free and clean
Feeney's latest sock account on Arsefield's.
Hi, Sham: hey, whatever you do,
don't publish the attached comments to this photo of the Mowl from The Senators Of Helsinki page from the ladies pointing out that the Mowl is a fucking ride. And definitely don't publish the one from Ms Leadbetter about the Mowl being voted the cutest boy in Dublin by the girls in the Mary Queen Of Angels schools across the city. Two years running.
Idiots like you always think the same: you think that what a lady really wants is a man straight out of the shower, all moisturized and shaved clean, in a fresh white shirt and slacks, shiny shoes and socks pulled up to the knees sporting the trimmed haircut of the day. Cheap aftershave and way too much of it, a set of car keys for the Corolla in hand, jingling and jangling, and patches of damp under your armpits. That's what
you think gets you laid, right?
Wrong.
As a well-experienced man of the world, let me set you straight: a real lady wants a man who doesn't give a fuck what she thinks about what I'm wearing, how well-pressed my black shirt is, or how shiny my shoes are, you dumb fuck. She wants a man who can handle her, make her laugh, push her out of her comfort zone, and who'll do to her what she's always dreamed of having done to her but never said aloud - not even in a whisper to herself. A man who - from the moment she sees me, knows she's done for. So I, knowing as I do, play the role perfectly for her, even if I am in a clean black shirt and black trousers. She can see by the way I walk that I'm walking to her, and nobody else exists for the moment apart from me. And she knows that when she gives herself to me, that I'll take her the way she knows she wants me to.
But wearing pressed shirts is for me only in the formal way required for my commercial/public work. And whether that work is in a pub (have a look and see if you can find even ONE photo of me ever playing in a pub) or a stately home or even Finlandia (the utmost stage in all of Finland, and one I know well) , I get paid handsomely for doing what I like the most. Playing music. Some of you dig holes, others drive vans and others again shovel shit. Me? I get paid to play. Think about that.
Then think about my being voted the best-looking, cutest guy in the whole of the Dublin area of girl's schools.
Then think about yourself, your life, your purpose (if you have one) and your impending death.
Me?
I'll still be being cute, getting paid, getting laid, charming a whole country into loving and cherishing me, and you? You'll still be busking out on shop street in the rain and paying massive rent to a scumbag landlord for the shared room you live in with some cunt from Bangladesh or Mongolia, over to do a bit of cooking for the Galway crowd on a Saturday night after the feed of pints down the local.
Didn't you ever read a book when you were younger?
Or at any age at all?
You and your gang seem to think Val Martin's a wizard and Declan Kelly's a handsome bastard.
Between the two of them they share around one hundred and thirty years of life on this planet. Both in their mid to late sixties and both trying to outdo the Mowl while lying about their age, which is a fruitless task when you look like they do: old, wizened, likely smelling lightly of pee, in jumpers and cardigans, mucky wellington boots, lying about their lives and their worth. Offside that,
you write poems about the Mowl, you sing to me every weekend when I'm out and about here in the Nordic candy shop I live in, surrounded by beautiful women all looking to get next to me. Last weekend, you put in around twelve to fourteen hours on a Friday and another sixteen to eighteen hours over Saturday pretending to be me. Think about that? Think about how many of your fellow Arsefielder's were by your side while you were stuck at home writing to me, about me, instead of me, and deeply in lust with me. On the weekend. Non-stop?
Like the ex-wife said: men turn into homosexuals after speaking to me for just ten minutes. So as a cross-dressing, Wonderwall singing, busking knacker culchie in the rain and cold, you know what that's worth.
It's almost lunchtime in cold and rainy Ireland: and I've a date tonight so I'll be looking in in the morning to check that you've been doing your chores: licking hoop and trying to out-Mowl the Mowl. It's minus thirteen and brilliant sunshine today with even more severe temperatures dropping tomorrow. Ever looked out over a frozen solid Nordic bay of pure white snow-covered ice beneath a brilliant blue sky at midday? No? Well the upside is that when it's this cold, I wear suitable clothing that makes the ladies swoon. The big fake fur coat and hood, the huge furry boots, my handmade fur hat that's as big as your dead Ma's arse. They go nuts for me, wanting to say hello, and hug me, buy me drinks, ask me about Ireland (I
ALWAYS tell them the truth there) and why such a handsome man doesn't have a lady (or three) by his side. It's because I was looking for you, dear - and now I've found you.
That's just how I roll, but.
You?
The only rolls you know are the ones hanging off Declan's gut and the sausage and rasher filled ones from Subway.
He'll go get his feather duster and and do your mantle-piece while you're asleep.
He'll be wearing his slutty nurse outfit too, so make sure you don't wake up.
Did you know they used to deport individuals such as yourself and your son to Australia?
Not even Australia would take that thieving bastard arse licking gobshite.
Saul's such a sad bastard: what a miserable life, eh. The rain, the endless cold, the humping bags of coal from the coal depot from behind the local butcher's shop back to the little house. Huddling around and sharing a cigarette because a twenty pack now costs more than brain surgery. Thinking he's all that because Clark/Connolly LIKES his posts.
Here, Saul: it's Friday afternoon, guess what you'll be doing tonight?
Yeps, you got it, so don't forget to your roll of toilet paper and tub of vaseline - the Missus will be getting hers out back of the pub from some hefty Russian sailor berthed in for the night. If your skin rag collection's boring you, just ask Sham Frog to do a striptease for you. You know you want to, gay-boy.
You're such a sad little man, aren't you?
I bet even your burglar son hates your fucking guts.
Has he not been dragged up before the courts yet?
Irish coppers, eh.
Fucking useless.
Like you.
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
