Go find it boy, go on!

by Twenty Major on November 9th, 2006

“Here, Pizza boy!”, said Stinking Pete.

“What a you want, you filthy Irish pork?”, replied Lucky Luciano, the compassionate assassin.

“I want to hire you to do a job”, he roared.

“Is a better if you speak quietly as amyone with a half a brain know. Who you want me to kill?”

“The bloke who stole Phil Lynnot’s hand and guitar.”

“Is a dead. I’m a not kill anyone that rob a grave.”

“No, you pasta eating shitebag, the statue of Phil Lynnot on Harry Street. Some robbed his hand and his guitar?”

“Who is it?”

“Phil Lynott!”

“No, you a stupid prick. Who is a the person who steal it?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“Porco dio! You a know what I do, Stinking a Pete?”

“Yeah, you knock people off. You help them kick the bucket. You cap them. You rub them out. If there’s someone to be snuffed you snuff them. You…”

“Yeah, very good. Is any part which say I am private detective?”"

“Well, not exact-”

“IS ANY PART WHICH SAY I AM PRIVATE DETECTIVE?”

“No.”

“Well then a how you expect me to know whom I’m a gonna kill?”

“That’s a fair point. Someone must have seen him though. I mean, you don’t carry off the hand and guitar of Phil Lynott without anyone seeing you. Can you imagine somebody walking down Grafton Street in Rome or O’Connell Street in Turin with the hand and guitar of Zucchero or Lucio Battisti? Why did nobody stop them? Why?”

“I have idea. You go a look for the hand and guitar. When you find tell me and I will a kill the person and I give you a 10% discount.”

“Deadly idea! You’re a fucking legend Lucky Luciano.”

That was a week ago. We haven’t seen Pete since. Lucky is my hero.

Shove ‘exquisite’ up your hole

by Twenty Major on November 8th, 2006

In the paper this morning they report that Bertie’s daughter, Cecilia Ahern, has signed a deal to write a comedy show for US network ABC. Her agent say she’s got an ‘exquisite sense of humour’.

‘Exquisite’ is not a word I would generally associate with a sense of humour. You might use it do describe art or jewellery or you could say that somebody has exquisite taste in home furnishings or clothes or something but you wouldn’t, unless you were a pretentious cunt of the highest order, describe somebody’s sense of humour as exquisite.

It really is a wanky word which makes me quite angry. If somebody said ‘Oh, she has such exquisite taste’ I would think ‘You mean she has enough money to buy all the shit that people with lots of money can buy without actually knowing anything about anything but they just buy it because that’s what all the other rich people do.’

It’s a shit word for cunts and twats.

A good word to describe somebody’s sense of humour is ‘wicked’. You could also use ‘ribald’, ‘warped’, ‘twisted’, ‘classic’, ‘dry’, ‘biting’ or ‘dark’.

Those are just some of the words that would make people interested in a writer of a comedy show. If they think the humour is going to be gilded, draped with a beautiful linen throw then hand-stitched and flecked with diamante they probably won’t be arsed. Can you imagine her knock-knock jokes?

*Knock Knock”
Who’s there?
Doctor?
I’m afraid the master didn’t call any doctor and as such I shall not allow you to enter. Good day to you, Sir.

Did nobody at ABC read any of her books? They’re about as funny as cancer of the eyes.

What fucking pact with the devil has this bitch made?

Jimmy in the kitchen

by Twenty Major on November 7th, 2006

Not many people know that Jimmy the Bollix has a son. His name is Jimmy Junior and he is the progeny of Jimmy and the girl from the Bangles called Michael.

She was a red-headed lady and Jimmy was always a sucker for them. As I’m sure you all know he spent some time in America in the past and this was around the time when the Bangles were at their peak. He ended up doing security for them on one of their tours and had to turn down the advances of the very sexy Susannah Hoffs because he was already smitten with Michael.

Michael, despite her name, was all woman in such a way as to make Lisa Stansfield herself seem masculine, and she and Jimmy embarked on a torrid affair for the duration of the tour. It came as a big shock to him when she revealed she was pregnant just before Jimmy was due to fly back to Ireland.

Even though he is a total and utter cunt Jimmy is not a complete cunt and he has endeavored to stay in Jimmy Junior’s life despite the great distance between them. Sometimes the young fella comes over to Dublin and we entertain him by running over travellers, giving beggars coins that they can’t spend anywhere and drinking pints of Guinness. To be fair he wasn’t really able to handle them till he got to about 9 years of age but he’s a grand lad for the pints now.

There isn’t a birthday, Christmas or other important event in the kid’s life that passes without his Dad sending a present or being involved in some other way. He’s still good pals with Michael herself and recently went over when she phoned him up and told him she was being stalked by Dolph Lundgren. Jimmy did what Rocky Balboa couldn’t do at the first attempt and knocked him into the middle of next week even as Grace Jones tried to tear his eyes out, the mad cunt.

Last time he came over though Jimmy Junior wanted to learn how to cook. As I’m a master chef Jimmy sought advice from me. I came over to his place the night before Junior arrived and went through a variety of recipes with him. Indian, Chinese, Italian, Thai, French, Japanese, there wasn’t a thing he couldn’t cook by the time I was finished.

As it turned out the young fella wanted to cook Chinese food. Jimmy went through the various things I had taught him but Junior was having some problems with his stir fry. His vegetables just weren’t crunchy enough and his prawns weren’t sizzly enough.

Having paid close attention to my lessons the previous night Jimmy knew it was a problem of technique. As I said to him:

“Jimmy, the best Chinese chefs are total fucking spastics. Seriously, they are idiots of the highest order. To be able to cook as well as them you have to become one of them, be like they are, act like they act”.

With that in mind Jimmy went about telling Junior how to sort out his stir-fry woes.

“Listen here, Jimmy Junior”, he said, “your Uncle Twenty was round here last night teaching me how to cook this stuff and here’s what he said. He said all Chinese chefs are foolish and act like cretinous simpletons in the kitchen. If you want to cook like they cook you have to be the same way. You have to act like a moron or a nincompoop or a gobshite of some kind. Once you get inside their minds and behave like a halfwit, pinheaded loon your Chinese food will be as good as anyone else’s.”

Little Jimmy, always willing to please and happy to learn, looked at him slightly puzzled. He nearly had it.

“I almost understand what you mean, Da. Almost.”

Jimmy thought for a minute then it was like a lightbulb went off above his head.

“It’s easy”, he said, “Wok like an eejit, son!”

Bertie is a witless cretin

by Twenty Major on November 6th, 2006

Talking to TV3 the Taoiseach spoke about the problematic time he’s had of late. He said:

“Somebody or some group tried to get rid of me, there’s no doubt. I’ve no idea [who they might be], you could speculate until the cows come home but sure I’d only be passing rumour upon rumour.”

Fair enough, but then he says:

“[There was one group] very persistently trying to bury me. It was quite obvious who they were, I’m not going to personalise it but it was quite obvious who they were.”

So either he did know or he didn’t know or the man is so fucking confused all the time he hasn’t a clue what’s going on.

“I didn’t get any loans. No, I did get some loans. I never had a bank account. Oh, I did have a bank account but it was dormant. It only happened once. Well, it happened another time as well. Today is Monday. Today is Thursday, in fact.”

Jesus Christ on a fucking saddleless bicycle the man is a fucking moron and what’s worse is that after all the shite, after the lies and the spoofing and the stuttering bollocks he spouted his approval ratings actually went up.

We shouldn’t be surprised though. This is a nation that will put up with pretty much anything from anyone.

‘Oh, raped and killed my entire family, did you? Ahh, sure I knew your father and he was a grand man. Don’t do it again though you cheeky little scamp.”

I think I might create my own nation. Declare independence from the Republic. Twentyland, it’ll be called, and I will be its benevolent dictator. Only €20 entry. Who’s in?

Ted Haggard

by Twenty Major on November 5th, 2006

I’m not sure I understand all the fuss about this Ted Haggard bloke.

Sure he preached about homosexuality being sinful and disgusting but he was being ironic. Anyone that believes in Jesus can’t surely dislike homosexuality.

Let’s face it, Jesus was an arabic bloke who surrounded himself with other men in a secret club and they drank wine during dinner and after…well, they were arabic. What on earth makes anyone think they wouldn’t have engaged in a little cheeky bum sex after they’d eaten?

Granted they didn’t have crystal meth but Haggard should be praised for his more authentic way of following Christ’s teachings than these holier-than-thou talkalots who won’t take a bit of cock in the name of the Lord.

Knit my bollocks

by Twenty Major on November 3rd, 2006

A report in the paper today says more and more men are taking up knitting. Apparently ‘Gladiator’ star Russell Crowe is a keen knitter. Pfffff.

Now, while I’m all for equality and all that shite, there has to be a limit. Women play football, that’s great. They even have women DJs on the radio these days. Men can be nurses and you have househusbands who mind the kids, do the washing and all that when their wives go out and earn the family’s crust. Fantastic.

Some things though should just be for men and some things should just be for women.

Bodybuilding, for example. The men who do it look ridiculous, disgusting and shiny but they look far better than the women who do it who don’t look like women any more. I understand people wanting to be fit and stuff but why would any woman, apart from a ferocious lesbian of some kind, want to make herself look like a man?

Knitting is another one of those things. Men who are sensitive and in touch with their so-called ‘feminine side’ are great but men who knit are whopping great pansies. Russell Crowe? The man who fights his way around the world is a knitter. How would Gladiator have changed.

“Ave Maximus, I have killed your wife and son and now you must fight this tiger and 8 centurions”

“Ooooh, give me a minute to finish this garter stitch and embroider this blouse and I’ll smash them up, duckie!”

Men, stop knitting. No good can come of it. No good at all.

Don’t fuck with the vintners

by Twenty Major on November 2nd, 2006

“Ron”, says Dirty Dave, “you know how much I love this bar and all the many great characters that come in here but I may not come in as often as I normally do.”

“Why’s that?”, asks Ron.

“Well, I was in O’Brien’s off-licence the other night and I picked up 10 bottles of Stella for €10. That’s a great deal considering bottles of Stella here, while naturally cheaper than anywhere else, are still nearly 4 times as expensive as the off-licence.”

“Ah yes, but you don’t get the ambience, the laughs, the comfort of your local bar though, Dirty Dave.”

“In a way that’s true, Ron, but in another way me own gaff has got a grand bit of ambience after I had it done up and got some recessed lighting and new wallpaper, I can get laughs by watching stuff on the telly of DVD and it’s well comfortable now with the new three piece suite and plasma HDTV I picked up from Harvey Norman, the shrieking Aussie cunt, last week.”

“That’s fair enough but you don’t get the craic with your mates and the hilarious tales and escapades they get up to at home.”

“That too is fair enough, Ron, but I’ve seen these cunts nearly every day of my life since I was born. If I don’t come in on a Wednesday and have a few scoops at home the same stories will be around on Thursday.”

“Don’t think they’ll do repeats just because you weren’t around the first time.”

“Ahh now, Ron, don’t get cranky. I’m just saying that for all the shite you vintners go on with about the smoking ban affecting trade it’s you lot and your fucking ridiculous prices that are most at fault. At the moment you’re just lucky because people have more disposable income. They can’t afford to buy a fucking house so they socialise instead but at some point that’s going to change and you cunts, milking the fuck out of the cash cow at the moment, are going to suffer.”

“You’re right, Dirty Dave, the vintners federation are the biggest pack of cunts I can think of and that includes the entire Chelsea first team. They’re like a horrible cartel trying to keep Ireland in the ancient past. They jack up prices willy-nilly, they oppose the issuing of café-bar licence which would make it possible to get a drink anywhere which is the way it should be, their intense lobbying of that cunt McDowell was shameful though if you lobbied that wanker enough he’d tell you it was Thursday on a Monday. Look at the first line of their ‘What we’re about’ - To organise, promote and protect the interests of Vintners and Publicans. What a bunch of horse-fisting cuntbashers they are. What about people like you, Dave, and Twenty and Jimmy, who want to have a drink wherever they want, whenever they want and at a price that doesn’t bankrupt them? It’s all well and good protecting the interests of publicans, who make a fucking fortune, but they shouldn’t do it ahead of the interests of their customers.”

“er….”

“And look at this shit. Here are a couple of what they list as achievements. 1 - The VFI has successfully lobbied the Government to strengthen the right of the Publican to refuse service to any customer. 2 - The Federation has successfully opposed certain Licence Applications, which would have had considerable impact on the trade on a national basis.

What the fuck is that to be proud of? They’re crowing about the fact they can be discriminatory and the fact that they’re denying the general public services which they not only want but which they are entitled to. If someone wants a drink they should be allowed go anywhere and get one. A beer with McDonalds, why not? A gin and tonic in a café while you have your lunchtime sandwich, what’s the problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is. It’s these cunts blocking everything, putting up prices, making sure their members are quids in all the time and making sure their own interests are served before anyone else’s. I hate the cunts with all my heart.”

“Jaysus, I never knew it meant so much to you, Ron”, said Dave.

“That’s all right, it’s a bit of a sore point. Anyway, what’ll you have?”

“Guinness, please.”

“Coming right up. Oh, and the pint has gone up 10 cents.”

About last night (redux)

by Twenty Major on November 1st, 2006

I see my neighbour’s three kids approach the door last night with their costumes and bags at the ready to accept all the goodies they could hold.

*DING DONG*

There is silence. They remember what happened last year. They’re not going to be caught out again.

“Help the hallowe’en party!”, they cry as they hold open their sacks already half full with sweets, monkey nuts and satsumas.

“Certainly”, I say. “I could fashion some bunting perhaps or make those lovely sandwiches with the crust cut off and cut into perfect little triangles?”

“Oh Jaysus, not this shite again. Just give us some treats”.

“You know what, mini-Bono, you’re really going to have to work on your lines. You asked me to help the hallowe’en party and so far I’ve suggested two ways that I could make this soiree, wherever it might be, a resounding success. Naturally if you already have somebody to perform those tasks I could do something else”.

“Ahh just give us some fucking mini mars bars you old bollix!”

“I hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth, zombie corpse of Charlie Haughey. I am more than willing to help the hallowe’en party. In fact I could sort out the music as I know many famous DJs. In fact I have a direct line to 2FM’s Rick O’Shea. How about that?”

“Ah here, we might be little kids but we’re not stupid”.

“Good point, well made, Lindsey Lohan’s minge. How about I provide security so no undesirables get in? I could make the punch and I promise not to spike it. I make mean Rice Krispie cakes. I could help organise the party games. I could hire a clown for the party then beat the shite out of him when he arrives because I hate clowns. There are a million things I could do to help”.

“Come on, this old prick is as big of an old prick as we thought. We’ll get something somewhere else. Thanks for nothing you old shite”.

They walk towards the gate.

“Wait”, I say. They turn around.

“After what happened last year I felt kind of bad and I knew you’d be back again this year because kids don’t learn their lessons quickly. I got something especially for you. The rest of the kids that call are getting fruit or root vegetables. You get something special.”

I give them each an extra large sherbet dip.

“Wow! Thanks mister. You’re not so bad after all”.

I watch them skip happily down the garden path. I smile at their innocence, their youthful exuberance.

I hope the neighbours have got plenty of toilet paper.

50% sherbet, 50% double-strength laxative is going to rip the arses out of those little fuckers and they’ll blame it all on eating too many sweets.

The perfect crime.