The Terrorist Meth Lab through Bosco's Magic Door (Graphic Content & Strong Language)

colm.ims

I’m dressed in a Tartan kilt with a smog protecting gas mask on a crowded Dublin Bus,
Severely out of breath because Bosco just chased me twelve city streets
Screaming obscenities and brandishing a hurling stick.
He wouldn't tell me how to get through the Magic Door.

His red rosy cheeks glow like a Fukashima mushroom cloud
As he swigs from an empty petrol can
And threatens the old lady hunched on the front seats,
Aggressively poking her in the ribs with a used vibrator
While demanding that she give him her Kindle
So he can finish his e-book about making shoe bombs
For a Terrorist’s Anonymous meeting at the public library …

Down below, a jolly group of Muslim Scientologists
Tell ‘Yer Ma’ jokes and quote Shakespeare sporadically
‘A rose by any other name’ they say, as Gaeilge,
Which dampens its effect.
They attempt to sell me yesterday’s Euro Millions tickets and Rehab vouchers.
I decline their solicitations
But am amused by their unique interpretation
Of the Coronation Street theme tune
complete with Trombones and 'Jazz Hands' choreography…..

Nobody on the bus asks me for change or identification,
Not even the homeless homophobic hooker who’s farting noisily
Or even the drunk student wearing a horse head and cat MEME t-shirt

When I reach at my destination,
I meet Ryan Tubridy outside the Four Courts,
His head is revolving on his neck,
And he’s dressed in a 1920’s polka dot bikini
He asks me how I’m doing in Jamaican street slang, vomits,
And offers me stock options in Irish Water.
He tells me I should run backwards into oncoming traffic
Shouting Gay Byrne’s latest changes to the driving rules,
while demanding to see the identification of the Nigerian taxi drivers who roam the parking bays.

Tubridy soon waves goodbye with his 2 middle fingers,
And offers the taxi driver a hand job in return for a lift to the RTE studios,
With a tip if he will run over Joe Duffy on the way..
"Toodalooo, Ta Ra" he screams!
"See ya later, alligator!"

Strolling along this suicidal street lacking motivation,
I see an eclectic electronics store with an enviable collection of Plasma TV’s
24 hour news cycles are relayed in revolving segments
With cloned news presenters,
And adverts displayed in perfect alignment,
Talking impatiently about Government jets, stolen babies and celebrity scandals.

As snippets of ‘news’ regarding missing planes and genocide in Syria flash by
I try to remote control click away pedestrians,
But they speed up their baneful meanderings
In a fluorescent crescendo of humdrum melancholy.

Where’s The RTE Guide when you need it?

Walking past an acute yet obtuse refuse alley,
I hallucinate the Easter Bunny holding up Dustin the Turkey at gunpoint, who,
Slurring and purring,
Mutters something in his inner city accent:
“I ain’t got no money, FOOL!”

A commotion soon begins
As Enda Kenny gallops down the street on all fours,
Naked and disoriented.
He barks like a dog and nips at random passersby;
Woof! Woof, Woof, Woof, GRRRRRRRR…
He’s frothing at the mouth but manages to produce a profanity laced soliloquy,
against the Sinn Fein rebels who want to take away
The sweat shop of Roma Gypsies that are chained to the walls of his coal bunker.

Close by, in front of a recently developed unsold housing estate,
Twelve Tesco employees gather for their weekly support meetings…
But they aren’t there for personal reasons or horse meat burgers…
It’s all about the Ann Summers parties, water meters, and “Britain’s Got Talent” re-runs

A group of Japanese tourists walk slowly past.
I shout “ KAMIKAZE - YAKKA YAKKA GOO GOO“ to them,
so that they might feel welcome

When they ask me where I’m going I tell them:

I’m on my way to see the Terrorist
He lives through the Magic Door in Bosco’s Zoo

It’s close to Paris
Somewhere south of Honolulu
Eerily east of Capetown
North of Ho Chi Minh too,
Far to the west of Santa Fe
It used to be in Brussels
But now it’s just a few streets away.

The last time I went there,
I drove home at 120 miles an hour on the Swords dual carriageway,
Blasting One Direction from my distorted radio
In a constant stream of rehashed and re-used retarded romance.

Next time, I’ll come back on a camel or hot air balloon instead.

"Sayonara Pokemon! So long! Goodbye!"
We part ways and exchange hostile no make-up nude 'Selfies'
For Aids research of course!

Walking towards the entrance,
I enter the glistening grey ghetto sponsored by Bank of Ireland,
Behind me is the Aviva Stadium Arcadium - seeped in radium

Flocks of free-styling freedom fighters sing rebel ballads on every street corner,
Smoking meth pipes of broken sewerage tanks and tin foil
Rolled up from the tickets of E-Voting machines.
They shout at me and scatter voting tickets,
And piss in my general direction
I thank them and fix my hair with pepper spray

This sure aint Bertie’s neighbourhood anymore!

On the next street I meet a hop scotching pack of telemarketers
They aggressively riot, throwing Molotov cocktails and
Breaking shop windows and street signs too!
I ask one named “Jimmy Choo“,
”Why this upheaval? Why all the evil?
He tells me that their jobs selling bullsh@t have been outsourced
To attack drones and impersonal robots controlled by telemarketers in Timbuktu,

I offer to show him the way to Bosco’s zoo,
but the little F@ck,
soon kicks me in the nuts, then struts, and steals my bus ticket,
sprinting away while screaming in salacious Soprano octaves,
Waving his arms like a windmill,
but still,
I thank him and punch him in the face.

I finally arrive at the terrorist meth Lab in Bosco’s Zoo
To obtain entry, I must provide the password to his bird.

The sign on the door is written in purple lipstick
Streaked with coffee stains and nicotine.

Knock Knock Open Wide
See what’s on the other side
Knock Knock Any More
Come with me through the magic door!

I knock loudly,
Producing exquisitely timed raps of Bohemian Rhapsody
With my bloodied knuckles and kinetically kinaesthetic kneecaps,
He emerges bleary eyed,
Reeking of cheap vodka and the perfume of an African hooker.
And belligerently inquires (in a voice that sounds like an angry Corkman),
“What ya fu@ckin want, boy?”
I tell him "Gay Byrne’s Breast Examination" (the password)

As he opens the Magic Door,
I ask him why he’s in such a bad mood,
‘You would be too
If you had someone’s hand stuck up your hole every day – BITCH’
I concur with this assessment and tap dance in the door.

Inside, Bosco smokes a bong and collects money
From a transsexual prostitute with bad acne
Bertie and Enda are playing repeats of “Breaking Bad,”
Baking a Shepherd’s Pie, and talking about the economy,

Kermit the Frog watches snuff films and sharpens his knife,
Talking about his miserable life, and all his strife,
And how he’s gona cut up Miss Piggy
To make pork tenderloins out of his wife.

I ask the psychotic prepubescent 10 year old girl,
Who’s snorting white powder and watching Power Puff Girls,

Where can I see the Terrorist?

She calmly offers me a mirror!!