Tales Of The Gurrier

It’s election time again, that grotesque, unbelievable, bizarre and unprecedented season, that every four years sends ordure and ooze bubbling up from below the choked sewers of Kildare street and into our very lives. Witness the €184 billion of bling dropped on us this week under the the 7 year ‘National Development Plan’. That’s €40k each for every man jack of us, if only we put our X in the right box.

‘Clear the decks! Prepare the money hoses!’

From now until polling day, metric tons of cash, lies, and spittle flecked bunkum, will spew upwards from Kildare street like a volcano of explosive dysentery. Prepare for this veritable shit fountain to rain upon us until we heave up to the polling booth slick with slurry and cash, the desperate cries of bunco booth politco’s echoing in our ears. ‘Vote for me, vote for me, vote for meeeeeee!’

Deep in the bowels of Dail Eireann squats Dark Bertie, The Goblin King. Clinging tenaciously to his throne of power wrought from the scabrous, demon warped souls of dead farmers, publicans and tribunal lawyers. Ten years have passed since he sacrificed his man nipples to the ancient elder Gods that whelped Shel’ Tiggroth, the mammon beast, the bastard tiger. Ten years of graft and vice, ten years of back room deals and toadying to special interests, ten years of sending oozing lickspittles and arselickers to fawn over builders and business barons, ten years of dodging smears and hiding dirty secrets, dark dealings and dried corpses locked in the musty attics of Kildare street. Ten years and the Harney beast is gone, and Charlo’s dead, buried with a stake through his wizened heart. Ten years and McDowell, the new goblin keeper shoves and squirms his flabby arse to slide a hairy cheek upon the throne, but Dark Bertie remains the Goblin King. Ten years and once more into the breach they go, bags stuffed with greasy tenners and lies dripping from mealy mouths and yawping gobs.

The other crowd, our ‘alternative government’, hollow eyed and starving, crying out for a sniff, a sip, a smidgin of power. Oh how Golden Enda dreams of the throne, deep, sticky, shameful dreams that visit on fevered nights and leave him red eyed and exhausted with the dawn. Dreams of one day slipping into that special room where they keep the Celtic Tiger, yoked with a golden halter, fashioned from the eyebrows of virgin stockbrokers, and making her his own. The Rabbitte hunched with blubbery lips pressed to the crack of the door bleating, “Enda, Enda, givvus a go Enda. Let us have a go!” ‘The Alternative’ to choking to death on the Fianna Fail shit fountain is being gnawed alive by steely eyed, tight panted Golden Enda and the blubbery Man-Rabbitte.

What fun, what joy, to slump before the boob tube and witness the endless parade of gobshites, gobdaws and gombeens biting and clawing at each other, desperate to display their grinning, feral, cunning and dead, fish eyed, stares. Jockeying for a vote, a measly vote, just one vote, not even a first preference, anything, please, just one more go round on the gravy train, then I’ll have had enough, just one more, I’ll be sated, one more PPARS, one more Luas, one more Toll Bridge, one more Leas Cross, one more Mahon, one more Moriarty, one more McCracken, one more Morris, one more Ansbacher, one more Liam Lawlor, Ray Burke, Ivor Callely, Lowry, Flynn, Haughey, one more dig out for the Taoiseach, for God’s sake just one more I beg you, and I will finally, completely, truly and utterly come to understand what awful fuck-gobbling excuses for humanity they are.

Election 2007, prepare to get what’s coming to you.

This entry was posted on Thursday, January 25th, 2007 at 1:52 am and is filed under Bloggery. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.