Thursday, April 8, 2010

Born already ruined

Thursday, April 8, 2010
We got our brochure for the Grand Canal Theatre in the door today, hidden in among other marginally less offensive junk mail, such as flyers espousing the virtues of low rent golf courses and high rent Fianna Gael councillors. There has been discussion elsewhere as to just how shit the upcoming season in this newly opened thespian safe house is going to be yet still I felt compelled given my theatrical background to leaf through the brochure in question. My eye was caught and about ripped off its stalk by one particular potential musical feast.

The Priests.

This is old hat, one assumes. These guys are multi-million selling stadium outselling superstars so everyone else is going to have heard of them already. Not me. This was fucked up singing priest trio first contact for the Greta. (Did I mention that I've changed my name to Greta? Well, I have. Yours is not to wonder why, folks.) This was a first contact where they probed the fuck out of Greta's brain. How does this shit work? It seems to me that you are either a multimillion selling recording artist or you're a fucking priest. Vows of poverty, chastity and obedience would seem to sit rather uncomfortably with the coke snorting off the tits of groupies life of a Rock or even Shitty Hymns God. But wait! What's this?

"The Priests were adamant to never allow their music commitments to stand in the way of their day jobs and parish obligations, and this is written into their contract."

Call me cynical if you refuse to call me Greta, but if they are touring the States singing their little Jesus loving scrotes out then they're not in Ballymacsac ministering to the dying and recently unmolested, are they? By not being in their parish all the time, their new career is not so much standing in the way of their pastoral duties, as doing that thing where two people meet on the street and look to go around each other and both shift in the same direction and this goes on for a while until one party (me) begins to suspect that the other party (you) is doing it on purpose just to spend more time in the luminous presence of the first party (me). And don't give me that 'representing Jesus on The Jonathan Ross Show'. It's all over for Ross, all over for his audience. They're all filthy homo loving rimmers and are Calvinistically predestined to burn. These fuckers need to be tending to Mrs Ballymacsac and her hairy chin. She's torn between daily mass attendance and just staying home to sniff mephadrone and play Modern Warfare II. She needs you, The Priests.

And they look like paedophiles. I know, cheap shot, right. But I'm not saying they are paedophiles. I'm not even implying it. I'm saying they look like paedophiles. Look at them:

From left to right we have: old but sinewy and strong I'm just going to hold you down and rape you paedophile, then youngish I will try to just be your friend for the longest time and then my pats on the back and friendly punches on the shoulder will slowly become more insistent caresses until eventually I too just hold you down and rape you paedophile, and finally my face is actually a latex mask and after I hold you down and rape you will be unable to identify me in a lineup because I will have removed my rubber face paedophile. Is what they look like. Not what they are. Necessarily.

And where is the money going? I know I may be labouring this point a little but I assume that they're making a whole load of fucking cash from this. And I assume that whatever coin is left over from rent boy rental is going back into the church to help pay the travel expenses of other paedophile priests as they get moved from one fresh meat parish to the next.

Am I harping too heavy on the paedophile rapist thing? Perhaps. And perhaps the priests, if not The Priests, should not have done so much raping, so much covering up, so much enabling. Perhaps the Pope should resign, perhaps the government should force the church to hand over control of our schools and perhaps every deluded innocent and not so innocent who goes to see The Priests in the Grand Canal Theatre on the evening of my birthday should be called to fucking account.

Is all.

7 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Sniffle said...

It’s time, about right now and it stops here.

No more Mr. Nice” I’ll bring the boy to the special x 6 masses in advance of his Communion, cause he took it too seriously when I wasn’t looking and I didn’t want him to feel left out” Guy.

Finished. Fertig. Gonned.

The other boy is asked to go on a retreat all about Edmund Rice’s abuses – I explain – I explain again – He looks up from Call of Duty eye eye – he says yeah and then no, very quickly to indicate that it’s a huge doss day and a big laugh ( and there’s a kill wasted) – but it’s a fucking retreat I scream but only in my head – a fucking retreat where they talked out loud about wanking.

He’s going on the doss day so.

I’m taking the drugs – sweet.

The rage – the menace – the threat –it’s all there Greta.

Ellie said...

Are the hills alive with the Sound of Music, Greta?

Annie said...

You really did change your name to Greta? I feel strangely touched.

Twenty Major said...

I wonder if you did get a trio of paedophiles who could sing like angels, would people go.

I don't understand this Greta thing at all but I don't like it. Change is bad, as well you know.

gimme a minute said...

I feel ya. Just not like that.

I have never seen that film.

Better than unwillingly.

Of course they would.

I can't finish this comment response without accusing someone else who isn't a paedo of being a paedo.

Conan Drumm said...

They've got the whole stary-eyed scientologist thing going on.

And by the way, any legal representatives of 'The Priests' who may have occasion to read this, as an ordinary, fair-minded person I don't for a moment take Gimme/Greta's opinions as facts.

wv is 'actors', I shit you not...blogger gets scarier each day.

gimme a minute said...

Uh huh.

I learned over the weekend that this post is 'controversial'. Something to do with the groundless accusations to which you allude.

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