Gerrymandering Won't Fit In Scrabble

Not that the title has anything to do with me.

It’s amazing how offensive pensions are. As a matter of fact they are not offensive at all, it’s just that when I see ‘pension’ what I read is ‘no penis’ and I’m like “DO NOT GO THERE MY THROBBING MANHOOD IS JUST WAITING TO BE RELEASED FROM ITS DEMIN PRISON”. It’s because they’re anagrams doofus.

I hate Hollywood stupidity. Some posters for the film ‘Salt’ carry the tagline “Can you find Salt?” and there’s a massive picture of Angie, who plays Salt. Come on. Since no one is that stupid I must conclude that they in fact are searching in vain for table salt. Perhaps they are opening a chipper.

An annoying (and henceforth anonymous) person keeps attempting to ‘Chat” with me on Facebook. In an attempt to prevent this, I took the advice of a friend and used large words to scare him. He is, needless to say from the “minimalist” school of typing. Here is what was said (It’s not for the faint of heart. Or the faint of grammar):

Me: Did you have a marvelously indulgent trifecta of months?

20.54 J*nathon: wat do u mean by dat

20.55 Me: Have you been courting a young madam?

20:56 J*nathon: ye wbu

20.58 Me: have you been participating in any forms of pre-marital cunnilingus with your esquired member of the fairer sex?

21:00 J*nathon: no wby

21:04 Me: Why yes, I stumbled across a brothel betwixt and between the street of Talbot, and the fair maiden doth giveth me a glance of her garments! For shame!

21:06 J*nathon: kwl

I don’t need a totem, Cobb, I have a massive dick instead.

Good day,

Conor

Here I saw an ad on a Pepsi bottle that said “Win a camcorder every 10 minutes”. Why on earth would you need a new camcorder every 10 minutes? WHAT ON EARTH COULD YOU BE FILMING?

I can’t have been the only child who grew up watching Sabrina The Teenage Witch and whenever they mentioned their “lab” thought they were referring to their labias? My nine-year-old self was impressed by the openness with which they discussed their sexuality.

The Mastercard logo looks like a failed push-up bra. JS.

And I recently rented season two of Fonejacker and was quite disappointed to find out that it wasn’t about masturbation and phone sex…

LOL ever noticed when you play Solitaire on an iPod it’s called clonDIKE and what prevents water from flooding the NETHERlands is a DYKE and do you like that comedian DICK VAN DYKE and perhaps lesbians ride DYKE-cycles instead of bicycles and do bisexuals call the Spire the DYKE SPIKE and they call the new ferris wheel the Wheel of DYKE-lin and I shit you not there is an old myth called THE LITTLE BOY WHO PUT HIS FINGER IN THE DIKE… DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE DIKE

On final note, people from Malta are called Maltesers.

Good day,

Conor

Ugh I hate the expression “Rub someone up the wrong way”. To me it just sounds like you attempted to like, stroke their, eh, you know. And ended up stroking their like eh ass-al area. The point is it’s a stupid phrase.

And I’m sorry but Pokemon has turned into a fucking hive of BDSM. Like this was pretty much the first thing I saw when I typed it in was this… THING. WTF is that?

When I used to watch the only naughty thing was Brock gangbanging those Nurses.

I asked one of the ladies in the Dáil if she had ever spoken to Brian Cowen and she said “I’ve seen him but YOU DON’T TALK TO BRIAN COWEN” and I was like “Eh wha?” but she just kept screaming “YOU DON’T TALK TO BRIAN COWEN, YOU DON’T TALK TO BRIAN COWEN”. Then she started throwing crucifixes at me and blood started streaming out of her vagina and then her skin started to melt… I have no idea when that stopped being an anecdote and started being a sexual fantasy.

Returning the the blogosphere was a bad idea. Ugh and I have to go to the Botanic Gardens tomorrow. What the fuck is there to do in Botanics for three hour?

Good day

Conor

I’m too uninspired for a real blog. Here’s my speech that I had to prepare for English.

There are many a thing in this life that can really get you down. No Jaffa Cakes left in the packet. When the store runs out of Marge Simpson shaped condoms. When the website that streams the latest series of Gossip Girl fails to load, or when the girl of your dreams would rather fantasize about stroking the silky smooth hair of Justin Bieber instead of stroking your…

Anyway, in my most humble opinion, worse than all of these things is the daily torture that some of us have to face when we give up our souls to Dublin Bus. The ordeal begins standing, freezing, on the kerb of some forlorn street, waiting in anticipation for the 32 or 31 or whatever, all the while trying to ignore the trenchcoat-and-reflective-sunglasses-wearing sixtysomething eyeing you up a few metres away. Plus there’s a 30% chance it’s already raining. The longer the wait, the more you start to assume that you have, in fact, arrived too late and missed the bus entirely. The longer you wait, the more unconfortable you feel and the broader the smile on the man’s face becomes.

The moment you see the bus turning around the corner, a sense of relief washes over your whole body. You can finally escape from the mysterious pervert and you now know you won’t be late for your date; whether it be skirt-shopping with Ciara or a romantic dinner with Natassja which quickly escaltes into a wild and furious doggy… walk in Stephen’s Green. However your troubles are far from over as you now have to attempt to purchase a ticket from the bus driver.

Here’s a quick profile of a typical Dublin Bus conducter, a description which I’m sure many of you will be familiar with. Male, obviously. About 50 years old. Bald. Speaks in quite a rough dialect of English. Pretends to be deaf to get you to scream your order. Sexually frustrated. Probably impotent. Enjoys causing others pain. And you just know that when you step onto the bus, he’s secretly thinking “Get in loser we’re going shopping” or “Janice I cannot stop this bus. Curfew 1 o’clock”. And who does he think he is? I like INVENTED him, you know? And it’s not my fault if he’s like, in love with me or something. Let’ face it. He’s a life-ruiner. He ruins people’s lives.

After your ordeal with Damien the bus driver, you attempt to locate a seat. Fortunately, you have a choice; you could sit next to the sexually-ambiguous-genderless-middle-aged thing in the corner, or you could choose to stay near the front but risk being roped into a conversation with the ever-present old women about their efforts to rejuvenate their sex lives or where to buy the latest brand of stewed prunes. And you just know that whenever the bus lurches (often) one of them try to reach out a grab your ding-a-ling, SUPPOSEDLY by accident.

And even after you leave the bus, you’re still at risk of that dreaded phone-call. Ring ring “Hello, Natassja?” “I can’t go out. Cough. I’m sick”, and you have to suffer through the whole ordeal again.

So in conclusion; there are many things in this life worth waiting for; the inevitable Justin Bieber sex tape, Natassja screaming in agony as she gives birth to your first child, or the equally inevatable Jedward sextape. But waiting for a Dublin Bus is not one of them.

I’m here all week.