Friday, May 30, 2008
The wedding is tomorrow and as per the advice of a wise friend, I intend pouring a couple of shots into my sister and pointing her at Finbar.
I do so want to live bleugh from the event but Common Law, straight-laced harridan that she is, is refusing to allow this. I'm bringing the laptop anyway, she'll most likely change her mind after the speeches.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
In particular I would like a designated light on Purple Danger which denotes 'Don't fucking flashingly thank me motherfucker, I let you in by accident because I was day dreaming about my death and it's not like you gave me much of a choice anyway, you undertaking, 05 Micra wielding cunt'.
More communication can only make our roads safer.
Overly long. Horrendously punctuated. Needlessly padded. Reliant on exclamation marks to telegraph jokes. Mired in the 'I put a mentler in my movie' mindset. Shamelessly manipulative. and yet spectacularly deficient in its ability to manipulate me. I truly believe that sensitive subject matter does not a superb piece of writing make.
Stop by next month for another bitter, mean-spirited, and jealousy-ridden review of nothing in particular.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
It all seems like too much effort for a twelve month distant, single Chinese meal.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Bored yet? You'd rather I discussed Buggerby? Someone won some shit over the weekend, right? Congratulations to Bock and all his weeping grown men mates.
Here's the thing about Contador though. His Astana team have been banned from participation in Le Tour. Why? Why the fuck? Because a completely different team who happen to share a name with Contador's, made up of different riders and a different manager, happened to get a few guys busted during last year's Tour. And so the defending champion, comparatively unblemished by doping doubts is being prevented from taking part. What a load of cockcheese. It's all so fucking arbitary. They're all up to their eyes in various illegal enhancements but the majority have chemists who are staying ahead of the drug regulators. Banning a team who lack any convicted riders merely on the grounds of their name makes even less sense than the rest of the deeply flawed anti-doping systems. Stupid pack of fucks.
So the Giro has a lot of meaning this year. Want to know how to watch it live? You need two computers. One for live streaming video from Rai and the other for the tastefully thick tones of Sean Kelly on the Eurosport audio feed. Why can't I use one laptop? Because they both insist on launching in Windows Media Player and I'm too stupid and lazy to figure out how to change this. I'm going to assume that you are too.
There is much agonizing, inspiring pain to be taken in during this closing week. How I love to watch them hurt and then aspire to come nowhere near those levels of suffering as I pedal single-geared and fixed into the biting cunt of a wind that is blowing today along the coast road.
Happy viewing all. Go Conty.
Inbelievably I cannot find a video clip of 'Angelina' on YouTube. Stupid and lazy again, I suspect.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
You want I should address these issues? You'd like to hear me bitch about my imminently increased workload? You feel the need for me to plunge into an Oedipal rant of misplaced rage and guilt? You desire a diatribe on the dodginess of my shoulder joints?
Well, move the fuck along, all that this shit is is another notch on the increasingly elusive twenty in a month bedpost. Expect duck and bike pictures all the way to the 31st.
Friday, May 23, 2008
'It's time to get up, sweetie.'
'Well, it's time to get up.'
'Bud I sleeeeepy.'
'It's still time to get up.'
And you're three years old, for fuck's sake, you should be leaping out of bed filled with enthusiasm for another wonderful day of learning and freshness and freedom from responsibility.
'Bud I sleeeeeeeeepy.'
Seriously second-born, you're not sixteen and encased in apathy. You're not suddenly, shockingly, yet another year older and lost in a sea of confusion and fear. You're not, whisper it, 34.
'What day is it today, Data?'
'What day is today?'
'Yes. But what else is it?'
'Yes. But what other kind of day is it?'
'I got you pwesents. I got you a duck.'
'You're not really supposed to tell me what you got me.'
'Mommy got you books. Not a Dora books.'
'Again, you're not really supposed to tell me.'
'I got you a duck.'
'It's time to get up.'
I suspect that if I had any other life than this then this is the life that I would envy. Deeply un-Gimme though it may be, I believe that today I may even have myself a happy birthday.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Five different pieces were contained therein. Allow me to review them individually:
1) Never Never Land.
A bastardised though thankfully short version of Peter Pan. The biggest laugh of the night came from one of the children telling their on stage mother to 'Chill out, Mum!' Hahahaha! Isn't it hilarious when six year olds are rude to their parents? So witty! So fucking charming! If one of the Bridge Crew spoke to me like that they'd be dealing with a short sharp trip to the bold step. But to these parents of the pampered this condescending rudeness was as side-splitting as Bill Hicks doing Goat Boy. Fucking losers. This is why the dial on children these days is set to 'respect-free lout'.
2) The Slumber Party
This was enragingly sexist tripe lacking in any moral centre. Despite my sharing that one line assessment with Riker, this remained her favourite pice of the evening. In a nutshell: Eight year old girls plan a secret sleepover without the knowledge of their holidaying parents. Boys play trick on girls. Girls poison boys in revenge. Lots of 'boys are smelly, girls only like make-up and clothes' dialogue. The deception of the parents and the unsupervised nature of the party brings no negative consequences. The soundtrack to this frankly dangerous premise is, appropriately enough, 'Rehab' by Amy Winehouse.
3) Snow White.
This is the one that Olivia was in. She was playing a dwarf, though like all the other dwarfs, she was dressed as Santa. Snow White herself was dressed in a Disney Snow White costume. For fuck's sake. The almost unbearable tedium produced by the script and direction was lessened somewhat by a strong performance from the Evil Queen. Olivia did not say 'crap'.
4) Jack and The Beanstalk.
Wait till you get a load of this. The middle-aged drama teacher, in a 'Brian Glover in Kes' moment, had given herself a part in this one. Fucking shameless. Unsurprisingly, she was shit. She fluffed her lines, she was unfunny. The whole episode induced in me the kind of cringing that I normally reserve for flashback memories of myself as a teenager.
5) I don't even know what this one was called.
The cast was made up of older children, who, slathered in more make up than Zac Efron on a bad acne day, proceeded to shout their way through what appeared to be an adaptation of The Great Gatsby. The butler got to marry the heiress. The greedy socialite was forced to become the butler of the happy couple. That's basically the plot of Fucking Scott Fitzgerald's alleged classic, right?
I have no doubt that there are more upsetting ways that I could have passed my free evening, I just can't think of any at this time. Riker loved it of course. Feel free to insert your own 'the happiness of the children is all that matters' lie. I can't bring myself to vomit out my own.
Monday, May 19, 2008
'You're very domesticated, Gimme', sneered this woman as I laid a mini-feast before her.
So I shat on the fucking table.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
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'.
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.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
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?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
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)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
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.
Friday, May 9, 2008
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.'
'Your mother called.'
'Your leg's on fire.'
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.
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,
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Shut the fuck up. Just shut the fuck up. The fuck are you doing in here anyway? Don’t you know that meatheads hate cardio? Are you unaware that when, once in a blue fucking moon, you do deign to lower yourself to the exercise choice of the skinny that you’re just supposed to stick that gradient on Kilimanjaro and stumble up the threadmill (sic) for fifteen minutes or so? Spin is for the obese, the anorexic and the odd athlete. Juice junkies need not apply.
I’m being unfair, elitist. I know. I'm sorry. I take it back. All are welcome. I’ll take the old, the infirm, those of middling build and body fat. I’ll take even you, you fucking lifter, you. But for serious guys, just shut the fucking fuck up. I’m talking here. I’m giving it loads on the technique, the encouragement, the mindless screaming of abuse. And if people can hear you discussing what Saoirse said to Fiachra while he was going down on Fionn over my newly micced up dulcet tones then you are speaking too loudly. Stop it you spotty steroid enhanced spa brain. This is a place of effort, pain and vomit inducing suffering, not a fucking knitting circle. Take your inane conversation elsewhere.
And hey there, on your way out, could you stop being so muscley? It’s real fucking annoying. Thank you.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
If you have been paying attention, endlessly scratching through the minutia of my offerings, searching for 'The Prince in Waiting trilogy' references, for example, you will be aware that we rent and that our landpeople live beside us. We get on fine. We like them fine. They like us fine. We mostly don't annoy them, they mostly get shit fixed when it's broken. It's all, to really squeeze the most out of thesaurus.com, fine.
But oh sweet baby jesus, oh dear Lord baby Jesus, lyin' there in your ghost manger, just lookin' at your Baby Einstein developmental videos, learnin' 'bout shapes and colours, help me.
They are having a dinner party. And we are the opposite of my current favourite mountain bike loop spin track. The song in question is named 'Uninvited' and that is what we are not. Oh, fucking kill me now but we are invited. We are so horribly, desperately invited.
This is just wrong. What the fuck are they thinking? You don't invite the commoners that live in the lodge by the gate to the Big House. They'll only talk coarsely, use unmannerly manners, shit on the perfectly varnished floorboards and use the tastefully embroidered Irish Linen napkins to wipe their arses. The fuck are we going to talk about, their property portfolio? We are their fucking property portfolio. Politics? I like them but at the same time I just fucking know that they voted Fianna Fáil. Despite all the denials, many fuckers did and I reckon they can be confidently counted among this number. How about sports? They play tennis. They're into rugby. They support the German national football team. This doesn't open up many conversation gambits outside of 'You fucking what?'
There are a couple of other couples coming too. And while they are possibly perfectly passable as human beings they too are, well, rich and therefore worthy of nothing but my envy and my scorn. I'm bad enough in social situations with the handful of people who I deem deserving of my endless wit and charm, but stick me in a room replete with older, richer and more babied servants of The Man and I will doubtlessly become practically catatonic in my desperation not to say something that will lead to the instant eviction of myself and my family.
Seriously, you crazy Krauts, what the fuck were you thinking?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
This in response to my Irish language rant.
And my reresponse: Gabh suas ort féin.
There. I made the effort to research, spell and punctuate the Irish language correctly. In future you might consider extending the same courtesy to English.
Now don't you go continuity bombing me.
Monday, May 5, 2008
I distinctly remember demanding that Finbar define exactly my relationship to the first born of his new family.
'I suppose you'd say he's your half brother.'
Suppose? I see. I suppose you might have mentioned that your wife was pregnant but I know, I know, details, right? I'm not sure if he harboured some fairytale-based antagonism towards the use of the 'step' nomenclature, but from then on I counted my rapidly expanding second set of siblings in point fives. At the time of writing and considering my full-on sister as a full-on one, I have 1.5 brothers and the same amount of sisters. Feel free to do your own 'math'.
I saw these Canada ensconced step-sibsters, these demi-dudes, a whole lot more when I was a teenager as I would visit every summer and for lengthy periods. And I assume that it is for this reason that they're all pretty much frozen in time in my head at the ages of ten and down.
I'm getting to where I'm going, honest. Hang on in there. I feel the big news approaching.
The nine year old is engaged. And not a Gimme and Common Law type engagement which feels a little like the busy signal at the Chinese on a Friday night, but a wedding next summer, picking out venues, actually going to get married engagement. So raise your glasses. Congratulations all round.
You'll be wanting a name here. In the interests of privacy protection I'm picking Oviler out of the ether. Oviler, yes, not Oliver. Oviler is not really nine, but he is young to be getting hitched considering he doesn't live in a trailer and his fiancée isn't up the Damien. I can hear the misgivings being privately being misgived left, right and centre. But you won't be hearing them from Gimme.
Unique among the Minute boys, Oviler is a man who knows what he wants and has a clear plan for its getting. It has always been thus and always have myself and my other brothers looked upon him with a certain awe for this talent which eludes us so completely. And when it comes to affairs of the heart I believe that Oviler is the living, breathing wife of Ben Small of the Coney Island Smalls. He knows, I reckon. He knows the way you know about a good melon.
And so again I implore you, raise your fucking glasses.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
These kinds of vaguely happy tidings do occur together with reasonable regularity but as a rule I manage to push through the feel-good feelings and maintain my well resolved bitterness and self-disgust. Just now though, just now, I think I'll allow myself a moment of contentment before my panic, repugnance and blind fear creep back in and take their place at the table.
Ok, the boys are back in town. Thank fuck for that. As you were.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
And so I fake my way through a body conditioning class, managing to refrain from screaming 'Squat correctly mofos or I'll cook you fools' and hasten home to pick up Data. I then drop by the homestead to check on Pneumonia Girl.
'You're going to go and buy it now?'
'What if they don't have any?'
'Of course they'll have them.'
'What if they don't?'
'Of course they will.'
'Ring them for me.'
'Ring them yourself.'
'But I'm shy.'
'I have pneumonia.'
'Yeah, but I'm shy.'
'Oh, Jesus. Give me the phone.'
Common Law calls the local Xtravision.
'They don't have any.'
A noise that I cannot accurately transcribe escapes my lips. The kind of noise one's heart makes as it's being stabbed by a hunting knife. It's a squelchy sound though not quite a squelch.
'Pre -booked copies only.'
Again with the punctured heart noise.
'I'll try Fairview.'
I whimper 'Okay.'
I had to go to Xtravision anyway, in order to keep Common Law supplied with watching material. It's lunchtime. There is a large queue. Every fucker wants a copy. Every fucker is turned away. No Grand Theft Auto at the inn. The woman is front of me is on the same mission as everyone else but she's extra determined, Xtravision determined. This lady, this lady is willing to go the extra kilometre, to give her all.
'Do you have Grand Theft Auto?'
'Do you have one pre-ordered?'
He checks her name. She does not have a copy pre-ordered. She claims she pre-ordered one in Artane.
'So fucking go to Artane.' He doesn't say that. He stares blankly. The queue grows. She insists that he rings Artane. He does. They don't have her phantom copy either. So she brings out the big guns.
'It's for me son. He has special needs. He'll be really disappointed.'
It would be so very wrong, insulting and insensitive of me to suggest that every fibre of my being believes that this is a porky of the most porcine variety. But I am what I am. I don't fucking believe her. I'm not sure that Xtravision man believes her either. It makes no odds though, his hands are tied. The woman gives up and the queue moves on.
This story, such as it is, has a happy ending. Happy for Gimme, at least. I discover that Game in Blanchardstown have loads of copies. I go, I see, I buy.
I am now living on slimline milk through a straw. Not sure about the rest of the family.