Word to St Zipperneck: your filthy double-standards are as creepy and vile as ever. You wrap yourself in shit-stained robes and the smell of your wheelchair seat is what keeps normal humans at a safe distance. There are all kinds of people in this world, some are good and decent people, but there are so many like you, Zipperneck, that pure souls such as mine can do nothing to save you from yourself.
In time you'll realize the sheer waste you've made of your entire existence: that's really all it is, the bare minimum of breathing, eating, and shitting.
Even the
part-time engineer and face model/extra/actor R0ry O'Connor of 101 Belfield Close, Sandyford Co Dublin can see your double standards and piteous efforts at meting out 'justice' via your golden ban-hammer. The acidic mongrel's vomit that constitutes your basic nature will wash away in time, but only for the rest of us. Never for you. You have to live with yourself, nobody else does though. And that makes me happy: you're a sad old man trying to be a virtuous young woman. There are few victims of the Catholic church quite as fucked up as you!
No matter what you say or do today, you'll sit over that first screen grab above and smile at your winnings. Finnish diabolism aside, you're entitled to them. Use me. Use my name if it helps you to feel better about yourself. Snigger after the fact. Then tonight when you lay down your laptop and consider your day and what it gave you, think of me sitting here on my balcony, listening to the waves lapping at the shore. The sun shining brightly across my tanned and sallow skin, fresh olives in my bowl, yesterday's oranges picked from the trees and crushed and pulverized with a measure of viina to give it some zest.
I sit here in the bright sun in the world's happiest country thinking of you all over there in the world's most fucked up little rape factory, trying to find the good in anything your minions lay at your feet. But there's nothing pure or fresh for any of you bar the guilt and shame that comes with laughing at broken and permanently damaged children - the children of your neighbours and friends. You mock their shattered souls. You find garrulous dark humour in the burning of innocence to flame a fire to warm your cold damp toes. It's pitiful really, and I do pity you. I always have.
Your life has been a complete waste of not just your own time, but also those who see you do what you do day after day. There are no weekends in your life, no days off, no holy days of obligation, because every day is like a cold wet Monday: as grim as it gets. When you woke this morning and saw what needed cleaning and what didn't, you smirked that knacker smirk only 100% muck-and-shit pure Irish blood can make. You're the child of cancer born to a crippled and wasted body. You take no steps toward anything because you have nowhere to go. You're stuck in a loop that's going to strangle you in the end. And the end for you will be just as now is for you: empty, worthless, to be filled in and forgotten as you limp sadly along to your next ego boost.
When you die, nobody will miss you bar the kind of people who fund the cesspools you call home.
After you've been buried, not even mongrel dogs would piss on your gravestone, because mongrels have more self respect than you've ever had.
You're universally disliked by anyone with half a brain who sees what you do: pity and disgust is the usual reaction, then loathing sets in after they've gotten to know even just a little about you. You sit there in the same underwear you put on last Tuesday, and the way you keep promising yourself that today you
WILL take a shower to wash off the horrors of the last week of your existence, and that you
WILL change your underpants before anyone else gets a waft of your person when they call by to deliver your meals on wheels cold suppers. You'll eat alone just as you shit alone, just as you are now: in the public toilet of life's wonders and disappointments.
Mongrel dogs, Zippy - they outclass you.
Fleas and ticks, Swordid: they serve a better and more positive function than you ever will.
You're the bacteria on the arse end of a sewer rat carrying rabies.
You'll be forgotten as soon as your cold heart quits its last beat.
But the Mowl will still be a working class hero, the one who got out in the nick of time to find joy and happiness in the same world you occupy but will never enjoy as I do. You serve a fat little man with empty pockets and a massive lying ego. You oversee some of the worst scum Ireland ever gave breath to. You congratulate yourself on all these things, you feel proud of them. They make your worthless and unproductive life go round and round, every day the same as the last. Horrid, disgraceful in the truest sense of the term, in cahoots with the worst vermin Ireland has ever produced.
I know how much you hate yourself - it's apparent in everything you do and say.
It pleases me greatly that this post will continue to occupy your twisted mind for the hours and days yet to come.
Monday, Monday, Monday: rain, drizzle, damp.
The wheels on your wheelchair groaning and wrenching to get away from you, trying to unseat you.
Next time you close your eyes and think of me, remember to try to smile as broadly as I am just now.
Happiness, Zippy - is for those of us with the courage to seek it out.
Misery is free, with second and third helpings also available.
