The crack in his bike, he attempted to try and weld,
It’s airplane food hating Jerry “what’s the deal with” Seinfeld
Yee gads, that’s a big picture of Seinfeld. What the hell happened there!? I can assure you I wouldn’t have included that photo if it had I had realised it was going to be so bloody big. He looks like he’s about to attack frigging Tokyo with a mix of radioactive eyerays and jokes about authoritarian soup chefs. Terrifying.
I have fully recovered from the excitement of being raised up from completely anonymity, to be fully scorched by hateful Twitter trolls who have nowhere better to be at 10:12 of a morning than watching me on the British Broadcasting Corporation drawing a big target on my forehead. The cameras, the lights, the monogrammed toiletseat cover (for the hygiene-conscious but brand-loyal commode user). What a thrillride! But fame hasn’t changed me. Ask Meg. I still put my pants on two legs at a time just like anybody else.
Just me? I just don’t like to discriminate between left and right. Which makes me a good guy to have in a political consensus-finding effort, but a blatant hazard on the roads.
I would argue I’m not so much unskilled, more… unlucky.
Much to Meg’s irritation (and if she admits it, partial relief) work has me on the road more often than not at the moment. Last week, I was mainly in Milan thoroughly giving up on my last screed of diet-control willpower to the ham and cheese edifice of Italian on-the-hoof dining.
The old hang ‘n’ chaze is something that I had never quite realised was such a fundamental part of the Italian chef’s repertoire. Even those famously dairy+pork crazed Deutchlanders vary it with the odd wad of pickled guck. Italian cuisine. Quality off the dilch, but 80% of any menu. Hang. And for a change, chaze.
Put those hands together baby…
Milan is usually more towards the fashiony side of my manifold workly duties and definitely makes me wonder about the Zoolanderfication of my life. It’s not everyday you translate Japanese for the editor of Vogue Italia concerning the process of creation for a one-piece garment declaring the wearer to be a “Worthless Screamer” in large neon yellow letters. It’s a long way from when I was a night porter at the Lancaster Lodge in Cork and the most interesting thing that happened was that I forgot to turn off the milk tap while preparing breakfast.
It really was a lot of moojuice, but anecdotes like that at best fall into the “you had to be there” variety
By the time I had returned from Milan, I was down a lot of sleep. This was due to mixture of factors, a very early start on the Tuesday and Wednesday and on the one day where I had a chance at a full eight hours, the window in my hotel room blew open in a storm. This doubly sucked because it was not the kind of window that was meant to open, meaning my attempts to close it, shivering in my tiny pink pantys were doomed like a marriage between hang and not-chaze. I channeled my teenage self to get me through the night.
Irish households generally regard heating as a sign of moral weakness and thus I had become adept as a youngster at falling asleep with my face under the covers both to retain breath-heat but also to starve my brain of oxygen enough to get to sleep. It was a similar story in my college years but that was more down to the discovery of my housemates and I that heating oil could be boiled into a fortifying if dizzyingly pungent alcoholic soup.
Nutrition is for fascists.
On Tuesday I saddle up again and scoot out to the US for most of the week. First on the agenda is Washington DC where I shall assumedly get a FBI file opened on me by failing to salute a Trump-brand manhole cover with the due reverence and vigour (gold-plated for maximum luxury you boring idiots.) Another big aim for this particular chickenhead is to soak up some semi-Southern US foodstuffs while Meg powers through the last week of Project Cucumber in an attempt to starve off her final few milligrams of bone-density.
It’s not necessarily that their food is better, it’s just that they make everyone else’s terrible food look lazy in comparison.
Something else that has emerged is that the second leg of my US trip will be to the coast. Of a state South of New York. One could say it’s the shore of that great state. That happens to be Jersey. The Jersey Shore, I’m going to the Jersey Shore. And not like a normal town that happens to be by the sea. The actual boardwalk with the terrible people that shoot spray-tan and reproductive fluids at each other like they’re on a corporate team-building paintball range. They may have t-shirts tighter than an ant’s anus, but they ain’t never seen a bump and grind like the… Mark-ess of Queensbury. I may benefit from a more macho nickname before auditioning for the sociopaths at MTV. Or maybe I’ll just have to come up with a better way to spend my time there.
Great news Meg! From now, I’m shtupping Snooki. Alert the tabloids.
In other news, Meg got a little sensitive when I may have questioned (in an admittedly concerned tone) whether she was going to wear a pair of leggings to go and do the groceries. Normally I wouldn’t have questioned this, but she clambered into them while talking about going, so the order of events invited the question, or so I thought. She then loudly questioned whether I thought she was “trash” and whether she had ever besmirched either of us with an outdoor expedition in said leggings. The answer to both of course was no, but that still didn’t sooth her jangled nerves.
The scars of Manchester run deep. They are garbage there. Sub-human garbage.
Irritoner of Leek