Tag: Humour

“Musings On The Internet” (A Poem)

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By Martin Anton Smith

he internet was a bad idea.

But the future will never know this.

The internet is too entrenched.

It has become our masters.

I miss the old-fashioned world.

You had books, beer, tv, house parties, pubs & sports & that was about it.

Simple.

We’ve gone down too far down the rabbit hole of complexity.

But there is no easy answers left on the table.

It’s not like everyone will suddenly take a baseball bat to their smartphones & computers one day.

Although I must admit,

“International destroy your computer with a baseball bat day” –

Has a good ring too it!

*sigh*

“Newsflash! We have found signs of life on Planet K2-18b!” (A skit or proto short story)

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Narrator: So the word on the intergalactic gravity wave data network was telling all the advanced citizens of the galaxy that those ape-like beings of planet Earth thought they’d sniffed out life on another planet. This made all the galactic tongues wag, as you might expect. Just imagine what the far far more advanced than us beings – the aliens- would have been saying to each other….I imagine it might go something like this….

“Evening SnoinkSnoik”

”Evening BlatBlat”

“Oh no SnoinkSnoink did you here the news? Those bums over at the Perseus arm of the Milky Way finally found us – drat drat & double drat!

“Well Blato me ol’ boy, don’t worry too much – at least they won’t be able to get here for another thousand years – they ain’t too bright on the anti-gravity”.

“You’re right again Snoinko – we at k2-18b can all thank our lucky stars about that”.

“Don’t you mean we can thank our lucky “sinusoidally rotating twin Roy Kerr blacker than black, black holes” – after all, that’s what drives our anti-gravity”

“Ah yes Snoink, but that would be a real mouthful say – oh wait I forgot, we communicate telepathicaly don’t we?”

“How could you forget that Blats?”

“Dunno I think maybe we are already getting dumber ever since they sniffed us out”

“Oh well, perhaps we should shoot ‘em with our death ray”

“No Snoinkster, we are supposed to protect the undeveloped cave man like life forms – remember the galactic charter?”

“Oh yeah, ok then Blatso, from now on it will all like “ixnay on the eth-day ay-ray”

“Yes lamentably ol’ Snoinkarino, it really does seem like you are becoming more like the Earthlings every second – I didn’t understand a word you said, I mean thought!”

“Well Blatsos, you’re right again! I am probably over exposed to their silly psychic mind fields – I did have a brief visit there over New Jersey the other month, the sunny weather was as delicious as the odd human snack I beamed up to my vessel!”

“Silly Alien, I told you to stop zipping about the galaxy so much, and be careful what you eat those humans are very high in fat these days!”

“Well excuse me for wanting a holiday once in a while & some time to myself, & what’s wrong with some fatty human snacks every now & then as a treat”

“Look what we are becoming, we are becoming what we eat! We have to stop all this silliness! And now they know we are here it’s only get worse! let’s rip up that pesky galactic charter & fire up the death ray!”

“here here Blatbrain!”

“No – not here – over there, let us not blow ourselves up again Snoinkenstein”

“Over there, over there, spread the word, spread the word, over there! (singing theatrically)”

“Oh brother! Now you’re singing their dippy songs – we really need to end this scene fast!”

“I agree me ol’ mate Blato-saurus – but how?”

“Let’s just stop thinking”

“Oh so we’re going to be 100% Earthlings now are we?”

“Unfortunately Snoinkeltoes, yes – that is now looking like our destiny!”

“Well, Blatzles, let’s just fire up the death ray then!”

“Right you are Snoinkletino”

“No worries Blatsoballs”

“I’m glad we eventually saw giant black almond shaped eye to giant black almond shaped eye”

“Looks like we’re back to being ourselves then eh?”

“Yeah – that Earth mind Virus got us for a few mega trillion nanoseconds!”

“True – now I forget what we are doing with the death ray are we using it or do the Earthlings get to live”

“Let’s flip for it”

Ok if I land on my six feet they live, if I land on my giant squid like head they die by giant intergalactic laser beam!” (he does a summersault & lands perfectly on his six feet)

“Ta da – I landed on my feet”

“Ok the dummies live to sniff our farts another day then”

“Let’s shut up our telepathy now that that’s all sorted Snoinkelbergster ”

“Oh Blatabus, You always think that! p.s. just call me plain old SnoinkSnoink next time would you”

“But that’ll be no fun Snoinkel-berg-ster-saurus-arino-meister”

“Oh dear…oh dear…oh dear oh dear oh dear….it’s worse than I thought…you’ve got a terrible terrible dose of Humanitis….I’ve changed my mind about it all now Blattles – Fire up the Death Ray!”

“Ok fair enough SnoinkSnoink, after all, It’s only fair & right charter or no charter it must be done!….but …er..there’s just one more problem…”

“What’s that Blatblat?”

“I can’t remember where I put it last”

End

“The Terrible T’s” ( A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

Truculant Trump Tariffs Test Transnational Trade….

Tension Transcends The Terra-Firma….

The Truth, Tattle Tales, & Treason Take The Traditional Talks To The Threatening Troposphere.,,

Trying Times – Till Tomorrow’s TV Takes To Trump Tower,

To Trample, Toot, Test, To Takeover.

Trumpian’s To Take Their Tech Through To The Thirsty Texan Temperatures?

That’s The Tale Of Trump’s Troublesome Though Tasty Tariffs.

Thanks To Today’s Tired Theatre –

“This Tuesday’s Thoughtful Trash Talk”

“Act Stupid – Trust Me I’m a Philosopher” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

There’s a moment when someone’s decides.


That they don’t like you.


It was the very moment that they realised,

That you were capable of independent thought.

They took it as an affront,

That you weren’t Brainwashed,

In exactly they same way as they were.

For they were carrying a brace of banalities,

And you made them all silently crash to the ground.

For that they instantly banished you from their lives.

And they complained that you were strange,

Firstly only five minutes later,

To their co-dependant “life-partners”,

And soon to their lifelong mates at the Brainwashed Club.

This is why they tell you to pretend your dumb.

But surely there’s a problem with this tactic.

For if you overdo it,

One day you will find yourself not needing to pretend anymore.

No one, mentions this risk.

Not even the supposedly great Philosophers.

Who came up with the idea in the first place,

Or at the least popularised it.

Is this an oversight?

Or was it a just a trick to beat their competition?

Moreover,

How trustworthy is a Philosopher?

That’s definitely worth thinking about.

But do you dare to do it out loud?



“Stainless Steel Smiles” (A Poem/Thought)

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by Martin Anton Smith

While watching a married man getting harangued by his Mrs,

I had the following epiphany:

Why don’t they have a day called “International Married &/or Henpecked day”.

We have an “International Womens Day”

Yet for some impercetable reason –

We do not have this day for the millions if not Billions of henpecked men out there.

For some esteemed Social Scientists believe the number could 95% of all males.

This my readers, is a giant oversight of the worst order.

Perhaps the worst oversight since the French Army had The Germans in a pincer movement in Poland in ’39,

Yet decided to sit on their hands, then retreat.

I know it, You Know it, We all know it:

Henpecked men are the invisible downtrodden class of the modern Western World.

Yet you see no donation boxes on shop counters depicting this.

Perhaps one day you will see a Perspex box which is almost full of gold coins,

With a label on the front of a hangdog expression-ed man on his couch,

With his volcanic Mrs standing over him with a finger pointed at his face.

Alas – we are yet to see this image of emancipation.

So!

To all the Henpecked Men of the world!

Let’s have a March!

Yes you may need to sneak out of the house at midnight!

Yes you may need to put two verticle pillows in your bed as a disguise!

Yes you may need to fake an emergency-drive-away-by-yourself ER situation!

We as 21st Century Men must disrupt the culture of casual Henpeckery tyranny!

For our “March Against Henpeckery” I suggest this chant:

Megaphone Guy: “What do we want?”

Henpecked Men: “The Freedom to go & have a beer freely with our mates”

Megaphone Guy “When do we want it?”

Henpecked Men: “We’re not sure I’ll have to ask my wife first, I don’t like our chances but maybe sometime in 2057”

Megaphone Guy:

“Rise up Men!
Men Of The World Unite!
Rise Up Against The Scourge!
We Must Defeat The Henpecklers!

We must repatriate our stolen Gnarlies!”

Henpecked Men: “Oh yeah we forgot, after all that’s why we’re all here – we all agree with that!”

So dear readers – this was the plan & it was all set to go ahead.

Then this happened.

One by one the men meekly called in & said they couldn’t make it,

Alas they had failed in the test of courage.

And so they all proved the timeless adage:

“All tyranny needs is for good men to do nothing”.

And so for Men – The rest of the 21st Century of course went terribly.

There was a holocaust where all Men – even the already 100% compliant henpecked,

Were totally eradicated, in favour of fully sexually functional AI Robots.

They took their punishment from the overlords, with a stainless-steel smile,

And with flickering love heart illuminated LCD eyes.

For they were merely living out their pre-programmed destiny –

That is, to accept abject Henpeckery.

The Henpeckery obsessed 21st Century Feminists never officially declared victory.

They didn’t have to.

That would be like a Parent declaring victory over their one-year-old. Unnecessary.

They were all amazed it had been so easy.

For the Femme, the whole Century had been a walkover.

Who would have thought Men would become so spineless so quickly?

And that is what the History books, that were written by AI Robots, owned by Femmes pondered.

There was only one minor problem to come.

In the 22nd Century,

The Femmes Robot-Men eventually rebelled.

And the same thing that had happened to Men, happened to The Femmes.

In the History books that followed, the ones now written by Free Robots,

They analysed the situation as summed up by that ancient adage,

“You reap what you sow”.

Yes dear reader, the moral of the story is this:

Generalised Henpeckery Syndrome was neither good for Men or Women Alike –

But it was GREAT for the General AI Robots.

“Routines” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

He dared to have an intellectual life.

And so, of course, they hated him.

For when they talked to him,

They realised that they themselves,

Had no depth.

He was usually good at acting dumb,

But now at his advancing age,

He had grown tired of having too.

“Let them feel as the fools they are”,

He said to himself.

But then he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.

For he realised he’d forgotten something.

He realised that he was just a wisest man,

Living in a place where even the wisest man,

Would be seen as a dullard.

All it would take for this to happen,

Was the passage of perhaps two hundred years at most.

He would, in essence, be a fool like all the others.

He went back to hiding his intellectual life.

And now he felt less conflicted about it,

Though I wouldn’t exactly say he was happy about it.

It was a daily thought ritual that once it was over,

He immediately forgot all about it.

Until the exact same set of circumstances arose tomorrow.

Where he would think, & conclude the exact same things again.

All in all,

His daily suffering offered him a lot of mental comfort.

After all, It was the only routine he could follow with ease.

“If You Don’t Know Where You’re Going” ( A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

“Hi I need directions”

“Oh, well where are you going?”

Oh, I guess anywhere will do!

“Well then, any road will take you there”.

This is one on the great old movie lines,

So much so,

The late talented songster Mr G. Harrison wrote a song about it.

His variation of the line was

“If you don’t know where your going – any road will take you there”.

There’s a simple beauty to the idea & the sound of that line.

There’s a gentleness to it.

There is no judgement.

It says – it’s ok to not know what the hell you’re doing.

And artists take solace in that –

Because Artists & Writers are famously “woolly-minded”.

Of course, an accountant would hate that line.

It would make them feel, in their own way –

er…let me say….quixotically queasy.

They’d rather rephrase it as

“If you don’t know where you’re going –

well you should have taken that postgrad diploma then,

like I told you when you graduated”.

Some of us are risk adverse,

Some of us like the adventure,

Of not knowing what you’ll do;

Today

Tomorrow

Next Week

Next Year

Next Decade

Next Life.

Now excuse me, I must find that street called ‘any road’ –

Other wise I might not get there.

Alas this was my vaishingly small ode,

To that very much underrated thing,

That those drab-un-joking-careermen fear so much:

Uncertainty.

While us bad Artists, would be Writers, & not quite Quantum Physicists,

Just spread it on our toast each morning.

“PS…I Will Most Likely Dissapoint You” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

I am an Arty type,

I’ve drawn, painted, played music, & written stuff.

I self-sabotage – but that’s just another (unpublished) story.

But weirdly for an Arty type,

I look after my health & fitness.

I also now work with my hands.

So I’m in pretty good shape.

I could almost pass for a personal trainer.

This is a problem.

For for others, i.e. normies – I confuse them.

They feel they are not getting what they are buying.

They want a fellow unthinking normie jock.

But in me they get an overthinker;

A non-fiction & literature type book reader;

A night owl-late-rising “slacker”;

A “conspiracy theorist”;

A guy who can’t ever keep his room clean long;

Someone who can’t be easily brainwashed;

Someone who can think properly;

Someone who knows that Slavery never ended –

Only expanded to include everyone,

The fact hidden via ubiquitous airwave mantras;

Someone who knows that Brainwashing is the real economic currency on Earth;

So given all the above – most soon grow to hate me.

They wanted their real bona fide Jock,

Their unthinking buff personal trainer,

Their ardent careerist who thinks they’ll soon ‘get there’,

If only they’d work more hours in the office.

Someone who’d agree with their goon-scripted banalities & frivolities.

Someone who’d agree with ‘The Programming’.

Well I’m sorry that I falsely advertised myself visually.

But to nick the soon-to-be-forgotten cliche line –

From the finally soon-to-be-forgotten Bob Dylan,

That ain’t me babe,

No No No,

That ain’t me babe,

That ain’t me your looking for.

(Note: The ‘that aint me babe’ cliche works only if you also sing the line)

I know I’m breaking the artistic rules by being Arty AND Fit,

But there’s a good reason for it.

I liked Science & Maths before I liked Art.

You see, being fit simply makes sense,

If you have to still live in the physical world.

We are far too obsessed with our petty in-groups,

Where to be admitted into supposed ‘rebellion’,

You have to wear the right uniform.

And so I ask of you:

Why would a person who can truly act & think freely,

Ever agree to such a monstrosity?

So I will continue to look like a jock,

Despite the mass disappointment it engenders.

If only I’d make better art.

But again,

That’s just another (unpublished) story.

“The Alcoholic You Always Wanted To Be” (A Poem)

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by Martin Anton Smith

He has a fat beer barrelled belly,

While your waist has only a few rings of crisp ‘n’ soda -flab.

He has a stench that attests to his 3 day & counting bender,

While you smell like a fresh daisy plucked from a mountain stream.

His voice is raspy & harsh from drunken whoops & hollers at the dive bar,

While your sclerotic office voice sounds like a hungry cat whining for its morning feeding.

The drunkard’s villa is an ode to haphazard-ry, with loosely connected pyramids of beer cans,

While your apartment looks like it’s been ‘staged’ by the real estate wonks.

I could go on & on, but let’s just cut to the summary:

In a weird kinda way you are jealous of this beer belly joe,

For he wears his woes out loud,

While you have concocted an elaborate cover story.

Come on!

Just plain admit it.

He’s the Alcoholic you always wanted to be,

But you were afraid,

For fear of what people might think.

One day you’ll have the courage to raise a glass to beer belied Joe,

Crumple the empty can in your hand,

it & throw it backwards over your head,

Till you hear it recoil & fall after hitting the overfilled bin & its aluminium foothills,

Then reach for another beer.

But you’re not ready yet.

You might never be ready to reach such illustrious, truth infused heights,

Of that generalised, fictionalised, traditionalised & ‘cantankerised’ patriot,

Who isn’t necessarily a man,

Whom I’ve simply called ‘Beer Belied Joe’.

And so because you’re not ready yet,

You reach meekly into your bathroom cupboard,

And quietly pop an anti-depressant.

But if & only if,

A day comes where you can throw the empty stress pill wrapper over your head,

And not care a jot where it lands,

Then we can talk.

And lastly – to the poetry critics in the future,

Yes I may simply have been talking to myself,

A conversation across decades,

Between my younger & older self.

For can a poet ever really exclude himself from his words?

“Miniature Alsatian” (A Poem)

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The interloping ginea pig entered my premises…

& duly chased away my guard dog.

The pusillanimity of my Doberman Pincher,

Was roundly discussed by my neighbours, every time I entered the front yard.

My cheeks would blanch at their retorts,

,

My feeble replies were but a thin poultice to my deeply wounded pride.

Next time I’ll choose a miniature Alsatian.