Goths, trannies and skateboarders - kill them all

by Twenty Major on February 28th, 2005

Skateboarders in West Dublin have won a five-year battle to build a local skate park, and new government funding could now lead to other such facilities around the country.

Wonderful news for the baggy-panted, lice infested, Tony Hawks wannabes that infest our fair city. If they all have to go to Lucan to skate it means they’re well away from me and with airborne disease and rats the size of cats rampant out there chances are lots of them will never come back. I heartily endorse this idea and would even contribute €5 to make it happen as quickly as possible.

But who else could we get rid of by building them a special place?

Goths: Yes, the world is a miserable place, there’s little or no point to life and you would be better of dead because nobody cares about you anyway. So let’s help them on their way by creating a giant room with red velvet walls and black wax candles with easy access to handguns. Just put them in your mouth and pull the trigger. Then we can all blame Marilyn Manson and feel better.

Gorks: These are a cross between Goths and Dorks. They’re internet goths if you like. Making a special website giving them details of how to commit suicide online should take a few of these wretched cretins out.

People with weirdly spiked hair: There was a time when people used to spike only the top of their hair. Now though you see people with the top, sides and back all spiked in different directions. Obviously this is unacceptable on many levels. To bring this infestation under control we create a kind of caged boxing ring and use industrial starch to ensure the spiked hair is rock solid. Then combatatants must go at each other like rutting stags until one lies dead. The winner is then shot in the face.

Convenience store staff: For all the people that work in Centra or Spar and other such shops we can create a new kingdom, a land with strange customs, a giant wall and obscenely muscled gymnasts. We can call it China and…erm…

Oh.

Politicans: VAT, you say? I’ll give you VAT you feckless thieves. A large vat of boiling oil can go on public display at the Royal Hospital in Kilmainham and once a week a front bench politician is dipped in it up his or her genitals. We’ll then make a reality TV show about their struggle to survive called ‘When politicians get dipped in boiling oil’ and it can air every night on TV3 with camp presenter Alan Hughes as the frontman.

Anyone who thinks Shirley Temple Bar is funny: The worst drag queen anybody has ever seen is a firm favourite of people who like Telly Bingo and patrons of the George (Dublin’s premier gay bar). Problem is Shirley is about as funny as having your entire family gang raped and butchered before your very eyes before having your penis sliced in two, your testicles crushed in a vice and having a knitting needle rammed into your ear.

DIE CUNT

Therefore anyone who finds it (STB) funny needs to be got rid of. I suggest we invest in a large rocket ship and send them all into space. Either that or Mullingar. Whichever is cheaper.

D4 rugger girls: The ones who wear the faded jeans, a rugby shirt (always with a white collar) and a blue jumper thrown over their shoulders. Their only interest is finding a man who’s played for Clongowes or Blackrock, who works in a bank and drives a BMW at least. What we do here is tell them there’s a special ‘Single men for free’ night at Anabel’s Nightclub, lock the cunts in and come back in a month. Survivors can then be prosecuted for canibalism.

Who would you get rid of?

Young people of Ireland (and Hot Press readers)…

by Twenty Major on February 25th, 2005

How the buggery fuck has Damien Rice ended up in the top Irish 3 albums of all time in the latest Hot Press poll?

Been-around-forever editor of the music rag Niall Stokes said the success of his album, O (he couldn’t afford any more letters when he recorded it), was remarkable.

I have to agree. It’s remarkable that people who don’t live in perpetual nightime like Nothern Scandinavians will try and make up for it by listening to music that makes you want to kill yourself. Because thats what that bloke does to me. He makes me want die. As soon as possible. Anything to stop listening to him.

Have people gone mad? Don’t they realise that prolonged exposure to this whiny cunt will result in serious damage to their mental health and their wallets as their depression sends them on binges of comfort-eating. Each sitting of the album will be accompanied by 1/4 pounder from Silvios, washed down with a batter sausage, spice burger, fresh cod and two large singles of chips.

Anyway, here’s hoping he makes like Kurt Cobain and does us all a favour. Anyone out there care to introduce him to heroin? And while he’s at it maybe he’d take Brian Kennedy with him.

Anyone else remember that thing they used to do in the Phoenix about the Pope and how they’d make fun of his accent. “Yang peepul ov Ireland, I laf you all.” etc?

Would it be bad taste to do that now, do you think? “Yang *slurp* - *drool* - beurrrgh - *elephant man noise* - *dribble* - peepurrrrghl….” etc. It is bad taste? Sorry.

Finally for today I urge you to discover a fine new Irish publication called Dangermaus. It’s chock full of the stories they don’t want you to hear about the celebrities and politicians you don’t want to know about. The latest issue was published but yesterday and in the future will be published every Monday (except this coming Monday because it was only published yesterday). Go now. Enjoy. Bookmark. Tell your friends. You will be rewarded in *droool* *slurp* heaven. Oh yes.

Crazy frog cunt

by Twenty Major on February 24th, 2005

Picture the scene, it’s Sunday morning in my local, Ron the barman being a cunt just by existing, I’m sitting with Jimmy the Bollix having a pint, a bite to eat and reading the papers. All is as it should be.

All of a sudden there’s a noise as three English lads burst in through the door. One of them, who looks like a cross between an Ork and Gollum, literally jumps in through the door and announces at the top of his voice “It’s Sunday and I’m in love!!”

I look at Jimmy, he looks at me, neither of us says anything but both of us are thinking the same thing - ‘Shut your manky little mouth you spastic wanker.’

We’re very much in tune, Jimmy and me.

So the three English lads go to the bar, ducking and diving, weaving and bobbing, like the likely lads they are, hopping up and down on their giant-soled trainers which make the tallest of them 5′6″ and they try and engage Ron the barman in conversation. Naturally Ron is having none of it and tells them they can speak to him only to order. No matter how much of a little scumbag you are you don’t argue with Ron unless you want to wake up some hours later with your own hand shoved up your arse (depending on his mood your hand may or may not be attached to your wrist).

They order some pints, probably of cider, and proceed to talk to each other like they’re in the middle of a nightclub with blaring music and not in a quiet local on a Sunday. Orkface is leading the conversation “SO I SAYS TO ‘ER LAST NIGHT, ‘ERE, YOU A VEGETARIAN? SHE SAYS ‘NAH’, SO I SAYS ‘WELL I GOT A BIT OF FACKING MEAT FOR YA LUV’. They all think that’s the funniest thing ever because they’re witless cunts.

Now, regular readers will now that I, Twenty Major, am a very tolerant sort of a person, but there are some things I just can’t stand. The noise of people eating, lemurs, and having to hear people that I don’t want to hear. I shoot a glance of Jimmy who’s rubbing his temples. This is not a good sign. Last time Jimmy did this was the night he was arrested for throwing a brick at Christy Moore (that’s a whole other story).

The three English lads are onto to their second pint when the straw that breaks the camels back arrives. The Ork says to his mates ‘ERE, I’M GONNA DO THAT CRAZY FACKING FROG’ and they say ‘YEAH, ORK, DO IT. IT’S FACKING WICKED!!!’

So Ork sits in my local, on a Sunday morning, while I’m trying to read the papers and have a quiet pint and does the Crazy Frog ringtone with stunning accuracy. “BLEM BLEM BLEM BLEM BLEM BLEM, BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM, BLEM BLEM BLEM, WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” - he goes, as loud as he can, and let me tell you this cunt was loud. That’s was it. I’d had enough. I look at Jimmy the Bollix. He looks at me. We get up and go down to where they’re sitting. They’re at the bar sitting on stools.

“Lads, that was hilarious”, I say in a jocular fashion. “I really love that ringtone. Any chance you could do it again, it cracks me up!”

Ork doesn’t need a second invitation, his mates are egging him on, so he starts again and this time we can see he’s doing the actions too. Revving the motorbike he’s supposedly riding. “BLEM BLEM BLEM BLEM BLEM BLEM, BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEM, BLEM BLEM BLEM, WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

“Oh you’re some man for some man” says Jimmy the Bollix just seconds before punching him as hard as he could in the throat.

Ork is gasping for breath when I kick his stool over and he crashes to the ground. I boot him as hard as I can up his arse while Jimmy pours his pint of cider all over him. His mates get up, realise we’re much bigger than they are, and back off a bit. Jimmy bends down and picks him up by the collar.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Bar. You. Crazy. Frog. Loving. Cuntsack.” he says, with each word giving Ork a light slap in the face. Ork doesn’t need a second invitation. He heads for the front door with his cronies. As he’s going out he tries to regain some of his dignity by croaking “YOU FACKING CANTS” and knocking over a chair. I make a move like I’m going to start running after him and he shrieks slightly before legging it out the door.

Jimmy and I nod at each other, pick the stool up and go back to our snug to continue our quiet morning. A couple of minutes later Ron the barman appears with two fresh pints, which we hadn’t ordered, puts them down on the table and as he’s walking off says “Thanks, lads”

“You’re welcome, Ron,” I say. And he was.

Inappropriate commemoration

by Twenty Major on February 23rd, 2005

I read this morning that to mark the anniversary of the building of the Titanic, ill-fated ship which sadly only took the life of Leonardo di Caprio on-screen, a giant iceberg is going to be towed into Belfast harbour. Of course it’s the plan of an ‘artist’ who has sensibly left the word conceptual out of her title.

It does seem a bit inappropriate though considering the unsinkable ship was sunk by an iceberg all those years ago. It got me thinking what other inappropriate celebrations could we be looking forward to in the coming years.

- The anniversary of the Hindenburg airship could be marked by tethering a giant airship to the ground and setting it on fire while dozens of people suck helium from balloons and run around shrieking ‘Oh the humanity!’ in high-pitched voices.

- The Chernobyl explosion killed many and affected millions more as radioactive fallout covered vast areas of Europe. To mark this occasion we could staple extra limbs and eyes to babies to make them look like mutants while a man dressed as our favourite nuclear safety inspector, Homer Simpson, runs around glowing bright green.

- Exxon Valdez - a giant oil tanker driven by a hopeless drunk crashed in Alaska spilling millions of gallons of crude oil and devestating the wildlife. To ensure nothing like this ever happens again let’s get some seals, polar bears and drunken sea-captains, paint them with hammerite and deliver them to hippy layabouts Greenpeace.

- Let’s commemorate the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion with a massive fireworks display.

- Union Carbide’s gas leak in Bhopal in India left nearly 4,000 dead and thousands more injured or sick. What about building a statue in the shape of a giant gas mask? ‘Oh the humanity irony!’

- Closer to home we could commemorate the famine by removing every single piece of food from every single shop for a period of 8 months leaving only rotten potatoes for people to scrap over.

- Or we could pay our respects to the victims of the Stardust disaster by getting David Bowie, dressed as Ziggy of course, to sing a benefit gig then setting him ablaze during his encore.

- Or the U2 Croke Park disaster of 2005 could be….

…oh, I’ve said too much.

Luas and fighting fire with fire

by Twenty Major on February 22nd, 2005

Yet another Luas crash last night saw people injured, traffic jammed and more embarassment. The accident happened around Connolly Station last night when a truck drove right into the side of the tram.

It’s obvious what’s happening. Firstly people can’t see the Luas well enough, they need to be painted fluorescent yellow, like highlighter markers, and secondly there’s a concerted campaign by people who want to be able to drive down Harcourt Street again. The common man is fucked off having to drive down Hatch Street and then Leeson Street. He’s confused at having to drive the wrong way around St Stephen’s Green. It’s time to admit the Luas is a total failure and invest in a series of sky tubes like they have in the opening credits of Futurama. It would take away the need for cars, it’d be environmentally friendly and while there would be some initial problems with in-tube collisions we could extensively test it using the dregs of society like Sinn Fein money launderers, Ryan Tubridy, anyone who went to the Billy Barry School and RTE rugby commentator Ryle Nugent.

Think how great it would be to zip from Kilmainham to Santry in 5 minutes without traffic lights, cunts not indicating and all the other problems we have when we drive.

Come on Bertie, sort it out now. Sell off Michael McDowell to the IRA in return for the rest of the Northern Bank money and get the first tube up and running before Christmas. Otherwise we might end up with a Taoiseach called Enda.

Luas aside I was reading yesterday about a number of eldery people who were victims of robberies. They’re easy targets, no doubt, but what sort of a cunt do you have to be to batter an eldery person during a robbery? The worst kind of cunt there is, apart from Sinn Fein money launderers, Ryan Tubridy, anyone who went to the Billy Barry School and RTE rugby commentator Ryle Nugent, that’s who.

They could easily just truss them up and steal what they want to steal. There’s no need for them to get violent but the fact that they do makes me angry in a Doctor David Banner ‘don’t make me angry’ type of way.

I think it should be written in law that if you batter an elderly person, and how many times have we seen some poor auld fella/dear in hospital because some cunts robbed him/her of the €63 he had in a jar in his kitchen, you get battered yourself if you get caught. Public beatings are in order - let’s get a big old boxing ring in the middle of Smithfield Market, tie these cunts hands behind their backs, then fucking smash their fucking faces in, the cunts. We could even have a lucky draw where members of the public can administer these beatings wearing boxing gloves with horseshoes in them and when the poxy little cowards are lying on the ground crying like some cunt of an actress on Oscar night then let’s kick their bollocks up and out of their mouths.

Speak to your TD today. Let’s get this plan into action and let’s smash some heads because one day you’re going to be old.

Let them fight to the death

by Twenty Major on February 21st, 2005

Those crazy travellers are at it again, this time in Kerry.

All the Gardai in the south-west were involved as running battles erupted between travellers and members of the ’settled community’ which I assume is just another way of talking about travellers now living on a halting site. Apparently some youths have been taunting other youths (’I prefer to have sex with my own sister than your sister’ - ‘Your wedding to your own sister only had 13 injuries after scraps with fish-hooks and planks with nails in them’ - that sort of thing) and there’s some kind of turf war over drugs where gangs have been throwing bales of peat briquettes at each other.

So these cunts spend their time trying to banjax their counterparts and more police, who could be out fighting real crime like finding Northern Bank money or the continued presence of Bryan McFadden in the pop charts, have to be drafted in to deal with them.

I say let them fight. Let them do whatever they want to each other. With no fear of intervention they’ll really go for it and will be delivering killer blows all day long. Those that don’t die and lie horribly wounded on the streets should be left there, denied hospital care and if their own want to apply stinking poultices or whatever kind of black-magic they use on the sick then fine but we shouldn’t waste any precious resources on them.

In the end there’s bound to be an overall winner, he’ll have nobody left to fight and any remaining opponents will be crippled, maimed, blind or otherwise incapcitated. And everyone lives happily ever after.

Of course if the winner has a taste for blood and tries his caravan based shit-witchery on real people then we just shoot the cunt in the head and be done with it. Simple.

Elsewhere I saw a very frightening headline this morning “Display on Collins is museum’s star exhibit”. I was about to launch into a tirade about how it would be a waste of valuable cultural space to have an exhibit about that baldy in-the-air-tonight cuntbag until I realised it was about Michael Collins and I realised I didn’t give a shit either way.

A question

by Twenty Major on February 20th, 2005

Why is it the older I get the earlier I wake up when I get drunk the night before?

Funny money

by Twenty Major on February 18th, 2005

So there were a bunch of people arrested and a load of cash linked to the Northern Bank robbery was found yesterday. Gavin has a nicely detailed account of what went down.

No surprises to anyone to find Sinn Fein involvement and while lighting a big fat Cuban cigar with a £50 note Martin McGuinness tried his Manuel from Fawlty Towers impression and said last night “I know nothing…”

Seriously. What a bunch of feckless liars they are. I’m not really one for politics to be honest. Asking me to choose between Fianna Fail and Fianna Gael is like asking me if I’d like to be sodomised by Macho Man Randy Savage or Hulk Hogan. The Labour Party are just failed commies and lost all comedy appeal once Dick Spring (heh, Dick. Spring) and s-s-s-s-stuttering rapper Proinsias de Rossa left the scene. The PDs are Ireland’s answer to the BNP while the Green party just don’t care how many lives they ruin with their support of Greenpeace and their disruptive activities. However, this is going to make Sinn Fein squirm like the bitches they are and I can’t wait to read all about it.

I wish I could take credit for the two pictures below but they were sent to me via email yesterday.

I definitely had more to say today but I’ve forgotten what it is. Check back later and I’ll see if it comes to me.

Big Brother auditions in Dublin

by Twenty Major on February 17th, 2005

I watched with horror last night as hundreds of Dubliners queued up to take part in auditions for the upcoming series of Big Brother - the TV show where they put a dozen cunts in a house and film them 24 hours a day. Millions of other cunts sit at home watching these cunts eat, sleep, poo in the hot tub and generally make complete cocksuckers of themselves.

I remember the first series with Nasty Nick and some lesbian girl who now works for RTE (although she’ll never know I’m talking about her) and it was kind of interesting as nothing like that had been done before. This one will be the 6th series though and the aim now is not social interaction and to see how people will get on, it’s about who will fellate who on screen, who’s willing to humiliate themselves the most. It’s a grotesque cunt’s convention with the winner being crowned cuntiest cunt of all time. £70,000 is the prize for your dignity but then I suppose you have to have some to begin with.

So up stepped so many of my city’s people. One girl dressed as an angel - how whacky. She admitted to being so enthralled with Big Brother that she ended up watching the contestants on last year’s show as they slept. Can you imagine having a life so vacuous and desolate that you spend your time watching those bovine cunts sleep? No, me either.

One older lady said she should be on the show because she was sassy and was different because she was an older lady who wasn’t afraid to show her sexuality - Newsflash for old bint: I only saw you from the neck up and I’m telling you now there isn’t enough money in the world to make me unafraid of seeing your sexuality. I’d say she’s got a quim like a wizard’s sleeve.

There were lads dressed as cowboys, people with the arses cut out of their pants, girls in bikinis and hot pants, people with stupid hair, a large number of dirty looking students and a countless assortment of witless meatheads desperate to make thundering dimwits of themselves on live television 24 hours a day.

These are the kind of people that would describe themselves as ‘zany’. If I was in government one of the first things I’d do is send out a questionnaire asking: Are you zany? Choose one: Yes or No. Anybody who replied ‘Yes’ would be rounded-up and sent to England. Or shot in the face and interred in a mass grave somewhere near Thurles where nearly 63% of the population is self-confessed zany already.

Let’s be realistic about this “Reality TV” is for cretins and z-list celebrities. The world would be a better place without any of them and the more I think about it the more upset I am that I didn’t know this fucking thing was happening beforehand. Jimmy the Bollix knows some blokes who can blow stuff up.

What a service it would have been to the people of Dublin to eradicate every single one of those shitehawks yesterday.

RTE has barred Twenty Major.

by Twenty Major on February 16th, 2005

Thanks to an anonymous tipster I have been informed that access to this very site has been barred to employees of RTE, Ireland’s national broadcaster.

Perhaps it was this piece, critical of the Sunday night ‘comedy’ show called The Panel. But surely an organisation like RTE wouldn’t block a website on their network just because it didn’t like a TV show?

Maybe it’s the use of expletives like ‘cunt’, ’shitbox’ and ‘elephant felching wanklords’, but then I’m sure a national broadcaster would do all it could to help people in their employ enjoy the diversity and wonder of the English language.

Maybe it was me highlighting a terrible error by Pat Kenny on his radio show, or maybe it was the recent idea of Gerry Adams appearing on the Late Late Show in that Jennifer Lopez dress.

I don’t know what it is but I do know that the poor people that have to work in RTE every day shouldn’t have their access to Twenty Major barred. What kind of Chinese internet is the RTE webmaster running?

Poor Charlie Bird. Poor Anne Doyle. Poor Ray D’Arcy. How can that man, or woman, deny honest, hard-working RTErs like this?

It’s censorship at its very worst and it’s unbecoming a national institution like RTE. Just for that I’m not going to pay my TV licence even more now, you cunts.