I had been thinking about how out of touch with nature I am. I drive to work in my metal car. I watch computer-generated films on my DVD player at night. When I sleep, it is on a bed of circuits and lies.
I suppose that’s the reason that I first started to eat handfuls of dirt - to feel more at one with nature. It was only one or two a week to start with. After a long day, I’d nip out to the back garden, before my wife got home, and help myself to a lovely mound of moist soil.
At first you think it’s not all that nice, but, let me tell you, it grows and grows and grows on you. Soon you’re appreciating the nutty, bitter nuances of it’s flavour, and comparing different sections of your garden, to find which has the best bite to it. And the way it makes you feel - wow. I can’t really get it across here. It’s as if, your whole life, you’ve been living in orange packaging, but now the packaging is green, and it’s good for the environment. It as no artificial colours or flavours.
It didn’t take long for me to work up to a good two handfuls a day - one first thing in the morning with my coffee, and then another after my working day was done. Those were some of the best days of my life, really they were.
Of course, I couldn’t stop at two handfuls a day. Not with soil so good. I got so I would sneak it to work worth me, in my coat pocket so that I could chew on it as I typed. It attracted many stares. My colleagues started to ask questions, and were never satisfied with my answers.
Eventually my wife caught me hunched over her pansies, stuffing fistful after fistful of rich earthy goodness into my gaping, salivating mouth. For a long time, she said nothing at all. We just sort of stared at each other. Me, with the brown wrong of soil all down my chin and shirt, looking up like a child caught in the clandestine act of onanism, and her, with her woman’s face and ways, looking back on me like a disgusted, disappointed parent.
After what seemed like forever, it was me who broke the silence. “Oh Daddy,” I said through teeth caked in mud and worm-halves, “Oh I’m so sorry”. As I started to sob, and reach up to those hands, those hands that had caressed me in happier times, she moved away from me, her face sour and twisted beyond recognition. “You fucker…” she said “…you fucker”. And she walked away.
More fool her, I say. Now I have my pick of the soil, and I can eat it whenever I like. I don’t even go to work any more - who needs work when you have all the food and love you need in the fields and in the grass verges of any town in England?
And that’s where you’ll find me - the grass verges - digging up handfuls of wonderful, wonderful soil and scoffing it away, pausing only to vomit or sing a little song now and then. That’s where you’ll find me - the fields - pressing my body against the earth, licking at the bounty it has laid before me and sobbing great big, blissful sobs. Living as nature intended. That’s where you’ll find me. Yeah…
Noun
Sameurism (plural Sameurisms)
- (gaming) The inevitable result of too much rage whilst playing on-line games.
If Dan keeps getting so angry he’ll have a Sameurism.
Etymology: A portmanteau of Sam and aneurism.
See also: Ragequit
I was talking to my wife the other day. “Why do you love me?” I asked her. “Well,” she said, “I guess it would be because you’ve always been there for me, no matter how bad things got.”
She paused for a second. “And why do you love me?” She asked.
“I don’t.” I replied.
An Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman walk into a bar. The Englishman goes up to the barman and says: “I’d like a pint of your finest beer please.” The barman says: “I’m sorry sir, we’re only serving shit beer tonight. Can I interest you in a pint of something that tastes like a homeless man’s sweat?” “No thanks, I’m good,” Says the Englishman, and off he goes to a different bar.
Next the Scotsman goes up to the barman. “I’d like a pint of your finest beer please,” he says. “I’m sorry,” says the barman, “we’re only serving shit beer tonight. Can I interest you in something that tastes like it sputtered out the back end of a sick horse?” “No thanks,” replies the Scotsman, “I’m good.” And off he goes to a different bar.
Finally, up goes the Irishman. “I’d like a pint of your finest beer,” he says to be barman. “I’m sorry,” replies the barman, “we’re only serving shit beer tonight. Can I interest you in something that tastes like raw egg that’s been sitting in the sun for seventy two hours?”
And the Irishman says…
…something really stupid.
On the day of Bill Gates’ last CES keynote there are bound to be a few news stories. I was not expecting these two to nestle so humorously next to each other in my BBC News feed:
Gates joins Dancing on Ice stars
Gates hails age of digital senses
At this festive time of year we sing songs to remind us that it is definitely a happy time, and to amuse and educate the children. Fort Awesome proudly presents its own dramatisation of one of these stories, so that we might again think about the true meaning of Christmas.
This is the internal contact switch for the strum bar of the guitar for the video game Rock Band. Dan was looking forward to whiling away all of New Year playing the game, strumming away like a big bastard. Then the strummer stopped working. Like a wily robot trapped alone in a house he shunned any official line of replace or repair, and headed straight for the screwdrivers and soldering iron. One of the two contact switches had snapped; probably due to them being made of very spindly metal. Dan couldn’t fix it. The result is that now the guitar doesn’t work, and is also in pieces. So is a Guitar Hero guitar, as a casualty of Dan’s attempt to salvage parts from it. This is really, really great for people who like things to be in tiny pieces, but not great for people who like Rock Band. Now we can’t play Rock Band, except for the drums and the singing.
Does this bit of metally plastic look familiar to anyone? Is it a standard thing, or a crazy invention from Harmonix? It would be great if Maplin sold bags of them, but I suspect they don’t.
Oh well.
UPDATE: I totally fixed it with scrap metal, superglue and solder. Alliteration equals success!
You know that feeling when you are absolutely sure that nothing you can do in the next couple of hours will be as good as the time you will be having at some not clearly specified point in the future? So instead of trying and failing to better those good times you will have in the future you just give up and sort of hang about, or begin aimlessly doing repetitive tasks? You know that feeling? Are you perhaps feeling it right now as you hang about the office, your mind wandering to the christmas time frivolities lying mere weeks away?
The only way to stop these feelings is a Pasta Laser. Made entirely of pasta, but definitely a laser; the Pasta Laser is the answer to all your dreams and more! Focus its energies on the most awkward of social moments and transform the gathering to a festival of lusty hippies! Aim its dark powers to distant lands and cure hydrophobia with lemon juice! Big money now! No payments necessary! No salesmen will call! No win, No fee! Calls will be charged at 50p/minute!
PASTA LASER TODAY!
So, its been another another long and hectic year in golf!
Ah, for the swing of the putting club and the smooth roll of the turf! How I long for the crests of my youth when galloping across the rink to hammer home a perfect 5 pointer between the goal posts was an every day occurence. Now in my long and throbbing obselesence I’m lucky to even hear the soft clinking of sand on lips that is the signature sound of this most graceful of sports. Too many young women were carved asunder in the bloody battlefields of gore this season, but yet what a season! Still, enough about that. For tonight we have something extra special for you all. Yes children! Open up your secret black spider books, and get ready to take notes because its time for another little story.
Tonight’s story is the sad tale of that wily old miller; Jephry Horston-Greene and his sticky adventures in horse glue…
As a young child, Jephry had always enjoyed the soft crunch of his wooden mallet on the pliant flanks of a healthy foal, but it only occured to him as he reached the age of reason that within this simple pleasure might lurk the thrusting seeds of a capitalist endeavour. You see, Jephry had discovered that the more he beat and pounded on the pretty young foals the more sticky the resultant residue. “Well” he thought out loud inside his head, “Pritt stick is just flying of the shelves of my local Asda. Its a sure thing that my new pulped horse residue will fly off those self same shelves with the same alacrity”. It didn’t take long for Jephry’s theory to be proven well and truly correct as ‘Jephry’s hand-pounded organic sticky foal paste’ started flying off the shelves. By being both fair trade and organic he quickly cornered the market in ‘green glues’ and was soon thinking of expanding his buisness beyond his converted mill ( where the foals were forced with electric brooms into the mechanical crushing of the giant spinning milling stones ).
Then tragedy struck our brave entrepreneur. Whilst tending to some minor hedge trimming he fell tragically into the path of ten thousand angry wild ironic horses that had, in recent years, begun to roam the west midlands in packs. Multiple stab wounds to the ears, nipples, feet and shins were hastily recorded before the forensic team itself was swept up in a suprising tornado of excellent constitution. Once again, the folly of man was shown helpless against the awesome power of time, and yet a undergrowth man’s dog in Shrewsbury has more meaningful thoughts than you could ever manage. Where is the justice?
And remember kids don’t go out at night (or during the day) without your paedophile protector caps firmly screwed on! In the event of an attack you’ll be completely oblivious due to the savage numbing toxins released slowly into the brain!
Play it safe, don’t think and strive.
Little Jenny Christmas was very upset because her arm was all covered in weeping sores. She ran outside to where her Daddy was tending the tulips.
“Daddy, Daddy - look, my arm has all puss on it! Daddy look!” she said, all agitated and frowning.
“Oh don’t worry about that,” replied her smiling father - the wisest man she knew - “you’re just getting older, that’s all.”
And, as he ruffled her hair, his lungs fell out through his arse.
Jesus Christ!
He was born, apparently.
Christ was; Christmas. It sits on a funny throne in this house. On the one hand, we moan when advent calendars and mince pies go on sale halfway through October. But then we did leave our Tree Festivé up in the living room until June, and I don’t think Plush Spiderman ever lost his tinsel. One wonders if he ever will.
On the whole though, it’s all a bit of a bitch. You have to start thinking about unique things to get for people again and there are only so many of those; the first person to unwrap a bronze figurine Hitler is not going to be pleased, unless I fall into very much the wrong crowd in the near to middling future. Nobody’s really impressed by an orange with cloves in it any more - I was nearly fifteen years old when the appeal faded for me. It all has to be very swanky to cut the mustard with today’s modern hipsters. Short of starting a clone army (and think about it, that’s going to take a while to grow) I’m really not sure what the solution is.
Then there’s the elongated mealery. I love food but I can’t eat a lot; I think it’s something to do with intra-digestional warping, or ectobalance. The food I do eat is lovely though, which is why the traditional massive Christmas meal is such a struggle. So much to eat, but you have to pick and choose, and then fall into an endorphin-induced coma as the stomach takes over as the primary organ of the body, digesting bits of turkey while the photons emitted by A Grand Day Out on TV provide the brain with the vital carrier wave to prevent it from collapsing into soggy neural death altogether.
So, Christmas. Jesus Christ, superstar. Posing in his beard, like a chunky dental mist. I suppose we should celebrate him again, by drinking a lot and generally exhibiting heathen behaviour. Great!
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