Tuesday, November 30, 2010


Assets held by the Former Republic of Ireland must be sold off in order to payback debts incurred by the one time state. However, the vendition of hospitals, schools, fossil fuels, and other services/resources will not provide the revenue required to cover obligations and so a further asset must be placed on the market. The reader is no doubt wondering what salable asset remains. The answer to that question is right under the reader’s nose. The remaining asset, dear reader, is YOU! To help your ex-nation at this time of need, all you have to do is submit your unique genetic code to Monsanto’s new DNA Data Base, BarRoom, and Grill (Dundrum Town Centre) and sit back over a reasonably priced beverage as you are processed and patented.

Consider the scenario: Joe Bloggs’ genetic identity is patented by Monsanto. Joe Bloggs becomes legally known as Joe Bloggs(TM). Joe Bloggs’ self-esteem rises upon realisation that a groundbreaking synergy of the personal and the fiscal has rendered him a commodity of some worth, rather than just another ‘human being’. Also, should Joe reproduce, his children (also being the property of Monsanto) will carry on the proud franchise started by their father. It’s a bit like running a Spar only you are the Spar.

So, come on peoples, get down to the DNA Data Base, BarRoom, and Grill and start paying your debts in a responsible manner going forward.

Warning: Any public display of Joe Bloggs (TM) and/or his offspring in locations such as airlines, clubs, coaches, hospitals, hotels, bus stops, oil rigs, prisons, schools, and ships is prohibited unless expressly authorized by the copyright proprietor. Any such action establishes liability for a civil action and may give rise to criminal prosecution. Joe Bloggs (TM) and family are for domestic use or broad spectrum herbicidal application only.

This message has been brought to you by: The Global Initiatives Think Tank.
We Are Everywhere!

Friday, November 26, 2010


(pictured above: Ayn Rand, Type Two possibly)

We come in two types you see. Most of you never knew that about us but it’s true. The first type, Type One, has no feelings. Type Ones don’t relate to other people. For most people, people like you, when they see another person in trouble or suffering or weeping, they tend to feel something and help in some way. Even when they do nothing, they have to make a very real effort not to think about what they have seen. The suffering they have witnessed preys on the conscience. It causes an ache and that ache takes a little time to subside. That ache is called compassion and it is innate. It is hardwired into the species to make them help each other out. It prevents extinction. Compassion is natural but it’s not in the Type One’s nature to be compassionate. Type Ones feel nothing. Nothing. Understand that? Good. Now, seeing as you lot are the ones with all the empathy, with all the feelings, maybe you could show some generosity and spare a little pity for Type Ones. Imagine going through your life with no real feelings. Type Ones can’t really love. Type Ones can’t really appreciate things to the same extent that you do. Type Ones are forced to compensate for this lack by amassing power and wealth and influence. Type Ones are left with no option but to fill the gap by gratifying the ego. Type Ones may have no feelings but they still have egos and, like you, Type Ones feel pain. Having your ego bruised is painful. It hurts. Not as much as you lot are going to hurt should we get our way, but it does hurt. So, come on all you bleeding heart emotionalists, show some of that compassion you’re so proud of.

Now, the other type that makes up our numbers is the Type Two. Type Twos do feel something. It’s not compassion though. It’s a different feeling. It’s a feeling called contempt. Type Twos resent having their heartstrings pulled upon so they redirect those feelings of compassion. They turn those feelings into hatred. Hatred is easier to deal with. Type Twos hate those that suffer because they cause Type Twos to feel that ache I mentioned earlier. Why should we ache because others suffer? Type Twos uniformly come to the conclusion that people suffer because they are weak. They are too weak to thrive and they are a hindrance. A handicap, not just to themselves but to the rest of us.
. . .Weakness, consider it a moment. It is the most contemptible of traits. It is the retardant of progress. It is the ultimate obstruction. Weakness is the enemy and we are fighting a war against it. Yes, put simply, we are at war with the weak.

Now there’s a little snag. Something that is holding our efforts back. It is you. We have you to contend with. You have us outnumbered and you impose regulations and laws and so on to stop us getting at your weak but make no mistake, we will get them in the end. You may outnumber us Type Ones and Twos but we are still many and we are at the top of the pile. How do you think we got there? It wasn’t by being compassionate, I’ll tell you that. We are at the top of the pile and we make the decisions. We will make this world in our image and we will wear you down. We will get the better of you and we will come for your weak and we will eliminate them. Now, don’t start having visions of extermination camps, it’s not like that. We will kill no one. That would be barbarous. We’d get our hands dirty. No, we will kill no one. Instead, we will just let them die. And we will make you watch them die. And your heart will break. And you will suffer. And you will feel that ache and it will hurt so much that you will come to resent the pain of it and then, finally, you will break and you will come around to our way of thinking. Going forward.

. . .OK, that was a bit weird, apologies. Now, where were we? Oh yeah, CRAP MAN!

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Turn Off the News Maura, it’s Giving Me An Awful Case of Nerves

(Pictured above: myself in happier times. ‘We all partied’.)

Ah sure I’m as much to blame as anyone. All flaithiúlacht like P.Diddy I was. You were too. You were though. Do you remember the time we sent that round robin to the lads telling them to guarantee Anglo? ‘It’ll be a right laugh’ is what you said if I remember correctly. We were in the limo. Living it large. Lil’ Kim was sitting on your lap, holding her compact mirror up to your greedy line snorting snout. Your eyeballs were all glassy and you said ‘hey, why not text them assholes and get them to cover Anglo’. Jean Claude was there too. He thought it was a gas idea. We used his mobile to send the text. Remember? Don’t deny it. Don’t go all butter wouldn’t melt. You can’t deny it. I remember it coz it was the same night we flew your jet to Italy and joined Silvio and his RAI girls for a Bunga-Bunga session. Jaysus, I was sick as a dog when I remembered what we’d done the next day. I’m sick as a dog now coz we’ll have to cough up the cash. It’s only fair though. It’s not like theft. It’s not as if some confidence trickster bankrupted us is it? It’s not like some stitch up that should be passionately resisted lest future generations look back at us and think ‘what a bunch of treasonable shitebags?’ It’s not like we can really do anymore than sit around on our holes indoors going ‘turn off the news Maura, it’s giving me an awful case of nerves’. I mean what do you want to do about it? Stomp up and down the street protesting against ourselves? We’re as much to blame as anyone. Aren’t we though? AREN’T WE?


‘Stop apologising for the things you never done
Time is short and life is cruel
but it's up to us to change this town called Malice.’


Wednesday, November 24, 2010


Hello young people. Take a seat. Are you comfortable? Good. Now listen, we’ve been talking to your mammy and daddy and we’ve decided it’s for the best that you broaden your horizons. We think you should go travelling. Travelling is great. I did a bit of travelling myself when I was a lad and it was one of the best experiences of my life. Myself and a few boys from the Cumman went to Medjugorje. It was fantastic. We saw the baby Jesus dancing on the sun and the foreign birds were filthy. My mate Cormac got a bit of a gobble. Would you like a gobble yourself? I bet you would. Gobbles are lovely. If you’re a bird there are loads of nice lads around too. Antonio Banderas types. They write romantic poems and all that. The girls love that sort of thing. You wouldn’t get it at home though. Sure, all our poets are drunks.

But I’m digressing. Where were we? Oh yes. We were thinking, your mammy and daddy and us, that when you’re gone you should stay gone. I mean, you won’t be gone gone. Only a little bit gone. You’ll still have the Facebook and Skype so you’ll kind of still be around. A bit like a smell. A bit like a recurring odour. Or maybe like a sort of ghost. Yeah, a ghost. Think of the Skype as a kind of séance where you can catch up with loved ones after you’ve moved on. Sure, there’s no reason to hang around here. What’d be the point? You’re surplus to requirements. . . .I’m sorry. Did that sound rude? I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean, emm, how should I put this? Well, it’s like a sum really. A bit of long division and you’re the remainder. Did you ever see them remainders, over there to the side, looking unhappy? Wishing they were part of the equation. No one wants to be the remainder. Ah no, sure remainders are shite. What you want is to be a whole number. A whole number being read a romantic poem by Antonio Banderas or getting a gobble off some filthy bird called Monique.

Ah, I can see you’re excited by the prospect. I can see your eyes widening. That’s excitement right? Great. Now listen, we’ve packed your bags and made some sandwiches. We’ve put in a couple of Clubmilks and Galtee rashers too so you needn’t miss the taste of home whilst abroad. Oh, you’re going to have a marvellous time. You’ll thrive overseas. There’s no need to thank us for this opportunity. No need at all. Sure, it’s no trouble and we’ll see you when you’re a bit older and over the odd Christmas or maybe at the funeral of one of your parents. We’ll catch up properly then. You’ll have a lovely tan. You’ll be looking good and feeling great. You’ll be happy you left. Really, you will be. You’ll be delighted altogether. I’ll tape you the All Irelands and send them over too. You’ll be fine. No need for tears. No need for them tears. Ah stop. Stop crying. Will you stop crying? You’re too big to be crying like a baby. What age are you now? Six. Sure six is too old to be crying. Dry those tears. You’re causing a scene. This kind of emotionalism will get you nowhere. Christ. Right. That’s enough with the pep talk. Guards, take them away.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


(above: a loyal public servant tightens his belt.)

YOU have ruined everything for everyone you Irish FOOL. It was no one else it was just you. Just you! You! You Irish fool! As usual, THERE IS NO OTHER OPTION than to do the following RIGHT NOW otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! It’s a bit like the bank guarantee you had to pass RIGHT NOW otherwise you would have been DONE FOR in some way FOREVER like in the Famine! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE?

STEP 1: Sell any patio furniture or old 2000AD annuals or whatever you have and send the money to Olli Rehn. If you have no patio furniture or old 2000AD annuals or don’t even have a patio or have any old comics or anything you must leave the country and your family and your friends. Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE? Do it RIGHT NOW!

STEP 2: Leave rich people alone. You are making them nervous. They have done enough for you. They can do no more. If you expect of them they might leave the country like you should. Leave the rich alone. Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE? Do it RIGHT NOW!

STEP 3: Do not expect a choice. You made your choice. There are no more choices. Choosing takes time and you’ve had your time. You have no more time. Choice and time are your enemies. Choice and time will destroy you. Forget about choice and time. Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE? Do it RIGHT NOW!

STEP 4: Lighten the nation’s load. Kill a poor person or a sick person. Take any loose change from their pockets and post it to Olli Rehn. Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE? Do it RIGHT NOW!

STEP 5: Put your children on the game. Put them out on the road now. Dress them up like the MINI POPS and put them ON THE ROAD for Olli Rehn! Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE? Do it RIGHT NOW!

STEP 6: Take down your hands. Stop defending yourself. Stop shrieking and writhing! Shut up. We said shut up. Who do you think you are? Without us you are NOTHING! You are owed NO EXPLANATIONS! Shut up. Shut your fucking face and give Mr. Olli Rehn your patio furniture, 2000ADs and tarted up Mini Pop kids. Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE? Do it RIGHT NOW!

That is all! None of the above is reversible. There is No Other Way! The alternative is worse. It does not bear thinking about. You are NOT being rushed, bullied or terrorised. I repeat, YOU ARE NOT BEING RUSHED, BULLIED OR TERRORISED! If you say you are being bullied, rushed or terrorised you WILL be BULLIED, RUSHED and TERRORISED!

We are your friends. We stand alongside you. Now, do the above. Do it RIGHT NOW! Otherwise you will be DONE FOR in some way FOREVER! DO YOU REMEMBER THE FAMINE?

Thursday, November 18, 2010


Brian (C-Dogg) Cowen is Da Man! Ireland’s O.G.! The playah of playahs is starin’ down the world! It’s C-Dogg’s game now Fritz and you don’t stand a chance.

Fritz waits in the lobby of the Central Bank. Nervous. Clutching a briefcase of cash in both hands.

D4 is standing outside. Patriots one n’ all. Wrap the green flag ‘round ‘em boys. The wailing and keening can be heard all over the globe.

‘I’m loik sooo glad Pearse didn’t live to see this’.

‘We’re going to have to sell one of the cars.’

‘I’m probably never going to vote for them again’
says a furious Sandymount resident, Molotov cocktail in hand (or maybe it’s just a cocktail).

A sudden hush falls. The new sheriff shuffles into town. Straight from the IMF’s secret laboratory. It’s Henry Kissinger/Uncle Fester genetic mash-up: Ajai Chopra. It’s a lonely old job. Like being an executioner. He inspects the gallows. He pulls on the rope. He’s not sure if it can take the weight. He heads upstairs to look at the books. C-Dogg chuckles.

‘Heh, them books is as cooked as McDaid’s meth? Fool ain’t gonna find sheeeeeet.’

C-Dogg has emptied the national till. Your till is next Fritz. You’re the one told us to rescue them Anglo biaaaatches. We coulda just put a cap in their asses but you said, ‘hey, let ‘em be’. Well, we got this here grenade now Fritz and we’ve taken out the pin. We go, you go. So put the briefcase on the table, f**k the repayments, and get yo sorry crackah ass on the next flight back to lederhosen land.

Our plan is working! We’ve turned the corner! I COMMEND THIS BULLSHIT TO THE HOUSE!

Friday, November 12, 2010


I’ve a fair length on me it must be said. I’m not boasting, but it’s a fair old length as anyone who has seen it will tell you. ‘There’s a fair length on that man’, is what they say about me. No one can deny it and I don’t think anyone does. They’d be fools to. I mean, it’s a fair length and that’s plain to see even with the trousers. The doctor who delivered me was the first to comment upon it. ‘He’ll be scaring the girls with that fair length on him’, were his exact words. My mother told me that’s what he said. She was very proud. ‘My little fella’s length is a miracle of modern science,’ she’d say to anyone who’d listen and, even if they didn’t acknowledge it, they all knew it was true. I even got first prize at The National Fair Length Feish and featured on the cover of the popular publication Fair Lengths of Ireland. It was a lovely image: me standing there beaming, the monsignor beside me, extending the measuring tape. I was the pride of the town after that but then came puberty. Ah, that was difficult. My mother was worn out with the spoilage. I was going through slacks like no body’s business. There was rarely a vacant spot on the clothes line. There was nothing the doctor could do. There was nothing anyone could do. I was sent to specialists abroad and they were at a loss. There was even an exorcism but that didn’t do any good. I was at the mercy of my fair length. Everyone was. The merest glimpse of Pan’s People on the telly and the fair length would transform the homestead into a gelatinous mess. I was no longer permitted to enter the shops, cafes and restaurants in the town. I couldn’t blame them. I began to resent my fair length. ‘Curse you fair length’, I would roar out in fury. ‘Fair length? Well I don’t see what’s so fair about it,’ I was given to saying. A once cheerful fellow, I became sullen. Those close to me were worried that I’d do away with myself. Each morning they’d half expect to find me dangling from the rafters on the end of a noose devised of my own fair length. Well that business continued for a time until a new family moved to the town. A lovely bunch called MacMaunus. But it was the daughter that saved me really. A gentle caring creature with soft brown eyes and the maddest gap on a girl you ever did see. ‘There’s a mad gap on the MacManus girl,’ they’d say of her. ‘She’ll be providing harborage for himself and his fair length before long’, they’d hope aloud. ‘Sure, there’s no one else for the job’, they’d conclude. And indeed they were right. I suppose we were forced together in a way, like two bits of plumbing, but we didn’t mind. In fact we were delighted. We were on the Late Late and everything. Gaybo gave us a holiday to The Isle of Man. We’re still together now. We’d never part. It’d break our hearts to do so and besides, we’d never get the consequences out of the carpet. THE END! (Chortle)
In other news: RDC update : OLD SCHOOL 80’s! and NEW CRAP MAN!

. . .now away with you all, whoever the four of you are.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Charlie is me Darlin', me Darlin', me Darlin'!

Sure, aren't we a great crowd altogether?
...Nuff Said!
That's part two of Charles Haughey's Ireland. Check out the rest and cheers to Youtube poster 2 Birds Swimming for sharing with us all.

Thursday, November 4, 2010


Here’s what you do Suds, you just go in there and empty the safe.

But I don’t wanna steal from my Momma Mr. Goldman.

I’m your Momma now Suds.

But, . . .what if she wakes up and sees me?

You’ll know what to do Suds.

Oh jeez Mr. Goldman, I don’t wanna hurt my own Momma.

I’m your Momma now Suds.

What if someone suspects? It’s kinda obvious Mr. Goldman.

Ah, just sweet talk ‘em. You’re good at that Suds, it’s why we took you under our wing.

But what’ll I say?

I dunno, just start banging on about the public sector or some shit.

I feel real bad about this Mr. Goldman. Momma was real nice to me. Raised me real good and sent me to a fine school, fed me proper and. . .

How many times I gotta tell ya Suds? I’m your Momma now.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

EOGHAN HARRIS: Ideological Escort Service

(Image and gag above, courtesy of Salvo)

Eoghan is very willing to accommodate clients and is well-versed in a veritable Kama Sutra of perception management techniques. Favourite position: the Doggymatic Position. Speciality: transposing the qualities of mythic heroes onto floundering and somewhat flawed public figures. Once likened Brian Cowen to an ancient shogun warrior or something.

Eoghan enjoys casting aspersions and spreading slander. He also enjoys star chambers, select get togethers, influence and intimidating ‘UCD types’. Eoghan dislikes the masses, the genuine application of democracy, facts and freedom. Eoghan laughs loudly at his own jokes. Being a swinger, Eoghan will gladly swing from FF to FG and back again.

Contact Pimps: Independent News and Media or MI5.

Testimonial: ‘Made me look like a trustworthy human being or tried to at least. Thanks Eoghan, you’re a total ledge!' Ahmed Chalabi.