Nine.
And it didn't take you a week to spot it either, eh Wolfie?
You sad and lying little bastard; you're on here every two hours, non-stop, every day and every night.
You love being despised don't you? You wear your bitterness with being Irish so obviously on your sleeve.
Yet there you are - stuck there, unable to move, unable to cope with it, fantasizing about child rape and perverted priests.
You're the type who - exactly like Tony Walsh - loves to watch while innocent children suffer.
Walsh caused one prison officer to quit his job because the poor fucker couldn't believe what he was seeing every day in the shower room with the priests.
He had a complete mental breakdown, he claimed it was from having to deal with Walsh, his cell, and his few possessions.
In the shower room Walsh was known as a 'watcher' who's special kink was watching grown men fuck each other.
This is what you think is right and proper for Irish kids to be educated by these animals.
And it's clear they worked their magic on you too.
Did you find it funny when your classmates were getting beaten and abused?
You certainly act like a willing watcher - the same breed of mongrel as Walsh himself.
Your wife - that ugly slut who puts up with you - where does she stand on your addiction and predilection for child abuse material?
Or is it her who searches for the really horrible stuff and brings it to you that you might get an erection(!) and fuck her?
Or does she simply prefer to sit and watch you have a wank watching children getting buggered?
Either way - you're the cancer and the poison that has Ireland where she is now, today.
You have nothing to be proud of, only to be ashamed of.
If she saw the things you do (and you did say you talked to her about her account on the isle) with your sick fuck buddies, would she laugh or cry?
I can't imagine any woman settling for a sick fucker like you and being happy, so I presume she's either on dope or else fucking the neighbour.
Any woman who'd put up with a loser like you deserves to be treated like shit.
It's Valentine's Day - and what are you up to?
Kill the nig-nogs, the Pakis, the Polish, the Brits - wait: say what now? Valentine's Day? Today? Flowers? Me? For
HER??
The poor stupid bitch deserves you, and the cross-eyed mutant children you two created by fucking her in the ass.
So treat the sad cow like you feel it for her: give her nothing, demand your dinner, and tell her to load the washer with your crusty keks.
That's all she is after all, a cheap whore looking for someone to pay her way for her.
You get what you deserve in this life, Wolfie - and that's why you are where you are behaving like you do: they crushed your soul, didn't they?
They left you numb because instead of doing the right thing, you chose to be part of it, and you're proud of yourself for it.
So look her in the eyes and tell her: she's been had, and not just by the neighbours and the lads down the pub: but by you, a lying hypocrite.
Perhaps she might choose to finally leave you instead of watching you sitting there all day, phone in hand, a hump growing on your neck.
No wonder she fucks around - she's obviously not into the kind of peccadillo you specialize in.
So enjoy your fantasy and act it out for everyone to see: Wolfie and his child abuse video tapes, DVDs, magazines, and membership card for the club.
You and Walsh have more in common than you realize, Wolfie - and it stinks to high heaven - like you protecting and hiding a known burglar.
Try to make it seem like none of it is true - because the louder you shout, the more attention it gets you.
By the time I'm done with you, you'll be wishing your Da
had fucked your Ma in the arse nine months before you were shat out into the world.
You come from a long line of rotten cunts, I can tell: only a pair of drunks would raise a child in the manner required for you to be what you are today.
I left Ireland because it's full of rats like you, and getting out successfully is exactly the reason I go after filth like you.
You stayed, you'll never leave, you're a part of the rot - but you're not even smart enough to see that for what it is.
So whine about '
your country going down the toilet' all you like: you're the one pulling the chain, you dumb fucker.
You and your slut/bitch wife, your drunk parents, and your bastard children.
You all deserve each other, in exactly the place you are right now - in loathing with the horror with which you abide.
Screaming children, kids in distress, little bones in sewer pipes, priests riding priests in prison washrooms: it's all good as far as you're concerned.
This is why you are what you are and I am what I am: I put priests and christian brothers behind bars, but you want them freed to do even worse.
So when you lay down in the wee hours tonight after changing the world on Arsefield's, ask her if she still loves you.
Ask her if it hurts her that you don't give a fuck what her problem is so long as you can have the freedom to waste her life as you waste your own.
There's a special place in Hell for catholics of your nature: your drunken parents can surely testify to that.
You and yours is why Ireland was, is, and will continue to be a shit-hole country: so shout louder, you might even succeed in getting me off your back.
But don't bet on it any more than you would on you catching herself in a toilet cubicle sucking anything other than black cock.
I doubt your kids are even your own, and I bet they wish it were so too.
Regardless, you are what you are: scum, filth, a cancer on your own culture, on your religion, on your community, and on your family.
I am what I am, which is why I can hold my head high: knowing that the very men you bow to live in cells because of me and my kind.
Think about that while contemplating whether you can get it up for her later or not - it's a romantic day after all.
So don't go spoiling it chatting with Clark/Connolly and Saul rather than her: throw the poor bitch a bone, let her watch you wank.
She might even giggle again, jaze knows it's been years since she felt anything at all stuck in a miserable life with a cunt like you.
Listen closely: that's the sound of her bawling her eyes out up in the bedroom: out of sight and out of mind.
Poor woman had to buy flowers for herself because you're 'too busy' saving Ireland post by post on Arsefield's.
You terminally cancerous old bastard.
