I brought a large pink ruby donkey home with me from work the other day.
I’m telling you this because it’s looking at me right now.
Rather; it’s not looking at me, more so to the window and away from me. But it has an expression on it’s long, slapped-lobster- coloured-face as if to say: “I swear I wasn’t watching you! But I can if you want…”
This pink donkey’s beginning to have a presence in the house.
I keep finding it in rooms. Nothing creepy, aside from the Mrs (who’s mine by the way– all mine!) transporting him from room to room. And suddenly there he is; causing me to stop stirring my tea and wonderful half in my head, half spoken: “Why the fuck is he in here?”
Salvaged out of the bins of a nursery I work with, I’ve always has an appreciation for solid toys that don’t break easily.
Breaking easily is what I find to be the critical aspect of most things around and about me; prior to them being in pieces.
This large pink donkey however…this thing is Russia-proof.
The sort of toy that is immune to both knives and teasing. It’s probably emitting some noxious gas as I write this; some reliably-1970’s-gonna-get-ya product this.
Too solid rubber to be devastated; too mentally dense an expression on its face to absorb any kind of bullying as anything but pleasant comments about its complexion.
Lucky pink donkey.
I’m far too sensitive, you see; and that hurts to say.
Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from this donkey.
And maybe that’s a depressing fact; that I can learn a thing or two from a donkey.
Or, maybe again, it means I’ve reached a level so high I can only learn from inanimate objects. Sun Tsu, Marx and Shakespeare are all just a tad too easy these days; I need a good sturdy rubber donkey to keep me thinking about my diet.
Well…that was meant to simply be a sentence; and it turns out, upon closer recollection, that this is true.
I haven’t had a walk home like that since I was an obese baby.
Even the weather was improved; to the degree that my memories of it seems as though the golden sunlight was added later, but no – it was that glorious.
Smiles and laughter everywhere; with plenty of pointing – the good kind.
The good kind of pointing is polite, and you can tell how it is not just by the facial expression behind, but also because I reckon that finger’s a little floppy.
What would you rather have in your face; a sturdy index of a flaccid forefinger? Let alone a penetrating pinky?
Apparently a pink donkey’s what most folk want in their face; forget the pointing, good kind or bad.
Well; I got the polite kind, as well as so many smiles and warm expressions of: “Enormous pink donkey eh? Good for you; I can relate to that – It’s about time!”
More pink rubber donkeys for everyone.
This things has it’s very own sunshine and when it hits; you grin with the pinkish vitamin D you’re being beaten about the head with.
I got home that day and found myself improved.
I could learn from this donkey.
We’ve already bathed together; it went really well.
The train’s ticket conductor on the journey home and I had a charming liaison in which he wrote out a toy-ticket for the donkey.
How absolutely motherfucking charming!
I’m 27 and he was at least twice my age, and here we were both being jollied by a pink donkey.
This is an even more effective a way of meeting women than holding a baby.
You might be familiar with the way chaps can hold a baby as they meet women; holding it out in front of them as proof of procreating potency and niceness.
A fellow with a baby, strapped on to his chest like body armour, speaks to the world: “My penis is accomplished and I make up for that by being fatherly and mopping up the consequences and the consequences’ consequences.”
Those strap-on babies unnerve me, being as it seems like a make-shift “don’t shoot me” shirt.
You can’t lay a finger on that guy whilst he’s wearing one of those.
He’s immune to society touching him; law officials won’t risk the law suit, other men won’t risk the leaking baby, and the women want so desperately to get to know this sensitive chap with an accomplished willy.
Take all that; and this pink donkey trumps it all.
“Trumps it all” – damn.
Can’t we alter the terminology here?
Why not give Trump the word “Trump” and proceed to change our definition of it to a guy who has everything wrong with him – a bloke for whom money is working.
Money is evidently making Donald Trump all the more unhappy to the point that he is engaging in political warfare with the most vital nation on Earth because his daddy never loved him.
He’s a fellow with such a huge bill for sating his appetite that he’s going to make Mexico pay for it.
I have a tremendously unsubstantiated feeling that Donald Trump is looking forward to diplomacy in China because their coins have ickle-wickle holes in and he yearns to get that Yen home and start fucking the dignified history out of it.
That hole-in-the-arse/pain-in-the-arse/Donald-Trump is apparently in need of a large rubber pink donkey prescription.
If it worked for me; it can work for Trump!
I’ve just realised that Donald Trump would, without hesitation, strap a baby to himself to avoid being assassinated. I hope, should his assassination come about, it’s in a child-free area; though I feel children tend to avoid him anyway.
Kids are like dogs.
They don’t like arseholes.
And they love giant pink donkeys.
Me too; for all the three above.
See you tomorrow,
I’ve heard some criticism as of late.
Following the seemingly destined article from Time magazine by a chap following Ali through his early to late years, an article of magnificent insight and appreciation as only from one who was there if not him, I read a “Dear Editor” letter in response.
Apparently a wanker had a pencil this day.
Forgive a paraphrase or two, (something along the lines of which I’ve said prior) for the response came as thus:
“I don’t like boxing. He wasn’t great. Nah.”
Indeed, this Italian chap named Fausto, spoke of his likelihood to not even read this edition; so strong was his disappointment of what it contained within. Not that he would know; owing to not opening the edition he was so disappointed in.
Little minds might well sift for insight into menial and miniscule subjects, and that’s fine (what could be finer than thinking about nothing much at all – please see metaphysics), but I don’t like a bully with or without a pen and to see a journalist and the dead picked on for the purposes of you wishing to share a bad day are unacceptable.
Get thee to a nunnery and from there turn left to OFF in a FUCK manner.
Why was Muhammad Ali great?
Only in terms of people; yes.
In terms of the science of the sport; indeed – “Nah”.
Nifty and continual; a chap who showed his penchant for dodging like a loony-tune, and leaving a man exhausted from successfully achieved swings and far more numerate misses.
His boxing was very good; and that is an understatement when regarding the mass murder (he could kill me repeatedly if he wished) of him vs I, and then an enormous overstatement should he have ever dared (as surely he would have) to dance with Tyson.
And that’s that; most thatilly.
And it is joyfully important to recall to all minds that his boxing talent and skill were merely as they were; “His boxing was very good”.
Naturally you’re to assume I’m on my way to thriving in verbosity over his spirit and standing; his courage and morality; which I have regard for, but not before compliment boxing as the scene-setter it is.
A world of men willing to receive a knuckily death-threat to the pretty and increasingly ugly face, the whimpering brain and even the shocked visceral innards.
It might not be the art it is often entitled as; but it is an extraordinary frame.
And so on to the man beyond the athlete.
Compare the term “sacrifice” to the term “donation”. The sacrifice of three prime years to a melancholy ether, could well be a synonym for donation to his might, his thought and his future.
Less so a matter of sound fiscal planning; his absence from the boxing scene was a departure from the income scene; his heroism of self did his wallet and entourage no favours.
Still, though I am grateful to this man, who made demonstrate the easeless act of will in order to achieve a more contented heart.
Morality made apparent.
There is a final credit to devote to this man.
I’ve heard a plethora of vocal recordings, capturing Ali and often letting him loose, from squeaky loud mouthing to an old hat wearing a better one than you, I’ve heard what Ali said to himself.
“I am the greatest!”
“I AM the greatest!”
And thus he became so.
Amidst a dislocated brain from the meat mountain of Foreman and the part immovable object/part irresistible force of two-hundred-thousand-year-old genetics from Frazier, and the shuffling existence of the concussion-infused Parkinsons disease; Ali has remained the greatest through no victory other than this; he took the time to realise he was.
“I AM the greatest!”
Ali was because he told himself he was.
And luck – both good and sour.
Ali told himself he was the greatest and so he was.
Self-doubt can lay a person to the unknown foundations of tomorrow, but Ali would only be the foundations of that tomorrow following a regard held highly and a continuation of the mantra.
He told himself: “I AM the greatest!”
And then; see what happened.
For the superb article of Ali by Robert Lipsyte, see the following link: http://time.com/4358073/muhammad-ali-robert-lipsyte-on-the-life-of-the-greatest/
To begin with- come from the countryside.
If you’re not from the countryside, then you’ll be town-folk, and that’s being negative. Stop it.
City-dwellers have this whole ‘about to be stabbed by a neighbour’ deal which just doesn’t pay off.
This sums up town-folk- people that do not know their neighbour and therefore have to assume that “they’re” probably going to mutilate “me” first. That’s why I’m cooler than you…my stabbing likelihood.
Then, because of this, we build ourselves up into these towers of incredibility via the mere foundations of: “Hey man, I’m from the city…my neighbour will probably stab me first so fuck you. You wouldn’t understand because your neighbours are probably all courteous and lending you sugar and such. Fuck you again”
Don’t be this- move back to the countryside with me and we’ll lend each other sugar. Having a tree nearby has always helped me.
The countryside used to be the wild darkness between the bright lights of civilised cities, a murkiness of strange noises, suspicious meat and probably too much incest (just a tad too much) that was to be traversed till you got to the nearest monastery where you could hear in the distance that same incest making those strange noises and suspicious meats a reality. In my opinion, incest leads to noise pollution and foul cooking at the least, as well as too many toes and not enough noses.
Unbeknownst to many of us know, the cities were not a helpful thing to happen as they in turn took on all of the previously listed reasons that the countryside was to be avoided.
Not that we should reclaim incest as a past-time or anything like that. Let’s leave that box of frogs be; before swaying in rocking chairs, playing the banjo and squinting becomes all that we’re good at. Let’s not limit ourselves to squinting and sibling-humping. I doubt it would help.
You want a city? Why? Why would you want to do that? Inconsiderate.
Because of the lights? Well, fine, I can’t deny that the city certainly has more lights.
I guess you’ve got me there.
Still, it merely means that when you’re being annihilated by the neighbour you never knew- you’ll be well lit. Probably making it easier for your neighbour there. Good for you- enjoy your new hole. I won’t.
Instead of this- be from the countryside- make the city a place you visit every now and then to remind yourself what the ‘masses’ look like and to see a musical.
I can see that the countryside might not be the most attractive of places out of the two lurid possibilities so…make where you’re from worth your time.
I, for one, feel that this is a good reason to have a tradition.
Not the sour traditions that go on and on because the elders fear change they can’t control, but the traditions of carrying around flaming barrels of mead because it’s fun. It also scares the shit of the townsfolk.
Get yourself a tradition and, with it, fuck those that are not local with it. Consider it initiations for letting someone in your club house/tree house. Like setting fire to your shoes, running for the river, having a truly-necessary paddle and then get aggressive with the guest for not joining in. THAT’s a tradition. It’s also mental. Good.
‘Mental and good’.
You can quote me on that.
Make the countryside scary for the urbanites= Make where you’re from a place worth being from.
Everything we come to fear as naturally bred blokes and femmes is born from the country: ‘Jaws’ (as I’m counting beaches), chewing sounds emanating from the woods and bales of hay falling on us from an unnatural height for hay.
If hay could speak one word, then it should be “What?”
And it would be the height of humour from then on, every time it heard its name, a…”What?”…, would follow and then you’d have to get on with your day.
This would also be a fine way to intimidate townsfolk. It might not be a good old fashioned city-bred knife in the ear, but it has a tad deal more panache owing to the normally-passive and typically stationary object falling on you, temporarily flattening your obese-urban-wise-bundle-of-bones and then ‘replying’: “WHAT?”
If a bale of hay collides downwardly with a townsperson, does it make a sound? If we have our way- yes. How will we achieve this? I presume it would revolve around breeding the noisiest of the hay-species, though this might be a matter of a rogue gust misleading our hay-breeders as they hear the ‘swish swash’ of hay in the breeze and then making it fuck.
Let’s try again.
So, as far as I see it…we’re the ones with all the stuff.
Maybe not quite as many street-lights or dentists, but other than that…most of the important stuff. Like beef.
What if we kept it?
What if we said to the casual urbanite: “Hey. See this mutton? Well keep watching, because that’s all you’ll ever get to do with it”?
Or, just hand them a sheep and a pair of scissors and tell them to go about providing themselves with a delicious Sunday roast and a rather fetching woollen jumper. Those two things you’ll want to keep fairly separate- you don’t want to find that your jumper’s moulding or that your dinner is a size 40 inch chest size, and itchy.
Great- we’ll keep the mutton.
What else do we have?
The bees! “You bitches, it’s all for honey” and all that buzz (HA!).
Now I would recommend to you all that we do one of two things with the bees…
One. Keep them and their delicious produce to ourselves. I’m sure we could learn from them and though I have experienced such a thing as ‘too much honey’- I’d rather have too much than not enough.
Two. Sick them on the enemy. People will hear their hum and start to fear the countryside once more. Picture a bee in a leash. I hope you enjoyed that.
All we’d have to do is ensure the balance between keeping the bees complacent and getting them appropriately pissed off, like beating them with the flower we’re feeding them. Or we could do that little dance of theirs and convince them to gather ‘pollen’. Yes…‘pollen’…
Actually, I don’t know if I’d prefer to have bees collect pollen more than the alternative method by which flowers USE me.
The flowers, normally the fluffy ones, ejaculate onto me and my shoes (with all their flower-sperm hugging nooks and crannies) and then ‘let me go’ without as much as a kiss farewell or £50 on the bedside table. Then, as I walk away from the male bastard-flower, I meander into the female district of the garden where the female posies lie back and spread open their ducts (easy now) as though uttering a moan of: “Oh KICK me Sam! KICK ME!”
Which I do. With my flower-spunk laden footwear.
I’m being helpful.
Actually, here’s an interesting method of making the countryside a little spookier once more…
When urban guests visit, perhaps we could involve them in our procreation: just say “It’s the way we do it round here”.
That way the guys could spunk into the urbanite’s pocket and ask them to visit our most bestest girl, where and with whom they would be asked to expel their creamy pocket contents and say who sent them. With a bouquet of flowers obviously- we must maintain the romance of the situation. I guess this would be a ‘spunk-o-gram’ and please feel free to patent the idea. Imitate the flowers.
I know that’d intimidate me if a country man ejaculated into my pocket and then sent me away.
But why make where we’re from a place intimidating? Why be scary?
Entirely, because it’s attractive and that would be the start of respect, and then being jolly would follow soon afterwards. The countryside is a place of sunny people and this is largely to do with sheer character- let’s flaunt that, but let’s flaunt that after putting ourselves on the map first.
And why put ourselves on the map?
You’re bored- that’s why, and igniting your shoes and running to the river will liven up your day no end.
You’re just bored, and you have to take caution with not wasting the minutes that are yours by being either in a city with various foreign objects being thrust into you (in a bad way) or from the countryside and lonely.
I play golf with fresh fruit.
It’s tremendously refreshing, is fair exercise, spreads seeds, feeds the birds, makes things a little stickier and has an explosive spread of fruit-innards.
City-folk I’ve introduced this to have either loved it or hated it, and the ones that loved it have always come back for more.
This is tourism.
A little crazy, commanding a bit of respect, and the people come.
And then, with them and with the dispersal of fresh fruit, I am no longer lonely.
So, WELCOME TO THE COUNTRYSIDE, the true jungle- not a concrete zoo. Make yourself at home whilst we dance with our bees and no longer fuck our siblings. There’s a river over yonder for one’s flaming footwear, and make sure you keep your pockets covered at all times.
That tradition about the guys procreating into your pocket might be a problem as time goes by.
Speaking of avoiding loneliness- talk to your neighbour- they’re right there.
It’s my birthday and I just found out that Robin Williams died last night.
Mental health- we’ve got mental health and must keep ourselves healthy through the exercise of natural instincts such as dialogue. Though some of us will have an illness, such as depression, talking will help. People might not ‘get it’, but they might understand that they don’t ‘get it’ and will becomes that necessary ear for you.
Don’t be lonely.
Find a person and talk to them.
And for all the love that is out there, if someone starts talking to you…talk back.
There’s really not much else that matters. We’re a communication species, so let us luxuriate in the delicious medicine that it can be to talk with another.
My life, nor I doubt yours, would be the same if Robin Williams hadn’t talked with us as he chose to. I’m glad he did.
Make yourself and where you’re from the tourism that our species is good at.
In there lies a little hope for us.
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.
- The Catholic Church should stop it… (“STOP IT!”)
- 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.
(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.)
How do you make a donkey reverse? You make the carrot frightening.
I’ve had an urge, for a long while now, to arm myself with something beyond the pale of civilised means- such as doorlocks and kung fu.
Hence, I’ve now a bow and set of arrows lying atop my coffee table- making it a much more appreciated ‘bow and arrow’ table- which I hope to make available soon in a superstore near you.
Why would I acquire a bow and arrow?
Where I live, a county called Kent in England, we have ourselves a local legend about a puma-like big cat- that people of the area see the arse-end of as it, yet again, disappears- or they find the wreckage of a partially eaten, mostly dead chicken.
And, obviously, I need a new rug/pet and so will be seeking this massive feline out so as to ‘achieve’ it as such (I feel that ‘achieving’ could be a much more possessive and aggressive act…”I achieved you mum”), as well as to have some degree of vengeance for the chickens that I’ll never get the chance to meet.
Hunting. I’m here to hunt.
I have to admit that I’m much more of a gatherer though. I tend to pick up things as I make my way around the Earth, and then leave a little trail of items I’ve discarded owing to a matter of lacking pocket space.
However, the natural instinct that I feel within me to hunt is potent, and enjoyable.
Hunting. It makes eating a little spookier owing to the activity frequently revolving around murder and digestion in the forest. Not only this, but it also tends to mean you can wear what was your dinner after eating it.
This is harder to do as a gatherer in the more-traditional sense; wearing what you find, as opposed to wearing what you’ve killed, doesn’t work so splendidly.
Doing that with watermelons is frowned upon by most people who have a brow to frown with. Why? Because helmets, which is at the most what a watermelon can be, are only supposed to go on your head. Maybe feet. Not buttocks. Not testicles- no matter how scared you are of sudden impact to potential descendants, and dick/and/or/vagina.
I like hunting and, though my current kill rate is zero, my aim is improving.
My current aim tends to be at suburban pigeons, and they are as surprised as sweet hell to find an arrow swishing past them. They don’t need to dodge it, but they move anyway. There’s nothing quite like making a pigeon’s eyes widen.
Naturally, in the same fashion as in the United States, my weaponry is for hunting, but it undoubtedly has a practical purpose in defending my property and wife.
I would like people, and yes…of course…zombies, to know that if they should attempt to crash through my door as part of the massive horde…then they be met with a volley of whatever I can find when I’ve let loose all my arrows. Probably the longer items in my cutlery collection- meaning that people, and yes…of course…zombies, will find themselves impaled by the most mundane of domestic items.
And that’s why we need to relax.
Zombies at your door with a collection of arrows and broom-handles sticking out of where you aimed should not be something to look forward to for such a collection of us as we are.
Why do we feel the need to do this? Why do we feel as though we need a zombie apocalypse?
A chance to start anew.
From the moment that begins, you’re are 90% more interesting because finally something happened to you- and you’re likelihood of being some sort of hero in your own story is multiplied to a degree that matters to you.
Credit history lost, the waste of years lost, all that time in traffic gone, no longer such a thing as a migraine because you don’t have time…
With less people, you feel like this Earth is suddenly a whole lot larger and the chance of you making it yours are finally nearer to that 100% that you have always secretly craved.
And though this is not a flawed feeling, it is a lack of understanding.
The chance for you to rule the Earth is perpetually immediate, although obviously easier for some than others- but still ‘achievable’ (growl).
You just needed to meditate first…and then move along with the home-defence.
Ten minutes a day of silence, eyes closed, lovely posture and a focus on what you want is a way towards the wonders that you are meditating for. You will think more clearly, and you will be more self-aware and open to whatever comes your way, you will be willing to start something…a challenge is an opportunity to become and to learn. As for the soul, and all that…whatever- I feel it is a placebo that works for the personality.
The only aside of this from home defence is that you allow people in as freely as a public park- possessions will fuck you over and eliminate your pocket space. So let them go, in and out, forget your things so as to remember your people and yourself.
If you’re being attacked- then be equally violent back: meditation is a personal thing that is relevant to whatever you conjure up in your life. If your decision is to punch a violent attacker, then maybe a little mediation will aid you and your knuckles.
Defend yourself- certainly, and hunt often, but do not be prepared to shut yourself down and away as though the rest of the world is contaminated.
As much as we are our own species greatest predator, when one of us is endangered or infected, we are all our saviour and our cure.
I have a bow and arrow, for home-defence, hunting, and for acquiring that enormous feline that makes myths about my locality.
I also have a C# key, liberated from an abandoned glockenspiel.
I have realised that when creating a great impact with this key- it makes a deep vibrating sound much like that of a Buddhist gong
This reminds me of the time I travelled in Northern India, Himachel Pradesh, Dharamsala, McLeod Ganj, and I am temporarily transported to that place, by the temple, over-looking the valley of the lower Himalayas, and I am peaceful.
I am also ready to defend myself- which I had to as was attacked by monkeys shortly before hand, which is far less amusing than you are probably imagining right now. You might find it slightly funnier now though, as I tell you that they attacked whilst I interrupted their oral sex.
So when I am attacked- I have a meditative aid to deliver a blow to the forehead of my unfortunate aggressor. It goes “Dong”, whilst the forehead makes an altogether crunchier sound.
What home-defence offers you is a feeling of preparation to deal with what is coming in your life. Meditation is an actual way of preparing to deal with what is coming in your life.
Mediation is a means of defending your true home- your mind, and herein is the link between the two, but the distinction between them is still constant: home defence encourages keeping others out whilst mediation espouses a yearning to enjoy other people so as to either invite them in or knock on their door.
Prepare your mind, not your doorstep, unless you are expecting some of those guests you’ve gone and acquired.
Host the world, neighbour to all.
The target audience demographic that I belong to is starting to disappoint me: I’ve realised that I’m poor because the TV I watch doesn’t feature a lot of yacht advertisements.
Cigar advertisements seem to pass me by seamlessly, as do leaflets enquiring as to whether or not I have enough bullion in my life. I have no vault. Vaultlessly yours…
Not once have I been approached by someone trying to get me to finally give in to purchasing another person. “Hey- I’ve gotten to that point in my life, wealth-wise, where buying someone is not a sign of snobbery. It’s neccessity. I cannot be expected to carry my own furs and I can’t stand cotton.
So, let’s make a little money- shall we? To bring this all about somewhat more actually, rather than the mere hypothetically motions I’ve been going through so far.
This is the premise of my financial future: ‘Bring back smelling. Bring it all back’.
You used to do it. Yes you did. Once there was what began as your passive smelling in which you let loose your own distinct whiff that would make your mother know you’re hers, and then what would come throughout your life as your own distinct smell- the reason why your dog knows you’re home whilst you’re still in the car.
And then there came the act of smelling- that cute thing you do with your nose- and good reasons to do so.
In the times as of late you have three main smells we’re bothered to associate ourselves with- and they are undoubtedly the most appropriate.
Number 1. The smell of food, tasty and not, your attraction to it and a reminder of your need to get some.
Number 2. The smell of pussy (recently transposed into the smell of perfume, which eventually leads to the smell of pussy), tasty and not, your attraction to it and a reminder of your need to get some. For the ladies- it would be the musk of mankind after they’ve stabbed a deer to bits pieces.
Number 3. The smell of shit, and your need to avoid it.
What I am trying to get across here is that this is a whole genre of business that is really being limited to the sophistication of substances being bottled. Sure- a lot of very nice things come in bottles, but the best stuff doesn’t.
How about the guy that was making holes in running meat? I mentioned him earlier- the fellow that comes home slinging bison-remnants over one shoulder and his dick over the other. This man cannot be bottled, and if you would try- you would end up thrown over whatever shoulder he has remaining and that is a place for only the most very private of property (bison-remnants and genitals). Women want this, and men want to be this. Nothing else matters. Here endeth the bullshit lesson.
Another thing un-bottle-able…the opposite of the man with occupied shoulders. The woman with berry juice running down her chin. This woman cannot be found in a city street, for she can only be found where the wild wind blows and the nights are the celebrations of the day. Men want this, and women want to be this- only a little deeper down than their Mankind-counterpart.
Women suffer from a stiffness of how they are presented owing to a long history of not having much else to be in charge of. Men also don’t have a time limit- whereas a woman’s needs are defined by them. Women need to relax, and need to remember that there is nothing wrong with not-breeding. Having a baby is less helpful than you might think it is- just look at the mess it makes and all that noise. The woman with berry juice trickling down her chin gives zero fucks about this…good.
Dab, dab, behind the ears and upon skinny wrists, doesn’t work, can’t be done- for the same reason as with a man. You try to put her in a bottle and she will reject you in a manner that will remove all hope of a jolly ending from your entrepreneurial insides. This kind of rejection, and the fact that it does not come from most women- seeing as most women have been sophisticated to the point of inhibiting natural instincts (‘It is most improper for a gal-most-female to allow berry juice to trickle down her chin. Blue berry or red, she is NOT ACCEPTABLE!)- stings and makes you want to run home. You should.
My advice to you is, shower every three days, and make the most of your ability to sweat. It won’t ruin things- really. Be sure to give the genitals a good scrubbing every day though as, all notions of natural pride aside, no guy or girl is going to lap up that genital cheese that only comes from lack of washing and thoroughness. Girls- if you’re going to wash at all, then you have to go inside by at least two inches. Men- do what you know you need to do…never allow a build-up of cheese. Swipe your penis as though it abandoned you, but make sure you do it with a damp cloth.
And then I’d make money out of it.
Well, no- not quite, but it would give me a platform from which to just keep talking and as long as you’ve got something to say- what else could you need? Social movements- makes money. Dr King would have been a millionaire by now, if it hadn’t been for all that racism and bullets. Fucking assassins are just the worst when they’re racist. And so are you.
Before eating- raise your fork to your nose and have a good sniff of it. Do this with everything else too, though don’t prop it up to your nose with a fork and that’ll ruin most things.
From your breakfast to your wife- smell what there is to be smelt because…if you had no nose…how would you smell?
Redundantly- that’s how you’d smell. You’d smell redundantly and now you pale even further when compared to Labradors.
My friends- smell whilst you can and you will realise that the triggers this sensation has upon your memories is tremendous- I highly recommend it, although (of course) it can stub the toe of your heart when you are reminded, by scent, of one you once loved. I once loved a girl, and her scent has ruined the enjoyable smell of pizza-dough for me. The hardworking bitch. She’s why I’m writing masculine beauties like “stubbed the toe of your heart” to express myself. And to think I used to be happy with a scream, or even a dandy little yelp.
To realise that your prime smelling years are behind you is not something to be sniffed at (HA!), and I hope you’ll never have to live through something like that.
You know the way that summertime just smells like summertime? That’s why we should smell more- so I highly recommend you get to it. If that smell was my ancient history and all I had to look forward to with my nose was it being a handy way to locate the centre of my face- well then, prospects are disappointing all round. Although it would be a handy place to keep things- like loose change. Hmm.
Have yourself a little odour that you didn’t get given for Christmas. Unless of course you got it from rubbing up against something like a fern, in which case I’ll wish you a merry one and think of you whenever I’m hiking through Norwegian woodlands.
But I might take a hike from walking in the wild so often, owing to my most recent little adventure in which I had barbed-wire nudging my balls.
I was climbing down a little trench and realised I when I got to the bottom that it was fenced, not with a modestly respectable fence but with rails of barbed-wire that never seemed to like me anyway.
So I made a little bridge and flung one leg over, at which point everything turned very spikey and I made a noise most involuntary. Whatever I’d placed my flung-leg onto had crumpled as I applied my weight, meaning that my descent was imminent and my landing was to be squeamish. A few months earlier I’d fallen over (“OH NO I’M FALLING” were my exact words at the time) and damaged my meniscus- the muscle joining the shin bone to the thigh bone, and my healing was not yet complete by the time I encountered the barbs I have since come to dislike so.
Basically my knee was on about 40% strength, so as I began to fall- I stopped myself by stamping my leg down. My knee, being weak, was unprepared for such a hefty request as my spends-a-lot-of-time-sitting physique was putting on it quite suddenly.
Now, my knee didn’t break, but it did bend, and lately I’ve come to realise that’s not entirely a good thing.
My knee slowly bent, I slowly descended- no sound coming from me aside from the ‘pop’ of a barb penetrating my jean’s groin, and, then, the secondary, dimmer-pop as my underwear gave up the fight also, and then silence (particularly from my horrified self) as the barb came to, and rested…gently prodding, though not ‘popping’ my very own testicles.
I have never been gladder to have as much upper-body strength as I do, though I swear that I only lifted and broke free somehow because I screamed loudly enough. Following this I broke a hedge in retaliation and resourcefulness (in fact I was proud I found something to aggress onto so quickly) and I re-built my bridge and ran all the way home- stopping only to…’feel’ (without actually touching) my bollocks- just to make sure a prodding was as only as brutal as my mid-morning walk had been.
If I’d had a weaker upper-body, or if I’d been a tad bit shorter- that might have been the end of my groin as we’ve all come to know and love it.
I’m just so happy that I didn’t get penetrated by some rusty-tetanus-infested-barb that I’ve never even met before and would much prefer to keep at a friendly distance.
My word- the slowness and the quietness…I’m a fucking fable of making sure your bridge is secure. And to avoid barbed wire as long as you value your valuables.
I could still be there, all alone, entangled and heartbroken, the casual and very adorable whimper emanating from this thicket in a trench that no one’s ever going to investigate…
But then…*sniff sniff…wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo*, and by my lucky stars the cops and doggies have found me, having latched onto the trail of my scent with such apparent ease that the blood-hound actually recoils a tad (poor thing)
Guys and gals…I’ll sum up here because I’ve got a mud-puddle outside with my name on it (and there’s nothing better for cooling the blood)…
Love the senses that nature has gifted you, and implement the sweet good-grief out of it. Apply the act of smelling to your workplace, to your family and to your model-plane crafting hobby, and in a mere 50 years our children (if you simply must have them) will be talking about how splendid their day smelt.
It’s simply another aspect of life that I intend to flaunt fully and, of course, add a little to the culture. Not to mention, again- of course, that it’ll remind me of her and how beautiful life is, even if it hurts sometimes, because of that very beauty. Hardworking bitch.
Do you smell what I’m cooking?