Arthur Targe
Bio
Freelance writer, creative nomad and proud to be a high-functioning alcoholic.
Stories (4/0)
Hook, stamina, oats.
The joys of an eToro party. I host them every Friday evening, while my wife is out visiting my brother Eduard. Hers is a dalliance of mutual consent, as I am both unable and unwilling to give her what she needs. I invite my good friend Bertrand over, plug my secretion-stained laptop into the television, and log into the trading platform. We start drinking, hard and fast. I am mainly on neat spirits – my personal favourite is a voluminous glass of aged Scotch, sweetened with a splash of Zeppelin. Bertrand, of the landed gentry, prefers champagne. He can easily clear three bottles of stuff in a night. He’s seemingly content with the fact that it will pass through his system faster than you can say “Vocal challenge time!”, leaving his body and ending up on the floor, no more or less similar to urine than when it entered his mouth, in my honest opinion.
By Arthur Targe3 years ago in Humans
What is the real impact of Apple’s products on the market?
It seems that everyone has a colourful opinion about Apple products, especially people on sites like Medium and Vocal, who bare their teeth and bark like jackals whenever someone presents a view about the California company which is at odds with their own, in even the slightest way.
By Arthur Targe3 years ago in 01
Trisha.
I don’t know much about black culture, nor do I have any particular interest in black creators or innovators above any other race. I’m the kind of person who thought that one or more of the characters from “Friends” was black, until I looked up the show on Wikipedia just now. Call me lazy, not bigoted.
By Arthur Targe3 years ago in Humans
How I enhanced my career using an incident in 2018 where my dog killed my neighbour’s pet bird.
One spring morning in late March 2018, my dog, a Japanese Tosa I named Archibald (after the Scottish Geologist) found his way into my neighbour John’s back garden, entered his house using an opened back door, and killed and ate his pet budgerigar (called Muffin). At the time, it wasn’t clear what had happened. John was knocking every door on the street asking if anyone had seen Muffin, owing to how his back door was open, and seeing as Muffin is uncaged, had likely escaped. A few days later, when Archibald relieved himself in my kitchen, did an undigested beak present itself, prominently sticking out of my pet’s earthy filth.
By Arthur Targe3 years ago in Journal