I’m currently arsing my way around New Zealand. Normal service will be resumed, ehhhh, sometime when I sober up/get down of the glacier.

So, either a: I’m a cat or b: totally missing the point of eco bags.

Trouble is, I nearly always forget to bring along my bag for life. I’m halfway down the road to the supermarket and I’ll remember it. Usually when I see someone walking towards me with their own bag for life.

Then when I get to the supermarket, I feel guilty about filling up plastic bags, and so purchase another eco bag, only to stuff in into the back of the cupboard with its friends.

I also bought one of those on-the-go coffee mugs too. But I keep leaving it at home.

Meh!

Irish journalism sucks big hairy balls as is but Good Lord, this asshat is the creme de la crap altogether. I’m thinking she’d be really useful as a Spooge Collector, or a scare crow, or maybe she could be buried in a cave somewhere and sealed up.

Lately, she bemoans the rain. OH I KNOW, LET’S TALK ABOUT THE FUCKING WEATHER!

Is it wrong to cry because you’ve just got a soaking from the rain, she asks.

Well, that would entirely depend on the circumstances, Emma. If you were homeless, at the end of your tether and fed-up with your miserable existence, a rain shower, yes, could be the final straw.

Because I have just sat down at my desk and done just that. Not sobbed mind you, just a couple of feeling sorry for myself tears of frustration. Walking into town this morning, like everyone else who wasn’t clogging up the roads with traffic, I got soaked from my head to my toes. I am literally dripping wet, like clothes just hung out to dry on a clothes- line.

So……Emma actually cried because the hair she spent three hours GHDing that morning and the overpriced rags she pulled on her hide got a soaking.

Yeah, cried.

What are we supposed to do about this godawful weather? There’s not much to do besides emigrate but we should at least be suitably prepared in the wardrobe department so I’ve decided on some rules of my own. Any other suggestions will be gratefully received-it looks like we might need them over the coming weeks.

Wannabe Brits, officious louts with delusions of aristocracy and morons with misguided views they’re captains of industry, this dull and soulless suburb of Dublin has become even more horrendous since these pricks made some fast cash and bred horrible children with bad hair and even worse attitudes towards waiting staff.

But what’s even worse than a D4 resident? A D4 Residents’ Association. This many-headed beast contains elements so vile, so distasteful, if they were in its company, the average person would vomit uncontrollably until their stomach lining came away and they were eventually dissolved by their own bodily acids.

So it’s not too much of a shocker to learn that residents from Donnybrook’s Nutley Lane estate have lodged a series of legal objections to the use of a house to provide services to post-cancer patients.

“After being told of the initial complaints, St Vincent’s Hospital lodged a formal planning “retention permission” application to Dublin City Council to allow the medical facility to continue to provide post-cancer counselling and therapy to patients recovering from the deadly condition,” says the Herald

“Over a dozen residents in the area claimed that the facility was “wholly inappropriate” and “incompatible” with the tone of the estate.”

So the tone of the estate is resolutely one of not helping people who have battled cancer?  

The council said, “fuck it” and granted permission to use the house as a post-cancer facility but the cunting residents’ association waded back in with the D4 version of a counter attack- An Bord Pleanala- and intend on appealing the decision.

So here’s what; if these heartless busybody wankers have got a turd in their ear about a cancer facility in their midst- I dunno, will  the sight of sick and bald people affect their morning power walk to the fruit smoothie bar?- how about throwing everything but the book at them.

For Donnybrook, I propose:

-Three casinos

-Fourteen probation centres

-An immigration centre

-A language centre for kids who don’t speak English

-Three Chinese brothels

-800 Abra Kebabras

-300 GAA clubs

-Copper Face Jacks II

-A youth club for young offenders.

A Malaysian welder had to have a nut removed from around his penis after an attempt to lengthen it before he gets engaged next week went embarrassingly wrong, a news report said.

The nut got stuck on his penis following an erection, the Star newspaper said, forcing him to seek help at a hospital in southern Johor state.

Staff from the Sultanah Aminah hospital had to drain some blood from the penis and cut away a top layer of skin before the object could be removed, the newspaper said.

It said the fire and rescue department were also involved in trying to remove the nut from the unnamed welder, who is in his 20s and hoped the nut would weigh down his penis to make it longer.

“The patient is now recovering and we hope to discharge him today (Sunday),” hospital director Daud Abdul Rahim told the Star.

On August 25, another young man in Kuala Lumpur had tried to increase his sexual prowess by slipping a steel ring around his penis, forcing the fire department to cut off the ring after doctors were unable to remove it, the newspaper said.

- AFP

Jack and Jill host regular dinner parties for their assortment of friends with high disposable incomes. Over terrines, they discuss all the important issues of the day, including the US presidential race, war in Iraq, the price of property, the north side south side divide, Barbie v Sindy and holidays on the Amalfi Coast.

But lately, the couple found those staple topics of conversation have begun to dry up. Where once, the price of houses in Navan could fill up at least three hours of post cheesecake chatter, and immigration could fill up a half hour lull, lately, there seems nothing left to say.

Even the latest David McWilliams acronym; WCWNI (wanky cunts with no imagination) only holds court for a brief 10 minute interlude between courses.

Not quite ready to breed, and certainly not thinking of marriage just yet (Luttrelstown isn’t available until 2015) Jack and Jill are forced to do something really crazy to bring another talking point to the table.

So the cunts go to Superquinn and pay Eur45 for a bottle of…….WATER…….

Superquinn say they are happy with the response they’ve had since they began selling Bling, according to beverage buyer John McLennan. “We’ve had a fairly positive reaction. We’ve sold six bottles so far,” he told Herald.ie. “Most people buy it for the fun content.” “They buy it for the craic, to have with friends around the dinner table. It’s a real talking point.”

What the fuck does this water do? Cure AIDS? Make your tits grow? Recession my hole.

What a bunch of wankers