I wonder what 'freedom' means to these lads. Becoming a prisoner of the Irish past I suspect. Funny watching these old bastards trying to find a way to squeal about change by framing it is a political issue rather than their own small island based mentality.
Valamhic insists global warming is a fake because he gauges the global weather patterns based on what he sees happening in Cavan. Says global warming is a lie because it's very cold in Kingscourt all the time. Floods in towns and cities across Asia have nothing to do with local tillage/silage issues in the upper midlands and therefore the whole thing's a big massive spoof designed to cause complications and expenses for the small farmer - with cows. Val has a few acres of hilly bog and one flat field he feeds the cows on. When it rains, all the rain water on the hilly end tends to drift down into the flat end and like King Canute, he tries to hold it back by the power of prayer and self-aggrandizement.
Another issue is that his cows can't digest their grass in either of their stomachs unless they stand sideways on the hill the rains seep down from, and as a result, all of his cows have two legs shorter than the others. This directly affects their value at the markets, so he went into his little metalwork shop and designed two steel boots for each of his cows to be worn on the left rear hoof and the front left hoof.
Of course, at night when they're dancing in the barn over by the Shitting Ditch, they can hear the festivities in Val's house as he dances a merry jig around the kitchen wearing naught but a hand-towel around his neck and his cleanest yellow y-fronts, and they like to join in the fun by putting their right leg in, their right leg out, then they do the hokey-pokey and they shake it all about. Except with just the two steel boots, they're always off rhythm and this causes them to self harm out of social exclusion and deep depression.
They'll generally be against seeing brown skinned people in shops.
Depends which side of the counter they're on, no?
They won't like change in any way, shape or form.
Especially when it comes to underwear.
Likely to hate tetra-pak instead of 'bockles' of milk.
My Mam always washed the milk bottles before putting them out at night.
I say my Mam, but in reality it was me acting on clear instruction.
I thought we were weird until that one day the milkman came late and I saw that everyone along our street also washed their empties.
It's somewhere in between absolute insanity and a generalized social respect for others.
Convinced that Ireland was a better place when they were seven years of age when they were protected against the evils of the time.
I read somewhere recently that culchies age much faster than jackeens. Say two regular pale pink Irish people are born in two different hospitals: by the time the one born in the Dublin hospital reaches their teens, the other one in Cavan has reached their fiftieth birthday. It plays havoc with the pensions and wills, but the turnover is moderate and the death rate healthy enough to keep a number of conveyancers and undertakers in work.
I may found a pro-Euthenasia Party.
Don't we have one already?
I mean, Fianna Fail and Fine Gael have been at that for years.
My suspicion is that if we culled everyone over 75 years of age Ireland would be much freer than it is now.
That's quite young going by today's standards: I know loads of seventy year olds who are only just out of their kiddy nappies and transmogrifying into old people's nappies. Mad the way you stop shitting yourself around two years after you're born and then after a brief period of respite, you're shitting yourself all over again at age sixty-five? Makes you wonder how many in your circle are wearing more than just pissy-yella y-fronts down the pub.
Or camps. Preferably run by the Little Sisters of the Mailed Fist and the Holy Five Pound of God. Give 'em the nostalgia they want. Give it to them hard.
They don't call them the Little Sisters for nothing: those little bitches are responsible for more telephone directories being abused and used as seating devices for young girls sitting on the laps of much older men. Remember that? That was actually a thing - for many years. A girl must never sit on the lap of an older man without that directory to offer her some sexual protection.
I reckon they'd have been better off just whacking the older male in the chops with it, then rifling through his pockets and making off with the wallet.
