Some questions

by Twenty Major on August 9th, 2005

Just how fucking fat would you have to be to get caught between the moon and New York city?

Is the real reason Irish showjumpers won’t ride with Cian O’Connor because they saw him sucking his horse’s cock?

Why don’t we give the Colombia 3 the choice of being sent to Colombia or re-entering the Earth’s orbit on the space shuttle Colombia?

If you crossed a panda with a suicide bomber would you get a Musling-ling?

Why is it illegal to batter someone to death for whistling ‘Don’t worry, be happy’?

Is it true that Commitments star Andrew Strong ate so much he burst like the fat man in the Monty Python film?

When you poo do you look down to check on size, shape, consistency and colour?

Answers on a postcard. Or in the comments….

Janey mac, me shirt is black…

by Twenty Major on August 8th, 2005

An old Dublin rhyme: Janey mac, me shirt is black, what’ll I do for Sunday? Get into bed and cover your head and don’t get up till Monday.

Sound advice you have to say.

‘Janey mac’ is used as an expression of astonishment or surprise, such as:

“Janey mac, I wonder who cut the head off that African man and dumped his corpse in the canal.”

or

“Janey mac, did I really hit that traveller with my car?”

You don’t really hear people say ‘Janey mac’ any more. It’s probably because proper swearing is much more acceptable now that in used to be. Now instead of ‘Janey mac’ we say ‘FUCKIN’ ‘ELL’ or ‘JAYSUS!’

I once knew a girl called Jane McCartney, no relation to talented Beatle and stump fucker Paul, you’ll be happy to know. People used to always tease her by saying ‘Janey mac’ to her a lot which wasn’t as offensive as saying “Hey Harelip! Fancy a carrot?” to her but it did get quite annoying and one day she clobbered Anto Shields around the face with her brother’s hurley, knocked most of his teeth out and left him a nice scar on his top lip.

“That’ll teach you to call me Harelip!” she yelled as made him one of his own.

“But he called you Janey mac” piped up little David Kenny.

“DON’T TELL ME WHAT I SAID” she howled and chased him around the streets for an hour trying to bash his head in. Most people gave up calling her Janey mac after that.

She left Dublin when she was around 17 to go work in London and then we heard she was a beggar working in Victoria Station. Jimmy the Bollix said he saw her when he spent his time living in there and shouted out ‘Janey mac!’ as a security guard was walking past her. She battered him to within an inch of his life before passers-by rescued him.

She died not long after when she found accomodation in a shelter and was being helped get her life back together. She was on the bottom bunk when an enormously girthsome woman collapsed the top one and crushed her to death.

Her final words? You guessed it.

“Fat cunt.”

Nial Quinn, drunk driver

by Twenty Major on August 5th, 2005

Can you believe that Niall Quinn, got done for drink driving last Friday? I know, like most of you, I feel totally gutted and let down by a man who was, without question, perfect up to now.

He played for Dublin and had a long footballing life in the Premiership, donated all the money from his testimonial to dying children and didn’t even take the money back off them after they died, and was forging a nice career for himself on TV as an analyst on Sky Sports.

But now we hear he drank a quarter of a pint more than the legal limit. A quarter of a pint. What was he thinking? There’s really no option but to make an example of him. Ban him from driving for 10 years, chuck in a nice fine and public flogging and we’re getting about half-way to what he deserves.

What about all the young, lanky, semi-talented footballers that looked up to him. What are they going to think? Will they still believe they can forge a mediocre career playing for mid-table teams and be a hero because their country’s stock of strikers is lower than Paris Hilton’s knickers on a first date? Will they be able to marry pretty girls who can go on to do washing powder ads? Will this see the end of the mullet’s popularity?

What were you thinking, Quinner? Why didn’t you have a shandy or a Kaliber with its wonderfully authentic alcohol free beer taste? Didn’t you ever see the ad on the telly where the lads after the game are goading the other lad into having just one more pint and then he thinks his car can fly and it lands on some kids in a garden?

So many questions, Niall. The country awaits your answers with baited breath. Honest.

Happy slapping

by Twenty Major on August 4th, 2005

Happy slapping is a craze invented by English youths who set upon an innocent person and kick the shite out of them while filming it on their mobile phones. They then send the footage of themselves kicking the crap out of the person to all their friends who then forward it to all their friends and so on.

It’s not the brightest thing in the world to do, let’s be fair. It’s sort of like robbing a bank then going into the pub with bags of money and telling everyone you robbed the bank. Sooner or later somebody who shouldn’t hear about will hear about. The same with the happy slapping. Soon, and I know this is hard to believe of the English youht these days, one of the friends of the a friend of one of the happy slappers will send the video to another youth who might object, on a moral basis, to a group of cunts kicking the fuck out of some poor bastard just because they feel like it. Then there’s a direct chain of evidence leading back to the first bunch of happy slappers who were stupid enough to film it in the first place.

It’s nearly as stupid as footballer Wayne Rooney leaving a note for the girl he shagged in his brothel creeping days. “Dear Jacinta, I shagged u on December 14th, 2004 at 11.34, luv Wayne Rooney, 43 High Street, Liverpool, Merseyside, England, Europe, Earth.” Just in case anyone was in any doubt about which Wayne Rooney it was.

Anyway, I digress. We in Ireland have had our first case of happy slapping when a bunch of 12 little twats in Nenagh (remember what I said about towns beginning with N? Search using the top bar if not), Co Tipperary, took it upon themselves to knock seven bells out of an 18 year old and film it along the way.

It shouldn’t be hard to trace the footage back and I suggest as a punishment all 12 of them have the shit kicked out of them on the Late Late Show. I’d be quite happy to do it and Pat Kenny can introduce me, and I know Jimmy would like to be involved too, and we can set about them with planks of wood, knuckle dusters and snooker balls in socks and see how they like being filmed while someone batters them senseless.

I’m not a religious man, as you all know, but that ‘eye for an eye’ bit in the Bible should move from apocrypha into common law. Rape someone - you get raped. Kill someone - you get killed. Rob someone - they get to rob you back. Have sex with a child - the child gets to have sex with you (in this case please replace ‘child’ with ‘AIDS riddled junkie’). Happy slap someone - you get happy slapped back.

The only way to put a stop to violent crime is to commit worse acts of violent crime on the original perpetrators. That’s a proper deterrent. If there’s one thing the bible can teach us it’s not love, it’s not understanding, it’s not forgiveness, it’s to commit acts of ferocity and savagery until the cunts stop once and for all.

Amen.

Hello BBC readers

by Twenty Major on August 3rd, 2005

Goodness, yesterday the BBC linked to me. Yes, they removed the ‘Hello cuntos’ part of my post and replaced ‘those Muslim lads’ with ‘July 7th bombers’ but no matter.

Twenty Major has now gone mainstream. Everyone in the world reads and trusts the BBC. It’s a TV and radio network without adverts which is quite fantastic. I know some people in the UK complain that they have to pay a TV licence but they get TV channels, a radio network which is second to none and probably the best news website there is for their money.

In Ireland we have to pay a TV licence as well but we get two cunty TV stations chock full of ads and Ryle Nugent, one half decent radio station and another radio station which thought it was a good idea to employ Gareth O’Callaghan and Tony Fenton for years and years and fuck all else. You Brits should count yourself lucky.

If it was up to me the TV licence should give us the right to veto shit we don’t want to watch plus we should be able to suggest our own programs like ‘Celebrity Love Twink’s house” where Abi Titmuss shags nobodies all over Ireland’s greatest panto star’s gaff opposite Superquinn in Knocklyon and ‘Law and Order - Abrekebabra Insepctor’s Unit’ where we discover week after week that the meat those cunts use in their kebabs is less meaty than Graham Norton is straight.

Anyway, if you have to have a dog licence a TV licence shouldn’t be any big hassle. Jimmy the Bollix had to have a licence for his south-east Asian housekeeper until she turned and he had to have her put down.

Licences are only a hassle if you’re a tight fisted cunt who wants everything for nothing.

Bluebottles are giant fly cunts

by Twenty Major on August 2nd, 2005

Despite the cold in Ireland I like to walk around my house in the nip. Sometimes I even like to stand at the windows, put my hands behind my head and sort of stretch out like when you have a stitch but that’s besides the point.

Anyway, not so long ago I finished my dinner (spaghetti carbanana, if you must know. Yes, carbanana. Pasta, cream and pieces of chopped banana. Try it. Seriously) and went and had a shower.

I patted myself almost dry then decided I would wander around the house to let the air dry those bits that a towel never gets completely dry. Men, and women with enormous hanging flaps, will know what I mean. So I was strolling down the hall when I saw a bluebottle flying towards me at something approaching waist height.

I faked a left, shimmied right then went back to the left to avoid it but it didn’t work. Which is a tremendous shame because the bluebottle flew right into the top of my helmet.

I took a good whack at it with the back of my hand and winged it I think but also thwacked myself right on the top of the knob. The pain of that I can deal with but the idea that a bluebottle, after George Best nature’s most disgusting creature, had touched my Jap’s eye has made me sick to my very stomach.

I went for another shower and scrubbed, in a non-pleasurable way I should add, for the longest time but even now I can feel the solid thump of it colliding with my langer. I think I’m going to have to vomit.

I’ve mentioned before how insects are cunts but bluebottles go right to the top of the pile, the cock loving fuckers.

Limerick lady loves large Lottery loot

by Twenty Major on August 1st, 2005

Dubtom makes an interesting point here about the Limerick woman who won €115m on the Euro Millions. She won all this money but went public with it. A foolish move indeed and Tom suggests that were he her husband he’d give her ’such a smacking’.

Probably best to wait until she put the money in the joint account first though, Tom.

Anyway, maybe she’s not as stupid as she seems. If you won €115m would you stay in Limerick? Fuck, no. I’d be gone like a shot. I’d spend my time flitting between my various mansions in various places in the world. Warm places where there isn’t so much rain and jumped up traveller families thinking they’re crime lords.

And my mansion would have a moat around it and a drawbridge and if anyone came looking to scrounge off me I’d just click a button and a trapdoor in the drawbridge would open and they’d fall into the moat where they’d have to deal with the crocodiles, piranhas and vicious manta rays. That’s if they even got that far because I’d have archers posted on the turrets on the enormously high walls that would surround my mansion but instead of archers they’d be bazookaers and would launch rockets at people.

Also, I would get a large vat and piss into it all day long and wait for a year until I had a year’s worth of piss then get one of those crop dusting planes and fly over Limerick and spray it with my piss, drastically improving the smell and hygiene of the place.

With that money you certainly do bring upon yourself the dangers of cunts who might want to relieve you of some of it but at the same time you have the funds and resources to kill them in many different painful ways.

It’s the circle of life.