Don’t leave the butter out

by Twenty Major on December 18th, 2006

I went into town yesterday to my Christmas shoplifting and have a couple of pints. Before I left I thought I’d better have something to eat so I just had some toast and butter. I unwrapped a new packet of Kerrygold, one never knows when there might be ’somesing you can ‘elp’, had a couple of slices and off I went.

When I came back a good few hours later I was rather dismayed to find I hadn’t put the butter back in the fridge, nor had I put the top of the butter dish back on top of it.

This was bad news for me but exceedingly good news for Throatripper the kitten. I had thought he was outside taking down wildebeast and things like that but he was obviously hiding somewhere in the house. He was on the kitchen counter, with his belly distended like a starving African child, licking away at what was left of the butter and there wasn’t much, let me tell you.

“Throatripper!”, I cried, “you greedy little cunt. What have you been doing?”

He looked at me and belched like Barney Gumble.

“Get down off there”, I said and he turned like an enormous truck, slowly and with great care, and jumped down from the counter. Obviously though he was far too full as when he landed, with a great thud I should add, a jet of yellow poo shot out of his arse and onto the door of one of the kitchen cabinets.

To say it smelt worse than a traveller’s armpit which had been dipped in horse jism and the sweat of Christy Moore’s taint would be to understate the situation.

“Get the fuck out”, I said as I ran, trying very hard not to vomit, to the back door.

The kitten duly obliged but with each step he took another jet of butterpoo shot from his cat arse. The last I saw of him he was up a tree trying to use his poo to knock magpies out of their nests.

What a fucking mess. I had the back door open all night, with Bastardface standing guard in case any cunt tried to break in, but I can still smell it this morning.

Kittens and half a kilo of pure Irish butter just do not mix.

The Scuttler

by Twenty Major on December 15th, 2006

So we were sitting in Ron’s last night discussing important world events.

“Well”, said Jimmy, “if I was President of Iran I’d make all the men shave their moustaches off and wear big gay hoopy pirate earrings and dungarees. It’s the only way they’ll learn.”

“You’re not wrong there, Jimmy”, said Stinking Pete. “Did you see your man Padraig Nally got away with shooting that fella?”

“I did, aye. Fair play to him, I say.”

“Do you not think it was a bit harsh though? I mean, what’s the difference between what Nally did and what The Scuttler O’Brien did?”

“Well, for a start The Scuttler didn’t shoot a knacker in the back, he shot an 11 year old boy. In the face. Seven times. And the 11 year old boy wasn’t trying to break into his house and steal his property. He merely asked him a question. And the question he asked him was ‘Can I have a 99 with a flake please?’ as The Scuttler drove his ice-cream van around the neighbourhood. So, as you can see there’s a small but important difference between the two cases.”

“I get you. So, based on this Nally thing it’s now perfectly ok to shoot someone who tries to enter your property and steal from you? And not only is it ok to shoot them once it’s ok to follow them off your property, onto the main road, then shoot them again as they’re crawling away desperately trying to cling to life?”

“Yes, but only if they’re a knacker. I mean, you couldn’t shoot the son of a high flying banker who went to Blackrock College but has fallen by the wayside a bit and has a bit of a drugs problem. Even if he was raping you in your sleep while wearing your good watch which he’d pilfered from beside your bed and you shot him you’d probably go to jail for a while.”

“So what you’re saying is that the life of a traveller is not worth the same as the life of a normal person.”

“Well, duh….”

“Do you need a licence to hunt them, like rabbits? Could I be like Elmer Fudd? ‘Be vewy, vewy quiet. I’m hunting twavellers!!’”

“You can be whoever you want to be, Stinking Pete. You just need to believe in yourself.”

“Really?”

“No, fuck off. Get me a pint.”

Blogorrah deleting comments

by Twenty Major on December 14th, 2006

Hey Blogorrah,

stop deleting people’s comments. It’s not big and it’s not clever!

Up in flames

by Twenty Major on December 14th, 2006

I was reading about that fan of Dundalk who went to the FAI headquarters and threatened to set himself on fire in protest at the decision to put his club in the second division.

Now, League of Ireland football bores the fucking ring off me but this is an exciting new development. That said the bloke has got it all wrong. What is the point of setting yourself on fire? You’re protesting, causing some ructions and the authorities are worried.

‘What are we going to do?’ they’ll be thinking. ‘Perhaps we need to discuss this further and maybe take steps to …. oh, wait, he’s set himself on fire. The problem has gone away’.

It’s like those Buddhist monks who set themselves on fire in protest at whatever it is China is doing at that moment in time. For a start there’s no reasoning with the Chinese and secondly once you burn yourself to death all they have to do is scrape you up off the pavement and feed you to pigs. Not much of a protest, is it?

A much better idea would be to set somebody else on fire. Then they might take you more seriously. I know I’d be more inclined to enter into a dialogue with somebody if I thought they were going to douse me in petrol and set me alight.

Why don’t people just stop and think about these things for a few minutes? It’s hardly rocket science.

How to stop the drug related killings

by Twenty Major on December 13th, 2006

All the gun crime now is based around rival drug gangs scrapping over territory and so forth. The Gardai can’t take them on because, let’s be honest about this, the chances of someone armed with a wooden stick winning against someone with a sawn-off shotgun or a semi-automatic are pretty slim.

But what to do?

Simple: vending machines full of drugs.

They can be installed into pub toilets like condom machines, placed on the platforms of train stations, situated on the streets like those newspaper machines they have in the states and in the corridors of schools, social clubs and universities.

The government can ensure that top quality narcotics are brought in although if a dodgy batch of heroin wipes out a few junkies then who’s going to cry about it?

This will earn so much extra money that perhaps then they’ll be able to afford some guns and bullet proof vests for the police at which point you shut down the vending machines and let nature take its course.

Life is a cunt

by Twenty Major on December 13th, 2006

How is it fair that a young apprentice plumber can get shot in the head while trying to do his job while people like James Nesbitt can appear on Sky every fucking hour trying to sell me pay per view football?

It just seems so wrong that this fucking cunt, who has annoyed so many people, gets to live while that poor young bloke was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

People look all the time for signs of the existence of God and they write off natural disasters and accidents and children with cancer as God’s will because he has called his sons and daughters to his side.

Bollocks. No matter how mysterious the ways he moves in he wouldn’t leave Nesbitt alive and have a plumber killed.

It just doesn’t make sense.

Carol singers

by Twenty Major on December 12th, 2006

*bring* went my front doorbell. I wandered out to see two young ladies, both around 13 or 14, wearning santa hats and holding out a cap.

“Can I hel-”, I managed to get out before they burst into song.

“We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a mer-”

“STOP!”, I said. I have a terrible phobia about people singing at me. I find it most disturbing. I mean, what are you supposed to do?

You can’t look them in the face because you just can’t. You can’t click your fingers or tap your feet. You certainly can’t join in. I’m shuddering even thinking about it.

One of them held her cap out.

“Sorry, kids”, I said whilst jangling the change in my pocket. “I haven’t got a penny on me”, I remarked whilst flipping a 2 Euro coin up in the air over and over again.

“Come back another day when I might have a few bob”, I told them as I dropped a load of 10 and 20 cent coins on the floor.

Phew though, that was a close one.

Now, I’m all for carol singers around town. The other day I saw a group of old ladies singing carols on Grafton Street and it was a fucking miserable day. Wind, vvvviiiiiiiiiiiiind, rain, cold and these poor auld ones were giving it loads of ‘Oh holy night’, ‘Good kind Wenceslas’ and ‘Come as you are’ so I gave them some money.

The difference is they’re easy to ignore if you want, like those cunts from the Simon community.

The ones that come to your door though, it’s not on, is it? I’m watching the Nally case with great interest. It’s tantamount to trespassing and if he can get away with shooting the knacker then nobody’s going to miss a carol singer or two.

Fuck off National Consultative Committee against Racism in Ireland

by Twenty Major on December 11th, 2006

Some people are really full of shit, aren’t they?

Phillip Watt from the National Consultative Committee against Racism in Ireland (nice snappy name there, chaps), says of the number of black people working in nightclub toilets selling aftershave, is racist. He says, “To me, it’s highly reminiscent of apartheid in South Africa and the USA before civil rights. I think nightclub owners might think of doing this in a more sensitive way and maybe redeploy the people in areas which are less demeaning.”

For fuck’s sake. You go to South Africa at the height of apartheid or talk to anyone involved in the civil rights movement in America and try and compare those situations with a bloke selling smellies in the toilet of a nightclub and see how much they laugh in your face, you fucking twat.

Let’s face it, these guys have deodorant and cologne which they sell to people for a couple of quid (I don’t know exactly. I’m always more fragrant without their help) at a time. Now, I’m sure the profit margin on a bottle of aftershave or a can of Lynx is pretty fucking high when you consider you’re selling to drunk people who won’t even notice if the Hugo Boss bottle has been refilled with Old Spice.

I can’t see how it’s racist or like a system which segregated people because of their colour.

Years ago I used to DJ around town and one of the clubs I worked in had an old man in the toilets doing exactly what these guys are doing now. He kept the bogs clean as the drunk fuckers pissed all over them and had a few bottles and cans of smelly stuff which he’d sell. He was a white man.

Where was Phillip Watt then? So it’s ok for a white man to what he considers a ‘demeaning’ job but not a black guy. Should we be so PC that we can’t allow black people or yellow people or medium brown people to do menial jobs because it’s somehow racist? Of course not.

Maybe the guy selling the aftershave doesn’t speak great English, maybe he’s trying to support his family, maybe he’ll use the money he makes to start his own business, maybe he doesn’t think it’s demeaning because at the end of the day he has to live and buy food. Maybe it’s his second job considering the time it happens. Maybe he’s using that extra money to pay for his children to go to extra-curricular classes to help them settle into Irish society. Who knows and frankly who fucking cares?

If they don’t want to do the job then some other cunt will do it and whether he’s black, white or purple with yellow spots makes no fucking difference at all.

Apartheid. Civil rights. Get to fuck.

I love when people say…

by Twenty Major on December 10th, 2006

…”We will not rest until the killer has been found”.

Come on, if they’re really serious about finding the killer then staying awake for weeks and weeks is not the answer. Lack of sleep causes hallucinations, paranoia and distorted thinking.

What they want to do is get a good night’s sleep and re-examine the facts the next morning over a hearty breakfast. I guarantee you they’ll see the benefits of it.

Fuck off Vintners, again

by Twenty Major on December 8th, 2006

Those cunts really have some nerve. Because it’s Christmas and the season to be jolly Garda checkpoints to snare drink-drivers are set up. The vintners association actually called for compensation to be paid to some of its members who would suffer loss of earnings because people couldn’t drive to the pub.

Fucking insane. Seriously.

To have the nerve to make such a call when their bastardly cartel falsley inflates the price of drink a couple of times a year is just fucking scandalous.

Even Ron the barman couldn’t justify this one and he’s quite happily stood behind the association as they have carried out the greatest crimes of humanity. Not many people know it was the Vintners Association that kidnapped Shergar. Apparently he’d overheard two of them talking. The horse knew too much. They tried to warn him by putting an Italian’s head in his stable as his slept one night but he was determined to go public. In the end they had to make the problem go away.

As well as that, and I’m taking my own life into my hands here, I’ve been doing some undercover work and I’ve found clear links between the Vintners and the cunts that own the M50 toll bridge. People think Veronica Guerin was investigating the seedy underworld of the Viper, the General, the Cocksmoker and the Wombat in Dublin’s organised crime world but in fact she’d discovered the Masonic and sinister influence of the Vintners again.

9/11 - They weren’t muslims. They were fanatical Vintners trying to stop people going on holidays abroad by making them afraid to fly so they’d stay home and drink in their local.

JFK - Lee Harvey Oswald was a fully paid up member of the Irish vintners association and had a share in a public house in Ballyjamesduff. His motivation, Kennedy was to visit Ireland propose a price cap on Guinness.

Cecilia Ahern and Damien Rice - both products of the Vintners who churned them out to make people avoid staying at home and reading or listening to music. They were created in a laboratory in Stoneybatter some years ago from the DNA of a Mensa genius spliced with that of a savant to give them their ‘talent’. It didn’t quite work out as well as they’d like but well enough as you can see.

Thankfully the minister for Transport Martin Cullen, who is a fucking spacker most of the time, has dismissed the claims as ‘nonsense’. If Cullen dies suddenly you’ll know where to point the finger.

Yes, at the shit-eating slitherly cunticles of the Vintners. Oh yes.