Sunday, 6 November 2016

SHEOPLE SPEAK Part 2


SHEOPLE SPEAK

Part 2

           

Why do sheople speak people say kind’ve most of the time – is it because the other types of ‘ves don’t sound as kind as kind’ve?  Although those speakers often do spew out all the ‘ves in rapid succession to make sure that more is more, their statements would really mean more if they said less and less, with the wisdom of less is more.  Or in more or less common parlance – “Too much custard kills the caviar”.

Turbo talking people suffer the most from Word Addiction Disorder.  They are word fashion victims, and the most dangerous carriers of the disease, being unaware of infecting gullible others in search of social acceptance.

            If all nervous turbo talkers slowed down, they would have more time to hear the crap coming out of their mouths and perhaps say something sensible.

Kind’ve is also used by super cool ‘guys’ of both genders and the trendsome LGBTQIA non-binary guys and guyesses.  This makes the non-exclusiveness of kind’ve one of the best examples of the benefits of living in a free liberal PC democrassy. 

            Good coves and cove-esses of yesteryear, such as Bertie Wooster and his Aunt Dahlia, would have listened to the wisdom of fish-eating Jeeves (the gentleman’s gentleman) to curb their mis-use of useful words and phrases.  But nowadays, when ignorance and stupidity are democratic rights of free speech – albeit surreptitiously controlled by the Speech Police in the Department for Political Correctosserty, the DPC in Whitehall – the exponential abuse of spoken English could transmogrificate into global gobbledegook. 

            The kindovisation of the world is nigh!

            Some lawyers and English language professors could be convulsed with ribald laughter over the trendy plebs’ stupid use of kind’ve and its close cousins.  But they only wince upon hearing politicians and public speakers repeating the word impact.  This is probably because impact in validated in the OED, so it’s supposed to work when spoken, and when printed on the pages of a speechwriter’s speech.  Impact has impact, so the impactossers think, even when there’s no actual impact smashing things to smithereens, only brain pain.  Whereas kind’ve, sort’ve, type’ve like,  y’nowo’amin, are insidious idiolects which don’t appear to impactivate any pain on sheople’s brains.

*          *          *          *          *

            Before going any further down the up-coming pages of this essay, I must not forget to remember to say that I am not, and never have been a scholar of English Language, nor English Literature – lest anyone could possibly think that I’m a serious academic intellectual analysing the hapless habits of humans.

            Writing for fun (one of my favourite OCPTs) flows naturally from open-minded receptive listening to what people say and the way they say it.  My ears are the fast lane to the brain, avoiding any noisy congestion lurking in the mind.  When the brain has registered the information, the mind can make up its mind to write something, say something, or do nothing and be content with enough is enough.  Maybe there is some wisdom in the phrase, “Don’t just do something, sit there”. 

            Paradoxically, this open attentive listening involves hearing a lot of verbal diarrhoea and only a few pearly words of wisdom.  Fortunately, my musician’s ears have become accustomed over the years to hearing all sounds in binaural surround sound, and thus the freedom to focus on any one of those sounds attracting extra attention.  It’s audio zoom lensing into one small part of a big musical picture, and then zooming back out in order to zoom back in again to hear something else that may be making a mess of the music.

In rehearsal, a symphony orchestra conductor hears a percussionist adding one unwritten beat which sounds like a natural grace note.  He then hears a trombone player repeating bellicoso bum notes which dis-grace the delicato of the fellato horns.  Therefore the conductor’s ears (and arms) need to be in a wide open state of awareness – fully conscious of invisible sounds.

When I’m not making spontaneous music, my flabber is often ghasted by the deaf-earism of radio and television producers, who not only use all the ‘ves themselves, but also give free airtime to kindovisation activists who spit out the ‘ves 10-to-the-dozen across the world, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week via the broadcasting media.  I could have said 24/7, but that’s just more turbo talk.

            Beware – nervous turbo verbals are everywhere!

            I dare not condemn the kind’ve fools because I am a fool myself in other ways.  But as a part-time fool I can still use my so-called democratic freedom of speech to comment on the foolishness of others, who diss my gruntle with their sickening super-fast repetition of the two simple words kind of and their cohorts. 

            Does anyone enjoy the millions of ’ves spat out through sheople speak?

            In the full shortness of human hurry time, the kind’ves might fade away, as did ‘the elephant in the room’ that jumped through ‘a window of opportunity’ to escape from the human shit and shenanigans of corporate, political, religious and media morning meetings.  Those once fashionable elephant of opportunity phrases were much longer and heavier than the turbo-tongue motor-mouth speed of all the ’ves which whizz past the ears of semi-conscious sheople.

            By the way, the word robust has also faded from fashion – wasn’t it robust enough to withstand ridiculous repetition? 

*          *          *          *          *

            Last year at the Way-on-High Book Festival, Ahmed Winterbottom, respected historical novel writer on the short list of nominees for the Booker Prize, gave a talk about his new book, during which he constantly repeated all the aforementioned worthless words and phrases with the nept ineptitude of an experienced inepticist attempting to communicate with the audients, who listened in rapt attention without questioning the kind’ve-isation of his public speaking in the Q&A session.  After a little polite applause, the shit-lit loving audients shuffled out to the nearest watering hole to wash down the waffle.

            Suitably refreshed, the lit-lovers returned to hear an unexpectedly clear and simple, no-nonsense, plain-boiled, straight-talking talk by Yasmin Finklater, another one of those colourful fusion-food cook book writers, and an enthusiastic domestic scientist, who gave a sizzling performance with her demonstration of 101 things to do at home with a pot of Parkers Original Potassium Permanganate.  Whereupon, the audients gave her a standing ovation and then bought both her books.

            The following day, Professor Winton Winstanley rose to the podium and spoke about his book on the sexual encounters of old folks in care homes.  Again, no-one seemed to notice the kind’ve-isation of his talk.  Even the old folks champion Joe Wakebell, who listened with avid interest, didn’t raise a wise old eyebrow.  I wonder why.  Could it be that the gap between the spoken word and the written word is expanding as fast as the gap between the rich and the poor – becoming almost acceptable?

            If kindovisation continues, the time could come when a baby’s first words are “I kind’ve like need a type’ve nipple to sort’ve suck on, mamma”.  And when dadda is reading a bedtime story to the other sprogs – “Once upon a type’ve time on a dark and sort’ve stormy kind’ve like night…....” 

            Who started all this kind’ve stuff?  What’s the back-story narrative? Where is the narrativisation of the back-storyism which media speakers think is so essential for any discussion about any aspect of human culture?  Can kindovisation be back-storied and narrativised?  Or is the 21st century idiolectrified culture still waiting to be back-storycled and narrativated by glottochronological psycho-socio linguisticists? 

            With little or no evidence as to who started kindovisation, the search for suspects automatically turns towards the great pioneers and powerful perpetrators of   idiolectualism – the Americans who pretend to sprechen sie Englisch.  I guess I guess with the glottoful guessedness of a guess-gambling American that it’s futile to accuse the Germans, Russians, Chinese and French for spreading sheople speak in English, even though they may have some kinds of kind’ves in their own languages.

            In political parlance, let’s be absolutely clear about kick-starting this with a clarity that is absolute.  Clearly, after all is done and said at the day of the end forward going (rolling out a raft of outcome models for kick-starting hard-working families working harduously for income outcomes, up and down and down and up the country) English is absolutely clearly the international impactivating language with absolutely challenging impacts clearly outcomed from kick-starting a silver bullet shooting itself in the foot, to absolutely cut off its nose to clearly spite its face, and then being challenged to step up to the plate and absolutely bite the bullet.

            What a lot of old codswallop, as they say in Grimsby-on-Sea.

            But let’s not over over-egg the kedgeree, because the anti-social abusers of clearly and absolutely, asbolutely deserve to be served with an ASBO, or better still, shut up in a long custodial sentence.

            Meanwhile, the kindovisation of spoken English continues apace.

            I think most people, after conscious consideration, would agree that on the frontline of frontline verbage, kind’ve is no match or model for the word impact, which is currently enjoying worldwide success.  But fuck still has the most enduring worldwide effect on the human organism.  This is because the fearsome power of cunt is only let out for special occasions, unless accompanied by its close cuntry cousin respectfully dressed in country clothes – so to speak, as it were, if you will, ‘scuse my Scouse, blah, blah, blah. 

            The kind’ves will always be wet, wimpish, cringe-making, Z-list fly-by-night words which say nothing, and yet say everything about the people who spew them out all day long. So what happens at night when sheople are dreaming?  If humans can dream in words, are their sweet dreams stuffed with thousands of kind’ves, type’ves and sort’ves?  Sounds more like a nightmare to me.

            One last rhetorical question.  Do highly trained professional specialists speak to their colleagues with worthless words when they’re working?  The airline pilot to ATC – “I’m just kind’ve coming in to land this sort’ve 400 ton flying cattle truck”.  The rocket scientist to the astronaut – “I’m kind’ve guiding your sort’ve 3,000 degree white hot capsule’s kind’ve like 22,000 mph re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere”.   The brain surgeon to surgical assistant – “I sort’ve need a kind’ve knife to like cut this man’s head open”. 

            I rest my case, lest one arm gets longer than the other.

            By now we, or at least I can see that these highly addictive ‘ves corrupt the meaning, probity, lucidity and eloquent flow of spoken words – and written words.  But the contagion continues, similar to Chinese and Russian Oligarch ill-gotten gains contaminating the London property market, not to mention Burmese budgerigar bird flu – fuck, I’ve just kind’ve like mentioned it. 

            Oh well, I’m hooked.  I’ve been kind’ve-ised by a kind’ve like kind’veness which is kind’ve difficult to give up.  Maybe I should move into the Word Addiction Rehabilitation Retreat and live on a strict diet of turkey talk for a few weeks. Or else take 12 tentative steep steps up to the welcoming portals of Wordoholics Anonymous.  In the meantime, I’ll savour the flavours of this somewhat satirical wordplay, inspired by the hapless habits of humans.

            In codaful conclusion without repeating to fade, RTF in session musicians’ jargon, you may be as annoyed and amused as much as I am by all the verbal stuff and nonsense.  At least it’s been a lot of fun for me and my favourite typochology lady, who is always willing to brace herself for the full thrust of a few more thousand words, despite a little difficulty in making sheople speak readable. 

            It might be fun to read it backwards, or read it out loud to treasured friends over a whass of gliskey, but as I have found, some words may need pronunciation practice before beginning.

 

“You’re mad” – said the pleb.

“Who isn’t” – said the wise man.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

TWO MORE HELPINGS OF......


         “Two more helpings of steamed treacle pudding

                      and custard please”

 

                                    Haigle mea jo riss

                                    doe runn tooo

                                    Grumf uckle o’been  

                                    smode ancortle fiss pewd                              

                                    Bamroddice ko lit      

                                    tay mij yape

                                    Mologgley stor crup

                                    hewront

 

                                    “Sorry luv, we’ve only got jam sponge left”         

 

 

           

 

 

                                                                                                           

 

SHEOPLE SPEAK Part 1


SHEOPLE SPEAK

Part 1

 

            So many kind’ves, impacts and models in the media these days.  There is now a kind’ve for anything, an impact for anything and a model for anything.  Not to mention a challenge, an absolutely and a clearly stuck on to any sentence uttered under an English speaking sun. 

            What the kind’ve, impact, model fuck is going on in such absolute clarity? 

            I like chips, but I don’t need chips with everything on the cheffing menu.  I also like words, but I don’t need kind’ve, impact and model with absolutely every clearly spoken sentence on the throw-up-coming media menu.  These overcooked words and more, are as inedible as all the challenging challenges that challengingly challenge my audio appetite. 

            Nevertheless, just to wet my appetite for more challenging analogenic euphemistical metaphoricalisms, I’d like to taste the juicy wilted sibilances of a few fresh felicitous fecundities tongue-fried on the hot lips of theriouth lithp-thtricken thpeakerth, whosth primary impediment theemth to be a dethperate desthire to be theen and heard on televisthion asth often asth pothible. Perhapth they were media thstudieth thstudenth with no pop thstar potensthial.

            Neverthemore, I’m full up with the kind’ve impact of the food model, but still hungry for an answer to the clotted cream of questions – 

            Why can’t people learn to speak more properer? 

            There are various possible answers to this vexatious question and they inconclusively include the forces of ignorance, greed and stupidity driving deluded ambitions, expectations and aspirations which generate excessive stress and anxiety when humans are attempting to communicate with other humans, whether in private, socially, at work or in media land.

            The result of this hyper-active anxiety is succinctly described, by those blessed with healthy ears, noses and throats, as verbal diarrhoea – a foul smelling symptom of the brain’s bowel being infected by worthless words and phrases which, in order to avoid the strain of constipation, must be shat out through the mouth.  Hence the phrases, “You’re talking out of your arse”, and “You’re full of shit”.  Intelligent, well educated speakers suffer from this très difficile condition, as do other on-trend conditioned sheople desperately seeking security in an infected herd of humans.

            Where are the word surgeons – are they all operating at Oxbridge? 

            As with sminking and droking, sex, drugs, rock and roll, bwanking, granny tossing, cream cakes, dwarf baiting and underwater tennis, any form of human thought, word and deed can become addictive.  No-one of any high, middle or low social status is immune from succumbing to fashionable addictions, including the constant repetition of contagious words and phrases. 

            Kind’ve, is now probably the most contagious warped word in the English language, used billions of times every day down and up all five corners of the world – only by humans of course.  Other species can’t be bothered with such balderdash.  It’s only human copycats who keep pissing on the lush green grass of the English language. 

            Do humans talk to their precious pets in sheople speak?  “Come on pussykins, here’s some kind’ve like type’ve tinned fish and a sort’ve saucer of milk”.

Kind’ve is fastly becoming a global pandemic, a virulent verbal virus which contaminates spoken communication.  Kind’ve is used more often in a single sentence than its incorrigible companions sort’ve, type’ve, like, nowo’amin, or its rising rival impact –  all of which are frequently forced into each sentence, only briefly brought to a halt by continuous interruptions from the famous pause star Ann Dumb…………. lusting after elusive lucidity.

In the most serious cases of Kind’ve Addiction Syndrome, the constant repetition of kind’ve and all the other ‘ves could be described as a turbo verbal expression of – a nervous twitch, embarrassment, pressure to perform, confusion, lack of confidence, pleading for acceptance, escapist aberration, hedging of bets, a fragile ego, fear of being mis-understood, vulnerable pretentiousness, emotional overload,  gullible copycatitis and a lack of natural self-awareness – any combination of which can cause an excruciating struggle to communicate. 

Is healthy existential anxiety being corrupted by unhealthy attention seekers?

            Kind’ve, or kind’ve like is used by a kind’ve like, type’ve, sort’ve, y’nowo’amin adolescent teenage brain trying to communicate on the painful threshold of adult life.  And yet educated, intelligent and seemingly respectable adults, including the Royal Family and smartly spoken BBC radio and television presenters, are using kind’ve as if it’s kind’ve like the best kind’ve social convention since the kind’ve invention of kind’ve like sliced bread.

            In fact of pointed finger, the British Royal Family, the elite of the elite in the land, might royally enjoy using the common ‘ves for a little satirical entertainment with the lords and ladies of the court.  And when spoken in public, those royal ‘ves are the spit and polish for their passports to popularity with the sheople on the street. 

            Some younger Royals however, have become accustomed to using the ‘ves to dumb-down their high status in a patronising attempt to be like the plebs.  Though these Royal young shavers may be aware of suffering from copycatitis, if they gave up their addiction to all the ‘ves they could lose the approval of the Palace, and could no longer pretend to be one of the ‘guys’, the common people.  What a wight woyal pwedicament – as a pedigree copycat cannot be a common copycat. 

That’s enough pussyfooting metaphaws, because there is an important constitutional benefit to the British monarchy arising from chronic copycatitis.  Namely, royal stutters and stammers (nervosa inheritas) are easily eased with frequent squirts of kind’ve, type’ve, sort’ve lubricants – the royal oils of anointment for would be kings in waiting.

Hear ye, hear ye, the King’s New Words!

Yet the perpetual reciprocity of the chicken and egg question remains – are the Royals copying the prols, or are the prols copying the Royals? 

            The situation could also be compared to a desperate television commercial – “End of season sale so get your kind’ves now, while stocks last.”  But stocks of kind’ve might never run out.  Or is the ubiquitous abuse of the innocence of a kind of, a word spitting competition to get into the Guinness Book of Records, by forcing the greatest number of kind’ves into a single sentence against the clock?

*          *          *          *          *

            The more a word is gratuitously used, the more it loses its meaning – as on a Women’s Rights protest march, moving along at a medium speed of 98 bpm.

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Cunt, Cunt, Cunt Cunt Cunt

            Up and down the Cuntry

            The last line has a one beat rest in which to draw breath, allowing constant repetition over many miles of city streets.

            The words may be shocking when shouted and sinister when whispered, but they become more meaningless when synchronised with the magnificent sights and sounds of massed militant women (and a few femboys) marching in lardy-arse leggings, bullet-proof bras, pink tutus and stout hobnailed boots. 

Longer rest breaks for sore throats, inner thigh rash, undercarriage repairs, hot flushes and feeling faint, are taken by stopping for cream cakes and frothy coffee outside every other Starbucks, and for looking in the reflective windows of designer handbag and shoe shops to check hair and make-up.

            In London these LibFem marches tend to end up down by an old riverside pub, recently gentrified and re-named The Muddy Duck.  But not a duck in sight, only mud.  The new name is obviously concocted from the TV celebrity chef’s speciality dish –

A twin pair of culturally poached Vietnamese raw duck embryos drizzled with

Thames mud jus, served on a cold grey Welsh slate.               £49.95

A better name for this risible restaurant would be The Sick and Bucket.

What happened to ye olde traditional pubs with proper names like The Dog and Stocking, The Hare and Gusset and The Goose and Buttock, where you could get a bidet of spit and sawdust soup for £1.60?

Truly liberated females don’t give a flying fuck about pretentious gastro pub names, because they know what they want, and how to get it up at The King Dick Inn.

*          *          *          *          *

Straight speaking people occasionally use a kind of, a type of or a sort of to loosely introduce a cluster of related alternatives surrounding the subject under discussion, or just a simple analogy to indicate resemblances. 

For example, lovable grandma Doris de Boyce, who once worked at the Post Office and now goes out for a good time every Saturday night, might say to her neighbour – “An un-used condom is a kind of un-inflated balloon”.  However, condoms are not exactly the same as the balloons at children’s parties, mainly because they are much harder to blow up – so I’m told by practising pensioners. 

Yet condoms and balloons are made from a similar sort of flexible rubbery substance and can look, feel and sound with tactile textural squeakiness similar to each other when inflated, depending on size, shape, flavour, smell and colour of course.  Also, inflated condoms and sky-going hot air balloons need certain types of heat to keep them up for pleasure seeking riders – reactive thermo-dynamic energy which penetrates space and provides a fairly safe and enjoyable experience.

Some differences between these two types of transport are, that riding in a condom is not quite as safe as riding in the basket of a balloon, nor can a condom fly as high.  But a condom is a sort of warm and cosy wet suit, whereas the kind of cold weather conditions in an open balloon basket can “freeze the balls off a brass monkey” – as the they sometimes say.  Or to be feministically PC – “It’s cold enough to freeze the nipples off the Statue of Liberty”. 

Another difference, within the above cluster of comparables, is the difference between the power of flame-throwing burners shooting up into a balloon through a small hole in the bottom, to lift ten cold pleasure seeking people sky high for three or four hours – and the type of power required by the occupant of a hot condom finding it hard to stay up and lift only one pleasure seeking person up the stairs to ecstasy, for not much more than half an hour before the fuel runs out.

Further differences are that hot air balloons can catch fire, and look very untidy when tangled up on power lines.  Whereas condoms don’t catch fire easily, and when deflated are difficult to throw much higher than a laundry line.  Some similarities are that balloons and condoms don’t flush well down the lavatory, although they do float well across the high seas – so I’m told by the strict woman at the District Council Recycling Centre, who is skilled at upskilling the skillsets of semi-skilled Waste Disposal Operatives, as she points to the big skip marked in bold red letters, BALLOONS AND CONDOMS ONLY – NO DILDOS.

But let’s not get hung-up like a recycled condom hanging on a laundry line (hence the phrase “hung out to dry”) when the genuine use of a kind of, a type of or a sort of, enables interesting and useful, if not humorous analogies to be enjoyed.

           

            If not to be continued .......

Thursday, 15 September 2016

MORE UP THAN DOWN


                                   MORE UP THAN DOWN

 

In a not unusual spasm of chronic digressmentalitis, probably triggered by all the uptossers’ up words tossed up in a recent blog-up titled ‘Writing for Fun’, I must mention that I won’t be up or down for anything unless I cook-up some comestibles in the kitchen – a place in which I am not widely known to write-up blog-ups in between meet-ups, coffee-ups, tea-ups, sneeze-ups and knees-ups.

Due to rampant uptosserty, drink-ups are ubiquitously preferred to drink-downs, which is yet another example of all the up stuff being way up in common parlance compared to the down stuff, and therefore ridiculously disproportionate.  But are these well tossed up, and not so well tossed down words really necessary?  I think, and it’s only a flexible thought, not a hardened religious belief, atheistic mindset or an exercise in pedantic semantics, that humans could well do well without stupidly abusing the innocent up word.  Do humans dream in up words? 

More importantly, where’s the awareness when awake?

I feel more aware of what is within and what is without when only using up and down words that relate to physical reality.  Even so, with as much conscientious consciousness that I can muster, I sometimes hear myself inadvertently uttering some of those unnecessary up and down utterances in the moment I utter them.

Next up.  Does a fry-up taste any better than a fry-down?  In the absence of a deep down fat frying basket, the hot inflammable oil and fat goes both up and down in a frying pan and the pan-fried food eventually goes up to the mouth, but these are fleeting moments.  99% of the fry-up is down in the pan and goes down on the plate and then down the throat – unless there’s a fire going up in the kitchen, which of course goes down when doused by firemen who are always up for it. 

Besides, the rungs on a fireman’s ladder often go up and down – whereas a firewoman’s greasy pole only goes down.

Neverthelessormore, a fry-up is only one example of the multitudinous variety of ups and downs in life which may not be efficacious for recovering bungee jumpers. 

According to the law of earthly gravity, we say “what goes up must come down”, including the male erection.  But in the weightlessness of outer space where anything can go in any direction propelled only by the soft power of a silent fart, this common phrase is not true.  Well, perhaps only a few male astronauts can testify to that, plus a few truth seeking scientists with powerful space probing telescopes. 

Moreover, according to human notions about up North and down South – when you are having a summer barbecue party at the North Pole, the smoke rising from cooking freshly found well preserved frozen Arctic explorers’ spare ribs, goes up into space.  Therefore, at a similar summer party at the South Pole, the barbecue smoke should go down into space.  But no.  Humans always want their smoke to go up, even when it’s going down into the earth’s atmosphere from the South Pole.

Furthermoreover, in the Vatican Palace of Catholic power, somewhat on the side of the planet, the Pope’s macabre election smoke always goes up – never sideways, or heaven forbid – down.

What is true as far as the truth be known, is that nature designed humans to live (down) on the ground – not (up) in outer space.  And yet humans condition each other and themselves to become addicted to up words in desperate denial of down words.

What is so good about up and so bad about down?  Does it matter whether we go up to the pub or down to the pub?  Why not just go to the pub without any ups or downs, even if the journey is over hill and dale or a level minefield in which we could be blown up and then have to come down.  Not much upside in that scenario, unless you happen to sell artificial limbs. 

Some say the answer lies in the soil, but deep furrow philosophical farmers who are up for digging down for it, still haven’t found it.  Perhaps the answer lies in the shallow top soil of the human mind’s over-imaginative imagination that imagines going up to heaven or down into hell after death.  But this polarised decision of deservedness depends on the difference between an assumed number of life-long fuck-ups and fuck-downs being assessed on a self-indulgent guilt trip imposed on innocent people by judgemental religious evangelists down and up the anus of history.

If there were such destinations as heaven and hell after death, there would be only a smally few up there and a littly few down there.  Billions of other humans just live and die with the ups and downs of life as nature intended, whether or not they are brainwashed by man-made religious notions of heaven up and hell down.  But I suspect that all the up word stuff is still a determined denial of the down stuff of death.

It seems that we puny humans with delusions of grandeur are nevertheless driven by existential anxiety to amplify the ups and attenuate the downs, despite millions of tons of human excrement going down the drains every day.  The rest of nature doesn’t give a shit about what’s up or down.  So perhaps we humans have more to learn from nature about how to achieve a central balancing still point between the dynamic extremes of up and down – both of which can cause mental and physical sickness.  However, we don’t have to take it lying down when we’re so good at taking it standing up.

If up and down are two sides of the same coin, then in the desperate desire for up all the time, half the value of the coin is lost down the drain of that desire. 

To be up all the time is not sustainable, nor is being down all the time sustainable.  Hence, extended ignorant emphasis on the way up sooner or later causes trouble and strife on the way down – except for defunct satellite space junk, stuck in perpetual orbit round and round the planet without going up or down. 

Upside down is a welcome reversal of the normative emphasis on downside up.  Up needs down, and down needs up.  So why the ridiculous addiction to the up word at the expense of the balancing benefits of the down word?  Answer – it’s a mad human world. 

A fuck-up is meant to mean a mistake has been made – a dire downer even with the up word on the end.  But a fuck up and down, over and under and in and out is what nature intended for human happiness and the continuation of the species.  Maybe the weird way we use words to communicate is not always as good as a physical fuck.  So why not “shut the fuck up” as the they say.

Finally then, in the wise words of the great Greek philosopher Testicules – “After all is said and said, skirts must go up and trousers must come down.”

 

 

 

Friday, 9 September 2016

WELL BEING


WELL BEING

 

            “And all will be well” – as the theity say.  Well, they’ve been saying that for at least 2,000 years.  So when will all be well? 

            Isn’t 2,000 years or more a long enough time for all to be well in?  Surely by now in the 21st century, we should all be well and being the magnificent manifestation of wellness that previous preachers were willing us humans to be.  Those headstrong toothsayers used five short-letter words to seduce the sheople of the past and future generations into gullible sucking on a patronising prediction.  But as with the weather forecast and the end of the world, it has not come to pass.  Why not? 

            Well, I think it’s time to take a more than literal look at this ancient phrase and perhaps benefit from a bit of 2016 hindsightical adjustmentation. 

            First of all, “all” is all too encompassing and pretentiously magnanimous.  The theity should have known that humans, and their various gods on high do not distribute fair shares of the world’s wellness, and said – “some will be well.” 

            Secondly, “will” or “shall” is didactic and pompous in its denial of the blood and guts of nature’s life force.  They should have said – “some might be well.” 

            Thirdly, even “some” seems all too willfully generous.  They should have said – “few will be well.”  So now the phrase should read – “And few might be well.”

            To some, if not many, this re-writing is not so re-assuring as the delusional hopefulness of the original phrase.  Sheople prefer the comfort blanket of hopefulness rather than hopelessness.  But neither hopeful nor hopeless are necessary – they are just two indulgent extremes, not dissimilar to heaven and hell – just two of the amazing tricks performed by the human monkey mind.  Nor is there a so-called third or middle way, which would only be the other old trick of a restricted choice of three.

            Others say that reality rules, but what is reality?  At present there are 7 billion different human perceptions of reality without a ruling majority.  So if Darwinian reality is the survival of the fittest, then all cannot be well. 

It’s only a miniscule minority who will be well, well, at least well off the scale of a fair share of the planet’s resources.  Willfully wealthy humans do not need crazy phrases and wishful thinking in order to plunder the planet and predate on millions of their far from wealthy fellow humans, who are not so well endowed with wellfulness. 

            Evangelical human notions and words about wellness for all are by definition man-made, and are less than a tinker’s cuss left languishing in the omnipotent forces of nature and the solar system which sustain all life on earth.

            What is commonly called the natural world in which humans play a rather un-natural part, does not comfort itself with words such as “all will be well.”  Even though a well trained parrot could say those words, I doubt whether anyone has heard the phrase trotted out by a horse, a hedgehog, a fish, an ant, an elephant, a garden vegetable or a mountain stream – no matter how much anthropomorphic sentimental entertainment is available via TV commercials and YouTube. 

            Given the way the man-made world stumbles from one crisis to the next, it is not pessimistic to suggest that too many major and minor human endeavours, including Nuclear Bombs and Power Stations, the European Union, Diesel Fuel and Plastic Bags (but not some sink plungers, sheds, bicycles and builders’ wheelbarrows) cause more problems than they are meant to solve.  And if we accept the popular PC stupid excuse of ‘unintended consequences’, then all will never be well. 

            The consequential consequences of any action, be they intended or unintended, already exist in that action.  So-called 1st world humans seem to prefer suffering from an endless series of self-inflicted non-improvements and unnecessary actions that are supposed to be better than before.  Where’s the wise hindsight and foresight?

            Perhaps the unintended consequences are the price we pay for so-called progress.  This can be a high price to pay, which we kindly call ‘two steps forward and one step back’, or ‘humans are their own worst enemy’.  Or less kindly, ignorant arrogant greedy stupid humans being hell-bent on destructive consumption, rather than being well-bent on being well with the energy of natural creativity. 

            As far as we humans know, all the other creatures on the planet are not intentionally or unintentionally killing their own kind (except perhaps a few spiders, piranhas and meerkats) and they don’t destroy their habitat for survival, re-production and well being.  They instinctively do what they do and don’t leave a filthy toxic mess when they’ve done it.  They don’t rape, pillage and plunder the planet’s natural resources and they don’t consume more than they need.  However, they are the victims of mighty human predators. 

            Also for thousands of years, extremely vicious predators in small groups of power-crazed male political and religious leaders have incited and conscripted their fellow countrymen to carry out the mass murder of millions of other human beings.

            Today, after two 20th century world wars, these barbaric killing sprees continue to be enjoyed by presidents, prime ministers, dictators, deranged despots and brain damaged little boys in long trousers with their deadly hand-held penis extensions, just for the sake of a political ideology or die-hard sophistrifical religious delusions about ruling the world.

            Is all that the all will be well as promised by the ancient rhetoricalators?

            Come off it, you super-egotistical old clerical egg-heads pickled in mystical vinegar.  Nothing in the world will be well, unless humans become aware of already being well enough for well being – the consequences of which might result in some sort of all being wellness.

            When the hopelessness of the hopefulness of “all will be well” is accepted, then in the fullness of time, if not more soonly than the end of eternity, or before the sun swallows the planet, the all and everything on earth might be well.  In the meantime, the grandiose religiosserty of the ancient phrase will not work.  

What may well work, is when humans wake up to being awake, and therefore aware of being much more than brain-stained victims chafing in the chains of parental, educational, cultural, religious, political, commercial, emotional, social and self-induced conditioning.  The human mind’s innate consciousness can re-train the brain’s electro-chemical transmitters, signals and neuro pathways towards making fresh synaptical connections.  This could be the most efficacious use of what is called free will. 

In other words, a progressively interactive process between mind and brain for fully functioning well being.  Changing the mind can change the brain, and in reciprocal motion the brain can change the mind.

A few new neuro scientists and a few more old and new Buddhist monks have shown that awareness of the adaptability of the mind interacting with the plasticity of the brain can be developed into experiencing well being – even that elusive transitory state called happiness.  This natural practical process of sorting the clarity from the clutter is also constantly available to millions, if not billions, of ordinary people who don’t have wall-mounted framed diplomas for Brainery or Buddhary.

Mindfulness is at present a fashionable faddish introduction to the beneficial power of conscious awareness – a simple derivation of Buddhist meditation, namely full sensory cognition of what is, rather than what is not. 

Without a magic wand Made in Utopia, or a global catastrophe, it is realistic to suggest that the well being of all life on earth in the 21st century depends on healthy human brains functioning well with healthy minds (still in somewhat short supply) and definitely not on wildly willful wishy-washy worthless words about a fantasy wellderland for all, in an unknown future. 

For all we don’t know about the unknown, it could well be that all is being well right now according to what might be nature’s grand plan.  And although man is at present the ‘top dirty dog’ on the planet, it is too vainglorious to believe that man’s ignorance, greed, stupidity and suffering is all his own work.  It could well be exactly what nature intended for human evolution – albeit perceived as a painful snail’s pace in human hurry time.

Moreover, despite the most amazing advances in scientific knowledge, no-one actually knows what the power of nature and universal energy intends for the evolution of all life on earth, whether or not human words will it to be well.

            So in daring to assume that all is well enough in our puny little lives at this time in the evolutionary process, let’s at least dismiss the god-botherers’ evangelical interfering with nature and universal energy by using delusional rancid phrases, and just enjoy our innate innocence, playfulness, curiosity, wonder and well being, which could also easily be what nature intended.

 

            “And all will be well” – said the holy man.

            “When?” – said the wise man.

Thursday, 7 January 2016

WRITING FOR FUN


WRITING FOR FUN

             The 2015 Man Booker Prize winner was recently announced, so with great relief I thank the judges for not including my wroken and spitten words on the short list.
 
                                                             Chapter 1

Who Knows?

            Some say that Mukha Mubarach-Blenkinsop is a very mixed up man, but only on his parents’ side. However he is called Shirley for short.  Others say he is not mixed up or mixed down, and if anything more likely to be mixed sideways.  But who are the they who say these things and think these things behind open eyes?  Are they from somewhere up t’North or from somewhere down t’South, East or West, when depending on western imperial global orientation? 

Other others will use virulent viral verbotics to say at the end of the day, moving on, going forward, in the final analysis, the Heseltine fact of the matter is – Mukha’s mixedupedness is the outcome-uppance of obviously absolutely clearly challenging challenges, challenging clearly absolutely obviously counter-intuitive indicators of genitally transmitted unculminatory multi-culturalisation.   

            Even eminent philosophers can only pose questions about who morrises the Morris Men and who queens the Queen, but that’s not what we are discussing here.  By we, I mean you and I – the reader and the writer, who hardly constitute a critical mass of postmodernist psychological erudition, philosophical truthisms and neuro-scientific ideas about the human condition.  Yet there are other other others who may now be trolling and twittering on about their notions of Mukha, derived from what they think they know about what they don’t know about the unknown.

            “Wait a minute” you may say for the first time.  “I am reading these words in one part of the world, and you have written these words in another part of the world.  So where’s the discussion?  Does it take place in some sort of cyber space or are you being patronising and presumptuously inclusive?” 

            We will discuss this more briefly in Chapter 6.  In the meantime, let’s not forget to remember to respect a serious writer’s rights to display his academical credentials by repeatedly cross-referencing his writings in his writing – that is, if he is a he and not a she.  Although shes do do it.  But let’s not muddy our minds at the moment in a quagmire of sexually correct political innuendo. 

More on this coming up later – to use television presenter-speak.   

As I was about to say before being interrupted – me myself and I, to name not four, know no thing about Mukha’s Shirley for shortness.  And I suspect that you also know no thing about the chap, unless you happen to be his older half sister Malady Braithwaite (once wedded) or the woman from the Post Office, who only works part-time most of the time on odd days of the week in any two consecutive fortnights. 

Having said that rather than this, which is one of my European Human Rights entitlements, I am still somewhat vicariously curious, with no particular vested interest in the vestry, about Mukha and those who allegedly allege his mixedupedness on their phart smones.

            Do we know for example, if he Shirley is married to a one-legged light-brown LGBT activist lesbian amateur pole vaulter and much loved surrogate mother of seventeen legitimate children?  Is he interested in her amateur pole vaulting or professional gold-medalling pole vaulting?  If he has no interest even in three-legged pole vaulting, is that in itself contributing to his being mixed up, down, around, sideways or diagonally?  Or is it all after all, all on his parents’ side?

            We just don’t know.  Nor do we know who does know, and whether they would want to know those of us who might want to know.  The obvious question here is – why would anyone want to know?  Well, we just don’t know.

            Is there more to know about the unknown than is known about the known?

            Who knows?  What we do know is that there are always people who want to know, and you and I could be two of those people.  We would need a lot of information perhaps from the woman at the Post Office – who is said by some to polish her moustache with thick brown hand-picked ear wax – in order to form an informed opinion about Mukha’s life and times. 

            As to whether he is mixed up down around or sideways, is arguably only of similar importance to splitting hairs on a grasshopper’s knee which, as we all well know, is a lot less dangerous than splitting the hairs on a helicopter pilot’s legs. 

            You may be beginning to think this is getting a bit too serious, especially when it gets to splitting hairs on a helicopter pilot’s legs as he’s hovering his chopper over a storm-stricken ship on the rocks.  It really would be risky while his plucky new winch wench Wendy Fairweather is harnessed to a hook, dangling on the end of his winch wire, bravely rescuing 14 Pethuanian merchant seamen rocking at nautically jaunty angles awash the wheelhouse, trying to re-light their sea-salty soggy cigarettes.

            New EU regulations state that British winch women must refuse to rescue smoking sailors – despite the number of stormy Mondays in a month of Sundays.

            Most cargo shipwrecks near the shore, be they lucrative for looters and Lloyds loss adjustors, almost always leave us longing for more information about the whereabouts of Frogman Bates.  His exact whereabouts are of course well known by his fellow frogmen who call him Sharky for short, but what Shark has got to do with Bates, only they know – it must be one of their underwater in-jokes. 

Moreover, Frogman Bates has rarely been seen without wearing a one-piece skin-tight black rubber wet suit, mask and flippers, with heavy oxygen bottles strapped to his back.  Yet with all that protective rubberwear, he may still be hiding under water giving a wide berth to pedantically enthusiastic leg hair splitters. 

Perhaps the only person who really knows where he is, is Frogman Bates himself – but where is he?  In a flock of frogmen, is he in that black wet suit mask and flippers, or in that black wet suit mask and flippers?  Or is he somewhere else, secretly seeing Chesty Nell from the Frog and Nightgown? 

                                                              Chapter 2

The Playgroup

            Something not so dissimilar could be said about Mukha, pronounced Mukha.  Surely he, Shirley, should be aware of his own whereabouts and whether or not he is mixed up inside, or mixed up in something outside down by the canal. 

            Unbeknownst to us, he could be enjoying a well-earned week off work at the Way-on-High Book Festival.  He could be in the Authors Wet Tent sipping champagne with George Monbiot, Joan Bakewell and Melvyn Bragg, hushedly discussing the country girl’s perennial porn book “Let the Dog see the Rabbit”.  They could be hotly discussing George’s pet subject global warming, warming up the limp libidos of hundreds of Joan’s favourite silver-haired senior citizens – many of whom are suspected by the Lake District Constabulary of recklessly riding their turbo-charged mobility scooters up Melvyn’s beloved Cumbrian mountain sheep tracks – in pursuit of some hot dogging on globally warmed sites.

            It says without going, so I’ll say it in accordance with conventional contradiction, that these new-age born-again wrinkly old swingers and babyboomers, who prefer to be called The Playgroup, are not able to frighten the horses at 1,000 ft above sea level.  But what about the sheep and little lambs you may ask, who gaily gambol at that altitude with no need for mobility scooters, face masks and oxygen bottles strapped to their backs. 

            Might not those innocent sure-footed sheep be frightened by the sight of Viagra virilised voyeurs and vicarious old doggers and doggeresses engaging in fresh air sexercises with strangers at high altitude?  Perhaps yes, but possibly no.  Though thankfully for The Playgroup, no more flooded car parks, lay-bys and woods at lovers lane level.  Doggers never did take kindly to PC police patrol men who, while wearing fetching uniforms of authority and brandishing hand cuffs and hard rubber truncheons, were always too shy and sheepish to join in the fun. 

Chapter 3

Frogman Bates

            Frogman Bates on the other hand, wears a waterproof watch which never gives him enough time to use his moral compass to get a bearing on The Playgroup’s high altitude dogging.  This may be because he spends most of his time below sea level.  And, because his spare time is devoted to diving deep down into the murky depths of Derwent Water, dredging up the crashed remnants of dead doggers’ world water speed record-breaking jet-propelled mobility scooters. 

            However, if he spent less time on Chesty Nell’s charms, he would have more time on both hands. He could then easily climb up to a 1,000 ft Cumbrian mountain dogging site by breathing oxygen from the bottles on his back.  The irony is that he may not make this climb in speed-dating time, due to the weight of the oxygen bottles and the floppiness of his frogman’s flippers while running up the steep sheep tracks.  But with the oxygen bit between his teeth, combined with dogged determination, he could get to the top just in time to take a very dim view of the doggers – possibly due to global warming and heavy breathing steaming up his cold water face mask.

            He could of course, by removing his face mask and both his floppy flippers, get a much brighter view of dogging and want to do it with The Playgroup.  But in the time it would take to extricate himself from his zip-stuck skin-tight sweaty onesy wet suit, the old doggers would have done it, raced back down the mountain and be home for a hot cup of Horlicks – no pun intended. 

            Anyway, Frogman Bates would be too young and wet behind the ears for mountain dogging according to The Playgroup’s criteria, which is strictly for the over 80s, or just under, who must at least hold a provisional licence for 50cc mountain walking frames, fitted with hand-assisted steering and wind-powered wolf whistles. 

            The dear old dog in the sky would mess up his breakfast if he knew his human best friends were running free, without dog collars’ barking mad moral dogmas, and having a wonderful time up on the immoral high ground. 

Chapter 4

Sheep Shagging

            For years and years, if not years of yore, it has oft been said in uncertain circles and squares that warm woolly sheep are groomed and seduced into innocently providing unlicensed sexual services for certain men of a certain persuasion, albeit at not so certain times of the day and night in any four weeks of the month.  At the time of writing, without importantising-up what we discussed in Chapters 1 and 2, it is certainly uncertain as to whether women are of a similar persuasion.

            A recent government funded, scientifically conducted, anecdotal sexual survey reveals that 47% of women have a preference for rabbits rather than sheep.  The other 53% of those interviewed were less sheepish than the police about outdoor sex, but more sheepish when questioned about their abiding affection for dogs and riding horses bareback.  Putting side saddles to one side, a few more than just over 8.9% of the 53% of females, started giggling when asked about the shape and size of some vegetables.  Nonetheless, without probing questions about optional anal ticklers, certainty is certainly uncertain in certain sexual surveys.  

            Is there a Nobel Prize for alliterative literature? 

Chapter 5

                                                                 WWW.

            It’s too soon to footnote-up what we might not be discussing in the index and glossary after Chapter 9.  So let’s continue uninterrupted, without coming up with what’s upcoming in Chapter 6.

People living in towns, cities and the suburbs are known to name sheep-shagging as sheep-shagging, and as far as we know, which might not be very far, is done by men and seldomly by women, especially on special occasions.  Whereas country folk and folkesses, including the only LGBT carrot-crunchers in the village, are known to name this somewhat rural pursuit as sheep-shagging. 

Nouveau riche footballers and their wags are also happy with the words sheep-shagging, but not within earshot of their darling daughters Fulham and Chelsea, and their beautiful boys Heathrow and Gatwick.  However, in old money upper class country house parlance, both above and below stairs, sheep and their shaggableness are affectionately referred to as www. Woolly Willy Warmers and some far less conventional forms of willy warming can, in the tourist season, be purchased at all good woolly sheep shops from Kendal to Cockermouth – floods permitting. 

Chapter 6

Wroken and Spitten Words

“Listen up” – in the language of uptosser flabber ghastards.  All this chapter hopping, up-tossing and the ludicrous phrasing below, is only pokey joking about dirty pillow talk on a badly made bed – often tossed and turned on by super self-indulgent promiscuous non-fiction writers to sex-up and seduce us, innocent readers, into sophistrifical fore and after play between the sticky sheets of their literary licentiousness.

In other words, they risibly write – “the former and the latter and the latter and the former are this and that and that and this.  And the latter and the former and the former and the latter are that and this and this and that.”  Oh my boggled brain!  Better go back and forth and read it a few more times – don’t want to get the former mixed up with the latter and the latter mixed up with the former. 

            As the old saying goes – “If it won’t go into a septic tank, put it in a book.”           

Chapter 7

Rubbish

            In short, the short, medium and long term global warming of cold, wet and windy mountain sheep shagging sites will diminish the demand for four-legged woolly willy warmers.  Rising global temperatures will also warm up cold old mountain doggers and so adversely affect the livelihoods of hard-working hot dog salesmen, Viagra vendors and Dogging Today Festival ticket touts. 

Furthermore, and possibly to the point of conjecture, hotter high altitude dogging raises crucial questions about the conservation of pristine mountain environments.  What is so newsworthy about the Pope’s recent encyclical which re-cycles “The world is going to the dogs” story of ancient times?  Why does his vaticanised high holiness make no mention of the 21st century environmental benefits to be derived from re-cycling the rubbish tossed aside on The Playgroup’s mountain dogging sites?  Doesn’t the Pope know that re-cycling won’t work without rubbish?   

Chapter 8

Question Time

            “Wait a minute” you may say for the second time. “What about the whereabouts and mixedupedness of Mukha Mubarach-Blenkinsop on his parents’ side?  What about winch wench Wendy Fairweather and the 14 Pethuanian sailors?  What about Frogman Bates being dumped by the doggers, and his late night liaisons with Chesty Nell in the car park behind the Frog and Nightgown? What’s going on down by the canal and at the Way-on-High Book Festival?  What has upward mobility scooter dogging got to do with the European Union legislation on sheep shaggers’ human rights?  What about the sheep’s four-legged animal rights to be believed, by two-legged sheepish policemen, about being bent over a dry stone wall with their back legs stuck in the front of a sheep shagger’s Wellington boots?”

            These are very good questions, as public speakers say in very short Q and A sessions.  But these very very questions may turn out to be unanswerable, not only by twin sisters Amnesia and Dementia Chakrafarhta, but also by their other brother Morny Hodgekiss whose long-term foulweather friends call him Shorty for short, when they’re cavorting around on glamorous Bollywood film sets near the terror-torn Pakistan border with outer Muslimland. 

            “Wait a minute” you may say for the third time.  “What’s all this about the Chakrafarhta identical twins, one or the other of whom is not known to suffer from Sitar Affective Disorder?  What about Molly Maidment’s fat ankle and the greasy goose? And where’s the method for mixing mayonnaise with a lavatory brush? Aren’t you supposed to be a writer? 

“Where’s the eloquent narrative, the gripping story, the plot, the sub plot, the sub-sub plot, the back story, the front story, the morality tale, the dark dank dungeons, gothic attics, murder scenes and unanswered answerphone messages?  Where are the fully formed characters and their emotional entanglements?  Where are the corpses in morgue drawers and the clues to who dunnit? 

“Where’s the war, the family feud, the rags-to-riches refugee, the hero, the heroine, the anti-hero, the romance, the bedroom scene, the damsel in distress, the good-hearted harlot, the city at night, the journey, the foreign landscape, the coming home, the flashback, the dream scene, the sci-fi future and the mysterious disappearance of superfluous characters?

“Where’s the most evocative first sentence of all time, the page-turnerness, the psychological drama and the unexpected ending?  Where’s the benefit of all those creative writing courses?  Where’s the writing about what the writer knows about?  Where’s the forensically researched zeitgeistical past and post-modernistical present in which the author’s semi-autobiographical fict-fact notions and prose, after years of writer’s block in a garden shed, give rise to a Booker Prize?” 

Chapter 9

Playing with Words

            By now, you might also chide – “No it’s not Mukha who’s mixed up, it’s you and your writing.  Dear Mukha aka Shirley, bless him.  He could be a very happy wholesome healthy well balanced un-mixed-up man. 

“For all anyone knows, Mukha could be manned up, made up, pumped up, backed up, geared up, joined up, spruced up, dressed up, sexed up and next up for successfully successing up his success-ups.

            “He could also be up-loading, up-scaling, up-grading, up-cycling, up-dating, up-nexting, up-texting and skilfully up-skilling his skilful set of skill-ups.

“He could be parking up, meeting up, voicing up, chatting up, listening up, wiseing up, heading up, looking up and going up the downside of his upside.    

“He could be up-front, up for up-coming and coming-up, well up on the up and up, up on his uppers and up on the up-take for upping-up his upt-up upness.

“Call yourself a writer?  You couldn’t even write 50 words of crap copywriting for a widgets-we-don’t-need advert in the back pages of The Oslo Follower!”

Well, I don’t call myself a writer.  I don’t call myself anything, except a human being, being.  Although I do admit to a bit of quirky wordplay with proper writers’ writing, and their backwards and forwards confusing self cross-referencing that ‘we discussed’ earlier in Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 8 and now in Chapter 9.

Besides, when under the spurious identity of musician / writer, I can play with the rhythmic repetition of stupid sheople-speak, and have fun satirising the ridiculous tricks of the trade employed by serious professional writers.

Thank goodness I am not a proper or professional writer.  Nor am I secretly desirous of, or ambitiously motivated by fame, money, power, prizes, awards, honours, prestige or peer group approval.  So with no aspirations, I am free to enjoy playing with words – just writing for fun.  I also enjoy playing tennis for fun, fucking for fun and drumming for fun – fun-da-mental for mind body and spirit.

Writing for fun is salubrious silliness and seriosserty – the felicitous fecundity of which naively transcends the coercive conformity of the specious literati.

This freedom allows unknown energy and un-asked-for ideas in my head to flow down my arm, and magically move my hand to make spontaneous inky pen marks between the lines of feint lined A4 paper. 

And then, on a day not conducive to tennis, I tell my favourite typochology lady – who prefers to remain anonymous under the non-misogynist pseudonym Fuckslut – to brace herself for the rough thrust of a few more thousand words. 

With much ensuing mutual mirth and some real fore and after play, she diligently transforms my didacticatiously dictated words into a beautiful digital blogstone – to last forever and a day, and the day after. 

            By the way, who really knows who the they are who say they can extend forever with only one extra day?

            Universal energy and nature’s life force provide people with the wherewithal to abuse the natural world and make a mad human world in which someone’s got to do it, whatever the ‘it’ is – and somewhere somehow someone always will. 

            “All my books have been pulped” – said the writer.

            “Perhaps they don’t burn well” – said the wise man.