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See that left eye of his?

See those repetitive twitches?

The way his eyes keep rolling around in their sockets?

Two years since he smashed his front teeth out, and still ne'er a dentist appointment or a cosmetic bridge. Val's very poor, his farm is a tiny strip of bog and he has only the three cows and one cat. Not very good at what he does, especially nowadays when his star has risen and he spends most of his day making videos about his thoughts on this and that.

When his stroke hits, I just hope he's not standing next to the slurry pit.

Or The Shitting Ditch.
 
Used to buy those from the Spar shop on Dame St/Sth Gt George's St. Buy them three at a time, eat one and put the other two into the fridge for late-night suppers after work. The fresh baguette still warm, the portions always spilling over the crust, hot meats and cold vegetables had a lovely contrast. I used to eat Parisian style buying a baguette, cheese, and wine for outdoor supper up on Montmarte.

But the Irish breakfast roll is, like Guinness and like the standard Irish breakfast fry-up, a monster creation that harks more to American diets than it did to Irish diets back then. Of course, more than half the Irish population are obese fuckers who shovel food down their necks without even chewing it. Mouth breathers, another terror on the Irish restaurant experience. They make me want to throw something pointy at them. No knife, just a fork handled like a soup spoon, pile it all on and then slurp it into your fat gob and start that kind of chewing action where the food's too hot but you can't stop filling your trap.

Then the mouth-breathing to cool down what's in the gob - oblivious to everyone around them.

There was a sandwich bar just two or three doors down from The Temple Bar who did huge rolls, except most of the additions were of a more exotic nature: spicy sausages from Germany, smoked meats, smoked fish, all sorts of goodies and it'd easily feed two non-obese people a fine supper when the day is done. Up here the simple sandwich is usually on rye bread, a slice of Finnish cheese, a few cucumber slices, a dash of salt and of you go.

Not me though: I build my sandwiches according to the basic rules of ancient architecture: pile it up high and use a knife and fork for most of it.

Nam-nam.
 
I'd say Val loves to wolf down a breakfast roll or two before milking the cows.
 
Val doesn't even eat his sandwiches - he drinks them down in one gulp.

Even his animals have better table manners than he does.

Imagine being seated at the same table as the Martin family?
 
Belching, farting, arse scratching and talking with your mouth full is the done thing at Cavan dinner tables.
 
Belching, farting, arse scratching and talking with your mouth full is the done thing at Cavan dinner tables.

....with one finger wiggling in his left ear, his eyes are twitching like the clappers, he has another finger up his nose and he's talking with his mouth full.

And this is when the parish priest comes to visit.

Imagine the cunt when he's alone in the lower barn with time on his hands?
 
'Now. Isn't that great information? For you? From Real True Education.. ..not.. ..fake.. ..news'.

'Y'see the problem RTE and the BBC and the whole lot of them are poor when it comes to international finance and international law is because they don't have cows. S
ays our Val. 'D'ya see the reason that the BBBC and your RTE are useless is because.. .. ..they don't have cows. They're not with cows, at, all, now. Y'see cows teach you things. They teach you to count. One, two, three-four-five, six, and seven, and yer auld eight-nine-ten as well. D'ya see? If you're not with cows, you'll never learn to count like me. I count every.. ..passing.. ..day. Every day. Everyday! See, now?'

(I'm not making this up)



What's your favourite humming sound?
 
Mm. Through the vastness of space they came, across the endless aeons, having developed the ability to accelerate to the edge of the speed of light and then fold space. Just to shine a torch up Val's arse on some country road late at night in Cavan.

You'd have to admire the effort all the same.
 
If I was a member of a high tech alien race with Faster than Light technology I think I'd find better things to do than stare at some shovel-prop with a shit haircut on earth. I mean. I'm on the same planet as these arseholes who assume aliens are fascinated with their rectal passages and I don't even want to be in the same region as them. Ever.
 
Proctology isn't just a funny word - it's a strange occupation.

I often wondered why some people choose a career in dentistry. I mean, spending the day poking around in people's mouths, their manky tongues, tonsils hanging like old man's testicles, throats full of phlegm? It'd give me nightmares.

Then you have others who choose gynecology: shining lights up old women's fannies? Surely it takes all the pleasure out of sex with the wife later that day? Even the fannies of younger wans, some of whom have vaginas like burst sofas.

Urologists: goddamn that has to be revolting.

Even tits can end up giving you nightmares, depending on whether they go south whether she's standing or lying down.
 
Now dont get me wrong i do luv me lovely Dave but i just cant get enuf action on da side.

Jaysus but it not easy been a woman wit needs in todays society. I want 2 stay loyel to me luvly hubby but it harder said dan done
 
Now dont get me wrong i do luv me lovely Dave but i just cant get enuf action on da side.

Lies: not even a doting mother could love that hape of shite.

Jaysus but it not easy been a woman wit needs in todays society. I want 2 stay loyel to me luvly hubby but it harder said dan done

Anything's harder than Dave - he's go no faloorum.

He's lost his ding-doorum.

Or so I heard.
 
It's because of people like Val that the rest of the world views the Irish as thick gobshites.
 
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