Car boot sale

by Twenty Major on June 17th, 2005

FOR SALE

2 tickets for Live8. Starting price €250, will sell to highest bidder and will personally send a picture of me spending the cash on pints and fast food to Bob Geldof, the wanker.

Naomi Campbell’s quim. She had her old one removed in 2003 and Stinking Pete found this one whilst rummaging through a bin in a bin in Kensington. mint condition well used €2.99 o.n.o

An Etch-a-Sketch with an incredibly complex picture of a rectangle.

12 Chinese orphans. Will sell individually or as an entire lot. Please remember, an orphan is for life, not just for Christmas dinner.

Spiderman comic #0. The little known precursor to the much collected Spiderman #1 which most people believe to be the original. This one is slightly darker as Peter Parker gets his spider powers after being raped by an enormous, radioactive tarantula. The penetration scene is actually quite disturbing. €100 for the original, €5 per Xeroxed copy.

The Lost Ark of the Covenant. Forget Indiana Jones or that Dan Brown cunt who reckons it’s under the floor of some church in Scotland. Scotland for fuck’s sake. Me and Jimmy lifted the fucker from Martin Cahill’s pigeon loft before the Criminal Assets Bureau got hold of everything. The perfect gift if you need to melt the face off of a load of Germans.

A black panther. This former vigilante can be yours for a mere €29.99. Comes with a free black panther and 24 cans of Whiskas.

Ryle Nugent’s lisp. Makes even the butchest voice camp like a row of tents.

The lead singer from Alphaville. He might have been ‘Big in Japan’ but he’s certainly not ‘Forever young’, especially having been locked in my basement since 1986. Would make a good pet. €10 and I’ll throw in the ‘Wonderful life’ bloke as well. Can’t say fairer than that.

A home sex tape featuring the girl who does the Eircom broadband ads, former Eircom chairman Alfie Kane and Father Brian D’arcy. It’s pure filth.

Looking for a new pet, apart from a washed up, skeletal 80s pop star? I’ve got love cats, hounds of love, a canary in a coalmine and Mary Harney’s tapeworm. €45 the lot, got to get rid.

A Victorian suppository mould. What could be more fun than making your own? Why not see how many you can fit up in one go?

Finally, a Sodastream with 4 bottles, two gas cannisters and three bottles of the delicious, original Cola flavour. Mmmmm, remember how good it was with its pissy mud taste? To this day I don’t know how the Coca Cola corporation survived.

Feel free to call by any time, we’re open all day.

Are you on the list?

by Twenty Major on June 16th, 2005

There are some new people on my list.

1 - Darina Allen was Ireland’s most popular TV cook. Now she keeps a low profile after her husbands rather unsavoury brush with the law a year or so ago. Rachel Allen is, I believe, her daughter. Rachel Allen is a dippy cow. Having, for research purposes only, watched her cookery show last night she wowed us with her culinary skills as she made a hamburger, a steak sandwich and chips. No, really, she did. None of that workaday Sardian lamb with fennel and tomatoes, or your run of the mill freshly made gnocchi with parmesan and garlic sauce, oh no. Next week she’ll be showing us how to fry a fucking egg and pour our milk over our cornflakes.

She even told us that to heat up bread she was going to put it in a hot oven. Amazing stuff, simply amazing!

Quite why anybody thought it would be a good idea to spend money making this TV show when 30 minutes of watching a retard pick his nose and eat his own bogies would have been far more entertaining. And informative.

2 - The people who were marching through the streets of Dublin to raise awarness of HIV and AIDS yesterday. While I have no complaint with the motives of their march I do strenuously object to their use of cunting bongos and whistles. Whistles should only be used during sporting events. Referees should use whistles. People marching down the road should not use whistles because they’re really fucking annoying.

Even in the E-fuelled early 90s ‘ravers’ out of their tiny minds on ecstasy that came in capsules and kept you up for days were driven to the point of murder by those cunty fuckers with whistles. And as for bongos, anyone who tries to make their point with bongos needs to have their bongos shoved up their arse and given an ASBO banning them from ever owning bongos again and if they do buy bongos again they forfeit their right to life.

3 - The waitress who wouldn’t serve me. I sat down in the café. She came over and served the people in front of me. She looked at me. Walked back and got their drinks. Then she came back and looked at me again before serving the people to the right of me. She brought their drinks and was little more than a couple of feet away from me before she turned back again and walked off without serving me. This meant by beautiful companion, obviously not Jimmy or any of the usual suspects, had to go to the bar and ask for our beverages. I got my own back by accidentally knocking the bottle over so it smashed all over the floor which meant a completely different waitress had to come over and clean it all up. That’ll teach her.

4 - Former Irish footballer Paul McGrath’s wife’s brother’s friend’s father. We’re sworn enemies since late yesterday afternoon for reasons I can’t go into but rest assured he’s a big old cunt and one day I’ll tell you why.

It’s the list that just keeps on growing.

Some Michael Jackson jokes

by Twenty Major on June 15th, 2005

Why did Michael Jackson cross the road?
It certainly wasn’t to masturbate the 13 year old cancer victim, that’s for sure.

Knock Knock
Who’s there?
Michael Jackson
Michael Jackson who?
Michael Jackson who paid off a boy $18m because he didn’t molest him.

Michael Jackson, Archbishop Bernard Law and Jonathan King walk into a bar. They order some drinks and chat for hours and hours.

My Michael Jackson has no nose.
How does he smell?
Like dried semen and Jesus juice.

What do you call a blonde disguised in a black wig with a plastic face and stupid voice who sleeps with young boys?
Michael Jackson.

Yo’ mama’s so small and boyish looking Michael Jackson prefers her to you even though you’re only 12.

Why was Michael Jackson afraid to go to prison?
Because he’s a giver, not a taker.

What’s the difference between Michael Jackson and a paedophile goat?
One fucks kids and the other…erm…you know…

What’s Gavin Arviso’s favourite Michael Jackson song?
Leave me alone (the Get your gloved hand off my mickey mix).

I hate my mother-in-law so much I threaten to send my pre-teen sons to Neverland if my wife allows her to stay.

Why does Michael Jackson wear a wig?
Because all his hair fell out worrying about whether or not the prosecution could prove he fiddled with children.

An Englishman, an Irishman, a Scotsman and Michael Jackson walk into an all-boys primary school. The Irishman visibily relaxes knowing that for once he’s not going to be be the butt of the joke.

Pleased to meet spew

by Twenty Major on June 14th, 2005

So there I was last night, having returned from my trip, in the bar with the lads, recounting the tales of my time away.

The larks, adventures, escapades, escapes and romantic interludes (which consisted of me being very drunk and asking a life sized poster of Angelina Jolie for a light).

I was cracking wise, enthrallingly entertaining, devilishly wicked and witty (shut your fucking hole, Moriarty) when all of a sudden, just after a slug of my pint, I had one of those burps where a bit of sick comes up. A sicky burp or a vommy belch, you might call it.

Normally you can stop them in time and whatever has come up can be sent back down from whence it came but this time I just couldn’t do it and out went this little puddle of puke straight into Stinking Pete’s pint.

“Fucks sake, Twenty” he roared.

Stinking Pete hates vomit. It stems from the time when we were younger, much much younger, and having drunk ourselves into near enough oblivion in Tamangoes (famous Dublin nightclub/disco/cattle market) we crashed out in my house. Pete was always smart enough to get a big glass of water before he went to sleep so he filled up a pint glass and passed out.

Me and Jimmy, always looking for a prank, emptied out some of the water and filled it with a cheap bottle of aftershave I’d been given by a relative who didn’t like me much as a Christmas present or something similar. At that point we both crashed out as well.

At some point in the night Pete woke up with a thirst on him and reached for his pint of water. He guzzled it down, so far as he can remember, in a matter of seconds and then realised there was something wrong. He spent the rest of the night doubled over the toilet spewing till he could spew no more.

Seeing him on the floor of the bathroom with dried up chunks of barf all over the toilet and around his mouth and nose was certainly one of the most hilarious things I have ever seen, especially considering what it was that made him so ill in the first place. Jimmy the Bollix even took pictures of him lying semi-concious in his own filth. Such good friends we all are.

Now any kind of vomit situation makes him queasy and seeing his pint with a film of Twentyvom on top made him decidedly unwell so he ran to the bathroom, where we found him 20 minutes later, again having puked himself into a near coma.

It’s good to be home.

Guinness

by Twenty Major on June 13th, 2005

Having been travelling the world in recent weeks it will be nice to arrive back in Dublin later tonight. Persuing my links I found this site via LinkMachineGo which is apparently ‘A Guide For The Un-Initated To Buying Guinness In An Irish Pub’.

Despite such bestowing such wisdom as ‘do not under any circumstances take the glass before it is filled. Some virgins seem to think that the settling stage is the final stage and walk away with an unfinished pint’ (seriously, who the fuck would ever pick up a glass that wasn’t finished? Nobody, that’s who) - it leaves out the most important rule of all about buying Guinness in an Irish pub - make sure you’re actually in Ireland.

Guinness in Irish pubs outside of Ireland tastes like rancid poo mixed with the vomit of a hundred Afghans filtered through a piss stained cheese cloth.

If you don’t believe me please take the following test. Go to any Kitty O’Sheas or McFlappery’s or The Drunken Pugilist in any town in any city in the world. Ask for a Guinness. Drink it. When the three days of the scuts have been and gone take a flight to Dublin. Get a taxi to Mulligans on Poolbeg Street. Ask for a Guinness. Drink it. Then ask for another one because it will be so delicious you just won’t be able to help yourself. After 5 or 6 pints you will feel the need for battered sausages and chips, that’s natural.

Guiness in an Irish pub which is not in Ireland is not real Guinness. And speaking of Irish pubs, why, when I’m in different cities, do people expect me to want to go there instead of somewhere local? I have my pick of Irish pubs when I’m in Ireland, and honestly if Ron the Barman found out I was cheating on him by going to another ‘Irish’ bar it would not be a pretty sight.

Right, best pack my bags and get ready to see Ron, Jimmy et al later on. I’d say I’ve missed them but they’ll think I’m a big soft twat so I’ll leave you by saying they’re all fucking cunts who I certainly haven’t bought presents or anything. Oh no.

Staring at people

by Twenty Major on June 10th, 2005

Staring at people makes them uncomfortable. For example, the woman who came into the room a short time ago and said, like she owned the fucking place, “PLEASE OPEN ALL THE WINDOWS.”

“NO”, I said. There ensued a staring match from which she pussied out after mere seconds. She had to content herself with opening only one window instead of all the windows. I am going to close that window now and if she says anything I’m just going to stare at her until all thoughts of open windows leave her tiny little brain.

I remember once seeing a semi-famous person in a restaurant and because he was someone who was on the fringes of my list I thought it would be fun to stare at them for long periods. He saw me looking at him, then he’d go back to his dinner, and when he looked up again I would still be staring at him. He became very uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck, jiggling his leg up and down and glancing over but every time he glanced I would be staring at him.

Eventually he came over to me and said “Do I know you? Why are you looking at me?”

I didn’t reply. I just stared at him. He went away.

I have just closed the window. I gave the girl my classic ‘If you have any objections to this I’m going to rip off your legs and shove them up your arse’ stare. It worked a charm.

I suggest you all make today staring day. If someone does or says something you don’t like just stare at them until they change their mind. You’ll be surprised how often it will work.

Supermarket: “That’s 24,99 please”
You: *STARE*
Supermarket: “Erm…24,99?”
You: *STARE*
Supermarket: “Just take your things and go.”

—–

Boss: “Have that report on my desk by this evening.”
You: *STARE*
Boss: “Ok then, Monday”
You: *STARE*
Boss: “I’ll get Jones to do it.”

Right then, off you go about your business. What do you mean you don’t want to?

*STARES*

The heat is on

by Twenty Major on June 9th, 2005

That’s according to 80s pop legend Glenn Frey. Apparently the heat is on, on the street, inside your head and on every beat.

Well, let me tell you, he’s a lying cunt. Being accustomed to Irish weather I’m well aware that we don’t get scorching summers but last night, waiting for public transport, I was able to see my breath.

Now, this is June, in case anyone hadn’t noticed. June is supposed to warm, balmy, temperate and quite possibly sweltering.

So what the fuck is Glenn Frey on about then? The heat is most definitely NOT on here. The streets are quite chilled, inside my head is brisk at best and the beat, well, the beat is positively hyperborean.

I’m tired of being lied to by 80s stars. Nik Kershaw, I’ve been to many trees by many rivers and there has been no sign of that hole in the ground you go on about, Banarama and Fun Boy Three can go and shite - it is what you do and quite frankly the way that you do is it relatively unimportant and Prince, when doves cry it doesn’t sound like a funky guitar and a kicking bassline, it sounds like this “Awwwwwwwwk, Awwwwwwwwwwwwwk, Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwk!”

Fucking cunts.

The four theorums of poo

by Twenty Major on June 8th, 2005

Theorum 1 - The slopiness of the residue is directly proportional to the amount of paper on the roll/in the bathroom.

That is to say you will always do one of those poos which hardly need any wiping when there’s plenty of paper available. Concurrently this also means that a 1/4 roll shite nearly always happens when there’s little or no paper in the bathroom.

This second part is especially true when caught short and the need to use a public toilet for a BM is inescapable.

The relief at actually finding somewhere to poo can also lead to temporary blindness and insanity as it’s never until after you have erupted the magma (Theorum 2 - the burnosity of the poo is directly proportional to the amount of Guinness and spice burgers consumed the previous night) that will require a 1/4 roll to wipe properly that you notice the empty toilet roll holder.

For this reason alone it is never recommended to go commando as underwear is your only possible saviour in this situation as a hand or newspaper wipe will never suffice.

Theorum 3 - While all poo may be stinky there is none so stinky as the one you curl out while in a friend’s house, leaving the bathroom only for his mother or sister that you fancy to greet you on the landing as they enter the now polluted airspace.

Theorum 4 - the length of the turtle’s tail divided by the percentage touching cloth will always equal ‘Prairie dog’.

With those four well-proven mathematical equations you can never go wrong. Except when you’re walking down Aungiers Street, you fart and have to go home to change your pants because you’ve followed through (known as the timbo sub-theorum).

Insects are cunts

by Twenty Major on June 7th, 2005

I know all God’s creatures have a place in the choir but insects are fucking cunts. As I was walking along last night a giant flying pterodactyl of a foreign cunt of an insect flew right into my mouth. Luckily my ninja reflexes kicked in and I managed to spit the little fucker out before he got a chance to fly down my neck and lay eggs in my stomach.

As he flew away I gave him a Patrick Swayze style round kick and as he lay on the ground I stomped him to death. The cunt. Then I pissed on his corpse and left his body there for all his insect chums to see.

Anyway, apart from bees who at least shit honey before they sting you in the eyeball, all other insects are useless cunts.

Spiders - ruthless killers.
Flies - shit eaters.
Beetles - crunchy wankers.
Woodworm - furniture eating shitehawks.
Those little armadillo cunts you find under stuff - little armadillo cunts.
Crickets - cheeping motherfuckers.
Wall mites - the worst cunts of them all.

The list goes on. So as you can see insects, like 2FM DJs, are cunts.

I went to school with a chap who would eat Daddylonglegs for a laugh but he was a bigger cunt than any insect I have ever met.

Hotel breakfasts

by Twenty Major on June 6th, 2005

Croissants? Muesili? Hard boiled eggs?

What the fuck is that about? There should be a code for hotel breakfasts worldwide. I don’t want bread rolls with thousands of little seeds on top. Seeds are for birds and possibly for growing marijuana plants, they’re certainly not for breakfast.

Breakfast should consist of sausages, rashers, eggs (fried, runny yolk), fried bread, black and white pudding, tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and toast. There should also be proper tea with lots of sugar not fucking camomile or green tea or raspberry tea or any fucking tea with the word ‘infusion’ in its name. I’ll infuse my boot up your arse if you bring that shite anywhere near me.

Anything else is stupid, gay and fucking crap. If we can have McDonalds that tastes the same no matter where in the world you go why can’t someone invent O’Breakfasts which would provide these delicious things to every hotel in the world so even if you’re in some Godforsaken shithole like I am you can still enjoy a hearty first meal of the day?

The sooner the world is exactly the way I want it the better and quite frankly I blame it all on Italians. Just because, that’s why.