Mowl
Member
Frog-marching the pensioned old penitents into the pews while waiting to make their confessions to Father Dougal, most likely.
That and hanging around the vestry, cutting the inside pockets off the robes and gowns.
Chat 🔥🤬General Chat Thread
- Thread starter David
- Start date
Frog-marching the pensioned old penitents into the pews while waiting to make their confessions to Father Dougal, most likely.
That and hanging around the vestry, cutting the inside pockets off the robes and gowns.
Mowl
Member
Mowl
Member
There's now forty-seven guests on the site.
What the fuck are you all looking at?
Can't get enough Mowl, eh?
Gas watching traffic drop off on Arsefield's.
Clock's ticking, Deco - get your jollies in while you can - and hey: keep posting those shots. The Senators Of Helsinki are considering reforming for a few private shows for a major Finnish company who've booked Finlandia Talo for their annual convention. We've done Finlandia with the same company before: the money is fucking great, as is the smorgasbord of food, drinks, and hot Scandinavian ladies out for the fun.
But Finlandia stage is the zenith of performance stages: it's the national concert hall.
They want me, The Mowl - from Ballyer - to reform my crew so they can enjoy us grooving them through the night.
How about you?
Pint in the local?
Bag of chips?
Sausage roll?
Salt and vinegar?
You sad bastards.
What the fuck are you all looking at?
Can't get enough Mowl, eh?
Gas watching traffic drop off on Arsefield's.
Clock's ticking, Deco - get your jollies in while you can - and hey: keep posting those shots. The Senators Of Helsinki are considering reforming for a few private shows for a major Finnish company who've booked Finlandia Talo for their annual convention. We've done Finlandia with the same company before: the money is fucking great, as is the smorgasbord of food, drinks, and hot Scandinavian ladies out for the fun.
But Finlandia stage is the zenith of performance stages: it's the national concert hall.
They want me, The Mowl - from Ballyer - to reform my crew so they can enjoy us grooving them through the night.
How about you?
Pint in the local?
Bag of chips?
Sausage roll?
Salt and vinegar?
You sad bastards.
Mowl
Member
'Could this ME Mowl in a few years?'
'Could this ME?'
ME?
You fucked that one up, Tonto - didn't you?
Feel that big sluggish worm turning over in your tummy?
That's your inner Tonto telling you you just made a fool of yourself.
Like a little boy with an adult skin rag - you shot your muck before getting to the final panel.
You're now wondering why you didn't check your spelling before posting that incisive jab that completely failed to hit the target.
You'll still be thinking about it in a few ours time, when you're cracking open another tin of cheap beer and wondering if Roundy is gonna let you and the lads go as mental on the Mowl as you did last weekend, when the party started at 1700 on the gay bar site and went on until 0700 Saturday morning. I was out for dinner the night before, but the belly laughs at the sheer earnestness of you lot trying to rile the Mowl up? Fucking hilarious: you truly really actually DON'T have any lives at all, do ye?
You dumb cunts were actually congratulating each other on a job well done while I was laying down with yet another of Finland's most beautiful ladies.
Then y'all started in again on the Saturday afternoon.
I went to the studio and had an excellent evening tracking a few new ideas and then off out for a few pints and a late supper. I got home in the wee hours and went to bed (herself borrowed my keys) and when I woke and had my coffee, she heard me laughing and came out from the bedroom to see what was so funny. She looked at the screen and asked what it was she was looking at.
'My fan club' says I.
So why do these people hate you?
'Because I keep making fools of them'.
How?
'I'm a writer, I love a bit of satire well aimed at the right people'.
And they get angry?
'Yes'.
But why?
'Because like I said, I'm from the ghettos of Dublin. But I restarted my life up here taking my wit and originality as the only two Irish things of my own that were worth keeping. So now I sit here in my castle taking well-aimed potshots at the sad excuse for an Irish far right wing of unbelievably stupid young and old men who hate their country, the world at large, everyone in it, their lives, and themselves. They make me laugh.'
Oh, so why do they call you 'The Mowl' - what's a Mowl?
'Oh, it's too long a story but suffice it to say that what it meant on the streets I grew up on and what it means now are two completely different things. And it's okay to not know what it means - even if you're Irish. So forget it'.
Should I call you the Mowl too?
'Jaze, no'.
Is Mowl in the dictionary?
'Well, yes - it is now. But it wasn't when I was a kid'.
What do the dictionaries say it means?
'Well, there's:
Definition of MOWL | New Word Suggestion
https://www.collinsdictionary.com › submission › Mowl: 'A raconteur or someone who can tell stories in an interesting or amusing way'.
Or:
What is the meaning of Mowl in English?
'Relaxed working (maybe with a beer, some good music...) I'm mowling. ( I'm busy working relaxed) Let's mowl! ( Let's work relaxed)...'
Oh, that's interesting.
'Yes, yes it is a bit. Another meaning might also be the definition of a roll of expensive fur sewn into a tube-like shape which is worn by a lady during cold weather. She puts her hands in through both sides of the roll and the fur keeps her delicate hands warm as she crosses them against her chest. A furry Mowl'.
You Irish people are odd.
'Yes, yes we are I guess. But enough chit-chat: get your kit off....'
'Could this ME?'
ME?
You fucked that one up, Tonto - didn't you?
Feel that big sluggish worm turning over in your tummy?
That's your inner Tonto telling you you just made a fool of yourself.
Like a little boy with an adult skin rag - you shot your muck before getting to the final panel.
You're now wondering why you didn't check your spelling before posting that incisive jab that completely failed to hit the target.
You'll still be thinking about it in a few ours time, when you're cracking open another tin of cheap beer and wondering if Roundy is gonna let you and the lads go as mental on the Mowl as you did last weekend, when the party started at 1700 on the gay bar site and went on until 0700 Saturday morning. I was out for dinner the night before, but the belly laughs at the sheer earnestness of you lot trying to rile the Mowl up? Fucking hilarious: you truly really actually DON'T have any lives at all, do ye?
You dumb cunts were actually congratulating each other on a job well done while I was laying down with yet another of Finland's most beautiful ladies.
Then y'all started in again on the Saturday afternoon.
I went to the studio and had an excellent evening tracking a few new ideas and then off out for a few pints and a late supper. I got home in the wee hours and went to bed (herself borrowed my keys) and when I woke and had my coffee, she heard me laughing and came out from the bedroom to see what was so funny. She looked at the screen and asked what it was she was looking at.
'My fan club' says I.
So why do these people hate you?
'Because I keep making fools of them'.
How?
'I'm a writer, I love a bit of satire well aimed at the right people'.
And they get angry?
'Yes'.
But why?
'Because like I said, I'm from the ghettos of Dublin. But I restarted my life up here taking my wit and originality as the only two Irish things of my own that were worth keeping. So now I sit here in my castle taking well-aimed potshots at the sad excuse for an Irish far right wing of unbelievably stupid young and old men who hate their country, the world at large, everyone in it, their lives, and themselves. They make me laugh.'
Oh, so why do they call you 'The Mowl' - what's a Mowl?
'Oh, it's too long a story but suffice it to say that what it meant on the streets I grew up on and what it means now are two completely different things. And it's okay to not know what it means - even if you're Irish. So forget it'.
Should I call you the Mowl too?
'Jaze, no'.
Is Mowl in the dictionary?
'Well, yes - it is now. But it wasn't when I was a kid'.
What do the dictionaries say it means?
'Well, there's:
Definition of MOWL | New Word Suggestion
https://www.collinsdictionary.com › submission › Mowl: 'A raconteur or someone who can tell stories in an interesting or amusing way'.
Or:
What is the meaning of Mowl in English?
'Relaxed working (maybe with a beer, some good music...) I'm mowling. ( I'm busy working relaxed) Let's mowl! ( Let's work relaxed)...'
Oh, that's interesting.
'Yes, yes it is a bit. Another meaning might also be the definition of a roll of expensive fur sewn into a tube-like shape which is worn by a lady during cold weather. She puts her hands in through both sides of the roll and the fur keeps her delicate hands warm as she crosses them against her chest. A furry Mowl'.
You Irish people are odd.
'Yes, yes we are I guess. But enough chit-chat: get your kit off....'
Mowl
Member
So! You lads all set for another Friday night in alone with your device, trying to mimic my writing style - again?
This time, try not to shoot your load too soon. Last week's efforts tapered off by seven in the morning and the strain was beginning to show even though you were likely pepped up on goofballs and red bull for the long haul. See, my writing style isn't the problem here. The problem here is envy. The bug-eyed green monster that as a child you were supposed to learn to deal with but as the thicko adults you are now it's clear you didn't. Envy is a deadly sin: but worse again than that is living someone else's dreams for them. Didn't Paul Brady teach you that much with his excellent song about exactly that?
Here, listen up to this before we go any further:
Okay. So now that you know what NOT to do, let's see if I can't help you prepare for the long night ahead wishing you were me. First off, you're not. Nor will you ever be. So it might be a better idea to focus on the car crash that is your pointless and worthless lives. Lives that wouldn't be worth living without me on your distant horizons laughing loud enough for you to hear me. Your role in life is to lick balls. And not just any balls: but Declan's balls. Old white-top himself: Roundy Kelly, the midget van driver from Ballinasloe now resident in his ugly wife's wooden shack just off the interstate outside Dedham, the deadest little suburb in the western world. Licking his balls for him requires discipline: you must begin as you intend to go on, there's no middle-ground here. Start by sucking them deep into your throat. Then, when the gagging panic passes, curl your long snake tongue around them and try not to pinch any silver/grey hairs - he can't handle pain, the poor roundy thing. Then when he starts to groan, ease off a bit and keep him on the edge of shooting his muck just long enough to ask him for a moderator position or else you'll pull back and stop altogether. Then, when you have access to his private threads about me, suck for all you're worth until he fills the back of your throat with his manky old man's jizz.
It's not like he needs it for anything, Marianne stopped letting him fuck her back in the 1970's.
She's a great gal, Marianne: loves the cock.
Loves it.
So now that you know how to begin, take my advice and get down on your knees and prepare yourself for the roller-coaster ride of your worthless lives. It's Friday. You have nowhere to go. No money to spend. No friends. No lovers. No purpose, meaning, or direction. So try harder this time. I'll even offer to grade all your efforts tomorrow after breakfast. Tonight I'm out. Dinner. Then a club, then back to mine. I usually stick on some music but if herself is still interested, then I'll hop and throw you mutts a bone to chew on and argue about.
Before we begin: I have NO favourites, you're ALL equally worthless to me, so don't take competing against each other for my attention too far.
I'll grade your efforts on grammar, originality, spelling, use of rare words, and how many hours you put in to such a worthless hobby.
But sure whatever rocks your boat, drenches your dry throat, and tickles your midgety little fancy.
By the time I'm ordering my starter, I expect to see neat paragraphs and no blinks on the spell-checker, deal?
Okay - all ready?
Set?
GO!
This time, try not to shoot your load too soon. Last week's efforts tapered off by seven in the morning and the strain was beginning to show even though you were likely pepped up on goofballs and red bull for the long haul. See, my writing style isn't the problem here. The problem here is envy. The bug-eyed green monster that as a child you were supposed to learn to deal with but as the thicko adults you are now it's clear you didn't. Envy is a deadly sin: but worse again than that is living someone else's dreams for them. Didn't Paul Brady teach you that much with his excellent song about exactly that?
Here, listen up to this before we go any further:
Okay. So now that you know what NOT to do, let's see if I can't help you prepare for the long night ahead wishing you were me. First off, you're not. Nor will you ever be. So it might be a better idea to focus on the car crash that is your pointless and worthless lives. Lives that wouldn't be worth living without me on your distant horizons laughing loud enough for you to hear me. Your role in life is to lick balls. And not just any balls: but Declan's balls. Old white-top himself: Roundy Kelly, the midget van driver from Ballinasloe now resident in his ugly wife's wooden shack just off the interstate outside Dedham, the deadest little suburb in the western world. Licking his balls for him requires discipline: you must begin as you intend to go on, there's no middle-ground here. Start by sucking them deep into your throat. Then, when the gagging panic passes, curl your long snake tongue around them and try not to pinch any silver/grey hairs - he can't handle pain, the poor roundy thing. Then when he starts to groan, ease off a bit and keep him on the edge of shooting his muck just long enough to ask him for a moderator position or else you'll pull back and stop altogether. Then, when you have access to his private threads about me, suck for all you're worth until he fills the back of your throat with his manky old man's jizz.
It's not like he needs it for anything, Marianne stopped letting him fuck her back in the 1970's.
She's a great gal, Marianne: loves the cock.
Loves it.
So now that you know how to begin, take my advice and get down on your knees and prepare yourself for the roller-coaster ride of your worthless lives. It's Friday. You have nowhere to go. No money to spend. No friends. No lovers. No purpose, meaning, or direction. So try harder this time. I'll even offer to grade all your efforts tomorrow after breakfast. Tonight I'm out. Dinner. Then a club, then back to mine. I usually stick on some music but if herself is still interested, then I'll hop and throw you mutts a bone to chew on and argue about.
Before we begin: I have NO favourites, you're ALL equally worthless to me, so don't take competing against each other for my attention too far.
I'll grade your efforts on grammar, originality, spelling, use of rare words, and how many hours you put in to such a worthless hobby.
But sure whatever rocks your boat, drenches your dry throat, and tickles your midgety little fancy.
By the time I'm ordering my starter, I expect to see neat paragraphs and no blinks on the spell-checker, deal?
Okay - all ready?
Set?
GO!
Should we start a Nationalist Site.
The vast majority of members of this site joined to remember my pub. This worked out pretty well. But most likely they have no interest at all in the topics we discuss. So. Should I start a brand new site with a more appropriate name like for example Nationalist Ireland or whatever. Having a...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
America's Founding Fathers - old money merchants and landed gentry whose ancestors simply found themselves on the wrong side of the English Civil War. They wouldn't have you as one of their indentured servants, let alone consider you (or the other 99% of the population) worthy of the right to vote. And it was 'no taxation without representation.'
You thick cunt.
Mowl
Member
Very sad to see the jug-eared quasi-German sponging King Chaz has some form of cancer that requires him to endure ongoing pain only the poor can know.
www.thejournal.ie
Very sad indeed.
Who's next in line when he croaks?
That stubborn cunt of an eldest son of his?
Hah hah - it'd be sweet if he and his family had a 'car crash' in some Parisian underground bypass and they had to nominate Harry and Meg.
It's a bit like the Rolling Stones hiring black guys in: one after Wyman's departure (Jones) and another (Jordan) after Watts' demise.
If they keep this shit up then Buckingham Palace will be serving grits, fried chicken, and watermelon - and the Rolling Stones will be an Afro/American band.
The Brits: a great bunch of lads.
Britain's King Charles has been diagnosed with cancer
Buckingham Palace confirmed the news in a statement this evening.
www.thejournal.ie
Very sad indeed.
Who's next in line when he croaks?
That stubborn cunt of an eldest son of his?
Hah hah - it'd be sweet if he and his family had a 'car crash' in some Parisian underground bypass and they had to nominate Harry and Meg.
It's a bit like the Rolling Stones hiring black guys in: one after Wyman's departure (Jones) and another (Jordan) after Watts' demise.
If they keep this shit up then Buckingham Palace will be serving grits, fried chicken, and watermelon - and the Rolling Stones will be an Afro/American band.
The Brits: a great bunch of lads.
Mowl
Member
His youtube has taken off though.
Some bloggers think he's the bee's knees.
I think it only goes to show you how dumb Paddy and Bridie are if they're looking to a toothless lunatic farmer from the slurry pits for the news.
Only in Ireland could a man as mad as Val become an online hero.
But still: it doesn't cost him a penny to do his thing - whereas Declan has to shell out $1,399 p/a to say his bit.
And to host some of the dumbest fuckers I ever saw online.
Including Val:
See?
The man's a walking fruitcake.
Some bloggers think he's the bee's knees.
I think it only goes to show you how dumb Paddy and Bridie are if they're looking to a toothless lunatic farmer from the slurry pits for the news.
Only in Ireland could a man as mad as Val become an online hero.
But still: it doesn't cost him a penny to do his thing - whereas Declan has to shell out $1,399 p/a to say his bit.
And to host some of the dumbest fuckers I ever saw online.
Including Val:
See?
The man's a walking fruitcake.
Mowl
Member
I've dumped old friends who took off for new horizons only to come back with accents and attitudes that made me laugh at them.
Worst was the aul' wan next door (the Mammy despised her) who went to The Isle Of Man for a couple of weeks holidays. Came back and dropped in to see the Mammy who laid out the tea and bisbuits and yer wan's looking out the window and sees another neighbour's cat sitting on the wall at the end of the garden, preening itself.
Then she lets out of whoop of shock asking: '..what's that? What IS that?'
What? asks my Mam.
'That yoke on the wall!'
That's Missus Howard's cat, she's always scaling that wall.
'Oh' says yer wan: '..over on the Isle Of Man cats don't have tails...'
Mam's face?
Get in the fucking sea.
Worst was the aul' wan next door (the Mammy despised her) who went to The Isle Of Man for a couple of weeks holidays. Came back and dropped in to see the Mammy who laid out the tea and bisbuits and yer wan's looking out the window and sees another neighbour's cat sitting on the wall at the end of the garden, preening itself.
Then she lets out of whoop of shock asking: '..what's that? What IS that?'
What? asks my Mam.
'That yoke on the wall!'
That's Missus Howard's cat, she's always scaling that wall.
'Oh' says yer wan: '..over on the Isle Of Man cats don't have tails...'
Mam's face?
Get in the fucking sea.
Plastics in America and Australia get really offended and defensive when you tell them they're not Irish.
All of these people in Boston and Brisbane, ten generations removed from the old country...and you'd swear they'd just gotten off the boat from Cork or Limerick.
All of these people in Boston and Brisbane, ten generations removed from the old country...and you'd swear they'd just gotten off the boat from Cork or Limerick.
Mowl
Member
They have these wanton lust to be more Irish than the Irish themselves.
The Boston plastics as the worst for that: on Saint Patty's Day (scrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnghhhhhhh) dying their rivers green, all the lads out with the uilleann pipes and bagpipes, the Aran sweaters, the flat caps, the coal-miner's jackets, and the kiss-me-I'm-Irish hats. Makes me want to pick up a big fat green hammer and club them all to death.
These cunts especially:
Makes you want to puke, right?
Makes me want to puke right into the little cunt's fat gob before giving him a hiding.
Now THIS is Irish:
The Boston plastics as the worst for that: on Saint Patty's Day (scrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnghhhhhhh) dying their rivers green, all the lads out with the uilleann pipes and bagpipes, the Aran sweaters, the flat caps, the coal-miner's jackets, and the kiss-me-I'm-Irish hats. Makes me want to pick up a big fat green hammer and club them all to death.
These cunts especially:
Makes you want to puke, right?
Makes me want to puke right into the little cunt's fat gob before giving him a hiding.
Now THIS is Irish:
Mowl
Member
There's likely more Irish down south in the Appalachian Mountains given the banjo music, the toothlessness, the yokel lifestyle, the fiddles and the square dances, men buggering men, men kidnapping and buggering men, and toothless men buggering each other - seeing as everyone else is at it.
It's not a place one would be safe getting lost in.
Unless one is generally predisposed to getting buggered by moonshine swilling toothless yokels.
Mowl
Member
He's a bottom level grifter, a two-bit shoe-shine boy with a wooden box and an old rag.
The way he goes on about driving people here and there in the van makes me fucking laugh. I bet the kids just look at him and hope to fuck they don't turn out like him. A washed up bum with a yap on him the size of Central Park and a fat gut twice that size again. A glorified bus driver. In a van. Covered in fat. In greasy skin. White hair all over his sizeable carcass. I bet even the tourists laugh at his little leprechaun schtick when he's yapping away and making sweeping gestures with his fat littlehands mitts.
Like in my current avatar, the fat yap can never be filled: it's like the Marianna Trench (AKA his wife Marianne) nobody knows how far down the bottom is.
The only way to figure it out is to keep throwing cheeseburgers into it until you can't fit any more.
Even then he'll ask for seconds.
And thirds.
I was looking at his site the other day: his rates are dirt cheap. All that yap about his 'billionaire clients' is just more waffle from the fat fuck. He makes around $120 a day, and a day is around four hours of yap, so his hourly fee is 30% less than mine, and I don't even have to leave the house to get it. He's a fucking spoofer. A sad one at that. See, the people who shout the loudest about their money are usually the tightest fucking cunts you'll ever meet. The one thing Declan hasn't got coverage for is the fact that he often gets paid in cash. The IRS don't like that. In fact, they'll bang you the fuck up if they catch you at it.
And by you I mean mean Declan: the rip-off sponger/grifter in a rusty auld van with an accent from the slurry bogs.
The state of the little cunt.
He's so fucking sad it makes me laugh in a rather cruel way, but I can't help it.
If he stopped spoofing perhaps I might even forget the little bastard and his mountainous lies.
You'd think the twats on his site would have pulled him up on it, but no: like little rabbits in the headlights, in love with a sweaty old fat man.
Dumb fuckers.
The way he goes on about driving people here and there in the van makes me fucking laugh. I bet the kids just look at him and hope to fuck they don't turn out like him. A washed up bum with a yap on him the size of Central Park and a fat gut twice that size again. A glorified bus driver. In a van. Covered in fat. In greasy skin. White hair all over his sizeable carcass. I bet even the tourists laugh at his little leprechaun schtick when he's yapping away and making sweeping gestures with his fat little
Like in my current avatar, the fat yap can never be filled: it's like the Marianna Trench (AKA his wife Marianne) nobody knows how far down the bottom is.
The only way to figure it out is to keep throwing cheeseburgers into it until you can't fit any more.
Even then he'll ask for seconds.
And thirds.
I was looking at his site the other day: his rates are dirt cheap. All that yap about his 'billionaire clients' is just more waffle from the fat fuck. He makes around $120 a day, and a day is around four hours of yap, so his hourly fee is 30% less than mine, and I don't even have to leave the house to get it. He's a fucking spoofer. A sad one at that. See, the people who shout the loudest about their money are usually the tightest fucking cunts you'll ever meet. The one thing Declan hasn't got coverage for is the fact that he often gets paid in cash. The IRS don't like that. In fact, they'll bang you the fuck up if they catch you at it.
And by you I mean mean Declan: the rip-off sponger/grifter in a rusty auld van with an accent from the slurry bogs.
The state of the little cunt.
He's so fucking sad it makes me laugh in a rather cruel way, but I can't help it.
If he stopped spoofing perhaps I might even forget the little bastard and his mountainous lies.
You'd think the twats on his site would have pulled him up on it, but no: like little rabbits in the headlights, in love with a sweaty old fat man.
Dumb fuckers.
Last edited: