Chat 🔥🤬General Chat Thread
- Thread starter David
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Mowl
Member
I can see why you're all hanging around here like a bad smell: Jambo has that effect on you. Right?
While he dodges your question by first insulting you and then asking you another one himself, the warren he's trying to drag you down into has fuck all to do with politics, political science, race-baiting, gender, type, nationality, colour of skin, or otherwise. His whole raison d'etre is actually just about language. The most minor and most insignificant of differences of a definition of 'what exact type of' nationalist you are, or anyone is.
He loves to gather up these terms he finds on Telegrams from Woods/Collect/Morgosh and then juggle them in front of your face all day and night - if you let him.
Because in truth, he has exactly and precisely fuck all but that.
Quote me on it - then try it out for yourself: he's laughing at you, he has no fucking interest in anything or anyone bar his Big Three Male luvvies and the second hand shiny bits he collects like a magpie to feather his nest. I ran the stupid cunt off here because there's no point in discussing anything with the thick bastard. Just because he acts the big man with his 'I'll break your fucking neck for you, Skippy' type threats, he's still just a dole-head who has to cycle everywhere because he can't afford to take a bus.
You've all had it going on for three fucking months at this stage and still not fucking ONE of you can suss the stupid bastard out?
And he is fucking stupid - all he has is The Big Three: ask him any question you like and he'll fist tell you your IQ is sub-zero. Then he'll say something about your Ma, then ask you if you play chess. And that's it - in its entirety. But you fucking gobshites keep arguing with him. You complete fucking twats - can't you see what's right in front of your fucking face, you thick cunts?
He's blowing off time; his daily routine MUST be obvious to you by now, no?
He starts drinking long before he has a smoke. Cup of tea for breakfast. Cheap beer and John Player blues throughout the day, then by evening time his head's all sozzled and his moods start to swing. Out comes the gnashers and off he goes on another one. And you fucking chumps fall for it - every fucking time. You make me want to throw something sharp and heavy at you, you stupid fucks. You're worse than Jambo is himself with your idiotic trailing after the daft twat. There's only one way to deal with Jambo.
Laugh at him.
Jambo-no-mates truly has no mates.
Jambo/chess? Please.
Jambo/IQ? Jaze.
Jambo/one original thought?
Not a fucking chance in hell.
So gawp around the Isle all you like - you won't find a clearer answer to the Jambo issue than this.
You stupid little cunts.
While he dodges your question by first insulting you and then asking you another one himself, the warren he's trying to drag you down into has fuck all to do with politics, political science, race-baiting, gender, type, nationality, colour of skin, or otherwise. His whole raison d'etre is actually just about language. The most minor and most insignificant of differences of a definition of 'what exact type of' nationalist you are, or anyone is.
He loves to gather up these terms he finds on Telegrams from Woods/Collect/Morgosh and then juggle them in front of your face all day and night - if you let him.
Because in truth, he has exactly and precisely fuck all but that.
Quote me on it - then try it out for yourself: he's laughing at you, he has no fucking interest in anything or anyone bar his Big Three Male luvvies and the second hand shiny bits he collects like a magpie to feather his nest. I ran the stupid cunt off here because there's no point in discussing anything with the thick bastard. Just because he acts the big man with his 'I'll break your fucking neck for you, Skippy' type threats, he's still just a dole-head who has to cycle everywhere because he can't afford to take a bus.
You've all had it going on for three fucking months at this stage and still not fucking ONE of you can suss the stupid bastard out?
And he is fucking stupid - all he has is The Big Three: ask him any question you like and he'll fist tell you your IQ is sub-zero. Then he'll say something about your Ma, then ask you if you play chess. And that's it - in its entirety. But you fucking gobshites keep arguing with him. You complete fucking twats - can't you see what's right in front of your fucking face, you thick cunts?
He's blowing off time; his daily routine MUST be obvious to you by now, no?
He starts drinking long before he has a smoke. Cup of tea for breakfast. Cheap beer and John Player blues throughout the day, then by evening time his head's all sozzled and his moods start to swing. Out comes the gnashers and off he goes on another one. And you fucking chumps fall for it - every fucking time. You make me want to throw something sharp and heavy at you, you stupid fucks. You're worse than Jambo is himself with your idiotic trailing after the daft twat. There's only one way to deal with Jambo.
Laugh at him.
Jambo-no-mates truly has no mates.
Jambo/chess? Please.
Jambo/IQ? Jaze.
Jambo/one original thought?
Not a fucking chance in hell.
So gawp around the Isle all you like - you won't find a clearer answer to the Jambo issue than this.
You stupid little cunts.
Mowl
Member
Poor Jambo - he knows time's running out.
And that when Roundy Kelly finally boots him out, he'll be back here with low IQ shit, tiddlywinks games with seven year old girlies, another new name, all the rage he can muster after nine cans of Dutch Gold and a packet of Benson & Hedges. Looking for a mate. Someone to talk to. To be with. To feel less alone in this big confusing world he's terrified to venture out and taste.
Classic tiny willy syndrome - Dunning/Kruger up the hoop.
He knows the gang are all focused on here after I gave them the down-low on Jambo's sad reality.
Twenty-odd of them this time - all reading Mowl's instructions and nodding to each other with emojis and smileys.
Between the fact that Arsefield's cannot and has not passed one single day without reference to me is driving Jambo nuts.
He'd like to be admired, even if it's only borne of jealousy, but he's beginning to realize his little game doesn't work if you don't play it with him.
Like a used-up sheet of cheap toilet paper on Valamhic's crusty knickers, he's hanging around until the ultimate end.
Poor Jambo, has no mates. Has no original thoughts. Has no point of view of his own apart from the subtle nuances between a nationalist, another nationalist, a civic nationalist, a rubber nationalist, a chocolate cake-covered nationalist, a drunk nationalist, a perverted nationalist (like Jambo, the type who takes regular breaks throughout the day to shoot his muck into a tissue paper watching porn) ogling little seven year old girls playing snakes and ladders, mentioning The Mowl as often as he can, and generally pulling your plums until you just want to give up and quit.
You stupid fucking cunts: if that's the best ye can do then ye deserve him.
Twenty seven visitors - all reading about Jambo's complete lack.
Of.
Anything.
At.
All.
And that when Roundy Kelly finally boots him out, he'll be back here with low IQ shit, tiddlywinks games with seven year old girlies, another new name, all the rage he can muster after nine cans of Dutch Gold and a packet of Benson & Hedges. Looking for a mate. Someone to talk to. To be with. To feel less alone in this big confusing world he's terrified to venture out and taste.
Classic tiny willy syndrome - Dunning/Kruger up the hoop.
He knows the gang are all focused on here after I gave them the down-low on Jambo's sad reality.
Twenty-odd of them this time - all reading Mowl's instructions and nodding to each other with emojis and smileys.
Between the fact that Arsefield's cannot and has not passed one single day without reference to me is driving Jambo nuts.
He'd like to be admired, even if it's only borne of jealousy, but he's beginning to realize his little game doesn't work if you don't play it with him.
Like a used-up sheet of cheap toilet paper on Valamhic's crusty knickers, he's hanging around until the ultimate end.
Poor Jambo, has no mates. Has no original thoughts. Has no point of view of his own apart from the subtle nuances between a nationalist, another nationalist, a civic nationalist, a rubber nationalist, a chocolate cake-covered nationalist, a drunk nationalist, a perverted nationalist (like Jambo, the type who takes regular breaks throughout the day to shoot his muck into a tissue paper watching porn) ogling little seven year old girls playing snakes and ladders, mentioning The Mowl as often as he can, and generally pulling your plums until you just want to give up and quit.
You stupid fucking cunts: if that's the best ye can do then ye deserve him.
Twenty seven visitors - all reading about Jambo's complete lack.
Of.
Anything.
At.
All.
Mowl
Member
So it appears I have several new addresses: mainly the insides of the heads of all of Declan's minions, where I live rent free and have them writing poems to me, composing songs about the wonder that I am, and their uploading of tiny photos and stretching the pixels out so much nobody can see anything clearly. Apart from me, that is.
I see a gang-load of patrons of the infamous gay bar that is Arsefield's, full to the brim with lads/auld lads/blokes/geezers/buddies - all fascinated with the Mowl's life and general sense of how to enjoy it. Even today we can see thirty-plus lurkers hanging around, waiting for jaze knows what. But it's gas knowing that NOT A SINGLE DAY passes without me being the subject of their interest. All blokes too. Or at least male by appearance.
It's hard being loved by so many and it causes me to spread myself too thinly across so many slices of batch loaf in trying to accommodate you all.
But there's room on BBBB if you want to join the 9,187 members who already joined to check out my cheeky snarks about the sadness of life in Ireland.
What misery it must be seeing me have so much fun while you saddos can only look on in envy.
I'm flattered, really.
But sorry, boys: I'm straight - unlike you lot in your male exclusive gay bar, populated with the most loser Irish males to be found anywhere online.
You big fat shower of bennies.
I see a gang-load of patrons of the infamous gay bar that is Arsefield's, full to the brim with lads/auld lads/blokes/geezers/buddies - all fascinated with the Mowl's life and general sense of how to enjoy it. Even today we can see thirty-plus lurkers hanging around, waiting for jaze knows what. But it's gas knowing that NOT A SINGLE DAY passes without me being the subject of their interest. All blokes too. Or at least male by appearance.
It's hard being loved by so many and it causes me to spread myself too thinly across so many slices of batch loaf in trying to accommodate you all.
But there's room on BBBB if you want to join the 9,187 members who already joined to check out my cheeky snarks about the sadness of life in Ireland.
What misery it must be seeing me have so much fun while you saddos can only look on in envy.
I'm flattered, really.
But sorry, boys: I'm straight - unlike you lot in your male exclusive gay bar, populated with the most loser Irish males to be found anywhere online.
You big fat shower of bennies.
Our Aussie friend doesn't seem to appreciate that unlike on Arsefield's, people here at Isle have a life. We also don't take ourselves too seriously as it's understood these sites are just talking shops, aka. you still get one vote at the end of the day irregardless of whether you spend your entire life whinging and ranting on internet forums...or more to the point - find a real hobby, you useless cretin.
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Go shove your tiny dick up a Kangaroo's arse.
Guest Chat - Guest Chat
It was Tony "The signing Priest" Walsh and he's still very much alive albeit behind bars. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Walsh_(priest) The Singing Priest, eh? No wonder Gowl loves the auld music scene......
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Go shove your tiny dick up a Kangaroo's arse.
Congratulations to Jambo on becoming Top Poster of [the] month.
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
You now have men's respect. Women will be throwing their knickers at you.
David has been banned
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
You now have men's respect. Women will be throwing their knickers at you.
Mowl
Member
I love the fact that the dopey Aussie Fish-lips writes up these long posts about all the stuff that happens here while trying to insinuate that he never looks at the site at all. That's Australian logic for you. Being from the land down under comes with a massive chip on the shoulder what with white Aussies being the descendants of murderers and rapists. On top of that they have to live with the crimes their own parents committed against the Aboriginals over the years.
Every generation of Australians inherit a guilt complex that'd leave your Catholic version in the shade.
If there was any shade to be found on the big giant desert - which there isn't, hence all the giant rats skipping and hopping around.
But yeah - Fish-paste is some right langer: his reply to Jambo is actually full of information I wasn't even aware of myself.
That's a clear sign of his rubbernecking this site on a regular basis looking to gain a little notoriety.
Sure there's fuck all else to do in Australia apart from listening to Men At Work over and over again.
I met the lads from INXS at a party after their gig at Le Rex in Paris years back. They were doing a theatre-scale tour even though they were huge at the time but they wanted to 'get back to their roots' and decided to play smaller venues so they could smell the sweat. I got backstage triple A passes from Hutchence's Irish gardener who tended his place down the south of France. They were shite. The sound was fucking horrible, even though the theatre has awesome acoustics. This all stems from Jon Farris using electronic drum-pads in place of acoustic drums. When digital drums are hiked up to the volume needed for a theatre, the sample sounds are as thin as a dying roo with just the one good leg. Nasty.
But they knew how to party.
Still, a pity your man Hutchence hung himself trying to get an orgasm off a door?
He had a few great songs, even if he was an awful slut.
I bet Fish-tits is also mad into that whole auto-eroticism thing: all you need's a leather belt and a standard door that's well hung.
Quantity, not quality though.
David has been banned
You now have men's respect. Women will be throwing their knickers at you.
Women like Saul Buckett and Sham Fish-gunk.
And their knickers:
Wet ones.
Sticky ones.
Holey ones.
See-through ones.
Ones that go from the hip down to the knee type ones.
Poor Fish-balls: can't even spell his own name, the big Australian mong.
It's posts such as the above which prove no amount of Arsefielders...even a thousand of them combined could ever write something as interesting, or as witty as the Mowl. They're a dull lot, constantly throwing out one-liner brain farts, while engaging in twitter spamming on an almost hourly basis.
They're a waste of space, and why Declan doesn't simply send them packing to Twitter I'll never know - wasting money which could otherwise be put toward the electric, gas or broadband bills....or perhaps one of his beloved trips to Rhode Island.
At least when Mowl, Roc and Lumpy have something to say it's interesting, and well worth the wait. It's what makes Isle worthwhile.
They're a waste of space, and why Declan doesn't simply send them packing to Twitter I'll never know - wasting money which could otherwise be put toward the electric, gas or broadband bills....or perhaps one of his beloved trips to Rhode Island.
At least when Mowl, Roc and Lumpy have something to say it's interesting, and well worth the wait. It's what makes Isle worthwhile.
Mowl
Member
I see another storm's about to besiege Ireland.
What's with this lark of naming your rain?
Isha?
Who came up with that?
And why?
It's the fucking weather, not a sex symbol.
Up here we have minus fourteen by the sea but the skies are clear blue with zero clouds. The lads from the maintenance departments are all up on the rooftops shoveling the packed snow down onto the streets below: they use ropes to secure themselves and there's another lad down below making sure the pavements are cleared of passers-by. We have to get rid of the bigger piles up on the rooftops because over time they start to melt and drain over the edges of the gutters forming long sharp daggers of solid ice, some as big as two meters long and weighing ten to twenty kilos.
Get one of those hitting the top of your head and you'll be impaled on the pavement, they'd crack right through your skull.
Yes, it's happened lots of times. Nordic people by their nature tend to walk on the outside edge of the pavements during winter. Walking too close to the walls of tall buildings might well see you buried under a falling pile or else stabbed by a sharp icicle. The rooftops are fitted with guard rails so that heavy snow can gather along a metal frame that secures the snow at the edges of the roof. These are the rails the lads hit with the shovels and pikes to dislodge the snow when the piles are too heavy to allow stand.
But it's the icicles that do the worst damage.
It's beautiful out there today: there's been endless amounts of snow falling since November and I can't recall a winter as perfect as this one. Lots of crystal clear days with no cloud at all and still there's snow flakes falling gently through the air. Once the winds kick in, a temperature like minus ten will instantly drop to twice as cold, and every corner you turn the wind hits you in the face like a hammer.
But today it's a calm and peaceful as it could possibly be. Blue skies, bright sunshine that'd blind you in moments. It's magical watching snow falling in the sunlight. Jet planes way up the skies leave vapor trails that criss-cross the skies and stay in place for a long time before fading. When the planes landing at Helsinki/Vantaa airport bank towards the airport they catch the sun and reflect it back at me here in Arabia, miles away from their route.
It's a weird paradigm: sunshine and snow, severe cold with no wind chill versus the problem indoors we've been having with our thermostats and not being able to turn them down. It's ridiculously hot in here, and I have to open the balcony door to let some heat out every few hours. Indoor temperatures regulated by the city say that apartments needs to maintain an average of twenty-two degrees indoors. Except we've been dealing with an average of twenty-eight/nine for the last few months. New regulators have been ordered and will be delivered and fitted by the end of the month, or so they say.
Down at market square Hakaniemi last evening around 1500:
And out on the square half an hour later:
Beautiful days in Finland.
Even more wonderful at night with the snow reflecting the lights and stars above.
What's with this lark of naming your rain?
Isha?
Who came up with that?
And why?
It's the fucking weather, not a sex symbol.
Up here we have minus fourteen by the sea but the skies are clear blue with zero clouds. The lads from the maintenance departments are all up on the rooftops shoveling the packed snow down onto the streets below: they use ropes to secure themselves and there's another lad down below making sure the pavements are cleared of passers-by. We have to get rid of the bigger piles up on the rooftops because over time they start to melt and drain over the edges of the gutters forming long sharp daggers of solid ice, some as big as two meters long and weighing ten to twenty kilos.
Get one of those hitting the top of your head and you'll be impaled on the pavement, they'd crack right through your skull.
Yes, it's happened lots of times. Nordic people by their nature tend to walk on the outside edge of the pavements during winter. Walking too close to the walls of tall buildings might well see you buried under a falling pile or else stabbed by a sharp icicle. The rooftops are fitted with guard rails so that heavy snow can gather along a metal frame that secures the snow at the edges of the roof. These are the rails the lads hit with the shovels and pikes to dislodge the snow when the piles are too heavy to allow stand.
But it's the icicles that do the worst damage.
It's beautiful out there today: there's been endless amounts of snow falling since November and I can't recall a winter as perfect as this one. Lots of crystal clear days with no cloud at all and still there's snow flakes falling gently through the air. Once the winds kick in, a temperature like minus ten will instantly drop to twice as cold, and every corner you turn the wind hits you in the face like a hammer.
But today it's a calm and peaceful as it could possibly be. Blue skies, bright sunshine that'd blind you in moments. It's magical watching snow falling in the sunlight. Jet planes way up the skies leave vapor trails that criss-cross the skies and stay in place for a long time before fading. When the planes landing at Helsinki/Vantaa airport bank towards the airport they catch the sun and reflect it back at me here in Arabia, miles away from their route.
It's a weird paradigm: sunshine and snow, severe cold with no wind chill versus the problem indoors we've been having with our thermostats and not being able to turn them down. It's ridiculously hot in here, and I have to open the balcony door to let some heat out every few hours. Indoor temperatures regulated by the city say that apartments needs to maintain an average of twenty-two degrees indoors. Except we've been dealing with an average of twenty-eight/nine for the last few months. New regulators have been ordered and will be delivered and fitted by the end of the month, or so they say.
Down at market square Hakaniemi last evening around 1500:
And out on the square half an hour later:
Beautiful days in Finland.
Even more wonderful at night with the snow reflecting the lights and stars above.
Mowl
Member
Here's a tip, Jambo: if it gets you all riled up and in need of an early tin of Dutch Gold whenever 'Wolf' * starts calling you a drunk, simply post something like: 'Mowl's a right fucking cunt' and hey - presto! It's all good between you two and the rest of the members. No matter how deep the shit you're in, saying something/anything about the Mowl will soon repair any rifts between you losers.
* what kind of sad bastard calls himself 'Wolf' anyway?
Mowl
Member
Hello, Girls..
Did you know that if you put the word Mowl into the search box on Arsefield's that you won't find a single day where the word isn't mentioned? Not one single day can you girls let go by without nodding in my direction. Then you have slavish half-wits like Wolfie banging on about homosexuals? Wolfie's a fucking gas: not only is the cunt as horrible as the day is long, he's obsessed with me now that his previous arch nemesis got booted off Arsefield's. Wolfie can't seem to get through a day without lashing out with some cheap foul-mouthed slags he picked up in his neglected childhood at anyone nearby.
Why does he hate everyone?
Is it because he's quite used to everyone hating him?
You guys need to get real lives. Me? I'm almost done with another apartment interior I've designed for a Finn who's returning to (of all places) Brisbane, and heard about my design work on the pad I did late last year for another crew. This time it's a four bed-roomed spread with own sauna that I've converted into a three bed with an office/studio space utilizing the spare room. The money is absolutely nuts, and the work is challenging but at the same time extremely satisfying.
You sad bastards spend all day every day nattering on to each other about nothing. You'll never get the time you put into Arsefield's back, though none of you gombs seem to realize it. By the end of this month I'll be deciding on a route to do some traveling in the sun. Also by the end of this month, you'll all be an average of 120/150 hours per week worse off for your time and input on the gay bar site. Think about that? Each week, every week, you lose one hundred and fifty hours slagging each other, day-dreaming about the Mowl, trying to wind up David by mentioning Athy as though you're all in on some grand scheme, and generally wasting your (already wasted) lives obsessing over minute details that'd bore the hoop off a sloth.
Ask yourselves: 'what's the point or purpose of my activities with this?'
Then take a look in the mirror.
Then a look at your bank balance.
Then a look on here to see what my latest antics are.
See?
Do you get it yet?
No?
Ah, sure give it another month - maybe the simple truth might have dawned on you by then. Or not. Most likely.
The bloke I'm designing the apartment for has been in Brisbane for four years. He and his family HATE the place, they DESPISE Australians, and he said he never met such a nation of mutts who knew fuck all about their (relatively short) history. Racists, bigots, casual Nazis, and hateful drunks. It's too fucking hot and too dusty. Some towns are thousands of miles away from the nearest other town, and the entire wasteland is hopping with giant rats covered in lice, tics, fleas, and likely rabies. He can't wait to get home, neither can the kids. They hate the place too. I guess they had an experience just like my own: the least overwhelming reaction to a country (literally and metaphorically) built on sand.
PS: what Jew are you referring to, Jambo?
I don't have any business with Jews, I've made my attitudes towards them absolutely clear: I don't hate ALL Jews, nor am I anti-Semitic. I simply despise the Jews I know and have dealt with - remember the several times I explained that to you? And it's still flown over your rather flat head? Fuck Jews. By the time their shitshow in the Palestinian desert is done, they'll be as hated across the world as they were in Germany in the 1940s. And I think that's right and proper. Fuck 'em. My singular hope is that some Arab extremist nukes the fuck out of them before they even know what's happening. One swift cleaning of the board, and any that survive can prepare cheeseburgers for your current boss, Roundy Kelly.
Also - I've no idea why you think I'd want to join Arsefield's either. Roundy has every reason to hate me and he does, and it makes me laugh. The poor roundy thing thought he was all tucked up nice and safe and could coral his minions via his one grand three-fiddy a year 'investment' in radicalizing Irish mutts the very stripe you find on his site. A sixty-seven year old roundy white culchie from Ballinasloe with a fake degree from Sligo University and a wife and kids who hate the cunt too. He thought he could get away with what he was doing up until I tore his sign down. He's had his chips. His cheeseburgers too. But apart from that all he has is a legacy that's as embarrassing as it is disappointing.
When I finally get the remaining details about your man Golan/Fido/Swordid/Zippy the male moderator in a golden bra and heels, then I'll show you once again who and what your apparent 'betters' are all about. Many thought Declan was a tough nut from Southie, an alpha male with tattoos and a few missing teeth from scrapping in the dive bars. But no. All you got was the sad and sorry truth: a roundy little culchie in a zippernecked cardigan, suit pants shining from the ironing, with a big roundy belly and short-arsed demeanour hiding behind an anonymous character he spent years designing only for me to tear down the wall and show you the clown behind the curtain.
I bet you fucking twats thought he was all that?
I bet some of you till do, regardless of the reality I shoved under your face.
Say what you like, Jambo: I'm still far better off in my life than you'll ever be in yours. Your addiction to these chat sites reminds me of the twats who were into CB radio back in the day. 'Breaker-breaker, anyone near the chipper? Over?' If you count up the average daily/nightly number of hours you've put into Arsefield's and then multiplied it by seven, then by three hundred and sixty five, then by another five - what do you get?
A better country for Irish people for all your efforts?
A better world in general, paragraph by paragraph?
What's the point of what you're doing? What good (or bad) does any of it actually serve? Take Saul Bucket? Now this twat spends an average of twenty hours a day on Arsefield's ranting and raving about this and that. Clarke/Connolly always LIKES what Saul posts and Saul always LIKES what CC posts. Grand so far, right? Now tell me: for all the LIKES and slags and jibes, what in the real world is the exponential effect of their sad efforts? A happier community? A better country? A more balanced and accepting world? A hotter heat from the sun and more moonlight from the moon? What then?
Nothing at all?
Sounds right to.
So the chances of me ever posting ON Arsefield's is zero, but that doesn't change what I said to Golan/Fido/Swordid/Zippy only two days ago. Ask him what was in the message I sent. Ask him how accurate I was about who and what he is? Ask him if he's beginning to worry about the hints I drop him in posts I wrote only for him to see and then discard - because there's no fucking way he's going to let me put a name and a face to his many fake female accounts. He's had his arse handed to him and he knows I'm on his tail - getting closer all the time. See, Zippy's too smug to realize he has more enemies than minions. While I have more informers and snitches than you could even dream of.
But sure keep it up, lads.
It's better all round for this world that you sad shower of losers only have each other (and man do you need each other) to argue with.
It keeps you all in the one pig-sty and well fed on slurry and other human waste.
And yeah: of course The Mowl is the one name you'll see repeated on Arsefield's day after day, that's exactly how things ought to be, see?
Did you know that if you put the word Mowl into the search box on Arsefield's that you won't find a single day where the word isn't mentioned? Not one single day can you girls let go by without nodding in my direction. Then you have slavish half-wits like Wolfie banging on about homosexuals? Wolfie's a fucking gas: not only is the cunt as horrible as the day is long, he's obsessed with me now that his previous arch nemesis got booted off Arsefield's. Wolfie can't seem to get through a day without lashing out with some cheap foul-mouthed slags he picked up in his neglected childhood at anyone nearby.
Why does he hate everyone?
Is it because he's quite used to everyone hating him?
You guys need to get real lives. Me? I'm almost done with another apartment interior I've designed for a Finn who's returning to (of all places) Brisbane, and heard about my design work on the pad I did late last year for another crew. This time it's a four bed-roomed spread with own sauna that I've converted into a three bed with an office/studio space utilizing the spare room. The money is absolutely nuts, and the work is challenging but at the same time extremely satisfying.
You sad bastards spend all day every day nattering on to each other about nothing. You'll never get the time you put into Arsefield's back, though none of you gombs seem to realize it. By the end of this month I'll be deciding on a route to do some traveling in the sun. Also by the end of this month, you'll all be an average of 120/150 hours per week worse off for your time and input on the gay bar site. Think about that? Each week, every week, you lose one hundred and fifty hours slagging each other, day-dreaming about the Mowl, trying to wind up David by mentioning Athy as though you're all in on some grand scheme, and generally wasting your (already wasted) lives obsessing over minute details that'd bore the hoop off a sloth.
Ask yourselves: 'what's the point or purpose of my activities with this?'
Then take a look in the mirror.
Then a look at your bank balance.
Then a look on here to see what my latest antics are.
See?
Do you get it yet?
No?
Ah, sure give it another month - maybe the simple truth might have dawned on you by then. Or not. Most likely.
The bloke I'm designing the apartment for has been in Brisbane for four years. He and his family HATE the place, they DESPISE Australians, and he said he never met such a nation of mutts who knew fuck all about their (relatively short) history. Racists, bigots, casual Nazis, and hateful drunks. It's too fucking hot and too dusty. Some towns are thousands of miles away from the nearest other town, and the entire wasteland is hopping with giant rats covered in lice, tics, fleas, and likely rabies. He can't wait to get home, neither can the kids. They hate the place too. I guess they had an experience just like my own: the least overwhelming reaction to a country (literally and metaphorically) built on sand.
PS: what Jew are you referring to, Jambo?
I don't have any business with Jews, I've made my attitudes towards them absolutely clear: I don't hate ALL Jews, nor am I anti-Semitic. I simply despise the Jews I know and have dealt with - remember the several times I explained that to you? And it's still flown over your rather flat head? Fuck Jews. By the time their shitshow in the Palestinian desert is done, they'll be as hated across the world as they were in Germany in the 1940s. And I think that's right and proper. Fuck 'em. My singular hope is that some Arab extremist nukes the fuck out of them before they even know what's happening. One swift cleaning of the board, and any that survive can prepare cheeseburgers for your current boss, Roundy Kelly.
Also - I've no idea why you think I'd want to join Arsefield's either. Roundy has every reason to hate me and he does, and it makes me laugh. The poor roundy thing thought he was all tucked up nice and safe and could coral his minions via his one grand three-fiddy a year 'investment' in radicalizing Irish mutts the very stripe you find on his site. A sixty-seven year old roundy white culchie from Ballinasloe with a fake degree from Sligo University and a wife and kids who hate the cunt too. He thought he could get away with what he was doing up until I tore his sign down. He's had his chips. His cheeseburgers too. But apart from that all he has is a legacy that's as embarrassing as it is disappointing.
When I finally get the remaining details about your man Golan/Fido/Swordid/Zippy the male moderator in a golden bra and heels, then I'll show you once again who and what your apparent 'betters' are all about. Many thought Declan was a tough nut from Southie, an alpha male with tattoos and a few missing teeth from scrapping in the dive bars. But no. All you got was the sad and sorry truth: a roundy little culchie in a zippernecked cardigan, suit pants shining from the ironing, with a big roundy belly and short-arsed demeanour hiding behind an anonymous character he spent years designing only for me to tear down the wall and show you the clown behind the curtain.
I bet you fucking twats thought he was all that?
I bet some of you till do, regardless of the reality I shoved under your face.
Say what you like, Jambo: I'm still far better off in my life than you'll ever be in yours. Your addiction to these chat sites reminds me of the twats who were into CB radio back in the day. 'Breaker-breaker, anyone near the chipper? Over?' If you count up the average daily/nightly number of hours you've put into Arsefield's and then multiplied it by seven, then by three hundred and sixty five, then by another five - what do you get?
A better country for Irish people for all your efforts?
A better world in general, paragraph by paragraph?
What's the point of what you're doing? What good (or bad) does any of it actually serve? Take Saul Bucket? Now this twat spends an average of twenty hours a day on Arsefield's ranting and raving about this and that. Clarke/Connolly always LIKES what Saul posts and Saul always LIKES what CC posts. Grand so far, right? Now tell me: for all the LIKES and slags and jibes, what in the real world is the exponential effect of their sad efforts? A happier community? A better country? A more balanced and accepting world? A hotter heat from the sun and more moonlight from the moon? What then?
Nothing at all?
Sounds right to.
So the chances of me ever posting ON Arsefield's is zero, but that doesn't change what I said to Golan/Fido/Swordid/Zippy only two days ago. Ask him what was in the message I sent. Ask him how accurate I was about who and what he is? Ask him if he's beginning to worry about the hints I drop him in posts I wrote only for him to see and then discard - because there's no fucking way he's going to let me put a name and a face to his many fake female accounts. He's had his arse handed to him and he knows I'm on his tail - getting closer all the time. See, Zippy's too smug to realize he has more enemies than minions. While I have more informers and snitches than you could even dream of.
But sure keep it up, lads.
It's better all round for this world that you sad shower of losers only have each other (and man do you need each other) to argue with.
It keeps you all in the one pig-sty and well fed on slurry and other human waste.
And yeah: of course The Mowl is the one name you'll see repeated on Arsefield's day after day, that's exactly how things ought to be, see?