Macs are the Devil!

I recently got a MacBook Pro. It's great. I love it. It's better than my previous Windows Vista based machine in many many ways, and it has never crashed randomly (that's not to say it hasn't crashed, but it was a specific problem that has since been patched).

I'm in the twilight hours of writing a thesis that has a whole lot about Richard Dawkins and Religion (which is due Thursday!) in it, and so I'm constantly typing different combinations of "Religion" and "Richard Dawkins" into Google. Randomly, I found this, and was so overwhelmed with a sense of "who do I send this to first?" that I panicked and posted it on my blog:

http://objectiveministries.org/creation/propaganda.html#APPLE

the real operating system hiding under the newest version of the Macintosh operating system (MacOS X) is called... Darwin! That's right, new Macs are based on Darwinism! While they currently don't advertise this fact to consumers, it is well known among the computer elite, who are mostly Atheists and Pagans.

Haha. That's funny, right? Good spoof guys... But wait a sec... I don't think they're taking the piss!

Furthermore, the Darwin OS is released under an "Open Source" license, which is just another name for Communism. They try to hide all of this under a facade of shiny, "lickable" buttons, but the truth has finally come out: Apple Computers promote Godless Darwinism and Communism.

Wow. I don't know how this could get any more ridiculous!

Consider the name of the company and its logo: an apple with a bite taken out of it. This is clearly a reference to the Fall, when Adam and Eve were tempted with an apple by the serpent. It is now Apple Computers offering us temptation, thereby aligning themselves with the forces of darkness.

Maybe I spoke too soon.

This company is well known for its cult-like following. It isn't much of a stretch to say that it is a cult. Consider co-founder and leader Steve Jobs' constant exhortation through advertising (i.e. mind control) that its followers should "think different". We have to ask ourselves: "think different than whom or what?" The disturbing answer is that they want us to think different than our Christian upbringing, to reject all the values that we have been taught and to heed not the message of the Lord Jesus Christ!

Religious folk accusing a company of mind-control? Didn't anybody tell these chaps about throwing rocks whilst in glass houses?

Holy Crap! Referring to the recent (obnoxious as all hell) Mac ads promoting switching from PC to Mac, they think that Apple are attempting to convert people away from their religion, as they are:

luring the average, unsuspecting person with the false promise of "compatibility" (both with normal computers and Christianity) only to later foist acceptance of Evolutionism and anti-Christian values on them via the techniques discussed above.

I'm aware that publishing the link when I'm going to quote the hell out of the page almost defies the point, but look at this for an example of the fucking nitwittery exhibited by this religious mind, which is not only factually wrong, but deliriously deluded!

One additional technique that I have noticed while perusing their new literature is the common cult tactic of indoctrination through a special insider language. This technique linguistically isolates new recruits from the outside world, forcing them to become more dependent on their cult handlers. For instance, an industry standard connection for peripherals is idiosyncratically retermed "FireWire" (or should we just be honest and call it "HellFireWire"?) while the familiar Recycle Bin is given its new cult name of "Trash Can". Any "Switcher" trying to purchase equipment for their new computer or get assistance will be forced by this linguistic ghettoization into dealing with the only people that can understand the strange argot: brainwashed Macintosh users. It is then that the process of unbuilding the "Mac Newbie" and reshaping him or her into an Evolutionist begins.

UPDATE: Mere moments after posting this, Fin brought this graphic to my attention, which links to to another website from theirs:

The Misadventures of Seán O'Taliban

Would you like to know more?

Lazy YouTube Post, anybody?

Sadly, I'm not as finely tuned to the needs of my regular readers as I'd like, but I thought I'd post this all the same.

I always find it strange watching cartoons I loved as a child with the heightened critical faculties of adulthood. Some fare pretty well, like old episodes of The Simpsons. Others, not so well, like this cartoon based on one of my favourite games at the time, Sonic the Hedgehog. I had completely forgotten about the section in which viewers are taught life-lessons in an incredibly heavy-handed manner, so watching this handful of clips just struck me as hilarious for some reason. Each clip is only 30 seconds, so give 'em a chance!

With the benefit of hindsight, I realise the possibility that I learned to be a stickler for proper spelling and grammar through a blue anthropomorphic hedgehog. I still enjoy watching Sonic correct the spelling of 'Sonic Sez'. I even ripped off his patronising wink and thumbs up.



Sharing is good, kids. Middle management is even better, because you can take from both parties and not actually provide anything yourself!



Sonic sounds exceptionally 'Boyz in The Hood' at the end of this one.



'Special people'. Good for pointing out the obvious. Slowly.



Don't run away from home. But told through a confusing analogy with a robotic monkey.



Sonic's message to Catholic schoolchildren proved too little too late (yeah, yeah - I know - cheap shot).

Okay last one for now, I promise:



He just rhymed "fool" with "cool". Genius.

Bonus: Why Sully is a teetotaller. (Spolier: cos he ain't no dumb-bot!)

Good Friday

There’s a misnomer for ya, eh? Try as I might to wrap my head around it, I honestly don't get it.

Part of the reason why religion and Sully are incompatible beasts is largely to do with my inability to refrain from something for some arbitrary reason. Criminal as it may be, I like a bit of logic in my life. So I ask questions. Questions like ‘why’. ‘Why’ questions are easy enough to answer if the task you’re assigned makes sense.

Unfortunately, these simple answers are not the forte of the Catholic Church. There’s no answer you can give me that will satisfy the question of why Catholics don’t eat meat on Good Friday. Not unless you can find Jesus’ will, and quote the section in which the water-walking fisherman mandates that all his followers, from this point on, will abstain from the flesh of an animal that didn’t have gills, to ensure the economic survival of his noble vocation long after his demise (should be right after the section in which he writes something that irrefutably proves that he has omniscient powers).

I get the whole ‘penance’ thing, I do, but the concept is still flimsy. I appreciate the Lenten tradition of self-discipline, 40 days is a solid stint of self-deprivation - as opposed to this one blip of an inconvenience. It used to be every Friday! I’m glad we whittled the ridiculous practice down from 52 instances to 1. I just hope we don’t have much further to go.

If something doesn’t harm anybody, I don’t see why religion stands in the way of it. Two consenting members of the same sex want to get it on in a responsible, private manner? No harm done. A couple who don’t want to get pregnant use contraception? Nobody’s been hurt there. The killing, stealing, and all that other philosophical guidance from religion is fine by me. The ritualistic practices aren’t.

Just in case you’re curious as to what set me off today, it was my trip to Superquinn earlier on, where the part of the shop that sells alcohol was entirely partitioned off:

I don’t give a toss about alcohol, but I do about freedom. I have no idea why the government ever saw fit to outlaw the sale of booze on this particular day, but I’m sure it has something to do with the Catholic Church’s influence that we’re thankfully growing out of.

Think of all the alcoholics that finally got around to committing suicide today, then tell me that Good Friday is still a good idea.

Tsk Tsk

I feel an apology is in order for the dearth of updates this month - I've been busting my chops (or trying to at least) to get my thesis finished in the next few days. Rather than post something clever to tide you over, however, I think I'll instead post arguably the most pointless blog entry I will ever make (but don't hold me to that).

My friend Fin has developed something of a schoolgirl crush on the people responsible for captioning the pictures on RTÉ's news website, featuring their endeavours twice over the past week on his blog. And rightly so! The pith caption for this ill-fitting photo is so dry I've had to moisturise my eyes twice now since reading it.


Whilst trying to distract myself from this vapour-sapping sentence-construction, I couldn't help but notice a ridiculous grammatical error in the article itself:

Uch. "They was"? Oh really, paid RTÉ journalist? Aaaah - forget it. Rather than launch into a pointless ramble that further reveals the extent of my vacuous, pedantic gittery, I'll take this opportunity to ponder the possibility that I might actually be too harsh on all news outlets, because after all- aren't we all human?

I don't consider it a new leaf, but rather an unwillingness to beat you over the head with the same old nonsense. Decent updates coming soon, I promise! In the meantime - check out the other example of journalistic excellence that Fin promotes!

Religious Ridicule, get it while it's hot!

Ingenious this.

Didn't think I'd ever endorse a link like this, but check out catholic.ie, where some crafty bastard has put up a video mocking what seems to be the inauguration of the latest pope, as well as a link to atheist.ie.

The best part of this? There's nothing underhand about it whatsoever! No hacking or bad deeds, just an enterprising chap who noticed that the Catholic church failed to secure the domain name for themselves!

Wish I'd have thought of it...

Kicking the Coke™ Habit

I’m not one for religion, or any forms of superstition, for that matter, but I like this whole Lent thing that comes around every so often.

I’m also a big fan of discipline, particularly self-discipline, and especially self-restraint; something you don’t see much of in Irish society, especially where alcohol is involved.

Another thing I’m a big fan of; carbonated beverages. Particularly Coca-Cola, and especially Mountain Dew (Americans and other European countries have access to this bottled happiness, but I don’t, so I resent them for it). Despite being aware of how catastrophically bad it is for one’s health, I still gulped down around 500ml to 2 litres a day, such was my addiction.

I’ve heard zany things about these fizzy drinks eroding stomach lining, messing with stomach acids, and killing sperm, but hearing these things from cross-eyed, slack-jawed, drooling yokels only impaired on my drinking for as long as it took to scoff at them.

You’ll notice that I’ve been referring to my coke-drinking antics in the past-tense. The catalyst for this decision occurred two weeks into Lent, upon hearing my aunt (a doctor of some description), tell me that colas have been linked with osteoporosis. Being a man who likes use his willpower as a means of shitting on people from a great height, I reckoned it was only prudent to avail of this vast resource of resolve and excise Coke from my life! For the remainder of Lent, at least.

So far? Two and a half weeks have passed and I’ve still got a clean sheet. It’s had quite an affect. For starters, my consumption of Coke has been entirely supplanted by water, and since I replaced 500ml dosages for 1 litre bottles, I've noticed a 300% increase in urination. I’ve been sleeping better (could be for other reasons, but still noteworthy), and best of all, my teeth haven’t been assaulted by the scummy residue that Coke leaves in the mouth.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should point out that this isn’t my first time giving up the black stuff – I spent a solid 9 months under a similar embargo a few years back, but my girlfriend at the time eventually annoyed me into reneging on my decision. It has been five years since that incident, and I’m happy to say that it’s a lot easier nowadays, from a purely practical point of view. For instance, that incident I glossed over came about because of McDonalds miserly policy of granting a pitiful 150ml bottle of Orange Juice with a meal that was otherwise accompanied with 500ml of syrup and carbonated water, for the same price! The fact that health consciousness is now fashionable bodes well for cowardly, carbonation cold-shouldering types like myself!

The level of temptation has been miniscule so far, but it’s still a habit to reach for the Coke bottle. I haven’t set myself a deadline for when to finally give in, and I think that’s the ethos I’m going to move forward with. No carbonated drinks for as long as I can hold out... How do you reckon I’ll do?

Urban Legend ER

As much as I don't want to make a habit of posting videos and leeching off the creativity of other people, I thought that this was too good not to share (and it gives me another five-minute of distraction from working on that essay I should have finished hours ago)!

How To Break Your Social Network

It seems that the media have finally gotten around to reporting about the fact that those who sign up for social networking sites are essentially signing away their privacy rights. Of course, this has been met with a collective "Well Durr!" from any discerning users of such sites.

Me? I'm hoping that the media is catching up with the rest of the class just as the momentum of the social networking juggernaut begins to level off. We're all well aware that the seemingly innocuous and mundane personal details that one fills in are being used by big evil corporations to read our mind, but that doesn't really upset anyone. Fewer of us are aware that files uploaded to these sites become the property of the big evil corporation that owns it, and most are now worried that their proclivities for hard partyin' (G left out for emphasis) and hard drinkin' (ditto) will become publically accessible knowledge that will stop them working for some big evil corporation down the line.

Little of this has much to do with what I'm about to talk about though; I just felt like setting the scene.

I'm just sick of the ever-increasing greed these social networks are exhibiting. Third-party applications, in particular are making the utilisation of these sites an absolute chore. Facebook introduced these some time ago, and since then Bebo have jumped on the bandwagon. In theory, these applications generate more features and allow the user a greater degree of customisation, but in practice, they clutter up a profile and grind the user’s patience down to a nub as they try to access the modicum of information they’re actually interested in.

I recently received this invitation for ‘Which 1950’s Pin Up Girl are you?”. Ignoring the flagrant abuse of the once noble apostrophe, I have to ask; could this not be done via a simple link to a quiz on an external, old fashioned webpage, like we did in years gone by? Is it really worth the hassle of signing up for five minutes of inane distraction, agreeing to the Terms of Service that you won’t read and losing legal ownership of your liver over? It could be my fear of commitment speaking, but I’m not very keen to endorse something like that on my profile page for the rest of my facebooking life.

Furthermore, I’m almost entirely sure that this invitation was given to me not because my friend thought it was exactly the kind of thing I’m interested in, but rather because the process of not sending it to me proved unwieldy. Obviously, these products need to be tested, vetted and approved by a governing body before being thrust before 64million users and told to play nice. Have a look at the options I was presented with when offered the app in question:


How dare they exploit my human folly! Of course if I see a button labelled ‘don’t click here’, it’s the first thing my disembodied hand-with-permanently-extended-index-finger is going to want to depress! Of course, for the sake of blog research, I decided to click it, and sure enough, as soon as I committed the deed, four of its friends grabbed me, pulled a bag over my head, and threw me in a van to take me to the sign-up page.

Appalling. If they had included some cute little gimmick for clicking the button, all would be well and good, but to deliberately mislabel something? To lie, on the internet? Heresy!
Another disgusting trend of Bebo and Facebook is that more and more ‘sponsored content’ is appearing, which is fine – us veteran internet users have learnt to ignore advertisements. But sneaking ads into the page where we overview the recent activity of our friends is a bit much.


Julia? Do I know you? What? I’m sorry love, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck about group hugs between people who are being paid to group hug. I also don’t care much for Justincredible.tv, or their employment policies.

Imaginary friends who appear in your Friend Updates is pretty sinister stuff, but the really irritating stuff is the banner ads at the top of the page, which kills a considerable amount of the joy that the personal skin I made gives me (look at it - it's glorious)! This example serves impinges on all of my complaints before: it’s on Bebo despite obviously being designed to look like it belongs on Facebook, it’s an obnoxious ad that impairs on your enjoyment, it pretends to be your mail system, and as a bonus, it molests the English language in the process (well - cops a pervy feel at least).

Click for a better look - it's worth it, I promise!

The solution is quite unremarkable, particularly with regards to third-party apps; moderation. Draft up a list of rules – restrict ads that masquerade as part of the site; assume that the user doesn’t automatically wish to spam everybody they know with app invites; only green light the apps of merit to keep the lazily constructed vessels for ads out of the picture, and finally; make provision for a greater degree of community policing.

These recent developments in social networking sites has me logging on less and less, which I’m sure hurts their bottom line, since I spent less time looking at their obnoxious ads. During my weekly logins to stalk the few remaining friends I have, it becomes increasingly more tempting to click what should be a very red and very shiny button.



I'm hoping that the recent bad publicity that these sites have been getting, coupled with a disgruntled community that voices their disdain at the way things are going will change matters, but I doubt it. The implications of exiling oneself from a powerful social-tool are far greater than I'm willing to put up with.

When I inevitably make a pariah of myself, it'll be in a much more dramatic fashion, and will possibly involve a public setting, a violent expulsion of bodily effluvia, 16 eunuchs coated in oil-based lubricant, and a mallard... Better make that two mallards.

Saints and Shitters, Part II

Some three months ago or so, I posted about a person, possibly a priest, possibly a mere mortal masquerading as one, who took it upon themselves to scrawl Christian-propaganda in male public toilets throughout the country!

Two more sightings have since come in, one from my friend, (proprietor of Ireland's Eoghan), who told me that he found it in the (rather swanky) Café on the Row in Limerick. Apologies for the poor quality of the mobile-phone picture, but one can clearly see that the handwriting is unmistakably similar to the other documented incidents.

Regular readers should be acquainted with Dermot, who snapped this picture "in the men's bathroom in the Shopping Centre in Shannon that's on the outskirts of the town". I'm not familiar with it myself, but I am with the handwriting this fine specimen:

Dermot was amazed at the ballsiness of this scrawl, as it is not on the inside of a private cubicle, but on the door as one exits the bathroom. He speculated that to have such access, the perpetrator would have to be a cleaner - this flies in the face of the fact that our perp is extremely mobile, having left his mark in the counties of Galway, Limerick, and Clare, and I suspect that there are many more that we haven't stumbled across yet!

He proposed I appeal for female readers of this blog to write in (preferably with photo evidence) and let me know if they have encountered any such messages whilst powdering their nose (as we all know that a woman's bathroom consists of nothing more than a large mirror they all fix themselves in front of, as women have no excretory needs whatsoever).

This whole thing is bizarre. I have appointed myself as the authority on the subject, and will be determining which instances of Biblically-driven petty crime are genuine, based on the graphological evidence.

I'm currently of the belief that this is an exclusive fixture of male bathrooms, but why? Why are men privileged with having access to the information that the Bible is in fact, the word of God? Other than the fact that the Bible is a tome of blatant misogyny, of course...

One thing that cannot be disputed is that this person, whether slightly misguided or outright insane (my money is on the latter), is the bane of cleaning ladies throughout the many bathrooms of Ireland. I can picture a dedicated sub-culture of cleaning personnel, who live in fear every day that some incognito clergyman will strike with his enchanted permanent marker that is impervious to any man-made cleaning technology. I can vividly see the ashen faces and hear the tearful conversations between the cleaners at their conventions – “I’ve seen it happen to others, but you never expect it to happen to you!” they weep at one another in quiet corners.

That’s what I’m about dear readers. It’s time to give something back to the community.

Let’s get this bastard, before he gets someone you care about.

'Little Runt'

As I stride through the kitchen, I pound my feet on the tiled floor to scare the little runt. He lets out a slight gasp of fear that spills in from the utility room.

“I know you’re in there kid, I can smell ya!”

That, and I can see him through the crack in the door. I know he’s carrying a weapon, so to avoid injuring myself in this assassination attempt, I stick my hand around the door, press the gun up against his head and pull the trigger without an instant of hesitation.

My executed target springs from behind the door in disgust.

“Seán! That’s cheating! I can’t shoot you if I can’t see you!”

 

You’ve already been acquainted with my little brother, so allow me to expound on why he seeks my company in so aggressive a manner by telling you about what we got up to on Thursday while I was babysitting him.

A few weeks ago, he came into the possession of a sizable arsenal of Nerf weapons that fire foam darts. Since then, no man (regardless of age) has come into the house without picking one up and enthusing about how cool they are. Last Thursday, I finally got to indulge in an hour-long shootout with these non-lethal hand cannons.

The way it worked for the first half hour involved my little brother running away, me catching up, him jumping out from behind some obvious cover and offloading all his darts at my feet, over my head, or to the left and right of me. Out of ammo, he would then dance on the spot, avoiding my shots with an almost precognition-like efficacy. Eventually though, it became clear that he wasn’t faring too well going toe-to-toe with a creature three times his size in close quarters combat, so he decided to mix it up a bit.

“I’ll go hide, and you come find me and shoot me”, he proposed.

This variant on Hide and Seek with extra violence didn’t really turn out the way he had hoped, owing to his lack of imagination as to where he should hide. I found him behind a door because I could see him through the crack. I found him under a table because his legs were sticking out (as he faced away from the only door I’d enter). I found him behind a curtain that was bulging in a conspicuous manner. After I blindly shot under his bed and heard “ow”, I knew we’d be resetting again. He was 4-0 down, and needed to step up his game.

I went through the rigmarole  of wandering downstairs and counting to twenty while he secured a spot for himself, but I was interrupted after ‘12’ with a triumphant “I’m ready” that unmistakably came from upstairs. Laughing at the manner in which he essentially gave away his position, I trudged up the stairs. From this point on, I cleared all of the rooms in a manner Jack Bauer would, pressing my back against the wall, spinning into the room, and checking the corners with exaggerated sweeping motions. The main bathroom was empty. So was my sister’s room. As was the hot press [pay attention yank readers - it’s a small roomish-type thing in an Irish home where clothes, towels and bed linen are placed for airing, right next to the immersion heater]. I could’ve sworn that his voice came from that corner of the house, but I continued with my search.

The spare bedroom was devoid of any seven-year olds, as was the other. I was puzzled. I wandered into the room that belonged to this elusive genius and saw no trace of him. I stood at the doorway of my father’s room and made the usual racket that would flush him out, but he wasn’t there. Was he up on the third floor? It certainly didn’t sound like it. Regardless, I had a quick check up there, forgetting any Baueresque theatrics. I was thoroughly puzzled.

I began to think it possible that he had moved from one room to the other, and could have snuck downstairs, so I went back to the ground floor, and looked in the usual spots, including the conservatory that would surely scare the bejesus out of a seven-year old in its current state of darkness.

I had failed. I stood at the foot of the stairs and shouted up:

“I can’t find you. I give up. You can come out now.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re trying to trick me”

He was upstairs! Undoubtedly so. I ran up to where the voice came from.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Can you not find me?”

I spun around, completely disoriented. Few things are more unnerving than the disembodied voice of a seven year old who is haunting you. I simply couldn’t fathom where he could be, and desired to end this round as soon as possible.

“I give up. I’m not trying to trick you. You win”

“Okay – you go and hide, and I’ll come and get you when you say ‘ready’”

I still hadn’t a clue where his shrill voice was coming from.

“Just count to twenty and then come find me”

“No. I’ll come when you say ‘ready’”

Not wanting to argue any more with the spirit of my little brother who had seemingly bonded with the house, I complied. I stashed myself in the coat-press under the stairs and bellowed that I was ready.

I heard him scream ‘okay’, but nothing happened for a few moments after. I shouted ‘ready’ again, in case he misheard me, and again only heard ‘okay’. A few more moments passed, and then I heard him shouting at my sister.

“Sarah! Can you come and get me? I’m very high up, and I’m a little afraid of heights.”

Upon hearing these words, (as you’d expect me to) I leapt out of my hidey-hole, and up the stairs to help him out.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you” I called out.

“Don’t shoot me!” he pleaded. I still had no idea where he was.

“I left my gun downstairs”

“Do you promise?” The conversation wasn’t helping me figure out where he needed to be. Was he behind the drywall? In the attic?

“I promise, just tell me where you are!” I shouted towards where I thought his voice was coming from.

“I’m in the hot press”

Son of a bitch! I did a quick 180 and poked my head into the seemingly empty hot press, looked up, and sure enough, there he was! Before I actually helped him, I laughed hysterically (out of relief that the house hadn't in fact eaten him) and took a photo.

 

“Get me down! I’m sweaty!”

He wasn’t lying. He almost slipped out of my hands as I lowered him from the shelf that was almost seven-feet from the floor. He stood on the ground for a few minutes panting, his glowing red face an indication that he wasn’t exaggerating how uncomfortable it was up there.

I only wish this was the first time I had been outsmarted by a seven year old.

Kindred Spirit

Friends, I'd like to introduce you to Fin... Or more specifically, Fin's Blog.

For months now, I've been reading Fin's blog, all the while feeling a little guilty about not giving him the linkage he so thoroughly deserves, since the subjects we deal with are largely incompatible.

That said, I've always been a believer in the adage (that I think I coined myself), 'hate brings people together', and it is for this reason I realise Fin's blog and mine aren't so different after all.

Here's an excerpt from his site, posted just yesterday:

How does someone even misspell "Evening?"

If you've been keeping up with this very blog over the past few days, this entry should be eerily familiar. It gives me a sense of solace that I'm not the only one who is lamenting the University's lenience towards those who wish to sodomise the English language. Of course, Fin has a different style of discussing calamitous oversights in signmaking that is slightly more to the point than my own!

On a separate note, Fin's blog often represents what this blog could easily have been; an unabashed tribute to nerd/gamer/computer-geek culture, as well as the multitudes of various other interests of mine that I fear are too esoteric to share on my personal blog.

Fin's blog can be found here, and if you'd like to thank me for suppressing my-inner nerd in the way Finlay hasn't, you can do so here.

Big Brother Blues

I think I've established myself as a pretty harsh character by this stage; an openly nitpicky, disillusioned, pedantic, petty, vindictive, aggressive, narcissistic, cynical, handsome son of a bitch, who will gleefully launch an all-out attack on whatever minor infraction of rationality that comes his way.

It's possible that this blog hasn't quite exposed me as being all these things, but those who know me best assure me that the majority of the above paragraph is true. Believe it or not, despite my hardassedness, (a reference to my disposition, not buttocks), there do exist people who are willing to spend time with me. Voluntarily! Some clamour for my time and attention.

Like my little brother, for example. Don't believe me? This is a voicemail I got one day when I broke a promise I didn't remember making.

Chilling, no? At only 7 years old, he has not only mastered the use of mobile telecommunications devices, but also the life-skill of exploiting human folly, brute-forcing guilt upon his target with a combination of strong rhetoric and sheer adorability.

The University of Limerick "Our Frugality is your Frustration!"

One thing that has become abundantly clear from all my dealings with my beloved University is this: they go out of their way to hire the stupidest people on the earth to handle any task that doesn't involve academia. If you want a laugh, go through all the wrongs I have endured at the University of Limerick (there are some unadulterated joys in there, also) by clicking the 'University of Limerick' label at the bottom of this post. 

But let's not dwell in the past eh? The reason you're reading this is because I have a new reason for ridiculing the University, trivial as it may be. I present to you, a dire warning designed to fend off the boldest of parkers, located in a picturesque laneway not far from the main hub of campus activity.

I know, I know. I'm really dealing with minutiae at this stage, but I'm holding the University to standards! Basic English language standards! Let's look at the tally: in the past few months alone there's been a leak in the library; the timetables weren't available at the start of the last semester; I 'failed' out of college because they lost track of where I was; the exam results weren't available intermittently for a few days after their advertised release... Oh well, maybe I'm just bitter because they sent me to Belgium for a five-month shit scrubbing marathon!

Maybe all of this is a good thing. Perhaps the money the administrative staff save in letting their drooling dyslexic daughters make signs (among other duties) frees up cash that can be used to woo the greatest educators in the world to our humble university...

Or perhaps not.

One From the Road: Crappy Crapper Redux

Am I really talking about public bathrooms again? At this rate I may as well just commit myself to exploring this niche to the extent it so thoroughly deserves, and finally settle on a name and blog layout that I’m happy with...

So where was I? Bulgaria, actually. This story isn’t quite as epic a tale as the last in the series, but I hope you paid attention to the character development. (Cheat sheet: my father doesn’t like to be prepared on holidays, so spontaneity is the name of the game).

Last August, my two younger brothers and I decided that we would like to accompany our father in a visit to Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. After three days, we grew weary of wandering around the immensity of the city (novel as it was to play charades when negotiating nourishment from waiting staff) and we upped and left to Sunny Beach – an atrociously soulless tourist spot, akin to the Canary Islands.

Sunny Beach, which not only has an awful name, is also located an awfully long way away from where we were located. For some reason, we decided the best course of action was to hire a taxi to drive us the 360km to where we wanted to be. As much as I’d love to make this entry about the hilarity that ensued as this inept driver got us lost 150km in the wrong direction, stopped to defecate at the side of a busy (not to mention dusty) road, and the non-conversations we had with him through wild gesticulations and half-comprehensions, I feel I should keep to the theme.

Considering the magnitude of the voyage, Sunny Beach was a huge letdown. It was overrun by poor interpretations of Irish Pubs, and brimmed with beer bellied Brits who found the most efficient means of trans-cultural communication to be raising one’s voice. Since none of our party was interested in any whistle-wetting, we were only too happy to bugger off two days later. The only problem with this was securing a means of locomotion that would get us home in time for our flight from Sofia, which lay about 6 hours to the east.

In the end, we settled for hopping on a bus at 1am or so, in the hopes of sleeping until we got to where we needed to be. Getting to sleep was difficult, if not impossible, thanks to the sheer heat of the bus. Amazingly, the broken air-conditioning made enough noise so as to keep a person awake, while offering no cooling comfort whatsoever. About two hours into the journey, my 16 year old brother took off his t-shirt and lay slumped in the chair topless. I laughed at him. An hour later I joined him. Fifteen minutes later my father joined us. Must have been quite a sight; three crazy shirtless foreigners in the back row, arranged in order of chest-hair prominence.

So where does the eponymous toilet come in, the more impatient readers ask? At about 4am sometime, maybe later, the bus pulls into a really dodgy looking rest-stop, and everyone files out. We begrudgingly clothed ourselves and ventured outside into the refreshing cold night air. Despite how late it was, the rest stop were serving food and drinks, and there were a few kids playing around in the house that this makeshift cafe was attached to. It seemed quite perverse.

The pitifulness of my bladder has been well established by now, so it’s almost needless to say that my first order of business was to find a suitable venue to purge my piss.

Having learnt from past experience, I was equipped with sufficient amounts of the local currency to deal with even the most burdensome of bathroom invigilators. Staggeringly enough, there was one present after 4 in the morning! How much money is there to be made from charging people for their excretory needs, I wonder? Regardless, the results of the premium I paid for such a privilege are perplexing.

That is a toilet. Your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you; that bowl is set into the floor. It’s not a misplaced shower-basin either; all of the other stalls were the same! Unfortunately, the phone doesn’t capture the local species of creepy-crawlies that reside in and around the bathroom prefab (to date, I’ve yet to see a bigger millipede)!

The most entertaining part of this story for me, on personal level, is my father’s reaction to my account of one of the more unique toilets I’ve encountered in my day. He decided he had to see it for himself, and so he bounded past the bathroom attendant. When she barked at him, seeking remuneration, he turned, shrugged at her, and continued on his mission.

Cheeky bastard.

Not Getting Enough Sully in Your Diet?

Millions of people blog everyday. No big deal. But when it's someone within one of my few feeble social circles, (and it's been a slow blogging month), I deem it worthy of a blog entry!

My older brother has jumped on the blogging bandwagon. But unlike his younger brother, he's not a mere 'blogger'. He has embraced the term 'blogster', which has a much more startlingly aggressive connotation!

The mission statement for 'For When I Have Nothing Better to Do'? To be the largest independent online resource for softcore male-on-male pornography! Um... Or not. Maybe I should let him speak for himself at this stage.

Being very much into IT and currently studying it (final year), I have a few nice projects and some source code that other students might find useful.

The URL for what will surely someday be a great repository for recommended programs and esoteric whoosy-whatsits is http://diarmuidos.blogspot.com

I can't think about the URL of this blog without hearing that incessant (British Accented, oddly enough) voice in my head saying 'Diarmuidos'. So being the nerd that I am...


Let the record show that this took far more effort and time than it ought to have!

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...