Brian (C-Dogg) Cowen is Da Man! Ireland’s O.G.! The playah of playahs is starin’ down the world! It’s C-Dogg’s game now Fritz and you don’t stand a chance.
Fritz waits in the lobby of the Central Bank. Nervous. Clutching a briefcase of cash in both hands.
D4 is standing outside. Patriots one n’ all. Wrap the green flag ‘round ‘em boys. The wailing and keening can be heard all over the globe.
‘I’m loik sooo glad Pearse didn’t live to see this’.
‘We’re going to have to sell one of the cars.’
‘I’m probably never going to vote for them again’ says a furious Sandymount resident, Molotov cocktail in hand (or maybe it’s just a cocktail).
A sudden hush falls. The new sheriff shuffles into town. Straight from the IMF’s secret laboratory. It’s Henry Kissinger/Uncle Fester genetic mash-up: Ajai Chopra. It’s a lonely old job. Like being an executioner. He inspects the gallows. He pulls on the rope. He’s not sure if it can take the weight. He heads upstairs to look at the books. C-Dogg chuckles.
‘Heh, them books is as cooked as McDaid’s meth? Fool ain’t gonna find sheeeeeet.’
C-Dogg has emptied the national till. Your till is next Fritz. You’re the one told us to rescue them Anglo biaaaatches. We coulda just put a cap in their asses but you said, ‘hey, let ‘em be’. Well, we got this here grenade now Fritz and we’ve taken out the pin. We go, you go. So put the briefcase on the table, f**k the repayments, and get yo sorry crackah ass on the next flight back to lederhosen land.
Our plan is working! We’ve turned the corner! I COMMEND THIS BULLSHIT TO THE HOUSE!
No comments:
Post a Comment