Easter Ugh!

Look! Is Children. In MY House!!
(Artist's impression)

I am being having a subdued Easter this year on account of the weather reaching only up to the mid-50s Celsius and also my keeping the house tidy and scum-free and secure in order for the agents who are trying to rental it to total strangers. I don't not want unknowns rooting through my personal drawers and cupboards and stealing my miraculous medals or my splinters from the True Cross [from the Pound Shop in Knock] or my knee-bone of John the Baptist's pet dog, Shane, which I keep in a special reliquary on top of the television (and also I put it outside on the terrace every evening so it can do its business).

Mainly I am trying to be out of the house when the agents materialize with potential tenants, but on a couple of occasion I have in actuallity being sneaking at them by hiding next door with the Mengeles and twitching through the curtains. However, the Mengeles have special thick black rubber curtains that keeps out noise, light, smells, Jews, and nosey porkers, so they are quite heavy and difficult for me to move; I have to use my complete body weight as leverage just to make a chink in them, and then, because I am leaning over backward, I have to use a periscope and also night-vision goggles in order to see anything. Being in the Mengeles' front room is like being a blinded man in a black hole looking for a black cat that isn't there with a licorice stick. In the dark.

The agents have not yet brought any priests to look at my house, which is very frustrating and regrettable. Priests in general, I find, are very reliable tenants and are not likely to get up to any monkey business. The last thing I need in my house is lots and lots of children running all over the place, making mayhem and whoopee, playing cowboys and indigents, knock and run, submarines, skippling, and so on like children are wont to do. Priests therefore are ideal, because, as you all know, priests and children repel each other, like two magnets which are identically polarized. No matter how much parents try to push their children towards a priest, the child pushes back. Have you noticed that? Is some weird physical force that I espect physicists can wrongly tell us about.

Thus far, I have seen three couples visiting the house, but on close inspection I could not see any wedding rings, so I told the agents they could not let the house to such perverts. You have no idea what they would get up to (although, if you do have any idea, please email me privately with an accurate description).

One thing I am determine on: While I am away in Ireland working with Miss WhipCream and Jane Bondage and their lady friends, my home will not become a bordello!

I Finish in Time for Easter. Is Perfect!

Is both Yoga AND Xyloboning!

Watership Down

Is an awful traumatic film. After I see it I have a dreadful headache for the rest of the evening, and for the next two weeks I have nightmares about lettuce.


Wayne, John

Famous American actor (real name Shirley Croydon), best known for mostly cowboy movies but who also made a brief appearance at the very end of the Jesus film called The Greatest Story Ever, in which he play a Roman soldier named Centurion and only have one line: “Get off your cross and drink your milk.” Is dead now, I think. In a shoot-out.


Winehole, Amy (1983-2009)

British songstress and weight-loss guru. Married with the American playboy Baker Soldier-Field, who gives Amy space to write her albums by going to prison. Amy is well-known for her rambunctuous lifestyle, such as her drunkenness and her lady lesbianism (she has tattoos of naked ladies all over her naked body, although she has been said to say "I am not a lesbian . . . at least, not before Sambuca," which is a station on the London Underground close to Neasden). Imagine how her parents must feel when they hear this. How will they deal with the news that their daughter is a lady lesbian? They still have not come to terms with the fact that she is a Jew!

Amy is known as the Female Pete Doherty, which mean she takes drugs and eats out Kate Moss. I espect somebody has to.


Work

Is a pain in the hole, and all because Eve listened to Satan in the Garden of Paradise and so ate the Apple of Wisden. Is also why cricket is so boring.


Xanadu, Saint (1123-1146 A.D.)

Lived on a daily diet of a sliver of wood from the True Cross and a handful of the Virgin’s tears. Lived to be 23.


X-Men, The

A team of superheroes who were transformed from men into women after swimming in the Irish Sea, just like the Teenage Maynooth Ninja Turtles. Their names is Geronimo, Rochdale, Michael Angelis, and Cycle Clips, and their leader, or sensei, who find them on the beach, is named Doctor Charles Xenophobe, the paraplegic telepath from hell. He is very harsh and disciplining them constantly (in his spare time he teach in Gormanston), but this is necessary to bate the badness out of them in order that they work for the good guys.

Some people have been saying that the X-Men is a metaphor for homosexualism and the gay rights, with the Mutants standing in for the perverts, and the normal human beings standing in for the normal human beings. I do not believe this, however. I have never met a homosexual with super powers, escept one time I met a lady lesbian who could do estraordinary things with a ping-pong ball. I do not think that really counts though.


X Rays

A Protestant conspiracy to rival God by seeing everything. Especially pernicious is its use in the medicine, where it is used to identify God-given illnesses (holy tumours, epilepsy, and cetera) that could lead to important manifestations of religiosity, such as the speaking with the tongues, scary visions, precognition, card tricks, and so on.


Xylobone

A wooden trombone peculiar to Galicia, where it rain all the time and consequently all the metal instruments go rusty. The xylobone is a trombone made of wood. The sound that it make is dreadful.

Xyloboning is also a technical yoga term (see picture above) for a position that involve blowing into a hole while working wood with your hand.


Yeltsin, Boris

Drunken president of Russia who is dead now. Saved Russia from democracy but is best known for dancing like a serial killer onstage during an election rally and for staying on his plane when it land in Shannon to sleep off drink binge rather than meet Albert Reynolds and his delegation of assorted Irish crooks.

He is dancing in hell now.


Yoga

A Satanic practice (see also Pilates) based on ancient Hindus’ attempts to suck themselves off. Saint Paul reminds us that apparently pleasant esperiences such as the attainment of Nirvana and autofellation may well be portals to evil. “Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light,” he said, wisely. Despite what the Yogis are teaching us, we should always remember that we are NOT at one with God and the universe, but instead we are cut off from him, separated by a vast chasm of sin that only Jesus can cross.

Happy Easter!


Zidane, Zinedine

Pure Guinness!

The best football player in the world ever. One time, he score three goals in a single match, which is a record. Another time, he headbutt the Italian footballer Maserati Misericordiae in the groin and the doctors find his goolies only when they roll to a stop in the middle of next week!

Zidane is another reason why Spain always do so bad in the World Cup. All of Spain’s best players play for other countries, even though those other countries historically belong to Spain.

I blame the Jews.


Zygo, Saint (836 – 884)

There was no Saint Zygo.

Is Nearly the End, Thank God!

Is UB40! They Make the Girls Scream. "Stop!" They Cry.

UB40

If I was having a favourite multi-racial musical group, it would be UB40, even though I am not normally one for supporting the underdogs. We should not forget, however, that when the Spanish civil war for golf was beginning, El Generalisimo was very much the underdog; he only have with him his hand-picked troops of Moorish soldiers, the majority of them Muslamics (but good Muslamics, not like the bad ones of today). He overcame a great many hurdles, including mutiracialism, in order to establish a perfect Christian society on earth. Is therefore, I think, fair to say that UB40 are the General Franco of reggae music.


Umbrage

Is a small English town where they are making the traditional English radio program The Archers. I espect it is somewhere near Sherwood Forest.


Underwear

In France, they refer to their underwear as their “unnecessaries,” which tell you all you need to know about the French. Is also the source of the English phrase “to come over all unnecessaries,” which means that you have shooted your children in your pants.


United Kingdom

see United States of America.


United States of America

Oh yes, they keep themselves well hidden in the alphabet, but their presence is everywhere, isn't it?


Urban I, Pope 222–230 A.D.

Was the first pope to be driven around in a Popemobile and was thus the inventor of Urban Transportation. Was beheaded in Rome, probly while trying to go underneath a very low aqueduct.


Vaginas

A gentleman does not discuss a lady’s vaginas in public.


Valentine, Saint (d. 269 A.D.)

Most famous for founding Saint Valentine's Day, April 1st, when all the heterosexual lovers of the world buy flowers and cards and chocoloates for one another (I do not know what the homosexual ones do, and frankly, I don't not WANT to know). Is a very depressing day for all those single people who nobody loves, and therefore Saint Valentine is also known as The Vindictive Saint, for reminding people that they are unwanted. Even God does not want them!

Unless, of course, they become a priest or a nun, which is traditionally what the ugly have done in the past. Even so, they cannot avoid getting depressed on Saint Valentine's Day, so is incumbent upon all us normal peoples to kiss at least one nun or priest on Saint Valentine's Day and say to them, "Even though you are ugly, nun, and nobody want to make children with you, we can still pretend for today that you are attractive and I am speculating about what you look like underneath that habit. In truth, I would probly be sick if I found out, but I do it for God."


Vampire

Any fool knows, of course, that vampire bats are not real. They were invented by Irish showboater Bram Stokoe for his novel Dracula: The Count of Monte Cristo. Is a brilliant story and also a metaphor for how the parasitic Jews suck the very lifeblood out of the honest peasants of Central Europe, preying on them while they sleep, which mean that they are not aware that they are being esploited, until one day they wake up and find that they have become Jews too. Is a very scary story!

Fortunately, help is on hand for the honest peasants in the form of ubermensch Jonathan Van Helsing (a German name and clearly a reference to Adolf Hitler), who lead a pogrom of villagers and they burn Castle Dracula to the ground, although you can still go visit it if you want to. Is in Disneyworld.


Virgin Islands

Is where Muslamic terrorists believe they go when they die.


Vonnegut, Kirk (1922-2007)

Is famous well-known dead writer and novelist, author of such flippant and disrespectul books as The Famous Slaughterhouse Five, Breakfast of Champions on Pluto, God Bless You Mister Hitler, and I can't think of any others. His books were notorious for the featuring of the filth and for not taking seriously religion or human existence. In his most famous book, the name of which alludes me, he describes how he spent the bombing of Dresden in a cool underground abbattoir eating beef jerky and pork scratchings while up above him the good Nazi people of Germany were all being burned to a crisp. Yes, ha ha ha, Mr. Vonnegut. Is not very funny at all.

In another of his books, Mr. Vonnegut describe how he was kidnapped by foreigners from outer space and taken back to their planet of Tralfamadore where he was expected to have unmarried sex with a famous well-known actress, Jennifer Anistom I think (not Courtney Cox because she is married) or maybe it was a handjob off Hilary Swank, I am not entirely sure. Anyway, this was the first documented case of the alien abdoctions that have become very popular among Americans, I espect in the hope that they too will get the sex with an actress, although most of them only seem to end up with having their anuses probed.

The worst book of all that he wrote, after Cat's Crandle, which was also shit, was called Mother Night, in which he is recalling how he pretended to be a Nazi but was in fact an American spy, escept, when he is arrested for being a Nazi, nobody believe him that he is a spy. This is what is known as an exercise in irony; sadly, however, he gets hanged by the neck, which, in my opinion, sends out the wrong message.

He die after falling down the stairs at his home. A comedian to the end.


Voodoo

Not a makey-up religion at all but a form of syncretism combining the best of Christianity and Satanism and practiced on the mythical island of Hispaniola, discovered by pirates in 1927. The rituals is mostly centred on chickens, which is a sacred animal to Lucifer, and zombies, which are peoples who have died but decided to hang around anyway, a bit like Mormons. Voodoo was made especially popular by the James Bond movie Live and Let Die, in which Roger Moore play MI6 agent James Bond and consequently make audiences everywhere sympathize with Baron Samedi, Kananga, and all the voodooists. When the film come out in America, very quickly it become the vogue of a Sunday afternoon, instead of watching the American football, for all the family to meet up in the backyard, put charcoal on the barbecue, read the Tarot cards like Jayne Seymour, and drink chickens' blood out of a bucket. And KFC has never looked back.

You Read It Here First!!

Behold! Is the Promised Land for Jews!

I am reading with some bewilderment today the usually impartial, au courant, and on-the-ball English newspaper called the Daily Mail, which presents the "news" that Moses was high on hallucinogenic drugs when he see the burning bush and hear the voice of God.

What kind of news is that?! I hear you say. They are only 4,000 years behind! (although that is not unusual for the Daily Mail). Not only that, but they are not even getting the news from their usual source of reliable journalists, relying instead on the views of a "Psychology Professor," whatever that is. Is not like the Daily Mail to canvass the opinions of trendy academics.

More to the point, this is a story that I was bringing to you last September as part of my Fascist Book of Everything (scroll down to Alcohol), in which I point out that the only appropriate drug recommended by God is booze, especially wine, which is the Blood of Christ from time to time, and that drug-taking was yet another nail in the coffin of the makey-up religion of Judaism. Although I was not specific at the time, my money on the drug being consumed by the crazed Israelites has always been on ergot, which is a fungus that grow on cereals and cause both hallucinations and severe burning sensations in the limbs, like you are sitting close to fire. Also it enables you to part seas.

Now that my story has been "broken" in the mass media, I have to decide who I should sue: The Daily Mail, the so-called Psychology Professor, or The Jews. Which one do you think?

In Which I am Getting Propositioned!!

Is My Good Friends Jane Bondage and Miss WhipCream (see below)

I have big news to tell everybody after a very lovely night which I spend at the Irish Blog Awards. I fly in yesterday morning and am very surprised to only be held in Immigration for half an hour while they ask me how a vibrating madonna appear in my luggage; I convince them that it was a miracle and they let me go when I offer to contact our resident miracle verifier at Spanish Embassy. It definitely pay to know the right people.

The Blog Awards was very funny and everyone leave with a big grin on their faces: The awards was presented by President George W. Bush, and as you would espect he got all the categories jumbled up in the wrong order and so was introducing the wrong award all the time. And then the awards all went to the people who were presenting them or to the same people as last year, which wisely saved a lot of time and energy that could be more better devoted to drinking alcohol and doing more blogging. And so, as soon as the award-swapping was finished, all the sane people run upstairs as fast as we could to the hotel bar to get the best comfy chairs.

Was a genuine pleasure for me to meet in the real flesh some of my big blog friends, which prove that they are human beings and not computer-generated facsimiles. I get to meet for the first time the Hangar Queen and Problem Child Bride Sami and Bock the Robber and Annierhiannon and the Other Other Manuel and for a second time the Swearing Lady who did not swear once all night. Then I am also being introduced to Una the Rock and Jen of Little Bird Eats and the Humble Housewife and Fiona Two Weeks and John Braine, and finally the enigmatic and mysterious Mr. Prenderghast. I was disappointed not to see Crurlly K and RosieCheeks but I think they were there and I give a big scream when their nominations was read out, which is probly why they did not win.

Meeting these people was a total mindfuck, to use the proper neurological term. All of them were normal persons! I did not encounter a single introverted autistic savant in their underwear (although I did notice that there were a lot of nametags unclaimed, suggesting that all the Shut-ins who registered did so out of a moment's bravado or drunken foolishness then thought better of it later.) This meant that I had to revise entirely my understanding of what a blogger is. At the same time, though, is very reassuring for me to discover that none of my readers are mentalists!

After I get back to the embassy where I sleep over, I find a very nice message for me from my old friends Jane Bondage and Miss WhipCream. When I was previously remaining in Ireland working for Spanish intelligence, I was liaising with these professional ladies on a purely informal basis as part of my job. As you are aware, intelligence operatives are required to cultivate sources in the places closest to power, and you will not get much closer to power than high-class escort agencies, who provide services of one sort or another to the most important businessmen, judges, politicians, bigwigs, celebrity bloggers and so on in the country. Back in those days, Jane and Miss Whipcream was working for a very well-known agency making reasonable income (mostly off the books), especially during the Six Nations rugby when foreign dignitaries are coming to the country to be entertained and also when all the farmers come up to the capital from Leitrim and Westmeath and also from the North (rugby being a nondenominonmoiminational sport).

So I meet them today lunchtime over tea and scones in the Four Seasons Hotel in which they make to me a delightful proposition. They have decided that they are going to set up on their own as entrepreneurial ladies, along with three or four other professional colleague, operating out of a beautiful five-bedroom Georgian mansion just off the front in Dun Laoghaire, offering both take-away and eat-in services (or was it eat-out services? I cannot remember which they said). Because of my useful contacts within the intelligence community but also because of my close work with the Gardai and politicians of every colour, I am the ideal person, they said, to offer security for them but also the discreet publicity that they will require to drum up business in the right circles without bringing down on their heads the interests of the uninformed officer on the beat or the ignorant rabble-rousing journalist who wants to highlight the hypocrisy of the country's elite.

"Also, Manuel," they say to me, "We know you are a very devout and religious man, and therefore that you will ensure that nothing immoral takes place, such as clients trying to avoid payment or being rude to the girls or discussing communism or taking the Lord's name in vain and so on." Which is all true. And despite their reputations, working ladies are generally very God-fearing and upright-living people; even when they are flat-lying, they are upright-living. I was therefore very flattered that Jane and Miss WhipCream should ask me to be their moral policeman. I could think of nobody more suited to the job.

Of course I make it clear to them that I am retired now and that it will require big money and massive incentives for me to leave beautiful sunny Las Canarias for lovely pissing Ireland. So they are making an offer to me that I will find difficult to refuse but which I cannot go into details here about, as you can understand, because I am having to demonstrate how discreet I can be. Needless to say, was a very lucrative and generous deal that will keep me satisfied in the long run. And also in the short jog.

So now I have to return to Las Canarias and organize my moving back to Ireland. I shall rent out my retirement home because there is room for me to live on-site in Dun Laoghaire. There is no need for me to go house hunting because everything is arranged for me already.

Is very esciting for me to be coming back. I hope you will all come and visit. And come again!


***LATE NEWS***

Did you see in the paper that in Italy they have made it illegal for men to touch each others' balls in public?! Is about time that lunatic bloody country saw some common sense. Sadly, I fear, it is a lesson they have learned too late.

You would never have caught Mussolini with his hands down another man's trousers. Escept for the purposes of torture, of course.