Who said that?

So if a blog is written in the woods would anyone hear it scream? And what IS the sound of one hand typing...

Nope. My mistake.



And happy birthday by the way. You look great.

Someone call a doctor. I think I've found a pulse.

Addendum

I'd love to tell you all what I'm doing here, but I'm not allowed. Seriously.

It has been my experience that Americans love secrets. Since arriving here (almost a year ago!) I have been sworn to secrecy more often than I care (or can, damn this mind of mine. It's getting worse you know. I barely remember most mornings which feet my socks go on. Now, what was I saying...) Oh yes. Secrets. To imagine. To finish the sentance I was working on before I rudely interupted myself. The most baffling secret I have encountered so far, is who voted for GWB? I've yet to meet a single one.
Not.
One.
So either they are all lying to me, or its a secret and they're not allowed tell.

I am not such an idiot (Amazing, but true) to think that everyone tells me the truth. For that matter I don't ever believe anyone has ever told me the truth. This is neither paranoia, nor terminal cynicism; it is simply the knowledge that were I to meet myself I wouldn't tell me the truth either. Least of all give out any personal information like phone numbers, home addresses, or who I happened to vote for in the last presidential elelction. I simply am not the kind of person one should trust with this information. Espeically if you happen to have an attractive sister/mother or a fridge full of beer. Or, heaven forfend, both. Or all three. Dear God, there's a mental image....

I must be sitting on a slope, my fingers won't stop moving across the keyboard. Or possibly I have been possessed, because I haven't a clue what I'm talking about. And I haven't even been drinking.

Only because you asked so nicely...

This week your intrept explorer is working in the deepest darkes jungles of western Mass. This countryside is renowned for being home to the most leftyist, most dyed-in-the-wool Democrats in the whole of the U.S of A.

Curiously, I have no time for such leftyists. With their free trade coffee, tofu enriched diets, sandal wearing, long-haired, tattoed bearing, save the whale shite; they, more ofen than not, make me want to hit something(one) so badly that any common ground we may share is drowned out by the little voice in my head that keeps whispering "Hit them! Hit them now!".



But then, maybe thats just me.

I will keep you all informed as the week progresses and we'll see if my attitude towards them changes at all.

Voice from beyond the grave.

I fully expect to be talking to an empty e-room, and given the subject matter, I am happily surprised by the similarity with the post below. But today, Galway have done it again. And I would like to take this oppurtunity to thank the Mayo footballers for making my life a better place today. You boys have put a smile on my face once more, and I sincerly hope you continue to do so for many years to come. Today Mayo were beaten by the largest margin to date in the history of the Championship.

I know this interests you all not a jot, but, well, quite frankly, I don't care.

Gaillimh Abu!!
Go on the Tribesmen!

In other news, I am still in the US, I am having a blast, and now after 70 minutes of bliss (length of football game, and nothing to do with nudity) I am returning to my pint.

Normal programming may continue dependent upon the position of the moon, the tides and my sobriety.

For a few dollars more...

One of these days Mayo is going to prove me wrong.
Just not today.

Greetings from Southie. So. How fares the Great Adventure? Well here are a few observations of what I consider the main differences between Ireland and the Colonies.

A Good thing about America:
America is the shoppers paradise. You can buy anything, anytime, anywhere. Whatever you need, you are guaranteed to find a shop open somewhere nearby that sells it. No matter what. I actually think this right is enshrined in the Constitution.

A Bad thing about America:
If you work in the retail industry you’re fucked. Because Americans expect to be able to buy anything, anytime, anywhere; which means that for the poor gomi’s that have to work in the shops, they get loads of hours, crap pay and bugger all time off. Trust me.

A Good thing about America:
Lots and lots of bars. All shapes and sizes, to suit every taste.

A Bad thing about America:
This one may take a bit of explaining. When one goes to a restaurant, ones waiter usually hauls ass, carrying hot plates, dirty plates, fresh drinks, a clean napkin, more bread please, this steak is over done, this isn’t what I ordered and so on and so forth ad infinitum. And all this in the expectation of a tip, which one hopes will be around 15% of the total bill. Now. Take your average American barman. He probably hasn’t washed in a while, so he’s not the sweetest smelling character. And he sure as hell didn’t get the job for his looks. You approach and ask, in a voice laden with respect for fear that should you sound in the least bit haughty and thereby neuter your chance of been served in this decade, for a pint. If your lucky he’ll start to move about 5 minutes after you asked and with an effort that can hardly be termed Herculean, he’ll fill a single glass with beer and set it down on front of you in a manner certain to send a good mouthful (with both cheeks filled to capacity and dribbles of beer leaking out the corners of your mouth. Anything less can not be considered a good mouthful. This definition may change depending on the circumstances with which it is used. For example the definition of a good mouthful for an inmate of Sing Sing might be something completely different and he may well argue that there is nothing good about it) sloshing over the bar. And in return for this sullen, almost forced service, in addition to the $4 charge you are required to give an additional $1 tip. That’s 25%. For what? For the idiot doing his job. No matter how badly. And woe betide the consumer who decides to eschew this particular custom. So if anyone ever tells you that a pint of beer in the States cost X dollars, they are actually wrong. A pint costs $X +1. A bit sneaky if you ask me. Especially when I don’t get a tip for doing my job. Even when I’m sober enough to do it well. Do you? Then why in the name of all that’s holy is this ridiculous custom continued? Do you all think money grows on trees? (The first person to point out that paper does in a manner of speaking grow on trees ergo money also, gets a sound thrashing, followed by me going home with them to beat their husband/wife/significant other, bugger their dog, and burn their house down to its axle) Let the bastard work for it. Make him sit. Or roll over. Something. Anything. Just stop expecting me to give you a 25% tip because you managed, all on your own, there’s a clever boy, to hold a glass under a flowing liquid long enough for it to fill. Wow. Move over NASA. If he gets 25% for this, one can only imagine the pay rise that follows toilet training.

A Good thing about America:
Mayo is 3000 miles away.

A Bad thing about America:
GWB lives here.