(Reblogged from garfbertcomic)
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
Oscar Wilde (via glamour-cruelty)

(Source: larmoyante)

(Reblogged from ladydanger7)
(Reblogged from pat-bren)

Romance Pat_Bren

After the overwhelming(ly negative) response to my fashion advice post, I solicited more questions from my virile and rambunctious Twitter followers, this time on the subject of love and/or s*x of which I am also a knowledgeable expert. Below I have answers your questions using my knowledge of ovaries and friends with benefits and so forth.

Úna Mac Ní Heochalaigaingáire asks: In rural Ireland it is hard to find the men. Where can I find the men?

Romance Pat_Bren Responds: Men are in lots of places Úna, you just have to know where to look. Men work on the railway, and fly planes above you over your head. Sometimes postmen are men. Sometimes, you may be overlooking something that is actually a man, like a man who looks like a statue or a sofa. Also, consider that some women are quite lovely and may be willing to have s*x with you, and that men are bad.

Hugh Jackman Not The Actor asks: I’m a nice guy. I make $100,000 a year, live in a nice house, can easily provide for myself and a partner, am genial and easy to talk to, sociable, a good listener, and I give amazing foot massages and yet still I can’t get women to like me. Why is this?

Romance Pat_Bren Responds: I looked up your Facebook and it appears you have a gigantic artichoke instead of a head, that’s probably why.

What is Up With Your Head asks: I am a gay man. However, I live in 1849 and work in a coal mine. By the time the eighteen hour work day is over, I’m just too tired to have s*x with men. Any advice?

Romance Pat_Bren responds: Assuming your loved one works with you, I’m sure you could get away with having s*x in the mines when no-one’s looking. The mines are very dark and filled with noxious fumes so even if someone does see they will probably die very soon afterwards. Make sure to bring a canary, be weary of cave-ins and try not to get too much coal dust into your manly orifices.

Satan and Nazis are Cool lol Shut Up Mom asks: I am a 13 year old boy teen and have never had s*x. Everyone else in the world has had s*x but not me. Will I ever have s*x?

Romance Pat_Bren responds: Not looking good, I’m afraid. You should have had s*x many times already, and already be settling down, thinking of marriage and applying for a mortgage. Perhaps you’ll find a job that only people who don’t have s*x will do, like programming robots or being Pope, but probably not. It’s over. Your life is over. Forget it.

Xxxxx Xxxxxxxx Xxxxxx asks: I work in the XXX. Sometimes, while hacking someone’s email account or scanning their text messages for evidence of dissident activity, I find a poetic letter or wonderfully innocent phrase that makes me go goo-goo. How can I tell the person I want to make passionate, lawful love to them without destroying the fragile net of fear and insecurity that keeps capitalism afloat?

Romance Pat_Bren responds: Hmm. Tricky one. I would say send a drone to drop a missile filled with flowers and perfume at them, or filled with guns and anthrax so you can frame them and drag them off to Gitmo like they deserve. It’s just a matter of time anyway, why even bother pretending? The terrorist scum blend among the population, using innocents as cover, killing and maiming with no regrets, fundamentally disgusting savages unfit to exist in the same world as the good and kind, worthy only of extermination. May their bones bleach in the desert for a thousand years, the no-good bastards, the evil monsters, the disgusting tumours on all the earth, that take and destroy all the good that God has given us in His infinite wisdom.
Or just go up to them and say “hi”, that might work.

Fashion Pat_Bren

It may not be obvious, but I’ve always wanted to be a fashion writing person. I just love to watch models looking really sad while acting as hangers for the latest colourful fads. As such, I recently solicited fashion questions from my Twitter followers, and below have answered the least racist ones using my expert knowledge of cloth and cloth produces.

Stephanie Battle-of-Waterloo-Power-Ranger asks: I’ve heard that horizontal stripes are fattening, is this true?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: Not if they are consumed as part of a healthy diet.

Hansel Gristle-Grestle-Gristle asks: Which high street designer brand provides the nicest clothes?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: Well, I’ve worked for Snickers for many years.

Bob O’Bob asks: I was recently in Paris for Fashion Week and noted that a new trend is shawls worn thrown over one shoulder while farting into a wasp’s nest. Will this catch on over here and should I prepare myself?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: Likely not, unfortunately all the wasps have gone back into space for the winter.

Doctor Jump Running-Around-in-a-Circle asks: I recently killed a patient. What clothes should I dress them in to make them look alive?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: Yellows and earthy browns tend to cover up the look of decomposition, and red shoes help to take the eye away from the discolouration of livor mortis.

Windy Hyena asks: Culottes or knickerbockers?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: I always prefer the looser knickerbockers as they are much better at hiding my aroused penis.

Throwing-a-Cadbury’s-Flake-into-a-Wind-Turbine-and-Making-it-Rain Chocolate asks: I’ve noticed trouser legs are getting very high these days, almost erotically so. How high can the trouser leg eventually go?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: Judging by trends, I would say very soon the trouser leg will work upwards, so that you wear a trousers on your top half and not your bottom half. The trouser leg will keep going higher until eventually it is eighty feet tall and too heavy to wear and humanity is destroyed.

Helen Schneider asks: My husband doesn’t love me anymore. Once, our smouldering passions would tip over into energetic, frenetic hardcore love-making once an hour. It was very inconvenient as we worked together in a playschool, and yet I yearn for those days once more, as our bodies shuddered in unison while the waves of pleasure began and I asked the children to go play in the sandbox.

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: I think you’ve got the wrong blog, and you don’t actually have a question, but I would say a spell in the army would do you both the world of good.

Garotte A Big Man asks: Purple?

Fashion Pat_Bren responds: Never before Sunday.

Set The Night on Fire

There was a rugby match on the telly in the pub. They had the sound down and no-one was minding it. Paul the landlord was polishing glasses and having a chat with old Charlie Byrne, in for his regular Saturday afternoon pint, complaining about the missus with the edge of a smile.
  “What I wouldn’t give to have a woman like your Julia,” said Charlie.
  “You won’t have much luck there. She’s looking for someone like that Onassis fella.”
The lady appeared, a slightly heavy but very pleasant blonde wearing a navy wool jumper and a long emerald green skirt.
  “Speak of the divil,” said Paul.
  “The closest I get to Onassis is you lads sitting on-your-arses,” she said.
  “You’re no divil Julia, don’t mind him,” said Charlie.
  “Charlie wants to run off with ya,” said Paul.
  “Does he? Well, stick a pair of sunglasses on and get a bit more of a tan and you might be in with a chance.”
  “I was only messing,” said Charlie, blushing and looking into his pint.
  “Ah, we’re just having a bit of gas,” said Julia. “Anyway, how’s the match going?”
They looked up at the telly. The match was gone, and the words “RTÉ News - Breaking” were on the screen.
  “Where’s the match?” said Julia. “What does it say? I haven’t me glasses.”
  “Something happening.”
Paul reached and turned up the sound. A hook nosed and white haired news reporter came on. He seemed dishevelled and confused, half reading from a page on his desk and half improvising.
  “Apologies for interrupting the broadcast, but we have some… terrible events unfolding in Dublin. A short while ago, an explosion occurred. Due to… mitigating factors… it’s hard to pinpoint where, though it does… did… seem to be centred on the airport. Dublin Airport. Our reports… and what we saw ourselves here at RTÉ and the surrounding areas… indicate the explosion was nuclear.”
  “Jesus,” said Paul.
The newsman continued.
  “If you are near the site of the explosion, get as far away from the city as you can. If you were near enough to feel the effects or you are injured, stay indoors and close your windows and doors, sealing them as tightly as you can. It can be assumed there is a danger of being exposed to radioactive fallout. We… aren’t sure about anything other than this, and we are moving our equipment to our Athlone headquarters after this broadcast. In the meantime, please turn on your radio sets which will provide more up-to-date information as it comes in. This broadcast, first sent at… ten past four on the ninth of May, shall repeat as long as the station is on air and no further broadcasts have been made. May… may you all stay safe.”
The title came on again, and after a minute of stunned silence, the same news bulletin began again. Paul turned it off.
  “Merciful Jesus,” said Charlie. “Is it the Russians? I knew they’d do something like this.”
  “What would the Soviets be doing bombing Dublin?” said Paul. “No, it’s either the Brits or the RA.”
  “They’re not my RA anymore.”
  “God. That’s terrible,” said Julia. “How big did they say it was? Did he say how many were hurt?”
  “No,” said Paul. “Probably thousands though. Tens of thousands.”
  “God, you’re not serious.”
  “Course I’m serious Julia, it’s a nuclear bomb, not a firework stuck up a cat’s hole.”
  “Poor souls. Poor little children and all.”
  “I know. Bastards.”
  “Oh God,” said Julia. “Dennis is up the mountain today, isn’t he?”
  “Is he? I thought they were training down on the pitch.”
  “No, they go for a run up the mountain on Saturday now that the weather’s in it.”
  “Jesus,” said Paul.
  “If he was looking up to Dublin when the bomb went off, he’d be blinded.”
  “What? Oh my God.”
Julia started shaking and breathing hard.
  “Get him back, Paul. For God’s sake.”
He went out.
  “You can’t see Dublin from the mountain,” said Charlie. “He’ll be alright.”
  “Oh God,” said Julia and poured herself a large whiskey.
  “Get us one of them while you’re up, will you Julia, cheers. And a pack of Tayto. The bacon ones. The old ball and chain’ll be giving out to me, but sure if you can’t go mad now, when can you?”

Paul felt his ears pop as he neared the mountain’s car park. With a squeal of brakes, he brought his orange Kadett to a stop and looked past the locked gates to the road that led to the summit. A couple of hundred yards up, he could see the lads coming down, in their dark jackets with their club’s logo, and white shorts. Dennis was in front, half a foot too tall for his or any age, his legs the only ones among the group not as white as snow. They took their time and as they reached the gate, a minibus with the JJ Kavanagh livery pulled up, right on time to take them back. The group caught their breath while the team’s coach directed the bus into the park, even though there was no-one in it except Paul. Dennis spotted his father and came over.
  “Da…,” he said still out of breath. “Why’d you… come? The bus is here.”
  “Something happened.”
  “To ma?”
  “No. Not to any of us. How far did you go up the mountain?”
  “Up… to the top. Oh God, that’s better.”
  “Did any of ye see anything unusual?”
  “One of the lads said he could see some sort of cloud up to the north, over the mountains. He said it was up in Dublin. Was that it? Have aliens invaded or something?”
  “No. Don’t think so anyway. It said on the news it was some sort of a nuclear explosion.”
  “What? Like, war?”
  “I don’t know. I think it was some sort of accident. Your ma sent me to pick you up. Do the other lads know?”
  “They’ll know soon enough I suppose.”
  “Aye. Come on, being up on a height isn’t much good in a nuclear war. Fallout and all that.”

When they got back, his mother was sitting at the bar with her glasses on, reading something. She bolted up and hugged Dennis.
  “Oh, thank God! Dennis, you’re alright.”
  “Course I’m alright, Ma.”
  “Did you hear the news?”
  “No,” said Paul. “Didn’t bother turning on the radio. Why, was there more?”
  “They’re giving the places that were… hit, they call it. Here.”
She turned up the radio on the bar.
  “…Forces have sent a plane from Casement Aerodrome at Baldonnel to assess the scale of the disaster. Reports say there are huge fires in a rough circle bounded by Swords to the south and Drumcondra to the north. Windows were broken in the city centre and lots of related injuries are reported but the city centre was not directly hit. The area closer to the airport is completely destroyed, reduced to smoke and ash. The small plane did not get too close due to the danger of radiation, but it appears most areas north of the Liffey and south of the Rogerstown estuary received damage. It is believed that the Defence Forces are deploying units with special equipment, and hospitals around the country are being asked to ready ambulances and personnel to send to the site once more is known. Specialists also say that the danger of fallout is negligible due to the bomb detonating before it hit the ground… British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher is due to make a statement from Downing Street in a short while…”
Paul turned off the radio and went behind the bar.
  “There we go. Maggie did it.”
  “Ooh, don’t say that lovey, poor dear’s doing her best.”
Paul turned to the unfamiliar voice at the end of the bar. It belonged to a redhaired English woman, smoking like a chimney. She sat where Charlie had, with a gin and tonic.
  “Did they say owt about Loughlinstown ‘ospital? My poor aunt is up there. I was going to go see her tomorra.”
  “She’s miles out of the way,” said Paul. “As long as the radiation doesn’t get them. They’ll be moving everyone out of there anyway.”
  “Oh good.”
She took a sip of her drink then looked at Dennis, who was watching the muted telly still looping the same news broadcast.
  “Alright love,” she said. “You look like a fit lad. Running, were you?”
  “Yeah,” he said, not looking at her.
  “I’m Frances. You’re a fine looking lad. Wish there were lads like you in Lancashire, by ‘eck, they’d brighten up the place a bit.”
  “Yeah,” said Dennis and disappeared behind the bar. Frances’s smile faded and she looked around, then moved to the stool beside Julia who sat with a booklet open in front of her.
  “What’s that you’re reading, dear?”
  “What?” said Julia, engrossed. “Oh, it’s this civil defence thing they sent out ages ago. It says Radio Eireann will broadcast about the… fallout.”
  “It said there weren’t any, di’nt it?”
  “I think so,” said Julia. “It mightn’t be so bad. Paul, do we have enough food for two weeks?”
  “If ye don’t mind Taytos and peanuts.”
  “It might be okay,” said Julia.
She sat reading and re-reading the booklet for a while. Frances smoked almost an entire pack of Carroll’s, trying to read it along with her.
  “Give us a fag,” said Julia when Paul went into the back.
  “D’ya want one? Here. Take two. I’m trying to give up anyway.”
Julia put the cigarettes in her pocket and turned up the radio again. Thatcher was on.
  “…deepest condolences to the Irish people. The events today were the work of a rogue pilot within the RAF who hijacked a plane, murdered his co-pilots and detonated the bomb over Dublin in a suicide mission. The British Government fully intends to help the Irish people rebuild their capital and get the situation under control. However, they must be warned that no conspiracy theories will be allowed to be entertained, and no rogue elements within the Irish state will be allowed to seize power without facing opposition from us. We shall help Ireland get back to where she was, no more, and no less. I have spoken to President Reagan who has…”
Paul came out from the back.
  “There we go. The take-over starts. I wonder if CJ’s alright.”
  “‘oo’s that then?” said Frances.

An hour later, the bar was empty and Dennis came out wearing a suit.
  “What have you got that on for?” said Julia.
  “Da said we’re doing the quiz.”
Julia looked to the end of the room. Her husband was hanging a sign saying “Pub Quiz - Prize £25”.
  “Paul, what are you at? You’re not seriously…?”
  “Sure why not?”
  “Because of Dublin!”
  “Ah, everyone wants to take their minds off that Julia. Sure we’re grand, aren’t we?”
  “Have a bit of compassion. Some of the neighbours have to’ve had people killed. Do you not think of those?”
  “Well then they can stay home. And I’m marking up the Guinness seeing as Saint James’s Gate’ll be out of business for a while. Three pounds.”
  “Three pounds for a pint? Paul, you haven’t thought this through. No-one’ll want to go.”
  “They will,” he said.

At eight, the place was packed. Most of the regulars turned out, and so did a hefty number of irregulars. The place was filled with the stink of smoke. Dennis went around the tables, leaving blank sheets for people to write their answers on. At one table sat a group of girls, already drunk, who knew him from school.
  “Howya Dennis! Did ya hear about Dublin?” said one, laughing.
  “Yeah,” he said.
  “That’s a quare yoke. I thought I’d be seeing you and the lads in Croke Park. Won’t happen now!” The group laughed as one. Dennis never liked when the pub was full and went toward the front door to get some fresh air. His father was with a gang of old team-mates, looking at photos of themselves playing hurling in their heyday.
  “Ah, once Dennis gets going, he’ll make us all look bad. Never seen a faster player on the field.”
Dennis walked past others talking about the disaster, saying they heard the children’s hospital had gone on fire to a chorus of “Jesus” and “God” and stronger blasphemies. Someone rushed in the door and shouted “Haughey’s alive!” to cheers, and a few boos.
  The night was clear and cold and in the yellow light Dennis saw his mother smoking.
  “Ma? What are you doing? You said you’d given up.”
  “I had. Started again.”
  “Ma! Put it out. I told you how sick they’ll make you one day. You should hear the smokers coughing after training, almost getting sick.”
  “Sure we’ll all die one day. Do you want one?”
  “No. Ma, come inside. It’s starting.”
  “You moved on quickly. Like your father.”
Dennis stood still and thought for a moment, then put his arm around his mother.
  “Well, they have to get over it sometime,” he said.
  “The fires haven’t even gone out. Come on, have a fag with me will ya?”
  “No Ma.”
He took his arm back. She put a cigarette in his hand.
  “Dennis, I’m your mother. I’m ordering you to smoke the fag.”
From inside came Paul’s voice, loud even without the microphone.
  “Question one. How many red balloons, or luftballons if you speak ze Deutsch, did Nena have in her song? How many red balloons did Nena have?”
The moon was half-full. Dennis looked at it for a while.
  “Do you have a lighter?”

(Reblogged from garfbertcomic)


"I want to be a history writer. The challenge with writing about history is finding the right mix of artistry and facts. If you only write facts, it’s way too dull. History can be very poetic."
"What do you think is the most poetic thing about history?"
"One theme is the struggle of man against nature. There’s the belief that the further man gets from nature, the more civilized he becomes. Cities are the culmination of this idea, with all the art and intellectual traditions that have come out of cities."
"Do you believe that man becomes more civilized the further he gets from nature?"
"No. Because no matter what you build around you, you can’t escape your ape nature. Look at Nazi Germany. All their amazing technology and buildings were put in service of their most uncivilized instincts."

(Reblogged from humansofnewyork)
(Reblogged from pat-bren)

The Monster

Hail pelted the roof.
  “Where’s Dad?”
  “Dad’s fine. Don’t upset your sister.”
  “She’s too young to know.”
  “There’s nothing to know.”
  “What about the car? If anything happens to the car, Dad’ll get mad.”
She looked out the window.
  “Should I move it?” she said.
  “I don’t know. What if you move it and something happens? He’ll just get madder.”
The hail stopped. The wind didn’t sound like wind anymore. It sounded like a ravenous behemoth getting closer, searching for them.
  “Get under the table,” she said. The baby started to cry. They tried to calm her but it was no use.
  “Come on, honey. Into the kitchen.”

The son and the mother holding her baby got under the table, the only sturdy thing they owned. The wind screamed at them. Another sound pierced through.
  “What’s that Mom? What is it?” he said.
  “It’s just the sirens in town, honey. Telling us what we know.”
  “What do we know?”
  “We’ll be okay. We know. We’re ready.”
  “What about Dad?”
The baby started to cry. Her mother rocked her and shushed her. They could see out of the bottom of the window. The sky was dark grey, almost green. Rain smashed itself against the pane.
  “Come back, honey.”
He got into the far corner. She thought the glass would break and come in.
  “Take your sister.”
She handed him the baby and the roar and boom of the wind got louder. She put her arms around them. They felt it getting closer. Everything started to shake.
  “Look!” shouted the boy. She turned to see. The mile wide funnel. The bombardment of sound, little blue flashes where it hit electricity, unidentifiable debris floating on the edges, whirling and tossing, rising and falling, picked up and dropped, chewed and swallowed and thrown up.
  “Shut your eyes.”
  “Mom!” he screamed. The baby cried. She put her arms tightly around them, trying to block out the sound too. It sounded like a thousand waterfalls.
  “Oh God. Oh God.”
Something hit the window and it broke. They all screamed and heard the glass landing on the table above them and on the floor. The mother felt a sting in her ankle.
They couldn’t hear anything except the roaring, blasting, rumbling monster, flattening the houses half a mile away, frightening and injuring and killing people they knew, they knew didn’t deserve it.

And then, gradually, it turned and chose another path. Turned towards the town, away from them. The sound lessened but they could still hear it. The monster wasn’t searching for them anymore.
She didn’t let them go until she was sure.
  “We’re okay.”
They shivered.
  “Oh God, you’re hurt.”
  “It’s just glass. Get my tweezers and the first aid box, honey. Give me your sister.”
She took the baby. Her son did as he was told and came back. They could hear it still, eating the town.
  “Get back under the table.”
He took the baby. His mother carefully extracted the glass from her ankle and bandaged it.
  “It’s just a little cut, that’s all.”
  “Why did it happen, Mom?”
  “There’s no reason.”
  “Why did it want to hurt us?”
  “It doesn’t. It doesn’t know anyone’s down here. It doesn’t have eyes.”
  “It knows,” he said. “It’s looking for Dad. It thought he was here.”
He started to cry.
  “Honey, it doesn’t know anything.”
  “It knows,” he said. “It knows.”