour, he may have secretly yearned to bring sexual liberation to the masses that was frowned upon in the backbench of the Houses, but either way- he acted upon the informed and considered council of his chosen band of minds to ensure that what was right occurred.

At the time he was seen to be committing his nation to a moral danger, even in the sixties that swung, and it took a little time and far too much sadness to bring us about to where we are now. Fairly gay.

Before I select my final example of dictator-done-decent, I will quickly bring up that old chestnut of how Hitler’s military scientists did two things.

It is hard, in an article such as this, when on must bring about the sentence of: “And then there’s, you know… Hitler. And I’m sorry about that”.

I really am sorry about that. Not for mentioning Hitler, but for the results of him.

Although I really can’t take much responsibility for the Third Reich, I still feel an overwhelming urge to apologise for what they did. I’m not even blonde- but somehow I feel like I should have done more.

The positive effects of Nazi science today, amongst others, include:

  1. Research into nuclear experimentation, which would go on to be as applicable as we find it today.
  2. The negative effects of smoking.

Hitler’s scientists worked under his orders to discover and improve. Of course, there were other scientists working cold and malicious evils upon patients long-doomed to the Nazi dream, and these have been well documented and appropriately hated.

The effect now, however, is that we are a Nazi-scientist better off in research on smoking, inducing a ‘grand-stop’ of people partaking in the flaming sticks, and it is now seen as an item of ‘lacking’, as opposed to obtaining.

Essentially, smoking isn’t as cool as it used to be, and we have the potential to obliterate the planet as many times as we like until someone says: “Ok…I think they’ve had enough. Lessen up on the nukes”.

I guess it’s a bit of give and take, but at least we don’t have nuclear cigarettes- because those little stick of power would be really popular. Imagine the stains on our teeth.

Smoking is not as cool as it used to be and you have the orders of Dictator Adolf Hitler for that. And nuclear weapons are doing just terrifically.

Siad Barre was the fascist leader of Somalia throughout the 70’s who did some typical, African-leader, I’m-a-bastard, things. Yet forgive me, for there are some acts of his that fought the popular model to please the people and instead did what he felt was right via looking around the world to gain a better view.

Somalia, at the time of 1975 and for a good while of Barre’s reign, was essential a land of Islam and Sharia Law, the burqa being the only choice for women’s fashion and men felt a heavenly-condoned compulsion to carry a large rock in the hopes of seeing a woman doing something adulterous; like being seen.

Siad Barre, a murderer and tyrant, introduced the 1975 Family Law, permitting women to divorce their husband by their own choice, as well as being permitted to an equal share of inheritance from a dead male relative.

This was a good thing to do for women and although I doubt a Muslim woman trying to enact this right would rarely have been allowed out of the cellar, and may have in fact led to a great deal more death-by-gravel perpetrated some sort of religious ‘flock’ of cunts, it was a thing intended to do good, for good.

And it stayed this way for a while. Any trouble? Quash it. That’s right- not even ‘squash’ it, we’re not going to waste that extra lick of the tongue on these dissenter, not when we could be quashing them.

10 Muslim clerics stood in their mosques following the announcement of the Family Law and called for it to be ignored and urged rebellion.

They were all killed.

Not that Siad Barre was a pleasant fellow or anything of the sort. All I’m trying to convey here is this: the good act would have been rebelled upon had it not been for the hands of a dictator working their brutal magic.

And then there’s me…I’m a nice guy, but I can’t deny the fascist in me. Given the chance I wouldn’t permit religion in a nation state, owing to the matter of the millennia of devastation, and when I would be told that this was unjust…I’d hit them with a shoe. I’m a fascist; don’t judge.

Doubtless there would be those demanding several of the UN’s freedoms of speech and religion, brought about by my dictating colleague President Roosevelt, and I would have to impose a stance against this right, and I wouldn’t have to explain why because I’m armed. (In reality, of course, you may find my answer to such a question soon to come. Let’s just say I’ll alarm you to its presence, as well as for the sake of it).

“You’re entitled to your opinion but only here. Elsewhere I’d be following you home and liberating your wife”

I was about to conclude my piece here with the pronouncement encouraging action upon one’s ambitions for the world, and then pro-democracy protests began in Hong Kong (28/09/14). I feel piteous anger for those suffering such a thing as China.

China is a body ravaging its heart for the sake of its brain- a state that learned to eat its feet as fuel to march. Elimination of the of human rights has been remarkably beneficial to productivity- a lesson learnt long ago, at least as far back as realising how a whip can bring about pyramids in Egypt.

And so it is that I must concede the point, which is good, out of sheer good fortune for ourselves: the world is inhabited by folk hoping for much the same as you and I…a happy life with little to fear.

Looking into the faces of the very young protesters of Hong Kong, I see no fear, but a righteous anger and pride that so often swells when the very threat of fear has been laid upon the land’s table and the generation about to encounter it decide, or rather realise, there is no alternative but to stand up to a bully.

So, there, my case for dictatorship falls to the ground, with a self-inflicted bullet to the brain, a pill still fizzing mid-way down the gullet, and the petrol still currently being doused over it. There must be no body.

However, though I am regrettably confident that the actions of the Chinese dissidents (I love that identity- a Chinese dissident will never be out of vogue) will soon be…quashed…I am equally confident that like every other leader, from dictator of Rome to tyrant of 20th century Europe, that which is evil shall fall, to be either gloriously forgotten or solemnly learned from.

Fuck China; it’s really good at oppressing people.

Here’s to democracy in Hong Kong…not that there’s any chance of anyone there actually reading this…

Sam


How to Make Where You’re From a Place Worth Being From

To begin with- come from the countryside.

If you’re not from the countryside, then you’ll be town-folk, and that’s being negative. Stop it.

City-dwellers have this whole ‘about to be stabbed by a neighbour’ deal which just doesn’t pay off.

This sums up town-folk- people that do not know their neighbour and therefore have to assume that “they’re” probably going to mutilate “me” first. That’s why I’m cooler than you…my stabbing likelihood.

Then, because of this, we build ourselves up into these towers of incredibility via the mere foundations of: “Hey man, I’m from the city…my neighbour will probably stab me first so fuck you. You wouldn’t understand because your neighbours are probably all courteous and lending you sugar and such. Fuck you again”

Don’t be this- move back to the countryside with me and we’ll lend each other sugar. Having a tree nearby has always helped me.

The countryside used to be the wild darkness between the bright lights of civilised cities, a murkiness of strange noises, suspicious meat and probably too much incest (just a tad too much) that was to be traversed till you got to the nearest monastery where you could hear in the distance that same incest making those strange noises and suspicious meats a reality. In my opinion, incest leads to noise pollution and foul cooking at the least, as well as too many toes and not enough noses.

Unbeknownst to many of us know, the cities were not a helpful thing to happen as they in turn took on all of the previously listed reasons that the countryside was to be avoided.

Not that we should reclaim incest as a past-time or anything like that. Let’s leave that box of frogs be; before swaying in rocking chairs, playing the banjo and squinting becomes all that we’re good at. Let’s not limit ourselves to squinting and sibling-humping. I doubt it would help.

You want a city? Why? Why would you want to do that? Inconsiderate.

Because of the lights? Well, fine, I can’t deny that the city certainly has more lights.

I guess you’ve got me there.

Still, it merely means that when you’re being annihilated by the neighbour you never knew- you’ll be well lit. Probably making it easier for your neighbour there. Good for you- enjoy your new hole. I won’t.

Instead of this- be from the countryside- make the city a place you visit every now and then to remind yourself what the ‘masses’ look like and to see a musical.

I can see that the countryside might not be the most attractive of places out of the two lurid possibilities so…make where you’re from worth your time.

I, for one, feel that this is a good reason to have a tradition.

Not the sour traditions that go on and on because the elders fear change they can’t control, but the traditions of carrying around flaming barrels of mead because it’s fun. It also scares the shit of the townsfolk.

Get yourself a tradition and, with it, fuck those that are not local with it. Consider it initiations for letting someone in your club house/tree house. Like setting fire to your shoes, running for the river, having a truly-necessary paddle and then get aggressive with the guest for not joining in. THAT’s a tradition. It’s also mental. Good.

‘Mental and good’.

You can quote me on that.

Make the countryside scary for the urbanites= Make where you’re from a place worth being from.

Everything we come to fear as naturally bred blokes and femmes is born from the country: ‘Jaws’ (as I’m counting beaches), chewing sounds emanating from the woods and bales of hay falling on us from an unnatural height for hay.

If hay could speak one word, then it should be “What?”

And it would be the height of humour from then on, every time it heard its name, a…”What?”…, would follow and then you’d have to get on with your day.

This would also be a fine way to intimidate townsfolk. It might not be a good old fashioned city-bred knife in the ear, but it has a tad deal more panache owing to the normally-passive and typically stationary object falling on you, temporarily flattening your obese-urban-wise-bundle-of-bones and then ‘replying’: “WHAT?”

If a bale of hay collides downwardly with a townsperson, does it make a sound? If we have our way- yes. How will we achieve this? I presume it would revolve around breeding the noisiest of the hay-species, though this might be a matter of a rogue gust misleading our hay-breeders as they hear the ‘swish swash’ of hay in the breeze and then making it fuck.

Let’s try again.

So, as far as I see it…we’re the ones with all the stuff.

Maybe not quite as many street-lights or dentists, but other than that…most of the important stuff. Like beef.

And mutton.

What if we kept it?

What if we said to the casual urbanite: “Hey. See this mutton? Well keep watching, because that’s all you’ll ever get to do with it”?

Or, just hand them a sheep and a pair of scissors and tell them to go about providing themselves with a delicious Sunday roast and a rather fetching woollen jumper. Those two things you’ll want to keep fairly separate- you don’t want to find that your jumper’s moulding or that your dinner is a size 40 inch chest size, and itchy.

Great- we’ll keep the mutton.

What else do we have?

The bees! “You bitches, it’s all for honey” and all that buzz (HA!).

Now I would recommend to you all that we do one of two things with the bees…

One. Keep them and their delicious produce to ourselves. I’m sure we could learn from them and though I have experienced such a thing as ‘too much honey’- I’d rather have too much than not enough.

Two. Sick them on the enemy. People will hear their hum and start to fear the countryside once more. Picture a bee in a leash. I hope you enjoyed that.

All we’d have to do is ensure the balance between keeping the bees complacent and getting them appropriately pissed off, like beating them with the flower we’re feeding them. Or we could do that little dance of theirs and convince them to gather ‘pollen’. Yes…‘pollen’…

Actually, I don’t know if I’d prefer to have bees collect pollen more than the alternative method by which flowers USE me.

The flowers, normally the fluffy ones, ejaculate onto me and my shoes (with all their flower-sperm hugging nooks and crannies) and then ‘let me go’ without as much as a kiss farewell or £50 on the bedside table. Then, as I walk away from the male bastard-flower, I meander into the female district of the garden where the female posies lie back and spread open their ducts (easy now) as though uttering a moan of: “Oh KICK me Sam! KICK ME!”

Which I do. With my flower-spunk laden footwear.

I’m being helpful.

Actually, here’s an interesting method of making the countryside a little spookier once more…

When urban guests visit, perhaps we could involve them in our procreation: just say “It’s the way we do it round here”.

That way the guys could spunk into the urbanite’s pocket and ask them to visit our most bestest girl, where and with whom they would be asked to expel their creamy pocket contents and say who sent them. With a bouquet of flowers obviously- we must maintain the romance of the situation. I guess this would be a ‘spunk-o-gram’ and please feel free to patent the idea. Imitate the flowers.

I know that’d intimidate me if a country man ejaculated into my pocket and then sent me away.

But why make where we’re from a place intimidating? Why be scary?

Entirely, because it’s attractive and that would be the start of respect, and then being jolly would follow soon afterwards. The countryside is a place of sunny people and this is largely to do with sheer character- let’s flaunt that, but let’s flaunt that after putting ourselves on the map first.

And why put ourselves on the map?

You’re bored- that’s why, and igniting your shoes and running to the river will liven up your day no end.

You’re just bored, and you have to take caution with not wasting the minutes that are yours by being either in a city with various foreign objects being thrust into you (in a bad way) or from the countryside and lonely.

I play golf with fresh fruit.

It’s tremendously refreshing, is fair exercise, spreads seeds, feeds the birds, makes things a little stickier and has an explosive spread of fruit-innards.

City-folk I’ve introduced this to have either loved it or hated it, and the ones that loved it have always come back for more.

This is tourism.

A little crazy, commanding a bit of respect, and the people come.

And then, with them and with the dispersal of fresh fruit, I am no longer lonely.

So, WELCOME TO THE COUNTRYSIDE, the true jungle- not a concrete zoo. Make yourself at home whilst we dance with our bees and no longer fuck our siblings. There’s a river over yonder for one’s flaming footwear, and make sure you keep your pockets covered at all times.

That tradition about the guys procreating into your pocket might be a problem as time goes by.

Speaking of avoiding loneliness- talk to your neighbour- they’re right there.

It’s my birthday and I just found out that Robin Williams died last night.

Mental health- we’ve got mental health and must keep ourselves healthy through the exercise of natural instincts such as dialogue. Though some of us will have an illness, such as depression, talking will help. People might not ‘get it’, but they might understand that they don’t ‘get it’ and will becomes that necessary ear for you.

Don’t be lonely.

Find a person and talk to them.

And for all the love that is out there, if someone starts talking to you…talk back.

There’s really not much else that matters. We’re a communication species, so let us luxuriate in the delicious medicine that it can be to talk with another.

My life, nor I doubt yours, would be the same if Robin Williams hadn’t talked with us as he chose to. I’m glad he did.

Make yourself and where you’re from the tourism that our species is good at.

In there lies a little hope for us.

Sam


How To Apologise For The 21st Century. Just Like This…

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.

  1. The Catholic Church should stop it… (“STOP IT!”)
  2. 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.

My fault.

(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.)


Meditation and Home-Defence.

How do you make a donkey reverse? You make the carrot frightening.

Anyway…

I’ve had an urge, for a long while now, to arm myself with something beyond the pale of civilised means- such as doorlocks and kung fu.

Hence, I’ve now a bow and set of arrows lying atop my coffee table- making it a much more appreciated ‘bow and arrow’ table- which I hope to make available soon in a superstore near you.

Why would I acquire a bow and arrow?

Big cats.

Where I live, a county called Kent in England, we have ourselves a local legend about a puma-like big cat- that people of the area see the arse-end of as it, yet again, disappears- or they find the wreckage of a partially eaten, mostly dead chicken.

And, obviously, I need a new rug/pet and so will be seeking this massive feline out so as to ‘achieve’ it as such (I feel that ‘achieving’ could be a much more possessive and aggressive act…”I achieved you mum”), as well as to have some degree of vengeance for the chickens that I’ll never get the chance to meet.

Hunting. I’m here to hunt.

I have to admit that I’m much more of a gatherer though. I tend to pick up things as I make my way around the Earth, and then leave a little trail of items I’ve discarded owing to a matter of lacking pocket space.

However, the natural instinct that I feel within me to hunt is potent, and enjoyable.

Hunting. It makes eating a little spookier owing to the activity frequently revolving around murder and digestion in the forest. Not only this, but it also tends to mean you can wear what was your dinner after eating it.

This is harder to do as a gatherer in the more-traditional sense; wearing what you find, as opposed to wearing what you’ve killed, doesn’t work so splendidly.

Doing that with watermelons is frowned upon by most people who have a brow to frown with. Why? Because helmets, which is at the most what a watermelon can be, are only supposed to go on your head. Maybe feet. Not buttocks. Not testicles- no matter how scared you are of sudden impact to potential descendants, and dick/and/or/vagina.

I like hunting and, though my current kill rate is zero, my aim is improving.

My current aim tends to be at suburban pigeons, and they are as surprised as sweet hell to find an arrow swishing past them. They don’t need to dodge it, but they move anyway. There’s nothing quite like making a pigeon’s eyes widen.

Naturally, in the same fashion as in the United States, my weaponry is for hunting, but it undoubtedly has a practical purpose in defending my property and wife.

I would like people, and yes…of course…zombies, to know that if they should attempt to crash through my door as part of the massive horde…then they be met with a volley of whatever I can find when I’ve let loose all my arrows. Probably the longer items in my cutlery collection- meaning that people, and yes…of course…zombies, will find themselves impaled by the most mundane of domestic items.

And that’s why we need to relax.

Zombies at your door with a collection of arrows and broom-handles sticking out of where you aimed should not be something to look forward to for such a collection of us as we are.

Why do we feel the need to do this? Why do we feel as though we need a zombie apocalypse?

A chance to start anew.

Year zero.

From the moment that begins, you’re are 90% more interesting because finally something happened to you- and you’re likelihood of being some sort of hero in your own story is multiplied to a degree that matters to you.

Credit history lost, the waste of years lost, all that time in traffic gone, no longer such a thing as a migraine because you don’t have time…

With less people, you feel like this Earth is suddenly a whole lot larger and the chance of you making it yours are finally nearer to that 100% that you have always secretly craved.

And though this is not a flawed feeling, it is a lack of understanding.

The chance for you to rule the Earth is perpetually immediate, although obviously easier for some than others- but still ‘achievable’ (growl).

You just needed to meditate first…and then move along with the home-defence.

Ten minutes a day of silence, eyes closed, lovely posture and a focus on what you want is a way towards the wonders that you are meditating for. You will think more clearly, and you will be more self-aware and open to whatever comes your way, you will be willing to start something…a challenge is an opportunity to become and to learn. As for the soul, and all that…whatever- I feel it is a placebo that works for the personality.

The only aside of this from home defence is that you allow people in as freely as a public park- possessions will fuck you over and eliminate your pocket space. So let them go, in and out, forget your things so as to remember your people and yourself.

If you’re being attacked- then be equally violent back: meditation is a personal thing that is relevant to whatever you conjure up in your life. If your decision is to punch a violent attacker, then maybe a little mediation will aid you and your knuckles.

Defend yourself- certainly, and hunt often, but do not be prepared to shut yourself down and away as though the rest of the world is contaminated.

As much as we are our own species greatest predator, when one of us is endangered or infected, we are all our saviour and our cure.

I have a bow and arrow, for home-defence, hunting, and for acquiring that enormous feline that makes myths about my locality.

I also have a C# key, liberated from an abandoned glockenspiel.

I have realised that when creating a great impact with this key- it makes a deep vibrating sound much like that of a Buddhist gong

This reminds me of the time I travelled in Northern India, Himachel Pradesh, Dharamsala, McLeod Ganj, and I am temporarily transported to that place, by the temple, over-looking the valley of the lower Himalayas, and I am peaceful.

I am also ready to defend myself- which I had to as was attacked by monkeys shortly before hand, which is far less amusing than you are probably imagining right now. You might find it slightly funnier now though, as I tell you that they attacked whilst I interrupted their oral sex.

Fucking tourist.

So when I am attacked- I have a meditative aid to deliver a blow to the forehead of my unfortunate aggressor. It goes “Dong”, whilst the forehead makes an altogether crunchier sound.

What home-defence offers you is a feeling of preparation to deal with what is coming in your life. Meditation is an actual way of preparing to deal with what is coming in your life.

Mediation is a means of defending your true home- your mind, and herein is the link between the two, but the distinction between them is still constant: home defence encourages keeping others out whilst mediation espouses a yearning to enjoy other people so as to either invite them in or knock on their door.

Prepare your mind, not your doorstep, unless you are expecting some of those guests you’ve gone and acquired.

Host the world, neighbour to all.

Sam


Smelling: A ‘Thing To Do’.

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.

Such as?

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?

Sam


How To Conquer Your Fears And Then Beat The Shit Out Of Them When They’re Not Looking.

Sometimes I blindside myself with the question: “Do you have any fears?”

I don’t know why I do that, aside from the fact that it’s a good conversation starter…when I want to talk to myself.

The secret to conquering fear is: repetition until the sensation of swimming with piranhas is something you no longer notice.

Like when you shit. If you’d never shat before- you find it very surprising and feel the need to keep it from ever happening again.

I’d imagine that it’d be like shitting a cat. If you’ve never shat a live cat, and I doubt you have, then you’d want to prevent it from happening, because if you have had shat a cat, and I still doubt you have, then you’d have something new to fear.

There is one main method to dealing with these fears.

Deal with them.

Aggression, involvement and repetition, solve this.

Be involved with your neighbour and the world will be something you are part of, as opposed to something you are against.

Altogether- I’m against high-school shootings. They don’t work.

Just look at them, they don’t work. They are tragic and the ‘reason’ behind the children doing this was that they felt uninvolved. Isolation is a killer for a species such as ours, and the sense of scarcity in the footholds of these murderer’s social lives is what drives people like that to attempt to communicate with such hatred and fear. The firing of the guns was an expression of emotion from children that didn’t know how to talk yet.

There is one way to deal with this, and that is to delve a little deeper into the lives of those around you, and therefore the world around.

Neglect of your neighbour is an evil thing, mainly for you. When you don’t know your neighbour, then you doom yourself to masturbating those ninety years of life that you tremble at the thought of living. The trembling makes your genitals sway, and this is not how things are supposed to be.

Genitals should not sway; they should be thrust or spread. Swaying is for your hands in the air with a lighter well lit in them whilst acoustic guitar songs are performed. You wouldn’t put a lit lighter inside your genitals, and so therefore the analogy is complete.

An important point: IT IS NOT SAFER IN YOUR ROOM.

Just look at the holocausts.

Uhu. That’s right, I pluralised it. Holocausts.

Just look at the holocaust, and then the other holocaust, and then that other one.

Take the genocide of the Jewish (amongst a tragic number of other groups) in Europe- without that, in such modern times as these, we wouldn’t know how evil we can become when we neglect our neighbours. We know how evil ‘not paying attention’ can be, because of this. Good. Let’s not let it happen again.

But of course we did- the extermination throughout a couple of centuries in the New World. Native Americans, the First Nations…’Injuns’. Relatively- they are gonner’s. A people that would be easier to comprehend if they weren’t here anymore. We need to learn from this- the American Holocaust. From the extermination of various peoples and cultures as they are literally ‘removed’ across a continent, to the sterilising of Native American mothers so as to have less Native American mothers, the people have not only been ‘removed’- they’ve been screwed.

I hope for an overwhelming increase in First Nation offspring…and comedians. The comedians will be my favourite part of all this, aside from the lesson to never repeat it. But this being all to hope from this particular holocaust- I feel it is only evil. No lesson has yet be learnt, no good has yet come (no offense meant to the Native American comedy community).

Then look at what we had in Ancient China, and what the Mongolians did to them. Unfortunately, I believe it’s about the only thing Mongolia has ever done, but being that as may, the annihilation of one hundred million Ancient Chinese men, women and children, all in the name of…your own name and it’s glorification (which admittedly did get them what they wanted) and the perpetual goal of  LOOT, is unacceptable. The tragic pain it undoubtedly was has been nullified by time, but still, we tend to view this holocaust as a something that happened, as opposed to…the holocaust.

I consider there to be many definitions of violence. One of them is that violence is the neglect of your neighbours to such a degree that you can’t last without them, whilst they are busy living without you. You are fucking yourself just as much as you are allowing your neighbour to be fucked. And not in a pleasant, “let’s insert one of this” or “how about enveloping that whilst being as wet as you can?”

And then…what do you fear?

Typically, we fear a lack of good people leading to a lack of our own personal comfort.

You fear spiders? Rather- you fear not having an arachnologist nearby so as to dash forwards with a handkerchief so as to dispose of the offending creature that was only trying to stand very still. If not this, then it’s because you fear spiders because you didn’t grow up stroking them, like you should have done.

You should have grown up stroking all creatures, purely for the reason that something you grew up stroking- you no longer fear. You might be bored of them (imagine being bored of tarantulas), but you will not fear them. “(Sigh) Enough with the tarantulas!”

Evidently, you’ve been neglecting your environment too.

I see you there, neglecting your environment. You’re good at it.

When was the last time you frolicked, pussy?

Go frolic, there’s really not much else to do apart from to go frolicking in the meadow. There’s no other reason for meadows. If you don’t frolic in the meadow, you’re doomed to something awful…like…kidnap, or something like that. I’m sure that there are many situations that can only be solved by frolicking, and you’ll be all out of practise. You won’t know how to roll around and jiggle in the meadow.

Being tied up and frolicking go hand in duct-taped hand. If you’ve frolicked enough; you’ll be free. Obviously don’t try this in terms of allowing kidnapping to happen to yourself; that would be silly.

Still- without a frolic to your name, or a name to your neighbour, your fears with grow and eat you bit by bit (always avoid being chewed) so my advice to you is as follows.

Speak to everyone around you. If you’re not good at that sort of thing, then have a set of questions ready. My preference of opening question is: “What’s your favourite colour”. It’s cute and endearing, in a fuck-fear kind of way.

Secondly. Go to the meadow and enjoy it for what it’s for. You know…frolicking.

Dealing with your fear is the only way to conquer it, and having fun whilst doing so is the means by which to kick fear whilst it sits stunned on the ground and you’re smiling.

Just go and frolic- I think I’ve made that clear by now. Jeez.

That’s where I’m going right now.

In the meadow.

Sam


Alternative Uses For Body Parts Since It’s That Kind Of Day.

I was trying to find out what else I could do with my hamstrings.

Perhaps a bow and arrow?

I’ve got the bone and sinew (whatever that might be) and aside from that I think all you really need are…arrows. I don’t know how to make a bow and arrow, but I do know how to make a mess and I assume that in making a bow out of your own body is going to have some sort of mess made in the process. So I can at least know it looks like I know what I’m doing.

Note here that I’m not trying to encourage some sort of Hannibal Lector- Buffalo Bill- let’s grab a shovel- situation. But…it’s my bones and sinew; I’ll do what I want with it. Plus I’m thinking of getting into archery.

There’s roughly eight pence worth of gold in the average adult human body- that could be the first prize in the archery contest, and I’m only going to be using my legs out of passion, rather than the logistics of competing, so it’s not like my hamstrings are essential.

I also feel that the human brain could be used as some sort of cushion.

So could the human arse.

Combine the two and you have a seat which is made from brains and buttocks. No need to joke about it being a clever-arse or anything, because this is serious. And only slightly funny.

This whole topic stems from a personally held belief that holding a donor card doesn’t just apply to when you’re dead. It applies to helping out as best you can…aesthetically.

If you don’t need it- donate it to those that do. Like noses. If you’re not a chef, fireman, or parent…you don’t need it. I could have that nose of yours…but then I don’t really need it either, but I might give it to that man I saw once who had no nose.

How did he smell? He couldn’t- he had no nose you insensitive fucker! Think next time! And give him your nose- you’re not even a chef. Unless of course you are a chef…in which case…you’re a chef…keep your nose on.

If you’re worried about this inspiring someone to go outside and start acquiring pieces of their neighbours for the benefit of the rest of nation…don’t. It’s ok…it’s philosophy. It’s just philosophy.

Philosophy is not something to be applied- you’re thinking of that thing known as: ‘good advice’.

‘Good advice’ (as I believe it’s called) is something that can really get you along in life. Like being advised on the timeless lessons of ‘one’ and the subsequent result following the addition of other numbers, or the one about wearing a condom.

Wearing a condom and adding is not philosophy, it is the best advice for most people, unless you want to easily lose count of how many times you get the clap.

Philosophy is about a subject to think about. Indeed, philosophy itself is something to think about- you can tell by the way that it is something we are currently thinking about. Ergo (Oh yes- ergo)…it’s philosophy.

Of course, you can think about the entire components of ‘good advice’- therefore making it philosophy. But people tend to develop their own philosophy as they make their way through life, which tends not to help. If you go purely by this, rather than by the ‘good advice’ that will come at you through life, then you will have a tendency to not develop as fully as you might. ‘Good advice’, works, as it comes from those who also have adopted ‘good advice’ from others. It is learned lessons that breakthrough when people are open to listening, for their own good.

Aside from this we have the extremely useful human body part which is- hair.

‘Hair The Applicable’ would be its adventurer’s name, should hair ever decide to leave the walled city (and head/barbershop) to see the world and seek it’s fortune.

Hair can be made into rope, string, cloth, and when matted and stiffened it can be made into anything- like a car door frame or a toy horsey. A fairly shit car door frame and toy horsey, but still good to a degree that they can be referred to as such.

Mainly though it is used as stuffing, as the best thing tend to be.

What other things are used as stuffing? How about stuffing, Sherlock? Checkmate. Everyone’s favourite turkey interior.

Not to suggest that stuffing is a human body part. But most of us is…stuffing…just with a few more applications. Take the intestines as a mighty example. They perform an important function in that they aid digestion and transportation of waste, but mainly it’s important because if it wasn’t there then we’d all be a little more hollow and at the moment this is a negative.

You know what our species is like. If we find a hollow, we have to fill it…you’ve heard what some people will put up their butts (and good for them), imagine what people will put into their lower-belly cavity. Until that area can be appropriately used as a storage/containment area for things aside from intestines…I’m afraid we’re going to have to move on.

What would you keep there? It’d likely have to be ‘intestine-y’. Basically my Punch and Judy sausages (I’m a natural puppeteer- Philadelphia Airport security certainly thought so).

I wonder if we sewed an extra hand to the wrist of a willing deaf-person; would they become 50% more articulate. They’d probably just become verbose, shouting/thrusting at me in sign language: “Fucking stupid idea”, as I guiltily put down my needle and thread.

I’m glad hair doesn’t bleed when you cut it- it’d just make your barber’s wetter in red.

The main circumstance that I’m trying to put across here is that we should share more often, especially since body parts are harder to come by when you’re not involved in the battle of the Somme (plenty of body parts, plenty of call for them).

You’re going to die, and when you do so, you might like to know slightly beforehand that your hair will fill the beds of a humanitarian aid camp, or that your left eyeball might see again in the socket of a child who gets to ride a bike like all the other kids now. Your hand would be an awesome thing to leave behind, although maybe we should leave that for now as the robotic technology is pretty impressive.

Although I would have to say that whereas robotic hands are cool, it would be much cooler to say the following:

“Hey. I see you looking at my hand. You like it? It’s his”

Once more…this is a hell of a conversation starter.

Sam


How To Play Pool As If You Were A Good Person.

By all means, avoid the blue ball.

Glasses will smash, noses will be blooded, and conversations will be rudely interrupted, all on account of the blue ball not actually being there whilst you swipe full-force at it.

The red, yellow and white however- they’re you’re business. Like the colours of the flag of pool (we’re going to need one of those).

First things first, you need to step back, then forward again so as to assault the table in every sense of the word. Whether or not people are watching you- either they’ll remember you, or the table sure as hell will.

Then we’ll leave you alone, once we’ve dragged you away from the green and that’ll be that for a while.

You’re a good person now, so just give yourself five minutes to enjoy that feeling and then breathe deeply once and make your way back inside.

Although fact that the table is inside is part of the problem.

Naturally- you’re drinking throughout your pool performance. The violence is natural, the pool is natural and the drink is natural- all you need now are some natural surroundings, so a nice meadow in which to enjoy a game of pool is increasingly important now. Have yourself a pool table, and stick a meadow underneath it.

The reason for the act of violence being natural is that it’s svelte, not the violence, the pool table. The violence is not so much svelte as much as it is loud and eventually leaky.

We rarely encounter that which is svelte in our day to day lives. Apart from babies- they’re fairly svelte, but they haven’t got the arrogance of a pool table. If violence feels svelte to you- then you must’ve been practising.

A pool table will stand there as though it’s clever to have four legs and no skirt on, arrogant and obviously pompous- because somehow it’s winning without playing, whilst also swallowing my balls and not giving them back. It only gives the white ball back, but only so that you can prolong your own agony as you don’t succeed in potting the correct ball and wishing that the blue ball was real.

The house always wins, but you can change the interior before you are made to leave. This doesn’t mean that you should wallpaper the walls, but it does mean that you should take some wallpaper home with you, and perhaps a couple of bricks. The same method applies to pool. Make sure that this cheeky table remembers you- you’re going to lose but leave it a pretty little scar.

That is good pool. Though it may well sour relations with the next player who might well, and justly so, enquire as to why their pool table is scarred and why you have a mouthful of wallpaper. You’re appropriate response is: “Go and do likewise fella, now excuse me…I have a need to flee”.

So the violence is natural.

The pool is natural too, and ties in very smoothly with the naturalness of the drinking.

Drinking is natural owing to the fact that…here it is! Nature is a matter of opinion, with “death by natural causes” being the most debateable.

If I’m eaten by a mountain lion (fine- as long as I truly deserve it) then there really is little more-natural a death to be had by this talkative ape here. But, the police, and hopefully my family, would freak out at the fact that technically I died from being chewed. For some mountain-born kid in the…mountains…it’s likely that being eaten by a mountain lion is comparable for him to a kid in New York dying from being hit by a car. Tragic, and it doesn’t happen to everyone (someone has to be the driver), but- it’s not unnatural. Maybe what’s natural is what’s common in your habitat.

Drinking is happening all around; my town has a raging alcohol and budding weed problem. So it’s natural.

I believe that we have an urge to flaunt the mind’s capabilities when we are drinking, and so either some strong conversation, testy little quiz or a bit of hand-eye co-ordination is what we need at the time of the consumption of alcohol. This is why darts boards, quiz machines and pool tables are found in bars and pubs.

Conversations can also be found here, although they tend to be free of charge. Maybe they won’t be for long, as good conversation can be hard to find and lonely people are plentiful- a very valuable resource for those that sell things in the place of a social life. ‘Whoring your vocal chords’ is how it must be put, since ‘whoring your mouth’ is rather more misleading and much more popular.

All in all, to ensure you’re playing pool as if you’re a good person; be sure to leave the pool hall a little different to how it was when you arrived. Preferably with other people leaving their mouths open as they watch you waddle out with in a funny fashion because you groined the table in a moment of 17 century sexuality- in which you became so aroused by the sight of naked table legs that you grabbed a leg and beat it with it, whilst also beating, with the aforementioned leg,…off.

But how does this relate to you being a good person?

Well, aside from doing what is natural (apologies for not being able to find an alternative word for ‘natural’), you are making a difference.

Change is good, whilst change is also bad, eventually in a good way. If it hadn’t been for the horrors of the holocaust, then the best of human nature would not have been displayed, nor would we have the option to generally be against the holocausts- a cause most aggressively espoused by more good people than bad. So, as an aside, if you want to play pool as if you’re a good person, then play it whilst also being against the holocaust.

Make change of the world’s arse (GHETTO LANGUAGE USED IN WIT- THANKS FOR READING), and then things will be continuing exactly as it always has- constantly changing, hopefully evolving, possibly just changing- lacking a point for which to do so being the reason for it being so.

Sudden and shocking action, unto a room unexpecting it, is a favour to all. Particularly if you don’t know any of them as it is the finest of conversation starters.

Think of it as a social call to those few others that might be there want to contribute to the sudden action. Having a point to the action, let us call it…’momentum’…is something that might matter, as opposed to most things that happen, and do not matter.

Play pool as a good person by making a difference; any way you choose, but I recommend the sudden and shocking method as a call out to the people that might also want to leave the room, which is temporarily the world, a little different from how it was when you first arrived.

That’s about it. The ethos of ‘make change’ prevails above most others- even the one about helping old ladies cross the street- and change is natural, change is good.

You are natural; you are good.

Be natural.

Sam


The End Times…

The End Times are approaching, as always.

Bad luck- conditions of the planet. Nothing you can do about it, just let it wash over you…whatever ‘it’ might be.

So, what are the End Times?

Is it a time when you don’t want to be? A time where you no longer fit as you once did previously?

Really- I think it’s relative.

It’s time when we wouldn’t be comfortable anymore, like a 19th Century Klan member walking down a modern New York street, or a time in the distant future from now when the eating of the elderly is an essential and a jolly pastime.

Or perhaps if a Tudor man was to see an average car advert (the neon green car with models flipping in night-glow paints and coloured contact lenses). He doesn’t want to exist where this car is from- such bright colours and flipping are aspects of the devil. He doesn’t like it here in this advert.

Take for example, the situation of the cow and the ants.

Sounds like a moral fable doesn’t it? Maybe it is. Actually, no- better not say that in case this turns out to be an immoral fable and bastards start to refer to the story of ‘the cow and the ants’ when they’re about to be dastardly. Got to watch out for bastards. They’ll fuck up your fables.

So this cow’s trotting down the street next to eight million ants.

They look at each other and realise their mutual hatred and the fact that they’re going to wipe each other out. So they go about it.

And, following a ‘moo’ and a…’scuttle’ (?) and a thud- the cow is no more. Nothing remains- not even the eyelashes. How could you ignore the eyelashes of a cow? I want some- I could put them on the rim of my shoes, and therefore have nice shoes. I can’t think of another way to improve them.

This has little to do with why people are going to have to be eating ants instead of cows (aside from the mass of resources that a cow consumes compared to how much it takes the eight million ants to say “No thanks- truly I’m full, but the cow was delicious thanks”), but I think perhaps it’s a testament of class that we only eat the superior creature. “I only eat the victorious”- a pompous saying for pompous people, an essential aspect of the world- otherwise there’d be a lot less fancy French food critics- something I believe only exists in comics and film.

Therefore, being a little pompous is alright- it creates a food-market for victorious creatures, and acting roles for people with high-brows and large noses. Ants win on mass. They’re good at mass.

You could tell your children that. And then it’d be there turn to be confused.

A another aspect to this would be that cows cry when they’re about to be murdered, and ants…might, I don’t know, but at least the fact that it’s too hard to tell equates to the other fact that I therefore don’t really care. Maybe ants cry, but because we don’t see it, we don’t cry for those tears.

So ultimately,’ bye-bye beef’. Feel free to weep.

‘Good morning chewing antennae’- the essential cornerstone of any breakfast when there’s not enough resources to feed an oxen.

Besides, fewer oxen mean that there are fewer things to covet. You’re going to have to try to sin with beetles now, and I wish you well with that. They don’t cry, you know.

The next aspect of the End Times is that you’re going to need to get a boat and die on it.

Because aside from fishing, nice neighbours and sunsets, that’s all that there’s going to be left to do.

You see, you’re going to need a boat owing to lack of living space on land, and possibly because you prefer what mutated, radioactive Fukushima tuna is left over from what the fishing industry abandoned compared to seeing pickled grasshoppers in a jar on your supermarket shelf.

Not only due to this, but also owing to the fact that, aside from there being too many children to have a space to stand, there’s also going to be no room to fuck. And a large amount of pressure to stop making other humans.

There’s no way to ensure that enormity of a mass sterilisation process, and so fucking will just be frowned upon and in many cases prohibited by those with weaponry exclusively designed with reproductive organs in mind (they are either long, thick, with terrifying balls on, or they are wide and soggy with a horrific ability to totally encapsulate you, as well as hypnotise).

When you have to move onto a boat owing to lack of space, maybe you should stop fucking, but trying telling that to anyone with both the ability to fuck and nothing wrong with them. In most cases of anything, fucking is the best bit, so telling people stop is going to be met with a disregard most apparent when they start to fuck in front of you on the poop-deck.

By the way- I like to say ‘fuck’ instead of ‘intercourse’ or ‘sex’, because ‘fuck’ suggests a confidence to do as such in any mood (joy, hate, hilarity, shame). ‘Sex’ suggests merely and regrettably procreative motives, whilst ‘intercourse’ is used only in writing, by those with a fear of saying it aloud in case it suddenly happens to them and stains their clothes and upsets the cat.

So you’ll be on a boat, with little chance to fuck (aside from the mutant fish). And you know you’ll want to die. Either that or make it a weird religious thing.

Religion is going to have some issues when we’re all on boats and eating grubs.

People just aren’t going to have time to pretend this piece of bread is His flesh. You’d just be amazed that you have some bread that you’re lucky enough to be able to spend some time with.

I think that people being tormented by the abundance of salt- water and the lack of non-soggy bibles to bash is either going to send the religious among us overboard…in a good way. Maybe overboard is where Jesus. I know it’s where God is.

Not to mention that when the End Times come, the people who have been enthusiastically waiting will have a terrific anti-climax.

Waiting and waiting and then finding out that ‘fire and brimstone’ doesn’t really happen anymore is going to suck for them. And then the lack of an ‘arc’ and a ‘Noah’ is also going to sting when you realise that you’ve not been invited.

“Who the fuck needs lions!? We don’t need a lion- let alone two of them! I could be sitting where that lion is right now! That’s it- I’m going…out!”

Even the bible will fall into a crack in the ground.

And then there’s the situation with the art. Where will it all go?

Things that were of such highly valued importance- the Mona Lisa- will drift into oblivion like a fat-guy downwards.

The Mona-Lisa is going to fall off the wall and stay there, eventually be eaten by ants still not full from the oxen (sharing between eight million never works well), before finally being shat.

All things will be shat at some point. Just be glad you’re on a boat, not being shat.

Some things will last longer than others. Is that what will matter in the End Times? Should the things that matter therefore have been made of plastic?

Plastic art probably exists, and now that I’m all for it I’m going to have to find a way to become a patron of it. It’d be nice to have a wing…

In the end, will all that combing of hair have mattered? All haircuts will be forgotten aside from the now-and-forever style of ‘Fukushima-baldness’- you shouldn’t have eaten the tuna that couldn’t swim. You should have eaten the crickets- it’d be one less thing to hear in the silence of your hairless nights. On a boat.

Full stops will be done for- and that’s the end of it.

Disney Land and Auschwitz will only be remembered jointly as: “places people used to go to. One was better”.

The Beatles will become an entity that never existed and that people distinctly don’t dance to, and wood will be one of those objects that has no source. You might be able to get a piece of wood, but chances are you can’t climb it. Unless you have a forest on a ship, but then you’re getting into Studio Ghibli territory, and I’m not that good of a writer to keep up with myself.

The End Times are coming…as always.

Your End Times are coming.

Remember that, and maybe you can get some more stuff done. Get yourself down to that boat yard…install an ant-farm.

Otherwise- I’ll see you next time, at the End of Times…

Sam