Apologising

by Twenty Major on July 31st, 2006

Having to apologise when you don’t really mean is a pain in the arse. Like if you sent somebody an email from your work address and called them a cunt then the cunt publishes the email on his website and then you have to say you’re sorry when you’re really not because the cunt is a cunt and that’s why you called him a cunt.

You should always send emails calling people cunts from a non-work address, kids. If not your career prospects may not be enhanced.

I remember in my office working days a foolish boy doing a ‘reply all’ to an email that was sent by the Chief Exec. It was some typically nonsensical piece of crap that was supposed to motivate us, to make us believe that what we were doing was important and that the company was worth giving that little bit extra for instead of being a badly run, overspending, over-reaching, caught up in the tech boom disaster waiting to happen.

His reply: “If that cunt spent as much time working as sending these shitty emails things might be better around here. The bacon in the canteen might even be crispy of a morning!”

He was forced to apologise even though he didn’t mean it.

Like the time I walked into the canteen one day after we’d had a meeting with one of the bosses to find my fellow team mates sitting around a table.

“What a fucking cunt that cunt is”, I said.

I didn’t notice their faces dropping.

“Seriously, if he wasn’t the boss he’d be the butt of so many more jokes. He disgusts me. He’s a wimp. A fucking corporate wimp.”

He was sitting behind the pillar out of my sight.

“Oh”, I said. “Sorry about that.”

I wasn’t really sorry though. He was sorry that he couldn’t fire me however but that’s a different kind of sorry.

The Tour de France needs more drugs, not less…

by Twenty Major on July 28th, 2006

Oooh, the winner of the Tour de France tested positive for drugs. The sport is weeping as it was doing so much to clean up its image. People are devestated.

People are fucking fools.

I’m sure most of us have ridden a bike at some time. We all have stories of steep hills we had to climbs up.

“I remember how hard it was to cycle up the mountain to that pirate radio station when I was 16″

“I’ll never forget the hill I had to cycle up to get home through the houses. I remember trying to pedal but forgetting how when I was so drunk and falling off and landing on my snot”

If ordinary people like me and me have such problems cycling up relatively small hills how the fuck do you think it feels to pedal up the side of the Pyrenees then up the other side of Alps?

If someone had offered me drugs to get to the top of the hill where my house/pirate radio station used to be I’d have bitten their hands off. What do they expect when they make these poor fuckers cycle 150 miles a day for three weeks?

It’s no wonder they use drugs because if they didn’t the Tour would finish with 0 riders in Paris and that’s not really the spectacle the people who lines the streets of the Champs Elysee want to see.

They need to accept that making people cycle around the highest mountains in Europe for 21 days is actually as cruel an event as you could possibly get and that the blokes that do it deserve to power themselves however they see fit.

Yes, we would see serious advances in drugs that can keep you going all night so it’s not just professional cycling that will benefit. It’s club goers, nightclub owners, people who take lots of drugs and truck drivers. They need to see the bigger picture here.

Soon there will be super-drugs that will enable even the man on the street the take them and be able to bomb up the Alpe d’Huez and the Col d’Izoard.

Cyclists will be the fastest non-engine powered sportsmen on earth. If they take the drugs away they’re going to make it ordinary and let’s face it, they’re never going to get rid of the problem from the sport so they need to embrace narcotics, level the playing field and make the sport interesting again.

“Bags of speed. Get yer bags of speed, 5 for 50.”

Die you M50 cunts. Just die

by Twenty Major on July 27th, 2006

We don’t need extra lanes. We don’t need a spaghetti junction. We don’t need a dedicated lane for people driving from Ballymount to the N4.

We just need you to take away the cunting toll bridge which is the cause of ALL the delays and which has paid for itself twenty times over now.

They’re just doing more work so they can justify keeping and routinely increasing the toll.

I know we’re never ones for doing things the easy way but if option a is - Take away the toll bridge and let traffic flow and option b is - spend millions more which you don’t need to spend, make things worse in a half-arsed attempt to make it look like you want to make things better only to find the same fucking problem at the end of it, then you have to say we’re being very Irish going for option b.

Why will nobody kill these fuckers?

Just answer the question

by Twenty Major on July 27th, 2006

I do hate conversations like this.

“How far is it to X place?”

“Ooooh, I’d say it’s a good 45 minutes.”

Now, the first thing I would say is that I did not ask you how long it would take to get there. I asked you how far away it was. Therefore I would expect the answer to consist of a certain number of units of measurement. There are many acceptable forms…

“It is 14 miles away.”

“It is 22.530816 kilometres away.”

“It is 4.055 leagues away”

…and so on. Even if you couldn’t be that exact you could say “It’s quite far away indeed” or “It’s actually quite close”. That would be fine as follow up questions could help narrow things down a bit.

I do not understand people’s insistance in measuring distance with time. The second thing is that it’s a ‘good 45 minutes’.

Is there a difference between a bad 45 minutes and a good 45 minutes?

Perhaps a good 45 minutes means we will travel on a newly tarmacadamed EU funded road. A bad 45 minutes we have to travel a dirt track with a punctured and run the risk of attack from trolls, goblins, Romanians and other despicable underworld creatures.

It’s just wrong. If somebody asked you for the time you wouldn’t say “It’s delicious and minty!”. No, you would say that if somebody asked to describe a mojito. It’s the same thing.

Why can’t people just answer the questions they’re asked?

Have yourselves a ‘cunt in’, cunts.

by Twenty Major on July 26th, 2006

Watching the news last night and I saw our old chums the Irish Palestine Solidarity Campaign protesting outside the Israeli embassy in Dublin. You might remember these are the same people who couldn’t tell the difference between a Palestine Arab and an Israeli Jew on the Israeli national football team then tried to cover up their ignorance with some third rate photoshopping.

Yesterday they had a ‘die in’ outside the embassy. Tasteful, eh?

‘Shock tactics’ will really get your point across and not make people think you’re a bunch of cunts. Now, let me make it clear I’m not saying that because I’m pro-Israel or anything like. Each side has its own story and personally I could live without either of them. What they should do is move all the Israelis to some state in the US, perhaps Oregon (heh!), let them bring the wailing wall and the mount of olives and leave the middle-east to the rest of the cunts. Done and done.

The main problem I have with them is having an ‘in’. It doesn’t really matter how you try and dress it up an ‘in’ is fucking pathetic.

A ‘love in’ like John Lennon and Yoko Ono and lots of hippies (not at the same time) had.

A ’sit in’ like groups (what is the collective noun for students? It’s a cunt of students, right?) of students to protest that they have to do more than 10 hours of class a week. Ask the Chinese how their ‘Tiananmen in’ went.

A ‘dance in’ or a ‘guitar in’ or a ‘cook in’ or any other kind of ‘in’ is just fucking shit.

An ‘in’ appears to be nothing more than sitting around in a confined space doing fuck all. If they were really so passionate about it why didn’t they have a ‘chuck bricks through the Israeli embassy’s windows in’?

Ins are nothing more than a coward’s way out and at least if you’re going to have a ‘die in’ at least actually fucking die you stupid cunts otherwise it’s just an ‘acting dead in’.

Morons.

Suicide attempts

by Twenty Major on July 25th, 2006

“Jaysus, did hear about Noel Quinn?”, asked Dirty Dave.

“Naughty Noel Quinn or Notshot Noel Quinn?”, I asked in return.

“Notshot!”

Now, naughty Noel was a bit of a character. He was just like a naughty boy and would do things, even at his age, that most 10 year olds wouldn’t do. Like fling eggs and buses and do knick-knacks where he’d ring on someone’s doorbell and then run off.

Notshot Noel was the worst footballer I have ever seen in my life. When we were young we used to play on the same team and he always used to play, every week without fail, because his Dad, Quimface Quinn, was the manager. Noel was so bad that he’d make Kevin Kilbane look a decent player. Despite being a striker he hardly ever scored and if he did it was by accident. He once missed an open goal from 3 inches. He’s that bad.

“So what happened to Notshot?”

“The mad cunt only tried to kill himself.”

“Get out. What happened?”

“Well, he got a gun off his cousin, who’s a farmer somewhere in Meath and tried to shoot himself. He missed though.”

True story.

People that only try to kill themselves and don’t manage it are a bit shit though, aren’t they? If you really wanted to kill yourself there’s really no way you can fail. Overdose, gun in the mouth, hanging, jumping off a tall building, falling on your sword, cutting your genitals off then choking yourself to death on your own genitals, cyanide, slitting your wrists, being found dead under a tree after the BBC exposes you as a mole about the war in Iraq, over-exposure to Phil Collins singing ‘In the air’ tonight, the possibilities are endless.

Anyone who can’t top themself obviously is completely crap. If you can’t even do something as simple as kill yourself then you can fuck off.

And if you’re too rubbish at life to do that then you just need to embrace your hopelessness, go out and have a few pints, a large bag of chips and not worry anymore.

Anyone who has ‘attempted suicide’ more than once and is still around just needs to be put down. It’s best for all concerned.

Stupid questions

by Twenty Major on July 24th, 2006

Stinking Pete came over the other night to have a few drinks and watch a fillum. All the new stuff is pretty crap so it was an old classic, ‘Blazing saddles’.

The titles come up and Pete asks “Is Technicolor© a person?”

“You what?”, I said convinced he was taking the piss.

“It’s not a person, is it?”

“No, Stinking Pete. Technicolor© is not a person. Jesus wept.”

It’s just another addition to the list of stupid questions he’s asked over the years.

“Do ants have antlers?”

“Can you eat a cloud?”

“If you put your eyeball up your nose and it was still connected with all the same wires and stuff could you see out your nose?”

“Do pyramids have double glazing?”

“How did they get Hitler’s ball to the Albert Hall anyway?”

“What would happen if the number 7 just didn’t exist any more?”

“Do wasps have hands?”

“How would Rapunzel have let down her hair if she was deaf?”

“Are Mormons mammals or lizards?”

There have been loads more. I just can’t think of them.

What’s the most stupid question anyone ever asked you?

You fucking fuckers

by Twenty Major on July 22nd, 2006

I really hate when you’re reading a book and enjoying the book and given the amount of pages remaining you think you’ve got loads to go then you discover that the last 20 pages are an ‘exclusive preview of [[author's]] next novel’.

YOU FUCKING CUNTS GETTING MY HOPES UP LIKE THAT.

Stop it you publisher cunts. Just stop it. If the book is good I’ll buy the fucker’s next book anyway.

Gah.

Extra value booze!

by Twenty Major on July 21st, 2006

Most of you know that I love booze but there’s nothing better than going on the piss and waking up the next morning and still being drunk. It’s tremendous value.

You’re drunk the night before and you’re drunk the next day. It’s like going on the piss when you’re alseep and you don’t have to pay anything.

I have to give thanks to a very beautiful friend though for ensuring I got home safely last night. She went to my house and took Bastardface out for a walk and then picked me up at Rons at which point I insisted she come in for a nightcap or three with Bastardface in tow.

The dog looked at me suspiciously as I hugged him drunkely and he tried to eat Stinking Pete’s feet because he’d dripped kebab sauce all over them.

He doesn’t look especially engorged this morning so I assume Pete still has his feet.

The last thing I remember is my beautiful friend insisting that handicapped people smelled like mushrooms and that cripples smelled like something else but I can’t remember what. It might have been ‘their own wee’ but I just don’t recall.

Right, I’m off to enjoy being drunk in the morning until the headache kicks in. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Cut up method

by Twenty Major on July 20th, 2006

I was reading about David Bowie the other week and it was interesting to discover his ‘cut up’ method for his lyrics. Basically he’d write a lot of lyrics, then cut them up into single lines, throw them all in the air, take a lot of cocaine then put them back together randomly to find the lyrics for his songs.

For example,

I, I wish I could swim.
Like conger eels, like conger eels can swim

was quickly discarded when he found a piece of paper with the word dolphin on it.

So, I decided to do something similar but with booze instead of cocaine as drugs are bad, mmmkay and Derek the dealer was nowhere to be found. I wrote 10 blog posts and I’ll take a line from each one and put them together randomly. Here goes:

- I can remember as a small child looking out my bedroom window one night and seeing a cat underneath the tree in the garden and thinking it was a sabre-tooth tiger.

- Not long afterwards a quiet hush descended on the room as Stinking Pete let the loudest fart anybody had ever heard.

- “Yeah? Come over and say that you chicken shit piece of dog spunk”, I shouted as yer man ran shrieking out the back door.

- Twice as many people from Ghana revealed that they would rather listen to Wang Chung’s ‘Everybody have fun tonight’ than spend an hour in the company of former Boyzone star Shane Lynch.

- And with that the old man revealed to me the meaning of life, all the secrets of the universe and how to make an elixir which would bring eternal youth and I’ll tell you what it is on the very next line.

- I ask you, would you be able to get the image of MIchael McDowell gently opening Mary Harney’s flaps before sticking his forked tongue in and out of it while the Minister for Health made strange bleating noises?

- If I had to cast a live action Irish blogger’s version of the Muppets I’d hire Damien Mulley and Gavin Sheridan as Waldorf and Stadler - they’re not as grumpy as the originals but those Cork accents are just funny enough to make up for it.

- So first you get some butter, melt the butter, slap it on generously and then insert it into the obvious place making sure not to get it caught on any of the barbs as they can cause serious injury.

- “Get fucking cunted you cunting wankstained shit-eating, cock smoking, piss drinking, mutant faced cunthammering cuntbag fistoholic”, said the old lady to the small child.

- So, as you can see the way to solve the crisis in the middle-east is to send all fat people to live there after we’ve smeared them with coarse cut orange marmalade and dressed them up like the Artane Boy’s Band.

And there you have it. Maybe I need a tune to make it all work. The Laughing Gnome, perhaps?