DON’T HATE DA PLAYAH HATE DA GAME or DA E.U. IS OUR BIAAAAATCH NOW!

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!

COWEN 6-1 HORROR

Cowen was on the 6.1 News there yesterday. Did you see it? He was droning on as usual, sounding like a vacuum cleaner in a neighbouring flat, when, abruptly, he took a long pause and just stared. Then he coughed. Then he spluttered. Then his eyes rolled back in his head so you could only see the whites. He started to convulse after that, wobbling around like mad. You should’ve seen his jowls, Jaysus, and the amount of spittle out of the guy, he was like a lawn sprinkler. It was more than just a normal fit, you could tell that when he really started flailing around and gurgling (like a coffee percolator having an asthma attack, if such a thing could have such a thing). Then, as suddenly as it started, the convulsing stopped and he was just sat there again, clothes and hair in disarray, staring ahead, all absent minded looking.

I’m not sure if what happened next was more astonishing than disgusting, but, during this second spell of staring, you could see something moving in Mr. Cowen’s neck. You could see the impression of it under the rolls of flesh. This thing went on moving around in the neck for a while and then Cowen let a little gasp. A tear ran down his cheek. His eyes widened. ‘Sorry’, he croaked and then . . .then . . .his throat burst open. It burst open! Right there! On the fuckin telly! Cowen’s throat: PLOWP! And then . . .and this is really nasty . . .all these big house spiders came crawling out of his neck. (Those dirty grey/brown bastards, about the size of a matchbox, the ones you find hanging around skirting boards.) Oh, it was a horrendous sight. They were all over the studio. Dobson went mad. Whipped off a shoe and started battering as many of the feckers as he could. Ni Bheolain was frozen in terror, glued to her seat, stuttering (‘no change there’ says you, LOL etc.). The camera work went all over the place too, with random zooms, shaking, panning and wheeling about (‘no change there either’ says you again, LMFAO etc.).

Then things went really mental. A kazoo version of Fanfare for the Common Man sounded out from the television speakers as Cowen’s head dropped off his shoulders and landed on the studio floor. PLOP! As if that wasn’t enough to put you off your dinner, this big spider leg, the size of a dog’s leg, slipped out from under Cowen’s chin(s) and started prodding around. And then comes another leg! And then another! And then five more! And next thing you know, Cowen’s head starts scuttling off beneath the desk (a bit like in that film you’ve just thought of, you know the one).

Dobson was swinging at the Cowen/spider/head yoke with a microphone boom pole. ‘You’ve ruined the broadcast! You’ve ruined the bloody broadcast!’ he screamed. Then there was a hiss and a crackle and the screen went snowy. Grainy footage of animal headed children beating upon tin drums came into view. They were giggling and singing a little song that went: ‘end of the news, end of the news, end of the news’. And then . . . POP! . . .Blackness.

I was devastated. ‘Ah now’, I found myself saying, ‘enough’s enough, that’s the leader of the country’.
‘Good enough for him’ said the Mother with disdain. Her attitude infuriated me.
‘An Taoiseach is our democratically elected leader, not this Nyx character’ I said, referring to the Goddess of Night, who (as regular visitors to this blog will know) was no doubt responsible for this latest outrage. I’d had enough. ‘The time has come’, I announced, getting to my feet. The Mother knew what I meant.
‘Ah don’t do that,’ she implored but I told her I had to. ‘But everything will go all mad,’ she argued.
‘Things couldn’t be much madder than they are already’, I said before inhaling deeply and striding purposefully out of the room. It was time to open the portal.

To Be Continued in the next post's SEASON FINALE (the geektastic final conflagration featuring all your favourite heroes . . .except the ones I don’t rate or forget to include).