Mowl
Member
Poor auld Saul Buckett, or CG&P as I labeled the stupid little cunt, has decided to try his hand at some poetry, or possibly prose. It's hard to tell, or if he's using any sort of rhyming device or onomatopoeia, but you can be sure the first thing he'll do when he sees my reply is to copy the word 'onomatopoeia' into the online dictionary to suss out what the fuck it means - pronto. It means this: you're too fucking stupid to understand even the rhyming device of the common Limerick. You're a semi literate cuichie imbecile with the education level of a flea.
When a complete fucking twat like Saul decides it's time to start in with the poems about me, then you know something's set a fire under his arse. I wondered of it was him who checked out an old article of mine on the BBBB earlier today, along with his pals who also seem to love hanging around The Senators Of Helsinki page every day, checking out my photos. It's somewhere between weird, sad, and rather gay, really. You strange culchie bastards all seem to be infatuated with me. What the fuck is THAT about?
By now I'm convinced some of you have copied my photos and had them printed and framed to hang on the wall next to your beds.
But regardless, what's with this lark of writing poems about the Mowl? Dozens of you are at it on the gay bar site and none of you seem to think it a bit odd. There's a man who used to kiss my arse all day every day about my articles on the BBBB (Mr Kelleher) who eventually turned against me because I wouldn't give him what he wanted, which was for me to let him be my 'best buddy' or something like that, so he wrote some more poems about me except this time they were nasty and supposed to be insulting to me. They weren't, I didn't read most of them anyway - so seeing Saul Bucket at the same thing today isn't any surprise. Loads of men act like that around me.
You sad bastards fucking love me, don't you?
You think I'm the answer to all your questions, the solution to all your problems; asking me for advice about personal and family matters, then turning against me with the turn of the tides that washed you up onto the shore of Arsefield's and left you naked and exposed. You think you're safe in numbers alone because EVERYONE on Arsefield's hates my guts. Hates me enough to stay in on Friday night writing poems about me. Then publishing them on the Saturday night knowing that as soon as he sees it, Declan's going to pull it down. But still you do it shamelessly. Without any self-awareness.
He's not angry with you though: he's angry that his site and all of its members are all so infatuated with the Mowl and he wishes that you'd all feel that way about him instead of me, right? I mean, you're not so fucking thick you can't manage to suss that one out for yourselves, yes? He's not even jealous of me because of who I am, he's jealous of the fact that you - his loyal minions - want to talk about me and David rather than Declan Kelly himself.
So what is it, Saul?
Are you gay?
Closet type homosexual tendencies?
Do you also pore over my pictures wondering how a man like me could ever have come out of Ballyfermot? The roughest, toughest estate on the entire island of Ireland? Is that what it is? You see the little scamp in me, the way I do things my own unique way, never mimicking the violence and horror of your average Ballyer knacker's lifestyle? You wish your forty-three year old son might have turned out better than a mere repeat offending burglar, yes? That like me, he might have instead read some books, created some art, wrote a song or a story? Designed a life less ordinary for himself to live that you might be proud of him rather than despising him as he despises you for never acting like a role model father who might have tried a little harder to raise his son to be a man who can stand on his own two feet without having to still be living at home at age forty-three, and who is well known to the local coppers in your town for all of his theft from the sleeping pensioners of your county. You're a fucking rat, Saul. Your pals on Arsefiled's all know it too, but they overlook it for the sake of the gang mentality. You? You're one of life's permanent losers. Your life has no meaning, no purpose. You have no achievements of any merit whatsoever. Nor will you ever have. Because? Because it's too late now, isn't it? You're too old, too tired, too burned out, afraid of change, afraid of pulling your boots on and going out to claim your place in this world, in this life.
Instead, you'll continue to count the passing days hoping it isn't cancer or some other slow and horrible death that takes you rather than the boredom and tedium you endure.
That takes you before you even started to claim your place in this world?
You're a nothing, Saul - a nobody. You can scream and shout and talk about killing the nig-nogs until the cows come home, but you're never ever going to do anything about that. Ever. You'll keep on dreaming the same shitty dream that put you where you are now: nowhere, with nothing worth remembering and nothing worthwhile to look forward either. Your future is already here, and it ain't much Saul. It ain't much at all. The only thing that'll live on after you die is that thieving bastard son of yours, and that ain't much to sing about, now is it?
Let's see about your poem now, shall we?
Okay.
How long did it take you to write that? Were you up all night on Friday night scribbling while I was uptown with my current lady, then back to mine for some more fun? You're actually PROUD of yourself for writing another poem about the Mowl? Really? What do your best buds on the gay bar site think of your literary skills? Did they pat you on the back and tell you you're a great man? And did you believe them? I don't see any LIKES for your poetry. So you see, to me yours is one more of the saddest little rural culchie Irish lives I've ever seen wasted in the manner you waste yours. You also need to remind yourself of this simple fact: you are not a literary genius of my level - nor are you even close. You're a moron, a sad little cunt looking for someone to lead you hither and thither, instruct you about how to live your life, what it's for and how much of it you've already wasted sitting on that burst sofa of yours all day every day, in conversation with a fat bastard van driver with a penchant for cheeseburgers, a very angrywolf kitten with a tiny penis and a massive hump about life in general, and a few other drunks and nondescript losers. But to you? They're heroes, aren't they? Soldiers. Big man. You think they'll like you even more than they already do if you hop on the poetry bandwagon along with the rest of them, right? Because that's what you always do, isn't it? Play follow the leader?
It's mad the way the Irish are the only people on the planet who turn to poetry when they're angry? Isn't it, though? When someone's really pissed you off, you write a poem about them? That's so fucking Irish it's comedy gold. Poems. As weapons. In Ireland, from half-baked illiterate gombs and other baboon-like knuckle-dragging twats swinging from tree to tree in your private little zoo of seven members.
Your poetry is as valuable to this world as your poop in the pot was this morning.
You let your rage and self-loathing get the better of you, Saul - and exposed yourself yet again.
You need to try much harder if you want to make it up here to my level, you sad little follower.
And you'll ALWAYS be a follower, never a leader - not even in your own house.
In your own house you're second in command after your wife - who also fucking hates you for your addiction to obscure blogs and writing online threats about the Pakis, the nig-nogs, them Dubliners, Syrians, Africans, anyone - but not your own son, whose life centres around what he can steal and how much he can get for it to spend on the drink. On mature reflection, how often does it dawn on you that you didn't turn to your own wife for help when things got out of hand domestically, you turned to me instead and then told me your sob story and begged me for advice? And what did I give you? Not just the right advice, but the method of enacting it too, and you agreed that you would never have had the nerve to do what needed be done hadn't I intervened. Now I live in your head. I know what goes on in there, just as I know what goes on in your heart. You're a broken man, a man whose dreams have all deserted him. You waited too long, and it's too late to do anything about it now, right?
So try another poem about me if it makes you feel better.
But keep this in mind: writing poems about The Mowl Cleary isn't going to change the fact that you're a failure as a man.
A failure to your own wife, to your own errant son, and most of all: to yourself.
You probably had dreams when you were a younger man, and now you're nothing but a burned-out old crone with a hump about a pretty boy from Ballyer whose education cost a quarter yours did and yet I can outsmart you in my sleep. See, I know what goes through your head when you're trying to deal with me. And you know that I know that when you laid yourself down last night after another fabulous night in writing poems on Arsefield's about the Mowl, that the last thing that went through your mind was a thought about me, my face, my smile, my fixed stare, and about how you're gonna get even with me for spilling the beans about your failures as a father to a convicted thief for a forty-three year old son, right?
Try writing a poem about THAT, Saul.
The truth about your life and the misery it brings you because you can't outsmart a working class git like the Mowl.
It's a fucked up world out there, Saul: better watch whom you choose to follow - men as fallow as you have no real friends - only willing predators.
And you're no more a poet than any of your 'pals' are, you silly cunt.
I'm mortified for you.
Scarlet.
Skin crawling.
When a complete fucking twat like Saul decides it's time to start in with the poems about me, then you know something's set a fire under his arse. I wondered of it was him who checked out an old article of mine on the BBBB earlier today, along with his pals who also seem to love hanging around The Senators Of Helsinki page every day, checking out my photos. It's somewhere between weird, sad, and rather gay, really. You strange culchie bastards all seem to be infatuated with me. What the fuck is THAT about?
By now I'm convinced some of you have copied my photos and had them printed and framed to hang on the wall next to your beds.
But regardless, what's with this lark of writing poems about the Mowl? Dozens of you are at it on the gay bar site and none of you seem to think it a bit odd. There's a man who used to kiss my arse all day every day about my articles on the BBBB (Mr Kelleher) who eventually turned against me because I wouldn't give him what he wanted, which was for me to let him be my 'best buddy' or something like that, so he wrote some more poems about me except this time they were nasty and supposed to be insulting to me. They weren't, I didn't read most of them anyway - so seeing Saul Bucket at the same thing today isn't any surprise. Loads of men act like that around me.
You sad bastards fucking love me, don't you?
You think I'm the answer to all your questions, the solution to all your problems; asking me for advice about personal and family matters, then turning against me with the turn of the tides that washed you up onto the shore of Arsefield's and left you naked and exposed. You think you're safe in numbers alone because EVERYONE on Arsefield's hates my guts. Hates me enough to stay in on Friday night writing poems about me. Then publishing them on the Saturday night knowing that as soon as he sees it, Declan's going to pull it down. But still you do it shamelessly. Without any self-awareness.
He's not angry with you though: he's angry that his site and all of its members are all so infatuated with the Mowl and he wishes that you'd all feel that way about him instead of me, right? I mean, you're not so fucking thick you can't manage to suss that one out for yourselves, yes? He's not even jealous of me because of who I am, he's jealous of the fact that you - his loyal minions - want to talk about me and David rather than Declan Kelly himself.
So what is it, Saul?
Are you gay?
Closet type homosexual tendencies?
Do you also pore over my pictures wondering how a man like me could ever have come out of Ballyfermot? The roughest, toughest estate on the entire island of Ireland? Is that what it is? You see the little scamp in me, the way I do things my own unique way, never mimicking the violence and horror of your average Ballyer knacker's lifestyle? You wish your forty-three year old son might have turned out better than a mere repeat offending burglar, yes? That like me, he might have instead read some books, created some art, wrote a song or a story? Designed a life less ordinary for himself to live that you might be proud of him rather than despising him as he despises you for never acting like a role model father who might have tried a little harder to raise his son to be a man who can stand on his own two feet without having to still be living at home at age forty-three, and who is well known to the local coppers in your town for all of his theft from the sleeping pensioners of your county. You're a fucking rat, Saul. Your pals on Arsefiled's all know it too, but they overlook it for the sake of the gang mentality. You? You're one of life's permanent losers. Your life has no meaning, no purpose. You have no achievements of any merit whatsoever. Nor will you ever have. Because? Because it's too late now, isn't it? You're too old, too tired, too burned out, afraid of change, afraid of pulling your boots on and going out to claim your place in this world, in this life.
Instead, you'll continue to count the passing days hoping it isn't cancer or some other slow and horrible death that takes you rather than the boredom and tedium you endure.
That takes you before you even started to claim your place in this world?
You're a nothing, Saul - a nobody. You can scream and shout and talk about killing the nig-nogs until the cows come home, but you're never ever going to do anything about that. Ever. You'll keep on dreaming the same shitty dream that put you where you are now: nowhere, with nothing worth remembering and nothing worthwhile to look forward either. Your future is already here, and it ain't much Saul. It ain't much at all. The only thing that'll live on after you die is that thieving bastard son of yours, and that ain't much to sing about, now is it?
Let's see about your poem now, shall we?
The Tale of Mowl and Ds86Ds”
In the quiet corners of the digital realm, Where forgotten websites gather dust, Lived Mowl and Ds86Ds, a peculiar pair, Their dreams as faded as ancient rust.
Mowl, with mismatched socks and wild hair, A coder by day, a poet by moonlight, His keyboard clattered with half-baked code, And his heart yearned for a byte of delight.
Ds86Ds, the eternal skeptic, wore thick glasses, His browser history filled with conspiracy theories, He’d argue with trolls and debunk UFO sightings, Yet secretly longed for extraterrestrial queries.
Together they tended to Islepoli, their relic, A once-thriving forum now lost in the haze, Its threads sagging like old hammocks, Where lonely avatars whispered their malaise.
Mowl would post poems about pixelated sunsets, Ds86Ds countered with cryptic rants, Their followers? A tumbleweed and a spambot, Their only likes? Echoes in the digital expanse.
“Let’s revive Islepoli!” Mowl declared one night, His eyes gleaming like forgotten emoticons, “We’ll breathe life into threads, resurrect memes, And maybe, just maybe, find lost unicorns.”
Ds86Ds scoffed, sipping lukewarm coffee, “Unicorns? More like broken links and dead GIFs. Our site’s a graveyard, Mowl, face the truth, We’re the last two souls on a sinking ship.”
But Mowl persisted, typing furiously, His fingers dancing across the dusty keys, He crafted threads about time-traveling llamas, And debates on whether AI could dream of seas.
Ds86Ds rolled his eyes, yet secretly admired, The spark in Mowl’s eyes, the audacity to hope, Together they laughed at their own absurdity, As Islepoli’s servers hummed, trying to cope.
And so, dear reader, let this be a lesson: Even losers can weave magic in forgotten lands, For Mowl and Ds86Ds, though odd and mismatched, Found solace in their pixels, hand in hand.
Next time you stumble upon a deserted forum, Where tumbleweeds whisper and spambots roam, Remember Mowl and Ds86Ds, the dreamers, Who turned a dead site into their pixelated home.
Islepoli may be lost in the digital abyss, but its legends live on.
In the quiet corners of the digital realm, Where forgotten websites gather dust, Lived Mowl and Ds86Ds, a peculiar pair, Their dreams as faded as ancient rust.
Mowl, with mismatched socks and wild hair, A coder by day, a poet by moonlight, His keyboard clattered with half-baked code, And his heart yearned for a byte of delight.
Ds86Ds, the eternal skeptic, wore thick glasses, His browser history filled with conspiracy theories, He’d argue with trolls and debunk UFO sightings, Yet secretly longed for extraterrestrial queries.
Together they tended to Islepoli, their relic, A once-thriving forum now lost in the haze, Its threads sagging like old hammocks, Where lonely avatars whispered their malaise.
Mowl would post poems about pixelated sunsets, Ds86Ds countered with cryptic rants, Their followers? A tumbleweed and a spambot, Their only likes? Echoes in the digital expanse.
“Let’s revive Islepoli!” Mowl declared one night, His eyes gleaming like forgotten emoticons, “We’ll breathe life into threads, resurrect memes, And maybe, just maybe, find lost unicorns.”
Ds86Ds scoffed, sipping lukewarm coffee, “Unicorns? More like broken links and dead GIFs. Our site’s a graveyard, Mowl, face the truth, We’re the last two souls on a sinking ship.”
But Mowl persisted, typing furiously, His fingers dancing across the dusty keys, He crafted threads about time-traveling llamas, And debates on whether AI could dream of seas.
Ds86Ds rolled his eyes, yet secretly admired, The spark in Mowl’s eyes, the audacity to hope, Together they laughed at their own absurdity, As Islepoli’s servers hummed, trying to cope.
And so, dear reader, let this be a lesson: Even losers can weave magic in forgotten lands, For Mowl and Ds86Ds, though odd and mismatched, Found solace in their pixels, hand in hand.
Next time you stumble upon a deserted forum, Where tumbleweeds whisper and spambots roam, Remember Mowl and Ds86Ds, the dreamers, Who turned a dead site into their pixelated home.
Islepoli may be lost in the digital abyss, but its legends live on.
Okay.
How long did it take you to write that? Were you up all night on Friday night scribbling while I was uptown with my current lady, then back to mine for some more fun? You're actually PROUD of yourself for writing another poem about the Mowl? Really? What do your best buds on the gay bar site think of your literary skills? Did they pat you on the back and tell you you're a great man? And did you believe them? I don't see any LIKES for your poetry. So you see, to me yours is one more of the saddest little rural culchie Irish lives I've ever seen wasted in the manner you waste yours. You also need to remind yourself of this simple fact: you are not a literary genius of my level - nor are you even close. You're a moron, a sad little cunt looking for someone to lead you hither and thither, instruct you about how to live your life, what it's for and how much of it you've already wasted sitting on that burst sofa of yours all day every day, in conversation with a fat bastard van driver with a penchant for cheeseburgers, a very angry
It's mad the way the Irish are the only people on the planet who turn to poetry when they're angry? Isn't it, though? When someone's really pissed you off, you write a poem about them? That's so fucking Irish it's comedy gold. Poems. As weapons. In Ireland, from half-baked illiterate gombs and other baboon-like knuckle-dragging twats swinging from tree to tree in your private little zoo of seven members.
Your poetry is as valuable to this world as your poop in the pot was this morning.
You let your rage and self-loathing get the better of you, Saul - and exposed yourself yet again.
You need to try much harder if you want to make it up here to my level, you sad little follower.
And you'll ALWAYS be a follower, never a leader - not even in your own house.
In your own house you're second in command after your wife - who also fucking hates you for your addiction to obscure blogs and writing online threats about the Pakis, the nig-nogs, them Dubliners, Syrians, Africans, anyone - but not your own son, whose life centres around what he can steal and how much he can get for it to spend on the drink. On mature reflection, how often does it dawn on you that you didn't turn to your own wife for help when things got out of hand domestically, you turned to me instead and then told me your sob story and begged me for advice? And what did I give you? Not just the right advice, but the method of enacting it too, and you agreed that you would never have had the nerve to do what needed be done hadn't I intervened. Now I live in your head. I know what goes on in there, just as I know what goes on in your heart. You're a broken man, a man whose dreams have all deserted him. You waited too long, and it's too late to do anything about it now, right?
So try another poem about me if it makes you feel better.
But keep this in mind: writing poems about The Mowl Cleary isn't going to change the fact that you're a failure as a man.
A failure to your own wife, to your own errant son, and most of all: to yourself.
You probably had dreams when you were a younger man, and now you're nothing but a burned-out old crone with a hump about a pretty boy from Ballyer whose education cost a quarter yours did and yet I can outsmart you in my sleep. See, I know what goes through your head when you're trying to deal with me. And you know that I know that when you laid yourself down last night after another fabulous night in writing poems on Arsefield's about the Mowl, that the last thing that went through your mind was a thought about me, my face, my smile, my fixed stare, and about how you're gonna get even with me for spilling the beans about your failures as a father to a convicted thief for a forty-three year old son, right?
Try writing a poem about THAT, Saul.
The truth about your life and the misery it brings you because you can't outsmart a working class git like the Mowl.
It's a fucked up world out there, Saul: better watch whom you choose to follow - men as fallow as you have no real friends - only willing predators.
And you're no more a poet than any of your 'pals' are, you silly cunt.
I'm mortified for you.
Scarlet.
Skin crawling.
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