Arsefield's Hall of Shame
- Thread starter Electricity
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Mowl
Member
Imagine being so fucking thick that as an Irishman born and bred, you still manage to end up homeless in your own country? Scrounging off the dole, sleeping in some piss-stinking alleyway in a damp sleeping bag, eating out of the bins and begging for small change while sitting on O'Connell Street in the pissing rain? What the fuck kind people does Roundy's 'nationalist' site aim to recruit?
A guy dependent on the local penny dinners to recharge his phone. Renting a desktop by the hour from some Pakistani freak with a load of Commodore computers in a seedy little shop with the windows covered in post-its offering B&B and hostel accommodation so he can stay a bit warm? Begging for cups of tea from the charities outside the GPO. Trawling the streets after ten at night looking for coins or dropped notes. Collecting bottles and cans to trade in for a little cash to buy a pair of socks and some second hand shoes that don't leak.
This poor cunt has managed to fuck his entire life up without so much as crossing the border into Ulster, never mind getting a job in Dusseldorf laying concrete at five euros an hour and a barracks to sleep in before getting fired for drinking on the job. Losers, wall to wall losers seems to be Arsefield's main objective. It offers Jambo some distraction during those long cold days of the week passing by like sap oozing from a tree in winter while he's waiting for his next dole cheque to clear at the local post office.
Or this fucking toolkit of a knob:
You got that one upside down, Roundy: it's the remaining 97% you cater for.
Mowl
Member
It's like part two of 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest' on speed.
I'd say the majority are under scrutiny of the hidden security cameras in their state-sponsored hostels.
And shitting their nappies.
Mowl
Member
Now that you've seen who your replacement actually is, have you any plans to try to be irreplaceable or are you happy enough to take a back seat while Jamal fucks your women and eats your food? Still going to lounge around posting on Arsefield's about how unfair it all is and how these savages are destroying Ireland? He looks far fitter than I imagine you've ever been. Muscle tone like that? Your ladies would be only too happy to swallow what he gives them, while yoy're at home sitting on your thumbs and weeping into your dinner of corn flakes and chocolate milk.
You're fucked, Jimmy - utterly fucking fucked.
You don't stand even a remote chance of winning.
You were born to lose anyway - so why bother trying?
He'll be dancing them around in Copperfake Jacks while you're at home on Porn Hub trying to rouse your little member.
Three at a time, Jimmy - that's what he's looking forward to.
How about you?
Slab in and chilling in the fridge?
Two frozen pizzas in the icebox?
A lump of soapbar and a packet of red Rizlas?
No change of underwear?
All your socks are stiff and crusty under the mattress?
Poor Jimmy.
Fucked.
Utterly fucked.
Mowl
Member
Fat Dan trying to look slim by selecting only fatter people than him to interview.
This fat fucker on the left's a religious freak as well, so you know what to expect.
The sheer state of Declan's tiny little shoulders? I only noticed that now, even though I was always wondering why his frame looks so ridiculous. Slap on a short-sleeved shirt and a clip-on tie and hey, presto: you have 'Tours Of Southie For The Walking Dead' in three dimensions. His head's like a sideways rugby bally sitting on a fence post.
Notice what's completely missing here?
No?
Hint?
Neck.
A neck, or rather the complete lack of one.
It's like he has to pull his cheap polyester jumper up to his ears to make it stay in place.
This, folks - is the dire reality of fasting on cheeseburgers and extra fries: a huge head on a child-sized body made mostly of shite, old bones, and fat.
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Mowl
Member
Wow, didn't take you too long to pick up the scent of that
video, now did it, Fats?
Unlike your wife, who has it real tough what with having to deal with your pissy y-fronts and the many skid-marks that measure out your days.
So far you've spent your life spending your wife's wages on cheeseburgers and clip-on bow-ties.
You never went to UCG, apart from delivering pizzas and soap bar hash for the interns. You're no more an engineer than I'm an astronaut.
You're sixty-seven, Declan - everyone knows this.
Quit lying when the truth is staring you in the (rather chubby) face.
The result of a stressful rat race, you say?
You deleted the one with the rat in your bins, the one where you screamed like a little girl when you tipped the bin over and the rat scarpered.
You also pissed your pants a bit, didn't you?
Pussy.
You're also a natural fat bastard, but you don't harp on about that one, eh.
So you worked in a dive bar pulling pints for drunks and losers? And??
I'm sure Eric has you barred from his facebook page to stop you leering at his girlfriends and then telling him to invite them over for some mashed Irish potatoes and grilled Granby sausages with ketchup. Then staring at her cleavage every time she leans forward to shovel a few more chips down her gizzard.
Imagine being Declan's twenty-two year old son at the dinner table when he brings a date with him?
We might - but you won't, Fatty.
You're more than likely going to be dead before Trump gets assassinated.
Heart attack, stroke, whatever - it's coming, and soon too, eh.
Best start making out your final will and testament lest the kids dump the whole lot off the bridge into the Hudson.
Along with your fat carcass.
Digging a grave for a fat fuck like you would take a team of industrial diggers on day/night shifts.
Your lies fool no one but yourself, Fat Man.
video, now did it, Fats?
Unlike your wife, who has it real tough what with having to deal with your pissy y-fronts and the many skid-marks that measure out your days.
So far you've spent your life spending your wife's wages on cheeseburgers and clip-on bow-ties.
You never went to UCG, apart from delivering pizzas and soap bar hash for the interns. You're no more an engineer than I'm an astronaut.
You're sixty-seven, Declan - everyone knows this.
Quit lying when the truth is staring you in the (rather chubby) face.
The result of a stressful rat race, you say?
You deleted the one with the rat in your bins, the one where you screamed like a little girl when you tipped the bin over and the rat scarpered.
You also pissed your pants a bit, didn't you?
Pussy.
You're also a natural fat bastard, but you don't harp on about that one, eh.
So you worked in a dive bar pulling pints for drunks and losers? And??
I'm sure Eric has you barred from his facebook page to stop you leering at his girlfriends and then telling him to invite them over for some mashed Irish potatoes and grilled Granby sausages with ketchup. Then staring at her cleavage every time she leans forward to shovel a few more chips down her gizzard.
Imagine being Declan's twenty-two year old son at the dinner table when he brings a date with him?
We might - but you won't, Fatty.
You're more than likely going to be dead before Trump gets assassinated.
Heart attack, stroke, whatever - it's coming, and soon too, eh.
Best start making out your final will and testament lest the kids dump the whole lot off the bridge into the Hudson.
Along with your fat carcass.
Digging a grave for a fat fuck like you would take a team of industrial diggers on day/night shifts.
Your lies fool no one but yourself, Fat Man.
roc_abilly
Member
Brings to mind "Sherriff Fatman". (In fact they made a whole album called "You Fat Bastard").
Sherrif Fatman started out is business as a granny farmer
He was infamous for fifteen minutes
At six foot six
And 100 tons
The undisputed King of the Slums
With more alias' than Klaus Barbie
With his Valium, amphetamines
Sicknotes and his phoney prescriptions
A Crossroad's Motel
For the No Fixed Abodeless
Where you can live life in style
If you sleep in a closet
And if you flash him a smile
He'll take your teeth as deposit
There's bats in the belfrey
The windows are jammed
The toilet's ain't healthy
He don't give a damn
"The Landlord of Arsefields".
roc_abilly
Member
Young Jimmy is like a very primitive, very annoying AI, with a limited language model trained on Political Irish dot com, Bugs Buddy Web, and the utterances of his three wise clowns.
That's it. The sum total of his "contributions".
Remember he threatened to sue me "IRL" for pointing out that he was a white supremacist, re-badged?
- The Mantra FULL
- The Mantra SHORT
- Mini Mantras
- Anti-Racist isn't a code word for Anti-White
- Assimilation isnt forced
- Colonialism
- Colonialism - Aus, Can, USA
- Demographics Shift
- Diversity
- Have more Babies
- Immigration
- It's 2012!
- Low Birth Rate
- Mixed race people are better
- Melting Pot
- Multiculturalism
- NAZI RACIST
- Non-Whites & Anti-Whites
- Not Bothered
- Not Genocide
- No White People
- No White Countries
- Out of Africa
- Social Construct
- We All Bleed Red
- White Privilidge
- Questions for Anti-Whites
- Genocide Conventions
- Quotes
- Whitakerisms
That's it. The sum total of his "contributions".
Remember he threatened to sue me "IRL" for pointing out that he was a white supremacist, re-badged?
Mowl
Member
That
Remember he threatened to sue me "IRL" for pointing out that he was a white supremacist, re-badged?
I'm guessing it was a Dutch Gold-related incident?
Isn't it a gas though the way he only managed to recruit ONE other Pish-head/Arsefielder who then shortly after upped and died a pointless death?
Even the drunken O'Reilly didn't buy in to it all the way the Bucket did: and he's still propping up the bar out in Wetherspoon's.
Instead, he decided to quit. You can hardly blame him: he's spent the last two years trying to act as though he didn't join Jambo's merry band of rats on parade with the Bucket calling themselves The A Team. Poor Myles, he now realizes that he was strung along like a sap. Plus he pushed his whole 'that's too much text to read' schtick a bit too far, exposing his inner dopiness.
Even Wolfie has fucked off, bored with jambo's endless 'where's your evidence for that?' at Swordid all day and night.
Nobody wants Jambo around, but he just doesn't get it - even after eleventy-thrine name changes and and two dozen site changes.
But then again nobody wants Wilfie or O'Reilly around either.
And that doesn't even require an explanation.
Mowl
Member
No idea what you're moaning about, Wilf. But given your presence on here most days, why not sign up and show me how tough you actually are, you slimy rat bastard? Got any balls at all, have you? You're never happy unless you're hated. How does that actually work out for you in the real world? Has it something to do with your wife not respecting you and being unwilling to let you anywhere near her flabby tits and droopy fanny lips?
I gave you my home address, I gave you the exact location of my local pub, two doors away. You haven't so much as called or texted me using my current Finnish number, which is readily available on my old art page on social media - and on The Senators Of Helsinki page, the same two sites you keep hitting every fucking day since I told you about them. There's not much to find there: mainly because I hide nothing, I am who I am, and I stand over my word. You? You're just another slimy little rat from the sewers who thinks his (anonymous) opinion matters.
It doesn't.
Try not posting for another two weeks and see how much the world changes, because the last three certainly haven't shown you as being brave or even honest.
I know you hate me being happier than you, but what do you expect me to do?
Contract cancer or AIDS or something?
Would that make you feel better? Tougher? Stronger? As though you matter?
You're a huge blob of nothing at all, Wilfred.
So I hate Ireland almost as much as you do: why does that bother you so much?
You say that my shit-posting about Ireland is all I have?
What have you got?
Shit-posting about Ireland?
That's it?
You think you're more entitled to it than I am (shit-posting about Ireland) but guess what?
I do it for the fun, for the laughs, to see you jack rabbits jump and hop.
You have to live in it - which is truly a fate worse than death: you really hate it, and you see all the exact reasons why you hate it every passing day.
But it bothers you more that I get to do it too?
Heh heh!
Mine truly is a blessed life up here in the world's happiest country.
Just imagine if I WAS scrounging off the state and getting everything for free? That'd make you suicidal, wouldn't it? A working class Paddy from Dublin 10, living in a huge state of the art apartment by the sea in the world's happiest capital city: riding the trams, metros, and buses for free. Being handed two grand a month to live on while the state pays for my rental and energy bills? While they take my garbage away, service my hallways, clean my sauna, wash and dry my laundry. Then gives me free food and the world's finest health care and further educational options? Where the girlies just love my accent and cheeky ways so I get laid far more than I should?
You'd have slashed your wrists by now, eh.
Everyone knows you're hung up on me, Wilfy. Everyone. So why didn't you just call by for a beer and a straightener? I left fifteen euros with Alu, the pub owner and chief barman down in Ravintola Olotila, to buy you a pint and a shot of Jaloviina while I got my shoes on and dropped in to greet you. Fists first, like. For the craic, like. But you bottled it. You never showed up, like we all knew you'd never show up.
So what happened to you? Did they refuse you at the border or what? Where's my cigars? You're not much of a man's man after all, are you? You're a fucking pussy: a very old, very loose, and very droopy old vagina, aren't you? A little man with fuck all going on bar rage at his own country for treating him like a dishrag and not paying even the slightest bit of attention to what he's moaning and groaning about.
You're fucking hilarious, Wilf.
Jambo's right on the nipple and is about to start flicking it to annoy you enough into leaving blogging behind you and getting a real job instead of being some cheap cigar maker's delivery boy. You failed, Wilf. Nothing you've added your words, time, and rage about has made even an iota of a difference, bar entertaining me and making me laugh at the shit-hole you've dug for yourself.
Me?
Still laughing.
Still having excellent fun.
It's only the first week of March and the sun's shining down on this beautiful and broad land. I ought to be deep under the snow right now but this has been the warmest February/March on record. Shortest winter ever, which is nice because the one thing that takes a big effort is getting through a Nordic winter without feeling the cold and dark surround one. Not this year though: the girlies are already in their spring clothing.
You're much happier moaning and groaning in anonymity and boredom, 'Ireland's shit, fuck Ireland, arghh! why am I still on this poxy little rock??'
'Anyway, I'll check in again in 2 weeks for the laugh to see what the sex pest is at.......for the craic like...'
Here's a link to your recent posts, Wilfy - and sadly for you, your crush on me is apparent to anyone who wants to have a look at how many posts you make a week about never ever reading the Mowl or visiting the Isle, even though it's patently obvious that you do - every day. And not just here at the Isle, but all over my art and music pages too! Cop on to yourself, you old fart: social media offers page creators detailed information about who and from where the visits come from. Every fucking day, the same shit: the Senators blah, blah, and the artwork page no different. You're all over me like a cheap suit.
Link: https://185.246.85.103/search/36762...0cHM6Ly93d3cuc2Fyc2ZpZWxkc3ZpcnR1YWxwdWIuY29t
See?
That's how big a loser you are: you hate me, a fellow Irishman who made it out in one piece, even though you'd give your left testicle to be in my shoes, eh.
Sad, Wilfy - really sad.
So let's see how long it takes for your next: 'BOOM! Anal prolapse, padre Pio, oh me, oh my, oh yeah...'
You sad, sad little man.
Here, a little friendly: you need to read a little of this little book for little people by Wilhelm Reich:
Mowl
Member
Demanding Swordid gives you the evidence for his post content isn't making your position any more tenable than it already is, Jimmy.
As for civility and appropriateness, you're hardly a gentleman yourself, now are you? Jimmy D, the hard man, the tough guy? Wets his pants every time he sees my name mentioned, so he tries to allocate an alternative name for me that nobody has picked up on? Yet still verbs me? Oh dear, Jambo: you seem to have lost the rag somewhat lately.
Now that
is class.Reminds of the grand plan from Enda Kenny back in the day when he threw some of your money at 'The Gathering' where the Irish from all over the world would be welcomed home for one week of the summer to spend their money in Ireland buying Irish things and eating and drinking Irish products. In order to sort out the national debt, like. Oh, how I laughed and laughed. It was so sad it was hilarious really.
The Gathering?
Pah-hah!
The Buttering, when Kerrygold and 'I Can't Believe It's Not Dripping' go to battle with bare fists.
The Guttering - where all the Irish roofers across the world come home to seal up the roof of Leinster House.
The Battering, where all the fish and chip shops across the country battle it out for who does the best 'crispy bits'.
The Lottering - where everyone in Ireland has one euro docked from their wage/dole and are given an An Post lottery ticket in lieu.
The Shadow Banning, which sees Swordid go into overdrive deleting posts about his old balls and droopy arse-flaps.
Gas lads, ye are.
Gas.
Mowl
Member
Deadly buzz, Frankie.
Did you enjoy your little break from the site?
Does it hurt that you can't mention me on Arsefield's without getting the bullet? Like the sad site drunk, O'Reilly? Poor Fwankie - thad a bad boo-boo? Maybe you should ask your Mommy to put a bandage on it and then give you a lollipop and a pat on the head before beddy-byes?
No matter how hard you try, you'll never get to laugh as loud as I do, Dave.
Here, I suggest you use this as your next avatar:
She's some fucking munter, you gotta agree?
Ugly fuck on strong amphetamines, getting uglier by the minute.
Mowl
Member
Here, Mandy - check this one out, this is what I get when I type in the address of Arsefield's:
And here's your most recent post from three minutes ago:
See how it's pointless trying to save yourself from me? See how it's never worth the effort because I'm smarter than you? Smarter than you'll ever be? So it is. And so it must be because you all feel the need to be protected from me. From me laughing at you and then presenting your best efforts to the world at large to laugh at too?
Ban me all you like, Dave - I'm still getting mine every passing day, and you guys are never short on the laugh-ins.
Your posts are lame, your wife's a munter, your time has been wasted, your balls have shrunk, you're all at sea, casting about, trying to grab onto anything at all so you don't go under. But it's too late: you're past your sell-by date.
