Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.15: Ministry – Every day is Halloween


“Irlanda’s least aborted Senator” ready to stomp a women’s rights meeting.

“Oh, why can’t i live a life for me?
Why should i take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me?
I’m not the one that’s so absurd”
– Al Jourgensen

The demons that major religions espouse as the dealers of justice in the mythical afterworlds have their work cut out for them. The hourly event horizon that humans are going through right now will mean having a pitchfork shoved up your urethra for eternity would seem pleasant compared to an existence where lies have become a staple of public life. The lie is now reported rather than refuted. The liar is accepted. Yessssss.

The “everything I say is bullshit” paradigm that is currently being used as national policy in that social thought experiment, America, has been imported to this littul land over the past decade or two, thanks in part to Mike Murphy’s early Sunday evening travelogues in the 80s. Americans, they’re mad like! It used to be that a politician or public servant caught in a lie or corruption would resign in disgrace, but now they follow a path of being caught, pilloried, quietly moved aside, then interviewed and then they write the book. They ride out any shit-storm with the gravitas of a life-long heroin user.

Trump’s genius is the flooding of the news cycle with such insanity that media can’t even cope with a retort to the first idiotic tweet. Enter to the Irish cause, Senator Rónán Mullen, Irlanda’s least aborted Senator. Y’see, the Catholic Church collapsed into a black hole cluster fuck similar to that of the Soviet Union and lost control.  Irlandese people realised that apart from the church’s sexual abuse and authoritarian control issues, there was this new issue that basically Mass is really boring. Whatever you can say about Irlandese people, they don’t like to be bored. Look at Storm Ophelia (not Ronan Keating’s sexual preference) where despite three people being tragically killed, the Irlandese tweeted at the hurricane in the same manner some Americans shot at theirs.

Anyways, Mullen paints himself as this country’s moral authority and as a Catholic man, he of course is primarily interested in women’s healthcare. The problem of course is that his methods are seen as extremely calculated or calculatedly extreme. If you are pro-life and a moderate, you have no voice in the upcoming repeal referendum. Watch your feelings be redirected through the Old Testament via post-independence Irlanda, around the skirts of a few bishops, into the tweet machine, the boring Facebook essay, the newspapers and finally on to the televisual organ of the state. You’ll feel like the kid who was chosen last for the Lacrosse team. Ha, Lacrosse. Stupid, stupid Lacrosse.

Mná na hÉireann are in for a battle over the next year. Looking at the the way old white men in America are trampling on the most basic of female health rights, it will not go unnoticed by the tiny penised old white men hiding behind the cloak of God and civil war politics. These men are always keen to tell women what they should think and do. Be more like the Virgin Mary, they say. She didn’t abort her magic baby.

There is obviously nothing wrong with being pro-life. Although to quote Bill Hicks (coz that’s what everyone endlessly does), “Why don’t you lock arms and block cemeteries?” That’s fun, right? Anyways this munki remembers the last abortion referendum and how the choices offered on the ballot paper were eternal damnation or well, eternal damnation with priests. There were more images of aborted foetuses than actual instances of Irlandese women who had abortions, leading this munki to believe that Catholic photographers were aborting babies for their “posed by model” placards. Just my theory.

The problem occurs that the idea of having a reasoned debate about this highly important issue for women has already been fucked out the window, with the baby and the bath water, if you’ll excuse the analogy. What we can look forward is a lot of shouting, and depending on the calibre of the shouter on either side, folksy folks who are on the fence will jump to the side of shouter that least annoys them. It’s a cruel way to decide this, but un-aborted people are generally fucking stupid. Look at Brexit, Trump, our Eurovision picks for the last 20 years, our last Presidential election. That election was about who was going to hardly bother the public eye for seven years. To get there you had to invade the public eye like conjunctivitis.

So, Rónán Mullen is the unchosen voice of some people I know who are pro-life. He will be dragged into studio after studio and he’ll use the Trump model to get his agenda across. Look at his comment about Savita Halappanavar where he said “If there was abortion on demand, she wouldn’t have been in the hospital because she wouldn’t have been pregnant and she wouldn’t have been having a miscarriage.” You see, he throws a stupid statement out there, leaves it hanging, gets attacked and then claims he is being attacked. He will elicit support from balls of negative energy angrily sitting in the armchairs already pissed off that we brought that Irish guy home from Egypt, when there are people dying in the streets. In the streets! Although, don’t give those homeless a euro. They’ll spend it on drugs. Wait, how much do drugs cost?


Example of a placard showing aborted foetuses. Gross

Mullen knows this, as does Trump, Farage, Le Pen etc. You can always appeal to idiots who have no capacity for researching or for most reading. Since the economic crash of 2008, fascists have learned they can re-emerge from the shit because people find it easier to blame Muslims and anyone else foreign than bankers, who are invisible in plain sight because their skin matches their shirts. If economists don’t understand how the world economy works, how will Brian from a hole in the ground in Laois or Jim from a privileged golden carriage on the head of a small poor boy in Dalkey understand the sub-prime mortgage disaster when they share a common belief that Ryan Tubridy is actually an intellectual. Anyone who likes Frank Sinatra is an intellectual, right?

They’re coming to take our jobs. They can’t even speak the language. They are terrorists. People who haven’t learned the lessons from World War 2 won’t realise that the white totems who control the little fascists want to get rid of the Africans, the Asians, the Muslims, the gays, the intellectuals (not Sinatra fans, real intellectuals), the Catholics, the Buddhists, the women etc. When they are rid of them all, well, they’re coming after you stupid white boy, aren’t they? It’s a pity there was no class in the education system that could teach kids about this kind of thing.

Anyways, back to the repeal referendum. This is a no-brainer. The health of women is of paramount importance. They should never be dictated to by ill-equipped men who believe in magic beings in the sky and have Handmaid’s Tale fantasies. Doctors should never be put in the position of not knowing whether to treat a patient who is about to die. Fuck that.

It feels like monsters surround us every day. Every knock on the door could provide trick or treat.  I think Uncle Al should have the last world,

“Oh, why can’t i live a life for me?
Why should i take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me?
I’m not the one that’s so absurd”


Read more recent Halloween frights and delights, right?

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.14: SQURL – Funnel of Love

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.13: The Cramps – Human Fly


Blasphemy, blasphem-you 1 (stories of being ungodly surrounded by sexy nuns)

In the name of the Stretch, the Stretch and holymoly Stretch. Conkers please?

On the 23rd July 2009, a new blasphemy law came into place in Irlanda, prohibiting Irish leprechauns from saying things that might hurt God’s feelings, like “OMG” or the parochial “Jaysus” or the popular “Fistfuck the Virgin Mary, I have never seen a sideline cut like that before.” Other things prohibited include: “Spanish Train” by Nanny-rubber Chris de Burgh; the albums of rock combo Slayer; talking to or

Come here till I teach you some old style religion

about Sinead O’Connor; claiming that you were abused by the clergy, you delusional child; Soccer; mention of the Devil or Islam or Buddhism or David Icke and finally the popular Irish custom of running up behind a nun, lifting her dress and goosing her.

The woman who instigated this new law was former Miss World and now Minister for Doling Out Justice, Dermot Ahern. A small frumpy woman with an exceptionally large stretched mouth, she jumped up and down on the front bench of the Irlanda Parliament until everybody gave up and said “go ahead, do it, just shut up about it.” Hot-footing it out of the Dail, she put together a cracked team of religious icons and went underground.

Early on July 23rd of last year, out of the tunnels under Merrion Square, four figures appeared in a line outside the Dail:  Ahern,  wearing a pair of underpants so tight that no sexual thought would ever cross her mind again; Dana, head to toe in burlap; the festering corpse of Archbishop Charles McQuaid, grinning insanely with his finger pointing scarily through his enormous ring; and, finally, whiskey-guzzling Saint of the People Matt “the Lush” Talbot, holding a bottle of Chivas Regal and wiping fresh vomit from his skeletal arm. They looked at each other, grinned, blessed themselves and stormed the building.

to be furthered

Now, read this shit. It happened, it did!

Case Study 1: The story of Picasso, the foulmouthed Ape

No munki has ever been prosecuted for blasphemy in the history of the Irlanda state. However, Picasso the gorilla was forcibly ejected from Dublin Zoo in 1963. Later, in conversations from his 1972 book tour of “Monkey Business and Economic Strategem,” he decided to set the record straight.

Picasso admitted to saying ‘Jesus H. Christ’ every second sentence, blaming it on a schoolchild who used to visit his enclosure. Later evidence revealed that this was actually just the way of the Silverback.

A change in keeper of the apes came around 1962. An eco-disciplinarian, Captain Wilfred Dominico Moses Pope, recently of the French Foreign Legion, took over from slack-jawed alcoholic Billy ‘Drinkies Anyone’ Boop. A Catholic of some zeal, Wilf found Picasso’s misuse of the Lord’s name abhorrent and constantly berated him, threatening him with expulsion from not only the zoo but the city of Dubalin completely.

Things came to a head after a seemingly conciliatory conversation ended up with Picasso telling Wilf that

Stephanie Zimbalist never got this shit

“Archbishop McQuaid could march on up here in his girly dress and suck on my papal cross.” Outraged, Dominico lost it and disappeared from the ape house and the sniggering Silverback.

Later, Picasso awoke when Wilf grabbed his ear and dragged him to the front gate of Dublin Zoo, kicked him in the arse and with a boiling red face screamed,

“Fuck off back to darkest Africa, heathen!”

“Ask me hole, I’m from fuckin Crumlin yi prick.” muttered the giant ape.