Theirry Henry is not deserving of a re-write with actual jokes.

November 19, 2009

Click for some still image cheating

Raped. Ravaged. Given the slippery finger in the dark. Bent over and inspected. An unrequested sexual examination. An attack upon our persons. A dwarf having sex with anyone. Cunted. A dog humping your bare leg. An unwanted carrot in the ass. A wanted carrot in the ass. A carrot thrown to anyone who has a large distaste for carrots.
A spider in your mouth. A spider in your pants. A millipede up your nose. Hair in your bumhole. Punch in the face. Poke in the retina. Being felt up by your granddad. Three weeks in the bog. Bertie Ahern. A hot shit after a night on the beer. A hot shit after 2 nights on the beer. A hot shit after a week on the beer and subsisting solely on curries.
Waking up and finding Paul McShane in your bed. Airport security looking for drugs. Dropping the soap. Sucking cock for smack. Smack in the cock. Waking up with a shaven eyebrow. Wax in the ass. Wax on the ass. Wax on the front side of your ass. My ass. Your ass. Our ass.

Listening to Enya. Entering a room, forgetting why you entered so you leave, remembering again so you go back then, and then being raped. A paper-cut between your finger. A paper-cut between your eyelids.
Celebrity Love Island. Kilkenny winning again. Kerry winning again. Exposé.

The Hand of Back. The Hand of God. And now The Hand of that Bastarding Shit.


PA Kennedy reviews Eddie Rockets in Cork

October 27, 2009

[Note: If taken out of context of the below links, this post could be either awesome or horrible. So before or after, it’s up to you. Or not at all. I just wrote the damn thing about it, you bastards.

But I’d recommend reading AA Gills article at some point, if only to show to you how a 1500 word restaurant review can contain 500 words of review and 1000 words about killing primates.]

All this furore today on Twitter about AA Gills review where he discreetly mentions killing a baboon has somewhat overshadowed my own review of Eddie Rockets in Cork. And I’m not happy about it.

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City Centre 97-98 South Main Street, Cork City
Facilities: baby-chairs, wheelchair acccess, spacious dining booths suitable for celebrations, birthday parties (up to 8 people)

One Star = Shit
Various friends with No Michelin Stars

I axed a badger in Leitrim, last Tuesday, just before supper. Axed it dead. Those of you with uncontrollable bladders should close their urethras now. This article contains graphic nonsense and may kill the feeble minded and ill-bladdered. But it doesn’t contain any audio, so while it may make you have to buy new pants, it won’t make you ears rupture as you fall off your chair, with your head pustulating as the satire invades your arteries.

I was in Leitrim wearing a Zak Dingle from Emmerdale tweed cap. The sort of hat that just makes you yearn to axe stuff. I have a theory about hats. They really do maketh the axe murderer.

Zak Dingle

Graphic depiction of me in this story

Temperament and inclination to doing shit, and like, stuff, squat in a hat. Jackie Healy Rae is an obvious example, as are indie fans, sheiks and Mafioso’s. Put on a wooly hat and you are possessed. Magically your t shirt shrinks and you have a desire to say “The Klaxons are like, awesome.”

We could do a lot liberal social engineering by placing different headwear on different people. If swimmers had to wear scrum caps, there would be much less gratuitous record breaking. Chefs should have to wear hurling helmets, office workers should have big rubber Tom Cruise face masks, girls in pajamas should be made to wear those ha-jabs after morning. If the rugby players and hockey players wore each other’s protective headgear, it probably wouldn’t led to a very good game, but it would be bloody funny.

So I’m in Leitrim, in a tweed cap, with brooding intentions and a tractor full of axes and other blokes in tweed caps. Tadgh the farmer said: “Why don’t we axe a badger?” All shooting the shit, bobbing up and down, looking over the wheel at the dull, unexciting Connacht rocks that mostly stay stationary on the Leitrim Hills. What about a badger?

And here’s the thing: If you screw around the unexciting and mild bits of Leitrim long enough in the company of farmers with self mocking tweed caps, sooner or later you’re going to maim badger. You think you’re not, you think you’re the exception, you’re going to say no to badger, but pretty soon it’s the weasel on your back. I should of worn my Davy Crockett hat.

So, I yelled, fuck yes. Just a huge bastard. I can handle it; I’ll be a recreational badger axer. Now, Badgers are bone ass thick. Well, thicker then David Hasselhoff. They know that two legged Irish in headwear, lazing about in tractors with axes, are probably just fencing their land. They see you, they come up to you, in great carnivorous packs, cubs riding their mothers like bloodsucking succubi. And then they sit about on the grass and snarl like rapists and roll around, showing off their ample genitals, a lot like Italian supporters, well, anywhere. Ha! But neither badgers nor David Hasselhoff are stupid enough to have put a big, sharpened lump of metal on top of some wood. So there was this little lad rolling around the grass, rubbing his nose into the ground, a hairy shit paddlying with his pants off. I took him just inside the face. He exploded. I’m told they can be quite easy to axe: they just sit there, in the dark. They die easy, badgers. But not this one. I had the chase the fucker for 35 minutes.

I know perfectly well there are some great reasons for doing this. No one really likes them. Yes, they aren’t good to eat, unless you’re a bear, but there is a rock solid argument for culling and control. Like foxes: A veil for happy-go-lucky axing. They will, most definitely in the near future, eat you, your family, steal your car and ignite global war between China and the U.S – they are opportunist bastards. You wouldn’t trust one to do anything. But then, everything has to be a bastard, sometimes. I noticed that, when it had a fully intact face, I thought of it as a total shithead. Now he’s in ribbons, I’m posthumously adding human features to him for little to no real reason, and that was one of the reasons I axed that badger. I wanted to get a sense of what it would be like to axe someone, a stranger. You see it in all those films: axes and faces, barely a close-up of the sense of joy and fun. So what does it feel like to axe someone, or someone’s friend? But, as so often happens in life, when you tune out after culling small animals, it’s just the sheer boredom induced that reflects back to you in the window. He looked so much smaller mutilated, the body parts rendered inhuman by the violence of the thing, something that it could not be even regarded as something that had evolved at all. I rummaged through the carcass with the same disinterest as when I finish some curry chips and chicken. And then you look in his mouth, and there’s no difference. His mouth is also mangled. It might be just a chest cavity for all I know. “Some local people say it’s good luck to axe a badger,” Tadgh mentioned. Definitely. I’m not the one who’s just been on the wrong end of a good axing.

Anyway, this weeks restaurant review is for Eddie Rockets in Cork City. I was with a few friends who have no chefing or critique background.

It was shit.