Just go left, then right…

by Twenty Major on March 31st, 2008

Did you ever have a conversation with a taxi driver about the terrible state that Pakistan is in?

I did. Oh, man. Seriously, that was some awesome fun. How it’s just a few loonies in the mountains spoiling it for everyone. I tried to remain non-commital as I actually don’t give a fucking fuck about Pakistan but then he started going on about suicide bombers and doctors and how Musharraf was going to get fucked up.

Realising that I had nothing to add to this conversation I tried to steer it to things that were easier to talk about, like monkeys fisting gnus or 9 year olds marrying 30 year olds for revenge but he wasn’t having any of it. Madness.

He said his mother rang him and begged him to go to his brother’s wedding last year but he refused. He said it was because there were too many mentallers.

This is a taxi driver who has not looked in the mirror recently. Still, he was quite entertaining in his way.

This new world confuses me at times.

The constant struggle

by Twenty Major on March 29th, 2008

Every fucking time it’s the same. No matter how hard you try there’s an obstacle in your way. What you want isn’t such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. It’s hardly relevant at all but it’s now inside your brain. It worms away at you like a worm worming its way away.

You think you’ve got a clear run but then, just around the corner, there’s another banana skin. And inevitably you don’t see it until its too late and all your momentum is gone. Once that happens its so hard to pick up the pace again, to catch up, and after the 189th time it’s even hard to motivate yourself to keep going.

But the prize is there. Tantalising, gleaming, so near yet so far. And can you let yourself be beaten like this? At times it feels like you’re crossing a bridge and one false move will send you into the river of lava below. What can you do but keep going? What else is there to try beyond what you’ve already tried countless times? Are you the kind of person who will keep going or will it all become too much? Will the relentless failure and the ill-timed flaming turtles just finish you off once and for all.

Me? I’m going to try and win Bowser’s Castle again.

I will not be beaten.

Fuck off…

by Twenty Major on March 28th, 2008

…after reading this I’m going out to buy the cheapest, most inefficient, energy burning 100w bulbs I can buy and turn every light in my house on.

I might even get one of those motion sensor lights that people have at their front doors so when someone comes up the path it lights up. I’ll then pay a tramp €20 to walk backwards and forwards ensuring it stays on all night long.

Is Bertie under pressure?

by Twenty Major on March 28th, 2008

Reading the papers this morning and they all report the Taoiseach is ‘under pressure’ to explain his personal finances which become less and less believable as each day goes by. But is he?

Do statements like ‘What I am saying is the public disquiet has to be dispelled, and that is a matter for the Taoiseach’ and some weak half-hearted call for a ‘clarifying statement’ from John ‘I love being in government with all its perks so I don’t really want to say anything that might damage all the excellent fun I’m having at the moment’ Gormless really put him under pressure?

As per usual the man himself is refusing to comment. Not that we should be surprised by his arrogance and his unwillingness to be accountable to the people who he represents. The Fianna Fail party is following the same line, circle the wagons, obfuscate and dissimulate, do what they’ve always done and allow those most corrupt to shirk their personal responsibility. The ‘deny everything’ culture fostered under CJH.

What would really put the Taoiseach under pressure is somebody who would say ‘In normal countries even local councillors fall on their sword at the slightest whiff on financial undoing. You’re the head of the country and not only can you not explain all the money that’s passed through your accounts, you won’t explain it, like you’re somehow above the law.’

If this were to happen in another country I could imagine somebody saying to that politician ‘You cheat! You fucking crook! You are an absolute bandit. Where did all these foreign currency transactions come from? You can’t possibly expect us to believe that you need financial help from your friends when you had considerable savings, in cash, in your own safe. How is it possible that you saved that much money anyway? Surely that, given your responsibilities to your family and general expenses, would have been impossible on your salary at that time.

Do you really expect us to believe that a bank account which has your first initial and the first initial of one of your closest henchman is actually for building work? Are we expected to swallow stories about how your girlfriend was given considerable amounts of cash to buy a house and you didn’t know a thing about it? Why do you berate people for bringing your family into it when you’re the one who involved them to begin with? Are we expected to believe that the Minister for Finance didn’t have a bank account and operated solely in cash? What kind of a man uses his daughters bank accounts to make dodgy transactions? What kind of a man allows lowly paid underlings to take the stand during legal proceedings and, after their misguided loyalty to you has been exposed for little more than a web of lies, then refuses to explain any of it to the country that he has been elected to lead?

You are a crook. You are a thieving, lying, cheating little cunt. If you had even the slightest shred of dignity or self-respect you’d resign but you don’t. The more you talk about your finances the more obvious it is that there’s a whole lot of stuff you don’t want people to know about and that you can’t possibly explain. That’s why you keep quiet, that’s why you and your lawyers attempt to muddy the waters every time you appear before the committee. You are a hollow man, a contemptible, despicable fabricator. Quite frankly how you’re avoiding criminal charges is beyond me. Go. Now. Liar. Liar. Liar’.

So that is how I’d imagine they’d deal with it in another country given a similar set of circumstances. Here we have wishy-washy ‘Oh, well the Taoiseach has, you know, do …erm… do …er … something. You know. Don’t ask me what. How would I know?’ bollocks.

Pressure. He’s not feeling a bit of it. The cunt.

*bring bring*

by Twenty Major on March 27th, 2008

“Hello?”

“Hi Twenty, it’s me. Dirty Dave!”

“What is it, Dave? I’m really fucking busy today. This better not be one of your stupid phone calls”.

“No no! I promise”.

“Ok”.

“Right, your whole entire family is being held hostage and they’re going to kill them. To save their lives would you eat the scabs off Amy Winehouse’s face?”

“Jesus fucking Christ”.

*click*

Too much sound

by Twenty Major on March 27th, 2008

Noise. Noise. Noise.

You try and work around it. Focus. Concentrate. But all around is this piercing sound. You look down at the page in front of you. Why does it take so long to finish these things? You’ve done them before, many times, they should be easy, but this time it’s a struggle.

The noise continues. Why won’t it stop? You consider the fact it might just be in your head but that would mean admitting to some kind of mental illness. And only mentallers do that. Or do they? Would anyone sane admit to mental illness? But would a truly mental person even know they were mental to admit to it? How does anyone know who’s mental these days? There’s seems to be a lot of them around.

Noise. Again.

You press down and the nib breaks on the pencil. You push the top and more lead comes down. It’s too small though and when you try to write it falls out. Repeat. The same. Repeat. The same. You move your head from from right to left, there’s a satisfying clunk in your neck. You rub your beard, your face with both hands. Sigh deeply.

There’s that fucking noise again. This time you can’t ignore it. You get up, go to the source. Before you get there it happens again. It’s maddening. Infuriating. You feel like punching holes in walls. Only walls are too hard. That only heightens the frustration. You get there. Pause.

Noise. Argh. You find the culprit.

“Hello, my name is Neil and I’m from Global doors and windows and -”

“Fuck off, Neil”.

It stops.

Unreal

by Twenty Major on March 26th, 2008

One quarter of Irish people believe female rape victims bear some responsibility for the crime, according to an opinion poll published this morning- source.

Further proof, if it were needed, that at least one quarter of Irish people are fucking retards.

Printer ink

by Twenty Major on March 26th, 2008

My printer ran out of ink last week. I do need to print stuff from time to time. Like plane tickets or those anonymous threatening letters I send to newspaper editors and TV presenters.

So I went into one of those shops that specialises in printer ink yesterday, as good a place as any to find printer ink. I walked in the door.

“Goodbye!”, said the bloke behind the counter. Seriously. Then he realised what he said. “I mean, hello!!!”

I told him I was looking for ink for a particular brand of printer. He did some looking up on the computer for me. Then gave me the sales pitch.

“Well, you have basically three options. Option one, do you have old cartridge with you?”

“No”, I said.

“Well now you don’t have basically three options. You have basically two options. Option one, is basically new cartridge. Cost €27. If you have old cartridge we can refill and cost you €16 but you don’t have so don’t worry.”

“Ok, I won’t.”

“Second option is this. Is basically old cartridge but refilled with ink. Is €20.”

“And is there any real difference between them in how they work?”

He thought for a moment.

“Well this one”, he said pointing at the new one, “is exactly new while this one”, he said pointing at the other one, “is exactly not new.”

“I see”, I said bamboozled by the complex world of printer ink. “That’s certainly a lot to think about. Tell you what, I’ll just take the new one.”

So I did. And he didn’t say “Hello!” as I was leaving. That was a real disappointment, I have to say.

I was just thinking…

by Twenty Major on March 25th, 2008

…the perfect way to end the Tibetan struggle would be if the bloke who has the Olympic torch used it to burn down the whole fucking place as he passed through.

Problem solved.

The name game

by Twenty Major on March 25th, 2008

“Twenty”, said Dirty Dave, “if your name wasn’t Twenty and you had to choose from ‘Arthurbumfaceshitpants’, ‘Stretchedanusmanwithweepingsoresonhisanus’, or ‘Colin’, which name would you choose?”

“Good question, Dave. And one I’d have to give some serious consideration to. You have to factor in when this name change would be made. I mean, if it were now it would be merely awkward to go to the bank and say ‘Excuse me, but I have to change the name on my account to Arthurbumfaceshitpants Major. Yes, I said Arthurbumfaceshitpants. What is your problem?’. I think I’m at an age where I would be able to cope with the obvious embarrasment. Sticks and stones and all that.”

“I see.”

“Of course that wouldn’t make it easy-peasy or terribly comfortable all the time though. Imagine if you went to visit a friend in hospital after he had been raped by a moose with a terrible infection on his moose cock which transmitted itself to the rectal passage of said friend and then when you got to the hospital and you said ‘Hello, I’m here to visit my friend. The moose guy. Yeah. My name? It’s Stretchedanusmanwithweepingsoresonhisanus Major. No, I’m not taking the piss, I swear’. See, that could be a bit awkward, couldn’t it? But I suppose as an adult you’d have to just get over it and get on with things.”

“That you would.”

“The real difficulty would be if you were transported back in time and you were in school again. You know how mean kids can be. Every perceived weakness is relentlessly slagged. Like ‘Haha, your Dad’s head’ or ‘Haha, you have a patch on your eye’ or ‘Haha, you have cerebral palsy’. Kids say the cruellest things. It’s natural, of course, it’s all part of growing up, but going back in time and being called ‘Colin’ would be a bit too tough. If ever there was a cunt’s name it was Colin. I’ve never met a Colin who wasn’t a complete and utter cunt. Colin Major. Jesus Christ. I’d probably just fuck off to Bridgend and kill myself if that was my choice. In fact I’d rather be called Damienrice Major than Colin.”

“Fucking hell!”

“Anyway, in conclusion it’d be Stretchedanusmanwithweepingsoresonhisanus Major for me, as the chances of either you or Pete being raped by a STD ridden moose are quite high indeed. What about you then? Which of those three names would you choose?”

“My middle is Mary, Twenty. I’ve had enough grief my whole life.”