The war on terror

by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2005

The war on terror is going badly. People are being blown up every day, there is fear throughout the world and everyone knows it’s all the fault of Muslims who started this whole thing when they invented fundamentalism and beards.

So how can we save ourselves from this terrible threat? War is not the answer as America is finding out. Muslims can disguise themselves as normal citizens and strike at any time because they all look the same. I have done some research though and have discovered a number of ways in which this threat can be overcome:

- Muslims are afraid of the dark. America must simply invent an agent which makes them all blind and they will run around terrified, bonking heads together and collapsing on the ground before pushing themselves around and around in circles with their hind legs.

- If you pour beer over a Muslim Jews sprout out almost immediately in the same way Gremlins appear when you spill water on Gizmo. That will increase the peace.

- Muslims are incredibly short people and they wear long robes to hide their stilts. Introducing woodworm, where possible, will slow them down enormously.

- Muslims cannot resist knock-knock jokes. A skilled knock-knocker could keep a whole army occupied for days. An example:

Knock-Knock
Who’s there?
Koran.
Koran who?
Koranberry juice.
If I wasn’t so amused by that I would kill you like the dog you are.

- Muslims believe they will get to have all kinds of kinky sex with 72 virgins when they get to heaven. Little do they know catholics get 96.5 virgins when they go to heaven so the lustful muslims can be converted them BAM we lay the 6th commandment on them.

- Muslims are totally colour blind and only see in black and white. Simply move the war to the arctic circle and dress in white romper suits. They won’t last pissing time.

- They say that if you run around the Hellfire Club backwards at the stroke of midnight saying the Hail Mary backwards then the devil will appear to you. In the same way if you run around The Dome on the Rock backwards singing Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen the prophet Mohammed will appear and perform a rap for peace.

- Muslims always kneel in the direction of Mecca when they pray. Just move Mecca a bit to the left and all the power of those prayers end up in Tajikstan and since nobody has ever heard of that place it doesn’t exist and can cause us no harm.

- Muslims know how to treat a woman right having been taught many years previous by Barry White. Send in an army of beautiful women wearing skimpy clothes and they’ll distract them long enough for pinpoint laser guided missiles to take out strategic military installations.

- In Arabic 2+2=7 so ask a Muslim to hold onto your hand grenade which is primed to go off at 4.

- Muslims worship that really tall woman from 80s sitcom the Golden Girls because of her manly voice. Recruit her as a spy then send her on a concert tour of Muslim countries. Nobody would be any the wiser.

- An anti-Muslim cloaking device can be made by heating solid sodium acetate trihydrate (NaCH3CO2 �3 H2O) then adding 2 teaspoons of caster sugar, a dash of lime juice and some freshly chopped coriander.

Never let it be said they weren’t told.

People who don’t do what they’re told

by Twenty Major on November 29th, 2005

I’m sure all of you have experience of this. Whether it’s a child who will not pick up the clothes off their bedroom floor or a stubborn twat who will not do things the way you want them to be done it’s a frustrating thing.

The worst though is someone who is too stupid to understand that when you say ‘John, please do not do that again. If faced with that situation again do this’ and then you explain what ‘this’ is in really easy steps. In fact, you might go so far as to make a document with step by step instructions for them to consult should they ever have any doubts. Then when faced with that situation again they go and do their own thing, wilfully ignorning your precise instructions despite their promises to do what you said when you last spoke to them about it.

People who do this need to be killed. There is absolutely no hope of rehabilitation because they’re so stupid they think they’re clever and capable and are using their initiative when in fact they are disobeying direct instructions which if they were as clever as they thought they were they’d simply carry out without any kerfuffle at all.

So John does this thing yet again and you say to him “Listen John, you fucking moron, when I tell you to do something in a particular way I expect you do it that way. I don’t expect you to do it your own way especially when even a thick cunt like you can see that the outcome of doing it your way can only mean that your way of doing it is shit. My way, the way I asked you to do it, is not shit. Now John, I spent some of my precious time writing a document for you in case my verbal explanation, which a mongo licking the window of the special bus on his way to the work in the community project would have understood, was too complex for that shrivelled sack of piss that passes for your brain. But still you chose to ignore that document and went ahead and did it differently.

I know that you understand English, John, because you’re very fucking quick to cop on when you need something so I am at a loss to understand why you did it again when I asked you not to do it that way. Perhaps some people might say you suffer from a condition like ADD or Selective Comprehension. I’d say those people are cunts. What you suffer from, John, is not enough pain when you do something wrong. I am telling you now, and I want you to look at me when I say this you sniveling little shitepipe, if you ever, ever, ever choose your way over my way again I am going to punch you as hard as I can in the face. Do you understand. I will say it again:

I. AM. GOING. TO. PUNCH. YOU. AS. HARD. AS. I. CAN. IN. THE. FACE.

Is that clear? Just nod if it is. I’m sure even the motion of moving your head up and down is not beyond a cretinous chump like you. You’re nodding. Good, John. That’s very good. Now don’t forget what I said.”

Yesterday I punched John as I hard as I could in the face. And he was actually surprised.

Some people are too fucking stupid for words.

Emergency services

by Twenty Major on November 28th, 2005

*bring bring*

“Hello, 999. What is your emergency?”

“Good evening. I would like to book a fire brigade for tomorrow evening, please.”

“What?”

“I said I would like to book a fire brigade for tomorrow evening.”

“Erm…that’s not possible. This line is only for reporting emergencies happening at present. Do you have an emergency right now?”

“Obviously I don’t or I would have said I need a fire brigade now. However, I am going to have an emergency tomorrow night and surely some advance warning would increase your response time.”

“Sir, that is very considerate of you but unless you’re Nostradamien there’s no way you can know if there’s going to be an emergency, specifically a fire, tomorrow night.”

“Well, you’re right in that I’m not ‘Nostradamien’. I’d imagine it was the fact I’m not speaking in rhymed quatrains that gave it away. Nevertheless I can assure you there is going be an emergency, specifically a fire, tomorrow night.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I’m going to start it.”

“You’re going to start it?”

“Yes, I’m going to start it.”

“I see. Do you mind me asking why?”

“Yes, I mind.”

“Ok, so where are you going to start it?”

“I haven’t quite decided yet. Probably around the groinal area although the face might be good.”

“You’re going to set a person on fire?!”

“How perceptive of you.”

“Sir, I must advise you that setting people on fire is illegal and as this call is being recorded and easy to trace I think you should reconsider your plan or you could face some very serious consequences.”

“What kind of a country are we living in where setting people on fire is illegal? It’s madness. I mean, if Buddhist monks can set themselves on fire and they are the most peaceful people on the planet why can’t we set people on fire who thoroughly deserve it?”

“It’s a good point but it does not change the fact that it’s illegal. And if this person offends you so much why do you want the fire brigade to arrive and probably save them.”

“It would be much better if they lived and suffered hideous scarring rather than dying and not living for years with their affliction. We’re talking about history’s greatest monster here.”

“You’re going to set Damien Rice on fire?”

“I’m afraid he has left me with no choice. I read today that he is in the studio making a new album. I can’t let that happen, I won’t let that happen and I can’t let that happen.”

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Knock him unconscious, strip him and wrap him in clingfilm before you set him alight. That shit will melt right into his skin.”

“Cheers, much obliged. Anyway, how’s 9pm for you?”

“Perfect.”

“All right, see you then.”

*click*

“All set Jimmy. I’m just going out to get some clingfilm.”

George Best died

by Twenty Major on November 26th, 2005

So George Best died.

In entirely unrelated news 18 vineyards in France have announced their immediate closure.

It’s not a fair fight

by Twenty Major on November 25th, 2005

“Twenty”, said Stinking Pete, “Who do you think would win in a fight between Godzilla and Enya?”

“Enya”, I said. “No question about it.”

“Do you really think so? You’d have to admit that Godzilla certainly has an advantage in height, weight, reach, strength and, I would imagine, in razor sharp teeth.”

“You’re not wrong there, Stinking Pete, and I’d also say that Godzilla has a distinct advantage as he has large claws whereas Enya has been a nail biter since she was 6 years old and has to ask passers-by to open a can of coke for her.”

“Jaysus. So why do you think she’d win.”

“Well, people think Enya uses sophisticated studio techniques to produce those harmonic vocals but that is just what they want people to believe.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, Stinking Pete, that is right. In actual fact Enya has mutated vocal cords which allow her to sing 16 separate parts at the same time, in stereo, so we’re talking 32 tracks and that’s more than your average mixing desk. As well as that she has a 6 octave range.”

“6 octaves? By the great flabby gash of Liza Minelli. The Roland Corporation would love a keyboard that powerful.”

“Once again you are not incorrect. It was rumoured that in the early 90s Albert Reynolds tabled the idea of using Enya as a sub-sonic weapon instantly making Ireland the most powerful nation on earth. He was only talked out of it when the full implications of unleashing that kind of terror on mankind were fully explained to him. It’s no coincidence his political favour fell not long after.”

“And I thought it was because he was a shifty, crooked old bastard. The things you know, Twenty, the things you know.”

“Aye, so you see, despite his massive presence, his two tons of muscle, his scaly - almost impenetrable - hide, his claws and teeth and appetite for destruction, Godzilla wouldn’t have got near Enya before she sang the scales at him and due to his incredible animalistic hearing his brain would have exploded in his head within seconds. In fact she’d take out all of your legendary top monsters. King Kong, Cyclops, Gargantuas, Manticores, Chimeras, Krakens, Mary Harney. She’d destroy them all in the wobble of a vocal cord.”

“Janey mac, I never knew Enya was so dangerous. Is there nothing that can stop her?”

“I made some calculations one night and by my reckoning the only thing that could possibly stop her is the offspring of Kris Kristofferson and Sharon Tate.”

“Erm, but wasn’t Sharon Tate brutally murdered by The Manson Family like 30 years ago, Twenty?”

“Oh fuck, you’re right. God help us all, Stinking Pete. God help us all.”

Wine

by Twenty Major on November 24th, 2005

I like wine. I don’t like whine.

That is all.

Update: It has been brought to my attention that certain Chardonnay drinkers feel this post to be lame which only goes to prove my point as I like Chardonnay but I do not like being called lame by people who like Chardonnay.

So much so that I may not use a match in the bathroom.

Further update: I ate a steak so big last night that Bastardface can smell the meat that is oozing from my very pores. So much so he is whining and attempting to lick the meaty sweat from my hairy palms.

Even further update: It appears that the steak I ate, in various chunks last night, reconstituted itself in my bowels and I have just done an incredible, if slightly uncomfortable, steak shaped poo.

Thankfully I did not the eat the T-bone last night.

Tagging

by Twenty Major on November 23rd, 2005

No, I don’t mean those things put at the end of their blogs so search engines can more easily find relevant information. I mean electronic tagging of criminals which is one of the measures set to be put in place by Fuhrer Minister for Justice, Michael McDowell.

Now, I’m not a great fan of McDowell. I think he’s a fat-faced clit but I most heartily endorse tagging. Not only because it makes it easier for police to know where these scumbags are at all times (can’t you just see them sitting round a radar device with little dots on the move - “Oh, dere goes de Viper, the sly cunt”) but because it will absolutely wreck the heads of people who support things like human rights and treat others as you wish to be treated merchants.

While they bleat about ‘Big Brother’ and that kind of stuff us law-abiding citizens can rest easier knowing that it’s harder for crims to do their thing as a GPS tracking device records their every move. And who can argue that it wouldn’t be a good idea to tag all known paedophiles? Seeing as they won’t castrate them, nor will they let them loose to groups of bloodthirsty vigilantes, doesn’t it make sense to implant a chip which will let them be found at a moment’s notice?

Little Johnny’s missing? Let’s go check out the Paedotracker©® and find out where he might be. Even better would be the ability to send an electric current which would render them limp and useless (like their willies around an adult of the opposite sex) at the push of a button. Sure, there might a few accidents when those of them driving cars careered across the street they were driving down and mowed down a group of eldery ladies on their way to bingo but you have to take the rough with the smooth.

Leaving aside those cunts we could tag all newborns so those hilarious occassions when parents go home with the wrong baby could be avoided. What about tagging all immigrants until they find a job? Are your local travellers travelling or are they in their caravans dishing out the clothes they’ve stolen from your washing line? Anyone suspected of terrorism - tagged. Ian Paisley - tagged. Westlife, Damien Rice, Brian ‘priest fucker’ Kennedy - tagged, no, we’d just shoot that fairy voiced cunt.

And what if, just in case of some high-tech wizardry and they managed to disable the tag or poo it out or something, we tagged them with a tattoo on the face? Something like a a bar code or that yin and yang symbol which would be hilarious.

And then what if we made all the people we tagged live in what might politely be called gated communities? It would mean that we were safe from them and they were safe from us. We could appoint certain members of our community to work with theirs to ensure that they resisted the temptation to try and breach the 16 foot high electrified gates and razor wire that kept them safe.

And to make sure nobody got things mixed up our people could wear …erm… let’s see… uniforms and their people could wear something like …uhm… jumpsuits so everybody would know who was who. And they could work within their gated communities and for the good of the rest of mankind we could perhaps carry out important research on them in areas such as genetics, gene splicing, disease control and many other areas which could benefit people in general.

All the conveniences these things would bring to society would not be available without electronic tagging so before you start thinking it’s a step too far or that the minister’s proposals are over the top just think of all the good it could do.

Hmmmmm? See….

Technorati Tags: cunt, gated communities, mcdowell, tagging, tags

An Italian trick

by Twenty Major on November 22nd, 2005

Dirty Dave’s sworn enemy came into Ron’s for a pint last night.

Pristine Pascal and Dave used to be great mates when they were kids but their very natures drove them apart. While Dave is a mangy, malorodous minger Pascal is a dirt-free, decontaminated dandy. He seems to think he was educated at Oxford or Cambridge and brought up in Kensington when in fact he went to a Christian Brothers school and grew up in the inner city the son of a Guinness barge worker.

“Why if it isn’t David!” he exclaimed as he came in. “What a long time it’s been.”

“Ah shite”, said Dave. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Uncouth as ever. It is reassuring to know that no matter how much my life changes for the better your remains inexorably the same.”

“Exocet my hoop, you cunt.”

“Very droll, I’m sure. Still keeping the same charming company, I see. Mr Major. Mr the Bollix. I do hope this evening finds you well.”

“It was better a few minutes ago”, I said, “but you could drop dead any minute. Always have to look on the bright side.”

“Few things have been getting on top of me, now that you ask”, said Jimmy.

“I am sorry to hear that. What kind of things?”, asked Pascal.

“Your mum.”

“Such dexterous wit, Mr the B. Ronald, a pint for me, if you please.”

Ron mumbled something under his breath and set the Guinness tap flowing.

“So David, my mephitic mate, how are ‘tricks’, as they say? Still doing that thing that you do? What is it that you do again?”

“I’m a product tester for Palmolive as well you know. You still doing that thing you do?”

“Yes, yes. Going splendidly, I must say. Real estate is a wonderful business to be in. Everyone always wants property. If you ever felt like selling that ghastly 2 up, 2 down you live in I could know a quarter percent off my commission, for old times sake.”

“The only reason I’d sell that place is so I could spend all the money on a gold plated, diamond encrusted baseball bat to beat you to death with, you wankbag.”

“Ahahahahahahahahahahahahaha”, laughed Pristine Pascal. “You, not at literally, slay me, David, my pungent pal.

Just then his mobile went and he excused himself while he went outside to get a better signal. Ron put his pint down on the bar. Dave was seething.

“I hate that poxy cunt, the miserable shitebag. If I was walking down the road and I saw him lying the street after being hit by a car, his limbs bent and cracked, I’d fucking piss on him before standing on his neck to finish him off.”

In the meantime Lucky Luciano was standing up and reaching down his backside as if trying to free something. His hand was down there for some time. He then took his index finger and wiped it around the rim of Pascal’s pint. We all just looked at him.

“Is a-old Italian tradition. In a-Livorno is a-when you a-become a man when you father teaches you a-the finger di merda.”

Just then Pascal came back in. “Another €1m sale. It’s just so easy. Well, cheers to you all. Let us imbibe like gentlemen.”

He took a great big gulp of his Guinness and frowned. He did that thing where you stick you stick your tongue in and out of your mouth really fast. He took another taste and gagged.

“Goodness Ronald, this beer tastes like shit”, he said, stupidly, to Ron the barman who hadn’t seen Lucky’s little trick.

The whole bar fell silent. You just don’t tell Ron his Guinness tastes bad. Pascal began to stammer apologies. Ron just stared at him till he stopped.

“You have three seconds to get out of here or I’m going to shove that pint glass up your hole then pull it out so fast your rectum will prolapse and it’ll take a team of surgeons 8 hours to put it all back provided I don’t ask Twenty to go and get Bastardface to come in and eat your arse while your arse is still attached to you but on the outside.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and he flounced out the door in a pretend huff but he was really bricking it.

“Fair fucking play, Lucky Luciano!” said Dirty Dave. “Put it there” and he shook hands with the Italian despite Lucky’s pooey finger.

But Dirty Dave is so dirty he never even noticed.

Films

by Twenty Major on November 21st, 2005

I’m not much a film buff to be honest. Most of them are utter, utter shite but it is a massive industry and some people do take it all very seriously. Actors talk about themselves as ‘artists’ when in reality they’re about as artistic as the bloke who comes and paints your house magnolia. Most of them cunts, some of them are not. Gabriel Byrne used to come into Ron’s for a pint every now and again around the time he was married to that girl whose face was on sideways.

“Get a round in” we’d shout at him from the other end of the bar and he’d do just that. Sound man. He told us a few stories about some of the people he’s worked with. Apparently Arnold Shwarzenegger has the worst BO he’d ever smelt, Will Smith had the smallest penis he’d ever seen on a black man and Benicio del Toro used to tell a story about how he once went to bed with an Iranian woman who, while he was going down on her, vomited out of her gee and into his mouth. And he liked it, the animal.

I’m also not very fond of the cinema. It’s just too common for me and if I want to watch a fillum I certainly don’t want to be surrounded by tracksuit wearing skangers eating like they haven’t been fed for weeks when their enormous bellies and flabby-arsed girlfriends show that couldn’t be further from the truth. These modern ciniplexes are a haven for scuttery youths, aren’t they?

I may have mentioned previously but the noise of people eating is almost unbearable to me. In a restaurant it’s ok because there is the noise of chatter and plates smashing as the inexperienced, non-English speaking immigrant waiter/waitress lets a stack tumble but in the cinema, despite the Dolby triple decker surround sound stereo it is still possible to hear someone ruslting their bag of peanut M&Ms before crunching a handful, washed down with some popcorn and a fistful of nachos. I want to kill those people slowly and painfully.

My favourite film of all time is the Rodney King video.

Blogs are more popular than Jesus

by Twenty Major on November 18th, 2005

John Lennon was once called all sorts of names for suggesting that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus but my blog is certainly more popular than Jesus and miles fucking better than those Liverpudlian cunts who just can’t stand the pace, can they? 2 down, 2 to go.

Yesterday more than 650 people visited Twenty Major. Despite having not been to mass for a long, long time I can’t imagine there were too many churches with that many people in them for the 11 o’clock mass last Sunday. Not unless they’ve started having the readings done by topless models and I don’t think they have.

Maybe the Church need to focus its energy on new ways of communicating with its flock.

Friday, November 18, 2005
FRESH MEAT

Saying evening mass last night. There was a new altar boy. Could NOT take my eyes of his arse. Man, good job the pulpit was in the way. Looked like someone was trying to put up a tent in my vestments.

The Bishop rang earlier said he has to talk to me about something. ‘Child a goose’ I think he said. No idea what he’s on about, the doddery old queen

Tomorrow’s my visit to the local orphanage to spread the seed word of God. Full details tomorrow!

posted by Father Dick @ 11:41 AM

Perhaps it’s not such a good idea after all.

What is a good idea though is if you buy a book. Books are good and books which feature me are especially good. Tim Worstall has put together a collection of the best blog posts of 2005 - 2005 Blogged - and despite his shameless begging I only let him use one of mine. I’m not telling you which one though. I am waiting for my copy to drop through my letterbox any day now.

If you haven’t already had it on pre-order with Amazon buy a copy now and a small percentage of the profits from each book will go to a foundation struggling to find a cure for Phil Collins. You have a responsibility to mankind to help so buy the book.