Archive for 2009

How to commit suicide

December 28th, 2009

I don’t know why, but I get quite a few people visiting this site looking for ways and means to top themselves.

Do they visit here just to confirm their worst suspicions that life is hopeless?  Or do they think I really do know all the answers?

Frankly, it’s not a subject I know that much about.  If ever I feel a little disgruntled I go out and set fire to an SUV, or maybe whack an American tourist, and soon enough I find myself feeling gruntled again.

If I ever did decide to end it all, I’m not quite sure how I would go about it.  There are so many ways, but they do have their disadvantages.

One way is drowning.  That would be quite effective as I can’t swim.  However, I am not particularly fond of water as it tends to be a little on the cold side and thus a little uncomfortable.  Therefore I would have to travel to a warmer climate before Doing the Deed, and that seems to be a lot of trouble.  There must be a simpler way?

Another possibility is to chuck myself off a tall building.  That would be quite effective but it does have one major problem – suppose I change my mind half way down?  I would imagine that that would be one of life’s biggest ‘oh fuck’ moments?  No.  I’ll skip that one.

Tablets?  I have heard a few things about people taking tablets.  Apparently it isn’t as guaranteed as you might think, and there is a high probability that I would just end up on a life support system for the rest of my days, and that is a thought that would quite frankly make me want to kill myself.  Tablets are out.

Another popular method is the old exhaust pipe connected to a hose trick.  I have my suspicions about that one, as having spent so many years sitting in traffic jams in the rush hour, I would imagine that I am pretty much immune at this stage.  My lungs almost crave a blast of exhaust now that I am retired, and anyway the smell would just make me think I was on my way to work.  Depressing.

I could blow my brains out.  That would be quick, but it is so fucking messy.  There is no dignity in having one of Ireland’s finest minds splattered all over the walls and ceilings.  The one thing I deserve is a little dignity.

I could walk into the Irish rugby team’s dressing rooms and shout “who’s a gay boy then?”, which you would imagine would be fairly effective?  But supposing they all secretly kick with the left foot?  I would just end up being rogered by an entire rugby team which isn’t quite what I intended?

I don’t know.

I really am not an expert.

For the sake of my readers, if you do read this, and you do have the answer, could you please let me know.

But only write if you are successful. 

Grave reporting from TV3

December 27th, 2009

I love TV3.

It has a singular inability to do anything right.  It is car-crash television at its best.  It is compulsive viewing simply because it is so bad.

For those of you who are foreign to these shores, TV3 pumps out an unending stream of the cheapest, tackiest American crap, interspersed with reality shows and rebroadcasts of the worst of ITV. 

They do have one programme that we watch occasionally for the laugh, and that is “Tonight with Vincent Browne”.  This consists of an unending stream of advertisements, with brief interruptions where Vinnie abuses his guests.  It’s not meant to be funny, but it is.

The presenters on TV3 are a breed apart.  The women are obviously employed on the basis of their looks rather than talent [with the exception of Ursula Halligan, who has neither] and all have to undergo a rigorous training in the Tallaghtfornian accent which is an accent that is unique to that television station.

They managed to reach a new peak of crassness yesterday, when they all but broadcast an obituary for our Minister for Hardship and Poverty, Brian Lenihan.  I should point out that he isn’t dead.

I have no great love for our Glorious Government, as you may have realised.  I take great delight in slagging them off, but even I draw the line at writing obituaries when they are still very much alive and kicking.  Not TV3 though.  Not only do they prematurely announce that Lenihan has cancer, but they then proceed to analyse the political scene after he is gone.  If that isn’t enough, they drag on some Cheerful Charlie who proceeds to tell us what a terrible disease pancreatic cancer is and that the prognosis is pretty bad.  He goes into great detail about how pancreatic cancer  is caused by smoking [which it isn’t] and that the best that can be done for Lenihan is pain relief.  Fuck me! Cheerful stuff.  But then anything is permissible in TV3 in the name of a scoop.  

You have to hand it to TV3.  For a station that strives to be the cheapest on the airwaves, they have excelled themselves once more.

Incidentally, in case you are wondering – the TV3 news is not in widescreen.  The only thing they broadcast in widescreen format is the advertisements.

But seeing as 90% of their output is advertisements, that’s OK.

Please fill in the blanks

December 26th, 2009

I just switched on my laptop to see what day it is.

Saturday, huh?

That presumably means that yesterday was Christmas?  That would explain a lot.

There is a half full two-litre bottle of whiskey in the kitchen.  I could have sworn that was full a couple of days ago? 

A few things seemed to have happened in the last couple of days?  The Pope being raped?  A cathedral burned down?  All in all, a fairly normal Christmas?

I have vague memories of a lock-in last night in the pub down in the village, but that just may be my memory playing tricks.  It would however explain the two strangers who are still snoring in the dog’s bed.  It doesn’t explain though why there is a JCB parked in the middle of the lawn.  Nor does it explain the pair of lacy knickers in my pocket.

If there is anyone out there who was with me over the last couple of days, could you please get in touch?

I want to know if I enjoyed myself.

People wonder why I hate Christmas.

I just hate the blanks.

A wild goose chase

December 24th, 2009

It started a few weeks ago.

Our K8 muttered something to me about buying a turkey from some bloke that would help Puppychild’s school.  I’m all for helping the school, so I said that was fine by me.

She phoned a few days later to suggest that we got a goose instead.  I said that was fine by me.  A bird is a bird so long as it’s not an ostrich.

She phoned yet again a few days ago to say my goose was ready and that I could collect it from the school.

She phoned an hour after to say I could collect my goose from the local butcher.  This was getting confusing.

I called down to the butcher yesterday afternoon but they didn’t have it.  They said it had arrived but that they had passed it on to the bloke from the school who ordered it.  They suggested I call to the school but I pointed out that the school was closed.  They said they couldn’t help and that I should ask the bloke.  I didn’t know who the bloke was though.

I phoned K8.

Several phone calls later, it was all arranged.  I had to call to her house where the goose would be delivered.

I called around to her house and played Snap with Puppychild.  Puppychild won because she cheated. 

Finally, at long last, I was united with my goose, but then I realised something was wrong.  I was expecting an oven ready goose but I realised that this goose wasn’t quite oven ready when it chased Wouldya, the big black dog out of the house and then ate Wouldya’s dinner.  It then proceeded to demolish K8’s Christmas tree while it was chasing Puppychild around the room.

We managed to corner it, and I grabbed it by the neck and dragged it out to the car where it promptly decorated the passenger seat with copious quantities of shite.

I got it home eventually and managed to get it into the house.

“Jayzus! It’s fucking live!!” shrieked Herself.

“You noticed?” says I as I let go of the goose.

The goose promptly attacked Sandy to the accompaniment of loud shrieks and whistles from the guinea pigs.  Herself waded into the fracas to try to save Sandy and  got a duckbill up the arse for her efforts.  Now I know the origin of the expression “to goose”.

In the confusion, somehow the door to the garden flew open, and the goose shot out.  Judging by the noise it took a fancy to the neighbour’s cats.  I haven’t seen it since.

I have to go out now.

I have to buy a tin of baked beans for Christmas dinner.

Christmas

December 23rd, 2009

The time has come.

I suppose I had better make a start on decorating the place.

I would normally do it on Christmas Eve, but K8, TAT and The Mob are arriving tomorrow and they would only get under my feet.

I wouldn’t bother my arse, but Puppychild might be a little disappointed if I didn’t do something.  She expects a tree at the very least.  Spoiled brat.  I have a branch that blew off a birch tree in the storms last month that should do the trick nicely.

I find that the easiest way to decorate the house is to nip out and do a bit of gardening.  It’s a good time of year for trimming back bushes and shrubs, and also for stripping ivy off the trees.  All I have to do then is drag all the cuttings and strippings indoors and spread them around a bit.  Herself usually complains about the mess, but I just tell her that she can always do the job herself.  She never takes me up on the offer though.

There is a centuries old tradition in our house that I started a few years ago that as soon as the decorations are up, I’m entitled to a nice bottle of malt.  That has the added benefit that I shall be nicely anaesthetised tomorrow.

So, in case I’m not around tomorrow, have a good one.

Don’t get too drunk.

Don’t stay too sober.

And if the worst comes to the worst, just deny everything.

It works for me.

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