Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Even my trousers give me pain

Wednesday, December 9, 2009 4
How much fun was that? I had to go out and pick up a child halfway through so if there was a part where Lenihan slipped in a bit about how he wasn’t going to be a tremendous poor people raping cunt I may well have missed it. What’s that? There was no such announcement? Oh well. Fun none the less. I was honoured to star in a Twentweet, along with Darragh, no, not that Darragh, though this Darragh seems to share that Darragh’s nauseating attitude of ‘Wow, isn’t everything just peachy’. Hey, guess what? Apparently Fás are fab, and we should focus on all the cool shit they do, like training inbred bozos how to tie their shoelaces, and not the stunning inefficiencies and outright theft performed by their executives. (And to drop my dripping irony for a mo, let it be said that training is not the fucking answer. We're all trained to fuck. There are no jobs, not even shoelace tying jobs). And hey again, just in case you think Gimme is being a leetle harsh on Darragh II, check the fuck out of this sentence: "negativity seeds negativity and it's negativity that has this country where it is today. Not bad government decisions." Oh for the love of good fuck.

Personally, I’m super positive about this budget. For months we have we sat duck-taped to our chairs, as our great leaders pranced around to Steelers Wheel, occasionally bending down to whisper into our temporary ears of all the nasty things that were going to happen come December. And as the sun goes down on the dreaded day, I find myself and mine not all that bloodied and still in possession of almost all of our aural appendages. Why? Because, despite what feels like an endless struggle against debt and Common Law’s ridiculous 79c app habit (appit?), we really aren’t that poor. And nor, come to that, is any fucker with a permanent public sector job, despite being the alleged loser in this most Saint Bridget of budgets. Sure, he might be negative equitied right up the ass, but she still has a house and he can still put food on the table. Maybe it's a struggle, but it's a struggle for everyone. And what we got today is a shitty fucking Thacherite cop out involving the further exploitation of the genuinely impoverished, a complete abandonment of any vague thoughts of job creation, and a scrapage scheme that benefits, you guessed it, those with enough cash floating around to buy an oh ten car.

Young people on Job seekers "benefit" get the shit cut out of their money because up until now they were just sitting on their arses playing XBox. Why didn't 22 year olds do that during the boom? Because there were fucking jobs. People want to work. These welfare cunts, these Limerickers, these Darndalese, will always exist. You cannot legislate for lazy cunts. But making it impossible for the youth of today to make ends meet while looking for a job that doesn't exist isn't going to make the jobs appear, it's going to make the young uns leave the country. And rightly so. Shit, if it wasn't for the children, I'd be in Penticton right fucking now, ranting about the poor pouring of the Guinness and the lack of quality snow And I have a fucking job.

Time for a conclusion? Coming right up.

I'm slightly relieved, more than a little disgusted, and really fucking scared. This is no eighties, no thirties, but thanks to today's comedic anti-climax, it soon fucking will be. Turns out I wasn't all that super positive after all.

Sorry, Darragh II.

Monday, December 7, 2009

If I should stay I would only be in your way

Monday, December 7, 2009 18
Anonymous said... U miserable fuck I hope u die in your sleep!
Oh yes, she or he did. And having finally received what I hope we can all agree is essentially a death threat, albeit a very kind and generous one, I believe the time has come for me to either give up this bleughing malarkey before my ultra-secret black Brit carpet-muncher identity is revealed, exposing me to all manner of increasingly cunning assassination attempts, or to dump the nippers and spend the resultant expenditure reduction on a round-the-clock, steely-eyed yet palsied-paunched protector named Philip. And having given up the Go Me! game so many times before, it would be a little humiliating to once more throw in this threadbare towel only to pick up it up again in a week or two when I find myself with nothing better to do. So Bridge Crew jettisoning it shall be. Anyone want two ageing, and only slightly soiled girl children? Sure you do, they're dead cute, if less so with every day that passes.

But guess, folks, guess who the fuck wants me so peacefully dead? What post might have garnered such a mortal menace? One of my ad hominem attacks on poor old Darragh Doyle? An unreasonable rant re golf? Or who would have fucking thunk it, a well reasoned argument against the continued pumping of time and cash into a dead language? Yup, had to be. Rule of threes, innit? And because this gal or guy loves the Gaeilge so much, he or she has fucked off to Australia, presumably to troll from a distance while spreading the good tidings that the Irish language is alive and well and what's this, living in fucking Melbourne. Home soon though, home soon to kill me in my sleep.

'Bring it on,' says Philip.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

I remember way back then when everything was true

Sunday, December 6, 2009 11
As thoughts here in Gaialand drift slowly about the arena of possibly sometime in the distant future maybe considering the vague concept of attaching ourselves onto the very lowest rung of the property ladder, I am reminded of a childhood moment.

My hyper-Catholic, Inigo Montoya of guilt grandmother stands holding a letter in the front room of her family home, with tears streaming silently down her face. The letter, it is explained to me, contains the information that she and her husband now own their house. As a child I am confused by this, on a number of levels. Haven't they always owned the house? And if they haven't and now they do then why is Mammy Zealot sad? The concepts of mortgages and joyful tears are thus explained to the girlish Gimme and all is well with the world. But now, now I'm not so sure.

Within a year my grandfather's right temple mole was revealed to be something more than a beauty spot, so they hacked off the side of his face and turned this greatest of men into a slurring embarrassment to my selfish, now teenage self, and all to no avail. Dead, he was, and soon. Mammy Zealot followed within the year, having nothing left for which to live. And now I wonder, what was the point? What was the point of those years of struggle to raise six children and two grandchildren, to scrimp and save to pay for the monstrous mortgage and the monthly mountain of church bound cash, if at the close of days Jolly Jumping Jesus did not see fit to give them even a couple of years to enjoy all these achievements, all this freedom? I now heartily suspect that what I witnessed on that sunny winter afternoon were not after all, tears of joy, but a prescient weeping of why the fuck did we bother?
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