Separated at Birth: Part V

Richard Strauss (Composer)

Viscount Craigavon (Nordy)

Devil Eire beyant the grave.

'Hlo, Eeamon Oo Cweeve? Week up...it's your Grendeddy.'

Eamon Ó Cuiv wakes up in a cold sweat having heard the voice of Granda de Valera from beyond the grave. He immediately phones the Feena Fawl press office to tell them the news.

DE VALERA NOMINATES HIMSELF FOR THE PRESIDENCY FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE, runs the headline of the Irish Press, which was dead a while since. Liberal Ireland was in uproar and the Papal Nuncio was flown back to Dublin from Prague in order to explain to Enda Kenny in person that he had seen a vision of John Charles McQuaid holding hands with Our Lady of Knock appearing in the skirting board of his hotel room.

'God is angry at you for disrespecting the Holy Father, Mr Kenny,' explained the Nuncio in far worse English than that. 'This is his retribution.'

The whole presidential election shite was halted because Gawd hath ordainéd that de Valera was to be dug up and removed to the Áras at once and installed as President-for-Life-and-All-Eternity (Amen). Nordy Mary mother of Éireann was removed immediately from the Áras along with her family by An Garda Sicíní. The bastards didn't even give her a chance to pack and just fucked her belongings (and her husband) unceremoniously out onto the Twenty-Nine Acres (or whatever you call it). A Garda helicopter escorted the McAleeses (with the help of searchlights) into a safe house prepared for them in O'Devaney Gardens, North Circular Road, Dublin Seven, between St Bricin's and the pond where all the local drug dealers go to have a piss. (Note the irony of 'safe house' in this context. Refer to Chapter Four, Page Twenty-Eight, the section entitled 'Irony, Bwooh!'.)

They started digging up de Valera's grave, but when they discovered that he'd rotted away to nothing they commissioned Madame Tussaud's to make a lifelike wax replica of him that was installed in the front hall of the Áras in a glass case that Lenin would have been proud of. A ceremony was held to mark the occasion, celebrated by Archbishop Dearmit Martin and accompanied by a performance at communion by thrice-failed presidential candidate Dana Rosemary-Scallions, who treated the congregation to a lovely rendition of her hit 'All Kinds of Everything (Remind me of the Eucharist)', which was briefly at number two in the US Christian charts in 1987.

President-for-Life Eamon de Valera, 1882-1975, 2011-∞. Amen.

Gees and Marys (or Maries?).

To follow on from the last post, we here at the Bram would like to point out that no reference was made in the previous post to Mary Robinson's gee, as that would have been grossly improper and frankly disgusting. Boutros Boutros Ghali would not at all be happy if a lady of the UN was violated by having her gee mentioned on the internet, O no! And in keeping with the new Bramblog policy on gee, mickey, and general durt, there will be, to quote Old Shawneen Pursill, "Less of that."

Now on the other hand, it would be a gross and heinous impropriety to mention the gee of another venerable Mary, she of the Mac Giolla Íosas. That would be completely desperate. Apart from being utterly filthily vile, to mention Mary's gee would be tantamount to treason. Yes, dears, I mean that. Not only would it be an embarrassment to the good and generous lady herself, it would be offensive to the Irish state and more particularly the office of the President.

So you have been warned. Don't talk about Mary's gee.

Awomen.

Mary Robinson's Heartbreak.

Poor Mary Robinson. It's difficult being an Irish ex-president as well as a stupid rubbernecked nodding duckhead. But that's life for her. Back in the 70s when she was a fresh-faced young lawyer she met a dashing young gent named D. Norris, a gentleman and scholar who had a passion for James Joyce and ABBA. Mary had never before met as kind and generous a gent as Norris, and she dreamed day and night about the day when he would propose to her and they could both be robinsoned in Castlebar. They lived together for a while in a lovely Martello Tower along Sandymount Strand. She did everything for him and went everywhere with him. They were utterly inseparable.

The day David revealed his passion for homosexual law reform, Mary was quite taken aback but was willing to support her beloved Daveycakes in anything he did and so agreed to be his legal advisor. And, in spite of the Legion's protests, gays were free to be as gay as their fancy dictated within twenty years. Well done.

But eventually the day came that Mary was knocked out of her little dream world in the cruelest manner imaginable. As she came down to breakfast that fateful morning carrying a large bundle of Davey's pink towels, she was met with the sight of him holding hands with a jew—a man jew!...a jewman! How utterly incredible for Mary that until that moment she'd never once suspected that D. was a ho-ho-homosexua-la-la, even in spite of his preoccupations with gay liberation and such malarky.

"OOOOOO ISAAC MAY I CALL YOU MISTER BLOOM? THE IDEA OF YOU MASTURBATING ON SANDYMOUNT STRAND IS JUST SO EROTIC I CAN'T TAKE IT! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I LAAAAV YOOOOLISEEES BEST BOOK EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVAAAAAH!"

Mary was so shocked she dropped each one of D. Norris's pink towels on the ground. The thoughts of her wedding day suddenly vanished from her mind and in her great and sudden distress her neck contorted itself sideways, never to be the same again.

God love Mary. A hard life she had. Though beating Brian Lenihan for the presidency gave her renewed vigour and throughout the 1990s she was well-known around Ireland for her excellent impression of a duck with a broken neck.

Well done Mary. God save Ireland.

GERRY RYAN AND VIAGRA FOR THE LIPS

NEWSFLASH: Today in RTÉ, famed radio presenter and fat Gerry Ryan pioneered the newest medical treatment for men's health, Viagra for the Lips.

"Mrs. Ryan left me because she said my lips weren't sexy enough, so I decided to launch my own brand of male health products so that men can have the best rides possible. I just thought it would be great if you could have lips as hard as your cock for a bit of an aul' shag."

The Legion of Mary protested outside RTÉ holding banners which read "Jesus and Mary hate the Gerry Ryan Show", but nobody cares about them because they're nothing but a bunch of holy aul'ones.

Well done Gerry.

Poshbastard Cockhole Mickey.

Anne Devitt's sex tape. I believe it features Mr Cian Bailey, showing off his enormous farmer's appendage (also known as combine harvester). O Anne Devitt, you are so perfect in my hole. We love thee dearly. HOLE. You and your horses, and your face just like a gee. Charming Anne darling, marry me forever. With love, Cianycakes.

And in other news, cock. And a hole lot of other things. MICKEY. Sure fair play to all those people that do be doing things with themselves, and their mickeys owe cock.

No, indeed. Jemma's ma, your mickey, and my lez bean. El owe el. Puking isn't the best, and the government don't speak for us. So when you're not feeling very well at all at all you'd be better off puking right up in a large spiral.

Puking and puking in a widening gyre,
The vomit cannot hear the vomitor.

Take that Willie, you bloody cockfiddler. That's what you get for drumming all over your cliff-upon-cock, for it's always the way. You didn't even need a Hitler haircut to make you look like a Nazi GEEEEEEEEBAAG FLANGE-IN-A-POT.

No, not at all. Lawl, says he. No surprises, please. Well done. COCK!

And in further news, it's recently been discovered that you can actually get pregnant by sticking an ear in your gee. Ask Lola Sleevend about that one, as she's well used to it. O LOLA!

Yes, yes. COCK and hole, and all sorts of other tiring things. Lawl.

Asleep yes, and cock it is for hole. Poshbastard things. Where are you going at a thousand miles a second?

Lola Sleevend and Lisbon.

SCENE: A school hall somewhere in the Bow-mont area. LOLA SLEEVEND approaches a desk attended by two old ladies and produces her polling card and her passport.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?

OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.

OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?

OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.

OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?

LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.

OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?

LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.

OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?

OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?

OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!

OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!

LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.

GEE!

No title necessary

One, two, gee o'clock, four o'clock, cock.

Hih, hih.

Apologies

I'm sorry. That last post was a bit shite. But to make up for it, I'll tell you a story. It's a bit like Will & Grace but with a twist. One of them is straight/heterosexual. The mildly acceptable one is the straight one. No, not the token flamboyant gay one. The other one.

Well, let me begin. They live in the lovely, fictional village of Ballykillrathatraw in the suburbs of Tipperary city. The straight one is the descendant of a friend of Éamonn deValera and is reasonably happy with the current Fianna Fáil government under Bertie and Brian. His gay friend however is a womanizer (regardless of sexuality) and doesn't really care about the day-to-day running of the economy. He does know, however, that his heterosexual friend (who I haven't given a name to yet) hates Enda Kenny, Garret Fitzgerald and Keven O'Higgins. He skips around the breakfast table chanting "Sinne Fine Gael" and asks his friend to pass the Richard Bruton instead of the salt just to piss hm off. He was like that you see, little bit dense but evil in a rather unusual and smart way. But they live quite happily together in their rented home in Ballykillrathatraw, fictitiously of course.

The lives of our unnamed (and unbaptized) heroes was never very far from adventure. One time they had to complete their tax forms very quickly after leaving it quite late in the evening. They went to many weddings and ceremonies of the sort. Neither of these fellows went to college but they weren't stupid by any means. Most Tuesdays the gay one bought a paper and they sat in all day doing the crossword. They were a marvellous team. Occasionally they will entertain guest like their straight friend from Prussia, who also won't be getting a name for Christmas. Fun and joy is abundant when the Prussian comes to visit. He tells them stories from his childhood and fables that he heard from his grandfather, Otto.

The straight one works in a bank, you see. He is a teller and is able to use the foreign exchange machine. He was only recently trained at that and is very happy in his job, what with now being able to help customers change currencies. O, how the currency markets fascinate him. How he'd love to buy large quantities of Chilean Peso and sell them again several days later in a different part of the world. His companion, the gay one, never gives his straight friend a minute to air his high hopes of currency speculation. "O, here you go again," he will say if the straight one starts on about the Yen or the Dollar. It's a pity though as he says, for if he made himself a fortune on the FXM he'd take himself and his gay friend away for a long holiday in Asia. He'd love to see Asia. All the Asian things that go on there intrigue him. He wonders if someone in Asia is intrigued by north-western European things. He thinks and hopes. His thought-train is interrupted by his gay friend entering the room with a baroque guitar singing praise to William T. Cosgrave. It's probably for the best he thinks, ey?

Then one day, a good writer came ("OooOh" said the gay one!) along and made these basic characters into something special. They ate like kings in Lourdes and got to meet great people. Finally, the straight one's dreams all came ("OoOOoOh" the gay one said again) true at once. Fianna Fáil asked him to be Taoiseach. They made some provisions, changed the constitution and allowed him to live in Asia and rule from there. Officially after two years, thanks to new legislation, he was crowned High King of the Republic of Ireland.

As for the gay one, he was less successful and lived in Papa New Guinea. He receives "dig-outs" from His Majesty the Straight One of Ireland on a bi-monthly basis. He was reportedly seeing a native of Papa New Guinea and the relationship was getting serious. So, at least he had lovely Jeremy to lean on.

All this happened between 1857 and 1902. The writer then subsequently died and a new writer(ess) came and took them from their positions as High King of the Republic of Irleland and house-husband of Jeremy and put them both in Chicago during the Depression. They are currently still there getting used to America and prohibition. They are reunited but, of course, the straight one misses being High King of the Republic of Ireland and the gay one misses Jeremy.

We may never again hear of their tale. The writer(ess) may want to leave them alone to think of a decent plot for themselves. If that's the case, goodnight ladies and gentlemen.

Ave.

Hail Mary, full of green,
deV is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst Nordies
and rubber is the neck of thy predecessor, Mary.

Nordy Mary, mother of Erin,
pray for us Free Steeters
now and at the hour of our death.

Éamonn.

The Second Letter of Gee to the Fallopians.

Dear Dermot Ahern,

It is my firm belief that you spend too much time wearing women's knickers. Not that they'd be men's knickers or anything. So just knickers then. Glad we have that cleared up.

You and those politicians are all the same, with your mickeys in everyone's business. Good old D. Norris, fair play to him with his mickey in everyone's Áras (not bras as the T9 dictionary would have us believe, O no!), and Nordy Mary Mother of Erin with her Áras and all, you know the way. Whatever you like to do in your spare time, not that I spend mine putting crisp packets over me cock. Well, that's disgusting, so don't be using plastic bags either, especially not the child-friendly ones, which are very child-friendly considering that you'll likely end up Up-the-Duff regardless, if God-is-with-us.

Daniel O'Donnell is live on TGCeathair tomorrow, not that I give a rat's mickey or anything.

It's all about how one reacts to the world and its subjects that surround on a every-second-of-the-day basis. That's the message that I'd like the Fallopians to take this St. Steven's Day (Stevenzis Day [Ireland] or Boxing Day [Brits]). The reaction that is given to a situation is vital to how it unravels, disentangles and straightens out (hopefully without anyone getting shot). For example, if one was kicked out of a public house with no plausible reason given, one would have a choice of reactions. One or more of these will get one killed with others having differing degrees of pain and suffering. Few will keep all body parts intact. Point is that choice of reaction determines the next stage in events.

But, I hear you say, reactions to events are immediate, unpredictable, unforeseeable, temperamental and cannot be helped. Well, my answer to this one is that you're wrong, incorrect and mistake. One always has choices. I'm prone to making the wrong choices in reaction choices. But, I have choices, I just make bad ones. So, therefore, I'm right, shag.

Take one look and walk away. That's alright with me. I wish that I could sing that.

Yes, back to a guiding, spiritually inspiring, half-time pep-talk I will go. Don't be taking part in any of those big drunken orgies, ok? If that's not good, well, I really can't do much about that now can I? Hmmmm!? I'm hardly a fuckin' authority to meddle with you am I now? But, don't be doing those things; they're bad for you I hear, mentally and in the arena of the ball games too.

I don't know who'd have the physical ability to function as a human without the use of a thesaurus. They're just so useful. Not as an alternative mickey protector like a crisp bag. It also won't vacuum your carpets for you. I can be quite confident in saying that lots of interesting people have used a thesaurus. The long fellow, Mr. Éamon deValera, more than likely consulted one in his days on this earth.

We're all terminally ill, we're infected with the disease of life. Congratulations, it's a baby boy. I'm sorry he's only got, on average, seventy-six years to live.

J. Edward Denwick says:
Incest.
From The Cradle says:
Puke??
J. Edward Denwick says:
That's when your sister fiddles your mickey
From The Cradle says:
that's when you fiddle your auntie's inside mickey
J. Edward Denwick says:
Eww.
From The Cradle says:
HA

I will in me ________! Fill in the blank with a body part. It works with pretty much any one, but, the more taboo attached to the body part the better. "I will in me chin" works fine, but, "I will in me cock" will work better.

Musicals, ey? Mickey. War of the Worlds can be good, but not in film form with Tom Cruise. Was shite. But with Philip Lynott, one can't go wrong. The Spirit of Man.

For the evil one never rests. I said exercise the devil! But, no, they wouldn't listen. The demons inside them grew and grew until Satan gave his signal and destroyed the world we knew!

House cleaners clean houses. They can, in the right circumstances, polish the odd ornament. If the ornament is in a mickey-based shape, all the better. This will drive the woman of the house (bean an tí) into a wild fit of pleasure until she falls of the couch and onto the freshly hoovered carpet floor. The unstained fibres of the carpet will enhance these felling until she ends up pooped out, breathless on the small glass-topped coffee table, while the topless, cleaning man looks on from in front of the cabinet with a little terracotta vase in hand, long and thin, like a shaft of sorts.

Back in 1968 I gave up on everything. That's not very inspiring, righ'. But, it's not my responsibility to perk youz up on the twenty seventh day of December. Get your own kicks in life. Unfortunately that's all I can say to you. To fully get the lost out of what you have in your heart (life) is to get out there, get a house cleaner and get aroused. Good luck.