No joke

by Twenty Major on July 31st, 2007

Today I saw a blind man at an art exhibition. He was being led around by a woman as he clutched his white stick.

Superhero

by Twenty Major on July 30th, 2007

Dirty Dave has always wanted to be a superhero. He likes their powers and the way they protect the small guys from the baddies (but only after a few of the small guys are killed along the way).

The other week he said he had a series of epic dreams about being a superhero after taking some over the counter sleeping pills he brought back from Spain. Dormamucho, or something, they´re called.

Was he a flying superhero like Superman? No.

Was he was super strong bloke like the Hulk? No.

Was he a guy who made his own gadgets like Batman? No.

He was like Iceman. You know the one, he shoots a jet of ice ahead of him and uses its awesome slippyness to power himself along. Except Dave was Pooman.

He propelled himself along on a jet of his own poo and went around town helping people out of difficult situations. While he found the person he had saved to generally be very grateful to him he said many people along the journey weren´t pleased as they were covered with his hot, liquid faeces.

That didn´t stop him though. Pooman was not to be put off by such trivialities as people, streets, buildings and cars covered with sticky brown plop.

Naturally, as a superhero he had to have an arch-nemesis and this was Immodium Man who dried up the flow from Dave´s arse whenever he was near him.

The titanic battle between them has yet to take place as he´s run out of the sleeping tablets.

Immodium Man must have a weakness though. I suspect it could be eating gone off prawns on top of a stomach full of Guinness.

Ideariffic

by Twenty Major on July 27th, 2007

TV company, New York City. Two men in sharp suits and even sharper haircuts sit, head in hands, at a glossy table.

Exec 1 - “Look. We have to come up with something. They said since Maximilian arm-rotored that woman to death through her holy bible on Robot Wife Swap we’re on our last fucking legs. It’s got to be good.”

Exec 2 - “What’s hot at the moment? What’s now? What’s happening? What’s going on? Where’s the scene? What has the je ne said quoi?”

Exec 1 - “Lindsay Lohan’s flaps?”

Exec 2 - “No blogging. I know this guy and he knows another kid whose cousin has a blog of their own. Do you know how fucking hard these people are to track down?”

Exec 1 - “They really exist then.”

Exec 2 - “Yeah. And they have these things called ‘memes’.”

Exec 1 - “Maims? Like they maim each other.”

Exec 2 - “Nah. Em-ee-em-ee-ess. What it is right, is this thing where someone says, uhm, ‘Answer these 5 questions for no reason whatsoever and then get 5 more people to answer them or you grow a tail’ or something and they all do.”

Exec 1 - “So what are you thinking? We get some of these freaks in a circus ring and maim them?”

Exec 2 - “No. Jesus. We steal their ideas. I saw one the other day - ‘8 things you don’t know about me’, right. So what we do is get happily married couples onto a desert island. We get them boozed up and then make them write down 8 things the one doesn’t know about the other. Then when they’re sober we read them back and we make some kind of points system and then whichever one loses has to do some kind of forfeit task like fucking a giant turtle or something. It’s like ‘Mr and Mrs’ for the next generation.”

Exec 1 - “Damn, that’s pretty good.”

Exec 2 - “And what’s better is none of it is copyrighted. They give out these ideas for free all the time, we’ll snap them up, make ‘The Meme Show’ and soon the world will be Meme crazy, man. They’ll become so big there will be only one noun in the English language and it will be ‘meme’.”

Exec 1 - “Oh no, I left my meme up my meme’s meme. Hahaha. God, I love when we get great ideas. But won’t the people who blog cotton on?”

Exec 2 - “No, they’re just happy that someone is taking them semi-seriously.”

Exec 1 - “I love that what we do makes a difference. I really do.”

———————–

Editor’s note: The sole concept and execution of ‘The Meme Show’ or any show even vaguely similar to it is ©Longifornia Ltd (Trading as ‘Twenty Major TV’ ) and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, displayed, published or broadcast without the prior written consent of Twenty Major - and even then you might get a kick in the hole.

Who can it be now?

by Twenty Major on July 26th, 2007

“Twenty”, asked Dirty Dave, “who would you have preferred to be out of the following?”

“Debbie Gibson or Tiffany?”

“Erm, Debbie Gibson?”

“Right. Everyone says that. Anyway. Nik Kershaw or Limahl?”

“Kershaw.”

“Why?”

“Who the fuck wants to be called Limahl? Plus Nik Kershaw once bought me a pint in Luton airport.”

“Good point. Robert Smith or the lad from the Blow Monkeys?”

“Hmm, lipstick, badly applied make-up and baggy jumpers or well-applied make-up and a shiny suit? Pfff, I hate baggy jumpers.”

“Interesting. Wang Chung or Living in a Box?”

“Wang Chung, because, Dave, every can have fun tonight and everyone can, with my express permission, Wang Chung tonight. Tramps and winos live in cardboard boxes. Fuck that.”

“Laura Branigan or Pat Benetar.”

“Which one wore the shiny leather?”

“Pat Benetar.”

“Laura Branigan then. Too much chaffing of the groinal area in the leather pants.”

“Karel Fialka or Stan Ridgeway?”

“Hmmm. Contending with a small boy or a ghostly marine. Karel Fialka then. At least you can leave the boy off at a borstal if he’s annoying. See ya, Matthew.”

“Ok, this one’s the big one. The true test. The big banana. The right honourable gentleman from Wynchcliffe Manor. The supersizer. The end of the line. The phone a friender. The-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

He did.

The answer? Roland Orzabal from Tears for Fears. I know. You should have seen the other option.

Talking point

by Twenty Major on July 25th, 2007

Jesus Christ, did you see that thing in the papers about that bloke that did that thing to that other bloke?

For a start I can’t believe a bloke who came from where the first bloke lives could manage to drive a car like that in the first place. Not for that reason but because it’s well known they have the smallest driveways in Dublin.

Secondly, the other bloke is a cunt and we know that because he’s a member of that organisation which we all know are complete and utter cunts. No matter what he does in his life he’ll be a cunt by association. Still, having to suffer what he suffered at the hands of the first bloke doesn’t bear thinking about and after the graphic detail in the news stories you don’t need any more from me.

The reaction from people to the whole incident has been an enormous talking point, hasn’t it? What more can we say about it really? Not a lot, only to suggest that there must be a way to stop this happening again in the future. Is it just a case of learning the lesson and modifying our behaviour or is it the incident that will spark an idiosyncratic mind into inventing time travel?

That really is the important question here and it’s one we lose sight of too quickly.

The fat bitch

by Twenty Major on July 24th, 2007

A fat man with a fat dog sat on a park bench.

The fat man was sweating heavily. It was summer and unusually hot. The fat dog lay at his feet panting. The walk up the hill from the monument was tough.

The fat man squirted some water out of one of those bottles you get these days. It’s hard to just find one with a hole rather than some kind of teat. The fat dog lapped it up, then snorted once before laying his chin on his paws and closing his eyes. The fat man took out his detective novel and started to read.

Some time later a fat woman with a fat bitch sat on the bench beside them.

The fat dog cracked open one fat eye and looked at the fat bitch. The fat dog was an old dog. He was not bothered by things like bitches.

The fat bitch looked at the old dog and knew his kind. Had been around the block, had seen it all, wouldn’t raise a sticky old eye to anything at this stage.

“I wish I’d been born into a different family”, she said. “A thinner, healthier family. Running around in the park, chasing things, fetching, doing that thing where you go down on your front legs and stick your arse in the air and bark. I feel like I’ve missed out.”

The fat dog sighed. Not to acknowledge the conversation in any way, just to sigh.

“Then you could chase postmen, play football, run up things, run down things, not be drawn every single time to the worktop when someone’s cooking. You’ve got that voice in your head telling you to resist but there’s another voice, the stronger voice, that tells you to sit at their feet ready to gobble up any scraps. Christ, I want to svelte but I want to eat more than I want to be svelte.”

The fat dog scratched behind his ear lazily and knew he had to say something. The fat bitch would just keep on talking.

“Eating. Sleeping. Pooing”, said the fat dog. “That’s all there is to it. The rest is incidental.”

Collect your winnings

by Twenty Major on July 23rd, 2007

“Jaysus”, said Dirty Dave, “I was just over in Spain at the weekend, seeing my lovechild Filthy Felipe, and it’s fucking roasting there. Why can’t we get that weather here?”

“That”, said Jimmy, “is the fault of Albert Flynn”.

“What? Old Albert from round the corner whose son has the giant eye and,” he whispered, “the gift.”

“Yeah, if you call foaming at the mouth a gift. Didn’t you ever hear? Albert won Spain in a game of poker with King Juan Carlos.”

“Get out of here.”

“Honest to God. He was in Barcelona for a weekend. Meant to go with his brother but something happened. He died. Something like that. Albert went anyway. Stayed in a nice hotel off Plaza Catalunya but found himself down in the Raval every night.”

“What’s the Raval?”

“It’s a place where after dark mad things happen. Some of them good. Some of them bad. All of them unforgettable. Albert found a bar which sold him Absinthe and he grew to liking it. He claims to have learned Spanish in a day. Held court. Stories. Jokes. Bravado.”

“I see.”

“So, turns out this bar is where King Juan Carlos comes when he’s in town. He rides a black motorcycle from Madrid to go out on the town in Barcelona. He’s in no danger of being found out because l’omerta of Barcelona is too important. Everyone’s too cool to care what anyone else is doing. He’s sitting at a table listening to the Irish man go on and on about how great his country is and he’s getting mad. So he challenges him to a game of cards. Each man put his country on the line, the King so incensed he completely forgets this is just a mad Irishman and nobody with any power to give him over his winnings.”

“That sounds like a mad place.”

“It is that. Anyway, they play 5 card stud. King Juan Carlos has a full house, 3 queens and two kings. He’s confident. He’s bubblier than a cheap Catalan cava. Starts giving it the big ‘Yo soy’. Albert’s just quiet. Lays his cards out. Four aces, one king. The elusive whatever it’s called. So the king, being a man of honour, just tells him the country is his. His people can come and take what land they desire and if Ireland was to be used solely for the production of potatos and the occasional writer then his people would move en masse to oversee such production.”

“So we could all be sunning ourselves on our roof terraces while the Spanish toil at our every whim instead of sending their children over here to totally overload the public transport system?”

“Precisely. Albert, being a gentleman, wouldn’t accept. Too many lives facing upheaval he said. He had no right to interfere like that. The implications of acceptance were too great for one man to consider let alone bring about. Told King Juan Carlos that an Absinthe cocktail of some kind, and a spare room at one of his castles from time to time, would suffice and King Juan Carlos gladly accepted, fulfilling his part of the deal, before shooting out into the night down the coast and on the motorway towards Castelldefels.”

“He won that country fair and square, Jimmy.”

“That he did, Dave. Albert’s just a silly cunt, is all.”

Joe O’Reilly

by Twenty Major on July 22nd, 2007

I like the way he thought he was being really clever.

I like the way he lied and tried to make alibis.

I like the way he contaminated the forensic evidence.

I like the part that something as simple as his mobile phone played in unwrapping his untruths.

I like the way he was actually a thick cunt who must have thought everyone else was stupid.

I like the way nobody believed him for a second.

I like the way they kept after him and after him.

I like the way they found him guilty.

I like the way he got life in prison.

I really, really hope he has the most unimaginably horrible time in there. He deserves it.

The most awesome thing ever

by Twenty Major on July 21st, 2007

I saw an ad for this thing in Ron’s last night as he had the golf channel on. He’s a bit of a golf buff and he hates Tiger Woods. Did you see him walking up the fairway with enormous mittens on him to keep his delicate little hands warm?

What a fucking fanny. Seriously, wouldn’t a pair of weather-beaten, exposed to the elements hands be a better idea. He probably didn’t want to damage a nail, the geebag. Also, there was a guy called ‘Boo Weekley’ which is just about the best name I’ve ever heard. There’s enough difference in the spelling of the surname for it to be ‘on a weekly basis’ or ‘without much force’. I put €20 on him to win.

Anyway, this ad come on for a little robot lawnmower which cuts your grass automatically. Not only that you can control it from your mobile phone so you can sit, drink a beer and control this thing to cut the grass. And not only that when it’s finished it goes back into its little house like a puppy going into a kennel.

Here’s the website, it’s cool. I’m buying 5 today so I can have an army of robot lawnmowers controlled by my phone. First the back garden, next the world.

Oh fuck off

by Twenty Major on July 20th, 2007

Friends of Amy Winehouse are worried about her.

Worried pals have signed up to an intervention group on internet site Facebook - reports the Sun.

Fucking hell.

“Our friend is obviously losing her mind, suffering with mental problems, possibly drug additions, she’s a skanky booze hound, how can we help her?”

“Let’s set up a group on Facebook!”

“Yay! That should do it.”

Fucking cretins.

And right now I don’t know which is worse, Amy Winhouse or Facebook. If I had a gun and one bullet it would require some thought.