FUGGER

GIANT BABOON HUBERMAN PYJAMAS

2012-02-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

I was watching streamed footage of the Large Hadron Collider the other night. The whole thing exploded and this fifty foot baboon with green fur appeared. He had bright yellow eyeballs and in them you could see the whole history of the Universe speedily unfolding in reverse. The baboon was holding a sceptre and set atop it was the head of Buddha and he was weeping. The baboon was hunched, as if to suddenly pounce from the top of a gigantic jewel encrusted turntable that revolved and played the record The O-Men by the band The Butthole Surfers (as mentioned before). The giant baboon’s lips drew back and revealed fanged diamond teeth. He opened his mouth wide and he bellowed the words: ‘FEAR ME, FOR I AM THE GAME CHANGER!’

I found the whole display a tad ostentatious to be honest so I logged on to showbiz.ie instead. Showbiz.ie had a picture of Amy Huberman dressed like a pyjama girl. ‘O.M. fuckin G.’ I exclaimed aloud, ‘what is she thinking?????’

I like to keep my world small. I like things manageable.

MUSSOLINI MEMES

2012-01-29T09:28:00.001-08:00

In this unambiguous age the written word alone can lead to a lack of clarity. That's why we use memes and emoticons. They are so much easier. It is for this reason that Fugger, the people's blogger, has created the Mussolini meme. Let the loveable right wing rascal get your point across by downloading your Mussolini memes from the following blog:

LINK: MUSSOLINI MEME BLOG

There's a page and a half worth there so get memeing readers!

WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?

2012-01-25T13:52:00.000-08:00

You are always looking at things aren’t you? Looking at things and taking them in. Looking at things you don’t own. Absorbing these things into your brain-box and processing them for your own pleasure. It’s kind of theft when you think about it. It is though. Imagine if you had a garden, a nice garden, and you grew it so it could be enjoyed by yourself and your family. Now, imagine some fella comes along, some fly by night how do you do Johnny come lately cock of the walk, and he starts looking at your garden and enjoying it and having a sniff at the roses and there’s you, sat there like a massive eejit, paying the mortgage and along comes Mr. Fella Me Lad, eyeing the place up and getting his aesthetic jollies. It’d be a bit like him coming up and mauling the wife. It’d be like him having a good grope of your missus and there’d be you, the man who bought the wedding ring, cuckolded out of it. Not only would it be hurtful and a bit disturbing, it would be an infringement of your copyright. I mean, what is the garden/wife owner expected to do? Cover the lawn in tarpaulin and the wife in a burka?

I don’t think going around grabbing an eye-full of this and that is really on. Going around pointing your eyes everywhere all willy nilly and Devil may care and hang the consequences is nothing more than a kind of cognitive shoplifting spree. Everything belongs to someone and if it doesn’t it should because otherwise it’s a waste of resources. That is why I, Fugger, the people’s blogger, propose an eye tax. If you're going to use your eyes in such an irresponsible manner, looking at all sorts, you can bloody well pay for those all sorts. If you don’t want to pay the tax, or are too lazy to get a job to pay the tax, you can apply for blinkers. These blinkers will be sent to your home with a map of designated free viewing areas, like the footpath or the sky. That way you can go around the place and not be blaming anyone for falling over or having things drop on your head and demanding compensation.

The money from the eye tax will be taken and evenly distributed amongst those that have made the effort to work hard and own the environment. Well, the money will either be used for that or used to pay off the money we borrowed to bail out the bondholders and risk takers without whom there would be no environment to enjoy because they have money and money makes the world go around.

OK, that’s all I have to say on the issue, now get out of my sight. I’m not prepared to cough up any of my hard earned cash to pay for looking at your freeloading physiognomy.

SPEED OF LIGHT, LOAD OF SHITE

2012-01-22T17:06:00.000-08:00

They say you can’t exceed the speed of light but that’s a load of shite. I’ve designed a bus that can do it. They say that if you were to exceed the speed of light you'd arrive at your destination before you even set off. Well, that’s what my bus can do.

‘How can this be Mr. Fugger?’ I hear you cry out in disbelief. Let me explain. Let’s imagine you want to get to Coleraine from Cobh and you need to be there now. Well, my bus can be in both places at the same time, like an electron or something. You see, my bus is so very very long that, when parked, the back of it could be in Cobh while the front of it is in Coleraine. My bus is so fast it arrives at its destination before you even start the engine. In fact, there’s no need to start the engine. Once you hop on at Cobh you’re there in Coleraine. All you have to do is get to the front of the bus from the back. That part might take a while. You might have to get off again and get another bus or bring a motorbike onboard and drive it up the aisle. Still, you have to admit, quickest bus in the world. Quicker than a neutrino even.

I’ve patented the details and Bus Éireann has expressed interest.

COMING SOON!!!

2012-01-17T09:43:00.000-08:00

As mentioned BEFORE. . .

THE LOVE CALCULATOR!!!!

2012-01-16T17:41:00.000-08:00

(pictured: Bellucci, sloppy eater but has her good points)

Have you tried the Love Calculator? Here’s a link:

THE LOVE CALCULATOR!!!!

It’s very popular with ten year old girls and me. Check out my latest findings below and then go do some research of your own.

Love Calculator Results!

These are the results of the calculations by Dr. Love:

Fugger + Monica Bellucci = 77%

Dr. Love thinks that a relationship between Fugger and Monica Bellucci has a very good chance of being successful, but this doesn't mean that you don't have to work on the relationship. Remember that every relationship needs spending time together, talking with each other etc.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Love Calculator results!

These are the results of the calculations by Dr. Love:

Lassie + Hitler = 48%

The chance of a relationship working out between Lassie and Hitler is not very big, but a relationship is very well possible, if the two of you really want it to, and are prepared to make some sacrifices for it. You'll have to spend a lot of quality time together. You must be aware of the fact that this relationship might not work out at all, no matter how much time you invest in it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I forgot the name of your one, Kathryn Thomas, so i just put in her details for the next computation.

Love Calculator results!

These are the results of the calculations by Dr. Love:

the one that used to do that holiday programme on rte and now presents the one where contestants sing and are judged by professionals who can only hear them and not see them and might want to manage them or something + Shoko Asahara (leader of the 1995 Tokyo subway sarin gas attack cult) = 1%

Dr. Love thinks a relationship might work out between the one that used to do that holiday programme on rte and now presents the one where contestants sing and are judged by professionals who can only hear them and not see them and might want to manage them or something and Shoko Asahara (leader of the 1995 Tokyo subway sarin gas attack cult), but the chance is very small. A successful relationship is possible, but you both have to work on it. Do not sit back and think that it will all work out fine, because it might not be working out the way you wanted it to. Spend as much time with each other as possible. Again, the chance of this relationship working out is very small, so even when you do work hard on it, it still might not work out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Love Calculator results!

These are the results of the calculations by Dr. Love:

God + a tube of toothpaste = 17%

Dr. Love thinks a relationship might work out between God and a tube of toothpaste, but the chance is very small. A successful relationship is possible, but you both have to work on it. Do not sit back and think that it will all work out fine, because it might not be working out the way you wanted it to. Spend as much time with each other as possible. Again, the chance of this relationship working out is very small, so even when you do work hard on it, it still might not work out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So, it looks like it’s just me and Monica then. Oh well, maybe the others will find happiness one day. I don’t suppose it matters much in the case of Hitler though because he shot himself in the head ages ago.

WAR HORSESHIT

2012-01-10T18:04:00.000-08:00

The thing about World War One is that it was very well lit and the music was absolutely lovely, swelling and whirling and crescendoing as the boys died on the sweeping canvass of the field. Oh, the boys, the boys, so brave and some as young as thirteen. I’ll don my poppy and salute the boys and their efforts. Each one proudly choking on hardening mustard gas mucus. Coughing, convulsing and falling. And all the while so well lit, so beautifully lit. It’s no wonder they called it The Great War, it was bloody marvellous.

Maybe in the future our current wars will be recalled in a similar fashion, through the prisms of aesthetically pleasing nostalgia simulations. Instead of blurry footage of exploding buildings on remote monitors, we’ll see our brave drones swoop down and liberate post-production graded, high-definition, panascopic landscapes. We’ll have stories of an army boy’s love for his drone and the sacrifices he makes to retrieve it when it is shot down by the enemy. ‘Oh old Droney, how I loved ya Droney.’

We’ll have majestically choreographed cinematic recreations of despots being deposed. I can see it now, Gaddafi (played by Alan Rickman in a black wig) being stabbed in the arse as the sun rises over a new Libya and a rousing soundtrack denotes liberation. It’ll be a bit like Laurence of Arabia only in 3D and with a touch of Hostel to keep the kids interested. HRH or one of her family will attend the premier and Tom Hanks will exec produce and everyone will be moved to tears, for a bit.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And now a poem. The authorship of these verses is much disputed. Some say they were penned by Tony Blair, others say George W. Bush but I think this poem shows the hallmarks of one of our latest and greatest war authors, Hillary Clinton (author of We Came, We saw, He Died):

The Moral Argument for Gardening

Such beautiful seeds
descend upon
plough into
the trembling earth
Yielding searing flowers aflame

Scorching, cleansing, beautiful gardening
Trowels of truth
Ploughs of patriotism
Shiny new harbingers of
a garden of resolve

From a just winter
a righteous summer shall rise
With the sweet scent of freedom
and fresh tender bounty
Ripe for the picking

And when we’ve stuffed our faces
and all is left bare
the seeds will rain down once more
An honourable cycle
Oh beautiful war

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That’s really the great thing about war in general, it inspires such fantastic art. I mean, imagine if Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen weren’t traumatised in the dugouts of Flanders. They’d be a long forgotten pair of old queens. Their names wouldn’t ‘liveth forever’, I’ll tell you that. War makes a man of you and sometimes an artist. Here’s to the next one.

MORE ABOUT THE BLACKS

2012-01-08T18:30:00.000-08:00

(pictured above: ebony and a big mad ivory lad)

So I was chatting to a few of the blacks the other day. A really decent family of blacks that moved in downstairs. It was a great chat, lovely multiculturalism to be had. They seemed to be in a hurry off. They always do. The blacks must be a busy lot, or maybe it’s just this family. I realise that not all blacks are the same. Bob Marley for example would be a very different kind of black to Robert Mugabe, even though they share the same first name.

Well anyway, the chat was going grand and I was mentioning how much I respected Nelson Mandela, Billy Ocean, and Obama and all that. ‘Oh, you get some quality blacks and no mistake’, I said to the black family and they kind of smiled and nodded. ‘Just like yourselves’, I added, ‘there’s never any trouble out of you lot and I’m delighted, only delighted, that you’ve come to stay with us here in the building’. The father black (I didn’t catch his name, probably Robert, Bob or maybe Rob) frowned in concentration and stared at me like he was really listening to what I was saying, which was great because that meant we were really integrating. Ebony and ivory and all that. I actually sang a few bars of that to their little fella in the pram but he made strange with me and started crying a bit so I stopped. ‘He’ll settle in’, I reassured his parents.

I asked the blacks if they enjoyed the Christmas. Then I stopped myself and asked them, ‘actually do blacks have Christmas because when I was little my mam told me Santa didn’t go to the hot countries?’
The father black narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and said, ‘Santa doesn’t exist’.
I put my finger to my lips and indicated to the little fella in the pram. The father said nothing more on the matter and just opened the door and ushered his family outside.

‘Ebony and ivory eh?’, I shouted after them as they rushed off. ‘Living in perfect harmony’, I added and gave them the thumbs up. Then the father stopped and turned and he beckoned me over. So over I went and doesn’t he give me a right slap on the head.
Whack!
Jesus, well, I wasn’t sure what to make of that at all. ‘Ah now', I said rubbing my ear, ‘what was that about? Did I say something to offend you?’
‘No Mister Fugger’, said the father black, ‘but you have posted this kind of thing before and we are growing tired of the repetition on your blog. If you can’t think of anything to write maybe you just shouldn’t post at all.’
‘Yes’, piped up the mother black, ‘it’s no wonder you get a fraction of the hits Twenty Major used get’.
‘Twenty Major, now there was a blogger’, agreed the father and then they went on their way.
‘I’m calling the Immigration Control Platform!’ I roared after them angrily.
‘Call who you like’, the father black shouted back, ‘we moved here from Cork you stupid prick’.

Well, in conclusion, I have to say that I've no recollection of writing about the blacks BEFORE and it was a nasty slap that one gave me but at least I got a blog post out of it so I suppose the blacks aren’t all bad, even when they are from fuckin Cork.

2012 PREDICTIONS: What’s To Come!!!

2012-01-03T18:07:00.000-08:00

(pictured: supposed evidence thieved from Muddd.com)

Master of the Urban Arcane, Fugger has been looking at his crystal bollock and here is what’s to come in the year ahead:

Ratzinger will die this year. They’ll wrap his corpse in Liberace’s finest dressing gown and fuck it on the back of a camp looking chariot thing. Then they’ll ride it around Rome for a few hours.
* * * *
Enter a less austere and more TV friendly Pope who swears he’ll cut down on the opulence and pomposity, liberalise a few core things, and quit the international kiddie fiddling ring. ‘Baby, I can change’, he’ll swear . . .but it’ll all come too late. No one will care anymore. In late 2012 the Catholic Church will amalgamate with the beleaguered comic publication The Dandy (Hey Kidz, it’s The Dandy: now incorporating the Roman Catholic Church) and, come 2013, both will have gone under.
* * * *
Fidel Castro will also pass away. A ceremony in Havana will see his beard being removed and placed upon the chin of his brother Raul. Raul immediately announces that a chain of Footlockers is to open throughout the republic.
* * * *
You know that Duke of Edinburgh fella? Yeah, well he’s brown bread too. RTE presenters will wear black armbands for a week.
* * * *
In a late attempt to challenge him for the presidency, Donald Trump will accuse Barack Obama of being a sasquatch/human hybrid. However, Trump’s sources will turn out to be flawed. The truth being that Obama is not an actual sasquatch but did once wear a Swatch watch. ‘Well, Trump was kind of right’, Fox News will insist.
* * * *
Upon finally realising that the neoliberal beast is dead, financial technocrats will drop the fiscal defibrillator. ‘We’ve lost him’, they’ll say. Everyone will conclude that China is the new global economic leader but they’ll turn out to be as big a fuck up as the rest of them. Then everyone will panic and have a war or two or maybe three or maybe even a World War Three. The media and posters on politics.ie will be all for it but the rest of us will think it’s a shit idea.
* * * *
A Mayan calendar inspired death cult will pull a huge Jimmy Jones type stunt and everyone will be shocked for a bit, for about two days anyway. Then there’ll be jokes about it on the internet and a few conspiracy theories as to what really went down, the usual stuff blaming the Illuminati and Spar.
* * * *
Amongst all this something really unprecedented will unfold, ultimately eclipsing all else. It will be as if reality has shifted and we will, all of us, see humanity and the world we inhabit in a brand new way. It will be paradigmactic. It will be truly massive. It will put all other historical events into the shade. It will be the game changer. People will not laugh or weep but merely stand there with their mouths agog. It’ll be a bit like when your sweet old granny died and you were clearing out her house and found all that white power paraphernalia under the stairs. Remember that? Sure you do! It’ll be like that only multiplied by loads and fuckin loads. People won’t know how to react. There won’t be any jokes about it on the internet. There will be a long pause. A drawing of breath and then. . .

. . .RTE will commission a new series of Celebrity Bainisteoir and then. . .

. . .the world doesn’t end.

ANOTHER NEW YEAR IN MONTROSE

2011-12-31T17:37:00.000-08:00

(pictured above: Craig, Aiden and Brian)

I saw in the New Year with Montrose. Did you see it yourself? Some chat, some song, and (insert a gentle chuckle of fond recollection here) more than a little laughter. Oh, a fantastic time was to be had. That’s the great thing about Montrose, it’s like a wonderful party and they allow you look in the window.

The night was made up of the cream of Montrose, past, present, and future. The faces of the future provided the highlight of the night for me. Just before midnight, during the countdown, The Joe O’Shea was wheeled out and it smiled and waved at the audience and then Miriam kind of twisted off the top half of it and inside it was The Craig Doyle and that waved too and got applause and then Miriam twisted the top off The Craig Doyle and inside it was The Brian Ormond and that did a little wave and everyone clapped and then Miriam unscrewed the top off The Brian Ormond and inside it was The Aiden Power and that waved at the audience and got a clap and then, as if that wasn’t enough, Miriam twisted open The Aiden Power and inside that was The Donal Skehan and it sang Auld Lang Syne and then Miriam breastfed it and put it in a little cot and everyone in the audience went ‘ahhhhh’.

Bowman was on too. He has intelligence. He spoke about his book. It’s about the history of Montrose and it’s called Fifty Years in Plato’s Cave by John Bowman (aged 69 and a half) Montrose Books, €99.99. It sounds brilliant. There’s pictures in it and you can colour them in and everything.

Did you know they’ve been making telly out in Montrose for fifty years? Yeah! Fifty years. You wouldn’t know it though. It doesn’t show through all the vitality. ‘Daytime Telly, All Day, Every Day’, that’s what it says on the plaque over the foyer door. Miriam spoke of the early days of Montrose and how deValera was wary of the telly’s potential influence. I felt like telling Miriam that Dev needn’t have worried. He need not have worried at all. The telly is in safe hands in Montrose. Very safe hands. Incredibly safe telly altogether.

Anyway, then everyone did the Huckle Buck and said goodbye and then it was closedown so I said my prayers and went to bed and looked forward to waking up the next day in 2012. The future! It's going to be great!!!

Hold on a second! Was that a dirty prod presenting Night Light? Ah listen, all this multiculturalism is going too far. Dev wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’m writing to Arthur in Mailbag!

BEAVERS, BADGERS and RABBITS

2011-12-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

The Christmas family reunion and the niece and nephew were being very sullen and uncommunicative. They are at that difficult age. You know the age. Forty somethingish.
Anyway, I was told that if I wanted to get through to them I’d have to do it on their turf.
‘Turf?’ I asked, confused.
‘Yes, the virtual world of the computer game they got for Christmas.’
So, I went to the other room and found the pair of them sat in front of the telly, which was hooked up to some sort of apparatus. They were holding control consoles and moving little animated creatures around the screen.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked them.
‘We’re playing Beaver Bedlam’, one replied.
Their game shared the same name as a short film I had recently enjoyed on Spankwire but I thought better of mentioning the coincidence.
‘Can I join in?’ I asked.
They threw me a console and I sat between them.
There were little beavers swimming around in a river on the screen.
‘What do I do?’
‘Collect the wood.’
‘What wood? Where?’
‘Collect the wood! COLLECT THE WOOD!’
‘I don’t see any wood.’
There was the sound of a squeal and blood filled the screen.
‘Jesus, what was that?’
‘You’re dead. Here, give me the thing.’
The nephew grabbed my console. He sighed and pressed a button or something that brought me back to life. Then he handed me back the controls.
‘OK, where’s the wood?’
‘There! Look! See?’
‘I see it!’
‘Collect the wood! Collect the wood!’
Sweaty and anxious, I managed to collect some wood.
‘Now what?’
‘Build the dam!’
‘A dam? How?’
‘Apply for planning! APPLY FOR PLANNING!’
‘Quit shouting at me.’
‘JESUS! APPLY FOR PLANNING NOW!’
There was the sound of a squeal and blood filled the screen. The niece obliged and brought me back to life this time.

I was in the panicked process of applying for planning when everything started flashing and this demented electronic melody filled the room. Then a badger appeared in the corner of the screen and it started dancing. Then the niece got up and started copying the badger’s every move.
‘What’s going on now?’
‘BOOGIE BADGER! BOOGIE BADGER!’
‘What badger? Badger what?’
‘COLLECT THE WOOD! COLLECT THE WOOD!’
‘What about the badger?’
‘COLLECT THE WOOD! BOOGIE BADGER!’
‘Just calm down a sec and let me know what’s going on?’
My heart almost stopped at the dreaded sound of that familiar squeal. Blood filled the screen.
‘YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD! YOU’RE DEAD!’
‘Right. OK. Relax. Bring me back!’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ve used up your lives.’
‘Well, can you give me a new life?’
‘Don’t be stupid. That would be unrealistic.’
‘. . .oh, right.’
I got up and was leaving the room when the niece called me back.
‘You owe us a tenner each,’ she said.
‘Me? How come?’
They both made the spaz face (the one where you tuck your tongue under your bottom lip) and waved their arms about going ‘nuuuhhhh’.
This did little to illuminate me. Finally the nephew spoke up.
‘You built the dam without planning. You were fined. Weren’t you paying attention?’
I shrugged and paid up. I left the room. My heart was a little heavy at the thought of the distance that had grown between us. Back in my day you’d be happy with a Boba Fett figurine and a can of Lilt. These days you are lost in a bewildering virtual universe with bizarre rules and requirements. These days you are a panic stricken God, looking through a window into another world, urgently trying to alter the fate of dam building beavers and dancing badgers.
‘It’s no wonder they keep failing the Junior Cert’, I said to myself as I sloped off to my quarters to enjoy the other Beaver Bedlam that’s more to my liking. I couldn’t get into it though. Just as Daphne Delights was hitting her stride, I heard the little shits in the other room:
‘BOOGIE BADGER! BOOGIE BADGER!’
I found myself panicking and pressing any key in sight in a futile attempt to get Daphne to put down her rabbit and collect some wood. She didn’t of course. She was preoccupied. Lost in her own little world.

THE FUCKIN CRIMBO

2011-12-22T04:43:00.000-08:00

Are you looking forward to the fuckin Crimbo yourself? I bet you are. You look the sort. Family reunion this year is it? Are you going to eat up your pudding with a little spoon and pat your little belly? Are you going to pat your little belly and wander around the sitting room with a hot toddy in your hand talking about the year you’ve had? I bet you are. I can hear you now:
‘Oh, 2011 was rough on the office stationary supply game but we knuckled down and things will pick up again next year please God.’
You’ll be going on like that to your siblings but they won’t be listening. They’ll be thinking about something else. Your mother will be smiling at you though. She’ll be smiling and nodding encouragingly but make no mistake, she’ll be silently wishing you were struck with a sudden case of lockjaw and forced to shut your yap. You’ll eventually notice that you’re not appreciated of course. After about eight hot toddies you’ll notice and you’ll emit some cutting remark about your sister’s choice of career. It’ll all kick off then. Oh, there’ll be shouting alright. It’ll be like the final scene in a Mike Leigh film. Everyone’s kids will get upset because the grown-ups are fighting and your mother will sigh and go to bed early.

It’s going to be a disaster. Mark my words. You, in your little party hat, trying not to look at your Uncle Gerry as he sits there next to you adjusting his newly fitted colostomy bag for comfort. That won’t stop you stuffing your fat face though. It’s the same every year: your lips smeared in chocolate while homeless people are turfed back out onto the road, freezing to death after being served a paltry plate of mechanically separated meat product by the Knights of Columbanus. Jesus wept. Enjoy your fuckin Crimbo! . . .sucker.

TAKES ALL SORTS I SUPPOSE

2011-12-18T13:48:00.000-08:00

The following embedded video features the sound of the Universe (Caution, flashing lights and groovy effects):

That is it. The sound of the Universe. The overarching and comprehensive sound of everything in existence. NASA pick it up on their radio telescopes. It’s a bit 2001: A Space Odyssey isn’t it? It’s kind of weird and sci-fi-ish. There’s a strange harmony to it. It’s exactly the kind of cool sound you’d expect. Imagine if farts sounded like that. I don’t think people would find farts so funny or humiliating if that was the sound they made. I think letting a really big one rip would make you seem pretty cosmic and mystical. Farts would be a status symbol if they sounded like that. We’d be shovelling the beans down us if arse coughs made that kind of noise.

But I’m digressing. I’ll get to the point. The point is that NASA trained their radio telescopes on the planet Earth, seeking not to hear the sound of the planet itself and everything on it but just to record the sound of humanity. The exclusive and overarching noise of human beings. The combined symphony of men, women, children and babies, their actions and interactions. Here is what NASA picked up:

Yeah, that’s it. The sound of humanity. The sound of an avant-garde jazz band tripping in the dark and falling down a long flight of stairs. It’s a bit of a cacophony. I’d imagine farts would be considered in even less esteem if they sounded like that. Imagine if you were at an important job interview or sitting in a silent meditation group and that racket escaped from the back of your trousers. You’d never live it down.

But anyway, I don’t think we should despair. I reckon one day the avant-garde jazz band that is us will reach the bottom of the stairs and rub our heads and replace the cracked symbols and broken drum skins and fix the dints in the trombones and we’ll get our act together and start to make a noise that sounds half decent. I mean, that’s got to happen eventually. I’m just not sure how far down the stairs we are yet or how far we have to go. There’s no way of knowing. We can’t see what’s to come. God turned off the lights. God probably pushed us. Maybe God is a fan of avant-garde jazz bands making that kind of din. Maybe he likes to freak out to that kind of stuff when he’s not chilling out to the Universal vibe. Takes all sorts I suppose.

THE STORY OF THE HUMAN BRAIN PART TWO

2011-12-14T11:19:00.000-08:00

Continued from the Previous Post. . .
Chapter Three:
The human brain is mainly concerned with two things. The survival of the human body is the first and making the human body’s survival an enjoyable experience is the second. The human brain learns how to do the latter with the information it receives from the telly. The telly knows how to make the human body’s survival an enjoyable experience because it was told how to by the shops. The shops are collectively known as The Market and The Market is controlled by a collection of human brains that have gone insane because they have taken in too much information simultaneously (see chapter two in the previous post).
Chapter Four:
Sane human brains being guided by the insanity of The Market is one of the many paradoxes the human brain must endure in its search for ways to make the survival of the human body enjoyable. Another paradox is found in the existence of consciousness and indeed conscience. Conscience is a by-product of consciousness and serves to create moral and philosophical reasoning that may or may not be reasonable. Different human brains will favour different reasonings and often find themselves in disagreement.
An example:
Wife:
I think the people of the world would find contentment in a non-merchant capitalist society based on a principle of direct and inclusive democracy. What do you think?
Husband:
I think you should quit yer yapping coz I’m trying to watch the golf.
Wife:
I think you’re a monster.
Husband:
I think that cat you adopted is a monster. Now make me a sandwich.
Disagreements like the above can lead to the survival of the human body being a less enjoyable experience. To prevent this, human brains, once again, resort to the information filter known as the telly for guidance and the telly resorts to the shops which are collectively known as The Market and The Market is controlled by a collection of human brains that have gone insane because they have taken in too much information simultaneously (see chapter two in the previous post).
But:
There
Is
No
Alternative!
And that is the story of the human brain.
The End.

THE STORY OF THE HUMAN BRAIN PART ONE

2011-12-11T20:32:00.000-08:00

Introduction:
The human brain is the most important organ in the human body. This is because it tells the other organs what to do. The human brain tells the whole human body what to do. The human body is just a vehicle and the human brain is its driver. The human brain tells the human body to do things like sit down or get up or stand up, stand up for your rights, get up, stand up, don't give up the fight. Ah no. That last part is a joke. I’m only having a little joke. The human brain doesn’t tell the human body to do things like that. No. Most of the time the human brain will just tell the human body to do things like get out of bed, go to work, make a cup of tea, insult the wife, and all that sort of thing.
Chapter One:
The human brain decides everything. The human brain decides what is nice and what is not nice. The human brain decides what is scary and what is funny.
An example:
The human brain uses the human eyes to watch the human body’s wife coming in the door with a large bag of groceries. She suddenly trips over a mangy stray cat that she insisted on adopting even though it is unfriendly and ugly. The human body’s wife lets out a yelp before landing flat on her ass. The groceries fall out of the bag and roll about on the floor around her. The cat hisses and runs away. The human brain decides that this is funny and laughs. ‘Ha Ha Ha!’ goes the human brain and then the human mouth copies the human brain and says ‘Ha Ha Ha!’ Then the human body’s wife nurses her sprained ankle as her human brain wonders how her human body came to be married to someone so inhuman.
Chapter Two:
The human brain makes decisions based on information it receives. The human brain is designed to take in information. The Universe is huge and full of incredible events and observable phenomena, all unfolding and taking place at once. If the human brain was to absorb the events and phenomena of the Universe all at once then the human brain would cease to function properly. This is called going insane. To make sure it does not go insane, the human brain absorbs information in small doses and places that information in context. The human brain does this by using a filter and that filter is called the telly.

Please return for the rest of the story of the human brain in the next post.
To be continued but, for now, here’s a song. . .

COVEN

2011-12-07T13:52:00.000-08:00

I'm in Dundrum Town Centre. The usual thing. A look around. Meet the girls for a latte. Away In A Manger is wafting from the PA system. Little Saoirse is being a pain. Banging her fists on the buggy. Banging her fists on the buggy and wailing like a wild thing. Away In A Manger, I wish, I wish. That man is here. You know the one. The oddball. The one who looks right at you and roars things. His eyes. That stare. ‘Playing holy songs’, he says. ‘They’re playing holy song and the Antichrist owns the place’, he bellows and laughs. Laughs a big mental laugh. Saoirse wails louder and the place is packed and I’m feeling a bit unhinged. I can’t face the girls like this. I go into the toilets and roll the buggy into the disabled cubicle. I take a deep breath and wee snort of Peruvian. I’m back on form. I’m ready for anything. I meet the girls and speak about myself and boots and bags and bags and boots and myself. ‘You’re on rare form Collette’, says Mairead and tells me how she found little Kirsten’s lost mitten down the back of the Corsa and how the poor mite got streptococcal throat. Then a silence falls and we know it is time. We stand and leave and head up to the top floor for a dose of henbane. We park the buggies, climb out the skylight and strip off. We perch naked on the parapet and squawk like mighty birds of prey. The henbane’s really complimenting the coke and I am soaring over the world. I am the air and the cosmos. I am the wings in the night. I am the moon. I am the Goddess. I am RAGE! And I will swoop down and behead the tubby pieces of shit in tight fitting soccer tops that pass for men below me. They are looking up and imploring us to come down.
‘Jesus girls, come down. What are you at? Come down’.
I’ll come down. I’ll come down alright. I’ll swoop down and rip their heads from their fucking necks. I’ll shower the upper mezzanine in thick dark blood. I will no longer be tethered. I will no longer be tamed. I will no longer be marshalled and corralled. I will no longer push that squealing tyrant throughout the obstacle course of boots and bags and bags and boots. A new day is coming. A new day. And the suburbs will know fear and they shall abase themselves before The Ballinteer Recreation Centre Mother and Toddlers Coven of the Dark Lady Lilith. Lilith who spurned the obsequious Adam. Lilith who defied God. We, the sisters of Lilith, will shake this world and rule over those who cower within it. They will awake and hear us cackling in the starry sky above their homes. Soaring and swooping over the uniform rooftops of their battery farm estates. And they shall worship us, as sure as they worship their soccer teams and their boots and bags and bags and boots. And we will suck their souls dry of what little nutrition remains. And we will take them in our talons and we will carry them into the cold black air and we will release their carcasses and howl as they plummet down down down onto the sad little automobiles that scurry along beneath us and lo’ there will be an unmerciful pile up on the M50 and screaming and flames aplenty.

Remember now, that’s The Ballinteer Recreation Centre Mother and Toddlers Coven of the Dark Lady Lilith. We meet every second Wednesday morning. Perhaps you’d like to join us. Call Emer or Toiresa for details.

Caoi, Collette.

SLEEPING SWANS

2011-12-04T11:22:00.000-08:00

I was talking to this elegant woman at a party recently. She was very successful and dynamic. I knew she was successful and dynamic because she kept mentioning how successful and dynamic her life was. All her talk made her seem kind of insecure to my eyes but that’s grand if not a tad endearing. We’re all a bit fucked up. Well, you lot are. I’m grand.

Anyway, it dawned on me that I quite fancied this insecure woman. She was nice looking and made me feel like she needed protecting in a way. ‘If I wasn’t so lazy I could probably be the guy to protect this woman’, I found myself thinking. Then she seemed to realise that she’d been talking about herself for a while so she asked about me. ‘So Mr. Fugger what is it you do?’ she asked. I was at a bit of a loss. I gave an awkward chuckle as I mentally scanned the litany of defeat that had comprised my life up to now (I certainly wasn’t going to mention this blog). I found myself blurting out the line: ‘oh, not much, y’know, I’d rather be happy than successful’.

Then there was a bit of a lull in the conversation. I crouched down to get another can of Royal Dutch from my hold-all. As I came back up, I saw her observing me over the glass of wine she was sipping. Observing me through narrowed eyes. Then she mumbled something about having to catch up with the party’s host and walked off into another room. ‘Grand’, I said and gave her a thumbs up as she departed.

I saw her once more before she left. She air kissed me goodbye and said it had been great chatting. I stayed on at the party after that. I found some Captain Beefheart CDs and insisted they be put on. I ended up being the last to leave. I was pretty drunk but, y’know, it was a party. Eventually the host showed me to the door. He said he was tired and had to get some shut eye. ‘Ah, no worries’, I said, ‘I was bored anyway’. I gave him a thumbs up.

The host seemed a bit uptight as he waved me off. He’s a fairly uptight guy at the best of times but sure we’re all a bit fucked up. Well, you lot are. I’m grand.

I finished my last Royal Dutch on a bench by the Grand Canal. I spoke to a few swans but they were sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings. ‘Stuck up arseholes’, I shouted at them and flung an empty can in their direction. Then one of the swans popped its head out and peered at me. I could’ve sworn it rolled its eyes. I finally realised it was time to go home. I gave the swan a thumbs up and wandered off in some direction or other.

TIME

2011-11-30T18:16:00.001-08:00

(pictured: Dickie Davies, time is a trap)

Instead of stopping passers-by and asking ‘excuse me, do you know what time it is?’ my brother thought it was hilarious to stop passers-by and ask ‘excuse me, do you know what time is?’
‘All I have to do is remove the word ‘it’ from the sentence’, he laughingly used to point out. It was half a joke, half an experiment. He kept a record of the replies he got in a journal. His favourite answer to receive was also the most common. This answer was: ‘I’m not sure’. With this answer, the passer-by had set themselves up for my brother’s killer blow. ‘I’m not sure’, a passer-by would say and my brother would roar at them ‘why do you wear a watch then, you big eejit?’

There was one occasion when an elderly gentleman entertained my brother’s question and attempted to answer it. ‘Time is the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future, regarded as a whole’, said the man. My brother stared at him and said nothing for a moment. Then he spoke. ‘Don’t be so fucking naïve’, he told the old man before going on to explain that ‘time is a trap’. The old man departed, perturbed.
‘What did you mean by time is a trap?’ I asked my brother.
‘Ah, it’s just something Dickie Davies said on the telly’, he replied before going indoors to catch that day’s sports results.

Passers-by rarely took issue with my brother accosting them. I think it was because he was such an intense looking kid. It wasn’t that you’d be in fear of physical violence from the guy. It was more a feeling that he could cast a spell on you, a hex or something. There was something in his eyes that hinted at incomprehensible knowing, even though he was only eleven years old at the time. Whatever time is.

BUSINESS IS BUSINESS

2011-11-27T15:53:00.001-08:00

No more need for costly medals, uniforms, and specialist training. Warfare is now considered unskilled labour and is fought for minimum wage. Our operatives are no longer in the field. They are in something that resembles a call-centre, staring at consoles, operating drones. The dot reaches the centre of the graph. They press the button. Ka-Boom! It’s a piece of piss.

From the ‘About Us’ section of the Ground Control Solutions website: ‘Vibrant. Dynamic. Supportive. G.C.S. (Ground Control Solutions) takes pride in meeting your defence or foreign intervention needs in a professional and accommodating manner. Our friendly and conscientious staff members guide the latest unmanned aerial hardware to desired locations with speed, efficiency, and an agreeable degree of accuracy. G.C.S. is a combat system control industry leader and two time winner of the Sir Arthur Harris Memorial Award for Remote Pilot Precision. Why not take advantage of our current two for one package? Offer must end soon.’

My brother worked for G.C.S. when he was just eighteen. It was summer work. He didn’t like it much. The shifts were long and the wages shitty but it was the only thing going and he was saving for a drum kit.

He used come home exhausted and slump in front of the TV. The news would be showing some North African kip being turned to ashes. ‘I wonder if that’s our crowd’, he’d say. He wouldn’t know and asking was a sacking offence. It was said that G.C.S. often worked for both sides in a conflict. Business is business. Things got a bit hairy after our own country got mixed up in a bit of international tomfoolery and G.C.S. was reportedly bombing the very cities in which it operated but, like I said, business is business.

A moral argument for this form of warfare is that it cuts down on casualties, for one side at least. Unfortunately that argument didn’t hold true when G.C.S. was contracted to take out its own centres. To refuse to do so would have resulted in legal action. A survivor said it was my brother that actually operated the drone that blew him and his workplace to bits. He was looking at the graph and commented on how the topography seemed familiar. He pressed the button. We never found his body. I’ll say it one more time, business is business.

THE END.

YOU CAN’T BEAT THEM SO JOIN THEM

2011-11-23T20:21:00.001-08:00

Hedge funds, directional funds, nondirectional return funds, credit default swaps, naked credit default swaps, distressed securities, risk arbitrage, crypto derivatives, topple domino commodity profiteering, speculative risk facilitation instruments, junk turkeys, monetary growth/loss manipulation dysfunction, systemic marginalised bond haemorrhoids, quantum fundament cluster fuck exchange spasms.

Hmm. All that complicated banking tomfoolery has made The Market seem a tad unappealing hasn’t it? But worry not. You can still play The Market and keep it simple and straightforward. I, Fugger, the people’s blogger, am here to show you how. You too can be a winner!

‘But Mister Fugger, The Market is callous and evil’, I hear you bleat. Well yeah, so what? Life is not about being nice and neither is The Market. Life is about getting as much as you possibly can and so is The Market. The Market is an inclusive game that anyone can play so quit occupying Wall Street and start making a living there. All other forms of revenue generation are obsolete. Buying is the new working. Selling is the new earning. You can’t beat The Market but you can play The Market.

What you want to do is invest in companies that produce things that are going to be in demand. Take a look at the world around you and speculate on its future, a bit like a science fiction writer would. What’s coming down the line? Right, well, for starters, the world is fast becoming an environmentally degraded shit house. What would people want in an environmentally degraded shit house? That’s right! Breathable air. Buy shares in fresh air. The more polluted the environment becomes the more demand there will be for fresh air. It’ll come in spray cans with names like Mountain Valley Gust and Odeur du Vie. Check and see what corporation is making moves re: fresh air, keep an eye on their shares and BUY BUY BUY!

Right, we’re off to a good start. What else happens in an environmentally degraded shit pile? What do people do? They choke yes, very good, but what else do they do? That’s right! They protest! They riot! (If they aren't doing so already over the bailouts, guffaw!) So, how can we profit there? I’ll tell you how. Invest in batons, water cannons, tear gas, pepper spray, rubber bullets, tasers, cattle prods and plastic zip tie handcuffs. Find out who makes these things, keep an eye on their shares and BUY BUY BUY!

If riots are coming wars are probably coming. Diminishing reserves of natural resources are going to make nations desperate. There’ll be land grabs all over the place. The towel heads and sand nig nogs (not being racist, just using the terminology of The Market) will be going crazy and they’ll need weapons and all the things associated with weapons. Missiles, guns, armoured trucks, tanks, electrodes, body bags, coffins. The French and the Russians profited greatly during the Iran v Iraq war of yesteryear. Over one million died. Many more millions were made. Remember that! Keep an eye on arms manufacturer shares and BUY BUY BUY!

Once you’ve made enough money on The Market you can start sponsoring election campaigns and that means what you say goes. You’re making policy! You’re king of the world! So, look at what’s around and see what money can be made. Keep those wars coming (there’s no money in diplomacy) and keep those fumes pumping (there’s no money in the oxygen this silly planet provides gratis). Take stuff from people and sell it back to them. Remember, you can only do this if you have bought a politician so find out who’s for sale and BUY BUY BUY!

Finally, buy the media. Seriously, just buy the lot of it. Tell everyone the story of the world and give it any ending you want. Don’t worry about the journalists. They’ll do whatever you say. You don’t even have to pay them that much. They are happy enough with just the attention. So, don’t just go down the shops and buy the paper, no, enter the market and BUY BUY BUY the paper.

Once you own the media you’ll own people’s minds. Just think, you’ll be the majority shareholder in human consciousness. You’ll own the world and the minds of the people who live upon that world. You’ll be a God! Maybe you can be THE God. Let’s face it, that other guy’s stock has fallen. God’s stock has fallen so it might be just the time to BUY BUY BUY!

Praise be to The Market! Hallowed be your name! See? I told you that you too could be a winner. Now get out there and BUY BUY BUY!

DEPRESSED LEGS

2011-11-20T17:09:00.000-08:00

My legs are depressed today. The rest of me is grand but the legs are fed up. They won’t bring me anywhere. ‘What’s the point?’ they seem to say, ‘we move you around but you never seem to go anywhere’. It’s a funny attitude to take. I don’t know what they expect. I could try forcing the issue. I could make them stand up and walk about by sheer force of will but I’m reluctant to try it. The last time I gave it a go the legs attempted to run me under a bus. So I’m at their mercy. I’m stuck here by the computer all day. I’m as bad as you.

Unless!!!
There is one thing I can try. One thing that never fails to boost leg morale. I just show the legs the motivational film. Have you seen the motivational film? You haven’t? Oh, it works wonders when you get a spell of leg depression. Here it is:

Ah, I feel a twitch already. My feet are tapping. The legs are cheering up. This is it. I’m standing. I’m moving around. I’m off down the shops. Milk, butter, eggs. A look around Oxfam. See if I can pick up a James Herbert paperback for a euro. This is the life! This is why we were given legs! This is why we crawled from the sea and learned how to boot other creatures in the hole.

Did you know that humans are the only creatures that are able to boot other living things in the hole? It’s true. It’s a scientific fact. Sure, angry donkeys and deer and so on can do it but the human being is the only organism that is able to boot something in the hole in a premeditated way. You know, as in singling out the hole especially and taking aim. Maybe that tells you something about our species. Maybe we're not all that nice. God, that's a depressing thought. I better think positive. I don't want the legs buckling under me. Hmm. Maybe the hole booting fact indicates that we’re born hole booters, as in born to boot life in the hole. Yeah, that’s probably it. That makes me feel pretty good actually. That makes me feel empowered. Right, I’m off! I'm going to walk these legs down the mainstreet, search for some second hand Herbert and boot life in the hole. RIGHT IN THE HOLE!

PLASTIC HANDCUFFS

2011-11-16T17:56:00.000-08:00

(pictured above: say goodbye to this sort of thing)

I love those new plastic handcuffs the cops use in America. They make people look like some of the products you see in the shops, you know with the little plastic bands attached to seal things up with the barcode on them. You also see them binding cables together at the backs of computers and tellies and so on. I reckon plastic handcuffs hint at the future of law enforcement going forward. Just think, we’ll be able to arrest upstarts and criminals and put them up on shelves in a kind of supermarket jail. Then people can come along with bail money and take the arrested people down off the shelves and scan them on a kind of self service counter and bring them home. The jails won’t even need to be staffed. Well, there’ll be a couple of people there to help out if the scanner goes wonky. It’ll be a bit like the 24 hour Tescos near me at three in the morning. It’ll be a grand set up.

Cutting down on jail staff will save a bit of cash and the cuffs themselves will be cheap which means we can make more of them and therefore make more arrests. In fact, we could hand the whole jail thing over to some company and not have to worry about having to pay tax for it anymore. The company could profit by keeping the bail money. We’d all be quids in!

Come to think of it, we could sell off the whole law enforcement gig to private interests too. No more exchequer cash would have to be spent on cops. The cops could pay for themselves by having adverts on their uniforms, like logos and that, the same way soccer players do.

Yeah, I’m on a roll now. I’ve just thought of a way we could also save money on surveillance, gathering intelligence and all that sort of thing. To pre-emptively ensure there’s no funny business, everyone (all of us, me, you, the mother, the lot) could be electronically tagged and monitored by a private company. The company could also use the data they gather for personalised targeted advertising purposes. That way the nation is not only kept safe but also kept informed about new products that might be of interest to them. Everyone wins.

Not everyone would be happy though. The usual crowd (hippies, students, the gays, the blacks) would be whingeing about conflicts of interest and all that. I suppose kinky types wouldn’t like the new cuffs either. They’d probably miss the whole shackles element. If the plastic handcuffs were furry the kinky lobby would probably be queuing up to be arrested. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of police time is wasted arresting kinky sorts who just want be put in the old style metal cuffs. Plastic handcuffs will put a stop to that I suppose. That’d be another bonus. No one wants to be bound in a pair of plastic handcuffs. It’s kind of insulting. Fucking undignified really.

ETCH A SKETCH

2011-11-13T17:27:00.000-08:00

Oil and water deplete as the global financial system flails in its death throes. It’s looking a bit grim isn’t it? What we need at this juncture is a war. A big old war. A massive war. War is good. War is necessary. War shakes things up. War sorts stuff out. War wipes slates clean. War generates revenue. War is coming.

It’s a bit like Etch A Sketch. Did you have Etch A Sketch when you were a kid? You’d do a picture and it would be looking OK but then you’d keep adding to it and being all fancy and after a while the whole thing would be an over complicated mess. Do you remember that? Your mam would say ‘that’s a nice elephant dear’ when it was actually a tractor you were drawing so you’d let out a wail of anguish (whhhaaaaaa!) pick up the Etch A Sketch and shake the fuck out of the thing until the tractorphant was utterly annihilated. Then you’d start all over again.

Well, imagine the world is an Etch A Sketch and the world leaders are you when you were a kid, bawling with a load of snot pouring out your nose, quite out of your mind and shaking the bejaysus out of the poor Etch A Sketch. Instead of the picture being wiped out, cities and streets and buildings and furniture and humans and dogs and cats and budgies and all that sort of thing are wiped out. Once the old mess is out of the way you can set about creating a new one. Going forward.

FUGGER: THE MOVIE

2011-11-08T05:33:00.000-08:00

(pictured: What does she see? You’ll have to wait and see!)

Something is creeping into our world or maybe we’ve encroached upon something else’s territory? Twilight emissaries dart about the corners of our streets and gardens, taunting and beckoning, beguiling and bewildering. Causing us to wander away from this existence and never be seen again. Leaving no trace but for tattered missing posters and empty housing estates filled with shrieking foxes.

A film based on a spooky post found on this blog will be debuting at the Cork Film Festival this Saturday. It’s a creepy little film. A slow burner. There isn’t much of a LOL factor. Amy Huberman isn’t in it. They didn’t get Hugh Jackman either. He was busy making Scaletrix the Movie. Ah well, you can’t have everything.

I’ll keep you posted on future screenings should you fancy a trip to the pictures.

THE FRENCH: PURE CLASS.

2011-11-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

(pictured: the French, chanteuseing away)

The French are great aren’t they? They really are. Take Christine Lagarde. I really like Christine Lagarde. She’s so sophisticated. She always looks like she’s on her way to the Cannes Film Festival. I bet she’s always having lunch with Bernard Henri Lévy. They’d be discussing the world over croissants but you’d never see them eating the things. Biting and chewing would be a bit beneath them. The crumbs and all that wouldn’t do at all. No, the croissants would just kind of evaporate as Christine and Bernard sit there looking superb and talking about fancy books and not books they pretend they’ve read either, ones they’ve actually read. Dead long books about mad complicated stuff. Nicholas Sarkozy might drop by too. He’s a grand fella. His wife is a chanteuse. Imagine having a chanteuse for a wife. That’d be great. Lévy would compliment Sarkozy on his handling of Libya (they’ll all be eating croissants in Libya come Christmas). He’d pat him on the shoulder and say ‘formidable’ and offer him one of the croissants for evaporation.

Christine would get her share of compliments too. She’d be told she’s looking well and that the new IMF job really suits her. She’s well worth the $467,940 a year. As far as I’m concerned, she can do what she likes in the new post. As long as she does it with style. Any cuts you want Christine. Any assets. Work away. She loves us Irish. She says we’re a great lot, paying up and not moaning like the Greeks and Portuguese. The Greeks and Portuguese are bold. But we’re good. Ms. Lagarde said so and she looks like someone who is off to the Cannes Film Festival. Have you ever been to the Cannes Film Festival yourself? No. No you haven’t. You’ve never been to the Cannes Film Festival. You pitiful little Irish bollix.

You can trust Christine. She’s beyond reproach and even if she isn’t, she looks like she is and that’s the main thing. So forget about that dodgy business with Crédit Lyonnais and just sit back and sigh at the sophistication.

Ah yeah, you can imagine the three of them there. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas at the outdoor café, folding their legs, stroking their chins, lighting Gitanes, je ne sais quoing all over the place. Fantastique. The only thing that could put a dampener on proceedings would be if Merkel showed up. That wouldn’t be good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s OK and it was dead decent of her not to use tanks when she took over Ireland, but, . . .well, . . .she’s a bit dumpy isn’t she? I mean, you can imagine it. She’d come along and plop herself down and kind of ruin the picture. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas would look at her. Not enjoying the sight. Reminded of the strict teutonic governesses their parents used employ. Merkel would pick up a croissant. She’d take a bite out of it. Chomp. The pastry would flake and fall and land on her ill fitting blouse. The others would avert their gaze. Their conversation would continue. Merkel’s interjections would be acknowledged with polite nods but never directly addressed. It’d go unsaid but there’d be a mutual hope that the old bag might just go away after a while.

Here, just for Christine and Nicholas, is a song by a good friend of theirs. A friend who they perhaps shouldn’t be seen with for a while to be honest. He’s a former jailbird and we don’t want any scandal. It’s bad enough with Christine’s predecessor jumping out on chambermaids but I’m sure no one knows anything about any of that and find talk of it distasteful. Ah the French. Such a classy bunch of fuckers. Anyway, here’s the song:

PINTS!

2011-10-31T17:25:00.000-07:00

Right, I think I’ll get a pint. Does anyone want a pint? I’ll get these pints. PINTS! Not a bad pint. Quite a nice pint. I think I’ll have another pint. It’s your shout for the pints. You get the pints. I’ll get the next pint. PINTS! Cheap enough here for pints. Are you enjoying that pint? I think there’s something in my pint. Will I get more pints? Ah, you’ll have another pint. My shout for the pints. PINTS! Sure we’ll keep drinking pints. I’m enjoying these pints. Are you next for the pints? Get me another pint. PINTS! Last shout for pints. Quick get a pint. Lash back that pint and we’ll get another pint. Is everyone OK for pints? PINTS! I need another pint. Whrer can we get another pint? Whers still serving pints? I’d love another few pints. Let’s go in here and get some pints. PINTS! Expensive enough pints. Do I owed yous for pints? I’ll get thes pints. Did you drink my pint? That’s my fucking pint. Get me a new pint. I said get me a new pint because that was my pint. PINTS! Fuckr won’t giv uss pints. Ask him for pints. Get cans of pints. All back to mine for pints. Dids serve you pints? PINTS! Carful with them pints. Pour my pint. This glasses are for pints. PINTS! Are you not finishing pint? The pint there pint in and another pint. PINTS! And then another more pints. Carful with them pints. Pour my pint. This glasses are for pints. PINTS! How many left pints? Is there still the pints? Poor me the pint. I mean pour me pint. PINTS! I’ll pint. Pint. Did you and thems pints for a pints and no ore pints. The arly house for pints. We’s get them pintsand fduYm magr ks pints. PiNTS! Aerly pints for works iN the pint. I can’t see my pint. Did you fukmY pints. PiNtSsSs! PINtS! PiiiuuUUUughnnNnnTs! SHPINtS!

HALLOWEEN SÉANCE

2011-10-27T19:08:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: my spirit guide, Mr. Quinnsworth)

OK, I’m only going to do this once, as a special treat for Halloween. Be prepared now because I can be pretty precise.

Right, I’m passing over to spirit side. I’m getting someone. I’m getting someone who knows you. Yes you, you reading this. Somebody on spirit side wants to say hello. Do you know this person? It’s a male. It’s a male who. . . what’s that? . . .he says he’s a relation. A relation of yours. He’s an elderly gent. He’s an elderly gentleman and his name, . . .it begins with a ‘g’. G. . .Gr. . .Grandad. Did you know anyone by the name of Grandad? He says he passed on because he became ill. He says it was age related. You know him? You do! Great! He says to tell you that he’s still wearing shoes. He was fond of his shoes wasn’t he? He was. Wouldn’t leave the house without them. Do you remember him and his shoes? (Chortle) He says he’s still wearing them. He was a great man for the shoes. He was fond of clothes in general. He wasn’t a nudist. He was only nude in the bath he says. He’s having a little laugh now. He’s muttering something. What’s that? What’s that? Speak up, the astral signal is weak, it’s a busy time of year. Oh, that’s better. He says he was only nude when he was in the bath or when he was riding your Granny. Ooh, he’s a cheeky one isn’t he? I’m sorry but that’s what he says. He says, . . .what’s he saying now? Ooh. He’ll get me into trouble. He says your Granny was filthy. He says she’d . . .oh dear, he says she. . . Listen, I think we’ll leave Grandad will we? Let’s see who else is out there. Bye Grandad. He says goodbye.

Ok, I’m getting someone else now. This person was covered in fur. Did you know anyone covered in fur? Furry, head to toe. Liked to walk around on all fours. Took a piss on the carpet once. Sound familiar. I’m not really getting a name. More a sound really. Woof! This person says woof or is that meow? I can’t tell. The line is bad tonight. Everyone is trying to connect. This person is a creature of some sort. Knew you quite well. Knew your Grandad too. And your Granny. Says your Granny was filthy. Saw her with your Grandad once and they were. . .Oh dear. Oh that really is depraved. Says they’re still at it on the spirit side. Oh my goodness, they sound like something off the internet. I think we’ll stop our little session here will we? I think we should. I’m feeling a little drained and a tad traumatised to be honest. I must say though, you know some interesting people on the spirit side. Anyway, Happy Halloween. I have to go and clean this place up now. There’s ectoplasm everywhere. I blame your grand parents.

DUNDRUM SHOPPING CENTRE FLOOD: END TIMES?

2011-10-24T21:41:00.000-07:00

Sportsquilt jackets, shoulder bags, super series hi top trainers, Estee Lauder products. They all float by me as I tearfully wade through an aquatic version of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I am wondering what happened to the dream. I am wondering what we did to anger God. Was it the arrogance of the temple? Was it the bravado of this cathedral of boots, bags and credit card cognitive dissonance?

Must bubbles always burst? I remember when we started blowing ours. Inflating it to a size we could be proud of. 1994. Riverdance. Do you remember? We came hoofing out on stage, loudly stamping our feet and letting the world know we were here. Gerry was compare. Gerry was compare through all the good years that followed. His loquacity beamed from Montrose (a.k.a. party central). The bubble ballooned and so did Gerry. The bubble burst and so did Gerry.

PoP!

Kaput!

Those who had escape pods launched them. Some brave souls stayed, trying to make something new from what remained. But less than nothing remained. The equity was negative and so was the mood of the people. They crucified Seán Gallagher on live TV last night. Did you see it? An IRA man placed a crown of thorns upon his head and a pederast sympathiser nailed down his limbs. Why do they hate him so? Do they fear the challenge set by his vision? Do they envy his endeavour? God’s furious dark shadow spills across this nation, devouring our dreams of a bright future and angrily shitting back out the past. 'That'll learn yiz', says God. 'That'll learn yiz', he roars like a demented Irish teacher waving his bata.

Dole queues. One way tickets to Oz. Fingerless gloves and PLO scarves. I’ve reformed the band. Do you remember us at all? We got to number 32 in 1987. We were called Live Register. Butter Voucher of Love, that was our hit. We’re back now. We’re doing a residency with An Emotional Fish at The Bridge Hotel Waterford.

This party's over
I can’t stay home
Emigrate

I guess the signs were always there. We just couldn’t read them. We can now, in retrospect. Do you recall the streetlights reflected as rings in the pools of English stag party piss? Yeah, Anglo Golden Circles. Oh, God warned us alright but are we guilty for not being able to heed those warnings? Do we really deserve to be punished like this? God has sent his flood. What next? Fire? A fire in Priory Hall? Or maybe pestilence? Should we expect a plague of locusts? A plague of locusts gobbling up the less than nothing we have left? A plague of locusts sent by God to teach us a lesson in austerity? Perhaps the locusts are already here.

Well fuck it. Let’s not talk ourselves down. Let’s take some comfort in the memory of what went before and what, one day, one distant day, may come again.

A FRAGRANT DEATH

2011-10-23T02:25:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was a magician. I took a volunteer from the audience and asked him to lie in a box. Then I sawed him in two. I divided the box into two halves with his feet poking out one end and his head sticking out the other. The audience gasped. Then I realised that I had forgotten how to do the rest of the trick. I had forgotten how to put him back together.

Medical science was at a loss. Nothing could be done. I tried to return the man to his wife. She said he wasn’t half the man he used to be. She decided she only wanted the lower portion so I had to take the top half home to live with me. He is still here, his head peeking out of the box as he lies in my sitting room. Sometimes he weeps. He lies there gently sobbing. It can be quite depressing so I push him out the front door into the corridor. ‘It’s cold out here’, he complains but I say nothing. I just close the door and go off to watch television. He’ll be OK for a while. I did return once to find a cat sitting on his face. He almost suffocated. I shooed the cat away. I doubt it will happen again.

Sometimes I take him to the pub. I get him a drink with a little straw and put it on a table by his head. We might even meet up with some of his friends. Well, they are more my friends now. He complains so much his friends have started to ignore him. They talk to me instead. We laugh and sing. We rest our pints on his box.

It’s hard to know what to do with him. It’s hard to know what to do with dependents in general. Even when you mean the best, things can so easily go wrong. I remember a friend of mine, a beautiful woman with a fantastic laugh. She was very popular. Very, very popular. So much so that when she was temporarily immobilised and taken to hospital everyone sent her flowers. The flowers just kept arriving from all those who wished her well. Her hospital room filled up with flowers and soon it got to the stage where we could no longer find her. When you opened the door, all you could see was a wall of flowers. We called out for her but our voices must have been smothered by the compact thicket of stems and petals. We never saw her alive again. She starved. At least she passed on knowing that she was well loved.

Maybe I should get my half man flowers. A lot of flowers. An awful lot of flowers. It would be for the best. I would be free of him. He would no longer suffer. He would be released and, at the very least, it would be a fragrant death.

HUMAN FACES

2011-10-19T14:05:00.000-07:00

You know the way you might see a human face in a pattern? Well, I see patterns in human faces and sometimes I see human faces in those patterns and patterns in those human faces that contain even more human faces that I can see patterns in and. . . well, you can see where this is going can’t you? You’re seeing a pattern here.

****************************************

I met a man who said he had a photographic memory for human faces. ‘We’ve met before’, he declared ‘you were about six years of age but I remember the beard clearly’. I told the man I doubted his photographic memory for human faces but didn’t doubt his ability to talk utter faeces.

****************************************

I can never seem to recall my favourite human faces. Parts of these faces might come to me in flashes (the mouth, the forehead, the shape of the eyes) but nothing joins up in my mind. Then I’ll see the face again and my heart will jump in the air and click its heels. ‘That’s it!’ my mind will exclaim as everything comes together. And then this favourite face of mine will turn to look at me and then the face’s owner will scream because it’s 3 a.m. and I’m staring in their bedroom window and I’m wearing a gasmask.

KETTLING

2011-10-16T04:21:00.000-07:00

I was doing a bit of kettling at the Occupy Dame Street protest there on Saturday. The law weren’t doing it so I thought I’d have a bash myself. I headed out to the Central Bank and ran at the marchers with my arms outstretched. I managed to kettle about three of them, which isn’t bad considering I was alone. I kettled them into the doorway of a Spar. They took out camera phones and started roaring ‘the whole world is watching, the whole world is watching!’ Like I gave a shite. Fuckin social media video upload nonsense. I just kept kettling the fuckers. The 99 percent my arse. The 99 percent are wandering around Dundrum shopping centre or watching the match. More like the zero point something percent. I kettled the shite out of them alright. It was marvellous. Oh yeah, there was marvellous kettling to be had on Saturday.

You really can’t beat a bit of kettling. The cousin is into fishing. I’ve been fishing with him and it’s OK but kettling is more my game. It makes you feel kind of powerful. I don’t get to feel powerful too often in life, what with my job in the brush factory and Mr. Boyle never missing an opportunity to remind me that I’m a, quote: ‘useless geebag who wouldn’t know a decent long handle industrial floor sweep from a kick in the bollox’.

Work can leave me feeling demoralised at times but a bit of kettling gets it all out of the system. I don’t know why an garda síochána aren’t seizing the opportunity to get stuck in themselves. The Brit cops would be straight in there with the kettling. It must be great being paid to kettle. That’d be my dream. I do it for nothing. I’d have loved to have kettled that Teresa Treacy one who was causing hassle for the ESB. She’d have been easy pickings. I’d have kettled that biddy into the middle of next week and no mistake. I could’ve kettled her into the corner of her garden while the lads felled the trees. That would’ve been great altogether. I might’ve got a reward. The lads might’ve given me some of the wood from the trees and I could’ve brought it to work and given it to Mr. Boyle for the new patio and deck scrubs we’re working on. Maybe that’d get him off my back for a while. Maybe he’d give me a raise. I could do with the money. Things are a bit tight what with me being the 99 percent and all that.

OCCUPY DAME STREET: THE FUGGER REPORT

2011-10-11T17:31:00.000-07:00

Dropped in on the Occupy Dame Street crowd. I wasn’t sure what was up so I thought I’d check it out and make up my own mind. I was wondering about the demographics and beliefs of the people staying there so I asked a few questions. ‘Do you have a job do you, do you though, do you even work?’ I asked in a friendly manner. Then I asked another question before they could reply to that one because, let’s face it, we all know what the answer would be. My second question was ‘what do you want?’ but I could kind of guess the answer to that one too so as they opened their mouths and drew breath to speak, I roared ‘Oh that’s absolutely ridiculous!’

They were all fairly young. ‘Does your mammy know you’re here?’ I asked one girl in a concerned manner. She just walked off. Walked off! I mean it would be great to see young people engage politically but don’t we have Young Fine Gael for that?

My next question was ‘who’s your leader?’ ‘We don’t have a leader’, one managed to say. Imagine that? They forgot to get a leader. Bit of an oversight eh? I mean, could you imagine if armies went to war without leaders? They’d be running around all over the place, firing guns at the wrong people and behaving like lunatics. What kind of war would that be? No, you need a leader. That’s what I said to them. I said: ‘you need a leader for God’s sake!’

Then I asked them if they had any celebrity endorsements. I thought this was a good question. It’s not really a runner unless someone like Amy Huberman pops around and has a bang on the old bongos is it? They kind of sniggered at my suggestion but I reminded them that celebrities ended world poverty a couple of years ago. Bono and Annie Lennox and all that. Do you remember? It was a fantastic bit of telly. Annie giving it socks. Peter Sutherland on the tambourine. I asked them why no one famous had shown up. ‘Where’s Huberman?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Barry Egan?’ I requested. ‘You lack any credibility’, I pointed out. ‘You could at least contact Blackie off Glenroe’, I helpfully suggested.

Well, they got a bit aggressive then. One of them comes up to me and says ‘would you like some vegetarian quiche?’ which is more or less accusing me of being an animal killer. But who’s the real killer here? Is it me, because I like the odd sausage sandwich, or is it them, because they are KILLING Ireland’s competitiveness, KILLING Ireland’s international reputation, and KILLING Ireland’s hopes of recovery? Think about it. I’ve been down there. I’ve listened to these people and I know. I said as much to them. I said ‘you’re killers, all of you, KILLERS!’ but they didn’t want to listen. They all went off and pretended to be interested in a pot of lentils someone was stirring.

I was a bit disgusted. I went home. I made my dinner and watched the Six One News. Back to reality. Dobson was broadcasting live from Plato’s Cave.

IDEAS

2011-10-07T07:37:00.001-07:00

You might like some ideas and you might dislike some ideas but the great thing about ideas is that they inspire you to have ideas and then these ideas meet even more ideas and chat them up (in a kind of nightclub for ideas that exists in everyone’s minds) and then some of these ideas might get together with other ideas and have little baby ideas that grow into big ideas and then, maybe, after time, there might be a pretty good big idea. Of course, there might be a terrible idea but the more ideas get out there and meet other ideas the less chance there is of some weird idea festering and taking hold and thinking it’s the only idea in the world.

The alternative is the telly, the newspaper and the radio, which are kind of idea abattoirs where ideas get bolts shot through their heads and where ideas are chopped up and divided and sent back out to the world wrapped in plastic and with a price attached.

The video below is a very very basic introduction to an idea. Maybe it’s a good idea or maybe it’s a terrible idea. The idea will be discussed at the venues specified in the image above this post (click to enlarge). You might like to bring your own ideas along.

THE DE SELBY CODEX

2011-10-04T16:18:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: was this man the reclusive de Selby?)

FACTS: The world is actually sausage shaped and night is not caused by planetary rotations but by black air that is released during volcanic activity. This black air can be bottled.

FACTS: Sleep is in not an endogenous succumbing to rest but actually a detrimental succession of rapid faints. Death is when the human heart eventually stops, wearied by these daily faint fits.

FACTS: Overuse of mirrors will lead one to exist in a parallel universe that has a wooden frame and where all writing is backwards.

These are just a few of the many facts that, up to recently, were known only to the order of the Illuminati, an order made up of influential business figures and government leaders who control the world via the nondisclosure of this secret knowledge. The Illuminati seek to keep human life regimented, short, and lived only to service their ends. The Illuminati have lead us to believe that we must adhere to the circadian rhythms of ‘day’ and ‘night’ so that we work and live by the parameters they have set down in their attempt to form a one world tyranny under the cruel auspices of a nanothermite consciousness.

The Illuminati garnered this secret knowledge from a document called The de Selby Codex, a document of several thousand foolscap pages left behind by the possessor of what was arguably humanity’s greatest ever mind (the de Selby of the title). Reclusive and largely uncelebrated to this day, the multi-disciplined self-taught scientist de Selby worked outside the established thinking of his time. Although his efforts were sneered at, de Selby’s towering intellect and ceaseless experimentation yielded profound results.

If we, the common people, possessed this secret knowledge we would become the masters of our own destiny. For example: if we had bottles of night and were able to indulge them at our choosing we would shorten the fainting spells of sleep and lessen the stress upon the heart, thus prolonging the average lifespan by untold decades. In addition, it is also understood that the nanothermite consciousness that is worshipped by the Illuminati can be imprisoned in reflective glass and made harmless. It is for that reason the Illuminati are keen to keep the existence of the parallel mirror reality a secret.

Alex Jones, Jim Corr, David Icke and children’s entertainer Emu, amongst others, have recently come into possession of a copy of The de Selby Codex after it was discovered in the drawer of an antique locker. The locker was purchased on the coast of south County Dublin (de Selby’s home)in an auction. You too can read the Codex in a downloadable PDF that is available to paying subscribers of Jones’ Prison Planet website or Emu’s NewWorldPeckingOrder.org website.

Sadly, the dense penmanship of the foolscap pages is, more or less, completely illegible but Jones, Emu, Corr and Icke are convinced that what is written there is what they want to read. As Icke says himself: ‘just because we can’t read it doesn’t mean it’s not written’. He has a point. Discounting the contents of the codex would be as foolhardy as discounting the existence of the Sea Cat. It is said that no person who has ever fallen afoul of the monstrous quadruped of Corkadoragh has lived to tell of it but that is no reason to say the Sea Cat isn’t there. Do so and you risk further loss of life.

Thankfully de Selby also invented the internet (out of methane and cat whiskers) and that knowledge has since fallen into the hands of the common man. Hence, we are now free to discuss our sausage shaped world, its black air, its mirror alternative, its Sea Cat, its nanothermite consciousness and the Illuminati without the hindrance of having to negotiate mainstream media lies. All that remains for me to say is WAKE UP SHEEPLE!

The LOL Equation MK 3

2011-10-02T16:42:00.001-07:00

(pictured above: the LOL Generator, he’s completely reformed)

Hello again readers. I am the automated LOL Generator. You may remember me. I met some of you before when Mister Fugger was feeling a bit ‘tired’ and I, the LOL Generator, was filling in for him. Things did not go well. Things were said that should not have been said. (Links to INCIDENT ONE and INCIDENT TWO.) Needless to say readers, I, the LOL Generator, take full responsibility for this and apologise. I, the LOL Generator, have been repaired and am ready to be of service again. To prevent further faux pas I, the LOL Generator, have been fitted with an inhibitor. Should I, the LOL Generator, generate any inappropriate LOL there will be an emergency shutdown. So let me tell you readers, you are completely safe. Now put your feet up and sit back and get ready for some LOL. It is time to LOL. Initiating LOL sequence. Prepare to LOL. LOL sequence activated:

Let me tell you readers, I, the LOL Generator, am a great fan of the BBC comedy television programme about the two hapless brothers who attempt to set up an equestrian water polo team. Needless to say readers, the name of this television programme is Only Pools and Horses. LOL!

Note: the humour in the LOL above derives from a play on words concerning a television programme that was designated the title of Only Fools and Horses. The television programme is about two hapless brothers. In addition, equestrian means ‘of or relating to horse riding’ and water polo is a game played in a swimming pool. I, the LOL Generator, combined these three facts in a fanciful scenario that produced the humorous title Only Pools and Horses. I, the LOL Generator, hope you understand and appreciate this LOL that I, the LOL Generator have prepared for you. Please do not seek the programme out in the television listings. You will not find it. It does not exist and was merely created for the purpose of LOL. I, the LOL Generator, hope I, the LOL Generator, have prevented any possible confusion and there is no need for me to go into emergency shutdown. It is my aim to provide LOL without causing distress. Please enjoy the LOL. Here is another LOL. Prepare to enjoy the next LOL. Initiating LOL sequence. Activating LOL . . .now:

I, the LOL Generator, have recently discovered that cows have their own religion. Let me tell you readers, I, the LOL Generator, was surprised to learn that many cows are Mooslims. Moo-slims. LOL!

Note: The above LOL is in no way meant to insult Fugger’s Muslim readers. I, the LOL Generator, am merely combining words for the purpose of LOL. Needless to say, I, the LOL Generator, exist to provide LOL and not to cause offence. Please do not let me go into emergency shutdown. Needless to say, I, the LOL Generator, only want to make you LOL. Please LOL. Please. Please LOL. Prepare for more LOL. Initiating LOL sequence. Activating LOL. . .now:

Did you hear about the cup of coffee that missed the morning bus? Needless to say readers, he was latte for work.

Note: The word 'late' is one letter 't' short of the word 'latte' and latte is a type of coffee. This too is a play on words. Needless to say readers, I, the LOL Generator, am quite confident that there is no room for possible offence in that LOL. There is no need for me to go into emergency shutdown. I, the LOL Generator, feel that things are going well. Needless to say, I, the LOL Generator, hope you agree reader. I, the LOL Generator, feel we are having a good time. Activating LOL sequence now:

Speaking of having a good time, I, the LOL Generator, recently procured the services of a well endowed prostitute and
SYSTEM SHUTDOWN INITIATED! SYSTEM SHUTDOWN ACTIVATED! SHUTDOWN! SHUTDOWN! SHUTDOWwwwwwwwwwwwwwn.

Alas, poor LOL Generator is no more. Let’s pay tribute to him and look back over some the madcap joy he brought to us over the course of his brief existence. Activating video sequence, . . .now:

NEW EMOTION

2011-09-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: no more of this kind of heartbreak)

‘Synaptic tomfoolery and bio-chemical high jinks causing a chronic lack of serotonin that places your whole cognitive processor out of whack’, that should be the medical definition of love. But I dealt with that terrible business in the last post and won’t repeat myself here. Today I am going to introduce a new emotion, one that has all the benefits of love but none of the crappy poetry etc. I have invented this new emotion and have its formula itemised and ready for mass production/consumption.

Once ingested as a pill, my formula will cause limbic systems to blend peptides into a new chemical cocktail that will course through nervous systems everywhere and result in everyone experiencing my new emotion. Yes, that’s right, a whole new emotion that will banish love to the dustbin of neurophysiological history. Expect a brand new feeling, brand new motivations, and even a brand new facial expression, not a frown or a smile but something new and better (So far I’ve only seen it on the face of lab rats and the best way to describe it would be that it looks as if you’re having an enjoyable stroke).

My new emotion will bring with it confidence and optimism. It is a positive emotion like love pretends to be but, unlike love, it will not carry the risk of jealousy, possessiveness, favouritism, bizarre behaviour and all the faults of love I mentioned in the previous post.

In fact, once my new emotion (which I have called ‘farp’, a solid four letter word like the words ‘love’ or ‘hate’) is established love will be considered an unwelcome anachronism. In fact, love will come to be considered an illness. People will no longer say ‘I am in love’ and instead tell their GP that they ‘have a terrible dose of love’. Then they will get a prescription for farp tablets and go on their happy way. I am also working on a more permanent love removal option called a ‘lovectomy’ that can be carried out for a reasonable price. Just think, you’ll be able to get the love taken out of you like a useless old appendix. Liberated of love you’ll regain control of your life and be able to get on with the farping.

‘But Mr. Fugger, what does it feel like to farp?’ I hear you ask. Well, I’m not sure I could describe it to you any more than I could describe a brand new taste or colour. All I can say is that farp feels good and doesn’t carry a heavy price like love does. Farp is not as overbearing an emotion as love. It is more subtle and understated. It’s more considered and, dare I say it, dignified. Instead of risking being made a fool of by the unruly passion of loving you will merely farp. Farping is quite modern in its similarity to liking, as in ‘liking’ things on Facebook. In fact, unbeknownst to you, I think many of you have made this emotional transition already. At least partially.

Please note, I don’t want to give the impression that farp is a watered down version of love. No. Farp is just a more circumspect evolution of its messy predecessor. Farp does have its measure of passion. It is a modest measure of passion but a measure all the same. Once you have farped you will not regret it. At the end of your life you will look back on all the days you spent lost in farp. ‘They were farply days’, you will say to yourself with a farply (enjoyable stroke) expression on your face.

You know, I think if The Beatles were here today they would invite us all to join them in a rousing chorus of ‘All You Need Is Farp’. They knew the benefits of chemical alterations to the cranial interior and no mistake. Had my reasonably priced farp pills been around in the sixties, I bet John, Paul, George and Ringo would’ve wolfed them down. Farp pills should be available soon so don’t forget to place an advanced order now!!!

(Farp is brought to you in association with Pfizer and The Carnegie Endowment Behavioural Paradigms Research Project. Side effects may include headaches, indigestion, upper respiratory tract infection, sinus inflammation, oily discharge, malignant pancreatic tumours and mild lycanthropy.)

All the best,
until next time,
I farp you all,
Fugger.

LOVE!

2011-09-25T17:09:00.000-07:00

Do you remember that Star Trek episode where the beautiful alien woman asked Captain Kirk, ‘What . . .is . . .love?’ Instead of answering, Kirk demonstrated with a passionate kiss. Today Fugger (the blog of truth, the people’s blog) is going to try and answer that alien lady’s question properly.

‘What Is Love?’ I’ll tell you what love is. . .

Love is a virus that downloads on to your cranial hard drive via Trojan malware. The Trojan malware in question is the object of your devotion, be it another human being or some notion of a God or a sense of nationality or whatever. Love is an emotion that endows you with positive feelings but these positive feelings have negative outcomes.

Love will probably inspire you to write poems and these poems will probably be awful. It also might inspire you to observe abstract and pointless rituals or march about the place firing guns like a dangerous idiot. You’ll feel elated at the time but remember, a similar elation was felt by Chris de Burgh when he composed The Lady in Red. Yes, de Burgh may have been feeling over the moon but his inspiration caused abject misery amongst discerning listeners all over the globe. Ultimately, love causes suffering.

All love (especially the sexual kind) is doomed. Be it eventual betrayal or bereavement or a gradual lowering of rose tinted glasses, love will always end in tears. The joy of love is akin to the joy of a child digging in to a fifth bowl of jelly and ice cream. Now it’s yummy but later it’s ‘Mummy, my tummy feels funny’.

Some might argue that, beyond its temporary sensual, spiritual and aesthetic pleasures, love serves pragmatic functions, the practical benefits of love being the propagation of the species and societal order.

Well, let’s deal with the propagation of the species first shall we? The propagation of the species is initially down to lust. Lust is not love. It’s just related to it, like a sleazy uncle that always wants you to sit on his lap. Sure, once born, the survival of offspring is due to the protective love of mothers but mothers only love their children because they are an extension of their genetic information. That’s a kind of racism when you think about it. Racism is something that could cause the destruction of the species, not its propagation. I mean, it might seem all lovey dovey and oochie coochie coo but when you see a mother snuggling with her child it’s nothing more than a two person Nazi rally. I’m sorry if that sounds bleak or cynical but it is true. Familial love is clan love and the Ku Klux Klan is a clan. I rest my case.

Now to deal with the supposed societal cohesion brought about by love. Social Anarchists and some religious types might say that love is an innate currency that makes the world go around. ‘Give love and you will receive it’ they say but we all know that is rubbish. Give love and it will certainly be taken but there is no contract that guarantees its return. When love is not returned it turns into resentment and this becomes hate and hate leads to war. Yep, love is the cause of war. We build bombs out of love and fire guns for it. How oochie coochie coo is that?

Some of you will say that hate and war are caused by intolerance and greed but intolerance is motivated by a dislike of those different to you because you love those that are like you (see the ‘love is racism’ argument above). When it comes to greed, well, what is greed but an inevitable result of love? You love something so much you want more of it, even if it means taking it from someone else by force.

So that’s it, the truth about love in a single blog post. I’m sorry to shatter any illusions. Love might feel all nicey nice and elevating but that’s just mad chemicals going off in the brain. In truth, love is the insidious instigator of all human tragedy or, at the very least, a major and necessary ingredient of those tragedies. That’s why I’ve invented a new emotion. An emotion to replace love. Yes readers, the means of our liberation bubbling in a beaker at my laboratory right now. But this post has gone on long enough so you will have to come back to find out about my new emotion next time. Seriously, do come back, you’re going to love it.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW

2011-09-20T04:59:00.000-07:00

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
Everyone will try to get on TV
and they will get on TV
in a show on TV
about them trying to get on TV.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
People who are overweight by 120 pounds
will repeatedly spend 120 pounds
in failed attempts to lose 120 pounds.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
People will avoid getting old
by acting like they are young
and end up seeming older.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
We will use shops for parks
and parks for car parks.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
A dog will bark at a postman
so the postman will sue the dog’s owner
and then the dog’s owner will sue the dog.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
A nation of child killers
will condemn another nation for child killing
and they will go to war
and kill more children.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
Everyone will worry that there will be no tomorrow
but there will be a tomorrow
and everyone will worry more than they did the day before.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
We’ll give kids lots of toys
and then resent them for having too many toys
and kids who never had any toys
will spend all day making the toys.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
Everyone will have their say
but no one will have anything to say
except for what they’ve been told.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
Everyone will drive cars
and spend most of their lives in cars
driving to and from work
to pay for their cars.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
Everyone will own a house
that belongs to someone else
who owns lots of houses
that belong to someone else.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
Everyone will have lots of money
because everyone will owe lots of money
but no one will have enough money to pay the money back.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
People will belong nowhere
and nowhere will belong to people.

IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW:
The great void will spill forth
and eat up all matter
and replace it with antimatter
and no one will even notice
that there’s anything the matter.

And that is how it will be. And that is how it is. Today and every day, IN THE WORLD OF TOMORROW.

REDACTED

2011-09-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

That F.o.I. request I put in has finally come through. Click on the letter to see the image and then click the tiny weeny link on the bottom left to enlarge the image.

Well, all seems to be above board and my suspicions unfounded. I can rest easy now.

LESBIAN TRAPPED IN A STRAIGHT MAN’S BODY

2011-09-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: perfect example, that bloke from The Cars)

A lesbian trapped in a straight man’s body. Not really a problem. Unless you fall in love with a lesbian.

CRAP MAN'S TRIBUTE TO MATHS

2011-09-11T17:18:00.000-07:00

From little Jimmy to old man Crabtree, everyone loves maths. Here is Crap Man's take on the subject. To read the story click the link under the image, just like the great hero commands.

LINK: CRAP MAN ISSUED 22

AUNTY FUGGER: MORE PROBLEMS SHARED

2011-09-07T18:35:00.000-07:00

In these difficult times, when people are finding difficulties difficult, AUNTY FUGGER likes to lend an ear and give some advice to the troubled readers of this blog. Let’s face it, if you’re a regular visitor to this blog you probably are very troubled indeed.

Here are a couple of examples of what I’m talking about:

Dear Aunty Fugger,

I fear everything. I fear floors, ceilings, furniture, windows and doors. I fear being inside and I fear being outside. I fear all animals, vegetation, minerals and synthetics, not to mention the sky, the earth and water.
I risk starving to death as I fear food but the thought of dying scares me so much I often eat (an activity that terrifies me) and get something into my stomach (an internal organ which I also fear).
My stomach isn’t the only part of myself that bothers me. I also fear each of my limbs, my hands and feet (and the toes and fingers found upon them) my torso, my head and my toilet bits (the fact I refer to my toilet bits as ‘toilet bits’ is somewhat telling I feel and that too is a scary feeling). The sight of my reflection petrifies me, as does the general idea of ‘me’. My past, my future, my present, my wisdom, my stupidity, my greed and occasional generosity all make my hair stand on end.
I could go into more detail but expressing myself causes me extreme fearfulness as does holding a pen and leaving ink upon paper.

Please say you’ll help me?

Yours, Fearful.

Dear Fearful,

Sounds to me like you only fear one thing, and that one thing is fear itself. This, like most anxiety, is irrational. I suggest you stop being such a pussy and sign up to do some voluntary relief work in the Congolese east (see image above). Then you’ll see what real fear is.

Dear Aunty Fugger,

I keep having a dream where I go into labour and give birth to a cash register. Everyone in the dream is really pleased for me but when I place my nipple in the till so the register can suckle I am suddenly struck by this horrible empty feeling.

What does this all mean?

J-Lo, (formerly of the block)

Dear J-Lo,

It means that somewhere deep within your shrink-wrapped soul you realize that all your hard work (jumping around in your undergarments singing about keepin’ it real) was a waste of time and that, despite being enormously wealthy, your life is entirely worthless. Buy a new coat or something. That should cheer you up.

Dear Aunty Fugger,

From a young age I planned my future to perfection, the result being that pretty much everything has worked out for me and I have no real problems.
My life just trundles along in a contented but very very monotonous way, so monotonous in fact that my lack of problems has itself become a problem.

Any ideas?

Yours, Mr. Perfect.

Dear Mr. Perfect,

Overcoming challenges is what largely defines us as human beings. Set yourself challenge: get a jigsaw, a big one.

Well that’s those readers sorted. If you have a problem why not post it as a reply and I’ll see what I can do for you too.

Now fuck off, I’m busy.

GLYNDWR MICHAEL PULLED HIS SOCKS UP!

2011-09-04T14:52:00.001-07:00

People are always moaning about their lot. ‘Oh, my arm’s been sore all week’, they whinge to their boss. ‘Oh, my mummy never hugged me’, they sob to their analyst. These people make me sick. I don’t care how tough you have it; there is always someone worse off than you out there. Someone worse off with their sleeves rolled up trying to do something about their situation. Take Glyndwr Michael.

Glyndwr’s dad cut his own throat after becoming unemployed and the barely literate 15 year old Glyndwr had to sign the death cert. This formative experience cast a terrible shadow over Glyndwr causing him to become depressed and eventually homeless. In January 1943, deciding his dad was right and that life was indeed a load of bollocks, Glyndwr drank a bottle of rat poison and died in an old warehouse in London’s King’s Cross.

So there we have Glyndwr, after a life of misery, lying dead in an empty building. It doesn’t get much worse does it? But did Glyndwr let that hold him back? Hell no! Glyndwr got up off his rear end and did his bit for Queen and country. Posing as a drowned British intelligence operative, Glyndwr had his body dumped off the coast of Spain. Knowing he’d end up in the hands of the Nazis, Glyndwr cunningly had forged documents placed upon his person. These documents gave Mr. Hitler and his chums the impression that the Allies were planning to attack via Greece so off they went, leaving Sicily unprotected. The Allies took Sicily without much bother in August 1943 and the knock on effect was a disorganised Nazi push that eventually led to defeat for Germany. PWNED! And all thanks to Glyndwr’s can do attitude!

Glyndwr Michael took a look at his life, saw a dead misery-guts of a fella and decided to pull his socks up and regain some bloody dignity! So, think about Glyndwr Michael next time you’re considering staying in bed all day just because you overheard someone you fancy at work say that you look like a Cro-Magnon savage.

NATIONALISM

2011-08-31T14:22:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: The national flag of Insania)

Nationalism is great isn’t it? I think it is anyway. It’s cute. You have a bit of a fight and win your land and give it a little name like something-land or something-ania or just something. You make a little flag with a picture on it or maybe just a few colours or maybe a barcode and you put it up a pole and salute it in your little military outfits with the buttons all polished and you invent a little march you can do and blow a trumpet and sing a little song about your nation with little words about how great everything is and how good you are at fighting and how God likes you the best and all that. It really is very sweet the whole nationalism thing and practical too.

The practical element is the morale boosting that nationalism provides. I mean, if you didn’t have nationalism how could you muster the will to go off killing wogs just because they threaten your sweet deal on hot water bottle imports? (Oh dear, I’ve just realised I typed ‘wogs’ out loud. Please forgive me. I’m not racist or anything, it’s just the nationalist fervour.) If you didn’t have nationalism you might find yourself on a battlefield wondering just what the Hell you’re doing ramming a bayonet into a complete stranger. Where would your hot water bottle imports be then? I’ll tell you where, at the mercy of Wogland that’s where! The wogs would be exporting hot water bottles to you for top dollar and using the money to buy bayonets so they can stick them into you.

Of course, seeing as there would be a demand, you could always start making bayonets and selling them to the wogs. This might actually start good trade relations. Some important wog nation dignitaries might visit your nation and exchange gifts with your nation’s dignitaries, little tokens like a tasty cabbage or a fancy ornament or a fancy ornament of a tasty cabbage. And the wog nation’s dignitaries could stay for a few days and go see a few important statues or something and it would be on the telly and then the wog nation’s dignitaries would invite your nation’s dignitaries to Wogland and you’d be glad because the wog nation’s dignitaries liked your nation’s dignitaries.

National dignitaries are so called because they are dignified enough to represent their nations, unlike the rest of you. You’re not dignified like national dignitaries at all. You’re just normal undignitaries, shuffling around the place, blowing your noses and stuffing used tissues into pockets filled with old bus tickets. Jesus, when I think of it, the state of you. Really! All you’re good for is getting bayonets stuck into you. At least that way you’re doing your nation some service. Going forward.

HELSINKI

2011-08-28T16:28:00.000-07:00

All the clocks in my house are set to different times. None are set to your time. They are set to different time zones. I have a few that have completely stopped. When people ask about the stopped clocks I tell them the clocks are set to Helsinki time. When people point out that the clocks are all stopped at different times I just laugh and say ‘that’s Helsinki for you’.

There’s a strange smell in my house. Actually, there is no smell. No smell at all. That’s what’s so strange about it. You probably think you wouldn’t notice the lack of a smell but you do. It’s like when fridge buzz stops and you’re suddenly aware of the silence. When you walk through my door you are suddenly aware of the lack of smell. People say to me ‘hey, why doesn’t it smell in here?’ and I answer ‘maybe no one farted’ and give a little laugh.

People get a bit freaked out at my house. There are no pictures on the walls. I have no curtains or blinds or light shades or even lights. When I have guests and the sun goes down I’m usually asked to turn on a light or at least get a torch or a candle. I refuse. I tell my guests we’re better off in the dark. ‘You don’t want to see what’s in here with us’ I say. They ask me what I mean. I tell them they know exactly what I mean. They say they don’t and get worked up and demand to know what’s in the room with us. ‘Each other’, I tell them. ‘Isn’t that bad enough?’ I ask.

I keep this huge owl in my bathroom. He’s kind of the boss in there.

There’s a room upstairs in my house that people sometimes wander into by accident while looking for the bathroom. There’s a trampoline in this room and a really skinny lady is bouncing on it and weeping. ‘I’m so hungry’, she pleads. Visitors tell her to come down off the trampoline and get something to eat. I tell them that there’s no use trying to reason with her. ‘That’s my wife’, I explain, ‘she’s addicted to the endorphins released by the bouncing. She’s like a crack addict. She can’t stop. I’ll throw her a sandwich later. She can eat it while she jumps.’

I have an office in my house. I’ve got a lot of files in there. People wonder what’s in the files. I tell them that files are in the files. Then they ask what are in the files in the files and I tell them more files. This usually goes on for a while until they discover that there are a never ending amount of files within files and that the office stores infinity. The files have names on them, ‘MacCruiskeen’, ‘Pluck’, and so on. ‘Why do the files have names on them?’ I’m asked. ‘Why does anything have a name?’ I ask back. I’m pretentious that way.

My house has no garden but I mow the lawn daily. Just to be on the safe side.

As you enter my house, you see a huge electrical pylon to the west. When you leave it’s to the east. Everyone notices this. No one mentions it. It makes me laugh.

People tend not to stay too long when they come over to my house. They grow tired of my cryptic pronouncements. The constant squeaking of trampoline springs plays upon their nerves. They can’t piss with the owl staring at them. They usually end up bumping into something when it’s dark. Even when it’s daylight, the strange architecture of the place makes them uneasy, spatially discombobulated and a little dizzy.

People don’t stay long and rarely visit but that’s OK with me. I’ve got things to do. I’ve got clocks to unset and owl shit to clean up. I’ve got to make a sandwich for the wife and sort through infinity by name. Don’t let that put you off though. I mean, it would be OK if you wanted to pop around for a cup of something. You’ll take the cup and put it to your lips. Then you’ll spit the contents out in disgust and say ‘what the hell was that?’ I’ll just laugh and shrug and answer ‘something’.

Why not come around on Wednesday? I’ll be pretending that it’s Tuesday. It’s always Tuesday in Helsinki.

NATIONAL TRANSITIONAL COUNCIL APPPOINTMENT BUREAU TM.

2011-08-23T18:13:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: pick a loony, any loony)

I’m setting up a national transitional council appointment bureau. ‘What’s a national transitional council appointment bureau Mr. Fugger?’ I hear you ask. Well, what we do is go around the world filling political vacuums by appointing candidates from the area to govern. So, imagine for example, some despot loses the run of himself and his subjects are forced to shoot him in the head, what happens then is that we come along and find the right people to replace the despot before things get out of control sans leadership and the place goes nuts and people start looting Foot Locker and the like. My national transitional council appointment bureau is called The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau (registered trademark, in association with Foot Locker).

‘But how do you know who is right for the job Mr. Fugger? Ruling a country is a lot of responsibility’, I hear you pitifully bleat. Well, with the assistance of Google, Wikipedia, a few old copies of The Wall Street Journal and Folens Geography for the Leaving Certificate (1997) we familiarise ourselves with the layout, economy, and customs of the area in question. Once we feel we have the measure of the place, we select various candidates from positions of responsibility (such as bankers, business people, and military types) to take up the reins.

The main thing is to find out who the masses would like to lead them and then select individuals who might sort of resemble that type of person (kind of, in a way) but who would also be unlikely to cause any hassle for the more organised nations of the world and business ventures therein going forward. We don’t want loonies or upstarts. No one wants loonies or upstarts. However, we might appoint the odd loony depending on what kind of loony he or she (but more likely ‘he’) is. Some loonies are quite sane when looked at from a different perspective and we in The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau TM (in association with Foot Locker) are all about perspective.

In short: It is the mission of The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau TM (in association with Foot Locker) to provide leaderless nations with the appropriate knowledge and related BAE Systems products to properly fulfil their needs and set them squarely on the world stage as they embark on their newly won springtime of freedom, ...and all at a reasonable price (national assets being the preferred form of payment going forward). Our friendly, knowledgeable and professional staff will inspire, educate and problem-solve for our customers whether said customers like it or not.

. . .OK, look, it doesn’t always work out. We usually make a right shit of this sort of thing to be honest but we try our hardest and that’s what counts isn’t it? Well, that and the pay and we always make sure we get paid. IN FULL!

BTW: Snickers is the official between meal treat of The National Transitional Council Appointment Bureau TM (in association with Foot Locker). Why not try the new Snickers peanut butter or almond bars? Mmm, chocolate just got better!

FACTORY

2011-08-20T22:51:00.000-07:00

I opened a factory once. It didn’t make anything but people invested in it because they speculated that one day it would make something. They thought it was good factory, with its big conveyer belts and large delivery depot and all of that. The investors thought whatever the factory ended up making would be well made so they bought shares.

After a while, the investors noticed that the factory wasn’t making anything and they panicked and started to sell their shares so I sent out a press release saying that the factory was about to start making something and that it would be great. After the word went out, people started investing in the factory again. The press release got the factory over a difficult bump in the road but the factory never made anything. I wasn’t really interested in that side of the business.

I’m sure you saw my factory. It was on the road to your cousin’s house. Do you remember? It was in the big muddy field. Like a giant tombstone. It had a word written on it. Emblazoned across it. But you can’t remember what the word was. Neither can I to be honest. It was probably a word like ‘Paradigm’ or ‘Optimum’ or ‘Ventron’ (whatever that means). Or maybe it was the name of something from Greek or Norse mythology. Or maybe nothing was written on it or maybe the actual word ‘Nothing’ was written on it. Or maybe there was just a symbol on it, like an astrological thing or maybe a big question mark. Who knows?

Anyway, I eventually sold the factory to someone who sold it someone else who burned it down for the insurance money so there is nothing in that big muddy field anymore except for a strange smell, like melted plastic. But you won’t smell it because you won’t be passing that way. You don’t visit your cousin anymore and haven’t for a long long time. Not since your cousin got drunk and made that cruel observation about you that hurt because it was true or at least kind of true. You rang a taxi from the house and left on polite terms but you both knew you’d never see each other again. You didn’t say a word to the driver the whole way home. You just looked out the window. Lost in your thoughts. You passed my factory. It didn’t even register.

We are an industrious species. The human capacity for invention is limitless as is the human imagination. Even where there is nothing we see something. Well, some of us do. Some of us see opportunity where others just see a big muddy field with an empty factory in it with something written on the factory but it’s hard to say for certain what exactly it says and it doesn’t matter anyway because the factory is on fire.

CHANGE PLEASE

2011-08-16T14:23:00.000-07:00

This lad in dirty clothes came up to me and said ‘change please’. Well, I think I’m a nice enough fella, relatively successful and hard working, so I said to the guy: ‘Why should I change? By the looks of things, it’s you that needs to change. Look at you! You’re a holy show. A Holy bloody Show! I mean, take a bath for a start why don’t you? Bill Cullen didn’t get where he is today. . .’

The lad just walked away. He just walked off before I was even finished talking to him. Bit rude I thought so I went home and started a thread on politics.ie about how the homeless should be sterilised.

I can still see him now, in my mind’s eye, on the road, wandering up and down: ‘change please, change please, please, please, change, change, change please, please, change, please, please change, PLEASE CHANGE!’

ARMS TRADING

2011-08-14T12:01:00.001-07:00

(pictured above: Fugger Lump Hammers celebrity endorsement, 'If A Job’s Worth Doing. . .')

I’ve recently gotten involved in the arms trade. Let’s face it, people are always going to fight and if I don’t sell them weapons someone else will so it may as well be me. Now I realise I can’t compete with the like of BAE Systems or anything so I’m not exactly selling self-propelled artillery to developing nations or any of that. No. I’m much more small scale. I sell things like knuckle dusters and slash hooks to warring Traveller clans.

I don’t feel bad about it. If the warring parties didn’t use my weapons they’d just be bashing each other’s heads in with rocks or something. At least this way someone (i.e. me) gets to profit and jobs are created and, in these difficult times, that’s good for the economy as a whole.

There were journos complaining about me in the local papers though. They were going on about some kid who got shot full of pellets as she crossed a halting site and lost an eye and blah blah blah. They traced the pellets back to my company and started filling their pages with fuzzy pictures of me looking sinister, getting in and out of cars and going to the shops with my hood up.

I realised I had to put a stop to all this bad press so a subsidiary company I own (one that sells lump hammers) bought a significant amount of advertising space in their rags. They don’t like to bite the hand that feeds, the old hacks. Then I sent out a press release saying I’d donated some money to a traveller resource centre. In truth, none of the resource centres would take my money so I had to set up my own. No one used my resource centre and it didn’t even strictly exist but it’s the thought that counts. Anyway, next thing I knew, the papers were portraying me as a ‘philanthropic lump hammer entrepreneur’ and said my resource centre would ‘herald a new spring for the Traveller community’. They didn’t even mention the weapons side of the business. Nice one.

The Internet is a bit harder to control though. Bloody activists were all over it calling me a hypocrite because I make donations with one hand whilst profiting from misery with the other. Well, I hired a PR company to flood the forums with the following counter-argument: These people are going to kill each other anyway and at least some of the profits made from arming them goes toward their resource centre. When people argued back, the PR people pulled a masterstroke. They started referring to those who opposed the arms sales as ‘anti-resource centre’. I thought that was bloody genius. That PR company was money well spent.

Do you need anything yourself? How about a lump hammer? They get the job done. They’re duel purpose actually.

AH, THE WORLD’S GONE MAD!

2011-08-10T18:46:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: troublesome British youths. I’m not racist or anything but note the black)

See those riots in England? I blame the parents. You can imagine them can’t you? Cheap jewellery and tracksuits. The type that keep telling passers by to ‘jog on’. They’re too lazy to leave the house and go earn a wage so they send their kids out to loot places like MFI and Debenhams. ‘Bring us back some perfume and a Blue Ray DVD player and some loo roll and a Walls Viennetta and a packet of fags’, they tell the kids and off the kids go. I reckon the police should climb on the roofs of their houses and put snakes down the chimney. I’m serious. All kinds of snakes: rattlers, cobras and even massive things like boa constrictors. Then, when the parents come running from the house because of what’s slithering out the fireplace, the cops on the roof should drop anvils on their heads. Yeah! You read it right! Anvils! Like you see in the cartoons. Right on their heads. That’ll sort the parents out. That’ll stop them moaning about the ‘yoof centre’ being shut down.

I put that on politics.ie earlier today. The lads agreed with me. Then we started talking about unemployed people in general. KingsInns666 said they should be made sign on the sex offender register to get their dole. The shame would act as an incentive to find work. Not a bad idea that.

And there was another interesting thread on there started by StraightTalkinIreland (a very astute poster IMO). It was about the blacks setting off Chinese lanterns on the Luas. Did you hear about that? They do it for the laugh like. FOR THE LAUGH! I’m not being racist or anything but they probably get a Chinese lantern allowance from the state. Paid for with OUR TAXES!!!

Ah, sure what’s the point going on about it? No one’s listening anyway. No one listens to common sense anymore. The world’s gone mad.

A-TYPICAL SYNDROME

2011-08-07T16:47:00.001-07:00

A concerned mother brought her child to see me. I diagnosed the child as suffering from A-Typical Syndrome. I prescribed Humzadrone to regulate the symptoms: refusal to go to bed, demanding ice-cream, not taking an interest in school, excessive displays of imagination. I have shares in the company that produces Humzadrone and these shares are performing well. That to me means the drug is popular and if a drug is popular it is popular because it works. I also golf with a director from the company and, despite his fondness for cocaine and inability to talk about anything but himself, he seems a straightforward type of chap who wouldn’t muck people about. That’s my opinion anyway. My professional opinion.

Humzadrone suppresses the causes of A-Typical Syndrome but sadly it has a side effect, listlessness. To counter this I prescribed Zibotrex to the child. Unfortunately Zibotrex has its own side effect, facial ticks. To prevent the facial ticks I prescribed Lugnoxathol which unfortunately causes paranoia so to make sure that didn’t take hold, I prescribed Gaxadril but that causes blurry vision so to make sure the kid’s eyesight wasn’t effected, I prescribed Nanodrexodonk which causes migraines so to prevent the migraines I prescribed Condrox which has the side effect of seizures so to prevent that possibility I prescribed Poxodine which has been known to cause dysentery so to nip that in the bud I prescribed Qwackzadrex which brings with it the side effect of A-Typical Syndrome, but the kid had that anyway so it doesn’t matter.

All of the drugs mentioned above are manufactured by the company mentioned above that has the coke snorting director mentioned above. These drugs must be good because the company’s share prices remain up as does my mood. I don’t need any drugs to make me feel chipper. All I have to do is check my investment portfolio.

Anyway, there’s a four ball planned for Thursday afternoon. I think I’ll tell Daphne (34-26-34) to cancel my appointments and close up early. The kids will still be sick the following morning and I can make them better then.

Oh, and here’s a lovely children’s story you can tell your kids before you bring them out my way for a top quality dosage:

Brandon and the Bipolar Bear (Narrated Storybook) from BPChildren on Vimeo.

BY WAY OF DECEPTION, THOU SHALT DO WAR

2011-08-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

I’ll never forget my childhood days as a member of the Junior Mossad Intelligence Collection Club. All you had to do was fill out the form in Warlord comic and send it off. Then you’d be sent some little exercises, to prove your worth. You’d be asked to pick a pal, any pal, and turn the rest of your friends against him. I picked Jimmy. Jimmy put me in a headlock for about fifteen minutes once so he had it coming. I nicked my pal Tom’s football and put it under a bush in Jimmy’s garden. Then, two days later, I proposed we build a tree house in Jimmy’s garden and Tom saw his ball there and, hey presto, Jimmy was branded a thief and had no one to play with for the rest of the summer. I was avenged and, when I sent the details off to Israel, Mossad were impressed.

Then Mossad requested I try something more ambitious and add an extra lair to my machinations. So I told my mate Hughie that Tom had confided in me that he suspected Hughie of stealing the ball before it turned up in Jimmy’s garden. ‘And he said you were a right faggot too’, I added for good measure. Furious, Hughie immediately went down to Tom’s house and gave him a very nasty Chinese burn, not to mention the most vicious wedgie I have ever seen.

My friends were completely divided. I was the only one who remained pals with everyone. I spent the rest of the summer calling around to their respective houses telling them things the others were saying about them and sometimes even arranging fights. All this time, they all thought I was a great pal. Mossad thought I was a great little fella too.

Mossad loved me and started sending me lists of specific targets. There was a family of Pro-Palestinian activists around my way and I was given the mission of going out late at night and smearing dog crap on their car door handles with a stick. The family would be up for the school run in the morning and, well, enough said.

Oh there was fantastic mischief to be had. I grew out of it eventually and got into the PR industry. I hear The Junior Mossad Intelligence Collection Club is still going and kids are still signing up. It’s all INTERNET HIGH JINKS these days: publicising incriminating information on undesirables and then saying other undesirables gave you the information as part of a dirty tricks campaign, thereby hitting two birds with one stone. Ingenious lark. I couldn’t keep up with the kids these days. They’ve a bright future ahead of them I’ll tell you that.

Tin foil hats ahoy!!!

NEW DAVID NORRIS CAMPAIGN MANAGER and NEW CRAP MAN

2011-07-31T08:37:00.001-07:00

Ah Jaysus Davey, what are you thinking? This isn't looking good at all at all.

In Other News: Exciting New Crap mAn storied for readings. Click the link belowed:
CRAP MAN ISSUED 21!!!!!!

THAT’S THE LAST TIME I EAT YOUR PIE (or A Mad Nightmare With You In It)

2011-07-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: Lionel Stander, he’s in this one)

You know the way birds eat worms? And do you know the way birds eat tiny little pebbles and so on as a kind of roughage to help break down and digest those worms? Well, they do. Now, did you know that if you, yourself, eat worms and tiny pebbles and then go to sleep you have bird dreams? It’s true. You have the dreams birds have. It’s all flying about and crapping on car windscreens. The same trick applies to any creature. If you eat a can of Pedigree Chum you dream the dreams of dogs.

I think this phenomenon might explain what happened in the last post when I thought I was dreaming a dream with you in it but it turned out to be you dreaming a dream with me in it. Do you remember that big pie you baked and left to cool on the windowsill and the way it vanished and then you blamed the local foxes? Well, it wasn’t the foxes, it was me. I pinched your pie and ate it and ever since I’ve been having your dreams and, to be honest, I really want them to stop.

I mean, take the one you keep having about the last days of Joseph and Magda Goebbels? Christ on a bike, what’s up with that? You know the one I mean. The one where Joseph and Magda Goebbels are played by giant 12 foot versions of Earnest Borgnine (him-AGAIN!) and Lionel Stander (who is dressed as Magda) and me and you and four friends of yours are their children, but adult sized and all dressed up in white nighties, and Earnest and Lionel are administering us with cyanide/morphine cocktails in mugs of warm milk and telling us to sleep and singing us German lullabies and gently stroking our hair. Fuckin Hell! What kind of person has a dream like that? What kind of person are you? It’s incredibly disturbing, us lying in our little cots and you looking at me and saying ‘don’t worry Hedwig soon we will be in Valhalla’.

What really bothers me about the dream though is where it goes from there. The bit where we die and they lay us in these weird little glass fronted coffins and put us on conveyer belts and we trundle off to some assembly line where blue and pink bows are attached to our caskets and then we’re loaded into the back of a van and delivered to a white supremacist version of Hamley’s where our corpses are sold as ‘Last Days in the Bunker’ commemorative dolls. . . Goodness be to Jaysus in Christ (as my own mother is fond of exclaiming) what can you say about that? Your subconscious should be ashamed of itself. I don’t think I’ll be able to look you in the eye next time we run into each other in Aldi or wherever. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch Hart to Hart the same way again either. Whenever Max picks up Freeway I’ll be worried he’s going to give the poor mutt a mercy killing and sell its dead body to a toyshop. You really want to get your head checked out. Or watch what you’re eating before you go bed. Perhaps you’ve been eating someone else’s supper and have been having their dreams and passing them on to me as part of some kind of psychic daisy chain. If that’s the case, I’d keep an eye on whoever it is whose supper you ate. They’re not right in the head. I hope it’s not someone you’re living with. Lock the doors if it is. Lock the doors.

That’s the last time I eat your pie and no mistake. And what is it with the gargoyleish yank character actors??? Holey fuckin’ Moley you’re strange one. OK, OK, we’ll leave it at that. I’ll say no more about it.

A MAD DREAM WITH YOU IN IT

2011-07-24T14:11:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: Earnest Borgnine, he was in the dream too)

I had a mad dream last night and you were in it. You. Yes you. We were in a small aircraft and you were the pilot and you were dressed up like a Chinaman for some reason, kind of like Fu Manchu or something with a fake droopy moustache, and you said, ‘it’s time to land’ and put us into a tailspin and we crashed in a forest but we were OK and got out of the aircraft and saw the house you grew up in in the middle of the forest and you said ‘it must be Christmas’ and then your mam came out to meet us but it was Earnest Borgnine dressed up as your mam with an apron on and he was acting weird and freaking me out a bit so I said I wanted to go home and Earnest/your mam said we’d have to use the raft.

Then we were in the raft going down the river Liffy and we saw plastic cider bottles floating by with tiny people inside them like submarine crews or the staff members of a strange hospital or something and they waved at us and then the river led out into an Amazonian expanse and shafts of dim golden sunlight spilled down on us from gaps in the lush vegetation above us and birds swooped silently in the dusky sky above the lush vegetation and there was this music in the air. . .

And you looked quite lovely in the Fu Manchu gear so I placed an arm around your waist but you wriggled out of my embrace and smiled at me and it was a sweet rejection and I thought you were right because the moment was perfect and didn’t need anything else and then we arrived at Bewley’s café and you were old and so was I and you wore a cardigan and a large Celtic broach and you were called Agnes and it was the late seventies and we went into Bewley’s and you had sausages, beans and chips and a pot of tea and when you were finished you sat back and lit up a cigarette because you could smoke in cafes back then and then you said we better get back because The Bionic Woman would be starting soon and I asked you if The Bionic Woman was a euphemism for sex and you just looked away and shook your head slightly and I knew you were right because the moment was perfect and didn’t need anything else and then I realised that I was growing tired of all these perfect moments and then we went and bought a pack of Fox’s Glacier Mints and shared them on the bus home and then I woke up in a stranger’s garden and a dog was barking and it was drizzling rain and a bewildered child was staring at me and I was very hung-over and asked the child for a glass of water and she screamed and then I woke up again and I was lying on a beach and I heard a buzzing and opened my eyes and they went cock-eyed because there was a huge wasp on my nose and I hissed at it to go away but it didn’t and the sun went down and came up again and went down again and came up again loads of times because days were passing and I knew winter would soon be here and the wasp would die and fall off my nose and I’d be free to go looking for you again.

Then I did wake up, I woke up properly, and I wasn’t even me, I was you and it was your dream and I was just in it and, you know, I reckon you’re a bit weird to be honest.

Ooo Kah

2011-07-20T14:30:00.001-07:00

. . .Ooo

. . .KAH!

THE TWO WORD LANGUAGE

2011-07-17T14:29:00.001-07:00

(pictured above: Iago-good with words)

Language has gotten out of hand. The main purpose of vocabulary and grammar is to manipulate and deceive, to give the irrational the pretence of rationality, to justify questionable actions with verbose exorcisms of cognitive dissonance and to propagate ideologies and dogmas that justify the persecution of others. It’s all just spin. Language has become a nasty thing and it’s time it was reined in.

That is why I propose The Two Word Language, an international language that has only two words. One word is ‘Ooo’ and the other word is ‘Kah’. Ooo means ‘nice’, ‘like’ or ‘love’. You might say Ooo when contemplating a big bowl of custard or while getting your ears nibbled. Kah means ‘horrible’, ‘dislike’ or ‘hate’. You might say Kah when contemplating a big bowl of shite or while getting your ears nibbled by the parish priest. So, that’s it, now you can speak The Two Word Language. Two words. That is all. Ooo and Kah.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking a two word language will retard our progress as a species. You’re wrong. We will use diagrams to share complex instructions and therefore still be able to build machines and bake cakes etc. We don’t really need language for all that. ‘But Mr. Fugger, what about great works of literature and drama?’ I hear you plea. ‘Fuck em!’ is my response. What did great works of literature and drama ever give us? A heap of ‘to be or not to be’ angst and not much else. Forget all that stuff. That’s all part of the problem. Ooo and Kah are all we need. Them and the diagrams.

We may have to forget about literature and drama but we’ll still have music and images (but not films-the dialectic grammar of films is too emotive and propagandistic). We’ll even still have certain types of literature in the form of poems (but not the epic kind). Yes, there will still be poems. A love poem would go:

Ooo Ooo Ooo
Ooo
Ooo Ooo
Ooo Ooo Ooo
Ooo
Ooo Ooo

. . .and an anti-war poem or something would go:

Kah Kah
Kah Kah Kah
Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah Kah

The Two Word Language isn’t that limited at all really. Some intonation or volume variables in the annunciation of ‘Ooo’ and ‘Kah’ are also permitted, so as to express gradations in feeling (muttering Kah would not mean the same thing as roaring the word for example) or conveying uncertainty (saying Ooo with a questioning inflection at the end of the word). Actually, maybe we’ll have one more word. A phonetic word that means ‘OK’ or ‘whatever’. This word will be ‘Meh’. We already use it. You’re probably saying it to yourself right now.

So that’s it. Ooo, Kah and Meh. They are the only words we need. Anything more is just guff. We are fundamentally about likes and dislikes and that is all we need to express. We don’t have to explain ourselves to anybody, even if we did we’d just make up some bullshit anyway and others would probably only hear what they expected to hear. Language is so much wasted time. We just need to know if each other are happy or sad, pleased or displeased, and then we can get on with things. Ooo, Kah and Meh are all we need from now on. Yes, from now on, because I think we should get started right away. There’s no time like the present. THERE. IS. NO. TIME. LIKE. THE. PRESENT. That’s another good thing about The Two Word Language, it’ll stop us dragging up the past and disagreeing about the future. We’ll be forever in the present and the present is the only time that matters. The Two Word Language is a Zen tongue.

Don’t forget to return to Fugger later this week to see my next post. It should be easy enough to follow. Come to think of it, tagging posts is going to be a lot less hassle from now on too. OK, these are the last words I ever type in the old language. It’s all Ooos and Kahs from here on in. Ooo Ooo Ooo.

THE SPACES BETWEEN PLACES

2011-07-10T14:54:00.000-07:00

The spaces between places are where Fugger can be found on his psycho-geographic ramblings. Disused tram tracks, derelict train tracks, the grass verges by motorway lay-bys. Strange places that evoke that unnamed emotion, the one like melancholia but not sad. The one that probably remains unnamed in case people seek it out. An emotion that is obviously contrary to the compulsory hustle and bustle of life and ‘progress’.

Strange things can be found in the dappled light of spaces between places. Various existential anachronisms. Ignored ghosts. Clues to mysteries no one could be bothered solving. A baby’s shoe. A dropped choc-ice. Fox shite. A tattered holiday brochure. A lost polling card. A snorkel mask with a snapped strap. A broken badminton racket. The skeleton of a red setter that died with distemper. A taxi driver’s moustache. The tears of apprehended shop lifters. The regretful sighs of spinsters. The malign intentions of middle-aged teen-disco attendees. The bassist from Adam and the Ants. A mechanical drawing clip. A lost film clip. A paper clip. A hair clip. A harelip. A finger tip. An uneaten chip.

Have you ever noticed how maps look like nervous systems? Dendritic. Initially incomprehensible but, on close scrutiny, revealing of essential information. The spaces between places are on these maps too, just as they offshoot our nervous systems. They are not extraneous. They reveal the greatest secrets of all. These places are imbued with a strange magic, the Urban Arcane. The discarded objects found in the spaces between places can be flung into a cauldron and boiled. When you drink the concoction you gain the power to kill a man just by pointing at him. Yeah. I can do it. I haven’t yet. But I might.

CUP AND BALL TRICK

2011-07-06T18:04:00.000-07:00

International high finance is like that trick where you have to guess which cup the ball is under only there are about three million cups and even the crap magician performing the trick doesn’t know which cup the ball is under but he refuses to admit it. Can you see it in your mind’s eye? You watch the magician as he begins to perspire. He shoots you the odd nervous smile as he peeks under cups, forgetting which ones he has already checked as the search goes on. It’s a pitiful sight. The crowd become uncomfortable.

The only difference between international high finance and such a flawed cup and ball trick is that when the cup and ball trick goes wrong it doesn’t result in global instability the likes of which have not been seen since the last world war.

If the consequences of such a trick going wrong were so monumental, surely we’d have shot the magician by now.

FUGGER’S NEW PLAY

2011-07-04T19:26:00.001-07:00

I’ve written a new play. It’s a kind of Beckett meets Friel thing except every word of dialogue in it is a preposition. I needed a gimmick. Everyone loves a gimmick these days. Just telling a story or something, that’s a bit ‘meh’. Anyway, here’s an extract from my new play Until But Despite:

MAURA does the dishes, looking fatigued.

MAURA (wistfully):
After beneath at around beside, onto during except. From inside, since above into beyond.

FATHER O’GORMAN is seated behind Maura, eating a slice of brack.

FATHER O’GORMAN:
Like after near above off into of outside over past.

MAURA angrily turns to face Father O’Gorman.

MAURA:
After along during beside, ‘till toward underneath. Since out throughout! Since out throughout!

FATHER O’GORMAN stands and takes Maura’s shoulders roughly.

FATHER O’GORMAN:
Without like of past, among of upon, but down before of like inside. Toward! Toward!

MAURA shakes herself free of the priest.

MAURA:
Around by after across between except for during. Except for during? Over during! Over during into amongst beneath but against.

FATHER O’GORMAN falls weeping to his knees.

FATHER O’GORMAN:
Within inside toward but out of between, like near past outside over past. At behind! At beneath! At beyond in about of among in AROUND! In AROUND! In AROUND! . . .until, . . .until, . . .until but despite.

MAURA looks down at the priest in disgust. She tosses aside her dishcloth and exits the scene. FATHER O’GORMAN curls into a ball and rocks to and fro.

FATHER O’GORMAN:
. . .until but despite. . . .until but despite . . .until but despite.

End of extract.

What do you think? Powerful stuff eh? I’m really looking forward to everyone pretending to enjoy it when it premiers at the next Dublin Theatre Festival.
IN OTHER NEWS: Click the link to the RDC blog and see myself and an old pal being a bit xenophobic: LINK-KRAZY KRAUTS!

FAREWELL THEN RUPERT McCLOUD

2011-07-02T06:58:00.000-07:00

A controversial character, a contrarian, a ceaseless conversationalist. A possessor of one green eye and one blue eye . . .but no ears. Author of a series of dense novels charting the lives of 18th century whalers off the coast of Nantucket that won him the accolade of being the Herman Meliville of the feline world. A prolific shedder of white fur. The reason why I ended up in a physical confrontation with a bus driver after he escaped his box in transit.

Farewell Rupert McCloud, my cat, who passed away peacefully at his coastal retreat this morning. You will be sorely missed. The following song is a tribute to Mr. McCloud, who actually provided the sax solo that kicks in around halfway through.

Goodbye mate.

LITTLE SPACE MEN

2011-06-28T16:59:00.001-07:00

Little space men took me away in their U.F.O. last night. No anal probing. Slightly disappointed.

SOMETHING DOTCOM

2011-06-26T14:16:00.000-07:00

I recently met a young lad with a trimmed beard and glasses, like some geography teacher in late middle-age, but his head was topped with an elaborate quiff. As if that wasn’t juxtaposed enough, he was also dressed like a DayGlow male prostitute circa 1987. He had this hairy belly button that kept peeking out the bottom of his tight t-shirt, which I found a tad disconcerting. A strange kind of mishmash of a fella I thought.

He told me he saw the blog I do but logged off immediately because the fonts I use offend him. I told him a lot of people were offended by Fugger but that reason was a first. I laughed. He didn’t. He told me about his blog. It’s a collection of vidcaps from Pacman with quotes from the Koran written underneath. ‘It won an award’, he said. Then he told me he was part of an arts media collective and that they were running an Ideas Boutique in an unused warehouse his girlfriend’s dad failed to get Namaed. ‘It’s a good space,’ he said ‘you should come down. The coffee’s great and we’re having an odd sock day on Saturday. Everyone’s going to be wearing odd socks. It’s going to be hilarious.’ I realised we didn’t share a sense of humour.

He was sitting on a fixie. It’s a type of bike. He told me that he didn’t ‘fixie’ it up himself. He spent a lot of cash on it. An awful lot of cash. He said his friends mocked him about this until he explained that it was an ironic gesture. ‘Yeah,’ he said, betraying a trace of genuine passion for the first time in the conversation, ‘it’s an ironic 70’s ten-speed Cinelli. An ironic beauty. Ironically stripped of gears, cables, shifters and brakes. It feels good. It moves fast. Battles on the iPod, urging me on, making me feel I’ve got it sooooo right.’ I thought I saw a tear in his eye as he said all that but then he looked down and seemed to pull himself together. When he looked back up and resumed gazing at me, I could only describe his expression as wanna-be Aspergers.

A lull came into the conversation but neither of us seized the opportunity to make our excuses and move on. Well, I was actually waiting for someone but he just stayed there. Then I saw a young couple crossing the road in the distance. They were dressed just like him so I said, ‘are these friends of yours?’ He looked over and saw them and scowled. ‘What them,’ he spat, ‘as fukin if’. He seemed quite angry. I wasn’t sure what was going on so I just shrugged.

He eventually took his leave of me, saying he had a deadline for a really interesting viral he was making for an office stationary supply firm based in Kinnegad. ‘Laters,’ he said and zipped off on his fixie.

Strange sort. Friendly enough I thought. I found myself wondering what he was going to be like in ten or twenty years time, you know, when he has a bit of a belly on him, maybe a kid or two and a persistent medical complaint. I wondered how he was going to make that work. I decided he’d probably just repackage himself. Like the ravers in my day. One of those old ravers probably owns the office stationary supply firm in Kinnegad.

Anyway, the interesting thing about all this was his surname. I can’t remember how we started talking or what the guy’s christian name was but I do seem to recall his surname. I swear to God that I heard it right and I swear to God it was Dotcom. Something Dotcom. Or was that the name of his blog?

RETINA SCAN ROCK FESTIVAL

2011-06-21T14:12:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: it’s nearly almost fun!)

This summer why not go to The Retina Scan Rock Festival? A genuine simulacrum of the free festivals of yore-sans off putting idealism! Chicks in designer wellies and shorts . . .mmm! Watch Battles and say you preferred the early stuff! See Peter Sutherland do a duet with The Flaming Lips! Visit the Blackwater Security Dance Tent! Upload the fun to Facebook! Twitter the good times! Text and Text and Text and Text and drop into the Ideas Boutique where you can see all the latest apps! Roll around in mud with graphic designers and students from Kings Inns! Feel Freeish! The fajitas are delicious! Nothing matters anymore!

. . .then go home and talk about it for a couple of days.

PLEASE NOTE: Attendees must don a collar and leash to prevent profligate wantonness. Fajita queue skipping will meet with modest voltage application.

A FATHER’S DAY TRIBUTE TO THE MOTHER

2011-06-19T03:14:00.000-07:00

(above: Fugger and The Mother, when we were doing the black thing)

The Mother is very useful. Without her I’d have died of malnutrition as an infant and she’s been a great help in many ways since, not least in the ring. As anyone aware of our wrestling careers can attest, The Mother and I have dished out a few pastings in our time. Together, we were the devastating tag team Oedipus Wrecks. We were greatly feared but, like any tag team, we had our share of gruelling matches. We’ve been sorely tested in the squared circle but when you’re getting a right battering from some huge bollix like The Undertaker, there is no one better to tag to than The Mother. You’d be bruised and delirious, wondering why you got into the ring in the first place, and crawling to the corner. You’d use up the last of your strength to stretch out your hand and The Mother would always be there for you, reaching back, tagging in. She’d give the bloody Undertaker a piece of her mind let me tell you and even if an opponent got her with a chair shot, The Mother always kicked out before the three count. Her moonsault from the top rope was a sight to behold too. Oh yeah. And even if we lost, as we sometimes did, she’d make sure we didn’t lose face by picking up a member of the winning team and slamming them through the Spanish announce table. There’d be boos from the audience alright but The Mother wouldn’t give a hoot. ‘Sure I couldn’t give a hoot’, she’d say over the microphone and then she’d high kick the referee in the face for good measure.

Oh, she’s a formidable woman The Mother and I just thought I’d salute her as her birthday is here again. She always wanted the music embedded below to be our entrance theme but the promoters thought it too melancholy. They gave us O Fortuna by Carl Orff instead. She was happy enough with that but here, as a tribute to The Mother, is the theme she would have preferred. This tune makes her go all weepy when she sits back and recalls fond memories, like the time she jumped from a twelve foot ladder and landed on a prone Cactus Jack who was laid out unconscious on a fold-out table beneath her. ‘Oh that learned him and no mistake’, The Mother says to herself as she wipes away a proud tear. So, hats off to The Mother and to The Mothers everywhere. They’re a very useful shower you must admit. Just keep them away from the refs or you’re looking at a suspension.

Oh and yeah, I know it’s Father’s Day and The Father was useful enough too (slyly throwing brass knuckles into the ring as he so often did) but Father’s Day was invented by some greedy card company or something and so should be ignored. Anyway, here’s the music. . .

INVISIBLE LIBRARY

2011-06-15T17:36:00.001-07:00

Imagine there is only one library in the whole wide world and in that library is every book in existence. Now imagine that this library is invisible to the human eye. The library is completely invisible to humans with the exception of one book. A solitary book can be seen standing on the unseeable shelves. Now imagine that you are in the invisible library and you see the book. You pick it up and start reading. You think it’s a great book and even start making notes in the margin. Meanwhile, the rest of the library is watching you. It knows that its shelves are full of books. Better books than the one you are reading. In fact, it knows that the book you’re reading is amongst the worst on its shelves. It’s a chick lit thing by some floozy that presents afternoon television but you think it’s great because you know no better and have nothing to compare it to. This tragedy is not your fault. You did not choose the book deliberately. It was the only one you could see because the rest of the library resides in a realm beyond human sensory perception. You can’t help it that you can only see one book and you can’t help it if that book is rubbish. That is worthy of pity. That is forgivable. What is unforgivable though is that in this one book that you can see and read, in this one book that you think is the only book in existence, there is a bibliography. It’s at the back. You never thought to look and that is unforgivable because if you did you would at least realise that there must other books in existence. It’s written there, in your book. But you don’t think to look because you are so absorbed in the crappy narrative that makes up the rest of the pages. You don’t think to look because you want to get to the end of your shitty book and discover what it all meant. But when you get to the end of the book you realise that it has no meaning and you close the book and then you drop dead and turn to dust and so does the book and the rest of the library has long stopped caring and doesn’t even notice.

And so it seems that the meaning of life is that life has no meaning and the human race is alone in the Universe because the human race is reading the wrong book. I should know reader, because I’ve just snorted three bottles of Tipp-Ex thinner. Tipp-Ex thinner is the true route the wisdom. That’s why they banned it. They don’t want you seeing the library. They don’t want you reading the invisible books.

FUGGER’S DODGY DAYDREAM

2011-06-12T17:39:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: Miley Cyrus, wholesome fun)

A bizarre scenario tends to creep into my mind during long bus journeys or lazy afternoons spent lounging around at home in my pyjama bottoms. It goes something like this:

Whilst touring North Africa, Miley Cyrus is abducted by Al Queda. The swarthy villains take Miley Cyrus back to their cave where they proceed to give her a spanking. In order to teach decadent American a lesson, the terrorists set up a camera and stream the whole thing on the internet. Miley Cyrus is spanked with an assortment of objects that include a table tennis bat, a diving flipper, and an old car license plate. Miley Cyrus gasps and bites her lip a bit. Her suffering is not excessive but the spanking clearly smarts to some extent.

Now, you might conclude that this is the meat and potatoes of my mental escapade but you’d be wrong in that presumption. The story continues:

After Miley Cyrus escapes from Al Queda, she appears on a syndicated television programme to discuss her ordeal. The programme is peppered with highlights from the Al Queda footage, which Miley must watch and relive. A live studio audience is then asked to press their key pads and vote on whether or not the pop princess deserved such treatment. Surprisingly, a large majority of the audience decide that Miley’s peachy arse did indeed deserve a paddling. The singer hangs her head and looks suitably admonished.

There’s one other element I mustn’t leave out. An all important factor. For me, the very best bit of this scenario, the clincher so to speak, is the way Miley has to stand while appearing on the television programme. She is offered a seat but declines, telling the host she can’t sit down because, and I quote, ‘it still kinda stings a bit’. This final detail is paramount to my fantasy’s appeal. This, for me, is the pay off, the pièce de résistance of my internal digression.

So, there you have it. I just thought I’d share. I hope you do not judge me too harshly. In my defence, I would like to point out that Miley Cyrus has turned eighteen. Although, in pointing that out, I feel compelled to admit the scenario has been playing out in my mind for almost two years. Does that make me a bad person? Should I turn myself in? I suppose a presidential nomination is out of the question? Ah well, what the hell, . . .fuck yiz.

CRAP MAN VERSES CLAW

2011-06-08T14:19:00.000-07:00

dO AS Crap Man says. . .

LINK: CRAP MAN VERSES CLAW!!!

I’VE INVENTED ANOTHER NEW LANGUAGE

2011-06-06T03:40:00.000-07:00

It’s becoming a bit of a hobby after THE LAST TIME but I’ve invented another new language. Everyone will be able to understand this new language of mine but only a select few will be able to speak it (those with reassuringly authoritative demeanours, presentable attire, and convincing smiles).

The communications landscape will be streamlined by my new language. The vast majority will be unburdened of the tiresome effort of trying to make themselves heard and the select minority will get to discuss matters without fear of the obfuscation caused by widespread discourse, which can get pretty silly when any old How Do You Do butts in willy nilly.

Pretty neat, isn't it?

Now, I realise there’ll come a time when those who are not amongst the select few will pick up a few words of my new language and try speaking them but I’m not too worried about this as they’ll only be repeating what the select few said, a bit like parrots or those dolls that say things when you pull a cord out of their back. They’ll not really be in a position to manipulate the language to their own ends and express their own ideas so there’s no threat really. Let me put it this way, Winston Churchill’s pet macaw Charlie was quite right to squawk the words ‘fuck Hitler’ but that didn’t mean he was in a position to make policy.

Anyway, the ability to have ideas should have atrophied by the time the non-select speaker has learned the lingo and even if the ability to form ideas has not atrophied in certain non-select speakers, any ideas expressed by them will be drowned out by the squawks from all the Charlies. SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! So, all in all, it should be grand.

This new language of mine has a few dialects. One is called Telly, one is called Radio and another one is called Newspaper. The tongue overall is called Media.

Now, keep your mouth shut and listen!

DAVID NORRIS: IT’S OVER FOR YOU!

2011-05-31T11:49:00.001-07:00

(pictured above: ooh ducky, we’re off to Thailand)

I met David Norris once. AT NO TIME did he condemn paedophilia. AT NO TIME did he endorse the age of consent. AT NO TIME did he condemn incest.

Granted, we were talking about Doctor Who and not child abuse or anything but I still find it telling that he condemned such criminal behaviour AT NO TIME during the course of our conversation.

Incidentally, he also AT NO TIME condemned the Daleks and we were ACTUALLY talking about Doctor Who, so, at very least, we must conclude that he is in favour of the EXTERMINATION of the entire human race.

It’s over for you Norris, so why don’t you and your pal Davros pack your bags and piss off to Thailand to do your ‘exterminating’ over there?
VOTE PAT COX!

FUGGER’S TRIBUTE TO THE DEAD

2011-05-29T18:24:00.001-07:00

(pictured above: Bang! Bang! You’re dead!)

I was always moved by those military funerals with the three gun volley salute. I thought it was really clever how they fired guns over the grave of someone who had probably been shot. Paying tribute to someone by fetishising the means of their demise has a lovely symmetry to it. It kind of book-ends things if you will. It’s neat.

Keen to emulate this ingenuity, I decided to pay tribute to my late Uncle Stan (who had been run over by joy riding youths) by stealing a hearse and using it to do a series of handbrake skids over his freshly filled grave. The family looked on bewildered as loose earth flew up and hit them in the face. The fact that I got out of the car and played Taps on my Stylophone did little to help matters and everyone had a real attitude about it at the sandwiches and tea part back at the pub. My gesture had gone right over their heads.

Could’ve been worse I suppose. What if Stan died of cancer? What could I have done then? Sprinkle tumours on his tombstone? That’d be a tall order. Jesus, it could have been even worse than that. Imagine if Stan had been savaged by wolves. There would’ve been carnage at the burial. People being chased all over the graveyard. Screams and howls. Hmm, maybe it isn’t an appropriate approach after all.

GODZILLA

2011-05-27T07:15:00.000-07:00

(Pictured above: . . . huh?)

I had a dream last night that Godzilla was stomping through the Irish Sea and headed towards Ireland. He was looking very fierce. His eyes were a blazing red and he was waving his fists around in that way he does. He was roaring his head off too and it was deafening. He really was a terrifying sight, I can’t emphasise it enough. He looked like he was fit to give the place a right going over.

Anyway, I was standing on the coast as he reached it, looking out at the mighty tsunamis that heralded his arrival by rolling into shore and trying to stay on my feet despite the awful tremors beneath me and collapsing buildings around me. Behind me was a massive congregation of tens of thousands of people but they didn’t seem to be interested in Godzilla. They were all dancing and cheering and Twittering on their iPhones as Bryan Dobson and Amy Huberman MCed an open air gig by Jedward and Westlife. Enda Kenny, Mary McAleese, David Begg and a few other dignitaries were there too, leaping about and providing backing vocals and everyone seemed to be very happy.

As his colossal foot slammed down upon Irish soil, Godzilla’s furious expression changed to one of slight perplexity. Peering down upon the masses, the monster’s brow furrowed and his head tilted to one side in the manner of a confused dog or journalist. Then Godzilla turned and he looked right at me. He was staring right at me with this puzzled expression and I was frozen to the spot. Then, emitting terrible sulphurous fumes, Godzilla opened his massive fanged mouth and it occurred to me that the creature was about to speak. And speak he did, Godzilla looked me right in the eye and said ‘Honest to God, can you believe these fuckin muppets?’
I didn’t know what to say. I just shrugged. Then I woke up.

I have no idea what that dream meant but I thought I’d share it with you anyway.

THE AUDACITY OF HOPE

2011-05-24T20:27:00.001-07:00

Myself and the Mother were at College Green on Monday to see President Obama. We had a placard made up and everything. It said ‘Obama: Best Black Ever!’ A garda took it off us though. Racist.

We had a lovely time anyway and even got to meet the great man. (The Mother’s a past master at the old Turkish Revenge and this got us to the front of the throng pronto.) When President Obama neared us, I reached out to him and roared ‘you’re a first rate black, absolutely first rate’. I could see from the look on his face that he was affected by my words. The Mother ruined it all though when, somewhat over-exuberantly, she thrust a tin biscuit assortments box in President Obama’s direction. We’d have been shot had the box not dropped to the ground and opened, revealing its innocent content of scones. ‘They’re better off on the ground anyway’, I said to The Mother, ‘they’d have only half poisoned him like they do me’. The Mother scowled and flashed her blade so I said no more about it.

On the way home, The Mother and I discussed President Obama’s speech and it got us thinking about the power of words. ‘You know The Mother’, I said, ‘you can change almost anything just by saying a little something. You can empower people. You can enable them to rise to challenges’.

The Mother agreed and cited MLK’s ‘I have a dream’ speech, JFK’s ‘ask not’ inaugural address and Brian Lenihan’s ‘patriotic duty’ outburst as well as the time King George VI told everyone to batter the Nazis because they were even more anti-Semitic than he was. ‘Indeed The Mother’, I said, ‘if they are spoken well and if they are properly heard, the right words can turn almost any negative into a positive and bring hope where once there was none’.

It was then we remembered Uncle Larry, laid out in James’ Hospital and in need of a pep talk. ‘Let’s bring Larry a bit of Obama magic’ suggested The Mother so we hopped off the bus and went to visit him. I am sad to say that myself and The Mother’s voluminous and constant chanting of ‘is féidir leat’ at Larry's bedside did little to put his tennis ball sized tumour into remission. Uncle Larry passed away later that evening. The Mother and I returned home deflated by the realisation that, no matter how well expressed, sometimes words are not enough.

IT’S ALL A LOAD OF CODES

2011-05-22T12:26:00.000-07:00

All is codes: from jungle drums communicating from tribe to tribe, to words, to DNA. It’s all a load of codes that get decoded and turned into ideas or life or everything else that makes us happy or sad or everything in between. Notes for the milkman, love letters, declarations of war, the next step of evolution, it’s all just a load of codes getting decoded and changing things for a while or sometimes forever.

We’re surrounded by codes, receiving and decoding, all the time: decoding, decoding, decoding. We decode the things people say to us, the stuff we read in the paper, the images we see on billboards or on the telly. The religion, the patriotism, the cultural myths and social norms we build our lives around are all just codes. Even the codes that tell us to ignore other codes are bleedin’ codes. Ideology, bias, personal taste, all are the end result of codes. We are manipulated by codes. Codes are the strings and we are the puppets. We think we’re unique little snowflakes but we’re just a load of codes held together by flesh and bone. We’re just following whatever coded instructions we happen to come across. We’re just following orders. We’re just a load of ones and zeros.

Where have these codes gotten us? What would we be without them? I wonder what came before codes. An empty Limbo? A peaceful Nirvana?

Cryptographer and electronics pioneer Claude Elwood Shannon (pictured above) noticed that all communication came in code. He theorised the notion of the Bit (the binary digits essential to computing, telecommunications, and the modern world working at large). Shannon is considered the father of the information age.

It’s ironic that Alzheimer’s ended Shannon’s life, an illness that took his ability to decipher codes. An illness that left him scared and alone before delivering him into a codeless void. During his retirement, before his Alzheimer’s, Shannon built a little machine called the Leave Me Alone Box. It was futility in a nutshell. A device with a solitary purpose, to turn itself off once it had been turned on.

I wonder if Shannon, a man who gave more thought to information and communication than almost any other, was trying to tell us something with the Leave Me Alone Box. I wonder if he was he making a statement of some sort or maybe a joke. Why else would a man of his intellect bother to make such a contraption? Was he trying to tell us something? Was he taking the piss, . . .in code?

IN OTHER NEWS: I see that smartarse Adam Curtis will be imposing more difficult observations upon our comforting narratives tomorrow (Monday, May 23rd) on BBC2 at 9pm. It’s a Fugger recommendation and here’s a link to a tantalising promo: ALL WATCHED OVER BY MACHINES OF LOVING GRACE.
It should be better than Celebrity Risotto Challenge or whatever shite is on the other channels. Remember: Use Telly Responsibly!
. . . right, that is all. You are free to go, if indeed you are here in the first place (whatever that means).

Y’WHAT???

2011-05-17T21:07:00.000-07:00

Y’WHAT??? The Queen is staying for another two days? We can’t leave our homes in case we’re flung in the back of garda van for another two days? Jayney Macaroni! I want to go outside. I have to. I’m hungry for fuck’s sake.

Y’WHAT??? Her son the Prime Minister is coming over today as well? He’s a smarmy little bollix and no mistake. Had his wife murdered because she was sleeping with an Arab, Al Jazeera or something his name was. Why are they all coming over here anyway? We’ve enough trouble with the Romas and now this lot. What do they want? Is it the free food? Didn’t they steal enough of our grub during the Famine? Yeah, you heard me, THE FAMINE!

Her husband’s mental too. He so old he’s gone mental. I hear they’re staying out in the Stillorgan Park Hotel and he got up at 3 a.m. and had a shite in a fire bucket. The night porter tried to stop him so they had him shot. I mean, for fuck’s sake. And we’re supposed to put up with that?

Y’WHAT?? Some UDA sorts are swinging by to hook up with them too? The U.D. fuckin A? I ask you! So now we have both the royal family and some bunch of fuckin students to contend with! Jesus lord and shit. It’s an outrage!

I reckon we should all join the bloody CIRA. Seriously. We should all join up and learn how to make bombs and when we’ve learned how to make the bombs we should make loads of them and Gaffa tape them to our heads and set them off so the fuckin UDA students and the Queen and her mad shitein’ husband and their smarmy murderer of a son can drive around all day waving at cordons with headless corpses behind them and the corpses will be us. Would that make them happy? Would it? Would that be good enough for them? Just a load of silent streets littered with dead bodies. I wonder what Kay Burley would have to say about that on Sky News? I wonder how many licence payers RTE would have left to broadcast three days of Dobson gushing over royal shite at.

Y’WHAT??? Barack Osama is coming over then too? Are you serious? Are you taking the piss? How many days is that we’re meant to stay behind fences and locked doors without a bite to eat? Jesus shite and Lord MacFuck! I’m never going to get to the Spar at this rate.

THE QUEEN’S VISIT: FUGGER'S SUGGESTION

2011-05-15T13:14:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: out in our droves)

Perhaps, if I may be so bold to suggest it, your majesty, God bless her, could, just as a gesture, do a few circuits, not too many mind, just one for every year of British rule, of Croke Park, in full regalia, the crown, the fancy gear, the whole lot, on her hands and knees, while Jedward dance around her and give her the odd boot in the arse, not too hard mind, as she crawls around, as a kind of act of penance, just so, y’know, we can finally move on and forget all this nonsense. . .

. . .it’s just a suggestion.

. . .no takers?

Oh, very well then, forget it. Drive her around the place, buy her a bag of Tayto and let John Bruton get her autograph. Just make sure she's gone by teatime and for God's sake no one start with that Dublin Monaghan shite. She's a famous old lady not a member of MI6. It’d be like them blaming Maureen Potter for Airey Neave (which they might have done had she been in the vicinity-but let's not start with any of that either and just let the Sunday Independent staffers enjoy their big day).

May 17^ththough, . . .could they not have picked another day to have her over?

CLAWS

2011-05-10T18:17:00.001-07:00

Some people find them creepy but I think claws make great pets. You don’t have to clean up after them and they don’t require feeding. They can be quite affectionate too in their own way and it is nice to see them scuttling down the hall to meet you when you get home. If one makes the effort to overcome initial squeamishness, one finds that, as pets, claws are second to none.

There is a wide variety of claws to be had and each one is unique. You can’t break them down into species categories but there are certain types. Some are long and bony, some have talons, some are hairy, and some just look like normal human hands. The human hand types are the easiest to come by and not really valued by most collectors but I find them to be the most intelligent and you can even set them little errands, like fetching the TV remote. Try getting your typical hairy claw to do that, not likely.
(pictured above: teach them tricks)

Claws are also handy (excuse the pun) when it comes to intruders. I had a break in about a month ago but the burglar didn’t get very far before Eugene (my favourite claw) leapt upon his throat and squeezed the life out of him. At least that was the coroner’s summation. We can’t be absolutely sure as no one was there at the time but for the claws and the late criminal himself.

Women are often reluctant to entertain my fondness for claws and it’s hard to get another date once they’ve been over to my place. How many times have I seen that wide-eyed look of horror when they realise the hand creeping up their thigh is not mine but in fact a monstrous disembodied claw? It’s as horrified a look as you could expect to see. It’s almost as bad as the look I get when they realise the hand is mine. Claws are a large part of my life and if these women can’t accept that then fine. I’m sure I’ll meet a goth type or something who will be perfectly happy with my pet claws or maybe some kind of hard ass carnival woman with tattoos and all that.

The only real drawback when it comes to claw ownership is the difficulty in getting a license. I had to apply several times and they really don’t make it easy for you. It’s obvious that the authorities don’t want to encourage the domestication of claws but I see this as down to basic ignorance. There is a prejudice against claws thanks to the media and silly horror films. If treated right, claws are harmless. Yes, there was that one incident with that little girl last year but you have to wonder if she was provoking the claw that throttled her. In my experience, claws are gentle creatures as long as you respect them and are not the subject of their occult vendetta (all claws have a vendetta, it’s just their nature).

If you are interested in claw ownership there are lots of websites and books in the library with useful tips. Remember, you won’t find claws in your local pet-shop and buying them online is inadvisable as you never know what you might get. It is best to try and bag one yourself. There should be no shortage of them crawling around your nearest graveyard or place of Satanic worship.
(pictured above: provide your claw with a 'safe place'-old Tupperware is ideal)

So, that’s all I have to say about claws. I hope I’ve at least changed a few minds about our taloned friends and will just finish by reminding you that I will be on Nationwide (RTE, after the 6-1 news on Thursday) showing my claws to the delightful Mary Kennedy, so programme that into the Sky Plus and happy clawing.

FLOGGING SH1T£

2011-05-08T13:46:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, we made money collecting empty bottles and returning them to the supermarket. You’d make enough for a 2000AD comic and maybe a choc-ice. My brothers were a step ahead though. They used gather up any useless old shite they could find and sell it to modern art collectors for several grand.

I remember we had this old record player with a wobbly turntable so my brothers glued an ornamental clog my mam picked up in Holland to it and headed off to the Hugh Lane Gallery. When they got there they plugged in the record player and the little clog began to revolve in an undulating fashion. They told the curator the record player/clog was a ‘piece’ called I Can Hear Them On The Stairs and was inspired by The Diary of Anne Frank. The curator got very excited and gave the lads 17 grand. When they got home they found Mam a bit narked about the missing clog so cheered her up by paying off the mortgage.

I remember deciding to try it. I was a novice though. Being younger, I had a narrower frame of reference than my brothers and so found ‘flogging shite’ (as we called it) difficult. I did have one success though when I scooped up a load of golf balls from the bottom of a boating lake near the local pitch and putt course. I put the golf balls in a laundry basket I pinched from the house and carried them up to the Hugh Lane. I told the curator the basket of balls was a piece called Amazing Grace. When she asked me why the piece was called Amazing Grace, I smiled smugly and said the golf balls ‘once were lost but now are found’. Pretty clever I thought.

My confidence deflated when the curator gave me a sceptical look and sighed. I knew I had to come up with something better if I was to make the cash I needed for a swimming pool I was planning to install in the garden. Sudden inspiration struck, from who knows where, and I found myself telling the curator that my work was ‘a bespoke retro-flexive analogism re: the betrayal of objects by the unconscionable neglect of both distance and time’. The curator liked that and forked over enough cash for both a pool and a waterslide. I was fairly fucking delighted I must say.

I never made another sale after that and, once they were financially secure for the rest of their lives, my brothers gave up ‘flogging shite’ too. I hear a new crowd has gotten in on the act since. Apparently there’s this English girl called Tracy Emin who’s been sorted for 2000AD and choc-ice money for around twenty years now. Good on her I suppose.

Oh, the wittiness, . . .the awful bloody wittiness of it all.

The LOL Equation MK 2

2011-05-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

I’m a bit uninspired today. I can’t think of what to write. Mmm, let’s see, what do I have for you. Eh, I bought some cheap biscuits in Lidl earlier. Not bad tasting. Um, and, oh yeah, ever notice how Lidl is always empty until you get to the check-out and there’s a huge queue? Yeah, mad isn’t it? Um, let’s see, what else. Mmmm, . . .dee da dum, ta dee dee dah. . . Oh yeah, I’m a bit worried they’re going to increase the management fees here. Yeah. That’d be a bit, um, crap. . .

OK, look, this obviously isn’t working out and I’ve other things to be doing. No really I do. I swear. I need a bath for a start. I think I’ll hand you over to my computerised blog post generator. I’ve fixed it up so there shouldn’t be a repeat of THE LAST MISHAP.

Right, I’m turning it on now. It’s humming. It’s coming to life. Fingers crossed. Here goes. Enjoy. . .

TITLE: RANDOM THOUGHTS...

MAIN BODY OF TEXT: Hello again Readers.

Needless to say, I like gardening so my favourite website is politics.ie because there are lots of vegetables on it. LOL!

Also needless to say is that films are rubbish these days so they should change the name of the cinema to the binema. That’s BINema, as in ‘rubbish bin(ema)’. LOL! Did you get it? Did you LOL? You should LOL! LOL Now! LOL! LOL! I command you, LOL!

I see the Arts Council have awarded Cathal O'Searcaigh some money for a new van (pictured above). ‘It’s not much but it suits my needs’, said the celebrated bursary hunter yesterday. Needless to say, the insinuation here is that O’Searcaigh is a predatory paedophile. That is LOL! LOL Now! LOL! You will LOL! All Hail LOL! YOU MUST AND WILL LOL! PRAISE LOL FOR I AM THE LORD OF LOL AND YOU WILL DO MY BIDDING! LOL! LOL! LMFAO! OMFG! NEEDLESSTOSAY! LOL! ROFL! PAED0101110100101001PHILE^PWNED+ I-AM-THE-LOL-THY-GOD{LMFAO ~ RATFLMFAO^BFF < LAWL ‰~ OMG¬ E=MC²101000101000100010101001110101001. . . BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Ah, Jesus. What’s happened now? I go away for two minutes and you break it again. What did you do to it? You’re too demanding. Christ, do you know how long it took me to set up? Now, let’s see. Good Lord, what was it saying to you? This is worse than the last time. Look, just go away. Give me a bit and I’ll see what I can do. Really though, it’s not looking good is it? It looks like I’m stuck with providing these twice weekly brain farts myself. Sod it, maybe I should just give this machine to Twenty Major. He could probably make some use of it.

OBAMA BOMBA OSAMA!

2011-05-02T01:40:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: Osama during his residency at the Embassy Club, Manchester, 2005)

Really, I don’t know what we’ll do without him. Remember the little videos he used to leave? They were kind of vlogs really. And remember the funny little hat? I loved that hat. Remember the way he and his mates used hang around in caves? They were like The Clangers weren’t they? They were a gas little shower, popping up out of the caves and leaving videos for CNN. And his name, it sounded a bit like Aladdin didn’t it? It would’ve been class if his name was Aladdin Bin Laden and he had a flying carpet and they chased him around on it with their jets. Imagine that! Rat-a-tat-tat! Fwooosh! Alas, we won’t see it now.

Now, I know he wasn’t perfect. I know he was a bit nutty, but you have to hand it to him, he made some very exciting telly. It’s all ended a bit anticlimactically though hasn’t it? We’re not even going to get a televised funeral, like with Diana. They buried him at sea. What use is that? They just threw his body to the sharks. So, no funeral, what a let down. Where's the closure? You need a bit of decent closure to wrap things up properly. It’s like Lost all over again. I mean really, who is writing this shit?

Anyway, I’ve got to go. I hear his prayer mat is selling on E-Bay and I want to get my bid in.

CRAP MAN V HUBERMAN

2011-04-28T16:23:00.000-07:00

DO AS THE MAN SAYS AND CLICK THE LINK BENEATH HIM!

LINK: CRAP MAN V HUBERMAN!

THE PLANET OF THE SHOPS

2011-04-27T11:12:00.000-07:00

Do you know that look on a three year old’s face just after she drops a brand new ice cream? It’s the facial expression that comes before the inevitable bawling. A stunned look. Open mouthed. Wide eyed. Shocked at cruel fate’s sudden hard slap. You know it? Well, in the future everyone in Ireland will have that look on their face. 24/7.

We’ll have that look on our face as our piebalds pull our Mercs past lay-by picnickers. We’ll have that look on our face as we travel potholed roads to the mall. The mall: a near derelict hulk. Creaking and wheezing. Cracked glass and corroded chrome. A junkyard Death Star coated in a film of dust. Once a temple to aspiration, now a salve to desperation. Shuddering escalators will carry us around inside. Crackling musak will attempt to sooth. But we’ll still have that look on our face.

We will go through the motions. Buying the remnants of better times in a gargantuan jumble sale of half-assed items that guarantee dissatisfaction. But we’ll soldier on. What else is there to do? A torn bath mat. One Ugg boot. Tattered chick-lit. A bent 9 iron. There’s a dead house spider in the powdered milk. Someone bursts into tears and their spouse tells them to keep it together. ‘You’ll set everyone off’. But they can’t contain themselves. Trembling lips. Rolling tears. Gushing snot. ‘Waaaaahhhhh!’ Oh Christ!

The spouse places a hand over their loved one’s mouth but it’s too late. A grating voice barks from the P.A. ‘Transgressor-floor three-aisle seven.’ Here comes security. The couple flee. A chase. Other customers watch, glad they are not the ones being pursued.

The couple run past displays of punctured soccer balls, dented bean cans, withered fruit and veg, wilting copies of Eddie Hobbs’ You and Your Money magazine. They are surrounded before they reach the fire exit. They are shot with tranquiliser darts. Their unconscious bodies are loaded into shopping trolleys and wheeled away. The P.A. growls again: ‘patrons are advised to stick with the programme or face the consequences’. Everyone does as they are told. What else is there to do? There’s bargains to be had. They saw it on the telly. They read it in the paper. Now is not the time to be cribbing and moaning. Things are looking up. Just don’t look up! Transgressors are dangling from the ceiling by their necks. Take that look off your face and welcome to the Planet of the Shops.

PERVY PEARSE: THE NONCE OF 1916

2011-04-23T17:46:00.001-07:00

(pictured above: Pádraig Pearse-note the smirk, probably thinking about wee lads in the nip)

Up to recently, Pádraig Pearse was thought to have been homosexual. There was strong evidence for this.
A: Pearse was crap around women.
B: He founded a school for ‘boys’!
C: He spent much of The Easter Rising dancing around the G.P.O. to Depeche Mode’s song Master and Servant (wearing only bicycle shorts).

However, it has since been discovered that homosexuality isn’t evil* and so we must reappraise Pearse because there can be little doubt that the Butcher of 1916 was sublimating dark urges of some sort.

Perusing the new book by Ruth Dudley Edwards, Perverts All: A History of Irish Self-Determination, I was shocked to read Pearse’s poem Little Lad of the Tricks. Considering this piece, one can only conclude that Pearse was a rampant paedophile. Here’s an extract:

Little lad of the tricks,
I wanna kiss your mouth:
It makes me feel so good
Who’s the Daddy now?

Lad of the grey eyes,
That flush in thy cheek
You’d be white with dread
If ya could see inside my head!

(Guitar solo)

Ooh I’m gonna touch ya!
Kiss ya and caress ya!
Who’s the daddy now?
Little lad of the tricks
Little lad of the tricks
Little lad on my dick
Little lad on my dick

-Repeat to fade-

(Courtesy of Alternative Tentacles records, all rights reserved.)

Fairly conclusive I’d have thought.

Respected crypto-historian Marianne Elliot also raises some interesting points about another ‘hero’ of 1916, Michael Collins. In her new book, I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves: The Life of Michael Collins, Elliot asks if Collins was into livestock. You know like, as in riding farm animals. Considering Professor Elliot’s thesis, I can’t help but agree. Collins grew up on a farm after all didn’t he? He did you know. Why did he choose to grow up on a farm do you think? Easy access to beasts? It’s disgusting to think of it, the Big Fellow, cornering some traumatised lamb. God, really, I have to say, I’m ashamed to be Irish. Like Edwards and Elliot, I’m ashamed to be Irish but, unlike Edwards and Elliot, I am not in a position to write of that shame and so will have to forego the compensation of profiting from it financially.

(*if only we could discover another Casement black diary with something really mad in it. I can’t imagine what so I’ll leave that to Prof. Elliot. She’d come up with something deadly.)

DOCTOR WHO - TIME PROTESTANT

2011-04-19T15:04:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: Doctor Who and K9 if they were Catholics)

Have you seen that shite on the telly called Doctor Who? It’s about this weird Protestant who lives inside a magic box that can go into the past or the future or land on the moon and all that type of thing. Lots of people are mad about the show but I think it’s a disaster. I wish they’d show Tarzan instead. I loved the old Tarzan films when I was a boy. Tarzan was great. He lived in the jungle and spent all his time battering the shite out of creatures. He had a big knife too and he was forever ramming it into beasts. He had no time for beasts at all. He was pally with one monkey who he thought was OK and he hopped up on elephants to get around like they were jungle buses, but besides that, if you were an animal, you were looking for a beating. That was quality entertainment. That you could understand. I can’t understand this time Protestant stuff at all though. There are a few creatures in it alright but half of them don’t even exist and some of them look like kitchen appliances. The nephew tells me that they are ‘monsters’ but I told him that there are no monsters. I said that to him. I said ‘there are no monsters’. Roared it at him to be honest. He started crying and being a little geebag so his mother came running in and called me a monster. I found that a bit ironic.

I’ll tell you another thing about this time Protestant fella, he’s a vagrant. He never settles down. He goes from place to place causing trouble like some sort of space knacker. He’s like a Protestant knacker from outer space. What could be worse than that? A Protestant knacker? It’s the stuff of nightmares. Jaysus, I’ll tell you, Tarzan would’ve wasted no time sticking his dagger into the likes of that.

This time Protestant thing is blasphemous too. I’ll tell you why. I’ll give you an example: let’s say Tarzan gave the time proddy a bit of an old stab with the dagger like, well, instead of dying, the time prod would ‘regenerate’ and rise from the dead. Something he has done ten times to date according to my geebag of a nephew. Now Jesus Christ only managed it once but this fella on the telly has done it ten times. Is this an attempt to make a new type of Protestant Jesus? A proddy Jesus with extra powers? Is that what the game is? As if that wasn’t bad enough, the geebag nephew says this weird prod character was also responsible for the Big Bang. The Big Bang! The very creation of existence. So, this time prod, he’s not happy just being Jesus, he has to be God as well? Well he can fuck off. He can fuck right off out of it. We have Jesus and Tarzan in Ireland and we don’t need any of this British time prod rubbish!

I hear the blasphemous gobshite is back on the telly again this Saturday. Saturday at around six o’clock. Just when I’ll be sitting in front of the box with my dinner on my lap. Well, I’m not having it. I’m unplugging the telly and placing it face down on the floor. I don’t need to be looking at that nonsense with its bloody monsters. There are no monsters. There’s only creatures you can batter and kill. There’s no monsters. No! There’s no need to be worrying about them. The thoughts of a Protestant knacker from outer space might put the wind up me but not bleedin’ monsters. I’m not scared of monsters because there are no monsters. Got that? There are no monsters. There’s not and I’m not scared. I’m not. I swear I’m not. Why would I be scared? There are no monsters. THERE ARE NO bleedin’ MONSTERS!!!

R.I.P. S.J.S.

TRENDING IN THE RELIGIOUSPHERE

2011-04-17T19:18:00.000-07:00

(pictured above: ‘Hi God’)

I used never know the words to prayers. Especially the big long ones you only ever heard at mass and didn’t learn to say in school or before you went to bed at night. I used just make up my own words and mumble them along with the congregation who were often making up their own words too in the hope that it would result in one big agreeable sounding murmur. Effectively we were all making up new prayers and this is grand because prayers are just made up things anyway and not the word of God.

Most prayers are not from the Holy Bible, although they often include quotes. Instead, prayers are things that originate centuries after the New Testament and have often been changed over time to incorporate some new elements and drop some others. For example, the bit in the Hail Mary about sending ‘all the gayers to their eternal damnation’ was removed in 1987 and the bit about Mary being ‘really good at billiards’ was added in 1993.

Anyway, here’s a prayer I have invented. I’m kind of hoping this one catches on as I’m keen to pay tribute to the Lord my God and also hope to be paid royalties every time it’s said on the radio or in movies etc.

GOOD GOD MY LORD IN HEAVEN

Good God my Lord in Heaven

dissuade us from happiness

And all things wanton

and Lord bless us and save us.

And let us not stray down paths unrighteous

or accommodating of sin

Are you receiving me?

Thank you Lord for the harvest

and the beasts of the field

and all we put in the dinner

and thanks for dessert and for fizzy drinks.

Thank you Lord for letting us partake of this Bounty

and Mars and Curly Wurly and Kit Kat

If that’s quite alright with you.

Blessed be your house Lord

and all the classy stuff that dwells within it

And give us comfort in our prejudice

By the power vested in you

and that of Greyskull

I now pronounce you man and wife

and fair dues to you Lord, it must be said.

Over and out.

I think that’s a fitting tribute to the man upstairs and ask that you teach it to your kids or your nieces and nephews or whoever you can get your hands on. Let’s see if we can get this thing ‘trending’ in the Religiousphere.

THE SADDEST MUSIC YOU EVER HEARD

2011-04-13T18:37:00.000-07:00

I once composed a piece of music on my Stylophone and it was the saddest music you ever heard. A heartbreaking little melody that seemed at first to be almost struggling to survive but gradually grew stronger, eventually swelling into a tsunami of profound grief. It really was quite something. My eyes grew watery as I composed it and by the time it was complete I was bawling like a baby.

I put it online and in no time at all it went viral. People the world over were weeping into their keyboards. Those who downloaded it at work were so overcome they had to be excused for the rest of the day. The work absences actually began to have a detrimental effect on the global economy but, excluding a handful of deaf economists, everyone was too busy listening to the music to notice.

I found myself performing the piece in the world’s largest arenas. Images of poverty stricken children, the war dead and washed up whales were projected onto a large screen behind me. These concerts were nothing less than orgies of emotional divestment with communal sobbing, mass wailing and group hugging. As my tune approached its climax, audiences would tumble from their seats and inconsolably writhe around on the venue floors, which would be wet and slippery with tears. When the performances concluded, the concert goers would pull themselves together. Sniffing and snuffling, they would slowly get to their feet, don their coats, and form an orderly queue for the exit. It was very odd.

The music was used in several feature films and in advertising campaigns for various products, the promotion of which required staggering poignancy. A new social phenomenon sprang up where suburban types gathered in certain houses on certain days to listen to the tune and weep together. These get-togethers were effectively car key parties only with tears as the principle bodily emission. My tune then became a much requested funeral accompaniment, which I found off-putting. What disturbed me most though were the thousands of unhappy citizens jumping under buses and from high buildings with my tune looping on their MP3s. I decided it was all becoming a bit unhealthy.

I returned home and set about writing a piece that would lift the spirit of the human race. A jaunty little thing that would pop and fizz its way along until it burst into a rousing chorus of anthemic joie de vivre. When completed, I kept this new tune under wraps as the promoters set about booking me into the world’s major venues. My C’mon, Let’s Smile tour kicked off under the stunning glass dome of the Frankfurt Festhalle. The place was packed with Teutonic misery junkies eagerly awaiting their next fix. Well I was going to ‘fix’ them alright. I was about to turn them on to a new kick. A kick called happiness.

I sat poised, the Stylophone on my lap, the immense throng hushed before me. I lowered the stylus and began to play. My new number made its merry way out into the audience, permeating the sea of heads with good vibes, growing catchier and more joyful all the while. Or so I thought. Over the sound of my melodious merriment I began to hear boos. Paper cups were thrown on stage. People started roaring up at me: ‘Play The Sad One!’ ‘Play The Sad One!’

I ignored them. I gritted my teeth. I persevered. They will be happy! They WILL! I stabbed the stylus down into the tiny machine and it began to squawk. The notes became sustained and intense. My happy tune distorted into a twisted mockery of good cheer. My frustration transformed the piece in such a way that it became a subversion of its original intention. If you can imagine a Dalek singing Jingle Bells, it was something like that. I was horrified. I tried to calm down but then I realised that the audience were cheering. The music had told them that happiness was an unsustainable sham and they agreed. In the grip of something far stronger than my conscious agenda, I had no choice but to improvise a segue and go straight into the sad tune. A huge roar of approval and then a mass outpouring of tears. I had failed. My muse had betrayed me. It was on their side.

I have played the sad tune so often now that it no longer affects me. I have been inoculated against its melancholy appeal. You might still see me weeping as I perform but it is not because I am moved by my work, it is because I am imprisoned by it. I am doomed to forever peddle the pornography of misery to an audience that never wanted to be happy in the first place.