Wednesday, March 28, 2012

The Mahon report on the best little country in the world to do business in.

Don’t you just love Fine Gael!
Nice neat young fellas.
All with the big auctioneer heads on them out there scrambling for the moral high in the post Mahon political landscape.
All that pontificating about the sanctity of the Taoiseach's office. And how the sanctity has been violated.
Yabba, yabba, yabba.
It’s all whistling in the wind when Bill Clinton’s plane providing buddy Denis O Brien is still there standing side by side with the leader of the “best little country in the world.”
There’s Denis in the New York Stock Exchange with our Taoiseach.
Dame Enda Average, all decked out in his Sunday best, fawning over the DOB as he tells the American corporate giants that Ireland is, as we all know, “the best little place in the world to do business.”
We are more than a just, fair, prosperous country, we’re the best. The best. Honestly. Seriously. Maybe. Please. That's our leader. Out there leading. The taoiseach’s office talking. But those images of Enda and Denis from the New York Stock Exchange seem to suggest that it is more orifice than office. That in fact, we’re the best little whorehouse in Europe. Cute hoors? We’re more than cute. hoors. And there's nothing imaginable that you cannot buy from us. If it is on the net, it's in our repetoire.
And if you're after something a little more risque, we do a great sideline in raping hope.

As Fine Gael try to seduce you into compliant indignation with their soporific platitudes and pointy fingered moral certainty, there are some good off script moments going down.
Flashes of real anger flicker on the edges of the TV screen.
A harbinger of revolt. An amuse bouche of anarchy.
Joe Higgins' body language the other night on Frontline screamed he, like many in the audience, was ready to leap up and break jaws.
But just when the anger gets to you big time and you've accepted your TV set as collateral damage, what happens? Some surreal wide eyed Father Ted-esque Fianna Fail mutant goes for goofy evasive tactics. These shameless Fainna Fail grunts stare straight to camera and sound off, so insane, so audacious, so smug in their perceived immunity to consequence, that it deflates you, neutralizes your anger. Altar boy relentless, they stupefy before flooring you.
You go "hang on a second, what am I doing floored, you're the FF low life, you're the one supposed to be burning at the stake."
But they go on and on to the second coming of CJ. But the Father Ted opt outs, the surreal "resting in the bank" logic, are getting old.
It's only going to work for so long.
What may have been frustratingly funny in the 90s is now downright revolution inducing offensive in the 10s.
One can only wait to see how that cute hoor visage hiding behind doe-eyed innocence will look when it hears the first sounds of the baying lynch mob.

Anyone got a rope? Time for a bit of hemp around rednecks.

Deflated, you go to bed mumbling like an old man, wondering aloud 'what to do?' How do you let these comedians know that the script has changed. That that dangling item over there may be loose but it's still a noose
But try telling that to Fianna Fail. You'd almost be tempted to add a little Semtex to the mix.
Until ... picture the low life political thespians just loving it...'absolutely thrilled" to get their hands on a good piety and victimhood role. If the FFilth can go this far on shame and ignominy, could you just imagine what the rapacious scum would do with piety and victimhood. It would be like the 70s again. Except the Brits are now, probably, a breakaway and militant libertarian wing of the PDs.
 So we can't seem to vote them out of existence.
 And it's probably counter productive to try to blow them out of existence.
So what do we f--kin do?
 If, as the Irish Times oh so erudite opinion pieces tell us, FF really are a deep part of ourselves, then folks perhaps it's time to seriously contemplate suicide.
Then when we wake up dead we can think what to do with the other foul crew.
And that embarassing little shite Enda Kenny.

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