It’s good to have a phrase. And this one’s mine.
I was thinking about the state of the planet and I concluded that the best means to go about saving it would be to place its inevitable destruction in the hands of someone profoundly pleasant – like me, baby.
Not that our negatives outweigh anything much at all, let alone our positives, but at least I came out of the thought process with a phrase to my name.
The scenario would go as such:
“Hey – you guys with the demolition equipment, and you fellows over there with the sticks and stones, and you gentle-folk with the vast amounts of crude oil running down your suit. Stop it. Stop it or I’ll melt you. Stop it before things get awfully radioactive around here. Stop it, because I’m a nice guy with a nuke…and one hell of a phrase.”
‘Nice guy with a nuke and one hell of a phrase’.
I’ve come out with a fair few number of these – as I’ve said before; I was born to write T-shirts.
Should the world begin to spin a new axis and send us whirling off into a grand and beautiful playground of planets – I’ll have the perfect T-shirt phrase for you.
Something like: “The Earth flung me into space and…it’s not too bad actually.”
I would wear the shit out of literature like that.
I’d blend in with all the super-cool inter-stella types who feel the planet’s disassociation with them was a good move.
Sometimes all you need is something to say.
Here’s an example.
I’ve begun to annotate Gideons bible, wherever he leaves it.
Having stayed in multiple hotels recently, I’ve found the few blank pages by the final cover to be too tempting to leave looking so pale. So I’ve taken to inking them up a tad.
Largely, the text has revolved around why one feeling the need to reach for a bible might first consider being waylaid by my words – words which suggest a little self-help.
I’ve gone about it in points. 7 points made to waylay the reader seeking some sort of prophetical depth and meaning from a book famed for causing perpetually self-flagellation/immolation/canonisation and instead offer them some means of self-help largely focusing on gratitude of being a species member easily able to flood one’s own being with endorphins.
That this is possible is reason to be cheery enough, even before we indulge in our sexually explicit, intellectually stunning, physical-adrenaline seeking brethren of folk intent on having a good time seeing as how we’ve all discovered how great clothes are and why it’s so jolly to remove them.
This is the sort of thing I write in the bible; I recommend you flip to the back.
On the subject of religion, I had a thought or two more about what I would like to return as.
Not in any sense of reincarnation, but rather to what purpose I would like my overly willing body to be charitably donated to following my grizzly passing (if my passing isn’t grizzly then I’m not entirely sure what the point of being there for it is at all).
Death by most means seems applicable to me. Likely suicide since it yields a tremendous degree of satisfaction drawn along with the identity of ‘my way’ and ‘on my terms’. I prefer the far more teenage phrasing of it, being: “it’s my life. I do what I want with it.”.
However, as amusing as possible would perhaps be the most communally-minded a way of departing our way to “dusty death”, particularly if able to spread myself over an enormous surface area and knock seagulls out of the sky and wake the dog up.
I’d quite like to explode.
Hot air balloons seem most appropriate for this.
So appropriate I’d put it on a T-shirt; “How do I want to die? Hot air balloon.”
Still – there is the question of what becomes of my leavings.
I like the idea of my dick being held in a trophy case by an enthusiast. Blue Peter badge holders only have access, must be this high and over 18 to ride.
Otherwise, I think I’d make a great bow and arrow.
I’d be a better bow and arrow than you.
I’ve often described myself as just sinewy and bendy enough to be deadly unto game at 18 yards. That’d be a heck of a thing to be considered my remains. Plus I’m an uncle and I like the idea of my niece being able to say she killed an elk using her uncle. I’d like that; it’s good to be useful.
Or a wallet. It’s also good to be a wallet. I like the idea of all my tattoos being flayed from what once was all I physically was and then being made into nice purse for a special gal in what was my life. That ball bag of mine would be perfect for this. Quite an inheritance.
Or a candlestick. This way I could still attend family weddings since I’d be part of the wedding gift list.
Now then, now then. There’s no masochistic tendencies being written about here – rather a sincere query into what’ll happen in the most final of moments. I’m not overly keen to experience the sensation of being pulled and twisted into the candlestick design drawn by a family member, but if I’m on the way out I might as well make it memorable. I’d be a candlestick who had seen a thing or two. Getting lit.
People at the wedding would bicker and quarrel and would lament how the wallet made of their mother and the pew made from Uncle Hugh (“He did love his rhymes!”) are better than one another – citing history regarding why the cousin-made mantelpiece and sister-made skirt never liked each other anyway.
And then I’d stroll in, nuke in hand and phrase on tongue – about to indulge in a large surface area following a suspiciously nukey bang.
I’ve been thinking for a while of my time lately that what I need to get myself going would be the threat of nuclear annihilation.
It’d get me out of bed. And into the meadow.
Just look at the breadth of creativity born from people believing the looming green glow of the most horrible afterwards was perpetually at a 2 minutes to midnight proximity to the end of their lives in the 1980’s.
We could do with that.
Just imagine the haircuts we’d have.
If the common man thought tomorrow’s weather was going to be particularly murderous for the skin then he might go about his next pre-nuke hair-styling with the mantra of: “More dolphins. More pinstripes. More tooth-trophies. These have been missing from my hair thus far.” and then we’d stare at him and enjoy his head.
The liberation is head-bound. We’d be buoyant because what we do to our upstairs growth is going to be somewhat without consequence…and with dolphins.
I could offer you access to the mentality to inspire a hair-do such as this. Just give me the nuclear key to turn, and then help me with my fragile wrists (I’m flawed when it comes to twisting things).
Knowing that somewhere out there there’s a pleasant man with a nice (NICE!) smile who might lean to the East a tad too, oh so too much and nudge two things: (1) a bulbous button into action and (2) you…into either oblivion or next Thursday.
Naturally one argues against this point that this imminent reality is a real reality and we should take inspiration from the probability of a vehicle’s rapid insertion of itself (via a driver) into your physical frame of somewhat-now irrelevant bones and meat (at which point you went from a pedestrian to a mess in a horrific neatness of time) into several poorly compiled heaps of person. People being described as heaps always equates to things having turned sour on a level great enough to be mentioned.
My response to this is as such: yep, but knowing everyone else is going to die will treat you to a level of comfort in how you wear your hair which you cannot be granted by merely being struck by the typical example of speeding driven metal. You lazy fuck – get thee to a nunnery and prepare for the heavy bomb full of nukey-goodness.
Having one more day of neighbours will grant you a piece of peace one can only achieve otherwise by spending a plentiful amount of your time attempting to realise that not only are you going to rot – but you’re going to start before you even die.
So let down your hair (and your parents), find yourself a phrase to your name, and prepare thyself for the dropping of bombs by a man so pleasant you’re going to wish you’d gotten him a going-away gift before the day’s sky began to quickly darken.
Oh well, at least we had the haircuts.
You’ve been great,