Fuck you, Bertie, you motherfucking cunt

by Twenty Major on April 23rd, 2008

If having to listen to the simpering bollocks tributes to Bertie Ahern in the Dail today wasn’t bad enough it looks like this could be the fucker’s last hurrah.

If leaving us with serious crime, a shite health service, poxy education and the countless other issues wasn’t enough he’s now trying to make it more difficult to buy booze. What a complete and utter cunt he is.

Because his government can’t control crime he blames it on alcohol and makes it more difficult for us to enjoy a drink. I mean prohibition worked really fucking well in the US, didn’t it? Seriously, this is really fucking annoying not to mention worthless.

If I had to make a tribute to Bertie Ahern it would my shite covered fist shoved right down his fucking throat. Good riddance you stuttering Oswald Cobblepot looking freak. I hope retirement fucking kills you.

via - Fatmammycat.

Out of his gourd

by Twenty Major on April 23rd, 2008

Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete walked into Ron’s, ordered a drink and sat at the bar. Stinking Pete declared himself unwell moments before unleashing a stream of vomit all over the floor.

“What the fuck have you been eating?”, yelled a clearly unhappy Ron.

“Just sandwiches”.

“What did you have in them?”

“A watery green vegetable”.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I thought we told you to stay away from the pukeumber”.

Excuses Excuses

by Twenty Major on April 23rd, 2008

I’m tired of hearing shite from people who commit serious crimes.

Actually, I should correct that. I’m tired of hearing shite from their defence teams. How often have you turned on the radio and heard:

“Counsel for the defence accepted their client had done wrong but urged the court to take into account the background in which Mr X grew up. His father was an abusive alcoholic while his mother was a heroin addict who was regularly beaten by his father. When turning to his uncle for guidance Mr X was abused up the arse and when he told the local priest he forced him to take part in orgies with oil and other assorted toys. He then spiralled into a life of addiction and alcoholism, marrying a glue sniffing mother of four. He then abused and beat those children only because he didn’t know any better himself before spending some time in prison for battering an 81 year old pensioner in her own home so he could steal the €17 she had left of her pension so he could score drugs.

Mr X expresses deep shame and remorse at his actions but feels he has been a victim of society.”

Well fuck you and fuck you again just after you’ve been fucked. And the fucking will be done by an elephant’s cock, you poxy, despicable cunts. And that’s the just the defence counsels.

We have become a nations of excusers and enablers. When people behave badly we are dealt a litany of excuses about how tough a person’s life has been, how they suffered this or that (whether it’s true or not and I suspect a lot of the time it isn’t), how they battled this addiction or that, and the reality is that even if those things were the truth it doesn’t alter the fact that this person behaved like an utter cunt.

ZZzZzzzzz. We’ve heard it all before. Fuck excuses, fuck reasons, even the most poorly educated, junkie prick in town knows that beating/robbing/killing/stabbing etc is wrong. I don’t give a fuck about your sob stories, your namby-pamby social worker bollocks or anything else. I just want you dealt with and off the fucking streets.

I don’t give a fiddler’s what your life was like. If it was bad then you aren’t alone. There are plenty of people who suffer bad lives and childhoods who don’t behave like cunts. There are those who come from privileged families and from wealth who behave like scum.

There’s a whole system in place to enable people who commit crime to abdicate themselves from responsibility. And anyone who refuses to take responsibility for their actions is not somebody you can rehabilitate.

What’s the answer? Death camps? I don’t fucking know. I just know it annoys me.

Another Irish blogger’s book

by Twenty Major on April 22nd, 2008

Fiona’s book - Trying to Conceive: The Irish Couple’s Guide and is being launched tonight at 6.30pm at the Dublin Bookshop on Grafton St.

It’s all about making babies. I once made a baby out of plasteceine. It got eaten by my dog. Don’t let it happen to you.

Best of luck, Fiona.

On that note if you haven’t already got a copy of The Order of the Phoenix Park (RTE review), head along to Crime Always Pays where the Grand Viz is giving away some copies.

Legal matters

by Twenty Major on April 22nd, 2008

Dear Judge,

I am writing to you on behalf of two of my constituents whose son is currently on trial for some petty crime or other.

I would like to provide you with some background information on his family. They are good people, well respected and liked by the local community and they make a significant contribution to the quality of life in this area. Both his parents are practising catholics, members of the ISPCA, the mother is an active member of the Irish Countrywomen’s Association and the father organises charity golf classics and long puck contests for the young children of the area.

They are well known for their hospitality and ne’er a stranger has passed their door without a cup of tea and a corned beef sandwich being handed to them. This one time a passing motorist broke down near their house and not only did they give him a bed for the night they allowed him to share theirs so as to keep him warm.

While they fully accept that their son has done wrong (whatever it might be, I’m not so up on the details myself) they have asked me, as their representative, to speak on their behalf. I feel I have a duty to them as constituents and potential voters for me and my party to do so.

As you can see the son comes from what you might call ‘good stock’ and I would urge you to consider that when passing sentence in this particular case.

I can assure you that Mr and Mrs Hitler would be eternally grateful to you for your help.

yours etc,

Mary Hinge, Labour TD (and full time idiot).

John Prescott

by Twenty Major on April 21st, 2008

I had to check the date on the newspaper on Sunday when I read about John Prescott suffering from bulimia. It wasn’t April Fools. Then it kind of made sense to me.

I bet he sicked it up then ate it straight back down again, the gluttonous cunt.

I eagerly await the Mary Harney/Anorexia exposé.

Some people

by Twenty Major on April 21st, 2008

“So do you like flying?”, said the old woman next to me as I gripped the armrest with all my might and prayed to all the Gods I could think of (just hedging my bets).

“No”, I muttered.

“Are you nervous?”, she said.

“Ah-ha”.

“Ah sure, isn’t it a great way to go?”

“What?!”

“I mean, it’s so quick to get from A to B. I couldn’t go see my relatives without the old plane.”

“Oh, a good way to travel. Hah, yeah. Whatever.”

“So is it the flying you’re afraid of or the crashing? It’s just that I have a fear of confined spaces, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I see.”

“Look! There’s a bit of land now. And a mountain. You wouldn’t want to crash into a mountain!”

And so it went. I love talking to people on planes.

Also, a quick piece of advice. If you have a camera that has a ‘lens error’ and it’s one of those compact ones where the lens comes out when you turn it on but the lens won’t go back in, don’t pay any attention to people on message boards who say ‘I found pushing the lens back in with all my might fixed the problem’.

It certainly stopped the lens sticking out but I’m not sure all those tiny screws were meant to fall out and the camera is not meant to make a noise like an electronic moose when you turn it on.

And it still says ‘lens error’.

What did I do?

by Twenty Major on April 18th, 2008

I was in town last weekend and decided to get a few beers for the stroll up to Ron’s. So I popped into that Dunnes Stores on George’s Street, grabbed a few cans and went up to the counter.

I waited in line then got the ‘next please’ call from the lady behind the counter.

“Hello”, I said putting the cans down on the counter so she could scan them. She said nothing, not even a grunt, but she looked at me like I was the biggest piece of shit she had ever seen in her life. She scanned the cans and asked for the money, all the while staring at me with utter contempt. I gave her the money, asked for a bag, which she whipped out from under the counter like I’d asked her to cut off her own clit, threw it on the counter and slapped down my change on top of.

“Goodbye”, I said, perplexed at what I had done to make this women hate me so much. She took one last look at me, a look which said ‘I hope when you leave here you get hit by a bus, or raped by a gnu, or stabbed in the neck, or set on fire, or a crane falls on your head, you fucking bastard’.

It was most odd. Slightly pissed up as I was at the time I didn’t really think too much of it but it’s bothering me now. While I don’t expect anyone working in a shop on George’s Street on Saturday night to be full of the joys I don’t think it’s too much to expect some basic manners, especially when you’re being polite to them.

We’re developing a real problem in our service industries here. Employers are hiring people as cheaply as possible, maximising profits, whilst minimising customer service. About three weeks ago I was in a newsagent in Rathmines trying to buy a drink and a newspaper. The woman behind the counter was talking on her mobile phone and quite pointedly refused to acknowledge my presence even though I was standing right in front of her. When two other people joined the queue and she ignored all of us I threw the newspaper up in the air and the bottle of water on the ground and walked out. I got my paper and drink in a shop where the shop assistant wasn’t an ignorant, ill-mannered cunt.

It’s getting to a point where you start noticing as unusual things that should be common place. I find myself going to back to places where I know they have some kind of commitment to customer service and refusing point blank to go anywhere near other bars/restaurants because it has been so appalling. And the list of no-go places is growing, sadly.

In other countries bar and restaurant service is so good it’s almost an art. And while there are places like that, and people like that, too often you feel like it’s a chore to them. And for all our talk we Irish don’t like to make a scene in public places. Unfortunately there’s no point bitching in the pub after the fact, bad service needs to be highlighted there and then.

So my solemn vow is to never let anyone away with bad service, poor manners or looking at me like they hate me for no good reason (it will still be fine to look at me like you hate me if you have a good reason to hate me).

Bring. It. On.

This is what my cunt looks like

by Twenty Major on April 17th, 2008

No, seriously.

A tragic loss

by Twenty Major on April 17th, 2008

Many years ago Stinking Pete was caught in a love triangle. He was vying for the affections of a lady called Concepta McGinty along with a fellow called Mel who ran a mobile phone shop.

They would court her and each would try and convince her that he was the man of her dreams. Pete would try and woo her by taking her to his favourite places such as McGonagles, Bruxelles and to see his cousin he lived in the alley between Bachelor’s Walk and Abbey street. He had his own two-bedroomed cardboard box/shopping trolley condo there.

Concepta loved a bit of rough, so she did, but at the same time she was a lady and enjoyed her trips to the National Concert Hall, art galleries, museums and the finest dining establishments in the city. She would tell Stinking Pete about these trips and while he said nothing to her he raged with jealousy when we were in Ron’s drinking pints which didn’t cost as much as a suit from Louis Copeland.

He would call in to see his love rival in his mobile phone shop and tell him all the things he wished he and Concepta would do together in bed (she was a rather frigid lover but Pete found that her most endearing quality). Mel was a short-tempered sort and warned Pete that if he couldn’t have her nobody could. Pete farted in his shop and it took some hours to air the place out.

One night Pete took her to Burdocks right at closing time to get some scratchings and chips. It was the most romantic thing he could think of. He walked her home but as it was a midweek night and she had to be up early go to to work in Arnott’s there was to be no love making that night. He kissed her gently on the cheek and wished her pleasant dreams. So, you can imagine his horror when the police rolled up to Ron’s the next afternoon and arrested him for murder.

Work colleagues of Concepta were worried that she hadn’t turned up and contacted the Gardai who called to her house, found the front door slightly ajar and subsequently Concepta’s naked body lying on her bed. As Pete was last to be seen with her he was naturally under great suspicion. The evidence was all against him and it was looking bad. I contacted some of my police acquaintances and told them that while Stinking Pete was a miasmic half-wit he was no murderer, but nothing worked. Pete was kept in custody and we all expected the worst, having little faith in the justice system.

Imagine our surprise then when Pete walked into Ron’s and declared himself a free man. Obviously Pete was very emotional. The relief of being released was tempered with the sadness of losing his great love, Concepta. The Gardai had instead arrested and charged Mel, his great rival.

“Good to see you free, Pete”, I said, “but how come they released you and arrested Mel?”

“The forensic tests came back”, he said. “They found Siemens in her stomach”.