Having spent the day pondering the unponderable, and turning wish fulfillment into an Olympic sport, I am a mental wreck who cannot sleep and is in dire need of a slap across the back of the head or a hug, who knows which will be more effective, maybe both. The shock might shake the system.
I was watching the news the other night and fifteen minutes in, it occurred to me that everyone in this goddamn country is a vodka or a breath of wind or a funny look away from being a MURDERER.
When I was a young Stretch, murder was something that Angela Lansbury or Miss Marple or the Selecter did. It never happened on the A-Team, it never happened on the Fall Guy and it definitely never happened on the Scarecrow and Mrs Asshole (apart from the murder of Bruce Boxleitner’s soul). Nowadays, you turn on the magic box in the corner and some American specialist in spleen murders is telling another person,
“This doesn’t fall under my jurisdiction. It is clear that the bottle of Kahlua has entered his right artery and therefore I’m off home for some quality time with my shiny shiny fireplace adornments.”
It had become commonplace for people to see murder as just another plot device. Quincy worked in a pathology lab yet there are less dead people there than on those shows with good looking young people who talk to each other in conversations like,
“Hey Malady, how’s things?” inquires handsome blonde young man with blond young stubble.
“You know, Todd just won’t let me in to his life and it hurts me to think that he feels so alone. Sometimes I feel the world is too small for the amount of love he has to give.” wails beautiful waif grappling with cardigan.
“So, eh, all good then?” asks handsome blond young man with blond young stubble, who is then strangled with the worn stretched ends of her cardigan sleeves.
Apart from the ridiculous weather, the economic downturn and the knowledge that one day you too might blame your government for your lack of personality, how did little IRLANDA become a haven for murderers? I have a theory. Stretch thinks it’s a post-colonial thing. Since gaining our independence, littul Irlanda has always wanted to be Americanised. We wanted to get away from the stuffy angst-ridden ways of our previous occupiers, yet we want a new bigger power to invade. We want big gas-guzzling cars; big Mac Mansions; Texas; divorce (coz it was on the box, like); abortion, freedom, endlessly boring chat shows and of course MURDER (coz it was on the box, like). Now that the Catholic Church has evolved into some kind of evil organisation that even Jason Bourne would not be able to infiltrate, there is nothing to hold back the aul country from freaking out.
So, next time you are standing over another human with a bag of potatoes over your shoulder and evil intent in your heart, remember not to give yourself a hard time. It’s not your fault, it’s America’s. Or if the person is Ryan Tubridy, then it’s nothing to do with anything. He was just asking for it.
Bodycount’s isteach sa teach!