Pissing

It was a Friday morning and Mass was in progress in the Church of the Holy Prepuce, Glasnevin West, Dublin Eleven-and-Three-Quarters. Father Billy gave a lovely sermon about the weather in Crete on his holidays, and now he was in the business of consecration.

As the host was raised, Barry Gough was so overcome with the excitement of the moment that he wet himself spectacularly. Not just a dribble, but piss everywhere.

--O Jesus, he said. O holy Jesus.

The elderly nun two pews away from him heard what he said, and sure that he was having spiritual orgasms turned and beamed at him. Her smile faded to a look of bemusement and then horror when she witnessed the spectacle of a grown man helplessly pissing himself.

Barry stood up and fiddled with his trousers. He couldn't stop pissing. He began to scream.

Father Billy couldn't see very well and so put the host down and peered into the middle distance. 'Is everything all right out there?' he asked.

The whole congregation was transfixed by Barry's piss. With such fulsome flow he'd surely have put the Trevi Fountain to shame. Eventually it stopped, and the congregation looked back around just in time to sing 'He is Lord', accompanied by Sr Phagina on the Wurlitzer. Mass continued and then ended (thanks be to God), and all the while Barry was slumped half on the kneeler sodden with piss. As the faithful departed, everyone pretended he wasn't there, stepping past him as if he were a dead badger on the side of the road. Eventually, Father Billy passed nearby and sniffed.

--What's that at all? he said.

--It's Barry Gough, Father, said Barry. I, I--I had a bit of an accident. Could you help me, please?

--Holy God, the absolute bang of piss.

Father Billy walked away, whistling 'Sweet Heart of Jesus' to himself tunelessly and barely recognisably. Barry lay there for several hours until some holy aul'ones came in to say the rosary and found him, by which time he was dead, God love him. He was cleared away that afternoon. They've been spraying Air Wick around the place several times a day ever since.

I'll say one thing for being dead: you never have to worry about being caught short again, that's for sure. RIP Barry; sure we hardly knew ya.

The 99¼th anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising

‘I’m Harney, Mary Mary Harney,’ blared the deafening speakers alongside McDowell’s Happy Ring House, O’Connell Street Upper, Dublin 1, as a fork-lift lorry carrying an enormous woman draped in a St-Patrick’s-blue gown trundled slowly towards the GPO, orange lights flashing and warning sirens beeping.

Mary was being wheeled out at last minute to represent One of Ireland’s Worst Governments in place of Brian Cowen, who was still too pissed from the night before. A few years out of public life meant that none of the young people had any idea who she was. Having forgotten the PDs were ever a thing, she was to them no more than a much jollier and more attractive Ann Widdecombe.

The gathered crowd cheered eagerly as the fork-lift came to the podium whereupon Her Ladyship was to be unloaded. ‘WIDE LOAD’, read the fluorescent orange sign at the back of the fork-lift. With a flick of a switch, she was upturned and upended in a most undignified manner onto the podium. A swarm of journalists gathered.

‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of the health service?’

‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of what you’re wearing?’

‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of your face?’

‘Minister, can you please comment on the absolute state of yourself?’

Mary brushed them away with an irritated flick of the wrist, accidentally knocking off Fintan O’Toole’s glasses in the process.

‘Minister, can you please comment on the rumour that you have a tattoo on your arse that says “WIDE LOAD”?’ asked Pascal Sheehy, RTÉ News.

‘I didn’t authorise the tattoo,’ began Mary, ‘but in the interest of public safety...’

Well-wishers threw hamburgers from the viewing stands nearby, and Mary gratefully received them in her gob. When three o’clock came a number of extremely elderly FCA men walked past the front of the GPO in a laughable attempt at military formation. Mary reviewed the troops from a recumbent position, sipping a can of Coke Zero through a straw, and declared herself amused with the proceedings. Everybody had a lovely time and the five confused Italian tourists who were left standing at the barricade beside Henry Street applauded, even though they didn’t really know why.

Following the review, Mary was delivered back into obscurity where she belongs, and now spends her days watching reruns of ‘That’s Life’ with Esther Rantzen from circa 1987 to 1989. Geraldine Kennedy occasionally calls over for tea, but finds it very difficult to make eye contact with Mary when she is lying on the floor.

***

We interrupt this programme to make the following announcement:

Researchers at the University of Cambridge have traced the genesis of bigoted political opinions to the eating of chips wrapped in newspaper. The over-educated boffins have discovered that sheer vitriolic bile and pure shite written in some of our finest rags had an effect on the perception of normal people when consumed in the newsprint which adhered to vinegary chips wrapped in newspaper. The wrapping of chips in newspaper was outlawed in 1985, and this explains why there are very few complete nutters under the age of 35.

However, total nutcases in older age groups sadly prevail. One particular example is failed Eurosong competition entrant John Waters, who for many years wrote for the moderate liberal Irish Times (previously ‘Geraldine’s Gossip Rag’), but always ate his chips wrapped in the pages of the Daily Telegraph. Recently he has founded a campaign called Fist Families First, the purpose of which is to oppose the introduction of same-sex marriage by all means necessary. When questioned about why he is so opposed to same-sex couples marrying, Waters gave the following eloquent answer:

‘We don’t want men touching each other’s mickeys. That is disgusting and wrong. This referendum is about enshrining in our Constitution a man’s right to touch another man’s mickey. I have campaigned for years for a man’s right to touch his own mickey, but for it not to be touched by another man. Only women should touch mickeys, like Sinéad O’Connor touched mine. Except for doctors, who can touch men’s mickeys, but only when strictly necessary. Bum bum arse willies.’

Rumour has it that some right-wing Catholic parents feed their children chips wrapped in the pages of that august publication ‘Alive!’. In another example of nannystateism, the government, led by Dr Noel Browne beyant-the-grave, has recently introduced legislation which criminalises the feeding of newsprint-stained chips to children as child abuse, unless of course the newsprint is from the Cork Examiner, because nobody cares about that.

Separated at Birth Part the Fourth

Uachtaráin na nGaybo abú.

Hello, hello, hello there now thank you very much, and welcome to the little Áras of the Uachtaráin—ye wha', Gay?—the Áras of the an-Uachtaráin, or the Residence of the Presidents if you will thank you very much, well done to you all. Now, I came here all the way on my little Harley Davidson, all the way, all the way from my little home on the little hill of Howth, isn't that right now, thank you, thank you very much now, yes, yes. And I'd like to thank all those who voted for me in this past election to be a President indeed, especially Agnes from just down the road there around the corner now, that's right. I'd also like to thank Bono, the lovely lovely Sinéad O'Connor and of course the dear darling national broadcaster, the RTE, the Lord above be good to them all indeed, and of course Tayto crisps, all of whom, without whom none of us, none of us I say would be here today for little old uncle Gaybo's little Presidential serenade, dear O dear O deary me. And there's one for everyone in the audience...

Cocks, etc.

I was in the staffroom on my lunch break innocently reading 'The Ticket' (yes, it was a Friday) and eating a purple snack bar while some colleagues sitting around me chatted away. Half-listening, I would occasionally grab snippets of their conversation.

—...lunch box...seventeen...O'Meara...scratchcard...

It wasn't very interesting. I was much more interested in the theatre listings. I fancied myself as a bit of an art snob sometimes. I didn't even like the theatre, but it was worth going just to tell people you went and see their reaction.

—I was in the Abbey last night.

—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Yeah. My colleagues were all insufferable. Though in fairness, they probably thought I was an ignorant git myself. But that's how the cookie crumbles.

—So Jonathan, do you like cock?

My ears pricked up. Did she ACTUALLY just ask him that?

—Well Bernie, to be honest I'm not MAD into it. But I dabble on occasion.

—Really? That's nice. I always had a feeling. You know the way.

I lowered my newspaper a little and peered over my glasses with eyebrows raised. Jonathan was a young baldy bloke with a scruffy beard and trendy glasses. And he was talking about cock.

—Well, I mean, flange is all right I suppose, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Cock's more up my street in a way. Not that I have much of a street.

Bernie and Denise laughed very highpitched and very irritating laughs. I stared slightly more incredulously.

—To be honest, said Denise, I love the cock. Nothing better than a mouthful of cock when you come home in the evening.

—Yeah, I know what you mean, Denise, said Bernie. A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush!

This time all three of them laughed. They kept laughing even after I couldn't remember what Bernie had said in the first place. Jonathan had a bellowing English laugh which was really annoying.

After another minute I'd had enough.

—I mean, REALLY. You just think you can sit here and talk about cock and LAUGH without me saying anything? Well, you thought wrong. You are a shower of insufferable BASTARDS and you need to all grow up and GET A LIFE. What the FUCK is wrong with you. Fuck sake.

I threw my copy of 'The Ticket' on the table and stormed out of the staffroom, dropping the wrapper of my snack bar on the floor along the way. I stood outside in the courtyard and lit myself a green Marlboro, blowing smokerings as I smoked. A cooing pigeon landed near to me and I kicked it.

I hate pigeons.

Имагине беинг Руссиан...

...ит'д бе шите!

LOL.

Deputy Enda Kenny: -----going from disaster to disaster. The best way to provide stability and to grapple with our country’s problems would be to let the people decide whose programme they like best, whose programme will solve the nation’s problems and which party-----

Deputy Noel Dempsey: Fine Gael does not have one.

(Interruptions).

An Ceann Comhairle: Deputy Kenny without interruption.

Deputy Dermot Ahern: Fine Gael cannot produce one.

Deputy Brian Lenihan: Páipéar.

Deputy Bernard J. Durkan: Easy, lads.

Happy birthday, you stupid rubbernecked nodding duckhead.

The man who...

Joseph Donnelly, a homeless, jobless, wannabe alcoholic roamed the streets of London (play the Streets of London!!) on a night of light drizzle. It was one of those nights that you get wet and then feel really hot because of it. You know the ones. It gets sticky and clammy. This didn't apply to Joseph because he was only wearing a tank-top and a sock. The very sight of him would make you cross the road to avoid passing him. People actually did this as he plodded across the slightly shaky Millennium Bridge.

"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.

"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.

Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.

It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.

But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.

"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."

Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.

"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).

"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.

He's... he's over there. Look out!"

Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.

"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.

And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.

P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.

With a flilly lilly in your gee-hole.

Trying to drink whiskey from a bottle of wine women and song. A lovely thought, promulgated by Mister Justice Aimin' Devil-Eire with the help of Eeen Peeslee Jooynyor and a load of other Nordy Bastard with Large Arses.

Well done to all involved. If you'd like to shove your granny up your arse on hallowe'en do so, but not please in my line of vision express, where glasses are now half price starting at 499. Such a load of

Hole is the word and whole is the flesh,
The dirty breast-like nodules of potatoes
Buried in the earth,
"Arr," says Maguire, "there be my mammary-like spuds
Shat on by generations of pigeons named Geoff."

And if not so bad, Mr Jehan Booklay, the great composer of numerous works of shit and Friend of Fat, well renowned for speaking in tongues (including Gwaylin, now extinct except for around the Ring of Kerry ORAL FACE)—has recently completed a massive work for tin horn and flutewhistle including a very good electronic sound approximation of a person farting and belching at once in Hebrew. It was until now thought that that was impossible—not farting or belching in Hebrew, just doing both at the same time, no matter what the language. Bloody joojooman language. Not that we're racist or anything, but you're a fuckin' chinese

Lovely person, said Jonathan of his coach-driver as he disembarked from his carriage on Tottenham Court Road back in 1863, whose anniversary occurs around this time. A lovely day for a spot of whiskeydrinking Charlie wouldn't you said? said he. O yes dear boy, come here till I roide ya.

And throw you back to where you belong. Back there in East Angular, what a load of whole that may have seemed. A whole week of hole weeks wages. And well done to your FLUTE.

Thanks for the memories.

And well done!

GEE

Mickey O'Leary's Oral Face.

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.

Public Notice.

From henceforth, Bramblog will contain much less gee, mickey and general durt, as it's really just disgusting.

Thanks for listening.

"Keerawn's Ode to Lola's Gee", by Robert Frost.

I have been acquainted with the flaps of Lola Sleevend
And the dark abysses of her gee.
I have sat and drunk from the Kopparberg bottle of eternity
Drowning in washes of gee-cider.

O Lola, let me go—
Why do you keep me locked in your gee so?

I long to be free
Playing guitar,
Fixing my hair—
Not in your gee.

I long to return to Twenty-Ones
To expose my mickey to passing girls
And to hear them remark, as you did once, Lola,
"O, such a happy meal it would make."

But will it never be, Lola?
Will I spend eternity here trapped behind your flaps?

Let me go
And be free
Without woe
Here in gee.

O Lola, let me go
And let me be free
From the mystifying glances
Of the eyes of your gee...

Lola Sleevend.

A lolworthy pukeinducing holegetter.

Abstain from Bold Things with the Legion of Mary.

She gave up the Legion of Mary for Taekwando. Just shows you where kids' priorities are nowadays. But in days of old young lads and ladies flocked to the Legion abstinence courses, designed especially so that you'd never get your hole. No hole ever, not even for the laugh, like.

Lads were given the meat-cleavers treatment, which sounds a bit nasty but was done under local anaesthetic (some holy water and incense) and so was marginally less painful than it sounds. The ladies however were given some polyfilla in order to polyfill up their gees, which prevented them from getting their hole very well.

Now, you might wonder what became of all these poor unfortunates who never got their hole. Well, they became priests and nuns of course. If you can't get your hole anyway, well why not become a priest then? ran a slogan in the 1950s. But then came the 60s and suddenly everyone was getting their hole. The youngones dug the pollyfilla out of their gees and were finally free to get their hole. The lads had a more difficult time, but a quick trip down to Capel Street got them a plastic mickey good enough to pass for a real one when the youngones were drunk enough. Of course, they didn't actually feel anything but it was the thought that counted.

Thank Jaysus those days are over. Imagine not being able to get your hole. It'd be shite.

We're not racist at all but

you're a fuckin' chinese lesbian.

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?

LEGIO MARIAE ET INCENDIUS PORNAGRAPHICUM.

(Scene: Westmoreland Street, Dublin, just over O’Connell Bridge on the corner of Aston Quay, outside the now-closed Londis shop. A group of drably clad individuals holding crucifixes and statuettes of the Virgin Mary process past an eccentric-looking old man in a hat selling books: they are THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION; he is PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY.)

YOUNG MAN:
You’re going to hell.

PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Fuck off.

YOUNG MAN:
I’m going to say a novena that you’ll go to hell for that.

PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Go an’ ask me arse.

(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION lines up outside the Londis shop, and an elderly lady wearing a red coat and enormous milkbottle glasses comes to the front to address them: she is SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
May our mission of sanitation to this polluted city be pleasing to the Holy Mother of God, Amen.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
I nominate Lieutenant Cormac to go forth to lead us in our task.

(A very tall young man wearing a worn jumper and thick-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding in his hand a wooden crucifix, the same young man who spoke previously with PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY. He speaks with a slight lisp, though it is barely noticeable because of his drawling voice. He is LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON.)

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Yes Sister. Let’s go then.

(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON shuffles into the Londis shop and is followed by THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. He points the end of his crucifix threateningly at the Indian man behind the counter.)

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
This is a stick up. Where are your top-shelf magazines?

SHOPKEEPER:
Eh, on the top shelf.

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Oh right.

(A middle-aged man walks to the counter with a copy of FHM magazine in his hand. He looks shiftily at the floor and does not notice THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. When he does look up, he is startled by their presence and reveals his clerical shirt and collar.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Father!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Is that a pornographic publication in the hands of a holy priest of God!?

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Surely not!

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I...no...it’s not...I'm not...I’m a Protestant!

(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION gasps collectively and they all hold up their crucifixes to FATHER DICK FIDDLER to shield themselves.)

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You’re a what?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I’m not a priest, I’m a Protestant minister!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
You scumbag.

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You don’t need pornography to get yourself into hell.

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I’m sorry, I’ll just leave and let you get on with your business.

SHOPKEEPER:
Are you going to pay for that?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
Oh, er, well...it’s okay, you can keep it.

SHOPKEEPER:
I don’t want it.

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
See? Even he doesn’t want it. You Protestants are scum. And you think you’ll get into heaven just for thinking you’re right? Well you won’t. At least Hindu man over there knows he won’t get into heaven, even if he doesn’t pretend to believe in the Lord.

SHOPKEEPER:
Excuse me?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I can’t take this anymore. I lied. I’m not a Protestant. I really am a Catholic priest.

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
A liar too!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Scurrilous.

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
No holy priest of God would ever touch filth like that! Get out of here and go back to the Protestant hell-hole you came from.

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
As you wish.

(FATHER DICK FIDDLER leaves quickly.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Now Cormac, do your business.

(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON walks over to the magazine rack and begins to throw the top-shelf magazines to the ground, while SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER points the end of a crucifix-shaped letter-opener threateningly at the SHOPKEEPER. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON pauses a moment as he throws the magazines down to ogle the cover of the “Gay Times”, before coming to his senses and throwing it down also. When all the magazines have been thrown to the ground, a sour-faced elderly man named HOLY JOE MacMURCHU helps LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON to carry the piles of magazines out into the street where they are heaped together in a large bundle. SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE sprinkles them with some petrol contained in a Virgin Mary-shaped holy water bottle before HOLY JOE MacMURCHU sets them alight with a match.)

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
May the burning of these pornographic publications be acceptable to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and his Holy Mother, Amen.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

AND SO ON AND SO FORTH, AD NAUSEAM AD INFINITUM,

IN SAECULA SAECULORUM,

AAAAA-MEEEEENNNNNNNN!

(THE END.)

Sister Mary-Teresa gives Protestants a piece of her mind.

"Fuck yez all."