Yesterday..I became a hermit crab. Deeep down Stretch went. Did it make me feel better? Fuck NO..

It’s been a while, but I thought I should give a beautifully slightly uncomfortable hug to the ladieees of the Scarecrow and Mrs King forum. BCoz one or two of their kind have been lusting after me in the middle of the night. Although they may have been lusting after Bruce the Boxlightener. Still.

Remember, you know where I am, but I also know where you are.

Look behind you. No, down here

How this dysfunctional relationship started.

Click me with your sweaty paws


Think i posted this before but anyway. I’m on holidaze, so I need to tell the world or at least the sick fuckers obsessed with Glenda Gilson, Rosanna Davison, Bell’s Palsy and the Scarecrow and that bitch Mrs King who seem to find me everyday.

There is something wrong with you.

Not as much fun had this week. Will put it down as a week of absolute blahhhhhhh.

Everyone in Irlanda is a (potential) murderer

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.

Bodycount's in the house. One of these beautiful young things is now a murderer in a cult. Guess who?

When I was a young Stretch, murder was something that Angela Lansbury or Miss Marple┬á 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!

subo get lubo, make nice

Ah bonjour mes amis. Stretch ici.

Allo, allo, Ola, Ola, Bonjour, Bonjour, Konichiwa, Konichiwawa.

Pour ma premiere expedition, Je voudrais donner KUDOS GRANDE to les femmes sexie dans la monde de Le Scarecrow et Madame King, qui made me laugh par pitie, mais avec beacoup d’amour aujourd’hui.

Kudos crazy babes! Stretch love ya!

Je voudrais parler avec you about this Susan Boyle woman. Oh La la lallalalalal! Je sais pas. I do not

Susan Boyle, not exactly Peter Ustinov?

comprende. Am I supposed to find her sexy? Am I supposed to believe that she’s a better singeur than the people whose song she photocopie. Il ya numerous reasons why she not make me feel the sex about her. And the Bo make me feel this way! Realities! Quest que passes? Wha? Pourquoi is millions of people lying around leur rotting, pig-fucking, armchair infested, ketchup stained, 99inchtelevisione social-service visited maisonettes, watching fucking reality? Why? Pourquoi? Reality is BIG MERDE. Take a look at the (sexy) ladies from SKMK. They don’t want reality. They want bad-ass bitch Kate Jackson and thinking woman’s shiny trousered crumpet, Brucey Boxleitner. That’s why TV was invented. Oui?

Cette ‘Femme Unibrow’ is number One in Les Etats-Unis. I mean sheeeit. It’s like there’s a big need for normale peoples to make it to the top. Why? Normal people are fucking boring. Susan Boyle is not exactly Peter Ustinov. And dreams, les reves, vache ta mere. Live the dream, live the dream, live my hole more like. That femme derange will have every ounce of her soul sucked out of her by a hungry mass media. They will leave a carcass so rotten, it will resemble that simpering asshole Robbie Williams (GIVE IT UP FOOL). Tout fois I turn the TV on or open un papier, there’s another celebritie having a mental breakdown LIVE. It makes me furieux!! Tres furieux! Meyerde!

Anyway, maybe I should do what french “essence de cool” Fred Avril does and go around randomly hitting people in the face and after that chill to some of his more mellow sounds. JE DIT “CHILLLLL”

Fin. Over to Vous Fred