Author Archives: Samuel Maguire

Keep it Secret, Keep it Safe

I recently bought underwear. I am a fucking interesting guy and this is a fucking riveting blog. I went for a brand name instead of a Woolworths 3 pack. I bought boxers. I saw the different sizes. I went for small, thinking I did not want to have to stuff my junk holder into my pants like breadcrumbs up a turkey’s sin-hole.

My dick is too long for my underwear.

As flattering as that is it is a problem. This was grown men’s underwear, not a loincloth for a child. If my favourite extremitycannot fit into a pair of boxers then they are made wrong. Nobody is proportioned like that. Either the person this was made for was some kind of benign house spirit or they are slowly collapsing inwards from the midsection.

Something about this whole situation feels wrong. It is way out of character. I do not have problems like these. My life is not meant to involve complements from uncomfortable pieces of hip cloth. I am one of those guys to whom size does not matter. Things like this are not meant to be important. Is it a test? Like giving a poor person who says money isn’t everything a million dollars?

Maybe it is a set up. Life giving me a little ego just so it can destroy it later. Should I destroy this underwear that speaks with the Devil’s whispers, telling me I could be a great lover? Should I show my flesh-saber to someone for confirmation? But if I do, and it is confirmed that I have an abnormally large pork stick, what will happen then? What will I become?

Will arrogance overcome me? Will I beat up nerds at the beach and drive a big car and get all the ladies? Will I collapse under the weight of my own ego, drawing everyone around into the black hole that is my giant penis? Is this the appendage apocalypse that the dick bible predicted?

What comes next?

What can man do against such reckless penis size?

I am buying medium next time.

 

 

Big ups and shouts

My friend and fellow traveller Simon recently did a picture of me. In it I am a beautiful wizard. I like this so much.

http://www.simoncottee.com/2012/03/sam-wizard.html

 

Exorcises

Is a writer what you are or what you do? I have asked this to several people and the reply with general support for me. Arseholes. Writing being the lonely journey that it is I guess we all have to answer this for ourselves. I like to think I was born a storyteller. Or at least born with a sense of humour. Or at least I’m funny looking so I get a few laughs.

I would like some company on the alleyway of making myself look like a prat however, so I am inviting you to join me for some funtimes over the next few whenevers. I am going to write a short story a week. This is so I can both be a writer and write stuff instead of just complaining. What I want my reader(s) to do is tell me what to write about. First commenter chooses a subject or theme or objective or style or whatever for my next short story and I will not complain at all. I know there is not a lot of you so I will probs make myself look like an idiot, however if you do happen by my blog and want to help me out drop a comment in there.

Thanks babes.

Road Trip pt 5

We left Orange at the latest possible time before the caravan site kicked us out. We bought bagels from Mcdonalds because the menu was Olympic themed. We threw them out after one bite and drove on empty stomached. Some kind of death metal was in the cd player. It stayed cold throughout the day. It would have been a short, four hour drive to Canberra. We were headed there to meet up with a friend of mine I had made during university. My brother decided to take a detour through Bathurst. This was for the same reason as why he got along better with the male role models in our lives. He liked cars.

I did not.

We pulled into the main road of Bathurst, a sea serpent’s back of blind hill rollercoasters. Or maybe that was just my fading attention. We went up and down the road several times looking for a blue sign that would point the way to Mt Panorama and the Bathurst racetrack. We turned, we reached the racetrack, we followed it at exactly the speed limit. Fucking woo. We reached the top. The view was alright. The cold was deathly. Luckily we were living out of the car so I could put on all of my clothes. We sat at the top for a short time, trading lies and drinking coffee we had made back in Orange. I thought about where I would be in five or so years. Turns out I would be disappointed.

We drove back down the steepest and curviest part of the racetrack as fast as my brother would allow himself to go. I managed to keep my shit together barely. I didn’t know this would  only be a small taste of the day ahead. We left Bathurst. Now if you look at the area of space between Bathurst and Canberra on a map you will see a big empty circle surrounded by major roads and highways and sane people places. We cut straight through the middle of that, with nothing but a ripped, coffee-stained half A4 map of New South Wales. This is how I learned to navigate.

Tagged

This is your brain not on drugs. (Quit Rage pt 2)

Well it has been one week of not smoking and nobody really gives a fuck. This is ok. I have been spending my time working on a new routine so I can start writing again. It involves getting up at 1:30 pm, having a panic attack, eating half a pig worth of bacon, worrying about my weight and then generally feeling like a werewolf. Also it involves fighting giant monsters.

So when I haven’t had a lot of sleep and I’ve missed my pills for a couple of days in a row I get this one recurring nightmare. It always starts the same way. I wake up in the bed I am in and everything is completely normal. Except the door to the room is slightly ajar. Then I try to get out of bed. I am really clumsy and my hands are numb. This is normal for me so I keep trying.

I slide out from under the covers onto  the floor. Shit gets real. I am dragged by an invisible force towards the door which now slams open. I flip out. I wake up back in bed. After I calm down and check if I have shit myself I realise my hands are still numb. The force grabs me again and drags me towards the door. I wake up in my bed again.

Now is the time for pure panic. I try everything I can to wake myself up. First I pinch myself until it hurts. When it starts hurting I figure I have woken up so I stand. I am slammed back down into the bed again. I slam my hand onto the corner of my desk. I feel myself on the verge of waking up so I try again. My hand is stopped short just before the desk and is then forced back onto my chest. I am jerked up to a sitting position. I feel two thick tentacles rammed into my ear-holes and out of my mouth. I do the only sensible thing in this situation. I get an erection.

I start yelling now. Not screaming, yelling. Even in the depths of my darkest nightmare I am still worried about looking like a girl. So I yell like a saiyan and then something will happen. The walls melt away, leaving me floating in the dark. What happens next changes every time I have the dream. Sometimes I am transported to a barren lava plain where I watch a burning skeleton dance. Sometimes I am confronted with a giant version of my own head guarded by chainsaw-wielding versions of Thomas the Tank Engine. Sometimes I have to fire a laser out of my forehead at a giant cross between four elephants and a giant squid. This time though I am just left floating in the black.

I wake up slowly. I can tell, like every time, that this is really waking up. It is something about the air, probably that I  have to breathe it. I sit up for a second, then ease myself back down. I close my eyes and breathe. I get a text message. Without looking at who it is from I read it. It says: “This is the only reason we asked you.”

I get up. Head out the back and reach for a cigarette. Then I realise I have absolutely no craving to smoke. It is entirely gone, at least just for this morning. The end. I do not know if there is a moral. Maybe it is “Take your medication you fuck why do you even do this”.

Also I am doing a reading for my friends at Stilts for their second journal launch. Here is the link: https://www.facebook.com/events/137294676392180/ . If you are in Brisbane you should come check it out and watch me have rough chuckles.

Guest Post: Dark Sam (Samuel Finegan)

This guy asked me to write a blog post for him.

I am not qualified for this.

Am I supposed to refer to this guy as ‘Skydekkerix’ even though everyone is probably aware of who this guy is? If you are going to use a pen name, it should not sound like you were seventeen and trying to name an elemental wizard. We have all played Diablo probably, but that does not make us okay people.  If you are going to have a blog then you should have a distinct theme. That way when you ask people to write a guest blog for you, they will have some idea of what they are supposed to do and won’t open by directly criticizing you. I am going to lecture you all on being a writer, because this is what the other guest bloggers wrote about.

I do not know whether this blog is supposed to be about writing or not.

Skydekkerix’s Skydekkerix Blog is about being not very good at almost every kind of thing and trying to be less bad at those things you are not good at. The secondary theme seems to be that all attempts at self-improvement are futile and that life is frustrating and upsetting and sometimes you will witness hell-scapes and water down your alcohol with tears from your face. I wrote that as a run on sentence because I have contempt for both this blog and the craft of writing. I have contempt for you as my reader.

Lesson One: No one cares what you have to say, and you are not even famous.

You are not famous and no one cares what you have to say. You probably want to talk and write about what writing means and pontificate on the craft. You should not do this, because you do not actually know anything and your opinion does not matter because you are not famous and will probably not be famous at any point in your life and least of all for writing a book. If you are writing and intending to change the world or open up readers’ horizons you should stop writing. No one will read what you write except the kind of people who are already enough like you that your opinions will not challenge them or they will dismiss them out of hand. If you were serious about fixing people, you would become a teacher or an abductor of children because adults can only be fixed by being made dead. If you were a cool assassin you would do more good ‘neutralising’ (that is assassin speak for having done a murder to) folks than you could ever do writing a book. Even if Oprah likes your book. Writing a ‘challenging’ work is like literary masturbation. It is essentially harmless and pleasant and is also good for your health but no one really wants to hear about how you made it except for someone who wants to do sex with you. Masturbation is a metaphor in the first instance but sex is just sex in both examples. If you are handsome or pretty enough that people want to do sex to you, you should not even bother talking about writing because your face has done the hard work and it is selfish of you to want more attention.

Tip: Eat bananas.

Bananas are one of the few rich sources of soluble potassium. Potassium prevents ‘shaky hand disorder’ and steady hands are essential for both long-hand and typing. Also, potassium can prevent cramping when you are masturbating. Potassium does nothing for muscle tremors brought on by nerves such as in cases where a lady has taken her top off at you deliberately or when you need to make words in front of judgmental folks in either an informal or academic context.

Lesson Two: Everyone is a writer.

Being a writer is the shittiest kind of being an artist because everyone thinks that they can do what you can do because of climbing literacy rates. People are inherently more impressed by paintings and sculptures than some ink that you put onto a page in an order. This may change when you have published a book but almost certainly not if you are published in a magazine. Or on a blog. Once you have published a book you become more impressive to your hairdresser than most visual artists and actors who aren’t in films. Hairdressers are your enemy and the enemy of self-worth. People will insist on hearing about your novel and you will not want to tell them. This is the correct impulse. Your novel or short story will sound appalling to everyone and destroy your faith in it. If you self-identify as a writer and writing is not your primary income you are a terrible person and should get a job. Everyone can write and it does not even take that much time. Get a job and earn some ka-ching, ka-ching, ba-bling ba-bling.

Tip: Do not get a job as a hairdresser.

Lesson Three: You are a monster who is wearing human skin.

As a writer you are a bad person. You have failed at being a person and are incapable of genuine feeling and experience. This does not mean you are evil, but you are bad in the same way that a hammock is a bad bed. You are a selfish monster that is passing as a person in order to eat their lives. You are a monster because everything is about you. When you go to a wedding or a birthday or a christening you are not genuinely happy for the folks getting wedded or celebrated or named. You are thinking about whether you can make a story out of this. When your friends go through difficult breakups, you are cherry-picking the most telling phone-calls and self-destructive alcohol choices.  If you are not doing this, you are not a writer and might be an okay person. Otherwise, recognize that you are a monster who feeds on suffering, discomfort and conflict. You invent fictional people to suffer in new and interesting ways. You monster.

Tip: Do not date an artist.

You are too selfish to be in a relationship with another person who will make everything about them.  After recognizing yourself as a monster, recognize normal people as your prey. Be kind to them, because they do not understand that you will eat them. If you must be in a relationship with an artist, reconcile yourself to heartless cruelty because you are now David Bowie and Catherine Deneuve and you are going to start stabbing other folks with a tiny ankh. I am a single man.

These are the basic steps by which you can manage your terrible affliction.

Mistakes are forever but when we are dead no one will remember them.

There is no escaping what you are.

I am so terribly sorry.

Samuel Finegan

Tagged

Quit Rage Pt 1: Religion

I am quitting smoking and preparing for several days of pure rage and shivers. So get ready for a series of shitty blog posts where I shake my fist at society and how fucking stupid it is. I gotta hulk out before I sulk out. Don’t pout you’re doing GR8!!!!!

Religion = Stupid

I refuse to put the word god in capital letters.

If god hates homosexuals why does he create so many homosexuals?

How come nobody follows the Ancient Greek or Egyptian religions anymore? That would at least make religion Interesting.

The bible is not even convincing I do not even know what the fuck is going on with these people.

I have not read the quran but it is probably just as stupid as the bible.

Buddhists worship a fat guy.

If you need religion to stop you from killing or raping people then you should probably be in Jail.

Jesus was not white.

There should be stickers on bibles saying “Just a theory”.

Being spiritual is also stupid. There are no such things as psychics or ghosts or faeries or whatever it is you believe in.

Aliens are cooler than gods hands down.

Relgion should be 18+ like smoking, drinking, tattoos and every other stupid thing you can do.

We should just man up as a species and admit we don’t having a fucking clue what happens after we die.

If you think about it even medium hard telling a kid he is going to be tortured forever unless he follows exactly your religion is a really fucked up thing to do.

Blaming atheists for earthquakes/fires/floods makes you look like an idiot.

When was the last time a group of atheists waged war on another group of atheists because they had different atheist beliefs?

 

Alright I am done. If I have offended you then you are probably religious so I don’t care. Just remember that I am having hell of withdrawals and will probably regret this. Fuck along now.

 

 

 

Hell-o

Hey guys the guy from 1001 ways to  die alone and I were interviewed by some terrible guy wearing jeans shorts and a bintang singlet! Read about us just generally  being terrible at http://underthestilts.com/2012/02/terrible-friends-with-pretty-good-blogs-part-i/#more-2018 . Have a fucking great Valentines day you filthy animals.

Making one continuous mistake.

You may be surprised, but I am not good with girls. There are many reasons for this. I could tell you that I am very specific in my tastes. I could tell you that I don’t need a woman to feel good about myself. I could tell you I don’t like blondes. All of these would be at most half-truths. For the most part the reason I am not good with girls is because, like pretty much  anything, they scare the shit out of me.

When I was in preschool a girl fell in love with me. She told me so. Her name started with an A. I think. It was a small Ipswich school. I spent most of my time reading behind the reading curtain and being teased because I couldn’t use the playground properly. The girl was smart and quiet and awkward like me. I had never even met girls before. I had a sister but she was a sister not a girl. I did not know what it meant when she said she was in love with me. I didn’t even know how to pronounce line without being teased. She cried and told me I had broken her heart when I married my preschool teacher in a big faux ceremony.

Primary school was rough for a lad like me. My grade one class would clap when I used words that I used in everyday conversation at home. I started at an anglican school halfway through the year. I was the perpetual new kid. The class treated like a pariah. One girl looked after me. She tried to teach me to tie my shoelaces. She always smiled when I entered the room. She showed me where the toilets were. She asked me if I wanted to hang out with her during lunchtimes. I told her no.

In my late primary school years I attended a tiny country school of about 60 kids. About 1% of the kids there were my friends. Lunchtimes were sitting near the sand pit and looking tortured and having tennis balls thrown at me. I guess I was still an academic kid, though I was definitely not smart. Especially when it came to geography. A pretty Nigerian girl once came up to me while I was working on an art project. It was a painting of a cobra that made my  teacher yell at me because it was so terrible. The girl asked me if I would ever like a Nigerian girl. I did not know Nigerian was a nationality. I did not know what to think. Kids had been cruel to me, I once got slapped for asking a girl what a condom was. So when it came to answering questions like these I did what I always did. I said no.

Ladies?

Hej! Hej! Ushanka!

Alright I am all rogered up on Irish creme. Fuck the free world. Here is my fucking poem you bloodthirsty maggots.

It is called Hej! Hej! Ushanka! (I do not know what that means)

Fuck you teenage self,

Masturbating will not send you to hell,

It is required for good mental health,

You are not even religious, dickhead.

 

Fuck you teenage me,

Get a job, you’re so fucking lazy,

It is no excuse that you are crazy,

Bipolar is a manageable illness, fucktard.

 

Fuck you teen Sam again,

Try and get a fucking girlfriend,

And get out of the emo trend,

You do not even have the guts to dye your hair.

 

Fuck you me when I was small,

Put down that Jack Daniels, pick up a ball,

You are not bad at sports at all,

Plus dungeons and dragons will never be cool.

 

Fuck you teenage Sam life isn’t that bad,

When you grow up your life will be rad,

Actually you’ll spend most of your time drunk and sad,

Then you’ll make a dang fool of yourself on a shitty blog.

 

I am not even embarrassed by this.