Dashwood Forrest and Mulligan The Irish Zombie On O’ Connell Street In Dublin

March 18, 2018 at 10:55 pm (Comedy, Entertainment, Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, Humour, International Intrigue, News, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Dashwood Forrest and Mulligan The Irish Zombie On O’ Connell Street In Dublin

Dashwood Forrest and his manservant Mulligan the Irish ☘️ Zombie 🧟‍♂️ were having breakfast 🥞 🍳 in a restaurant at a hotel on O’ Connell Street in Dublin.

Mulligan was nursing a king sized hangover having drank too many glasses of Kilkenny Irish Cream Ale on the Hill of Tara in County Meath for Saint Patrick’s Day yesterday.

He did give away one of his glasses of Kilkenny to a golden cobra named Maitreya who was undergoing an old Celtic Pagan ritual to make the snake the High King of Ireland.

But he did so in a hypnotic state (which would be the only possible state in which Mulligan the Irish Zombie 🧟‍♂️ would give away an alcoholic beverage that happened to be in his possession).

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you look to be in awfully bad shape,” the waiter said to Mulligan.

“That’s because I’ve got a hangover,” Mulligan answered while drinking tomato juice laced with three raw eggs 🥚 and Worcestershire sauce.

“You also look to be dead,” the waiter remarked as some of Mulligan’s decomposing flesh fell on his breakfast plate of kipper and poached eggs.

“I am,” Mulligan started leaking tomato juice and Worcestershire sauce from his armpits, “I’m a zombie.”

“If you’re a zombie, then why aren’t you sitting in the Dail (Irish Parliament)?” The waiter asked.

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t ask myself that very question,” Mulligan was debating with himself on whether or not he should order a Guinness as he noticed the old antique clock on the hotel restaurant wall was only 1 minute away from 12 noon.

“Who raised you from the dead?” The waiter asked.

“It was a South African witch doctor called Dr. Sterling Makabo who raised me from the dead,” Mulligan cut himself a slice of kipper and put it on his fork, “although he had actually been hired to raise my neighbour who was buried next to me in the cemetery from the dead but his corpse was still at his wake. A wake that apparently went on for fourteen days I might add. So when my neighbour did not answer Doctor Makabo’s call, I decided to do so. With the result that I’m now living the life of Riley.”

“Riley was the name of the man in the grave next to him,” Dashwood Forrest explained, “the fellow that Dr. Makabo was supposed to raise from the dead but his body was still at his wake as his buddies had been drinking so much, they forgot to take him to both his funeral and burial services.”

“Only in Ireland 🇮🇪 would this happen,” the waiter shook his head.

“I would have to agree,” Dashwood Forrest smelled the rose in his lapel.

At that moment on the television in the restaurant, the image of British MP Renfield R. Renfield appeared to comment on Vladimir Putin’s landslide Presidential election 🗳 victory in Russia 🇷🇺.

As Renfield pointed to a photo of Putin and made Freemasonic death by disembowelling gestures with his hands that would send YouTube conspiracy theory channel hosts into a whirlwind of frenzy, Mulligan remarked to Dashwood Forrest, “There’s the fellow who saved me from drowning in a bowl of punch at your mermaid 🧜‍♀️ painting art exhibit in London last year.”

“Was that before or after you became a zombie 🧟‍♂️?” The waiter asked.

“After,” Mulligan replied, “My mortal pre-zombie life came to an end when I drowned in a vat of Guinness.”

And speaking of Guinness, the antique clock in the restaurant struck 12 noon.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday March 18th
2018.

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Jefferey The Otter On Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2017 at 4:24 pm (Comedy, Culture, Humour, News, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

From Planet Nibiru, Jefferey came
not seeking any worldly earthly fame
he was a party otter seeking a new party spot
one where he could avoid being struck in parking lot
for he was a furry mammal on all fours
one who often got stuck in revolving doors

He had heard about Saint Paddy’s Day
its fame had spread across the Milky Way
and when he wasn’t eating Nibiruan scientist’s stitchin’
or laughing at the theories of Zecharia Sitchin
he often dreamed of having a Guinness or two
and seducing a female earthling otter in the Dublin Zoo

So he stole ET gray Gali-Gula’s spaceship
and headed off on quite the far out trip
to Dublin he went where he took many a nip
now on Earth otters cannot talk
they just sit and bark on a rock
so Nibiruan otter was quite the hit of the bar
one would think he was a furry Bono- a rock star

Jefferey regaled them with “When Irish Eyes Are Smilin”
when asked if he was legal age, Jefferey was lyin’
but his Nibiruan otter mother wasn’t around to spank
so Jefferey thoroughly enjoyed this drunken otter prank

He ordered some Jameson’s Irish Whiskey
drinking so much- he had to go pee
He decided to enter the ladies’ room
little realizing this would be his doom
Pretty little Irish colleens in their short skirts did shriek
when they saw a perverted male otter taking a peek
they hit him with their high-heeled shoes
like a cocaine high drummer gettin’ in the groove

Jefferey barely escaped with his life
Dublin police were called to end the strife
but the Garda Siochana stopped for a few brews
ignoring Police Commissioner’s warning about hitting the booze
soon O’ Reilly’s Bar was overrun by drunks galore
while Jefferey safely crawled his way across the floor
and soon headed straight out the door.

“Gosh,” Jefferey smiled, “that was fun”
unaware someone would tomato his bun
for Sherrielock Holmes had received ET call
from Jefferey’s mother who was going up the wall
Jefferey felt the lash of Sherrielock’s whip
as he admired the dominatrix’s shapely hip
he thought her leather skirt was quite the sight
even though his buttocks were no longer tight

And that was how Jefferey spent Saint Paddy’s Day
a Nibiruan otter in Dublin sowin’ wild oats for hay.

-A Saint Patrick’s Day poem
written by Christopher
Friday March 17th
2017.

Sherrielock Holmes
Sherrielock Holmes movin’ in for the kill on Nibiruan otter’s naughty buttocks

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What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2016 at 8:33 pm (Folklore, Horror, Short stories, Short Story, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )

What Connor McFinn Saw On Saint Patrick’s Day

Connor McFinn stumbled out of his house on the way to the pub.

Usually most nights it was the reverse.

But his brainless Irish-American nephew from Boston was visiting.

And to mark Saint Paddy’s Day, his brainless nephew had bought some bottles of American beer and laced it with green food dye.

“Faith and begorrah,” his nephew brutally murdered the accent of his homeland with the same severity that MacBeth had stabbed Duncan, ” ’tis a fine Irish tradition to drink green beer on Saint Paddy’s Day.”

“No, it isn’t, you moron,” Connor said in an exasperated voice, “maybe in America but not here in Ireland. Here in Ireland, we toast Saint Paddy with Guinness or Murphy’s or some fine local stout. This beer is an abomination and blasphemy against the Holy Saint Patrick himself.”

“Abomination and blasphemy against Saint Paddy himself,” his nephew spewed green beer out of his mouth all over the brown sofa with the same velocity as an ex-DARPA employee would spew bourbon and coffee all over his computer screen after reading a humourous blog post, “surely you exaggerate, Uncle.”

After drinking several green beers, his nephew lay passed out on the floor.

Connor had been forced to drink several pints of the abominable blasphemous substance to please his sister’s brainless son.

Once the misfit lay on the floor snoring away, Connor got up and stumbled out the door to head down to the local pub to drink a pint of Guinness and toast the Apostle and Patron Saint of Ireland the proper Irish way.

As he stumbled his way through the meadows and forests to get to the village, he hit his head on a low-lying tree branch.

As Connor sat there dazed under the tree, he noticed a bunch of giant snakes approaching him.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Connor made the Sign of the Cross, “this is what comes from drinking a witch’s brew of green beer.”

The huge giant serpents with giant fangs approached him.

This couldn’t be happening, Connor thought to himself.

After all, the Holy Saint Patrick had personally driven all the snakes out of Ireland.

“Get away,” Connor shouted, “you’re not real. You’re a figment of a warped imagination brought on by drinking that Devil’s brew of green beer.”

Seeing as how the snakes actually proceeded to eat Connor McFinn in literal objective reality (although that concept would be disputed and denied by a great many modern and post-modern philosophers), his brainless Irish-American nephew’s green beer was a Devil’s brew from a witch’s cauldron indeed.

-A short story
and vampire novel
chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday March 17th
2016.

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Jack O’ Hare’s Magic Carpet Ride: A Poem

January 5, 2016 at 8:45 pm (Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Jack O’ Hare’s Magic Carpet Ride

Now one might think folks are full of blarney
claiming to see leprechauns near Lake Killarney
but wild hare jack rabbit Jack O’ Hare
as he travelled across the Emerald Isle green and fair
claimed to have seen just that
so he told a Guinness drinking cat.

So Jack and the cat headed out
stumbling across the land round about
till they ran into Seamus the leprechaun
enjoying a dinner of steak and prawn

So Seamus, what’s up?
Jack asked sipping his cup.
Replied the wee leprechaun Seamus
who gazed with telescope at planet Uranus,
“I’ve got some magic mushrooms from Bavaria,
brought to me by a fräulein barmaid with a lovely pair of…”

“Coconuts!” shouted the cat looking at Seamus’ South Seas food ware
-tropical delights arranged with such care.

“That she had!”
said Seamus very glad.

Explained the leprechaun further, “She got them from Gunter Glockenspiel the Magic Garden elf
who often reads from Sherrie’s books on the shelf
while he warred with the Seven Evil Dwarves in the garden next door
while noble cat Tiger and noble dog Ambos slept in the house on the floor
he help himself to the evil dwarves’ plunder of magic mushrooms galore.

He sent some to me courtesy of Fräulein Helga
whose pair of knockers is really quite swell-a.”
So the three ate the mushrooms and had to agree
undergoing experiences of cosmic ecstasy
they learned to think psychedelically
and taught the clouds to sing in harmony.

It was really quite the magic carpet ride
stars and mermaids and surging tide
they had much to seek
and nothing to hide
For when they awoke, they found their clothes had gone astray
until they remembered, for 2 of them, it was always this way
while Seamus nude of derrière and red of face
ran and hid some place
They discovered he had hid in a stack of hay
and didn’t come out for many a night and many a day.

-A Jack O’ Hare poem
written by Christopher
Tuesday January 5th
2016.

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Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

March 17, 2015 at 7:37 pm (History, Poetry) (, , , , )

Saint Patrick’s Day: A Poem

On the shores of Galilee a certain Carpenter did teach
oh how to Tara’s golden halls would that message reach
A lad was in his 16th year when into pirating hands he fell
and carried across the Irish Sea to an Emerald Isle to dwell
sold as a slave to the chieftan Milchu
so what did this young lad do?
For six years in County Antrim he tended his master’s flocks in the Valley of the Braid
this boy becoming a man who was captured in a raid
After six years he fled his cruel master and bent his steps towards the west
His journey of 200 miles was really quite the test
At Killala Bay he set sail towards the land of his birth
but as a future Bard once wrote, “There are more things in heaven and earth…”
A new master did young Patrick find
a sweet master so Divine
A new master who said, “Make the Irish mine”.
So the new flocks he would tend
those whose broken hearts he’d mend
were the same people who had taken him captive
a people he set free by saying “Believe in Jesus and live.”
And now every March 17th, Irish hearts are filled with mirth
toasting a lad whose Master arrived in a stable at birth.
And while in Tara’s halls an earthly harp is mute with its soul of music shed
an heavenly choir sings of He whose heart, hands, head and feet had Bled
a loving Master who called Patrick to the test
and through Patrick’s voice and Patrick’s hands caused the Irish to join His people blest.

-A poem written by Christopher
on Saint Patrick’s Day
Tuesday March 17th
2015.

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Jack O’ Hare and The Leprechaun: A Poem

March 12, 2015 at 6:01 pm (Children's Story, Entertainment, Folklore, Music, Poetry) (, , , , , , , , )

Jack O’ Hare and The Leprechaun: A Poem

In the land of Ireland roamed the bunny rabbit Jack O’ Hare
he hopped here and there across this land so green and fair
And as he made conversation with an Irish fawn
he turned around and saw… a leprechaun
The leprechaun wept, “Someone has stolen me pot o’ gold.”
Said Jack, “Who would do such a dastardly deed so bold?”
“I don’t know,” the leprechaun shrugged
his arms around a tree he hugged.
Said Jack, “I’ll help you find the thief,
this villainous villain who’s caused such grief.”
So to the rainbow’s end they went
and stood outside the little man’s tent.
Explained Seamus the leprechaun, “It was here that I slept
after downing a can of Guinness I kept.”

“What does your magic mirror say?”
Jack looked at the glass next to the sun ray.
“Me magic mirror,” the leprechaun shouted
as a four-leaf clover sprouted,
“I forgot all about it,
why I’ve lost my wit.”

They looked into the mirror and the picture unfolded,
the thief stood there with his mug shot uploaded,
“Why I’ve seen that man,” said Jack O’ Hare,
“he lives in London near the town square.”

So to London they flew
on Aer Lingus
sampling Guinness stew.
They got off the plane quite pickled
lucky for them, Customs were fickle.

They took the tube to London
and recited Kipling’s Gunga Din.
Got off the tube
holding martini with ice cube
and hailed a taxi.
Then talked to a patsy
who revealed the thief’s whereabouts
and after paying him off with Brussels sprouts
headed off to a Taylor Swift concert
and after entering without shoes or shirt
saw the thief sitting in the front row
wearing designer threads from head to toe.

As Seamus wrestled the man to the ground,
Jack jumped on the stage without making a sound,
spoke Taylor Swift to the crowd
leaving them fairly wowed,
“If you’re lucky enough to be different from everyone else, don’t ever change.”
So Jack O’ Hare hopped to the mike and sang Home On The Range.
As self-styled critics booed
and responded with gestures rude,
Taylor sang, “The haters gonna hate, hate, hate…”
Meanwhile the thief in Seamus’ hands was left to his fate, fate, fate…

Taylor sang, “Baby, I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake…”
which is what Seamus did to the thief whose body started to quake, quake, quake…
As gold coins fell by the thousands out of the thief’s pockets,
Taylor Swift threw back her own golden lockets,
“The fakers gonna fake, fake, fake…”
Meanwhile into Scotland Yard’s hands went the thievish rake, rake, rake…

Meanwhile Jack’s duet with Taylor was soon all the rage
Fans didn’t want them to leave the stage
The lucky hare got a kiss that was Taylor-made
And Seamus thought when it came to friendship, Jack’s made the grade.

-A Jack O’ Hare poem
written by Christopher
Thursday March 12th
2015.

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Jack O’ Hare In Ireland

November 28, 2014 at 8:19 pm (Humour, Poetry) (, , , )

Jack O’ Hare In Ireland

Jack O’ Hare was a bunny rabbit
won a trip, decided to grab it
went to Ireland his ancestral home
where he saw the sea ‘neath the Cliffs of Moher foam
visited the Killarney Lakes
the leprechauns there were quite the flakes
visited Waterford Crystal
where he bought himself a glass pistol
to frighten off that nasty fox
who wanted to taste his harey locks
he looked at Wedgwood pottery
after all, he won the lottery.
Tried to hug a tower that reached to Heaven
It was the tower of the monk Saint Kevin.
He walked along Wexford’s fair streets
to fiddle music he kept the beats
The Irish had never seen such a wild bunny hop
they cheered him on and didn’t ask him to stop.
He watched the sun go down on Galway Bay
and frolicked with many a colleen in Irish hay.
He drank many a Guinness in the town of Dublin
where he received absolution for his past sin.

-A Jack O’ Hare poem
written by Christopher
Friday November 28th
2014.

-Jack O’ Hare was the name I gave the wild hare jack rabbit who used to live in my backyard when I lived in the Canadian province of Alberta.

On this my birthday I decided to write a poem honouring my old friend.

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Limerick About An Irishman Named Barney

September 5, 2014 at 4:58 pm (Humour, Poetry) (, , , , , , , )

Limerick About An Irishman Named Barney

There was a man named Barney
who visited every pub in Killarney
he drank so much stout
while walking about
his kidney stone they kiss and call Blarney

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Magog En Route To Russia

April 6, 2014 at 4:54 pm (Commentary, Geopolitics and International Relations, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Magog En Route To Russia

Welsh werewolf British Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley was flying a British Airways flight from London to Moscow.

He was on a secret diplomatic mission for the British government.

He was flying to Moscow to meet Russian President Vladimir Putin and ask him on behalf of the British government to withdraw his troops from the Ukraine-Russia border.

When asked to do this by British Prime Minister David Cameron and British Foreign Secretary William Hague, Rhys Petley asked the two gentlemen, “And what should I offer Putin in return if he does do this?”.

“Use your imagination,” Hague retorted over his cup of tea.

So Magog Rhys Petley was carrying in his wallet a personally autographed copy of the official Engagement photo of Sir Elton John and his future husband David Furnish who would be wed next month under the new laws allowing same sex marriage ceremonies in England and Wales which recently took effect.

Magog would give Putin the photo if he withdrew his troops from the Ukraine-Russia border.

Magog figured he owed the British government this favour.

After all the British government had intervened with the Irish government in Dublin and asked them to drop criminal charges and release the backbench British Labour MP when he was arrested during a Dublin police raid that took place in a Dublin brothel in the late evening hours of Saint Patrick’s Day.

Magog had gone to the brothel to cure his depression and anxiety attacks after he had witnessed a live Druidic human sacrifice ceremony that had taken place earlier that night near Blarney Castle.

Although the tea-toddling Dublin police sergeant who ordered the raid was immediately fired by his superiors for having the audacity to wreck Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations by doing so, Irish prosecutors decided they better prosecute those arrested in the raid.

A quick call from British Prime Minister David Cameron to Irish Taoiseach Enda Kenny (after Cameron had heard the shocking news of Rhys Petley’s arrest in a Dublin bordello) led to the charges against the Welsh MP being discreetly dropped and Magog being discreetly released.

British Labour Party leader Edward Miliband had severely reprimanded his backbench MP when he had returned to his Westminster offices.

“What were you thinking being arrested inside a Dublin bordello?”
Miliband had asked him, “Our London bordellos aren’t good enough for you?”.

And so now Magog was on his way to Moscow to ask Vladimir Putin to kindly remove his troops from the Ukraine-Russia border.

Magog took a quick sip of brandy.

He sure hoped dear Vladimir liked the photo of Sir Elton John and his fiancé David Furnish.

To be continued.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday April 6th
2014.

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Magog Rhys Petley On Saint Patrick’s Day

March 17, 2014 at 6:36 pm (Geopolitics and International Relations, News, Poetry, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Magog Rhys Petley On Saint Patrick’s Day

Magog Rhys Petley
A Welsh werewolf he be
and British Labour MP
swept across the Irish Sea
landing on Irish shore
receiving kisses galore
from a pretty young Colleen
that was on the scene.

This revived him to life
after severe weather’s strife
so he took it on life’s chin
and headed off to Dublin
a fine old girl of a town
where pint o’ Guinness erases frown.

He spent many a fine and carefree day there
complimenting the ladies on their hair
He happened to meet Ukraine’s former PM
and thinking of Solomon’s concubine gem
He mistook Yulia Tymoshenko for a hooker
who walloped him with full force of a James Joyce booker
and so wearing Ulysses for a crown
sporting a black eye all around
he headed off to another town
where this time Murphy’s erased his frown.

He wandered across Ireland far and wide
said Hello to Galway’s tide
kissed the Blarney Stone and a young bride
as he ran to escape the angry groom
he tripped over a witch’s broom
in a strange place full of gloom
not far from Blarney Castle
so found this Welsh rascal
a place where the Druids did sacrifice
and we’re talking humans not mice.

Their best laid plans may go astray
in this wood where night swallows day
Magog saw with his very eyes
and heard the anguished cries
of a victim tied to a stone
the colour red was not jam on scone
The Druidish priest lowered his knife
and took away the Church clergyman’s life.

May Saint Patrick’s Faith be gone from this land
Restore our ancient religion so grand
the Druid priest spoke as the earth did quake
Magog looked down- at his foot a snake.

-A vampire novel chapter
written in the form of a poem
written by Christopher
Monday March 17th
2014

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