There’s a lot of land around the hotel I work in.

It’s an old country manor and originally had something in the region of 1,000 acres of land, most of which is either public or farm land now.  It just so happens that the owner has an agreement with the local dairy farmer to let his cows graze on any part of his land in exchange for fresh dairy stuff.  Handy, and delicious.

The thing is that because the land between the farm and the hotel isn’t fenced the cows go where they want when they want.

This means the little patch of greenery directly in front of the hotel is frequently populated by cows.  Some would like this as adding to the rural aesthetic of the venue for their wedding.  Some like it as a reminder that they’ve left the city life well and truly behind if even for just a day.

I hate it.

Those judgemental fuckers just stare at me when I’m handing out the champagne to the arriving guests.  They stare at me while they munch on mouthfuls of grass and stuff.  They stare at me without blinking, knowing that it freaks me out.  They stare at me and they judge me.  They stare at me and they mock me.

Do you know what it’s like to have a cud chewing bovine judge and mock you?  Of course you don’t.  But it happens me all the time.

I serve the guests drinks at the reception, they stare at me.

I park cars for the guests, they stare at me.

I take in the red carpet, and yes, they fucking stare at me.

It has to be the judging and the mocking.  It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I have my hand under my apron rubbing out a sneaky one while staring back at them.  Have you ever seen the nipples on a cow?

Udderly ridiculous.

Ahem.

Mail order lesbian sex cyborgs.

How hard can it be?  If they can make things like the Terminator and Stephen Hawking why can’t they just tune it up a notch, throw on some red hair and give them an appetite for minge, and my knob?  They can do things like silicone life size sex dolls and voice recognition and communication, why not combine the two?

I demand mail order lesbian sex cyborgs.

The Male period

There would be one way to put an end to the mood swings, the hormones and the eating of my biscuits if men had periods.  This would mean that we’d have found a way to cancel them out when they weren’t wanted/needed.  Maybe if women treated them the way men treated their erections.  Y’see when a man gets an erection he sticks it in something.  A sock, a jar of warm liver, the sleeping and unsuspecting friend of a girlfriend in the next room, wherever is handiest really.  So maybe next time one of you women type people gets a woman period, stick it in a sock and them cram it to the bottom of the laundry basket to get crusty.  That’s what we’d do.  Plus it won’t be such a surprise for you when you do the laundry.  That is after you’ve done the dishes.

A computer that works

I’ve mentioned the Terminator already.  You surely know the story.  Computers become self aware and evolve themselves for the sole purposes of eliminating  us, their creators from the face of the Earth.  This could never happen because people are shite are making computers and computers are shite at carrying out the simplest task without freezing and telling you that they’re searching Windows for a solution to your problem.  Know what my problem is?  You, you overpriced under made piece of shite made in the arsehole of nowhere and sold by a slimeball salesman.  That’s who.  We can though, live safe in the knowledge that a situation like the Terminator will never happen.  If it looks like it’s on the cards, just open two programs at once and what the head robot freak out and press its own CTRL+ALT+DEL.  But not before I get my lesbian cyborg.  I can’t stress that enough.

Non iron clothes

Now we all know that we can go into a shop and buy any piece of clothing with the label “Non Iron” and we think how great it will be.  We won’t have to do the tedious chore of ironing the shirt every time we want to wear one.  Instead that label is put on for shits and giggles.  Wash that shirt just once, leave it on a hanger to help out the non iron process but when you put it on you’ll look like you rolled around the inside of Twink’s vergina and then into an airing cupboard.  Then of course you give in and take the ironing board out and get cracking, but it laughs in the face of it and refuses to unwrinkled.  I’m sick of looking like a walking scrotum every time I don’t iron and non iron shirt.  Oh and while I’m at it, why does black fluff stick to a white jumper and white fluff to a black jumper?  Get ta fuck you fluffy cunts.

Time travel

Right so, the basics.  Time travel would only be possible if we could travel faster than the speed of light.  We could only travel at the speed of light if we had an energy source that would burn long enough to bring the vessel (probably a spaceship) to the speed of light and beyond and keep it at that speed long enough to travel through time.  Since we don’t have a fuel that would do that, we’re pretty fucked, no matter what Marty McFly tells us.  That’s my understanding of it anyway.  I’m sick of not knowing what’s going to happen and tired to piss of knowing what’s already happened.  I want to travel through time.  So get to fucking inventing a long burning fuel that will carry us through time.  It’s mainly for the Lotto numbers and to know when each member of Fianna Fáil is going to die so I can organise a free concert at the time and place of it.  Oh and to know when Emma Bunton orders her first lesbian sex cyborg and gets it on family style.

What do you wish they’d invent?

Had an interview today.

I work part time in a hotel already, but it’s just weekends, which leaves me free mid week to sit on my hole.  At this stage I’ve given in to the fact that at least I have something.  But I got a phone call last week to say that I had made it through the final 18,000 applicants for an interview.

All was going well, I wore a suit and polished my shoes.  I haven’t trimmed my beard in months so I looked like a hobo had just changed in a Dunnes fitting room and left without paying.  I was charming and funny without seeming desperate.

The job was for a botanist.

Now I don’t know that first thing about botans, but when Jobs.ie sends you links to jobs they think you’d be interested in, you just apply for it.  Plus when the welfare officer sees your rejection letters, he can’t say I didn’t at least try.

With the interview a success, the boss offered me the chance for a trial day to see how I got on.  I of course jumped at the chance, so off we went to the garden center.  I was a bit confused but I didn’t want to let on that I hadn’t a clue what we were doing here, so I just let him talk.

He explained that my job would be to look after the plants, trees, shrubs, flowers etc and I just nodded and smiled politely.

He went on to say that I would be the vessel for the life force of all the plants, he got a bit heavy for my liking.  He was telling me that plants were just like people and needed love.  That they had their own personalities and had their own favourite music, foods, hobbies.  Then he said that he can talk to the plants.  Not just like people talk to them, but full blown conversations.  He’s not talking to the tulips though, they’re pansies.  Or something.

It was when he took me to the green house to show me the best spot to have some alone time with the ferns that I had to leave.

There ain’t no way I’m working for a sap like that.

My laptop has officially died.  First I had the hard drive replaced a few months back as the original one had a bit of a bitch fit and collapsed.

On Friday night, The Jelly Monster was using the lap top for masturbating and porn usage and the whole thing couldn’t take the shemales and midgets and shemale midgets that she was diddling to so it gave up.  It gave up among messages of missing file information and boot discs needed, so I took it to the repair man.

He told me I needed another hard drive, so I sighed and gave him the go ahead.

He rang me an hour later to say that my motherboard had fried every hard drive he put into it.  The cost of a new motherboard and new hard drive and to recover the data from my old hard drive and labour would have been madness for an old machine.  So I told him to scrap the piece of Acer/HP/Toshiba mongrel shite that he had in front of him and I’m off to buy a brand spanky new machine.

Before I go anywhere to haggle and give salesmen headaches, I’m going to tell them to suck it in advance.

If something goes wrong, I will come for you.

If it doesn’t have everything you tell me it has in the shop, I will find you.

If I show it off to people and they laugh because it’s obsolete as you’ve sold me shite that no one else would buy, I will hunt you down like a dog, rip your fucking eyes out and teabag the sockets.

See you all on the other side.

You know who I’ve been firing off knuckle children to this week?

Anna Faris.

Here she is, just absolutely wanktastic.

Ok, so she looks like she’s smiling politely at the intensely offensive gas assault I forced out during grace at her B list Hollywood dinner party, but she gets better.

Look at her there in all her ripped dress and champagne with that hazy far away look in her eye.  Reminds me of the time I kidnapped this moderately popular actress and despite her being helpless under the cocktail of internet ordered drugs, I ripped her dress to make it look like she did it in a frenzy of cock lust because she was lusting after my cock and then I took pictures of her on a bed next to a champagne bottle so that if things were to go wrong and I had to answer questions the next morning about the corpse that my penis was still inside that it would look like an overdose of cock lust and champagne.  Good times.

See that?

She should be looking at the camera, but instead she’s gazing off at me.  I’m at the barbecue cooking up one of her favourite sausages.  By that I mean I’m in nothing but a “Suck the cook” wipe clean apron while I wrap a lukewarm rib eye steak around my member as I stroke it and mouth the words “you’re next”.  Then I’ll make a joke about wanting to stick my hot dog in her bun and we’ll laugh like we’ve just wise cracked having just solved a Scooby Doo mystery.

Now she’s being coy and pretending that she’s misplaced all her clothes and has nothing to wear only that strategically placed bed sheet.  More fool her though.  Last time she played coy and accidentally naked at the same time she woke up in a hotel room in Singapore with me and her ladyboy lookalike.  The funny thing was that no matter how we tried to explain it, we just couldn’t explain that weird taste in her mouth.

This final picture, this picture.

Holy.  Fuck.  On.  A.  Stick.

This investment in screen wipes is just about to pay for itself.