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


Poppies. Reminiscent of Love, Reminiscent of Fear.

November, and the previous month, are a time in the UK in which people wear poppies.

Small and large, plastic and linen, attached through button holes and by safety pins and needles.

I don’t think you’re allowed on TV unless you wear a poppy.

The reason for this is to make a personal statement in public concerning your opinions on World War 1 and 2. If you wear a poppy, then you are stating that you are ‘against’ World War 1 and 2, and that you are commemorating the lost lives in those wars.

“World War One? I’m against it.”

There is nothing in so much wrong with this. It has two wonderful benefits- such as that if you buy a poppy from the official charity, then proceeds proceed to the families of those that have died in warzones in more recent conflicts.

Another benefit, one that I much appreciate, is that the poppies are ubiquitous. And as such- children, being naturally curious about their environment, ask what they represent. Therefore, the answer of “To commemorate the lives of those lost in the world wars” comes forth, and the subject of these astounding events in human history are breached unto the child- and so they are aware.

This is great- telling children about it is crucial to their outlook and to their understanding.

If we don’t tell children, then the point of everything is entirely lost. It is the one moral that we all aspire to.

However, there is a negative side to this that swerves away from the path of attempting to change the world following two explosions of evil.

If you don’t wear a poppy- then by definition (by many that wear the poppy) you don’t respect the dead lost in the wars.

And if you don’t respect the dead- then you’re the bad guy.

Maybe you’re the kind of person to start a war. Perhaps you enjoy a nice war- and you think bullets are the way forward. The kind of person that only eats off of a bayonet, and if not then you want nothing to do with it.

I knew it- you’re a violent one. One of those people that wants nothing more than to annex your neighbour and distinctly not stop there.

I can tell that your favourite metaphors revolve around penetrating others with revoltingly blunt objects at high speeds. You struggle making these metaphors, but you eventually get it out. Then people move away from you. I can tell this about you.

I can tell by your lack of poppy.

So, perhaps you have given a tremendous amount to charities around the world in an effort to relieve the effects of war. And maybe you have educated a multitude of children about the history of the world wars.

But you haven’t got a poppy…so…fuck you. As it turns out- you’re Hitler.

You are a traitor, you are not a patriot, and you are a disrespectful fool only interested in saving 20 pence and not risking getting pricked by a safety pin.

And you punch babies.

And you’re a work-shy lout.

You’re probably not a God-fearing Christian. I bet you’re not even from this country.

You’re what’s wrong with this country. Something will happen to you soon.

Essentially, by choosing not to wear a poppy, for whatever reasons you have, the effect reminds me of being made to wear a yellow star.

You are not in uniform with the rest of the nation, you stand out and you are different. That’s why you’re fucked.

Maybe if you’d had respect enough to do what everyone else did- you wouldn’t be getting frowned upon like this.

Maybe it’s time you blended in. Perhaps we should all blend in.

Don’t forget- if you’re not blending in, then you’re a violent coward that kicks his breakfast to death and shits on every war-orphan you encounter, even if there’s no need for it.

So my suggestion is this: buy a poppy and wear it before you get singled out and bullied. Because that’s what people do. Because they’re too fucking stupid to think before they do.

One thing I must make plain here- not all that wear a poppy have this opinion. A great deal of people simply wish to grieve the dead, promote peace, educate the young, and all-round try to help the planet a little before they leave it and that is all. They don’t want to hate because others are different. I love these people. They think. But I fear it has become so that people now simply use the poppy, rather than respect its meaning.

To summarise, wear a poppy if you wish. Good for you. Charity is charity and educating children is, as I said, essential.

And, to summarise just a little more, if you don’t wear a poppy, then fine. Good for you. You may be contributing aid and effort stopping the woes around the world born and left from war, and you may play your part in ensuring that the next generation is aware of the horror and the tragedy that these vile events have played in very recent human history. It happened to our parent’s parents.

It will happen to your children’s children.

But, remember this- as this is the point that should be most prominent in our moral thinking following the events of WW2.

Think, before you join in. Never be afraid to be apart from the pack, for whatever reason. Bully no one for being different, however different you may feel them to be. The Jews were different, so they paid. The followers of the Nazi’s did not think, and so we all paid.

For too many, this is not about remembrance. It is about trying to prove something to others about themselves. This is something that comes from a lack of self to actually offer, so this visage is seized upon and thrown forward as though it is of actual worth- staining the true meaning of displaying this symbol by associating it with idiocy and fear.

I will not be wearing a poppy, for now at least. And you’ll be able to tell how much I care by looking for what is missing from my chest. I will not be wearing a poppy to show respect to those that were bullied and made ‘missing’ thanks to those that refused to think. I refuse to wear a poppy, for those who were given no choice but to wear a yellow star.

And there we have it.

This has been quite a long and intense article, so I thought I’d end on a lighter note.

I think a good slogan for a corporation would be: ‘NEVER FLACCID’. It needn’t be a company with anything to do with Viagra. It’s a state of mind. And, yes, a state of penis too.

That’ll do nicely.

Sam.


At Least It Got Censored.

So, we all have a time of hate in our lives. I have to admit that when mine gets going it’s normally when I haven’t received enough compliments in a while.

Whenever such a lack of such things occurs- I’ll find a reason for removing you from my life as soon as possible. It is a very negative situation and I apologise in advance and for earlier.

I also swear that a little bit of that hate-like substance called retribution will do great things for you, mainly get you out of the habit of holding that chair with your arse and instead place the chair within your grasp, then through a window, and then you and the chair are gone. If you’re angry enough, it’ll be hilarious.

A censorship is a badge of honour to all the right people- almost as if there work has been ‘okayed’ back-handedly by the admins-that-be. I am still waiting for some people to want other people to stop reading my work. I truly hope they are flaccid-dicked enough to have a go at me. I could make a living and a death out of that kind of recommendation. They just need to be a little more flaccid.

What is important is my lack of pride.

Humbleness is an ability not to be fucked with. Beware the humble just as much as you might never turn your back on the quiet ones. Humble fellows make you eat their brand of pie. And when someone can make you eat any kind of pie, even if you want to eat it, they are the ones in charge. You are too busy eating pie, humble or otherwise.

That fact that I am not proud to say what I feel is reflected in the idea of true equality in reference to race. If you do not notice a person is a different colour than you, then you are very sweet and deserve a promotion from whatever it is that you sweetly do, but this is rare and hopefully a matter of the times. To be able to say what you feel, and as that, say what you feel rather than what you feel you should be permitted to feel- is a similar box of frogs. We are now just bargaining over the legs- because we are French (and I, personally, am racist).

Say what you want, and let them say that you can’t say what you want. The battle of dignity is won, and for our species that is a constant war so therefore you might as well win a few battles. Go ahead and shit your pants, but don’t cry. If you cry- you have done something far worse. You’ve soiled your eyelids.

To be proud of what you say might be a swipe at your own existence. You could instead be proud of what you are doing, as opposed to what you are saying. What you say and what you think is not something to be boastful about: “Enjoy my company because I told a risqué joke about bamboo and rude locations in my twenties”. Your actions are at times to be relayed, and all the time they are to be done, had, in process, in action- KEEP MOVING. Activity- don’t let them take it from you.

However, if those flaccid-fuckers enter your sphere of influence and try to adopt it into their own sphere of influence of telling people what to do because they actually want to tell you what to think, then all that’s happening is two spheres pleasantly colliding into one another, and two spheres doing that look like tits and that’s just marvellous.

Partly, mostly, marvellous owing to looking like tits, but also owing to the fact that making things breast-esque is exactly what they hate the most.

So let it be.

However, I feel that my work might not be the sort worthy of a decent dose of censorship. To end with an example, please allow the following:

I realised recently that if you take the French word ‘bisque’, and then you take the French word for ‘and’, which is ‘et’, then all you have to do is put the two together to make the sound similar to ‘biscuit’.

And then all you need is a reason to say ‘biscuit’.

But until then…please censor me… or…get fucked.

And drug-themed pornography criticising the government.

Biscuit

Sam.


Where’s The Real Imposter?!

I have looked around and noticed, and you may have as well, and that this economy is very strange.

Not that I’m referring to any sarcastic or satirical points of view about how there is no trickle-down effect and something-something ‘EU’.

I’m rather referring to the weird reasons why weird money is made by some people, and the weird requirements of the public. The weird public. Because obviously; we’re all weird here.

Look to your left, you will see (hopefully) other people. All of them are strange, and you can probably tell by the way that they’re also looking to their left and making facial expressions of ‘yes, they are strange Sam’ prior to getting that feeling that someone is watching you- probably from the right. Anyone looking to their left; forget about them. Anyone looking to their right; never mind them too. Avoid eye contact and stop breathing so much. Yes. We’re being obscure.

There is a craving from these ‘all-of-a-sudden’ people and their offspring. Now I’ve worked in a wide variety of places, and I’ve been around the world, and I’m getting to the fucking precipice of ‘staying-here’ and wondering why so many fake things are made. Children can’t want that many fake things, you’re going to destroy their imagination if you keep feeding them things to play with that are too similar to the real world. Children don’t need too much of that real world- just have them encounter a scary dog when they’re 6 and they’re raised. They are officially parented.

After that- it’s up to them to have a good time (weather permitting) upon their own steam and simply pass on the family gene (mainly your big fuck-off nose) or avoid as such entirely so as to de-populate the world. (I suggest- when we start to re-populate the ocean-space…at least one of us needs to stop breeding. Hopefully you, with your big fuck-off nose)

I was half-way through this article when I decided to take a walk out deep into the country to gain a little perspective and to enhance my buttocks.

Along the way, whilst still in the city, I looked down and noticed the exact point I was making here to be, in fact, everywhere.

It was small and purple, lumpy looking and dirty.

I bent down to pick it and held it up to the sun’s light.

It was a fake bunch of grapes.

How very appropriate.

I had to leave quickly as I realised I wasn’t country-deep enough yet. You can tell when you’re deep in the country around where I live because, and this is a little strange, it feels good to hear explosions. You start to crave a bombing because it adds a little character to the scene. Lovely butterflies, transcendent sunshine, no cars and still no cars, and just some slight and distance bangs. It really makes you feel happy not to be in a town, because you know you’re definitely not being bombed.

There have been other times when this has happened to me- when fake things have turned up and I don’t quite understand what’s going on.

I’ve worked in schools for 4-11 year olds. It was here that I encountered my first fake croissant.

What child needs that?! Was it even for a child?! I don’t know- I just threw as hard as I could- no one complained.

Now I’ve thrown real croissants as well, and I’ve enjoyed it, but this was different.

I’d like to suggest, since I’m going to write something down anyway and it might as well appear to be helpful, that whoever is doing the production of fake things: stop. For the sake of imagination. I can assume a croissant. I’ve encountered them and I have thrown them. I need no fakery. Nor do the children. Let them assume.

However, what about the industry- the economy? How many jobs rely on the seemingly major production of small imitation things? I bet they’re all Chinese- why not eh? Being Chinese is extremely ‘in’ at the moment- everybody’s doing it.

Maybe that’s the secret to successful communism. Maybe it’s just a false pineapple. Maybe I should get some sleep.

Should the false-idol business fall through the real floor, would China fall to its real economic knees (China has economic knees. Explains the popularity) following an influx of cheaply made, poorly designed, barely resembling a lemon, fake lemons from Pakistan?

Who wants that? Me, but for the love of the species, please keep the Chinese happy- they still make pretty decent and real shelving units.

On a Tuesday (it doesn’t matter which one) I bore witness to a small roast chicken. It completely consumed me. I bore and bore and bore witness till I eventually got to the point of thinking that this was not a real fake roast chicken. Because they’re made in China. And this one was sweating, or something.

I actually said, albeit to myself- “you’re not the real imposter! Where’s the real imposter!?”.

And then I told you about it.

Good night.

Sam.