Category Archives: Humour

100 Words, 100 Days: Day 85. On Caffeine.

You know you’re a caffeine junkie when:

a) You’ve gone to the bother of making the nicest cup of coffee you can, given your circumstances, and you don’t even remember drinking it.

b) Being jittery is your default setting.

c) You can tell your Java from your Colombian.

d) You drain a pot of coffee quicker than a toilet can flush.

e) Your concern for your kidneys is at odds with your serenity.

f) Your response to a customer query is WHAT NOW? CAN’T YOU SEE I’M STRESSED OUT?

g) Going cold turkey fills you with a sense of dread.

 

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100 Words, 100 Days: Day 84. On Government Health Warnings.

Don't say you haven't been warned.

Caution: this blog contains flashing images, scenes of a violent nature, strong language and some sequences during which you might consider popping out and making a cup of tea or coffee.

Moderate reading of this and other posts is recommended: no more than five units a week if you’re a male, three if you’re female, seven if you’ve got more than two legs, none if you’re a fish. If you’re a fictional character, knock yourself out. Dosages exceeding those which have been laid down in stone may result in memory loss, insomnia, acne, manic behaviour and, of course, memory loss.

 

 

The Five Stages of Facebook Grief.

Anger: For the love of all that is good and holy, why, Facebook, why have you changed things again? Just as I was getting used to how my feed worked, you go and screw around again. That’s it, Zuckerberg, I’m heading over to Google+. Put that in your hashpipe and smoke it.

Denial: It can’t be happening to me – not again. Not after the last time. It took me four months to have my feed feeding the way I want it to feed. I know what to do: I’ll come back later and maybe someone will have fixed it.

Bargaining: Look, if I quit the whole Farmville thing and unhide my hidden friends and pages, will you give me back my old feed? I’ll be a good Facebooker, honest I will.

Depression: Oh no…now I have to go back to Myspace. How will I be able to look my forgotten friends in the eye again. I’m doomed. Someone kill me now 😦

Acceptance: Oh well, it could be worse, I suppose. At least I know I’m not alone. 500,000,000 other users are in the same boat as me. I had better get used to it.

Life changes, people. So does social networking. You may not like it, but you had better get used to it.

100 Words, 100 Days: Day 25. On Irish Summers.

In Ireland, you can be certain of two things when it comes to summer.

It will rain. A lot. There may be some days when the sun will split the trees and you step out in your Bermuda shorts. But you will feel like a fool, because it will rain. A lot.

There will be spotty-faced, baseball cap wearing, loud and pestering Italian, French and Spanish students. These people will hijack the streets that were once yours by right and covet bus seats that used to take you home after a long day at work.

You will pray for winter.

100 Words, 100 Days: Day 11. On Specs

I’m too sexy for my specs, too sexy for a Becks, too sexy for T-Rex.

I’m not sure that I can see, not sure that I can pee, or read from A to Z.

I’m a writer and I know it feels when I type my little words on a keyboard. I am not bored when I type my big words, and I do all these things from a blackboard.

I’m too sexy for my words, too sexy for the birds, too sexy for wheys and curds.

I’m a writer and I know how it feels when I make stuff up.

Crazy: An Ode To NaNoWriMo

Crazy is as crazy does.

But where we would we be without the

BUZZ

Of NaNoWriMo 2010.

Armed with nerve and steeled by

GRIT

Bit by bit,

We’ll wield our pen

For 30 days and 30 nights of madness.

We say we’re prepared.

We say we’re ready.

But nothing will be the same again,

Once we reach the

HEADY

Heights of fifty thousand.

We’re rabbits in headlights.

We’re ducks in the rain.

We’re caffeinated to the gills,

To take away the

PAIN

Of sleepless nights and thoughts of

1,666.

Good luck to one and all.

I hope we succeed and hope we

SURVIVE

To move to a cottage in Devon.

For it is there we’ll recharge,

It is there we’ll lick wounds

And get ready for

2011.

I, Aardvark: Aardvarkian Origins

I, AARDVARK.

I came downstairs the following morning and found Allie grinding coffee beans. The sound system was on. Coldplay were singing Violet Hill and the aardvark was doing his best Chris Martin impersonation.

“Your taste in music is…”

“What?” I asked, sensing an urgent need for caffeine. It had become clear to me that Allie was neither a prank nor a figment of my imagination. He was here, in my living room, organising breakfast.

“Depressing.” Allie broke open some eggs into a bowl and began whisking. “We can use some of the cheese for the omelettes. I hope you like them runny.”

“I don’t normally eat breakfast,” I said. “Mornings are hit-and-run for me. I hit the shower, then I run out the door.”

Allie’s snout drooped. “I know. I had to go out and buy some provisions. Just because you skip the most important meal of the day, it doesn’t mean I have to.”

I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Coke. Allie rolled his eyes. “That’s healthy,” he said.

“You sound like my mother,” I replied.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Did you sleep all right?”

“Good enough. Once I got over the whole talking aardvark thing, I pretty much conked out.” I thought of something just then. “Did you say you went out?”

“Yes,” Allie replied. He was now stirring the omelette mix in a pan. To my surprise, I found I was getting hungry. “You hadn’t any eggs and you were low in milk. I hope you don’t mind. The receipt is on the table.”

“But how…?”

“How what?”

“If I’m the only one who can hear you, how did the people at the shop know what to give you?”

Allie shook his head. “Jimbo, Jimbo, Jimbo. Ever hear of a shopping list?” He scooped out the omelette, divided it up into two plates, and handed one to me. He took his own plate and sat himself down in an armchair beside my CD and DVD shelves. He sucked his breakfast slowly, appearing to savour every morsel of egg and cheese. “I wrote out what you needed and and picked them up at the Spar.” He giggled to himself. “I caused a bit of a stir, let me tell you.”

Ballybough Community Centre

“I’d say you did. We don’t get many aardvarks in Ballybough.”

“I think it was more your Stetson.”

“You wore my Stetson?”

“Yup. Black goes well with blue.” Did I mention that Allie was blue? I am now. “How was your breakfast?”

I swallowed the last of them. “It was good,” I answered. “I have to get ready for work soon. Then I have to figure out what to do with you.”

“What’s to be done with me?” He gave me a concerned look. “I hate to say this, Jimbo, but you’re stuck with me for the time being.”

“But there has to be some kind of law that says I can’t.”

“I checked on the Internet.”

“And?”

“There isn’t. Unless there’s an antiquated Domestic Aardvark Act that I’ve missed somewhere along the line, you and I are a team.”

I put down my plate. “Well if that’s the case, you better come along with me.”

“To your job?”

“Yes.”

Allie’s front paws and snout rose in exultation. “Yippee! I have a job. What do you want me to do?”

I looked at the coffee pot which had just finished brewing. “You can start by getting me some coffee.”

Allie saluted an aardvark salute, which involved both paws and snout meeting at the centre of his forehead. “Aye, aye boss.”

I sighed — again. “No need to call me boss, Allie.”

“Okay, boss,” he grinned. “Can I wear your Stetson again?”

(C) James McShane