Fuck off

We had a visitor to our house today. I happened to be preparing hummous when she arrived. So I broke off, made this guest a cup of tea and then returned to my Ancient Egyptian treat. With the help of both Data and Riker I finished it off, cut up some carrots and toasted a couple of pittas. This I served to the lady in question who, I feel obligated to needlessly point out, was accompanied by my mother in common law.

'You're very domesticated, Gimme', sneered this woman as I laid a mini-feast before her.

So I shat on the fucking table.

Talk about Papa doing some store front preaching

'A description of the least memorable sexual encounter would still fill a book.' This is a misquote, from 'Time Pressure' by Spider Robinson. I can't find my copy. Fucker is almost certainly boxed. But I've gotten the sentiment right. Couldn't say that I agree, though. I can't remember my least memorable sexual encounter so I couldn't write as much as a haiku about it. A serial monogamist like myself tends to have a whole load of unmemorable sex. Better than nothing, of course. Better than nothing.

The dinner party on the other hand, is without doubt worthy of an epic poem. Being a tone deaf lout lacking in any lyricism I am incapable of writing po-ems be they epic or otherwise but nonetheless this anti-social gathering had all the required elements.

Tragedy it had, in that Common Law missed Peep Show.

Romance too, with Data's proposal to the snotty little four year old from the big house on the corner. And bucket loads of comedy provided mostly by the horrifically side parted, blackberry hanging from hip and unholstered at every opportunity, suit wearing to a casual dinner, hurling obsessed dickwad with his skewed and loudly voiced opinions on everything from film, to sport, to parenting.

We can take a moment to note that this twat knew precisely fuck all about movies, not having actually seen any, yet still was felt well-versed enough to regale us all with his cuntberry contained list of the cinema he intended watching as soon as he had the time. 'When I retire!' he cackled. And we cackled along with him.

Of sport he was equally ignorant. He was a major fucking expert on hurling. But it's a bit of a fucking stretch to call that a sport. Wikipedia notes its prehistoric origins. Damn straight Wiki boys. Hurling essentially involves pack of retarded caveman bogtrotters belting each other with sticks, hewn from the traditional Neanderthal clubs. There was some snooze-inducing talk wherein it was maintained that you can't get a sense of what's happening on the 'telly'. If one has not seen the iomáinaíocht live then can have no understanding of the game. Unless the fuckers that are off-screen at any given moment are performing an interpretive dance version of The Mayor of Casterbridge' I don't see how the fuck I'm going to be any more enlightened.

And so we come to parenting. Behold child-rearing 101 by Stiopháin the Bore: See your children rarely. When you do, make them play hurling or if they have the misfortune to be female, make them play camogie (what kind of fucking game gives a different name to itself when it's played by women? A crazy caveman chick-hating kind of a game). Parenting outside of sports bullying is for na bitchíní, dontcha know? If your nine year old is misbehaving, repeatedly kicking a ball against a neighbouring wall say, then call the guards. They've fuck all better to be doing than scaring chldren at the whim of their influential father. However if the misbehaving takes the form of beating up the neighbourhood children in the back garden during a dinner party then best to ignore, and then scold your wife for interfering because they (the beatees) need to be aware that he (the beater) will 'sometimes play rough'.

Any questions?

Like I say there were a whole lot of facets to this dinner party, many different strands to keep in my addled head. The proposition, the chilli and indeed the opposing viewpoint must wait for another day.


Today's Title

How you used to be

Do you remember laptop death? The mourning continues. V recently asked me for a run/walk program for his wonderful bicycle naming mot. I can't find it, it was on the old hard drive. Pain in the tits, and also a reminder of all the other stuff that was lost. But today Common law found a little memory card from long, long ago. Thereon were contained about 100 photos, mostly taken with telephones. A happy discovery.

And so because my out of dope, over stimulated, underfed brain is refusing to come up with even two fucking words on the hugely built up dinner party post, I give you, for one time only, The Bridge Crew:




This as they were, of course, and Riker's teeth were never as yellow as they appear to be here but yeah, there you have it. I made them. Amn't I fucking deadly?


Today's Title

I never said I was frightened of dying

I know, I know. You want to hear about the dinner party. You want the tale of Huckleberry Hurling and the Tasteless Chilli. You crave details on how being a parent instantly transforms you into an insufferable bore. You lust for the knowledge of the proposal, the refusal, the stormy exit. And it's coming. Honestly, it's coming. And it's going to be so fucking hot that I may have to charge admission.

But first joyous tidings of joy. Again. Jesus fucking Christ but could people ease off with the happy news? I got engaged! I got a job! My puppies passed their Sociology finals! Give it a rest people, you're bringing us underachievers down.

Gav, whom you may remember, got his lovely wife up the Damien, is now the proud father of a beautiful baby girl. I'm guessing he's proud. I'm assuming she's beautiful. Maybe he's ashamed. Perhaps she's pig ugly. But I doubt these things, I doubt them with all my heart. And I am also convinced that both Gav and his lovely wife will, like myself, Common Law and a handful of others, escape the almost inevitable insufferable boringosity that child rearing produces. You have to have a little previous form, you see.

And so folks, for the second time in as many weeks, get those fucking glasses in the air.


Today's Title (Obviously I'd like you to listen to the whole fucking thing but if you need to be pumped full of drugs to endure Pink Floyd, ahem, then I urge you to skip to 1:08 where the improvised vocal tribute to the newborn begins)

How many times can a man turn his head?

While performing Ustrasana in my Yoga class this morning a participant let one rip. This happens every now and again, in all kinds of different poses. It's not remarkable and I would normally not remark upon it. But oh, this one was a doozey. Such an oozey doozey. It had length, it had breadth, but most of all it had an unmistakeable squelchiness.

I have no idea who performed this brief sonata of squidge due to the my facial arrangement at the height of this particular position. But respect, respect is due, due to this lady and her fluid flatulence.


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You can hang me in a bottle like a cat

My constant search for an image that matches my obsessive misanthropy has come to an end. The beardy huge hairiness bum bit was all too obvious and more suited to my future lunatic raving on the street corner career. Have you noticed the huge gap in the raving street corner lunatic sector? I haven't seen the weaving white haired crazy lady on O'Connell Street for quite some time. Maybe she just does Saturdays. Maybe she's fucking dead. Either way, as soon as Common Law gets over her New Moan Ee! Ah! or the children grow up (whichever comes first) I'll be stepping into her dancing shoes and blue frock. I'll save the face ferret and fungus folicles for then.

The stoner sculpted almost mohawk was almost ok, but right from the get go it was clear that there was something missing as far as looking like a dickhead went. It was a safe, whisper it, trendy cut, with nothing that caused strangers on the bus to gaze at me with pity and ask ever so politely, 'Jesus, dude, what the fuck were you thinking?'. And if a rug rethink fails to produce this kind of reaction then a Gimme haircut it ain't. For ten whole days I have not been myself.

But fear not. Common Law, concerned that my normality was eating me up inside, grabbed a bottle of L'Oreal Über Blonde during yesterday's Tesco trip and held me over the sink with her weak and sickly arms while I did some fake protesting.

And now I look a Belgian Nazi. Like Tintin. In fact the picture above is an almost perfect replica of my current physical appearance. The hair colour is right. The hair shape too. The dead eyes? Check. The 'o' shaped mouth, going 'oh', all the livelong fucking day? You betcha.

'Dinner party tonight.'

'Oh.'

'Your mother called.'

'Oh.'

'Your leg's on fire.'

'Oh.'

I have the cut off trousers and the white socks too. And I do stride purposefully, despite, in fact to disguise, my total lack of purpose. All that I lack is the trench coat. And a dedication to the destruction of Jews everywhere. I'm sure i can pick those up in Tesco too.


Today's Title

Portfolios, artichokes, everybody needs a smoke

We gave up on the Irish Toss. Threw in the paper towel. Until recently we had Geraldine's Rag delivered to our door every morning in time for a quick breakfast scan. But in a spate of credit crisis inspired financial panic we discarded this luxury. When I informed the paper delivery guy of our decision he looked at me as if he was going to continue coming around at six every morning, not to deliver but to scream abuse at us for taking away his livelihood. 'Consume motherfuckers!' he looked like he was planning to shout, 'Consume!' So I set him on fire. he went up like a paper boy.

So now I have no fucking clue what's happening on the planet. I could read the internet I suppose, but I do enough of that already and there is little chance of breakingnews.ie competing with Dear Lover or Conor's 'beard'.

Keeping me afloat in my knowledge of world affairs boat is a semi-regular perusal of the odd current affairs blog and I have noticed a huge ignoring of what seem to me to be major stories. Wasn't there a hurricane or some shit somewhere in the last few days? Why is every fucker ignoring this? I gotta quote Mr le Sac here: 'Thou shalt give equal worth to tragedies that occur in non-English speaking countries as to those that occur in English speaking countries.' Or not, presuming you are a bogged down by boring bollox blogger. Thou shalt dismiss this shit as being unworthy of your analysis.

I kind of get this though. It's in some far away country, they're all darkies of one kind or another and let's face it, that whole tsunami thing a while back kind peaked us out as far as concern for the naturally doomed disaster sufferers.

But how about Georgia? No, not the state you ridiculously insular, Yanks. This I don't fucking get. White people, if not English speaking. Little country, in dispute with even smaller country. Little country supported by big power, even littler country supported by other big power. Military build-up on the boarders. Fucking Franz Ferdinand anyone? And yet nobody seems interested. I may be misreading this completely. I most likely am. But the responsibility for my ignorance lies squarely on the shoulders of the current affairs cunts who are spectacularly failing to produce prejudiced, reactionary, fascistic analysis.

Sort it out people, don't make me grasp for Google News, and for the love of Michael, please don't force me to support the new flame-proof paperboy,



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