Archive for the 'Rants' Category

Stop the world - Grandad wants to get off

Grandad April 17th, 2008

You all must think I’ve gone a bit soft lately.  Not one grump, grouch or gripe about the government or Dubya.

Apart from being very busy [I never knew retirement could be so hectic], I am just pissed off with giving out about them.

There is Dubya over there getting all cosy with the Pope and talking about the sanctity of human life?  What fucking planet is Dubya from?

Back home, we have Bertie scurrying back under his rock having screwed us all royally and leaving the country in an appalling mess.

Harney is still doing her best to kill people and close hospitals [very successfully, I might add].

Willie O’Dea has saved the country from every imaginable disaster by sending out booklets [I still haven't received mine].

Gormless has managed to insult China [not that they didn't deserve it], and justify selling out the Green Party because he has single handedly saved the planet [that's one up on O'Dea, who only saved the country] by forcing us to use CFL bulbs.

Pat The Plank has managed to confuse us all, and himself, by paying a massive price to his neighbour for a piece of land which he already owns [according to himself].

We are back to unemployment and inflation.  The housing market has collapsed.  Petrol and food prices are soaring. 

It’s no wonder I’m pissed off.

Time for another Prozac, I think.

PC is a computer

Grandad March 20th, 2008

I was browsing around the Interweb thingy as I tend to do while waking up in the morning.

One of my essential ports of call is Primal Sneeze.  I like his style.  I like his attitude.

Today he is on about Met Éireann [Irish Meteorological Service] and their use of the terms Holy Thursday, Good Friday and the like.

He says this is the Catholic Church being rammed down our throats.

“Good on ya!” I shout at Sneezy [as I affectionately call him], because I don’t like any religion being rammed down my throat.

But then I thought of the alternative.

This is perilously close to that ghastly world of the Politically Correct.

I hate that Politically Correct world.  It is bland and colourless.  You have to watch everything you say in case you might offend someone’s sensibilities.  Some poor sensitive little soul might be offended by the word Christmas; so we call it Winter Holiday.  Someone might have a nervous breakdown at the mention of St Patrick’s Day so we call it Green Day.

I feel sorry for these pathetic bastards who are so grossly offended by words [not you, Sneezy] that we have to tiptoe around in case they have a nervous breakdown. Call me a Mick, or a Paddy or a Red Neck Culchie.  Do I shrivel up and die?

Bring back golliwogs and the Lyon’s Tea Minstrels.  Let the building site be ruled by the foreman and not the foreperson.

If a woman chairs a meeting, does it remove her gender if we call her Chairman?

Bring back the Politically Incorrect.  Bring back the colour.  Let’s stop avoiding the cracks in the pavement.

Let’s have an International Politically Incorrect Day, and see what the Politically Correct try to call it.

And if you are offended by any of the above, then fuck off.

You snivelling little cry baby.

-oOo-

I have expanded on this post, as the Politically Correct have jumped on the bandwaggon and are accusing me of thing I never said.  Sad.

Bertie Ahern and mashed potatoes

Grandad February 27th, 2008

There are times, [not often, I grant you] when I am almost at a loss for words.

There is an event taking place tomorrow that I frankly find so bizarre that I feel either I am going insane, or else the rest of the world is.

A “performance artist” is being paid to come to Dublin.  This “performance artist” does things that frankly should have him confined to a nice comfortable well padded secure room for his own good.

Mark McGowan claims he is famous because “he once pushed a peanut along the road with his nose for 7 miles”.  Art?  Insanity?  I’ll let you choose.

Anyway, as I say, he is being paid to come to Dublin.  And what is he going to do tomorrow?  Wait for it…..  This is a classic…..

In an extra ordinary art performance, artist Mark McGowan is to dress up as the An Taoiseach Bertie Ahern and crawl on his hands and knees, while attempting to pull an incredible 300 kilos of potatoes (in a large bulk aggregate bag attached to his leg by a piece of string), along the road for an amazing 4 miles, in Dublin, Ireland. The intention is to show the people of Ireland the difficulties and struggles of being the Irish Leader, he has the weight of Ireland along with his own personal problems, such as the Mahon Inquiry to deal with, and this performance is an attempt to show everyone just how hard it is being Bertie Ahern.

What the fuck?

So this little wanker is going to crawl four miles along a road in support of that lying little toe-rag, and he is being paid out of public money?

I am going to do my own bit of “performance art”.

I have hired myself a small lorry.

earthmover

I shall be driving through Dublin tomorrow.

I will let Mark McGowan do a proper impression of Bertie - as a nasty little stain in the gutters of Drumcondra.

Mashed potatoes, anyone?

Al Gore is a wanker

Grandad February 5th, 2008

Al Gore is one of the greatest hypocrites this planet has ever produced.  And I hate hypocrisy.

Because of him and his fucking “Inconvenient Truth” the world is going berserk. 

Scientists are still divided as to the cause of Global Warming.  There are still many eminent experts who say that the jury is still out. But this damned glory seeker is being cited as Gospel.

Suppose, just for a moment, that he is right.  Just suppose that mankind is affecting climate change.  Then what should the Chief Advocate be doing about it?  He should be leading by example.  He should be switching off his lights.  He should be refusing to fly [which they claim is one of the greatest causes of damage].  Instead of which, he is jetting non-stop around the world, lapping up the plaudits, and glorying in his eco-god status.  He has a 20 room house [and pool house] that consumed 221,000 kilowatt-hours in 2006, which is more than 20 times the national average of 10,656 kilowatt-hours.

I lead a quiet life.  In the last two years, I have not flown.  I have driven a total of 6,600 kilometres.  Where possible, I use CFL bulbs [not because of the environment, but because they are cheaper to run, and last longer].  I produce very little waste and put out my bin about once a month.  But because of Gore, we have the likes of John Gormless of the Limp Side Salad Green Party getting on his eco-wagon and telling us how we are to lead our lives.  We aren’t allowed bonfires.  They are banning ordinary lightbulbs.  They are taxing fuel inefficient cars.  What next?  Are they going to ban matches because they are made of wood?  Are we going to be forced to become vegetarian because animals produce too much methane?

Because of Gore and Gormless, I am going to be forced to use CFL bulbs everywhere.  But some of the lights are only on for a very short time, for example when I enter the garage or a spare room. And CFL bulbs use more power if used for very short periods.  So my power consumption is going to go up.

I won’t even start into the fact that I contribute far less than a trillionth of polluting gases, compared to governments and industry.  Or the fact that my contribution to global warming is equivalent to a flea pissing in the ocean.

You started it all, Gore.  You’re a wanker.  You may not like the fact.

But it’s just an inconvenient truth.

Facebook is a pain in the face

Grandad January 28th, 2008

facebook I have made some mistakes in my time.

One of the biggest was getting involved in so called Social Networking sites.  And the worst of these is Facebook.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I could join, and then see what my virtual friends are up to.  But it didn’t work out that way.

I am being inundated with requests, and some of them are frankly weird.  I have requests for hugs, attacks and sexual personality tests.  I have been attacked by zombies and asked to predict my life.  I swear I even had a ‘make a baby’ request at some stage.

The problem is that each of these requests requires me to install another application.  And when I install it, I am supposed to inflict all my contacts with the same requests.  It’s like pyramid selling on steroids.  And some of the applications want my mobile phone number.  Why?  They’re not getting it.  They can fuck off.

I have reached the stage now where a mail from Facebook arrives in my Inbox telling me that someone wants to whisk me off to the Bahamas for an orgy, and I sigh and delete it.

I still drop in every couple of weeks to see if there is anything interesting going on.  There isn’t. Just the same old crowd partying like mad like they were on cocaine.

I would delete my account, but my personal information is up there to be gathered.  Of course it’s all wrong, so I’m hoping I’ll screw up their system.

So if anyone wants to have my babies, you’ll have to call around to my house, in person. We’ll do things the old fashioned way.

You won’t find me on Facebook.

Talk Talk are a shower of tossers tossers

Grandad December 28th, 2007

It was nice and warm in the house yesterday.

I was sitting in my favourite armchair which is very comfortable. I had had a rough night and so I was feeling a little sleepy. All was quiet in the house, so I got myself into a nice cosy position and shut my eyes.

I had just dozed off when the phone rang.

“Hello” said a horribly cheerful voice. “Is that Grandad?”

I admitted that it was.

“I’m ringing from Cork”

“That’s nice” says I. I didn’t know they had phones in Cork. Maybe he was the first person to get one and he was trying it out.

“I’m sure you’ll be very interested in a special offer from ‘Talk Talk’, where you can save lots of money on your phone calls.”

I had been a sleeping Grandad. In approximately one picosecond I became an hormonal Gordon Ramsey on steroids.

“Did you f*cking wake me with one of your f*cking special offers?” I roared.

There was a long pause.

“It’s a very special offer” he said, slightly more timidly.

“I don’t f*cking care if it the offer of a f*cking lifetime. I hate cold calls” I shouted.

Another long pause.

“Would you like me to tell you what the offer is?” he said hopefully.

“I would like to tell you to stick your f*cking offer up your f*cking *rse” I said.

“You would save a lot of money?”

I had to hand it to the little b*ll*x - he had staying power.

“Listen” I said. “You have cold called me. You woke me up. You have cr*p ads on television. You have a stupid company name. I don’t want to hear your f*cking special offers. Now rev up and F*CK OFF.”

“You are not interested then?”

“Listen, you little sh*t. Stick your f*cking offer where the sun don’t shine. I don’t even have a phone.”

That last bit stumped him. I don’t think he’d heard that line of argument before. He hung up.

I have set my computer to auto dial.

It is going to phone the Director of Talk Talk every fifteen minutes starting at three in the morning. It won’t hang up. It will offer him a special offer of a lifetimes supply of pig manure.

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