No need to bash the Bishop

HAIL, HAIL, Eamonn Casey! The man is still a fucking star! But is he a star, fucking? Read on . . .

From his fortress set deep in the wilds of the Ecuadorian jungle, he has spoken to his adoring fans. And we just can’t get enough.

Sam Snort is seriously thinking about electing the man Casey to the elite Hall of Fame reserved for the true Goliaths of rock ’n’ roll. In Casey’s case, this will be an exceptional honour, because he is still very much alive and bonking, whereas most of those in the pantheon are very much dead, and deservedly so.

Casey says that he wants to come back to Ireland. I’ll bet he does, I’ll bet he does. It is not fair to his people that their hero should be forced to remain in exile for so long.

We want to give him a ticker-tape reception. We want an open-topped bus on O’Connell Street led by a pipe band consisting of scantily-attired babes.

It can’t be all that easy for him over there in sunny South America.

I’m sure that he’s getting plenty of pussy, of course, but he probably has to work a bit harder with the natives, the poor man.

Back home, he lived in a palace stuffed with booze and cigars, and burned up the roads in a variety of super-sexy automobiles. Babes came to him with their problems, and were grateful to be bonked by such a major world figure. Getting his rocks off was a piece of piss, all round.

In Ecuador, the creature comforts are not so lavish. He probably has to slash his way through the bushes with a meat-cleaver when the urge is upon him and he goes a-hunting for poontang.

He has to babble in Dago-speak – that Spanish patois to you, compadres – when he’s chatting up the birds, thus staunching his natural flow of bullshit lines. Annie Murphy is no doubt echoing the sentiments of my good friend and ace Texan hammer man, Mr. Joe Ely: “Spanish is a loving tongue. But he never spoke Spanish to me.”

talking dirty

He’s not a bishop any more, just plain Father Eamonn, so he may have to wait in line to shag the bishop of Ecuador’s cast-offs. It can’t be good for his ego, honed to a keen edge by his years of being the big kiddie on the block.

Still, he hasn’t lost it.

He says now that when he was slipping it to Annie Murphy, or any of the other Murphys, he never felt right about it. He didn’t think that it was acceptable for a Prince of the Church to be carrying on like my good friend and bonking buddy Mr. Prince of Paisley Park.

But did it stop him poking his fat little sausage into the confused American? It most certainly did not.

In the light of all the occasions on which he must have felt bad, he seems to be looking for some kind of medal. The man wants to be declared a fucking martyr. St. Eamonn of Lancia.

He says that he wants to be forgiven. For what?

Sam Snort doesn’t ask to be forgiven every time he gets his end away. He may ask for a round of applause, or in exceptional cases, for cash donations. You would only ask for forgiveness if you were suffering from perpetual brewer’s droop, so in Sam Snort’s case, the issue is irrelevant.

Then the bould Casey says that he used to confess his nocturnal fornications to a priest, before munching his Holy Communion.

It seems a bit early in the morning to be talking dirty, but for a man of Casey’s appetites, it is par for the course.

When he does decide to come back to Erin, Sam Snort will pick him up at the airport in a Mercedes, and the two of us will go clubbing. What a team we would make, Casey and Snort. All we want to do is ride around, Sally, ride, Sally, ride.

Giddy-up there.

Doggie style

What is this shit about the supposedly “candid” snaps of Lady Di working out in the gym?

Standards are certainly in decline when the Sunday Mirror will pay a hundred grand for this kind of stuff, and congratulate themselves on their bold initiative.

For fuck’s sake, Sam Snort has an entire album of excellent photographs of the Princess working out on the Snortian pecker, as distinct from some poxy weight-lifting machine. And she ain’t wearing no leotard either. What would be the point?

They are, of course, in my private collection, and I do not wish to violate my own privacy by bringing them to a wider audience in the tabloids.

I would prefer to be more discreet, and organise something on the lines of an exhibition in the National Gallery. They are, indeed, works of art, and the Gallery is the setting in which they can be enjoyed to the maximum.

There’s a particularly impressive study of Diana and Sam doing it doggie-style which I’m sure will enthral art connoisseurs for decades to come. Centuries even. It is entitled “Wuff, Wuff.”

I haven’t decided on a date for the exhibition. Life may be short, but art is loooooooooooong . . .

It’s not the only thing around here, heh, heh, heh. But we’re back on Eamonn Casey territory now, where all roads inevitably lead.

That old combination of Godhead and good head is pretty irresistible! As all my close friends know . . .

• Your everlovin’ Rev. Samuel J. Snort S.J.