I thought you’d be asking me this at some point.
I like that.
It’s not so much that I enjoy being asked questions; rather more that I cannot help myself answering…things.
Mother Nature’s Champion on the field of sporting combat. That’s quite a compliment to pay to myself. Thanks.
Of course, your questions will revolve around football because it’s distinctly not deadly; whilst my expertise are the precise means of dismounting a foe upon horseback.
Who doesn’t joust; I mean really?
And my trick is simple.
Ride underneath the horse.
A good sturdy knot and a love for the risk of being kneed by your steed; that’s all you need to succeed in jousting.
Plus a slingshot, shiny pebble and as much hand-eye coordination as is required to clap.
Why a slingshot? Christians love it.
It’s good to please the ecclesiastical market; and they love themselves a hero with a slingshot, particularly if they’re diminutive and diminutive is a natural state of a good fellow saddled beneath a horsey.
By the way, horsey is the correct term for your mount. It shows your childish-side and this is key in fooling your opponent into thinking they’re lancing a child strapped to the belly of a steed whilst they bellow “Faster horsey! Faster!”
And then they find themselves slingshotted directly in the heart by a damn fine actor beneath a horse; plus an exquisite choice in pebble.
As I said, Christians love a slingshot-hero. The villains tend to go about their dastardly deeds with a hammer and nails (typically 3).
Oh, you want football?
Breathe these next few sentences in; why don’t’cha.
To begin with; boots are for pussies.
Barefoot your way to victory.
Take no prisoners but do take their boots (because you’re a helpful chappie).
Next up comes some actual tactics.
Don’t do it.
Do this far more regularly that shooting.
Don’t do it. This could be valuable time spent scoring.
How to score…
Real men of manliness don’t casually tuck the ball in the net, with a whooping and looping curvy bastard to delicately arrive like a really rather helpful and hopeless fish into a fisherman’s net.
Instead, please, break the net’s heart with nothing deceptive.
A ball that moves in the air is dishonest; and that’ll never do.
A real man’s kick is like a cannon.
Not a cannon that fires cannon balls, but rather more like a cannon rocketing through the air, causing defenders to scatter and wish that one day they might grow up to become a cannon kicked by me.
Also a real man doesn’t run; he chases.
And he doesn’t chase balls either.
Balls, though full of breath, neither breathe or bleed.
I require both of these facets in order to justify a chase.
Besides; we’re in no position to be in any position but a Goalkeeper.
The Goalkeeper should allow the opposing team to approach as near as they like and then, once a shot is shot (a shot being all it’ll amount to), he shall simply swipe away the ball with casual reproach, uttering extremely quietly to himself (and the ball): “No.”
That’s how I’d play football if I weren’t so occupied dismounting baddies from their horsies.
I always take their boots.
That’s how you play football; by taking the spoils.
You know you all desire the plunder.
So go get it; with superior kicks.
Keep up the sports guys and girls; it’s good for the success story.
Like me; because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
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.
You should have kept your smile.
Because smiling works.
Or else have yourself a prized grimace that denotes to all around you that you’ve completed harder word-searches than them, and they don’t stand a chance.
How you conduct your facial features as you mingle amongst the rest of the species can be the determiner of your destiny.
Being the greatest human to ever live, I smile.
Why shouldn’t I?
My smile is arresting and my grin is criminal.
My laugh is disarming. I buckle out a “ha-ha” as though it were a mix of Muttley’s wheeze and a Welsh choral singer’s bellow.
And it’s also very at you.
‘You’ being everyone in the vicinity.
People hear my laugh and they whip around as though there’s an avalanche of tumbling Santa Clauses’ ho-ho-ing its way towards them, only to see me enjoying a joke I just told.
However, laughing is also a highly pleasurable way of winning an argument.
It’s a matter of insistence.
Such as the time you might invade a UKIP event and ha-ha your way through the diatribe of people desperate to prove they’re not racist. If you were a racist; which party would you vote for?
I’m not a racist, but if I were; I’d vote UKIP.
But there’s one thing more that I find intolerable of UKIP, and naturally it would be me to see this for what it is.
Nigel Farage has stolen the colour purple from us.
Once, purple was a rarity in the urban world. Whereas in some aspects of nature there would be a slash of purple here and there, in the cities there was almost none, aside from the investments made by the wealthy who could afford dye.
Investing in purple.
I’d like to invest in purple, but it seems hard to do that without funding UKIP and I’m just not racist enough for that (although I am slightly racist….I hate Eskimos. Fuck ‘em. What did they ever do for me?).
If my smile, such as what crops up when I’m sure Eskimos aren’t nearby, had a colour then I’d presume it to be purple, but it’s not. It’s a tender yet rugged shade of ‘Handsome’.
The colour ‘Handsome’ is like chocolate, only more muscular. With totally manly nipples. Slightly abnormal, but still more manly than your father and that’s why you’re with me babe. Superior nipples and I’m handsome with a slight anti-Eskimo twist.
Plus I’m the greatest human to ever live.
My smile is like a flower that can bear-hug you so hard that you enjoy the cuddle it becomes.
My smile can, and I’m not sure exactly how (it’s natural science – I don’t need to know. Birds don’t know how they soar and a tumble weed doesn’t know how it tumbles. Just let it be), but my smile can make you fuck off. Just a little of a turn to the left, I think, tilting upwards slightly, let loose a smile and boom; you’ve fucked off.
I would undoubtedly announce on, perhaps, some sort of blogging website that the lower half of my head is the preferential half for when you fancy a conversation.
Whilst my brow is flexible and communicative; it’s easier to have a chat with the lower half of my head.
And other things besides…
I really enjoy cunnilingus. Not enjoying the act perpetrated unto myself as I really don’t have enough vaginas for that (not even one) but I love dolling it out beneath the skirt of the other half of the species.
Why? Because I like being good at something that other guys aren’t.
Laughing and cunnilingus go hand in hand in terms of a mutual act. Lip to lip.
The clitoris is substantially tingled by the vibrations of a giggling.
Perhaps not side-splitting, but certainly split-siding.
That’s a vaginal joke, that’s why you get it.
And that was an insult-joke and I’m sorry about that.
And that wasn’t a joke. There’s nothing wrong with vaginas and there’s nothing wrong with me being sorry about that.
Damn, I’m a fine writer.
So I’ve got some writing chops, the things I can do with a pen and a keyboard would tickle you beyond the hacky constraints of a weak-wristed journeyman with a quill. And inky fingers.
You can’t have that done to you by a writer with inky fingers. Everyone’d know you’d been tickled.
I can make you tingle with a space bar and you don’t even want to be enlightened as to my history with other people and the insert key.
We got along.
I recall they enjoyed what I had; especially my musk.
Yes. I’ve got a musk.
You should see it. Because you can. It’s purple.
You can see it emanating from me as the sun goes down – like the Northern Lights; only tougher. Tougher in the same way that you can see a bull’s balls. Not an advantage overly; unless you wilt at that sort of thing. But wilting is something I hope for my enemies, particularly in public.
So – to the point – I smell like an overly-purple Northern Lights with testicles on the outside.
My laugh, however, that’s not a thing to be given a name. Just let it be.
My laugh isn’t to be controlled as it is a wild thing let loose only by me, baby. The potency of my laugh can make you swoon in the same manner that my musk’s balls can make you wilt.
That’s how I know you’re enjoying it.
But I’ve got to stay in check with my physical appearance, even I can’t rely solely on musk, smiles, laughter and an incredible lower-face.
So I had a wet shave in a Turkish barbers.
I sat in the chair and awaited the compliments about how their nuclear-age razor equipment wasn’t up to the job of slicing my bristles. My mane. My organic chin-duvet.
I waited, and then they wrapped a towel doused in boiling water over my entire head with just enough gap to allow my nose to poke out.
“Damn” I thought, “I’ve got a cold nose”.
I like things a’boiling.
Once shaved I discovered I had a dimple in my chin. “Tremendous” thought I, “Now everyone will be able to know I’m an All-American Good Guy type. From Kent. England.
Now I can go into space, chin-dimple first.
You guy’s realise we’re in space?
I feel a need to acquire some sort of ticket. I’m set though, I own an acre of the moon. And I am going to plough it, along with my space alien girlfriend.
My Earthly semen cures her space-libido. Always momentarily.
And I only ejaculate when directed by my government.
I think there’s only one more thing I want you to know…
I only masturbate when I have to.
Maybe I’m straying into topics meant for next time on Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
So I’ll leave it at this; throughout all the above, amidst the true and the exaggerated (somewhat)…I smiled.
The endorphins were released and I was happy.
And that was because I kept my smile, and I recommend you unleash yours.
Unto others and for yourself; smile.
And I should know.
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.
A Superior Ego and Excellent Posture.
I want to start with my ego.
It’s better than yours.
Your ego gives you just about enough presence of thought to enable you to become really skilled at watching YouTube videos, with a distinct knowledge of how to increase your arse breadth.
Whereas myself (Who? Me?); I’ve been working on my ego.
My ego has brought me to a point in my life in which I feel comfortable enough to say that I am the greatest human to ever live. And that took some effort to say. Not that you need to congratulate me since I’ll just be assuming you are anyway (I assume the clamour of my glamour).
I like to enter rooms.
And sometimes, once inside, I’ll just wait for the applause to wash over me like a shower of appreciative spit. Warm and running down to dampen my socks, that’s how I like my applause.
And although I may be waiting for what might never come, it is the being prepared to wait that matters. And enjoying waiters manoeuvre around me as I bow with arms outstretched.
When I get to the bank, I hand over a pound and whisper loud enough for the camera to hear: “Don’t mention it. Get yourself something nice. I want you to look good for me” to the teller.
It doesn’t matter if they’re male or otherwise; my ego’s too flawless to consider people beyond their haircuts.
Their genitals; that’s their business. Their genitals may remain in the bank, for I will purely take note of the hair-doo and wardrobe.
Their attire, depending on the mood of the moment; that might well become mine.
And the same goes for their lunch.
I don’t need to pay you for your lunch; I gave a pound to the bank.
That’s my economy.
It’ll work its way back to you if that pound hasn’t already become enshrined with a very bamboo-themed décor.
By the way, I’m not suggesting you’d want compensation because I stole your lunch – I wouldn’t steal your lunch; I’d accept it as an offering, like a lamb to the slaughter only I want the wool for a bedsheet too.
Also, I wouldn’t steal a lunch. I’d steal banquet. Because I know how to handle a sack of swag and I’m sure I could fill it and manoeuvre it as though it were a bag o’ feathers as opposed to a sack o’ peacock gooches.
I’d could go on about my ego, but it’s too broad a topic for me focus my whole attention span onto for more than a couple of minutes, so I’ll just finalise the ego-section by declaring how appropriate my face would be to adorn currency.
People would get into debates and haggles when one will then mention: “Well I have Sam’s face” and the other will have my face too and they shall both agree they have encountered a glorious impasse and surely they must retire to an early bed.
Because my face is like looking at the sun for too long.
It can fuck up your reading.
I’d apologise…but I am not going to apologise.
Who’d want to read when the option of staring at my visage is still entirely viable? Even following those minutes you spent improving your vocabulary, wasting of your time when you could have been learning a thing far greater from my face alone; that there is no God.
There is no God. Here I am.
I am not God. There you are.
So let’s move onto posture shall we?
I’m followed by an audience of my posture like a Pide Piper of Hamlin because my posture is mightily followable.
Can I see over that tall hedge to gaze at the predators coming our way (not that I’m worried. For me, predators are a food-group and that’s why I’m laughing when I see them. Not that you’d know)? No. But the hedge were slightly shorter than myself – I’d be able to see right over it owing to my miraculous height. And why am I this tall? Because of my posture, baby.
Tailors crave me, and I let them crave me. They want me and my posture for their craft and I deny them because it’s too amusing to be pursued by a tailor.
They’re as flappy and as floppy as you’d expect.
And so am I; here’s why.
I was once told by a good friend of mine that there is nothing wrong with taking yourself too seriously.
So every other day when I feel the need to bump myself right in the confidence I take myself too seriously so as to remind myself that my ego’s better than yours and how my posture is worth shouting about.
When I say “shout” – I do mean literally.
I do everything literally.
I take the bull by the horns because I want to take the bull and the horns were right there, being horny and graspable…like me.
I find myself getting grasped perpetually in the park, mainly getting grasped in the posture.
It’s awesome; posture affirming.
Did wonders for my ego and I didn’t even need it.
I’m am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Next time on I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live: Romance and my smile.
Oh my! I’ll see you then.
(P.S. Am I going to proofread this? No! I save proofreading for articles less perfect).
I’m a man.
So, you want to learn how to be a tough guy like me? Sure I’m a tough guy – you can tell by the way I’m not immediately contradicted on that statement.
Well, to begin with…violence, oh dear me, violence.
Violence is like a flower…which you do to people…or have happen to you…with a flower.
It got less flowery as I thought about it, yet still the point remains; violence.
Imagine a fist blossoming onto you. There’s the floweriness, and other than that you really just have to feel it before you start cramming similes all hither and thither.
Ultimately, avoid the sweet fuck out of violence seeing as how you never know what someone might be carrying.
Like a cat. And heavens help you if the guy’s got enough room to swing it.
Let just get stuck in with the violent advice.
See what you have to do, it’s all in the walk.
You just walk straight up to him. And then as through him as you can. Just keep going, foot first into his face first and see if you can cross the line of a fair fight together.
If wearing one, shoe his features – though one may wish to go all apey at the prospect of acquiring all the females or make for certain these several square feet of territory are undoubtedly yours, in which case go shoeless.
It’s about footwork so make your foot work. For the other fellow, it’s all about facework, and he’s doing wonderfully at it, if somewhat defensively.
Footwork. Stride into their face at an amusing angle people will talk about when their old and whilst the guy with a size 11 sole print along the centre of his face sits, purposefully hooded because of his rebirth mark (baptised by eloquent thuggery of foot), and stirs his drink, bitter, because you walked into his face and you were the good guy.
Not only did he deserve to have his face thoroughly footed, but you deserved to be the one to kick that face and dance about it afterwards. That day should be celebrated annually. The day that face first and best foot first came together, like a romance of non-genital body parts.
That’s another vital point…
Assume a Moral Victory
Make losing a fight work for you…stand up for the little guy, or at least prior to your imminent collision with a flurry of fists, and scream aloud: “DAMMIT MICHAEL THEY WERE ONLY PYGMIES!”
This way the people local to your punch-up will overhear your monologue and either leap to your aid or speak well of you afterwards. Possibly also during (“See that bruised guy over there? The guy with the bouncy head? He’s great…stands up for pygmies…real trooper.”)
In the same vein, don’t hit a woman, unless you need to hit a woman, in which case be sure others witnessed how psychopathic she was conducting herself prior to you launching a new means of distancing yourself from someone so intimately (punch her in the nose publicly).
Also, don’t pull her hair. Instead, it’s likely best to flee, which is a surprisingly hilarious manner of departing from the threat of annihilation (I’ll get into this momentarily) and other than that – phone the police, an ambulance and the regional mental healthcare services because when they find out you’re the one who fled in fear of the other’s sheer force of personality; you’re safe as houses.
A ‘Fair Fight’
What many people don’t realise is that a ‘fair fight’ refers to how attractive a fight is. Similar to the archetypal manner of referring to damsels or princesses – she was fair and meek, just as a good woman isn’t.
Now obviously you’re not going to carry a weapon because that route leads to jail and a heartbroken mother, but you sure can carry a distraction.
Back to the cat…(this is why I warned you).
Lob the cat into the midst of a group of people making you feel uncomfortable and you shall see how comfortableness may be yours once more. Wear that cat well. Make ‘em dance.
And whilst the cat preys upon the shins, ankles and footwear of your numerous opponents, you can finish your novel because time is suddenly oh so splendidly upon your side once more. Plus, you have a back-up cat anyway, ready for flinging.
In case any animal rights activists are reading this; don’t worry. Just don’t worry. There we go.
Also, I don’t know or care where you keep your vial of dust, but at least carry one, perhaps in an attaché so you can interrupt your battle most pitch and say “Whoah there Honey, let me just get what I got”, bite out the cork and spit it out to the side (or as I prefer to denote my masculine diet; swallow it), pour some of that dust into your hand and apply liberally about his nostrils, eyes and airways like a hippy would if he realised he was grasping a handful of real seeds…or believable contraceptives.
It’s not foul play, because we were nice guys before that, but then we had that unpleasant collision of body parts and now we’ve involved dust.
Also, don’t suggest your opponent “Bite the dust” as that really seems like a lively thing to do. The sort of thing you do when you’re young, hungry and about to prove that you will actually bite dust for some reason.
The aside benefit of dust over sand (which is technically sea shells — which is ALMOST a necklace — which is ALMOST a nice present and you’re meant to be cunning…not considerate of their likely having a sour day starting with breakfast being shat on by the neighbour who really hates toast and him having it so you present him with a delicate gift) is that it is made up of skin.
Which comes from people.
Which means that what you’re holding in your hand there is in reality approximately 1000 large apey things called people, and they’re on your side and in your palm and soon about to be considerately delivered jazz hands-wise to the parts of him that most often require tissues (eyes or dick-hole; you don’t want a dusty dick-hole to the degree that I don’t know why – just don’t have a dusty dick-hole.).
Apart from the end of his bell, which you must try to work around seeing as how that area is essentially only for when things get personal and so far, oh brother, you have no idea how formally I’m carrying myself in this duel to the death. I say “duel to the death”, maybe just till mild fatigue…or distraction…or somehow falling in love, in which case we are now on personal grounds and therefore- get dick busy partner, because I’ve got a vial and now it time to apply liberally all over my now-sexual opponent.
Once applied, step in for a little skull percussion.
Step in, move suddenly and in a way people will remember but not talk about again because it’s traumatic, and then…break his heart. You brute.
I always say one should have a phrase (https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/04/23/nice-guy-with-a-nuke/) and times such as this, when tempers are heated, passions are high and fists are fisting (negative or positive – choice is yours depending on your thoughts at the time of fisting. Be sure to let me know), are identical to all others aside from now; we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.
Here’s a cracker (whilst peering over their shoulder and with an expression of “I’m genuinely looking at something which you should too!”):
“Well in my rude opinion…Is? Is that baby eating heroin?”
He turns to take part in the glancing at the baby eating heroin, in which case you be the bigger man and find a smaller one impress yourself upon (I recommend by fleeing from him too. Remember; “we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.”).
Also, embrace the fellow for the panic-stricken, hurting deep-down, trying-to-be-masculine-in-public, oh-I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-it’s-making-me-change-colour, kind-of-a bloke his is right then and there.
Cuddle the cunt.
Now I’m not, as it turns out, much of a noted technician of any form of wrestling or Brazilian Ju Jitsu, but from what I can tell; if you climb your way up him until his limbs have no place to be other than hugging you in return then we’re having a successful evening.
Do Not Let Go.
Laugh About It
Make jokes constantly.
Don’t let up with the zingers.
The only thing you need derive humour from is his attempts at starting a fight. Mock his punches and wittily critique his tough guy stare. That will ruin his night more than any swift kick to the knackery-noos.
Especially if you’re getting beaten.
If you have your face in another man’s hands and he’s grinding against something displeasing to you, mock his efforts disdainfully and the fight is over. Your bleeding might not be, but the battle is.
Plus everyone loves a comedian, particularly one with such a rough crowd as the one literally beating the shit out of him.
Be a Lover, Not a Fighter
Be the gentleman.
Be the poet.
Be the victor.
When the moment of violence is imminent, remind all in the vicinity that you are a lover, not a fighter…and so proceed to do your utmost to become romantically engaged with this man as completely and committedly as one should be in these situations. Kiss him.
Kiss him, only when he is attacking you and later claim you misread the conflicting signals he was giving off and you were only trying to help him out.
No mercy; buy him a drink and offer him your twinkling eyes, you hapless romantic you.
DO NOT BE THE RECIEVER OF LOVE from the man, but certainly the dominate the romantic back and forth you’re both currently undergoing.
Once more; only do this if you’re being attacked, otherwise we’re getting rape-based in our tactics and that’s a bad tactic, sir.
Pardon Me If I Conclude
End, no matter in what circumstance or in what state of physical wellbeing, with a phrase.
Have your phrase ready for blowing the walls out of the place and bringing the ceiling down.
What that might be? It’s yours to conclude. I have my own, and it is my own. Get your own, sir.
All violence aside – don’t get into fights and give happiness and curiosity to others and you shall in turn receive likewise.
Therein lies a future promising and a past pleasing.
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,