St. Dominic's Review; A Treatise, in which truths are told, homies are shouted out to, and all that is to come is doubly born and ceases to be.

Famine. Pestilence. Sloth. These are the hallmark charateristics of unhappy moments in one's life, be they a collective of persons or merely the trials and tribulations of but one human being. For the people of Irish descent, those who have shared in having former Manchester United and current Celtic midfield enforcer Roy Keane as the captain of one's national footballing team, these moments manifested (minus the sloth, of course; the Irish are not a lazy people) in a terrible epoch of disdain: The Irish Potato Famine.

Yes, this painting illustrates the grim veracity of a life duly endured, calorically deprived, hygenically unfulfilling.

Saturday night, being unable to drink due to the St. Patrick's Revenge coarsing through my internal organs, I reclined and watched "Freddy vs Jason," finding a deeper meaning beneath the cheap veneer of slasher filmed mayhem (and mayhest, for although the word may not exist in the particular canon of this age, I hath decided it needs to re-[or perhaps for the first time]emerge, making manifest the very mayhest we have all been neglecting since the dawn of our adult lives.) In this gem of a film, Freddy, having been forgotten by the people of Elm street, is no longer able to terrorize the very denizens of said address. It seems that Freddy's power stemmed from fear, and the parents of Elm Streets disturbed children hatched a plan to never again mention Mr Krueger, rendering him unable to instill fear since, as no one talks about him anymore, his memory is wiped from the subconscious mind. Pissed, he thusly enlists the help of the immortal Jason Voorhess do go to his old stomping ground of Elm Street, kill a bunch of people, to make them REMEMBER that they were once terrorized by one Fred D. Krueger, thus allowing Freddy significant RECOGNITION to enter the dreams of people, drum up a little fear, and VOILA: Freddy's full power of killing in dreams returns. And this, I must confess, is my plan as well: I will instill fear into the hearts (dark hearts, of course) of the frolicing minions, rendering them succeptible to my subtle (and humble) overtones of domination, and in time my bidding (and through me, thine) shall be served, and frankly, deserved. Because, as KISS once stated, "You got nothing to lose."

So, with such a train, nay a strain, of thought, we come upon the holiday bequeathed to us all last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. Now I, it must be stated, called upon the traditional tidings of Guiness, Irish Whiskey, Bailey's, and of course, Car Bombs to celebrate my non-existant Irish heritage. If, were it the case, my refined sensibilities neccesitated an artistic manifestation of the Irish tradition of perseverance, they would call upon some form of the painting shown above; a resiliant, defiant mother sheltering and providing for her children, sans potatoes. It was, after all, a potato famine.

Some have taken the onus of humor to reference (and thusly, keep alive) said era with humor, and although I had no hand in the creation of such an atrocity, I thee present the horrible, distinctly reprehensible cousin of Mr. Potato Head,
















Mr Potato Famine.

So The following is my own private bridge to Terabithia, nay perhaps a journey, if you will, to Old Ireland. Hop on Air Lingus (the most cunning airline I know) and I'll take you, dear reader, on a journey of both brim AND blarneystone, replete with all the haggis and absence of potatoes you could ever want. Haggis is a Scottish item, you say? Go fuck yourself, you critical leprechaun.

So now, as the Title of this post indicates, I have a little something for you, my faithful reader, with a few specific shout outs (for those of you who have been on good behavior).

For Brandy, I have two things. The first, naturally, is the link to the famed, truthful, and utterly heart breaking ballad, "Brandy, You're a Fine Girl." The Second, and perhaps most impressive dedication, is a picture of our house dog, Buster, wearing a little Irish hat, as he is a fine beastie.













He has that "fuck, the cat is about to kick my ass" look about him. Luckily (one could say, by the luck o' the Irish!) the master's hand lay atop the green hat, ensuring Lucky Charms-n-blarney stones for all the unscarred domesticated animals of man.













Aww. Animal pictures..















"No, I'm not gonna wear this fucking hat."














"Damnit! Take this fucking hat off of me!"













"Aw.. fuck it."

For Virgil, I have a brief tale of woe: I was cockblocked by my own friend, inadvertently, inebriatedly, uncoordinatedly, and unrepentantly. Like 50 cent, I was in da club, but I was neither having sex nor was I in there making love. To make matters plain, a fine young woman was digging on my obviously advanced (and frankly, revolutionary) moves upon the dance floor, when, what to my surprise should occur? Drunken friend backs into said girl, knocking her backwards. Then, he drunkenly smashes into her again, (literally) butting her away, and all I can do is grin and bemoan my abysmal fate as she walks away, confused, hurt, and disheartened. It wasn't just light bumps, but ice hockey like body checks from a drunken and stoned flower delivery man, howling at the moon, under the influence of Irish alcohol (Tullamore Dew) and presumptiously high priced sake-based drinks. (My drink order? "Red Bull Jager." Barman's response, "Sorry, we don't have hard alcohol here. Sake, Beer, Wine." For fucks sake..) I could have gone up and explained the situation to the obviously dissappointed young maiden, but frankly, my dedication to the craft of dance does not allow for rest.

For Melina, I have a picture of a patriotic, slightly Bearded man, for I know that she is a lover of facial hair.














And finally, for She who dances at the point of a gun, (and supports giving underwear to the orphaned), I give thee a small, yet poignant, morsel of verbal decadence: The St. Valentine's Day Haiku.

Corned beef and Car Bombs,

Gastrointestinal Fun;

Black Poop on Sunday.

And for the Irish Whiskey lovers among us, as well as those who love them sum Irish Rock-N-Roll (and Haiku!), tell you what:

U2 Once did Sing:

It's Sunday, Black Poop Sunday;

Tullamore-Ning Dew.