Mr. Dan Kelly Presents... The End of Irish Civilization
Paying homage to Mike Sterling's Progressive Ruin Presents... The End of Civilization series (Mike reviews and roundly mocks the most fanboyish of fanboy trinkets and devices from Previews The Comic Shop Catalog), I felt obligated to create the following when the Creative Irish Gifts catalog showed up in our mailbox. Some might call this plastic Paddyism. I suggest that there may be a more fake material than plastic that better symbolizes this crap. And don't get me started on the nonsensical inclusion of several "Scottish" items. Irish, Scottish... who can tell the difference, right? Ah, you Celts all look the same.
Fresh from walking the streets of Bannockburn, Scuttish/sluttish Barbie brings all the lads to the moors with her bagpipes, wee plaid skirt, and CFM tam-o-shanter.
Bring out the tangy, smoke-flavored soul of your lamb and potatoes, just like they do in Donegal, Ireland. Yeah, sure. Some use mesquite, others use charcoal, and still others hardwood. I've always barbecued with peat myself. Mmmmm, peat-meat.
Speaking of peat. I don't really know what the stuff smells like, but I'm trying to imagine the wisdom of filling your living space with the scent of smoldering rotted and compressed vegetation. I mean, what could be stupider?
Oh.
Hang it on the wall near your Mammy cookie jar.
And somewhere in a small country village, an Irishman is shoveling dirt from his compost pile into little bags, and laughing himself sick.
Because nothing says Irish pride like a stoned hippie jam band. I guess Garcia was part-Irish, so.. Nah... I can't see it.
"It will also be a hit at parties and parades."
I think we go to different parties and parades.
I seem to remember hearing a similar phrase somewhere. Where was it...?
Oh, right...
He: "But, honey... They're smaller and quieter than a full-sized bagpipe."
She: "I want a divorce. Now."
Finally, BEHOLD THE TRUE END OF IRISH CIVILIZATION:
Then again, maybe she's a druid high priestess. A snuggly-warm druid high priestess.
Fresh from walking the streets of Bannockburn, Scuttish/sluttish Barbie brings all the lads to the moors with her bagpipes, wee plaid skirt, and CFM tam-o-shanter.
Bring out the tangy, smoke-flavored soul of your lamb and potatoes, just like they do in Donegal, Ireland. Yeah, sure. Some use mesquite, others use charcoal, and still others hardwood. I've always barbecued with peat myself. Mmmmm, peat-meat.
Speaking of peat. I don't really know what the stuff smells like, but I'm trying to imagine the wisdom of filling your living space with the scent of smoldering rotted and compressed vegetation. I mean, what could be stupider?
Oh.
Hang it on the wall near your Mammy cookie jar.
And somewhere in a small country village, an Irishman is shoveling dirt from his compost pile into little bags, and laughing himself sick.
Because nothing says Irish pride like a stoned hippie jam band. I guess Garcia was part-Irish, so.. Nah... I can't see it.
"It will also be a hit at parties and parades."
I think we go to different parties and parades.
I seem to remember hearing a similar phrase somewhere. Where was it...?
Click to viewOh, right...
He: "But, honey... They're smaller and quieter than a full-sized bagpipe."
She: "I want a divorce. Now."
Finally, BEHOLD THE TRUE END OF IRISH CIVILIZATION:
Then again, maybe she's a druid high priestess. A snuggly-warm druid high priestess.