Sunday, April 3, 2016

Panama Papers

Ireland Inc. remains under the stewardship of a caretaker.  Enda Kenny, the accidental taoiseach. As he tries to lure Independents with his stunning intellect and afford them the opportunity to support his continued stewardship - in a more official capacity - it's beginning to look like the only one that doesn't realise Enda's stewardship is up, is Enda himself.
Just five short years after having Fianna Fail at the edge of the Cliffs of Moher with a hurricane wind and the odd pitch fork threatening their being, Fianna Fail now find themselves in the unbelievable position of being that humorous cat, that idly plays with a mouse to pass the time, before moving in... You know the rest. They shouldn't play for much longer. Kids are going hungry, getting turfed out of their homes so vulture funds can maximize the theft of the taxpayers assets following the 'ineptitude' of Fianna Fail's own shock doctorates of recent pasts.
Even if they allow the Troika's poodle to continue, they know they'll control his government, waiting for the moment to pounce. Surely even Enda and his minders know that. Then again, being in his position from the one he was in in 2011, who can tell? Maybe they're of even lower wattage.
I'll be sorry to see him go. I like Enda - on another planet!

It rained a couple of good sized lakes on the Emerald Isle today and I am sure it was a show of defiance to the NATO murder machines currently docked in Dublin. 100 years ago, the UK contingent of their navy were blowing the shit out of the centre of Dublin,  targeting everyone including the proclamation signatories who dared to want to rule themselves, free of empire. Imagine, free born beings having to sacrifice themselves to free themselves from a tyranny than runs certain classes ragged for their own ill-gotten gains. How much has changed.............
I'm all for new beginnings, forgiveness, reflection, but we are a supposed neutral country and on one coast of it we're facilitating NATO warships and on the other, US aircraft doing shit knows what to lord knows who.

'There is no lord,' as Larry used to say. No hesitation, no panic in his voice, no melancholic philosophical hangover to lament over.
My point exactly, Larry, cause no-one seems to know what the fuck they're doing any more. Not here, not there, not anywhere. The lunatics have taken over the asylum.
'They did a long time ago.'
Feck off, Larry.

After days of scouting and the occasional drowning I managed to find a place to put Larry's few grains of dust alongside the only other possession i had of his that could be easily disposed of. His play. It's not a difficult decision to hoard it away underground for a future museum. Not like it was ever going to hit Broadway.
The place was off the beaten track, wild like Larry's spirit. Then, within a corner or two, a bog. It looked like a nuke had gone off, but somehow, it felt right. I'm sure it contained the remains of many a dead animal that could, but for a gust of wind or the speed of a car, have otherwise ended up being taxidermied by Larry's gifted hands. 

I found a tree among the desolation and dug a hole with a little garden hoe I'd brought along. I dug down a few feet around the roots and made a hole big enough for the little parcel to fit down. As water tight as a novice could make it. Air tight. Tight. Larry's dusting and his play.
I decided against putting in a metal object. You'd never know what strange being might be down here in the dead of night with a metal detector looking for Bogmen with swords. Was best to take no chances. I put in a little vial of my own. Just a couple of the remaining hairs on my head and a swab of gob on a couple of cotton bud. And an old tooth.
I put them in one of those containers the doc gave me a while back when he was looking for a stool. I can't be dealing with any of that. I only kept it 'cause i knew it would come in handy sometime.

I covered it all over and just as the heavens opened again, I slopped my way out of the bogland. Tears no-where to be seen. I wondered what had happened there. How the land had ended up like something from a dystopian future? Or past? Perhaps they were clearing it for something. Hardly seemed likely out here, in the middle of no-where. Five miles from town. As the feet walk. Then again, this is Ireland. They build in strange places. Could be a gym!

A day spent time capsuling surely beats a day showing impressionable minds the ships taxpayers fund so wars can be waged for the benefit of a few.  You know, the tax-dodging types. Fingers, claws, teeth in everything. Panama Papers type.

I think Larry would have appreciated it today. The oddness.  Nothing wrong with being different, is there? Wasn't a problem for Larry. In a perfect world, it might not be problem for anyone.

In a perfect world.

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