Solving Unemployment via Nice Guys.

Oh I’ve got an initiative chaps!

One of those plans to have my name go down and up again in history; as opposed to making any money in the slightest.

Aw.

Maybe I can charge people for putting my name in the history books. Oh look! Another initiative!

Forget that one. I don’t want people refusing to talk to me so as to save money.

My friends are undoubtedly more economic than they are loyal.

Frugal traitors.

They won’t be mentioned in the history books with me; those things are too crowded any way.

So I just looked up historically irrelevant people to back up my own claim that history books are too crowded and it would seem I can’t find anyone who didn’t matter.

Quaint.

However, I did get to enjoy reading about the magical history of Irish slavery; in which those Irish were still third class. One of those accent racisms. Or maybe you could tell by the hair.

Or the Irish telling people they were Irish.

That’s an Irish joke. And that’s ok; I’ve probably got some Irish in me.

Once there was a time when having the wrong accent left you in the lurch in life. Being able to pull off a really-rather-jolly-good-old-posh accent must have been more applicable than having legs.

Fucking legs.

Getting by without those is just…floppy.

Nothing worse than legs you don’t need; like a pair of empty tights filled with jelly.

A floppy scar; no thanks ma’m.

They might be funny to lovingly whack people with though.

Plus it would unsettle people when they realise that thing on their shoulder is an exceedingly soft foot.

Legs that don’t work, however, is not my initiative!

Companies hire Nice Guys to be helpful in the street.

These professional Nice Guys should be approachable; helping folk in the street, offering bag carrying and first aid.

Companies can then plaster these Nice Guys in sponsorship advertising.

“Nice Guys; brought to you by Ford!”

Can you deny, and I dare you to do so, the genius of this plan?

I’d take a sponsorship.

Think I’ll ask my buddy, ole’ Simon, ole’ slim. Would you like to have your name, and only your name (oi…Simon), on my chest?

I’ll tell you who else deserves sponsorships…Spacemen. And Spacewomen.

They are the greatest people to ever live in the times that they live in.

Whilst you might have Da Vinci, Columbus, etc…these are the guys who are going to fuck the next species we collide with, in war and peace and love.

Only thing is that Spacemen can’t write prose for shite…Shakespeares they are not.

Cats are likely the next choice of astronaut. Give them some simple buttons to push in an easy order and they’re superior to the next fat chap in a chair.

Once they’ve finished being casual ninjas, that is.

A cat is the most casual of ninjas to have hanging from your mail-box, meowing to be let in; the deceiver.

A ninja. A sexy, sexy ninja-cavalier-that can kill you if it wants. On such a whim; it’s technically whimsical.

I dislike the suggestion that a cat is a fragile ickle-wickle cutie pie owing to the fact that when the bombs start to drop; chances are the cat will outlast me.

The cat will be the bully in the street who slinks on over and takes all your canned food and essential balls of string I’ve been saving for none-of-your-fucking-business reasons.

They CAN kill you if they want; all they need is a pit to nudge your nibbled-to-pieces-corpse into in the afterwards.

They might need an incentive; but they’ll kill you with an attitude denoting that you’re not cool enough to know why they did you in.

I once knew a chap who permanently looked as though he was just realising his balls with being nibbled by a kitten. A mix of revulsion, shock and finally guilt at having had such an interaction with the cat to cause this tremendous turn around in fortune.

Maybe you’ll all have that look upon your faces someday soon. Not just because cats aren’t nibbling your bollocks owing to a career in space, more so because my business idea works so well.

You’re welcome.

See you soon.

Sam

Advertisements

Sam Wood; Lately

I holidayed in Denver, began a new year, moved to London, boated about in Oxford, was profoundly English in Iceland, got engaged beneath Northern Lights upon a different boat, moved to Kent, got promoted and remembered I write articles on the internet and that I should really probably at some point like actually (“totes”) get around to that one day soon with a little bit if “ish” on the end.

How’ve you been?

You inactive pussy you.

Only joking; I’m sure you achieved a great deal.

Like winter.

Congratulations on winter. If you didn’t make it through; you should have tried nudity.

Nudity is a barebones means of communicating to the elements that there’s no real point in trying; your penis can get no smaller and nipples no stiffer. Taking all the puff out of the wind as it were.

I did winter twice and only fell twice, entirely clothed both times just to show how tough I am. Perhaps I should have been naked; just to make a point; a means of ‘point-making’ I am only too happy to put across.

Denver is tremendous; I caber-tossed in the Rockies and defeated every Texan I met at Beer Pong.

Aside from that I have to say a UFC competitor is an extraordinary occupation to hold.

Stepping into a shape (let’s not quarrel over squared circles, rings and octagons) and professionally punching faces. A bad day at the office consists of not punching the other’s face enough; in which case either try harder or yoga. Now; before more fists happen to you.

Plus sponsorships.

Why not sponsor yourself? If you don’t then you have no self-belief in the product.

Upon your trunks should be an emblazoned “ME….motherfucker…”

What a point that emits and a good one at that: “ME….motherfucker…”?

“ME.…motherfucker…” speaks scrolls of worthy output that “Nike” can only dream of.

Oxford is superb; if you haven’t fought a woman in terms of boating and actuality then you haven’t done what I did that day. Maybe this is a recommendation; perhaps it’s just an admission that I fought my now-fiancé with an oar.

As for Oxford…….that’ll do. Plus breakfast was lovely; as were the locals.

I moved lived in South London for a while, commuting into Swale every day.

Commuting is a profitable hobby, for it was whilst I made my way most merrily (and…not really) at 5am from Belvedere (BBEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDEEEEEEERREEEEEEEEEEE!) to work; I remembered reading was an option. I now intend to indulge fully in the art form.

The art form of reading, that is, as opposed to writing (as you can tell).

I’m not a hushed reader; I like to encourage the author along; offering a whoop of appreciation and excitement as the chapters come to peak. It is a robust and healthy method of reading, although the rest of the carriage did turn against me and I was forced to begin to smoulder with intensity in retaliation.

I recommend you do the same. Otherwise I’d be weird and alone on a train.

Plus self-sponsored.

Plus becoming somewhat over-excited about my own enunciation of “Belvedere” (BBEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLLVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEDDDDDDDDDDEEEEEEERREEEEEEEEEEE!).

Oh I’ve sighed in my life; but I’m a superior screamer.

So…Iceland was engaging.

Because I got engaged (fuck puns today).

I asked my girl, the focus of my dreams and the bewilderment of my reality, to be mine for the rest of our lives and she said “Yes.”

Beneath the Northern Lights which danced for us as though tumbling from the heavens and upon us, purely so as to exacerbate the point that life is distinctly going my way and I have no excuse for this.

Perhaps it’s because I just kept smiling.

I don’t deserve any of this; but I’m not giving up a second of this for a lifetime as any tiger-like living there could be; likely since I’ve found my tigress.

And she lays with me.

I intend to write in detail about all of Denver, Oxford, Iceland, engagement and other vital subject matters such as have been scarcely penetrated here (poor buggers); but this will do for now.

Forgive my absence; I’ve been deservedly busy and inexcusably cheerful.

Smiling helps.

Plus I’m the Greatest Human to Ever Live.

And so are you.

Mwah,

Sam