'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.
Showing posts with label deV. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deV. Show all posts
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Hidden Dublin.
“Jeh ‘member when the 41c used leave from Eden Quay?” said one distinctive-looking aulfla’. In that he was distinctive, I mean that he was distinctively old.
“That I do, that I do,” replied a second accompanying aulfla’ and presumably an associate of the first. “And by the same token, jeh remember when Eden Quay (pronounce [ke] in IPA) wasn’t there at all at all?”
“What are on about now? Sure it’s always bin there. Wasn’t there. Would ye listen to yerself?!”
“As true and real as we’re sitting here (‘here’ being Insomnia coffee shop on Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1), Eden Quay was only constructed about nine years ago. An’ now if ye don’t remember that, yer min’s goin’ places you’re not.”
“Sure, look, my Margaret’s dead now ten and a half years and it was there when she was walking the earth, God rest her kind soul. Are ye tryin’ to tell me that Eden Quay wasn’t there when she was?”
“You’re bang on. You were torn up by grief so you were, I remember it well. A fine woman she was and a fine wife I wouldn’t be shamed to have had if I was you. But the one think about her was that she never set eyes on Eden Quay. Let alone did she get the bus from it either.”
“Yer mad. Yer sayin’ they built it not ten years ago. An’ tell me this, what was there before this time in our glorious past when Eden Quay wasn’t there? Tell me that.”
“There was nuttin’ there o’ course. Sure isn’t it a river? Our own Liffey came all the way up as far as Liberty Hall and the Customs House down the road, or ‘down the river’ as we said then. Jeh not remember?”
“Your head’s done in for sure. The Liffey was up against the Customs House?!”
“Lapping up ‘gainst the windows, so it was. Y’kno little Johnny Sheridan’s father? Sure he worked for Local Govehment in the basement of the Customs House and he’d tell yeh that he’d drownded if someone left the latch off the air vent.”
“What’s Johnny Sheridan’s father got to do with any o’ dis? Look, don’t be telling me lies. You’re having me on an’ it’s not worth the time o’ day.”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember this. The Corpo were down there for months building on the quay and pushing the water back with great big machines and magnetic devices and the divil knows what. The achievement of the century they were calling it. Reclaiming Ireland for Dubliners they said. The bit of Ireland the Brits never ruled. Now, they didn’t make much use of it, I’ll tell yeh. A road an’ a few benches is all they put on it.”
“Like the Dutch?”
“Like the Dutch, wha’?”
“The Corpo reclaimed land from the sea like the Dutch?”
“No, no! They just sorta extended the city out about forty feet and put Eden Quay on it.”
“Are yeh sure?”
“It’s a Dublin fact,” said he in triumph. “Are yeh gettin’ another muffin?”
“That I do, that I do,” replied a second accompanying aulfla’ and presumably an associate of the first. “And by the same token, jeh remember when Eden Quay (pronounce [ke] in IPA) wasn’t there at all at all?”
“What are on about now? Sure it’s always bin there. Wasn’t there. Would ye listen to yerself?!”
“As true and real as we’re sitting here (‘here’ being Insomnia coffee shop on Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1), Eden Quay was only constructed about nine years ago. An’ now if ye don’t remember that, yer min’s goin’ places you’re not.”
“Sure, look, my Margaret’s dead now ten and a half years and it was there when she was walking the earth, God rest her kind soul. Are ye tryin’ to tell me that Eden Quay wasn’t there when she was?”
“You’re bang on. You were torn up by grief so you were, I remember it well. A fine woman she was and a fine wife I wouldn’t be shamed to have had if I was you. But the one think about her was that she never set eyes on Eden Quay. Let alone did she get the bus from it either.”
“Yer mad. Yer sayin’ they built it not ten years ago. An’ tell me this, what was there before this time in our glorious past when Eden Quay wasn’t there? Tell me that.”
“There was nuttin’ there o’ course. Sure isn’t it a river? Our own Liffey came all the way up as far as Liberty Hall and the Customs House down the road, or ‘down the river’ as we said then. Jeh not remember?”
“Your head’s done in for sure. The Liffey was up against the Customs House?!”
“Lapping up ‘gainst the windows, so it was. Y’kno little Johnny Sheridan’s father? Sure he worked for Local Govehment in the basement of the Customs House and he’d tell yeh that he’d drownded if someone left the latch off the air vent.”
“What’s Johnny Sheridan’s father got to do with any o’ dis? Look, don’t be telling me lies. You’re having me on an’ it’s not worth the time o’ day.”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember this. The Corpo were down there for months building on the quay and pushing the water back with great big machines and magnetic devices and the divil knows what. The achievement of the century they were calling it. Reclaiming Ireland for Dubliners they said. The bit of Ireland the Brits never ruled. Now, they didn’t make much use of it, I’ll tell yeh. A road an’ a few benches is all they put on it.”
“Like the Dutch?”
“Like the Dutch, wha’?”
“The Corpo reclaimed land from the sea like the Dutch?”
“No, no! They just sorta extended the city out about forty feet and put Eden Quay on it.”
“Are yeh sure?”
“It’s a Dublin fact,” said he in triumph. “Are yeh gettin’ another muffin?”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Pahnell.
"Excuse me young lady," shouts the Gard through his megaphone. "Can you please get down off the statue?"
The Parnell monument at the top of Sráid Uí Chonaill, just there outside thambazdr where My Chemical Romance (huh huh!) will be playing on Tuesday night when they remove all the dead bodies. Good old Bvv, scaling Parnell and trying to ride his statue. It's not the first time either. As a matter of fact, the Gards were getting rather pissed off as it was the third time this week she'd done it.
"Bvvvvvvvvvvvv, Pahnell," she said, making noises like a cold hoover. In fact, it was rather chilly up there near Parnell's crotch.
"Excuse me, you're going to have to come down off the statue as you're causing a public disturbance."
"Matthew will you read please. Conor turn your phone off or I'll have no choice but to rip your head off do you understand."
The Gards couldn't hear what she was saying, but they were right in believing she was insane, and so called immediately for reinforcements.
"You have to write six essays and then three more and eighteen of them in an hour and a half and then the Protestants said that Home Rule would be Rome Rule but Hitler wasn't like that at all because he was small heheheheheheh. I lav Pahnell."
Poor weird little woman. Mizbrigck. Bvv.
"Bwooh, no, that's not how you do it, it's BWWWWWUUUUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOHHH!!!!!!!"
"Bvv. Hihih."
"Please get down off the statue. Please, get down off the statue."
"Pahnell I love you I know you never really loved Kitty O'Shea it was me really wasn't it Pahnell O Pahnell let's get married and live in Avondale forever and ever bvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv————
BANG. They shot her with a rifle that once belonged to Aimin' de Valera and there she was, did.
"Well, that wasn't as bad as I thought Brendan," said Garda Fitzgibbon. "Going home now, the wife's making fish cakes for tea. See you tomorrow."
"Bye Barry," said Brendan. "Enjoy the fish cakes."
The Parnell monument at the top of Sráid Uí Chonaill, just there outside thambazdr where My Chemical Romance (huh huh!) will be playing on Tuesday night when they remove all the dead bodies. Good old Bvv, scaling Parnell and trying to ride his statue. It's not the first time either. As a matter of fact, the Gards were getting rather pissed off as it was the third time this week she'd done it.
"Bvvvvvvvvvvvv, Pahnell," she said, making noises like a cold hoover. In fact, it was rather chilly up there near Parnell's crotch.
"Excuse me, you're going to have to come down off the statue as you're causing a public disturbance."
"Matthew will you read please. Conor turn your phone off or I'll have no choice but to rip your head off do you understand."
The Gards couldn't hear what she was saying, but they were right in believing she was insane, and so called immediately for reinforcements.
"You have to write six essays and then three more and eighteen of them in an hour and a half and then the Protestants said that Home Rule would be Rome Rule but Hitler wasn't like that at all because he was small heheheheheheh. I lav Pahnell."
Poor weird little woman. Mizbrigck. Bvv.
"Bwooh, no, that's not how you do it, it's BWWWWWUUUUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOHHH!!!!!!!"
"Bvv. Hihih."
"Please get down off the statue. Please, get down off the statue."
"Pahnell I love you I know you never really loved Kitty O'Shea it was me really wasn't it Pahnell O Pahnell let's get married and live in Avondale forever and ever bvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv————
BANG. They shot her with a rifle that once belonged to Aimin' de Valera and there she was, did.
"Well, that wasn't as bad as I thought Brendan," said Garda Fitzgibbon. "Going home now, the wife's making fish cakes for tea. See you tomorrow."
"Bye Barry," said Brendan. "Enjoy the fish cakes."
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Romance on Two Wheels.
—Come lesbians all, rejoice,
With heart and hand and voice.
Pippi was a lesbo and she was feeling down. It didn't help that she even sounded like a lesbo, so she couldn't really escape it at all.
—Hi, my name is Pippi.
—Are you a lesbian or something?
She really didn't appreciate that. However, she did her best to hide her lesbianisms and despite the bright red shoes, the manly gait and the Southamerican girlfriend she did an okay job of it. She spent her time trying to make it up to Gawd by singing the Easter proclamation (the exsultet, not the proclamation of the ayrish rhepablick) and visiting old people's homes. That is homes for old people, not the homes of old people (just so we have that one cleared up).
So when Pippi started to become an aulone she knew what people were thinking. Look, it's Pippi Magee, old lesbo in denial. So after a long hard think, she came up with the solution.
One day as she visited the old people's home in Ballymun she met a nice old gent in a wheelchair named Jim. Now it so happened that he was actually the bastard child of An Taoiseach Jack Lynch and Lennie Bernstein (who wants to do Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen) who used to tune pianos for a living but somehow ended up in a wheelchair and basically couldn't manage it anymore. How often do you and your wife manage it, Mr Fawlty? A couple of times a week as a matter of fact. Well, he certainly couldn't manage it, and neither could he tune pianos, so Pippi fell madly in false love with him straight away and they decided to be married by Father Brian right that day in a gunshot ceremony, during which someone was actually shot outside in a drug-related incident, leading Father Brian to declare that it was just sick. They trundled down the aisle together to the strains of the Mendelssohn wedding march as played by an aulone on a casio keyboard (on single-finger setting) with Dr More and co in the background smiling like gobaloons and strumming guitars. (Mrs More played the flute, which Father Brian also said was sick but found secretly arousing.)
And so Pippi and Jim lived happily ever after. He died two weeks later when he fell out of his wheelchair outside the Fingal Coco offices and Pippi was very sad (at least on the surface, as she was actually relieved that she wouldn't have to push that fucking wheelchair around anymore). So it was win-win really. Jim died rather more happy than he had expected, and nobody thought Pippi was a lesbo anymore. The plan had worked.
Well done Pippi, well done Jim, well done lesbos all. Amen.
With heart and hand and voice.
Pippi was a lesbo and she was feeling down. It didn't help that she even sounded like a lesbo, so she couldn't really escape it at all.
—Hi, my name is Pippi.
—Are you a lesbian or something?
She really didn't appreciate that. However, she did her best to hide her lesbianisms and despite the bright red shoes, the manly gait and the Southamerican girlfriend she did an okay job of it. She spent her time trying to make it up to Gawd by singing the Easter proclamation (the exsultet, not the proclamation of the ayrish rhepablick) and visiting old people's homes. That is homes for old people, not the homes of old people (just so we have that one cleared up).
So when Pippi started to become an aulone she knew what people were thinking. Look, it's Pippi Magee, old lesbo in denial. So after a long hard think, she came up with the solution.
One day as she visited the old people's home in Ballymun she met a nice old gent in a wheelchair named Jim. Now it so happened that he was actually the bastard child of An Taoiseach Jack Lynch and Lennie Bernstein (who wants to do Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen) who used to tune pianos for a living but somehow ended up in a wheelchair and basically couldn't manage it anymore. How often do you and your wife manage it, Mr Fawlty? A couple of times a week as a matter of fact. Well, he certainly couldn't manage it, and neither could he tune pianos, so Pippi fell madly in false love with him straight away and they decided to be married by Father Brian right that day in a gunshot ceremony, during which someone was actually shot outside in a drug-related incident, leading Father Brian to declare that it was just sick. They trundled down the aisle together to the strains of the Mendelssohn wedding march as played by an aulone on a casio keyboard (on single-finger setting) with Dr More and co in the background smiling like gobaloons and strumming guitars. (Mrs More played the flute, which Father Brian also said was sick but found secretly arousing.)
And so Pippi and Jim lived happily ever after. He died two weeks later when he fell out of his wheelchair outside the Fingal Coco offices and Pippi was very sad (at least on the surface, as she was actually relieved that she wouldn't have to push that fucking wheelchair around anymore). So it was win-win really. Jim died rather more happy than he had expected, and nobody thought Pippi was a lesbo anymore. The plan had worked.
Well done Pippi, well done Jim, well done lesbos all. Amen.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Now to ride Mrs O'Leary.
Dear Mary Robinson, only son of the father. Eternally begotten, light from light, true god, etc. One being. Well done to Mary, with her father being pope and all. Shame he died, got love him. Pope Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, the newest and hippest thing to come out of Ocksfurd this side of Tuesday.
Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.
"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."
"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."
"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."
"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."
Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.
NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!
HAH.
The end.
Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.
"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."
"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."
"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."
"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."
Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.
NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!
HAH.
The end.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Appendix #1 (refer to Pg. eighty-four)
Come one, come all for a walkabout from LONDON - CANNON STREET to Windsor with slightly unexpected bursts of horns. With a delay effect, you may synthetically visit Paris Paris Paris ParisParis... See what Orwell saw, saw in the bath as you hack off your leg with a Superb use of strings and wireless message from An Taoiseach, Mr. Éamonn deValera speaking at the Mansion House, Dawson Street, Dublin two steaks and chips, please. Barbeque sauce, "please, please me" said the Beatles in a Norwegian Wood out the beyant Shelbourne Park can surprise. To: the editor of the IRISH PRESS- why have you not been publishing daily editions of your newspaper? What happened to the Governor-General? Has King George died? I hear news from the front "line up, children-FIRE" Drills do annoy me. No need for that do, Geoff. Signed Richard Bruton. I'm a spokesman you know? What a title for Best Film with repeated piano and guitar synch. notes. In come the Vikings but that didn't stop the ECB putting up and down interest rates. Up and down like a hoor's knickers. Fred always liked Galaxy but not quite as much as sodomy. Promptly Galaxy went out of business because God wanted him to have a rotten, miserable life MAGAZINE- special deal on now: we call to your house with brightly coloured jackets and "annoy someone else, Dorothy" was afraid of open spaces so she got fat to take up more room. £12 p.p. in room 7, Mr. Johnson. I'm glad you enjoyed your "STAY, bad dog!" Run, Run- run on as she hit the finish line on 76 street interstate of chasis, I'm telling you. Tenement housing, yummy yummy. Stay away from the drugs- but they're yummy- no use full of holes in Regent Street. Bloody Royals coming over the border into Fingal. SANTA. Four songs.
Friday, September 5, 2008
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Monday, June 2, 2008
The Adventures of Mr(s). Henderson and Various Other Gays.
Jeremy-Sue M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson. What a mouthful of a name for such an unfortunate character. Join him/her as s/he travels through the anachronistic world of 20th-century Dublin and beyond looking for Love and the Meaning of Life, trying along the way to unravel his/her own murky past/present in a world gone gay.
"The oddest thing I've read all year."--Gay Byrne.
"Complete and utter shite. I love it!"--Gerry Ryan.
"A human story for the 21st century."--Mary Robinson.
"A load of me cock."--Some aul'one on Capel Street.
"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.
"Such a load of bollocks."--Hugh Leonard.
"NOT EEN MAY RHEPABLICK!"--Éamon de Valera.
"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.
"What?"--The Observer.
"Vulgar, offensive left-wing homosexual claptrap."--Alive!
"BEST BOOK EEEEEVAAAH!"--Senator David Norris.
"The oddest thing I've read all year."--Gay Byrne.
"Complete and utter shite. I love it!"--Gerry Ryan.
"A human story for the 21st century."--Mary Robinson.
"A load of me cock."--Some aul'one on Capel Street.
"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.
"Such a load of bollocks."--Hugh Leonard.
"NOT EEN MAY RHEPABLICK!"--Éamon de Valera.
"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.
"What?"--The Observer.
"Vulgar, offensive left-wing homosexual claptrap."--Alive!
"BEST BOOK EEEEEVAAAH!"--Senator David Norris.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The 113th Feis Gee.
The Feis Ceoil was a grand old institution of Ireland until Siemens pulled out the sponsorship, which was a desperate pity. Now, the reason Siemens didn't want to sponsor it anymore was because of commercial interests. I mean, who gives a rat's mickey about classical music? Nobody. See? That's why it wasn't worth Siemens' while.
Until of course the organisers of the Feis had a better idea.
"Look, lads. Nobody is interested in classical music anymore. People only care about gee."
"Well, I second that, Poreik."
"Hear, hear."
"Grand so."
And so Feis Ceoil became Feis Gee, and it was a great success. Favourite competitions included the Ronnie Barker prize for shoving inanimate objects up yer gee and the Lar Shay Cup for finding a gee with your eyes closed. Of particular interest was the Sleevend Cup for shoving living things up yer gee. Now, it might be difficult to shove a Bulmers pint bottle up yer gee, but imagine the difficulty in shoving a gerbil up, never mind a guinea pig, or, God forbid, a rabbit. But that's what these batty ladies did, and fair play to them.
Feis Gee abú.
Until of course the organisers of the Feis had a better idea.
"Look, lads. Nobody is interested in classical music anymore. People only care about gee."
"Well, I second that, Poreik."
"Hear, hear."
"Grand so."
And so Feis Ceoil became Feis Gee, and it was a great success. Favourite competitions included the Ronnie Barker prize for shoving inanimate objects up yer gee and the Lar Shay Cup for finding a gee with your eyes closed. Of particular interest was the Sleevend Cup for shoving living things up yer gee. Now, it might be difficult to shove a Bulmers pint bottle up yer gee, but imagine the difficulty in shoving a gerbil up, never mind a guinea pig, or, God forbid, a rabbit. But that's what these batty ladies did, and fair play to them.
Feis Gee abú.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Monologue of the Sacristan
The last time we left Mr(s). Henderson, s/he had arrived at Howth Castle and Environs through the magical tunnel that s/he found after running away from Rufus at the Yellow lounge. S/he decided to visit old Gaybo while s/he was in the area. But, upon knocking on his door and with its new Polish occupants telling her to go and fuck, s/he remembered that he had moved to the little Ballsbridge, the bastard. Hello there, well done.
Back home (Ireland) again, s/he got the DART from Howth into Connolly Station, for the laugh. S/he wanted to visit the Pro-Cathedral to offer up a few prayers for the Pope's intentions like that the good people at the Look Ten Years Younger show on TV3 would accept his request to be on the telly and to remove the black rings under his eyes which age him terrible.
-----Papal Intermission----
Just as a matter of interest, in Poland when Pope John Paul II died, the government couldn't face the consequences, considering the results of the opinion Pole from The Polish Times saying that 90% of Polish people would convert to Judaism if the there was no longer a Polish Pope. The other 10% would become Muslims for some odd reason. This would result in increased usury, circumcision and would decimate the flourishing Polish pork industry. To prevent such a national catastrophe, the government put a ban on any foreign media and pretended that John Paul II hadn't died and acted as if he hadn't. In the interest of public morality and safety, the national broadcaster ran stock footage of the late Pontiff everyday.
------Return to Main Feature---------
After praying for the Pope's intentions, s/he decided to have a look around the Pro-Cathedral in all its splendour. S/he stood by the pews wondering if McQuaid had ever been there. He/she spotted a "Have You Ever Considered The Priesthood" poster on the notice board and thought mmm, well maybe when I had a mickey. Throwing his/her eyes back into the church, he/she found a very interesting baptismal font that had once been broken in two pieces but was now sellotaped and Pritt-Stuck back together courtesy of Reads of Nassau Street. He/she sensed he/she was not alone. Within seconds of drama, a very old man stood near him/her with a warm smile.
-There are no Confessions being heard today.
-O, I'm not here for Confession. I'm just in for a little bit of an auld pray.
-What? In all my 105 years here, I've not yet once come across one genuine soul praying. Catholics don't pray anyway. They just recite shite. Not that I believe any of it. I'm only in it for the money. But, I've seen through it all. I'm a bit of an agnostic myself. That McQuaid, he was a bastard. He used to be slappin' the kids that came in for Confirmation...in the face!
---Dilly-dally sideline----
McQuaid standing up on his high altar. All the little young ones in their dresses kneeling down.
-What is the third Commandment!? boomed McQuaid.
-Eh, eh, thou shall not commit adultery?
-Wrong. SLAP! And how dare you say such a filthy word in MY Pro-Cathedral! I bet you're off committing adultery every night with anyone that'll have you! I'll tell you what'll happen to you. You'll end up like those hoors around in the Monto!
-I'm nine!...(cries).
----End of dilly-dally-------
-They only come in looking for Confession and/or sanctuary. Just like after the Battle of Monto. I remember all those hoors coming down here 'fessin' up after their sins and looking for sanctuary too. The Legion were looking to kill them. The Legion stole that baptismal font to break in the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, stupid pack of holy gobshites. Mrs. Kelly was a grand woman. I had to pretend to hate her for the simple reason that she was a Protestant or I would have lost me job. Sure I remember de Valera praying in here for the soul of Douglas Hyde that he wouldn't go to hell for being a Protestant while his funeral was going on up in St. Pat's until McQuaid came in and slapped him with his bishop's mitre...in the face!...and told him that it was blaphemous to pray for the damned. Fuckin' eejit. And sure all the time he was off fiddlin' young fellas' mickeys.
By now, Mr(s). Henderson was dead. Well, no, but her brain was melting out of her ear. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the auld fella just died. Mr(s). Henderson had witnessed the death of the oldest living servant of the Church on earth and also the oldest man in Ireland. He was 115 after all, fair play to him. Didn't stop him going to hell for being a blasphemer though. Mr(s). Henderson considered lighting a candle for him, but from nowhere a ghostly bishop’s mitre flew towards her and slapped her...in the face! She then remembered the words of wisdom of McQuaid and just left. She noticed the sacristan’s face was going purple and beginning to melt and fall apart. This was his punishment for thinking he was atheist. Stupid auld fella.
To be continued…!
Back home (Ireland) again, s/he got the DART from Howth into Connolly Station, for the laugh. S/he wanted to visit the Pro-Cathedral to offer up a few prayers for the Pope's intentions like that the good people at the Look Ten Years Younger show on TV3 would accept his request to be on the telly and to remove the black rings under his eyes which age him terrible.
-----Papal Intermission----
Just as a matter of interest, in Poland when Pope John Paul II died, the government couldn't face the consequences, considering the results of the opinion Pole from The Polish Times saying that 90% of Polish people would convert to Judaism if the there was no longer a Polish Pope. The other 10% would become Muslims for some odd reason. This would result in increased usury, circumcision and would decimate the flourishing Polish pork industry. To prevent such a national catastrophe, the government put a ban on any foreign media and pretended that John Paul II hadn't died and acted as if he hadn't. In the interest of public morality and safety, the national broadcaster ran stock footage of the late Pontiff everyday.
------Return to Main Feature---------
After praying for the Pope's intentions, s/he decided to have a look around the Pro-Cathedral in all its splendour. S/he stood by the pews wondering if McQuaid had ever been there. He/she spotted a "Have You Ever Considered The Priesthood" poster on the notice board and thought mmm, well maybe when I had a mickey. Throwing his/her eyes back into the church, he/she found a very interesting baptismal font that had once been broken in two pieces but was now sellotaped and Pritt-Stuck back together courtesy of Reads of Nassau Street. He/she sensed he/she was not alone. Within seconds of drama, a very old man stood near him/her with a warm smile.
-There are no Confessions being heard today.
-O, I'm not here for Confession. I'm just in for a little bit of an auld pray.
-What? In all my 105 years here, I've not yet once come across one genuine soul praying. Catholics don't pray anyway. They just recite shite. Not that I believe any of it. I'm only in it for the money. But, I've seen through it all. I'm a bit of an agnostic myself. That McQuaid, he was a bastard. He used to be slappin' the kids that came in for Confirmation...in the face!
---Dilly-dally sideline----
McQuaid standing up on his high altar. All the little young ones in their dresses kneeling down.
-What is the third Commandment!? boomed McQuaid.
-Eh, eh, thou shall not commit adultery?
-Wrong. SLAP! And how dare you say such a filthy word in MY Pro-Cathedral! I bet you're off committing adultery every night with anyone that'll have you! I'll tell you what'll happen to you. You'll end up like those hoors around in the Monto!
-I'm nine!...(cries).
----End of dilly-dally-------
-They only come in looking for Confession and/or sanctuary. Just like after the Battle of Monto. I remember all those hoors coming down here 'fessin' up after their sins and looking for sanctuary too. The Legion were looking to kill them. The Legion stole that baptismal font to break in the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, stupid pack of holy gobshites. Mrs. Kelly was a grand woman. I had to pretend to hate her for the simple reason that she was a Protestant or I would have lost me job. Sure I remember de Valera praying in here for the soul of Douglas Hyde that he wouldn't go to hell for being a Protestant while his funeral was going on up in St. Pat's until McQuaid came in and slapped him with his bishop's mitre...in the face!...and told him that it was blaphemous to pray for the damned. Fuckin' eejit. And sure all the time he was off fiddlin' young fellas' mickeys.
By now, Mr(s). Henderson was dead. Well, no, but her brain was melting out of her ear. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the auld fella just died. Mr(s). Henderson had witnessed the death of the oldest living servant of the Church on earth and also the oldest man in Ireland. He was 115 after all, fair play to him. Didn't stop him going to hell for being a blasphemer though. Mr(s). Henderson considered lighting a candle for him, but from nowhere a ghostly bishop’s mitre flew towards her and slapped her...in the face! She then remembered the words of wisdom of McQuaid and just left. She noticed the sacristan’s face was going purple and beginning to melt and fall apart. This was his punishment for thinking he was atheist. Stupid auld fella.
To be continued…!
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Happy Christmas.
A very merry Christmas from The Bram Chronicle's Mickeyfiddlers-in-Chief. May your Christmas be filled with mickeys, gooters and gees.
And as the Cathos say at the end of Mass, Éamonn.
And as the Cathos say at the end of Mass, Éamonn.
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