Sunday, December 14, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Years ago, "FTW" used to have a very negative meaning: "f**k the world". This was a term commonly used by social rebels, anarchists and anti-authoritarian types to express frustration with modern society."
This is exactly what I thought it did stand for. Oh.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
This took me FOREVER to find my favourite one. I find it kinda amusing that the words 'shit', 'Lucy' 'like' and 'seriously' pop up most frequently. Haw-haw, I have no vocabulary! Kinda amusing, not hugely so. I'm not completely dense, despite repeated evidence to the contrary.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
PHONE RINGS: Rrrrring! Blip-whirr-click!
LUCY: Bleurg. Hello?
MARIE: Are you asleep?
LUCY: I was trying to...
M: Well, it's five o'clock, you really shouldn't be.
L: Sigh. I'm terribly tired. I was dreaming...of facebook.
M: Good grief.
L: Yeah. Don't tell anyone.
M: Good night?
L: Very much so. Possibly still drunk.
M: Where is Mags? She's not answering any of her phones.
L: She's probably asleep too, if she knows whats good for her. Also her house has ridiculously bad coverage.
L: Why did you ring me looking for Mags? I'm not her minder.
M: You were my next choice.
L: I'm flattered.
[LUCY coughs loudly and at length]
M: That's attractive.
L: Thank you. I was saving it for ya. Where are you, standing in the rain? I can hear water noises.
M: The bath.
L: Ah, dude! The bath! Stop fecking ringing me from the bathroom, it's starting to make me uncomfortable.
M: I am very comfortable.
L: I don't doubt it.
M: So...tell me stuff.
L: I couldn't be bothered.
M: I'll tell you stuff so. We did the guest list.
M: My wedding? Like, hello?
L: Seriously? It's in two years dude, you surely won't like the same people in two years as you like now.
M: Yes I will! Anyway, mine comes to 150, and Aled's got 60.
L: Am I invited?
M: Like, duh.
L: On which list? Can I be on both?
L: And get two dinners and two chairs? That would be deadly.
M: You'll get no dinner and no chair if you're not careful.
L: Well! That's a lot of people! You don't have 150 friends!
M: Yes I do, and anyway, that's people's 'plus one's aswell.
L: Fuuuuck. Do I get a plus one?
M: Of course!
L: Fuck you. Where am I going to find a plus one? The Internet?
M: Londis Corner?
L: Shit shit shit. Will Sally do? Shit shit shit.
M: Ah now. Dial it down, it's in two years.
L: You're saying there's a possibility I might meet and speak to a member of the opposite sex in the next two years?
M: Of course!
L: You're hopeful.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Charlotte Bronte, The Professor (Ch. 22)
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Today, powered only by the shameful thrust of my hangover and litres of toothpaste, I half slumped, half drifted through the day, surrounded by goons and fools, badgering me about the various hundred things wrong with their library experience. For a solid hour, I walked around twenty-five PCs and typed the same password in to them all repeatedly. Futile you may say, and I'd have to agree with you. The public saw it differently though and insisted I keep trying to establish a relationship with the non-responsive Internet. 'But why is it broken?' they sputtered annoyingly, as if I knew the answer. To anything. Ever.
Let me tell you straight off: on a recce of personal days of excellence, today was a write-off. I rocked and I rolled, pointing out the fabulous signage (created by yours truly) explaining the fuck-up in the whole Internet exchange, and finding bizarre, non-existent books without laughing('Pictures of houses of Georgian style, but not actual Georgian houses that were built in a Georgian era nor actual pictures, per say, just an idea because I want to draw my daughter a picture. No no, that will not do: do you not have a book on 'So you want to draw your daughter a picture...?' No??') while still pretending to care about the needs of others. I know. Sometimes I exhaust myself with my selflessness. But the stress! I can't tell you. It was horrendous. I was LITERALLY counting the hours until I could have a vodka. So there I was, serving the public and then... Then- all outta nowhere- a plaintive violin starts up from beneath me and suddenly FLASH FLASH FLASH
Did you feel death over your pale shoulder near the end of the last paragraph? Because, by God, I did. 'Woah', I said to Yvonne, who chose that time to wander the room: I placed my hands palm down on the desk and looked about wildly. 'Did you see that too or did the world just end?'
Yvonne stopped dead and stared at me. She looked at the ceiling, quite seriously. Then she considered the walls, the floor, the windows. 'No' she said, vehemently. 'No, I don't think so.' I checked my pulse, quite seriously. 'Nah,' I said, 'I think we're okay for now.'
Holy cow, but. Turns out it was an exhibition launch two floors down. The plaintive sawing of death was actually the sound of a pretentious pre-exhibition strum; the flashing lights merely the lights of our esteemed local press taking rabid photos.
All the same, I think you can understand why I was perturbed.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
It's called kensmith.ie, a veritable paradise for all you eclectic boat & art lovers out there. There you can paddle about in all your art-loving glory, doing your arty...things. In addition to painting pictures, our pal Ken enjoys building fabulous websites like this in his spare time. I know what you're going to say: too much spare time. I don't want to be a bitch or anything, but Ken is clearly missing some of the essential criteria for website creation, ie. funny video clips, drunken photography, blatant self-love and interactive quizzes. Bebo isn't a hit for nothing, Ken.
All the same, did Van Gogh have a website? No. Did Rembrandt, Monet, Rolf Harris? NO! Did any of these people have friends as famous as me to leach internet fame off? I THINK NOT.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
It came on me, all a-sudden, like a snail attack: his face wasn't scanning the path or the street. His gaze was fixed directly across the road. At me. Does he know he's staring straight at someone? I wondered, a little less idly this time. Really I was getting a bit peeved by now. It is extremely blatant, when doing some idle people-watching, to spy continuously on one lone soul by the bus stop outside your house. Frankly, I'd call that staring. Huff. I pointedly gazed down the road, indicating my absolute disinterest in his actions.
The curtains closed. Well good, I thought; about time. Now where was my bus? A black couple walked up to the bustop and sat down fifteen feet away, inside the shelter, and began speaking French so I had a crack at eavesdropping. Was that 'Je pense'? I know what that means! God, I'm so good at French, I can practically-
The curtains were drawn wide open now and I saw, with virtually no response that the red hoodied man had opened his belt. My mind still crackled with French as I saw the buckle hanging low down his trouser leg: Oh, he's taking his belt off, I realised. I was slowly losing my place in the conversation as I noticed his hands move to the button of his fly and slowly start to peel open buttons, flattening the flap of jeans against the waistband, his hands moving towards each other. Oh, I was wrong, he's taking his cock out, I corrected myself.
Abruptly, not knowing why I did it, I stood up and walked briskly towards the couple in the shelter. They looked up when I sat down right beside them: Do we know her? These Irish, they are friendly! they thought as I shivered melodramatically and grinned: Trop froid, non?
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Not through frenzied pillow fights or anything remotely fun. No. I broke it by getting in it one night. 'Why doesn't she lay off those tuna melts and chocolate n' cheese based edibles' I hear you moan. Oh, grow up, I didn't break it with my arse. I am a sturdy and well-built young lady, 'tis true, but I am not remotely near to bed-breaking capacity yet. I blame faulty bed engineering. See that white plastic thing? That was the only support for the middle part of the bed for all these years. Bizarrely, it has stayed put but all the surrounding timbers have given up the ghost. I've been sleeping on what is essentially a precarious hammock for the past three nights because I am too lazy to do anything about it. But what can I do? Can a carpenter fix it? Do carpenters even exist in these fearsome recessive times? Can I stack things under it to act as a support? But what? Will stacks of books and old magazines do as they are the only things I have to hand? Shall I abandon the frame and turn Japanese, inviting visitors to lounge on my futon with me?
Should I (horrors!) buy a new bed?!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
I was mislead about my holiday; I thought it was your typical French getaway, occasional swims and forays into local villages the only things to punctuate long spells of sunbathing, reading and lazing in hammocks. In fact it was a working holiday, and I was regularly spun from my book-reading, hammock-snoozing daze to sweep, dust, weed the garden and skim the pool.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
On most occasions I launch into a lengthy explanation: 'Well, it's not that simple to explain. You see the vulva is...' and ten minutes later she goes 'Oh. Right. Well why didn't you just say so. You do go on a bit, don't you.' I am a futile professor with an inattentive class.
Most recently these questions have veered off into 'If you are travelling at night with a wind speed of 30 knots and air temperature is clearing 260 degrees, Kelvin, and a horse-drawn vehicle signals that you insulted a member of their family, into what lane should you change and how many millimeters should you be from the moon? And oh, wait you're in Florida. And it's a Tuesday. Answer all applicable'. The Driver Theory Test, it's gotten ridiculous. Back in my day, it was tricky enough for me to fail it first time round but that was when the hardest question was 'If a pedestrian crosses in front of your vehicle (when it is in motion) should you a) run him down or b) not.' Nowadays you have to answer loads of maths-y junk and know the correct type of lantern you should carry if escorting a party of boy scouts from the scene of an accident and how you should alert a vehicle travelling to your rear that you are a gemini. While juggling.
'Driving is not complicated', I have to point out to her as I manoeuvre gracefully round a traffic island, one hand manipulating the radio, the other hand lighting a cigarette, the other hand painting my toenails. 'It's about feeling at one with your car, knowing it's limitations, it's hopes and dreams.'
'Are you still drunk?'
'Whup! Didn't you see that speed bump?'
'It was a secret one. Those buggers will creep up on ya. First lesson: look out for pot holes.'
'Watch-! And pedestrians?!'
'Well, only at crossings. The rest of the time they're on their own. Second lesson: Keep your eyes on the footpath.'
'Don't you mean the road?'
'No! Who am I gonna see to honk at on the road? Watch out for the footpath and see if there's anyone I know walking along it and we can stop and talk to them.'
'Right. Never mind, I'll just use the book.'
'Lesson three: You don't need to go down a gear if you're going around a corner, you just to need to speed up so you don't conk the engine.'
'Shut up. Even I know that's wrong.'
'Lesson Four: When driving in high heels, one should- oh fuck, cops!'
Friday, August 22, 2008
'No, no bread. Did you not see the wheat crops this year? Black!'
Why she would assume I knew the condition of wheat crops, I don't know, but there you have it. What a strange after-work life she must imagine I have, popping my head over silos and trailers to check on the condition of crops. Maybe that's what she does, cycling round the countryside and observing tillage. I have better things to do, thank you very much.
No matter. What Mary does on her own time is up to her. What counts here is that wheat is involved in the production of bread (I know! Who knew?!) and I live almost entirely on bread. Seriously. My diet is made up of about 75% bread-based products (ie. 'Les Sandwiches'), a fearsome chunk in these breadless times. The other 25% is derived from tobacco and caffeinated goods, which are rumoured not to have the best dietary heft. What will I eat?!
Thursday, August 07, 2008
- Am alcoholic now (Now?, you say)
- Planes suck
- Cork must be empty as entire population over here
- Timezones suck
- My sister is a selfish dork
- 'Frisco ROCKS!
PS: Only on blogger because am killing time while Mags is beboing EVERYONE SHE KNOWS saying 'SFran is deadly! Not married yet! Fingers crossed!'
Friday, August 01, 2008
Wikipedia doesn't know: 'It is still highly debated what exactly the defining characteristics of this sub genre are'. How utterly shaming, to be defined as something unknowable and only distinguishable as opposite to something else.
I'll admit right now I like to use the anti- tag for anyone who offends my delicate sensibilities by opposing any of my principles as being 'the anti-Lucy'. What are these principles? So far it seems they are 1) anything can be made better by having a drink, 2) Reading on buses is OK with me and 3) Amanda Brunker is an idiot. I'm only a wee one though, I'm sure to have a few more in time. Anti-folk now, they're in trouble.
I read in a magazine that record companies made up 'World Music' to push non-English language bands they wanted to promote, and to give music shops a name to house this new section. 'Ethnic Music', 'Earth Music' and 'Racial Beats' were all dismissed as being too offensive. I shit you not. I think I will rename Anti-Folk: 'Hipster jazz' is okay; 'Young Dudes playing Old' is better. I infinitely prefer 'Underused-Arts-Educations-and-a-tambourine Music' though. What feel you on this important topic?
What am I doing here? I should be packing my swimsuits and sparkly dresses: guess where I'm going next week!
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I think I miss my sister. Either that or I have smugglers remorse.
PS: I didn't buy Cosmo, I stole it! From the library, which you may not count as stealing but I DO.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
In other news, Lorretta needs a class in correct photo-framing techniques, and the RDS concert staff are very prone to letting a little bit of power go to their heads. You need to tone down the attitude, people! What is this, like, a Big Brother, Orwellian concert? Are we attending a over-protective nanny-concert, where simple folk like you and I (more I than you, I'll admit) are prohibited from smoking cigarettes in the stands and dancing in the aisles? I ask you, what next?? No singing in the stands? No-shockhorror!- drinking in the stands?? THIS MADNESS MUST STOP!
Sunday, April 27, 2008
I guess I'm dealing with laymen here so I won't dress it up in fancy terms that us scientists like to use. You guys know about normal drunkeness, right? You have a few drinks and start feeling loads happier than you did before you had a few drinks and suddenly you're hugging your best friend from junior infants and telling everyone how beautiful they are. Yeah, you guys get it.
Now, Dinner Drunk is a cousin of regular-style drunk where you pretend to be all fancy and put on your nice dress and eat fancy food that some other people cooked for you. Because you're eating your fancy food and pretending to be all middle-class and shit, you disregard the numerous bottles of wine you toss down, 'cos wine is all fancy and doesn't count as real booze. You have fancy conversations with your dinner companions about increasingly abstract topics and generally believe that the problems of the world are being polished off along with your rhubarb crumble.
You pay the bill, over-generously tip your waitress and stumble outside to procure yourself a 'real' drink. HALT, soldier! This is where the problems start. Dinner Drunk is a curious phenomenon whereby the participant feels alright because of all the shiny cutlery-ed trappings of dinner when in fact he or she is in the same state as your average wino at 9am on a Saturday morning: nicely juiced up and thirsty for more.
Woe! you shriek, I knows it! I have known the lure of clean crystal and fabric napkins also! Woe begone, say I: there is hope. Friends, am I #1 in fictional facebook leagues for nothing? Nay! Here comes your solace: Dinner Drunk, because of it's close ties with the dining-out bourgeoisie, is one of the most respectable kinds of drunk there is! It totally out ranks Cider Drunk and Niteclub Drunk, and is only pipped to the title of The Best Drunk, Ever by Wedding Drunk which, if I can make a sporting comparison for the common man here, is the Chelsea of Drunk: exquisitely put-together and fearfully unbeatable. Wait, what?
Dinner Drunk is how middle-aged depression can be assuaged and a non-existent social life overcome. Dinner Drunk, like Rich Drunk, totally doesn't count and you can't be held responsible for anything that occurs. In fact, since Dinner Drunk actively supports our catering staff during this critical financial clench and eating in snazzy restaurants makes a dining drunk feel super-posh and intellectual, you might say that he or she is in fact behaving as any fine, upstanding citizen should.
So there you have it: information, explanation, debate. Next week: Dewey numbers!
Monday, April 21, 2008
Ins. Hunt said Mr O’Brien claimed that he had gone for a drive on Sunday October 1 after arguing with his wife the previous night when he caught her kissing a mutual friend.He said he drove his own car to Tramore and sat in it reading the Sunday papers and listening to the radio.
Yes, Tramore is the prime alibi for murder suspects. Yes, we are proud of this fact. We promote newspaper-reading and radio listening amongst our best-loved tourist attractions, that and conviction-dodging. Why yes, you can come visit! No, we can't promise you won't be spotted on CCTV near the spot your wife's body was found at the exact time you claim to have spent a pleasurable afternoon reading newspapers in your car in lovely Tramore. We're not that good.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
If that's too mean, here's another good one: Most databases allow you to insert a note field in the patron's record where you can write messages to alert other workers if a patron was rude to you, lied to you, smelled like urine, etc. The purpose of this field is to keep track of a patron who isn't paying fines or has some sort of other repeating offense, but that doesn't mean you can't have a little fun with it. So, find a loyal friend who has a library card and put a note in his account that says something like, "If patron is wearing a red T-shirt and a Disney hat, he may try to kill you. If he asks you how many books he can check out, he is about to go crazy. Alert police immediately." Give your friend a red shirt and a Disney hat, tell him to go into the library, check out a book, and ask how many books he can check out. When the police arrive, tell him it was just a joke.
Other fun jokes I just made up include sticking a security strip inside someone's coat, and telling someone the Dewey Decimal system is being by shelving according to height. Heh. Me so funny. If only I had friends to appreciate my funny...
Monday, February 25, 2008
L'histoire de la table
Another time, Sinead and the table drank all the vodka.
Then this other time, Lucy was cross with the table. Both parties have tried to forget the incident but local folklore claims it was something to do with how the table got Lucy so drunk and fat-looking.
They got over it, and to this day Lucy enjoys hanging out with the table and having a beer.
*Research has proven that it is significantly harder to escape from somewhere if you are sitting in a chair than if you are standing up.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The crippling guilt and empathetic mortification that kept me from gracing my favourite off license with my presence for nigh-on six weeks is all over! It's made like a tree and fucked off! Vamoosed! Hopped a train for the west! What does that mean? I don't fucking know, I just write this stuff, it's up to my biographer to figure it all out!* You see, I encountered my favourite off-license employee, we'll call her Amy, out in a popular local nightspot over the Christmas holidays and, all buoyed up on the joy and festive guff that trickles from other people being around and hugging one indiscriminately, I insisted that she join me in a wee dram. Of tequila. The aforementioned fave off-license employee claimed excessive inebriation but I waved this off as feminine coquetry. Why I thought this is anyone's guess. We ordered shots, received shots; ladies and gents, we shot.
And then she vommed all over me. Exuberantly. One might say, explosively. Then she started to cry and scarpered swiftly. So, because I am a lady of class and discretion, I have avoided her ever since. Until tonight, when my newfound fondness for making smoothies at all hours sped me to her place of work to purchase tinned pineapple. I crossed my fingers, toes and legs (I'd had two cans of Fanta before setting out) and hoped against hope that she had been fired. For her sake, you understand. I was horrified for her. Nobody minds a bit of vomit on them, especially if one deserves and probably induced it but, my God! The humiliation that girl must have suffered, night after night, concerned for my take on the situation.
So. Short story long, I mustered my troops and plopped my pineapple and six pack of Fanta down on the counter. 'Ooh, Amy, you got your hair did!' I exclaimed. Yes, my lips uttered trite inanities but my eyes beseeched: I forgive you, little sparrow. Now, forgive yourself. It was enough. We are firm friends once more. Relieved? Dude, I nearly puked!
*Yeah, by the way, you need to get cracking on that, Mr Biographer. I have six shoeboxes of juvenelia sitting around here, just waiting for you to unearth my precocious intellect!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
That doesn't make sense? Well, screw you, I've got a pension now. And maternity benefit should the unexpected happen. Oh, if only the unexpected would happen...