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

Yep. We will fuck up in a style that denotes how we refuse to see what sits in front of us. A little bit like World War 1.

The difference is, this time it will largely revolve around sugar.

Apologies for the sugar.

I swear that all that diabetes wasn’t my idea- it sort of just happened.

Whoever’s idea it was to keep putting sugar into things- identify yourself!

Yes. Stand up, you owe use a great deal of our own teeth back, and I WILL COLLECT.

I don’t really want to, I’ve never been overly possessive of my teeth or other peoples, but I do love calling in a debt, particularly when it’s a righteous calling.

Most of that sugar could likely have been left where it was. I mean, sugar- there’s nothing quite like it to sprinkle over your- whatever you want to sprinkle it over (perhaps your missus/cereal/foot)- but I feel that for the most part it could have been ignored.

It’s easy if your try- that’s why you get people who are slight. ‘Slight’ the classy variety of skinny.

Only, we’ve been made to remember sugar as though it is an essential aspect of our lives. It goes beyond being considered an aspect of our diet- it is now a component of our social circles.

“Who’s bringing the sugar?” is a phrase rarely heard but fits in nicely owing to the regrettable fact that we all assume that sugar will be bought to our gatherings.

Think of a gathering- any kind- you will find sugar is present in the pockets, handbags and huge gaping holes in the hinds of the teeth of those gathered. Klan rallies will have some sugar beneath the hood, politicians in the throne rooms of dictators will have luxurious access to the famous white grain, and children will see it everywhere.

The access to it, the ubiquitous presence of sugar, is why you may have that feeling that “life is shit- avoid if possible”.

Avoid sugar- it will bring you up and throw you down, in ways that pale in pointless comparison to crystal meth or crack cocaine, but it will ruin your innards and, at the end of the day, what else do you really have? Be proud of you guts- aside from your actions, they sum you up.

Your body has a great deal more sway than you might like to believe.

For example, you don’t want to vomit…but…whatever- it’s happening anyway and it’s up to you to deal with the cold, clammy aftermath with a mop.

“Aftermath with a mop”- the sign of a body having taken charge.

Indulge the body a little more in the direction of what it wants so deeply, not in the direction of slowly dissolving it in sugar.

Sugar makes you dissolve slowly, whilst being fast enough to ruin your smile and remove you liver.

Instead- do a little back scratching.

Back-scratching, where the metaphor works.

It feels great because we should be doing it frequently, whereas actually we are neglecting our body’s physically-social needs.

Scratching our backs (which is actually most of our body- remove it and we’d just be necks bobbling about upon arses) feels tremendous in a sort of “where’ve you been all my life” way, because our body expects it to happen and the scratch is supposed to be by another person.

Your back being scratched by another, from your body’s point-of-view, means social interactions, which means safety in numbers of more than 1, which hopefully means procreation, which finally in turn relates to some kind of meaning- I don’t know what- but that’s irrelevant for now- I’m talking about backs and what they want me to do for them.

What’ll happen if we don’t indulge in a little back scratching? I don’t know that either- maybe it’s already happening. Maybe it’s global warning? Maybe it’s all that sugar we’ve been dissolving ourselves with.

I recommend that you withdraw all wall-hanging backscratchers from your environment and go and get some good sturdy people that won’t abandon you when the flood water rises and you need a rub on the back.

Rather than filling yourself up with that gross grain called ‘sugar’, go and negotiate some community with your neighbours.

I’ve said this before- but doing this will really help you in basically all that you do (aside from being lonely).

If we don’t start to go about these natural instincts with the gusto that they deserve, and instead distract ourselves with the ugly-ugly, then- who knows what will happen next?

I’m not saying that Hitler just needed a pat on the back more often, but…fuck- maybe he did!

Then again, maybe that back of his being caressed (as it just might have been) actually encouraged him to do all that he did.

In which case- perhaps FDR needed his back to be scratched in order to enter WW2 earlier. I’m sure he could have created an industry out of it- Mr New Deal and all.

Either way- if we ignore these healthy natural instincts then we’ll without a doubt start to become a funny shape.

Take the Catholic Church and the repression of sexual instincts in male-exclusive communities.

Evidently it doesn’t work.

You know what I’m struggling to do? Finding another example of natural instincts being withheld, that’s what.

This means two things.

  1. The Catholic Church should stop it… (“STOP IT!”)
  2. In all other areas, we know that not doing what’s natural is bad for us.

So, I think we should all apologise for the what’s going to happen, owing to what we’ve done (or haven’t done) thus far.

Sorry for the sugar kids.

Sorry for not scratching your ancestors backs.

My fault.

(P.S. As for creating an industry to aid natural instincts being fulfilled; as I mentioned earlier with FDR…some of you are going to start thinking about prostitution. Well…if you can pay someone to massage your shoulders with their thumbs, why can’t someone be paid to massage someone’s penis with their vagina? Answer me!

And…obviously don’t get an STD or hit a prostitute as that’s a serious hole in my argument.)

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The End Times…

The End Times are approaching, as always.

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

So, what are the End Times?

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

Really- I think it’s relative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End Times are coming…as always.

Your End Times are coming.

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

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

Sam


Women And Begetting.

Women are women. You might have noticed.

What aspects of these creatures are we all to consider as items of biological personality worth considering?

Things to be enjoyed and things to be remembered- in case they turn and gang up on you. These things follow. They are numerical, so I hope you enjoy that.

1. There is nothing quite like holding, or being held, by a woman. You can set yourself right into that zone of physical emotion that takes over when it comes simply to a pair of thin but unrelenting arms being around you. This can be accomplished by hugging a bloke as well- but as we know, when it comes to physical contact, and especially when it comes to women, females are far more preferable in terms of being appropriately lumpy. Men are inappropriately lumpy- the opinion of many.

Then we have the flavour of females. The sheer smack of hormones from one of those ‘whiffable’ beauties can send you overboard and inside out- both of which are admirable traits in a man thoroughly using a woman he should.

In this same vein we have the flavour of either pair of lips. The upper’s are focused around the sensation of touch (touching all over what you have been brave enough to ask them to) and the appearance. Making a woman do that smiling thing with those upper lips of hers- it makes you imitate with a compulsion that denies you your supposed intelligence and reminds only of the duo facts: that you are barely beyond a childish ape, and you are making this woman.

As for the lower lips- we all know about them. If you don’t- I can only recommend it.

I want to give those lower lips a medal, you would too. And the smell…is tremendous. There is nothing like the flavour of fanny to be promised to you for the end of the day. Penetration is the ultimate reward for a hard day’s work. Get into it and it’s hard to stop thrusting. The flavour is undoubtedly meaty, but there’s not much that can be done about that. If anything- it’s of benefit to the nostrils, the meat being sweet and the presence of that smell so close to your nostrils only suggests that the proximity to your own genitals is favourable.

That feeling…dear sweet heavens above…that feeling. It has been widely noted that the feel of a woman is the inspiration that makes us (being the men of mankind) do anything. You can even name it- anything you can name is something we’re prepared to do.

I like to refer to it as: ‘The Reason’.

It feels like you’re back to the place you’ve been trying to get to since you opened your eyes, and it feels like that in your penis. And it feels like that in your hair. It feels like that in your teeth and your hips. In your finger-tips and your heart and lungs and toes. It feels like…as I’ve said…’The Reason’.

I recommend it.

2. I was once standing directly between two women that were defending their children from one another.

It was stunning- I have never been so impressed. You could see the hormones steaming off of them in the cold air of the day. I felt like I was…just a male, caught in between.

You see, one of the children has slapped the offspring of the other woman on the play equipment at a local park. The mother of she-who-was-slapped made a point of approaching the child so as to scare the shit out of him to ensure this wouldn’t happen again, at which point the mother of the ‘slappee’ intercepted and then the literal finger-pointing began. And the screeching.

Being male, whatever that might mean, I made my way over to intercept, and failed the fuck out of it. I arrived as the screeching was impressive enough to make me go all meek. Both were very ready to kill and die as their instincts kicked in and the power of mildly-loud speech fled too. I think they would’ve been ready to eat each other as well. It seemed natural.

So, to avoid a fight by the mothers in front of their children, I simply stood between them and encouraged them to laugh at the hilarity of the situation. Neither conceded until I was eventually firm (and sweet-Jesus was I firm) and sent one off in the other direction.

As I turned back to the remaining mother, I realised she was pointing at me. With her finger. Screaming. I also realised that my knees were touching.

There is nothing like being told off by a woman. Particularly a mother. Because they know that they can wither you down to the raisin that you are whilst you cower in respect of their grapey-self. What comes next is their reasons for why they’re good at this. They have to be.

3. Women are a people living in constant fear, or at least acknowledgement of, of being ‘socially defeated’ by a male.

You see, men are bigger and stronger than their female counterparts. Their hands are larger, with a denser skeleton, a superb (comparatively) reaction time and a two instincts that are far more intimidating than we men care to consider.

The first instinct of men is to not get beaten down. Therefore, we are somewhat naturally able to beat the good-grief out of most things. We know how to hurt, and we will keep trying until we know how to.

The second instinct is to occupy women. To take them, have them, grip them tightly…to own them in quantity.

These two instinct are frightening. The first instinct scares us all, man fears man, woman fears man. The second instinct is one that men accept as an aspect of their nature, whilst for women- it makes them walk home in the dark quickly, a slight presence of fear being forever there.

Imagine, fellas, that half the species out there was bigger than you, with an obvious instinct to defeat and kill whatever is defeat-able and kill-able. And that you were one of those things that was defeat-able and kill-able, you will really, really appreciate just how rape-able you are. The guys out there that might have had no choice in who or what touched them might understand this.

Women are a people frightened. This needs to be remembered. Particularly when it comes to high-heels.

4. Heels are the female phallus, simply beneath the sole (it’s wordplay. You should know that).

As we know woman are a people tormented, not by the fact that they are small and weak, but rather more because they are smaller and weaker than their counter-parts: mankind.

Second-fiddle is a literal place to be throughout the history of womankind. The physical reasons for this have been discussed, so now we encounter the means for women to deal with this problem.

Largely, this means high-heels. Those extra few inches make a massive difference when you are required to look a man in the eye. We don’t discuss it, but we all know that the few inches difference between two opponents means something. Even when it doesn’t come down to blows, the sociological meaning of those inches is that (if you are taller): “I am the superior- I am the larger”, whereas if you’re…petit: “You are the larger, I am petit. Congrats on your success”.

So, those meaningful inches enable women in boardrooms and staffrooms and in all places of business to look a man in the eye and therefore- be equal. At least in terms of confrontation occurring in the fancy form of conversation.

Not entirely equal (and therefore, I suppose, not technically…equal) but it makes an enormous difference.

I have worked with women my entire life and if you have too then you might not have realised that nigh-on every single woman you encounter is in fact an inch or two shorter than you have happily presumed. Their height is a lie, and you fell for it. You mug.

You had no idea that the average woman is probably actually a great deal smaller than you. She has altered her appearance to change your perception of her, and more importantly, her perception of herself.

Women have crafted this tool for themselves to promote their capabilities in the dialect of eye-contact. By making themselves the same height as men, or at least slightly less short, they have been making themselves a presence physically considered in a different format than previously.

Previously they were considered as legs, bosoms, backsides and lovely long hair.

Now they are considered as something that might tower over you when pissed off- something that is unpleasant to collide with, not just out of manners, but out of the sheer mass being unfavourable to meet at speed.

Height-via-heels makes you think about that. Hair does not. Hair makes you think about one of the things covered in ‘Point 1’…something to grip.

5. Big Hair is just tremendous to have tumbling down a woman’s back, poofed up around her head and neck and tickling the light fixtures of whatever room they’re in. Big Hair. I want to get me some. So do you.

For me, Big Hair is an interesting subject as it is a cross between the high-heeled phallus effect that women use to become physically imposing and the simple suggestion of something so sexy that most men have no option but to achieve erection and have it stay with them for several days. Big Hair- visual viagra.

Women are then, following the sheer sexual power that such body parts and persona have on a man, able to walk away. And so these men, although they might be ‘with-boner’; they are very, very lonely. With a boner.

Making a man lonely with an erection is the greatest power that a woman can have. It is this power than makes a man go to work in the hope that the sensation might leave him and that the pleasure of ‘Point 1’ might arrive- all over him.

This is power far beyond what a fist can do.

This is the power of the species- controlling how we make more of them.

6. Babies seem to have quite a bit of pull in this world.

They seem to have their own power that overcomes all that a man and a woman can offer. Indeed- it is what makes a man and a woman offer all that they can.

But if you fuck with a guy’s car, his collection of albums or his mother- you can be sure that you’ve crossed a line.

You don’t really have this with women. The only example that women have of this, aside from if you try to tackle their man-friend, is if you try to take/eat their children.

Now this obviously this tracks back to ‘Point 2’ but I want to address something else in link with it.

Women…want…children. In the same way that men feel that perpetual need to go about the means of procreation, women feel the need to have a baby. And when they’ve had that baby- they will smell it and be happy.

You, being merely male, are forgotten about- you were only the means, now you are creep that is never going to be good enough for her children, because nothing is going to be good enough for her children. This is a good mother.

As a man, you are like everything else that seemed lusty at the time of sex, and afterwards seems kind of gross. A discarded condom, puddles of semen gone awry in its aim, and little curly hairs. You rank amongst these now and- no- it isn’t fair. That’s possibly why you have that need to move on and go about sexing the women you encounter.

What is my point?

7. The point of this all is that as a man- you are doomed to females and doomed to lack of females.

They are the entire purpose of you being here. Just as there would be no children without parents- there would be no men without women- and indeed vice-versa.

As I said before, women are women and that is fine. There really is little we can do about that and really there is not much that we should do about that.

All you have to remember is that their smell is hypnotising, their gravitas is undeniable, their fury is unmatchable even by the sun, their maternal instinct is final, they are smaller than you think and they are frightened, they might have big hair for you to look forward to, and they feel…just like a woman.

I hate them because I love them so much- fairly much the definition and a great way to end this article.

What all these aspects beget is one of those feelings that seems eternal from this side of the clock. It is some kind of love and some kind of nature molten together into this female character and body which gives us a reason to be here, rather than an excuse.

Women, begetting and what women beget- it’s a heck of a thing to stand and enjoy.

Sam