This time of year when Ireland stands up and whores itself out for anyone who buys into the diddly aye culture that every modern Irish person shudders about.

“Look at the lovely American girl singing or reciting poetry in a bid to be called the lovliest girl in the land”

Get ta fuck.

And as if that wasn’t enough this year we have Daithí “Horse and cart of a cunt” O’Shea.

I take a lot of flack about degrading women both here and over on Boob.ie, but holy fuck sticks, how can anyone watch this “competition” and think it’s anything other than degrading?  Both to women and Ireland.

It’s worse than watching the Irish soccer team line up.  The minority of these women are actually Irish.

As I type this, the South Australia Rose is on the stage gushing to Daithí about how she’s 5th generation Irish.  That’s not Irish.

My Great Great Grand mother was Norwegian or some shit, but I’m hardly going to go knocking on their door looking for a passport or claiming that I know everything about the country and feigning patriotism.

The families of these people are even more vomit inducing.  Sitting there with glassy eyes as their daughter/sister/whatever becomes a walking advertisement for Newbridge shitebox jewellery and trying not to let their fake smile slip.

Why are you so proud?

There is only one reason that this travesty is still on the television is because it still gets the ratings.  The day the ratings fall, this will be dropped quicker than a runner’s up self esteem.

Shame on RTÉ.

Shame on the sponsors.

Shame on the contestants.

Shame on the families.

Shame on the escorts.

Sure they’ll get sticky dickies off them, but it’s too easy.

I’ve a pain in me hole with people not doing what they’re being paid to do.

This is why.

As you may or may not know I work in the aptly named Hospitality industry.  If I deliver a steak that isn’t cooked the way it was requested, it’ll be sent back.  By the more cuntish of customer, it’ll be sent back along with a mouthful of abuse.

If I don’t pick up the phone before the fourth ring, the customer then greets me with a snarky “Well thanks for finally deciding to answer the phone”.

Or if I accidentally book someone into room 212 instead of 211 I’ll be subjected to a 20 minute lecture about how it’s just not good enough and that if any other hotel had made the same mistake, they wouldn’t be presented with a bill on checkout.

So, when I go to an ATM that takes my card, my PIN and doesn’t give me the money I asked for because “an error has occurred”, I get pissed off.  I get pissed off because I haven’t gotten my own money, but the machine has taken it from my account and now it’s floating around limbo.

I get pissed off when I go to the bank and am told that it’s not their ATM so I have to go to the bank responsible.

I get even more pissed off when I go to said bank and they tell me that because I’m not their customer, I should lodge a complaint through my own bank.

I get genocidal when I get passed from window to window in the bank because “That’s not my area”.  This really grates on me because if I tried telling someone that I couldn’t wait on their table because I was a bar tender, or vice versa, I’d be on the business end of a rant.  One that tells me that I should be trained in all aspects of the business.

I get really pissed off when I’m sitting on my well earned break and a customer seeks out the staff break room to ask me for an ironing board that they didn’t need until the following day.

Turns out this cunt works in a bank.

Turns out that this cunt doesn’t work passed 5.30pm.

Turns out this cunt gets scheduled breaks for coffee and lunch.

I know this sort of cunt.  The sort of cunt who sticks a “window closed” sign up just when the queue is growing.

The sort of cunt who will insist that a little deposit slip is filled out in full despite the fact that chip and pin virtually eliminates the need for paper.

The sort of cunt who, even though just a clerk will lecture you about the dates of direct debits you have set up.

The sort of absolute walking cunt fart who will grimace and grump their way through your time at their window, but fuck a deli girl out of it for not smiling when handing over her bagel.

I wonder what would have happened if I had tried to walk around the private areas of the bank in search of a clerk for a draft that I didn’t need until the next day.

I wonder what would have happened if I had put a sign up saying “window closed” on reception, or the bar, or the restaurant or wherever.

The sort of cunts who will charge you €22.50 for going over drawn, but complain that they can’t get breakfast for free.

I’ve a massive pain in me hole and I don’t care how this sounds, but the fuckers and cunts in these banks have only got jobs because our fucking money bailed out their employers.

My employer doesn’t have the same safety net.

If we close down, the bank cunts just find another “hospitable” establishment to abuse.

I’ve a massive pain in me hole and one of these days I will actually go completely insane and bring a flame thrower to their room in place of the ironing board that they “just have to have in case someone else wants one and there isn’t enough to go around”.

I’ve such a massive pain in me hole that I’d actually take a barb wire covered dildo to my arse as a little relief.  Then squat myself into a vat of salt and vinegar.

Oh and every fucker that works in the public sector who gets a tea break after 90 minutes work is just as bad.

My father once had the notion that every person, regardless of who they are or where they’re from should spend at least 6 months either working in a bar or waiting tables.  This, in theory would show them what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a cunty cunt and thus stop their own cuntiness.

Eventually, this cunty behaviour would be eliminated.

It’s a nice notion, but I’m guessing that there are some princesses and their daddies who would rather die than let it come to that.

Get ta fuck each and every one of you non working, no respect for other cunts having, massive pain in the hole giving cunt puddles.

Been rather busy this last while.  That line seems to be a constant in the last few poor attempts to keep this here blog going, but still.  Tis the truth.

Aside from Boob.ie I’ve been asked to take part in a super secret project that will have me travelling between LA and London.  Yeah baby.

But I won’t reveal details until it’s worth talking about.

I’ve also just opened my feed reader for the first time in about 3 months.  Not as much there as I expected, so maybe I’m not the only one letting their blog slide a bit.

Onto the more filthy side of this blog that made it, and me what we are.

I have some Wanks of the week planned in the form of Emma Stone.  Jaysus, but where did she ever come from?  I would literally be her cup if she had a friend over.

Then if that wasn’t enough, I watched Mission Impossible 2 the other night and Thandie Newton was looking distinctly wankable.

And then, remember the shitty program “Dharma and Greg”  Well the only good thing about it was the chick playing Dharma, Jenna Elfman.

You may or may not have caught her new sitcom, “Accidentally on Purpose”.  It’s not bad, but not brilliant, but she’s in it and looking as wanktastic as ever.  Check it.

Aside from all of that, I’ve also discovered that in Ireland even when a sign is covered up, it’s your business to know what the speed limit is on a stretch of road 500m long that has 3 different speed limits on it.

This makes the local council, the Gardaí, the Road Safety Authority and by default, Gay Byrne a collective massive cunt.

Two penalty points and a fine because they don’t want to trim some hedges to make visible the fact that the speed limit goes from 80kpm to 50pkh and back again in less time than it takes Gary Glitter to get an erection parked outside the school gates at break time.

On the plus side, I’ve gone back to being a chef and thus have given up smoking.  Three months in new job and three weeks smoke free.  After all, when I’m not dealing with drunks and unemployed upper classes with superiority complexes there’s no need to smoke, is there?

I swear by all holy Lucifer that I’ll be back on here more often.

Probably.

I’m trying to figure out what has me in this state.

Never before have such sounds emanated from within with such enthusiasm.

It could have been the new kebab house that opened up, but I’ve tried their stuff before and it hasn’t had that affect on me before.

It could have been the curried beans on cheesy toast I had, but nothing there spells disaster to me.

Then again it could have been the raw chicken breast I licked after having if shmeared all over my nut sack because a customer had sent their meal back for the third time and I wanted some revenge.

Funnily enough they then said it was the best chicken they’d ever had, so I may be onto something.

I just don’t think my stingy ring or the toilet can take any more of it.

I had something to say.  Something to blog about and now it’s gone.

What was it?

What was it?

It was just there, oh wait!

Nope, gone again.

Someone remind me….