A poem about wantingness

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

GIVE IT TO ME

WAAAAAA

It's Definitely Time For Bed When...

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All in all

Grogans is a great pub for people-watching. Sitting outside last Tuesday, supping one of the finest pints of Guinness ever, Mrs McMuck quaffing Bulmers, all sorts walked by.

Business folk in business suits brushed shoulders with the last of those fucking Celtic Tigers - men and women of a certain age whose daddies' credit cards could still withstand another bruising encounter with the Brown Thomas chip n pin machine.

Then there was one skinny fella. Huge sunglasses with bright white rims. Hair like Buddy Holly. Drainpipe trousers and a shiny jacket. And he walked by twice in case we didn't notice him the first time.

Your Honour, I only kicked the shit out of him because he looked like a complete cunt.

Further drinks were had in the Market Bar (Guinness was still good) and the ultra-chic 'No Name' (Paulaner. Sinking into a couch no less).

As talks began over what to eat and where, the phone rang with the offer of tickets to go see the premier of 'Kick Ass'. Someone knew someone who knew someone who could get us in, so thoughts of food were parked and we went up to Cineworld.

Now to put on my Radge movie reviewer hat.

Let me see... an 11-year-old girl (it's okay, she's 13 in real life) chopping off a leg with a machette, stabbing and shooting bad guys, getting punched around by an evil drug baron, liberal spillages of blood and a ridiculously high kill count.

All in all a cerebral feast that left no room for desert.

Quite a long sentence

Myself and Mrs McMuck have engineered a fiendishly cunning plan, the outcome of said scheme being that we both have the same day off (Tuesday), whereuponwhence we shall venture into town and empty out our wallets, purses and pockets in some of the capital's finest Guinness and girly drink dispensaries for as long as our wallets, purses and pockets allow, or until Guinness-fatigue, or even worse, Guinness-ass kicks in, forcing a hasty retreat.

Super Keeper

I haven't blogged in a while as I haven't had the gnerf to do so. However today I feel the compunction to announce that I have introduced a significant amount of cheese into my daily diet.

And I had the ridiculously amazing honour of conceding a goal to Paul McGrath on Sunday.

Bitter

Dithered over this evening with Mrs McMuck to the rent-a-slum hovel where the brother and his very own Mrs McMuck (the US version) currently reside.

Horrible spot. Smells of pish in the hall and it's difficult to step anywhere without ending up heel-deep in rat-droppings.

Babies scream. Presumably because their junkie parents are too strung-out to open up the packet of Mega Meanies they bought for dinner.

The little ones' tormented wails are only drowned out by the dying groan of the ghetto's latest stab-victim.

These are worrying times for the McMucks. The parents (Mr and Mrs McMuck snr) can't sleep for the fear of the late-night knock on the door.

'Your son and daughter in-law were tragically washed away in a tide of raw sewage,' says the sombre voice on the other side of the threshold.

As the concerned older brother I regularly plead: 'Get away from this typhoid-infested, shit-carpeted, overcrowded and unsanitary shanty town.'

But the little gimp-blower only ever guffaws.

'You laugh so hard that your spit slaps me on the face. Pourquoi?' I query, throwing in the French to remind him of how we plucked the little turd-bucket from a Parisian orphanage and flew him to Dublin, where the signing of adoption papers confirmed him as a little McMuck.

'Cause the opening seven paragraphs of this blog are so full of shite. You've got issues. Sort them out,' he always retorts.

Then he strides from his spacious Monkstown kitchen and out onto one of their two balconies - usually the one that overlooks the sea (with utterly breathtaking views across to Howth) - and laps up the bitterness dripping from every resenting syllable of mine.

If only jealousy were a currency. Then I could afford to move into the apartment next door and piss through his keyhole every morning.

Sausage-fondler.

Scrambled Eggs

Three games, three defeats.

It's not going well for Eggs and Beans FC in the KickAbout.Com Wednesday night Astro Turf Soccer League in DCU.

Losses of 4-5, 2-9 and 7-9 have left the healthy breakfast options floundering at the foot of the table, with serious questions marks being raised about famous midfielder McMuck.

His magical shooting prowess once rendered the football invisible to goalkeepers until they turned around and found it nestling in the net behind them.

His legendary 'engine' once got him from box to box and back to box again.

And his oft-talked about touch could once kill a cannonball fired from ten yards.

But the only magical thing these days about McMuck's shooting prowess is the physics-defying trajectory of an alleged blem on goal.

Where the engine is housed is now flabbed by saggy man-boobs.

And the only thing McMuck's touch appears to kill these days is Egg and Beans FC's hope of ever registering a win.

Sigh.