On a scale of one to ten? Around minus seven thousand trillion - and counting. Nothing works. Everyone's a spoofer. You do things in a half-arsed fashion as a matter of course, then you complain when it all falls apart - like it always does. Shitty roads, the list of dead bodies scattered along your national roads every Monday. Your houses are third rate, but they charge international prices and you're dumb enough to pay it. Your national debt. Your shitty prefab schools rotten with damp, mildew, mould, and blocked pipes installed by the British over a century and a half ago. Teachers who'd rather bugger the kids than teach them, and priests who love sexual assault on minors.
Your political class are an international embarrassment. The Healy-Rae's. Mickey Martin. Simple Simon. Willie O'Dea. Timmy Dooley. Yer wan in education with the mathematically impossible hair-do. Ah yes: Norma Foley:
Your children's hospital and the bill that never stops increasing. The queues in your emergency rooms at the cold and crappy hospitals where no Irish doctors are available. Full of Pakistanis, Indians, Chinese, Mongolian, and culchie staff. Your weather. Your shitty never-ending rain and grey clouds over everything. Your inability to deal with the weather without taking it personally. The way everyone's on the look-out for an easy steal. Your bums like Saul Bucket: racist, dumb, childlike, idiotic. Their children like Saul's burglar son - which you refuse to acknowledge and continue to celebrate him as 'a grand lad - always up for a row' while your pensioners are being robbed of everything they own.
Your sheep-like cowardice.
Cunts exactly like you, Wilf.
Your lack of any sense of dignity.
The scum lining your high streets.
The filth in your pubs.
The drug dealers on every corner.
The violent malevolence of the entire north side of your capital.
Your silly dreams of being 'world class'.
Your alcohol problems.
Your lack of any houses at all.
The sheer waste thrown at silly ideas like governmental bike sheds and state security huts.
Gosh, there's just so much to choose from it makes my head spin.
I am of course absolutely thrilled to know how rotten a time of it you're having Milf. I can just close my eyes and remember what it was like waking up to another shitty Dublin morning and wishing I was anywhere else. I can feel that ball of rot turning over in your tummy when you think of all the things you could have done differently but didn't. So you are where you are. And it's exactly where you're supposed to be: in the shit, my rat bastard friend - deep in shit.
Of course, it's very easy for me to take aim at you and not care whether I hit you or not. Mainly because I'm so happy I could just shit into a shoebox and send it to you to start your day with something other than suicidal depression and chronic anxiety. I know the rain and cold don't help matters very much so I'll mention them too - in gleeful manner. I hope it hurts. I hope it leaves you close to tears. I truly do wish that suicide is a factor you consider far more often than you're willing to admit to. I hope your jealousy about the sheer happiness and superb quality of life this Ballyfermot boy is living day after day makes you want to slash your own wrists. I love the way you act as though you know it all, but you still find yourself being slapped around by the Mowl. That you're angry you didn't spot the chance to get out to anywhere nicer when it was still a possibility, but now isn't.
You're too old now.
Too poor to even consider it.
Bogged down by a wife and kids you can't stand.
If you could get away with it, you'd kill them all in a fire, right?
One hundred and fifty thousand for a car that costs half that elsewhere.
That shitty house you rent and the shitty landlord who takes your money and laughs.
The fact that you're closer to death today than you've ever been.
That when you finally do die, nobody will care - you won't be missed.
The way you trail around after me like a lap dog looking for a wee pet.
The study you put into The Senators Of Helsinki page on social media: for the last time, we shelved it over a decade ago.
The way you're all over the commercial art page too: what are you looking for? I shut it down in 2014.
Those files on your desktop full of pretty pictures of me.
The way I occupy a large percentage of your daily routines.
The way you hop on here as soon as you've read Arsefield's latest brain-pukes to see what Mowl's up to.
The way you're mad jealous of me.
How hilarious it all is really.
I'm glad you hate it. I'm even gladder that you have no viable way out of it either, your debts have you nailed to the cross. The happiness I feel when I lay down at night knowing that tomorrow will be even more wonderful than today. That when I mention your name, you jump. That, if you could, you'd happily crash your jalopy into me to shut me up. The way you daydream that something terrible will happen to Finland and that it'll finally shut me up.
All pipe dreams that'll never come true, but you hold onto them anyway.
You're right: rip-off Ireland's only going to get more rippy and more offy. The cheap imported supermarket brand beer you drink today will increase in cost next week, because they can. The way your street drugs are cut with rat poison. The way all those tents along your canals are breeding rounds for rape and murder. The way the scum of the earth seem to gravitate to the shitty little island in such large numbers. It never ceases to crack me up.
Get on with it, Milf - misery cannot contain itself, after all: it spreads like wildfire across the Hollywood hills.
And don't be thinking God'll take care of thi ngs for you: even he hates you more than I do.
I say hate, but in my case it's more like hilarity at your sad misfortune.
Today the snow continues to fall, we've had over a foot more across Uusimaa overnight, the entire country currently deep under the white stuff and everything continuing to operate as planned. No buses, trams, metros, commuters, taxis, or otherwise are running late. I can ski up to the store. Or I can walk it in a dream like state of bliss ate the sheer beauty of everything around me, the smiling faces that greet me and are so happy to see how much I love their country. I say their, but it's really mine. It has been since I got here late in the last century. I've had a ball watching you guys since then. Yeah, I regularly hit the scene during busy seasons to make cash money and take it straight back here to enjoy. I love the fact that I never once paid a cent in taxes for any of it. And I love the way that breaks your balls and makes you fume and crack your knuckles in rage.
In short, you're fucked.
You've been fucked for some time.
You'll continue to be fucked until you die.
And I'll only laugh all the louder for it.
It's a wonderful life, eh.
Seeya.
