Pick Up That Gauntlet. But Only If It’s Absurdly Heavy
Posted: May 14, 2017 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: biblical, biceps, Farmyard, hammers, Humour, livestock, Medieval, mountains, New Zealand, Weight lifting, Weird Leave a commentI’ve gone and gotten an urge to bulk up and bulk out lately.
Perhaps I’ve been standing too near the mountains. The show-off “look-at-my-snow-tufted-peaks” mountains. Those “ooh-I-bet-you-wish-you-were-as-riddled-with-goats-as-I-am”mountains. Mountains with an entourage of Sherpas playing fifes in their immovable wake.
Maybe I’ve been too long in the too near mountains, but that’s New Zealand for you…and for me. Still better than the old Zealand.
Perhaps it’s not ‘Zea-land’, but rather instead ‘Zeal-and…’; thereby leaving you with fact that Kiwis are espousers of zeal and…whatever else you’d like to add. It’s pleasant when national identity is a matter of, first, enthusiasm and, second, whatever else you’d like to add.
Like laziness. One could be be enthusiastic and then lazy, 100% dedicated push towards not really being bothered about it. Enthused lethargy.
Not that I’m saying Kiwis are vehement recliners, because that seems a tad racist and if I’m going to be racist I’m going to save it up for a good one (brace yourselves…Scandinavians).
Scandinavia…that’s another common hangout for mountains; the sort of mountains that once did terrible things to handmaidens or gave birth to longboats, or other ancient Scandinavian strangeness.
But to be like a mountain; I’ll give it a go.
I’m beginning with lifting some heavy shit, but not actual weights.
I’m going to improvise variously, such as by lifting a shipwreck’s timber or a conveniently proximate boulder.
However, best place to find a new heavy thing for up-and-downing is a farm. Sure, armfuls of bundled hay and discipline-inducing muck for shovelling, but mainly livestock, for the best things to lift for applicable strength are things that wiggle, and wriggle is rampant in the farmyard.
For there lay the beasts that have the ancient instinct of not-knowing what being lifted up is, but know in their gut they must not allow it to happen to them by any and all means deemed appropriate at the time of departure from the ground. It should be one of those situations in which the animal is so pissed off that the majority of noises it makes are coming out of its nose. An articulate snort of sorts.
If they don’t wiggle or kick, then it’s one of those animals that naturally climb people, like scenery.
Complimentary though it maybe to be considered vast enough to be a place to spend an afternoon (“I think I’ll have tea at Sam…perhaps the elbow region.”), it doesn’t count as lifting. Even if a horse climbs you; that’s down to the horse, not you.
And when the animals become willing to be lifted…rotate your sheep, sir.
Keep an unwilling yet steady procession of animals a’coming, thoroughly unprepared for being hoisted and lunged at the sky as though eager contrary proof against the cloud’s accusing suggestion that you don’t have any sheep to hand.
And the method works! My biceps nowadays…they’re why animals think of me as scenery, like a valley.
You know when the show-off body builders kiss their biceps? Well, I can’t help but do that, because mine are near my lips perpetually, being a bit of a sizeable bother to be honest.
My biceps are so large; they’re near. Near the dog, near the hat stand, near the computer, my wife complains when my biceps get in her light whilst she reads…and her soup.
More importantly…Forearms. You’ll want nice manly firearms, naturally the kind that make your daughter’s suitors know that you can…just…keep…hammering, in a rugged checkered shirt, whilst your beard looks on sternly and bushily.
How illegal is a hammer anyway?
Hammers give me confidence, less son-in-law strife and and forearms that bulge like I’ve got a problem.
Bulging is either a sign of the absurdly healthy (healthy to the point of arousal) or desperately done-for. And I’m the former.
You don’t even need nails, though some earplugs to hand and ear might be advisable. And then, thoroughly deaf, you can show the ground why you live on top of it. Make it pay for abandoning those sheep and other livestock to your lofty ambitions of cloud collisions.
Hammer, mallet, axe; all these are tremendous for the forearms and greatly decreases the proximity of those you want, increases the distance of those you don’t want, and adjusts the altitude at which you prefer your sheep to be.
I say sheep, but there’s nothing more biblical than ‘oxen’ to lift.
When you go ‘oxen’; you’re too-too-much in general terms.
Like as a wedding gift. Once an oxen would have been an ideal wedding gift, sitting patiently as a future grandchild’s inheritance, between the toasters and bed sheets. Now though, that oxen is too-too-much.
‘Biblical’ is a hell of a method of overkill though.
5000 people for dinner and serving just fish and loaves of bread? With some suspiciously watery wine? And then retaliating to a rude comment at the water-wine bar by flooding the Earth? Rounding things off by killing yourself to one of the worst torturous deaths imaginable and then saying to people as they walk back to their seats from the bar: “I’m doing this for you, y’know. How about some applause!? If it’s not to much to ask?! Can’t do its myself obviously, can I?!”
Biblical is one way, but medieval is quite another.
Like chucking down a gauntlet and expected other folk to be suitably insulted by it, thereby picking up the gauntlet prior to you both killing each other’s employees.
If you’re going to take part in that daftness, at least make it a heavy gauntlet.
That’ll do for today’s…whatever this is. I wouldn’t call it advice, as I’m more that chap your teachers and parents warned you about regarding being told to jump off a bridge.
Remember.
Variety and weight. Every day. Check the farmyard.
Conditions are perfect.
Silly enough?
Sam
Donald and Kim; Bunker Kings
Posted: April 27, 2017 Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: donald trump, Humour, North Korea, nuclear bombs, Nuclear war, Weird Leave a commentThis is the beginning of the end?
Nah.
The end of the beginning? I think not…
This is the interval, the intermission, in which you can pop out for a tiny tub of ice cream and swiftest of halfs before dashing back, on ringing bell’s command, to the theatre of war in which we all are about to get a front row seat (aka splash zone).
Apocryphal writing certainly is the most enjoyable! Perhaps it because of the confidence of correctness. There’s nothing better than the burden of proof than occasions on which you’ve got some proof.
And when writing about the end of the world; you’re correct.
In so far as it as an eventuality, at least. The end of the world has been about to arrive since the amalgamation of those two other twirling balls of matter in space collided and, in doing so (and with an admirable degree of spinning), created Earth.
The beginning signifies the end.
But at least the end signifies a new beginning, be it terrible or perfect.
This has been the size and shape of things for our species ever since we became self aware and our grandparents died.
Where on Earth did they go? Is being 99 and riddled with as much disease as can be squeezed in and out of a human body any excuse to go all stiff and allow the rats to nibble at you?
It would seem so.
But now we have a different reason to pass away promptly.
Nukes.
Nuclear war is the war of the most privileged people to ever exist. Only the premiers of nations and the wealthiest of individuals can survive the burnt out horror of the post nuke age.
One bomb can be lived with, as can a thousand more. It is the possession of these bombs by two opposing sides that causes the Earth’s mantel to tremble and turn a shade of green (from pre-nuke nerves, as we all have, to the post splash radiation and tremors).
‘People’ are what really spoil nuclear bombs.
Not merely owing to being the species with the necessary articulation of fingers to be able to raise the middle one in rudeness and then push down on that now infamous yet never seen big red button.
We also spoil them because of the reaction we have to them; all that ghastly melting business, and the smell we give off. Fireman supposedly dislike pork products owing to the similar stench humans waft from within as they burn. I can’t imagine the smell of the atomic bacon we’d whiff off in the fallout age.
Most of the world doesn’t have the means to protect their individual selves from the day to day turbulence of life on Earth; we can’t afford the sheet metal, concrete and luxury of height. Tsunamis and volcanoes wreak as much devastation for the modern Italian as it did for the Romans.
Nuclear war is a pastime of the privileged; those in command of prime real estate bunker at a fashionable depth of 2 miles below sea level with canned caviar to last them till their own stiffness sets in and they can find themselves conveniently pre-buried.
A war of the 0.0001% and New Zealand; wealth and geography, social position and distance from ground-zero.
I used to be a fan of Mutually Assured Destruction.
I believed that those who rose to positions of power had taken a route of hard effort over many years all whilst inspired by the ambition that drives those easily lured by the mix of power and comfort that wealth and politics brings.
These days (oh ‘these days’ aren’t what they used to be), I find myself not trusting the politicians.
A stupid comment perhaps, but my trust in politicians used to be in their ubiquitous self-preservation. This is harder to witness than ever.
North Korea is one thing, but paired stubbornly with Donald Trump…we only know what we don’t know and we don’t know what the fucks going to occur.
Two megalomaniacs, two walking (albeit one with severe gout and one with several solid gold sticks of his own choosing up his arse) definitions of megalomania, in contest. Both with the capability and, potentially, the will to ruin life for all others so long as we can all finally agree that HE is the BEST person.
We are in a popularity contest for ‘Best Person’.
Both knows he is the best person, both are in contrary opinion of the other.
What is unique here is that both would undoubtedly love to be the other.
Kim Jong-un would love to live in America, in palaces suffering from an architect with Midas’ Touch, and the thrill of eating nothing but Emmentile cheese and watching US films all day, smoking and widening; isn’t he just great…
Trump on the other hand would kill (obviously…) to lead a rogue nation in which national edict was to praise him as a god, have every wish granted to him on pain of death, and be able to watch parade after parade of high footed stamp-down marches all in honour of how smashing he is; isn’t he just great…
And these two are locking their squelchy and floppy horns together in a deadly contest of grotesque will and self importance.
The Royal ‘We’ (and all other ‘we’s come to that) are the battle field.
Nuclear fodder.
Here’s a transcript of a recent telephone chat between the two Dickheads of State…
Trump: “Do what we want or we’ll kill everyone on earth!”
Kim Jong-un: “Yeah? Just try it Mr; and WE’LL kill everyone on earth!”
Trump: “Aside from you and me of course…”
Kim Jong-Un: “Naturally.”
Because, of course, there’s no chance either of them will die in this nuclear exchange.
Bunkers are the Versailles of the future.
They could turn their keys and introduce a far more proletariatless existence.
Of course, it’ll be an existence of easily imaginable torment and toil.
Proletariat grow potatoes and beef, proletariat guard you whilst you sleep, proletariat lift the heavy goods and hurt their backs, and the wars of the world are fought and died by them, their parents and their children.
Inherent wretchedness made more tolerable via good wifi.
This being as this is being, it by no means infers that the proletariat are about to start being thought and cared for by their nuclear-proof Dickheads of State. Nor are these wretched about to demand their rightful lot.
I have no faith that they shall.
For this brave new world encourages you to stay the fuck in, sit the fuck down and eat, smoke, drink, breed, diminish and die after allotted working hours. You deserve to be distracted from the political process by the noble deeds of Saturday night television, and it about time you treated yourself to some diabetes-on-toast.
We’re just going to keep rolling forward, like a fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag (I could poeticise with such words as “slumber” and “dream touched dozing” but “fat man trying to emerge from a sleeping bag” works better) until the leaders are heroes.
Because ‘these days’ are what ‘these days’ used to be, but I have one hope.
I hope these men realise the horrendous enormity of what might be about to occur.
For if they push the button of infamous bigness and redness…they might never enjoy a drop of finest cognac again, for who would brew it?
An extremely well-done steak of prime male beef (I’m sure they’ll only eat males because even dinnertime’s a contest with what’s on the plate) won’t be available…for who’d raise, slaughter, cook and serve it?
After a hard day’s dictating…you want to come home to the finest things in life, and you can’t have that without the more unfortunate specimens in life…like you.
And me.
So, in theory, I suppose we’re saving the world, so long as Donald and Kim realise this.
And I sincerely hope they haven’t stockpiled canned caviar and crates of Hennessy; those Bunker Kings.
Here’s hoping to see you underground,
Sam
Humanity Won; Kangaroo Didn’t
Posted: April 22, 2017 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., culture, Matters that Matter, writing | Tags: Australia, boxing, combat, humanity, Humour, internet, kangaroo, success, Weird, writing 1 CommentI have never been more proud of my species than the occasion on which I watched the video of an Australian man squaring up with and punching a Kangaroo.
To begin, this was not one of those cruel kangaroo-boxing charades as per the Victorian era…it was a kangaroo that deserved to be punched and man that deserved to do the punching.
To set the scene of this wonderful moment, it begins sadly.
A young Australian man has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, meaning that his life is a great deal more ‘over’ than the rest of us currently walking around.
This being so, the chap is still luckier than a fair many people; because he has his friends who are insistent on taking him out to live life whilst it’s still liveable.
So this friend takes his very ill pal out to do what they both enjoy most; hunting with their dogs in their jeep.
Here is where the video begins.
A shakily held camera (a shakily held camera is forgivable considering cancer) atop the jeep, Aussie outback whizzing past and distressed calls of the men looking for their dogs which appear to have disappeared.
As it turns out, they had a fear of what had become of their hounds, and the fear was confirmed.
The motor pulls to a stop and a man, the friend, leaps down and begins walking towards what we can now see; a large dog in the unfriendly embrace of a very large Grey Kangaroo (‘the big kind’).
The man is walking towards the two animals with manly purpose; and here’s why that’s brave.
A Grey Kangaroo is about 5-feet-something tall and filled with testosterone and all the muscly meat that entails.
Have you ever seen a shaved chimp? Whilst casually reaching for a banana you’ll see their arms ripple with all sorts of unnecessary-yet-insisted-upon-by-nature muscles, and a kangaroo is no different.
In a permanent ‘look at my muscles’ pose, a lone male Grey Kangaroo is highly aggressive and will happily consider your garden as it’s new pot to piss in.
Along with this, the kangaroo is deadly owing to one weapon in its arsenal; the tail.
Usually seen as a mere aid to its hopping about the wilderness, it is in fact like a crocodile’s tail; filled with muscle and unyielding bone, not prehensile but it’ll make you apprehensile (but only if you’ll excuse poor puns) when you discover it’s trick.
When fighting, kangaroos might look as though they are indulging in a bitchy little face pushing fight, with scratching being the order of the day, but this is not the end all. For the deadly strike, the kangaroo will lean back on it’s bewilderingly now-leg-like tail (currently holding its entire bodyweight) and proceed to kick out with its legs into the abdomen of the opponent.
Picture a tripod bouncing across the Australian landscape, only you didn’t realise this until too late and now its going to involve that third leg most unfairly in a fight.
The force breaks bone, and should claw catch flesh: the belly can easily be carried off and away.
To tackle this takes guts, as it is your ‘guts’ that can also quickly be staining your bush shoes and the kangaroo’s toes.
That is what this man is walking towards, with oh-so-perfect a purpose.
The kangaroo sees the approaching Aussie male, and let’s the dog escape (with which it appreciatively flees).
The man is now right up to the kangaroo, and there is a hell of a lot of testosterone in the air this afternoon.
He and the kangaroo both square up, with the Roo bulking out and the man shaking loose like Bruce Lee as he adapts to a boxing pose.
And then, the man promptly puts his hand though the kangaroo’s chin.
Through it’s chin.
Butter.
Like UTTER BUTTER.
And I’m standing up and yelling “YEEEESSSS” at this, in my cosy bedroom at home, thousands of miles away and two weeks later.
The kangaroo waves is arms in pathetic yet vital little spirals in effort to keep balanced whilst it leans back dependently on its deadly secret weapon of a third leg.
The look on its face is of be-fucking-whilderment.
Befucklement.
It does not have the processing skills demanded of it now to understand the tuned ability of this incredible species: humanity.
Exactly how to stand so as to generate adequate power for the punch, precisely where to aim and land the blow through the now-since-buttery chin of the kangaroo, and the compassion of heart to not have your mate’s trip spoiled by the loss of another great friend to our species: dogs.
The kangaroo is entirely and irrevocably undone by the chap’s species, his knuckles and his good form.
The standing up for your species and your mates is the pinnacle of what we should be spending our time doing and this could not have been better (like BUTTER) exemplified here.
Kangaroo defeated, humanity the victor, this Australian man nods his head in appreciation of the occasion (“Yeah.” would fit well here) turns, and walks away, back to his dog and his mate to enjoy the rest of their trip together.
My hero and yours.
The statement is ultimate.
The next time we have a chance do this this it might be Aliens…so get your shit together, do some push-ups and hug your mates.
Well done sir; bravo humanity.
Sam
Video here: http://youtu.be/FIRT7lf8byw
(Disclosure: A kangaroo WAS mildly hurt during the making of the article, but it was being a bully dick and deserved it.)
Oh I Could Just Eat You Up
Posted: April 18, 2017 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., culture, Uncategorized, writing | Tags: Anatomy, cannibalism, diet, grandmother, Humour, love, relationships, Weird Leave a commentI want to eat my wife’s legs.
It comes from a place of love, I can assure you of that, though there is also a chance some small percentage of inspiration comes from a small breakfast.
We have an agreement, you see, in which, as our hearts, lives and bank accounts have become entwined, as have our shared ownership of body parts.
Those are OUR bosoms and that is OUR foreskin, so on and so very much forth.
There are limbs and sundry which have special ownership, however, such as my ready greediness for my wife’s legs.
I’m not sure why, but as time has passed in our whirlwind of passionate going-steadiness, my mouth has passed from open mouthed awe at my wife’s physical form (along with the very decent form of being eager to involve me upon it) to closed mouthedness – with teeth bitten down and much attempted chewing upon a choice buttock.
Probably just arousal, though I feel sure there are connotations of good old cannabalistic adoration…eating the hearts of one’s enemies can only fall more pale to the good etiquette of eating that of a lover’s, whilst I am also confident it’s simple good forward thinking.
Plane crashes were an awfully ‘2016’ thing to occur, but this year might decide to replicate with me dangerously strapped in to my seat.
I can envisage plowing down, cockpit first into the scorched ground of Saharan desert, peanuts and hostesses flying every which way, before blacking out holding my wife’s hand.
Coming to, still with a hand to hold but no wife in sight, I would eventually come about to find her, and seeing this am overcome by grief and an attack of the munchies.
From then on it’s something to chew over whilst considering my future in canabalism.
Of course, this is all nonsense.
Whilst I do encounter a peculiar urge to nibble upon my wife’s legs when I stumble upon a glimpse of them, I don’t want eat my wife.
Perhaps I should simply eat a trifle more (as two trifles evidently isn’t enough…actually, please help me with my trifle habit) prior to our bath time.
This being said, I still do have a degree of autonomy of regions of my Mrs.
We’ve agreed, I get her thighs, whilst my forehead is all hers.
I want her thighs because they are too pure a specimen for her to spoil with some form of “I’m a spiritual wanderer and foot-first hippie” tattoo involving ‘swishy’ lines as if you’ve really got a David-Bowie-starry-summer-breeze on your leg…and a horsie.
Plus they’re simply a smashing pair of pegs.
And she has intentions on my forehead. Not sure why. To hang art from it at some point possibly; it is a rather large forehead and we all have a calling…even foreheads and I.
All this about eating my wife is merely how I feel regarding munching on the public, but I’m not so sure, not so sure at all, about grandmothers.
“Oh I could just eat you up” they’ll say.
And, yes, they jolly well could, but not without a fight and a retaliatory chomp.
Do you have the fortitude to beat off a granny of steadily advancing years and worryingly advancing nashers?
Whilst I’m confident of being socially comfortable with belting a granny about the nose and ears with her own handbag/Yorkshire terrier, I know all too well of chums falling to the dentures and hideously successful gumming of a starved granny who thinks they’re adorable.
Not to mention, these old women are riddled with spare teeth, meaning that they could eat you with dentures in both hands AND with the mouth.
“Ooh ain’t he lovely Doris!?”
“Oh yes Marge, but try him with gravy.”
Most unagreeable.
Personally, I’d have to view the whole encounter as a fine selection of fellow-filled grins from which to elect the most helpful to knuckle heavily before running home to my wife and urging us to eat more before babysitting any potential future grandchildren.
I truly-doodly-do write some strange things throughout my articles.
However, I’d like to remind everyone not to eat anyone and vice versa, unless you find them in a prime state for eating, just remember to wash all hands before cooking. And feet. And sundry.
And don’t forget, canibalism leads to larger larders but fewer friends…not a pleasing alliteration when realising one is a direct result of the other.
So; not chewing, but nibbling.
Sam
When Encountering a Clown; Consider Laughing. And Cricket Bats
Posted: October 27, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: clowns, daddy, funny, grenade, Humour, Likes, MI5, smoke, Weird Leave a commentHas anyone thought that the most appropriate thing to do when they see a clown is to laugh?
We’re discussing a fucking loser, a ranked and certified loser, a loser who excels at loserhood.
How will you find something to do with your life? How about dousing your throat in makeup, putting a mask on, finding the most creepy looking knife from your mum’s kitchen draw and then hanging out in a cornfield until some teenagers come along?
And your primary objective?
You’re trying to impress people, aren’t you?
Doubt not, right along with me, that these honkers are the sort to go home after they’ve hung out in the wheat field for a few hours, feeling satisfied with their contribution to the zeitgeist, like those Anonymous arseholes.
There’s a good deal of arseholehood in wearing a mask, especially if you say you’re a good guy.
Not quite as arseholehood as a guy running at your car, hoping you pull away just in time.
They must plead in your head that you make it away in time, otherwise they’re going to be so embarrassed at the point of capture they’re going to have to murder someone because…they’ve gone this far and can’t back down now.
It’s like Trump only with slightly less ridiculous hair.
Imagine the picture as the clown loses his nerve, whilst a car full of adults with children and mortgages (positively riddled with children and mortgages), maybe with an alpha male whose been longing for an opportunity to protect his family.
There are men with cubicle jobs, dealing with traffic every morning and every night, coming home to an aging wife, expanding waistline, a despondent south facing penis and decreasingly enjoyable children, being told by his boss that he needs to try harder if he’s truly serious about this junior role, and he can’t even play cricket anymore because his daughter’s soccer class is more important and he has to visit his wife’s dad who calls him a pussy whenever he’s out of the room…any then he sees a clown staring at his car.
Walking towards him with that “Trust-me-I’m-disturbed-like-in-the-films” angle of the neck, with his mother’s most Hollywood kitchen knife dangling down at his side, his pace quickening. And then DAD remembers he’s still got his cricket bat in the boot of the car.
Oh he’ll be thanking the strange-ass culture of the world that has brought this clown into his life.
And he can’t wait to see what amusing noises will eminate from this clown.
That’s a good point; it excuses people from devastating a clown’s joke.
I’ve never actually met a clown, but I’ve reviewed the history and it would seem you’re supposed to laugh at them. Not that that’s the point; you should laugh at these losers with a honk noise because this is their Friday night.
Having a honk doesn’t make you a clown, it makes you a loser in a mask who, because of that, feels like they’re free from consequences; and the consequence of running at towards me wearing a mask and holding a machete whilst a honking noise emits from you is – I’m going to whip out my pocket baseball bat and ruin the joke.
Clowns: laugh at them.
And keep a cricket bat handy in case of potential losers trying to get a personality.
I would also like to say a quick “Hullo” to MI5 who are reading in currently.
Do you think that when you chaps drop by it could be a tad less clandestine; as I could really do with the views.
And I plan to achieve that by mentioning what follows.
I am holding a smoke grenade and just so happen to also currently be feeling fairly flippant towards the establishment.
I DON’T CARE IF IT’S A LEGAL SMOKE GRENADE BOUGHT AT A PAINTBALLING SESSION…you should still click on my page.
The smoke grenade is mightier than the pen, so sayeth the struggling writer holding a smoke grenade for maximum effect.
I am qualified.
Flaunting the potential of a terrorist threat should do get the hordes of admiring MI5 agents flocking to my page and ‘Liking’ it.
It’s almost as dreary as asking trying to impress people by wearing a clown mask.
I hope MI5 like me.
They’d better.
Or I’ll let off this smoke grenade in my room and show everybody.
That’ll do for today; next time I’ve got some choice words for sharks and why Hemmingway was right to machine gun them.
Thanks,
Sam
Sugar, Sugar, You’re My Daddy
Posted: September 25, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: equality, football, funny, Gender, Humour, Jesus, Joseph, Mary, men, obesity, sexism, soccer, Weird, Women, writing Leave a commentOh jeez I’ve craving for my issue.
My very own issue.
My dependency on sugar has escalated to the point where it being moulded into a typical food format; such as a chocolate bar or a cupcake; really is too indirect for me.
I’m close to putting it straight in the eye; I promise.
Honey is something I spend my time doing.
And, guys, I don’t even use cutlery.
And, guys, I avoid involving bread.
And, fellas, I can’t stop eating honey.
Aaaaaahhhhhhh fuck it.
There’s a woman in the staffroom having a womanly issue. She’s teary and hot; the sort of occasion where women gather around and I am despised because by being in the same workplace I’m too proximate. With my manly genitals in tow.
I’m feeling like I’ve done something.
Overtones of “Bloody men” are emanating from them all.
A crowd’s gathering; the government says to avoid these by women just keep it right up.
It’s not my fault you’re menstruating; if you didn’t want that you should’ve gotten yourself pregnant.
Chocolate is going to be applied here. Liberally. I can tell.
And that’s my fault; don’t’cha know?
It’s honestly as if women don’t know that men can tell when a woman’s chemical imbalance is so volatile that we feel urged to wear a helmet and keep our knees together.
Lay your egg at home.
I’d would genuinely take the economically devastating consequences of an egg-laying woman staying at home and returning only with an empty vagina.
Of course I’m being facetious; I’m not really that sexist.
I’m just being funny; like only men can be because women aren’t.
Joking, gals.
I’m not so sure about many of these arguments regarding gender equality.
Obviously men are bigger and women are better at giving birth; but every point after that I feel falls by the wayside.
Sexism could have a place in society; but we’ve all got too much to be getting on with, especially each other (hey – give peace a chance; siblings).
Sexism only has one place in two arenas and they are physical sports and humour.
The chances are that Mary didn’t match up to Joseph when it came to lifting the lumber, but she didn’t even need him when it came to bursting forth a Messiah.
Not that any of this is true, by the general idea carries over.
For, yeigh, there shall be-eth cases in which a Mary can lift more lumber than some spindly-Joe, and they’ll be a Joseph out there, someday, who is so supreme at multi-tasking; he can raise for you the most charming of Messiahs and even carve up a really rather fancy cross to nail him to in a thirty three years time.
Actually; that’s…Yeigh, some dayeth, the word shall come forth, and that word shall verily be “Semen”.
I truly dislike the insinuation that mothers are the cradle of life.
Only my wife is privy to the mysterious contents of my ball sack and she shalleth voucheth that, YEIGH, that semen is surely mighty.
Just try, darling, just try to have a baby without the involvement of a man, and his goods, and his very goods.
You, sister, can give birth, but I can paint the walls with what I’ve got to give – now thats miraculous.
The physical side of sexism is altogether an accepted state of affairs.
Women, the best of them, can be just as tactically sound as a man in military conditions. But when it comes to a punch-up; Mother-Mary’s getting knocked the fuck out.
Take myself.
I could walk into a UFC ring to engage in combat with a mediocre trained female fighter and she would, within a minute, have me pleading for her to get her knee out of my mouth (or perhaps to leave it in there; but those are my issues and not for discussing right now).
Take that same UFC fighter and give her an absolute, fledgling, greenie, newby trained fighter to get punchy with and he will take her face away with him.
The same premise carries over to other sports.
World-Football. I’ve seen those female footballers play and I’ve been highly impressed; in particularly by their set-pieces and ball skills.
Put a top-flight female football team against a lower-league men’s division and those talented young ladies are going to need the rest of their careers’ off to get over the bruising.
And to think I started this Write about my sugar intake. Remember my issue?
That’s something female sports stars can look forward to as long as chaps like myself are sucking that sugar down, gradually becoming a meatball that can be undone by a sudden need to stand up quickly.
That’s a thought, oh my yes it is!
So, female footballers have altered their game to become less physical and more tactic-based.
Even blind folk play football, and their game is altered to cope with this and use their skills best.
Why not a fat-chap league?
A game in which pace is a matter of the fastest waddler.
Shooting can remain the same, set-pieces the same too, along with passing and skills.
It just means that goalies stand a better chance owing to sheer mass and the defensive wall for free kicks is going to have to have one hell of a curve ball put around it to make it past.
The downside would have to be that these people are supposed to be role models. And role models shouldn’t be named as such because they continue to roll down-pitch owing to a particularly influential tackle.
Ball-shaped men are not applicable; it would seem.
I’ve got a radical new diet to hopefully ensure this sport never sees the light of day.
It involves more water than previously and far less of eating fistfuls of honey raw from the jar (as was my former method of getting by in the evenings).
But I’ve run out of time; so I’ll tell you on the next Write.
See you tomorrow,
Sam
Today Was a Pink Donkey Day
Posted: September 25, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., Donald Trump; On His Level, Uncategorized | Tags: comedy, funny, Humour, positivity, Sociology, toys, Trump, Weird Leave a commentI 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,
Sam
I Sleep-Off Syphilis. I Walk-Off Amputation
Posted: August 22, 2016 Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live | Tags: absurdism, disease, fashion, funny, postivity, self improvement, Strange food, Weird Leave a commentYou’ve got to feel pity for crabs.
Naturally I’m referring to the wee-itty-bitty pubic habitants.
They’re on the way out – fucked to a degree even they’ve never seen before.
Fucked to irony.
A shame for sure, yet I spy and opportunity here; partly coming from being sparky in mind, largely due to feeling horny (whilst being hornly-felt; what a way to write!) and mostly owing to hunger.
Here we have a delicacy that only need be made delicate.
Some ballroom, some European Duke, some Governess spoiling us, a silver platter encumbered with the delights of the finest-bred higher-class prostitutes of Paris; specially bred crabs.
On a stick.
I could bring that about…it’s not as though I’m to be afflicted with the creepy little entrees.
I’m not the sort to have a hard time for medical reasons; that’s not very me.
My immune system is on the offensive and highly offensive.
It teases Gonoreah and bloodies the nose of bleeding noses.
I only bleed for the drama and the sexuality of the moment; matching my outfit and causing a stir when I enter ballrooms (one of my favourite things to enter; aside from women dazzled by my resistance to the entrees).
Bleeding only succeeds in certain areas.
Such as my chest; which can only bleed through three claws scratches, tentatively exposing what’s beneath my shirt.
An indistinct patch of blood on the bicep looks grand too, although only whilst fighting a revolutionary cause and waving a flag. The wound must also be tightly bound in a sexy rag gifted to me by some impassioned wench, who’s also holding my musket for me.
The old wounds were the best. An arrow gouge gets one into so many more clubs than one of these modern “car crash seat-belt whip” wimpy modes. How’s that meant to impress a bouncer; just because one is wearing a windshield?
Bleeding goes so well with black. And not everything does.
Whilst they say black goes with everything, this refers purely to colour. However, though the colour might well go and indeed bugger off with black, it doesn’t mean the substance the colour is of can accompany it also.
For example, as stated, red goes with black; blood goes with black.
Pale grey goes with black; vomit does not.
Vomit only goes well with buckets and humorous landings splats of your current scenario.
I saw Yellow Fever, which goes very poorly with black by the way, in the street a few days ago, or rather I saw its cowardly coloured back as it whizzed away to take out its frustrations on South East Asia.
My immune system does have a tendency to take no prisoners and gift no mercy.
Such as the time malaria got me.
It was a short and chilly summer that spring, with the birds singing sweetly beneath the water and the sun rising early after a brief lunchtime siesta. In other words; times were absurd; permit me a tad absurder.
What did you do to malaria Sam?
Why I’ll tell ya. I took that innocent young malaria strain into my broad and willowy arms and though it struggled immensely, we eventually reached an amicable forced marriage.
Followed by several beautiful and lethal offspring (I wasn’t on the pill), after which my malaria-bride made a break for it with dreams of being either a vet or a contagion. It was at this point I nobly threw acid in its face and told it to get to scrubbing whatever the fuck I told it to scrub.
You have to keep these diseases in their place, otherwise they’ll get all uppity and start demanding higher pay and penetrating your central nervous system.
I’m not at all certain as to why, but I’ve an urge to reassure you all that I do not consider women to be a negative thing, especially when compared to diseases or injuries.
I do however find funny things funny; equating with the previous.
I sleep-off syphilis.
I walk-off amputation.
I begrudge malaria receiving an education.
I am prepared to cater to the fancy ball with pubic crabs on sticks because I’m a fancy motherfucker with pubic ideas.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Now go kick smallpox in the derrière.
Plus…GIRL POWER!
Sam
Gallant Without Option
Posted: July 12, 2016 Filed under: Brief...therefore witty., writing | Tags: chivalry, comedy, finance, funny, gallantry, Humour, masculinity, Weird, writing Leave a commentIt’s all in the shoulders.
Every last bit.
I lift.
And I can’t stop.
My shoulders are so gallant; I can’t help but ferry a woman over a gender-barricading obstacle upon mere sight.
I carried so many woman down 12 flights of stairs recently that I had to buy new shoes.
It’s all in the shoulders.
And I can’t get it out.
The cost of shoes is one expense to cause my wallet to shrivel in fear; yet this is merely loose change compared to my outgoings in the cost of capes.
My capes; my capes.
Once the talk of the town and vocality of the locality.
Now they either wait for me patiently as hostages in my dry cleaners till payment matters are met, or they lay drowned in an irrelevant pool I could not bear for a good and find lady to dare dirty her soles within.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Not in the slightest bit in the swing.
My hopes that my swooping swing of a really rather dashing glove my give cause to the insulter of my latest and sudden beloved suffer an embarrassed cheek, rather than myself to suffer from one hand gloved and another gripping once-pleasing remnants.
My glove bill brings tears to my eyes and drool to my tailor’s chin.
I must work more on my swing, less on my shoulders.
But one cannot bear a weight in one’s swing.
Only cause a whooshing sound.
It’s all in the shoulders.
Rather than lifting; I think I’ll take up dropping.
Sam
The Lateral Column 