Lá Fhéile Pádraig
Saint Patrick's Day. Total excuse to drink too much. Inspires all manner of non-sensical behaviour.
Me and the IT bastard went out drinking. Went to a pub on the river and drank the promotional Guinness. Acquired a large green leprechaun hat with a toucan on it as a reward.
I find that flatmates taken out of the context of the habitat are bearable even enjoyable company. But once in the Habitat the temptation is there to piss and moan about domestic rubbish. At least in the pub there is a lackey who empties the ashtray and takes away the empty pint glasses. This relaxes the reptile brain, and since the domestic disharmony is out of sight, it is also out of mind. This allows a more civil interaction with the possibility of enjoyment, given a sufficient quantity of Guinness.
Inevitably me and the IT bastard found ourselves staggering back the to Habitat drunk and laughing and carrying on. He's recently bought a very expensive power kite, the sort of thing that you fly whilst attached to a contraption like a buggy in order to be dragged along a beach. It's capable of 40 miles an hour whilst so employed and is an enormous amount of fun and not a little dangerous.
The IT bastard decides that he is going to fly the kite. At 2am in the biting freezing cold and howling wind. I called bullshit on him and so it was that, in order to salvage his wounded drunken pride, we found ourselves in a nearby park with a couple more cans of beer each and the Night Kite. I flew it and was dragged face down through the freezing mud. He was dragged into the sky and bust something in his foot when he came back down. I flew the kite really close to a great big oak tree.
This brought howls and whines and imprecations, quite naturally. I understand. The fucking thing is worth more than most family cars. So the Night Kite was snatched from my grasp. The wind picked up and the IT bastard was dragged forward about 5 meters and immediately flies the fucking thing straight into the aforementioned tree at 100 miles an hour under about 120 pounds of strain. The sound of tearing is prominent. The crashing of tree branches follows the instinctive attempt to retrieve by pulling, tugging and hauling.
Needless to say this reduced me to tears. There's that fucking Schadenfreude again. Talk about ROFLMAO. Smell the sesame oil.
Anyway, the next morning I had to put up with all manner of pissing and moaning. Thankfully it wasn't about the kitchen floor, or the fact that the downstairs toilet has no paper again, or that the TV remote is always on my chair in the lounge, or that my shit is always in the washing machine. Bah - I just found myself complaining about people complaining. I realise the irony.
"Oh my foot, woe is me, I have fallen and I can't get up."
"Oh my muddy shoes. They are forever ruined."
"Oh my head. I shall forswear alcohol forever. Thor forfend that I touch another drop."
Fair play. Drunken injuries. My own leather jacket has something very like dog shit smeared down the front. I can cope with that.
Then this: "My kite is ripped. If it wasn't for you it'd still fly."
Like fuck. You miserable cunt, you're the one who took it out, pissed, at 2 in the morning. You were the one who was holding the reins as it plunged suicidally into the immovable object. You and you alone decided to apply your full body weight to the lines to pull it out of the tree, while I laughed. You sir are the architect of the night kite's demise. Here's some fucking duct tape you prick. Do your mouth while you're at it.
Me and the IT bastard went out drinking. Went to a pub on the river and drank the promotional Guinness. Acquired a large green leprechaun hat with a toucan on it as a reward.
I find that flatmates taken out of the context of the habitat are bearable even enjoyable company. But once in the Habitat the temptation is there to piss and moan about domestic rubbish. At least in the pub there is a lackey who empties the ashtray and takes away the empty pint glasses. This relaxes the reptile brain, and since the domestic disharmony is out of sight, it is also out of mind. This allows a more civil interaction with the possibility of enjoyment, given a sufficient quantity of Guinness.
Inevitably me and the IT bastard found ourselves staggering back the to Habitat drunk and laughing and carrying on. He's recently bought a very expensive power kite, the sort of thing that you fly whilst attached to a contraption like a buggy in order to be dragged along a beach. It's capable of 40 miles an hour whilst so employed and is an enormous amount of fun and not a little dangerous.
The IT bastard decides that he is going to fly the kite. At 2am in the biting freezing cold and howling wind. I called bullshit on him and so it was that, in order to salvage his wounded drunken pride, we found ourselves in a nearby park with a couple more cans of beer each and the Night Kite. I flew it and was dragged face down through the freezing mud. He was dragged into the sky and bust something in his foot when he came back down. I flew the kite really close to a great big oak tree.
This brought howls and whines and imprecations, quite naturally. I understand. The fucking thing is worth more than most family cars. So the Night Kite was snatched from my grasp. The wind picked up and the IT bastard was dragged forward about 5 meters and immediately flies the fucking thing straight into the aforementioned tree at 100 miles an hour under about 120 pounds of strain. The sound of tearing is prominent. The crashing of tree branches follows the instinctive attempt to retrieve by pulling, tugging and hauling.
Needless to say this reduced me to tears. There's that fucking Schadenfreude again. Talk about ROFLMAO. Smell the sesame oil.
Anyway, the next morning I had to put up with all manner of pissing and moaning. Thankfully it wasn't about the kitchen floor, or the fact that the downstairs toilet has no paper again, or that the TV remote is always on my chair in the lounge, or that my shit is always in the washing machine. Bah - I just found myself complaining about people complaining. I realise the irony.
"Oh my foot, woe is me, I have fallen and I can't get up."
"Oh my muddy shoes. They are forever ruined."
"Oh my head. I shall forswear alcohol forever. Thor forfend that I touch another drop."
Fair play. Drunken injuries. My own leather jacket has something very like dog shit smeared down the front. I can cope with that.
Then this: "My kite is ripped. If it wasn't for you it'd still fly."
Like fuck. You miserable cunt, you're the one who took it out, pissed, at 2 in the morning. You were the one who was holding the reins as it plunged suicidally into the immovable object. You and you alone decided to apply your full body weight to the lines to pull it out of the tree, while I laughed. You sir are the architect of the night kite's demise. Here's some fucking duct tape you prick. Do your mouth while you're at it.
posted at 13:37
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