Email me your life story, why don’t you?

by Twenty Major on January 31st, 2007

Maybe this doesn’t apply to everyone but I’m sure you’ve come across it. You know when you send an email to someone and you can get an automated reply, saying:

I am out of the office for the week Please forward all relevant materials to somecunt@bunchofcunts.com

Regards,
Some cunt
www.bunchofcunts.com

Well, thanks for that. It would be good if you could go into a bit more detail though. For example, if you were out of the office but actually going on holidays I’d like to know that. If you could include your flight times, your home address, the code for the alarm and the names and addresses of any key holders that would be great too.

Then this sort of information would be useful to me. Leaving it so vague as to mean you might be on holidays from work but actually staying at home to relax and read books and do a spot of gardening is not much help. I mean, it would save us both a lot of hassle if you were more precise. Honesty. The last thing either of us wants is to come face to face in your hallway when you’re padding about your house in your pyjamas and I’ve taken a bit of a gamble and figured you’ve gone Ryanair to Girona or ‘Paris’ or somewhere.

It would pain me to have to bash you over the noggin with the sap in my pocket. Honest. And think how easily it could have been avoided if only you’d given me a few more details in your email.

A load of balls

by Twenty Major on January 30th, 2007

Richard Sinnott from Carlow sued the Carlow Nationalist after they printed a picture of him during a GAA match which showed his ‘private parts’.

Amazingly he was awarded €6,500 for ‘breach of privacy, intentional infliction of emotional harm, and negligence’.

Unreal. Was there something different about Richard Sinnott? Did he have a grotesquely disfigured or incredibly tiny penis? Were his balls so different from every other man’s set of balls?

Let’s face it, a scrotum with balls in it is hardly a pretty sight but like small babies and Chinese people they all pretty much look the same. So if his balls were on display so were my balls and every other man in the country’s balls.

Honestly, some people need to get a fucking life. The newspaper are appealing and I hope they win. If you don’t want your balls to be on display in the newspaper when photos are taken of you during a GAA match then wear a pair of underpants that safely hold your balls in place rather than loose fitting ones which allow them to wobble all over the place and out of your shorts.

Richard Sinnott is the one at fault here. What a shame he didn’t have the balls to see that.

Mobile phones and driving

by Twenty Major on January 30th, 2007

A report yesterday said 5,500 people have been caught using their mobile phones while driving since the law came into effect banning their use.

What happened to them though? Were they scolded severely? Did they get points on their licence? Did they get 100 lines “I must not use my mobile phone when driving”?

I’ll tell you what I’d do if I was in charge of the police. Aside from giving them a good clip around the ear I’d confiscate their phones.

“Now Sir, give me the phone. You can have it back at the end of the week.”

“But I need that phone for work!”

“Two weeks”

“But-”

“The end of the month then.”

Now that’s a proper fucking deterrent. Seriously, if you must use your mobile phone when driving at least get one of those hands free kits. What do they cost? Less than €100, I bet. Or do what one ingenious person I know does and put the speaker function on his phone then he jams the phone into the arch of the steering wheel. Hands free and free free too. It doesn’t cost a penny.

I bet if they started confiscating phones that 5,500 would drop dramatically. Let’s face it, people these days can’t survive without their mobile phones. They take them everywhere and feel completely detached if they don’t have it with them. The thoughts of having it confiscated, with the cops able to read all their text messages, would ensure this particular crime rate fell.

A little bit of creative policing there. I should have sold this idea to Fine Gael, made a few bob from it. Oh well.

The worst curry ever

by Twenty Major on January 29th, 2007

Stinking Pete has gone vegetarian. He says he can no longer cope with the senseless slaughter of animals for our consumption. I say I can no longer cope with him being a complete and utter cunt but he doesn’t seem to be giving that up.

Anyway, he invited me, Jimmy the Bollix and Dirty Dave over for dinner on Saturday night. Normally I can think of an excuse to get out of going to his house to eat but this time I was caught on the hop and ended up with no choice but to go. The upside was the only way to cope with going to his house is to get really, really drunk. It’s not that his house is dirty. Despite his own questionable hygiene and personal odour, his house is well kept.

It’s just a really depressing place. It looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since the early 70s which is quite a coincidence because it hasn’t actually been redecorated since the early 70s. Terrible wallpaper, curtains that look like the stage curtains at a village concert hall, threadbare patterned carpet in what was once brown and beige but now looks like the colour of old mud and the furniture would have some kitsch value if it wasn’t falling apart.

He refuses to change anything since he inherited the house from his parents after they died. It’s a bit macabre, I suppose, but the sudden and frankly disgusting way his parents died had a big impact on his life. I’ll tell you that story another day.

Anyway, after spending some months in Goa a long time ago Stinking Pete reckons he’s the best Indian cook in Dublin. It’s quite patently not true. You can go into the worst Indian takeaway in Dublin and look into what passes for a kitchen and witness whatever sad wretch reheats the food in there and he/she/it is probably a better cook than Pete but to be fair to him he can knock together a decent chicken curry.

So it was no surprise when that’s exactly what he served on Saturday.

“How are you liking the chicken curry, lads?”, he asked.

“Grand, Pete”, I said. “Hey Jimmy, pour me another pint of Jim Beam. Cheers.”

“Good, good. I’m glad you’re enjoying the …chicken…curry.”

“Yeah, it’s good”, said Jimmy the Bollix. “Give us one of those naan breads, Dirty Dave.”

“Splendid. Everyone is appreciating the taste of my …*cough*…CHICKEN….*cough cough*…curry.”

I put down my knife and fork.

“Something you need to tell us, Pete?”

“Oh, no. What gave you that idea?”

“Stinking Pete. Don’t have me thrash you to within an inch of your life. What’s going on?”

“Well…hehehe…you think you’re eating chicken but, in fact, it’s not chicken at all.”

“Turkey?”, asked Dirty Dave.

“No, Dave. Not turkey. It’s no fowl whatsoever. It is Quorn.”

A dealthy silence fell about the table.

“Quorn?”, I said.

“Yes, Quorn”, he replied.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Stinking Pete! Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you know what that shit is made from?”

“I know that it’s made from some kind of fungus and no innocent creature has to die to fill your belly.”

“Firstly, you cunt, how dare you impose your values on me in your own home. Secondly, ‘a kind of fungus’ is what they want you to think, you dopey bastard. Look at the name. Quorn. Can’t you see it? What is fed on corn? Chickens. And what part of a chicken begins with Qu? The quim, of course. Quorn is actually chicken minge and you sit there as smug as you like after feeding us, your friends, with the processed vulva, labia and clitorii of farmyard birds. Fucking hell.”

“My God, I never knew. I’m sorry, Twenty, Jimmy, Dave….”

“There’s no time for that. Lads, do what you have to do.”

In unison the three of us put our fingers down our throats and sprayed vomit all over the table until there was no more puke to be puked.

“Oh, fucking hell”, he said as he looked at his bile covered kitchen. “You could at least have gone out in the back garden”.

“No we could not”, said Jimmy. “Trying to make us eat Quorn and trying to pass it off as some kind of healthy alternative is just despicable. I’ve done some bad things in my time. Like that time I stole the collection money for that orphanage in Nairobi. Or the time I could have saved that woman from drowning but I decided it was too much trouble. Or like that time I was face to face with Osama Bin Laden and he told me he was going to launch a terrorist offensive on the world which would bring us to the point of nuclear war and I figured he was just another Johnny Big Bollocks giving it the big I am so I let him go without killing him. Or that time when when a man asked me for one euro to make a phone call to tell his pregnant and hysterical wife he was on his way home and not having an affair with his secretary and I told him to fuck off and get his own euro and he told me he’d just been mugged and they’d taken all his money and all he had was this watch which his father had given him on his death bed and he offered me the watch which had such sentimental value if I’d only give him a euro and I took the watch then kicked him in the side of the head and walked off and his wife killed herself by stabbing herself in the stomach over and over with a kitchen knife and then he ended up committing suicide by throwing himself under a bus which caused the bus driver to suffer post traumatic stress disorder which made him sexually abuse his children who grew up to be rapists and serial killlers. But I’ve never done anything like give somebody Quorn. NEVER.”

Pete just stood them looking down at his shoes.

“Look, Stinking Pete”, I said, “if you want to be a fanny-arsed vegetarian then that’s fine. You know it makes a big poof, we know it makes you a big poof and we will rip the piss out of you for it, but if you’re going to be a vegetarian just eat vegetables. Don’t be one of those cunts who’s a vegetarian but eats fish and chicken as if they’re not real animals. And for Christ’s sake don’t get suckered in to eating shite like Quorn. Quorn is made by cunts from cunts for cunts.”

“Yeah, fair enough. Sorry again lads.”

“Now, do you want a hand cleaning up this vomit?”

“Yeah. That’d be great.”

“It would be great but we’re not gonna. We’re off to the chipper to get some decent food.”

“Mines a Quornter-pounder with cheese!”, said Jimmy.

“Oh, Jimmy, you are a one”, I said.

Fedex

by Twenty Major on January 26th, 2007

I recently bought some RAM from the US for my ‘puter and it was delivered via Fedex. No problemo.

A few days later I got a letter from Fedex saying I owed them €22 because of duty. I ignored the letter. Then they sent me another letter asking me to please pay the €22. I ignored that one too.

This morning received a letter from a debt collection agency requesting that I make payment immediately or they will not hesitate to commence with ‘formal proceedings’.

Now, I know a veiled threat when I see one. Can you believe a reputable company like Fedex is threatening to send large men around to my house armed with bicycle chains and knuckle dusters so they can duff me up and get me to pay the €22 I owe? I am outraged. It’s scandalous.

This lot would have me beaten to a pulp for the sake of €22 just so they can use me as an example to anyone else who has fallen behind on their payments.

And what a load of shite the €22 is anyway. I bought it fair and square, paid the full price, and they want more because the government says they had to pay this ‘duty’. You realise what that means, don’t you?

Yes, it’s the Irish government who are giving carte blanche to a courier company to batter Irish citizens who conscientiously object to these stealth taxes. Well, I’m not for moving.

I’ll take my beating like a man and then I’ll see you on the Joe Duffy show, you cunts. Bring it on.

Salt and pepper NOT saltandpepper

by Twenty Major on January 25th, 2007

I like salt and pepper. One salt shaker, one pepper shaker or pepper mill.

What I don’t like is a pepper mill with a salt mill on top in one, supposedly handy, contraption. Too many restaurants are engaging in this wanky bollix nowadays.

Keep them separate. You wouldn’t give someone one piece of cutlery which was a knife at one end and a fork at the other, would you? No, you would not.

So keep your salt and pepper separate and stop trying to be fucking trendy. It might work with furnishings but it’s no fucking use at all with condiments.

Aches

by Twenty Major on January 25th, 2007

Headaches are a pain in the arse, aren’t they?

Not literally of course because literally they’re a pain in the head although not for Weird Will who always claimed to have a pain somewhere then blame it on some other part of his body.

“Jesus Christ!”, he’d shout. “I have a fucking terrible pain in my head. I can’t sit down.”

“Take a couple of painkillers then”, someone would say.

“Ach, those things never do any good. I have to keep walking around you see because when I have a headache it’s my arse that hurts.”

“That’s odd. The cheeks of your arse or your, you know, ringpiece?”

“The whole lot”, he’d say.

“And you’re sure it’s not actually an arseache?”

“No, whenever I have a headache my arse hurts.”

“What about when your knee hurts?”

“Stomach ache.”

“And a pain in your stomach?”

“Lower back ache.”

“Toothache?”

“That’s down a problem with the joints on my big toe”

“A painful sinus?”

“That’s my left ankle.”

“Earache?”

“That is nearly always to do with my third vertebrae.”

“Backache?”

“Happens when I have a pain behind my right eye.”

“How about when you get that stabbing pain in your heart?”

“Kidneys”

“Sore throat?”

“Swollen elbow.”

“And what about when you have a pain in your arse.”

“Headache.”

“So, if you have a headache you have a pain in your arse and if you have an arseache you have a pain in your head.”

“Exactly”

“So how can you tell the difference?”

“It’s easy. I don’t shit out of my head.”

Doctor and the Clerics

by Twenty Major on January 24th, 2007

This is from a report on Breakingnews.ie about attitudes to sex in rural Ireland being, shall we say, a bit backwards.

In one incident referred to in the research, a young woman went to her GP seeking the morning-after pill, but instead he offered to say prayers for her.

That would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking scary. This is 2007 and a doctor says prayers for a young woman rather than give her the medical treatment she’s entitled to.

Someone should find out who that is and then strike him off because he’s a fucking lunatic. Can you imagine him in an emergency?

“Doctor, I have shooting pains down my left arm and my chest hurts”

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”

“Argh”

“…blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.”

*slump*

“Amen”

Madness. Now that I see it written down I’d never noticed the Hail Mary outed Jesus before.

Irish blog awards - nominate now

by Twenty Major on January 23rd, 2007

The Irish Blog Awards nomination form has been changed at last so you can vote for all your favourite blogs at once.

Tá mé ag dul to vote for my favourites (see what I did there?) and I don’t want to influence you in any way at all but obviously you should nominate me if you see fit.

To nominate, simply go here and fill in the parts of the form you have an opinion on. You don’t have to fill them all in.

Also, starting at this post helps you to concentrate, focus and pick your nominations. It couldn’t be easier!

The God delusion

by Twenty Major on January 23rd, 2007

I was listening to Karen Coleman interview Richard Dawkins on the radio on Sunday. I could have done a better job. I’d have at least asked a different question. The interview went something like this.

Coleman: So what about XYZ, Richard Dawkins?

Dawkins: Well, this is what I think about XYZ and while I’m at it here’s a bit of ABC too to make my point more clear.

Coleman: All well and good, Richard Dawkins (she insisted on saying his full name like she was scolding him. Richard Dawkins, get in for your tea at once!), but what about ABC?

Dawkins: Well, if you’d been listening you’d have heard me explain ABC but look, no harm, and here’s some DEF to keep you going.

Coleman: We have a text from a listener, Richard Dawkins, who asks what about XYZ?

Dawkins: Ok, I’ll explain this for the 5th time…

Fairly fucking crappy, you have to say. Coleman’s stance seemed to be based around ideas such as the beauty of nature couldn’t have come through evolution and sure wouldn’t it make more sense if God had created them.

Now, to me it makes much more sense that intricate patterns and colours and flowers and plants came about through evolution because, no matter how patient he was, God is not going to sit there and colour in the 12,400 different types of ferns that exist all over the world and waste his time making 500,000 different kinds of insects.

He’d just get a basic model and lash loads of them out then spend the rest of his time playing video games or smoking the best grass he could make. Maybe that’s what he did but some of them were retarded and deformed and stuff and they interbred to create new species. God-powered evolution.

Dawkins is an interesting speaker though but his trenchant belief in atheism with a total unwillingness to accept the slight possibility that there’s an omnipotent white bearded old cunt up there makes him just as bad as the rest of them. Personally I’m open to all possibilities. Look, I’ve seen Dirty Dave, the stinkingest fucker I know, get his end away with women so if that can happen then the idea of a God in heaven is not so ludicrous.

I did like that episode of South Park recently where in the future all religion had been wiped out and, because of Dawkins, atheism was the accepted creed. That didn’t stop the United Atheist Alliance, the Atheist Federation and some other group fighting it out over which brand of atheism was the best.

Stinking Pete is the most religious of all us. He had a near death experience a few years back after he got hit with a golf ball while flying his kite on the beach out near Donabate. He was in a coma for three days and he swears he did the whole going into the light thing and he saw his dear departed Mum and so on.

We never told him that it was us in the hospital room. When the doctors weren’t around we’d shine torches into his eyes and say in really deep voices ‘Come into the light, Stinking Pete’ and then we’d hold a photo of his mother over his eyes. We really fucking tried to get him to go into the light but he said he felt something calling him back.

It was probably Dirty Dave, the soppy cunt.