Three miles away, there shall be a bear, be it Black, Grizzly or Pooh – breed matters not, and it shall be fleeing; fleeing from the fact of me a’stoney – three miles away in the new capital, busied by floral tributes and perhaps some well-put-together and recently deconstructed oxen.
In terms of animal sacrifice, I feel it’d be rude not to accept.
It seems natural to expect statues of myself to appear; pimpling the globe, here – in honour of my recently being deemed worthy to have a statue, there – being used to keep the pigs in the forest.
I muse fondly the idea of having sat-upon-feet, by lovers sharing an ice-cream whilst also having no idea who I am because they’re young.
It is but a shame statues aren’t a rebellious art form, being an erection of the establishment only.
It’d work though, with a sudden subversive statue on your front door – cope with that won’t you please Mr Reagan?
Me, as stone, shall gather no moss and isis (because they deserve lower-case) will keep away from this piece of articulated rock.
They’ll take note of my presence and consider as follows:
- Naturally; urinate. Urinate all over their own western candy.
- Turn the gun to themselves, look down the barrel, give it a brief suck as some vague hope of demonstrating greater subservient allegiance before; finally…
- Emitting an “Oh I see” in that democracy is the way forward, being gay is irrelevant whilst gay people aren’t and woman are terrific – let them try a book.
How did they realise democracy is the way forward?
They read it my democratic countenance.
I look democratic.
And, thus, you shall also be democratic; because I said so.
It’ll go with your new rebellious statues on the city centre.
Since you’ve asked, and I’m glad you did, as to how I would most like to be appreciated in stone once departed, there are several things upon to ruminate upon within the hallowed-hollow.
Such as: what cloth shall I wear?
I shall be nude.
Everyone’s laboured hard today and we all deserve a treat.
However, I’ll need something to flow – the best statues have a flow to them.
Got it – the luscious hide of a monstrous beast I bested, tamed, struck up a striking brotherly familiarity with and finally put out of its withered misery with game of fetch so intense one might describe as being “to-the-hilt!”.
Plus an actual stab to the hilt, owing to it being a monstrous beast and needing metaphors to be hammered home somewhat.
And you can bet your bottom…arse…that I won’t be urinating.
But why not Sam, you magnificent chap you?
Because it’s remarkably amusing to see the number of honoured deities flooding the market square with well-plumbed flows. And whilst this may be so; I’ve a better idea for everyone.
For, yea, I shall shit you your daily bread and prosecute all trespasses.
Actually; I’m all in favour of permitting a hint of trespassing (yes – I went there), but the humour is more humorous if we remain in good humour and don’t get a little too technical.
Intelligently mechanised automated bakeries, installed within the magnificent depths (my depths are magnificent) of my statues, having collaborated with my personal physicians, will feed the poor and aid the working single mother on her way home without time to pop to the shops.
Every hour and 30 minutes, another loaf emerges from between my heavenly yet Earthly buttocks and plummets into the waiting arms of the grateful below.
An added advantage of this is the appreciation shown by the gulls and pigeons for the morsels of bready-leavings in that they shit on other statues in other parts of the city/woods.
And that show of gratitude matters to me most of all.
Not to mention, should you shit on me; I’m the kind of statue to shit right back at you.
Even it’s a nice, considerate shit in the shape of a romance-heart. Thoust should have shat elsewhere, birdy.
I’ll punch a poo into you purely because it’s lyrical.
You feathery motherfucker; you want to get shitty at height with this immovable object?
I’ll be immovable all over; takes your eggs and have an omelette out of your lineage.
Plus beaks are dim. Your main method of eating requires you to headbutt the floor until you’re certain you’ve met with a good angle to grasp, toss thee petty crumb of crust high into the air and swallow whole (and, yes, whilst this may be my own preference of eating grapes, I’m still insulting you over it. Only idiots eat like us).
A statue, grubby or not, tends to look as though a bath is very much so in order.
Craving, with rain teared stoney eyes, a soak in the tub.
Where’d I’d become warm and gooey as though the centre of the Earth only 6 times as delicious.
I bet the centre of the Earth is a tasty place to be.
Working your way there after the rough crust of Vietnam, with the necessary healthy greens of northern South America, avoiding Saudi Arabia because no one wants that bit – the coffee bean in the Minstrel packet.
And the Earth is good, sturdy, take no mercy filling, complete with pleasant surprises that tingle the tongue, like a subterranean nuclear-proof palace of Kim Jong-un, and the occasional mole.
Working through that filling like you’re lusty. Lusty and proud with a tongue they’ll write songs of.
I lap at that planet, watchful of those wettards which may be a little too soggy. The Atlantic is guilty of this. Meanwhile the Sahara requires a beverage post-lapping. And London is just right, if a tad gritty.
Though I’ll bet Florida is like the juice you cannot but glug away at, refreshment to the hilt.
“To the hilt” – a phrase to remind us of a time when the utmost by which a thing could be done was as long as the blade you plunged into someone.
Let’s keep this phrasing up, shall we?
Take myself, for example. I am writing this article to the point of stabbing a fellow to full extent. I couldn’t possibly stab him any further – I’d quite exhausted my reach of stab; that’s how hard dedicated I am to this article.
Because murder is convincing.
Not as convincing as a statue; of course.
And none more so than a statue of me as myself.
Because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Keep in touch with your stone masons.
Tip them regularly.
Getting started on an idea is much like this sentence; you just start saying something and prompted brilliance will rise itself to breach so as for you to do as thou please with it.
You see, the brilliance only arrived owing to not wishing to be rude.
It observed the situation and realised it was rather relied upon and so took the initiative of turning up.
All rather brilliant really.
And brilliance is a wonderful commodity to have.
Just look at the sun (sure, actually do that).
The sun is brilliant.
Try ye not to deny it and don’t say you weren’t trying to deny it either. Because that’s almost confusing.
And ‘confusing’ is my thing.
‘Confusing’ is the mark of someone I want to stand near.
Because positive consequences, or a few of the other kind too, are sure to happen if they continue as such.
Hey, perhaps the world made up of reasonable assumptions regarding whom one should stand near. And I like to make my reasoning along this line: a good friend should be slightly frightening.
Get a frightening friend and the “Ooo-Ooo Good Things” will happen, or at least something will happen.
Comfort zones are for people.
And I am not a person.
I am an ape, the very next ape, and I am in a rushing of living, urging myself forward to begin and end and thrust myself and expel myself into all manner of frays, occasions and sparky joys.
Because, this way some things, likely “Ooo-Ooo Good Things”, are sure to start happening.
All because I began.
And this is brilliance.
And this is confusing.
I must have written it. With an ambition to improvise.
How like me.
P.S. I spent my evening belly dancing. Consider this proof.
I’ve had a fair few hot meals and I’ve had a fair few collisions with brick walls.
All there was left to do following both of these activities (because I do spend my time doing these sorts of things) was to be complimented on how I went about them.
And I am complimented about them.
I am complimented a lot.
I fucking adore compliments.
I’ve been told I’m a natural at receiving them.
False modesty should dwindle down in the English South Downs and die like a dog in the sun-like warmth emanating from the confident folk of Brighton town; self-assured in their assertions and plentiful in immoderate compliments to their kin.
As I spoke of earlier, I’ve ravaged some hot meals and brick walls in my meandering stroll across the surface of where we are and here are some of the crackers which really got my chin up and penis likewise.
“But you look like a muscular piano!”
I mention this as a primary for the list as it speaks eternal fact.
I do look like only a master craftsman could create me whilst also appearing as though I’m as natural as a waterfall in the nude.
I am aware that I look just swell with a dinner-gowned femme-most-fatale lying across my broad LID as though all she wants to do is clamber inside but it was my idea first and so I’m going in.
Finally, it is true…sweet woman.
There is a shade to my hair which suggests that I can produce the most transcendent odes to love and joy the species can conjure, but for some reason, some handsome reason, I’m going to have to do it with my shirt torn across the chest to a degree that women from all eras of time, from Cavewoman to Victorian, peasant to hipster, all wilt at the sight of me and focus on the way I heave a concerto out into the public domain.
Sure, I heave concertos and I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not certain as to where I’m heaving it from, nor am I aware as to why heaving it is necessary at all…but I know for sure it gets me compliments.
I look like a muscular piano and I’m damn proud of that.
“Sam. Your hair looks like George Orwell!”
Thank you again for bringing it up as you did.
My main issue with this compliment is that people might assume it’s just an attempt by those admirers of mine to fling some political concrete into the waviness of my shy but not-without-confidence hair.
And there’s no need for that.
My hair is a revelation to our current dystopian society in that it rings true all the way from the scalp to the not-too-distant future; don’t eat each other.
I have a feeling that this needs to be made clear and of course I am inspired by my hair to do so.
People know this about me as much as they know this about themselves; they are inspired by my barnet and the prose it seems to produce…somehow.
Perched atop my head there is a hair-do of substantial flourish; there is no chance that this hair is going to die by any manner other than by waterfall (however naturally nude) or God.
Tweed suits my hair, as does strong tobacco and English furniture. Indeed – all suits my hair, aside from waterfalls and God as they will be the undoing of it and make it a prerequisite for things going south sourly.
I just wish they wouldn’t get involved, but they are insistent.
That’s not the Jehovah God by the way, I’m talking of course about Poseidon – undoubtedly the wettest God ever devised.
This is why he gets together with a waterfall to undo my hair’s natural Orwellian nature; because when one wet thing meets another they generally equate to an unwelcome dryness unbecoming of a young contrarian such as I. Not that I’d agree with such a statement.
The encounters I’ve had with waterfalls and wet Gods have driven my locks to scribble, most devoutly, visions of a mean future without hope of my hair staying un-frizzed by the lashings of moisture unwelcome.
Why must they have so much to do with hidden chests and booty? Why must the fairest of maidens, all welcomingly wet to the ideal moistness of female, be so nearby to them?
I find this all most uncomplimentary, but at least people say my hair looks like George Orwell.
“For someone who’s not a father – I sure want a masculine fuck from you.”
I fuck like my cum is the cure.
And apparently the locals of my locale are hyper aware of this, resulting in a hell of a long night and a multiple increase of things done down by the fire.
I like the fire – it dries my hair out. Plus my sleek pubic region.
My pubic hair is the only hair which doesn’t look like George Orwell – it gives no heed of a brave warm stare into the cold and brutal future.
Indeed, I believe it was Orwell who spoke: “Now you look here, future. If you try to ban my orgasm…I’m going to enjoy it.”
And he was right. So correct my hair could have said it.
Not my pubic hair however – as I’ve said.
Should my pubic hair speak; it’d likely just compliment me and tell me a tale about “Oh the things I’ve seen,” in which crabs are a mortal enemy.
Maybe it’s the way I wear my jumper and get out of chairs with a slight grunt these days that makes the rest of the species wish to go about procreating with the father-figure I am.
Perhaps it’s the manner in which I exude a natural air of “THIS IS MY FUCKING TREE WITH MY FUCKING PEACHES IN IT! SO TAKE YOUR WATERFALL AND TRIDENT AND GET A LIFE, NERD!” which makes the girls (Oh the girls) land on me, as well as, regrettably, the heftier half of the species.
I find myself climbed by the females of local.
They play with my hair and learn harsh lessons from it, whilst also gliding their hands over my muscular-piano-like frame and whispering sweet everythings in my ear.
I’ve perpetually preferred sweet everythings to their counterparts as I like to feel a little more constructive in my flirtations…not that I flirt anymore.
Flirting is for the brave…and I am not brave.
I am merely victorious. That’s all.
I enter bars with my shoes nowhere to be seen and nothing but a lance over my shoulder and a flute in my breast pocket.
Women love a breast pocket in use. And a lance heavily shouldered.
I then take a knee and roar at the sky something seemingly transient yet unyielding and eternally virtuous like: “AAAARRRRGGGHHH” or perhaps even: “EVERYONE – YOU’RE ALL LOOKING SWELL THIS EVENING” before collapsing with such romanticism that a man could never lift me owing to my weighty legs (“It’s as though his bones are made of gold!”) whilst a woman would most certainly rouse me by a sheer touching of my cheek.
I only really wake up these days if a maiden caresses my cheek – all other forms of rising are without any fair form of competition. Nothing compares with a nice bit of cheek caressing first thing, before my coffee and target practise in the owlery (they don’t expect a thing).
My coffee is ground by knuckle by the way. I beat the shit out of what I eat. I also only eat the male of the species; even the coffee bean, as a matter of sheer masculinity.
And the women love that.
All I know is that owing to a combination of my Orwellian hair and muscular piano-like build; I get complimented.
And I love compliments.
That’s why I’ve just paid myself plenty.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you. What a compliment.
At some point, you should know by now, it’s going to be written down that I am the greatest human to ever live. Written by someone other than me.
Until then…I am the greatest human to ever live.
And here’s how.
Ghosts avoid me.
So does Bigfoot.
Ohhhhhhhh Bigfoot has some diabolical excuses to his name.
“I’m washing my foreskin hair tonight”.
I let him off for that one since he’s willing to bring up his foreskin hair over the telephone. What a creature. He can’t speak but he lets me know by just colliding his foreskin upon the receiver.
Sometimes I pity telephones.
Not that I let them distract me from filling you up and in with why ghosts tend to go the long way around when they see me approaching.
I feel ghosts avoid me owing to my ‘rip-the-sheet-off’ mentality that leads me to sing (fucking SING) Van Morrison’s Brown Eyed Girl whilst dancing in Piccadilly Circus on any day but Christmas.
I don’t deal in spooky.
I ejaculate on spooky purely for the reason of attempting to make apparent I am in a whole other frame of mind compared to what this ghost is hoping for.
Hence the semen.
Whilst this might not suit the law amidst the season of Halloween, at least the real ghosts can read about me in the papers.
Oh I wish I could pick up that telephone one stormy evening in late November to hear some croaky drawl utter: “I’m in the attic Sam”.
Because I want that ghost to know.
That I would then devote my body to two distinct attitudes.
My left hand side would box.
Jab with the fist, sweep with the foot and poke with my hip. Possibly also nutting with my left temple.
My right side would go about as furious a masturbation session as you’ve ever taken note of on the right hand side of a haunted man.
My reason for this two-tone combative-masturbatory stance?
Well…would you want to haunt me?
Whatcha gonna do? Clink your chains together? Softly tap the floorboards?
Be a long since abandoned and forgotten child’s clown-dolly?
You know that turns my right hand side all horny and gets my left hand side in a mood to eradicate most-fistily (fistily. Adjective; much about the fist. Typically negative. Occasionally not) a ghost.
And I feel that closes the case.
What the fuck would you do in the face of my tactic?
Yes. I have tactics. Like a disciplined person from yore (wherever the fuck that is).
Distraction and confusion are nigh-on my sole arsenal, in the fury of silent cloak and dagger business.
Aside from my actual cloak and dagger, of course, as they quite simply ‘help’ when encountering an opponent needing to be pierced whilst also requiring a puddle to be obscured for them so as to gallantly defend their footwear and honour.
And I do that sort of thing for my enemies.
Because it distracts and confuses them.
To the point of them passing away into the hastily knife-dug grave to soon be swiftly cloaked-over and, then, returning from said hastily knife-dug grave to don my white cloak and go about haunting me with particular insistent focus upon my overly-literally imagery.
And then I ejaculate on them. Owing to my tactics.
That gets them sighing.
Good. I want them to sigh, I’ve always found it’s a good indicator of progress.
I simply refuse to acknowledge their apparition-like form and rather more insist they are just being rather witty with their parlour tricks.
“Passing through a solid wall eh? How terribly charming, I do wish cousin Bertie were here; I feel quite honestly you’d get on. Hmm. Yes.”
Middle-Upper Class vernacular infuriates ghosts.
Upon encountering ghosts I give it a really rather whopping “Crikey Carruthers!” and then leave it to my left and right hand sides to deal with the consequences.
I can’t wait to be haunted next.
I might even tempt it forward seeing as how I know the location of a native English gravesite. And I need somewhere to park my unpleasantness every now and then.
So I have a kilo of unwanted horse hair and no place to dump it other than that place where I dump things. How about there?
Can’t take it back to the horse; keeps running away.
Now I know I prefer to be galloped to, rather than galloped from.
Being galloped from has too many connotations of loneliness for the greatest human to ever live to oblige existence to. That’s why I find myself in so many stampedes.
Three stampedes at the time of writing. By the time of your reading this? Hopefully more.
I like a little hoof-mark on me. It’s my badge of both having been stampeded and then being proud as hell about it.
That should get the late-English natives coming for me.
That’s another flaw of ghost-hood; they have no strut.
Ghosts can’t dance.
And you needn’t even bet on it (just have some of my money), that I am the one to remind them of that.
Ever feel a little intimidated by the howling wind coming down the chimney and the weighty patter of rain upon the window pane?
Then fucking waltz, darling, waltz!
Now I’m not saying you should just get dancing, since I feel I’m truly the only one who should be doing that. Observe my physical expression sometime and you’ll realise you’re just not qualified.
However, I am saying you should certainly out-do that phantom when it comes to the art of tap.
I’ve always found that to be the trick to Irish Dancing. You cannot conceive, nor can I, those who are willingly Irish Dancing with aplomb aplenty and those who are righteously taking the piss out of it by flailing their legs all hither and thither in a manner most Irish-Dance-like.
So now you can do it to.
Don’t pretend you’re Irish Dancing, just Irish Dance.
Be an Irish Dancer; because I told you to.
And because you can do it if you just start. Soon all, ghost and the yet-to-be-late will assume you always were one.
Plus it keeps ghosts away.
Not that I’d really know; ghosts avoid me.
So does Bigfoot.
Do you ever get the sensation the author may have alluded to masturbation a tad too often throughout a piece, to the point that you consider him in an overwhelming and literal sense as a wanker?
I didn’t think so.
I don’t break bread with the undead owing to mainly to how swell this sentence sounds.
Aside from that, I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
The Greatest Human to Ever Live
(Part 4. Make it a Brunch With Moi, Sister)
I am the greatest human to ever live.
Especially when the competition has such an admirable ‘keep-at-it’ attitude towards eliminating one another.
I can’t deny the embarrassment I suffer in acknowledgement that it’s all because they’re trying to impress me.
And it does.
Take a look at the budget they use on warfare.
Ahh fuck it.
Fuck this warfare wile-away-the-moment topic whilst instead I could take you firmly by the ears (if you were in the room with me. And had ears. I apologise if you don’t. Wait…no I don’t. Why the fuck should I apologise for your lack of ears?) and blow the contents of the following subject down your ear canal.
Brunch with me is transcendent.
Soon it’ll be a reward for curing only the most high-profile of diseases. The lady who cures missing limbs by replacing it with something more powerful; like a kangaroo.
(“Well, I sure do miss my foot, got a kangaroo on the end of my leg there now. It’s company but kind of fucks up my driving something awful and bouncy.”)
That lady…she can brunch with me.
Brunch with me with will turn any commie. I’ll have them being intimate with a fist full of dollars by the end of it.
Had I brunched in the Cold War there would have been moments with men in dark rooms sitting around cold metal tables with a sloped-shouldered American offering a whole mouthful of: “You know we’ve got brunch with Sam. So get the fuck out of Korea.”
And I’m fine for that to happen; I don’t like Korean communists anyway; they’re ridiculous and have too many statues.
Don’t forget that life imitates art.
Do you want to be marble?
Of course you do, marble like me baby, but I’ll bet a couple of my own feet that that you aren’t looking to suddenly become granite in any way but metaphorical, are you?
No, because you hate Korean communists too, plus they have a silly march.
Plus your silly march is sillier and you deserve some recognition for that but until North Korea falls you’re going to have to restrict your silly march to your own private corridor.
You see, when you’re having brunch with me you feel the gratitude of fortune to have gone to have endured such a classical education that forbade your jaw from dropping, which is prone to happening when you see what I’m about to do with the oatmeal on my foot.
I’m cheeky with the oatmeal, but I use the syrup as though I was bred for it.
You can smell the discipline I emit; albeit tinged by the syrup jug’s wafts.
No good thing is tinged; I expect it’s the connotations of sounding like minge. And that’s a vagina.
And vaginas (at their worst) are the pits; literally.
And penises (at their best) are the tits; metaphorically.
And tits are neither; technically.
All go well when impacting on the brunch counter. All body parts are welcome here; except kangaroos (“fucking up my brunch-bar as though they don’t even know what it’s for! That’s not how you hop on a breakfast bar!”)
If you haven’t been able to deduce to this point by now, I am dunking my body parts in the brunch and, in many ways (many happy, noble ways), am dunking brunch in my body parts.
And here’s why.
Breakfast is stifling – I dislike necessity, particularly regarding phrases such as “well-balanced” and “cornerstone”. Those terms should leave me alone otherwise I might retaliate; somehow. I prefer to be dominant regarding my tummy.
Lunch is redundant; you should be busier.
I pride myself on being too hectic for a sandwich.
Too noteworthy for salad.
Too inevitably going up and down in history as a sweetheart with a tendency to be photographed in chrome for liver.
That word should mean more than just…liver.
It should be a base note of humanity; “all that remained was…liver”.
And dinner is disappointing.
If you didn’t find it on the end of that stick you jabbed and bobbed and weaved and threw with; you missed the point entirely (unlike the unfortunate creature impaled. Luckily it was ugly so you gave no fucks) and now we can’t be friends. You disassociated acquaintance you.
At this point I’ve moved on to the meatier part of the meal because I’m too liberal for your typical 09:00-11:30 eating habits.
My eating habits are as though someone attached (inhumanely; because this is just a metaphor and I just feel it exclaims the point better) the engine of a formula 1 racing car to a headless cockerel.
Messy and pointless; but things are happening pleasingly fast, albeit without much progress.
I move on to the meat because I grew bored with oatmeal on my foot, though you should know by now I’m not done with it yet.
Because I’m an oatmeal kicker and I’ll be back for more.
All this while you’re sitting in your seat, much as a seat-sitter would. Not that I sit on seats. You see, seats are what I raise my oatmeal-lathered foot onto so I can rest my arms on my knee and look deep into your arrested and near-wet eyes and explain something to you.
Explaining something like why I’ve got to do what I’m about to do with the waffles.
And from that point forward you are (not hit with, since there’s nothing violent here; only inspiration physical and sweaty – meaning therefore you are…) fucked with the realisation that my current waffle-motif adorning the bosoms and hairdos of all other customers in the three-table radius is for you.
Still messy and pleasingly fast, but no longer pointless and now we’re getting somewhere.
I’m just making you realise how brunch with me can be; just enjoy the unforgettable nature of whatever the fuck is happening right now (you have a pepper in your hair by the way…).
I lean forward to caress it out and the, pardon me, you are overwhelmed by my very own ridiculous masculinity.
You probably took note of my plumage.
My chest hair is like a field of muscular black wheat in a summer’s heat. Far away.
That’s why I tend to be compared to a swan more than any other animal (e.g. a human).
There are three main reasons for this.
- Plumage. Of the two, it’s been said I’m more regal on the externally.
- I can break a man’s arm just by swimming. Proximity irrelevant.
- In many ways now…I am the Queen’s.
My word, I am a marvel at catching women as they swoon.
I’m very last moment too, as I always manage to be granted an audible gasp by those slow and still sitting men (Ha!) surrounding us who have plucked up the courage to watch you descend and wish you all the best as you do so.
My technique is that as you swoon, I swoop. Like the cool coconutty power of a Hawaiian wave, only with the muscular arms of a ballet dancer.
I exercise only by lifting women and kicking doors down. That…and feeding the people between 09:00-11:00. Within a three-table radius.
Brunch with me is bliss to be endured.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
I Think I Could Fuck Up A Wolf; Should It Come To That.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
I’ve dwelt upon this, particularly since I’m a species-ist and there is a resentful degree of contempt in my heart and head and sandals for other species.
Fur and feathers – I permit.
Some of the feathery ones talk back and I like their gumption; whatever that is.
And then there’s giraffes – I couldn’t fuck up a giraffe.
Out of sympathy.
I’d ride them.
I’d ride them out of sympathy.
And they’d permit me to ride them because I’d work out how they like to have their knees massaged and win them over.
They may remain.
Fish and other ocean or water-way dwellers; they need to stay the fuck away from me.
Because I am most certainly the sort of fellow to point at them and bellow “No”.
I’ll just stick my finger, like a knuckled wand, into the water and give them the gist of me.
I’ve got a lot to say about what obscenities live beneath the surface (some of them don’t even breathe air – try to show me up will ya?!) as I have an issue with things that are too wet.
I feel wetness should be an unexpected treat to come home to involving champagne liberated from the Nazis, or a hell of a way to go to work and give your inspiring and innovative speech to the board.
I’d hate to be on a board; I’m not good at sharing tables owing to my need to swing my heavy-heavy boots upon them as I lean back in my tilted chair and astound my other board members for no other reason than that I want them to back off somewhat and let me swing my heavy-heavy boots around. All this…whilst wet.
My boots are weighty. It builds up the shins – and that’s the mark of me.
You can tell if I did the deed for you’ll find the scene of the crime heavily shinned.
Ain’t nobody got shins like Sam.
However, even I can go off topic at times.
Because I’m whimsical.
And I’m whimsical because I’m the greatest human to ever live and I can take the time to relax about my intentions in a conversation like this (I’m presuming you’re all nodding along and every now letting loose a “Hmm” of approval or…is it…admiration?). Women admire my whimsy.
My whimsy’s better than yours. Because I whim it.
And that’s why I did it, that wandering off-topic thing, again.
I’m so good at meandering away; I can even meander away from talking about meandering away.
You try it.
Still, there is still the issue at hand.
That I think I could fuck up a wolf; should I whim it.
I have never in all my months of living been nearly attacked by so many dogs as the past 30 days have offered me.
The month of July just generally snarled at me; from day to day.
A lot of slobber; another unpleasant wetness is slobber being held most dangly in the worst of erogenous zones.
And I made it to August with a whole new opinion intact; I could fuck up a wolf.
Let’s look at the basic physiology of a wolf.
The key to its success in a fight against the man mountain that is me is its agile mouth.
The wolf, let’s call it ‘Diana’, has acrobatic jaws.
But so do I, Diana.
And I do bite.
I’d bite Diana the wolf right in the choppers.
And then there’s the rest of me.
Just take a slow and casual glance over my right hand and peek away, I don’t mind, at my pianist’s finger that branches from it.
Every single finger there is an advantage I hold over Diana and I will apply them most verily.
If I were to ram, and I do mean ram in the same way a pianist wouldn’t, my index finger straight and true up one of her nostrils; what would Diana do about it?
I ask because I’m going to do some presuming now and what I feel like presuming today is that Diana would whimper and try to depart from my index finger.
Let it be.
I would just let it be.
Diana is probably the lone-mother of the pack or some other responsibility, plus I’m humane.
I’m so humane I run with horses, so long as they can keep up and wouldn’t get embarrassed by my floppy-semi brought about by the excitement of running and my bountiful strides. That’s right – my strides are bountiful. I don’t know why; I just enjoy striding with an excited semi.
I’m so humane I’d put a ladybird on the windowsill rather than just exhaling it out the window and pausing to see if I can hear it land. I’ve seen too many good ladybirds land in my time.
And…if Diana the wolf wanted to flee from the index finger I currently have penetrating her snout as though I’m pointing with sincere curiosity at something in her sinus then…I would let it be.
Because she’s a good girl and a fine mother; probably trying simply to protect her cubs, who I would have raised myself and taught them how to become the kings I always knew they were if she were to pass away owing to my finger.
There’s also the fact that I could also pull her tail.
A tail is, with as much relevance as I can perceive for the situation in hand, a third of the spine which I can help myself to and give a good tug.
That’s a spine.
Fancy having your spine tugged like I’m trying to win something here?
I want to win your spine and your respect, Diana, so whimper now before I’m holding one of each in either hand.
You’re such a good girl Diana, and you’re a wonderful mother but…I’ve got to stand by my principles.
And my principle here is that wolves are scary and I this was my first instinct.
And that’s noble.
It’s okay; I’m being noble.
I have a crest.
It’s a wolf with a finger up its nose.
And then my large grin beneath it, showing all my teeth (slightly wonky because I’m well-travelled and I bite a lot of things), with my brow above it.
My brow will be frowning slightly because I’m working hard and I’m dealing with it, head looking down, eyes looking up as though I’m saying: “Seriously world? Seriously?”.
My brow is prominent in a way that if not slightly further forward than the rest of my person, it does at least receive compliments at a steady rate.
At least, it would if I didn’t pre-empt a fellow’s compliment with my classic: “Thank you!” and then: “But your bone structure will get there too; just do more things with milk, my dear old friend.”
Oh…there will be archaeologists.
And they will in some distant and lush green field begin to dig, eventually unearthing and taking care not to shovel my remains.
They shall lift my skull from its by-now ancient grave and stand and stare in honest astonishment at my inspiring-brow.
And they will compliment it.
But where in the timeline of humankind’s evolution does this remarkable figure belong? And then they will get it.
This must have been from a fairy tale.
Because…yeah…I’ve got damsels to spare and they’re all nicely in peril and ready for my brow.
And then I shall decide to leap the moat to delete the vile Wolf-Queen Diana from my newly acquired castle, complete with a unfortunately narrow-nostrilled fiend and beautiful damsel of high-birth.
Next time…I’ll show you how to do all of this, particularly the high-birth part.
Also, I recall saying this article would be about romance and my smile, but that’ll do for next time too.
And that’s a fine thing indeed.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Some say that “these days” (urgh) teenagers are a waste of life- a blotch of folk in the human tapestry- a clumsily-bred generation that do not know how to work hard and are satisfied with sitting-down as a pastime.
I can’t disagree, the only difference between myself and the elderly complainers here being that I’m not confused by new things.
In previous generations, the dead language of Latin was forced onto the young minds of school children who were to listen, repeat and bloody-well learn it if they didn’t want to receive the birch to the palm or buttocks. I feel…I’d have to choose the buttocks.
I suggest that the lack of option in having to endure this unpleasant practise of useless Latin, with no reason other than the fact that it built character, may have actually…built character. I’m not about the suggest that the benefits of Latin were the architects here, but rather the fact that no option but to proceed with the boring and inapplicable did.
Whether there is a decline in constitution over the past few decades or not, I recommend that those amongst us with the necessary true grit with which to achieve a little personal ambition…do it.
It must be easier whilst the competition is watching a dog do what it’s told. Think of it as reacting before the rest of the population was clever; their choice being not only one of lack-luster experience, but also favourable stupidity in the view of those looking to achieve.
As long as reality television exists; intelligent folk with be paid more than their dull neighbour.
I have found some personal reasons for living that I am particularly fond of. I am, however, unfortunately tragic in my outgoings owing to repeated attacks of that well-known opponent to progress (yet loving ally to sofas) known as procrastination.
Now whilst I might, should such a furry-occasion arise, be able shrug-off a tiger bite to the ready-to-shrug shoulder, it does not mean that I’m going to have the personal fortitude to keep retrieving that anti-tiger spray from my bundle as long as I can find something slightly less productive to do. Like brushing my hair. Or having a good hard think. Or watching that tiger get fascinatingly near.
Perhaps this is owing to my upbringing. I was only hit once, in a vicious attack by my father with a rolled-up copy of The Radio Times, which really did not hurt but the message was well conveyed. As it turns out, he wanted me to stop talking. The fact that he was wearing a kimono at the time made the incident doubly amusing, if only with a decade of hindsight to aid my guffaws. My parents were and still are liberals in kimonos. They’re why I wear jumpers and they’re why I know who Desmond Morris is.
I have wanted to find something to do that is hard, like the old days of hard Latin- for the sake of doing something monotonous and tough, mostly pointless, save for the strength gained from regularly doing something un-enjoyed.
So, I began to carry a pumpkin around with me. It’s fairly weighty, is a great conversation starter, can be applied to various situations (footstool, medicine ball and a humorous fake-head) and makes me stand out. And it has its restrictions; being that I have to place it done carefully before I vault whatever I seek to vault (I’m one of nature’s vaulters).
In the vein of making a difference, I think I’ve found a tactic for tackling obesity (a term I love if imagined to be happening physically. Picture those Greys on the television speaking with grandfather-clock sternness about the need to “tackle obesity” as though they have an urgent urge to knock the tubby to the ground and proceed to mount).
As a personal and, perhaps therefore, short-lived campaign to integrate my own idiosyncrasies with the sheer suggestion that I’ve had a tough-time at some point, I went about carrying a pumpkin with me whenever I went hither. And sometimes thither. Usually both.
‘Usually both’ was the point of it in entirety, as by injection some discipline into my life (via such means as a powerful wife that would offer me and my pumpkin no quarter to be left sitting, as well as colleagues at my place of work who are undoubtedly ‘wifey’ according to many pros and cons) might accomplish something a little further than my list up-till-now. Till now, the best of me had been realising that there’s no shame in scratching yourself with what you’re eating.
Two days back and forth I made the experiment last, with a somewhat weary arm and a multitude of gazes in the street, before I finally lay her down (leave me with an object for long enough and I’ll give it an appropriate gender for my ambitions) upon the 7th stair down of the flight in my house.
Then, the weekend began, and I somewhat ended. Responsibility and procrastination likely grin to one another, as one departs via the window and the other slams it behind them on entry. The pumpkin was ignored for the following two days, whilst I slept and ate- at times enjoying becoming confused. Then push-ups. Followed by more confusion. Pleasant.
The little black hole, which I had two days earlier considered something like a beauty-spot for her, had not merely ‘widened’ but… ‘gapened’, and this was sad. The pumpkin had wept.
This was saddening because by the evening of the Sunday, as I made my way downstairs to shine my shoes (I’m a good boy)- I could smell pumpkin in a way that I never had, nor had ever yearned to, before.
Fishy…to the point of anger.
The black-hole beauty spot, some form of puncture I was neglectfully ignorant of and likely responsible for, had leaked and streamed down her side and down, down, down the stairs of my home.
Fishy is a smell pleasant only when realising your nose finally works once again, after all these years. My nose had been operating well within its regular confines of appropriate sniffing, and so the fishy smell was both unwelcome and overly-pungent.
Of course, this was not actual fish- rather the stench of a penetrated vegetable rotting on the stairs.
As I said earlier: “Fishy to the point of anger”…and so I took it out the back of my house and taught her a damn good lesson.
With all my might, which is considerable when versus a pumpkin, I threw her (who was hurriedly returned to ‘it’) against the brick wall with a squelched thud so satisfying that I was tempted to purchase another pumpkin.
And here, sublimely, I was reminded of my childhood. A bag of shabby old golf clubs and a bushel of broad green apples.
The squelchy thud brought it all back.
My father, brother and I (and more lately my friends and lovers) have, with three-wood, baseball bat and at least 1 sword, brought a distinct lack of mercy to various fresh and rotting fruit over the past 17 years.
There is an excitement in the splash and spray of the fruit, as well as a taste to the debris which can delight or repulse you, good sportsmen or not.
The weapon becomes sticky, as do your hair, glasses and more-proximate friends. For a while, you are all flavoured. My preference is apple. Or pineapple.
Plus it spreads seeds in a natural, if irregular, way. My natural, if irregular, way.
Good exercise too, and- as again previously stated: the exhilaration is tremendous to the point of this…
You don’t want a cake.
Now then, now then, now then…here we are in a position where you are pumping your heart, your are eating a literal spray of fruit (albeit of varying freshness) and…you have the idea of burgers by far removed as a thing to eat as it has been violently usurped by being ‘a thing to do’.
So my suggestion is this:
- Take your cuisine-vice and then make your way to either a field or some disused location.
- Along with this bring a bat of some form- I recommend baseball.
- A music player of any kind, for this shall make it all the more jolly, though you may find yourself jolly enough.
- Be it pie, burger or chocolate cake, toss it high into the area, whilst your brethren stand back, and SMACK THE SHIT OUT OF IT WITH A BASEBALL BAT.
- Retrieve your breath. Remove remnants from your hair. Ensure your friends are coping with this well.
- Do it again.
- Enjoy the sensation of your heart in full motion and of cake, the now repugnant luxury of wasters, being far from your mind, mouth, stomach and baseball bat.
What you have there is a free tactic to override the enjoyment of eating unhealthy foods with the ludicrously good-feeling of beating it to smithereens.
With your friends and family it is a tremendous movement and celebration of not-eating-food together. You’ll think to yourself: “Damn I’m hungry, but it’s going to be so good when I go whackamamy with the chocolate pie! Gosh! Just gosh!”
And my conclusion is therefore that by the tough-time of carrying a punctured pumpkin to the point of it weeping juice upon my stairs, the vengeance distributed against a wall, and a memory recalled from a distant creative childhood…I have detailed an extraordinary exercise and weight-loss programme that is free for all.
There, is how to use a pumpkin instead of Latin.