Monday, April 28, 2008
I note that due to what would appear to an unreasonably heavy work load, Fatmamycat is taking a brief break from publishing her much sought after opinions on current affairs, popular culture and all that is horrifically ginger.
I'll be following her lead, due not to pressure work or domestic but rather to the fact that tomorrow, at last, the big day arrives. How I have longed for this. How my fingers have itched for the feel of the controller beneath my hand as I speed through the streets and avenues of Liberty City, mowing down those with the temerity to get in my way and occasionally pausing to get out of the car, stretch my legs, and shoot someone in the fucking head.
But it's not all about the shooting and the blood and the spilling of my unfathomable anger upon the innocents pixels that will soon be wandering about the tv screen. It's mostly about that, of course, but not quite all.
San Andreas, the last full edition of Grand Theft Auto, also contained a compelling storyline, or at least one that compelled the fuck out of me. Twisty and turny it was, filled with well drawn and well drawn characters and some seriously witty dialogue. It also boasted a strong moral centre to go with the optional mass slaughter. By all accounts the follow-up, though slightly smaller in scale, is even more detailed in terms of plot, design and AI. This makes me very excited. This makes me literally (in the new sense of not even remotely literally) cream my pants.
Expect no postings in the coming weeks, then, as Gimme has bigger birds to boil. And if your regular readership of Stranded on Gaia has caused the growth in you of any affection for my children or partner, you may want to drop by and cook them their dinner because I'm fucked if I'm doing it when there's a Liberty City that needs taming.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The beard is gone and the mushroom hair expands out from underneath my hat making me look like a Trading Places train guard. The beard and the hair were a loving couple, well suited in their hugeness and mutual street personality, and the hair cannot now bear to be alone. It wants to end this painfully mocked existence. It wants death by mohawk.
As I had hoped and expected the barber's is empty of customers. I have Data in tow and a half hour window before I need to retrieve Riker from basketball. The two rug-rethinkers are reclined in their barber chairs playing some kind of WWII fighter game on a laptop. They look unenthused at our arrival, but they deign to desist their dogfighting and make a vague attempt at a business-like demeanour. The big news here is that they both have horrible haircuts. One long and straggly, one shorn short, both shitty as a stick that is not without poo.
I place Data within reach on the waiting bench and am eye gestured into Shorty's chair. The eye gesturing is enough to set my highly sensitised stoner bells ringing. This guy, this guy who will now dance about my head with a sharp implement, this guy is goofed. He's got it all going on. The eyes, the slight wobbliness, the repressed smile. He reminds me of me, at Sunday dinner in my mother's in the days before the Bridge Crew.
'What can I do ya?'
'Would she like a lollipop?'
Does Ratboy shit in the woods? Yes, Data would like a lollipop. So would my smelly stoned coiffmeister but he resists. Straggly, now giggling quietly at a Daily Mail article on The Lisbon Treaty shows no such restraint.
'So, what can I do for ya?'
'I'd like a mohawk, please.'
'A mohawk. Right.'
'Number 4 at the sides and back.'
'Number 4. Right.'
He begins. His ideas as to the masterpiece that he intends sculpting out of this mass of hair that fuzzes up in front of him are to ebb and flow over the next twenty minutes. I have asked for one cut, he suggests another to which, in my fear and desire to get the fuck out of there, I quickly agree. And then he creates a third which bears no relationship to either of the first two.
I get out alive. Two ears, no major lacerations. Data is unpoisoned. I have considerably less hair. And, thankfully, I own a hat.
I wrote and rewrote that last sentence five times, and to me it still looks and sounds like so much sludgy shit.
Once I had a resting heart rate of 38. It's in the fifties now. And my newest life theory tells me that we all have a numeral scrawled somewhere on our souls and this digit denotes the number of beats that we bought way back there at our births. I'm using mine up too fast, with my smoking and drinking and worrying. What do I have to worry about? That I'm running out of words, running out of beats. And I know that it's all because I give a fuck. I remember when I didn't and I want that back. Giving a fuck fucking sucks. Having a care is crap.
But stick around, or drop back later. I'm going to go write up the barber business. It won't be funny because I desperately want it to be so, but I'm going to do it anyway. I'm fucked if I know why.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
But yes, if I pass you on the street or in the stairwell of the gym you can confidently expect a nod and grunt. It's only polite. And politeness, indeed manners generally, are a big thing for Gimme.
Which leads me to the post point of today, Gmail chat. I log on, I go uninvisible and I see the tall column of little green lights indicating the availabilty of my many gmail enabled correspondents. And unless I have something witty or profound to say, I just ignore these bulbous emerald bulbs. And more and more it feels as if I'm walking into a room, looking around and pointedly ignoring the fuck out of everyone. This bothers me. It makes me feel rude. And while I don't so much mind being thought of as an inconstant, self-absorbed, conceited cunt, I am upset by the possibilty of my being impolite.
So again, here's how it fucking is. I shall now be greeting green lights with a 'howsitgoing'. This does not require a response. I am not begging for your attention and praise. Fine. I am not overtly begging for your attention and praise. I am merely being polite. Return the greeting if you want, it's no skin off my nose, you ignorant fuck. If you want to use this greeting as an opportunity to monopolise my time and bug the fuck out of me with irritating questions about the well-being of my family and lengthy diatribes on your most recent mental illness, then by all means, it's not like I have anything better to be doing. I'm sure Common Law can do her own Gorgonzola smearing. If it causes her pain and lightheadedness then that's a small price to pay for your having an audience for your witterings.
Isn't this going to be fun? Excited already, aren't you? Already completed your move to Yahoo, haven't you? Ha! I've got that too, stalkee. You can virtually run, but you can't cyberly hide.
Mostly I'm looking I'm looking forward to saying hello to the Creative support team guy whose name has been in my sidebar for the last year. He's going to think I want his hot little Bangladeshian body. And then I'm going to have a little less clutter on my sidebar.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
So I thought I'd go all upbeat today, and maybe find a picture of a pussycat or a cute little pigeon or some such. I couldn't find any pussycat pictures that weren't already daubed with misspelled witless witticisms and all the pigeon pics are just a little toooo cute. So instead I have decided to share a positive news story that I came across. The design of my bleugh is so irredeemably shit that it appears to be unclear when I am using a hyperlink. Here is the story. Here. You need to click on the word here, right here, to go to the link.
Cute, huh? There is a god, right? No, there fucking isn't. Because my omniscience (you knew I was omniscient, didn't you?) tells me this:
The mother fucked the baby out the window because it was crying too much, interrupting her Oprah, bringing her down, and the Kevin Cash post person had only paused under the window to nick a birthday fiver out of a card sent to the baby by her cancer riddled grandmother. Given the time to think about it she would have let the child bounce off the pavement so that she could have sued mommy, the post office and the dead baby itself for post traumatic stress and the grey matter dry cleaning bill.
Baby brain fragment is a real bitch to get out.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Really, I'm not doing all that much more than I normally do but those little extra bits and pieces, the carting of duvets, laptops and twin towers of dvds from bed to couch, couch to bed and back again has made me ditch the less important stuff like browsing bullshit blogs and sitting staring into space wondering if the time has come for me to resume my career as a super power free super hero.
I love this reasonably purposeless purpose that I now have. I love it so much that if I could be sure that the National Theatre would continue paying Common Law to recline on her ass indefinitely then I would be equally happy to gently poison her breakfast of poached egg and McCambridge's toast. All the extra meal preparing is something of a pain in the boobies, you see, so if the illness could involve a little less eating then I'd be made up. I don't want her nastily nauseous or anything, just, you know, not hungry.
So a retention of my sense of purpose through an idle and appetite free Common Law. Plus a simple super power or two. That's all I ask.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Get me right, I'm no lateness fascist. If you want to run, say, five or ten minutes over-time for a social occasion such as a drink in a pub, then by all means, be my guest. Be my tardy fucking guest. I brought a book. I have my Crackberry. And I kind of liking drinking alone. But if you begin to drift past the twenty minute mark then you're just being an ill-mannered mother-humper. And be warned: if you are happy to leave someone sitting by themselves in a pub looking like a loveless loser, then you are a disrespectful prick who will get yours. Particularly if yours happens to be disapproving glances, some sighing and a minimum of five minutes Gimme grumpiness. But that's in a pub, right. Just a a night out. No fucking biggie.
But let's consider something more serious. A medical appointment. A funeral. The collection of a child, say. People who are habitually late for these kinds of important events are selfish cunts. Don't know how long it's going to take? Then use your fucking brain and figure it out. Unfamiliar with the distances and traffic conditions? Give yourself a ridiculous amount of time. Err on the side of not being a total geebag. I can do it. Fuck knows I am one of the most disorganised fuckers in the Greater Dublin area but the idea of being this fucking rude makes me feel almost nauseous. And where children are concerned there is zero fucking excuse. A three year old doesn't know what time it is, they just know that all their mates have been picked up and that they're all on their lonesome.
A ten year old, in contrast, is all too aware of the time, but not of the prevailing conditions of grown-upitiude that lead to a hangover and a slow morning start. So if you say that you're going to pick little Gimme up at 11.30 on a Saturday morning , you'd best be there right on fucking time unless you want to create a window-gazing beast who will one day become the kind of adult who begins shaking and sweating a the merest hint of the possibility of his not arriving for anything at least ten minutes early.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Fucking keep your nasty niceness to yourself, you generous cunt.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
I'm driving my car! I'm wiping my ass! I'm assessing my hamstring and lower back flexibility to see whether or not I'm finally able to suck my own mickey!
But I'm working on the assumption that there are people out there who, while completely disinterested in the minutia of my existence, do harbour some inexplicable concerns for the well-being of the my band of hangers-on. And so the Common Law update:
She be blood clotless, and bedded. Looking and feeling better than yesterday but still giving it the whole 'I have pneumonia, I'm pale, interesting and if not at Death's door then certainly calling on his mate Seriously Unwell' bit.
She hangs in a room dominated not by the six old ladies it contains but by an obese woman who got drunk, fell and broke her ankle, decided it was just a sprain, got drunk again, fell again, and shattered said ankle into a bizillion pieces. This woman is a talker. Fucking talkers. Always fucking talking.
Such is my guilt, oh such guilt, that I am about to bring her in my laptop, loaded up with movies and idiotic Yahoo Games. She's getting better, for sure, but she just wants to be home. Tomorrow afternoon , we're told. While I'm grateful for the extra time that this gives me to sort out the bomb site that is the house, I too just want her home. The twenty or so years of making up for disbelieving in her sickness can't start soon enough for me.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
I'll assume you went there first.
I love Twisty, despite her despising me. She speaks much truth, although I occasionally find the pill just a little too bitter to swallow. But that link that you will have religiously followed as you follow every word that springs from my sprightly fingertips, is my favourite of recent times. I always fucking hated the word 'atheist' and now I know why. She's funny, huh? Though she is certainly not here for my fucking amusement.
And this guy.
Though unfamiliar with the video that Mr. Leeroy 'critiques', I am now reluctant to watch it, fearing that the reality will prove considerably less nose-pukingly hilarious than the breakdown. The 'Hello' one is pretty funny too.
Bookmark these people. Stay up all night reading everything they've ever written.
Go on. You heard me.
I've got a good excuse though. Wanna hear it? It's a peach.
Common Law's Fakey McFake and The All-Star Fakers 'I'm really tired and sore all over' sickness appears to have been just a leettle less put-on than I had imagined. In that she now enters her 24th hour upon a trolley in the A&E department of Beaumont Hospital, with a non-comical case of pneumonia.
'I told you I was sick.' she said. A lot. 'But you didn't believe me,' she said, a lot.
My diatribe on the state of the fucking health service can, I suppose, wait for another day.
She'll live. But wow, that Common Law, she's having a hell of a year.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Will I be boycotting the Olympics? Damn straight. I'll be boycotting them all to hell. I'll be scoring over 8.000 runs in a career at them, that's how Boycotted they'll be. Jesus but, 8,000 runs? 8,000? I know the rest of us get bored watching cricket but how fucking bored must Geoff have been having to hit all those fucking runs? Wouldn't you get to like, a 1,000 or something, and go, 'Holy tea breaks, Batman, it's about time rain stopped the fuck out of play, I think I'll go and do something more interesting with my life'?
Yes, I will be boycotting the Olympics. I shall resist the lure of under-age football, NBA freaks, and, here's my major personal sacrifice aimed at saving all those poor Tibetois, even Bekele kicking the shit out of everyone in the 10,000 metres. I have no doubt that my missing out on all those high end sporting spectacles is going to vastly improve the lives of monkeys not just in Tibet but all over the world. But...but, but, but...
There are two events at the XXIX Olympiad that I cannot bring myself to miss. Beach volleyball. You heard me. If there is one thing that can come close to the sexiness of Common Law shaking her booty when she doesn't know I'm watching, it is a skillful, well-toned lady athlete going about her sporty business. And if said lady athletes happen to be wearing next to nothing then I'm not one to jump on board the 'ban this trivial titillating excuse for a sport' bandwagon. Not siree, not Gimme. So that's Number One.
Number Two, (oh Lordy, how unfortunate that particular numerical nomenclature) is the women's marathon. Folks, this lady of whom I speak has done it all, bar win Olympic gold. And she deserves it. As I believe I may have mentioned before, there isn't an athlete in the world more prepared to sacrifice anything, everything, to be the best that she or he can be. I'm talking about the great Ms Radcliffe of course, she of the bobbing head and the side of the road pooping. She inspires me, does Paula, she lifts me up. To me, she is the epitome of all that is great about running, about athletics, about sport.
So fuck you, Falun Gong, take a hike Tibet. Come August 17th, I'll be embedded in the couch watching Paula put her greatness beyond doubt.
And it's not just heartbreak, it's the death of my positivity and any sense of spirit, any hope that my life is of any fucking use to anyone but my own self. Data is watching a movie that she has already watched twice today as she hoovers down dry Rice Krispies, Riker is gazing slack-jawed at reality television. And I do not possess the will to stop them, I know the screaming and the sulking would push me over the edge.
I'm going to stand up now and start cleaning up. I need to empty the dishwasher of all the cereal bowls that have been used today, but they're still damp and I have no clean tea towels. They have all been used by the exploding radiator and the leaking roof.
I was seventeen when I last felt this pointless, this empty. I will feel better tomorrow, I know. I'll probably feel better once I stand up. But just now, just right now this very minute, I feel like I can't do this any more.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
I am going to fail my driving test. Oh yes I am. Fail it like a fox. Fail it like a rabid, just chewed my own forepaw off to get out of a snare fox. Which is really fucking hilarious considering my levels of confidence right up until the point that I started driving with my new instructor Norbert. No, really. His name is Norbert. Or maybe Herbert. Though I'm pretty sure he said Norbert. There were a number of things he said that I didn't quite catch as his Italian accent was pretty strong.
You're going to want to have a little breather there to take in the enormity of that bad boy. Yes, an Italian driving instructor. Just like ski-jumping and Somalia, I know that this combination of profession and nationality exists, but said existence just jars a little with me. I've been to Italy folks, and driving with due care and dilligence just ain't their gig.
Norbert's accent was not so thick that I didn't manage to get the gist, which is uh huh, no way, fuggitabdowid. I am, of course, a fucking excellent driver and I could tell that Norbie was onboard with that assessment, but I am just not the kind of excellent driver that these fuckers want me to be.
The big thing is the coasting. If I have even half a mind to apply the brakes any time in the immediate or not so immediate future then I put my foot on the clutch. In fact, as a rule, a Gimme rule, not a stupid fucking test guy's rule, if my foot is not on the accelerator then it's on the clutch. And why wouldn't it be? It's comfy there. I don't need to be in gear if I'm not accelerating, do I? No, I do not.
And you know what else I don't need? Any contributions in the comments along the lines of 'You must be in control of the automobile and not the other way round...'.
Why the fuck must I? The car's bigger. Let it have control. I have enough fucking responsibilities.
My other major fucked up habit, the one that's going to lead to inevitable disaster come Wednesday, is also a control issue. It's the fucking steering thing. The feeding the wheel. The handling of the wife's Chinese plate, as it was so vividly described by Norbert. Why not Norberto? Why? And I just don't fucking get it. When I maintain a grip on the wheel then I am in control. If I'm pushing it and pulling the fucker around I can't turn it as quickly and therefore lack control. And as for the not letting the wheel slip through my fingers as it straightens up, well that's just a load of cunty bollox, isn't it?
I've seen the A-Team and The Dukes of Hazard and the steering wheel slippage is the way to go. How dare who ever the fuck is in charge of these tests diverge from the glorious gospel of Luke and Bo? How fucking dare they?
I practised all this on my way to and from work last night, and all the stupid fucking mirror arse too. I was like a fucking learner again, hesitant, faltering, too busy trying to keep my foot off the clutch and throw unseeing glances to the right place at the right time to have any fucking idea what was going on around me. Dangerous to myself and others, is what I was last night. Thanks for that, NSA.
Reversing around corners and three point turns can go and shite. I'll be lucky to get out of the centre without the tester hurling himself from the slowly moving car.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
You know want to know my big learning of the day? Fairy liquid gets less bubbly the further down the bottle you go. There you go. Washing up wisdom. Glad you didn't do something useful with the three seconds it took to read this far, huh?
We lived with my Mother-In-Law. Oh yes we did. Now you know. Let's not go on about it. And I did a lot of washing up. Such a fuck load of washing up that I did. No dishwasher, you see. I scorned those with dishwashers. Sure it takes just as long to rinse the stuff and load it up and empty it, right? Wrong, Gimme, oh so very, very wrong. Lots of washing up and therefore I was very aware of the low bubblage come low level learning back then. But I didn't believe in it. I unbelieved in it. I thought it was a load of bollox. What I did genuinely believe, about as much as I don't believe in Elvis, was that my Ma in Common Law was watering down the Fairy. Why would she do this? For two reasons. Reason the first: To economise. To save all fourteen of those cents. And reason the second: Just to piss me off.
But now of course I realise that I was merely being insanely paranoid and that the Fairy always gets less sudsy towards the end of the bottle.
Except that she babysits here all the time. She does. And she's fucking watering down my washing up liquid, the crazy, vindictive old bint.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Time for an image change. Time for a fuck off mohawk.
Volunteers Needed!!! 4th Class Basketball!!! Sign up inside!!!
Riker, like her grandfather before her, plays basketball. She is also in 4th class. And so I drag the currently cuteness personified Data past our usual porch pause point and put my fat ass out there. There was talk of this volunteering business when we signed Riker up and I had been grumpily awaiting the call. Not much to be done, take the roll, sit around. Call an ambulance if one nine year old girl decapitates another nine year old girl with a basketball. I can give an hour out of my life. Sure I can. I'm about as time rich as I am rich, but yeah, I'll give up an hour of procrastination.
There's a not particularly yummy mummy sitting behind a desk. She's got the job for which I am about to offer myself.
'Hi. I'd like to volunteer.'
'Oh, great! Here are the dates!'
There's a chart. Of course there's a fucking chart. I mentally decline the date of my driving test. I decided to put myself down for the week after but as I reach for the proffered day-glo marker, there is a sudden sense of urgent movement to my right. It is the tallest of all the mothers in the school. She is very, very tall, just like me, and she is throwing herself, with no regard for her own personal safety, between the chart and my marker.
'I'm sorry!' she says, without sorrow. 'We hate to turn down a volunteer! But you're off the hook!'
'Yes! You see because Michael is a man...'
Michael is the coach. He is indeed a man, and in strict adherence to the comedy of stereotypes that shall now play out in this school hall, he is a big tall black man.
'So, you know, if one of the girls needed to go to the toilet or anything...'
I should, of course, argue the fuck out of this particular toss. Because if a nine year old is incapable taking a piss without help, then I suspect that basketball too is going to prove a little step or five beyond challenging. But I don't even want to do this, so I go with:
'But thanks for offering!'
Data and I retire and wait for Riker to emerge. And just like that I find myself with one more little straw to add to the haystack of regret that I bear as I totter precariously through this alleged life.
I should have had a massive hissy fit. Because really, what the fucking fuck? My manness, my raging maleosity instantly disqualifies me from the supervision of children? Is there legislation to this effect? I seriously fucking doubt it. And are they saying that two men can supervise boys but not girls? Because you know us sick twisted men are just as likely to take a piss break as licence to fiddle with boy parts as with girl goodies...
The more I think about this the angrier I get. And yet I doubt that my rage will ever reach the point where I actually do something about it. I have enough fucking problems and 4 to 5pm on a Wednesday is just too precious an hour.
Sigh, sigh, sigh, fucking sigh.
Nice legacy, dude.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
'Under-par economy holds up play at first Harrington course.'
Well, glory fucking be. If a downturn in the economy means some over-paid stick merchant won't get the ego massage involved in decimating a beautiful piece of countryside for the pleasure of a couple of cardiganed cunts with too much time and money on their hands then bring it on, baby. I'm happy to move from my wonderful debt-laden, every waking moment a struggle to keep up with repayments, boom economy existence all the way back to dole and despair and debtor's prison if it's going to even briefly inconvenience a couple of shanking wanking golfers.
I played pitch and putt once in Waterford. It was fun. Fun in a self-shitting on everything that you believe in kind of way. I ought to get out there again.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Well woo and might I add, hoo.
Took his fucking time, the cunt. But I guess when even one’s green gormless arse-bitch is beginning to give you back chat then one has to find oneself reconsidering one’s position. Fucking the country doggy-style was getting tiresome for Bertrand I surmise. He was clearly at that point in the drunken ride where he knows that he's just never, ever going to climax and his throbbing mickey is starting to feel a little chapped, poor chap. The time has come to give up on the coming.
Fuck, but the man is delusional. I genuinely believe that he genuinely believes that the country has been enjoying his breathless, sweaty thrustings, and that we’d all love him to keep banging away at us. What a spa-hole.
So break out the cheap champagne and get your dancing done, because the reality is that shit is unlikely to improve much under old rubber lips. That’s how it’s going to go, right? I wish it wouldn’t though, I wish we could deliver a system closer to that of Zimbabwe. From the front page of this morning's Irish Toss:
‘Mugabe likely to face run-off with Tsvangirai for presidency’
Supoib. This is what we need. A good honest road race to sort out who should be leading this country through the inevitable cataclysmic downturn. We only need to choose a distance. I realize that a 100m dash would be both exciting and entertaining but politics is a marathon not a sprint, folks. I don’t want to be too tough on these wannabe leaders of men and women though, so let’s settle for my preferred discipline: the half. 13.1 swift miles.Still long enough for our prospective leaders to have the option of taking a dump by the side of the road but short enough for one or two of them to have a chance of finishing in under twelve hours.
Pat Hooper for Taoiseach and Dick for Tánaiste, so says Gimme.
I upset some people a while back when I compared Roisin Ingle to Free Willy. I take it back. I take it all the way back. Ingle is a slim, svelte, willow-like personification of all that is good about anorexia. How does that work for you, folks? Can we run with that? Let's.
Her new column Being There however, now a weekly feature in the Irish Times, is an obscenely obese eye-sore, dripping with adipose tissue as it lies in its bed-prison shoving deep-fried Ben & Jerrys into its drooling food orifice. It sighs, it moans, it squelches its fourth runny shit of the day into the bedpan of the middle class Irish psyche.
Today's turd is about a guy who runs a newspaper stand on O'Connell Street. I know this guy. I asked him for a copy of World Soccer once, he was holding a conversation with one of his mates at the time. He fucked the previous months edition at me as he barked the price.
'This is from last month.'
He snatched it back from me and went back to his conversation. Fine, I thought, I'll go to Eason's. Just once more, in a desperate search for a mislaid copy of Art Attack, I was forced to offer him my business. He was equally as rude. The cunt. But my problem is not with Austin, the ignorant fuck. If I got het up and posty about every shithead who was rude to me, I too would be requiring the use of a bedpan. My problem is with the shit that is taking a full three quarters of a page in Ireland's only alleged quality newspaper.
It says nothing, it provides no insight and it does all of this while wielding a sickly sweet prose that makes me want to vomit through my nostrils. It pines for a time gone by when we were poorer and happier and didn't have this new-fangled world wide net fucking up our lives. It refers to the obnoxious drunks of yesteryear as 'characters' while the obnoxious drunks of today are derided. And it lies.
'It is important to point out that Austin Cregan does not just sell newspapers. He gives people change for the Luas.'
Can you spot the two porkies in that single sentence, folks? For a big fat a) it is not even remotely important to point that out. Nothing in this article is remotely important, nothing at all. And for a only slightly skinnier b) it strikes me as highly fucking unlikely that Austin is giving out change for the Luas when a Luas ticket machine will provide change of anything up to a €20 note. If you've got a fifty you might as well just take a fucking cab.
I worry that I'm being unclear, that I'm just coming across as boring, bigoted and bitter. I am boring, bigoted and bitter but there's more to it than that. Everything this woman writes fills me with irritation and angst. And I don't really know why. It's the tone, is all that I can tell you. The endless pouring on of deeply, deeply sincere and heartfelt banality.
It's fucking Bart's People is what it is.
'Main Street Ireland can be a lonely place at 5.30am.'
Not nearly as lonely a place as my mind will be when I'm finished being boring and bigoted and bitter and sick and enraged, Roisin.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
No lie on the first one. I do like to bike. It's been two weeks since I cycled to work, insufferably lazy cunt that I am, but I did it this morning and it was a whole lot of fun. It really was. Spin has prevented me from losing all of my fitness (even if the driving is inspiring all of my fatness) and I was well able to toddle along at a fairly decent clip. But get this for some quality stand-up: a couple of times I actually geared down and stopped at red lights! Hahahahaha! I kill me. I quickly copped on and went back to my dare-devilish, death-defying, motorist-enraging ways.
It was a big mental relief to no longer be responsible for the lives of others. At my standard 25kmh cruising speed the only people likely to die in a collision with even the heavier Hardcore Motherfucker are the elderly and infirm. And who the fuck cares about them? This is in direct contrast to Purple Danger and her intrinsic purple dangerness. We all know that a collision at 40km/h is gonna kill just about anyone stone dead. We know because it says so in the ads. Thank you television, without you I am nothing.
And I had forgotten just how good the smug feels. Oooh, that smug. Can you smell that smug? Look at me motoring world! You can't fucking ignore me, motherfuckers! I'm wearing comedy clothes and I'm in your lane! I'm getting fit, so much fitter than you. I'm saving the planet. Fucking take that, planet. I'm getting to my destination quicker than you, and I'm getting there for free. Eat my smug, cunt baskets! I'm better than you and yet I still have little time for myself. Can you imagine how I feel about you? Can you picture the disregard, the dreadful disdain that I harbour just for you, you filthy fucking drivers?
I drove to work this evening.
I like to bike, I hate to smoke.
Update: New post title with thanks to Conan