My granny playing Rachmaninoff as the midgets have sex in the background.
A magic show in Stephen's Green with a greyhaired aulfella called Pat Magic. Well done. He's halfbrother of Pat Ingoldsby who does be selling his books down there where Bewley's used to be.
A pigeon called Jeffrey. Woman needs man, and pigeon must have her Jeffrey while we poison them in St Mark's, which nobody can deny. Woman needs man, but she's not allowed play Liszt. But my granny can play Rachmaninoff, fair play to her. Bang bang goes the midgets as they roide. I just love a hellbound hottie. Don't you? 'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, and makes every Sunday a treat for me, and that's meeting the Reverend Willy Wonka in the Green, a great achievement for David Kelly back in the 60s before he was skin, bones and bowtie. Mind you don't drop your chocolate. I won't, but keep your chips in the bag lest the midgets get them. To the tune of Rach 2. Rutting with Rachmaninoff. Congratulations.
Well done!
Don't feed the midgets. I got it from Agnes, didn't you know that old Hollywood is over. Mickey miiiickey mickeeey et al. Dulce ay decorum ay. Fuck Leeson Street, but don't fuck there unless you want to get arrested and spend the night up in Pearse Street Garda Station with your face red, and that's not for the sake of having a spoon up your arse either.
This is another one of those Poshbastard Leather Holiday Palace posts. Do the Masochism Tango, personally approved by Mrs Thatcher and her randy husband Dennis as Mrs Thatcher dons her pink frilly knickers all the way from Shauna's Naughty Adult Shop in Capel Street, just across the road from the Mashed Bananas. SDRAWBREEZ TWOFERAEURO. But she's old and grey now and Dennis wishes she was dead. But he's consoled by the memories of them whipping each other back in the 60s when he had his virility and agility and "ability" and other ilities, well done to him. God love him, all he has left now is disab. Hellbound hottie once more. Sure God love us all. Roide? Oh moy gawd, are you a northsoider?
Kisses. On the mickey. Puke. In the face!
That's very good. Just like Garro and his Cock, but sure we never see him in there, God love us. Well done to Rach 5 (communist) and the hot youngfla (fascist). Well done all round.
Claps.
Kisses.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The future of Catholicism.
It had been a bad weekend for old Father William as he walked into the parish office on Monday morning. The entire congregation for the weekend had consisted of the same three holy aul'ones at each Mass and nobody else. They had been talking about it for a long time, but surely now the day had come.
"Bernadette, I've made a decision," began Father William, addressing the secretary.
"Yes Father?" she answered eagerly.
"I've decided...well, to be honest, it's not working out, is it?—this whole Mass thing. I think we need to think of a new way to bring the youth to the church. Those bloody Canadians wouldn't do it. I was scared of them myself. What right-minded young person would want to have a cup of tea with one of those lunatics? No, no, I think we need to reconsider our position."
"What do you mean Father?" asked the secretary, more than a little confused.
"I mean that we're going to abolish Mass. If nobody is going to come to Mass except Phyllis and those two nuns then there's no point in having it at all. We've been trying for years to get young people back to the church and we've been doing it the wrong way all along. In my day you went to Mass because you knew if you didn't you'd go to hell. But I don't even believe that, so I don't know why I became a priest. In fact I should have been a Protestant. But that's beside the point. We're going to abolish Mass, Bernadette."
"But what are you going to do with the church instead, Father?"
"Look at it this way: where do young people nowadays go for fun? They don't go to the church and light a candle for St Francis and say 'well there you are now wasn't that fine and dandy altogether'. No, they go to the pub and get drunk. And why should we stop them? If that's what they want to do, the church should let them do it. In fact, the church should encourage them. They'd rather boogie down in a nightclub rather than be bored to death at Mass, and I wouldn't blame them. You know, like that place over on D'Olier Street, XXX's or whatever it's called. We should offer the young people a real social outlet, not bits of wafer we pretend is the body of Christ. Bernadette, we're turning the church into a nightclub."
"Whatever you say Father."
***
Now, though you might have expected wild opposition to this idea, nobody really cared. In fact, the nuns took to it enthusiastically. The only person who had anything negative to say about it was poor old Phyllis, and so Father William had his henchnuns throw her down the steps in front of the altar. She's now up in the Bons Secours and will probably die, God love her. But Father William went on fearlessly with his plan, removing the pews and installing a disco ball above the altar, which was converted into a bar. After a few weeks Club Corpo opened and was soon the community social hotspot, popular among old and young alike. The two nuns were employed by Father William as bouncers and did an excellent job.
Unsurprisingly, the Monsignor (who wasn't consulted about the change) was rather indignant when he discovered he was out of a job. Considering he didn't fancy licking the Archbishop's arse every day and night, he made a deal with Father William that he could read out selections from his best sermons of the past forty years nightly at the back of the church. People were of course invited to listen, but nobody wanted to, unsurprisingly. Except Phyllis, but at this stage she was probably dead anyway.
The Vatican was none too pleased to hear about Corpo's success in bringing people back to the church and promptly excommunicated Father William, the nuns and all those who attended Club Corpo. But this didn't stop the march of the greatest church nightclub venue in Ireland, O no! No man, not even the Pope, has the right to fix the boundary of the march of a church club. No man has the right to say to his church, "Thus far thou shalt go, and no further". And we have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Corpo's nightclubhood, and we never shall. Excommunication didn't harm Club Corpo. Sure it didn't stop de Valera, did it?
And so Club Corpo became one of the greatest social sensations in all of Ireland, all thanks to the forward thinking of old Father William the young man said and your hair has become very white. And all that by a Kerryman! Who would have thought it? Well done all round. The nuns loved it particularly as they chatted away with the regulars to discover the latest gossip. One night as former eucharistic minister Barry Gough, an upstanding member of the community, arrived to Club Corpo alone, the nuns couldn't help but query where Mrs Gough was.
"Well," replied Barry, "she's not in the mood, if you know what I mean. She had a baby there three weeks ago and hasn't been up for it since. To be honest, sisters, I'm just her to get me hole."
"Sure that's lovely Barry," said Sister Phil. "We all need our hole once in a while. Isn't that right Sister Teresa?"
"We do indeed Sister!" replied Sister Teresa. "Nothing like a bit of your hole on a Saturday night."
"For sure Sister," said Barry. "Cheers anyway. I'll be off. Sure I'll see yous later."
"Bye Barry," said Sister Phil. "Good luck getting your hole."
And so was the way of Club Corpo. And you know what the best bit is? Nobody went to hell, because they all realized eventually that there's no such thing and that they were all wasting their time being holy when they should have been out enjoying themselves. And so that makes the Pope a sad aul'fella. Pray for his intentions. He needs to get a life, and "20 Years Younger" is probably a good place to start.
"Bernadette, I've made a decision," began Father William, addressing the secretary.
"Yes Father?" she answered eagerly.
"I've decided...well, to be honest, it's not working out, is it?—this whole Mass thing. I think we need to think of a new way to bring the youth to the church. Those bloody Canadians wouldn't do it. I was scared of them myself. What right-minded young person would want to have a cup of tea with one of those lunatics? No, no, I think we need to reconsider our position."
"What do you mean Father?" asked the secretary, more than a little confused.
"I mean that we're going to abolish Mass. If nobody is going to come to Mass except Phyllis and those two nuns then there's no point in having it at all. We've been trying for years to get young people back to the church and we've been doing it the wrong way all along. In my day you went to Mass because you knew if you didn't you'd go to hell. But I don't even believe that, so I don't know why I became a priest. In fact I should have been a Protestant. But that's beside the point. We're going to abolish Mass, Bernadette."
"But what are you going to do with the church instead, Father?"
"Look at it this way: where do young people nowadays go for fun? They don't go to the church and light a candle for St Francis and say 'well there you are now wasn't that fine and dandy altogether'. No, they go to the pub and get drunk. And why should we stop them? If that's what they want to do, the church should let them do it. In fact, the church should encourage them. They'd rather boogie down in a nightclub rather than be bored to death at Mass, and I wouldn't blame them. You know, like that place over on D'Olier Street, XXX's or whatever it's called. We should offer the young people a real social outlet, not bits of wafer we pretend is the body of Christ. Bernadette, we're turning the church into a nightclub."
"Whatever you say Father."
***
Now, though you might have expected wild opposition to this idea, nobody really cared. In fact, the nuns took to it enthusiastically. The only person who had anything negative to say about it was poor old Phyllis, and so Father William had his henchnuns throw her down the steps in front of the altar. She's now up in the Bons Secours and will probably die, God love her. But Father William went on fearlessly with his plan, removing the pews and installing a disco ball above the altar, which was converted into a bar. After a few weeks Club Corpo opened and was soon the community social hotspot, popular among old and young alike. The two nuns were employed by Father William as bouncers and did an excellent job.
Unsurprisingly, the Monsignor (who wasn't consulted about the change) was rather indignant when he discovered he was out of a job. Considering he didn't fancy licking the Archbishop's arse every day and night, he made a deal with Father William that he could read out selections from his best sermons of the past forty years nightly at the back of the church. People were of course invited to listen, but nobody wanted to, unsurprisingly. Except Phyllis, but at this stage she was probably dead anyway.
The Vatican was none too pleased to hear about Corpo's success in bringing people back to the church and promptly excommunicated Father William, the nuns and all those who attended Club Corpo. But this didn't stop the march of the greatest church nightclub venue in Ireland, O no! No man, not even the Pope, has the right to fix the boundary of the march of a church club. No man has the right to say to his church, "Thus far thou shalt go, and no further". And we have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Corpo's nightclubhood, and we never shall. Excommunication didn't harm Club Corpo. Sure it didn't stop de Valera, did it?
And so Club Corpo became one of the greatest social sensations in all of Ireland, all thanks to the forward thinking of old Father William the young man said and your hair has become very white. And all that by a Kerryman! Who would have thought it? Well done all round. The nuns loved it particularly as they chatted away with the regulars to discover the latest gossip. One night as former eucharistic minister Barry Gough, an upstanding member of the community, arrived to Club Corpo alone, the nuns couldn't help but query where Mrs Gough was.
"Well," replied Barry, "she's not in the mood, if you know what I mean. She had a baby there three weeks ago and hasn't been up for it since. To be honest, sisters, I'm just her to get me hole."
"Sure that's lovely Barry," said Sister Phil. "We all need our hole once in a while. Isn't that right Sister Teresa?"
"We do indeed Sister!" replied Sister Teresa. "Nothing like a bit of your hole on a Saturday night."
"For sure Sister," said Barry. "Cheers anyway. I'll be off. Sure I'll see yous later."
"Bye Barry," said Sister Phil. "Good luck getting your hole."
And so was the way of Club Corpo. And you know what the best bit is? Nobody went to hell, because they all realized eventually that there's no such thing and that they were all wasting their time being holy when they should have been out enjoying themselves. And so that makes the Pope a sad aul'fella. Pray for his intentions. He needs to get a life, and "20 Years Younger" is probably a good place to start.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Jurry Royn update.
Further to the previous announcement of Gerry's renewed self-rerealisation programme, Gerry has gone a step further and has split up with Mrs Ryan. Rumours abound as to how this actually happened, and many have said it might involve Gerry being caught by Mrs Ryan doing bold things with a vye-brator, but of course that is purely conjecture, fnar fnar!
So in this time of personal turmoil for poor Gerry, who we greatly empasympathise with at this point in time (despite the general overtone of sarcasm on this pathetic publication—"Now that's sarcasm, Mrs Doyle"), let us review Gerry's greatest moments to date.
There's Gerry repioneering the threepiece suit back in the '80s or so. Shame about the hair, but fair play anyway.
There's Gerry with a pole up his arse standing next to a picture of Bono.
There's a picture Gerry took of a train somewhere in England while he picked his nose.
That was Gerry's first album, including such memorable songs as "It's a Long Way to Clontarf", "Vibrators in Paradise", "Shag Me Twinky" and "Snot and Shite (Are My Favourite Things)".
There's Gerry in his favourite place in Ireland, Abrakebabra.
There's Gerry a while back with his face on the Point. When I saw that I dropped my chips. Actually, I felt like throwing up, but that was because I was in my nan's little blue car (bottom of picture) and she'd just crashed into a traffic island for the sixth time that day.
There's Gerry in his Gaelic footballing days. Well done.
Gerry captured on camera doing his favourite thing in the world: having a shite.
Poor old Gerry Ryan, for he has taken to the vibrators and cocaine, but sure that's nothing new. He'll be back on Monday with another helping of scatological shite, nine 'til twelve, 2FM.
So in this time of personal turmoil for poor Gerry, who we greatly empasympathise with at this point in time (despite the general overtone of sarcasm on this pathetic publication—"Now that's sarcasm, Mrs Doyle"), let us review Gerry's greatest moments to date.
There's Gerry repioneering the threepiece suit back in the '80s or so. Shame about the hair, but fair play anyway.
There's Gerry with a pole up his arse standing next to a picture of Bono.
There's a picture Gerry took of a train somewhere in England while he picked his nose.
That was Gerry's first album, including such memorable songs as "It's a Long Way to Clontarf", "Vibrators in Paradise", "Shag Me Twinky" and "Snot and Shite (Are My Favourite Things)".
There's Gerry in his favourite place in Ireland, Abrakebabra.
There's Gerry a while back with his face on the Point. When I saw that I dropped my chips. Actually, I felt like throwing up, but that was because I was in my nan's little blue car (bottom of picture) and she'd just crashed into a traffic island for the sixth time that day.
There's Gerry in his Gaelic footballing days. Well done.
Gerry captured on camera doing his favourite thing in the world: having a shite.
Poor old Gerry Ryan, for he has taken to the vibrators and cocaine, but sure that's nothing new. He'll be back on Monday with another helping of scatological shite, nine 'til twelve, 2FM.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Operation Transformation
After seeing the programme's high success rate on the pudgy people of Ireland, its presenter, Gerard of the Ryans, has decided to undergo the process himself. It has been another great success for Gerard and RTÉ in general.
Gerry has really embraced his new image and to go along with this, he will now spell his name Jeri. It has given him a new lease of life and he has found an interest in Star Trek. He wishes to thank the producers at RTÉ and old Gaybo for the advice over the years.
Well done to Gerard, or Jeri, as we should now be printing. Good luck.
Gerry has really embraced his new image and to go along with this, he will now spell his name Jeri. It has given him a new lease of life and he has found an interest in Star Trek. He wishes to thank the producers at RTÉ and old Gaybo for the advice over the years.
Well done to Gerard, or Jeri, as we should now be printing. Good luck.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)