Shauna and the Irony of a Same-Sex Relationship.

[Dear readers of Bram, this is a trial. This post is un-Bram. Testing testing. Thank you for your patience. Yours faithffully, Willie.]

They say we should learn from our mistakes. I sure did.

My name is Shauna and I'm a real-life lesbian. I say "real-life" for a reason. These days it's necessary. Since lesbianism became popular as a result of reality television (and girls' desire to look sexy in front of heterosexual men--attention-seeking whores) the once quite set lines of sexuality have become like a February morning--hazy.

This is the background to my tragedy. In short, I met a girl and fell in love with her. As my feelings for her continued to grow I learned that she wasn't a lesbian at all. She had a long-term boyfriend that had gone to Germany to study. Stuttgart to be precise.

I was drinking alone in a city centre pub one night when I met Janice my ex-(fake) girlfriend. She was out with her friends from work. It was a girls night out and they were drunk. They were guzzling vodka so I presumed they were straight until Janice came to talk to me. After asking my name she kissed me with much passion and tongue. Admittedly I did think it odd that she kept looking back at her friends who were laughing heartily. But that wasn't important then. Real female contact made me feel alive.

We started "dating" which consisted of going out with her friends to clubs, lots of passionate kissing and erotic dancing that attracted considerable attention. Of course I thought this was for me when it was really for the the six-foot hunk in the corner. This continued for a month or so until I felt so strongly for Janice that I told her I loved her. She laughed, ordered a bottle of Bacardi Breezer and started feeling up the next guy at the bar of the club we were in.

My mistake was, of course, trusting another woman. After my experience with Janice, I travelled a bit. I saw most of Australia. You could say I learned a lot and learned something directly from Janice. I'm now married to Matt and we live happily with our three children (two girls and one boy) in West Sussex.

Funny how things work out, huh?

Tristan and Isolde: The Dublin Version

During the Great Battle of Dublin 5 in 1997 when a whole load of Tallaght people stormed Artane Castle to fight to the death in order to see Who Was Better, Morgo, betrothed to Princess Isolde of Killester was slain by Tristan McGrath, loyal servant of King Mark of Ballyfermot. However, Tristan was gravely wounded in his battle with Morgo and found himself at the mercy of Isolde whom he begged to help him. At first she was going to bash his head in with a rusty pitchfork, but she looked into his eyes and felt such pity for him that she dropped the pitchfork and put a bit of Sudocreme on his lacerated ear and before he knew it he was right as rain.

Stuck in the back of a dilapidated Hiace with Tristan as Mark's crew drove her back to Ballyer so that they could get married (shit or wha'?), Isolde poured them both a draught of dodgy contraband Polish vodka that she'd got from the bouncers at Lamb hoping that it would kill them both, a sort of bizarre murder/suicide pact. But for some reason it made them fall madly in love and they stood around for about twenty minutes not sure what to do before they decided to have a shag.

"O Tristan!"

"Isolde...! Actually, where did you get your name from?"

"Well, my mother had me when she was sixteen in the bastard drop zone in the Rotunda and didn't really want a baby as you can imagine. So when my uncle John came in to find her he asked her, 'What did you call the baby?' and she said, 'I sold i'.' So when he retrieved me from the Legion he brought me home and called me Isolde."

"That's fascinating. Where were we?"

"You just had your hand on me gee."

"O yes...is that your gee?"

"O yes! Is that your hand?"

"Is that your face?"

"Is that your mickey?"

"Well, actually, it's a Lion bar I was keeping in my pocket for later on, but my mickey should be just beside there. Yep, that's the one."

So they had fun for a while. Unfortunately, just as it was getting good the van stopped and the door was wrenched open by none other than Mark who was none too pleased that Tristan was shagging the woman he thought he'd be getting his hole with that night.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Eh, we're shagging. What does it look like?"

"You fucking what?"

"Fucking, that's the one. Anyway Mark, what's the deal with wreckin' me buzz?"

Mark wasn't happy at all, and so Tristan barely had time to put his mickey back in his trousers (the stupid fuck) before they were boxing each other in the middle of the road. Poor Isolde didn't know what to do, so she ran off back to Killester when nobody was looking.

Mark almost killed poor Tristan, and so once again gravely wounded Tristan had to get a bus into town and walk down to Eden Quay where he picked up a 29A and made his way up to Isolde, hoping that she'd have some Sudocreme left to heal his wounds. He eventually got there but just as she was about to put the Sudocreme on him Mark arrived hot on his tail. One of Tristan's friends stabbed one of Mark's cronies for absolutely no reason, not realising that Mark had come to make peace and give Tristan and Isolde his blessing to get their hole all they liked. But it was too late. Isolde couldn't put the Sudocreme on in time and Tristan died. She was delighted for some odd reason, knowing that if she died as well they could shag in the back of the big Hiace up in the sky for all eternity, and so collapsed right on top of Tristan bringing the story to a swift and slightly bizarre end.

Well done all round. And it took Wagner two weeks to tell that story. Where would you be without Bramblog? In Burger King, of course, or perhaps Bayreuth.

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.

Happy new year, you stupid fuckin' dickheads.

A Reading from the Fourth Edition of the Gee Encyclopaedia 1994.

In the beginning there was the Word and the word was with Twink and the word was D. Agnew. And one day when they had a bit of an argument Twink broke D. Agnew's oboe in two. For a while that's why he started playing the English horn. He wasn't just playing at home, he was also playing away from home. Thus, he became a stupid, fucking dickhead. It was all Twinky-winky's fault. One day, while he was playing with his English horn with Proinnsias ÓDuinn, who was playing his own flute, for a change, he spied a young one playing a clarinet. She was very impressed with D.'s mickey English horn playing and he was impressed with her flute playing (even though she didn't play the flute). He reckoned that she was a better flute player than P-P-P-Proinnsias could ever be. So, she decided to became his whore and they lived happily ever after ever in Bastardland. The End.

In other news, the DubDoc (I did say he'd come up again). Once upon a time, there was a Doc that came from Dub. And so the angel of the Lord did appear to him, south of the Liffey. O, faithful DubDoc, you shall serve your people and bear a mini-Doc and he shall be called Mickey, which, when translated from the Latin, means God-is-with-us. But the DubDoc said, "How can this be, since I am a man and not married?" But the angel said unto him, "The Holy Spirit will come upon thee and the power of God.........

Speaking of Mr(s). Henderson, the last time we heard of him/her, s/he was in that bad, bad adaptation of Roger Rabbit. But, now s/he has finally found success working as a tailor(ess) making cheap suits for women in J. Asha's sweatshop in Ballymena, under the very nose of Micheal Collins and Ian Paisley (both of them). They're good value, but the wool ones don't have silk lining. The cheap bastards, harr harr. But, Mr(s). Henderson has settled doyn to become an honourable (wo)man, all in the cases and details under the law. The Nordies allow that sort of thing as it was brought in by the Brits. Like, look at Elton John and Mr. Furnish-me-cock-upon-Tyne for mickey's sake! Ian personally rubberstamped the legislation, even though he hates all them bloody mickey-fiddlers (particularly those that do be fiddling each other's mickeys in the bushes).

At this time the authors would like to point out that "mickey" has absolutely nothing to do with toast or Mickey of the Mouses. Therefore, even though he's dead, Walt cannot do anything against us. Mickey Mouse, we love you!

Enough about mickeys and mickey-related things for now. More to come later. Introducing the newest, brightest item with the most adjectives yet. Big, wonderful, enormous, fabulous, excellent, great, sparkling, awe-inspiring, happy, gee-filled (sorry, that's mildly mickey-related since that's where mickeys go, and because technically, gees are inside-out mickeys. In retribution, we'll smack ourselves twelve and a half times each with our Big Red Mickey™s), mobile, wooden, fantastic THING!! As all of these adjectives can be applied to mickeys and other mickey-related items, the purpose is defeated. Goodbye Napoleon. Some of you may be wondering about the sparkling mickey. It's possible and polished beyond belief. Ask Willy Wonka, with Depp or Wilder. Probably Wilder would be more likely to have a sparkling mickey, or a mickey at all. Since Depp is a mná in the film in the case of Hendersons. Jim Henderson probably has something to do with it. He pulls Depp's strings and his mickey too. God rest 'em. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. If anyone asks, Mr(s). Henderson was Jim Henderson's brother's ex-wife until (we made him/her up) Mr. Henderson discovered that Mr(s). Henderson wasn't a woman at all and therefore couldn't be his wife because he was actually a man, if one gets my meanin'.

So, this is the second chapter of the unofficial biography of Mr(s). Henderson. After moving to Ballymena, where all that sort of thing is allowed, s/he met and fiddled the mickey off a honorary Nordy citizen called Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair Shitty. They availed of the civil-partnership law and got married in Inverted Commas. Well done. Mr(s). Henderson would have become Mr(s). Henderson-Bartley, but when s/he fiddled his mickey off, her/his new husband became a woman in the eyes of both Ian Paisley and Mother Nature. And because Mr(s). Henderson actually had a mickey of his/her own at some stage along the way, things become so incredibly complicated that we'll spare you the details for another day. In
short, the Nordies didn't allow them get wedded in Inverted Commas due to a clause in the civil-partnership legislation of the Nordy Queen Land, related to mickey possession. Instead, the applied to get wedded in Italics but that wasn't allowed either.

In the end, the couple broke it off (not that there was anything to break off in any case). Now poor auld Mr(s). Henderson roams the plains of North America in search of love. All she wants for Christmas is his/her two front ovaries. We will, in time, return once again to the tales of Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna, her new-found Colorado-born friend, that happens to be a beaver, judging by her gee anyway.

Love from us all. Kisses. MMMMWWWWWAHHHH, x.

A Reading from the Third Book of Gee Chronicles.

A man was once called Mrs. Henderson. He was on TV, but he was a manwoman, but yet not a womanman. S/he/it was in an adaptation of Roger Rabbit. The director fancied a risqué angle. So, during a nightmare sequence, Roger(ina) got his mickey cut off by a woman dressed as Margaret Thatcher. And henceforth, he became a woman. Now, Mrs. Henderson felt pity for the newly feminized Rogerina and offered him (err...her) a job in a brothel. It soon came out (or in Rogerina's case, it didn't and went in instead) that Mrs. Henderson was actually a big man, not just a small man we'll have you know. Actually he wasn't a mná at all. He was banned from the gentleman's jacks because he hadn't a mickey. S/he did however not have a vagina in any case which makes things rather complicated. But in the end, they did a swap of genitalia and all were happy, especially Rogerina, who found a mickey in a cup of coffee in O'Brien's on Liffey Street. It had a Polish air about it and was, in fact, very polished by the staff of Rasputin. Hail. Thus, the nightmare ended and Roger woke up to see Bob Hoskins wearing no trousers with a hockey stick and, thus, a new nightmare began.

This adaptation of Roger Rabbit flopped on Broadway though it was marginally more successful than "Éamon deValera: The Brooklyn Years".

Also...

An Advertisement on Behalf of Big Red Mickey™, the best thing to come out of Denmark since Peter Schmeichel.

A new innovation in the general new showbiz fashion of comfort and sensual appreciation of the shaft-shaped soft things. Available from all good mickey shops internationally. So, what can one do with their Big Red Mickey™?



Here's a few inventive uses that you may not have thought of.

You could put it in the fridge and then take it out again. In these fresh circumstances, you are officially taking the mickey out of the fridge. *Warning: do not try to direct traffic or conduct an orchestra with your Big Red Mickey™. These misuses may result in death by cars or cello.

Go swimming with your Big Red Mickey™.

Bring it to Royal Ascot and throw it at horses (e.g. Camilla).

Use it as an oversized hair-curler.

Whack it off... the wall... or the toilet seat. Obviously here, we mean the Big Red Mickey™.

For those who are vertically disadvantaged, bring your Big Red Mickey™ along to barber and use it to erect yourself in the chair.

Bonk it.

Bash people on the street!

Cut it into pieces and microwave it as a stress-reliever.

Throw it in front of F1 race cars.

Hold charity days of Big Red Mickey™ sponsored hugs and kisses. Charge more for kisses and even more more...well, more adventurous.... behaviour....

Bring it to Mass. Bash people who don't turn off their mobile phones. Then bring it into the Confession box.

Give it a hug, a nice big squeeze. O yes says D. Norris.

Post it in to Gerry Ryan and ask for a prize.

Use it to beat your woman until you get satisfied.

The Big Red Mickey™ is available in Jewish and gentile versions. Jewish forms lack zips so in practice you can't zip up your mickey. D. Agnew, we hope you're not a Jew.

If you have any problems with your Big Red Mickey™, contact our inventive support service. You can call us at Callsave 1890-hows-yer-mickey.co.uk. Our online support team of mickey-fiddlers are always free to answer any queries. Email us at mickeysupport@gmail.com (g as is gee). Visit our website at www.bigredmickey.org/home/mickeyandgeeco/geepart/products/.

So, talking about dirty things...

These dirty whooooooores in da Pavloovians. Shag off and go home. "We've already shagged and we don't have a home to go to. What do you think I bought these crotchless jocks for?" says he as she fiddles his mickey. These young ones polish the ornamental mickeys of the future with their pregnant ways and foreign cultures. The Jews, for example, don't even go to shopping centres, unless they're kosher. Uuum/Oom, as the case may be, comma, full stop. Tick tock. Doc, Dub, The Doc of the Dub, The Mighty DubDoc. More on the DubDoc later (with Jools Holland).

Bye.

Only joking.

I forgot to say "kisses".

Bye, kisses. Mickey.

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.

Fair Shitty.

I am posting here because the rest of the Christmas party are watching "Fair City Sings". I mean, what sort of wank is that? Though that judge chap would make one a bit hot under the old collar I'd say, "wink" "wink", nudge nudge. But it's still a load of Gerry Ryan's mickey if you ask me.

Speaking of Gerry Ryan, yesterday he had "Santa" on talking to him and various little shites children from around Ire-land, as is customary for Gerry of a Christmas (shite) Eve. As "Santa" (really the aul'fella from the Lambert Puppet Theatre) was chatting away to the childs I bet Gerry was in the back room fiddling his mickey with Twink, the durty old hoor.

So there you have it. Listening to Bach is a million times better than Fair Shitty, I reckon.

Chrono-Christ-ulator

To the faithful subscribers of The Chronocomsimplohyetocamstothermohygrobaranebramulator Chronicle. From somewhere in my heart, I wish upon you a very merry Christmas.

I hear there's going to be a great main article in the January natgeo, so the day it comes get onto this page. I'll have a post where we can all get together and talk about it. I'm even more excited about this than Christmas. Christmas comes only once a year; natgeo comes twelve times!

O, come all ye faithful.

Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Jesus, happy birthday to you. How old are you now? How old are you now? How old are you now? How old are you now?

I'm 2007 today (But then again the scholars cannot really decide.) I'm 2007 today......

"God got down on his hunkers." Thanks to Father Peter for his great homily this morning. He's great. I love that idea.

Merry Christmas.

Happy Christmas Lorna.

A Reading from the First Book of Gee.

All fair dues to Holy Healy, but also there is dues undue and also overdue. So, where to begin? Let's start with the undue dues to be paid.

Holy Foley was the alternative. "You have to wear it. You're sacked." It's unknown to most the origins of this. The idea of a hat comes to the mind to those who do be thinking

Bye.
No.
Bi?
No, straight.
Fuck.
Wank.
Yes.
OooOOooh...
Rufus?
Jessica...
Yeah, I thought so, you straighter.

Holy Healy was surely good craic, but only 'coz we did be taking the piss constantly. Or, pardon the pun, the other ways to say it are as follows: take the mickey out of the fridge and use it to direct traffic (you can take that in so many ways), do the Michael O'Leary dance or for those for the faint of heart, forty-nine all over the desks.

Twink, stapling her husband's mickey to the Rusty Railway since 1983. Choo choo wobble wobble splatter choo choo.

How to survive marrying a Catholic. A book, by Holy Healy. Not really, but she does endorse it. Why on earth would you want to buy a Catholic? The answer is, by the way, exactly. Well, I suppose they're low maintainence, all they need is a good confession twice weekly over the phone, with Joe Duffy on ConfessionLine and a poster of the Pope of Ryanair dancing. Dancing. Waltzing Matilda, go waltzing with Jew. A pound of minced Jew there please Mr. Bloom.


Now, overdue dues. If you buy a bleedin' Jew and the repayments are overJew, then beJaysus, you're fucked, rightly, with sausage meat. O mickey.

Here's to shit presents and many more years of shower gel. Fair play to them, fat people. Needing a whole tub of gel to wash themselves.

Eóin O'Duffy dressed as Santa. Here's a wooden gun and a picture of flingin' (Mickey) O'Connell.

Are we drunk? I wish, at least it would give an excuse. Fuckboats.

In the news, Charlie, a long-suffering member of staff (like me, with no work) has left Casaulty. He's taking the walk of shame, with his little son who's a little bollix, like Charles Haughey, according to George, not me, like, I like, him, yeh Fianna Fáil fuck head. Alliteration. There's a camera therer with an unneeded semicolon. Stop hyphenating things! Ya geebag.

Gee, let's talk gee. Actually no, in other news, actaully no, I like Mary Robinson. She's not very gee, but a Nordy she isn't either. She's also not dead comma, fullstop, comma. Robinson used to fancy David Norris, but she realised that the reform of homosexual law wasn't just a side project. Arse, no sorry, I mean, Áras, Norris ended in the first and Mary ended up in the second. Wicked. That's a drink, no, WKD is and Norris probably drinks that becasuse he's a big gay. But all resepects to D. Norris, he does have a blogger blog and we resepect him, fair dues to him. Overdues Jew to Norris, he used to have a Jewish boyfriend. I wonder what that felt like.