The Greatest Human to Ever Live (Part 4. Make it a Brunch With Moi, Sister)
Posted: September 28, 2015 Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live | Tags: brunch, confidence, Culture, ego, funny, Humour, korea, masculinity, self improvement, self-development, swans, Weird, writing Leave a commentThe Greatest Human to Ever Live
(Part 4. Make it a Brunch With Moi, Sister)
I am the greatest human to ever live.
Especially when the competition has such an admirable ‘keep-at-it’ attitude towards eliminating one another.
I can’t deny the embarrassment I suffer in acknowledgement that it’s all because they’re trying to impress me.
And it does.
Take a look at the budget they use on warfare.
Ahh fuck it.
Fuck this warfare wile-away-the-moment topic whilst instead I could take you firmly by the ears (if you were in the room with me. And had ears. I apologise if you don’t. Wait…no I don’t. Why the fuck should I apologise for your lack of ears?) and blow the contents of the following subject down your ear canal.
Brunch with me is transcendent.
Soon it’ll be a reward for curing only the most high-profile of diseases. The lady who cures missing limbs by replacing it with something more powerful; like a kangaroo.
(“Well, I sure do miss my foot, got a kangaroo on the end of my leg there now. It’s company but kind of fucks up my driving something awful and bouncy.”)
That lady…she can brunch with me.
Brunch with me with will turn any commie. I’ll have them being intimate with a fist full of dollars by the end of it.
Had I brunched in the Cold War there would have been moments with men in dark rooms sitting around cold metal tables with a sloped-shouldered American offering a whole mouthful of: “You know we’ve got brunch with Sam. So get the fuck out of Korea.”
And I’m fine for that to happen; I don’t like Korean communists anyway; they’re ridiculous and have too many statues.
Don’t forget that life imitates art.
Do you want to be marble?
Of course you do, marble like me baby, but I’ll bet a couple of my own feet that that you aren’t looking to suddenly become granite in any way but metaphorical, are you?
No, because you hate Korean communists too, plus they have a silly march.
Plus your silly march is sillier and you deserve some recognition for that but until North Korea falls you’re going to have to restrict your silly march to your own private corridor.
You see, when you’re having brunch with me you feel the gratitude of fortune to have gone to have endured such a classical education that forbade your jaw from dropping, which is prone to happening when you see what I’m about to do with the oatmeal on my foot.
I’m cheeky with the oatmeal, but I use the syrup as though I was bred for it.
You can smell the discipline I emit; albeit tinged by the syrup jug’s wafts.
No good thing is tinged; I expect it’s the connotations of sounding like minge. And that’s a vagina.
And vaginas (at their worst) are the pits; literally.
And penises (at their best) are the tits; metaphorically.
And tits are neither; technically.
All go well when impacting on the brunch counter. All body parts are welcome here; except kangaroos (“fucking up my brunch-bar as though they don’t even know what it’s for! That’s not how you hop on a breakfast bar!”)
If you haven’t been able to deduce to this point by now, I am dunking my body parts in the brunch and, in many ways (many happy, noble ways), am dunking brunch in my body parts.
And here’s why.
Breakfast is stifling – I dislike necessity, particularly regarding phrases such as “well-balanced” and “cornerstone”. Those terms should leave me alone otherwise I might retaliate; somehow. I prefer to be dominant regarding my tummy.
Lunch is redundant; you should be busier.
I pride myself on being too hectic for a sandwich.
Too noteworthy for salad.
Too inevitably going up and down in history as a sweetheart with a tendency to be photographed in chrome for liver.
Liver.
That word should mean more than just…liver.
It should be a base note of humanity; “all that remained was…liver”.
And dinner is disappointing.
If you didn’t find it on the end of that stick you jabbed and bobbed and weaved and threw with; you missed the point entirely (unlike the unfortunate creature impaled. Luckily it was ugly so you gave no fucks) and now we can’t be friends. You disassociated acquaintance you.
At this point I’ve moved on to the meatier part of the meal because I’m too liberal for your typical 09:00-11:30 eating habits.
My eating habits are as though someone attached (inhumanely; because this is just a metaphor and I just feel it exclaims the point better) the engine of a formula 1 racing car to a headless cockerel.
Messy and pointless; but things are happening pleasingly fast, albeit without much progress.
I move on to the meat because I grew bored with oatmeal on my foot, though you should know by now I’m not done with it yet.
Because I’m an oatmeal kicker and I’ll be back for more.
All this while you’re sitting in your seat, much as a seat-sitter would. Not that I sit on seats. You see, seats are what I raise my oatmeal-lathered foot onto so I can rest my arms on my knee and look deep into your arrested and near-wet eyes and explain something to you.
Explaining something like why I’ve got to do what I’m about to do with the waffles.
And from that point forward you are (not hit with, since there’s nothing violent here; only inspiration physical and sweaty – meaning therefore you are…) fucked with the realisation that my current waffle-motif adorning the bosoms and hairdos of all other customers in the three-table radius is for you.
Still messy and pleasingly fast, but no longer pointless and now we’re getting somewhere.
I’m just making you realise how brunch with me can be; just enjoy the unforgettable nature of whatever the fuck is happening right now (you have a pepper in your hair by the way…).
I lean forward to caress it out and the, pardon me, you are overwhelmed by my very own ridiculous masculinity.
You probably took note of my plumage.
My chest hair is like a field of muscular black wheat in a summer’s heat. Far away.
That’s why I tend to be compared to a swan more than any other animal (e.g. a human).
There are three main reasons for this.
- Plumage. Of the two, it’s been said I’m more regal on the externally.
- I can break a man’s arm just by swimming. Proximity irrelevant.
- In many ways now…I am the Queen’s.
My word, I am a marvel at catching women as they swoon.
I’m very last moment too, as I always manage to be granted an audible gasp by those slow and still sitting men (Ha!) surrounding us who have plucked up the courage to watch you descend and wish you all the best as you do so.
My technique is that as you swoon, I swoop. Like the cool coconutty power of a Hawaiian wave, only with the muscular arms of a ballet dancer.
I exercise only by lifting women and kicking doors down. That…and feeding the people between 09:00-11:00. Within a three-table radius.
Brunch with me is bliss to be endured.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Sam
I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 3. You Should Have Kept Your Smile.
Posted: August 28, 2015 Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live | Tags: ego, funny, happiness, Humour, laugh, purple, self-help, Smile, Ukip, Weird, writing Leave a commentYou should have kept your smile.
Because smiling works.
Or else have yourself a prized grimace that denotes to all around you that you’ve completed harder word-searches than them, and they don’t stand a chance.
How you conduct your facial features as you mingle amongst the rest of the species can be the determiner of your destiny.
Being the greatest human to ever live, I smile.
Why shouldn’t I?
My smile is arresting and my grin is criminal.
My laugh is disarming. I buckle out a “ha-ha” as though it were a mix of Muttley’s wheeze and a Welsh choral singer’s bellow.
And it’s also very at you.
‘You’ being everyone in the vicinity.
People hear my laugh and they whip around as though there’s an avalanche of tumbling Santa Clauses’ ho-ho-ing its way towards them, only to see me enjoying a joke I just told.
However, laughing is also a highly pleasurable way of winning an argument.
It’s a matter of insistence.
Such as the time you might invade a UKIP event and ha-ha your way through the diatribe of people desperate to prove they’re not racist. If you were a racist; which party would you vote for?
I’m not a racist, but if I were; I’d vote UKIP.
But there’s one thing more that I find intolerable of UKIP, and naturally it would be me to see this for what it is.
Nigel Farage has stolen the colour purple from us.
Once, purple was a rarity in the urban world. Whereas in some aspects of nature there would be a slash of purple here and there, in the cities there was almost none, aside from the investments made by the wealthy who could afford dye.
Investing in purple.
I’d like to invest in purple, but it seems hard to do that without funding UKIP and I’m just not racist enough for that (although I am slightly racist….I hate Eskimos. Fuck ‘em. What did they ever do for me?).
If my smile, such as what crops up when I’m sure Eskimos aren’t nearby, had a colour then I’d presume it to be purple, but it’s not. It’s a tender yet rugged shade of ‘Handsome’.
The colour ‘Handsome’ is like chocolate, only more muscular. With totally manly nipples. Slightly abnormal, but still more manly than your father and that’s why you’re with me babe. Superior nipples and I’m handsome with a slight anti-Eskimo twist.
Plus I’m the greatest human to ever live.
My smile is like a flower that can bear-hug you so hard that you enjoy the cuddle it becomes.
My smile can, and I’m not sure exactly how (it’s natural science – I don’t need to know. Birds don’t know how they soar and a tumble weed doesn’t know how it tumbles. Just let it be), but my smile can make you fuck off. Just a little of a turn to the left, I think, tilting upwards slightly, let loose a smile and boom; you’ve fucked off.
I would undoubtedly announce on, perhaps, some sort of blogging website that the lower half of my head is the preferential half for when you fancy a conversation.
Whilst my brow is flexible and communicative; it’s easier to have a chat with the lower half of my head.
And other things besides…
I really enjoy cunnilingus. Not enjoying the act perpetrated unto myself as I really don’t have enough vaginas for that (not even one) but I love dolling it out beneath the skirt of the other half of the species.
Why? Because I like being good at something that other guys aren’t.
Like laughing.
Laughing and cunnilingus go hand in hand in terms of a mutual act. Lip to lip.
The clitoris is substantially tingled by the vibrations of a giggling.
Perhaps not side-splitting, but certainly split-siding.
That’s a vaginal joke, that’s why you get it.
And that was an insult-joke and I’m sorry about that.
And that wasn’t a joke. There’s nothing wrong with vaginas and there’s nothing wrong with me being sorry about that.
Damn, I’m a fine writer.
So I’ve got some writing chops, the things I can do with a pen and a keyboard would tickle you beyond the hacky constraints of a weak-wristed journeyman with a quill. And inky fingers.
You can’t have that done to you by a writer with inky fingers. Everyone’d know you’d been tickled.
I can make you tingle with a space bar and you don’t even want to be enlightened as to my history with other people and the insert key.
We got along.
I recall they enjoyed what I had; especially my musk.
Yes. I’ve got a musk.
You should see it. Because you can. It’s purple.
You can see it emanating from me as the sun goes down – like the Northern Lights; only tougher. Tougher in the same way that you can see a bull’s balls. Not an advantage overly; unless you wilt at that sort of thing. But wilting is something I hope for my enemies, particularly in public.
So – to the point – I smell like an overly-purple Northern Lights with testicles on the outside.
My laugh, however, that’s not a thing to be given a name. Just let it be.
My laugh isn’t to be controlled as it is a wild thing let loose only by me, baby. The potency of my laugh can make you swoon in the same manner that my musk’s balls can make you wilt.
That’s how I know you’re enjoying it.
But I’ve got to stay in check with my physical appearance, even I can’t rely solely on musk, smiles, laughter and an incredible lower-face.
So I had a wet shave in a Turkish barbers.
I sat in the chair and awaited the compliments about how their nuclear-age razor equipment wasn’t up to the job of slicing my bristles. My mane. My organic chin-duvet.
I waited, and then they wrapped a towel doused in boiling water over my entire head with just enough gap to allow my nose to poke out.
“Damn” I thought, “I’ve got a cold nose”.
I like things a’boiling.
Once shaved I discovered I had a dimple in my chin. “Tremendous” thought I, “Now everyone will be able to know I’m an All-American Good Guy type. From Kent. England.
Now I can go into space, chin-dimple first.
You guy’s realise we’re in space?
Currently.
I feel a need to acquire some sort of ticket. I’m set though, I own an acre of the moon. And I am going to plough it, along with my space alien girlfriend.
My Earthly semen cures her space-libido. Always momentarily.
And I only ejaculate when directed by my government.
I think there’s only one more thing I want you to know…
I only masturbate when I have to.
Maybe I’m straying into topics meant for next time on Alternative Literary Output for the Soul.
So I’ll leave it at this; throughout all the above, amidst the true and the exaggerated (somewhat)…I smiled.
The endorphins were released and I was happy.
And that was because I kept my smile, and I recommend you unleash yours.
Unto others and for yourself; smile.
And I should know.
Because…
I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Sam
I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live. Part 2.
Posted: August 10, 2015 Filed under: The Greatest Human to Ever Live | Tags: confidence, Diana, ego, fairy tale, finger, funny, humans, Humour, I am the Greatest Human to Ever Live, self-defence, self-development, self-help, unprofessional development, Weird, wolf Leave a commentI Think I Could Fuck Up A Wolf; Should It Come To That.
I am the greatest human to ever live.
I’ve dwelt upon this, particularly since I’m a species-ist and there is a resentful degree of contempt in my heart and head and sandals for other species.
Fur and feathers – I permit.
Some of the feathery ones talk back and I like their gumption; whatever that is.
And then there’s giraffes – I couldn’t fuck up a giraffe.
Out of sympathy.
I’d ride them.
I’d ride them out of sympathy.
And they’d permit me to ride them because I’d work out how they like to have their knees massaged and win them over.
They may remain.
Fish and other ocean or water-way dwellers; they need to stay the fuck away from me.
Because I am most certainly the sort of fellow to point at them and bellow “No”.
I’ll just stick my finger, like a knuckled wand, into the water and give them the gist of me.
Pointedly.
I’ve got a lot to say about what obscenities live beneath the surface (some of them don’t even breathe air – try to show me up will ya?!) as I have an issue with things that are too wet.
I feel wetness should be an unexpected treat to come home to involving champagne liberated from the Nazis, or a hell of a way to go to work and give your inspiring and innovative speech to the board.
I’d hate to be on a board; I’m not good at sharing tables owing to my need to swing my heavy-heavy boots upon them as I lean back in my tilted chair and astound my other board members for no other reason than that I want them to back off somewhat and let me swing my heavy-heavy boots around. All this…whilst wet.
My boots are weighty. It builds up the shins – and that’s the mark of me.
You can tell if I did the deed for you’ll find the scene of the crime heavily shinned.
By me.
Ain’t nobody got shins like Sam.
However, even I can go off topic at times.
Because I’m whimsical.
And I’m whimsical because I’m the greatest human to ever live and I can take the time to relax about my intentions in a conversation like this (I’m presuming you’re all nodding along and every now letting loose a “Hmm” of approval or…is it…admiration?). Women admire my whimsy.
My whimsy’s better than yours. Because I whim it.
And that’s why I did it, that wandering off-topic thing, again.
I’m so good at meandering away; I can even meander away from talking about meandering away.
You try it.
Still, there is still the issue at hand.
That I think I could fuck up a wolf; should I whim it.
I have never in all my months of living been nearly attacked by so many dogs as the past 30 days have offered me.
The month of July just generally snarled at me; from day to day.
A lot of slobber; another unpleasant wetness is slobber being held most dangly in the worst of erogenous zones.
And I made it to August with a whole new opinion intact; I could fuck up a wolf.
Let’s look at the basic physiology of a wolf.
The key to its success in a fight against the man mountain that is me is its agile mouth.
The wolf, let’s call it ‘Diana’, has acrobatic jaws.
But so do I, Diana.
And I do bite.
I’d bite Diana the wolf right in the choppers.
And then there’s the rest of me.
Just take a slow and casual glance over my right hand and peek away, I don’t mind, at my pianist’s finger that branches from it.
Every single finger there is an advantage I hold over Diana and I will apply them most verily.
If I were to ram, and I do mean ram in the same way a pianist wouldn’t, my index finger straight and true up one of her nostrils; what would Diana do about it?
I ask because I’m going to do some presuming now and what I feel like presuming today is that Diana would whimper and try to depart from my index finger.
Let it be.
I would just let it be.
Diana is probably the lone-mother of the pack or some other responsibility, plus I’m humane.
I’m so humane I run with horses, so long as they can keep up and wouldn’t get embarrassed by my floppy-semi brought about by the excitement of running and my bountiful strides. That’s right – my strides are bountiful. I don’t know why; I just enjoy striding with an excited semi.
I’m so humane I’d put a ladybird on the windowsill rather than just exhaling it out the window and pausing to see if I can hear it land. I’ve seen too many good ladybirds land in my time.
And…if Diana the wolf wanted to flee from the index finger I currently have penetrating her snout as though I’m pointing with sincere curiosity at something in her sinus then…I would let it be.
Because she’s a good girl and a fine mother; probably trying simply to protect her cubs, who I would have raised myself and taught them how to become the kings I always knew they were if she were to pass away owing to my finger.
There’s also the fact that I could also pull her tail.
A tail is, with as much relevance as I can perceive for the situation in hand, a third of the spine which I can help myself to and give a good tug.
That’s a spine.
Fancy having your spine tugged like I’m trying to win something here?
I want to win your spine and your respect, Diana, so whimper now before I’m holding one of each in either hand.
You’re such a good girl Diana, and you’re a wonderful mother but…I’ve got to stand by my principles.
And my principle here is that wolves are scary and I this was my first instinct.
And that’s noble.
It’s okay; I’m being noble.
I have a crest.
It’s a wolf with a finger up its nose.
And then my large grin beneath it, showing all my teeth (slightly wonky because I’m well-travelled and I bite a lot of things), with my brow above it.
My brow will be frowning slightly because I’m working hard and I’m dealing with it, head looking down, eyes looking up as though I’m saying: “Seriously world? Seriously?”.
My brow is prominent in a way that if not slightly further forward than the rest of my person, it does at least receive compliments at a steady rate.
At least, it would if I didn’t pre-empt a fellow’s compliment with my classic: “Thank you!” and then: “But your bone structure will get there too; just do more things with milk, my dear old friend.”
Oh…there will be archaeologists.
And they will in some distant and lush green field begin to dig, eventually unearthing and taking care not to shovel my remains.
They shall lift my skull from its by-now ancient grave and stand and stare in honest astonishment at my inspiring-brow.
And they will compliment it.
But where in the timeline of humankind’s evolution does this remarkable figure belong? And then they will get it.
Fiction.
This must have been from a fairy tale.
Because…yeah…I’ve got damsels to spare and they’re all nicely in peril and ready for my brow.
And then I shall decide to leap the moat to delete the vile Wolf-Queen Diana from my newly acquired castle, complete with a unfortunately narrow-nostrilled fiend and beautiful damsel of high-birth.
Next time…I’ll show you how to do all of this, particularly the high-birth part.
Also, I recall saying this article would be about romance and my smile, but that’ll do for next time too.
And that’s a fine thing indeed.
Because I am the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Buddy.
Sam
How to Fight Like a Man (Like Me)
Posted: May 6, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: combat, comedy, distraction, fighting, funny, how to fight, how to win a fight, Humour, language, lover not a fighter, manhood, masculinity, phrase, self-advice, self-help, selfhelp, victory, violence, Weird, win, writing Leave a commentI’m a man.
See?
So, you want to learn how to be a tough guy like me? Sure I’m a tough guy – you can tell by the way I’m not immediately contradicted on that statement.
Well, to begin with…violence, oh dear me, violence.
Violence…
Violence is like a flower…which you do to people…or have happen to you…with a flower.
It got less flowery as I thought about it, yet still the point remains; violence.
Imagine a fist blossoming onto you. There’s the floweriness, and other than that you really just have to feel it before you start cramming similes all hither and thither.
Ultimately, avoid the sweet fuck out of violence seeing as how you never know what someone might be carrying.
Like a cat. And heavens help you if the guy’s got enough room to swing it.
Let just get stuck in with the violent advice.
Footwork
See what you have to do, it’s all in the walk.
You just walk straight up to him. And then as through him as you can. Just keep going, foot first into his face first and see if you can cross the line of a fair fight together.
If wearing one, shoe his features – though one may wish to go all apey at the prospect of acquiring all the females or make for certain these several square feet of territory are undoubtedly yours, in which case go shoeless.
It’s about footwork so make your foot work. For the other fellow, it’s all about facework, and he’s doing wonderfully at it, if somewhat defensively.
Footwork. Stride into their face at an amusing angle people will talk about when their old and whilst the guy with a size 11 sole print along the centre of his face sits, purposefully hooded because of his rebirth mark (baptised by eloquent thuggery of foot), and stirs his drink, bitter, because you walked into his face and you were the good guy.
Not only did he deserve to have his face thoroughly footed, but you deserved to be the one to kick that face and dance about it afterwards. That day should be celebrated annually. The day that face first and best foot first came together, like a romance of non-genital body parts.
That’s another vital point…
Assume a Moral Victory
Make losing a fight work for you…stand up for the little guy, or at least prior to your imminent collision with a flurry of fists, and scream aloud: “DAMMIT MICHAEL THEY WERE ONLY PYGMIES!”
This way the people local to your punch-up will overhear your monologue and either leap to your aid or speak well of you afterwards. Possibly also during (“See that bruised guy over there? The guy with the bouncy head? He’s great…stands up for pygmies…real trooper.”)
In the same vein, don’t hit a woman, unless you need to hit a woman, in which case be sure others witnessed how psychopathic she was conducting herself prior to you launching a new means of distancing yourself from someone so intimately (punch her in the nose publicly).
Also, don’t pull her hair. Instead, it’s likely best to flee, which is a surprisingly hilarious manner of departing from the threat of annihilation (I’ll get into this momentarily) and other than that – phone the police, an ambulance and the regional mental healthcare services because when they find out you’re the one who fled in fear of the other’s sheer force of personality; you’re safe as houses.
A ‘Fair Fight’
What many people don’t realise is that a ‘fair fight’ refers to how attractive a fight is. Similar to the archetypal manner of referring to damsels or princesses – she was fair and meek, just as a good woman isn’t.
Now obviously you’re not going to carry a weapon because that route leads to jail and a heartbroken mother, but you sure can carry a distraction.
Back to the cat…(this is why I warned you).
Lob the cat into the midst of a group of people making you feel uncomfortable and you shall see how comfortableness may be yours once more. Wear that cat well. Make ‘em dance.
And whilst the cat preys upon the shins, ankles and footwear of your numerous opponents, you can finish your novel because time is suddenly oh so splendidly upon your side once more. Plus, you have a back-up cat anyway, ready for flinging.
In case any animal rights activists are reading this; don’t worry. Just don’t worry. There we go.
Also, I don’t know or care where you keep your vial of dust, but at least carry one, perhaps in an attaché so you can interrupt your battle most pitch and say “Whoah there Honey, let me just get what I got”, bite out the cork and spit it out to the side (or as I prefer to denote my masculine diet; swallow it), pour some of that dust into your hand and apply liberally about his nostrils, eyes and airways like a hippy would if he realised he was grasping a handful of real seeds…or believable contraceptives.
It’s not foul play, because we were nice guys before that, but then we had that unpleasant collision of body parts and now we’ve involved dust.
Also, don’t suggest your opponent “Bite the dust” as that really seems like a lively thing to do. The sort of thing you do when you’re young, hungry and about to prove that you will actually bite dust for some reason.
The aside benefit of dust over sand (which is technically sea shells — which is ALMOST a necklace — which is ALMOST a nice present and you’re meant to be cunning…not considerate of their likely having a sour day starting with breakfast being shat on by the neighbour who really hates toast and him having it so you present him with a delicate gift) is that it is made up of skin.
Which comes from people.
Which means that what you’re holding in your hand there is in reality approximately 1000 large apey things called people, and they’re on your side and in your palm and soon about to be considerately delivered jazz hands-wise to the parts of him that most often require tissues (eyes or dick-hole; you don’t want a dusty dick-hole to the degree that I don’t know why – just don’t have a dusty dick-hole.).
Apart from the end of his bell, which you must try to work around seeing as how that area is essentially only for when things get personal and so far, oh brother, you have no idea how formally I’m carrying myself in this duel to the death. I say “duel to the death”, maybe just till mild fatigue…or distraction…or somehow falling in love, in which case we are now on personal grounds and therefore- get dick busy partner, because I’ve got a vial and now it time to apply liberally all over my now-sexual opponent.
Once applied, step in for a little skull percussion.
Step in, move suddenly and in a way people will remember but not talk about again because it’s traumatic, and then…break his heart. You brute.
Perplex
I always say one should have a phrase (https://samsywoodsy.com/2015/04/23/nice-guy-with-a-nuke/) and times such as this, when tempers are heated, passions are high and fists are fisting (negative or positive – choice is yours depending on your thoughts at the time of fisting. Be sure to let me know), are identical to all others aside from now; we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.
Here’s a cracker (whilst peering over their shoulder and with an expression of “I’m genuinely looking at something which you should too!”):
“Well in my rude opinion…Is? Is that baby eating heroin?”
He turns to take part in the glancing at the baby eating heroin, in which case you be the bigger man and find a smaller one impress yourself upon (I recommend by fleeing from him too. Remember; “we’re going to bewilder the fuckers.”).
Also, embrace the fellow for the panic-stricken, hurting deep-down, trying-to-be-masculine-in-public, oh-I-have-no-idea-what’s-happening-but-it’s-making-me-change-colour, kind-of-a bloke his is right then and there.
Cuddle the cunt.
Now I’m not, as it turns out, much of a noted technician of any form of wrestling or Brazilian Ju Jitsu, but from what I can tell; if you climb your way up him until his limbs have no place to be other than hugging you in return then we’re having a successful evening.
Do Not Let Go.
Laugh About It
Make jokes constantly.
Don’t let up with the zingers.
The only thing you need derive humour from is his attempts at starting a fight. Mock his punches and wittily critique his tough guy stare. That will ruin his night more than any swift kick to the knackery-noos.
Especially if you’re getting beaten.
If you have your face in another man’s hands and he’s grinding against something displeasing to you, mock his efforts disdainfully and the fight is over. Your bleeding might not be, but the battle is.
Plus everyone loves a comedian, particularly one with such a rough crowd as the one literally beating the shit out of him.
Be a Lover, Not a Fighter
Be the gentleman.
Be the poet.
Be the victor.
When the moment of violence is imminent, remind all in the vicinity that you are a lover, not a fighter…and so proceed to do your utmost to become romantically engaged with this man as completely and committedly as one should be in these situations. Kiss him.
Kiss him, only when he is attacking you and later claim you misread the conflicting signals he was giving off and you were only trying to help him out.
No mercy; buy him a drink and offer him your twinkling eyes, you hapless romantic you.
DO NOT BE THE RECIEVER OF LOVE from the man, but certainly the dominate the romantic back and forth you’re both currently undergoing.
Once more; only do this if you’re being attacked, otherwise we’re getting rape-based in our tactics and that’s a bad tactic, sir.
Pardon Me If I Conclude
End, no matter in what circumstance or in what state of physical wellbeing, with a phrase.
Have your phrase ready for blowing the walls out of the place and bringing the ceiling down.
What that might be? It’s yours to conclude. I have my own, and it is my own. Get your own, sir.
All violence aside – don’t get into fights and give happiness and curiosity to others and you shall in turn receive likewise.
Therein lies a future promising and a past pleasing.
Thanks,
Sam
The Evolution of the Stick and Why it Matters to Me
Posted: February 18, 2015 Filed under: culture | Tags: Art, baseball bats, cannibal, comedy, Culture, fashion, funny, health, Humour, mental health, philosophy, staff, sticks, Weird, writing 1 CommentOnce I was afraid – I was petrified.
So I armed myself and although the fear is still painfully real – at least I can express it with a bang so loud you can smell it.
Baseball bats.
“Baseball bats” is undoubtedly my favourite quote for a South African to say.
And that’s not the end of my opinion of baseball bats (oh brother – brace yourself).
You see, for a long time, as I mentioned earlier, I have had a distinct fear in my life of being eaten.
For me, the food chain is still very real and skin-splittingly apparent, though I may adjust to this fear better than other owing to being a cannibal.
Of course, I’m not about to eat someone any minute these days…but…should the bombs begin to drop and the lights start to flicker and the SPAM not make it to the shelves I rely on so heavily to find grub upon – you’re a gonna and I’m starting with your toes because even in times like these I still believe in the entrée.
Perhaps a tad off course from my original intent of direction, but I am glad to be rid of the burden of secret cannibalism and the fact that I’d start with your feet.
In a daring return to my original path, I may as well incorporate my cannibalism into my love of the great stick known as the baseball bat.
So, with anarchy rising out the window, and the window being full of other predators attempting to get in and chew (us)…I see two options.
- Lift my baseball bat from its snug bedding beneath the bed and wrap it thoroughly about the skulls, brains and all other neck-up interior sundry of the invading bears/lions/wolves whilst allowing you a fair few minutes to make the best use of either my turned back or the door.
- Retrieve the baseball bat from its nether-bed slumber and go about tenderising you in the hope of a satisfying last meal for a least something if not me. As for the intruding beasts of slaughter; close the window and ignore them viciously.
From the two options there you may have taken note of the reality inflicted upon both scenarios; the present presence of a baseball bat.
The baseball bat – the evolved stick that grew a handle and a capacity to devastate the nearby environment as best we can with either a pleasant or beastly temper…and thumbs.
Our thumbs have been utilised most completely, I feel, in their ability to grip a stick close to heart (of us), near to brain (of dinner) and right into the middle of something curious we’ve happened upon and are now righteously prodding as only our species knows how.
I have intentions, sweet friends, of bringing about a return of the walking stick known best as the staff.
Find a fault in the plan for me. Please.
Naturally, make them discardable, in that when the primal urge to inflict our thumbs into a scenario currently happening to us (or ‘us’ happening to a scenario) we may abandon our weighty-wood and proceed either high-tree bound or deep sea swam.
They would be tremendous as an additional weight to increase applicable strength in the arms, core, back and legs. This is therefore a health benefit although naturally it will somehow be a carcinogenic of some variety…because it’s a thing…and things give you cancer.
It would be decorative and can be added to by the owner of by trusted buddies of whom you are pleased to see them whittling your possessions – rarely do you receive this opportunity so embrace with all the hands you have.
A near-lost martial art of stick/staff fighting would return to the lonely fields of dueldom, wherein battles would largely end owing to bashed knuckles being a jolly-good cause for sportingly abandoning the day and instead seeking an alliance with your newly-made knuckle-basher pal.
You could pole-vault to meetings.
When you’d need a stick, you’d have one and this is likely the greatest reason for the invention yet. Having what you need; epitome of success of comfort.
And finally – I can get my chiselling-graffiti business on the up and up and further; bringing about a polite amount of affluence and thereby bring about…a brand new, super cool baseball bat.
And I’d even let you have a go on it.
I feel we’ve travelled far from the stick being a thing merely held, to the item of primal delight I now see it as, following a sincere and loving revert to our more ape-ish ways.
Now we have a grip around one end and I enjoy smashing the shit out of fresh fruit with it.
I believe I am doing things precisely as I should be, with a comforting baseball bat in hand and a grin held firmly between my nose and chin.
As for the true evolution; it is thus.
Once we prodded with sticks, and now we do it again.
Wonderful.
Sam.
The Meaning of Rik Mayall (These Days and Previously)
Posted: January 31, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Blackadder, Bottom, comedy, funny, gwreeaat, Humour, influences, kids, Rik Mayall, The Young Ones, wank biscuit, Weird, writing Leave a commentDo you have any idea what it’s like to have one of your heroes die on your birthday?
The effect is as follows: you realise ‘it’ – death – is going to happen again, particularly to you.
Rik was one of those aspects of my life that mattered, with direct influence in abundance and a great deal more depth to me than, say, the life of the Queen of England.
There is very little about me that is due to Her Majesty, whereas His-Much-More-Majestic King Rik made me the sort of individual that would write a sentence like this. Although Rik himself wouldn’t write it, he’d dictate it since he’s so gwreeaat.
My involvement with the man was about as meaningful as it is for the rest of us, although there is a difference between the old crowd and the new.
Rik Mayall was not introduced mid-way for me, nor was he something I happily happened upon in my adolescence. Rik was always there.
My brother, doing much as older brothers do (in between punches and acne) gave me the audio cassettes of Bottom’s Hooligan’s Island, as well as various other radio comedies (I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue and Just A Minute), and of course, Blackadder.
When I was a child, from about the age of 6, I was and am still unable to sleep unless there is some audio distraction to comfort me. For some reason I was born with a rather cruel ability to see the worst and to dwell on it in my quieter moments. In short, I’d think of death and the effect of that on my family and self.
Horrid and inconceivable, I would dwell till literal bursting and, as my mother puts it: “You just wouldn’t stop running. We’d just find you running around at 1am and we had to catch you to put you to bed.”
So, distractions were inserted vigorously into my ears and, following the charity of my brother, Rik Mayall arrived.
I can remember trying to swear by the time I was 9. I sought maturity and toughness and understood that cursing would signify this to those around me. I recall rehearsing the term: “Shit”, and once being very proud that I used it when I cut my hand. The occasion seemed honestly auspicious to me.
Indeed, I am much surprised that I didn’t pick up on the merrily thrown about ‘Cunt’ as Hooligan’s Island let loose with such compassion. In honesty, I had no conscious idea of the word until the time of my leaving high school, when in all actuality I had it nightly screamed into my ears by Adrian Edmondson (alternatively known as Edward Elizabeth Hitler).
Then, watching Bottom, Blackadder and the Young Ones as an 11 year old- I felt something astonishing: comedy that had always been there was now becoming steadily amusing, even hilarious, and by the time that we are now in, I listen, read and watch the comedy of my childhood with glee and admiration for the work that it was.
We truly are a lucky bunch with our comedy scene from the 80’s and 90’s.
The comedic body of work from the Oxbridge crowd to the alternative Ben Elton and the Comic Strip Presents, followed by all after, is a fortuitous privilege that I really haven’t earned. We have no right to the comic brilliance this nation has spawned, not that I’ll be giving it up at any point.
Of course, looking into the 80’s and 90’s comedy led me to the 60’s and 70’s by which I met Beyond the Fringe, Not Only But Also, The Goon Show, Monty Python and Billy Connolly.
With all these, as well as with arrivals from the states of South Park, the Simpsons and their stand-up greats, I was spoilt and happy.
Though for all these, from the literal genius of Peter Cook to the gasp-worthy edge of South Park, there was still that special connection to Rik Mayall that was never displaced nor over-shadowed by the prominence of any other.
For myself, and an enormous number of other Rik Mayall fans, there is something that Rik Mayall did that resonates with us. And it’s really hard to identify, but I think I have it.
Rik Mayall, aside from the comic and intellectual gifts, aside from the attitude of anarchic gusto (“Take that Thatcher!”), there was an expression of personality that us others feel also.
Rik, I believe, had an inner-wanker, and how lucky he was to have it.
Not to say that Rik was a wanker at all, but rather, he knew what was wanky about himself, and what was wanky about other people. And he nailed it.
From the superb (and personal favourite of mine) journey to the BBC in the Young Ones’ episode of ‘Bambi’, to the expression on his face as he acted a wank…all this was inspirational and extremely familiar. The astonishing ability for such a good looking guy to transform himself to the definition of ‘ugly bastard’ with a manic glee is something myself and others see within themselves and, although it’s bloody odd, are glad to find Rik there being them, for them.
A wanker on our behalf; as it were.
It was always a privilege, and for those around him the end of his life must have been an emotional and heart-breaking smack of reality such as I have now come to appreciate, though I do not doubt I could miss him as much as his loved-ones do.
The People’s Poet really should have a shrine where all the kids could come and read his poems and light candles – where the grown-up stiffs could wonder why all the kids were crying, to which they would reply: “He’s dead! The People’s Poet is dead!”. What a wanky idea. What a funny suggestion. I’d attend most thoroughly.
“And then one particularly sensitive and articulate teenage would say”: well. You know. The regular usualness.
At least we have his tapes.
Or, rather much more so: at least we had him.
And indeed, at least we have our own chance.
As Rik has shown us; you are going to die, so get all the frenetic energy from inside to out, and avoid quad bikes. Actually, fuck that, approach them: approach quad bikes.
Because you’re going to die. So live beforehand, you wank biscuits.
You swots – swotting away for teacher – like a girl.
Leave the room and enter something, preferably someone.
Thanks Rik. You’ve certainly left a mark on Earth, and it’s terribly sad that no longer can we leave the punch in this sentence to you.
I guess we’ll have to leave that to the kids.
Gwreeaat.
Sam
Why It Matters If Shakespeare Was Gay
Posted: November 30, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: A Midsummer Night's Dream, Gay, Hamlet, hate, history, Homosexual, Humour, love, Shakespeare, Society, Weird, William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare gay, writing Leave a commentTo begin; good day to all those people out there that hoped to begin reading this to find an article spouting hateful ignorance. Apologies for my lack of consideration here- maybe I should have been a little weaker as I grew up. Maybe my parents should have been wankers to placate you.
“Wankers to placate”- welcome to samsywoodsy.com- the home of very, very really good writing.
As for why it matters if Shakespeare was gay, the answer is twofold.
Firstly, we are extremely fortunate.
Shakespeare lived in a time when homosexuality was lethal.
A ‘cure’ for the condition would have been seen appropriate if the subject were murdered so as to cleanse the rest of the population.
Had his supposed homosexuality been discovered- he would have summarily and excruciatingly murdered by the state and his neighbours, whilst his works would have been as likely to have been recalled as our contemporary equivalent of Jimmy Saville programming being aired.
If William Shakespeare was gay; he was fortunate to survive the 17th Century with as many limbs or as little pain as he did.
Though likely he would have been burned for his ‘crimes’, and his poems, plays, sonnets and even correspondence would have been just as likely to live on as if they were wrapped in a parcel atop the burning pile at his feet.
Therefore, if William Shakespeare was homosexual then we, as the ever grateful audience, must be thankful that we have what we have- it may have been maliciously lost.
The second importance of the suggestion that Shakespeare was gay is as follows.
It matters if William Shakespeare was gay, if it mattered to William Shakespeare.
This is to say: as it may have been an inspiration for what must have been an already inspired soul.
His appreciation of love, hate, brotherhood, hate, death, womanhood and manhood, not to mention unrequited love, would have been exacerbated by the fact that he was living in a time when the world accused him of evil and his nature plead him to be himself- and yet he could not.
Perhaps Shakespeare found love, and was compelled to keep it secret, or perhaps the love was for another man with whom he could not bring himself to confess of his love to. The guys wore tights all the time back then- shapely legs were on display and erections were ridiculous to attempt to hide- unless you pretended it was some kind of prop.
Shakespeare may have been an entirely different subject for us had he been heterosexual. Perhaps he would have been dull, uninterested in the world and uninspiring in prose.
That being said- I find no suggestion that he may have been homosexual, but perhaps that is a natural thing.
Why should I be able to?
Shakespeare, of men, loved to write about the bright young things.
Take Prince Hamlet. Clever, upper-class, great sense of humour but…what can I say; Norway.
Then, let us examine Lysander and Demetrius of A Midsummer Night’s Dream fame.
Demetrius. A man of formal haircut with some sort of sensible-recommended birth to his name, likely military and with starch in his shirt collar, his thin moustache, and his wallet. Altogether a starchy male. Demetrius would agree with the statement: “Sit up straight and you have a better life”. I told that to a child once. I was only partly right.
Then you have Lysander. Likely confused yet politely grinning, with a Hugh Grant ‘Flopsy’ of a hairstyle (which his mother always SO adored) and, if he is wearing something, it is probably all of it undone.
Summarising, as I tend to towards the end, if Shakespeare was gay then it matters as follows.
If it mattered to him; it matters. As an inspiration for his talent and for forging his soul into what seems as though otherworldly appreciation of love, hate, fear, brotherhood, friendship and all other grand components of all tales- in a time when homosexuality was lethal.
Secondarily, if Shakespeare was gay, then we are extremely lucky to have his work survive, for had is nature been discovered then he would not have lived to astound us via quill; his words and thoughts would not have survived the 17th century.
This is why it matter if Shakespeare was gay; because it may have made him who he was and we love the man and his work at least to the fairly moderate degree of hoping he lived long-enough to avoid execution.
A fairly reasonable level of love in my opinion.
Bravo.
Sam.
The Christmas Day Truce is OURS and the Sainsbury’s Forgery
Posted: November 18, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: #christmasisforsharing, 1914-2014, advertising, Christmas advert, Christmas Day Truce, Christmas Truce, comedy, football, funny, history, humanity, Humour, Sainsbury's, Sainsbury's Christmas Advert, taste the difference, thievery, war, Weird, World War One, writing Leave a commentThis November of 2014, in the usual early run-up to the Christmas advertising frenzy (and I do mean ‘frenzy’- this term referring to the rushed absurdity prevalent in promoting the push), there have been the regular additions to the regrettable art form.
These have included the rather sublime idea of inserting a penguin into the scheme of things- meaning that sheer adorability is prevailing as it should not (when the panda’s gone- you really won’t care compared to the loss of your hair, or democracy). Thank you John Lewis.
Another has been the suggestion of ‘Christmas Dinner Tables Across The Nation’- with a cleverly-cut panning shot along several dinner tables- suggesting that Christmas is a time to be around the dinner table eating ‘our’ products with the people you care about, and that if you’re not– then something’s very wrong with you as you’re not part of our advert. Thank you Aldi.
Then Sainsbury’s did something for which I hate them.
And let’s not confuse ourselves with some minor definition, as though I find their actions really rather awkward for me to watch, possibly even to the point of annoyance.
I refer to hate of the romantic kind. I now detest the supermarket brand with a power inconceivable to those persons without any serious genital damage. After another fashion- I hate Sainsbury’s as though they sort to make profit from tales of the actions of my terribly-late ancestors.
The Christmas Day Truce- 1914
On the 24th of December, 1914, a century ago this year, there was a tragically temporary and soul-shakingly inspiring truce between the war-devastated men of Germany, France and Britain for several hours.
The Christmas Day Truce, as it came to be known, began as the realisation of the time of year dawned upon the entrenched soldiers in some field in northern France.
Hearing the German troops singing, the soldiers of all sides came to know that though different words were being sung in strange accents, they were in fact being sung to a comfortingly familiar tune.
There was a great deal of carolling across No Man’s Land on this day.
Time passed, and eventually a German soldier clambered from his hole in the ground, to stand tall as though as natural a thing as breathing-in deeply on a beautiful day, and began calling to the opposing side.
Startling courage, and utterly heart-breaking, when considering the likelihood of murder in the process.
The French and British slowly climbed from their own hellish holes, to stand as men in greeting a friendly neighbour they’d been sharing the same few square meters of land with for the past many weeks.
What followed was a mass evacuation of all trenches, as the soldiers walked through No Man’s Land, to meet their brethren on Christmas Day. The beginning few minutes of awkward niceties gave way to utter unity between all men there, with football being played (score unknown to us and probably debated by those in the know), barbers attending to all customers- no matter the language of their home, and exchanges of gifts, laughter and honest thoughts of the war that each nation’s generals would have ordered execution upon those “stirring up trouble”.
It was fear of this latter aspect of the day, as well as a grotesque concern that the men would not fit back to fighting well following such jovial meetings as football and spirits in No Man’s Land.
Therefore, as the light began to fail, troops from both sides were ordered to return to their trenches; the Truce was over.
Soon after, those troops involved in the Truce were replaced with battle-ready troops fiercely instilled hatred for their opposing nation’s mankind.
The war continued. Several years, and several million deaths down the cold and lonely road, the war came to an end.
The Truce of Christmas Day in 1914, however, was not forgotten.
It was remembered, as it is to this day, as a shining definition of humanity.
The men on that day made a choice, in the midst of horror, chaos and the ugly-probability that your most proximate friend would suddenly explode, to disobey orders and to lay down their arms, shake hands, exchange pleasantries and play football.
Haircuts and fears of not returning home. Madness of war was put aside by some outstandingly courageous men, so as to demonstrate unity as a species.
Note also that this was no event of Christianity ‘poking’ through the fog. This was humanity arching over No Man’s Land, certainly singing Christian hymns, but uniting over circumstance and shared traditions of their homes and their current circumstance across the continent.
They united in hope against our thus-far perpetual insanity of leaders in war, and that is not forgotten.
And this…THIS…is where Sainsbury’s needs to fuck off and read a book.
The Sainsbury’s Foul Forgery
The Sainsbury’s Christmas advert shows handsome, clean and apparently un-embattled men missing their loved ones at home, whilst they sit in a fairly well-kept trench.
One of them opens a care package from home to find a photograph of his best girl back home, and a fucking huge bar of SAINSBURY’s chocolate.
He smiles this tedious little Mona Lisa smile to demonstrate that he’s handsome and just like you…you cute little consumer you.
The hymns are then sung, followed by a BRITISH troop emerging from the trench first, to wish a Merry Christmas to the Germans.
Note, just fucking-well note, that in the Sainsbury’s forgery it is a British soldier to emerge first from the trench. This is historically inaccurate, but having a German being brave and leading the noble way probably wouldn’t have sold so well.
Nor would having the French present either, as no French are apparent throughout.
I feel that either Sainsbury’s doesn’t do business in Germany and France, or that this advert simply won’t be aired there.
From here on the handshaking is shown, the barber giving shaves is displayed, as is the famous game of football.
The day, as in history, comes to an end, and the two sides go back to their holes in in the ground.
A German soldier climbs back down his trench ladder and places his hands in his pocket. In there he finds a fucking huge bar of SAINSBURY’s chocolate.
Then something appears on the screen.
It is a logo.
It is a brand logo.
It says…SAINSBURY’S. #Christmasisforsharing
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………Eeew.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
The revulsion was hard to fight through as I made efforts to vocalise my anger.
Branding The Christmas Truce by Sainsbury’s
In this advertisement Sainsbury’s have taken an astonishing example of humanity in history, in which men laid down their arms to shake hands, have haircuts and play football in the midst of the horror and chaos of war, and Sainsbury’s have smeared their logo over it- claiming this historical event for their own and inserting their own definition of the event over the top.
The meaning of the Christmas Day Truce, in the eyes of Sainsbury’s is: “Buy our shit. We’ve just played a touching piece of historically inaccurate footage prior to our brand name…so buy our shit.
Taking a truly inspiring historical event and smashing their brand name into it is the worst advertising I can think of. Those men that laid down arms to shake hands and play football that day, to later live or die, have been USED by Sainsbury’s to sell turkeys.
Can you think of a time when a company has perpetrated a lowlier act?
This is typical Association Advertising- the motion of airing a piece of footage, often totally un-relatable to the company paying for it, and then ramming a brand/product name on the end of it in the hope that the viewer will remember the name whilst enjoying the emotion instigated by the footage.
This is weak, uncreative, and in this case- thievery.
The Charity Effect- The Buying Of A License To Sell
There are those in favour of the advert.
There are those that feel that since Sainsbury’s are donating a portion of their Christmas profits to a charity dedicated to serving those suffering from the effects of war, that this is all therefore tolerable and decent.
The monetary amount donated to charity is not comparable to the amount of money Sainsbury’s will be making this Christmas.
The effect of the money donated is that Sainsbury’s have bought a licence to brand the historic event with their own name and to play with the facts and the heart of the tale in favour of selling their own Christmas products.
Sainsbury’s here are flogging the cuteness of the humanity out of the Truce so as to flog products. Flogging to flog, as it were.
If Sainsbury’s were donating money purely for the sake of commemorating the Truce and donating money to charity, then they wouldn’t put their brand name on it.
A beautiful event in history has been stolen to sell Christmas products.
It is in no way respecting the event- it’s about nothing but profit- otherwise they WOULD NOT HAVE DONE IT.
Sainsbury’s wouldn’t hashtag #christmasissharing, they wouldn’t put their name in the commercial and they wouldn’t alter historical facts for any reason other than to use the event for profit.
“The Christmas Day Truce- brought to you by Sainsbury’s two for one Christmas Crackers and Party Food.” Eeeew.
This is nothing but the most cheap and lowly thievery of an inspirational event that belonged to all of us…and still does.
From Here Onward
Now, I am extremely hurt by Sainsbury’s- but that is irrelevant.
I do not want that advert banned, nor do I wish to receive an apology from Sainsbury’s supermarkets.
However, I do feel that due is an apology to those simple men whose actions prior to their deaths have inspired people around the world for 100 years, and whose deaths Sainsbury’s have used to encourage greed and profit.
I will no longer enter a Sainsbury’s as I can Taste the Difference in morals here and there is a distinct muddiness that goes even deeper than that on the boots of the boys in their holes.
All that is left is to remember that the Christmas Day Truce is ours- being as it is a beautiful example of dignified humanity that must be taught to all. No generation must suffer to go without this essential demonstration of unity in the face of dictated madness.
And no company can claim what belongs to us all.
The Christmas Day Truce is OURS. And we will never forget it.
Sam
How to Use a Pumpkin Instead of Latin.
Posted: October 26, 2014 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: comedy, diet, discipline, funny, health, Humour, Latin, lose weight, middle class, pumpkin, self improvement, self-development, smells, Weird, writing Leave a commentSome say that “these days” (urgh) teenagers are a waste of life- a blotch of folk in the human tapestry- a clumsily-bred generation that do not know how to work hard and are satisfied with sitting-down as a pastime.
I can’t disagree, the only difference between myself and the elderly complainers here being that I’m not confused by new things.
In previous generations, the dead language of Latin was forced onto the young minds of school children who were to listen, repeat and bloody-well learn it if they didn’t want to receive the birch to the palm or buttocks. I feel…I’d have to choose the buttocks.
I suggest that the lack of option in having to endure this unpleasant practise of useless Latin, with no reason other than the fact that it built character, may have actually…built character. I’m not about the suggest that the benefits of Latin were the architects here, but rather the fact that no option but to proceed with the boring and inapplicable did.
Whether there is a decline in constitution over the past few decades or not, I recommend that those amongst us with the necessary true grit with which to achieve a little personal ambition…do it.
It must be easier whilst the competition is watching a dog do what it’s told. Think of it as reacting before the rest of the population was clever; their choice being not only one of lack-luster experience, but also favourable stupidity in the view of those looking to achieve.
As long as reality television exists; intelligent folk with be paid more than their dull neighbour.
I have found some personal reasons for living that I am particularly fond of. I am, however, unfortunately tragic in my outgoings owing to repeated attacks of that well-known opponent to progress (yet loving ally to sofas) known as procrastination.
Now whilst I might, should such a furry-occasion arise, be able shrug-off a tiger bite to the ready-to-shrug shoulder, it does not mean that I’m going to have the personal fortitude to keep retrieving that anti-tiger spray from my bundle as long as I can find something slightly less productive to do. Like brushing my hair. Or having a good hard think. Or watching that tiger get fascinatingly near.
Perhaps this is owing to my upbringing. I was only hit once, in a vicious attack by my father with a rolled-up copy of The Radio Times, which really did not hurt but the message was well conveyed. As it turns out, he wanted me to stop talking. The fact that he was wearing a kimono at the time made the incident doubly amusing, if only with a decade of hindsight to aid my guffaws. My parents were and still are liberals in kimonos. They’re why I wear jumpers and they’re why I know who Desmond Morris is.
Oh…the middle-class…
I have wanted to find something to do that is hard, like the old days of hard Latin- for the sake of doing something monotonous and tough, mostly pointless, save for the strength gained from regularly doing something un-enjoyed.
So, I began to carry a pumpkin around with me. It’s fairly weighty, is a great conversation starter, can be applied to various situations (footstool, medicine ball and a humorous fake-head) and makes me stand out. And it has its restrictions; being that I have to place it done carefully before I vault whatever I seek to vault (I’m one of nature’s vaulters).
In the vein of making a difference, I think I’ve found a tactic for tackling obesity (a term I love if imagined to be happening physically. Picture those Greys on the television speaking with grandfather-clock sternness about the need to “tackle obesity” as though they have an urgent urge to knock the tubby to the ground and proceed to mount).
As a personal and, perhaps therefore, short-lived campaign to integrate my own idiosyncrasies with the sheer suggestion that I’ve had a tough-time at some point, I went about carrying a pumpkin with me whenever I went hither. And sometimes thither. Usually both.
‘Usually both’ was the point of it in entirety, as by injection some discipline into my life (via such means as a powerful wife that would offer me and my pumpkin no quarter to be left sitting, as well as colleagues at my place of work who are undoubtedly ‘wifey’ according to many pros and cons) might accomplish something a little further than my list up-till-now. Till now, the best of me had been realising that there’s no shame in scratching yourself with what you’re eating.
Two days back and forth I made the experiment last, with a somewhat weary arm and a multitude of gazes in the street, before I finally lay her down (leave me with an object for long enough and I’ll give it an appropriate gender for my ambitions) upon the 7th stair down of the flight in my house.
Then, the weekend began, and I somewhat ended. Responsibility and procrastination likely grin to one another, as one departs via the window and the other slams it behind them on entry. The pumpkin was ignored for the following two days, whilst I slept and ate- at times enjoying becoming confused. Then push-ups. Followed by more confusion. Pleasant.
The little black hole, which I had two days earlier considered something like a beauty-spot for her, had not merely ‘widened’ but… ‘gapened’, and this was sad. The pumpkin had wept.
This was saddening because by the evening of the Sunday, as I made my way downstairs to shine my shoes (I’m a good boy)- I could smell pumpkin in a way that I never had, nor had ever yearned to, before.
Fishy.
Fishy…to the point of anger.
The black-hole beauty spot, some form of puncture I was neglectfully ignorant of and likely responsible for, had leaked and streamed down her side and down, down, down the stairs of my home.
Fishy is a smell pleasant only when realising your nose finally works once again, after all these years. My nose had been operating well within its regular confines of appropriate sniffing, and so the fishy smell was both unwelcome and overly-pungent.
Of course, this was not actual fish- rather the stench of a penetrated vegetable rotting on the stairs.
As I said earlier: “Fishy to the point of anger”…and so I took it out the back of my house and taught her a damn good lesson.
With all my might, which is considerable when versus a pumpkin, I threw her (who was hurriedly returned to ‘it’) against the brick wall with a squelched thud so satisfying that I was tempted to purchase another pumpkin.
And here, sublimely, I was reminded of my childhood. A bag of shabby old golf clubs and a bushel of broad green apples.
The squelchy thud brought it all back.
My father, brother and I (and more lately my friends and lovers) have, with three-wood, baseball bat and at least 1 sword, brought a distinct lack of mercy to various fresh and rotting fruit over the past 17 years.
There is an excitement in the splash and spray of the fruit, as well as a taste to the debris which can delight or repulse you, good sportsmen or not.
The weapon becomes sticky, as do your hair, glasses and more-proximate friends. For a while, you are all flavoured. My preference is apple. Or pineapple.
Plus it spreads seeds in a natural, if irregular, way. My natural, if irregular, way.
Good exercise too, and- as again previously stated: the exhilaration is tremendous to the point of this…
You don’t want a cake.
Now then, now then, now then…here we are in a position where you are pumping your heart, your are eating a literal spray of fruit (albeit of varying freshness) and…you have the idea of burgers by far removed as a thing to eat as it has been violently usurped by being ‘a thing to do’.
So my suggestion is this:
- Take your cuisine-vice and then make your way to either a field or some disused location.
- Along with this bring a bat of some form- I recommend baseball.
- A music player of any kind, for this shall make it all the more jolly, though you may find yourself jolly enough.
- Be it pie, burger or chocolate cake, toss it high into the area, whilst your brethren stand back, and SMACK THE SHIT OUT OF IT WITH A BASEBALL BAT.
- Retrieve your breath. Remove remnants from your hair. Ensure your friends are coping with this well.
- Do it again.
- Enjoy the sensation of your heart in full motion and of cake, the now repugnant luxury of wasters, being far from your mind, mouth, stomach and baseball bat.
What you have there is a free tactic to override the enjoyment of eating unhealthy foods with the ludicrously good-feeling of beating it to smithereens.
With your friends and family it is a tremendous movement and celebration of not-eating-food together. You’ll think to yourself: “Damn I’m hungry, but it’s going to be so good when I go whackamamy with the chocolate pie! Gosh! Just gosh!”
And my conclusion is therefore that by the tough-time of carrying a punctured pumpkin to the point of it weeping juice upon my stairs, the vengeance distributed against a wall, and a memory recalled from a distant creative childhood…I have detailed an extraordinary exercise and weight-loss programme that is free for all.
There, is how to use a pumpkin instead of Latin.
Smooch,
Sam
The Lateral Column 