Friday, March 4, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
Correspondence With An Irish Emigrant - Part 2
More From Ireland
In relation to your earlier correspondence I have laboured over your findings and in particular over the basis for your conclusion to said findings. Laboured indeed, akin to the labour one may experience whilst attempting to liberate a beef hardened shite through an arse full of hemorrhoids.
The main source of my consternation was the impact of the invasion of a memory, which crept slowly into my consciousness, like a priest into a children's swimming pool. A memory of one Angela Landsbury. A vacuous, soothsaying, thundercunt, of the highest order!
Pause for effect......
The memory was short and hard. Like a terriers erection. As will my story be. Short and hard, not like a terriers erection, because that would just be silly. I'm, not mental.
On a cold dark, sunny, windy, cloudy, rainy day. It was a complete cunt of a day. I attended a barbeque and a barn dance at a cross roads up at the Jolly Old Cross Of Cormeen. It was a fuckin mental idea because there was traffic the whole time and there was hundreds killed but sure they danced on like mad yokes.
And therein lieth the absolute crux and pinnacle of the memory that so raped my brain. Hundreds were killed at that barn dance and it is my utter, utter, I used it twice to perhaps convey the severity of my conviction, suspicion that Landsbury was to blame.
I firmly suspect her to be nothing more than the quare fellas ould lassie. I mean quare fella as in devil and not quare fella as in good eye for fashion and a penchant for interior design.
As soon as she appeared at the dance I was immediately enthralled by the defiance of her left knee. Her right knee did have a real air of indignation about it but it was her left knee. That's the knee. The left knee. The defiant cunt of a knee that did all the damage.
Irish people as you well know dance like epileptic ninjas on hot coals when driven mad by the machinations of a jig finely danced. And dance she did. Out with the right leg first and she tossed the right knee about as a loving father might toss his child. Into the air, not off. Your disgusting. You make me sick.
The crowd stood gawping at her like a flock of crows looking into a jam pot. Almost mesmerised by the indignation of her right knee. Then she brought it out. Oh yeah. The fuckin left knee. Jaysus lad she fired it in and out and in and out in quick succession with the beat of fiddle player I thought her shoe was on fire and she was trying to kick it off.
I ran for a bucket of water. I was only gone half a mile when I realised I had no water. I ran back with the intention of taking out me lad and pissing all over her foot. I knew I'd have to get really close to her though and that worried me. Worried me arse I was fuckin shitting myself. But I suffered on.
When I got back to the crossroads I was met with a vision so fucked up in the magnitude of its horror that I hadn't thought I'd ever be more horrified then that one time when I was really horrified when Mary Sugarbill showed me her teeth.
Landsbury had riled the crowd up into a frenzy more ferocious than I thought it possible to get during a four reeled jig. The horror. Jaysus the horror. As the milk lorry appeared over the brow of the hill and began rolling is way passed the pub down towards us she did it.
She pulled the left knee back and fired out the right one and then instantly fired the left knee forward as well. She had both knees forward at the same time. She went down like a sack of shit. Down faster than shares in an Irish bank!
Sure the hilarity of it drove the crowd to insanity and they all threw themselves under the milk lorry like lemmings. You know like in the game. Lemmings.
I didn't throw myself under the milk lorry because I had shit my pants remember and I knew my mother would kill me for getting knocked down while wearing dirty underpants. She did it on purpose. Landsbury, not my mother. These fuckin camera men started appearing over the hedge and didn't she start taking over like she was going to solve the "mystery" herself.
So in closing, Landsbury is, as I have said, the quare fellas ould lassie and so I think you'll find that the basis of your earlier conclusion to the question of the origin of "Shite me arse" is most probably wrong as it is most likely based on the satanic words of a devil woman.
In relation to your earlier correspondence I have laboured over your findings and in particular over the basis for your conclusion to said findings. Laboured indeed, akin to the labour one may experience whilst attempting to liberate a beef hardened shite through an arse full of hemorrhoids.
The main source of my consternation was the impact of the invasion of a memory, which crept slowly into my consciousness, like a priest into a children's swimming pool. A memory of one Angela Landsbury. A vacuous, soothsaying, thundercunt, of the highest order!
Pause for effect......
The memory was short and hard. Like a terriers erection. As will my story be. Short and hard, not like a terriers erection, because that would just be silly. I'm, not mental.
On a cold dark, sunny, windy, cloudy, rainy day. It was a complete cunt of a day. I attended a barbeque and a barn dance at a cross roads up at the Jolly Old Cross Of Cormeen. It was a fuckin mental idea because there was traffic the whole time and there was hundreds killed but sure they danced on like mad yokes.
And therein lieth the absolute crux and pinnacle of the memory that so raped my brain. Hundreds were killed at that barn dance and it is my utter, utter, I used it twice to perhaps convey the severity of my conviction, suspicion that Landsbury was to blame.
I firmly suspect her to be nothing more than the quare fellas ould lassie. I mean quare fella as in devil and not quare fella as in good eye for fashion and a penchant for interior design.
As soon as she appeared at the dance I was immediately enthralled by the defiance of her left knee. Her right knee did have a real air of indignation about it but it was her left knee. That's the knee. The left knee. The defiant cunt of a knee that did all the damage.
Irish people as you well know dance like epileptic ninjas on hot coals when driven mad by the machinations of a jig finely danced. And dance she did. Out with the right leg first and she tossed the right knee about as a loving father might toss his child. Into the air, not off. Your disgusting. You make me sick.
The crowd stood gawping at her like a flock of crows looking into a jam pot. Almost mesmerised by the indignation of her right knee. Then she brought it out. Oh yeah. The fuckin left knee. Jaysus lad she fired it in and out and in and out in quick succession with the beat of fiddle player I thought her shoe was on fire and she was trying to kick it off.
I ran for a bucket of water. I was only gone half a mile when I realised I had no water. I ran back with the intention of taking out me lad and pissing all over her foot. I knew I'd have to get really close to her though and that worried me. Worried me arse I was fuckin shitting myself. But I suffered on.
When I got back to the crossroads I was met with a vision so fucked up in the magnitude of its horror that I hadn't thought I'd ever be more horrified then that one time when I was really horrified when Mary Sugarbill showed me her teeth.
Landsbury had riled the crowd up into a frenzy more ferocious than I thought it possible to get during a four reeled jig. The horror. Jaysus the horror. As the milk lorry appeared over the brow of the hill and began rolling is way passed the pub down towards us she did it.
She pulled the left knee back and fired out the right one and then instantly fired the left knee forward as well. She had both knees forward at the same time. She went down like a sack of shit. Down faster than shares in an Irish bank!
Sure the hilarity of it drove the crowd to insanity and they all threw themselves under the milk lorry like lemmings. You know like in the game. Lemmings.
I didn't throw myself under the milk lorry because I had shit my pants remember and I knew my mother would kill me for getting knocked down while wearing dirty underpants. She did it on purpose. Landsbury, not my mother. These fuckin camera men started appearing over the hedge and didn't she start taking over like she was going to solve the "mystery" herself.
So in closing, Landsbury is, as I have said, the quare fellas ould lassie and so I think you'll find that the basis of your earlier conclusion to the question of the origin of "Shite me arse" is most probably wrong as it is most likely based on the satanic words of a devil woman.
Correspondence With An Irish Emigrant - Part 1
So my good friend emigrated to Canada and we have been corresponding via e-mail for the past few weeks. Sometimes there is no news so we just make it up. I think it's amusing and sure you might do too.
From Canada:
Do you see do you know James Daly.
I wonder did he ever say that? I didn't know the man & I don't know why it matters now but it does! Did James Daly ever say 'Dee Ya See Dee Ya Know', and if so why is he famous for it? Was it that he said it often? Or did he say it at a critical point at a very important meeting when people were expecting something profound? And they all left the meeting giving out about him, feeling that he'd let them down, and it stuck. It's only now in retrospect, we realise that it was very profound.......Dee Ya See?......Dee Ya Know????.....forget all that 'To Be or Not to Be' shite........maybe it's blindist though?? Is he insinuating that only if you see can you know? The Blindist Hoor.... ..I'd say he just said it as a sort of nervous tic before he said what he was gonna say.....d'ya think?
How did the Left Alliance conference go in the Gresham? Are you a converted communist? Did you stay for Kathleen Lynch? She's the Prof of Equality Studies in UCD......I saw her a few times on Vincent Browne shortly after I'd read The Spirit Level & bought one of her books. I just watched The Eleventh Hour from yesterday Tuesday, shockin stuff. RTE is broken, apart from the Frontline. They had a sort of referee economist on Monday, which, while short of a trapdoor system for those who are found to be bullshitting, it was a big improvement. The Late Late had Patrick Holford on a couple of weeks ago. He's an alternative medicine mentalist who was mentioned in one of the bad science books I have. There's even a website, www.holfordwatch.info which exposes his mentalisms but Tubridy allowed him to promote his new book unchallenged, even demonstrating himself how a shoe lace can be used to withdraw hip anxiety by attaching to the left ear and stretching to tap the right nipple in time with My Heart Will Go On!
enough ranting.....that's it for now, it's nearly 12 pm here so 7ish there... you probably won't get this till tomorrow. I will look forward to reading from you, I'm off to investigate the true meaning of Tommy Smiths' "Shite Me Arse", and it's consequences for mortality in the moral context of Kant's categorical imperative.....
From Ireland:
Ah be Godden how’s the balls of your big toes.
The origin of James Daly’s now infamous remark relating to “seeing and knowing” stems from his invention of a way-back-machine and his time spent hounding St Peter to become Jaysus's 13th apostle. On his second trip in his way-back-machine James Daly landed in the Holy Land just after the crucifixion but just in time to catch Jaysus making his drunken escape from a hole in a hedge. Eager to please Peter, whom he had befriended when they bumped into each other at a cigarette vending machine in a Starbucks in Bethlehem on his first trip back in his way-back-machine, James was oft to be found repeating lofty phrases that he heard the other more established apostles saying in an effort to fit in. James overheard Thomas, who was seen at the time as being the clever one, mumbling something about “seeing is believing” in reference to Jaysus’s great escape from the hedge. When Peter demanded to know what was said and who said it James leapt to his feet and roared “Dee ya see, dee ya know, James Daly”.
Not long after that, about 2 minutes to be exact, Peter pulled James to one side and asked “are you off your fuckin head or what lad, on yer bike, if I see you again I’ll get the big JC on the T to smote you”. James didn’t have a bike so Peter’s request baffled and intrigued him in equal measure. As he scratched his horse like face in confusion Peter caught sight of his digital calculator watch and recoiled in fear. It was obvious to Peter that James was a master of the dark arts and informed his brethren “holy good mother of fuck” said Peter “this lad is a master of the dark arts and must be stoned at once”. James not being a fan of the ould weed, he tried it once but it just made his face slide round to the side of his head and made him feel like he’d been kicked in the mouth by a planet, he decided it was time to make his escape. He commandeered a slow moving donkey and made a run for it. After a short distance James was acutely aware of the weight of the donkey and decided that rather than using the donkey as a disguise he’d be better off hoping on its back and riding it out of there like John Wayne in one of them old movies. As he neared the multi story car park where he had left his way-back-machine he glanced back across his shoulders, yeah both of them, in an effort to ascertain the level of his immediate threat. Much to his dismay Peter and the rest of his oh-look-at-us-we’re-the-fuckin-apostles crew were gaining on him, waving their hands in the air like they just didn’t care.
James gave the boot to the donkey, the donkey looked at it in confusion and tried to eat it, so James kicked him. The donkey roared into life and took off like a thing possessed, eh like a donkey possessed I suppose. With ever increasing velocity the donkey soon reached a critical mass, it was a confirmation or a month’s mind I think, and got into a speed wobble. James mustered all his power and steered the donkey towards his way-back-machine. The donkey, having never seen a Massey Ferguson never mind a Massey Ferguson with a transport box, panicked and slipped. There was shit and snot everywhere as he crashed head first into the transport box depositing James, as luck would have it, onto the machine while hitting the go-now button. The rest as they say is history.
In other news we never made it to the lefty conference as we went on the piss instead. Never saw yer man on Tubridy as there is only so much of the rat faced cunt I can stomach. I would be very interested in your investigation of the true meaning of Tommy Smiths' "Shite Me Arse", and its consequences for mortality in the moral context of Kant's categorical imperative and will wait with moist soiled panties and semi erect penis.
I hope all is well in Canadaland and that good lasy is looking after you, financially, emotionally, physically, spiritually, existentially, metaphysically and above all else foodilly. Oh and if you get that job with UPS be sure to include a photo of yourself in them sexy brown shorts with your next correspondence.
From Canada
Your rapacious knowledge of scripture is matched only by my ignorance of the Weevil. However I will venture the following observation if you would kindly allow?
Daly's ability to look over both shoulders at the same time, as illustrated during the infamous flee from the disciples on approach to the multi-storey nearing the way-back-machine (Paddy Psalm www.15:43), lends credence to the accusations of Blindism. I submit to you that there are many examples of those who are born with special talents dissing those without. Didn't the Jesus Christi's very own descendant Linford show the same contempt for his lessers in his disgraceful behaviour towards fish and molluscs in his 'Too Lazy to Run' campaign of 1993. Those poor crators are still being pulled from the bellows of accordions to this very day!!
You'll be glad to know that i've made significant progress in my investigation into the true meaning of Tommy Smiths' "Shite Me Arse", and its consequences for mortality in the moral context of Kant's categorical imperative. I am now utterly convinced in my doubt that the meaning of the word Shite can be uncovered in its exclamation! Shite is to Shout as Dine is to Down, if you will. I will endeavor to illustrate further but this will require your oral participation. (I assure you I will never utter the latter six words of the last sentence to yourself, in person with left eye closed and monocled, right eyebrow raised to its limit, and lad in hand). Anyways, to make a short story long. If you were to momentarily acquire the head of a Derry man and speak the words "Come dine here nigh & shite "up Dorray"', you will see that Smith's "Shite me arse", can translate to the command 'Shout "Me Arse!" '. From here, in consultation with Angela Landsbury, I deduced the following;
It is well known that prior to the Siege of Derry in the late 17th century, there was a nationwide search for 1000 catholic men that were at least 8 foot tall and whose lengthy locks could be tethered to handlebar moustaches and/or Ming beards for efficient weapons carrying. These men would be sent to ensure Derry's loyalty to catholic James. One such man, was a descendant of the great Tommiuthus Smithicus, famed for bringing the orange from Greece to Ireland a Tuesday way back. He was known like his father before him as Tommy of Orange. The family had amassed a vast fortune, but Tommy wanted to make the business more efficient to give him and his sons more free time to indulge in their favourite passion for stone counting. He'd noticed that when squeezed into a juice with added ice, his oranges became irresistible on both hot days of the year, so not being the brightest sock in the shoe, had invested most of his wealth in ice which he stored in one of the lakes in Cavan. Recently however he had received bad news from his stuffbroker that his wealth had depleted, irrevocably. His two sons Hatstand and Pothole hadn't thought to deposit the ice in the same lake each time and neglected to record the names of the lakes they were using. They had been searching for the last 8 months, unbeknownst to Tommy, using stolen bagpipes for diving gear. But Tommy, while out stone counting in the quarry beside the lake one night, followed the gurgled sound of pipes where he found his son's who finally declared everything to their Yeti like father. Tommy, was overcome with an overwhelming calmness, serene as the eye of a recently deceased squid. He loved his sons as he would have loved magnums had they been invented. There was only one thing for it, sell more oranges, invest in more ice, and this time ensure that they use the same lake for storage all of the time.
It was the Wednesday of that weekend that Tommy learned of the movements of William Of Orange. He, would not allow another to take his business at this critical time of expansion. He dressed in his armoured shorts and tee-shirt, tied his beard to his right sideburn which he'd secured to the hair of his left oxter, and not sure where he was going, marched steadily towards the sun. Luckily, it was early evening and the sun led him to Clones where he was immediately noticed, measured, tethered and commandeered by the advancing Jacobite army on its way to Derry. Due to the prohibitive follicle and vertical prerequisites for participation in the siege, there were only 5 in the troupe and one of them, suspected of being dead had to by carried by the other four in an oak coffin. Tommy befriended the troupe leader, an old philosophy lecturer from Derry, who had participated in every war he'd heard of since reaching 8ft at the age of 17. The other two were clown student twins from Madrid who had arrived in Clones as a result of being informed by a drunk that it was pronounced clowns and there was a college there. The philosopher philosophised that if their cargo wasn't dead then he'd be able to shout, there bye indicating his aliveness and giving the troupe a well needed boost for the oncoming battle. One of the Spanish students who had been weeping incessantly since Omagh began to shout, "Mearse, Mearse" at his brother who was accidentally urinating on himself, while repeating happily what his brother was shouting. At that moment the philosopher began trying to ascertain the mortal state of the man in the coffin by shouting "Shite woolye", "Shite, wool ye", "Shite", "Shite". That was it, Tommy had enough, fuck the oranges and fuck the ice. I'll buy that quarry with what I have left and spent me days with my two sons countin stones. He waited till they got to the top of the next hill, and dropping the coffin and rolling himself lengthways, forehead to heel down the hill, it wasn't long until he reached the outskirts of Omagh.
It was here that Tommy found the book he had seen the philosopher reading when they met in Clones. It contained a series of essays and letters, one of which was John Locke's Essay Concerning Toleration. It was on this page that Tommy wrote what he had heard shouted to him before he left and had repeated incessantly to himself since leaving, "Shite Me Arse". He felt now that he was in desperate need of a drink, so he stopped in Paddy Kant's pub in Omagh for a pint, muttering to himself over & over again, as his sons and grandsons would do after him "Shite Me Arse".
Less than 50 years later Immanuel Kant was born in Germany. He was known to have come from a long line of Kants stretching back along various branches, one of which penetrated Omagh in Tyrone through his granduncle Paddy Kant. The book containing Locke's essay left behind by Smith remained in the family with the words of Oul Tommy's still there above the Essay Concerning Toleration. The young Immanuel, believing these words to have been written by Locke himself, translated the text, (Shite - to defecate) & (Mearse - Spanish for, accidentally urinate upon) and agreeing with Locke's obvious distaste for the content of the essay, began forming his view that under no circumstances should it be tolerated that people be used as a means to an end. He would say years later in his famous interview with Parky that this was the only time he saw the sense in Locke's reasoning "Ve shut naver tolerate da bracking oof ouwver dameycrattteclililiy choosen morial layws, Sheet Moa Aarsey", to which he received rapturous applause. In his 9th interview, when Parky asked him if we should tolerate a person lying to protect a friend from an armed murderer, again he replied "Sheet Moa Aarsey".......and so Kants' categorical imperative, stemming from a misinterpretation of Locke due to the experiences of Oul Tommy Smith, would result in the failure to assassinate dictators and despots from that day to this, in the interest of the common good.....
You might wonder how I arrived at all of this information? Well, the truth is Landsbury found a book called 'Tip It Into My Can, Her Can's Leakin'. It's a collection written by the Bruton siblings in their bid to record local history. They would read all of the existing books (or canons as they called them) and compile all in their own collection (or can), thereby eliminating omission and overlap....I feel compelled now to investigate the genesis of ''Tip It Into My Can, Her Can's Leakin', and it's lessons for historical revisionism going forward after a heads up......
In relation to more recent events I believe ye shoulda went down to the gresham after a few and towelled them.........I saw the UPS uniform and think it complementary to my shapely but slimmed hips, ye have to wear a helmet over here though due to the mad moose disease, like mad cow disease but with epilepsy........i'm wearin a condom the whole time just in case.........ssshh there's one now, have to go.....
From Ireland:
A wonderful bit of insight indeed my learned friend and colleague . It's not often that my brain is momentarily removed from its lodgings deep down in the recesses of my cranium and battered around the room like a cat being swung by a violently retarded child. Today it has been so!
Your deduction on the origin of “Shite Me Arse” was both insightful. Never, I say never, have I witnessed the rapid joining of dots only to discover it was a circle all along.
I have in my own way been somewhat inspired by your deep philosophical probing and have spent many a long minute considering the question, presently foremost in all our minds, of “Why All The Cuntishness In Politics”.
“Why All The Cuntishness In Politics”
I shall begin my dissertation by stating that I am wrong. Strong words indeed as I’m sure you are all too aware that I’m not in the habit of being wrong merely mistaken. I digress. I believe, and I remain utterly convinced of my belief, that I have no belief. In politics that is. I do believe in other things of course. Like washing a frying pain is insane. I’m not mental. I digress again.
Right perhaps the question should be posed differently. Yes there is cuntishness in politics but to frame the question as I have framed it may draw the poor reader to conclude that politics and cuntishness are not mutually exclusive. In other words they may conclude that politics and cuntishness are not one and the same. Therein lieth the problem!
I have reached the conclusion that politics and cuntishness are but one and the same. Two sides of the same octagon if you will. True, one may have cuntishness without politics, but I could be dragged from my bed kicking and screaming, taken away to a small farm near Longford, tied to a five legged stool, battered with the rough end of a spatula and made recant the entire works of the late great Billy Dolan, before I’d accept that one can have politics without cuntishness.
You may disagree, as is your wont, but as you well know in order to do so you’d have to become the second cousin of a frog licking artichoke.
Back to the cuntishness. Take that woman from the Labour Party, please just take her, she has a face only a manic reconstructive surgeon could love and I’m almost certain she’s allergic to politics. The more I see her the closer her face gets to her belly button. Yet out of pure and utter cuntishness she refuses to leave politics, an obvious cancer to her jowls, and not only pursues it but is actually attempting to gain a position of power.
Now your man from Sinn Fein, never before has a man who sticks crayons up his nose been given so much air time, with the obvious exception of Ralph from the Simpsons. In fact if my choices for leadership boiled down to those two I think I’d vote for Ralph. At the very least he’s a literary genius. Can you imagine the other two penning the classic line in relation to Valentines “I choo choo choose you”, while accompanied by a picture of a train. So groundbreaking in its simplicity that to deny its genius is to be a thundering fuck puppet.
In closing I conclude that until we have a world where young rabbits can run free, naked with their big bouncy ears flapping in the cool morning breeze brushing their small fury limbs against my spent warm manhood as it spits and spews it’s loving man juice into their big brown eyes we'll never have a true all encompassing political system where all are considered.
Not until an inebriated man can stand on a pedestal, with left eye closed and monocled, right eyebrow raised to its limit, and lad in hand, singing Judas Priest backwards will I feel safe uttering the words “First at last, first at last, thank God almighty, I was often behind before.”
From Canada:
Do you see do you know James Daly.
I wonder did he ever say that? I didn't know the man & I don't know why it matters now but it does! Did James Daly ever say 'Dee Ya See Dee Ya Know', and if so why is he famous for it? Was it that he said it often? Or did he say it at a critical point at a very important meeting when people were expecting something profound? And they all left the meeting giving out about him, feeling that he'd let them down, and it stuck. It's only now in retrospect, we realise that it was very profound.......Dee Ya See?......Dee Ya Know????.....forget all that 'To Be or Not to Be' shite........maybe it's blindist though?? Is he insinuating that only if you see can you know? The Blindist Hoor.... ..I'd say he just said it as a sort of nervous tic before he said what he was gonna say.....d'ya think?
How did the Left Alliance conference go in the Gresham? Are you a converted communist? Did you stay for Kathleen Lynch? She's the Prof of Equality Studies in UCD......I saw her a few times on Vincent Browne shortly after I'd read The Spirit Level & bought one of her books. I just watched The Eleventh Hour from yesterday Tuesday, shockin stuff. RTE is broken, apart from the Frontline. They had a sort of referee economist on Monday, which, while short of a trapdoor system for those who are found to be bullshitting, it was a big improvement. The Late Late had Patrick Holford on a couple of weeks ago. He's an alternative medicine mentalist who was mentioned in one of the bad science books I have. There's even a website, www.holfordwatch.info which exposes his mentalisms but Tubridy allowed him to promote his new book unchallenged, even demonstrating himself how a shoe lace can be used to withdraw hip anxiety by attaching to the left ear and stretching to tap the right nipple in time with My Heart Will Go On!
enough ranting.....that's it for now, it's nearly 12 pm here so 7ish there... you probably won't get this till tomorrow. I will look forward to reading from you, I'm off to investigate the true meaning of Tommy Smiths' "Shite Me Arse", and it's consequences for mortality in the moral context of Kant's categorical imperative.....
From Ireland:
Ah be Godden how’s the balls of your big toes.
The origin of James Daly’s now infamous remark relating to “seeing and knowing” stems from his invention of a way-back-machine and his time spent hounding St Peter to become Jaysus's 13th apostle. On his second trip in his way-back-machine James Daly landed in the Holy Land just after the crucifixion but just in time to catch Jaysus making his drunken escape from a hole in a hedge. Eager to please Peter, whom he had befriended when they bumped into each other at a cigarette vending machine in a Starbucks in Bethlehem on his first trip back in his way-back-machine, James was oft to be found repeating lofty phrases that he heard the other more established apostles saying in an effort to fit in. James overheard Thomas, who was seen at the time as being the clever one, mumbling something about “seeing is believing” in reference to Jaysus’s great escape from the hedge. When Peter demanded to know what was said and who said it James leapt to his feet and roared “Dee ya see, dee ya know, James Daly”.
Not long after that, about 2 minutes to be exact, Peter pulled James to one side and asked “are you off your fuckin head or what lad, on yer bike, if I see you again I’ll get the big JC on the T to smote you”. James didn’t have a bike so Peter’s request baffled and intrigued him in equal measure. As he scratched his horse like face in confusion Peter caught sight of his digital calculator watch and recoiled in fear. It was obvious to Peter that James was a master of the dark arts and informed his brethren “holy good mother of fuck” said Peter “this lad is a master of the dark arts and must be stoned at once”. James not being a fan of the ould weed, he tried it once but it just made his face slide round to the side of his head and made him feel like he’d been kicked in the mouth by a planet, he decided it was time to make his escape. He commandeered a slow moving donkey and made a run for it. After a short distance James was acutely aware of the weight of the donkey and decided that rather than using the donkey as a disguise he’d be better off hoping on its back and riding it out of there like John Wayne in one of them old movies. As he neared the multi story car park where he had left his way-back-machine he glanced back across his shoulders, yeah both of them, in an effort to ascertain the level of his immediate threat. Much to his dismay Peter and the rest of his oh-look-at-us-we’re-the-fuckin-apostles crew were gaining on him, waving their hands in the air like they just didn’t care.
James gave the boot to the donkey, the donkey looked at it in confusion and tried to eat it, so James kicked him. The donkey roared into life and took off like a thing possessed, eh like a donkey possessed I suppose. With ever increasing velocity the donkey soon reached a critical mass, it was a confirmation or a month’s mind I think, and got into a speed wobble. James mustered all his power and steered the donkey towards his way-back-machine. The donkey, having never seen a Massey Ferguson never mind a Massey Ferguson with a transport box, panicked and slipped. There was shit and snot everywhere as he crashed head first into the transport box depositing James, as luck would have it, onto the machine while hitting the go-now button. The rest as they say is history.
In other news we never made it to the lefty conference as we went on the piss instead. Never saw yer man on Tubridy as there is only so much of the rat faced cunt I can stomach. I would be very interested in your investigation of the true meaning of Tommy Smiths' "Shite Me Arse", and its consequences for mortality in the moral context of Kant's categorical imperative and will wait with moist soiled panties and semi erect penis.
I hope all is well in Canadaland and that good lasy is looking after you, financially, emotionally, physically, spiritually, existentially, metaphysically and above all else foodilly. Oh and if you get that job with UPS be sure to include a photo of yourself in them sexy brown shorts with your next correspondence.
From Canada
Your rapacious knowledge of scripture is matched only by my ignorance of the Weevil. However I will venture the following observation if you would kindly allow?
Daly's ability to look over both shoulders at the same time, as illustrated during the infamous flee from the disciples on approach to the multi-storey nearing the way-back-machine (Paddy Psalm www.15:43), lends credence to the accusations of Blindism. I submit to you that there are many examples of those who are born with special talents dissing those without. Didn't the Jesus Christi's very own descendant Linford show the same contempt for his lessers in his disgraceful behaviour towards fish and molluscs in his 'Too Lazy to Run' campaign of 1993. Those poor crators are still being pulled from the bellows of accordions to this very day!!
You'll be glad to know that i've made significant progress in my investigation into the true meaning of Tommy Smiths' "Shite Me Arse", and its consequences for mortality in the moral context of Kant's categorical imperative. I am now utterly convinced in my doubt that the meaning of the word Shite can be uncovered in its exclamation! Shite is to Shout as Dine is to Down, if you will. I will endeavor to illustrate further but this will require your oral participation. (I assure you I will never utter the latter six words of the last sentence to yourself, in person with left eye closed and monocled, right eyebrow raised to its limit, and lad in hand). Anyways, to make a short story long. If you were to momentarily acquire the head of a Derry man and speak the words "Come dine here nigh & shite "up Dorray"', you will see that Smith's "Shite me arse", can translate to the command 'Shout "Me Arse!" '. From here, in consultation with Angela Landsbury, I deduced the following;
It is well known that prior to the Siege of Derry in the late 17th century, there was a nationwide search for 1000 catholic men that were at least 8 foot tall and whose lengthy locks could be tethered to handlebar moustaches and/or Ming beards for efficient weapons carrying. These men would be sent to ensure Derry's loyalty to catholic James. One such man, was a descendant of the great Tommiuthus Smithicus, famed for bringing the orange from Greece to Ireland a Tuesday way back. He was known like his father before him as Tommy of Orange. The family had amassed a vast fortune, but Tommy wanted to make the business more efficient to give him and his sons more free time to indulge in their favourite passion for stone counting. He'd noticed that when squeezed into a juice with added ice, his oranges became irresistible on both hot days of the year, so not being the brightest sock in the shoe, had invested most of his wealth in ice which he stored in one of the lakes in Cavan. Recently however he had received bad news from his stuffbroker that his wealth had depleted, irrevocably. His two sons Hatstand and Pothole hadn't thought to deposit the ice in the same lake each time and neglected to record the names of the lakes they were using. They had been searching for the last 8 months, unbeknownst to Tommy, using stolen bagpipes for diving gear. But Tommy, while out stone counting in the quarry beside the lake one night, followed the gurgled sound of pipes where he found his son's who finally declared everything to their Yeti like father. Tommy, was overcome with an overwhelming calmness, serene as the eye of a recently deceased squid. He loved his sons as he would have loved magnums had they been invented. There was only one thing for it, sell more oranges, invest in more ice, and this time ensure that they use the same lake for storage all of the time.
It was the Wednesday of that weekend that Tommy learned of the movements of William Of Orange. He, would not allow another to take his business at this critical time of expansion. He dressed in his armoured shorts and tee-shirt, tied his beard to his right sideburn which he'd secured to the hair of his left oxter, and not sure where he was going, marched steadily towards the sun. Luckily, it was early evening and the sun led him to Clones where he was immediately noticed, measured, tethered and commandeered by the advancing Jacobite army on its way to Derry. Due to the prohibitive follicle and vertical prerequisites for participation in the siege, there were only 5 in the troupe and one of them, suspected of being dead had to by carried by the other four in an oak coffin. Tommy befriended the troupe leader, an old philosophy lecturer from Derry, who had participated in every war he'd heard of since reaching 8ft at the age of 17. The other two were clown student twins from Madrid who had arrived in Clones as a result of being informed by a drunk that it was pronounced clowns and there was a college there. The philosopher philosophised that if their cargo wasn't dead then he'd be able to shout, there bye indicating his aliveness and giving the troupe a well needed boost for the oncoming battle. One of the Spanish students who had been weeping incessantly since Omagh began to shout, "Mearse, Mearse" at his brother who was accidentally urinating on himself, while repeating happily what his brother was shouting. At that moment the philosopher began trying to ascertain the mortal state of the man in the coffin by shouting "Shite woolye", "Shite, wool ye", "Shite", "Shite". That was it, Tommy had enough, fuck the oranges and fuck the ice. I'll buy that quarry with what I have left and spent me days with my two sons countin stones. He waited till they got to the top of the next hill, and dropping the coffin and rolling himself lengthways, forehead to heel down the hill, it wasn't long until he reached the outskirts of Omagh.
It was here that Tommy found the book he had seen the philosopher reading when they met in Clones. It contained a series of essays and letters, one of which was John Locke's Essay Concerning Toleration. It was on this page that Tommy wrote what he had heard shouted to him before he left and had repeated incessantly to himself since leaving, "Shite Me Arse". He felt now that he was in desperate need of a drink, so he stopped in Paddy Kant's pub in Omagh for a pint, muttering to himself over & over again, as his sons and grandsons would do after him "Shite Me Arse".
Less than 50 years later Immanuel Kant was born in Germany. He was known to have come from a long line of Kants stretching back along various branches, one of which penetrated Omagh in Tyrone through his granduncle Paddy Kant. The book containing Locke's essay left behind by Smith remained in the family with the words of Oul Tommy's still there above the Essay Concerning Toleration. The young Immanuel, believing these words to have been written by Locke himself, translated the text, (Shite - to defecate) & (Mearse - Spanish for, accidentally urinate upon) and agreeing with Locke's obvious distaste for the content of the essay, began forming his view that under no circumstances should it be tolerated that people be used as a means to an end. He would say years later in his famous interview with Parky that this was the only time he saw the sense in Locke's reasoning "Ve shut naver tolerate da bracking oof ouwver dameycrattteclililiy choosen morial layws, Sheet Moa Aarsey", to which he received rapturous applause. In his 9th interview, when Parky asked him if we should tolerate a person lying to protect a friend from an armed murderer, again he replied "Sheet Moa Aarsey".......and so Kants' categorical imperative, stemming from a misinterpretation of Locke due to the experiences of Oul Tommy Smith, would result in the failure to assassinate dictators and despots from that day to this, in the interest of the common good.....
You might wonder how I arrived at all of this information? Well, the truth is Landsbury found a book called 'Tip It Into My Can, Her Can's Leakin'. It's a collection written by the Bruton siblings in their bid to record local history. They would read all of the existing books (or canons as they called them) and compile all in their own collection (or can), thereby eliminating omission and overlap....I feel compelled now to investigate the genesis of ''Tip It Into My Can, Her Can's Leakin', and it's lessons for historical revisionism going forward after a heads up......
In relation to more recent events I believe ye shoulda went down to the gresham after a few and towelled them.........I saw the UPS uniform and think it complementary to my shapely but slimmed hips, ye have to wear a helmet over here though due to the mad moose disease, like mad cow disease but with epilepsy........i'm wearin a condom the whole time just in case.........ssshh there's one now, have to go.....
From Ireland:
A wonderful bit of insight indeed my learned friend and colleague . It's not often that my brain is momentarily removed from its lodgings deep down in the recesses of my cranium and battered around the room like a cat being swung by a violently retarded child. Today it has been so!
Your deduction on the origin of “Shite Me Arse” was both insightful. Never, I say never, have I witnessed the rapid joining of dots only to discover it was a circle all along.
I have in my own way been somewhat inspired by your deep philosophical probing and have spent many a long minute considering the question, presently foremost in all our minds, of “Why All The Cuntishness In Politics”.
“Why All The Cuntishness In Politics”
I shall begin my dissertation by stating that I am wrong. Strong words indeed as I’m sure you are all too aware that I’m not in the habit of being wrong merely mistaken. I digress. I believe, and I remain utterly convinced of my belief, that I have no belief. In politics that is. I do believe in other things of course. Like washing a frying pain is insane. I’m not mental. I digress again.
Right perhaps the question should be posed differently. Yes there is cuntishness in politics but to frame the question as I have framed it may draw the poor reader to conclude that politics and cuntishness are not mutually exclusive. In other words they may conclude that politics and cuntishness are not one and the same. Therein lieth the problem!
I have reached the conclusion that politics and cuntishness are but one and the same. Two sides of the same octagon if you will. True, one may have cuntishness without politics, but I could be dragged from my bed kicking and screaming, taken away to a small farm near Longford, tied to a five legged stool, battered with the rough end of a spatula and made recant the entire works of the late great Billy Dolan, before I’d accept that one can have politics without cuntishness.
You may disagree, as is your wont, but as you well know in order to do so you’d have to become the second cousin of a frog licking artichoke.
Back to the cuntishness. Take that woman from the Labour Party, please just take her, she has a face only a manic reconstructive surgeon could love and I’m almost certain she’s allergic to politics. The more I see her the closer her face gets to her belly button. Yet out of pure and utter cuntishness she refuses to leave politics, an obvious cancer to her jowls, and not only pursues it but is actually attempting to gain a position of power.
Now your man from Sinn Fein, never before has a man who sticks crayons up his nose been given so much air time, with the obvious exception of Ralph from the Simpsons. In fact if my choices for leadership boiled down to those two I think I’d vote for Ralph. At the very least he’s a literary genius. Can you imagine the other two penning the classic line in relation to Valentines “I choo choo choose you”, while accompanied by a picture of a train. So groundbreaking in its simplicity that to deny its genius is to be a thundering fuck puppet.
In closing I conclude that until we have a world where young rabbits can run free, naked with their big bouncy ears flapping in the cool morning breeze brushing their small fury limbs against my spent warm manhood as it spits and spews it’s loving man juice into their big brown eyes we'll never have a true all encompassing political system where all are considered.
Not until an inebriated man can stand on a pedestal, with left eye closed and monocled, right eyebrow raised to its limit, and lad in hand, singing Judas Priest backwards will I feel safe uttering the words “First at last, first at last, thank God almighty, I was often behind before.”
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