Make poverty history

by Twenty Major on June 30th, 2005

Is wearing a wristband going to make poverty history? No.

Is a bunch of self-serving rock stars led by a rubber-lipped, woolly haired loudmouth playing a load of concerts going to make poverty history? No.

Is Bono asking people to send txt messages 4 Africa going to make poverty history? No.

Will me putting some HTML code on my blog which will put a Make Poverty history banner on the top corner make poverty history? No.

There are only two ways of making poverty history.

1 - Kill all poor people, then there will be no paupers so poverty will cease to exist.

2 - Kill everyone but the poor people so they immediately go to the top of the class.

Personally I’m more in favour of the first option. Poor people are generally quite unhygenic and have no qualms about approaching you in a public place looking for money. That kind of behaviour deserves a good killing. Also, they seem to be more sickly and infirm than non-poor people so governments would save fortunes on health care.

As well as that if lots of people in a family are poor and die early you get lots of poor orphans on whom you can do experiments, such as firing them out of enormous cannons to see if different races of people travel further than others and what percentage of the bones in their body they break when they land.

Poor people often speak in strange dialects and are not very good at reading and writing so even if they did become less poor they couldn’t help society by writing books, obeying road signs or even contribute something as basic as graffiti. The poor tend to be quite dirty too, they live in filth and squalor which is no good for your health and when you have friends over for tea they won’t want to come back when they find your shanty town hut a total state.

What about their dress sense? They all seem to have no taste in clothes at all. Tracksuits, string vests, soiled nappies or just tattered rags. How are they ever going to find a job dressed like that? The poor of Asia are quite gifted when it comes to manufacturing top quality clothes for Nike and companies like that, as well as knocking up quite authentic looking fake Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirts and Loius Vuitton bags and stuff. They could easily spend their evenings and weekends making better clothes and accessories for themselves.

The worst thing about the poor is that they all live in places like Africa and the so-called ‘Third World’. You don’t need to be a genius to work out that your chances of being poor are greatly reduced if you live somewhere like Ireland, America or other western countries. Why don’t they just move? Their lack of motivation is just baffling, it really is.

So, as you can see the only real way of making poverty history is to make poor people history. Do your bit this weekend. While the world and his mother are watching Live8 on their 42″ plasma TVs, sitting on their Habitat sofas, drinking Saturday afternoon G&Ts while the kids play Streetfighter XXII on their X-Box go out and kill a poor person.

You’ll be doing them, and the world, a favour.

Swallows

by Twenty Major on June 29th, 2005

What noisy little cunts they are.

I hate Dubliner cheese because of their new commercial

by Twenty Major on June 28th, 2005

There’s an ad on the telly at the moment for Dubliner cheese. It involves two cunts sitting on a sofa in a clothes shop and eating Dubliner cheese. A guy cunt and a girl cunt ignoring all around them and nibbling lovingly on cheese and crackers. At the end a shop assistant cunt comes up and says in a really high pitched voice “So the couch fits then?”

What the fuck? Imagine a group of so-called creative people sat around for hours and came up with this as a concept for selling cheese. It’s fucking ludicrous. It’s possibly one of the worst ads I have ever seen, and I include the Big Al “Is this a burger I see before me” and the Abrekebabra ad with the lookalikes of famous people who don’t actually look like famous people while a shit song about having the whole world in your hands irritates your eardrums to point of where you wish you had tinitus.

If your job is to be creative then be fucking creative. Don’t be a fucking twat. Two cunts eating cheese on a couch in a clothes shop is dimwitted twattery of the highest order. I don’t know which agency it was but I hope somebody knows and leaves a comment so we can associate the name of the agency with the words ‘clueless shite’. They should be ashamed of themselves, and to be fair the people at Dubliner cheese who said ‘Wow! That’s really great. What a marvelous way that is to sell our company’ need a good kicking as well.

Advertising is supposed to make you want a product or service. It’s not supposed to make you give out about it on a cheap website. I for one will never eat Dubliner cheese as long as I live and I suggest you do the same. Stick with Kilmeaden or Mitchelstown cheese simply because their advertising does not suck a big donkey cock like Dubliner cheese.

And moving away from Dubliner cheese what about that wanker who goes climbing a building because he’s drunk some kind of power drink? There’s another bunch of cunts. He gets all the way to the top and the girl says “What kept you?”

What a bitch. What kept him was the tiny ledges, impossible foot-holds and sheer height of the building in question. I bet she came up in the fucking lift, which, while it’s definitely a more sensible and secure way to scale a building does not give you the right to ask ‘What kept you?’

He should have pushed her off the top. That’d teach her, the sassy-mouthed cunt.

A small story

by Twenty Major on June 27th, 2005

Some three or four years ago I purchased a whole rake of scientific equipment that Jimmy and Pete had lifted from a consignment headed for a children’s hospital.

There were test-tubes, beakers, computers, particle crunchers, atom smashers, bunsen burners and lots of chemicals and stuff like magnesium, beryllium, copper and that stuff like plastecine that explodes when you when drop water on it.

The most important thing of all was the blackboard on which I scribbled theories, equations and doodles of men with their eyes really close together and strange chins.

I totally gutted the garden shed and made this my lab and it took me about two months to get the first blueprint together. Biting my nails I used a guinea pig for the first attempt but things did not go quite according to plan. Instead of ending up with a tiny, shrunken guinea pig I ended up with a hideous melted corpse with its organs on the outside. Shocked by the cruelty to animals I decided to never again to use a cute, cuddly creature and instead used refugees and orphans.

So I continued with my tests and soon I had created a great big pile melted corpses. Also soon I had perfected the process and saved the country hundreds of thousands of euros in social security payments. So I got my stuff together and arranged for Jimmy to come by and collect my post, look after my trusty hound Bastard Face, pick up the weekly settlements from my clients and administer the required beatings should they fail to provide the money on time. I had a farewell pint with Ron and the lads and the night of June 27th I entered my lab and set things in motion.

I made some last minute adjustments to the computer program, twiddled the zeeble just a touch to the left and walked into the chamber. I took a deep breath and using the control panel I’d made from a Kensington joystick I set things in motion. Things zapped, crackled, and quite literally popped. Success! It had worked. I was now miniscule like in that film about that bloke who shrunk himself and lived in the inner space of Dennis Quaid and in that inner space he had to make some adjustments to the workings of the inner space before getting out of the inner space at the very last minute. I think it was called ‘The really small man in a tiny spaceship.’

Amazingly enough I had also constructed a small spaceship but it wasn’t spaceship because I wasn’t going into space. I clambered aboard and soon I was speeding my teeny-tiny way across Dublin. I headed out towards Sandymount and then hugged the coastline, passing over the gorgeous sandy beaches, pausing occasionally to ogle the bevy of beauties sunbathing topless in Ireland’s glorious tropical climate.

Not long afterwards I came to Dalkey, an area in the very south of Dublin which is home to the most expensive houses, with beautiful views of the radiation poisoned Irish sea and a galaxy of stars like Lisa Stansfield and some bloke who used to read the news on the BBC.

It’s also home to a couple of members of the most famous Irish rock band in the world. I don’t think I need to tell you the name. I circled over the house of the singer but that wasn’t my target. It was the guitarist I was after. I swooped down, went in through an open window and went round the house until I found him. He was sitting at a desk reading a book and singing ‘What if God was one of us’ in a vibrant falsetto voice. I cruised in, did a couple of laps of his head and landed on the back of his neck.

Within my “space” craft I had brought supplies to last for at least a month. There was dried and canned food, water and toiletries and, of course, cigarettes. The first day or two I got accustomed to my strange and microscopic life. It’s amazing how quickly you get used to things, no matter how unusual they are. When he had a shower I took shelter internally, mostly entering through a nostril or perhaps the mouth. Once I had to fly down his Jap’s eye which is something I would not recommend to anyone. I went where he went, I saw what he saw, I avoided his calloused fingers when he went to scratch the parts of his body where I was roaming.

So for a little under 4 weeks this was my home. I ate, I smoked, I slept, I kept notes in my iddy-biddy notebook, I weed and pooed all over him and I watched him at work, at play, as he wrote songs, as he made phone calls to Bono and Larry. He never once called Adam but did send him a couple of emails and a text message calling him a ‘cunt’. He didn’t use an exclamation mark or any kind of smiley.

Anyway, as my supplies ran low it was time to head for home. I did one last poo on his shoulder and set off on my merry way. My ship was a bit spluttery on the way back so I didn’t go the scenic route. I just went straight back to the lab and into the chamber where my remote control embiggened me once again. It felt good to be my normal size again and I was absolutely dying for a pint. I went inside, had a shower and headed down to the pub for a reunion with the lads.

I marched down the road, pushed open the door and I said “Howya, lads?! Give us a pint there, Ron. I’m fucking gasping.”

So Ron poured me a Guinness, I waited for it to settle. It seemed to take a long time but soon I had a good long gulp and it tasted really, really good. Naturally the lads were full of questions.

“Where have you been Twenty?” asked Stinking Pete.

“Wait till I tell you” I said, and I explained where I’d been and what I’d been doing.

“That’s mental!” they all said, and they gasped and ooohed and aaaahed when I told them about the stuff that I’d seen, at the remarkable and unprecedented insight into the world of a rock musician’s life.

“But Twenty”, said Dirty Dave, “What on earth made you do it in the first place?”

“I’m not really sure”, I replied. “I think I just felt like living life on The Edge for a while.”

Black eyed peas

by Twenty Major on June 24th, 2005

What a bunch of cunts they are. “Shut up” they sing/rap. Well, if only they would take their own advice and close their fucking mouths forever. That singing girl’s voice is more irritating than Stinking Pete’s little brother who comes into the pub sometimes and tells jokes. Except they’re not his jokes, he just rehashes the material of Brendans Grace and O’Carroll and every time he’s about to tell a shite joke he says “Do you know wha’? You know wha’?’

Sometimes I say, “Yes, I know wha’. If you continue talking I’m going to get Jimmy to hold you down while I jump up and down on your already grossly mishapen head, you fuckbag.”

Black Eyed Peas and Stinking Petes brother. I fucking hate them.

Double teams

by Twenty Major on June 23rd, 2005

The world has been full of wonderful partnerships, in sport, on screen, in music and crime. It would be funny to imagine some of these people with other partners though, wouldn’t it. Here are some newly created teams that could go far, in my opinion.

Cagney and Lacey: Ireland AM presenter Mark Cagney and Tyne Daly in her role as gritty NY cop Lacey fight crime for about three minutes until Lacey has enough of Cagney’s simpering, beats him to death, fillets him and takes him home for ‘HAWWVEY” to make burger meat out of.

Foster and Alan Partridge: Traditional Irish music mixed with toe-curlingly awful early morning DJ-ery. It’d be a sure fire hit. “I wish I was in Carrickfergus. Ahhhh-haaaaah!’

Laurie and Hardy: Weak chinned actor Hugh Laurie forms a madcap duo with portly black and white film story Oliver Hardy which would have been just about different enough from the original to be worth pursuing.

50 and Garfunkel: Top rapper teams up with top folk/pop singer Art Garfunkel to become the world’s greatest Pap or Rolk combo in history. Songs will include ‘Mrs Robinson (you cheap ho’)', ‘The sound of silencers’ and ‘Bitch over troubled water’.

Bono and Clyde: One would preach about world poverty and harangue world leaders before getting his picture taken with them while the other would carry out a series of daring and increasingly dastardly bank heists. There’s no question who the world would prefer to get shot to death by the police. It’s Bono. Just in case anyone was in any doubt.

Morcombe and Wise: Wonderful comedian ditches his former partner to team up with former Chelsea player Dennis Wise. Wise by name, not in any way by nature, dissolves the partnership when his partner refuses to beat up a taxi driver for no reason whatsoever.

Pig and Zag: Kids TV puppet joins forces with Victoria Beckham.

Lennon and McCarthy: The ex-alive, ex-Beatle gets together with former Republic of Ireland football manager Mick McCarthy. While big Mick contributes some fine Yorkshire brogue to Lennon’s tunes, the speccy Liverpudlian turns out to be worse than Bernie Slaven and Alan Kernaghan put together. That doesn’t stop Mick making him a first choice each international week though.

Ben and Gerry: Incredibly wealthy ice-cream maker Ben finds himself on skid row after teaming up with RTE radio leviathan, Gerry Ryan, who consumes the company’s entire stock in less than an afternoon, the enormous arsed behemoth.

Tom Cruise gets squirted by water

by Twenty Major on June 22nd, 2005

I did have a good old larf at the Tom Cruise thing this week. It does show how shallow and superficial our world has become when a pint sized actor getting a modern version of the squirty flower trick you used to get in the joke shop beside the Gaiety theatre gets so much coverage. It was on the RTE news at 6pm and 9pm for fucks sake. Does anyone really care that much about Tom cunting Cruise?

And as for the twats that did it, what sort of pussies are they? I mean, if you going to go to all that trouble why wouldn’t you have chucked a custard pie or some cow poo, or made a tribute to Mark Chapman and shot the fucker in the head? Some years ago Dennis Pennis made lots of celebs look like the wankers they are with his questions. These muppets couldn’t even make Tom Cruise look like a cunt and that’s a fairly tall order (no pun intended).

And while I understand Cruiser’s reaction to particularly lame stunt couldn’t he have come up with something better than “You’re a jerk … jerk … you’re a jerk … you jerky jerk.”

If that was me I’d have been like “Is that the best you’ve got, you poxy wanker? Come on, man, I’m one of the biggest (in terms of popularity, obviously not stature) stars in the world today? Who the fuck are you? Some cunt with a shitty camera and an ancient joke, that’s who. You’re a shit-eating cockgoblin. I’m going to find out where you live and pay some travellers to park on your lawn and make shit of it. They’re going to sing they knacker songs all night long. And when you’ve had too much and move house I’m going to move them as well. They’ll be your personal itinerants for the rest of your life. Oh, and while we’ve been talking here my personal assistant has paid your girlfriend £100,000 - which is a fucking pittance to me, by the way - to leave you, your parents have been killed in their sleep and my personal practitioner has injected you with AIDS and Hepatitis B. Now I’m going to press charges and while you’re sleeping in the jail cell tonight I’m going to pay the warder to let me in and I’m going to curl out a massive turd into your open mouth as you snore you snivelling little shitebag. And while you’re choking on my shite I’m going to break your ankles with this lump hammer in the style of Kathy Bates in that film Misery and when they’re broken I’m going to hit them backwards and forwards with a tennis raquet. All that for squirting a squirt. Bet you wish you had taken a custard pie or a cow pat or a semi-automatic now, don’t you, you badger rimming gaylord?”

Truly an opportunity lost for young Tom.

I demand free underpants

by Twenty Major on June 21st, 2005

I went the other day to H&M, a ‘trendy’ clothes store, because I needed to buy some underpants. I hate buying underpants because I feel like I’m being ripped off each time I do. Maybe it’s just me but I feel like I shouldn’t have to pay for underwear, it should be a basic human right. Nearly €10 for a pair it was. And some daft cunts will spend €30 on a pair of Calvin Klein boxers. That’s more than 6 pints worth of underwear. Outrageous.

The government should provide standard issue boxers for men. Nothing too lycra-y or swish, just standard cotton jocks and we should be given around 6 pairs a year. Anything other than boxer shorts are totally gay. Y-fronts or briefs end up going up your hole and if there’s anything more gay than something going up your hole I don’t know what it is.

Having to spend my own hard earned money on underwear is just wrong. Of course if some people want fancy briefs or thongs then that’s fair enough, they can go waste their money on them, but I think most people that weren’t complete and utter ponces would have no problem with the government issue pants.

And I think razor blades should also be free. We’re not like Afghans or Muslimians who chop your bollocks off unless you have a lengthy beard. We are, in general, a clean shaven nation and Gillette and Wilkinson Sword have been screwing us for years. €10, or thereabouts, for four fucking blades which last about 2 shaves each. That’s €1.25 a shave. What a fucking rip off. Why should I have to pay to shave? It’s stupid and annoying.

We pay social welfare, taxes, stealth taxes, tithes and make countless other contributions to the country’s kitty, the least they can give us in return is some free underwear and a few scabby razor blades.

Of course I have a beard and go commando so you can feel free to ignore all that.

Alarm clocks

by Twenty Major on June 20th, 2005

Despite the fact they are incredibly useful, alarm clocks, in all their various guises are complete and utter cunts.

Nothing makes me want to commit acts of physical violence more than when I hear my alarm go off each morning. The sickening tune, the repetitiveness, the 9 more minutes of snooze, the sickening tune again.

I hate alarm clocks more than I hate Damien Rice.

New Dangermaus

by Twenty Major on June 17th, 2005

Go now, read, enjoy, cry, laugh, shoot your load, wet your pants, then read the new Dangermaus. Out now!