Pixiemania

My dear pixies,

in this post I would like to thank you.


Thank you for robbing my sleep.

Thank you for causing me another dreamless night.

Thank you again.


Listen up! I don't have a problem in general with you securing your pixie-homes, cars, motorbikes, boats, shops and probably your pot of gold with more expensive alarm systems than the whole thing is worth but you might want to consider that:

• These yokes go off every time a passing by cat sneezes, a squirrel throws nuts on it, the wind of change gently blows over it, a typical mid-thirty, high-pitched Irish woman pretends to be delighted about her friend's new shoes, a Liverpool fan shouts out his anger about Rafael Benitez, a bridge collapses just five days after being inspected (well done my Irish friends, well done), Mary Harney farts, skangers turn up Roxette's "sleeping in my car" techno remix on their mobile phones, Pat Kenny laughs his head off while counting his millions paid by taxpayers money, wanna-be recessionistas are sighing about their miserey of only having 5 instead of the usual 6 (in words: s i x) holidays a year or a lonely butterfly somewhere in the Chinese back-country flutters its wings.
  
• Given the above, why would anyone think these days: Oh, holy christ, there is an alarm, I should go and have a look or even better call the police? Children in Germany are being told only to shout for help if really needed, because otherwise people might think: Not again, shut up, would you?! and ignore it.
  No one gives a damn about your alarms. It's burglars paradise, they only have to put in some earplugs to ignore the noise but apart from that it has never been easier to clear out a house. The only ones that really feel a pain about it are people like me, waking up exhausted night after night.
  

I am seriously wondering how many days a man can survive without sleep.
I am suffering from insomnia, I am desperate, if that doesn't stop soon I need to go to see your infamous medicine man, Dr Pixie McKenna (let's not start with your crap health system at this stage).

If she won't be able to help me, there is only one thing left to do: get some old, smelly clove rock jars, put you pixies in there
and throw them in the Liffey, happily singing :

Mush-a ring dum-a do dum-a da
Whack for my daddy-o. Whack for my daddy-o
There's a pixie in the jar.

Thank you very much.

The Pursuit of Happyness

Last weekend I made a visit to your little neighbours. I would like to call them "the happy northern pixies".
A very friendly crowd that couldn't stop making jokes and laughing about you, talking about how stupid you are being ripped off and fooled by your own government, shops, pubs, restaurants and program directors, whilst themselves are living in their little paradise. I was so touched I had to wipe a tear from my eyes. Their honesty just makes them so likeable, no one would dare to fool them as they are so much cleverer, more brave and better drinkers than you are.

So after a few lovely days up there I went home from Belfast by bus. Full of non-northern pixies that would like to have a small piece of that paradisiacal, yummy cake by putting their money in the "happy northern pixies" economy while destroying their own one, which in the long term inevitable will result in an even bigger rip off, higher taxes and worse, as their own economy is going downhill. That's exactly the short term thinking I would expect from you, little pixies. The dark passenger and devoted dexter could tell you a thing or two about that.
But anyways, back to the overcrowded pixie waggon. Earlier on that day I did a Belfast bus tour and I still had the line in my head the red-haired girl on the tour told us after she was heaping praises on the city and country. She said it that little bit too much, where you start asking yourself: If it's that great, why does she have to say it so often - shouldn't it be even more obvious then? But suddenly I realised she didn't sound like a "happy northern-pixie", she was one of you'se, emigrated, a foreigner like me.
This happy pixie told us that Bill Clinton once visited Belfast and left a line on the peace wall:

"you can not win if you want your neighbours to lose."

Having that line in my head I started smiling: although I was sitting there on my way back to unloved pixie-land - sandwiched between Mary Harney look-alikes eating smelly egg-sandwiches with their mouths wide opened, having their shoes taken off to spread a sweet, stinging odour in the 50 year old, rotten and creeping with groaning axles bus, farting loudly away, embracing my nose with their hairy, sweaty arm pits - I was thinking back of the emigrated pixie, how happy she was and what she said.
I realised I only have to change my tactics slightly on my pursuit of happyness. I am going to stop my inner fighting, I'll become one of yours and as a result I will get my hand on the pot of gold. AND THEN, I will run away with it and turn my back on you, so I never have to see you idiots again. A warm shower of hope came over me and intoxicated by all the smelly feet around me, I fell asleep having a deep, soothing dream of seing myself walking on an open road, facing the beautiful sundown, finally on my way back home.

Have you seen that guy?

Plan 9 from outer space

Typical,

using google this morning to look for possible options to find your pot of gold (I will get it one day, that's for sure), a slightly anticipation for a rare natural phenomenon arose in me, as I saw that there will be a fantastic opportunity to see a spectacular meteor shower tonight.
I realised that's my way outta here: Make a wish for every falling star I see ("Please make it happen that I will finally can steal the pot of gold off the ugly leprechaun sitting on it by giving him a 360 round-house kick Chuck Norris style, let Mary Harney explode poll lap dancing Enda Kenny, let Johnny Logan be their next Taoiseach, let Pat Kenny return to The Late Late Show and last but not least: let me go home") and I will be happy for the rest of my life. It was crystal clear I am amost there when I looked out of the window and saw this:



Thanks Pixies, this was only the chance of my lifetime, but thanks very much!

Lisbon II

You better say YES to Lisbon this time.

Otherwise the above scenario will never change...
... actually, it won't change anyways, but still, vote YES Pixies.

Swine Flu

Pixies, oh my Pixies! Genie mac, what is wrong with you?

Time to set things straight:

Swine Flu jokes are NOT funny!

I can't tell anymore which is worse, the epedemic itself or the stupidly smiling, laughter awaiting, gobshites saying:

"Yseult is sick? She probably got the Swine Flu! Hahahahahahaha!"

Grown up adults, beaming with joy, having the same anticipation in their faces as small kids that proudly show their thrilled parents they have used the toilet for the first time on their own - and in doing so wrecked the whole bathroom.

Seriously, do you really think that is funny? I would expect that kind of humour from the same above mentioned kid that left a surprise on the parent's bathroom floor. Making a connection from a human being to a swine? Wow, that must have needed rocket science to do that. Respect.

Besides, do you really think you are the first one coming up with that? This was the running gag in kindergarten class for the whole last month. Being creative is something else.

Pixies, you might believe that the world has waited for you and should thank god that he or she send down someone like you to save the world from its sadness. That's so sweet.

Anyways, let's have a look at what the mighty Internet says about jokes:

"A joke is a short story or ironic depiction of a situation communicated with the intent of being humorous."

Source: www.wikipedia.com


Given that, the swine flu "joke" is not really a joke, as it does neither reflect any (subtle) irony nor creative or humourus content.
Furthermore a joke won't become any better if you tell it again and again, especially if it wasn't funny at all in the first place. But say it again, maybe we will laugh this time.

Apart from all the above, thousands of people were and are dying of the Swine Flu. Crying children are being left alone as the beloved father or mother has died.
The name of the disease might not have been chosen wisely (personally I would prefer: "the killer flu") but in the end of the day, it is a disease that is able to cause death.
I would say that no one would make the same sort of inappropriate remarks about cancer or aids, so can we please leave it be in the future?

I always thought the Germans would lack a sense of humour, at least the East Germans, but you Irish are worse.

A German proverb says:

"Humor ist wenn man trotzdem lacht"

which translates to:

If you are in a very bad situation (as being trapped in Pixie land as me), but still can laugh about it, then this is what you would call humour.

Times are bad these days, so to cheer things up a bit, let's all laugh about you now - the hilarious leprechauns -, because you deserve it the most.
If Europe is the ass of the world, Pixie land is its asshole.