We Irish love a moan.  If we’re not moaning we’re not happy and even though we may sound unhappy whilst moaning, trust me, we’re loving it.  When we’ve nothing to moan about, we make stuff up to moan about.

I’m a little late to this, considering that the Blog Awards happened on Saturday and others have already been wasting their day going on about it.

Irish blogging is dead!

Some of the winners didn’t deserve to win!

The whole thing is a farce!

The losers are just bitter!

Some may be quotes from other blogs, or just paraphrased because I’m too lazy to copy and paste, but the general feeling is there.

Why do people care?

Sure it’s nice to get a bit of recognition.  I was thrilled to see that I’d been nominated and shortlisted to begin with, it just told me that at least 1 person is still reading my shite, and then took the time to follow a link and put me forward.

In fairness I was never going to win though.  Why would I?  It’s childish and unnecessarily crass and filthy nature wouldn’t be the best thing for a sponsor to be related to, now would it?  This little blog doesn’t garner much respect, and I’d probably be very fucking surprised if it did.  There’s only so many people who feel comfortable admitting they get a laugh from childish and unsophisticated drivel.  I’m one of them, and I understand completely that I’m not for everyone anyone.

I now my faults and where my niche lays, and it’s not with the clique of the blog awards.  Or at least that’s what some others are calling it.  Is it a clique?  Is the whole thing just a back slapping ceremony for the organiser(s) and friends?  I don’t know, I didn’t win.  I have blogger acquaintances, bloggers I correspond with through email quite a bit, but never met and even lucky enough to call one or two friends.  But I’m not part of any clique.  There seems to be an awful lot of smack talk doing the rounds.

Unfortunately it’s more Jets and Sharks than Bloods and Crips.

But I’ve never even attended the awards, so I have no way of knowing what the night is like in general.  Maybe there’s an unspoken rumble going on in a hotel function room each year and which ever camp has delivered the biggest and most flamboyant routines over the year gets into the good books of Officer Krupke.

From what I can see in my Irish blog feeds, the winners are thrilled, understandably, and the losers and supporters of losers seem to be giving out that they lost out.  Or at the very least voicing their grumps that they don’t agree with the choice of winners in general.

Anyway, I’m not moaning, just observing what I see in between writing my own filthy little smut filled corner of the world wide web.

Fuck it, I’m off to get a wank of the week ready.

Maybe I’ll campaign to get a “sad cunt who can’t get a proper blog together award”.  I might just win then.  Or at the very least it’ll give a few of the more grumpy fuckers a chance to feel included along with me.

Why come into my restaurant with a scowl on your face and complain before you’ve even sat down, give out that your starter hasn’t arrived 240 seconds after being ordered and then walk out because your mains didn’t come out immediately after you had wolfed your starter down, you fat waddling irredeemable quivering mass of clunge cheese.  Why?

What the fuck is Ocean Colour Scene doing on my iPod?

I need another tyre on my car?  That’s straight from the school of Irish road engineering that puts the roundabout at the center of all answers to all traffic problems.  Day one of road planning school -

“Hey students, got a junction that you can’t put traffic lights at, or even just a simple cross junction?  Use a roundabout!”

“Thanks teacher”

“You’re welcome, grab your diploma on the way out”

“Noice”

Cunts.

I want to do a course in online marketing and PR.  Might be helpful and whatever else.  Bit of research.  Two week course = €1800?  I might spring for a psychology course to try to understand how two weeks work amounts to that amount of money.  Prostitutes don’t make that much and I’d feel a lot less dirty and a lot more satisfied if I handed that kind of dough to a woman for a two week stint of debauchery with a strap on carefully used instead of feeling that I’d been raped with one.

Why does every video game have more cinematic sequences than playable bits?  I just want to shoot shit, not look at some programmer’s attempt to break into film making with a narrative.  I just want to shoot shit.

Flight of the Conchords tickets sold out in 22 seconds?  What the cunt are they doing?  Are they a comedy act or a bukkake show with Charlotte Church and Isla Fisher as the receptacles?  22 seconds my left man berry.

If I see one more Windows 7 ad where the wankstains stare into the camera and blather about all the things you can do with the latest money making shite pile I’ll vomit up my appendix.

There is absolutely no excuse for bad personal hygiene in this day and age.  So stop stinking up my oxygen, you crusty looking walking balloon of toe jam.  You know who you are.

Why does Ray D’Arcy sound like the slow kid at the back of the class when he reads out letters and texts?  Surely his Trinity days and years of broadcasting would have taught him how to read out loud.

I’ll probably never be the meat in an Emma Bunton and Joss Stone sandwich.  Makes me sad.

Petrol is so expensive I have a team of scientists working on powering my car on cocaine.  By the time they’ve finished it’ll be cheaper than the option of handing over your soul to Topaz and scrotum face Lenihan.  Can’t wait.

Tired, need a nap.

Ever heard of it?

I’ll bet one of you dirty fuckers has.

Spectrophilia is the fetish you’ll have if you desire to have sex with a ghost.  Funnily enough I can’t seem to find any examples of ghost porn on the internet, and if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s finding porn.

I wonder if it stops at ghosts, or if it goes further onto all things supernatural.

Fancy gobbling a gobblin?

Fucking a Faery?

Ploughing a Pixie?  If it was like the picture of Pixie Lott I saw in hot pants the other day, then fuck yeah.

How about giving a Leprechaun a Lumpkin?

It just goes to show that people will get off to anything.  Which is why I never get discouraged when I sit in front of my webcam pants-less and tugging away when trawling for net sluts.  Sooner or later I’ll have to cum come across a hot red head with her lesbian twin sister who gets off on seeing a fat, hairy dude on his third consecutive wank.

It can’t be that hard to conceive when you hear about people getting their jollies off of ghosties.  I can still do the old trick of sitting on my hand until it falls asleep, then having a wank that feels like it’s someone else doing it.  If I tell myself a ghost story while I wait for my hand to numb up, I could always imagine it was a ghost whacking me off.

I have to do something, I’m starting to find the supernatural a turn on myself lately.

Remember the crucifix masturbation scene in The Exorcist?  Just thinking about it now is getting me longer and harder than a Stephen Hawking long division quiz.

You may think I’m sick, but you should see the size of the butt plug covered in ectoplasm that just floated in to my bedroom.

Talk about bumping in the night.

I’ve just been shortlisted for a blog award!

Best Humour, thank you very much – sponsored by Maximise.

I know the Irish blogosphere will be awash with people going on about their being on the shortlists, but it’s never happened to me before.

Taking part and nominations mean shit people, I want the win.

Honesty is the best policy after all.

And if I win, I’ll be giving the best self centered acceptance speech around.

If I don’t win I’ll throw a bigger strop than Bill Murray and Eddie Murphy combined when they lost out at the Oscars.

Be warned.

Thanks though.

Normal transmission will resume shortly.

Holy baby Jesus, but it’s cold these days.  Well in the last few days it’s been ok, but before that my little balls have been safely nestled on the other side of my belly button to escape the cold.

Shouldn’t be complaining really as I shouldn’t be expecting it to be any thing other than fecking Baltic.  A friend of mine just came back from Australia.  She told me that one day she took a walk to the post office in 47 degrees.  47 degrees!

You know what temperature it is while I’m writing this?  Minus 6.  It feels colder though up here in the dark lonely corner of the country that I’m in.  It’s so cold that there’s a polar bear at my front door asking if there’s any room at the inn.  There’s not.  I don’t trust polar bears.  You know the sort.  They say they just want to warm themselves up and promise not to take up much room.  Before you know it, they’re wrapped up in all your blankets and have the Calor gas heater on 3 bars.  In a recession!

They drink all your cocoa and moan that you don’t have any marshmallows for it.  I ask you.  Marshmallows.  How many marshmallows do you reckon he comes across in the North Pole, or the South Pole or wherever he’s from?  My guess is not too many.

It’s not long either before he asks to use your phone and he calls his mates to complain about the conditions at your place.  He thinks you’re not listening in, but you can’t help it because Polar bears are well known for their loud telephone voices.

“YEAH, IT’S TERRIBLE HERE.  THEY’VE NOT A SINGLE MARSHMALLOW TO SPEAK OF.  OH, ARE YOU SERIOUS?  HOW MANY MARSHMALLOWS DID YOU GET IN YOUR COCOA?  THAT SOUNDS CLASS, IS THERE ANY ROOM OVER WHERE YOU ARE?”

Then he’ll come back in and sneer at the cocoa going cold and remark that his mate Dave, found a nice gaff over in Belturbet and they have geansai load of marshmallows.  And mini rolls.

You’ve had enough at this stage and tell the polar bear that if he doesn’t like it he can do one.  Here you are freezing your giblets off with your Calor gas heater on one bar and your substandard cocoa and all he can do is complain?  Take him out to the garden and show him the dog.  Your loyal companion out there in his kennel.  That poor little fecker would be in his every right to take you to an animal cruelty.  His normally cheery wet nose has icicles hanging off of it and he’s wrapped up in one of those emergency tin foil blankets.

Your pooch would be highly grateful for a spot in front of your heater or your fire.  Your pooch can’t even have cocoa or hot chocolate, it’d kill him.  Never mind the marshmallows.  Your dog can’t even use the phone and he wouldn’t complain about what his mate Dave had that he hadn’t.

I don’t trust polar bears.  You know what they do to hide themselves in the arctic?  They put their paws over their noses.  Sounds like I’m making it up, but it’s brilliantly brilliant.  With their black noses hidden behind their paws, they can creep up on unsuspecting eskimoes and steal their marshmallows.

You’d get so pished off with the bear that you’d ask him what the hell he was even doing around here in the first place.

He’d look a little sheepish and declare that he had to veer off the road and ditch his sled. (What else would a polar bear be driving, a Massey?)  You’ll ask him what happened.  You’ll do anything to get rid of him even if it means overhauling his entire engine.

He’ll smile and say he blew a seal, but that won’t do.  Not at all.

You’ll begin shouting at him to demand what he’s doing in your house.  Won’t do any good though, the last you’ll see of him he’ll be raising his paw to his face.

You won’t be able to see him anymore, but you’re phone bill will tell you he’s always there.