Hand AIDS, Minor Molestation and Larceny: A Typical Bus Journey in Ireland

Where do I start?! I hate buses more than Mormons hate the gays. Perhaps I should tell the story of the worst bus journey of my entire existence. Happening just last week, this bus journey was more painful than if that man who had a baby got kicked in the balls while in labour. (remember him?!)

On a wet Monday evening I awaited the arrival of the dreaded 5.15pm deathbus outside college in the pouring rain. I had a bad feeling about this bus from the get go.. Firstly, because there was enough people waiting at the bus stop to form a relatively large racist mob. I waited. And waited. Of course my MP3 player decided to go ahead and die, the one time of day I actually need it and it chooses to abandon me and force me to listen to the random noise escaping out of the phone of a nearby nakker instead. Finally after half an hour of waiting and feeling increasingly common as time went by, I saw it coming. To my shock and utter disbelief, it wasn’t a double-decker bus. I could see the deadbeats of society packed into the single-decker like impoverished sardines and my stomach dropped. Battling past the people waiting with a flagrant disregard for the nest of elderly women perched at the edge of the curb, I made it to the top of the queue. I was getting on this bus and I didn’t care how many hips I broke to do it. The bus pulled to a shaky stop and the flimsy doors opened. I was immediately confronted with the stench of stale urine, failure and unemployment. I prepared myself to board a bus that was most definitely dirtier than Hilary Clintons vagina.

Handing the questionably senile driver my return ticket, I looked down the aisle and saw about 4 inches of standing space left. Regretting ever having eaten in my life, I squeezed myself into the spot, giving the morbidly obese man occupying two seats the filthiest of looks I could muster. I grimaced as the bus driver allowed all the pedestrians access to his already overflowing deathbus. The last of the people entered and were literally pressed against the door and clung to any fixture they could see, hoping they wouldn’t meet their death on a bus that contained at least 17 drug dealers and probably half the cast of the Jersey Shore. The bus then began moving and the ordeal got considerably worse. The smelly emo man next to me shifted his position so his presumably infected armpit was in my face, causing me to just cease breathing and hope for the best. I had to lunge for a pole to latch onto so I didn’t fall and get trampled to death by the scourge of Cork city. I was too afraid to hold onto to the pole tightly, for fear of contracting some sort of hand AIDS so I was thrown around like Rihanna when she steps out of line.

I then noticed the little ginger scumbag rooting through schoolbags people had left on the luggage rack. No more than 8 years old, he had an accent that would put a traveller to shame. He had a bottle of Coca Cola in his hand and occasionally took a break from his blatant thievery to take a double-handed swig out of the bottle, like it was the Blood of Christ and he was the Pope or some shit. Eventually he gleefully and unashamedly he shouts to his “Daaaaaaaaaaaa” that he has found “2 yourrrrrrrrrrrrro” in a schoolbag. His shabby, also ginger and homeless-for-at-least-10-years looking father greedily snatches it off his delinquent offspring that should have been aborted. Then through his drunken stupor he must finally remember he’s actually in public and this kind of behaviour isn’t normal for those of us with an IQ greater than a retarded melon and he quickly glances to his left and right and shoves the 2 euro coin into his filthy shirt pocket. Afraid to make eye contact in case I caught whatever disease turned him into such a drain on society, I attempted to look out the window. This led to me getting another face full of infected emo armpit. Meanwhile the senile bus driver, apparently unaware that the bus was as full as a 1950’s Irish Catholic housewife’s womb, kept packing the bus with as many peasants as he could find.

We then came to a standstill in traffic. The lack of air in the bus coupled with the overwhelming stench of desperation and poor made me want to not exist. Imagine you packed an oven full of decomposing animals covered in the liquid faeces of an Irish tourist visiting India and the morning-after vomit of a college student who had half a bottle of jagermeister and 3 double cheeseburgers from McDonalds the night prior. Then throw a few infected emo armpits and the soiled underwear of around 6 old aged pensioners and you may just have the smell that was on that bus and that still lingers in my nostrils whenever I think of the lower class. I managed to momentarily break free of my armpit prison and steal a glance out the window. Oh, how I envied the people in their comfortable, normal smelling automobiles. Fucking bourgeoisie!

Just as my lungs were about to melt, we finally began moving again. My stomach dropped lower than Mary Harney's self esteem when I saw another bus stop up ahead. A slew of CIT students waited excitedly for the bus to stop. Accepting that I would probably die on this bus if even one more person was squashed on, I started carving my Last Will And Testament into to the various fat folds of the obese man who was taking up two seats. I figured it was about time such a burden on society was put to use and scribbled away furiously. However much to my surprise and delight, I looked outside and saw the bus zoom past the unsuspecting students. I briefly made eye contact with one of them and I swear I saw a little piece of their soul die. I found myself smiling.

As I entered in the final leg of this hellish journey, I foolishly began to relax. But I had forgotten about the death-hill. As steep as the decline of legal music purchases and housing potholes wider than Louis Walsh’s arsehole, it was the final obstacle for me to overcome. As we began our excruciating descent I forgot all about the hand AIDS and clung to the pole like I was a 19-year-old single mom addicted to methamphetamine. It felt like I was on a theme park ride designed by Walt Disney if he was awoken from his cryogenic slumber and had spent the last couple of decades getting ass-raped in hell by Satan who wielded a dildo borne from a cast of Tiger Woods penis. Basically it was all kinds of fucked up. I closed my eyes tight and prayed that the emo guy wasn’t groping my ass intentionally. Somehow the bus managed to not turn over and kill me and I escaped the death-hill physically unscathed. Not emotionally unscathed though, as that groping still haunts me in my sleep. As my stop approached I frantically pressed the stop button and ploughed my way to the door, eager to escape this place of burgeoning disease and despair. I finally escaped the death-bus and relished my ability to breath in air that wasn’t tainted with mediocrity and regret.

However my exit was bittersweet, as I was plagued with the knowledge that the college year was just beginning. Faced with many more colourful bus journeys awaiting me, I wept. And wept. Then showered. Then wept again.

The Do’s and Douchebags of Social Networking

As a borderline obsessive user of Facebook (seriously one time my internet broke and I couldn't go on it for like, a week, so I killed a prostitute) a semi regular user of Twitter and an occasional troller on Youtube, I believe I am qualified to negate just how everyone uses these communication mediums to interact with their fellow internet users. Failure to comply with my guidelines will probably result in your complete ostracization from society ultimately leading to you dying alone in a house full of cats with your corpse being feasted upon by those feline companions you had once called your only friends. Seriously, cats do that. Look it up.

1. DON'T WRITE IN BLOCK CAPITALS UNLESS YOUR SOUL IS ON FIRE OR SOMETHING SIMILIARLY AWFUL!

   Why are you shouting at me? That's what I think when I read your pointlessly block capitalised status update. That, and I picture you as a ridiculously bearded homeless man. Because homeless people shout random things. Especially the bearded ones. That's one of the many reasons we pretend they don't exist. Don't get me wrong, the caps lock key is there for a reason, other than ruining your sentence after you accidentally hit it when aiming for the "A" key that is. I totally support the use of block capital sentences in situations of an urgent nature such as; being ravaged by an ostrich in heat or perhaps your brain is melting because you watched too much teen drama TV shows and its currently leaking out of your major face orifices. I will even occasionally accept the expression of excitement. Perhaps you have finally found a lifelong companion in the form a dog and are excited by the prospect that you no longer have to sleep alone, crying yourself into a restless slumber. I allow you these moments because I understand your life is generally mundane, you tell me this every day with your shitty updates.
   

   

   
   

   It is unacceptable when people use block capitals in every fricking sentence. DO YOU ACTUALLY SHOUT AT YOUR FRIENDS WHEN YOU INFORM THEM YOU GOT A NEW HAIRCUT AND YOU LIKE IT, EVEN THOUGH ITS SHORTER THN YOU WANTED, BUT THAT'S OK BECAUES YOU REALISE THAT HAIRDRESSERS DON'T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND THE WORD "TRIM". No? Then why the fuck do you shout it at me through the computer. The voice is my head is adamant to scream the sentence at my brain when you trick it with your big letters. So stop it. If it is not something you would scream when saying it aloud then don't shout it with your keyboard. Also, in arguments people seem to think that WRITING LIKE THIS seems to make their point less stupid. You may think that using a constant stream of capitalized letters may distract us from your woeful lack of a valid opinion and criminally outdated social references. Well, it doesn't. It makes you look about as smart as a golf ball.
   

   

   
   

2. D0n't wr1t33 lykk d1s. 3verrr, itz 5t00p1d!
   

   I'm sorry; did you suffer from a stroke? I see no other reason for you to be writing like that. Unless you just woke up and decided to not be normal anymore. When I first encountered this style of writing I was enthralled and immediately began to work on deciphering this secret message. I felt like Tom Hanks in the Da Vinci Code, without the tweed. Was I about to uncover some age old secret? 3 weeks later I finally decoded the update. The big 'secret' turned out to be a declaration of love for Justin Bieber. I was considerably disappointed. Then angry. I didn't understand why someone would go to such effort to make their sentence so illegible. Why couldn't they use normal letters? Is the alphabet not cool anymore?! At the tender age of 19 I felt old. I can now no longer leave the house without the crippling fear of breaking my hip. I suddenly have an intense desire to eat Bran Flakes and watch Judge Judy. All because of some tweens flagrant disregard for normal letters. It's retarded and pointless so just stop it, it doesn't make you cool. It makes you confusing. Writing like that is three tenths of the reason why terrorism exists.
   

   
   

   
   

3. Don't say LOL. It's over.
   

   Never have I hated an abbreviation so much. It makes me want to pull out my hair and feed it to you. Why? Because I know you didn't actually "laugh out loud" at what I said. It wasn't that funny. Don't fucking patronise me. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't know how to respond. You have successfully killed whatever mild conversation we were managing to keep up. I went to the effort of typing out a sentence then you basically spit in my face by responding with that shite?! Sometimes what I say isn't even remotely humorous. I don't understand why you would laugh out loud. Did you even read what I said? I told you I have chronic diarrhoea you asshole. It's not funny and I'm pretty sure your sub-par cooking caused it. In fact you seem to LOL so much I'm starting to think you have some kind of mental illness. I don't think I want to be associated with you anymore. Did you just say LOL? Jesus fucking Christ.
   

   
   

   
   

4. Don't overshare. And stop being so goddamn boring. I genuinely don't care about your life.
   

   Unless you are some kind of super-awesome-uber-celebrity I usually don't want to know about the various diseases riddling your body. No-one cares that you have swine flu. It's so last year, you should be ashamed that your weak body is even susceptible to such a has-been ailment. Reading about how your pet died makes me uncomfortable and I immediately think less of you for expressing emotion. I am not going to attend your fundraiser for dying orphan hero- babies, so stop sending me e-vites. The constant pressing of the ignore button is tiring my index finger. Have a headache? Please don't rush online to tell me about it. I could do without being told it's your sister's neighbour's birthday. The key to getting your status liked and not boring your friends to a point where they want to cut off your toes is to keep it relatable and make you look awesome. For example "I got sooooooo wasted last night." will get more likes than "I woke up covered in vomit with pieces of liver in my hair. I'm so disappointed in myself and I'm pretty sure I was raped anally". By saying "I got soooooo wasted last night" people will feel compelled to like your status as they wish to show everyone that they also like to party and are just as awesome and hardcore as you. When you say "This weekend is gonna be epic" I feel like I have to like your status so people won't think I'm actually staying indoors all weekend learning how to knit. I agreed with your statement, so for all you know I am going to drink naked upside-down at a pool party while breakdancing having a threesome and getting so drunk that people will be feeding on my blood just to be a fraction as amazing as I am.
   

   
   

   
   

   
   

If Rain Man invented superheroes while on crack...

OK, so when I’m bored I like to make cool creature hybrids and give them back-stories. You
guys are lucky I’m too stupid to study sciencey things or I probably would’ve already created these monsters in my shed and subsequently taken over the world. Alas, I’m studying businessy things so the best I can do is pretend… and recommend a good fiscal policy. I like to think these creatures would exist if God took a break from being all holy and shit and got high.
Anywho, I thought I’d post a few up because I’m supposed to be studying Economics and that’s about as fun as when you’re vomiting up your soul after a night out and the toilet seat falls on your head. Think of them as what superheroes would be like if comic book writers were like Rain Man except addicted to crack.


1. TEENAGE MUTANT PIRATE-CENTAUR-TURTLE

24th April 1986. Chernobyl. A pirate- teenager is fleeing from his abusive pirate-parents on his trusty steed with nothing more than the pirate-clothes on his back, a turtle in his pocket and a pocketful of dreams. Unluckily he happens to be come to a stop right next to the nuclear power station. It explodes. Does he die? I think the answer is obvious, yet illogical. NO. His human DNA combines with his horse and turtles DNA and transforms him into a TEENAGE MUTANT PIRATE-CENTAUR-TURTLE!! After initially rejecting his new found state and attempting to drown himself, he discovered that turtles can breathe underwater and he gave up and learnt to accept his new way of life. He has now dedicated himself to the fight against domestic violence and also, tooth decay. He hates tooth decay.


2. SWANBEECODILE

OK the idea for this one kind of came to me yesterday when I was sitting by a river and swan flew really close to my head. It more or less scared me shitless because first of all I DIDN’T KNOW THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS COULD FLY and secondly it has a wingspan that could fit an entire Chinese family on it. Swans are scary that’s a fact. I don’t care if they make heart shapes with their necks when they kiss their lovers, they are vicious bastards. Daunted by the knowledge that these beasts now had control of the air as well as the water, I began contemplating what would happen if swans had bee stingers and crocodile mouths. Heres how it happened: A majestic but evil swan falls madly in love with an ugly but noble crocodile. It was a forbidden love as their species have despised each other ever since the crocodiles accidentally ate the swans lacrosse team in the Animal Olympics of ’88. Both the swan and the crocodile knew that if their love was ever discovered, they would be ostracised from their peers and probably teased a whole bunch. This made their love-making far more passionate. When the swan suggested a threesome with their mutual bee friend, crocodile couldn’t believe his luck. Unfortunately there is no condom durable enough to house the crocodiles penis nor small enough to drape a bees member, so they had to bareback. As luck would have it, the swan was also ovulating that night and the laws of genetics decided not to exist. Hence, the first swanbeecodile was conceived. The sitcom-esque family had to raise their hybrid child in secret so Swanbeecodile grew up a loner, his only company being the laugh track that followed him everywhere. He spent his days watching crappy daytime TV which unfortunately instilled him with a deep hatred for all things human. He moves from forest to forest in highly populated areas terrorising, murdering and eating the unsuspecting human inhabitants. He also rapes people with his stinger. The bastard. He cannot be stopped.


3. ANGEL ANT

A sainted human-sized ant gifted with wings upon his arrival in heaven, he was soon banished back to earth for his disgusting eating habits. Determined to redeem himself he spends his days fighting insurance fraud and trying to find a way to look less hideous when eating.


4. The Boxing Leopardsnail
Did you know that when you eat a snail you become half snail? This leopard didn’t. Neither do the French. After turning half snail the leopard decided to take up boxing, hoping his constant wearing of the red boxing glove would detract attention from the massive shell now residing on his back and his overall slimy appearance. Unfortunately it just adds to the ridiculousness of his existence. Everyone knows that snails shouldn’t be fast and leopards shouldn’t be slimy, no amount of boxing gloves can fix that. Luckily he can beat the crap out of anyone that dares mock him and he is also eligible to enter snail races. As you may have guessed he ALWAYS wins. When he’s not hanging out in his shell, he enjoys purring and sticking himself to walls.

Butch Lesbians Are Trying To Take Over The World!!! Damn You Justin Bieber!

Yeah, that’s right butch lesbians. I’m onto you. Your wicked plot for world domination almost went unnoticed. But I saw right through your fantastic yet diabolical ploy as soon as I set my eyes on your leader: Justin Bieber. Or should I say Justine Bieber?! For the past few months I’ve been tracing all butch lesbian internet traffic and have had spies at every lesbian hang-out in the world, from Ellen Degeneres show tapings to various field hockey games. After sifting through the internet traffic (Jeez you guys watch a lot of Monster Garage online), I finally uncovered their genius scheme to conquer the world. It seems your biceps weren’t the only muscles ye were exercising during all those hours spent weightlifting in the
gym, for not only do butch lesbian have the appearance of men, but it seems they also have the brains of men. They, like any other man, want… no, need power. Beneath all the flannel and unshaven body parts the lesbians were hiding something. Something so crazy, so evil that it just might work. If it wasn’t for me, the lesbians would have all the beer hats and cargo shorts in the palm of their masculine hands. Below are the detailed plans of how the bastards almost took over the world.
Operation Tween Takeover:

• The lesbians sought to gain control of the world’s most powerful weapon: the tween.
• A predatory species that can devour anything in its path, the tween is a formidable foe.
• Driven by sheer obsession and consumerism they don’t appear to have any notable brainpower or, in fact, souls.
• Seeking to harness this power and use it for their own lesbian bidding the muff divers searched far and wide for the perfect twat bandit until they found Justine… Justine Bieber.
• Hot property on the butch lesbian market, 47 year old Justine was so far gone down the path to self-induced masculinity that her appearance was just ambiguous enough that she could pass for a 15 year teenage boy.
• When she stopped taking her testosterone pill’s her voice returned to a somewhat feminine state and she was ready to take the pop world by storm.
• After suppressing her tiny lesbian breasticles with duct tape taken from one of her lesbian friends many toolboxes and using make up to cover up her many butch tattoo’s she made her debut as Justin and quickly began forming a rabid tween army.
• However I spotted the many tell-tale signs and saw through her disguise.


• Soon the lesbians will be able to overthrow the world’s governments and get all the free sporting equipment, protein shakes, meatball sub’s, AC/DC CD’s and Caterpillar boots they want. No men’s department store will be safe!

Plan of Action:
To quell this imminent onslaught we must act quickly. We must take down all the butch lesbians before they dispatch their tween army. First we must expose Justine for who she actually is, which would totally compromise the tween army. She can be exposed by simply seducing her with a hot prostitute who will take photographs of Justine’s minge while they are getting down and dirty and release them to the press.

The butch lesbians must also be taken down to prevent another attempt at world domination. Luckily I have concocted a plan. If it any point of this plan’s execution you find yourself in a physical confrontation with a butch lesbian then you have three options.
1) Play dead, it may fool them!
2) Aim a punch at their oversized Adam’s apple. Its their weakest point.
3) Throw soap water at them. The legend says that they should melt upon contact with it.


The Plan:
We must first cut off their supply of testosterone tablets and close all women friendly gyms. This will weaken them significantly, exposing them to their much suppressed female emotions and hopefully causing them to menstruate again. We will then swoop in while they are weak and attack them with female hygiene products such as perfume, make up and hair spray which is like kryptonite to them. Makeovers complete, they will have lost their butch identities. Without their testosterone and excessive exercising their grossly abnormal muscle mass will have shrunk to nothing. They will no longer be able to partake in their daily routines such as Olympic Hammer Throwing, fixing their pick up trucks and puzzling the general public with their misleading dress sense. They will be broken and we will have won. Sure, we won’t be able to the endlessly enjoyable “Is that a man or a woman?” game anymore but it will be worth it

Blogging 2.0 –Be Funny… or Die. Like Dead Babies.

Anyone super-cool knows that blogging is sooooooooo last decade... but I smell a comeback, and it smells like funny. I’m sure by now everyone has read this piece of blog-shaped amazingness. Allie Brosh is the Pope of blogging with her hilarity sodomizing me into submission like I’m an altar boy on the cusp of puberty and inspiring me to set up my own blog. I’m not even going to try and attempt to be as coma-inducingly funny as her but hopefully my blog won’t be a shit-filled, cancer-riddled depression-sack of feeble attempts at humour either.

I haven’t decided how wonderful my blog shall be yet. I don’t want it to be bad. Anything that isn’t bad is my objective. I have a habit of partaking in mindnumbingly long expletive-filled rants about the most minute of things so you can probably expect a few of them to pop up now and then. My sense of humour has been affectionately been referred to as “controversial” so anyone that’s all hardcore about “equality”, “feminism”, “anti-semitism” and all that jazz then get over it, its just a phase you may be offended so you might want to stop reading. Also if you are one of those new aged hippies that’s all “Argh I hate racism, its all bad and junk” then you should probably stop reading now as well. Are you squeamish? Then you should also GTFO. Still here? JEWFILLED-SECONDHAND-TAMPON-SOAKED-IN-A-WORKING-WOMANS-BLOOD-WHO-RECIEVES-LESS-PAY-THAN-HER-MALE-COUNTERPART-AND-SHE-IS-ALSO-BLACK-SO-ITS-NOW-A-RACIAL-ISSUE-AS-WELL-AS-AN-EQUALITY-ONE.

OK I didn’t even try to be racist or disgusting in that one. Seriously, my humour is sick. I frequently mock the disabled. I even disgust myself sometimes.. when my retina’s aren’t being burnt to a crisp by my hunky yet approachable good looks, that is. This one time my friend and I spent an hour reading dead baby jokes. It fucked me up. I couldn’t stop reading them, then I couldn’t stop laughing. It was uncontrollable. Then the laughter died, along with a little portion of my now-blackened soul. I think I started shaking then. That was probably the souls of dead babies eating my happy genes, gnawing at my normal people parts and replacing them with cynicism and twisted humour, like only dead babies can. I felt a bit empty inside then like you know that feeling get when you buy non-free range chicken. When you first found out about the living conditions of some these chickens you feel disgusted and outraged and promise yourself you will only eat free range from now on. But then in the shop you compare the prices and think “OMG I can’t afford to give genorous sized portions to my dinner guests at THOSE chicken-friendly prices!”. You quickly erect a mental block against the images of the poor cooped up lickle chicklets and fantasise about the delectable chicken based dish you have planned. Your dinner party wil be a success, that’s all that matters. You crave the acceptance of your peers. Now everytime you think about non-free range chicken you are no longer outraged, that petition you signed online swearing to boycott non-free range products becomes meaningless. You aren’t happy about not buying free range chicken, deep down if you force youself to be honest about it, you are disgusted with yourself… but now mostly, you just feel empty. You feel nothing when you purchase that cheap-ass chicken. So yeah that feeling.

Basically I probably represent 73% of the reasons that the internet should be euthanised. As you can see, I’m new to this oh-so-thrilling blogging thingamajig. I hope someone actually reads this, I’ll be annoyed if I wasted my precious dead-baby-joke-reading time. There's not that many other blogs out there for me to compete with anyway,right?

What?! Oh shit. I'm screwed.