Wednesday, 11 March 2015

My Post-College Master Plan.

I've been under no illusion that this party can go on forever, but rather than mourn the undergraduate endtimes or attempt to relocate the party, I've already begun to fashion a future for myself from all the hopes and dreams I've birthed while positively abominable with the drink. We aren't here for a very long time, so why waste these years on anything but making a future of our dreams? For what is the future but a sketch of of our true desires and ambitions? 

I suppose the future can also be crushingly barren, but that's only if you're a complete square or are addicted to the flesh-eating drug, krokodil. Don't let your life be a drag, avoid mindless salary slavery and krokodil as if they're kin.

Now that I've finally run the full course of the drudging and confused Irish education system, it is now time for me to be spewed forth into the 'real world' like chunks of vomit to a tiled chipper floor already completely sodden with vomit. It's times like these that society asks 'well, what kind of person are YOU going to be?', at which point any sane and reasonable person would backhand society right in its dirty blushing face and cry 'You're a rotten bastard, society, and there'll be none of you where I'm headed'. At this point one might consider using their sub-par driving skills to escape in a pilfered Honda Civic that will later be stripped of everything of value in order to buy the ham and cheese toasties that will govern your diet from here out.

Anyway, back to me, I'm the important one here.

My master plan has its beginnings planted in modest ground. I will doubtlessly find myself in some kind of office, maybe taking calls or making coffee for my sorrowful Half Windsor overlords. Starting from the bottom should never be seen as shameful, Rome wasn't built in a day, despite the fact that it may very well have been reduced to rubble in such time. Regardless, I will cast myself into the big pond like the hook of a fishing rod, eagerly anticipating the pull of opportunity fish. When such fortune finds me, maybe I'll be promoted to upper management or made CEO of the company, I will then spring at my chance and burn the entire fucking building to the ground along with a body double of myself.

The morning's newspapers will read "PornHub CEO Liam Doyle Dies in Office Blaze", and that's exactly what we'll let the dribbling bastards think. This amounts to phase one of my master plan.

Now that records of my death have been established amid world wide news coverage, I have essentially ducked under the grid and will be free to do as I please in the solitude of non-existence. I will retire to underground slums and live among the mole people who will turn a blind eye to my sinister dealings on the promise that I make mankind pay for what it has done to them. At this point, my only objective is to create time with my only tool being patience. I might use this long period of waiting to better myself, perhaps take up the sitar. I'll sit there among the lowly mole folk, play the sitar for them, and I'll say 'Look at me, mole people, I play the sitar. Aren't I alternative?'

With many seasons now baked and frozen, I will rise from the underground with my new identity. I will now be known as Alfonso Heat, an Olympic swimming wise-guy of Spanish extraction. Under my new persona I will travel back to the surface and establish my name as a local character, kicking open the doors of every pub in town and firing off finger bullets at all my new friends. They'll shift in their bar stools and they'll say 'That Alfonso knows how to party, I sure want to be his friend / tireless sex colleague'. But Alfonso has no time for such trivial dilly-dallying, for beneath that fake moustache and rather obvious wig, I will be plotting phase four of my master plan.

With Alfonso Heat now at the very heart of the Dublin social scene, I will make like Manson and corrupt the impressionable youth using only my wit and furor loquendi. When the dumb asshole children have accepted me as their surrogate father, I will instruct them to say goodbye to their families, for we, as a family, will be moving to the Wicklow mountains to live as sheepskin wearing Anarcho Primitives. Of course, you might be wondering, what will all my Dublin friends think when I suddenly leave to the mountains with a horde of teenagers, well I've got that covered as well, because Alfonso Heat has already been found dead in the bath tub of his loft apartment by the Liffey. This will of course be a second body double.

Having spent a number of years in the mountains with my degenerate stooges, plundering booty from the traveling medicine wagons and grooming them to become the heartless killing machines they are, we will descend unto Dublin on motorcycle, hitting every town on our way. We will carve out a road of red carnage, robbing post offices, hassling the older generation, and beheading anyone with the gall to stand up to us. The newspapers will call us "The Tumultuous Tewlve", and those that have not already died by our hands will quiver at our very mention.

On our final dive into the swimming pool of total destruction, we will charge the city with spears in our hands and hate in our hearts. Dublin will doubtlessly be expecting us and will have called in the military to meet us half-way, and when that trembling phone call is made from Kildare Street, the final phase of my master plan will be nearing fruition. We will line ourselves up to meet the anticipating army and say our final goodbyes to each other. We will hug, console, kiss passionately, and thank fate for giving us this moment, and then we will crush our pedals and ride forward into a hail of machine gun fire and oblivion.

When the dust has settled and the bodies identified, I will then rise up from my hiding place in the Wicklow mountains, spare a moment for my third body double, and return to the comforting normality of town life, probably pulling pints in a craft beer place or playing synthesizer on the streets for pennies. 

We are the authors of the future, so let us write it in the blood of shitty teenagers who don't even listen to Aerosmith. 

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