'The Marcus Lounge: In Honour Of Saul'
'Many characters have come and sadly gone through different fora in the last couple of decades now but one of the more entertaining and well admired was Saul Goodman of Pish fame who later joined us here as Coal Gas and Peat...'
A racist pig of the knee-jerk type. Just mention the word 'Black' and he was off with the expletives: nigg*r this, polack that, wops, knackers, etc. Highly triggered, Saul Bucket was a very confused little culchie with an inferiority complex and a hump about Jackeens, who consequently sought out the worst of the worst posters on boards like Pish to hold his hand and guide him through the initiation ceremony required to qualify on the site 'Arsefield's'. He was your average low IQ '
hang 'em high, gun 'em down' hate filled pus-bag who needed to be among his own low IQ sorts in order to observe the pecking order of racist discourse as per every day's output on the gay bar site.
You cannot dig up a dead racist and recast them as a decent human being.
His other major fault was the one he came to me for help with. And help him I did. Why wouldn't I? He came to me as a concerned father at his wit's end saying that his eldest son was out of all control. The drink and the smoke ruled his daily and nightly motions and in order to feed it he needed money by any means necessary. His chosen means of acquiring said money? A crowbar to the back door of the house where the pensioners lay sleeping, then into the kitchen and lounge gabbing anything that could be resold for cash money while at the same time scouring through presses and drawers looking for cash.
When no cash was to be found, he took whatever was there that could be traded for drink money: items on the mantle-piece and in the display cupboards. Gifts of Waterford glass, items of pewter and silver, the flat-screen telly and the remote control. Any mobile phones, any decent foods in the fridge, and anything else he could carry before scarpering when he heard the pensioner stir in their bed.
He took the swag home, which was the one thing that bothered Saul: not the burgling, but the storing of stolen goods in the family household. The son was irresponsible, lazy, on the dole since he left school. No qualifications, no urge to iron his life out, so robbery was his opt-in for quick and easy cash. I listened to Bucket's story and asked about his own feelings and concerns as to his son's actions. What he told me made me really sad: the Bucket was a weak and lazy father who didn't know how to control his spawn.
He was a happily affiliated IRA connection in the Cavan/Monaghan region. That was where I asked why the IRA allowed his son to do what he did. But the Bucket never told me that his own brothers were active members, so what I thought was a cloud over his head was actually a guilt complex about only telling me half of the story so he could cut to the chase and get my advice and counsel.
For what it's worth, my advice was very, very simple: it included a large black plastic bag. Then a raid on the boxroom he slept in to gather up his belongings and booty before depositing the bag at the front door with a note attached telling him he no longer lived there and to ease his departure, a fresh fifty euro note and a sandwich. Seeya. Over. Done. Goodbye.
The Bucket entirely failed to do anything whatsoever, and soon after that turned on me (where only hours before he was crying his heart out to me) and left The Isle in huff to head over to Arsefield's to continue his lying bastard ways among other lying rat bastards like those there today. I'm not the sort to take a shit on some cunt's grave for no apparent reason. I took time out to help the little cunt but he after agreeing that my advice was 100% sound, he rejected it and took the low road. Fast forward fourteen months (give or take) and he's high on his horse in familiar company, leveling hate and bile at anything not pearly white. Had I known the extent of his racism, I'd have given him entirely different advice.
But I didn't - which is why I tried to help him sort out of the mangled conundrum he was in: brother to IRA active members, father to an unruly son who presumed their familial IRA connections cleared the way for him to rob the weakest people in society: the pensioners. Not older people, not middle-aged people: people over the age of 65/70 and upwards. Asleep in their beds. So obviously the Bucket knew that his own brothers would have to take their nephew up to the hills to teach him a lesson the same way any other rat in the community is taught: a shotgun placed by the side of the knee, the click of a cartridge in the chamber, then the click of the trigger: except it's a blank this time - next time?
Work it out yourself.
So our two chat threads have been wrapped up and replaced by one in his memory.
So what?
I'm the one bringing the truth - you lot are eulogizing a cunt-bucket of the highest order.
Ask yourself: what's the Bucket's son up since his aul fella died? Doing the rounds returning and replacing everything he robbed from the oldies over so many years? Apologizing for his behaviour and doing some self-imposed community work for free? Joining the priesthood?
Fuck that: he's still robbing, and he'll continue to until someone of his own puts a stop to it.
Me?
My conscience is clear.
Perhaps it's time you fucking rats examined your own.
It is for general chat, random thoughts and general banter.
Like what?
Nigg*r this and polack that?
Hopefully it will be a refuge of sorts and a place where one can feel among friends.
Which is more than the poor pensioners of Cavan/Monaghan got, right?
You fucking scumbags have no idea how filthy you really are, do you?
Know your enemy, especially when he's standing in your ranks pretending to be something he isn't.
The Bucket was angry. As if it wasn't enough to contend with his son's antics, then he gets a diagnosis and a schedule.
Ask yourself: what would YOU have done in his shoes?
You can blow it out your asses, boys: the more you lie about him, the more I'm going to remind you how fucking wrong you are.
It's your game - not mine.
EDIT: I'll post this song in dedication to the Bucket - this was all I ever was to him, and to myself:
The The: 'Helpline Operator'
