Irish People Protest Foreign Minorities Receiving Money, Apparently Not Joking

Recent weeks have seen Waterford mobs campaigning against minority groups receiving welfare funding. They demand that the small, vulnerable group leave before they cause problems for the larger community, and are apparently completely serious despite part of Ireland in the European Union.

Ireland, which has received tens of billions of euros in funding from the EU in recent decade — funding provided from richer countries with the express intent of raising Irish living conditions to what the rest of the EU views as minimum standards — is now facing problems with gobshites think they have half a leg to stand on when telling anyone else to do anything.

Some of the stupider Irish — and we’re not talking “not that bright”, we’re talking more “accidentally chew through their tongue if forced to attempt a crossword” — believe that fellow Europeans are somehow incapable of earning or keeping money. Possibly unaware that it’s only four years since Ireland had to beg Europe for an emergency 67.5 billion euro bailout for just fucking things up altogether. Probably incapable of counting to four.

Many Romanis have come to Ireland to seek a better life and escaping crushing poverty in their home country. Several Irish people protesting against this could not be reached for comment, as their utter ignorance of their own people’s history of emigration caused them to vanish from the timestream. Making the world a better place.

“We don’t want them round here!” said Paddy O’Ballface, a thirtysomething nobody who has never even heard of the times Irish people were forced to travel across the American continent for back-breaking third-class labor. He has never felt any prejudice. He has never been more than four miles from his home. He is rarely found than four meters from his couch.

The situation was escalated by Sinn Féin councillor John Hearne, who made comments accusing Roma people of theft, violent attacks with swords, and grooming his friends’ children with cocaine, and none of those are jokes for this article, those are all things he really said. You’d really think things like that would lead to arrests instead of a facebook posts. It’s almost like he’s an incendiary prat whose lips are visibly moving as he paws through “Rabble Rousing for Dummies”.

A number of people have agreed with the Sinn Féin councilor, apparently failing to realize what that status really says about them. “We’re not a violent, racist, sectarian mob of thugs!”, they cry. “We’re just attacking people in accordance with the statements of Sinn Féin members. History will surely confirm that only good guys do that.”

More examples of Irish glory:

Ireland’s Abortion Laws Announced As Plot Of Next Saw Movie

Lions Gate Entertainment yesterday announced that the next installment in the Saw franchise, movies about people subjected to brutal and overcomplicated deathtraps to satisfy the whims of madmen, would be based on Irish abortion laws.

“It’s a masterpiece of bloody horror” said Lionsgate executive Media Mogulson. “We had thought Saw 3D would be the seventh and last film, because of difficulty in maintaining levels of visceral disgust. Some of our later obscene deathtraps looked more like Hellraisers playing Mouse Trap than instruments of appalling horror perpetrated on victims trapped by uncaring strangers. But this Irish abortion legislation, wow.”

“The suicide exemption, that part where the government makes women plead that they’re prepared to kill themselves just to regain control of their own bodies? That’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard. The Saw movies have always been about being trapped by uncaring psychopaths prepared to end you in agony as punishment for crimes against their demented sense of morality. Widening this to an entire country was a stroke of storytelling genius. A larger stage has worked well other movie series, like Die Hard of Preventable Causes.”

“I haven’t had a chance to meet the writer yet, but I’m sure this Mr Oireachtas will …”

At this point a reporter leaned forward to explain that the Oirechtas is the entire government of Ireland, not a single writer obsessed with conjuring horrors upon the female form in ways the Alien movies could only have nightmares of. Mogulson was heard to whisper “Jesus, has anybody called the UN?” When he learned that someone had, and that the resulting report was ignored, he tore off his microphone and started running for the airport. The producer of seven movies based entirely on tearing people apart with heavy machinery was last heard shouting “You’re all sick!”

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Ireland Reminds World that Geneva Conventions Do Not Apply to Midges

With the summer sun occasionally remembering where Ireland is, the government assembled reporters in Phoenix Park to remind everyone that the Geneva Conventions do not apply to midges.

“The various treaties signed at Geneva have protected generations from cruel and indiscriminate attacks,” said Taoiseach Enda Kenny, stopping every few words to flail at the air around him. “But I think we can all agree that those wee midge bastards didn’t agree to anything, and so don’t enjoy protection against any weapons we might care to use against them.”

Assembled reporters were too busy swatting at their notepads to press questions.

“Chemical and biological weapons are banned because of their ability to kill thousands at a single stroke, which honestly sounds pretty good right now” continued Kenny as several visible red marks rose on his neck and face. “Flamethrowers are rightly condemned in warfare, but it’s pretty hot already and there’s a wile load of the wee gets.”

“We’re just saying that if anybody has any genetic or viral ideas on wiping them out, we’d probably overlook any international treaty kinda things.”

One reporter was identified as having raised his hand to ask question, not to break up a cloud of the buzzing filthspecks, and wanted to know if nuclear weapons bans were still in effect.

“At this point we’re not ruling anything out” replied Kenny. He then spluttered and spat, before pulling the edges of his mouth back, squinting, and storming back indoors.

More Irish events news with

Reforming the Committee on Evil Literature

The Committee on Evil Literature isn’t an unholy alliance of Iago, Moriarty, and Dracula out to illiter-ate the Superfriends in a very special episode about reading. It was a real government body whose effects are still being felt today.

Ireland has a history of being fertile soil for new writers, and then disgusting them until they have to leave. Two ways that Ireland’s historical attitude to writers has been a barrel of shit. Standard practice is restricting writers until they’re too safely dead to affect the status quo, then celebrating their corpses for tourism money. It’s gotten so bad that a Samuel Beckett-class Irish Navy vessel is being named the James Joyce. Which would seem like a tone-deaf attempt to hijack their names, until you realize that a naval vessel’s function is to leave Irish shores as often possible. and that’s a mission both writers heartily endorsed.

Irish censorship thinks printing peaked early with the Gutenberg bible. Censorship is used like a television remote, getting rid of anything they don’t like the look of, or might not like, or simply think is too loud or can’t be bothered with. We gained our independence in 1916 and didn’t make it a decade before using our newfound freedom to get rid of all this dangerous freedom.

The Censorship of Publications Board was created by the Committee on Evil Literature. Which is about half a step from the Committee Of I’ll Get The Petrol And Matches. The Committee was formed to investigate whether there were problems with immoral publications, and was the most efficient government body in history. They’d made up their mind before getting to the “Name” section on the committee registration form.

The resulting Censorship of Publications Board started with a professor of English literature, two members of parliament, a protestant priest and a catholic priest i.e two priests with very slightly different accents. And it only took three votes to ban a book. Which meant even mentioning the church was effectively an immediate ban, and as we all know, making sure nobody could criticize the activities of the church has just worked out bloody fantastically for generations of Irish people.

The bans were instantaneous. You could only appeal after the fact, giving the board the tower to starve writers into submission, or rather prevent them from even trying by scaring publishers away from anything that might end up as an expensively wasted effort.

The other big “no-no” was sexual health. A while back the government proudly announced that there were no longer any books banned for obscenity, which is technically true — the worst kind of true — because in Irish eyes, “obscenity” and “obscenity and mentioning anything to do with abortion” are legally distinct categories. And there are still a sheaf of books banned under the latter.

Those bans are so Irish: we’ll ban love, sex, and happiness if they even mentions something we don’t like. These books are still banned even though it became legal to distribute printed matter relating to abortion in 1992, and bans are meant to expire after 12 years. They specifically changed the law to make these bans endless. That’s the Irish attitude: even when something’s already illegal, they’ll take the time to make double-illegal, extra-illegal, effectively infinitely illegal, so illegal that it’s still illegal even after the original laws no longer apply. But they won’t take the time to fix it, because leaving things permanently screwed up by past mistakes is the Irish way.

That’s why ours is a country with an active anti-blasphemy law. In 2009 the Oireachtas noticed that embarrassing old blasphemy laws were still on the books, so they updated them into embarrassing new blasphemy laws. You can be fined €25,000 for “publication or utterance of blasphemous matter”, to which the only possible response is: Jesus Christ that’s embarrassing. Jesus Christ, personally, I am addressing you here on our global communication system to tell you that you are either stupid for letting this happen or stupid for agreeing with it. Or you don’t exist. Those are the only logical options.

Some claimed that the ban was a constitutional necessity — as if that was less problematic — but if it’s only there to dot constitution’s i’s, why is there a five figure fine attached? Why isn’t a single cent? Unenforced laws aren’t the same as no laws. Unenforced laws are unused weapons, like a loaded gun hanging over the fireplace. It changes the tone of every discussion in that room. That bit of backwards voodoo is going to sit gathering dust until they want to shut a website down, and then they’re going to bundle it in with everything else they can think of expensively terrorize somebody into shutting up.

Ours is a country where the national broadcaster paid money to apologize to the legal-mercenary hate group. RTÉ shoveled taxpayer money to the Iona Institute — whose sole function is preventing people from gaining equal rights — in a groveling apology for someone else calling them homophobic. A national broadcaster versus a lobbying group should be a battle for civil rights, not an immediate surrender. RTÉ made it humiliatingly clear that they had to choose between cutting a story or offending anyone who even had a lawyer’s phone number, they’d cut that story with their own fingernails in case someone sued before they found scissors.

That’s how you end up with the UN reminding an entire country that we’re still in multiple violation international human rights law. In 2014. And that’s why we need to reform the Committee on Evil Literature! When sexual health is accidentally infinitely banned, when divine spirits have more legal rights than pregnant women, and when our national broadcaster funds hate groups instead of fighting them, we need our own agency. Distribute more information! Say more things! Print and write and talk and share all the things they’d rather we kept quiet about. If I was rich the Committee on Evil Literation would be a publishing house with the coolest business cards of all time. As it is, we’ve got an internet. And I address you as fellow committee members when I say: we need to use it.

Further discussion of what you’re allowed to see:


Irish Rail and the Toilet of the Future

I spent some time on Iarnród Éireann last week because the only alternative was heading for the west coast on Irish buses. Which are only slightly slower and more painful than designing and building a cannon to blast your own ass straight up, impacting eighteen minutes later when the world has turned beneath you. The train arrived forty minutes late and missing a carriage, the staff cunningly combining the worst of all possible options: being able to delay the train while trying to fix something instead of being able to actually fix it. Nothing defines a transport network like saying “I don’t know if this will work, but I do know the passengers can suck it while I try.” The already late train then slowed down as the engine overheated, becoming The Little Train That Could You Give Me A Minute Here.

All this despite tickets prices apparently index-linked to the price of a palanquin carried by Olympic marathon medallists. So where has all the money gone?

It’s all gone into the crapper.

(This is where I’d show a picture of the toilet, if I was the sort of person who visibly took pictures of toilets while standing near doors of speeding trains I could be hurled from.)

I don’t have a picture, but trust me, these things are bigger than the train’s control cabin. They’re probably bigger than some of the crew’s apartments. I don’t know if the Sumo Transport Corporation sold off excess modules, but it’s a pooradox, because the only humans who’d need a chamber this big couldn’t pass into the train to pass into the toilet. It would have been more space efficient to beam excrement out of passengers with a full transporter bay.

The huge curved sliding door turns like the Earth, and about as quickly, and the automatic motors can’t be manually pushed. Because if there’s one door you want to have a chance of crippling failure it’s the one to the toilet. Let a robot give your newly lightened load a stately unveiling with plenty of time for eye contact with your impatient successor. They’ve already slowed down toilet access more than mathematically possible – the new chamber takes up the space of three regular toilets, and there are normally only two at the end of the carriage –  so the door helps them space ablutions out in time as well as space.

Once you’ve made it past the half-hourly opening of the portal, the natural instinct to lock the door faces three buttons the approximate size and frequency of traffic lights. Green to open the door, red to close the door, and another red to lock it. Because the builders (not makers, we’re on construction-site scales here) can’t aspire to such cunning as traffic lights. You’re given a whole zero seconds to work out the difference between red and green before being blared at by recorded message to lock the door. If Irish Rail have heard of comfortable interface design, they decided the toilet was no place for it. The male voice commands with the disgusted authority of, well, of a man who knows its now his eternally automated job to tell grown humans to lock the toilet door behind them.

Having gained access to the small mobile county of Toiletford you find the standard small toilet tucked in the corner. You get the feeling they’d built this chamber for an ornamental fountain before shamefacedly remembering the realities of filling people with tea in a sealed and shaking container. The vast unadorned floor is the most and least perfect breakdancing surface ever built.

The only possible reason for building this vast delay chamber (instead of the two most luxuriously spacious standard train toilets they could have included in the same area for half the cost) is some bogger being a bit too impressed by a product pitch. I know we all want the robotic future, but it probably shouldn’t be built by the the guy in charge of installing shaking shitshacks on a rail line whose primary PR message is “Aye, aye, we’re working on it.”

There is another explanation. Sliding armored panels, reinforced plumbing, and voice synthesis: that’s all we’d need to build a fully functional RoboGarda. I can only think this is a prototype to test how the components put up with pissing people off, and the opposite, in preparation for a Dublin night deployment.

UPDATE: Doy, of course it’s for wheelchair users etc. This has been my daily reminder of “Shit I take for granted, quite literally, because it’s not a problem I have“. Respect to Iarnród for implementing such accessible facilities so thoroughly instead of shoving a single disabled legal requirement into a corner behind locked doors.

Welcome Back To Ireland

Arriving in Dublin airport’s shiny Terminal 2, we find that the entire intake of the country is being funneled through two passport control booths in one corner of the arrivals hall. An endless row of shiny, empty rooms and only a couple of people working. It couldn’t be a better welcome to Ireland. I was looking around for the little plaque which would reveal it as a genius artistic installation, a sign that the Irish government had finally started employing our creators instead of disgusting them until they left the country (and then stealing their name for military vessels).

The first advert you see in the walkway is “Bank of Ireland Welcomes Foreign Investors!” They don’t try to sell people as much as a cup of tea, because the budget is bamjaxed beyond the ability of all the tourism in the world to solve. They’re skipping directly to selling bits of the country to anyone who’ll promise to look after them better.

Every toilet was tucked away in the furthest possible corner of elevated walkways. Because that’s where you want the one service everyone in the building is guaranteed to need after any amount of waiting around. And the only place you’re more guaranteed to be left waiting than an Irish airport is limbo itself. Every sink has a sticker saying “The taps take three seconds to turn on, just keep your hands under them.” That’s the Irish infrastructure right there: a system is so bad everyone who uses it thinks it’s utterly broken, and instead of fixing it, those in charge put up little signs reassuring people that this disaster is the way things are meant to be and to just keep waiting for the most basic services.

I love the Irish people, and I love Ireland, but putting one in charge of the other is a case of two rights making you go backwards.

Father Backwards on Marriage

Do not rejoice! You have not been blessed to speaking in tongues, much as your modern phones might simulate such feelings with your textile-speech and your semenses. I know you’re used to reading my sermons in Latin — while cloistered in the Clongoes, the beadles assure me they were printed on the front page of the national papers — but now that I’ve been transferred to Ballinagoslowly, the local curates insist my wisdom should be shared with the wider world and its vulgar tonguing.

Alas, simple viceful men, they phrased it in the parlance of a good hand of gambling, saying they should “show the world what we have to deal with”. I denounced them at length over their greedful ways. They were moved by my purity of spirit to exclaim “Yes, that’s exactly what we’re talking about”.

But it gladdens my heart to see the country moved by my words. The “max” the curate uses to blog my words no longer has that shiny little record player, a sure sign the world was moved by my homily against “Satan’s Plates: The Black Wheels Of Sin Turn At 75 rpm“. Through the walls of my cellared prayer chamber, I hear those godless curates complain that the question of marriage once more faces the Irish people, and in my role as Prelate Retro In Insula — appointed by that lovely young man Pius X, when he said that my faith was an inspiration and should be sent to the furthest possible land to spread the faith — I must shepherd my flock.

Of course the church is against marriage. It’s an awful sinful thing, promoting impure thoughts, unclean touchings, and all kinds of messy business. Can’t imagine why anyone would bother. Men and women should be pure before god. It’s bad enough we have to take time from prayer to eat and drink, without giving in to any other urges. Mixing men and women didn’t work in Eden, and it won’t work here.

The church has long understood that single-sex groups are better off. Far better to allow men or women of similar bent to share lodgings, to live together in confraternal brotherhood and sisterhood. Alas, this debauched modern world can no longer support monasteries and convents, wonderful places where men could all live together, sleep together, wake together, engage in pure physical exertion together while thinking only of love for their fellow man.

And convents of course, where the women could bathe together, and kneel together, bowing their heads in compliance, godblessus, begging for forgiveness, seeking instruction from their father figure and then washing again, and washing, next to godliness, oh god yes.

Ave maria.

As my parish priest used to say, there’s no place in god’s kingdom for the devil’s sausage, no matter how hard Eve’s spawn might try to hide it. Marriage is only living in sin with a license! The only sext should be the noonday mass. The Irish church has always been against any kind heterosexuality. It only makes sense that we should encourage monosexual relationships. If we can’t convince people to pay for monastaries, maybe we could have smaller private arrangements, where we have a couple of fellas living together. That might work.

I hope you’ll now join me in prayer to bring this miracle to pass. I can talk to the world on this max all you like, but the only way to really change the world is to kneel quietly with your head down.

Monsignor O’Gcúl



Other Embarrassing Payments By RTÉ

Ireland’s national public service broadcaster RTÉ recently interviewed gay rights activist Rory O’Neill, aka Panti Bliss. They asked Rory about homophobic people in Irish society, and obviously the Iona Institute came up, because they’re the most homophobic people in Irish society. They’re a mercenarily homophobic private company dedicated solely to removing rights from homosexual Irish people. Homophobia is their cúis aige chun a beith (a very Irish raison d’être altogether). The Institute made a legal threat to Ireland’s semi-state voice of public discussion, and that voice immediately squealed “I surrender”, censored its own interviews, and paid them eighty-five thousand euros of public money.

This was so horrifying that even TDs were able to see it was stupid, complaining about the payment in Oireachtas, and enabling the stupid waste of vast sums of money has been the Oirechtas’ sole function for over a decade. The resulting investigation has revealed several other problematic  payments and guidelines issued by RTÉ:

  • RTÉ publicly apologized to world terrorist organizations for their portrayal in the Die Hard movies.
  • Footage of the Berlin Book Burnings is now overdubbed with “Here we see our friends the Jolly Germans trying to keep warm over a particularly cold winter!
  • Reporters in the Ukraine must state that “everyone on both sides look like a grand shower of lads, I’m sure everybody’s right, I wonder if they’d like some free money.
  • Any lawyer who even looks at the RTÉ buildings receives ten thousand euros. And the stench of urine-soaked trousers if they’re standing downwind.
  • Forty thousand euros were sent to the hyena enclosure at Dublin Zoo after a broadcast of the Lion King. On being told Dublin Zoo doesn’t have a hyena enclosure, RTÉ officials hissed “sshhhhhhhh, they might hear you say that!” and threw other people’s money at the hyena-expert until she went away.
  • Excuse me, I’ve just received twenty thousand euros from RTÉ because I’m writing official-sounding mean things about them. I must ponder whether this will make me — and everyone else in the world — more or less likely to legally threaten them in future.
  • It’s expected that Ireland will have to raise taxes when the last surviving Nazi official finds out about all the World War 2 movies they’ve been showing. But at least not standing up against goddamn fascists is something Ireland has experience in, so RTÉ’s current behaviour is detestably understandable.

More dickhaters in The IONA Institute: In Our Nice Arseholes? and The Sixth Reason Homophobia Is Unmanly.

The IONA Institute: “In Our Nice Arseholes?”

The Iona Institute is the latest Irish attempt to build a time machine set for full reverse. Their publicly stated goal is the prevention of marriage equality, but they will sue you for calling them homophobes, because the further you can draw the bullshit battle lines from the real issue the longer you can hold back genuine progress. That being their sole mercenary function.

This private limited company’s job is to miracle up arguments that marriage equality is anything but the most basic of human rights, now that standing in a pulpit and scowling is ineffective. Their reports read like a schoolchild googling up references for an argument they’ve already written. Fergus Finlay points out how they compared the rate of reported Irish marriage breakdown to a time when divorce was illegal, Senator David Norris told the Seanad that they “knowingly” tried to mislead a constitutional convention about the superiority of biological parents (by quoting a study which specifically stated it could not be used for that purpose), and they’ll keep doing it because think that you can bury basic human decency under enough of a pagecount.

The Iona Institute’s head, David Quinn, has a fortnightly column in the Irish Independent. Because 2014 is a big scary number and jaysus, wouldn’t it be nice if it was a few centuries backwards. He complains that no-one can point to a homophobic comment by Iona staff, but that’s because actions speak louder than even the most careful of words. It doesn’t matter how politely you try to reclassify people as subhuman. He whinges that he doesn’t get any credit for recommending civil unions instead, because you don’t get credit for installing nice carpets in the compounds you want to send people who aren’t allowed to join the rest of society. Even America’s hatemongers evolved past the “separate-but-equal” bullshit, and that’s a country where people are still allowed to shoot an unarmed teenager of their least favorite race.

The Institute recently crowed about their “victory” over Panti Bliss, an Irish gay rights activist and drag queen who called them out on being blatantly homophobic. They protested being called “mean and horrible”, because nothing says “generous and pleasant to be around” like the constant threat of legal action. They got the statements cut from the televised interview and forced RTE to pay them eighty-five thousand euro. They turned down the right to make a statement in reply, instead taking the money and hampering debate, because that is this private limited company’s entire mission statement.

On the one hand you’ve got a man who takes on Irish pubs while wearing a dress for a living. On the other you’ve got a mercenary fundamentalist corporation who contact their lawyers to censor free speech. When Disney get round to a story about marriage equality that will be the exact plot. Because those arguing from authority to silence critics have always been on the right side of history. In that “most of them are extinct now”, which is the right side of history for such backwards hatemongers.

The Iona Institute masters of manipulation. They bullied Ireland’s allegedly independent national broadcaster into paying them for the privilege of never crossing them again in, in advance of next year’s national referendum on equal marriage. The term “Iona Institute” itself is a euphemism. They are homophobes, bigots, hateful oppression disguised as the voice of moral authority, and they’re named for an island of Irish religious history. Because all of those things are an unfortunate part of Irish religious history.

We need to restate them. We can’t let them hide hate behind the picture-postcard of a beautiful Gaelic island, nor can we let them spread hate in our own beautiful Gaelic island. Luckily I’ve discovered that their name is actually an acronym. In the same way that a prissy Irish mammy might complain about a daughter’s new hairstyle, wondering why she would cut it when “she has such nice hair”, the Iona Institute passive-aggressively complaining by asking why the Irish people would want to stick dicks “In Our Nice Arseholes?”

That’s “nice” in the provincial sense, of course: small, normal to rhyme with conformal, and never doing anything fun. The core principle of provincialism is that the potential vague uneasiness of people who hate you is more important than your entire life. Even when they have to use lawyers to enforce it. Why would any decent, normal, god-fearing, obedient little Irish people want to stick anything up any of their orifices? And why would a nice girl want to do anything with another girl? They just don’t understand it, and you don’t want to make a fuss, like, so just stop being who you are so they can pretend it’s 1600, there’s a dear.

This is a group whose head has commented positively on “natural” methods of contraception, when even the dumbest lay preacher knows that the only way to naturally avoid conception is to already be pregnant. A result natural methods 100% guarantee.

They want to externalize a semantic argument about the meaning of words, turning their homophobia a nebulous side-issue instead of the real and immediate oppression of real, long-suffering people. Homophobia isn’t something unfairly applied to them, it’s their entire mission. They aren’t sallying forth from some safe spot to meet us in the middle. Their starting position is toxic, their very stance poisoning the land they stand on and the country they hate in.

Until 1993 it was illegal to practice homosexuality in Ireland. I guess I’m just meant to feel lucky I was born unattracted to men. If Benedict Cumberbatch had been famous in the 80s I would have had serious trouble. Ireland allowed the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles to sleep together in a sewer before its’ own citizens could sleep together in their own homes, and that fact will never stop humiliating us. But we can learn from it, and fight against it, and we can start by seeing things as they really are. And the IONA Institute are a crowd of miserable homophobes clenching against the wall, protecting puckered orifices and pockets stuffed with mercenary hatemoney, crying “In Our Nice Arseholes?”

See that every time you see their name. It helps. Because that’s what they’re doing: being every so proper about it, but being total arseholes.

Ireland should learn to defend itself against Donald Trump with The Trump Endurance Experiment. Or continue countering hatemongers with The Sixth Reason Homophobia Is Unmanly.

Pacific Rim: The Story of the Irish Jaeger

The movie doesn’t tell the story of the monster portal which opened in the Atlantic, because Ireland dealt with it single-handedly. It turns out that “being invaded from other lands” is pretty much our entire history, cultural legacy, and best way to get us to kick your arse if you try it now we have a tech sector. On the grounds that it was how we defeat all our existing demons, we built our jaeger out of a distillery.


40% fuel ensured the pilots didn’t feel any pain, fatigue, or need to ask pointed questions about the feasibility of a 100 meter tall bipedal robot. But the real breakthrough was when it turned out that the best way to check advanced psychological compatibility for direct neural linkage was “fighting with sticks.”

Advanced electro-neuro-compatibility screening, using the first tool ever grasped by ape

Electroneurofusion screening, using the first tool ever grasped by ape

We immediately drafted the Kilkenny hurling team.

Photo: Jim O’Sullivan

“I’ll tear his head off, you get the ball!” (Photo: Jim O’Sullivan)

Fifteen championship trained violencies of pure speed. Hurling is one of the fastest games in the world, because if you were up against over a dozen stick-wielding Irishmen, firing what’s not so much a small ball as a large bullet, with no protective padding, you’d move quickly too. Fifteen fellas to divide the load – that’s more help than Jesus had, and even He couldn’t have helped any kaiju fool enough to start a fight with a hurley team in a distillery.

They annihilated everything that dared step out of the water. If they’d been on the coast at the dawn of time, all life would still be aquatic. They learned to use large boats to beat down the monsters, because the largest boats in Irish waters are usually Spanish fishing trawlers, though sometimes they had to keep the fight going for hours until they found one.

Once Whiskey Output ran out of grain during an extended battle. The hurlers disconnected the bridge, stepped out onto the roof with flare pistols, fired them in the air to let the monster know where they were, then leapt across and beat the unholy shite out of it with their hurls. This jaeger only carried distress flares to let the monsters know when they were in trouble. It didn’t have a self-destruct; its final option was to let the kaiju bite and let a million gallons of poteen make that melting-kaiju-acid-spit look like a moisturizing cleanser.

Of course, no kaiju ever got that far. When Whiskey Output sealed the breach (by standing right on top of it and playing Whack-a-Kaiju with anything that stuck its misshapen head through, a strategy which seemed to evade the rest of the world, until they gave up) they marched back to Kilkenny, parked it, and took the lid off the fuel tank. Which was why they were too busy to turn up at the Shatterdome. And wouldn’t have been allowed to drive there anyway.

For more giant robot shenanigans, behold