4 Indisputable Proofs That The World Hates Sully

It just wasn’t my week... The following four tales of woe are related only by the long-lasting psychological trauma they have incurred. I have painfully relived the events here, as an attempt to document the root cause of sudden shift in my temperament that my loved ones must endure for the rest of my days.

The Heist
I love Cadbury’s Crème eggs. To an unhealthy extent. I’m sure that their seasonal-novelty is only half of the reason why I am compelled to shovel copious amounts of them into my face. I find them so arrestingly moreish, that the only way I can moderate my intake is to freeze them, thus making the act of cracking the outer chocolaty-shell a delicious challenge. On more than one occasion I’ve been airlifted to the nearest hospital to have my stomach pumped following a fondant-overdose (note- may not be true).

I tell you this, dear reader, so you can imagine the utter horror that struck me last Saturday. As I looked lovingly at the 6-pack of oval-wonders I had just purchased, and gently caressed the cardboard housing, my index finger felt a slight bump on the side of the packet where there shouldn’t have been one. It was a tear. Someone had pulled a Crème-Egg-Caper! As of yet, the local detectives have yet to return my calls, so I’m appealing to anybody who was in the Dunnes Stores in the Parkway Shopping Centre Limerick, on the 12th of January 2008 to come forward with any information they might have. I’m suspecting it was an inside job.


Whatever bastard deprived me of the full half-dozen lumps of joy is going to pay.

Air: The Basis of Breathing, but Bane of my Breakfast

I’m a stickler for bag scrunching. I like my cereal to be as fresh and as crispy as the day I opened it.

I like Weetabix. It’s a good cereal. Possibly the best cereal. My most prolific afternoons are often attributed to the bricks of wheat I ate that morning.

It’s a safe assumption then, that I like my Weetabix to be as fresh and as crispy as the day I opened it. But what if it wasn’t exactly fresh and crispy on the day I opened it? Amazingly enough, due to some packing error, the plastic wrapping over my ‘Bix was open before I laid eyes on ‘em, meaning that the air had been getting at the precious slabs of whole-wheat goodness for an amount of time that doesn't bear thinking about!


My housemates skimped on the sympathy, so feel free to leave your condolences in the comments section.

Running on Empty? I Wish!

I enjoy warmth. I enjoy washing my hands with hot water. I’m quite partial to having clean dishes and silverware too. I’m also a fan of eating hot food that was prepared on the stove.

Of course, I’ve been deprived of every one of those things, as my rented accommodation relies on the empty canister of gas out the back of the house for central heating, hot water, and the stove. The amount of things this has deprived us of is frustrating and liberating in equal measure. Sure, it sucks having a pile of crusty plates stacking up because washing them in cold water is pointless, but at least I have a reason not to shave!

My strategy has been to lounge around in other people’s houses as much as possible. My father told me to call over for a cup of tea – I left his house 8 hours later. When I have no choice but to stay in this sizeable icebox, I wear as many layers as possible. Whilst this provides most of my body with ample insulation, my hands get unusably frigid during typing endeavours such as this one, so in between lines I shove my hands under my ass until my buttocks numb, (which incidentally, is fun sensation that I heartily endorse).


I’m not the only one struggling with this recent inconvenience. Two of my housemates have tried to lure me into their rooms for bodywarmth-sharing purposes, and one of them has misappropriated the toaster from the kitchen and created a tinfoil satellite in the hopes of Macguyvering up a heating solution to tide us over.

Dead On Arrival

I’m a bit of a tech-whore. I have to restrain myself on an almost daily basis from blathering on about new innovations and breakthroughs that I’m excited about on this very blog. When I get a computer, I tend to get quite attached. I’ve taken to giving them names based on their aesthetics, and I casually refer to them as such to the befuddlement of my few remaining friends. They’re like my children, and I love them as such. The latest addition to my computer-family was Landis. Landis was a misbehaving old sort, and much like as if he were my own troubled child, I put him up for adoption.

Sorry - I’m confusing myself with this sloppy metaphor business. Anyway, Landis was sick from the first day I had him. In three months, I spent a total of around seven hours on the phone to Dell Tech Support, lost all my data 8 (!) times, had two visits from an engineer, went through four harddrives and two motherboards, but still, nothing fixed the problems. The final straw was Dell Support telling me that there was nothing wrong with my computer whatsoever, based on the extremely shallow diagnostics they ran, only for the Harddrive to physically fail a few hours later. Following a somewhat epic struggle, I prevailed in getting a refund, despite the endeavours of the folk at Dell’s Indian call-centre who assured me such a thing was impossible.

Dell’s courier collected the computer today. Considering I’m not a particularly sentimental sort, I found myself quite choked up at the prospect of disposing of a prized (if inherently flawed) possession. The folder I backed up my data in was rather melodramatically called ‘Goodbye Landis’. Of course, part of the reason I felt as though I was at the end of the era could have something to do with the successor to Landis’ throne, but that’s a blog entry for another day (Monday hopefully).

Stashing Landis into his cardboard coffin was a ritual I was all too familiar with, but the prospect of never seeing him again saddened me somewhat, especially since the final 24 hours of use I got out of him were the best I had ever got out of him over our brief time together. Looking morosely through a rain-spattered window as the Interlink van crawled out of the driveway and out of sight, I almost began to regret being so harsh on poor Landis.

~

I won’t dwell in my despair for too long... Maybe this will cheer me up.



Huh... Guess not!

One From the Road: The Crappy Crapper

Holidays with my father are always an adventure, mostly because he stubbornly refuses to plan anything. A few years ago, he booked a flight for all of us out to Vienna in Austria, but didn’t reserve any hotel rooms. We arrived in this massive city, toting some heavy bags in the kind of heat that doesn’t suit pasty white Irishmen like ourselves, and wandered around for hours looking for shelter.

Despite how fun that doesn’t sound, there is something hugely liberating about that kind of an outlook while you’re on holiday, as we didn’t feel tied down to any one hotel, or country, for that matter. After two days of Vienna, we felt we had seen enough, and ventured onto Budapest, until we tired of that, at which point we decided to check out Bratislava in Slovakia.

I can’t quite remember the circumstances that led up to the point of this overly personal story; it’s possible that we were after getting off a bus that took us to a train station, but when we finally arrived in Bratislava, my bladder was brimming in such a painful fashion that I was dangerously close to considering wetting myself and letting the dry heat dry the stain away. After hours of holding it in, the relief I felt at finally witnessing a large, albeit derelict-looking, train station before me caused me to shudder a little joyful shudder at the prospect of excreting these troubling litres of fluid.

I ditched my brothers by the bus as they waited for the driver to retrieve the bags and hurled myself into the train station. It was every bit as run-down looking on the inside as it was on the outside, but it smelt extra musky. I looked around frantically for a place to deposit my urine, but saw nothing. The signs were exclusively in Slovak, so I had to take a moment to compose myself and figure out where I wanted to be. The universal stick-man/woman symbol pointed upstairs, so upstairs I went. I bounded up the large wide staircase as my bladder bounced around violently in protest, but I didn’t care - I was on the home stretch! Salvation lay just ahead! Or so I thought.

Perhaps I switched from a stride to a stroll a little late, as I crashed into that bathroom with such aplomb that I almost knocked a small bespectacled woman off her stool. It was a mensroom attendant. Urk. The toilets were dark, dank, and clammy, bereft of a single window to offer light or odour extraction, and after my first breath I got a distinctly salty taste in my mouth, which should give you an idea of how potent the stink was. The seemingly ineffectual bathroom attendant pointed to a sign that caused my heart to falter for a moment, but my adrenaline had yet to run dry. Despite the fact that it was in another language, I will never forget that sign as long as I live.

Pisoár 15 SKK
Skriňa 25 SKK

Fuck.

I did what any man would do in the situation. I shrugged at her and walked past. I had no money! I had to go! She started barking at me in Slovak as I approached the nearest free urinal. Just as I was undoing my fly in this decrepit hole of a toilet, someone grabbed my arm. The bathroom attendant. Despite the fact that other men were relieving themselves, she deemed it appropriate to reprimand the cheapskate. The withered hag dragged me out to the same sign she had once pointed to and now began to slap it vigorously, all the while yammering away in a tongue I didn’t understand, but a tone I knew all too well.

Few times in my life have I felt physically crushed by disappointment. This was one of those moments. Pleading is quite futile when playing charades is your only means of communication. I clasped my hands together in prayer, begging her. Nothing. I grabbed my crotch and danced on the spot for her. Nothing. I tried pointing at the urinal, miming a urination stance, pointing at my imaginary watch, then at the basket full of foreign coins. Nothing. (Okay - so maybe it’s understandable that she didn’t respond favourably to the last one, but how the hell do you mime “I’ll urinate first, then return and pay you”?) I put a 2 euro coin in her basket, she fished it out and threw it at me in a manner that suggested she believed it would poison all the other legal tender. Her incomprehensible nattering was clear. It said “No toilet for you!”

Possibly the lowest moment of my life, that moment of resignation. I did a quick Pro/Con analysis. Was I willing to spend the rest of my life being called ‘Seanie-Seanie-Pee-Pants’ at every family reunion? Would I be able to regain the trust and respect of my future children if I explained to them the tenacity of the bathroom attendant and the extenuating circumstances that led to my public act of incontinence?

The next part is all a blur. I went downstairs, found my father, dragged him over to the bureau de change to change those Euros into something useful, ran back upstairs with a pile of strange notes, and returned to the scene of my attempted crime, equipped with the means to gain ingress to this rather exclusive shithole.

“Pisoár?” she asked as she pointed at the sign.
I shook my head.
“Skriňa?”
I nodded. I wanted a cubicle. I was willing to pay the big bucks for the privacy, seeing as I had realised how elusive it was on my previous visit.

She outstretched her palm. One transaction later and I’m strolling towards the cubicle. She beckons me back, and I realise that in my tunnel vision, I’ve neglected to notice that she’s holding up a roll of toilet paper. I try to take the roll, and she slaps my hand back. Nonplussed, I look at her as she uravels a few squares and grunts a question at me. I nod, without a clue as to what she has just said. She unravels some more. She grunts something at me again that ends with a question mark. I nod. She tears the eight squares of
sandpaper
toiletpaper off and hands it to me.

It isn’t until I’m safely in the cubicle that I realise no toilet paper is kept within the stall. The woman was asking me to predict how much paper I would need to satisfy my excretion needs! Had I intended on defecating in the world’s narrowest cubicle, she had left me considerably short changed in equipping me to do so, but these thoughts yielded to more pressing matters.

The relief that bathroom provided almost moved me to tears. The nightmare was over.

This story is a solid illustration of what my ideal holidays are. I got to converse with a Slovakian local, and witnessed first hand some quirks of their society. Quirks like privacy invading bathroom attendants, who charge a premium based on which call of nature you intend on satisfying, dole out toilet paper based on how shitty you predict your arse will be, and wield the authority to interrupt you at any time to accost confused tourists who are delirious with desire to utilise the facilities.

Granted, we didn’t get off to the best start, but I did sign up for their Frequent Pisser Card, which entitles me to one free urinal trip every Saturday.

SWAG! (X-mas Edition)

7th of January already? We’re already a week into this whole 2008 lark and there’s not even a belated ‘Happy Christmas’ blog entry here to show for it? Bad form Sully.

To rectify this malady, I humbly present:

What Sully’s Loved Ones Think of Him

(As interpreted through their Christmas Gifts)

Subject: My Father

Gift: An envelope with money inside.

Meaning: “Acquaint yourself with brown-envelopes well, my son - they will get you far in life.”

Subject: My Girlfriend

Gift: An animated Superman film on DVD.

Meaning: “You are a perpetual man-child. I hereby announce my decision to cease trying to reform you.”

Subject: My Older Brother

Gift: A Wii Carry Case

Meaning: “If you show up at my house, you’d better bring more than your dazzling personality if you’re expecting a warm welcome”

Subject: My Younger Brother

Gift: Nothing

Meaning: “Blasted abacus! I knew there was another brother I needed to buy for!”

Subject: My Mother

Gift: A large suitcase

Meaning: “Piss off. To somewhere far away, preferably.”

Subject: My Aunt

Gift: This item of clothing.

Meaning: "You dress like a pervy old man"

So at this rate, I think I can safely forecast Christmas '08.

My father and I will meet in the park and trade briefcases whilst wearing suits and looking inconspicuous. My girlfriend will gift me a great big starter set of Duplo Blocks. To continue the theme, my Aunt will either give me a zimmer-frame or a bottle of viagra. If I'm lucky, my younger brother will actually go the effort of wrapping a box of nothing, instead of just shrugging at me on Christmas morning. My older brother will 'treat' me to a method of transporting whatever new electrical appliance of mine he covets, whilst my mother pours gunpowder into my brand new cannon, as I have yet to procure myself a means of locomotion to take me away from her house.

Don't you love Christmas?

One For the Lay-deez

All Chick-flicks are the same. This is a universal truth embraced by all men. Women aren't quite as willing to attest to this fact. At least not to me.

As a form of personal protest, I will accurately predict my way through any generic chick flick I cross paths with in as obnoxious a manner as possible (the first time I grimaced my way through The Notebook this habit led to my then-girlfriend suggesting we watch something I hadn't already seen).

The worst part about all of this is that the purveyors of this cynical heart-string-tuggery are getting proportionately lazier with each additional million dollars they make off their homogeneous product.

I submit, for your inspection, a picture I took of a DVD-double pack whilst doing some last minute Christmas Shopping.


Just look at that picture for a second. Let it sink in. Now think about the blatant similarities between the pictures. Are they even trying to propagate an illusion of individuality between these films? Would you not think that at some stage, during the shoot for whichever of these was taken last, the unwieldy named Mr. McConaughey would stop as he realised that he had leant against a female co-star before, and say something like

"Um... I think I may have posed like this for another easy paycheck film. What do you guys say we mix it up a little and at least have me stand on the other side or something?"

To which the film's producer would reply:

"Nonsense. Too much effort. In the five minutes it takes to move you over there and re-calibrate the lighting rig, we can churn out another four scripts for films like this. Besides. Women are stupid. They don't deserve any better."

Can we get a new cash-cow? Maybe convince women that they love films about hilarious anthropomorphic animals? I'd happily accompany my girlfriend to something like that...

'Delicate Decibel Balance'

In 2006, the Library in the University of Limerick was dealing with a constant menace that threatened the very existence of students cramming the night before an exam. This menace was mobile telecommunication devices.

Before I left for my year of study in Pittsburgh, there were signs up at the entrance to the library saying things like "NO MOBILE PHONES!", "TURN OFF YOUR MOBILE PHONE!", "SILENCE AT ALL TIMES!" and other such statements that showed the establishment meant business. There were no pleases and thank yous on these signs, oh no. Anyone who dared to upset the delicate decibel balance knew the risks, but they dared anyway.

...Mostly because the only retribution you suffered was some minimum-wage earner looking at you disapprovingly as you gossiped away defiantly. The crack security-personnel were equipped with frowns, and goddamnit, they weren't afraid to use them.

Obviously, frowns alone does not a quiet library make. I'm not sure what happened over the year or so I was abroad, but when I came back, the new regime had made changes.

Drastic changes.

I can only imagine how badly things escalated that prompted such a radical overhaul of the system (maybe a security guard popped a blood vessel during a particularly intense frown-down), as the current arrangement targets the individual chatterbox with laser-guided-missile-like-efficiency.


'Phone-friendly areas' have since been established, where students 'can have quiet conversations', but only within the confines of this magical zone... That's it. That is the solution to the problem. Somebody probably even got a raise for it.

Perversely, these new rules tolerate texting, so long as the phone is set to silent. The constant clacking of keys that sound like termites tap dancing their way into your skull is no longer considered a noise offence, so enjoy those brief moments of respite as that girl with ten thumbs awaits a response from whatever jackass she's sending vowel-deprived messages to.

Other than the stairwell to the side of the building - phone-phriendly areas are located conveniently on every floor. In fact - here's a zoomed out view of the above picture.


Yep. The University is actively promoting the use of phones in the bathroom. I cannot list enough reasons why I think this is a bad idea. Even if you forgo the objections one would have from a hygienic point of view - what plonker is actually going to use the bathroom as a phone booth? Do you really need to take the call? If somebody is ringing to offer you a job, do you really want to risk them overhearing the distinct sound of a flushing toilet? Are you willing to explain to your mother why there's a man with a panic-stricken tone asking you to throw him some toilet-paper?

Consider urinal etiquette for a second - these bathrooms aren't exactly spacious. If you're the pacing kind, you're risking all manner of splashback, as well as some overly-zealous, underly self-assured guy kicking your ass for getting that bit too close to comfort during his shakeoff time.

Realising that such a system is now in place at the library has convinced me never to call one of my friends during his study time if I know he's a multi-tasker...

Nyctophobia

I arrived back in Ireland after a rather splendid Thanksgiving in Wisconsin (as you may be aware), and I thought it only fair to detail the kinks of reacclimatizing oneself. (doesn't the word 'acclimatize' just look so wrong?)

That's right - I'm talking about how I fared upon returning to my native lands after a meagre 8 days around the football throwin', burger-guzzlin', signpost shootin', Jesus-lovin', monster-truck watchin', light-beer quaffin', imperial-system measurin', rock-music makin', chicken-flavoured-biscuit chompin', Hummer-drivin', icecap meltin', country invadin' ragamuffins that we know and love as simply; Yanks!

Truthfully, I only noticed one small detail, and it didn't occur to me until long after I left Shannon airport. The following night, when driving in my car I was unusually anxious, if the speedometer was anything to go by. Despite the fact that I was on the same roads that have taken me home for the past four years, my 10 minute journey took 20. The reason?

Fear. Fear of the dark.

That's right folks! After 8 days of being a passenger on a small offering of the State's brilliantly lit (not to mention straight as an arrow) road network, I managed a reprise of a fear most people forget about around the same time they retire their training potty (mine was called Mr Gobbles).

Initially, I was appalled with myself - I was being ridiculous! But upon reflection, I realised that maybe hurtling headfirst into the black abyss at 100 kilometres an hour guided only by small beam of light to cut a swatch into the pitch-black before you might be something that we as a squishable species should shy away from!

What's worse, when your eyes finally manage to adjust to the scant few drops of luminance on a country road that features no public lighting, and your photoreceptor cells are suddenly flooded with the glaring headlights of the oncoming car that has come out of the bend you only saw pop out of the black a second ago. It's at this point that you are no longer driving based on what you can see - you are now blindly flailing the wheel around in whatever mental-snapshot you managed to take of the 10 metres of straight road ahead of you, and you're hoping your vision comes back before any dog/tree/child/wall/Yank/ditch imposes itself into your path.

Sounds exhilarating, yes? So is ingesting 1.5 litre bottles of sherry anally (twice). [Seriously - if you only ever click one link on this site - let it be that one!]

100th Blog Post Spectacular!

Welcome to my 100th blog post! It took me 16 months to get to this point, and I'm delighted that over those months I've always found something to write about, even if only barely!

It seems only natural to me at this point that a Retrospective is in order, so I've read over my last 99 posts to see if this blog has any coherence or consistency whatsoever!

Originally, I intended my blog to be a means for me to keep my friends and family up to speed on how my Study Abroad experience was going without having to go through the arduous task of sending e-mails to each and every mother-loving one of them. As a result, the the first few posts consist of a crappily written travelogue! The first interesting post wasn't until I managed to rip off an airline using sheer brashness alone!

Despite the presence of one or two funny lines, I really do feel sorry for anyone who read the blog during the initial two months. The writing is sloppy, the tone is inconsistent, overly familiar one minute, and totally cold the next. It's not until late September, early October that I began to hit my stride of cynical-bastardry!

Rather than pore over each and every post I've ever made, I think I should just point out the highlights. A common feature of this blog seems to be running into unnecessary complications, mostly relating to air travel, of which there are too many posts to link to. I'm also quite fond of the subjects that are explored over a series of posts, such as the Sully the Terrorist? saga, everything from Belgium Week, and of course, the recent Teetotaller's Tiff.

My Worst Posts

These are the posts that were generally ill-conceived or don't really strike me as particularly compelling.

Sweet Jesus
Obligatory Sight-Seeing Blogging
Sulliver's Travels

My Favourite Posts

After scouring the blog just now, the posts that struck me as particularly entertaining seem to be the ones that took me by surprise. Here is a list of some rather random, entertaining posts.

You know you're back at RMU when...
Spam - Saviour of Human Race?
Hooked on Phonics
Let's talk about Sex, Baby
Sully in 'Not Every Post is a Corker Shocker!'

Choice Quotes

I was afraid of the woman who sat underneath it - she could have eaten me, and I've learned it's best not to upset fat people.

the whole experience was pretty worthwhile - so much so that I'm willing to post a rather "Mommy, what happened that man's face" picture of me having a good time there.

5 bucks (€3.89) says that tomorrow I'm gonna get a latex-gloved-finger shoved into every orifice I know of (and probably a few I don't).

On my next bowel movement, I'm going to crap out a cake!

I'm stealing your pen, and you will never see it again, you arse-faced rapscallion

this isn't that kind of blog - the dull 'dear diary' drivel that attempts to arouse feelings of sympathy from the reader while dwelling on insipid introspective notions, fuelled by an emo-soul and a 'they don't understand me' complex.

Needless to say, I probably won't be making an appearance at the party, for fear the music stops, and the glares start, and somebody ends up with a cocktail stick in the retina.

At this rate, I’m expecting to be declared legally dead by the time I’m thirty and come home from work someday to find the bank auctioning off my house.

Greatest Comment that could be taken out of context:

Now if you'll excuse me im off to watch Stevie Wonder fight Steven Hawking in a ladder match.

I consider this blog a success, if for no other reason other than the fact that I have a written record of what I've been up to. This readthrough has reminded me of some incredible things that happened to me over the past 16 months which I somehow managed to forget about, and I'm sure it will continue to serve this purpose for years to come.

Reading over the past 16 months of my writing output took quite a while, but I'm glad to report that I enjoyed most of it, and I hope you do too. Thank you for reading my blog, especially if you have ever left a comment.

Speaking of which, do you feel that I've overlooked something noteworthy over the past 16 months? Do you agree with my best/worst/quote list? I want to hear from you!

'A Strange and Wondrous Place'

America is a strange and wondrous place. So much so that acclimatizing yourself to its many sights, sounds and smells can be a little jarring the first time round.

After living in Pittsburgh for 9 months, I didn't think that I'd have to readjust to it after a mere five months in Ireland.

I can handle the crappy money that makes it impossible to intuitively determine what note or coin is what. I can deal with the sight of electrical outlets in bathrooms. Driving on the opposite side of the road doesn't faze me like it once did. Having to request a 'bag of chips' instead of a 'packet of crisps' is still second nature to me. I appreciate the extra mouthful in every can or bottle of 'soda'. Heck, I even prefer that the light switches are larger, more flickable levers, instead of the small stubborn ones I've experienced on the Emerald Isle. All of these minor changes are a given - and I slip into them like a comfortable pair of old shoes. What isn't quite as comfortable, however, is the sheer volume of fatties.

I don't understand how these people are so fat. But merely calling them 'fat' is quite misleading. The people that I find visually offensive are the morbidly obese, four-hundred pounders who wheeze as they waddle about the place.

Sitting in the airport at Shannon as I waited for my plane, I looked around to play the 'what nationality' game. A short lived game, however; the first entity I laid eyes on caused a sensory overload as I tried to extrapolate a gender and species from the mountain of flesh, based on observation alone.

I do find it quite disturbing, beholding these people as they attempt to emulate the bipeds around them. What's more, it seems that my social tact is inversely proportionate to my proximity to one of these beasts. Let's apply that theorem to a recent example.

About four hours into the flight to Chicago, I was watching a (bad) movie (called Unknown that you should never watch), and I felt the floor around me vibrate. When one is thirty-thousand feet from the unforgiving ocean, they're obviously going to pay attention to whatever is causing such tremors. I looked up as two whales stuffed into a moo-moo, Little Rascals style, trundled towards me. The smell from these beasts masquerading as woman was woeful. The unmistakable smell of mould launched a full frontal assault on my nose, as it was shook free from the innumerable gelatinous layers of skin this woman was buried under. My reaction? I exclaimed a terrifically loud "Urrrrghhh" and covered my nose and mouth, oblivious to how noisy I actually was because the headphones I was wearing were blaring.

It's possible my incredibly insensitive carry-on could have been mistaken for a reaction to the film, but I doubt it. And I hope not. We should hector the fatties more. Not just for the sake of their health, but for the poor bastards like me who have to look at them.

The Good Die Young

Oh Landis, we hardly knew ye...

Behold this picture.



This picture represents the greatest tragedy to befall me in recent times. What you see is not merely a box. It is a cardboard coffin. Inside lies the carcass of my month-old laptop.

While our time was short, I'm able to look back and think of the good times; the way everything loaded faster, the lickity-quick video-editing, the shiny graphics in whatever I was doing... During the last week that Landis struggled through his all too brief-existence, things weren't quite as rosy, and despite repeated successful resuscitations, he passed peacefully last night, blue-screening his last.

As I placed him into his final resting place, I couldn't help but think of Dylan Thomas' most famous poem.

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father computer, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

But not to worry, friends, belief in reincarnation consoles me through these dark days. The mysterious powers at Dell will ensure Landis and I will be together again.

Seán O'Sullivan - Mankind's Muse?

Welcome, all ye who have converged on my humble website, to pluck from my bountiful tree of whimsy!

Friends, this is a proud day for me, as I am officially announcing the latest addition to my repertoire. No longer can I just be considered "Seán O'Sullivan, blogger". I can now consider myself officially, a blogee.

That's right - somebody else decided to write about me. And not quite in as flattering a fashion as last time, mind. It seems that my friend Eoghan has taken offence to my recent post that featured the phrase "filthy Christians". Lay it on me, Eoghan.

I don't consider myself to be a christian,I don't consider myself to be any religion but I Do deem myself to be spiritual.I believe in a higher power,a life after life and even I was offended by this phrase.It's SO disrespectful to people of ANY religion.

Caps for emphasis? That's passion.

Furthermore, Eoghan finds some of my insights "to be somewhat...pushy...or offensive"... Can't really argue with that, now can I?

He considers his post to be a rebuttal to mine, but I wasn't debating anything! Referring specifically to the people that run websites like the one I was talking about as filthy Christians shouldn't upset too many people, particularly someone who doesn't identify with extremist, misogynistic scare-mongerers with homophobic inclinations.

My post served to document an incredible, graffiti-related coincidence. The fact that it was Religious graffiti just made it all the more ripe for ridicule! As a person who often is treated to sermons on what my world views are in person, Eoghan surely relished the chance to refute my warblings, even if he was taking my words out of the context of my blog, and into the context of me as a pushy bastard in general.

Don't let his pointless first post scare you away from his blog though. He's shown himself to be more prolific than I (three entries in the time it took me to get one up here.) He's got a better blog title. He's willing to write in a 'dear diary' fashion, laying bare the entertaining introspective neuroses that you won't catch a whiff of on this site. And let's not forget of course, that he crams in more puns than the entire cast of Monty Python at a week long Lame Joke seminar!

I still maintain my punctuation is better.

Saints and Shitters

Here’s another strange one for you, if you’re interested. Remember those Google-ads I told you about earlier? The ones in which filthy Christians were paying big bucks to Google to publicise their shockingly poor websites pushing their monotheistic agenda?

Well, there’s a more ‘grassroots’ approach that you’ll find in public bathroom cubicles up and down the country, and I’m incredibly curious as to where they come from. Here’s an example I found in a restaurant called ‘Mother Hubbard’s’ in Oranmore, facing the user as he sits upon the throne.



“The Bible is the Word of God - A Priest”

I’m sure you’ve seen these before, such is their diffusion throughout the country (I’ve yet to conduct a survey of bathrooms abroad, but I’ll bear it in mind during my next trip Stateside), but how is this getting around so much? Are the priests of Ireland issued with a permanent marker upon graduation from their seminary? Do they believe that man is at his most philosophical whilst exercising his sphincter? Does the thick olfactory fog of human fecal matter act as a catalyst for profound metaphysical thought?

I may be missing the point somewhat - it’s possible that such messages are the richly ironic fruit of graffiti-happy pranksters, and I have unwittingly exposed my ignorance on such matters.

Not sure if you’ll believe this part, so bear with me; I was in a Subway restaurant on O’Connell St., Limerick just yesterday, and I found the following in their bathroom.



I was just about to make a joke about ‘having the lab analyse the hand-writing samples against each other’, when I actually had a second look.



Come on now! You can’t tell me that these two look incredibly similar - ridiculously so, even! Look at the penmanship! Look at the way the sentence is formatted! I will be so bold as to say that these were definitely done by the same person.

I will admit that is is a staggering coincidence that I happened across two of these in the space of as many days, but I guarantee you that I am not responsible for either of them, in case you’re worried I’m planning some elaborate April Fool’s joke or something.

I want to hear you opinion on this in the comments section. (First person to say ‘God put them there’ gets a clout on the ear)

Sodomize your way to Salvation

Every now and again, whilst surfing the internet, something will jump out at me as being worthy of sharing with my peers. This is the latest example.

Before I go on any further, I have to ask you to bear in mind that Google advertisements are based on the context of the page you’re looking at, or what you’re surfing for (try searching for ‘Playstation’ and see what comes up if you don’t trust me).

Recently, I’ve been listening to a band called Broken Social Scene, and when I heard a certain lyric, I had to look it up online to verify what I thought I was actually hearing.



Sure enough, my ears had not deceived me.

So far, nothing worth blogging, right? That’s until I scrolled down and noticed the following advertisement:



I don’t get it – what does sodomizing children and the Catholic Church have in co-... Oh right... Yeah. That.

The page it leads to is an absolute disaster, featuring an incomprehensible mish-mash of text and images. The page belongs to the
Most Holy Family Monastery, who are responsible for this somewhat disturbing book;



My mind boggles at pages like this. Before I had time to ponder why paid advertisements are pointing to such an amateurishly assembled web-page pushing a dogmatic religious agenda, I noticed that the page ends with this inspiring message:

Life is short and Hell is forever. So, make saving your soul and embracing and practicing the true Catholic Faith your number one priority.

Nutters.

Click here to see what I saw.

UPDATE:
Wow – completely missed the other few ads that were to the right of the page! Plenty of God Ads to go around!

Those Hard-to-Reach Places

It seems that October has shaped up to be a month of not-very blogworthy busywork for ol’ Sully here. In times like this, just for the sake of having something to blog about, I pilfer the Sully & Mega Productions back catalogue; a collection of videos we made between the ages of 15 and 17 or so.

I’m not quite sure how much back story I can offer about this one... At least, not without getting myself in trouble with an old friend. I do urge you to bear in mind that this tale, believe it or not, is based on a true story. Remarkably enough, the opening 20 seconds shows the actual moment of ‘inspiration’ that prompted the following 2 minutes of poorly-acted depravity!

Please to enjoy:

Teetotaller's Tiff - The Last Word?

The results are in!



A landslide victory for the pro-Fanta-Fuelled-Fury camp, it seems. Given that I exist only to do the bidding of my readers, I submitted the letter late last week to the editor, and it was published yesterday.

Now that the hype is over and the letter is in print, I feel as though I may have hyped this up a tad too much! That notwithstanding, I submit the following for your reading pleasure:

Sir,

Yet again I find myself writing to issue an apology to your publication. This time, however, I am throwing my hands up and saying sorry for my own actions. It was wrong of me to treat your newspaper like a college paper, rather than a kindergarten newsletter. It was wrong of me to consider your letters page a forum for critical thinkers expressing an alternate viewpoint. While I’m at it, hell – it was even wrong for me to assume that anyone who makes it to college can understand a Junior-Cert honours level of English.

This came to my attention through Cillian Burke’s warblings (which almost resemble a letter if you squint a little). Somebody needs to explain a few things to this guy. For one; when he was told ‘Reduce, Reuse, Recycle’, nobody wanted him to reduce the standard of writing in An Focal, reuse the same ‘need one’ phrase ad nauseam until he tripped over it, and recycle not only one of my jokes, but also my opinions, for those who missed them the first time around.

As much as I’d love to point out the various instances where it seems he wrote his letter in French and translated it through Google, I’ll instead hammer home the fact that Mr Burke and I are pushing the same agenda. Not drinking is absolutely not a ‘quirk’, as insinuated by Catríona McGrattan in September 4th’s An Focal.

My letter was an attempt to entirely discredit Ms McGrattan’s writings, and illustrate through an ironic sense of humour that not all teetotallers share her viewpoint. I appreciated her effort to show the ‘alternate choice’, but no amount of pseudo-Tommy Tiernan endorsements will make a person think that non-drinkers are cool, especially when buried under so many holier-than-thou statements.

Mr Burke, thank you for making the teetotaller tiff a threesome, you’ve shown me the error of my ways. I do request, however, that before you storm off to wherever it is you go to belt out a vitriolic response in which you buttress my statements, you endeavour to ask your mommy a few more times ‘what does this word mean?’ Furthermore, there’s no need to get on a high horse about matters of erectile dysfunction – a fussy penis is not a cause for shame.

While I have your time, dear editor, I humbly request that you begin an investigation into how the Stables can justify charging €1 for 30ml of Mi Wadi and tapwater; your rather vocal teetotalling readers would be very much obliged.

Yours,

Seán O’Sullivan

There's a whole lot of restraint going on here, and I might have been a little too diplomatic towards the end. I am quite proud of that ‘translated in google’ line – I’m patenting it. You want to use it? $1.25 a pop.

Was this entry worth the two mouse-clicks it took you to vote it into existence? You tell me.

Seán O’Sullivan - “Ideal Renaissance Man for Today”?

Sick of reading about people who don’t take kindly to the man that is Sully? I’m not - but in case you’re some OCD type who can’t sleep at night until equilibrium is restored to the world, I’m pleased to link to a(nother) blog about me.

This artefact of creative writing is the academic obligation of Megan Dovell; a girl I took a class with during my study abroad tenure in Pittsburgh. It seems to have been constructed around a random comment I made one fateful day, fleshed out with details about me she only half-remembers:

Seán O'Sullivan is an Irish native who was a fellow classmate of mine from our Television and Video Production class. My opinion is he is a great representation of an ideal renaissance man for today. He has the tall, dark hair, handsome, and athletic features. But more importantly he is highly educated, cunning, charming, has manners, and respects women!

Yeah! Take that haters! I don’t want to undermine a fellow writer’s efforts, so I won’t allow modesty to interfere with this objective portrayal of something worth sharing! I will point out that she opens by talking about how much respect I have for women and then comparing it to my (alleged) detestation for men (we call that ‘misandry' folks - it’s your word of the day)!

Megan's Blog is called It's Not Me It's You, and the full text of what she said about me can be read here. Much like how (for a while) my blog viewed the States through bleary, unfamiliar eyes, hers is an attempt to portray the dirty foreigners who invariably show up in her life.

This made my afternoon when I was alerted to its existence... So don’t ruin it for me! Yet. Comments are much appreciated - you should know the drill by now. No registration necessary.

Teetotaller's Tiff – This Time, it’s Personal

I never know how to start off these ‘sequel posts’, but anyhow... Remember last week, when I told you about how I was contributing naughty words (among other things) to the school paper? It seems some young ragamuffin has seen fit to engage me in a battle of wits!

Without much more of this ado business, I’d like to welcome Mr Cillian Burke into the fray! Let’s see what insights he can lend us, while I talk over him through my mastery of the square bracket!

Sir,

I wish to refer to Mr Sean O Sullivan’s letter in the last edition of An Focal. I will not as per Mr O ‘Sullivan start off on a mindless attack on his letter published ‘apologising’ for the Ms Catríona McGrattan’s ‘Fanta Fuelled’ article on the 18th of September.

I will merely express my belief that Fanta Fuelled was Ms McGrattan’s effort to let any member of UL’s student body know that a choice exists on a night out. But to describe an article outlining a free choice available to all as being ‘ill-conceived evangelicism’ is completely over the top.

Why need one get on any high horse in relation to the drinking topic? [‘The drinking topic’ – sounds very taboo]There is nothing wrong with a drink on a night out. [Right you are] One may even over celebrate on occasion. Are we now living on a campus environment where it is wrong to express that one does or does not wish to drink? [Only if it’s condescending towards those on the other side] Need one feel self congratulated that a pint of Rock-Shandy costs €4.80 or that a pint of Guinness costs €3.90 I think not. ["Durr. Writing letters is hard... I know! I’ll throw in a random fact!"]

Why congratulate somebody for making a free choice?.. [My point exactly, jackass] Need it be an issue? [Did he even read my letter?] If it is...is there not a more pressing question to be asked… [Oh good, here comes a pressing question!] Mr O Sullivan obviously does not like being a non drinker so perhaps he should try a social beverage with his friends and loosen up. Maybe the fear of ‘waking up with a hangover after an embarrassing night of alcohol-induced-erectile-dysfunction’ as Mr O’Sullivan describes it is more his issue. [Where was that pressing question he promised?]

In the meantime need I feel special, quirky, ashamed, insulted or any other emotion offered by Mr O’Sullivan as a non drinker I think not!! [Two exclamation marks = classy. Someone explain to this fucktard that I lamented the labelling of not drinking as a ‘quirk’ before I insult his mother in a public forum.]

On my behalf no apology was or is required for Ms McGrattans article. [Read that last one again. It makes 0% sense!] Need one stand out from the crowd as a non drinker? Not in my experience.

Yours [retardedly],
Cillian Burke

Did you see that? He left out the accent [fada] on the ‘a’ in my name and didn’t put the apostrophe between ‘O’ and ‘Sullivan’ a couple of times. Bastard. Meanwhile Catríona’s fada is left intact… Strange indeed.

Nitpicky details aside – this jackass has essentially rewritten my letter, but tried to make it sound as though he is contradicting me the whole time! He even recycles my hilarious (if I say so myself) joke about erectile-dysfunction!

I was quite excited when I heard that there had been a reply, but imagine my crushing disappointment when I read this drivel. The scope of his thinly veiled imitation was so flattering that I felt no need to respond to him, and gave it no further thought. But then a curious thing happened...

This is quite hard to explain, but bear with me. I was taking a shower one morning in a groggy stupor, and all of a sudden the response that I should send to the paper popped into my head in its entirety. Before you could say “Sully, please finish cleaning your nether-regions” I found myself sitting in my underpants in front of my computer, channelling this message.

I have to say, the response that came forth is quite apt, but for now it sits on my harddrive. Is it right to impose the same issue upon the letters page for the fourth consecutive edition? My last correspondence was more of a public-service announcement. This is just me making some asshole my bitch (I like to think of the letters page as prison showers, and Burke just dropped the soap).

Y’know what? You tell me.

The poll to the right of the page is now live, and will be until the end of the week.

No registration is necessary, so no excuses! Get to it!

Update: Poll Closed - landslide victory for the "go git 'im, Champ" camp!

A Plea

This is Sully.

Sully is just twenty-one years old, and already he must endure the kind of suffering our lives know nothing of.

Sully, unlike children in most developed countries, is living a life without regular internet access.

His daily struggle to survive involves getting up each morning as early as 8am to trek one half of a quarter mile to the only source of pure, safe internet access. This daily journey takes him through treacherous terrain, as he traverses over leaf covered footpaths, superficially-cracked pavements, and even along the brink of a fountain!

Children like Sully live a life with no hope of escape.

But you can stop this great injustice by donating just €54.99 a month to provide Sully with the nourishment he needs on a daily basis!

Other charities just send over software, music and pornographic material as needed, but at NetGrant, we help people help themselves.

Sign up today, and you will receive monthly updates on how the lives of Sully and his people are improving!

But please.


Hurry.

Teetotaller's Tiff

The guy I talked about in last week’s post succeeded in explaining his abstinence from alcohol whilst not not condescending to those who choose to avail of the solution to (and cause of) all of life’s problems. Here is an article from one such little lady who doesn’t have such lofty aims, as published in my University's newspaper.

Fanta Fuelled
Catríona McGrattan
Unlike most students, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been drunk in my three years in college…NONE!

I haven’t had a drink at all in those three years and no before you ask it’s not because I’m playing a match tomorrow, or on anti-biotics or driving; I just don’t want to!
I made the decision on coming into college back in September 2004 (when we had three pubs, I mean clubs, on campus) not to drink during my college years. I’ve managed to stick to it, but to be honest I have never really found it difficult, although that could be because I’ve been accused on several occasions of being the inspiration for Tommy Tiernan’s ‘Fanta fuelled F*ckers sketch.

The usual reaction from people when they find out I don’t drink is “Fair play to you!” I don’t think of it like that, it’s my decision not to drink as much as it is anyone’s decision to drink. College life is so diverse, in your next four, five, six years in college you will get to meet some truly unique people, each with their own quirky habits, best get used to it!

With a doubt I have had some amazing nights out in the Stables, at balls and in the Lodge (contrary to popular belief you don not have to be drunk to get in!) all of which without a drop of drink in me.

Alcohol isn’t for me. Some people like it a little, some people a lot, some more than they probably should but each to their own. I will never take issue with some else’s drinking habits so long as they don’t do so with mine.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that yes you can have a brilliant time with drink, but you can have an equally good time without it! So don’t be afraid to order a blackcurrant and vodka, hold the vodka anytime soon.

Apologies to those unfamiliar with the shitty nightclub or the comedian this girl mentions, but rest assured, knowledge of these matters make her inanity all the more infurating. Anyway, being the 'Sully' type of guy that I am, I felt I had to react in some way that would strike this woman's faux-pas from the record, for fear the integrity of a component of my personal philosphy be tarnished forever! I decided a letter to the editor would make my concerns heard;

Dear Sir,

I wish to issue a formal apology on behalf of the teetotalling community for the article 'Fanta Fuelled' that appeared in An Focal on September 4th.

I am ashamed to be a teetotaller in modern Ireland. This is largely to do with people of Ms. McGrattan's ilk colouring us as a self-righteous group of smug gits who offer up diplomatic phrases like 'drink isn't for me', whist in the same breath pushing their own philosophy upon peers.

Adding insult to injury is the uncertainty McGrattan casts over the veracity of her own statements, stating “with a doubt I have had some amazing nights out in the Stables”. Ironically, one might wonder if she was under the influence whilst at the keyboard were it not for the subject matter, given the number of disjointed sentences she stumbles through whilst eschewing any traditional grammatical structures (let alone paying heed to whether her words are typed in their entirety).

Her ill-conceived evangelicism would have been much more effective had she mentioned any points of merit, such as the money one saves on a night out only buying a drink when thirsty. She also missed out on the valid aspect of not impairing one's ability to drive home after a piss up. And how did she fail to report the boon of not waking up with a hangover after an embarrassing night of alcohol-induced-erectile-dysfunction?

Shame on Ms. McGrattan for attempting to pass off her decision not to indulge in the odd pint as a 'quirk'. Such inane statements are not only a poor reflection on the author's desperation to stand out from the crowd, but also misrepresent the far from vocal few of us who decide to spend our lifetimes without mood altering drugs.

I wish to stress that not all those who abstain from alcohol are bursting with the same sense of self-congratulation and condescension that Catríona McGrattan imposes upon her readers. I offer my deepest sympathies to those who suffered through the stale-sense of unjustified enthusiasm she ejaculated onto page fourteen. In doing so, I am hoping to wipe the slate clean. Upon finding out that the tall, dark and handsome man (or woman) you have been chatting up for the past forty-five minutes is of the dry disposition, don't respond with “Fair play” or “You plonker”. A simple “Meh” will suffice.

Your designated driver for life,
Seán O'Sullivan

To be fair to this woman, she probably wasn't thinking much about what she was writing at the time, and the stupid errors could well be poor editing, but that's not the point. My argument is firstly that anyone willing to submit a piece of writing for public consumption should be willing to defend their intellectual integrity (which I have been willing to do over the past year of blogging), and the student paper needs to publish articles of actual merit.

So what do you think? Bad form? Did I get too personal? Will people read as far as the word 'teetotalling' and just give up? Is my Fanta Fuelled Fury itself worthy of print? Am I allowed to blatantly rip off entire articles from the school paper? You tell me!

Precipitation? Preposterous!

I'm sitting at a computer in the library of my University, and I can feel little flecks of water hitting my head, hands and computer every few seconds. People wearing hoodies are putting their hoods to good use.

Yep, it's raining indoors.

Welcome to the University of Limerick.

Bad University! Bad!

Christ.

I am a student at the University of Limerick. A school that sends its students to scrub shit from toilets. A school that forgets that it sent students on exchange programmes to other universities, then informs them that they have failed for not showing up to exams they were never signed up to take .

Of course, after this happened to me, then assured me that the 'clerical error' was a temporary glitch and it won't be a burden anymore.

Whoever told me that was full of shit.



If you couldn't be bothered clicking, I'll spell it out; my student account was deleted from the system. Grrrrrr.

After sending a far-more-polite-than-it-should-have-been e-mail, I decided to finally print out my timetable, given that I start tomorrow morning at 9am. This is what greeted me on the website;



For the love of fuck! Can these people do anything right? It seems that the server responsible for hosting the timetables is as reliable as UL's administrative staff.

This makes for a double dilemma;

When are where the hell are my classes tomorrow?
Am I even entitled to be there?

Sobriety = Sully more Badass than you

It happens all the time. In the midst of some good ol' fashioned drunken revelry, a dear friend or even borderline acquaintance will catch my perma-sober-grimace contrasting with the present company, and ask me, nay - pester me with the question; "Sully, why don't you drink?".

Generally, I deflate their interest by saying 'it's a long story' or 'I have many reasons', before deflecting their attention onto a carelessly unattended receptacle of alcohol, but I do, on occasion address the question head-on, depending on the level of coherence the querier exhibits.

Just now, I stumbled across this interesting video featuring James Randi; debunker of paranormal claims, in which he reflects on his teetotalling antics with the kind of eloquence I wouldn't get away with in a roomful of sauced-up peers.

"I want to be as sure of the world - the real world around me as is possible. Now - you can only attain that to a certain degree, but I want the greatest degree of control. I've never involved myself in narcotics of any kind, I don't smoke, I don't drink, because that can easily just fuzz the edges of my rationality,- fuzz the edges of my reasoning powers, and I want to be aware as I possibly can..."

Given that I have yet to meet a person in my existence who shares even the slightest bit of my personal philosophy, it means a lot to me to stumble across such utterances from respected men.

So there you have it; another insight into the life of Sully. And much like those dear, drunken yobs that I happily call my friends, I expect this to have slipped from your mind in less time than it took me to type this entry.

Regardless of whether you're completely superstitious or a total sceptic, this video will interest and entertain you.

Sully in 'Not Every Post is a Corker' shocker!

The world is a scary place, filled with many diverse lifestyles that are all clamouring for mainstream recognition and respect. These nutters wouldn't be so empowered had we just held out a little longer on giving women the vote, but I digress.

I am a nerd. Or a dork, I'm not quite sure which camp I belong in. Today, I'm going to highlight one facet of my multi-facetedness to aid you in deciding what it is I should be labelled as. In the lexicon of Sully, a nerd is regarded as one who delves deeper into cultural artefacts than their peers- Generally computers or audio/visual type stuff. A dork, meanwhile, is one I consider to be a person who pokes fun at themselves and has a general lack of regard for how one views their deviations from cultural norms... Dorks are more entertaining, nerds are more useful.

I've always had an inkling that I may in fact be a dork, but it wasn't until I got a package in the mail from my girlfriend's mother (which caused me to laugh hysterically), that I realised I may suffer from a potent strand of the dork-virus. But what gift prompted such guffaws on my part?


She sent me Superman Cookies!

She spent $20 postage on $1.98 worth of cookies, which I thought was the funniest thing ever... (Seems those dorks aren't hard to amuse)

But how did she know?

Tuesday, August 23, 2006 – Pittsburgh Pennsylvania
After JetBlue Airlines lost my luggage leaving me with just the clothes on my back, I go to Wal-Mart to tide me over. One of the items purchased consists of a blue T-shirt, the other, a blue pair of boxer shorts, both emblazoned with the Superman logo.


I decided not to include any pictures of the underpants. Trust me. It's better this way.

Wednesday, August 24th 2006 – Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

As I had recently moved into a new dorm, I needed bed clothes. I walked to the nearest K-Mart and purchased a Superman bedspread, happy to pay extra for ostensibly cheaper material. Despite the constant scratching sound whenever I moved a muscle, and the rug-burn that ensues, the bedspread survives nine months until it has to be jettisoned for country-fleeing-reasons, leading to a tearful farewell.

Sunday, October 8th 2006 – Eau Claire, Wisconsin
An attempt at seducing a woman whilst wearing Superman underwear proves unsuccessful – Superman underwear not considered to blame.

Monday, January 29th 2007 – Chicago, Illinois
Whilst browsing the closing down sale at a department store in Chicago, I come across a Superman Returns Action figure reduced to under $5. Having spent my busfare, I walked two and a half hours back to my accommodation in the freezing cold, losing a nipple in the process. Nipple deemed 'a worthy sacrifice'.

Friday, May 18th 2007 – Limerick, Ireland
For my 21st birthday, my 6 year old brother presented me with 21 cents and a cheap toy he had just acquired from a lucky bag at a birthday party. To date it holds the honour of being the most thoughtful gift I've ever received.



Monday, June 4th, 2007 – Gurnee, Illinois
Insisted on being taken to the Six Flags Great America theme park to ride the Superman rollercoaster. Proceeded to grope a statue of Supes. Left park with Superman-branded coffee-cup from the giftshop – the second Superman themed birthday present I received for my 21st birthday.



Friday, 31st August 2007 – Limerick, Ireland
Referred to Superman as 'Supes' whilst typing a blog entry.

As you can see – I have quite the affinity for benevolent aliens sporting nifty tights. This healthy obsession of mine has been with me for longer than I can remember. It's possibly coloured my sense of humour, as I consider 'Seinfeld' to be the zenith of TV entertainment; maybe something to do with Jerry Seinfeld being a kindred spirit who scatters Man Of Steel references throughout his sitcom?

Bah, it's late. I have to wrap this up somehow, but if I can't find a point to get to, I'll have to wrap this up using some cunning distraction...

Sulliver's Travels

To anyone out there who has cousins much younger than yourself, lend me your sympathetic ear!

In May, my grandfather turned 90 years old. The following pictures are from the resulting celebration that gathered most of the family.

When I walked into the room, two of my cousins and my 6 year old brother grabbed my feet and demanded I walk whilst they clung on for dear life.



When I refused to walk in case one of them got hurt, I got punched in the balls.

As the throbbing sensation worked its way up into my abdomen, I decided I should comply with the munchkins' request. I walked back over to my chair, and sat down, much to their dismay.

Sitting down didn't quite quell their interest in 'playing', however. It just gave them new targets.



Following a harrowing few moments of clawing, kicking and screaming (on my part), I made a dash for the bathroom, thinking that they surely wouldn't follow me there.




Amazingly enough, my plan worked, and I hid in the bathroom until I could hear the drone of everyone singing 'Happy Birthday'. Other than the scratches and marks on my arms, I escaped with a shattered testicle, a small chunk taken out of my right ear, and a deep toothmark on my left buttock.

I'm not looking forward to the 100th birthday celebration.

Let's talk about sex, baby

So I'm back from Bulgaria (meaning the last post wasn't entirely farcical), and what an interesting week it was indeed.

Bulgaria is cheap. Well, at least Sofia (the capital city) is. We ate some very elaborate meals for a pittance, but for a basis of comparison, I thought I’d check out the price of a 500ml bottle of coke, so I nipped into a supermarket, and took this photo on my phone.



0.99Leva. That’s a mere €0.50 (or US$0.67) according to xe.com. A half litre of the stuff for almost a third of what I pay here in Ireland! It left me physically excited… Which brings me to…

The ‘impulse-buy’ shelves by the checkouts. They were filled with the usual ‘Mommy, Mommy, I want one’ sweets and whatnot, but a few items for the Daddies to nag Mommies about too.



That’s right - somewhere north of the Bounty Bars and just south of Twix county, there are hilariously suggestive packets of prophylactics for sale.

I think someone should conduct a study on regions and their values as reflected by condoms;

We can start with Bulgaria, their popular brand is ‘Sportex’. Makes you think that the act of intercourse is almost an exercise, and they’re interested in the fun factor that comes with the endeavour. In Western Europe, our arguably most popular brand is ‘Durex’ - inferring the durability and reliability that we Europeans expect with regards to having control over our well-being. And then, in North America, they have Trojan… Because, um… Because Americans want to… Sneak a penis somewhere without people knowing?