How Awfully Correct of Me

As I’ve mentioned before in fits of appropriate arrogance; I’m that correct motherfucker you’ve been looking for.

I said “whom” recently.

I was confronted on it and debate ensued.

There was much pointing and, by jove, nearly some prodding too.

My arms were bloody well folded throughout so denote how stubborn and elbowy I was in the mood to be for the foreseeable and in the face of his argument.

He said it was an improper use of “whom”, to which I countered that the use was only incorrect grammatically.

My intonation was flawless.

My intonation was tender, gravelly, full of poise and wholeheartedly correct.

It was the same intonation with which I stated internally I was going to then simply sit in my chair and disagree with him for the next few minutes.

I was very much like the novelist I could always have been; had it not been for the distinct lack of books coming out of me.

This is the same reason I’m not a library (which is the sort of joke a novelist would make).

Should I be a novelist; call me Rafferty.

I shall respond.

I will speak in hushed and suddenly definitely-audible tones, arms folded to show I have dry skin on the elbow most prominent, but I write a damn fine novel.

Each evening.

I want to be the variety of novelist who has gold teeth but not his own, instead from some form of clash with another novelist at some point. In Africa. On a boat.

Things get fisty.

I feel a novelist of the highest character is one ready to increase the amount of knuckle and diminish an amount of jaw until the prose are deemed satisfactory by the opponent.

A good novelist really knows how to be a bizarre white guy.

Perhaps this is how I should have behaved with my opponent is the argument of opinions over grammar.

I was told when I was younger that an opinion cannot be wrong, such is the flame of confidence and insistence.

So, if in my opinion 1 + 1 = 3 then it does for as long as we are pacifying children with such an idea as failure being an ‘other-people’ scenario.

 In other words…when I say: “Whom?” in the beginning, middle or end of any discussion then I shall not be accused of being incorrect as I have some pretty distinct opinions as to the contrary.

Sam

If I Were a Sea Shanty I Would Improve Your Demeanour, Madam.

I’ve always found I operate better whilst tankards are collided upon tavern table tops.

It helps with my stutter.

Not that you’d be able to tell I have a stutter merely by listening to me.

I have a stutter one needs to view from a comfortable setting to be able to fully appreciate.

My feet stutter.

And they stutter well. Very well.

Most presume, as they watch from their comfortable setting, that I am Irish Dancing.

I am not.

All I am in that precise moment in time is curious as to how you came to find yourself a comfortable setting such as you did.

My own comfortable setting?

I find myself adequate and pleased whilst atop a woman.

Naturally you’ve done a little leaping up there in your noggin and I must restrain you in your thoughts only so far as to make clear I am referring to the female more as a chaise longue as opposed to a sexual being.

Otherwise it would be weird.

It helps with my stutter.

Women are comfortable. There you go; have a fact. Women are comfortable.

Should I divulge this to you? Is it right?

I think so, seeing as how I seem to be anyway (jeez; my typing is faster than my morals).

If I were a sea shanty I would likely leave out the bit about water.

Sea shanties and water go hand in hand, which is girly, and I am not a girl.

I am a sea shanty.

I feel a worthy sea shanty should blister out some good tales of pulling rope and being overboard.

Overboard suits me.

Plus hoisting things helps with my stutter.

“Oh, he came from far along by the end of the rope,
drinking a mouthful of tea.
With great distance from ship, as he dangled and dipped,
his poor luck right in front of me.”

Nothing wrong with being self-deprecating about one’s manhood.

Although, I would appreciate the clamour so soon I would receive should I be the only sea shanty with working (and relaxing) genitalia.

I am a sea shanty with some penises.

That might cheer you up, Madam.

If not then I’ll find somewhere else to sit.

What a shanty.

Sam

If I Were You I Wouldn’t Give Me a Fiver

I don’t appreciate currency because it doesn’t appreciate.

It tears and it tumbles.

Why offer me a heavily used and really rather grimy little promise such as a fiver when you could drop a tomato on me?

Tomatoes are short term and long term.

Thus tomatoes are eternal.

In the brief they are a tasty fruit and not a vegetable.

I apply them.

In the less quick and distinctly more long-term they are volatile bags of rosy fluid with a pleasing sense of grip to the palm and opponents facial features.

I apply them.

Gift me no fivers.

Land upon me a tomato and expect I shall commit a pleasant vengeance.

I also appreciate that island you’re bringing back to my place.

You nice guy you.

Nothing like an island to begin the day.

Not that I’d eat one, I don’t feel confident enough in my capacity to do so, but I sure as hell will find myself face down and hopes high as I begin to truly enjoy the island that is mine.

I’m a tad on the bright-side perception when it comes to possessiveness.

I just assume the continent is mine and allow everyone to go about their busy business upon it.

Plus sea shanties.

Sea shanties are mine, particularly when they are traded in return for a shiny apple.

I’m going to get me some sea shanties, once I’ve finished my evening’s scrumping.

It would appear my preferential currency revolves around fruit, and I won’t be satisfied till that this sentence can be regarded in a literal sense.

Let’s do that.

Sam

Books Are For Pussies. I Only Ever Read Palms

I need to eat more Arabic food.

I’ve a feeling, and I’m referring to all the Arabic food amongst us now and that is reading this, that you’re coming to get me and so I should likely pounce first.

And having pounced, dice myself up some tobacco of the gloopiest nature (gloopy as though I’ve pleased it) and then shisha smoke the good riddance out of it.

That, my friends, is how you make an enemy, and that, my friends, is the best way to think of your food.

Pounced upon and so stirring in action that it requires a pipe of shisha to follow.

The fork and spoon, all I ever need for most routes in life (whip them out suddenly; you’ll get a good measure on people by seeing how they react), are my table top buddies and we delve deeper into the Arabic food that taunts us so deliciously.

We should regard the existence of a pleasant and tempting smell for what it is…you’re putting something up my nostrils for your own benefit and I’d like to purr a “thank you” for this.

Insertion is a fact of life, whether it be nasal or a more pleasing fact of life.

To Arabic cuisine…I’m coming for you. Via insertion.

To the fork and the spoon…be there for me.

To the girl…watch how eagerly I rip off a table leg to defend your honour and boyfriend. I’ll always protect your boyfriend. Largely because you’re my girlfriend. Plus I like him.

I read the menu in French, no matter its being an Arabic. I don’t speak French anyway, although my French accent is second to none (aside from the Belgians).

If I read the menu at all. I don’t tend to read words.

Books are for pussies. I only ever read palms now owing to the tendency for the reading material to be somewhat more impulsive in a way books never seem to be, as they watch me pass back and forth from the shelf.

Belly dancing, more of a habit than a hobby of mine (it keeps seeming to crop up and solve dilemas for me), shall be plentiful and prominent.

Books don’t belly dance, and I’ll only enjoy a brief rest until they do.

I can do anything now; I have well inserted Arabic food well inserted.

Plus women.

Plus beer.

Not to mention the gloopy tobacco.

I cannot wait to do all the things I am going to do to Arabic food very soon.

I’m going to make books impulsive.

Like a hand.

Sam