Discussions.ie Site/Owner

[David]

Engineering and invention, starring Val Edison Martin.

 

[AN4]

Even four is a stretch.



His accent makes me want to smash his teeth in with a hurley stick.

He reminds me of my old biology teacher, John 'Bod' O'Connor. I named him after the stick-man cartoon character from decades ago. Whenever he'd walk into the lab, we'd burst into whistle-song of the theme tune of Bod.



On the football pitch, he was a violent bastard. But he was also extremely short and very stocky, kind of like Declan. Ever noticed how Declan's vans look to be of a monstrous size? That's not the van. That's just him and his little self. A midgety little fucker with a fat gob. His stance when he's telling the bingo ladies about some street sign or old wooden shack, his left arm sort of pointing outwardly toward the object he's bladdering on about, as though he's giving you permission to pass him at a door he's holding open for you.

Yap, yap, yap. Paul Revere. The Boston tea party. Southie. The North End. As though these are cultural hot-spots rather than tired old towns and cities currently falling apart much like Detroit and Michigan. His saggy little arse. The rotund and obnoxious presence. The fat under his chin. The way he sucks bis belly in when breathing to appear slimmer than he is, only for it to flop back over his pants-belt as soon as he starts his yap again.

If Irish nationalism is in his hands, then it's as dead as your sex life is, Jimmy.



Is he really a newbie though? Are you sure he isn't some plonker from Belgrade's days? Or possibly from P.ie?





Regardless of whether I'm right or not (I always am) I'm far from miserable, Jimmy.
I have an actual life, I don't live for these sites like you do.
My goals are in the here and now, not some pipe dream about Ireland once again becoming an island nation of the true Gaels.
That shit's dead in the water, and it's the voting Irish of the last fifty years who helped them seal your fate.
Ireland has nobody left to blame for her current woes, and blaming the British is nothing more than more self-destruction.
Like the Jews blaming Hitler for everything, they can't seem to let it go either.

As for my being right?
Jimmy, take a look around you.
See all those full ashtrays and empty beer tins and frozen pizza boxes?
There are millions more men just like you out there, always putting off the Big Clean-Up until the day after the revolution.
You're too busy blogging the days and nights away to deal with it now, you have a war to win, right?

Wrong.

You have nothing to win, you only have a long list of things you've lost and will never get back.

These are the same things Finland grasped tightly even with eight hundred years of Swedish occupation along with a hundred years of Russian occupation.
Finnish is the first language of Finland: English is the first language of the Irish.
That alone exposes the tiny island and leave her defenceless against the incoming hordes looking to take your women, houses, and money.
Like I said: if you twats were speaking Irish today, then half of Africa and Asia wouldn't be raining down on you in torrents.

How soon until Mick Martin embarrasses you twats all over again with his bowl of green weeds?
Seven days: the same amount of time it took the god of Arsefield's members to create the world as they know it, five thousand years ago.
And when he's done with the role, when is Shimmy Harris stepping up to the plate?
Your two-party state has you by the nuts, Kid.
They ain't letting go any time soon either.



The kiddie site isn't that much different: Daemon's clearly afraid by now, he knows he's been overrun and that it's too late to stop the dyke from leaking. So he's keeping his finger firmly in the hole, trying to keep up with conversations he doesn't understand. With members far too pseudo-intellectual and with far too much time on their hands. Unemployed men of every age, retired old men, and handful of hairy-legged women like the shitstick, and of course Swordid, the bloke you call your Ma.

You could say that The Isle too is clannish: it's just you, David, and I.

lol Add 'clannish' to the list of words you don't understand

The reason nobody wants to join up on here is that the handful of active bloggers Ireland actually has is busy on competing sites.
There is no golden horde of potential new members out there, because nobody gives a shit about these joints.
Why would they?
I mean even if they are politically active?
There's nothing to be gained or lost on these chat boards: just old farts trying to out-jibe and out-slag each other.

Of course, the there's me: and my goal is the same one as ever.
To lampoon the shit out of the whole cabal of ye.



You need to be a weasel to take that sort of role on in the first place, Jambo.
Anyone with not just the time to do it, but with the vindictiveness to warp it and twist it.
That's why Swordid was a shoo-in for the role all these long dull years of his sad excuse for an existence.

The only reason you don't offer to do it yourself is that you're too fucking lazy, you lack any discipline at all.
Getting out of bed at lunchtime isn't helping your cause much either.
Getting drunk by four in the afternoon is going to cave in on you eventually, loathe as you are to realize it.

Funny how you call it a kip now, when only a few weeks ago you were hammering the posts up one after the other.

You're a fucking mess, Jimmy.
In rag order.

 

[Mowl]

Engineering and invention, starring Val Edison Martin.

Did you see the one where he takes the u-bend off his outdoor jacks (scullery) and has a chat about it for the camera?
It's caked in shite, streaks and skidmarks, congealed wet bits of greenish slime and pale yellow who-the-fuck-knows what?
He handles it like it's a gold bar in the vaults of Fort Knox, oblivious to the shite, the smell, and his fingernails black with the filth in them.

Then he's talking into the camera like he's in the confessional, like this shitty u-bend is The Holy Grail.
The manky brown gums where his front teeth used to be, he tries to hide it by smiling and talking without moving his upper lip.

I'm telling you, not even Samuel Beckett could dream up such a bleak character and bring the fucker to life.

lol Add 'clannish' to the list of words you don't understand

When the day comes i need advice about the English language from you, Jambo - I have your number already, you pathetic shit-streak.



You need to get yourself a vocation in life, put yourself to some good use, like shoveling shite or sweeping O'Connell Street at 0400 of a Sunday morning.

Get out of that sweaty bed with the TB sheets and stop wasting time.

 

[AN4]

Did you see the one where he takes the u-bend off his outdoor jacks (scullery) and has a chat about it for the camera?
It's caked in shite, streaks and skidmarks, congealed wet bits of greenish slime and pale yellow who-the-fuck-knows what?
He handles it like it's a gold bar in the vaults of Fort Knox, oblivious to the shite, the smell, and his fingernails black with the filth in them.

Then he's talking into the camera like he's in the confessional, like this shitty u-bend is The Holy Grail.
The manky brown gums where his front teeth used to be, he tries to hide it by smiling and talking without moving his upper lip.

I'm telling you, not even Samuel Beckett could dream up such a bleak character and bring the fucker to life.



When the day comes i need advice about the English language from you, Jambo - I have your number already, you pathetic shit-streak.



You need to get yourself a vocation in life, put yourself to some good use, like shoveling shite or sweeping O'Connell Street at 0400 of a Sunday morning.

Get out of that sweaty bed with the TB sheets and stop wasting time.

Clannish
adjective

[Mowl] Definition: A small number of people.

 

[Mowl]

Clannish
adjective

[Mowl] Definition: A small number of people.

You're an idiot, Jimmy.

You're in about as righteous a position regarding the English language as Val Martin is a connoisseur of fine wine.

Sorry you're late to the party, but I am commonly regarded as the single most ingenious literary lampoonist and orator ever to grace Irish boards.

You are little more than a blow-in, always away back there behind me riding my slipstream.

It's piteous really, I'm busy elsewhere for a few days and Jambo's hopping around like a good thing thinking he's now the King Of The Hill.

Have to slap you back into your box, Kid: you've taken a serious hiding off me these last few weeks, I'm amazed you're still standing at all.

 

[AN4]

Even four is a stretch.



His accent makes me want to smash his teeth in with a hurley stick.

He reminds me of my old biology teacher, John 'Bod' O'Connor. I named him after the stick-man cartoon character from decades ago. Whenever he'd walk into the lab, we'd burst into whistle-song of the theme tune of Bod.

I'd imagine your classroom looked something like this -

https://x.com/MickOKeeffe/status/2031826302659871170

(I suppose every school has one of those classes)

On the football pitch, he was a violent bastard. But he was also extremely short and very stocky, kind of like Declan. Ever noticed how Declan's vans look to be of a monstrous size? That's not the van. That's just him and his little self. A midgety little fucker with a fat gob. His stance when he's telling the bingo ladies about some street sign or old wooden shack, his left arm sort of pointing outwardly toward the object he's bladdering on about, as though he's giving you permission to pass him at a door he's holding open for you.

Yap, yap, yap. Paul Revere. The Boston tea party. Southie. The North End. As though these are cultural hot-spots rather than tired old towns and cities currently falling apart much like Detroit and Michigan. His saggy little arse. The rotund and obnoxious presence. The fat under his chin. The way he sucks bis belly in when breathing to appear slimmer than he is, only for it to flop back over his pants-belt as soon as he starts his yap again.

If Irish nationalism is in his hands, then it's as dead as your sex life is, Jimmy.



Is he really a newbie though? Are you sure he isn't some plonker from Belgrade's days? Or possibly from P.ie?





Regardless of whether I'm right or not (I always am) I'm far from miserable, Jimmy.
I have an actual life, I don't live for these sites like you do.
My goals are in the here and now, not some pipe dream about Ireland once again becoming an island nation of the true Gaels.
That shit's dead in the water, and it's the voting Irish of the last fifty years who helped them seal your fate.
Ireland has nobody left to blame for her current woes, and blaming the British is nothing more than more self-destruction.
Like the Jews blaming Hitler for everything, they can't seem to let it go either.

As for my being right?
Jimmy, take a look around you.
See all those full ashtrays and empty beer tins and frozen pizza boxes?
There are millions more men just like you out there, always putting off the Big Clean-Up until the day after the revolution.
You're too busy blogging the days and nights away to deal with it now, you have a war to win, right?

Wrong.

You have nothing to win, you only have a long list of things you've lost and will never get back.

These are the same things Finland grasped tightly even with eight hundred years of Swedish occupation along with a hundred years of Russian occupation.
Finnish is the first language of Finland: English is the first language of the Irish.
That alone exposes the tiny island and leave her defenceless against the incoming hordes looking to take your women, houses, and money.
Like I said: if you twats were speaking Irish today, then half of Africa and Asia wouldn't be raining down on you in torrents.

How soon until Mick Martin embarrasses you twats all over again with his bowl of green weeds?
Seven days: the same amount of time it took the god of Arsefield's members to create the world as they know it, five thousand years ago.
And when he's done with the role, when is Shimmy Harris stepping up to the plate?
Your two-party state has you by the nuts, Kid.
They ain't letting go any time soon either.



The kiddie site isn't that much different: Daemon's clearly afraid by now, he knows he's been overrun and that it's too late to stop the dyke from leaking. So he's keeping his finger firmly in the hole, trying to keep up with conversations he doesn't understand. With members far too pseudo-intellectual and with far too much time on their hands. Unemployed men of every age, retired old men, and handful of hairy-legged women like the shitstick, and of course Swordid, the bloke you call your Ma.

You could say that The Isle too is clannish: it's just you, David, and I.
The reason nobody wants to join up on here is that the handful of active bloggers Ireland actually has is busy on competing sites.
There is no golden horde of potential new members out there, because nobody gives a shit about these joints.
Why would they?
I mean even if they are politically active?
There's nothing to be gained or lost on these chat boards: just old farts trying to out-jibe and out-slag each other.

Of course, the there's me: and my goal is the same one as ever.
To lampoon the shit out of the whole cabal of ye.



You need to be a weasel to take that sort of role on in the first place, Jambo.
Anyone with not just the time to do it, but with the vindictiveness to warp it and twist it.
That's why Swordid was a shoo-in for the role all these long dull years of his sad excuse for an existence.

The only reason you don't offer to do it yourself is that you're too fucking lazy, you lack any discipline at all.
Getting out of bed at lunchtime isn't helping your cause much either.
Getting drunk by four in the afternoon is going to cave in on you eventually, loathe as you are to realize it.

Funny how you call it a kip now, when only a few weeks ago you were hammering the posts up one after the other.

You're a fucking mess, Jimmy.
In rag order.

 

[Mowl]

I'd imagine your classroom looked something like this -

I went to De La Salle, Jimmy.
There was just the one coloured kid in the class: Martin.
A couple of us watched out for him as best we could, trying to stop him getting battered all the time.
He appreciated it, and said so; asked me why he had a broader Ballyer accent than I did.

'Stay off these streets, Martin - they're not good for you'.

Now he's a settled family man, bunch of kids, well to do, and still grateful.

(I suppose every school has one of those classes)

They do now, Jimmy.
And on your watch too, innit?
That must be embarrassing, right?
I mean, yeah - there are classes like that here in Helsinki, but they don't act like those savages - they'd be removed permanently with one phone call.
And that's on MY watch, Jimmy - I get that shit sorted and everyone back to work with little more than a stern look and furrowed brow.

Ever had supervisory control over a large group of people answerable to you on a daily basis, Jimmy?

No?

Thought not.

But I have.

Ten months of it, with a nice wedge in payment.

 

[AN4]

I went to De La Salle, Jimmy.
There was just the one coloured kid in the class: Martin.

lol What a fucking dumbass, analogy is hard etc.

PS. I thought you didn't click on my links, you're a retard and a liar

A couple of us watched out for him as best we could, trying to stop him getting battered all the time.
He appreciated it, and said so; asked me why he had a broader Ballyer accent than I did.

'Stay off these streets, Martin - they're not good for you'.

Now he's a settled family man, bunch of kids, well to do, and still grateful.



They do now, Jimmy.
And on your watch too, innit?
That must be embarrassing, right?
I mean, yeah - there are classes like that here in Helsinki, but they don't act like those savages - they'd be removed permanently with one phone call.
And that's on MY watch, Jimmy - I get that shit sorted and everyone back to work with little more than a stern look and furrowed brow.

Ever had supervisory control over a large group of people answerable to you on a daily basis, Jimmy?

No?

Thought not.

But I have.

Ten months of it, with a nice wedge in payment.

 

[Mowl]

lol What a fucking dumbass, analogy is hard etc.

PS. I thought

You're not here to think, JImmy.

You're here for me to spitball.

you didn't click on my links,

Damned right - I never do.

Why would I?

I have an actual life, Jimmy.

Tonight's gonna be a right reel across town, by the way. It's +13C and the skies are blue. There's just a few patches of snow and black ice left on the green fields and verges, and the grit's been hoovered up from the pavements. Which means the ladies are wearing heels again. And little dresses, which pleases the Mowl.
Any plans for the evening yourself, Jimmy?

No?

Stayin' in to post on the kiddie site, is it?
Sure I'll have a look at your work in the morning - or most likely I'll forget by mid afternoon.
Have you managed to make any friends over there?
New recruits for your A Team, like?

 

[David]

Liam Gallagher has a singing voice like a nail scraping a chalkboard, I can't stomach listening to Oasis for more than a minute or two because of it. Britpop was pure cringe, image over actual music/ style over substance.




Gwaaaaaa, aahhhhhhhhhhh, cwyannnnnnnnn, yaaaaaahhhhhhhh, nyaaaaaaaaa

 

[David]

---

 

[AN4]

Even four is a stretch.



His accent makes me want to smash his teeth in with a hurley stick.

He reminds me of my old biology teacher, John 'Bod' O'Connor. I named him after the stick-man cartoon character from decades ago. Whenever he'd walk into the lab, we'd burst into whistle-song of the theme tune of Bod.



On the football pitch, he was a violent bastard. But he was also extremely short and very stocky, kind of like Declan. Ever noticed how Declan's vans look to be of a monstrous size? That's not the van. That's just him and his little self. A midgety little fucker with a fat gob. His stance when he's telling the bingo ladies about some street sign or old wooden shack, his left arm sort of pointing outwardly toward the object he's bladdering on about, as though he's giving you permission to pass him at a door he's holding open for you.

Yap, yap, yap. Paul Revere. The Boston tea party. Southie. The North End. As though these are cultural hot-spots rather than tired old towns and cities currently falling apart much like Detroit and Michigan. His saggy little arse. The rotund and obnoxious presence. The fat under his chin. The way he sucks bis belly in when breathing to appear slimmer than he is, only for it to flop back over his pants-belt as soon as he starts his yap again.

If Irish nationalism is in his hands, then it's as dead as your sex life is, Jimmy.

Is he really a newbie though? Are you sure he isn't some plonker from Belgrade's days? Or possibly from P.ie?

Dermot's a gas man

He gave out to me for doxxing him but he basically doxxed himself.. Posting with his real name and saying that he had ran in a local election and where that was.. 5 minutes later.. I asked him - Is this you? Posting a news article, which was about him being prosecuted for criminal damage for pulling down other election candidates' posters An election in which he got about 41 votes i.e. himself, his friends and extended family members and a few other village idiots

Regardless of whether I'm right or not (I always am) I'm far from miserable, Jimmy.
I have an actual life, I don't live for these sites like you do.
My goals are in the here and now, not some pipe dream about Ireland once again becoming an island nation of the true Gaels.
That shit's dead in the water, and it's the voting Irish of the last fifty years who helped them seal your fate.
Ireland has nobody left to blame for her current woes, and blaming the British is nothing more than more self-destruction.
Like the Jews blaming Hitler for everything, they can't seem to let it go either.

As for my being right?
Jimmy, take a look around you.
See all those full ashtrays and empty beer tins and frozen pizza boxes?
There are millions more men just like you out there, always putting off the Big Clean-Up until the day after the revolution.
You're too busy blogging the days and nights away to deal with it now, you have a war to win, right?

Wrong.

You have nothing to win, you only have a long list of things you've lost and will never get back.

These are the same things Finland grasped tightly even with eight hundred years of Swedish occupation along with a hundred years of Russian occupation.
Finnish is the first language of Finland: English is the first language of the Irish.
That alone exposes the tiny island and leave her defenceless against the incoming hordes looking to take your women, houses, and money.
Like I said: if you twats were speaking Irish today, then half of Africa and Asia wouldn't be raining down on you in torrents.

How soon until Mick Martin embarrasses you twats all over again with his bowl of green weeds?
Seven days: the same amount of time it took the god of Arsefield's members to create the world as they know it, five thousand years ago.
And when he's done with the role, when is Shimmy Harris stepping up to the plate?
Your two-party state has you by the nuts, Kid.
They ain't letting go any time soon either.



The kiddie site isn't that much different: Daemon's clearly afraid by now, he knows he's been overrun and that it's too late to stop the dyke from leaking. So he's keeping his finger firmly in the hole, trying to keep up with conversations he doesn't understand. With members far too pseudo-intellectual and with far too much time on their hands. Unemployed men of every age, retired old men, and handful of hairy-legged women like the shitstick, and of course Swordid, the bloke you call your Ma.

You could say that The Isle too is clannish: it's just you, David, and I.
The reason nobody wants to join up on here is that the handful of active bloggers Ireland actually has is busy on competing sites.
There is no golden horde of potential new members out there, because nobody gives a shit about these joints.
Why would they?
I mean even if they are politically active?
There's nothing to be gained or lost on these chat boards: just old farts trying to out-jibe and out-slag each other.

Of course, the there's me: and my goal is the same one as ever.
To lampoon the shit out of the whole cabal of ye.



You need to be a weasel to take that sort of role on in the first place, Jambo.
Anyone with not just the time to do it, but with the vindictiveness to warp it and twist it.
That's why Swordid was a shoo-in for the role all these long dull years of his sad excuse for an existence.

The only reason you don't offer to do it yourself is that you're too fucking lazy, you lack any discipline at all.
Getting out of bed at lunchtime isn't helping your cause much either.
Getting drunk by four in the afternoon is going to cave in on you eventually, loathe as you are to realize it.

Funny how you call it a kip now, when only a few weeks ago you were hammering the posts up one after the other.

You're a fucking mess, Jimmy.
In rag order.

 

[Mowl]

Dermot's a gas man

He gave out to me for doxxing him but he basically doxxed himself.. Posting with his real name and saying that he had ran in a local election and where that was.. 5 minutes later.. I asked him - Is this you? Posting a news article, which was about him being prosecuted for criminal damage for pulling down other election candidates' posters An election in which he got about 41 votes i.e. himself, his friends and extended family members and a few other village idiots

I had a bunch of kids over in Crumlin and Drimnagh collect a few posters for an independent candidate (an ex-Army Ranger called Kerrigan) for Dublin South Central who ran along with Cathal Barry (another ex-Army Ranger, Kildare North) in an election a few years back. Kerrigan tried to strong-arm me into letting him use the BBBB for his personal campaign so's he could address the more than 10,400 members with these cheesy videos of him saying and doing all manner of bullshit. Acting like a gentleman, when in fact he was a right fucking cunt.

So I went to work on him and within a few days had multiple photos of him over in the Middle East, dressed in traditional robes, carrying heavy automatic weapons and cheesing into the camera for a few pictures of himself. So I let him have a few posts, then when he dropped the clangers about him being a family man, I posted an article about him having an affair with a woman out in Bray who definitely wasn't his wife. She found out about the affair and went out to bray to confront the other woman. A fight breaks out between them and the cops are called. The real story slowly emerges: he's been telling the other woman he's single and looking for a lover. He's a James Bond level hero, trained in warfare, blah, blah, blah.

Once that story was leaked, he went mental with the threats against me. He was going to find my family home, blah, blah, blah. Tell my Mam what I'd done (!) and other shite like that. So I led him on a bit about his army ranger tactics and when he dived in to take the glory, I posted the photos of him with the machine guns and the big idiot grin on his face. He went full-on nuclear with the threats. I didn't care. What difference does it make to me? The BBBB folks turned on him too and his campaign started to slip out of his hands and take a nose-dive. Then the threats became more serious, so I laid off and waited a bit for him to simmer down.

The election finally comes around and he gets fuck all, around sixty-six votes in total (Likely family and close army friends) starts in blaming me, and I didn't argue. I agreed entirely: yes, I did fuck your campaign up, but you did try to threaten me (I sent him copies of his messages to me) and off he goes again with the threats. By then the headlines had moved on, so I got the kids out in Crumlin to go back out at night and rehang his posters high up on the lampposts. Then phone them in as littering. He got a fine for each poster (on top of his election campaign manifesto and required cash deposit) and it cost him an arm and a leg.

Within a few days he disappeared off the internet entirely. His 'consultancy firm' closed down. His various internet sites shut down too.

Now we've no idea where he is, but it ain't with his wife, nor his parents in Drimnagh, nor anywhere I can find him.

So yeah: kudos to you for finding a man who gave you his actual name - it must have been difficult to lash it into a Google search, isn't it.
Must have been tedious reading through the immediate search results confirming what everyone already knew, bar you.
You must be very proud of yourself - you almost did a Mowl on it, but you failed by announcing your tale in this manner.

I don't care if you did find a man with a certain name to have website and social media profiles in that same name.
Then ask him if he is who he already said he was.

You're miles behind me, Jimmy - and for all your leftist ethno-nationalist-cum-civic-nationalist tripe, you're trailing like a baby with a full nappy.

I've told you multiple times: you think you're making a difference, but you're not.
At best, you're treading water, casting about, trying to be notorious, when in fact you have fuck all to aim for, and even less to achieve.

Your only claim to fame or notoriety is your slow-dancing with me, riding my slipstream, trying to be like me.

But you never will, and I'll always be several steps ahead of you: five years ago, now, ten years from now.

Here's why:



You're a stuck record, Jimmy. You have one point to make, and you've been making it for several years by now with no apparent outcome or difference to anybody anywhere. Nothing you say now, said yesterday, or might say tomorrow makes any difference to anyone anywhere. I know you know this already. It's just that you act like the rest of us don't. When we really do. Mostly, we're a bit sad for you, Jambo. All your time and effort has added up to precisely three dozen site bannings, hundreds of site suspensions, multiple usernames, multiple name-changes, a bunch of Oasis videos, repetitive use of the term leftism (which I really think gives you a semi whenever you (get to) use it, and repeated redefining of the terms: 'civic/ethno' and the subtle differences between the two. As if it makes any difference or turns anyone's head bar your own.

Stop kidding yourself, Jimmy: even FishSlice and Wooftie can ram home a point, but you can do is trying to lure them underground so's you have the advantage in the dark where you're as fucking blind as a fucking bat as to how you're perceived. You're a plaything, JImmy. A kiddie-sized football being booted around a piss-stinking alleyway down the lanes of some Dublin suburban estate where everyday life is hell and the garbage and rats never stop fighting with each other.

Go back to the kiddie site and try harder - maybe one day you will be notorious for something, anything.
But today isn't your day, Jimmy - go on back to bed and sleep off your hard work from last night - preaching to the moronic about the stupid.

You're a gas man.

Dermot's a gas man

Not to the degree that you are though.
And not in a good way either, Jimmy.

PS: last night was awesome in uptown Helsinki: glad you enjoyed your Saturday night in with Dermot, Daemon, leftism, far-left progressives, Tommeh, Swordid, and your slab of Dutch Gold. But tell us anyway: do you ever just get a pain in your bollocks and say aloud: 'what the fuck am I actually doing here...?'

No?

Thought not.

 

[Mowl]

Jimmy was on the gargle again last night.
Like every other night, really..

 

[AN4]

lol Obsessed much?

 

[Mowl]

lol Obsessed much?

Drunk already, Jimmy?

Is must be must is be is hard is for you is must, no?