Mayhem!
"I'm your bed. Your wife, suffering from low self-esteem and frustration from your shitty lovemaking skills, runs into my boy Ryan on-line. Before she knows it, he's hammering her like an angry contractor attacks a nail while you're out bowling with your buddies. Soon, under the pressure of the intense sex between your wife and Ryan, I break. Ryan injures his back and sues you for millions. If you have some cheap insurance, you'll be paying for his pain and suffering for decades. Get Allstate. We'll have your back while Ryan has your wife's ass, bitch."
Yeah, one day I went outside and some guy was under my van fucking with my brakes. Usually, something like this would upset me, but then I saw who it was! When Mayhem saw it was me, he fixed everything AND gave my van an oil change (although I'm thinking of having my van checked out, just in case).
Thanks Mayhem! Good to have you aboard, buddy!
Thanks Mayhem! Good to have you aboard, buddy!
And our other new member.....
"Aye, he bitchslapped Rory and then poached me wife's pot o' gold, he did!"
That's right! The Lucky Charms Leprechaun!
Funny how it all came about.....
One day, I was stalking Charlie Laine on Twitter and I ran across Caroline Wozniacki's Twit account.
If you don't follow tennis (and aside from Roger Federer, there's no need to--the game's terrible now, due to those idiotic, high-tech rackets), Caroline is a pretty good player on the WTA tour.
So one day, little Miss Cutie-Pie decides that she's going to campaign to get everybody in the world to take shorter showers.
No joke.
Well, Caroline, go fuck yourself. I'll take as many fucking showers as I want. And if I want to take a thirty minute shower, I'm going to. And if you don't like it, you can shove the handle of one of your rackets up your pretty little ass.
Seriously, the next time my wife or one of my girlfriends wants some shower sex, do you really think I'm going to say no......we must save the planet? Save the planet from WHAT? Hygiene?
Hey, Golden Girl, if you want to save "Mother Earth", then start taking a fucking bike or riding Greyhound and taking row boats to every tournament instead of flying first class and riding in limos all the time, you hypocrite.
That doesn't look like a bus. Really roughing it there for Mother Earth, huh Princess?
So I got on her a little on Twitter. She didn't respond. I guess I wasn't "sensitive" enough to the planet.
Anyway, a few days after I called Little Miss Sunshine out, I got a Twit on my Twit page from a real motherfucking twit.
Rory McIlroy....famous golfer and Caroline's boyfriend. He talked some shit, told me to apologize to his mentally-challenged girlfriend, all that. I told him to suck off his daddy's putter once his mother was done with it.
And it was on like Donkey Kong!
We went back and forth for a bit and he finally challenged me to come to Ireland and "talk to me man-to-man!" Obviously, Rory didn't think I would.
Rory, much like his girlfriend, was wrong.
I found the most fuel-inefficient plane I could, booked a flight--first-class, of course--to Ireland by way of Australia,( just to waste fuel and piss the planet-lickers off) and was there about two days later. And just for laughs, I convinced the pilot to dump the plane's trash onto a bunch of humpback whales while we were flying over the Indian ocean. It was so cool--a bunch of dolphins saw it and were totally cracking up.
After my long flight, I rented a huge gas-guzzling Rolls Royce (called the Fuel Imperialist--2 kilos per gallon), and drove into downtown Dublin, where Rory said he'd be.
There was some karaoke contest going on and Rory was on the stage singing--or trying to sing--"Midnight At The Oasis".
Yeah, by all means....pick one of the worst songs EVER for karaoke, Rory....because it isn't like karaoke isn't horrible to begin with, right? That song's so bad I won't even link to it.
I stood there, listening to him mangle a horrible song and for a moment kind of felt sorry for how stupid he was. I began to have second thoughts about kicking his ass.
Then.....he did the unforgivable.
He held the microphone up and said, "Now, I will do a selection from Tom Jones, the worst singer ever!"
The crowd booed. Everybody loves Tom Jones.
Tom is a member of Poacher Nation. And forget the Vegas image he has--the guy's a terrific singer. Go get his greatest hits and you'll know what I'm talking about. Tom's awesome.
Rory was ripping on him. Not acceptable.
Rory started belting out a hideous rendition of "She's A Lady" and I rushed the stage, grabbed his ankles, and pulled him to the floor. As I was destroying him, I said, "Hey, can you guess who I am, bitch? I'm Poacher Boy! Thanks for the invite!"
I stomped a mud hole in him and then walked it dry to the cheers of everybody in the pub.
He squealed that he couldn't take any more. So I leaned down and said, "If Tom Jones came in here and wanted to fuck you in the ass, what would you say, Rory?" Rory said, "I'd....I'd....say.....'please sir, fuck me in the ass'....that's what I'd say....."
I smiled and said, "That's right, bitch. Now get the fuck out of this pub and tell your enviro-freak girl that I'm taking five showers today."
Rory started to get up and I said, "No."
He wasn't walking out. No...no.....
So he started to crawl on his hands and knees. Again, I said, "No," and shoved him face-first flat onto the floor with my foot.
Rory would have to drag himself out by his hands if he wanted to save his worthless hide. And he did, crying the whole way out. I stripped this bitch of every shred of dignity I could. And you know what? It was pretty cool!
I'd be an EXCELLENT TSA agent!
I sat down and ordered a beer. Everybody in the bar came over and patted me on the back and thanked me. They hated Rory, too. It turns out that Rory had been lobbying for a law to have the government put in "shower governors" that would limit everybody to a thirty-second, lukewarm shower. The same legislation, of course, would have outlawed baths. Oh, and his singing sucked. And like I said before, everybody loves my boy, Tom Jones.
I didn't pay for one beer that day.
As I pounded down my nineteenth free mug of Guinness, this hot leprechaun chick sat down next to me and said that her name was Ciara.
We totally hit it off and soon she invited me to her place. Her husband was at work, so we had the place to ourselves. Man, we fucked, like, all day. During breaks, we'd smoke some pot and listen to Supertramp's "Breakfast In America" and REO Speedwagon's "Hi Infidelity".
I remember at one point, I stood up, picked Ciara up, and slid her right onto Mr. Happy and then walked around the house with her yelling "Giddyup horsie!" I can say I literally fucked Ciara in every room of that house. One time, I spun her around quickly like she was a top with Mr. Happy as her base.
It's awesome fucking a leprechaun. And I didn't even need to use a condom--leprechauns can't get STDs and she can just will herself to not get pregnant through leprechaun magic. So awesome.
Finally, she curled up on my chest and we fell asleep. Soon we were awakened by a male voice shouting "Ciara, how could you?????????"
Oh shit. Her husband.
Then I looked over....and saw Lucky, the Lucky Charms Leprechaun!
Ciara bolted out of bed and explained to Lucky that I was the famous Poacher and that I had just bitchslapped Rory McIlroy--and that she wanted to thank me, on behalf of not only Ireland, but the entire world.
I was pleading for Lucky the Lucky Charms Leprechaun to forgive me. For once, I truly regretted poaching another guy's wife! I've been an admirer of Lucky since I was just a little poacher in kindergarten (I was fourteen, I think).
Lucky smiled at Ciara. "I understand, me love. We all owe a dept to Ryan for pounding Caroline's cuckold. Rory's a pussy, we're all ashamed of him, he always sings that shitty Oasis song, and I like me showers long and hot. Ryan, it's an honor to have you hit me wife's shit!"
Then we all went out and grabbed some Chinese food and dropped some acid. Lucky let me fuck his wife again and the next day I came home. Ciara wanted some double penetration, but Lucky was too tired--he had kicked the shit out of Cap'n Crunch earlier in the day.
Yeah, another Twitter war.
But Lucky and Ciara are coming to visit us next year! Alex can't wait!
Ciara was magically delicious!
Rory, anytime you want to get beat down again, just look me up!
How's your jaw doing, Twitterbitch?
It wasn't the Buffalo Inn, but I sure loved the
Foul-Mouthed Fuck Pub!
Actually, I was feeling Lucky's wife! Whoa!
Then I got on a plane and flew around the world twice before coming home because I wanted to....."take the long way home"! Hahahhahahahahahha!
If you're under 25, you'll probably have to figure that joke out for yourself.
Anyway, the moral of this story is that you really haven't lived until you've beaten up Rory McIlroy, tapped a hot leprechaun's ass and smoked pot and dropped acid all in one wonderful, magical day.
The best thing that ever happened to Puff was that those kids stopped visiting him so he could tap some hot female dragon's ass.
And don't worry. Fucking Lucky the Lucky Charms Leprechaun's wife--as well as beating the snot out of the world's former number one golfer--has inspired me to get back to business of writing up some more poacher entries. As Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas said as I took her to the pilot, "Let'ssssssssss get it starteddddddd...in heeeeeeeeeeereeeeeeeee."
"Inch by inch with the new solution!"
Oh, and I almost forgot! Just last weekend, I had one of my most impressive poaches EVER!
"We had bland, effective sex and then I made Ryan au gratin potatoes."
That's right! I did Betty Crocker! Then, after we ate lots of au gratin potatoes, Alex got the strap-on out!
And then we took a 45 minute shower, Caroline!
And then we took a 45 minute shower, Caroline!
Remember to get Allstate! You DON'T want Mayhem to get mad at you!
To my readers in Ireland: I don't endorse or condone the stereotypes found in this entry, even though I'm the one who wrote it. I apologize if I offended you with the leprechaun stereotypes as well. And I'm totally sincere. I really am.
Although if you actually believe I'm sorry, you probably really DO believe I plowed a hot leprechaun, got my hand on Fergie's happy zone, beat up Rory McIlroy and au gratined Betty Crocker's potatoes.
