Today I hate Irlanda because of…

Enda Kenneeeeee

This is a man sort of like a John Brutal who with a wink and a nod can force grown women to glass other women and even their own children. His hair is brushed early every morning with a comb containing plenty of sand from the beaches of his home county, alcoholics haven, Mayo or Meeeeohhhhnotmeee as Gaeilge. To keep his hair in shape he visits Castlebar hospital and with a nod and a wink, swipes some elbow sweat from one of the auld ones (God bless em). They don’t complain, sure isn’t he one of their own. A quick stop at the his ‘magic’ mirror and then he gets into his economical Ford Focus drives to a boggy field and abandons it next to a cow giving the cow a nod and a wink. The cow looks back with that “yeah, whatever asshole” expression that eating cows always be at. Enda then gets into a high-powered German car, black, always black and negotiates the 3ft wide roads of alcoholics haven, Mayo. As he travels through the country in his tight pants, he sometimes gets tumescent when seeing all the beautiful and essentially pointless landscapes that Irlanda has to offer. The Irlandese have an expression which translated into some kind of normal language sounds a bit like,

“Yeah the country’s picture fucking postcard, but you don’t want ti walk around with a fucking postcard stapled to your fucking eyebrows Joe, do ya? Joe, do you? Joe?”

He loses hardness in Moate, a universal constant.

Endee as he is known in the capital, knows when he reaches the outskirts of Dublin that he’s back where he belongs, sorting out those gobshites with their city and their no-fields and cows bullshit. He eyes the homeless who dwell at every traffic light and tells his driver not to swerve to avoid the common road-junkies for whom the act of falling off the pavement is actually part of a drug procurement programme thought up by stupid liberal hippies who masturbate outside the Google building when they are not thinking of new beard and jumper combos. Endee’s driver is happy as even though a few plastic bag carrying drug users slam off the windscreen, he knows they can’t be killed because of a peculiar trait the Irlandese know as, “sure, I was locked so I didn’t even notice that I’d broken my tibia.”

Endee looks at the modern girls walking to work with their lattes and their trousers and thinks how modern this country is, and feeling that funky feeling knows this is going to be a good day. He tells himself that he has saved Irlanda and these ungrateful bastards don’t even know it. They don’t know the sacrifice he has to make leaving the alcoholicalist haven that is Mayo with its scenery and zero interest policy regarding drink driving. He rubs his red veiny nose and feels sad, sad that when he gets into the Dail, the first thing he has to do is meet someone as heinous as himself, Varadkkkkkkkkkar. What sort of name is that for an Irish politician anyway? Sounds like some terrorist who would start a war in foreign. Endee squints at him; the fucker wants his job, the fucker wants to be him. Well, he remembers what the great Omar Little said,

“If you come at the king, you best not miss.”

Endee throws open the doors of the Dail, storms through the building past aides, sycophants, weird politicians from sectors of the country noone cares about and those who mean to destroy him; walks into the toilets, stands and looks at the Taoiseach’s private urinal with a picture fucking postcard of a map of Irlanda. He unleashes his Enda and with a nod and a wink…

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