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.